“All right, gang. Very important news to give you. Zeke Skimberry’s beloved dog Lady has sired ten lovely little puppies who are whimpering for a good home. Now I told Zeke that none of you like dogs or knew how to take care of them.”
“No. That not right. No, Conrack,” the cry rose.
“I’ve seen the way you take care of dogs. Man, I’d never give you a dog of mine.”
“No, I take good care of dawg,” shouted Lincoln.
“Me too,” shouted Oscar.
“Since Saul’s dog was shot,” I said, “I’m going to bring him the best dog in the litter to make up for the one he lost. Now how many in here would take real good care of a dog if I brought him. one?” The air was full of uplifted, frantic arms. I spent another twenty minutes defining what I meant by the proper care of dogs. Then Mary made a list of who wanted dogs and what sex they preferred.
Oscar said, “Bring me a man dog.”
“Me too,” said Lincoln, “I want a little man dog.”
“Don’t bring me no woman dog,” Jasper said, “I need me a good man dawg to take huntin’.”
“What if I bring you a woman dog, Jasper?” I asked.
“Den I shoot ’im,” he replied.
“That’s the wrong damn attitude, Jasper. That’s exactly what I don’t want you to say.”
The next day I loaded seven man dogs and one woman dog into a large cardboard box and delivered them to their new owners. All the recipients seemed to take proper care of their animals and love them passionately, and gave me progress reports from time to time. I felt that by introducing these hardy, durable Skimberry hounds into the island strain, some healthy, Darwinic principle would be served. Many months later I went by a house and stopped to admire one of the dogs I had transported to the island. He had acquired all the negative characteristics of his peers and his listlessness and general appearance caused me to regret my condemning these dogs to such a life. But, before my melancholy could reach epic proportions, the dog, in a flash of former glory, shot out of his resting place under the house and bit me on the boot.
CHAPTER 6
ON A FRIDAY AFTERNOON just before three o’clock and the arrival of the bus, I stood in the middle of the room having a bull session with the class. Top Cat was telling me about Saturday night on Yamacraw, when all the black people gathered in the boxlike building on the West River, danced to the music of James Brown and his Famous Flames, jumping a new type of jive until early in the morning. “It’s so much fun, Mr. Conrack.” I promised to make it one Saturday night, but that my new wife would not approve of my absence on a weekend just yet. Anna, the small, delicately featured sister of Saul who rarely spoke but who possessed one of the brightest, most inquisitive minds in the class, was copying a witch out of a book. The witch, of course, instantly summoned up visions of Halloween and those lost nights from my childhood when I would leave my house sporting the casual work clothes of a ghost or Frankenstein monster. I was curious about the traditions of Halloween on the island, and especially what modifications or exaggerations had evolved over the years. Since the kids believed as fervently in ghosts or witches as I believed in Chrysler motors, I imagined that Halloween was a much more macabre and meaningful night to them than it was to me. Imagine wandering out into the Yamacraw night, with the spirits and graveyards astir with disinterred fury, and the witches congregating in wicked clusters around the funeral sites of souls long dead and resurrected for a single night. God, I was fired up to hear about Halloween on Yamacraw.
“What are you cats gonna be doin’ on October thirty-first?” I asked satanically.
“Nuttin’,” Prophet answered without flinching.
“C’mon, man. There is something going on October thirty-first. A holiday where we go from door to door with bags in our grubby little hands. Well. What holiday am I talking about?”
They all simply stared at me with their inscrutable expressions that collectively said that they were in the hands of a madman who asked impossible questions.
I became more animated. Every time they did not respond to some obvious question I handed them, I always thought that it was simply because I was not explaining it adequately or that I was not elaborating properly on the given theme. Articulation was not a personal forte, and I often had to backtrack, slow down, or repeat something again and again before they caught the gist of what I said. Since it was inconceivable to me that Halloween was not as much a part of their vocabulary as it was of mine, I felt that I had obfuscated the high festival of witchcraft with a combination of too much talk and too much bull. Finally I said, “What are you going to do on Halloween?”
“Nuttin’,” said Prophet.
“Nuttin’,” said everyone else.
“What do you usually do on Halloween?”
“Nuttin’,” came the answer again.
“Wait a minute. You mean to tell me you have never dressed up as a ghost and gone out trick-or-treating?”
“Man crazy,” Frank said.
“Triggertricking?” someone asked.
“I ain’t dress up no ghost clothes,” said Cindy Lou,
“You have never gone out with a bag, dressed up in a costume, knocked at people’s doors, said ’trick or treat,’ and had them give you candy?”
“Naw,” Top Cat replied.
“That is ridiculous.” I was amazed. “That is un-American and is completely ridiculous. Halloween is one of the truly great parts of being a kid. Running around a neighborhood, soaping up people’s windows, collecting big bags of candy. Those are great memories.”
“What he say?” Ethel questioned Cindy Lou.
“He didn’t say nuttin’,” Cindy Lou answered.
“Well, I’ll have to check into this stuff. No life is complete without a little trick-or-treating in it.”
When I arrived home that evening, Bernie was sitting in the living room talking with Barbara. Three teachers together, by definition, means that the talk centers around events in the classroom and at school. I told them that I had just learned that none of my students had participated in that great celebration of life and after-life, Halloween.
“Why don’t you bring them over to Beaufort for Halloween?” Barbara asked.
“Bring them over and they can come to the Halloween party we’re having at my school. Hell, bring them over early and they can go to the carnival, then ride on a float in the parade.” Bernie’s voice grew louder.
“Where will they stay?” I asked.
“I’ll get them places to stay. My PTA is coming along fine this year. They are ready to go. To do something. The kids can stay in the houses of the parents.”
“Bernie, you are not living in Harlem. You are living in Port Royal, South Carolina, an area where white people historically have, shall we say, looked down upon black people.”
“You forget one thing, my boy. They love me. They think that Bernie Schein is a genius. And do you know what, Conroy?” Here he whispered low, intimately: “They are absolutely correct. I am a genius.”
“You are an asshole,” I whispered back, “but you have a great idea, my lad.”
On Monday, I unveiled the master plan to the kids. I told them we would dress up in costumes, get bags with pictures of pumpkins on them, and hit every house in Beaufort for candy. I related my own personal Halloween history for them: two years as Casper, the friendly ghost, two years as a hobo, one year as Frankenstein. I did not tell them that one year my best friend and I put soot on our faces and went disguised as black minstrels.
Then I recounted the houses of the truly generous people of the world who prepared for Halloween with a joyful spirit and vastness of heart. When I lived in Florida, when Dad was shipped to the Mediterranean, there were two elderly women with tiny hands and wrinkled faces who inhabited a great white house with a shrub-choked garden. On Halloween, they made candy apples and gave them out to children who came to their door. A man in Virginia, who lived alone, gave out all-day suckers every Halloween—round, mu
ltiflavored suckers. Halloween was a time of candy corn, jack-o’-lanterns, candy kisses, peanut-butter cups, bubble gum, Fig Newtons, soapy windows. I tried to tell about Halloween and what it represented to me—a great ritual of childhood when the world for a single night opened its doors and its coffers of candy and fun and happiness.
“Can you go to Beaufort for Halloween? It is this Friday, and we are going to have to work fast.”
“Yeah,” everyone could go. There was no problem.
“O.K. Everybody is going to have to get a note from his parents that says, ’I give my permission for so and so to go to Beaufort for Halloween.’ The big shots demand that I get this note in case any of you die at the shock of being under the Big Lights in Beaufort. Bring your notes in tomorrow so we will be ready to go.”
“What boat you take us out?” Frank asked.
“I don’t have a boat yet. I am leaving the island this afternoon to find a boat.”
“How big?”
“Look, gang, it ain’t going to be no aircraft carrier or battleship.”
Later I went in and told Mrs. Brown about this superb brainstorm. I expected her to praise me profusely, tell me what an outstanding job I was doing, and offer to help me in any way possible. I would blush modestly, shuffle my right foot back and forth over an imaginary mark on the floor, lower my head, and say, “Aw, shucks,” or something as appropriate.
“No, you cannot go,” she said simply.
“Why the hell not?” I asked incredulously.
“These children don’t need trips. They need fundamentals. They need drill and more drill.”
“Mrs. Brown, that is what you think they need. It is not what I think they need. It is not what I think they need and since those eighteen children are my responsibility and since it is up to me to decide how best to educate them, I am going to take them to Beaufort for Halloween.”
“I am the principal.”
“I was the principal for a while in this school. And did you notice, Mrs. Brown, that I did not interfere with the way you conducted your classes or how you treated your kids? I did not constantly remind you, I am the principal.’ I acted as if neither of us was in charge, but as if we were equals trying to get a job done under very trying circumstances. I admire you very much for having taught on this God-forsaken island, but I am going to give these kids the experience of spending Halloween the way the rest of the kids in America spend it. If you want to file a complaint, then file it. We are heading off this island Friday. If you want to come along and chaperone this trip, then that is just dandy. If not, then that’s dandy too.”
“I am the principal and I am in charge of this school.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
That afternoon I left the island by boat. I had told Zeke to meet me at four o’clock. I also told him to wrack his brain to figure out where I could find a boat large enough to transport twenty people off Yamacraw. Had the government boat been functional, no problem would have existed for me. But since it was going on the second month in drydock, it did not look as though Yamacraw was to have daily transportation for several more weeks.
When I reached Alljoy Landing, Zeke awaited me with his truck and the boat trailer. On the way to his house, he told me that Ed Samuels, a black man who headed up the local Office of Economic Opportunity, owned a boat large enough for my purposes. I drove to Beaufort, talked with Mr. Samuels, begged for charity and cooperation, got the boat after only a little bit of cajolery, then went to see Bernie.
“How are you doing with the parents?”
“Two ladies have already offered to house four of the kids. There are three more solid possibilities. Leave it to Bernie Schein, my good man. I also called an assembly of all the kids in the school, told them about the island, its problems, and then informed them that, the Yamacraw kids are coming for Halloween.”
“Good man, Bernie. Did you mention to the parents the minor fact that these kids are black?”
“No, I do that tomorrow.”
“Bernie, you are an idiot.”
“Of course I told them they’re black. That was the first thing I told them. Then I shot them the bill of goods, the patented sales pitch that once made me the Top Tiger’ salesman of the Southeast when I sold sewing machines one summer. I just remembered what the district manager of Singer sewing machines used to tell me: ’Bernie, throw enough shit against the wall and some of it’s bound to stick.’ Well, it stuck today when I talked to those ladies.”
“So you think housing is no problem?”
“None whatsoever. Did you get the boat?”
“It’s picking the kids up at eight o’clock in the morning this Friday. Can you arrange for people to pick them up?”
“Already done. A group of VISTA workers are going to meet them.”
“Great. Now, Bernie, if anything goes wrong I’m going to be forced to become physically violent with you.”
“You won’t lift a finger, because you know I can whip your ass.”
All was proceeding well. The major problems seemed solved by Tuesday morning. I walked into class, a jubilant and triumphant conqueror of obstacles.
“We got houses to stay in and we got a boat to ride in,” I shouted, as I walked in the front door. “We are heading for the big city on Friday for a weekend of witchcraft and candy-chomping. Now, everybody, hand in your permission slips from your parents.”
Naturally no one moved.
“If you forgot your permission slips, I am going to strangle every damn one of you.”
All eyes turned downward. No one looked at me, no one smiled at me, and no one hinted that they might be moved to talk to me.
“What is wrong, gang? Before I start beating heads, I want to know what’s wrong.”
“Ain’t goin’,” said Frank.
“What do you mean, ’ain’t goin”? Of course you’re goin’. We are all goin’. We are going to have fun and learn things and it’s just goin’ to be great.”
“Not goin’ nowhere,” Mary said.
“Be right here,” Cindy Lou mourned.
“All right, gang. Listen up.” Here, they at least raised their eyes a little bit. “As you know I am not used to the way things work around this goofy island. Right?” They nodded. “Yesterday everyone was keyed up to stash up on candy in Beaufort. I mean, you were going wild, going absolutely ape-crap about going to town, about spending the night off the island. Now everyone looks like they buried their mother last night. What happened?”
“Can’t go,” Sallie Ann finally said.
“Can’t go,” Saul said.
“Can’t go,” Cindy Lou said.
“What in the hell do you mean ’can’t go’? Of course you can go. We are going. You mean to tell me that none of your parents are going to let you go trick-or-treating? I just think that’s crap.”
“Conrack curse,” Sidney said.
“My grandma just laugh when I say we goin’,” Frank said.
“My momma just say no,” Saul said.
“Your momma is the cook, Saul. She likes me. I wash dishes for her.”
Like an avenging angel, I dashed for the kitchen and confronted Mrs. Wyler with the accusation that she was holding back the relentless pace of education; that it was criminal for her to prevent Saul and Anna from benefiting from the fruits of travel and experience.
“Yassuh,” she said, “they can go.”
“Please don’t call me yassuh, Mrs. Wyler. Call me Pat.”
“Yassuh, Mr. Pat.”
“Jesus, Mrs. Wyler. Just Pat.”
“O.K., Pat.”
I ran back to tell Saul and Anna that I had won permission from their mother.
“No,” said Saul. “She just tell you that. She not let us go.”
“She just told me you could go.”
“She tell you that so you not bodder her.”
I zipped back to the kitchen again, breathing like a dragon, unable to fathom the game I was playing, unable to figure out what exactly was hap
pening.
“Mrs. Wyler, Saul just told me that you agreed to let him go just to get me off your back. Is that true?”
“Yassuh.”
“Pat, Mrs. Wyler, please. Can Saul and Anna come with me to Beaufort?”
“No, suh.”
“Of course, they can come to Beaufort. They’ll have a ball. It’ll be good for them. There is no reason on earth why they can’t go.”
“They can’t go because I say they can’t go.”
“A good reason,” I agreed. I paused, trying to approach the argument from a different perspective. “What if I told you, Mrs. Wyler, that I was going to kick the hell out of you if you didn’t let them go?”
“Then my husband shoot you dead.”
“Ah! An excellent response. Then you can be assured I will not lay a single pinky on you. Let me just ask you one question, Mrs. Wyler. What can I say to you or how can I convince you to let your children cross the river for Halloween?”
“Nothin’. They ain’t goin’. None of the chillun on the island goin’.”
“I am going to hound the hell out of you people, Mrs. Wyler. I am going to get those kids off this island. We are going to Beaufort for Halloween.”
Angry and frustrated, I went back to the classroom and told Saul that he was going to go home, sit in the middle of the kitchen, beat his fists against the floor, scream, rant, and weep hysterically until his mother granted permission for him to go to Beaufort. I told every child who sat before me that one plan and one plan only was in effect: they were going to make the lives of their parents so miserable and unbearable that the parents would throw them on the boat on Friday in utter desperation.
“Your parents might beat you to bloody pulps,” I raved. “They may stomp on you and swat you with hickory sticks. They may put you outside with the chickens and the hogs, but we are going to Beaufort for Halloween. Now, Mary, tell me what you’re gonna do when you bust in your door tonight.”
“Ain’t gonna do nothin’,” she answered.
“My momma kill me if I say sumpin’,” Jasper said.
“You tell ’em, Conrack. Not me tell nothin,” said Ethel.