‘I wish so, too.’
‘How come you so determined to grieve?’
‘I just feel that I have failed,’ he said.
‘How you mean you done failed?’
‘I do not know. Just leave me be, Daughter. Just let me sit here in peace a moment.’
‘O.K. But us got to get gone from here pretty soon.’ He would be silent. He would sit quietly and rock in the chair until the sense of order was in him once more. His head trembled and his backbone ached.
‘I certainly hope this,’ Portia said. ‘I certainly hope that when I dead and gone as many peoples grieves for me as grieves for Mr. Singer. I sure would like to know I were going to have as sad a funeral as he had and as many peoples--’
‘Hush!’ said Doctor Copeland roughly. ‘You talk too much.’
But truly with the death of that white man a dark sorrow had lain down in his heart. He had talked to him as to no other white man and had trusted him. And the mystery of his suicide had left him baffled and without support. There was neither beginning nor end to this sorrow. Nor understanding. Always he would return in his thoughts to this white man who was not insolent or scornful but who was just. And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind? But of all this he must not think. He must thrust it from him now.
For it was discipline he needed. During the past month the black, terrible feelings had arisen again to wrestle with his spirit. There was the hatred that for days had truly let him down into the regions of death. After the quarrel with Mr. Blount, the midnight visitor, there had been in him a murderous darkness. Yet now he could not clearly recall those issues which were the cause of their dispute. And then the different anger that came in him when he looked on the stumps of Willie’s legs. The warring love and hatred--love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people--that left him exhausted and sick in spirit ‘Daughter,’ he said. ‘Get me my watch and coat. I am going.’
He pushed himself up with the arms of the chair. The floor seemed a far way from his face and after the long time in bed his legs were very weak. For a moment he felt he would fall.
He walked dizzily across the bare room and stood leaning against the side of the doorway. He coughed and took from his pocket one of the squares of paper to hold over his mouth.
‘Here your coat,’ Portia said. ‘But it so hot outside you not going to need it.’
He walked for the last time through the empty house. The blinds were closed and in the darkened rooms there was the smell of dust. He rested against the wall of the vestibule and then went outside. The morning was bright and warm. Many friends had come to say goodbye the night before and in the very early morning--but now only the family was congregated on the porch. The wagon and the automobile were parked out in the street. ‘Well, Benedict Mady,’ the old man said. ‘I reckon yoa ghy be a little bit homesick these first few days. But won’t be long.’
‘I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick? Portia wet her lips nervously and said: ‘He coming back whenever he get good and ready. Buddy will be glad to ride him to town in the car. Buddy just love to drive.’ The automobile was loaded. Boxes of books were tied to the running-board. The back seat was crowded with two chairs and the filing case. His office desk, legs in the air, had been fastened to the top. But although the car was weighted down the wagon was almost empty. The mule stood patiently, a brick tied to his reins. ‘Karl Marx,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Look sharp. Go over the house and make sure that nothing is left. Bring the cup I left on the floor and my rocking-chair.’
‘Less us get started. I anxious to be home by dinnertime, ‘ Hamilton said. At last they were ready. Highboy cranked the automobile. Karl Marx sat at the wheel and Portia, Highboy, and William were crowded together on the back seat. ‘Father, suppose you set on Highboy’s lap. I believe you be more comfortable than scrouged up here with us and all this furniture.’
‘No, it is too crowded. I would rather ride in the wagon.’
‘But you not used to the wagon,’ Karl Marx said. ‘It going to be very bumpy and the trip liable to take all day.’
‘That does not matter. I have ridden in many a wagon before this.’
‘Tell Hamilton to come with us. I sure he rather ride in the automobile.’ Grandpapa had driven the wagon into town the day before. They brought with them a load of produce, peaches and cabbages and turnips, for Hamilton to sell in town. All except a sack of peaches had been marketed. ‘Well, Benedict Mady, I see you riding home with me,’ the old man said. Doctor Copeland climbed into the back of the wagon. He was weary as though his bones were made of lead. His head trembled and a sudden spasm of nausea made him lie down flat on the rough boards.
‘I right glad you coming,’ Grandpapa said. ‘You understand I always had deep respect for scholars. Deep respect I able to overlook and forget a good many things if a man be a scholar.
I very glad to have a scholar like you in the fambly again.’
The wheels of the wagon creaked. They were on the way. ‘I will return soon,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘After only a month or two I will return.’
‘Hamilton he a right good scholar. I think he favors you some.
He do all my figuring on paper for me and he read the newspapers. And Whitman I think he ghy be a scholar. Right now he able to read the Bible to me. And do number work.
Small a child as he is. I always had a deep respect for scholars.’
The motion of the wagon jolted his back. He looked up at the branches overhead, and then when there was no shade he covered his face with a handkerchief to shield his eyes from the sun. It was not possible that this could be the end. Always he had felt in him the strong, true purpose. For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission. And yet all remained to be done and nothing was completed.
‘Yes, Benedict Mady, I right glad to have you with us again. I been waiting to ask you about this peculiar feeling in my right foot. A queer feeling like my foot gone to sleep. I taken and rubbed it with liniment. I hoping you will find me a good treatment.’
‘I will do what I can.’
‘Yes, I glad to have you. I believe in all kinfolks sticking together--blood kin and marriage kin. I believe in all us struggling along and helping each other out, and some day us will have a reward in the Beyond.’
‘Pshaw!’ Doctor Copeland said bitterly. ‘I believe in justice now.’
‘What that you say you believe in? You speak so hoarse I ain’t able to hear you.’
‘In justice for us. Justice for us Negroes!’
‘That right.’
He felt the fire in him and he could not be still. He wanted to sit up and speak in a loud voice-yet when he tried to raise himself he could not find the strength. The words in his heart grew big and they would not be silent But the old man had ceased to listen and there was no one to hear him.
‘Git, Lee Jackson. Git, Honey. Pick up your feets and quit this here poking. Us got a long way to go.’
Afternoon.
Jake ran at a violent, clumsy pace. He went through Weavers Lane and then cut into a side alley, climbed a fence, and hastened onward. Nausea rose in his belly so that there was the taste of vomit in his throat. A barking dog chased beside him until he stopped long enough to threaten it with a rock.
His eyes were wide with horror and he held his hand clapped to his open mouth.
Christ! So this was the finish. A brawl. A riot. A fight with every man for himself. Bloody heads and eyes cut with broken bottles. Christ! And the wheezy music of the flying jinny above the noise. The dropped hamburgers and cotton candy and the screaming younguns. And him in it all. Fighting blind with the dust and sun. The sharp cut of teeth against his knuckles. And laughing. Christ! And the feeling that he had let loose a wild, hard rhythm in him that wouldn’t stop. And then looking close into the dead black face and not knowing.