"Gentlemen, this man is my grandfather!"
"But he's white, his name's Norton."
"I should know my own grandfather! He's Thomas Jefferson and I'm his grandson -- on the 'field-nigger' side," the tall man said.
"Sylvester, I do believe that you're right. I certainly do," he said, staring at Mr. Norton. "Look at those features. Exactly like yours -- from the identical mold. Are you sure he didn't spit you upon the earth, fully clothed?"
"No, no, that was my father," the man said earnestly.
And he began to curse his father violently as we moved for the door. Halley was there waiting. Somehow he'd gotten the crowd to quiet down and a space was cleared in the center of the room. The men came close to look at Mr. Norton.
"Somebody bring a chair."
"Yeah, let Mister Eddy sit down."
"That ain't no Mister Eddy, man, that's John D. Rockefeller," someone said.
"Here's a chair for the Messiah."
"Stand back y'all," Halley ordered. "Give him some room."
Burnside, who had been a doctor, rushed forward and felt for Mr. Norton's pulse.
"It's solid! This man has a solid pulse! Instead of beating, it vibrates. That's very unusual. Very."
Someone pulled him away. Halley reappeared with a bottle and a glass. "Here, some of y'all tilt his head back."
And before I could move, a short, pock-marked man appeared and took Mr. Norton's head between his hands, tilting it at arm's length and then, pinching the chin gently like a barber about to apply a razor, gave a sharp, swift movement.
"Pow!"
Mr. Norton's head jerked like a jabbed punching bag. Five pale red lines bloomed on the white cheek, glowing like fire beneath translucent stone. I could not believe my eyes. I wanted to run. A woman tittered. I saw several men rush for the door.
"Cut it out, you damn fool!"
"A case of hysteria," the pock-marked man said quietly.
"Git the hell out of the way," Halley said. "Somebody git that stool-pigeon attendant from upstairs. Git him down here, quick!"
"A mere mild case of hysteria," the pock-marked man said as they pushed him away.
"Hurry with the drink, Halley!"
"Heah, school-boy, you hold the glass. This here's brandy I been saving for myself."
Someone whispered tonelessly into my ear, "You see, I told you that it would occur at 5:30. Already the Creator has come." It was the stolid-faced man.
I saw Halley tilt the bottle and the oily amber of brandy sloshing into the glass. Then tilting Mr. Norton's head back, I put the glass to his lips and poured. A fine brown stream ran from the corner of his mouth, down his delicate chin. The room was suddenly quiet. I felt a slight movement against my hand, like a child's breast when it whimpers at the end of a spell of crying. The fine-veined eyelids flickered. He coughed. I saw a slow red flush creep, then spurt, up his neck, spreading over his face.
"Hold it under his nose, school-boy. Let 'im smell it."
I waved the glass beneath Mr. Norton's nose. He opened his pale blue eyes. They seemed watery now in the red flush that bathed his face. He tried to sit up, his right hand fluttering to his chin. His eyes widened, moved quickly from face to face. Then coming to mine, the moist eyes focused with recognition.
"You were unconscious, sir," I said.
"Where am I, young man?" he asked wearily.
"This is the Golden Day, sir."
"What?"
"The Golden Day. It's a kind of sporting-and-gambling house," I added reluctantly.
"Now give him another drinka brandy," Halley said.
I poured a drink and handed it to him. He sniffed it, closed his eyes as in puzzlement, then drank; his cheeks filled out like small bellows; he was rinsing his mouth.
"Thank you," he said, a little stronger now. "What is this place?"
"The Golden Day," said several patients in unison.
He looked slowly around him, up to the balcony, with its scrolled and carved wood. A large flag hung lank above the floor. He frowned.
"What was this building used for in the past?" he said.
"It was a church, then a bank, then it was a restaurant and a fancy gambling house, and now we got it," Halley explained. "I think somebody said it used to be a jail-house too."
"They let us come here once a week to raise a little hell," someone said.
"I couldn't buy a drink to take out, sir, so I had to bring you inside," I explained in dread.
He looked about him. I followed his eyes and was amazed to see the varied expressions on the patients' faces as they silently returned his gaze. Some were hostile, some cringing, some horrified; some, who when among themselves were most violent, now appeared as submissive as children. And some seemed strangely amused.
"Are all of you patients?" Mr. Norton asked.
"Me, I just runs the joint," Halley said. "These here other fellows..."
"We're patients sent here as therapy," a short, fat, very intelligent-looking man said. "But," he smiled, "they send along an attendant, a kind of censor, to see that the therapy fails."
"You're nuts. I'm a dynamo of energy. I come to charge my batteries," one of the vets insisted.
"I'm a student of history, sir," another interrupted with dramatic gestures. "The world moves in a circle like a roulette wheel. In the beginning, black is on top, in the middle epochs, white holds the odds, but soon Ethiopia shall stretch forth her noble wings! Then place your money on the black!" His voice throbbed with emotion. "Until then, the sun holds no heat, there's ice in the heart of the earth. Two years from now and I'll be old enough to give my mulatto mother a bath, the half-white bitch!" he added, beginning to leap up and down in an explosion of glassy-eyed fury.
Mr. Norton blinked his eyes and straightened up.
"I'm a physician, may I take your pulse?" Burnside said, seizing Mr. Norton's wrist.
"Don't pay him no mind, mister. He ain't been no doctor in ten years. They caught him trying to change some blood into money."
"I did too!" the man screamed. "I discovered it and John D. Rockefeller stole the formula from me."
"Mr. Rockefeller did you say?" Mr. Norton said. "I'm sure you must be mistaken."
"WHAT'S GOING ON DOWN THERE?" a voice shouted from the balcony. Everyone turned. I saw a huge black giant of a man, dressed only in white shorts, swaying on the stairs. It was Supercargo, the attendant. I hardly recognized him without his hard-starched white uniform. Usually he walked around threatening the men with a strait jacket which he always carried over his arm, and usually they were quiet and submissive in his presence. But now they seemed not to recognize him and began shouting curses.
"How you gon keep order in the place if you gon git drunk?" Halley shouted. "Charlene! Charlene!"
"Yeah?" a woman's voice, startling in its carrying power, answered sulkily from a room off the balcony.
"I want you to git that stool-pigeoning, joy-killing, nut-crushing bum back in there with you and sober him up. Then git him in his white suit and down here to keep order. We got white folks in the house."
A woman appeared on the balcony, drawing a woolly pink robe about her. "Now you lissen here, Halley," she drawled, "I'm a woman. If you want him dressed, you can do it yourself. I don't put on but one man's clothes and he's in N'Orleans."
"Never mind all that. Git that stool pigeon sober!"
"I want order down there," Supercargo boomed, "and if there's white folks down there, I wan's double order."
Suddenly there was an angry roar from the men back near the bar and I saw them rush the stairs.
"Get him!"
"Let's give him some order!"
"Out of my way."
Five men charged the stairs. I saw the giant bend and clutch the posts at the top of the stairs with both hands, bracing himself, his body gleaming bare in his white shorts. The little man who had slapped Mr. Norton was in front, and, as he sprang up the long flight, I saw the attendant set himself and kick, catching the little man just as he reached the top, hard in the chest, sending him backwards in a curving dive into the midst of the men behind him. Supercargo got set to swing his leg again. It was a narrow stair and only one man could get up at a time. As fast as they rushed up, the giant kicked them back. He swung his leg, kicking them down like a fungo-hitter batting out flies. Watching him, I forgot Mr. Norton. The Golden Day was in an uproar. Half-dressed women appeared from the rooms off the balcony. Men hooted and yelled as at a football game.