“And where would that be, Gal?” Daddy asked.
“I guess most anywhere.”
“That’s right,” Daddy said. “Maybe you ought to stay here.”
“He hasn’t anything against me,” I said.
Callie gave me a look. She said, “Maybe you ought not go.”
“He can be a mean man,” Rosy Mae said.
“I’ll have Nub with me.”
“That’ll scare him off, all twenty-five pounds,” Mom said.
I looked at Nub sitting on the floor. He was sleepy-looking, panting. He didn’t look particularly scary.
“May I go?” I asked.
“Hell,” Daddy said. “He’s right. We’re making a booger bear out of this Bubba Joe. He’s not going to bother whites. I’ll bet you on that. Be careful, son. And come home early. And Nub, you watch after him.”
Nub beat his tail on the ground, ran over to Daddy and licked his hand. Daddy gave him a pet, then I called to Nub and we went outside.
I had certainly thought about the Bubba Joe situation, and, of course, had Daddy known about the other night, no way he would have let me go.
As it was, Daddy thought it was just a problem between coloreds, and that Bubba Joe was just trying to intimidate Mom and Callie that day as they were an opportune target. I think Daddy thought because we were white we had a kind of immunity as long as we were within our community.
I knew better. I also knew if it was true, I was about to leave our community. But I had to see Buster.
I intended to ride my bike, but when I got on it, the chain slipped off and I couldn’t get it back on. I thought about trying to get Daddy to help, but decided against it. I didn’t want to stall any longer, and didn’t want Daddy to start asking questions or find some chore for me to do. Maybe decide it wasn’t safe for me to go. I started off toward town walking, Nub trotting at my side.
———
WHEN I REACHED town the sky darkened and I had that uncomfortable feeling of being followed. Just like the other night when Bubba Joe had shown up. Or whoever it was. I had the same feeling now, but when I looked around I didn’t see anyone. There was just Main Street and buildings and lots of cars parked along the street.
I took a deep breath and kept stepping. Above, the sky continued to darken; it gave me the willies. I thought of turning around, but didn’t. Nub didn’t seem to notice the change in the weather, or rather he didn’t care. He was as happy as if he had good sense and a bone. But I did notice that from time to time he would stop, turn around and look back the way we had come, as if he too felt we were being followed.
That was not heartening.
I turned at Oak Street as it began to sprinkle, made my way toward where Buster lived. The sensation of being followed grew. But when I turned to look all I saw were the great oaks on either side of the street and the wind picking up leaves and blowing them about and two old cars rattling by with black faces behind the wheels.
I went past the men on the porch. They all waved at me, not bothering to torment me with comments. In fact, they looked friendly; it occurred to me their joking had been primarily designed for Buster.
We strolled until I saw the great billboard that hung over Buster’s house, the bright woman’s smile wet with rain and peeling as if everything she had been happy about was a lie. I went up on Buster’s porch and knocked.
He didn’t answer.
Me and Nub went around to the window at the back. I tried to look in, but didn’t see anybody. All I could see was the table with boxes of newspapers on it.
Back on the front porch, I knocked again. Still he didn’t answer.
I called Buster’s name a few times, but I got the same lack of results.
I took hold of the doorknob, turned it, found it was unlocked.
I told Nub to stay, slipped inside.
Except for light coming through the back window, falling in a rectangle across the table, showing dust motes floating in it like gnats, the house was dark.
I called Buster’s name again, then went looking. There were few places to look and I found him lying on the narrow bed pushed up against the wall.
He was lying with one hand under his head, the other thrown across his hip with the palm up. I touched him and called his name, but he didn’t move. I listened for snoring, but didn’t hear any. I didn’t hear any breathing either. I noted a foul smell. I thought maybe the worst had happened.
Suddenly, he snorted, and began to snore. From that snoring came more of the foul odor, and though I had had little experience with it, I knew what the smell was.
Liquor.
Buster was stone dead drunk.
I shook him several times, but he didn’t rise. I decided to give him time and try later. I went over to the table, turned on the light, began looking at what Buster had been reading.
More newspapers.
He had a pad on the table, and written on it were notes. One of the notes said: “Girl’s mother.”
I looked at it without understanding anything, went over and tried to wake him again. Still, no luck.
The room grew darker and the little slice of light from the window went away and left only the lantern light. The rain began to pound on the tin roof of Buster’s shack like someone beating it with a chain. There was a lightning flash visible through the window, followed by darkness, roaring wind and pounding rain. I looked out the window, up at the billboard. It was nothing more than a sheet of rain.
I opened the door and checked on Nub. He was lying on the front porch close to the wall. He looked up at me, but seemed content enough. I went back inside.
I sat in a chair and listened to the rain beating Buster’s home, waited for Buster to wake up.
I don’t know how long I waited, but finally Buster did awake. I heard him snort like a hog, then make a kind of grumble noise. When I looked, he was throwing his feet over the side of the bed, sitting up. He had both hands holding his head, as if he wanted to keep it from falling off. When he looked up and saw me, he paused for a moment. “What in hell are you doing here?” he said.
“I come to check on you.”
“Check on me? You think I need someone checkin’ on me. Some little white boy to lead me around by the hand.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Buster.”
“Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, his voice a singsong mock of mine. “Just thought you’d come check on your nigger, didn’t you?”
“No. I mean. We’re friends, and I . . .”
“Friends? Who you kiddin’, white boy? You and me ain’t never been friends, and ain’t never gonna be.”
“I thought . . .”
“You thought too damn much, you little skeeter. Get on out of my house now.”
“It’s just Daddy said if you miss work again, you’re fired. I lied for you. I told him you were sick—”
“Did I ask you to lie for me?”
“No. I—”
“I don’t need nobody lying for me. Not to no white man or any man. I don’t show for work, that’s my own business. And all this detective shit, forget it. You and me are through with this.”
“I don’t understand, Buster. What did I do—”
“Just go.”
“Buster—”
He snatched up a book lying beside the bed and tossed it at me. It struck the far wall, fell to the floor in a flutter of pages.
I jerked open the door and went out. Rain was blasting hard against the porch and it was as dark as a night without moonlight. Nub was still lying where I had left him. He beat his tail on the porch when I called his name.
I closed the door, stood looking into the wet, wind-swept darkness. I could see the road, but not well. Too much rain, too many tears.