Five Smooth Stones

  After an interminable pause, a pause so quiet the faint whirring of the small electric clock on the bedside table could be heard distinctly, Chuck turned slowly to leave. Sudsy had been right, and he had been wrong. Damage was possible, and he—blundering, well-meaning Chuck Martin—had done it. Only at the sound of Chuck's movement did David speak. Chuck looked down at the dark head turned away from him now, at the closed eyes in the tired face.

  "Yes," whispered David. "Yes. Oh, dear God, yes."

  ***

  She wouldn't be running when she came down the corridor, not even Sara would run down a hospital corridor, but he would know her step. "After three o'clock," the nurse said. "Cryptic, isn't it? Mr. Martin telephoned and just said 'Tell him after three o'clock.*" Chuck would have done that, timed it for after the nurse had left.

  There was only one special nurse now, the red-haired one, and she would be through the next day. "Can you leave the door open when you go off duty, Miss Riley? So I can hear the rest of the world go by?" (So you can hear Sara's steps coming closer, know that much sooner, those few seconds sooner, that she's here.)

  "I can't, Mr. Champlin. People go popping into the wrong rooms by mistake, and some people are just plain nosey, and we fought reporters off for a week, and one of those might be lurking. Like the photographer who walked in and got your picture with me sitting right here."

  There were times when he could get around her and times when he couldn't. This was one of the latter. He submitted docilely to being fed his lunch, and being settled down for another Goddamned "nice nap, now" which he had no intention of taking and which, at quarter of three, he realized with astonishment he had taken.

  "The door?" he said to the nurse as she was leaving.

  "No." She smiled at him. "After tomorrow perhaps, when I'm not here. Now, no."

  After five minutes his eyes felt dry and stary. He had not taken them from the door, and he closed them for a moment, which was why, when he opened them, he first saw Sara standing by the screen, the door closing silently behind her.

  She was so still, so quiet, she seemed to be a statue of warm flesh, a tiny statue with dark, shining eyes. She was like a small and hesitant child, half afraid, not running or appearing to run now, but waiting like a child at a strange door. He saw her lips move and saw the sound defeated by the emotion that was crowding her eyes.

  His own voice failed him, and he had to call on it twice before it came out, cracked and faltering.

  "Sara."

  Those were hours that were passing as she came forward slowly, almost as though she would turn at every step and run back and through the door, hours before his outstretched hand could take hers, feel the smallness of it lost in his, feel her lift their joined hands and hold them against her heart.

  "Sara. Smallest. Little love—"

  CHAPTER 86

  Suds Sutherland alternately clucked over and bullied his patient, rationing visitors with care, telling them "If you haven't anything cheerful to say, stay home" until David protested. "Look, Stoopid, the whole damned world hasn't changed just because I've got a cracked skull. There has to be something bad going on—rape, arson, murder, epidemics, muggings, race riots—stuff like that there. Interesting stuff—"

  "Sure there is. Only not for you. It's not your skull. That'll take anything. It's your nerves and your stomach ulcer. I'm trying out a theory—"

  "F'cris'sake! I'm sorry I told you. Better a bellyache than a vacuum."

  A week after Sara's first visit, Hunter tiptoed into the room with the obviously cheerful expression any patient's visitor assumes to cover concern. David greeted him with the loudest "Hey!" he could manage. Hunter, after releasing his hand from David's grip, dropped into the chair beside the bed, saying, "I ought to belt you right in the nose—"

  "What in hell—"

  "Who believes a doctor, even if he is a good friend, when he says someone who's got everything wrong you have is O.K.? For three weeks every time your name's been mentioned around the family scatter it's been in hushed tones—"

  "Past tense?"

  "Almost. Jedediah's been in town. London, that is. He's practically turned my color from worry and general shock. Hell be over here next week."

  "For God's sake cable him he'll be in plenty of time for the services. It'll be fine to see him."

  "I'm headed for New York, but I came here first, straight from the airport. I was all set to stand beside the bed with moist eyes and whisper to Suds about you. And what happens? Damn you, you look fine!"

  "You wouldn't say that if I didn't have this cast on, by God, you wouldn't!"

  Hunter changed the subject, sobering. "Sara's here. That's good, pal. Very damned good."

  "Yes." David cleared his throat, spoke in an embarrassed tone. "Look, thanks, huh? For sort of keeping the lines open, stuff like that—"

  "Hell of a strain on my self-control, believe me. Thank God, it's over." There was a soft knock on the door, the faint swush of its opening, a light step, and Hunter said, "And here she is. Hi, infant!"

  David lay quietly, letting them talk, not trying to talk himself. He had learned to do this in the past days, reserving his small store of strength, needing it for the night hours when pain became a husky adversary. After a few minutes Sara said: "Brad's back from that dreadful place down there, and he's due here soon. Suds said he could give you the story about everything now."

  "Yeah?" David's eyes brightened. "Sure nice of ol' Suds to let me join the world again—"

  "I'm glad," said Sara gently. "I'm so glad about Suds—and you. I—I worried, didn't I, Hunter?"

  Hunter looked at her and smiled, remembering. He felt very much alone. Make Sudsy stop hating David.... He mustn't hate David. Because David's good.... I don't know yet what happened. But I know David's goodness. Could it have been more than a few weeks ago, months at the most, that he had heard those words? Yet it had been well over two years since he had sat in that hotel room in London with Sara and tried by sheer force of his own will to hold off the onslaughts of grief and sorrow that were shattering her. And there had been a night, and that night in all truth had been less than a month ago, when he had sat across a table from her in a small restaurant near Picadilly, and said You've never given up on David. He could still hear the quiver in her voice—I'm just a damned child, with a damned child's mind and emotions. I'm trying to grow up but I'm not getting very far.

  Sara, the child. Sara, the wise. He stood up so abruptly that David started, wincing from the pain of the involuntary movement.

  "Kiddies, Uncle Hunter's leaving. It's known as 'jet fatigue' these days."

  "Heck, man, don't go. Wait for Brad. This'll be worth hearing—"

  "You can tell me tomorrow. I'll be back then." He took David's outstretched hand and smiled as he flexed his fingers after their handshake. "You're in fine shape, dad. Let no one tell you otherwise. You'll be taking over in no time, right where you left off. I'm going to drown some of this fatigue—"

  "Take it easy—"

  Hunter nodded, dropped a light kiss on the top of Sara's head as he passed her chair, and left without turning back.

  "What gives with Hunter?" asked David. "Did I say something I shouldn't? And—what's the matter with you, pet? Has something bad happened no one's supposed to tell me about?"

  Sara shook her head. She did not look directly at him. "It's —well, I think Hunter's caught up with Hunter, sort of. You can't know, David, you can't possibly know, how wonderful Hunter's been to me. I couldn't begin to tell anyone. I guess now he feels sort of lost—" She dug into her purse, came up with a crumpled piece of facial tissue, and blew her nose.

  Brad came in then, arms piled high with files and magazines. "Here it is, brat. The day-by-day, blow-by-blow story of the first complete Negro work stoppage in a southern city. That blasted Sutherland kid wouldn't let me bring this to you before. And besides, I haven't been here—"

  "He's just a youngster starting out. Be kind to him," said David. "Som
e damned bigmouth told him I had a stomach ulcer—"

  Brad, having meticulously arranged magazines and folders in what David assumed was chronological order, never looked at the files again. David grinned, watching him; he had worked days—weeks—at a time preparing cases for Brad only to see the same thing happen once the defense opened.

  They had waited, Brad said, until everyone was out of jail. The children had been released the day after the riots but some of the adults were still being held. "One of them," said Brad, "was Sue-Ellen Moore. We put up bail and will handle her appeal. Then I took her for a long drive one day and talked to her. We wound up at the waterfall. And I convinced her. God damn, I actually convinced her that as far as Cainsville was concerned we were on the right track. It wasn't all that hard—she was with Effie Brown when Effie died. She saw the scene with Ruby Brown and she saw Hummer murdered—standing at a window in the jail. After she was released I told her the only repayment we wanted for getting her out, putting up bail, was that she attend—merely as a spectator—some of our meetings on this thing. I don't say there was a great transformation—but I do say she started to think and to see the situation more as a whole. Our fingers are crossed. But she went to work, organized kids into clean-up gangs. We had a hell of a lot better trash and garbage pickup service than the whites did. Burned the trash, buried the garbage."

  "What about financing?" David wanted to steer Brad away from the subject of Sue-Ellen before Sara asked questions. Later he'd try to analyze the feeling of warm gratefulness that had come over him when Brad described Sue-Ellen's change of heart, however temporary. If she ever saw the problem whole, instead of just one segment of it, Sue-Ellen Moore could be one of the most dynamic and worthwhile leaders in the movement.

  "Financing?" said Brad. "It wasn't as bad as it might have been. I'd overlooked a good bet. We all had. Man named Lapham, Curtis Lapham, from Chicago. Know him?"

  David frowned. "Negro banker? Loaded with the stuff? He was never active that I ever heard. I crossed him off one list and put him on another a long time ago."

  "Too soon. Damned if he wasn't born in Cainsville. Got out early, but not so early he doesn't remember. Something about our project stirred him up. Chuck's the one who told him about it. He came down, took over our credit setup. He and Haskin worked about thirty hours straight. A sort of trade and barter system sprang up spontaneously. Another generous contributor was Lloyd Litchfield. I didn't know he was capable of the anger he showed when he found out how close he had come—and by what means—to being sucked into the white establishment. He really blew. You know what that mild, fuzzy-minded little scientist offered? Besides money?"

  "Guided missiles?"

  "He would have if we could have used them. Guns. Rifles—"

  "Good God! Little Litchfield!"

  "Right. And while you were still on the critical list he tried to reach me by telephone, couldn't, and sent Mike Shea a telegram with blisters on it demanding to pay your hospital and surgical bill."

  "Good guy. But can't I make it without putting my hand out?"

  "Sure. But it's good to know there are people like that. We didn't let Litchfield buy guns, but we rounded up all we could lay our hands on, and saw to it that they were displayed casual-like along with fishing gear, stuff like that, on porches and propped up against walls. I've lived such a sheltered life I never realized what a powerful aid to second-thinking a good twelve-gauge shotgun can be. Next to a boycott—"

  "How'd that go?"

  "Splendidly. Just about the only stores you could find a Negro in on the other side were the pharmacies—and then only occasionally. They were getting prescriptions. I suggested that Litchfield use the money he would have used for guns to stock Anderson up on prescription drugs. He was jubilant over the idea. So jubilant he also bought Anderson a new refrigerator and some lab equipment. Chuck took the pickup and brought the stuff back from Capitol City. He said it was like running a blockade. The whole place, both sides of Main Street, was crawling with green shirts and imported Klansmen and civilian deputies. He said it was probably only his imagination, but he was certain every man of 'em had his finger on a trigger and the gun was pointed at him—"

  "Imagination? The guy was probably right—" A small voice from the corner of the room halted the conversation. "David—Brad—how can ordinary people like me —ever understand? I thought I understood—I bragged to David that I did—but—when it comes as close as this, how can I?"

  Brad turned to her. "You can't, Sara, when the Negroes themselves can't. They see the hate. That's enough. They know how quickly 'kindness' and patronage can turn to hate if they make the wrong move. To hate a man, a whole people, for what they are and not for anything they've done is a form of mass psychosis, the same mass psychosis that ruled Germany under Nazism. And the average mind finds difficulty in understanding the psychotic mind. Actually, I don't suppose it can be done. When the Negro hates the whites it's because of what the whites have done. There's nothing psychotic about it. You read the words 'crazed Negroes' in a riot story. Good God! What's crazy about revolt? The crazy, the insane, the psychotic character is the white—"

  "You're not helping much," said Sara. "Not one damned bit, in fact."

  "Can't we get back to the work stoppage?" asked David. "When did it take off?"

  "Eight days after your little mishap. And I don't think the whites ever did really know what was brewing until it started. Not even the colored who wouldn't go along gave it away."

  "Were there many of those?"

  "Damned few," said Brad grimly. "Damned few. And those that welched didn't cross Main Street. They went way round the north end of town. Remember how some of the farmers send buses to pick up field workers? Abraham and a few others went to the bus pickup spots and sat there and watched the buses waiting. They were also all set to 'reason' with anyone who wanted to take one. Had a real enjoyable morning, they said. He was also responsible for seeing to it that the kids had a supply of fresh milk from those of our people who had cows. What he couldn't get of fresh milk Haskin supplied in the form of dried and condensed and evaporated. After the second day parties of green shirts stopped the milk trucks from farms in the east from delivering milk on our side of the street." Brad grinned, looked as boyish as David had ever seen him look. "Hell, we didn't give a damn."

  "Well, thank you, Jesus!" said David.

  "Whatever you say. Anyhow, here we are with the dawn about to rise over the first nearly complete Negro work stoppage. Complete, as far as our purposes were concerned.

  Curt Lapham, Les and I were staying at the Haskins'. By early morning we were all punchy. We hauled all the rocking chairs we could find out on the porch and sat there, Mrs. Haskin, Gracie, Les, Lapham, and I. Haskin was in the store. Les got a bright idea, brought out straws from a broom for us to chew on. 'Twas a pretty sight. Take it easy, brat. You can't laugh. Lapham alternated his cigar with the straw. Gracie suggested we each get a gun, aim it at the road, ready for the first rat fink who came along toward Main Street."

  "Damn—we should have gotten Tom Evans's old man, Bull, down there—"

  "He'd have enjoyed it mightily. Along about seven thirty, three or four men came down the road, and Lapham and Les and I used language. But when they got to the house they turned in. One was Jim Towers. They wanted to borrow some fishing gear—some stuff they didn't have—and a Thermos. Mrs. Haskin let out a squeal, and Les said 'God damn, we're in!'" Brad paused for dramatic effect. "And, God damn, we were!"

  No one said anything for a moment. David spoke first. "I hope Hummer knows. I sure hope Hummer knows."

  "Yes," said Brad. "So do I. No Negro crossed Main Street that day. As I told you, a few made it into town around the northern end, beyond the factories. The hell with them too. They didn't hurt us a bit. And the boycott is still on. It was worth everything I've been through including a .45 slug across the ribs. They were hurting over there. At first they didn't believe it. Haskin's phone rang constantly, whites a
sking him to find out about a no-show employee. Finally he'd just say, 'He—or she—ain't comin' to work today,' and hang up. After a while they caught on. Still, they didn't think it would last more than a day. And in all honesty, David, I wasn't too damned sure myself. But it is. Monday is garbage pickup day, and by Wednesday it was beginning to loom as a problem. I use the word 'loom' advisedly. Doctors with offices on the third and fourth floors were either running elevators themselves for their cardiac patients or their secretaries were trying to. The whites they hired proved undependable, it seems. Everyone was being very Brave in the Hour of Trial. The spittoons at the Grand—"

  "Brad—" David interrupted. "Does Luke know about it all?"

  "Not all, no. I'll see him in New York on my way back tomorrow."

  " 'A clean bright spittoon on the altar of the Lord—' That's one of the first things I ever heard Luke say."

  "There wasn't a clean bright spittoon in town. On the altar of the Lord or the floor of a bar. Chuck came over with the story that there were signs in all of 'em—'If you have to spit, go outside.' When I think of all those terbaccer-chawin' crackers—"

  "Any effort to recruit workers from Heliopolis?"

  "Some. We got a lot of support from the N-double-ACP man there—Clinton. He saw to it that word got round even before the stoppage. Maybe twenty or thirty went along with the recruiters. No more. Not enough to matter. And there wasn't too much solidarity between the Heliopolis whites and the Cainsville whites after a couple of days. They didn't want the same thing to happen there. And it very likely will—I hope."