Lesson Before Dying

  “How?”

  “Tell him to fall down on his knees ’fore he walk to that chair. Tell him to fall down on his knees ’fore her. You the only one he’ll listen to. He won’t listen to me.”

  “No,” I said. “I won’t tell him to kneel. I’ll tell him to listen to you—but I won’t tell him to kneel. I will try to help him stand.”

  “You think a man can’t kneel and stand?”

  “It hasn’t helped me.”

  The minister drew back from me. His head was shining; so was his face. I could see his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to say it.

  “You’re just lost,” he said. “That’s all. You’re just lost.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m lost. Like most men, I’m lost.”

  “Not all men,” he said. “Me, I’m found.”

  “Then you’re one of the lucky ones, Reverend.”

  “And I won’t let you lose his soul in hell.”

  “I want him in heaven as much as you do, Reverend.”

  “A place you can’t believe in?”

  “No, I don’t believe in it, Reverend.”

  “And how can you tell him to believe in it?”

  “I’ll never tell him not to believe in it.”

  “And suppose he ask you if it’s there, then what? Suppose he write on that tablet you give him, is it there? Then what?”

  “I’ll tell him I don’t know.”

  “You the teacher.”

  “Yes. But I was taught to teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. Not the gospel. I’d tell him I heard it was there, but I don’t know.”

  “And suppose he ask you if you believe in heaven? Then what?”

  “I hope he doesn’t, Reverend.”

  “Suppose he do?”

  “I hope he doesn’t.”

  “You couldn’t say yes?”

  “No, Reverend, I couldn’t say yes. I couldn’t lie to him at this moment. I will never tell him another lie, no matter what.”

  “Not for her sake?”

  “No, sir.”

  The minister nodded his bald head and grunted to himself. His dark-brown eyes in that tired, weary face continued to stare back at me.

  “You think you educated, but you not. You think you the only person ever had to lie? You think I never had to lie?”

  “I don’t know, Reverend.”

  “Yes, you know. You know, all right. That’s why you look down on me, because you know I lie. At wakes, at funerals, at weddings—yes, I lie. I lie at wakes and funerals to relieve pain. ’Cause reading, writing, and ’rithmetic is not enough. You think that’s all they sent you to school for? They sent you to school to relieve pain, to relieve hurt—and if you have to lie to do it, then you lie. You lie and you lie and you lie. When you tell yourself you feeling good when you sick, you lying. When you tell other people you feeling well when you feeling sick, you lying. You tell them that ’cause they have pain too, and you don’t want to add yours—and you lie. She been lying every day of her life, your aunt in there. That’s how you got through that university—cheating herself here, cheating herself there, but always telling you she’s all right. I’ve seen her hands bleed from picking cotton. I’ve seen the blisters from the hoe and the cane knife. At that church, crying on her knees. You ever looked at the scabs on her knees, boy? Course you never. ’Cause she never wanted you to see it. And that’s the difference between me and you, boy; that make me the educated one, and you the gump. I know my people. I know what they gone through. I know they done cheated themself, lied to themself—hoping that one they all love and trust can come back and help relieve the pain.”

  28

  I WENT INTO THE CELL with a paper bag full of baked sweet potatoes. The deputy locked the heavy door behind me.

  “How’s it going, partner?”

  Jefferson nodded.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I brought you a little something.”

  Jefferson was sitting on the bunk, with his hands clasped together. I put the bag beside him on the bunk and sat down. I could hear the radio, on the floor against the wall, playing a sad cowboy song. I saw the notebook and the pencil on the floor, next to the radio. This was my first visit since I’d given him the notebook and pencil, and I could see that the lead on the pencil was worn down to the wood. I could also see that he had used the eraser a lot. We were quiet awhile.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “Maybe later.”

  “I see you’ve been writing.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Personal, or can I look at it?”

  “It ain’t nothing.”

  “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “If you want.”

  I got the notebook and came back to the bunk. The fellow on the radio was saying what a beautiful day it was in Baton Rouge.

  Jefferson had filled three quarters of the first page. The letters were large and awkward, the way someone would write who could barely see. He had written across the lines instead of above them. He had used the eraser so much that in some places the paper was worn through. Nothing was capitalized, and there were no punctuation marks. The letters were thin at the beginning, but became broader as the lead was worn down. As closely as I could figure, he had written: I dreampt it again last night. They was taking me somewhere. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t begging. I was just going, going with them. Then I woke up. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t want go back to sleep. I didn’t want dream no more. There was a lot of erasing, then he wrote: If I ain’t nothing but a hog, how come they just don’t knock me in the head like a hog? Starb me like a hog? More erasing, then: Man walk on two foots; hogs on four hoofs.

  The last couple of words were barely visible, because the lead had been worn down all the way to the wood. I read it over a second time before closing the notebook. I didn’t know what to say to him. He was staring at the wall, his hands clasped together.

  “Do you want me to bring you a pencil sharpener?” I asked after a while. “The little ones you hold in your hand?”

  “If you can find one.”

  “I’m sure I can,” I said. “You know, Paul would have sharpened this pencil for you. He wouldn’t mind.”

  Jefferson had unclasped his hands, and now he was scraping the ends of his left fingernails with the index finger of the right hand. His fingernails were hard and purplish.

  “When’s Easter?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow is Good Friday.”

  “That’s when He rose?”

  “No. He rose on Easter.”

  “That’s when He died,” Jefferson said to himself. “Never said a mumbling word. That’s right. Not a word.”

  “Did you talk to Reverend Ambrose when he came to visit you?” I asked Jefferson.

  “Some.”

  “You ought to talk to him. It’s good for your nannan. She wants you to talk to him.”

  “He told me to pray.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “It would be good for your nannan.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were large and sad and reddened.

  “You think I’m going to heaven?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think Mr. Gropé went to heaven? You think Brother and Bear went to heaven?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what I’m go’n pray for?”

  “For your nannan.”

  “Nannan don’t need me to help her get to heaven. She’ll make it if it’s up there.”

  “She wants you there with her, where there’s no pain and no sorrow.”

  He grinned at me, a brief cynical grin.

  “You pray, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “No, Jefferson, I don’t.”

  He grunted.

  “But then I’m lost, Jefferson,” I said, looking at him closely. “At this moment I don’t believe in anything. Like your nannan does, like Reverend Ambrose
does, and like I want you to believe. I want you to believe so that one day maybe I will.”

  “In heaven, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “If it helps others down here on earth, Jefferson.”

  “Reverend Ambrose say I have to give up what’s down here. Say there ain’t nothing down here on this earth for me no more.”

  “He meant possessions, Jefferson. Cars, money, clothes—things like that.”

  “You ever seen me with a car, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “No.”

  “With more than a dollar in my pocket?”

  “No.”

  “More than two pair shoes, Mr. Wiggins? One for Sunday, one for working in?”

  “No, Jefferson.”

  “Then what on earth I got to give up, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “You’ve never had any possessions to give up, Jefferson. But there is something greater than possessions—and that is love. I know you love her and would do anything for her. Didn’t you eat the gumbo when you weren’t hungry, just to please her? That’s all we’re asking for now, Jefferson—do something to please her.”

  “What about me, Mr. Wiggins? What people done done to please me?”

  “Hasn’t she done many things to please you, Jefferson? Cooked for you, washed for you, taken care of you when you were sick? She is sick now, Jefferson, and she is asking for only one thing in this world. Walk like a man. Meet her up there.”

  “Y’all asking a lot, Mr. Wiggins, from a poor old nigger who never had nothing.”

  “She would do it for you.”

  “She go to that chair for me, Mr. Wiggins? You? Anybody?”

  He waited for me to answer him. I wouldn’t.

  “No, Mr. Wiggins, I got to go myself. Just me, Mr. Wiggins. Reverend Ambrose say God’d be there if I axe Him. You think He be there if I axe Him, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “That’s what they say, Jefferson.”

  “You believe in God, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “Yes, Jefferson, I believe in God.”

  “How?”

  “I think it’s God that makes people care for people, Jefferson. I think it’s God makes children play and people sing. I believe it’s God that brings loved ones together. I believe it’s God that makes trees bud and food grow out of the earth.”

  “Who make people kill people, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “They killed His Son, Jefferson.”

  “And He never said a mumbling word.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “That’s how I want to go, Mr. Wiggins. Not a mumbling word.”

  Another cowboy song was playing on the radio, but it was quiet and not disturbing. I could hear inmates down the cell-block calling to one another. Jefferson sat forward on the bunk, his big hands clasped together again. I still had the notebook. I started to open it, but changed my mind.

  “You need anything, Jefferson?”

  “No, I don’t need nothing, Mr. Wiggins. Reverend Ambrose say I don’t need nothing down here no more.”

  “I’ll get you that sharpener,” I said.

  “I ain’t got nothing more to say, Mr. Wiggins.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “I hope the time just hurry up and get here. Cut out all this waiting.”

  “I wish I knew what to do, Jefferson.”

  “I’m the one got to do everything, Mr. Wiggins. I’m the one.” He got up from the bunk and went to the window and looked up at the buds on the higher branches of the sycamore tree. Through the branches of the tree I could see the sky, blue and lovely and clear. “You Are My Sunshine” was playing on the radio. Jefferson turned his back to the window and looked at me. “Me, Mr. Wiggins. Me. Me to take the cross. Your cross, nannan’s cross, my own cross. Me, Mr. Wiggins. This old stumbling nigger. Y’all axe a lot, Mr. Wiggins.” He went to the cell door and grasped it with both hands. He started to jerk on the door, but changed his mind and turned back to look at me. “Who ever car’d my cross, Mr. Wiggins? My mama? My daddy? They dropped me when I wasn’t nothing. Still don’t know where they at this minute. I went in the field when I was six, driving that old water cart. I done pulled that cotton sack, I done cut cane, load cane, swung that ax, chop ditch banks, since I was six.” He was standing over me now. “Yes, I’m youman, Mr. Wiggins. But nobody didn’t know that ’fore now. Cuss for nothing. Beat for nothing. Work for nothing. Grinned to get by. Everybody thought that’s how it was s’pose to be. You too, Mr. Wiggins. You never thought I was nothing else. I didn’t neither. Thought I was doing what the Lord had put me on this earth to do.” He went to the window and turned to look at me. “Now all y’all want me to be better than ever’body else. How, Mr. Wiggins? You tell me.”

  “I don’t know, Jefferson.”

  “What I got left, Mr. Wiggins—two weeks?”

  “I think it’s something like that—if nothing happens.”

  “Nothing go’n happen, Mr. Wiggins. And it ain’t ‘something like that.’ That’s all I got on this here earth. I got to face that, Mr. Wiggins. It’s all right for y’all to say ‘something like that.’ For me, it’s ‘that’—‘that,’ that’s all. And like Reverend Ambrose say, then I’ll have to give up this old earth. But ain’t that where I’m going, Mr. Wiggins, back in the earth?”

  My head down, I didn’t answer him.

  “You can look at me, Mr. Wiggins; I don’t mind.”

  I raised my head, and I saw him standing there under the window, big and tall, and not stooped as he had been in chains.

  “I’m go’n do my best, Mr. Wiggins. That’s all I can promise. My best.”

  “You’re more a man than I am, Jefferson.”

  “’Cause I’m go’n die soon? That make me a man, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “My eyes were closed before this moment, Jefferson. My eyes have been closed all my life. Yes, we all need you. Every last one of us.”

  He studied me awhile, then he turned his back and looked up at the window.

  “So pretty out there,” he said. “So pretty. I ain’t never seen it so pretty.” I looked at him standing there big and tall, his broad back toward me. “What it go’n be like, Mr. Wiggins?”

  I thought I knew what he was talking about, but I didn’t answer him. He turned around to face me.

  “What it go’n feel like, Mr. Wiggins?”

  I shook my head. I felt my eyes burning.

  “I hope it ain’t long.”

  “It’s not long, Jefferson,” I said.

  “How you know, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “I read it.”

  I was not looking at him. I was looking at the wall. It had been in the newspaper. The first jolt, if everything is right, immediately knocked a person unconscious.

  He came back and sat down on the bunk.

  “I’m all right, Mr. Wiggins.”

  I nodded without looking at him.

  “Care for a ’tato, Mr. Wiggins?” he said, opening the paper bag.

  “Sure,” I said.

  29

  JEFFERSON’S DIARY

  mr wigin you say rite somethin but i dont kno what to rite an you say i must be thinkin bout things i aint telin nobody an i order put it on paper but i dont kno what to put on paper cause i aint never rote nothin but homework i aint never rote a leter in all my life cause nanan use to get other chiren to rite her leter an read her leter for her not me so i cant think of too much to say but maybe nex time

  its evenin an i done eat my rice an beans an i done had my cup of milk an the sun comin in the windo cause i can see it splashin on the flo and I can yer ned an them talkin an thats bout all for now

  i coudn sleep las nite cause i kept dremin it and i dont want dreem it cause im jus walkin to somwher but i dont kno wher its at an fore i get to the door i wake up an i want to rite in the tablet las nite but you aint got no lite in yer but the moon so im ritin this monin soon is sunup but now i done fogot what i want to say

  nanan brot me some easter egg an i et one an nanan et one an reven ambros he et one an reven ambros ax me if i
know why the lord die an he say he die for me so i can meet him in heven an all he want me to do is say i want be up ther wit him an the angels an say if i mean it wit all my heart an sol ill go to heven an nanan start cryin again an mis lou got to hug her an nanan say all i need to do an make her life wors livin is ax the lord forgiv me in the pardn of my sin an her an reven ambros was on they knee an mis lou was still in the cher huggin her an i was glad when paul come an got me

  i dont kno what day it is but las nite i coudn sleep an i cud yer ned down the way snoin an i laid ther and thot bout samson sayin if the lord love me how com he let my wife die an leave me an them chiren an how come he dont come here an take way people like them matin brothers on the st charl river stead of messin wit po ol foks who aint never done nothin but try an do all they kno how to serv him

  it look like the lord just work for wite folks cause ever sens i wasn nothin but a litle boy i been on my on haulin water to the fiel on that ol water cart wit all them dime bukets an that dipper jus hittin an old dorthy just trottin and trottin an me up their hittin her wit that rope an all them dime bukets an that dipper jus hittin an hittin gainst that bal of water so i can git the peple they food an they water on time an the peple see me an drop they hoe an com and git they buket cause they kno they string or they mark on the top an boo sittin under a bloodweed wit his wite beans an rice and goin wher he at wher he at this yer very minit an how com he dont giv a man a little breeze if he so mercful an mis rachel wit her rice an grens sayin keep it up jus keep it up an see if a clap of litenin dont come ther an nok the fool out you an boo sayin let him i dont care cause a ded niger is beter of an a live one any weekday an saddy im gittin drunk an say it agin an saddy standin in the midle the road hollin up in the air sayin com on an git me com on an git me see if i care an fallin down in the dich an rollin out in the road an holin up the botle so the lord coud see it an rollin back in the dich an rollin back in the road an drinkin and holin the botle up so the lord coud see it an sayin i kno you dont love nobody but wite folks cause you they god not mine an com on an tho you litenin if you want cause no niger aint got no god an the church goin people closin they doors an windos to keep from herin boo blasfemin the lord but me an the rest of the chiren in the quarter like boo cause he always boght us candy an cake