Bloodline: Five Stories

  Louise come in the room and whisper something to Leola, and they go back in the kitchen. I can hear ’em moving things round back there, still getting things together they go’n be taking along. If they offer me anything, I’d like that big iron pot out there in the back yard. Good for boiling water when you killing hog, you know.

  You can feel the sadness in the room again. Louise brought it in when she come in and whispered to Leola.

  Only, she didn’t take it out when her and Leola left. Every pan they move, every pot they unhook keep telling you she leaving, she leaving.

  Etienne turn over one o’ them logs to make the fire pick up some, and I see that boy, Lionel, spreading out his hands over the fire. Watch out, I think to myself, here come another lie. People, he just getting started.

  Anne-Marie Duvall

  “You’re not going?”

  “I’m not going,” he says, turning over the log with the poker. “And if you were in your right mind, you wouldn’t go, either.”

  “You just don’t understand, do you?”

  “Oh, I understand. She cooked for your daddy. She nursed you when your mama died.”

  “And I’m trying to pay her back with a seventy-nine-cents scarf. Is that too much?”

  He is silent, leaning against the mantel, looking down at the fire. The fire throws strange shadows across the big, old room. Father looks down at me from against the wall. His eyes do not say go nor stay. But I know what he would do.

  “Please go with me, Edward.”

  “You’re wasting your breath.”

  I look at him a long time, then I get the small package from the coffee table. “You’re still going?”

  “I am going.”

  “Don’t call for me if you get bogged down anywhere back there.”

  I look at him and go out to the garage. The sky is black.

  The clouds are moving fast and low. A fine drizzle is falling, and the wind coming from the swamps blows in my face. I cannot recall a worse night in all my life.

  I hurry into the car and drive out of the yard. The house stands big and black in back of me. Am I angry with Edward? No, I’m not angry with Edward. He’s right. I should not go out into this kind of weather. But what he does not understand is I must. Father definitely would have gone if he were alive. Grandfather definitely would have gone, also. And, therefore, I must. Why? I cannot answer why. Only, I must go.

  As soon as I turn down that old muddy road, I begin to pray. Don’t let me go into that ditch, I pray. Don’t let me go into that ditch. Please, don’t let me go into that ditch.

  The lights play on the big old trees along the road. Here and there the lights hit a sagging picket fence. But I know I haven’t even started yet. She lives far back into the fields. Why? God, why does she have to live so far back? Why couldn’t she have lived closer to the front? But the answer to that is as hard for me as is the answer to everything else. It was ordained before I—before father—was born—that she should live back there. So why should I try to understand it now?

  The car slides towards the ditch, and I stop it dead and turn the wheel, and then come back into the road again. Thanks, father. I know you’re with me. Because it was you who said that I must look after her, didn’t you? No, you did not say it directly, father. You said it only with a glance. As grandfather must have said it to you, and as his father must have said it to him.

  But now that she’s gone, father, now what? I know. I know. Aunt Lou, Aunt Clo, and the rest.

  The lights shine on the dead, wet grass along the road. There’s an old pecan tree, looking dead and all alone. I wish I was a little nigger gal so I could pick pecans and eat them under the big old dead tree.

  The car hits a rut, but bounces right out of it. I am frightened for a moment, but then I feel better. The windshield wipers are working well, slapping the water away as fast as it hits the glass. If I make the next half mile all right, the rest of the way will be good. It’s not much over a mile now.

  That was too bad about that bombing—killing that woman and her two children. That poor woman; poor children. What is the answer? What will happen? What do they want? Do they know what they want? Do they really know what they want? Are they positively sure? Have they any idea? Money to buy a car, is that it? If that is all, I pity them. Oh, how I pity them.

  Not much farther. Just around that bend and—there’s a water hole. Now what?

  I stop the car and just stare out at the water a minute; then I get out to see how deep it is. The cold wind shoots through my body like needles. Lightning comes from towards the swamps and lights up the place. For a split second the night is as bright as day. The next second it is blacker than it has ever been.

  I look at the water, and I can see that it’s too deep for the car to pass through. I must turn back or I must walk the rest of the way. I stand there a while wondering what to do. Is it worth it all? Can’t I simply send the gift by someone tomorrow morning? But will there be someone tomorrow morning? Suppose she leaves without getting it, then what? What then? Father would never forgive me. Neither would grandfather or great-grandfather, either. No, they wouldn’t.

  The lightning flashes again and I look across the field, and I can see the tree in the yard a quarter of a mile away. I have but one choice: I must walk. I get the package out of the car and stuff it in my coat and start out.

  I don’t make any progress at first, but then I become a little warmer and I find I like walking. The lightning flashes just in time to show up a puddle of water, and I go around it. But there’s no light to show up the second puddle, and I fall flat on my face. For a moment I’m completely blind, then I get slowly to my feet and check the package. It’s dry, not harmed. I wash the mud off my raincoat, wash my hands, and I start out again.

  The house appears in front of me, and as I come into the yard, I can hear the people laughing and talking. Sometimes I think niggers can laugh and joke even if they see somebody beaten to death. I go up on the porch and knock and an old one opens the door for me. I swear, when he sees me he looks as if he’s seen a ghost. His mouth drops open, his eyes bulge—I swear.

  I go into the old crowded and smelly room, and every one of them looks at me the same way the first one did. All the joking and laughing has ceased. You would think I was the devil in person.

  “Done, Lord,” I hear her saying over by the fireplace. They move to the side and I can see her sitting in that little rocking chair I bet you she’s had since the beginning of time. “Done, Master,” she says. “Child, what you doing in weather like this? Y’all move; let her get to that fire. Y’all move. Move, now. Let her warm herself.”

  They start scattering everywhere.

  “I’m not cold, Aunt Fe,” I say. “I just brought you something—something small—because you’re leaving us. I’m going right back.”

  “Done, Master,” she says. Fussing over me just like she’s done all her life. “Done, Master. Child, you ain’t got no business in a place like this. Get close to this fire. Get here. Done, Master.”

  I move closer, and the fire does feel warm and good.

  “Done, Lord,” she says.

  I take out the package and pass it to her. The other niggers gather around with all kinds of smiles on their faces. Just think of it—a white lady coming through all of this for one old darky. It is all right for them to come from all over the plantation, from all over the area, in all kinds of weather: this is to be expected of them. But a white lady, a white lady. They must think we white people don’t have their kind of feelings.

  She unwraps the package, her bony little fingers working slowly and deliberately. When she sees the scarf—the seventy-nine-cents scarf—she brings it to her mouth and kisses it.

  “Y’all look,” she says. “Y’all look. Ain’t it the prettiest little scarf y’all ever did see? Y’all look.”

  They move around her and look at the scarf. Some of them touch it.

  “I go’n put it on right now,” she says. I
go’n put it on right now, my lady.”

  She unfolds it and ties it round her head and looks up at everybody and smiles.

  “Thank you, my lady,” she says. “Thank you, ma’am, from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Oh, Aunt Fe.” I say, kneeling down beside her. “Oh, Aunt Fe.”

  But I think about the other niggers there looking down at me, and I get up. But I look into that wrinkled old face again, and I must go back down again. And I lay my head in that bony old lap, and I cry and I cry—I don’t know how long. And I feel those old fingers, like death itself, passing over my hair and my neck. I don’t know how long I kneel there crying, and when I stop, I get out of there as fast as I can.

  Etienne

  The boy come in, and soon, right off, they get quiet, blaming the boy. If people could look little farther than the tip of they nose—No, they blame the boy. Not that they ain’t behind the boy, what he doing, but they blame him for what she must do. What they don’t know is that the boy didn’t start it, and the people that bombed the house didn’t start it, neither. It started a million years ago. It started when one man envied another man for having a penny mo’ ’an he had, and then the man married a woman to help him work the field so he could get much’s the other man, but when the other man saw the man had married a woman to get much’s him, he, himself, he married a woman, too, so he could still have mo’. Then they start having children—not from love; but so the children could help ’em work so they could have mo’. But even with the children one man still had a penny mo’ ’an the other, so the other man went and bought him a ox, and the other man did the same—to keep ahead of the other man. And soon the other man had bought him a slave to work the ox so he could get ahead of the other man. But the other man went out and bought him two slaves so he could stay ahead of the other man, and the other man went out and bought him three slaves. And soon they had a thousand slaves apiece, but they still wasn’t satisfied. And one day the slaves all rose and kill the masters, but the masters (knowing slaves was men just like they was, and kind o’ expected they might do this) organized theyself a good police force, and the police force, they come out and killed the two thousand slaves.

  So it’s not this boy you see standing here ’fore you, ’cause it happened a million years ago. And this boy here’s just doing something the slaves done a million years ago. Just that this boy here ain’t doing it they way. ’Stead of raising arms ’gainst the masters, he bow his head.

  No, I say; don’t blame the boy ’cause she must go. ’Cause when she’s dead, and that won’t be long after they get her up there, this boy’s work will still be going on. She’s not the only one that’s go’n die from this boy’s work. Many mo’ of ’em go’n die ’fore it’s over with. The whole place—everything. A big wind is rising, and when a big wind rise, the sea stirs, and the drop o’ water you see laying on top the sea this day won’t be there tomorrow. ’Cause that’s what wind do, and that’s what life is. She ain’t nothing but one little drop o’ water laying on top the sea, and what this boy’s doing is called the wind … and she must be moved. No, don’t blame the boy. Go out and blame the wind. No, don’t blame him, ’cause tomorrow, what he’s doing today, somebody go’n say he ain’t done a thing. ’Cause tomorrow will he his time to be turned over just like it’s hers today. And after that, be somebody else time to turn over. And it keep going like that till it ain’t nothing left to turn—and nobody left to turn it.

  “Sure, they bombed the house,” he say; “because they want us to stop. But if we stopped today, then what good would we have done? What good? Those who have already died for the cause would have just died in vain.”

  “Maybe if they had bombed your house you wouldn’t be so set on keeping this up.”

  “If they had killed my mother and my brothers and sisters, I’d press just that much harder. I can see you all point. I can see it very well. But I can’t agree with you. You blame me for their being bombed. You blame me for Aunt Fe’s leaving. They died for you and for your children. And I love Aunt Fe as much as anybody in here does. Nobody in here loves her more than I do. Not one of you.” He looks at her. “Don’t you believe me, Aunt Fe?”

  She nods—that little white scarf still tied round her head.

  “How many times have I eaten in your kitchen, Aunt Fe? A thousand times? How many times have I eaten tea cakes and drank milk on the back steps, Aunt Fe? A thousand times? How many times have I sat at this same fireplace with you, just the two of us, Aunt Fe? Another thousand times-two thousand times? How many times have I chopped wood for you, chopped grass for you, ran to the store for you? Five thousand times? How many times have we walked to church together, Aunt Fe? Gone fishing at the river together—how many times? I’ve spent as much time in this house as I’ve spent in my own. I know every crack in the wall. I know every corner. With my eyes shut, I can go anywhere in here without bumping into anything. How many of you can do that? Not many of you.” He looks at her. “Aunt Fe?”

  She looks at him.

  “Do you think I love you, Aunt Fe?” She nods.

  “I love you, Aunt Fe, much as I do my own parents. I’m going to miss you much as I’d miss my own mother if she were to leave me now. I’m going to miss you, Aunt Fe, but I’m not going to stop what I’ve started. You told me a story once, Aunt Fe, about my great-grandpa. Remember? Remember how he died?”

  She looks in the fire and nods.

  “Remember how they lynched him—chopped him into pieces?” She nods.

  “Just the two of us were sitting here beside the fire when you told me that. I was so angry I felt like killing. But it was you who told me get killing out of my mind. It was you who told me I would only bring harm to myself and sadness to the others if I killed. Do you remember that, Aunt Fe?”

  She nods, still looking in the fire.

  “You were right. We cannot raise our arms. Because it would mean death for ourselves, as well as for the others. But we will do something else—and that’s what we will do.” He looks at the people standing round him. “And if they were to bomb my own mother’s house tomorrow, I would still go on.”

  “I’m not saying for you not to go on,” Louise says. “That’s up to you. I’m just taking Auntie from here before hers is the next house they bomb.”

  The boy look at Louise, and then at Aunt Fe. He go up to the chair where she sitting.

  “Good-bye, Aunt Fe,” he say, picking up her hand. The hand done shriveled up to almost nothing. Look like nothing but loose skin’s covering the bones. “I’ll miss you,” he say.

  “Good-bye, Emmanuel,” she say. She look at him a long time. “God be with you.”

  He stand there holding the hand a while longer, then he nods his head, and leaves the house. The people stir round little bit, but nobody say anything.

  Aunt Lou

  They tell her good-bye, and half of ’em leave the house crying, or want cry, but she just sit there ’side the fireplace like she don’t mind going at all. When Leola ask me if I’m ready to go, I tell her I’m staying right there till Fe leave that house. I tell her I ain’t moving one step till she go out that door. I been knowing her for the past fifty some years now, and I ain’t ’bout to leave her on her last night here.

  That boy, Chuckkie, want stay with me, but I make him go. He follow his mon and paw out the house and soon I hear that wagon turning round. I hear Emile saying something to Mr. Bascom even ’fore that wagon get out the yard. I tell myself, well, Mr. Bascom, you sure go’n catch it, and me not there to take up for you—and I get up from my chair and go to the door.

  “Emile?” I call.

  “Whoa,” he say.

  “You leave that mule ’lone, you hear me?”

  “I ain’t done Mr. Bascom a thing, Mama,” he say.

  “Well, you just mind you don’t,” I say. “I’ll sure find out.”

  “Yes’m,” he say. “Come up here, Mr. Bascom.”

  “Now, you hear that boy. Emile?” I say. r />
  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he say. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

  They go out in the road, and I go back to the fireplace and sit down again. Louise stir round in the kitchen a few minutes, then she come in the front where we at. Everybody else gone. That husband o’ hers, there, got drunk long ’fore midnight, and Emile and them had to put him to bed in the other room.

  She come there and stand by the fire.

  “I’m dead on my feet,” she say.

  “Why don’t you go to bed,” I say. “I’m go’n be here.”

  “You all won’t need anything?”

  “They got wood in that corner?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Then we won’t need a thing.”

  She stand there and warm, and then she say good night and go round the other side.

  “Well, Fe?” I say.

  “I ain’t leaving here tomorrow, Lou,” she say.

  “ ’Course you is,” I say. “Up there ain’t that bad.”

  She shake her head. “No, I ain’t going nowhere.”

  I look at her over in her chair, but I don’t say nothing.

  The fire pops in the fireplace, and I look at the fire again. It’s a good little fire—not too big, not too little. Just ’nough there to keep the place warm.

  “You want sing, Lou?” she say, after a while. “I feel like singing my ’termination song.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  She start singing in that little light voice she got there, and I join with her. We sing two choruses, and then she stop.

  “My ’termination for Heaven,” she say. “Now—now—”

  “What’s the matter, Fe?” I say.

  “Nothing,” she say. “I want get in my bed. My gown hanging over there.”

  I get the gown for her and bring it back to the firehalf. She get out of her dress slowly, like she don’t even have ’nough strength to do it. I help her on with her gown, and she kneel down there ’side the bed and say her prayers. I sit in my chair and look at the fire again.