Five Smooth Stones

  "It's O.K., Joe. Forget it—"

  Back in the apartment he stood in the center of the room, more disgusted than angry, and mentally inventoried his possessions. Too damned many for a taxi. He went to the telephone and dialed Suds, who answered his greeting with, "Hey, man! Where you been?"

  "Busy." He thought he heard a low chuckle, but he was in no mood to call Sudsy on it. He was sure Suds knew the score as far as he and Sara were concerned; knew and, miracle of miracles, seemed to take it for granted. "Suds, I need a hand. I'm moving."

  "Why? I thought you liked that place."

  "Never mind why. Can you lend a hand?"

  "Sure. Anytime. Tomorrow evening?"

  "Tonight."

  "My God! What's happened? Where you going?"

  "Damned if I know. Can you keep my stuff till tomorrow? I'll find a place then and get a room tonight. Maybe the Y—"

  "Don't be a drip. You'll come here—"

  "Look, I don't want to be a nuisance. I'll find—"

  "Shove it. Get busy. I'll be there—"

  When David and Suds entered the Sutherland house in Back Bay, Dr. Sutherland came to the door of his study at the rear of the front hallway, egg-shaped and benign.

  "Ah, David! Clifton said you were coming to us for a while. Nice to see you. We don't see enough of you, my boy."

  David laughed nervously. "And I was afraid I was wearing out my welcome."

  "Not in this household, David. Come in, both of you, and have a nightcap. Mrs. Sutherland is out, and I've been feeling deserted."

  David followed Suds into the softly lighted, book-lined room. "Do you mind if I use the telephone, sir?"

  "Good grief, no! Use the one in the living room. Clifton can fix us a highball while you're calling."

  He telephoned Sara first because she might call him and then imagine all sorts of things when there was no answer. When he told her he was at the Sutherlands', bag and baggage, she cried, "David! What's happened!"

  "Nothing, Sara. Can't a guy move—"

  "No! Not in the middle of the night, for heaven's sake. Tell me—"

  "Later, Sara. Meet me at Hennessy's at six tomorrow? We'll have dinner—"

  He'd have to dream up something to tell her before tomorrow night; right now he had to call Gramp, collect. Only once since he had left home had he failed to leave word where he could be reached if Gramp was sick or needed him. That had been the night in sophomore year at Pengard when he had taken Sudsy to the train.

  "Where you been, son? You behind in your letterwriting. I was hoping you'd call."

  "I've been busy, Gramp, real busy." He told Li'l Joe that he had moved, not saying it was less than an hour ago, but Li'l Joe was not accepting the story without question.

  "What's the matter, son? You in trouble, some kind or another?"

  "No! For gosh sake. I didn't like the place, so I moved."

  "Without having no other place to go? That don't make sense, son. You been cutting up?"

  David sighed. Perhaps someday, just once, he'd be able to fool Gramp. It didn't seem probable, and only barely possible.

  "I haven't been cutting up. I'll write you about it."

  "You been staying by Joe Perreira's, ain't you? 'Saiah's cousin."

  "Yes. I wrote you."

  "That's a worrisome woman he's got."

  "You know her?"

  "Been knowing her. Been knowing her a long time. She ain't nothing but trouble. Reckon you had your reasons. Long as you ain't in no fix."

  "I'm not, Gramp. Honestly. Here. You take this address and phone number. I'll write when I find a place—"

  "Lawd, boy! You sure worries—" There was a wait while Gramp sought pencil and paper. For a man who was careful about his money, Gramp sure was free and easy when it came to long-distance calls. He heard the sound of Gramp's voice some distance from the phone, and when Li'l Joe came back and said, "All set—" David said, "You got company?"

  "Just Chop-bone."

  "Chop-bone! Who in hell is Chop-bone?"

  "It ain't who, it's what."

  David grinned into the receiver. "We've got us another cat, I'll bet."

  "Sure has. Black and white, and no bigger'n a minute. Seen him out back the other day, 'most starved to death, chomping on a chop bone he got out on the garbage. That's how come I named him."

  "Tell him I said to keep an eye on you. And, Gramp, tell the Prof thanks for his letter, and I'll answer it next week."

  "See you do. You ain't got time to write to both of us, you write to the Prof. He sets a lot of store by them letters of yours—"

  ***

  Later, punching a pillow into submission in an upstairs guest room, David had time to reflect on the complexities of life. He wondered if any black man anywhere in the United States, whatever his status, had ever gone through a twenty-four-hour day without devoting some of the minutes or hours contained in it to thinking of the complexities, the paradoxes, that were a part of being black.

  It could be, he thought now, that Nehemiah had been right all along. Which in itself was a strange conclusion to arrive at under his present circumstances: a welcome guest in the home of a prominent white family where even his supersensitive antennae of mind and spirit had been unable to detect any sign of patronage, condescension, or superiority. Yet his very acceptance could be, unless he was careful, one of Gramp's "traps for the unwiry."

  David had wondered, sitting in Sutherland's study a little earlier, how long the Sutheriands' cordiality, the adult Sutherlands' acceptance, would last if the doctor and his wife knew the real story of what had happened tonight, if he had told the truth instead of a plausible lie. Tolerant toward sex he knew Sutherland to be, and thought he sensed the same tolerance in Mrs. Sutherland; tolerant toward sex between the races he did not know them to be.

  Hunter had spoken once of the difficulties of having been born with a foot on each side of the fence. Why hadn't he, David Champlin, had sense enough to keep both feet on his own side of the fence? Life would be one whole hell of a lot simpler and more relaxed. It was almost as though the words were spoken aloud in the room: "Without Sara?" And the answer had to be: "Yes, without Sara."

  Below there was the sound of the heavy front door closing, then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Sutherland must have come home. Dr. Sutherland had come upstairs when he and Suds did, and now the footsteps were in the upper hall, near his door; then from just beyond the room where he lay, he heard a door open, and Dr. Sutherland's voice.

  "Dorothy?"

  "Yes, dear."

  Now Mrs. Sutherland must have entered their bedroom and the door must still be open. In the night quiet of the house their voices were clear and distinct.

  "Good meeting? It's late—"

  "Grim. And interminable. Honestly, Jim, sometimes I despair of human progress." A pause. "There's a suitcase in the front hall."

  "Yes. Young David Champlin's. Clifton brought him home here for a few days. He's in the green room."

  Shut the door! For God's sake, shut your damned door! I'm awake and I can hear and I don't want to hear.

  Her response came quickly, without reservation, without knowledge that the subject of their conversation was an unwilling listener:

  "Really? How nice! I wish Clifton would bring him oftener. Remind me about clams tomorrow, dear. I know he likes them."

  Hell!

  When he met Sara the next night at the inexpensive restaurant they had found near his old apartment, he knew, before she even saw him approaching, that she was excited and happy about something.

  After they found a booth in the rear and were seated, he said, "You're bouncing."

  "I know I am. It's disgusting to be so transparent. But I've found a studio, a real attic one with a big skylight and a gas plate and refrigerator, and a bath and shower on the same floor and it's perfect, absolutely perfect! I moved in this afternoon, only I couldn't get hold of you to have you come there instead of here. Isn't it super, David!"

>   "Where is this place?"

  "It's near here. And it's close to the subway—David, come back with me and see it—"

  He hesitated. How long would she last in this new place if her first guest was a Negro? Sara caught the hesitation and pounced on it. "Stop seeing things under the bed!"

  He grinned. "O.K., Prof—"

  "What—"

  "Never mind. Go on."

  "Well, it's a sort of fantastic place. An old rebuilt house, and it's full of students, art students, music students, every kind. There are two Chinese girls and two boys from Pakistan, and a colored couple—he's doing graduate work at Boston University, and she's taking a library course—and a funny old lady who likes to think she's offbeat but who really writes greeting-card verses; only, she tells everyone she's a modern poet. And, let's see—"

  He shook his head. "How do you do it! Find all this out so soon?"

  "The landlady or manager or whatever she is. She liked me. I think she's a bit of a lush, she smelled that way, but she's nice and made a point of telling me she didn't mind anybody's business but her own—"

  "In a place like that she'd go nuts if she did—"

  "Anyhow, it's clean, and the rent is the best part of it next to the skylight. Please, David, come back with me."

  "Sure. For once it seems as though I can fade into the background atmosphere."

  "David, I've been an egocentric pig! My studio—my find. What happened to you? Why did you move out?"

  "Later. Let's eat. And I'm looking at the right-hand side first. I lost half a month's rent."

  After they arrived at the house, David made the three flights of stairs only a little behind Sara, conscious that she had held her pace down. This was the only aspect of his lameness that really bugged him—the knowledge that there were times when others had to adjust to his handicap.

  Tonight there was something elaborately casual about her; he knew her well enough to know that eventually the casualness would break down and matters of grave import would be revealed. Her delight in the studio was like a child's delight; he would not have indicated by so much as a look that to him it had all the charm and appeal of a deserted barn.

  After he had lifted suitcases to strategic spots for unpacking and moved the few pieces of heavy old-fashioned furniture to more convenient locations, she suddenly became serious.

  "David—"

  "What? You've been worrying something around in your mind all evening."

  "Not worrying, just holding back because I'm afraid you'll scream and yell."

  "David Champlin? Scream and yell? You're out of your mind."

  "Well, I mean be difficult and hold-offish—"

  "You propositioning me? Because if you are, honey child, I can get that suitcase off that couch in one-half second flat."

  "Later. As you said when I asked about your move. And you haven't answered yet. David, listen, two flights down, on the second floor, there's a vacancy."

  "Oh."

  "Yes, and it's, well, just about perfect. It's on the front and it was two rooms; only, there's been a partition knocked out so it's one big room and a good-sized alcove. And there's a fireplace even if it is bricked up, and there's a real apartment-size stove, with an oven, and a little refrigerator. And a shower and toilet. There are only three apartments in the whole place with that. Plus—it's five dollars a month less than you were paying—"

  "You'd better hold up a minute and take a breath—"

  "David, wouldn't you like it? Wouldn't you? I have the key. And the lights are connected."

  He was quiet for a moment. He remembered feeling like this that day at Pengard when they had all taken over for him, and practically gotten him the job at the Calico Cat Finally he said, "Thanks, Sara."

  "David, you're cross."

  "Not at all. Let's look at it."

  "You are. The only reason I have the key is because the landlady's going to be out, she said, and she let me have it to—to—"

  "Show the apartment to me."

  "Yes. What's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing. Let's go. Two flights down, on the front?"

  "On the right-hand side. David, please—" But his steps were already sounding unevenly on the uncarpeted stair treads, and she followed slowly, wondering if she would ever understand, fully understand.

  David had to admit to himself that the apartment was all —in some respects more—than he had hoped to find. That there would be no racial difficulty was obvious from the glimpses he had caught of other tenants in the hallways. After he had overcome the deficit of giving up a half-month's rent he could put another five, with some sacrifice, with the five-dollar saving and rent the piano one of the members of the church in Roxbury had told him- about. But he was still half angry and resentful, acting, he knew, like a mule, but unable to give in.

  "I'd need a desk. They moved one in for me from another apartment at the old place—"

  "Isn't that long, hideous table over by the wall big enough? It's got twice as big a top. And there are three, actually three, floor outlets for lamps. And two—two comfortable chairs. Plus those beat-up diningroom-type ones—"

  "Sure old."

  "For gosh sake, what do you want? Swedish modern!"

  He walked to the big bay window that overlooked the street. Its width was filled by an old-fashioned bed-divan, like the one at home. With a decent rug and his own things around, the place could be homelike and livable. And there would be sun, something he had never seen inside the place he had just left. He realized now that his mood comprised more than resentment at once again being taken over; he recognized fear in it, a fear of being drawn inexorably into a predicament that, sooner or later, must be resolved, a fear that he was traveling faster and further on that side road and that the journey back to the main road could be made only in pain. He wished Sara would go away, go back upstairs, until he could work his way out of this mood, leave for a while and save him from making her the target of his feeling of frustration and helplessness.

  "David?" She was unable to keep the anxiousness from her voice.

  "I guess it's all right. I have to live somewhere."

  "But—but—David. Aren't you glad that we can be so close?... All right. Be difficult."

  "I'm not being difficult. Or if I am I've got cause. You want to know why I moved?"

  "Of course. I've been waiting hours and hours to find out."

  "I'll relieve your suspense. My previous landlady is a reformed whore. Or nearly reformed."

  "You're not all that prudish! Oh, you mean she made passes?"

  "So who cares if she made a pass or two? You never saw her. I was safe. She gave me hell because I'd had you down there."

  "Oh, David! I'm sorry! But if she's what you say I'd think she'd be surprised if you didn't have women—"

  "It wasn't women. I could have had a dozen of those. If they'd been the right color."

  That had done it—transformed the resentment in his own mind to a hurt in hers. He could see it in her eyes, in the barely perceptible droop of the slim straight shoulders, the half-opened lips that sought words. Yet he could not comfort or explain. This was the way things were; he had tried to tell her and she had brushed him off. This was a trivial incident compared to what could lie in store. She would have to learn by experience—first the little things, then the big ones, the ultimate rejections.

  "Does that surprise you, Sara?"

  "I—I—perhaps."

  "Perhaps? Perhaps, Sara?" He spoke slowly, the words coming out crisply with a clean-cut, almost pedantic bitterness. "Do you think you whites are the only ones who don't like to see the races mixed? Don't you know that there are black people—people as different as Lessie Perreira and my grandfather—who resent it as deeply as your lily-white friends? Or did you think that a Negro who entertains a white woman in his apartment acquires a certain distinction, a kind of prestige, from the association?"

  Dear God, what's happened to his eyes? thought Sara. "You're—you're—Da
vid, you've never been like this. Never talked to me like this before. You've no right to—to put things in my mind—"

  Why didn't she flare up, lash back at him, give him hell? It appalled him suddenly to realize that he had taken out on her a perverse, resentful mood brought on not by recent events alone but by God knew how many other things in which she had no part, memories that were stored within him and had been stored within him since long before he had even known her. Yet, even in remorse, he found himself unable to speak or make a move toward her.

  At last he turned away and walked slowly to the door. Hand on the knob, he looked back. "Tell the landlady she's got a new tenant. Wait." He drew his wallet from his pocket, took a ten-dollar bill from under the flap where he kept his reserve. "Will you give her this as a deposit? Please. Suds will bring me and my stuff tomorrow night, and I'll give her the balance then. Thanks."

  Sara nodded, eyes still wide and deep with hurt. She folded the bill, nervously, over and over upon itself until it was a tiny wad. David turned from the door and walked toward her slowly, reaching a hand to touch her cheek with his fingertips.

  "I told you, baby," he said. "That's the way it is—like this." Then he was gone.

  Sara did not move, except for her fingers, which unfolded the bill then started refolding it. After a while her lips moved, and she half whispered, "Sara. Sara Kent. He was right. He's always right. He's—he's like a mirror. That was what you thought. Way down deep, that was what you thought. And that's why you're hurt. Because he was right. You've got to understand. How—how—how do you understand what can't be understood? Because love isn't enough. It isn't enough. And if you don't understand there won't be any David, now or ever. God! How do you understand when you're blind and all you have is love?"

  ***

  During those first few months at law school David found his relationship with Brad Willis slipping into one of friendly relaxation. He was no longer in awe of the older man, although he strongly suspected the change from awe to respect to have been brought about deliberately by Willis—a man obviously as adept at handling most ordinary human beings as he was at handling witnesses. He was as accessible as a busy man could be, more so than David would ever have dared