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I

SHE STOOD with her black face some six inches from the moist windowpane and wondered when on earth would it ever stop raining. It might keep up like this all week, she thought. She heard rain droning upon the roof and high up in the wet sky her eyes followed the silent rush of a bright shaft of yellow that swung from the airplane beacon in far off Memphis. Momently she could see it cutting through the rainy dark; it would hover a second like a gleaming sword above her head, then vanish. She sighed, troubling, Johnny-Boys been trampin in this slop all day wid no decent shoes on his feet…. Through the window she could see the rich black earth sprawling outside in the night. There was more rain than the clay could soak up; pools stood everywhere. She yawned and mumbled: “Rains good n bad. It kin make seeds bus up thu the groun, er it kin bog things down lika watah-soaked coffin.” Her hands were folded loosely over her stomach and the hot air of the kitchen traced a filmy veil of sweat on her forehead. From the cook stove came the soft singing of burning wood and now and then a throaty bubble rose from a pot of simmering greens.

“Shucks, Johnny-Boy coulda let somebody else do all tha runnin in the rain. Theres others bettah fixed fer it than he is. But, naw! Johnny-Boy ain the one t trust nobody t do nothing. Hes gotta do it all hissef….”

She glanced at a pile of damp clothes in a zinc tub. Waal, Ah bettah git t work. She turned, lifted a smoothing iron with a thick pad of cloth, touched a spit-wet finger to it with a quick, jerking motion: smiiitz! Yeah; its hot! Stooping, she took a blue work-shirt from the tub and shook it out. With a deft twist of her shoulder she caught the iron in her right hand; the fingers of her left hand took a piece of wax from a tin box and a frying sizzle came as she smeared the bottom. She was thinking of nothing now; her hands followed a lifelong ritual of toil. Spreading a sleeve, she ran the hot iron to and fro until the wet cloth became stiff. She was deep in the midst of her work when a song rose up out of the far off days of her childhood and broke through half-parted lips:

Hes the Lily of the Valley, the Bright n Mawnin Star
Hes the Fairest of Ten Thousan t mah soul…

A gust of wind dashed rain against the window. Johnny-Boy oughta c mon home n eat his suppah. Aw, Lawd! Itd be fine ef Sug could eat wid us tonight! Itd be like ol times! Mabbe aftah all it wont be long fo he comes back. Tha lettah Ah got from im las week said Don give up hope… Yeah; we gotta live in hope. Then both of her sons, Sug and Johnny-Boy, would be back with her.

With an involuntary nervous gesture, she stopped and stood still, listening. But the only sound was the lulling fall of rain. Shucks, ain no usa me ackin this way, she thought. Ever time they gits ready to hol them meetings Ah gits jumpity. Ah been a lil scared ever since Sug went t jail. She heard the clock ticking and looked. Johnny-Boys a hour late! He sho mus be havin a time doin all tha trampin, trampin thu the mud…. But her fear was a quiet one; it was more like an intense brooding than a fear; it was a sort of hugging of hated facts so closely that she could feel their grain, like letting cold water run over her hand from a faucet on a winter morning.

She ironed again, faster now, as if she felt the more she engaged her body in work the less she would think. But how could she forget Johnny-Boy out there on those wet fields rounding up white and black Communists for a meeting tomorrow? And that was just what Sug had been doing when the sheriff had caught him, beat him, and tried to make him tell who and where his comrades were. Po Sug! They sho musta beat the boy somethin awful! But, thank Gawd, he didnt talk! He ain no weaklin, Sug ain! Hes been lion-hearted all his life long.

That had happened a year ago. And now each time those meetings came around the old terror surged back. While shoving the iron a cluster of toiling days returned; days of washing and ironing to feed Johnny-Boy and Sug so they could do party work; days of carrying a hundred pounds of white folks’ clothes upon her head across fields sometimes wet and sometimes dry. But in those days a hundred pounds was nothing to carry carefully balanced upon her head while stepping by instinct over the corn and cotton rows. The only time it had seemed heavy was when she had heard of Sug’s arrest. She had been coming home one morning with a bundle upon her head, her hands swinging idly by her sides, walking slowly with her eyes in front of her, when Bob, Johnny-Boy’s pal, had called from across the fields and had come and told her that the sheriff had got Sug. That morning the bundle had become heavier than she could ever remember.

And with each passing week now, though she spoke of it to no one, things were becoming heavier. The tubs of water and the smoothing iron and the bundle of clothes were becoming harder to lift, with her back aching so; and her work was taking longer, all because Sug was gone and she didn’t know just when Johnny-Boy would be taken too. To ease the ache of anxiety that was swelling her heart, she hummed, then sang softly:

He walks wid me, He talks wid me
He tells me Ahm His own….

Guiltily, she stopped and smiled. Looks like Ah jus cant seem t fergit them ol songs, no mattah how hard Ah tries…. She had learned them when she was a little girl living and working on a farm. Every Monday morning from the corn and cotton fields the slow strains had floated from her mother’s lips, lonely and haunting; and later, as the years had filled with gall, she had learned their deep meaning. Long hours of scrubbing floors for a few cents a day had taught her who Jesus was, what a great boon it was to cling to Him, to be like Him and suffer without a mumbling word. She had poured the yearning of her life into the songs, feeling buoyed with a faith beyond this world. The figure of the Man nailed in agony to the Cross, His burial in a cold grave, His transfigured Resurrection, His being breath and clay, God and Man—all had focused her feelings upon an imagery which had swept her life into a wondrous vision.

But as she had grown older, a cold white mountain, the white folks and their laws, had swum into her vision and shattered her songs and their spell of peace. To her that white mountain was temptation, something to lure her from her Lord, a part of the world God had made in order that she might endure it and come through all the stronger, just as Christ had risen with greater glory from the tomb. The days crowded with trouble had enhanced her faith and she had grown to love hardship with a bitter pride; she had obeyed the laws of the white folks with a soft smile of secret knowing.

After her mother had been snatched up to heaven in a chariot of fire, the years had brought her a rough workingman and two black babies, Sug and Johnny-Boy, all three of whom she had wrapped in the charm and magic of her vision. Then she was tested by no less than God; her man died, a trial which she bore with the strength shed by the grace of her vision; finally even the memory of her man faded into the vision itself, leaving her with two black boys growing tall, slowly into manhood.

Then one day grief had come to her heart when Johnny-Boy and Sug had walked forth demanding their lives. She had sought to fill their eyes with her vision, but they would have none of it. And she had wept when they began to boast of the strength shed by a new and terrible vision.

But she had loved them, even as she loved them now; bleeding, her heart had followed them. She could have done no less, being an old woman in a strange world. And day by day her sons had ripped from her startled eyes her old vision, and image by image had given her a new one, different, but great and strong enough to fling her into the light of another grace. The wrongs and sufferings of black men had taken the place of Him nailed to the Cross; the meager beginnings of the party had become another Resurrection; and the hate of those who would destroy her new faith had quickened in her a hunger to feel how deeply her new strength went.

“Lawd, Johnny-Boy,” she would sometimes say, “Ah just wan them white folks t try t make me tell who is in the party n who ain! Ah just wan em t try, n Ahll show em somethin they never thought a black woman could have!”

But sometimes like tonight, while lost in the forgetfulness of work, the past and the present would become mixed in her; while toiling under a strange star for a new freedom the old songs would slip from her lips with their beguiling sweetness.

The iron was getting cold. She put more wood into the fire, stood again at the window and watched the yellow blade of light cut through the wet darkness. Johnny-Boy ain here yit…. Then, before she was aware of it, she was still, listening for sounds. Under the drone of rain she heard the slosh of feet in mud. Tha ain Johnny-Boy. She knew his long, heavy footsteps in a million. She heard feet come on the porch. Some woman…. She heard bare knuckles knock three times, then once. Thas some of them comrades! She unbarred the door, cracked it a few inches, and flinched from the cold rush of damp wind.

“Whos tha?”

“Its me!”

“Who?”

“Me, Reva!”

She flung the door open.

“Lawd, chile, c mon in!”

She stepped to one side and a thin, blond-haired white girl ran through the door; as she slid the bolt she heard the girl gasping and shaking her wet clothes. Somethings wrong! Reva wouldna walked a mile t mah house in all this slop fer nothin! Tha gals stuck onto Johnny-Boy. Ah wondah ef anything happened t im?

“Git on inter the kitchen, Reva, where its warm.”

“Lawd, Ah sho is wet!”

“How yuh reckon yuhd be, in all tha rain?”

“Johnny-Boy ain here yit?” asked Reva.

“Naw! N ain no usa yuh worryin bout im. Jus yuh git them shoes off! Yuh wanna ketch yo deatha col?” She stood looking absently. Yeah; its somethin about the party er Johnny-Boy thas gone wrong. Lawd, Ah wondah ef her pa knows how she feels bout Johnny-Boy? “Honey, yuh hadnt oughta come out in sloppy weather like this.”

“Ah had t come, An Sue.”

She led Reva to the kitchen.

“Git them shoes off n git close t the stove so yuhll git dry!”

“An Sue, Ah got somethin t tell yuh…”

The words made her hold her breath. Ah bet its somethin bout Johnny-Boy!

“Whut, honey?”

“The sheriff wuz by our house tonight. He come t see pa.”

“Yeah?”

“He done got word from somewheres bout tha meetin tomorrow.”

“Is it Johnny-Boy, Reva?”

“Aw, naw, An Sue! Ah ain hearda word bout im. Ain yuh seen im tonight?”

“He ain come home t eat yit.”

“Where kin he be?”

“Lawd knows, chile.”

“Somebodys gotta tell them comrades tha meetings off,” said Reva. “The sheriffs got men watchin our house. Ah had t slip out t git here widout em following me.”

“Reva?”

“Hunh?”

“Ahma ol woman n Ah wans yuh t tell me the truth.”

“Whut, An Sue?”

“Yuh ain tryin t fool me, is yuh?”

“Fool yuh?”

“Bout Johnny-Boy?”

“Lawd, naw, An Sue!”

“Ef theres anythin wrong jus tell me, chile. Ah kin stan it.”

She stood by the ironing board, her hands as usual folded loosely over her stomach, watching Reva pull off her water-clogged shoes. She was feeling that Johnny-Boy was already lost to her; she was feeling the pain that would come when she knew it for certain; and she was feeling that she would have to be brave and bear it. She was like a person caught in a swift current of water and knew where the water was sweeping her and did not want to go on but had to go on to the end.

“It ain nothin bout Johnny-Boy, An Sue,” said Reva. “But we gotta do somethin er we’ll all git inter trouble.”

“How the sheriff know about tha meetin?”

“Thas whut pa wans t know.”

“Somebody done turned Judas.”

“Sho looks like it.”

“Ah bet it wuz some of them new ones,” she said.

“Its hard t tell,” said Reva.

“Lissen, Reva, yuh oughta stay here n git dry, but yuh bettah git back n tell yo pa Johnny-Boy ain here n Ah don know when hes gonna show up. Somebodys gotta tell them comrades t stay erway from yo pas house.”

She stood with her back to the window, looking at Reva’s wide, blue eyes. Po critter! Gotta go back thu all tha slop! Though she felt sorry for Reva, not once did she think that it would not have to be done. Being a woman, Reva was not suspect; she would have to go. It was just as natural for Reva to go back through the cold rain as it was for her to iron night and day, or for Sug to be in jail. Right now, Johnny-Boy was out there on those dark fields trying to get home. Lawd, don let em git im tonight! In spite of herself her feelings became torn. She loved her son and, loving him, she loved what he was trying to do. Johnny-Boy was happiest when he was working for the party, and her love for him was for his happiness. She frowned, trying hard to fit something together in her feelings: for her to try to stop Johnny-Boy was to admit that all the toil of years meant nothing; and to let him go meant that sometime or other he would be caught, like Sug. In facing it this way she felt a little stunned, as though she had come suddenly upon a blank wall in the dark. But outside in the rain were people, white and black, whom she had known all her life. Those people depended upon Johnny-Boy, loved him and looked to him as a man and leader. Yeah; hes gotta keep on; he cant stop now…. She looked at Reva; she was crying and pulling her shoes back on with reluctant fingers.

“Whut yuh carryin on tha way fer, chile?”

“Yuh done los Sug, now yuh sendin Johnny-Boy…”

“Ah got t, honey.”

She was glad she could say that. Reva believed in black folks and not for anything in the world would she falter before her. In Reva’s trust and acceptance of her she had found her first feelings of humanity; Reva’s love was her refuge from shame and degradation. If in the early days of her life the white mountain had driven her back from the earth, then in her last days Reva’s love was drawing her toward it, like the beacon that swung through the night outside. She heard Reva sobbing.

“Hush, honey!”

“Mah brothers in jail too! Ma cries ever day…”

“Ah know, honey.”

She helped Reva with her coat; her fingers felt the scant flesh of the girl’s shoulders. She don git ernuff t eat, she thought. She slipped her arms around Reva’s waist and held her close for a moment.

“Now, yuh stop that cryin.”

“A-a-ah c-c-cant hep it….”

“Everythingll be awright; Johnny-Boyll be back.”

“Yuh think so?”

“Sho, chile. Cos he will.”

Neither of them spoke again until they stood in the doorway. Outside they could hear water washing through the ruts of the street.

“Be sho n send Johnny-Boy t tell the folks t stay erway from pas house,” said Reva.

“Ahll tell im. Don yuh worry.”

“Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!”

Leaning against the door jamb, she shook her head slowly and watched Reva vanish through the falling rain.

II

She was back at her board, ironing, when she heard feet sucking in the mud of the back yard; feet she knew from long years of listening were Johnny-Boy’s. But tonight, with all the rain and fear, his coming was like a leaving, was almost more than she could bear. Tears welled to her eyes and she blinked them away. She felt that he was coming so that she could give him up; to see him now was to say good-bye. But it was a good-bye she knew she could never say; they were not that way toward each other. All day long they could sit in the same room and not speak; she was his mother and he was her son. Most of the time a nod or a grunt would carry all the meaning that she wanted to convey to him, or he to her. She did not even turn her head when she heard him come stomping into the kitchen. She heard him pull up a chair, sit, sigh, and draw off his muddy shoes; they fell to the floor with heavy thuds. Soon the kitchen was full of the scent of his drying socks and his burning pipe. Tha boys hongry! She paused and looked at him over her shoulder; he was puffing at his pipe with his head tilted back and his feet propped up on the edge of the stove; his eyelids drooped and his wet clothes steamed from the heat of the fire. Lawd, tha boy gits mo like his pa ever day he lives, she mused, her lips breaking in a slow faint smile. Hols tha pipe in his mouth just like his pa usta hol his. Wondah how they woulda got erlong ef his pa hada lived? They oughta liked each other, they so much alike. She wished there could have been other children besides Sug, so Johnny-Boy would not have to be so much alone. A man needs a woman by his side…. She thought of Reva; she liked Reva; the brightest glow her heart had ever known was when she had learned that Reva loved Johnny-Boy. But beyond Reva were cold white faces. Ef theys caught it means death…. She jerked around when she heard Johnny-Boy’s pipe clatter to the floor. She saw him pick it up, smile sheepishly at her, and wag his head.

“Gawd, Ahm sleepy,” he mumbled.

She got a pillow from her room and gave it to him.

“Here,” she said.

“Hunh,” he said, putting the pillow between his head and the back of the chair.

They were silent again. Yes, she would have to tell him to go back out into the cold rain and slop; maybe to get caught; maybe for the last time; she didn’t know. But she would let him eat and get dry before telling him that the sheriff knew of the meeting to be held at Lem’s tomorrow. And she would make him take a big dose of soda before he went out; soda always helped to stave off a cold. She looked at the clock. It was eleven. Theres time yit. Spreading a newspaper on the apron of the stove, she placed a heaping plate of greens upon it, a knife, a fork, a cup of coffee, a slab of cornbread, and a dish of peach cobbler.

“Yo suppahs ready,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

He did not move. She ironed again. Presently, she heard him eating. When she could no longer hear his knife tinkling against the edge of the plate, she knew he was through. It was almost twelve now. She would let him rest a little while longer before she told him. Till one er’clock, mabbe. Hes so tired…. She finished her ironing, put away the board, and stacked the clothes in her dresser drawer. She poured herself a cup of black coffee, drew up a chair, sat down and drank.

“Yuh almos dry,” she said, not looking around.

“Yeah,” he said, turning sharply to her.

The tone of voice in which she had spoken had let him know that more was coming. She drained her cup and waited a moment longer.

“Reva wuz here.”

“Yeah?”

“She lef bout a hour ergo.”

“Whut she say?”

“She said ol man Lem hada visit from the sheriff today.”

“Bout the meetin?”

“Yeah.”

She saw him stare at the coals glowing red through the crevices of the stove and run his fingers nervously through his hair. She knew he was wondering how the sheriff had found out. In the silence he would ask a wordless question and in the silence she would answer wordlessly. Johnny-Boys too trustin, she thought. Hes trying t make the party big n hes takin in folks fastern he kin git t know em. You cant trust ever white man yuh meet….

“Yuh know, Johnny-Boy, yuh been takin in a lotta them white folks lately…”

“Aw, ma!”

“But, Johnny-Boy…”

“Please, don talk t me bout tha now, ma.”

“Yuh ain t ol t lissen n learn, son,” she said.

“Ah know whut yuh gonna say, ma. N yuh wrong. Yuh cant judge folks jus by how yuh feel bout em n by how long yuh done knowed em. Ef we start tha we wouldnt have nobody in the party. When folks pledge they word t be with us, then we gotta take em in. Wes too weak t be choosy.”

He rose abruptly, rammed his hands into his pockets, and stood facing the window; she looked at his back in a long silence. She knew his faith; it was deep. He had always said that black men could not fight the rich bosses alone; a man could not fight with every hand against him. But he believes so hard hes blind, she thought. At odd times they had had these arguments before; always she would be pitting her feelings against the hard necessity of his thinking, and always she would lose. She shook her head. Po Johnny-Boy; he don know…

“But ain nona our folks tol, Johnny-Boy,” she said.

“How yuh know?” he asked. His voice came low and with a tinge of anger. He still faced the window and now and then the yellow blade of light flicked across the sharp outline of his black face.

“Cause Ah know em,” she said.

“Anybody mighta tol,” he said.

“It wuznt nona our folks,” she said again.

She saw his hand sweep in a swift arc of disgust.

“Our folks! Ma, who in Gawds name is our folks?”

“The folks we wuz born n raised wid, son. The folks we know!”

“We cant make the party grow tha way, ma.”

“It mighta been Booker,” she said.

“Yuh don know.”

“…er Blattberg…”

“Fer Chrissakes!”

“…er any of the fo-five others whut joined las week.”

“Ma, yuh jus don wan me t go out tonight,” he said.

“Yo ol ma wans yuh t be careful, son.”

“Ma, when yuh start doubtin folks in the party, then there ain no end.”

“Son, Ah knows ever black man n woman in this parta the county,” she said, standing too. “Ah watched em grow up; Ah even heped birth n nurse some of em; Ah knows em all from way back. There ain none of em that coulda tol! The folks Ah know jus don open they dos n ast death t walk in! Son, it wuz some of them white folks! Yuh jus mark mah word n wait n see!”

“Why is it gotta be white folks?” he asked. “Ef they tol, then theys jus Judases, thas all.”

“Son, look at whuts befo yuh.”

He shook his head and sighed.

“Ma, Ah done tol yuh a hundred times. Ah cant see white n Ah cant see black,” he said. “Ah sees rich men n Ah sees po men.”

She picked up his dirty dishes and piled them in a pan. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him sit and pull on his wet shoes. Hes goin! When she put the last dish away he was standing fully dressed, warming his hands over the stove. Jus a few mo minutes now n he’ll be gone, like Sug, mabbe. Her throat tightened. This black mans fight takes everthin! Looks like Gawd put us in this worl jus t beat us down!

“Keep this, ma,” he said.

She saw a crumpled wad of money in his outstretched fingers.

“Naw; yuh keep it. Yuh might need it.”

“It ain mine, ma. It berlongs t the party.”

“But, Johnny-Boy, yuh might hafta go erway!”

“Ah kin make out.”

“Don fergit yosef too much, son.”

“Ef Ah don come back theyll need it.”

He was looking at her face and she was looking at the money.

“Yuh keep tha,” she said slowly. “Ahll give em the money.”

“From where?”

“Ah got some.”

“Where yuh git it from?”

She sighed.

“Ah been savin a dollah a week fer Sug ever since hes been in jail.”

“Lawd, ma!”

She saw the look of puzzled love and wonder in his eyes. Clumsily, he put the money back into his pocket.

“Ahm gone,” he said.

“Here; drink this glass of soda watah.”

She watched him drink, then put the glass away.

“Waal,” he said.

“Take the stuff outta yo pockets!”

She lifted the lid of the stove and he dumped all the papers from his pocket into the fire. She followed him to the door and made him turn round.

“Lawd, yuh tryin to maka revolution n yuh cant even keep yo coat buttoned.” Her nimble fingers fastened his collar high around his throat. “There!”

He pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes. She opened the door and with the suddenness of the cold gust of wind that struck her face, he was gone. She watched the black fields and the rain take him, her eyes burning. When the last faint footstep could no longer be heard, she closed the door, went to her bed, lay down, and pulled the cover over her while fully dressed. Her feelings coursed with the rhythm of the rain: Hes gone! Lawd, Ah know hes gone! Her blood felt cold.

III

She was floating in a grey void somewhere between sleeping and dreaming and then suddenly she was wide awake, hearing and feeling in the same instant the thunder of the door crashing in and a cold wind filling the room. It was pitch black and she stared, resting on her elbows, her mouth open, not breathing, her ears full of the sound of tramping feet and booming voices. She knew at once: They lookin fer im! Then, filled with her will, she was on her feet, rigid, waiting, listening.

“The lamps burnin!”

“Yuh see her?”

“Naw!”

“Look in the kitchen!”

“Gee, this place smells like niggers!”

“Say, somebodys here er been here!”

“Yeah; theres fire in the stove!”

“Mabbe hes been here n gone?”

“Boy, look at these jars of jam!”

“Niggers make good jam!”

“Git some bread!”

“Heres some combread!”

“Say, lemme git some!”

“Take it easy! Theres plenty here!”

“Ahma take some of this stuff home!”

“Look, heres a pota greens!”

“N some hot cawffee!”

“Say, yuh guys! C mon! Cut it out! We didnt come here fer a feas!”

She walked slowly down the hall. They lookin fer im, but they ain got im yit! She stopped in the doorway, her gnarled, black hands as always folded over her stomach, but tight now, so tightly the veins bulged. The kitchen was crowded with white men in glistening raincoats. Though the lamp burned, their flashlights still glowed in red fists. Across her floor she saw the muddy tracks of their boots.

“Yuh white folks git outta mah house!”

There was quick silence; every face turned toward her. She saw a sudden movement, but did not know what it meant until something hot and wet slammed her squarely in the face. She gasped, but did not move. Calmly, she wiped the warm, greasy liquor of greens from her eyes with her left hand. One of the white men had thrown a handful of greens out of the pot at her.

“How they taste, ol bitch?”

“Ah ast yuh t git outta mah house!”

She saw the sheriff detach himself from the crowd and walk toward her.

“Now, Anty…”

“White man, don yuh Anty me!”

“Yuh ain got the right sperit!”

“Sperit hell! Yuh git these men outta mah house!”

“Yuh ack like yuh don like it!”

“Naw, Ah don like it, n yuh knows dam waal Ah don!”

“Whut yuh gonna do bout it?”

“Ahm tellin yuh t git outta mah house!”

“Gittin sassy?”

“Ef telling yuh t git outta mah house is sass, then Ahm sassy!”

Her words came in a tense whisper; but beyond, back of them, she was watching, thinking, judging the men.

“Listen, Anty,” the sheriff’s voice came soft and low. “Ahm here t hep yuh. How come yuh wanna ack this way?”

“Yuh ain never heped yo own sef since yuh been born,” she flared. “How kin the likes of yuh hep me?”

One of the white men came forward and stood directly in front of her.

“Lissen, nigger woman, yuh talkin t white men!”

“Ah don care who Ahm talkin t!”

“Yuhll wish some day yuh did!”

“Not t the likes of yuh!”

“Yuh need somebody t teach yuh how t be a good nigger!”

“Yuh cant teach it t me!”

“Yuh gonna change yo tune.”

“Not longs mah bloods warm!”

“Don git smart now!”

“Yuh git outta mah house!”

“Spose we don go?” the sheriff asked.

They were crowded around her. She had not moved since she had taken her place in the doorway. She was thinking only of Johnny-Boy as she stood there giving and taking words; and she knew that they, too, were thinking of Johnny-Boy. She knew they wanted him, and her heart was daring them to take him from her.

“Spose we don go?” the sheriff asked again.

“Twenty of yuh runnin over one ol woman! Now, ain yuh white men glad yuh so brave?”

The sheriff grabbed her arm.

“C mon, now! Yuh done did ernuff sass fer one night. Wheres tha nigger son of yos?”

“Don yuh wished yuh knowed?”

“Yuh wanna git slapped?”

“Ah ain never seen one of yo kind tha wuznt too low fer…”

The sheriff slapped her straight across her face with his open palm. She fell back against a wall and sank to her knees.

“Is tha whut white men do t nigger women?”

She rose slowly and stood again, not even touching the place that ached from his blow, her hands folded over her stomach.

“Ah ain never seen one of yo kind tha wuznt too low fer…”

He slapped her again; she reeled backward several feet and fell on her side.

“Is tha whut we too low t do?”

She stood before him again, dry-eyed, as though she had not been struck. Her lips were numb and her chin was wet with blood.

“Aw, let her go! Its the nigger we wan!” said one.

“Wheres that nigger son of yos?” the sheriff asked.

“Find im,” she said.

“By Gawd, ef we hafta find im we’ll kill im!”

“He wont be the only nigger yuh ever killed,” she said.

She was consumed with a bitter pride. There was nothing on this earth, she felt then, that they could not do to her but that she could take. She stood on a narrow plot of ground from which she would die before she was pushed. And then it was, while standing there feeling warm blood seeping down her throat, that she gave up Johnny-Boy, gave him up to the white folks. She gave him up because they had come tramping into her heart demanding him, thinking they could get him by beating her, thinking they could scare her into making her tell where he was. She gave him up because she wanted them to know that they could not get what they wanted by bluffing and killing.

“Wheres this meetin gonna be?” the sheriff asked.

“Don yuh wish yuh knowed?”

“Ain there gonna be a meetin?”

“How come yuh astin me?”

“There is gonna be a meetin,” said the sheriff.

“Is it?”

“Ah gotta great mind t choke it outta yuh!”

“Yuh so smart,” she said.

“We ain playin wid yuh!”

“Did Ah say yuh wuz?”

“Tha nigger son of yos is erroun here somewheres n we aim t find im,” said the sheriff. “Ef yuh tell us where he is n ef he talks, mabbe he’ll git off easy. But ef we hafta find im, we’ll kill im! Ef we hafta find im, then yuh git a sheet t put over im in the mawnin, see? Git yuh a sheet, cause hes gonna be dead!”

“He wont be the only nigger yuh ever killed,” she said again.

The sheriff walked past her. The others followed. Yuh didnt git whut yuh wanted! she thought exultingly. N yuh ain gonna never git it! Hotly, something ached in her to make them feel the intensity of her pride and freedom; her heart groped to turn the bitter hours of her life into words of a kind that would make them feel that she had taken all they had done to her in her stride and could still take more. Her faith surged so strongly in her she was all but blinded. She walked behind them to the door, knotting and twisting her fingers. She saw them step to the muddy ground. Each whirl of the yellow beacon revealed glimpses of slanting rain. Her lips moved, then she shouted:

“Yuh didnt git whut yuh wanted! N yuh ain gonna nevah git it!”

The sheriff stopped and turned; his voice came low and hard.

“Now, by Gawd, thas ernuff outta yuh!”

“Ah know when Ah done said ernuff!”

“Aw, naw, yuh don!” he said. “Yuh don know when yuh done said ernuff, but Ahma teach yuh ternight!”

He was up the steps and across the porch with one bound. She backed into the hall, her eyes full on his face.

“Tell me when yuh gonna stop talkin!” he said, swinging his fist.

The blow caught her high on the cheek; her eyes went blank; she fell flat on her face. She felt the hard heel of his wet shoes coming into her temple and stomach.

“Lemme hear yuh talk some mo!”

She wanted to, but could not; pain numbed and choked her. She lay still and somewhere out of the grey void of unconsciousness she heard someone say: aw fer chrissakes leave her erlone its the nigger we wan….

IV

She never knew how long she had lain huddled in the dark hallway. Her first returning feeling was of a nameless fear crowding the inside of her, then a deep pain spreading from her temple downward over her body. Her ears were filled with the drone of rain and she shuddered from the cold wind blowing through the door. She opened her eyes and at first saw nothing. As if she were imagining it, she knew she was half-lying and half-sitting in a corner against a wall. With difficulty she twisted her neck and what she saw made her hold her breath—a vast white blur was suspended directly above her. For a moment she could not tell if her fear was from the blur or if the blur was from her fear. Gradually the blur resolved itself into a huge white face that slowly filled her vision. She was stone still, conscious really of the effort to breathe, feeling somehow that she existed only by the mercy of that white face. She had seen it before; its fear had gripped her many times; it had for her the fear of all the white faces she had ever seen in her life. Sue… As from a great distance, she heard her name being called. She was regaining consciousness now, but the fear was coming with her. She looked into the face of a white man, wanting to scream out for him to go; yet accepting his presence because she felt she had to. Though some remote part of her mind was active, her limbs were powerless. It was as if an invisible knife had split her in two, leaving one half of her lying there helpless, while the other half shrank in dread from a forgotten but familiar enemy. Sue its me Sue its me… Then all at once the voice came clearly.

“Sue, its me! Its Booker!”

And she heard an answering voice speaking inside of her, Yeah, its Booker… The one whut jus joined… She roused herself, struggling for full consciousness; and as she did so she transferred to the person of Booker the nameless fear she felt. It seemed that Booker towered above her as a challenge to her right to exist upon the earth.

“Yuh awright?”

She did not answer; she started violently to her feet and fell.

“Sue, yuh hurt!”

“Yeah,” she breathed.

“Where they hit yuh?”

“Its mah head,” she whispered.

She was speaking even though she did not want to; the fear that had hold of her compelled her.

“They beat yuh?”

“Yeah.”

“Them bastards! Them Gawddam bastards!”

She heard him saying it over and over; then she felt herself being lifted.

“Naw!” she gasped.

“Ahma take yuh t the kitchen!”

“Put me down!”

“But yuh cant stay here like this!”

She shrank in his arms and pushed her hands against his body; when she was in the kitchen she freed herself, sank into a chair, and held tightly to its back. She looked wonderingly at Booker. There was nothing about him that should frighten her so, but even that did not ease her tension. She saw him go to the water bucket, wet his handkerchief, wring it, and offer it to her. Distrustfully, she stared at the damp cloth.

“Here; put this on yo fohead…”

“Naw!”

“C mon; itll make yuh feel bettah!”

She hesitated in confusion. What right had she to be afraid when someone was acting as kindly as this toward her? Reluctantly, she leaned forward and pressed the damp cloth to her head. It helped. With each passing minute she was catching hold of herself, yet wondering why she felt as she did.

“Whut happened?”

“Ah don know.”

“Yuh feel bettah?”

“Yeah.”

“Who all wuz here?”

“Ah don know,” she said again.

“Yo head still hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Gee, Ahm sorry.”

“Ahm awright,” she sighed and buried her face in her hands.

She felt him touch her shoulder.

“Sue, Ah got some bad news fer yuh…”

She knew; she stiffened and grew cold. It had happened; she stared dry-eyed, with compressed lips.

“Its mah Johnny-Boy,” she said.

“Yeah; Ahm awful sorry t hafta tell yuh this way. But Ah thought yuh oughta know…”

Her tension eased and a vacant place opened up inside of her. A voice whispered, Jesus, hep me!

“W-w-where is he?”

“They got im out t Foleys Woods tryin t make im tell who the others is.”

“He ain gonna tell,” she said. “They just as waal kill im, cause he ain gonna nevah tell.”

“Ah hope he don,” said Booker. “But he didnt hava chance t tell the others. They grabbed im jus as he got t the woods.”

Then all the horror of it flashed upon her; she saw flung out over the rainy countryside an array of shacks where white and black comrades were sleeping; in the morning they would be rising and going to Lem’s; then they would be caught. And that meant terror, prison, and death. The comrades would have to be told; she would have to tell them; she could not entrust Johnny-Boy’s work to another, and especially not to Booker as long as she felt toward him as she did. Gripping the bottom of the chair with both hands, she tried to rise; the room blurred and she swayed. She found herself resting in Booker’s arms.

“Lemme go!”

“Sue, yuh too weak t walk!”

“Ah gotta tell em!” she said.

“Set down, Sue! Yuh hurt! Yuh sick!”

When seated, she looked at him helplessly.

“Sue, lissen! Johnny-Boys caught. Ahm here. Yuh tell me who they is n Ahll tell em.”

She stared at the floor and did not answer. Yes; she was too weak to go. There was no way for her to tramp all those miles through the rain tonight. But should she tell Booker? If only she had somebody like Reva to talk to! She did not want to decide alone; she must make no mistake about this. She felt Booker’s fingers pressing on her arm and it was as though the white mountain was pushing her to the edge of a sheer height; she again exclaimed inwardly, Jesus, hep me! Booker’s white face was at her side, waiting. Would she be doing right to tell him? Suppose she did not tell and then the comrades were caught? She could not ever forgive herself for doing a thing like that. But maybe she was wrong; maybe her fear was what Johnny-Boy had always called “jus foolishness.” She remembered his saying, Ma we cant make the party grow ef we start doubtin everbody….

“Tell me who they is, Sue, n Ahll tell em. Ah jus joined n Ah don know who they is.”

“Ah don know who they is,” she said.

“Yuh gotta tell me who they is, Sue!”

“Ah tol yuh Ah don know!”

“Yuh do know! C mon! Set up n talk!”

“Naw!”

“Yuh wan em all t git killed?”

She shook her head and swallowed. Lawd, Ah don blieve in this man!

“Lissen, Ahll call the names n yuh tell me which ones is in the party n which ones ain, see?”

“Naw!”

“Please, Sue!”

“Ah don know,” she said.

“Sue, yuh ain doin right by em. Johnny-Boy wouldnt wan yuh t be this way. Hes out there holdin up his end. Les hol up ours…”

“Lawd, Ah don know…”

“Is yuh scareda me cause Ahm white? Johnny-Boy ain like tha. Don let all the work we done go fer nothin.”

She gave up and bowed her head in her hands.

“Is it Johnson? Tell me, Sue?”

“Yeah,” she whispered in horror; a mounting horror of feeling herself being undone.

“Is it Green?”

“Yeah.”

“Murphy?”

“Lawd, Ah don know!”

“Yuh gotta tell me, Sue!”

“Mistah Booker, please leave me erlone…”

“Is it Murphy?”

She answered yes to the names of Johnny-Boy’s comrades; she answered until he asked her no more. Then she thought, How he know the sheriffs men is watchin Lems house? She stood up and held onto her chair, feeling something sure and firm within her.

“How yuh know bout Lem?”

“Why… How Ah know?”

“Whut yuh doin here this tima night? How yuh know the sheriff got Johnny-Boy?”

“Sue, don yuh believe in me?”

She did not, but she could not answer. She stared at him until her lips hung open; she was searching deep within herself for certainty.

“You meet Reva?” she asked.

“Reva?”

“Yeah; Lems gal?”

“Oh, yeah. Sho, Ah met Reva.”

“She tell yuh?”

She asked the question more of herself than of him; she longed to believe.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Ah reckon Ah oughta be goin t tell em now.”

“Who?” she asked. “Tell who?”

The muscles of her body were stiff as she waited for his answer; she felt as though life depended upon it.

“The comrades,” he said.

“Yeah,” she sighed.

She did not know when he left; she was not looking or listening. She just suddenly saw the room empty and from her the thing that had made her fearful was gone.

V

For a space of time that seemed to her as long as she had been upon the earth, she sat huddled over the cold stove. One minute she would say to herself, They both gone now; Johnny-Boy n Sug… Mabbe Ahll never see em ergin. Then a surge of guilt would blot out her longing. “Lawd, Ah shouldna tol!” she mumbled. “But no man kin be so lowdown as t do a thing like tha…” Several times she had an impulse to try to tell the comrades herself; she was feeling a little better now. But what good would that do? She had told Booker the names. He jus couldnt be a Judas t po folks like us… He couldnt!

“An Sue!”

Thas Reva! Her heart leaped with an anxious gladness. She rose without answering and limped down the dark hallway. Through the open door, against the background of rain, she saw Reva’s face lit now and then to whiteness by the whirling beams of the beacon. She was about to call, but a thought checked her. Jesus, hep me! Ah gotta tell her bout Johnny-Boy… Lawd, Ah cant!

“An Sue, yuh there?”

“C mon in, chile!”

She caught Reva and held her close for a moment without speaking.

“Lawd, Ahm sho glad yuh here,” she said at last.

“Ah thought somethin had happened t yuh,” said Reva, pulling away. “Ah saw the do open… Pa tol me to come back n stay wid yuh tonight…” Reva paused and started. “W-w-whuts the mattah?”

She was so full of having Reva with her that she did not understand what the question meant.

“Hunh?”

“Yo neck…”

“Aw, it ain nothin, chile. C mon in the kitchen.”

“But theres blood on yo neck!”

“The sheriff wuz here…”

“Them fools! Whut they wanna bother yuh fer? Ah could kill em! So hep me Gawd, Ah could!”

“It ain nothin,” she said.

She was wondering how to tell Reva about Johnny-Boy and Booker. Ahll wait a lil while longer, she thought. Now that Reva was here, her fear did not seem as awful as before.

“C mon, lemme fix yo head, An Sue. Yuh hurt.”

They went to the kitchen. She sat silent while Reva dressed her scalp. She was feeling better now; in just a little while she would tell Reva. She felt the girl’s finger pressing gently upon her head.

“Tha hurt?”

“A lil, chile.”

“Yuh po thing.”

“It ain nothin.”

“Did Johnny-Boy come?”

She hesitated.

“Yeah.”

“He done gone t tell the others?”

Reva’s voice sounded so clear and confident that it mocked her. Lawd, Ah cant tell this chile…

“Yuh tol im, didnt yuh, An Sue?”

“Y-y-yeah…”

“Gee! Thas good! Ah tol pa he didnt hafta worry ef Johnny-Boy got the news. Mabbe thingsll come out awright.”

“Ah hope…”

She could not go on; she had gone as far as she could. For the first time that night she began to cry.

“Hush, An Sue! Yuh awways been brave. Itll be awright!”

“Ain nothin awright, chile. The worls jus too much fer us, Ah reckon.”

“Ef yuh cry that way itll make me cry.”

She forced herself to stop. Naw; Ah cant carry on this way in fronta Reva… Right now she had a deep need for Reva to believe in her. She watched the girl get pine-knots from behind the stove, rekindle the fire, and put on the coffee pot.

“Yuh wan some cawffee?” Reva asked.

“Naw, honey.”

“Aw, c mon, An Sue.”

“Jusa lil, honey.”

“Thas the way to be. Oh, say, Ah fergot,” said Reva, measuring out spoonful of coffee. “Pa tol me t tell yuh t watch out fer tha Booker man. Hes a stool.”

She showed not one sign of outward movement or expression, but as the words fell from Reva’s lips she went limp inside.

“Pa tol me soon as Ah got back home. He got word from town…”

She stopped listening. She felt as though she had been slapped to the extreme outer edge of life, into a cold darkness. She knew now what she had felt when she had looked up out of her fog of pain and had seen Booker. It was the image of all the white folks, and the fear that went with them, that she had seen and felt during her lifetime. And again, for the second time that night, something she had felt had come true. All she could say to herself was, Ah didnt like im! Gawd knows, Ah didnt! Ah tol Johnny-Boy it wuz some of them white folks…

“Here; drink yo cawffee…”

She took the cup; her fingers trembled, and the steaming liquid spilt onto her dress and leg.

“Ahm sorry, An Sue!”

Her leg was scalded, but the pain did not bother her.

“Its awright,” she said.

“Wait; lemme put some lard on tha burn!”

“It don hurt.”

“Yuh worried bout somethin.”

“Naw, honey.”

“Lemme fix yuh so mo cawffee.”

“Ah don wan nothin now, Reva.”

“Waal, buck up. Don be tha way…”

They were silent. She heard Reva drinking. No; she would not tell Reva; Reva was all she had left. But she had to do something, some way, somehow. She was undone too much as it was; and to tell Reva about Booker or Johnny-Boy was more than she was equal to; it would be too coldly shameful. She wanted to be alone and fight this thing out with herself.

“Go t bed, honey. Yuh tired.”

“Naw; Ahm awright, An Sue.”

She heard the bottom of Reva’s empty cup clank against the top of the stove. Ah got t make her go t bed! Yes; Booker would tell the names of the comrades to the sheriff. If she could only stop him some way! That was the answer, the point, the star that grew bright in the morning of new hope. Soon, maybe half an hour from now, Booker would reach Foley’s Woods. Hes boun t go the long way, cause he don know no short cut, she thought. Ah could wade the creek n beat im there…. But what would she do after that?

“Reva, honey, go t bed. Ahm awright. Yuh need res.”

“Ah ain sleepy, An Sue.”

“Ah knows whuts bes fer yuh, chile. Yuh tired n wet.”

“Ah wanna stay up wid yuh.”

She forced a smile and said:

“Ah don think they gonna hurt Johnny-Boy…”

“Fer real, An Sue?”

“Sho, honey.”

“But Ah wanna wait up wid yuh.”

“Thas mah job, honey. Thas whut a mas fer, t wait up fer her chullun.”

“Good night, An Sue.”

“Good night, honey.”

She watched Reva pull up and leave the kitchen; presently she heard the shucks in the mattress whispering, and she knew that Reva had gone to bed. She was alone. Through the cracks of the stove she saw the fire dying to grey ashes; the room was growing cold again. The yellow beacon continued to flit past the window and the rain still drummed. Yes; she was alone; she had done this awful thing alone; she must find some way out, alone. Like touching a festering sore, she put her finger upon that moment when she had shouted her defiance to the sheriff, when she had shouted to feel her strength. She had lost Sug to save others; she had let Johnny-Boy go to save others; and then in a moment of weakness that came from too much strength she had lost all. If she had not shouted to the sheriff, she would have been strong enough to have resisted Booker; she would have been able to tell the comrades herself. Something tightened in her as she remembered and understood the fit of fear she had felt on coming to herself in the dark hallway. A part of her life she thought she had done away with forever had had hold of her then. She had thought the soft, warm past was over; she had thought that it did not mean much when now she sang: “Hes the Lily of the Valley, the Bright n Mawnin Star” …The days when she had sung that song were the days when she had not hoped for anything on this earth, the days when the cold mountain had driven her into the arms of Jesus. She had thought that Sug and Johnny-Boy had taught her to forget Him, to fix her hope upon the fight of black men for freedom. Through the gradual years she had believed and worked with them, had felt strength shed from the grace of their terrible vision. That grace had been upon her when she had let the sheriff slap her down; it had been upon her when she had risen time and again from the floor and faced him. But she had trapped herself with her own hunger; to water the long dry thirst of her faith her pride had made a bargain which her flesh could not keep. Her having told the names of Johnny-Boy’s comrades was but an incident in a deeper horror. She stood up and looked at the floor while call and counter-call, loyalty and counter-loyalty struggled in her soul. Mired she was between two abandoned worlds, living, but dying without the strength of the grace that either gave. The clearer she felt it the fuller did something well up from the depths of her for release; the more urgent did she feel the need to fling into her black sky another star, another hope, one more terrible vision to give her told strength to live and act. Softly and restlessly she walked about the kitchen, feeling herself naked against the night, the rain, the world; and shamed whenever the thought of Reva’s love crossed her mind. She lifted her empty hands and looked at her writhing fingers. Lawd, whut kin Ah do now? She could still wade the creek and get to Foley’s Woods before Booker. And then what? How could she manage to see Johnny-Boy or Booker? Again she heard the sheriff’s threatening voice: Git yuh a sheet, cause hes gonna be dead! The sheet! Thas it, the sheet! Her whole being leaped with will; the long years of her life bent toward a moment of focus, a point. Ah kin go wid mah sheet! Ahll be doin whut he said! Lawd Gawd in Heaven, Ahma go lika nigger woman wid mah windin sheet t git mah dead son! But then what? She stood straight and smiled grimly; she had in her heart the whole meaning of her life; her entire personality was poised on the brink of a total act. Ah know! Ah know! She thought of Johnny-Boy’s gun in the dresser drawer. Ahll hide the gun in the sheet n go aftah Johnny-Boys body…. She tiptoed to her room, eased out the dresser drawer, and got a sheet. Reva was sleeping; the darkness was filled with her quiet breathing. She groped in the drawer and found the gun. She wound the gun in the sheet and held them both under her apron. Then she stole to the bedside and watched Reva. Lawd, hep her! But mabbe shes bettah off. This had t happen sometimes… She n Johnny-Boy couldna been together in this here South… N Ah couldnt tell her bout Booker. Itll come out awright n she wont nevah know. Reva’s trust would never be shaken. She caught her breath as the shucks in the mattress rustled dryly; then all was quiet and she breathed easily again. She tiptoed to the door, down the hall, and stood on the porch. Above her the yellow beacon whirled through the rain. She went over muddy ground, mounted a slope, stopped and looked back at her house. The lamp glowed in her window, and the yellow beacon that swung every few seconds seemed to feed it with light. She turned and started across the fields, holding the gun and sheet tightly, thinking, Po Reva… Po critter… Shes fas ersleep…

VI

For the most part she walked with her eyes half shut, her lips tightly compressed, leaning her body against the wind and the driving rain, feeling the pistol in the sheet sagging cold and heavy in her fingers. Already she was getting wet; it seemed that her feet found every puddle of water that stood between the corn rows.

She came to the edge of the creek and paused, wondering at what point was it low. Taking the sheet from under her apron, she wrapped the gun in it so that her finger could be upon the trigger. Ahll cross here, she thought. At first she did not feel the water; her feet were already wet. But the water grew cold as it came up to her knees; she gasped when it reached her waist. Lawd, this creeks high! When she had passed the middle, she knew that she was out of danger. She came out of the water, climbed a grassy hill, walked on, turned a bend and saw the lights of autos gleaming ahead. Yeah; theys still there! She hurried with her head down. Wondah did Ah beat im here? Lawd, Ah hope so! A vivid image of Booker’s white face hovered a moment before her eyes and a surging will rose up in her so hard and strong that it vanished. She was among the autos now. From nearby came the hoarse voices of the men.

“Hey, yuh!”

She stopped, nervously clutching the sheet. Two white men with shotguns came toward her.

“Whut in hell yuh doin out here?”

She did not answer.

“Didnt yuh hear somebody speak t yuh?”

“Ahm comin aftah mah son,” she said humbly.

“Yo son?”

“Yessuh.”

“Whut yo son doin out here?”

“The sheriffs got im.”

“Holy Scott! Jim, its the niggers ma!”

“Whut yuh got there?” asked one.

“A sheet.”

“A sheet?”

“Yessuh.”

“Fer whut?”

“The sheriff tol me t bring a sheet t git his body.”

“Waal, waal…”

“Now, ain tha somethin?”

The white men looked at each other.

“These niggers sho love one ernother,” said one.

“N tha ain no lie,” said the other.

“Take me t the sheriff,” she begged.

“Yuh ain givin us orders, is yuh?”

“Nawsuh.”

“We’ll take yuh when wes good n ready.”

“Yessuh.”

“So yuh wan his body?”

“Yessuh.”

“Waal, he ain dead yit.”

“They gonna kill im,” she said.

“Ef he talks they wont.”

“He ain gonna talk,” she said.

“How yuh know?”

“Cause he ain.”

“We got ways of makin niggers talk.”

“Yuh ain got no way fer im.”

“Yuh thinka lot of that black Red, don yuh?”

“Hes mah son.”

“Why don yuh teach im some sense?”

“Hes mah son,” she said again.

“Lissen, ol nigger woman, yuh stand there wid yo hair white. Yuh got bettah sense than t believe tha niggers kin make a revolution…”

“A black republic,” said the other one, laughing.

“Take me t the sheriff,” she begged.

“Yuh his ma,” said one. “Yuh kin make im talk n tell whos in this thing wid im.”

“He ain gonna talk,” she said.

“Don yuh wan im t live?”

She did not answer.

“C mon, les take her t Bradley.”

They grabbed her arms and she clutched hard at the sheet and gun; they led her toward the crowd in the woods. Her feelings were simple; Booker would not tell; she was there with the gun to see to that. The louder became the voices of the men the deeper became her feeling of wanting to right the mistake she had made; of wanting to fight her way back to solid ground. She would stall for time until Booker showed up. Oh, ef theyll only lemme git close t Johnny-Boy! As they led her near the crowd she saw white faces turning and looking at her and heard a rising clamor of voices.

“Whos tha?”

“A nigger woman!”

“Whut she doin out here?”

“This is his ma!” called one of the men.

“Whut she wans?”

“She brought a sheet t cover his body!”

“He ain dead yit!”

“They tryin t make im talk!”

“But he will be dead soon ef he don open up!”

“Say, look! The niggers ma brought a sheet t cover up his body!”

“Now, ain that sweet?”

“Mabbe she wans t hol a prayer meetin!”

“Did she git a preacher?”

“Say, go git Bradley!”

“O.K.!”

The crowd grew quiet. They looked at her curiously; she felt their cold eyes trying to detect some weakness in her. Humbly, she stood with the sheet covering the gun. She had already accepted all that they could do to her.

The sheriff came.

“So yuh brought yo sheet, hunh?”

“Yessuh,” she whispered.

“Looks like them slaps we gave yuh learned yuh some sense, didnt they?”

She did not answer.

“Yuh don need tha sheet. Yo son ain dead yit,” he said, reaching toward her.

She backed away, her eyes wide.

“Naw!”

“Now, lissen, Anty!” he said. “There ain no use in yuh ackin a fool! Go in there n tell tha nigger son of yos t tell us whos in this wid im, see? Ah promise we wont kill im ef he talks. We’ll let im git outta town.”

“There ain nothin Ah kin tell im,” she said.

“Yuh wan us t kill im?”

She did not answer. She saw someone lean toward the sheriff and whisper.

“Bring her erlong,” the sheriff said.

They led her to a muddy clearing. The rain streamed down through the ghostly glare of the flashlights. As the men formed a semi-circle she saw Johnny-Boy lying in a trough of mud. He was tied with rope; he lay hunched and one side of his face rested in a pool of black water. His eyes were staring questioningly at her.

“Speak t im,” said the sheriff.

If she could only tell him why she was here! But that was impossible; she was close to what she wanted and she stared straight before her with compressed lips.

“Say, nigger!” called the sheriff, kicking Johnny-Boy. “Heres yo ma!”

Johnny-Boy did not move or speak. The sheriff faced her again.

“Lissen, Anty,” he said. “Yuh got mo say wid im than anybody. Tell im t talk n hava chance. Whut he wanna pertect the other niggers n white folks fer?”

She slid her finger about the trigger of the gun and looked stonily at the mud.

“Go t him,” said the sheriff.

She did not move. Her heart was crying out to answer the amazed question in Johnny-Boy’s eyes. But there was no way now.

“Waal, yuhre astin fer it. By Gawd, we gotta way to make yuh talk t im,” he said, turning away. “Say, Tim, git one of them logs n turn that nigger upside-down n put his legs on it!”

A murmur of assent ran through the crowd. She bit her lips; she knew what that meant.

“Yuh wan yo nigger son crippled?” she heard the sheriff ask.

She did not answer. She saw them roll the log up; they lifted Johnny-Boy and laid him on his face and stomach, then they pulled his legs over the log. His knee-caps rested on the sheer top of the log’s back and the toes of his shoes pointed groundward. So absorbed was she in watching that she felt that it was she who was being lifted and made ready for torture.

“Git a crowbar!” said the sheriff.

A tall, lank man got a crowbar from a nearby auto and stood over the log. His jaws worked slowly on a wad of tobacco.

“Now, its up t yuh, Anty,” the sheriff said. “Tell the man whut t do!”

She looked into the rain. The sheriff turned.

“Mabbe she think wes playin. Ef she don say nothin, then break em at the knee-caps!”

“O.K., Sheriff!”

She stood waiting for Booker. Her legs felt weak; she wondered if she would be able to wait much longer. Over and over she said to herself, Ef he came now Ahd kill em both!

“She ain sayin nothin, Sheriff!”

“Waal, Gawddammit, let im have it!”

The crowbar came down and Johnny-Boy’s body lunged in the mud and water. There was a scream. She swayed, holding tight to the gun and sheet.

“Hol im! Git the other leg!”

The crowbar fell again. There was another scream.

“Yuh break em?” asked the sheriff.

The tall man lifted Johnny-Boy’s legs and let them drop limply again, dropping rearward from the knee-caps. Johnny-Boy’s body lay still. His head had rolled to one side and she could not see his face.

“Jus lika broke sparrow wing,” said the man, laughing softly.

Then Johnny-Boy’s face turned to her; he screamed.

“Go way, ma! Go way!”

It was the first time she had heard his voice since she had come out to the woods; she all but lost control of herself. She started violently forward, but the sheriff’s arm checked her.

“Aw, naw! Yuh had yo chance!” He turned to Johnny-Boy. “She kin go ef yuh talk.”

“Mistah, he ain gonna talk,” she said.

“Go way, ma!” said Johnny-Boy.

“Shoot im! Don make im suffah so,” she begged.

“He’ll either talk or he’ll never hear yuh ergin,” the sheriff said. “Theres other things we kin do t im.”

She said nothing.

“What yuh come here fer, ma?” Johnny-Boy sobbed.

“Ahm gonna split his eardrums,” the sheriff said. “Ef yuh got anythin t say t im yuh bettah say it now!”

She closed her eyes. She heard the sheriff’s feet sucking in mud. Ah could save im! She opened her eyes; there were shouts of eagerness from the crowd as it pushed in closer.

“Bus em, Sheriff!”

“Fix im so he cant hear!”

“He knows how t do it, too!”

“He busted a Jew boy tha way once!”

She saw the sheriff stoop over Johnny-Boy, place his flat palm over one ear and strike his fist against it with all his might. He placed his palm over the other ear and struck again. Johnny-Boy moaned, his head rolling from side to side, his eyes showing white amazement in a world without sound.

“Yuh wouldnt talk t im when yuh had the chance,” said the sheriff. “Try n talk now.”

She felt warm tears on her cheeks. She longed to shoot Johnny-Boy and let him go. But if she did that they would take the gun from her, and Booker would tell who the others were. Lawd, hep me! The men were talking loudly now, as though the main business was over. It seemed ages that she stood there watching Johnny-Boy roll and whimper in his world of silence.

“Say, Sheriff, heres somebody lookin fer yuh!”

“Who is it?”

“Ah don know!”

“Bring em in!”

She stiffened and looked around wildly, holding the gun tight. Is tha Booker? Then she held still, feeling that her excitement might betray her. Mabbe Ah kin shoot em both! Mabbe Ah kin shoot twice! The sheriff stood in front of her, waiting. The crowd parted and she saw Booker hurrying forward.

“Ah know em all, Sheriff!” he called.

He came full into the muddy clearing where Johnny-Boy lay.

“Yuh mean yuh got the names?”

“Sho! The ol nigger…”

She saw his lips hang open and silent when he saw her. She stepped forward and raised the sheet.

“Whut…”

She fired, once; then, without pausing, she turned, hearing them yell. She aimed at Johnny-Boy, but they had their arms around her, bearing her to the ground, clawing at the sheet in her hand. She glimpsed Booker lying sprawled in the mud, on his face, his hands stretched out before him; then a cluster of yelling men blotted him out. She lay without struggling, looking upward through the rain at the white faces above her. And she was suddenly at peace; they were not a white mountain now; they were not pushing her any longer to the edge of life. Its awright…

“She shot Booker!”

“She hada gun in the sheet!”

“She shot im right thu the head!”

“Whut she shoot im fer?”

“Kill the bitch!”

“Ah thought somethin wuz wrong bout her!”

“Ah wuz fer givin it t her from the firs!”

“Thas whut yuh git fer treatin a nigger nice!”

“Say, Bookers dead!”

She stopped looking into the white faces, stopped listening. She waited, giving up her life before they took it from her; she had done what she wanted. Ef only Johnny-Boy… She looked at him; he lay looking at her with tired eyes. Ef she could only tell im! But he lay already buried in a grave of silence.

“Whut yuh kill im fer, hunh?”

It was the sheriff’s voice; she did not answer.

“Mabbe she wuz shootin at yuh, Sheriff?”

“Whut yuh kill im fer?”

She felt the sheriff’s foot come into her side; she closed her eyes.

“Yuh black bitch!”

“Let her have it!”

“Yuh reckon she foun out bout Booker?”

“She mighta.”

“Jesus Chris, whut yuh dummies waitin on!”

“Yeah; kill her!”

“Kill em both!”

“Let her know her nigger sons dead firs!”

She turned her head toward Johnny-Boy; he lay looking puzzled in a world beyond the reach of voices. At leas he cant hear, she thought.

“C mon, let im have it!”

She listened to hear what Johnny-Boy could not. They came, two of them, one right behind the other; so close together that they sounded like one shot. She did not look at Johnny-Boy now; she looked at the white faces of the men, hard and wet in the glare of the flashlights.

“Yuh hear tha, nigger woman?”

“Did tha surprise im? Hes in hell now wonderin whut hit im!”

“C mon! Give it t her, Sheriff!”

“Lemme shoot her, Sheriff! It wuz mah pal she shot!”

“Awright, Pete! Thas fair ernuff!”

She gave up as much of her life as she could before they took it from her. But the sound of the shot and the streak of fire that tore its way through her chest forced her to live again, intensely. She had not moved, save for the slight jarring impact of the bullet. She felt the heat of her own blood warming her cold, wet back. She yearned suddenly to talk. “Yuh didnt git whut yuh wanted! N yuh ain gonna nevah git it! Yuh didnt kill me; Ah come here by mahsef…” She felt rain falling into her wide-open, dimming eyes and heard faint voices. Her lips moved soundlessly. Yuh didnt git yuh didnt yuh didnt… Focused and pointed she was, buried in the depths of her star, swallowed in its peace and strength; and not feeling her flesh growing cold, cold as the rain that fell from the invisible sky upon the doomed living and the dead that never dies.