Bloodline: Five Stories

  “The suffering, the suffering, the suffering,” he said.

  He rubbed his face hard, and just looked at that house a long time. I watched him, but Frank didn’t. He kept his head bowed, his chin resting on his hands. He didn’t even look up when Copper came back to the bannister.

  “I’ve been in all the cities,” Copper said. He was calm again—but he was too calm. “Yes, and I’ve been in prison. How many times have I heard weeping in those cells. How many times did they make me scrub the blood off the floor. Once, just to show me what it looked like, they made me clean the chair. I found a strain of hair, a long, brown strain of hair. I kept it for a while, then I lost it. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need a strain of hair to remind me of the horror I had seen.” He stopped and looked down at his uncle. “But why?” he said. “Why? What have we done? We didn’t even ask to be born. I, myself, was conceived in a ditch.… And now … day and night … day and night … day and night …” He stopped. He had to wait till his mind came back again. “Why these washed-out eyes, these distorted minds, these nonfunctioning brains? Why do I see the faces and hear the cries still? Not powerful cries—little whimpers, like mice in a trap. In a crowd or alone, their cries are with me.” He threw his head back. “Clinging to me, won’t let me be free,” he screamed. He stopped again; he pressed both of his hands against the sides of his face. He was looking down at his uncle. He was seeing him, he wasn’t seeing him. For a second, there, he felt sorry for his uncle; looked like he wanted to cry. He made a deep frown; his mouth trembled, the way a man trembles just before he cries. But, then, he remembered he was a General, and the same General who couldn’t go through that back door couldn’t cry either. “I used to pray once,” he said. He was calm again—too calm. “I used to pray and pray and pray. But the same God I was praying to was created by the same ones I was praying against. And Gods only listen to the people who create them. So I quit my praying—there would have to be another way. I remembered that I had a father who had property, and I remembered that I was his oldest son. I would take that property—my share of that property—and I would share it with those others who were like me.”

  He stopped and looked down at the floor. He looked very tired. Sweat had broke out on his face, and even his starched khaki shirt was wet round the armpit. Frank raised his head slowly and looked at Copper.

  “So you made yourself a General?” he said.

  “The world made me a General,” Copper said. “But you wouldn’t know what that means, would you?”

  “Hardly,” Frank said. “I’ve had it easy all my life. I’ve never heard anyone cry; I’ve never seen any washed-out eyes. Never seen anybody sick.”

  “No, not the way I have,” Copper said. “Because you’ve always been in a position to give them a dime. Dimes clear all conscience.”

  Frank sat back in the chair—with his walking cane on the right side of the chair, with his arm resting on one of the chair arms, with his legs stretched out, with his head back—looking up at Copper.

  “J. W. is a good judge of character,” he said. “You are insane, boy. As insane as anyone has ever been. To think you can carry the burden of this world on your shoulders is not an original idea. That idea is old as man’s idea of justice—probably as old as man himself. Since the beginning of civilization he has tried to do exactly what you want to do, but since it was as insane then as it is now, he has failed. My brother, your father, was wrong. Not only with your mother, but with many other women—white and black alike. White and black men he also destroyed. Destroyed them physically, destroyed them mentally. I, myself, have suffered from his errors as much as you, as much as any other man has, but I—”

  “You have not suffered,” Copper said.

  “Shut up when I’m talking,” Frank said. “I listened to you.”

  Copper slid away from the bannister real slowly and stood right in front of the chair. For a moment I thought he was going to jerk Frank out of there and slam him against the wall. Because, if he had done it, it wouldn’t ’a’ surprised me at all. Frank looked up at Copper when he stood up. He wasn’t scared of Copper; he didn’t even get a tighter grip on the cane. He challenged Copper a while, just looking at him, then he nodded. I supposed he re’lized he wasn’t being a gentleman.

  “Don’t talk to me like that ever again,” Copper said. “I’m not one of your niggers running round in the quarters. I’m not one your Cajun sharecroppers. Whether you like it or not, I’m a Laurent. I’m a Laurent, Uncle, and you better remember it.”

  “My apologies—Nephew,” Frank said. “Now, shall I go on?”

  Copper didn’t say any more, but he didn’t sit down either. He just stood there, looking down at Frank.

  “I was saying I’ve suffered as much as you’ve suffered,” Frank said. “He’s destroyed your mind, he’s destroyed my body. I don’t know how much more time I have. Maybe a year, maybe a month, maybe only another day. But as long as I’m here I’m going to do all I can to make up for what he did to these here in the quarters. I’m going to give them shelter and food, medicine when they’re sick, a place to worship God. When they die, I’m going to give them a little plot of ground in which to be buried.” He sat up a little in the chair and squinted up at Copper. “General Christian Laurent, I’m going to defend this place with all my strength. I’m going to defend it with my dying breath—to keep it exactly as it is. And if you come back here again, alone or with your Army, before the law of the land has been changed to give you those ’birthrights’ you’ve been talking so much about, I would shoot you down the same as I would a mad dog. After I’m dead, laws won’t matter to me. You and Greta Jean can fight over this piece of rot as long as you both live. But as long as I can draw breath, it stays as it is. I did not write these rules and laws you’ve been talking about; I came here and found them just as you did. And neither one of us is going to change them, not singly. Now, those are my last words to you. You can stay here as long as you think it’s possible to stay without causing trouble. If you can’t live by those rules, then you better get the hell away from here now.”

  Copper stood there a long time after Frank had finished talking. He even narrowed his eyes and looked down at Frank the way all the Laurents did.

  “Are you finished, Uncle?” he said.

  Frank didn’t answer him. He was looking down the quarters now.

  “I’ll leave, Uncle,” Copper said. “Not because you are frightening me—that’s impossible; nothing frightens me any more. I’ll leave because I only came this time to look around. But I’ll be back. We’ll be back, Uncle. And I’ll take my share. I won’t beg for it, I won’t ask for it; I’ll take it. I’ll take it or I’ll bathe this whole plantation in blood.”

  He stopped and looked down at Frank. Frank was still looking down the quarters.

  “Your days are over, Uncle,” he said. “It’s my time now. And I won’t let a thing in the world get in my way. Nothing …

  “Shall I help you back to the car?”

  “I have Felix there,” Frank said, without looking at him.

  “Then I’ll say good day,” Copper said. “Tell my aunt I’ve gone. But tell her I’ll come back. And tell her when I do, she’ll never have to go through your back door ever again.”

  He bowed and went inside—walking fast the way soldiers walk.

  Just Like a Tree

  Just Like a Tree

  I shall not;

  I shall not be moved.

  I shall not;

  I shall not be moved.

  Just like a tree that’s

  planted ’side the water.

  Oh, I shall not be moved.

  I made my home in glory;

  I shall not be moved.

  Made my home in glory;

  I shall not be moved.

  Just like a tree that’s

  planted ’side the water.

  Oh, I shall not be moved.

  (from an old Negro spiritual)

  Chuckkie


  Pa hit him on the back and he jeck in them chains like he pulling, but ever’body in the wagon know he ain’t, and Pa hit him on the back again. He jeck again like he pulling, but even Big Red know he ain’t doing a thing.

  “That’s why I’m go’n get a horse,” Pa say. “He’ll kill that other mule. Get up there, Mr. Bascom.”

  “Oh, let him alone,” Gran’mon say. “How would you like it if you was pulling a wagon in all that mud?”

  Pa don’t answer Gran’mon; he just hit Mr. Bascom on the back again.

  “That’s right, kill him,” Gran’mon say. “See where you get mo’ money to buy another one.”

  “Get up there, Mr. Bascom,” Pa say.

  “You hear me talking to you, Emile?” Gran’mon say. “You want me hit you with something?”

  “Ma, he ain’t pulling,” Pa say.

  “Leave him alone,” Gran’mon say.

  Pa shake the lines little bit, but Mr. Bascom don’t even feel it, and you can see he letting Big Red do all the pulling again. Pa say something kind o’ low to hisself, and I can’t make out what it is.

  I low’ my head little bit, ’cause that wind and fine rain was hitting me in the face, and I can feel Mama pressing close to me to keep me warm. She sitting on one side o’ me and Pa sitting on the other side o’ me, and Gran’mon in the back o’ me in her setting chair. Pa didn’t want bring the setting chair, telling Gran’mon there was two boards in that wagon already and she could sit on one of ’em all by herself if she wanted to, but Gran’mon say she was taking her setting chair with her if Pa liked it or not. She say she didn’t ride in no wagon on nobody board, and if Pa liked it or not, that setting chair was going.

  “Let her take her setting chair,” Mama say. “What’s wrong with taking her setting chair.”

  “Ehhh, Lord,” Pa say, and picked up the setting chair and took it out to the wagon. “I guess I’ll have to bring it back in the house, too, when we come back from there.”

  Gran’mon went and clambed in the wagon and moved her setting chair back little bit and sat down and folded her arms, waiting for us to get in, too. I got in and knelt down ’side her, but Mama told me to come up there and sit on the board ’side her and Pa so I could stay warm. Soon ’s I sat down, Pa hit Mr. Bascom on the back, saying what a trifling thing Mr. Bascom was, and soon ’s he got some mo’ money he was getting rid o’ Mr. Bascom and getting him a horse.

  I raise my head to look see how far we is.

  “That’s it, yonder,” I say.

  “Stop pointing,” Mama say, “and keep your hand in your pocket.”

  “Where?” Gran’mon say, back there in her setting chair.

  “ ’Cross the ditch, yonder,” I say.

  “Can’t see a thing for this rain,” Gran’mon say.

  “Can’t hardly see it,” I say. “But you can see the light little bit. That chinaball tree standing in the way.”

  “Poor soul,” Gran’mon say. “Poor soul.”

  I know Gran’mon was go’n say “poor soul, poor soul,” ’cause she had been saying “poor soul, poor soul,” ever since she heard Aunt Fe was go’n leave from back there.

  Emile

  Darn cane crop to finish getting in and only a mule and a half to do it. If I had my way I’d take that shotgun and a load o’ buckshots and—but what’s the use.

  “Get up, Mr. Bascom—please,” I say to that little dried-up, long-eared, tobacco-color thing. “Please, come up. Do your share for God sake—if you don’t mind. I know it’s hard pulling in all that mud, but if you don’t do your share, then Big Red’ll have to do his and yours, too. So, please, if it ain’t asking you too much to—”

  “Oh, Emile, shut up,” Leola say.

  “I can’t hit him,” I say, “or Mama back there’ll hit me. So I have to talk to him. Please, Mr. Bascom, if you don’t mind it. For my sake. No, not for mine; for God sake. No, not even for His’n; for Big Red sake. A fellow mule just like yourself is. Please, come up.”

  “Now, you hear that boy blaspheming God right in front o’ me there,” Mama say. “Ehhh, Lord—just keep it up. All this bad weather there like this whole world coming apart—a clap o’ thunder come there and knock the fool out you. Just keep it up.”

  Maybe she right, and I stop. I look at Mr. Bascom there doing nothing, and I just give up. That mule know long’s Mama’s alive he go’n do just what he want to do. He know when Papa was dying he told Mama to look after him, and he know no matter what he do, no matter what he don’t do, Mama ain’t go’n never let me do him anything. Sometimes I even feel Mama care mo’ for Mr. Bascom ’an she care for me her own son.

  We come up to the gate and I pull back on the lines.

  “Whoa up, Big Red,” I say. “You don’t have to stop, Mr. Bascom. You never started.”

  I can feel Mama looking at me back there in that setting chair, but she don’t say nothing.

  “Here,” I say to Chuckkie.

  He take the lines and I jump down on the ground to open the old beat-up gate. I see Etienne’s horse in the yard, and I see Chris new red tractor ’side the house, shining in the rain. When Mama die, I say to myself, Mr. Bascom, you going. Ever’body getting tractors and horses and I’m still stuck with you. You going, brother.

  “Can you make it through?” I ask Chuckkie. “That gate ain’t too wide.”

  “I can do it,” he say.

  “Be sure to make Mr. Bascom pull,” I say.

  “Emile, you better get back up here and drive ’em through,” Leola say. “Chuckkie might break up that wagon.”

  “No, let him stay down there and give orders,” Mama say, back there in that setting chair.

  “He can do it,” I say. “Come on, Chuckkie boy.”

  “Come up, here, mule,” Chuckkie say.

  And soon ’s he say that, Big Red make a lunge for the yard, and Mr. Bascom don’t even move, and ’fore I can bat my eyes I hear pow-wow; sagg-sagg; pow-wow. But above all that noise, Leola up there screaming her head off. And Mama—not a word; just sitting in that chair, looking at me with her arms still folded.

  “Pull Big Red,” I say. “Pull Big Red, Chuckkie.”

  Poor little Chuckkie up there pulling so hard till one of his little arms straight out in back; and Big Red throwing his shoulders and ever’thing else in it, and Mr. Bascom just walking there just’s loose and free, like he’s suppose to be there just for his good looks. I move out the way just in time to let the wagon go by me, pulling half o’ the fence in the yard behind it. I glance up again, and there’s Leola still hollering and trying to jump out, but Mama not saying a word—just sitting there in that setting chair with her arms still folded.

  “Whoa,” I hear little Chuckkie saying. “Whoa up, now.”

  Somebody open the door and a bunch o’ people come out on the gallery.

  “What the world—?” Etienne say. “Thought the whole place was coming to pieces there.”

  “Chuckkie had a little trouble coming in the yard,” I say.

  “Goodness,” Etienne say. “Anybody hurt?”

  Mama just sit there about ten seconds, then she say something to herself and start clambing out the wagon.

  “Let me help you there, Aunt Lou,” Etienne say, coming down the steps.”

  “I can make it,” Mama say. When she get on the ground she look up at Chuckkie. “Hand me my chair there, boy.”

  Poor little Chuckkie, up there with the lines in one hand, get the chair and hold it to the side, and Etienne catch it just ’fore it hit the ground. Mama start looking at me again, and it look like for at least a’ hour she stand there looking at nobody but me. Then she say, “Ehhh, Lord,” like that again, and go inside with Leola and the rest o’ the people.

  I look back at half o’ the fence laying there in the yard, and I jump back on the wagon and guide the mules to the side o’ the house. After unhitching ’em and tying ’em to the wheels, I look at Chris pretty red tractor again, and me and Chuckkie go inside: I make sure he
kick all that mud off his shoes ’fore he go in the house.

  Leola

  Sitting over there by that fireplace, trying to look joyful when ever’body there know she ain’t. But she trying, you know; smiling and bowing when people say something to her. How can she be joyful, I ask you; how can she be? Poor thing, she been here all her life—or the most of it, let’s say. ‘Fore they moved in this house, they lived in one back in the woods ’bout a mile from here. But for the past twenty-five or thirty years, she been right in this one house. I know ever since I been big enough to know people I been seeing her right here.

  Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe; the name’s been ’mongst us just like us own family name. Just like the name o’ God. Like the name of town—the city. Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe, Aunt Fe.

  Poor old thing; how many times I done come here and washed clothes for her when she couldn’t do it herself. How many times I done hoed in that garden, ironed her clothes, wrung a chicken neck for her. You count the days in the year and you’ll be pretty close. And I didn’t mind it a bit. No, I didn’t mind it a bit. She there trying to pay me. Proud-Lord, talking ’bout pride. “Here.” “No, Aunt Fe; no.” “Here, here; you got a child there, you can use it.” “No, Aunt Fe. No. No. What would Mama think if she knowed I took money from you? Aunt Fe, Mama would never forgive me. No. I love doing these thing for you. I just wish I could do more.”

  And there, now, trying to make ’tend she don’t mind leaving. Ehhh, Lord.

  I hear a bunch o’ rattling round in the kitchen and I go back there. I see Louise stirring this big pot o’ eggnog.

  “Louise,” I say.

  “Leola,” she say.

  We look at each other and she stir the eggnog again. She know what I’m go’n say next, and she can’t even look in my face.

  “Louise, I wish there was some other way.”

  “There’s no other way,” she say.

  “Louise, moving her from here’s like moving a tree you been used to in your front yard all your life.”