Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

  At Laura’s building I began to feel like a man condemned to death row. My girl’s mother was an immigrant from the South. A short, large-breasted, matronly dark woman whom I’d seen only in photographs, she was quite religious and outspokenly hostile to many of the more interesting forms of Harlem life as well as to the world of social action in which Laura moved. Until now, I had thought of her as an amusing, old-fashioned, and probably superstitious Southern figure whose relation to most of Laura’s life was conveniently shadowy. But now, as I moved to meet her, it was as though to confront for the first time all of the darker complications of life, society, and history.

  There were seven Johnson families living in the building, and the bell system was faulty, requiring that I try five doors before receiving the proper instruction. It was on the seventh floor, and I climbed the narrow stairs heavy with the odor of food and living. It’s fish, I thought, half humorously, old fish. The ghosts of a school of dead fish swimming forever in the air of the stairs. Then I was pressing the bell with shaking hand and hearing its watery ringing within. Fish, I thought, the entire building must live on cabbage and fish. Then the door was cracked and I saw her; a large woman with graying hair drawn back from a smooth brown high-cheekboned face. Her coloring was dark, with a blush of red showing through like that of certain Indians. Her eyes seemed to look into me from behind a mask or a thicket of smooth leaves. She wore a shapeless black-and-white-checked dress.

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “If possible, I’d like to see Mrs. Johnson,” I said.

  “You have the correct one,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Oh, good,” I said. I stared; the resemblance was unmistakable; she was a darker, older Laura, gone to plumpness, humility, and suspicion.

  “Yes, sir, I’m Mrs. Johnson,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Ernestine Johnson, and Thomas Jonathan Johnson, he’s my husband. Just what is it you want to see me about?”

  My stomach tightened and my mind took off, and I thought, Would one have to call her “Mother,” this big black woman, and be part of her most likely classic matriarchy, and my boy baby grandson to a dining-car waiter always on the railroad destiny while Laura flew out of nest but still in net with fish and turnip greens Southern-style always, and my baby son her grandson and me her son-in-law to be … to be …?

  She had begun to frown. “Mister,” she said, “are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Johnson; forgive me,” I said. “I have to talk with you. It’s urgent. May I come in?”

  She looked at my hands, her eyes narrowing.

  “Why can’t you just say it right here?” she said.

  “I’d rather speak to you inside, if I may. It’s about Laura and our plans—”

  “What! Laura Jean?” Her eyes widened as she took a step backwards, the door swinging wide. “Step right in here,” she said.

  I hesitated, her face suddenly glistened with beads of perspiration. A sharp, sultry fog of deodorant pressed around me. Then I was brushing past the huge softness of her into a dark vestibule. The odor of spiced apples coming to me from somewhere down the hall was a breath of relief.

  “Go on into the living room on your right,” she said behind me. “We can talk in there.”

  I found myself in a medium-sized, high-ceilinged room, furnished with three modest upholstered chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa set on a blue rug. Against the opposite wall an upright piano stood with a row of framed photographs arranged on top, one of them of Laura in white cap and gown, flanked by her smiling parents. Across the room to my left there stood a small bookcase containing a few books and a group of childlike porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses in eighteenth-century dress and genteel postures. Two potted poinsettias, one of them with a natural bract of scarlet and the other a pale green, almost albino, sat on the window ledge. It was all quite neat and surprisingly clean.

  “Take that comfortable chair over there,” Mrs. Johnson said. And I sat, facing the blue-draped window as she took a chair with her back to it, watching me nervously from the back-lighted shadow.

  “Mrs. Johnson, my name is Welborn McIntyre,” I began.

  “Oh!” she gasped, becoming quickly silent. I counted to ten in my mind, then, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. McIntyre—though I must say that Laura didn’t tell me that you were white….”

  “She didn’t?”

  She shook her head. “That’s right, she didn’t.”

  I tried to smile. “That was probably because between us it isn’t significant.”

  “Well, it is to me, Mr. McIntyre….” Her voice was throaty with sudden emotion.

  She sat back, folding her broad arms across her breasts, regarding me.

  “And I’ll tell you something else, Mr. McIntyre: Something warns me that I’m not going to like whatever it is you come up here to tell me. So unless you’re sure that you just have to say it, maybe you better go back and think about it awhile….”

  A smile fluttered up then died stillborn somewhere behind the stiff surface of my face. I wished urgently to take her advice and leave, but I could only sit there, looking with silent fascination into her eyes. She looked like many of the black women whom I had seen so often, moving about the streets of downtown residential areas, and now, although I had never been in a room alone with one before, I was bound to her through Laura. Then I was seized with a sense of the unreality of it all. And suddenly I was no longer simply looking into her own eyes but through a window onto a long-forgotten scene in which my mother was calling to me in her own sweet, coaxing voice….

  And I was four and playing in the backyard with friends while mother’s club was meeting, and hearing her calling from the porch, “Welborn, darling, come here a minute.”

  “But gee, Mother, I’m playing.”

  “I know, darling, and I won’t keep you long. You just tell the children to wait.”

  “But do I have to? We’re playing.”

  “Now, Welborn, just tell them to hold the game. You won’t be long.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Hurry back, Wel,” Jimmy called, and I was running to where Mother waited, holding open the screen door.

  “This won’t take long, Welborn, darling,” she said. “There’s just something I want you to do for Mother. You’ll do it, won’t you, darling?”

  “I guess so,” I said, and I was thinking, She wants me to recite “Invictus” for those ladies but I’m tired of “Invictus.” “If” is better. Then we were in the hall and she was looking me over, saying, “Wel, dear, you’d better run and wash your hands and face—especially your hands, they’re filthy—then you come into the parlor and we’ll only keep you a minute,” and I was running up the stairs to splash and hurry down again….

  They were sitting about in their summer dresses, drinking from cups of tea and all talking at the same time, and there was a coconut cake on the coffee table and I hoped there’d be some left for me and the gang, then Mother was saying, “Oh, there he is, ladies,” and some of them said, “Hello, Welborn,” and I said hello and was running “In-victus” through my mind so as to remember the order of the words—black pit pole pole unconquerable soul head bloody head unbowed—and they were smiling and waiting and I said, “Mother, where do you want me to stand?” and she said “Come-over-darling. Come over where the ladies can see you better. And ladies, perhaps it would be better if you all gathered around….” And I thought, Gather around for what? “He’s a fine-looking boy, isn’t he?” one of them said. “He looks just like his mother.” “Yes, and that’s a sure sign of good luck,” and Mother got up and took me by the hand. “Welborn, darling,” Mother said, “the ladies have been listening to a very interesting and important and serious discussion but some of them are unfamiliar with the problem, so I told them that you wouldn’t mind giving them a hand. And I looked at my hands, and said, “But don’t you want me to recite ‘Invictus’?” and she smiled and said, “Invictus,’ darling? Oh, that’
s not it at all.” “But what is it, then,” I said. “I don’t remember another one.” “Oh, it isn’t to recite, dear, it’s something much easier,” and she was smiling and they were watching and I said, “What is it, then?” And she said, “And now won’t you be surprised—Wel, dear, I only wanted you to be nice and show the ladies your recent operation.” And I was looking at her and shaking my head and feeling her grip tightening on my hand and my face burning. “Oh, no,” I said, thinking she was teasing. “Now, Welborn,” she said, “be nice, darling, all you have to do is allow the ladies to see what a nice neat operation the doctor performed.” “But I can’t do that.” “But why, Wel?” “Because Daddy wouldn’t like it and you told me never to—” “Oh, no, Wel, Daddy would be proud. So now be nice.” “But why?” “Because some of the ladies don’t have little boys of their own. So now you just show them and then you can go play.” And I tried to fall down but she held me up. “Aren’t men the darndest?” a large lady with a drawl said. “Always modest before our curiosity and spirit of inquiry, but you just let the wind blow and then watch them break their necks.” “Please darling,” Mother said, “or I won’t allow you to go outside; you’ll have to go up to your room instead….” “Oh, leave him alone, Agnes,” Mrs. Waters said. “He’s bashful and not at all the little man we thought he was….” “Is that true, Welborn?” Mother said, “Aren’t you my little man?” “Of course I am, but I don’t think men do what you want me to do. Daddy wouldn’t—”

  Then they were laughing, and someone said, “He’d be surprised. Oh, but wouldn’t he be surprised….” “Hush, Doris,” someone said, and Mother said, “Then if you’re manly, really manly as I know you are, darling, go ahead and show these ladies your little man—Here, I’ll help you,” and she left me no time to think it through and I felt her hand go away and stood looking through the window past the honeysuckle vine above the porch and on past the yellow light into the blue of the sky. She was working with my buttons and then I felt the air and she said, “There now, there, it’s done so now you can show the ladies.” And they came forward, gathering around with a closeness of perfume and powder and rouge and eyes. Then I was looking into the sky and it was between my finger and thumb; hearing, “That’s fine, darling; Oh, that’s lovely. I knew you’d oblige.

  Now wait, don’t go, just a moment longer. See what happens here, ladies? Now, darling, turn him over. There, so the ladies can see the beautiful stitches. Isn’t that marvelous, ladies?” And they were looking at him silently and I could hear them breathing and the large lady was fanning herself with a pink handkerchief. “It’s hygienic and absolutely beautiful,” Mother said. “And did it hurt much, Welborn?” Mrs. Mayfield said, and my neck was stiff. “Go on, Gladys,” Mother said, “Touch him; I’m sure Wel wouldn’t mind.” “Oh, thank you, no,” Mrs. Mayfield said. “But didn’t it hurt even the tiniest bit?” “No,” Mother said. “But he’s so young,” Mrs. Mayfield said. “Absolutely not,” Mother said. “I discussed it with Mr. McIntyre, and he says that it’s done absolutely without pain and that Welborn will be thankful and very happy later on when he assumes the pleasures and responsibilities of the, er, marital state, ladies; you understand, marriage and all that,” and I was thinking, Marriage, I will never get married, never, never, never, and through the shimmer I could see their faces go away, smiling as they talked on as though I was no longer there. “Thank you, darling,” Mother said. “You can go now.” And I was gone. “What took you so long?” Jimmy said. “Hey, you’re crying.” “No, I’m not crying,” I said. “Yes, you are.” “Oh, no, I ain’t,” I said. “Then what took you so long?” “Oh, I had to do something for Mother. Let’s go play.” But I could see their eyes, and then I was looking into that strange, dark, yet familiar, face again, hearing my voice blurting, “Mrs. Johnson, I’ve come to tell you that Laura and I have to get married,” and seeing her shoot up in her chair.

  “You have got to do what! With my daughter—boy, who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “But, Mrs. Johnson—” I began, but already she was up and leaning through the doorway, calling into the hall.

  “Laura Jean, git up here this very minute!”

  “What is it, Mother?” I heard Laura’s distant voice reply. Thinking her at the college, I was surprised.

  “Gal, don’t stand back there asking me what is it; git up here!”

  Laura’s hair was in curlers and she wore a blue bathrobe.

  When she saw me she stopped short.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried.

  “Gal, who is this—this white man? Is he telling me the truth?”

  “Oh, Mother, this is awful. You shouldn’t use such a tone! That’s Welborn. I love him!”

  “Love him,” Mrs. Johnson said. “What you mean is you been laying around with this white boy after I brought you all the way up here in order to get away from that kind of stuff down South! Who is he, anyway? Where’d you find him?” Her voice was a plea, a cry of despair, a scream emitting beneath a tumbling structure.

  “Oh, I know he’s a poor one. He looks poor! He smells poor! In fact, he looks poor and acts trashy! Coming in here without any warning, talking about marrying my daughter! You been sleeping around with him and his people are probably some of those old foreigners who think they’re better than us because the first words they learned when they hopped off the boat were ‘dirty nigger’— Answer me, you slut; I say, who is this peckerwood?”

  Laura broke into tears, and I wanted to sink through the floor.

  “Mama, please don’t do this to me,” she cried. “This is Welborn McIntyre. I’ve told you about him. He’s no foreigner. He’s none of those things you say.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, they’re all foreigners,” Mrs. Johnson shouted. “Is what he says true?”

  “Yes, Mama, but not like you make it sound.”

  Mrs. Johnson’s hands flew to her hips. “I say, is it true that you have to git married?”

  “But Mother, it’s all right, I love him—”

  “Love?” Mrs. Johnson whirled completely around, her eyes blazing. “You mean to stand there and talk to me about loving this peckerwood—you, my own daughter? Loving him when even if he ain’t a foreigner, he’s probably the kind who sucks a black woman’s tit from the minute he’s born and lets her change his didies and feeds him and teaches him his manners and protects him, and then, when he’s fourteen and feeling himself, he calls her a ‘nigger bitch’ and proceeds to hop on top of the first young black gal he can get to catch his devilment. You been knowing this ever since you were thirteen years old and still you can talk to me about loving a peckerwood—any peckerwood?”

  Laura was suddenly calm. “Yes, Mother,” she said, “I can, and do. I love him very much and what he says is true. But he’s not a peckerwood and I’m not forcing him. It was as much my fault as his. I didn’t even know that he was coming up here because I meant to tell you myself. He came on his own accord and wasn’t forced—”

  “Forced?” Mrs. Johnson said. “You’re mighty right, you’re not forcing him. And long as I have something to say about it, there ain’t going to be any forcing. You just wait until your daddy comes in off the road, he’ll be fit to be tied. After all our hopes and scheming and sacrifices, and you think that we’re going to let you get tied up with the first poor-white-trash peckerwood that comes along, then I have raised a fool!”

  “No, Mother,” Laura said quietly. “Let’s talk this out—”

  Mrs. Johnson swung around, filling the door. “Talk,” she said, “that’s a good idea, because my mama taught me a long time ago the right way for a black woman to talk to a peckerwood about her daughter.”

  Then she was gone and I was looking at Laura, who pleaded with me with her eyes. Then Mrs. Johnson filled the doorway again, holding a shotgun.

  “Now I’m ready to talk,” she said. “Mr. McIntyre, you’ve done had your little talk, and you’ve told me what it is you want to do. All right, so now I’m telli
ng you what you’re going to do: You are going to git out of this apartment, and you’re going to git on back downtown, and you’re going to forgit that you ever knew my daughter along with whatever it is she’s been fool enough to let you git her with. That’s right! Because if I ever see or hear of you two being together again, I’m going to kill you both and go to hell and pay for it—Now you git!”

  I stood, moving forward like one in a trance. She was blocking the doorway.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” I said, “I’m not Southern, I came here to ask your permission to marry—”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t! You came up here to brag and try to impress Laura Jean. You don’t want to do good, you just want to look good. Well, I’m telling you now that you can forgit it—Now ain’t you glad? I just told you what you want to hear: All your troubles with your black woman are over!”

  “But that’s not it at all, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Oh, yes, it is, and don’t think I’m going to change my mind. And neither will Stone, except he’s liable to kill you. We can take care of our own, Mr. McIntyre, and don’t think I don’t know what I’m saying! It’ll be ours, black or white, red or green. You hear? It’ll be ours, not y’all’s, and it’ll have to live our life, so it might as well get started from the beginning. You have broke your own rules, and you have shamed us, Mr. McIntyre, but one thing you haven’t near ‘bout done is beatin’ us. Oh, no! Laura Jean is going to go South to her grandmother, and we’ll all pull together and make the best of this mess. So now you go, and thank the Lord that you came on a day when Stone, Laura Jean’s father, is out on the road.”

  My legs flowed toward the woman with the shotgun and stopped, seeing her turn aside, her face grim as I pressed myself past.