Dark Don't Catch Me Page 7

  Catching Emily’s eye in the mirror, Thad makes a face at her.

  The child ignores this. “She is gone but will not be forgotten,” she says in her sing-song tone, “until the stairs grow old.”

  “The stars, big girl, the stars,” Thad says. “Can’t stairs grow old, Daddy?”

  “Yes, they can. But you remember how it was written on your Aunt Thelma’s grave. Stars!”

  “I don’t like Aunt Thelma. She’s dead.”

  “Now, that’s no way to talk at all, big girl. I’m surprised at you!”

  “She’s dead, though.”

  “Yes, she is dead,” Thad Hooper says.

  “Why is she?”

  “Only the Lord knows that answer, big girl.”

  “Lennie Waite talks to the Lord every third Tuesday at three o’clock.”

  Thad chuckles. “Yes, he does,” he says.

  “And he has boxes and boxes and boxes of olive pits and some day me and Marilyn Monroe Post are going to steal them away from him.”

  “Now, now, big girl. You remember what I told you. Little nigger girls can think of lots of mischief to get into, but you’re a little white girl.”

  “Marilyn Post pulls her bloomers down and lets little Thad see her, Daddy.”

  Thad flinches noticeably; frowns at the road ahead of him; hears his son say, “Shut up, you bitch!”

  “All right!” Thad Hooper snaps angrily. “All right!” He instantly pulls the car over to the side of the road; cuts the motor and swings his shoulders around in the front seat of the car, facing his son, who won’t look at him, but looks instead at his hands.

  “What did you call your sister, Thaddus?” he barks. “A bitch!” the boy says belligerently. “Cause that’s what she is!”

  “Little Thad looks at Marilyn Monroe Post’s private,” Emily whines, “and he touches — ” “Emily, be still, big girl!” “Well, he does.” “I do not, you bitch!”

  “Thaddus!” Hooper’s big, square hand reaches out and cracks the boy’s head. The boy’s hand reaches up and touches the spot, and then drops. He turns his face toward the window, away from his father. Tears sting his eyes.

  “I didn’t want to hit you, Thaddus, but you’re getting too big for your britches.”

  The girl is silent now in the back seat; watching with fascination.

  “You don’t know what it means to have a sister, do you?” “Yes, Dad,” the boy says meekly.

  “If God took our little girl away from us, how do you think we’d feel, Thaddus.”

  “Bad,” the boy says. “But she’s always telling lies …”

  “I’m not interested in lies now, Thaddus. I’m interested in how you feel about your sister. Do you remember what was written on your Aunt Thelma’s grave?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Say it, Thaddus.”

  The boy murmurs: “She is gone but will not be forgotten, until the stars grow old and the sun grows cold and the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.”

  “That’s all I have left to remember my sister by,” Hooper says. “Just that inscription and that piece of gray stone.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “But you have a real live sister, don’t you, Thaddus?” “Yes, Dad.” A tear escapes down his cheek; he brushes it away with his hand.

  “Little Thad’s bawling,” Emily says. “Quiet, Emily!”

  “She’s always telling everything I do like that,” the boy says.

  “Never mind that, Thaddus. You’re pretty lucky to have a sister, do you know that? A pretty little sister you can love. You know that?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “All right. All right. Then what do you say to her?” “I’m sorry,” the boy says.

  “Don’t say it to me, Thaddus … Say it to your sister.” “I’m sorry, Emily.”

  The girl looks at him through serious eyes. “Don’t cry, little Thad,” she says.

  Thad Hooper smiles. “Now, that’s better. That’s more like brother and sister,” he says, turning the key in the ignition and starting the motor. “Now that’s a whole lot better.”

  “But he does,” Emily Hooper insists, “and he puts sticks up her!”

  • • •

  The Hooper house, a mile down from the gas station they run, is set off from the road, and surrounded by elms and pines. To the left of it cotton whitewashes rows of fields; and to the right the rise of Linoleum Hill begins. The air that late afternoon in October is cooling, but still not enough for topcoats. A good evening for the barbecue, Hooper thinks, as he swings his Chevrolet up the gravel drive, noticing Marilyn Monroe Post as he passes her, standing barefoot near the edge of the drive dressed in one of Emily’s old ginghams, and chewing her dip stick, staring at the passengers in the car. Emily waves and giggles; while little Thad pretends not to see her. And once Thad parks the car in the open under a black-gum, his daughter leaps out and runs down to greet her playmate.

  When little Thad starts to ease his slim, short figure out of the door, his father says: “Just a second, son.”

  “What?” the boys says, with a look of surprising innocence fixed on his face which he always manages when he knows he’s in trouble.

  “Is what your sister says true?”

  “No, it’s a dirty lie.”

  “Now, boy — you watch your tone and language!” “I don’t even care about Marilyn Monroe Post!” “You don’t have to care about a nigger girl to fool around with her, Thaddus. Now I want to know is it true?” “No.”

  “All right. All right, Thaddus, but you listen to what I tell you. I was a boy like you once too, you know; and I know the little nigger girls are naughty, and I know little boys like yourself are just as naughty, and I want to tell you something about that. It’s not nice for your sister to see you being naughty with a nigger girl, you hear? It’s very bad for little Emily, Thaddus. Now, you’re a lot older than your sister, big fellow. Now, you got to look out for her. Little girls aren’t supposed to know about naughty things, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Little white girls got no business ever in their life seeing naughty things. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m not naughty either.”

  “Well if you’re pulling nigger girls’ bloomers down you ain’t going to win the Bible in Sunday School!” “I didn’t pull them down.”

  “Whatever you did. She pulled them down or you pulled them down. However it was, Thaddus — you’re a little man, big fellow, and you got to see that your sister is protected! You hear?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Because sisters just don’t grow on trees.”

  “Claus Post has got two sisters and one in the oven; says he knows it’s a sister cause it don’t kick Bissy’s belly none.”

  Thad Hooper shakes his head. “Boy, I don’t know,” he says, “seems to me when I was your age I didn’t know boo about bellies or ovens.”

  “Claus Post says Bissy ate a watermelon seed and it’s going to change into a sister.”

  Thad Hooper hoots. “That’s right, huh? Okay, son!” Then, more serious, he says: “But you remember what I said. I don’t want you behaving around your sister in any naughty ways, or talking naughty either. Don’t you go talking about ovens and watermelon seeds in front of your sister. Hear?”

  “Yes, Dad.” The boy shrugs. “I always spit my seeds right out!”

  “C’mon now, into the house. We got to see what your mother’s been up to!”

  Clamping his big arm around his son’s shoulders, Thad Hooper starts toward the two-story red brick house. As he nears the side door he sees Major Post come out, carrying the big black kettle Hussie will cook the stew in at the barbecue.

  “Hi, boy!” Hoopers calls.

  Major barely speaks.

  “Who won the ball game, Major?” little Thad asks.

  Major mumbles something unintelligible, and keeps on going, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the heavy iron kettle. Hooper removes his arm from
his son, and pushes his gray fedora back on his head, spits, and stands spread-legged with arms akimbo.

  Then he shouts to Major Post’s back: “Just a damn minute, boy!”

  “Sir?” Still holding the kettle, Major turns sideways in his path.

  “Put that thing down while I talk to you, boy.” Bending, Major drops it. “Little Thad asked you a question, Major.” “I said I didn’t know.”

  “We didn’t hear you, boy. You didn’t speak up.”

  “Thing’s heavy,” Major says. “Hard to talk and tote too.”

  “Well, Major, then you should have put it down. You know that. You’ve changed, haven’t you, Major?”

  “How do you mean, sir?” Major has an angry tone to his voice.

  “You have. Don’t have a civil word for anyone any more, boy. Don’t think you’re a picker any more — ”

  “I work for Mrs. Ficklin, Mr. Hooper. Now, I told you I did.”

  “I think working for a Northerner’s made you uppity, Major.”

  Major Post looks away from Hooper. “No, sir, working for a Northerner hasn’t, no sir. That hasn’t!”

  Little Thad stands quietly beside his father in that interlude of heavy silence between Hooper and Major.

  “Is there something on your mind, Major? Something you want to get off your chest?”

  “I don’t know what good it’d do,” Major Post says, and adds, “sir.”

  “Now, that’s unfair, Major, and you know it! Haven’t I always got along with your folks? With Hus too, don’t forget. With Hus too. And there aren’t many in Paradise can say that.”

  “Yes, sir. You always get along.”

  “Well, don’t I?” Hooper’s temper is beginning to rise; goddam sassy-assed nigger; acting like he’s one of them high-collared, fly-weight dudes of the East; standing there begging to be whipped when he knows Jesus well he won’t be — not by Thad Hooper. That’s not Thad Hooper’s way with his niggers; never was. Goddam sassy-assed nigger just testing his dander!

  “You do, sir. You always get along. I don’t have to study that point any!”

  Hooper stares at the Negro; the Negro lowers his glance. Hooper stands there staring at him for a minute; not saying anything. Little Thad stands as still as the Negro and Hooper, and the only noise they can hear is the background noise Hus makes in the kitchen, banging pots and shuffling silverware and singing: “Well, you seen how they done my Lord; never said a mumbalin word; they pierced him — ”

  Then Hooper barks: “Nigger! Nigger, pick up that goddam kettle and tote it to where it’s going!”

  Major bends to pick it up.

  “What do you say, nigger?”

  “I say, sir. Yes, sir,” Major Post answers.

  Then he grabs the iron kettle by its handles, picks it up, and trudges out in the direction of Linoleum Hill.

  As the two Hoopers start into the house, little Thad says: “Hus is singing ‘Never said a mumbalin word.’ Must be she’s mad at something. Always sings that when she’s mad at something.”

  Upstairs in their bedroom, Vivian Hooper is lying on the bed in her bra and pants, nearly asleep, when Thad opens the door.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Vivian,” he says as he shuts it behind him.

  “Hmm, darling. Do what?” She stretches luxuriously, and props herself up, leaning on her elbows, her black hair spilling down her back. “What, honey?”

  “Sleep half naked. Door unlocked and all.”

  “Psss — Thad! No one here but Hus.”

  “And Major.”

  “Aw, Major. You know better than that.”

  “I don’t know what I know about that uppity nigger. I just met him in the yard and got a taste of it.”

  “That reminds me, darling, I’ve got something to tell you. Did Em and little T stay out to play?”

  Thad Hooper tosses a light green silk robe at his wife. “Put this on, will you!”

  “All right, Thad. Thanks for handing it to me.”

  “The kids could walk in here just as well,” he says. He undoes his tie, and jerks it from his shirt collar; then peels off the jacket of his navy blue suit.

  “So how would that hurt any? Law!”

  “You don’t think kids are aware of things like that, hmm?” Thad answers, as she gets up slowly and slips the robe around her. “Well, you’re damn wrong, Vivian! Kids are aware. Brothers and sisters and all — they’re aware. Now, don’t tell me. You’re an only child. So don’t tell me. Why, I was aware of things my folks didn’t even think I was aware of when I was no bigger than little Thad. And he’s aware too. Don’t you try to tell me otherwise!”

  Vivian Hooper ties the belt around her robe as her husband sits on the bed to remove his shoes. She says, “Oh, I know that. And that’s what I want to speak with you about, Thad.”

  “I remember how Thel used to look at me when we were taking our baths together as babies. She used to look right there at me.”

  “All kids do that, honey.”

  “Well, they shouldn’t! How do you know! You’re an only child. How do you know what kind of ideas it gets them.”

  “Thad, I want to talk to you about Hus.”

  “Well, d’you hear what I said? About wearing something when you lie around here. Hmmm?” He reaches out, his face unsmiling, his eyes traveling leisurely along his wife’s figure; he touches her belt.

  Vivian Hooper smiles at him. His finger stays locked around the belt.

  “I hear,” she says.

  “You shouldn’t be all uncovered,” he says more quietly. “You never know.” His finger slips away from the belt and loosens it. His hand rests inside the robe on the elastic of her panties. “I worry about you, Vivie.”

  “Aw, Thad. You don’t have to.”

  “I think I do.”

  With his hand still there she moves in closer to him, feeling his fingers touch the flesh of her stomach — fingers that are cold, but fingers that warm her, long, large ones that rest there on her flesh. She moves in further, so that his hand slips down; she looks at his eyes. “All right,” she says. “If you say so.”

  “I suppose I ought to get dressed now,” he says. “No one’s coming in suits, are they?’

  “No, it’s informal. You don’t have to yet, though, Thad.”

  “Well, what’s this all about?” he says, as she presses his hand with her own.

  “I missed you.”

  “I’ve had a bad day,” he says. He pulls his hand up and out; rubs it with his other hand. “A lot of bad memories.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. She moves a little away from him, disappointed, knowing now he will talk of Thel. She pulls her belt around her robe again. “It just seems so long ago,” she remarks almost to herself.

  It seems what, Vivian?” “Nothing, darling.” “No. What’d you say?”

  “I just said it seems so long ago — Thel’s death.”

  “I see,” he says; miffed; suddenly busy with his shoes.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that, Thad. It’s just that she’s been dead twenty-four years. I just meant that it seems a long time ago.”

  “So I don’t have a right to remember her on the anniversary of her death, is that it?”

  “Oh, Thad, honey — ” She goes over to him, starts to touch him.

  “Keep your hands away!” he says. “Never mind!” She stands away from him; watching him as he takes his shoes off and shoves them under the bed. “I’m sorry.” “Then change the subject.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I have to, anyway.” Walking across the room, pausing at the dressing table and picking up her hairbrush to stroke her hair as she talks, she says, “Thad, Hus is very, very angry.”

  “Is that something unusual?”

  “I think she’s quite justified this time, Thad.”

  “Oh?” He looks up at her, regretting his slight fit of temper then as he sees his lovely wife performing the familiar ritual of hairburshing which has never ceased to interest him,
and fascinate him because of her grace and beauty as she bends slightly and lets the raven softness of the hair hang shining. “How come, Vivie, honey?”

  “Little Thad injured Marilyn Monroe Post, Thad,” his wife tells him. “This morning, down near the fields on his way to school. He and the Sell boy took a stick and — ”

  “Oh, that’s it, ah? I know about it.”

  “You know about it?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty bad too. Emily saw him. Brought it up in the car when we were on our way back. I gave him a good talking to. I told him off, don’t you fear.”

  “I wonder if he even knew what he was doing. He’s so young, Thad.”

  “Naw, honey, he’s just that age when he starts getting curious about nigger girls. Nine or ten’s when they start. I just don’t want him doing any of that stuff around Emily.”

  Vivian Hooper sets the brush down and walks over near the bed. She leans on the back of the cushion-covered rocker. “Honey, I hope you made more than that clear to him. He hurt Marilyn. She had to go to Doc James.”

  Thad smiles. “G’wan, I just saw her out in the yard, sucking on her dip stick.”

  “That may be, Thad, but Hussie says she was bleeding. She was bleeding so bad Bissy didn’t pick, but stayed home with her.”

  “Bissy’s lazy, honey. She’d make her own self bleed to get out of picking.”

  Stepping out of his trousers, going to hang them up, Thad gives his wife’s cheek a pinch. “Now, don’t you go worrying about little Thad doing a nigger in. Hell, Vivie, all white kids play house a bit with the nigger gals. And the nigger gals love it. Don’t you worry none!”

  “Not six-year-old nigger gals, Thad. Marilyn Monroe is only a year older than Emily.”

  “She’s a nigger, Vivie. Heck, they’re born with their motors running. Now, you know that!”

  “But he hurt her, Thad. Sticks! What if he did that to a white girl. Or, gaw, Thad, what if someone did that to our little girl!”