Читать книгу The Last Poets - Christine Otten - Страница 25

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AKRON, OHIO, 1960

The Hatchet

The puddles in the road disappeared as soon as he got nearer. It wasn’t water at all. It hadn’t rained in weeks. There was only the reflection of the bright sunlight on the black asphalt, the quivering of the air above it. He trudged further. Western Auto Supply was farther than he thought, a few miles outside of town, along the highway. He had asked Reggie where he could buy a pocketknife.

‘Daddio buys his tools at Western Auto.’

‘What do I want with tools?’

‘They also sell hardware and car parts, that kind of thing. I’ll bet they have knives too.’

Reggie didn’t ask what Jerome needed a knife for.

Jerome was thirsty. His throat was parched and he tasted dust. Hopefully Western Auto sold Coke too.

The gust of a passing truck nearly knocked him over. He was focused on the green wooden building in the distance and didn’t hear it coming. He tried to make out the letters on the sign: it should say ‘Western Auto’. He would try to hitchhike back. But not now. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone, not before he had his knife.

He paused. Turned his cap backward to shield his neck from the sun. Felt the warm money in his pocket. Sweat ran down his back. He started walking again. One two three four. One two three four, he counted to himself. He glanced down at his once-white canvas sneakers. The dry, rough grass that crackled under his feet. The monotonous rhythm of his own footsteps relaxed him. He might as well have been out on some everyday errand. An errand for his mother. Although as soon as this thought passed through his mind, he felt his stomach cramp up. Keep on walking, he told himself. Another couple hundred yards. He looked at the green store up ahead, which seemed to swim in the rippling, dusty air.

He had thought long and hard about his decision. Even brought it up with Mama.

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said. She just laughed when he announced he was going to kill Daddy.

‘He’s gotta stop coming around here! What’s he good for? He should just beat it!’

‘Watch your mouth.’

‘How come you put up with it?’

‘One day you’ll understand.’

‘I’m bringing in the money now, aren’t I?’

‘I know, son. That’s already bad enough. But your father can’t do any different. Try to remember that. He loves you kids. He’s your father.’

‘Father,’ Jerome repeated. But the word didn’t jibe with reality.

He was close. He could read the letters on the enormous sign. Red neon lights with the words ‘Western Auto’. But being daytime, the lights were out. The green wood paneling looked more faded from close up; here and there the paint was peeling off. There was a gas pump out in front. A beanpole of a white kid leaned lethargically against the railing of the veranda.

‘You lost?’

Jerome shook his head. ‘I thought it was closer. I walked.’

The boy laughed, showing his teeth. He was about eighteen, had greased-back black hair, and wore a red bandana around his neck. He looked like a faggot. Jerome wasn’t sure if he worked here or was just hanging around.

‘I gotta get something to drink.’

‘Got any money?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Dunno.’ The boy shrugged and sauntered over to the store entrance.

‘Do you sell jackknives?’

‘What?’

‘Pocketknives. I need one.’

‘You come walking all this way for that?’ The boy stopped and turned toward him. ‘What do you need a knife for?’

‘Boy Scouts. I’m a Boy Scout.’

‘I don’t think my father’s gonna sell you a knife.’ The boy stood his ground, legs spread.

‘Not just any old knife. A pocketknife.’

‘Go in and have a look.’

Jerome took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Three dollars and fifty-six cents. ‘First something to drink,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘What’s that?’ the boy asked.

‘A drink,’ Jerome said, as he stepped onto the veranda and went into the store.

A couple of nights earlier his father had forced his way into the house, yet again. Broke a pane in the front door. The key still happened to be in the lock.

Mama was in the kitchen, reading. The younger children were already in bed. Jerome was undressing in the bathroom when he heard the breaking glass. He knew right away what was up. He put his pants back on and went out onto the landing. His father stood in the middle of the living room, unaware that his son was watching him. His arms dangled aimlessly along his tall torso, his skittish eyes scanning the room.

‘Where are you?’ This was how it always started. No answer.

‘You can’t forbid me coming into my own house. I’m a black man. This is my house.’ He went off toward the kitchen. Jerome snuck down the stairs.

‘Go away, Sonny,’ he heard Mama say. Her voice sounded far too gentle, too weak. ‘Think of the children.’

‘They’re my kids too.’ He was in the kitchen. ‘What you reading?’ Jerome heard a chair scuff against the nonslip linoleum. He sat down on the bottom step.

‘Nothin’ much.’

‘So why you reading it?’

‘I like reading. Come on, Sonny. You know what the judge said.’

‘Don’t fancy yourself getting so smart from all those books of yours. Stupid bitch. I know you think you’re better than me, but you’re nothin’. Whore.’

The door was open a crack, just enough for Jerome to see inside. His mother took off her glasses, as though to prepare herself for what was to come. She looked calm. Her eyes were deep-set, and her blue-black curls shone in the light of the ceiling lamp. She looked straight at her husband, but Jerome knew she wasn’t seeing him, was seeing something else, only he couldn’t tell what. She never let on. Like she wasn’t real whenever Daddy came home. Like she’d drifted quietly out of her body.

Daddy leaned forward and gave Mama a smack on the jaw. She swayed back but didn’t fall over. ‘Don’t you even feel it?’ He got up and walked around the table. With the flat of his hand he slapped her other cheek. He started laughing. ‘You like that, don’t you? I know what you like.’ Jerome’s mother sat frozen on the chair, her copy of Time magazine still open on the table in front of her. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the floor. He started pounding on her back. Jerome could see his mother shudder to the rhythm of his father’s dull blows. She flopped back and forth like a rag doll. She did not cry, made no sound at all. She did exactly what he himself did when Daddy beat him: turn away. Watch his own compact body reflected in the dark glass of the kitchen door. Feel his cheeks burn, swallow back the tears. Just stand there and take the punches. Smile. Breathe calmly. Daddy can’t ever see his tears. Can’t ever be allowed to see the pain he causes. Jerome held onto the pain with all his might. A dull, burning blackness that pushed against the inside of his skull.

But this stubborn indifference only made Daddy even madder. And Jerome could understand that. He understood why his father beat his mother more and more furiously, desperately. Say something! Feel something! I want to hear you scream. Where are you, goddamn it? Anything’s better than nothing.

Suddenly the pounding and ranting stopped. Jerome peered through the crack and saw his father stagger to his feet. His cheeks were wet, but Jerome couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. The man looked smaller than he had a few minutes ago. He muttered something unintelligible, rubbed his hands on his faded pants. From where he stood, Jerome could smell the pungent eau de cologne-like booze stench that clung to his father. He gagged. He saw his mother move on the yellow linoleum floor. She placed her hands flat on the floor and tried to lift up her body. Jerome didn’t know what he should do after Daddy left: he wanted to help his mother, but was ashamed at having witnessed the scene, and he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want him to see her in this state.

‘I’m leavin’,’ he heard his father say.

Jerome tiptoed back upstairs. Once he was back in his room he heard the front door slam. One last piece of glass from the windowpane shattered into splinters on the floor.

A small, stout man with a white hat and a face full of burst veins shuffled through the cluttered store. Boxes were stacked everywhere. There was hardly any light in the stuffy place.

‘A Coke, please.’

‘No Coke,’ the man said. He went behind the glass counter and stood with his back to Jerome.

‘I’d like something to drink.’

‘Faucet’s back here, next to the men’s room.’

‘I’m looking for a jackknife.’

The man didn’t respond.

‘A jackknife. Do you sell jackknives?’ Jerome did his best to sound casual.

The man turned to him. ‘You ain’t old enough to drive. Whatcha doin’ here?’

‘I’m in the Boy Scouts and need a pocketknife.’

‘Boy Scouts? You?’ He laughed.

‘Everybody’s got one.’

‘And you don’t.’

Jerome shook his head. His mouth was so dry it was as though he was breathing dust instead of air.

‘C’mere.’

Jerome went over to the counter.

‘I don’t sell no weapons. You get my drift?’

Jerome looked at the scissors and knives and chisels and screwdrivers displayed under the glass countertop. In the middle of all that glistening steel he saw a dull hatchet with a carved wooden handle shaped like an eagle’s head. It made him think of Indians.

‘I like that one.’

‘Three dollars.’

Jerome dug the money out of his pants pocket and laid it on the counter.

‘Thought you wanted a jackknife.’ The man took the money and slid the hatchet over to him. He turned and fumbled around in the cash register behind the counter. He’d already forgotten Jerome was there.

Jerome felt the weight of the hatchet in his hand. It was heavy for such a small thing. He ran his fingers over the fine woodcarving, over the solid polished steel. It wasn’t as sharp as a knife but it had two perfectly honed corners. He pushed his thumb into one of them. It didn’t hurt. He pushed harder, kept pushing until he felt his calloused skin break. He put his thumb in his mouth. His blood tasted like iron.

He hid the hatchet under his mattress. He slept deeply, dreamlessly. Every once in a while he took the thing out to admire its fine, light-brown woodcarving. He imagined a proud old Indian with long, lank hair who, wielding a small knife, cut thin lines in the wood, keeping at it until an eagle appeared.

It was as though the hatchet defused his murderous thoughts. The hatchet had nothing to do with death. Death was a big limp rabbit at the side of the road. The smell of rain and rotten leaves. He remembered once poking the animal in its belly with a stick to see if it was still alive. He had lifted up the hind legs, turned the head toward him. The eyes were just like dull marbles. Unseeing. He had held his hand an inch above the wooly gray fur. He didn’t dare pet it, but felt its warmth on his skin. As though not all the life had drained from the animal yet. Did rabbits have a soul? Was that what he felt?

One night, a week or two after he had bought the hatchet, Jerome woke up to the rattling of the front door. The broken pane had been boarded up. He heard pounding and shouting. His father’s deep, measured voice. ‘Let me in. You can’t forbid me to see my children.’ Even when he was crazy, his voice was still songful and fluid, almost like he was play-acting, like he didn’t really mean what he said. But his words were so ugly. ‘Filthy whore! You fucking somebody else? I wanna come in. Come on, open the door! Jerome, you there? Jerome!’

Jerome stiffened at the sound of his name. He lay on his back. Chris slept through it all. You could fire off a cannon and Chris wouldn’t wake up. Jerome thought back on that time his father came looking for him. It was summertime, late at night. The humid warmth still hung over the streets. He had hidden under the Spring Street bridge and quickly counted his earnings. He heard his father’s agitated footsteps. He always walked fast when he was crazy.

‘Goddam it, Jerome, where are you? It’s 3 a.m.. Have you lost your mind?’

The footsteps got closer. There was no escape now.

His father crouched at the bridge. ‘Come on home, Jerome. Your mother’s worried.’

Jerome stuffed the dollar bills and coins in his pockets. Looked up at his father. Daddy looked almost timid, as though he were ashamed of something. His glance glided off to one side. ‘Come on.’ It sounded like pleading. Jerome would rather have Daddy get mad than act like this, so pitiful.

‘In a minute. You go ahead.’

‘I’m your father.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Sonny Huling laughed to himself. ‘I’m not going without you.’

Jerome ambled a distance behind his father. Later, when they got home, the man looked his son straight in the eye. His own eyes were watery and dull. He turned to his wife, Jerome’s mother, and said, ‘This little nigger is out of his mind. He is one crazy nigger.’

Jerome heard the pride that filtered through his father’s pathetic words.

‘Lemme in my goddam house!’ Daddy’s entire body thudded against the front door. Jerome was sliding out of bed before he knew it. Grabbing the hatchet from under his mattress and shooting out of the bedroom on his tiptoes, out onto the landing, his feet hardly touching the soft carpeting; how quickly and nimbly he skipped down the thirteen steps, hid silently next to the front door, just out of his father’s sight. His mind was empty. No thoughts except the deep and dark awareness of his mission. It’s better this way. Daddy has to die. He can’t come around here ever again, not ever. He can’t ever beat up on Mama again. He’ll kill her.

‘I’ll bust this door down,’ Daddy hollered. Jerome heard the thud of his footsteps on the landing. Mama charged down the stairs, her thin nightgown flapping behind her, like she had wings. She went straight for Jerome. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘Give it here.’ She yanked the hatchet out of his hand. ‘Oh, Jerome,’ she whispered. ‘Jerome.’ She sounded disappointed.

The door swung open. Daddy staggered inside. It looked like his head was balanced loosely atop his torso, the way it trembled and shook. ‘Is that why you made me wait so long?’ he said, pointing to the hatchet. They gray steel glimmered in the dim glow from the porch light. Mama put it behind her back.

‘You think you can get ridda me so easy, you ugly bitch?’ He roared with laughter. Mama turned and ran to the kitchen. Daddy followed her, legs wide. He had all the time in the world. From the doorway he turned and looked into the living room. Jerome tried to keep out of sight.

‘I know you’re there,’ he heard his father say. His voice sounded sober and normal. ‘Was it your idea?’

Every word Jerome knew drained from him. As though he was mute again. He heard his father laugh. ‘I knew you weren’t no wimp,’ Daddy said, mostly to himself as he opened the kitchen door. The glass rattled in its frame. The door swung shut behind him.