That was how the Texan was looking at him, and it made Ingram feel frightened and helpless. But worst of all it made him feel guilty and ashamed of himself, as if he deserved to be looked at that way. That was what cut like a whip...
Once he hadn’t been too bothered by such things; other colored people scorned them, laughed about them, and he had taken confidence in their collective derision. “Let ’em look, let ’em stare — ain’t they never seen anything brown before? No never?” Joke about it...
But then something happened which added an ominous significance to those occasional glances of disgust or hatred. His mother had become ill while visiting her sister in Mobile, Alabama, and he had gone to bring her back home. He was just out of the Army at the time, but he left his sharp clothes up North and took care to walk softly and mind his own business. Somewhat to his surprise he was treated with an almost ritualistic civility by Southern people; there was a gap between them, marked and unbridgeable, but in all permissible contacts he was aware of courtesy and even tact.
It was on the train coming back North that the incident occurred. They had made an unscheduled stop in the town of Anniston. No one knew why, but rumors flitted about, and a contagion of excitement began to spread through the day coaches. A doctor was needed; something had happened up in one of the sleepers. People stirred and lighted cigarettes, their matches flaring like beacons in the darkness. Outside yellow lamps gleamed on the small wooden station. Rain was falling and the streets were like gold in the soft illumination.
News filtered into their car; a white woman had become hysterical, and a doctor was needed to administer a sedative. Once in a silence they heard her sobbing. Ingram huddled down inside his coat and tried to go back to sleep. Across the aisle his mother snored peacefully, her gold-rimmed spectacles glinting in the half darkness, her big soft body filling like a balloon with her easy breathing. She was resting easily but he couldn’t; the other people in the car were chattering and moving about restively, and he couldn’t isolate himself from these distractions.
Finally he went out to the vestibule and there, in a flurry of nervous talk with one of the colored bus boys, he got an account of what happened — the woman claimed that she had been molested by her Pullman porter. He had tried to open the curtains of her berth — or something. She was too hysterical to supply any details. The porter was a regular on the run, the bus boy had known him for years, and he insisted the woman was crazy. Probably imagined the whole thing.
They talked in low voices, strangely furtive with each other, and then Ingram had gone back to his seat and pulled his collar up about his face, making himself a shapeless, inconspicuous bundle in the darkness.
But a little later he became aware that a crowd of men was gathering under the station shed. They stood watching the train, talking in low voices, their faces long and pale in the yellow light. Occasionally a match would flare at the top of a cigarette, and Ingram could see the flash of alert, speculative eyes.
It was an orderly, almost passive group; but Ingram sensed an urgency about them, a heavy and significant intensity. They pressed together in a cohesive knot, bound together by a silent understanding and purpose.
Someone snapped on the lights in the car, and the men saw Ingram in the window. One of them pointed at him, and the rest drifted closer, staring up at him with eyes that were beginning to brighten with excitement.
It was excitement and curiosity at first; Ingram felt like a freak or an animal in a cage. But their emotion changed quickly to something else, to something oddly joyous and fierce. One of the men shouted at him, and another laughed and bared his teeth in the darkness. Ringed by their bright, menacing eyes, Ingram felt the hatred of the group like the heat from a blast furnace.
Someone shook his shoulder. He turned quickly and looked up into the big meaty face of a man in a policeman’s uniform. The officer said quietly, “Better get in one of the toilets, boy. And lock the door after you. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Ingram said.
“You’ll be all right,” the officer said. “Don’t worry. But it upsets them looking at you. Better not to rile ’em.” The man’s voice was casual and soft, almost friendly; he was not berating Ingram, he was simply stating a fact. It upsets them looking at you...
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Ingram said. “Thank you, sir.” Like something scalded he went down the aisle to the cold little toilet at the end of the car. Crouching in there on the seat, with the acrid stench from the rusty pipes in his nostrils, Ingram felt no sense of anger or outrage; instead he felt small and mean. That’s what the men saw, he thought.
Finally, like an answer to a prayer, the car jerked and the train began to roll...
Ingram never found out what happened to the porter. He watched the papers for a week or two, but he never saw anything about the incident. They’d probably put the man on another run, he had decided; that would be the best thing to do.
Novak slapped his hands together briskly, and the sound made Ingram sit up so abruptly that he almost spilled what was left of his drink.
“Well, that’s it,” Novak said, looking at them with a hard, pleased smile. “Three weeks from Friday. That’s D day. We’ll spend the next three weeks drilling on the timetable, the getaway, everything.”
Burke collected the glasses and began making a second round of drinks. “We need a little something to celebrate the deal.”
Ingram stood up, his hands cold and shaky; he wanted to get away from here, away from the look on the Texan’s face. “I’d better run along, Mr. Novak. I got some plans to make.”
“I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow, then. And I’ll get in touch with Tenzell today.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Novak.”
“Hell, what’s the hurry?” Burke said, passing drinks to Earl and Novak. “One for luck, eh?”
Novak smiled at his glass. “Here’s to happy days. With maybe fifty thousand bucks in our wallets the future can be mighty bright.”
Earl stared at his drink, a little frown shadowing his eyes. He hadn’t followed Novak’s explanation; his attempt to concentrate had been frustrated by the pressure building inside him. There was no target or direction for his feeling; he was caught up hopelessly and impotently between confusion and anger. It was always that way, he thought, still frowning at his glass. Nothing was ever easy and clear for him.
Burke said, “Here’s luck,” and drank deeply, letting the liquor flow down his throat in a smooth rush.
Novak looked at Earl. “Well, what’re you waiting for? Something wrong with the whisky?”
“No, the whisky’s all right,” Earl said, frowning thoughtfully at his glass. He turned it around for a few seconds in his big fingers, unaware of the uneasy little silence settling over the room.
“What’s eating you?” Burke said at last.
“I’m wondering about the glass, that’s all,” Earl said. “You sure it’s mine?”
“You got your hand on it, right? That’s my rule — if I got my hands on a glass, it’s mine.”
Earl looked speculatively at the glass. “You might have got ’em mixed up.”
“How the hell do I know? You didn’t have your initials on it, did you?”