But then, just as the procession started to take a wide curve in the highway, I could see the hearse in which the driver was sitting up straight behind the wheel with his cap tilted on the side of his head, looking a little sporty but in his way almost as dignified as the undertaker sitting there beside him wearing a shiny stovepipe hat. I mention this because off the job this particular driver is known as something of a liquor-head, but get him behind that wheel and he’s sober as a judge and on his best dignified behavior. So watching him made me think on how mixed life and folks can be, and how the very blackness of the hearse with its gleam and scrolls and church-style windows together with all those fine limousines strung out behind it can make for a sight that is both fine and grave and yet so awfully sad. And I swear, Alonzo, it was at that very moment that I saw flames flare up in the back of that hearse!
For a second or so I think I’m dreaming, but before I can get my thoughts together the rear section of the hearse with the flag-draped coffin and wreaths and flowers is filling up with smoke and flames, and right away I know that it is not a dream. No, sir! Because now the driver is yelling to the undertaker and wrestling the hearse to the side of the road, and the two of them are leaping out and waving like mad for the rest of the cars to stop.
I tell you, the sight of it was a pity and a terror and an ice-cold chill to the heart. There I was, still holding on from bucking back and forth from our driver’s slamming on the brakes and hearing the other limousines skidding and banging and bumping to a stop. And then everybody is tumbling out and rushing to the hearse to try to help out. But before we can get close enough to do anything the fire gives out with a roar that freezes eveybody dead in his tracks. And me among them, because I will not lie. That fire goes leaping up so fast and so fierce that all we can do, whether man or woman, young folks or old, is to just stand there on that lonely highway and watch our old friend go up in smoke. Folks are weeping and wailing and wringing their hands, but in the face of that fire all of us are as helpless as newborn babes.
And it isn’t that the undertaker and his drivers aren’t doing all in their power to get the poor soul’s body out of there, no, sir! They’re dashing around and spraying stuff out of those red fire extinguishers and hitting at where it was shooting out with their caps and coats, but it had about as much effect as spitting into a cyclone. Those flames caught on so swift and got so hot that they wouldn’t let the poor men get close enough to even open the rear door. And when one of them manages to break one of the big side windows with his fire extinguisher the flames leap out and catch him so that the others have to tackle him and roll him on the ground to save his life. And too, since it’s a kind of windy day, his breaking the glass makes the fire burn even faster.
So for all the poor driver’s trouble and pain the next thing we know our old friend is nothing but some smoking ashes. And in another few minutes all that’s left of the hearse is just plain junk. That’s the sad truth. What’s more, it’s lucky for us moaners that the undertaker remembers about the gasoline tank in time to warn us to back away from there. Because sure enough, hardly before we could scatter that fire reaches the gas tank and the hearse explodes. Then folks are running and screaming and pieces of glass and patches of burning stuff are whirling all over the road, and it looks like somebody is burning off last year’s grass on a windy day. Or maybe firing a field to get it ready for planting a new crop of some kind.
Now, I think you will understand how we all felt over such a thing happening when you remember how in your days out here you musicians used to leave the church and march the body to the graveyard playing dignified and slow, but then after the burial was over and done you all would lift the moaners’ spirits by strutting back to town hooraying and sassing the devil. That’s when you liked to play such sinful lowdown trash as that “They Picked Poor Robin Clean,” and “Oh Didn’t He Ramble.” Oh, yes, I’m sure that now you are a preacher you will want to deny it, but you played it often enough, and unlike me there were those who liked it.
Well, let me tell you something—after seeing what happened to our friend nobody would have been up to any of that kind of old foolishness, even if they were years younger and had the best band in the land to raise their spirits. No, sir! We were numb and dumb and shaken to our very roots. And who wouldn’t be, with old Death erupting in the form of fire to claim twice over the blessed and prayed for but still uncommitted dead? And I mean even before the minister could say his Ashes-to-ashes-and-Dust-to-dust!
Anyway, it was a terrible sensation and when it was all over the word spreaded like wild fire and folks are still talking about it—and will be, if I know anything about our people, for years and years to come. Because a thing like that is enough to get even a hardened sinner such as you used to be all shook up, but if you ask me there are some who are by no means shook up enough. So we now have a scandal, with some saying that the fire was an act of God, while others insist that it happened because the Devil was in such a hurry to get his scaly hands on our old friend that he could’t even wait ‘til after the minister had had his say and the poor man was put six feet under. So as usual the sinful ones are sneering and cracking wise, but the truth is that they are talking like that only because way back before you left town and got your own sinful self saved this poor friend of mine used to bootleg a little Choc beer and whiskey. This is not gossip but the Lord’s truth, and I am sure that you would recognize him if I were to call his name, which I will not. I will only say that since those days when you were out here lowlifing like a dirty dog the man reformed and went on to live a fine upstanding life. So it is a sin and a shame that as far as those doing all the talking are concerned it went for nothing. But then they are the kind who never seem able to forgive and forget the other person’s transgressions. Which is a sin and a shame and downright hypocritical, because I can well remember a time when some of them that is cracking wise about him was in the joint he used to run every time he opened the door. And I mean in there lapping up his booze like hogs turned loose on a swill barrel, and some on credit. Therefore, Mister Preacher, I ask you, who are they to be scandalizing the poor man’s good name? My guess is that while the good Lord forgives, some folks are just too ornery, even in the face of such a terrible warning. That’s right, I see it was a warning and even if you do not just keep reading and I’ll tell you why.
As I say, things out here are still running toward extremes like in the old days and nothing seems to know when or where to leave off and give us a rest before rushing on to something else. And just when they appear to be quieting down and I think they’re getting back to normal, something even worse and more upsetting breaks out. And when it does folks and things that you never thought of having anything to do with one another are revealed as being twisted together like a barrel of rattlesnakes that have had their rattles wrapped in cotton. Then you are shocked to discover that although you couldn’t hear it they have been rattling away all the time.
Which is to say that some other things are happening out here that appear to have connections that I cannot figure out. Maybe it just seems that way, but I cannot tell. Now I know that I am too old a hen to be acting like Chicken Little in the storybook, and as you well know I have never been chickenhearted. But yet and still with all that’s happened I have taken to keeping an eye peeled on the weather even when it appears to be bright and sunny. You have heard about that cloud that starts out no bigger than a man’s fist and then sends houses and buildings crashing down? Well, I have not seen the cloud but I have seen a man. And he showed up right after all the other stuff I’ve told you about. He came out of nowhere and has been going around asking questions and looking up names that have faded from most folks’ minds. And what worries me is that some are names from way back yonder when you were out here. Some are names you know and some I had forgot, and still others I never even heard before.
But what worries me even more than the names is the one who keeps bringing them up. This is because he looks a bit
like one of my little lost lambs might have grown up to look if he had been brought up Northern and rich. And that is exactly what he lets on that he is, and what Cliofus thinks he is. But to tell you the truth, I am not sure of anything about him. If he was one of mine it has been too long for my memory, and besides that he is so different in his ways from anyone who I have raised. So at the moment he could be Mister Anybody from Nowhere or Mister Nobody from Anywhere.
And it’s not just his color, or the way he dresses and carries hisself By which I mean to say that he is of a different style from all the others who have lived with me, and is much more educated. Therefore the only thing I can be sure about is that he is out here going from door to door and asking questions. He’s even been seen in the barbershops and bars, especially in the one where Cliofus has this sinful job telling stories and saying filthy toasts for the customers. And he is making himself busy stirring up ashes which I feel ought to be left strictly alone. That is why I have this feeling that nothing good can come from what he is doing. You remember that Bessie Smith used to sing a blues about trouble? Well, when it comes to trouble I’m like her, because I’ve had it all my days. So if this little man is bent on raising a new crop of trouble from some old dead roots it is too late in my life and I cannot use anymore.
Yet what can a person do? It is not the way of trouble to knock politely at your door and say Please, Mam, can I come in? No, sir! You just happen to look from peeling onions or stringing beans and there it is looking you dead in the eye. That is why this little man has me so upset. And it’s not that he isn’t polite, because he is. He even seems to have a special good feeling for me, but I don’t know his intentions and he ain’t saying. So I am praying that I am just an old woman who is making one more mountain out of a mole hill and that he will soon settle down and get interested in other things. Or, which would be even better, that he will go away as quiet as he came. I really wish that he would because whether you think I’m superstitious or not I feel that he has the smell of death about him. That’s right, and if he doesn’t go away soon I’m afraid that after all these long years that old snake-whip that was lashing out back in you know when is going to start lashing again.
I am serious about this, and you had better take it that way. For no matter how dry and old a dead root might look to the naked eye it ain’t necessarily dead. You just let the right kind of rain heat the ground up a bit and when you least expect it will start putting down fresh roots and sending up new shoots, some with thorns. What is more, I have once heard tell of a man who cut off the head of a rattlesnake, a diamondback, and he thought it was dead and the danger past, but as it turned out that head had enough life left in it to bite him. Got him straight through his leather boot and held on. So while I know that you learned long ago that this is a country in which strange and pitiful things can happen and do, I am passing along this information so that you will think long and hard on the little man and the signs and symbols that came before him. Knowing you I do not have to remind you that 2 plus 2 do not always add up to 4. Because sometimes when you look close and consider how they come together they add up to 22. And the same goes for 22 plus 22. Put one on top of the other and they make 44, and if you put them side by side they can add up to thousands. Especially when it comes to paying debts. So in light of such possibilities I am looking carefully at the way the numbers are falling together, and I advise you to do the same.
To repeat, this little man is bothering me and I am calling on you, my dear old friend, to help me add it all up. Not that I aim to burden you with all my fears, because you get enough of that from your congregation. And especially the women. It is just that I feel that even if you do not have any answers it is still something for you to know. Sleeping dogs are awake and beginning to dig around for old bones, and what looks to have been a long lost lamb is back on the scene with horns. I don’t know what it all means, but from the way he is acting he don’t mean to stay here long once he gets whatever it is he’s after. But whether he does or don’t I think you ought to know. Therefore I want to stress that his questions are flying and some folks are beginning to try to play like they know the true answers. And naturally they are doing it not because they know anything, but because they want to find out what it is this little man is up to that he will not explain. Some even think he is somebody in the oil business who’s looking to buy up some leases, which is foolish since it is well known that they quit drilling when the oil ran out years ago. But I guess some of them have seen the expensive way he dresses with his fine clothes and shoes with little silver horse bits on them so they think they smell money. Me, I think they smell something all right and its name is Trouble.
It is ever the same, old friend. Some folks find it hard to mind their own business and therefore like some of these out there they make up lies and don’t seem to care what will happen from it or even if somebody gets hurt. So while I don’t think that they can really tell the little man anything with teeth in it, and I am sure they cannot, still you never know. Because when a sleeping dog raises up and sticks his nose in the breeze and starts to sniffing around he can sometimes come up with all kinds of information that you didn’t even know to be in the wind. That is what I fear, and while it might not mean a thing, only time will tell. Anyway from out here time seems to be stumbling all over itself, and therefore I am doing my Christian duty by letting you know so you can look into it. Then if you think it wise you can drop the word where it can do the most good. Understand? What I mean is that if you can unravel all this which I’m sending you and know the right place to drop it, then drop it. And I mean fast.
Old friend, it has been years since these old eyes have looked upon you in the flesh but I want you to know that I still think about you and our old times long past. This leaves me well and I hope you are in good health and still standing firm in the Spirit. Trust in the Lord!
I remain your sister in Christ,
JANEY
[JANEY.ALZ]
THINKING, I DON’T LIKE IT, I don’t like it at all, Hickman dropped the letter to his desk and stared between the curtained window into the sunlit morning. No, sir, he thought, I don’t; and for the moment I’m not even prepared to ask myself why….
Through the window the backyard appeared peaceful, but from the street beyond the house he could hear the cries of boys skating back and forth over the concrete roadway. Who on earth schedules the seasons for boys’ games, he thought. In the spring it’s shooting marbles, spinning tops, and roller-skating along with flying kites; then comes summer and it’s baseball, baseball, baseball until fall, and then it’s football. Yes, and with all the aches and pains picked up along the way. There was a time when you could tell the time of year simply by counting the number of boys with rock-raised hickeys on their heads. If there were more than two or three you knew that winter was over and rock-chunking time had arrived. But it wasn’t simply a matter of the seasons, because while Christmas brought a few gifts of toys, the boys seemed to put them to use according to some kind of seasonal cycle whose logic I’ve long forgotten. And yet I did it too, and picked up some of the same scars and scratches and cuts and bruises that those youngsters yelling in the street probably have. Maybe it’s simply a matter of giving and recieving enough scars to prove that you’re a boy of a certain age—but that isn’t what’s bothering me, so why am I thinking it?
From their bangs, clatter, and cries the boys were probably playing coon-can hockey, trying like mad to see which side could knock a Pet or Carnation milk can across the other’s goal line by clubbing it over the street with sticks. It could be a rough game because if you got too excited the sticks could land against your head or shins. Oh, but what a feeling you got from sprinting and guiding a can toward the goal on skates!
And now with a smile he saw himself as he’d been at that time of his life. Larger than most of the others, his bare upper body gleaming with sweat above the loose corduroy knickers that whipped beneath his pumping knees, the bill of his c
loth cap turned to the rear as he sped into a knot of straining players who yelled and moiled, whirled and skittered as they formed a thicket of skate wheels, legs, and thrashing sticks—out of which a battered tin can suddenly exploded in the direction from which he’d sped. And now, crouching, pivoting, and pumping, he caught up with the can with his stick on the ready, and sent it straight as a bullet across the goal line. And then slaps on his back and yells from his teammates.
Once in a tight game he had swung at the can with such force that in missing he had splintered his stick against the curbstone, sending his skates from beneath him and gashing himself with the end of the shattered club just below his right ankle. Delivered with both hands, the blow had been less painful than the sight of the gash left in his flesh, and after stopping the flow of blood he had returned to the game. The wound had continued bleeding but with his team only a point ahead he had ignored it and helped with the winning goal. In those days the excitement of winning was enough to numb the pain, and within a few days a thick, puckered scab surrounded by a slight swelling was all that remained. And since it pained only when something pressed against it he moved carefully and forgot the wound.