The Kill-off Part 6

There was only one thing to do: relocate. Move to some place so remote and far away that no word of my secret would ever reach to it. Some place, yes-now that the die was cast-where Hattie could be accepted as my wife.

Down here where we were, they were always on the lookout for colored blood, expert at detecting it. But in a new location-the kind I had in mind-and with a little intensive coaching for Hattie, as to her speech and mannerisms . . . well, my plan seemed entirely feasible.

I believe it would have been, too, if circ.u.mstances had not turned out as they did.

I saw a practice advertised here at Manduwoc. I left Hattie and the boy behind, and came here to look at it.

It seemed to fit my needs to a t; in remoteness, in distance from that other state. It was not too big a thing financially, the town being as small as it was. But there was a large farm-trade area to draw from, and I was confident that a live-wire could double or even triple the present practice.

I decided to buy it. I went to Henry Clay Williams to have the papers drawn up.

Hank, I should say, was not then the county attorney. He was, in fact, only a few years out of law school. But he was a very shrewd man, very knowing; and he took an immediate liking to me. He looked upon me as a friend, as I did him. He was determined that I should get off on the right foot, and he knew how to go about it.

I owe a lot to Hank. More than any man I know of.

He was very adroit with his advice; he came out with it in a rather backhanded way. He'd lead with a feeler as to my notion on things; then, on the next time around, he'd move in with something a little stronger.

I mustn't think he was nosy, he said. Far be it from him to give a whoop what a man's politics or his religion or his race was. But there were still a h.e.l.l of a lot of hidebound mossbacks around. People with foolish prejudices- shameful prejudices, in his opinion-although, of course, they had the same right to their ideas that he had to his. And the center of population for those people, by G.o.d- Hank gets pretty salty at times-seemed to be right here in Manduwoc!

I laughed. I said it was certainly unfortunate that people had to be that way.

"But what's a man going to do, Jim?" he said. "A man's got a living to make and wants to get somewhere, what can he do about 'em?"

"I guess there's nothing much he can do," I said. "It's a problem of education, evolution. Something that only time can take care of."

"I don't see how he can go around with a chip on his shoulder, do you, Jim?" he said. "Why, look, now. Some of my very best friends are-well, let's say, people that aren't exactly popular around here. My very best friends, Jim. But a man can't live off his friends, can he? That wouldn't be fair to them, would it? He has to live with the community as a whole, doesn't he?"

"That's the way it is," I said. "It's too bad, but-"

"It's outrageous," he said. "Absolutely outrageous, Jim. Why, my blood actually boils sometimes at some of the carryings-on in this town. I don't mean that they're not good people, understand? The salt of the earth in many respects. They're just narrow-minded, and they don't want to broaden. And if you try to buck 'em, give 'em the slightest reason to get their claws into you-h.e.l.l, they don't actually need a real reason, if you know what I mean- why, they'll rip you apart. I've seen it happen, Jim. There's a man here in town, now, a Bohunk contractor name of Pete Pavlov. He . . ."

"I see," I said. "I understand what you mean, Hank."

"And you think I've got the right slant, Jim? You agree with me?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said. "There's no question about it. Now, there is one thing-in view of what you've told me. As I've mentioned, my wife died recently, and-"

"A great loss, I'm sure. My deepest sympathies to you, Jim."

"-and I have our infant son to take care of," I said. "Or, I should say, I have a Ne-n.i.g.g.e.r woman taking care of him. A wet nurse. I suppose I could get another one for him, but-"

"Oh, well," Hank shrugged. "She's a southern n.i.g.g.e.r, isn't she? Knows her place? Well, that'll be all right. After all, no one could expect you to take a baby away from its nurse."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to," I said.

"And you don't have to. As long as she stays in her place-and I guess you'll see to that, won't you? ha-ha- she'll get along fine."

. . . I don't see how I could have done anything else. I certainly had no easy row to hoe myself.

It is only in recent years that I have been able to take things a little easy. Before that it was work, work, work, until all hours of the day and night. Fighting to hold onto the old practice, to build it into something really worthwhile. Fighting to be someone, to build something . . . for nothing.

I had no time for them, the boy and her. No time, at least, on many days. Perhaps-to be entirely truthful-I did not want time for them. And if I did not, I hardly see how I can be faulted for it.

It was awkward being with her, even in intimacy. She made me feel uncomfortable, guilty, hypocritical. I had become something here, and I was rapidly becoming more. I was a big frog in a little puddle. A deacon in the church. A director of the bank. A pillar in the community. Yet here I was, sleeping with a Negro wench!

I would have stopped it even if it had not become dangerous. My conscience would not have allowed me to continue.

As for the boy, I did-and do, I am afraid-love him... as I did her, so long ago. He was my own flesh and blood, my only son. And I loved him, as I loved her. But like her, although in a different way, he made me uncomfortable. It distressed me to be around him.

I cannot say why, exactly, but I am confident of one thing. It was not a matter of resentment.

I did not blame him, an innocent child, for my own tragic and irremediable error. If I could lay the whole truth before him, I might be able to make him understand. But naturally I cannot do that. It is impossible for him to be absolutely sure of the truth. He may guess and suspect and think, but he cannot know. He can only know if I admit it, so of course I never will.

Probably, he wouldn't understand, anyway. He wouldn't allow himself to. He is too selfish, too filled with self-pity- yes, despite his arrogant manner. If he understood, he could not play the martyr. He would have no justification for his vileness and viciousness-a.s.suming, that is, that it could be justified. For certainly, whatever I may or may not have done, such conduct could never be justified.

I don't know how such a-a creature could be my son.

I don't know what to do about him.

I have no control over him whatsoever. I can't-and he knows I can't-appeal to the authorities for help. And, no, it isn't because of the scandalous, fiendish lies he would tell. I can be hurt by scandal, of course; in fact, I have been hurt. But not greatly. I am too thoroughly entrenched here. Everyone knows too well where Dr. James Ashton stands, and what he stands for.

I have not taken the stringent measures (which I doubtless should have) because I love him. I can't cause him hurt, regardless of how much he deserves it. Also, as you may have surmised, I am afraid of him.

It is a hideous thing to live in terror of one's own son, but I do. I try to keep it concealed, to carry on, to maintain some semblance of father-and-son relationship, but it is becoming increasingly difficult. I am terrified of him, more and more every day. And he is very well aware of the fact. I have the frightful feeling at times that he can read my mind. At times, I am almost sure that he can. He seems to know what I am going to do even before I know it myself. Nonsensical as it sounds, he does know. So, I have not taken the steps which I doubtless should have. I have avoided seriously contemplating such steps. He would kill me before I could carry them out.

He is capable of it. He has threatened to-to kill both Hattie and me.

To be fair to him, if that is the right word, he has made no such threats recently. There were occasions recently when I was hopeful that he might be coming to his senses. But . . .

About three weeks ago, I thought I saw signs that he was losing interest in that degrading yard work. He was leaving later in the mornings, returning earlier at night. He apparently felt-I thought-that he had cheapened me all he could by doing such work, and was now on the point of dropping it.

I asked him to do so. "Not on my account," I said. "I know it's useless to appeal to you on those grounds. Just do it for yourself. Just think of what it looks like for a boy of your background, and intelligence to-"

"I'm considering it," he said. "I may possibly do it, if you don't urge me to it."

"Well, that's fine," I said. For, G.o.d pity me, there was some comfort-a relative lot-in even such an insolent, heartless reply as that. "You don't have to do that kind of work, or any work. I'll be delighted to give you any money that you need."

"Don't be offensive," he said. "Don't bother me."

He said it quite mildly. I felt considerably encouraged.

Then, I came home the following night to find every drawer, every cabinet, in my office had been opened and rummaged through. No, he hadn't broken them open. He had simply picked all the locks.

Now, he was seated in my chair, his feet up on my desk, absently smoking a cigarette.

I was so angry that for a moment I forgot my terror. I told him that he had better explain himself, and promptly, or he would have serious cause to regret it.

"Where is the stuff?" he said. "In your safety-deposit box?"

"It's where you'll never-what stuff?" I said. "I've warned you, Bobbie, you-"

"I had an idea it was," he nodded. "Well, it looks like I'll just have to buy some."

He got up and started to leave. I grabbed him and whirled him around. "You rotten, filthy sc.u.m!" I said. "I'll tell you what you'll do, and what will happen to you if you don't! You'll-"

"Let go of me," he said.

"I'll let go of you! I'll drag you straight down to the courthouse! I'll-"

I let go of him suddenly. The fiendish s.a.d.i.s.tic whelp had crushed his cigarette into my wrist.

"Don't ever do anything like that again," he said calmly. "Do you understand me, father?"

"Bobbie . . . son," I said. "For G.o.d's sake, what do you want? What are you trying to do? That-that girl-"

"Don't interfere with me," he said.

He drove into the city the next day. He has made one other trip in since then. For what purpose, I needn't explain.

How he manages it I don't know. How a seventeen-year-old boy in a strange city can promptly locate a narcotics peddler and make a purchase, I don't know.

Perhaps he doesn't buy it. G.o.d-and I know I'm being ridiculous-he may make it! I have an insane notion that he could, if he wanted to. Anything that is mean and vicious, rotten, cruel, filthy, senseless. . . !

He is still doing the yard work, of course. Degrading himself, playing the flunkey, to buy dope for her.

If I could discover his motive, I might be able to do something. But what possible motive could he have? The girl is completely undesirable. As intelligent and handsome as he is, he could have his way with virtually any girl in town, without the deadly risk he is running. For it is a deadly one. It would be so, even without the complication of narcotics. Pete has only to find them together-in a certain way-and that will be the end.

Pete will kill him. Pete might even kill me.

I have almost driven myself crazy wondering what to do, but I can think of nothing. I can only wait, go on as I always have and wait-watch helplessly while doom approaches.

And Luane is responsible. Bobbie was always somewhat peculiar, withdrawn, but except for that s.l.u.ttish old hypochondriac it would never have happened.

I broke with her last week. I may have to tolerate him, but I do not have to put up with her.

I told her there was nothing at all wrong with her, that I would not under any circ.u.mstances visit her again, that if she wanted a doctor she would have to call another (the nearest is twenty miles away). Then I walked out, leaving her to whine and complain to her own filthy self.

I should have done that long ago. I forebore only because it might seem that I was bothered by her slander, and thus lend weight to it.

Bobbie seemed pleased when I mentioned the matter casually at the dinner table.

"That was very wise of you," he said. "I'd expected you to do it sooner."

"Well," I said, "as a matter of fact, I had been con-"

"But, no, I can see that this way is bettei" he said. "It eliminates you pretty conclusively from the potential list of suspects. Now, if you'd cut her off sooner, let it be known that you were no longer going near her place before you established that you held no grudge against her . . ."

"Stop it!" I said. "What are you talking about, anyway? I refuse to listen to any more such nonsense!"

"Why, of course." He winked at me, grinning. "It isn't very discreet, is it? And we don't need to talk, do we, dear father?"

I have been wondering lately if he is really my son. Wondering idly, wishfully perhaps, but still speculating on the matter. After all, if she would hop into bed with me so quickly, why not with another? How do I know what she was doing during the hours when I was away from the house? Obviously, she was of not much account. A woman who would behave as shamelessly as she did, tempting me until I could withstand it no longer, playing upon my kindness and sense of honor . . .

Well, never mind. He is my son. I know it. And I would be the last man in the world to attempt to evade my responsibilities. But that changes nothing, as far as she is concerned.

She had better not complain to me any more about Bobbie's abuse. Not one word. Or I personally will give her something to complain about. I would send her packing if I dared to, which regrettably I don't. It would look bad, as though the scandal had hit home. It would look like I was afraid-on the run.

So things stand; to this sorry, unbearable state I have come. Chained to a Negro woman-and I am not responsible to her. Inflicted with a son who-who-well, at least he isn't a Negro. Not really. If a Negro was only onesixteenth white, would you call him a white man? Well, it's the same proposition. It's- It's unbearable. Maddening. Completely unjust.

I don't know what I would do without the comfort of Hank Williams' friendship. I spend much of my free time with him, and he spends much of his with me. We understand each other. He admires and respects me. He is glad that I have gotten ahead, even though his own success has been somewhat modest. True, he seems unaware that he hasn't gotten on-he seems to have forgotten that he ever talked of being senator or governor. But, no matter. He is my friend, and he has proved it in many ways. If he wishes to be a little smug, boastful, I can bear with it easily. Never in any way do I let on that his "success" wears a striking resemblance to failure.

We were talking the other night about our early days here. And he, as he is wont to do, pa.s.sed some remark as to his progress since then. I said that his was a career to be proud of, that very few lawyers had risen so high in so brief a time. He beamed and smirked; and then with that earnest warmth which only he is capable of, he said that he owed his success to me.

"Well," I said. "I've certainly boosted you whenever I could, but I'm afraid I-"

"Remember our first talk together? The day I was drawing up those papers for you?"

"Why, yes," I said. "Of course I remember. You set me straight here, saw that-"

"Sure! Uh-hah. You sly old rascal you!" He threw back his head, and laughed. "I set you straight. A country b.u.mpkin, a small town lawyer, set a big city doctor straight. He told him how to get on in the world!"

I didn't say anything. I was too bewildered. For I had told him nothing that day. Nothing until I had pretty well ascertained his own feelings.

"Oh, I understood you, all right!" he laughed. "Naturally, you couldn't come straight out with it; you had to spar around a little, make sure of how I felt first. But . . ."

He winked at me, grinning. I stared at him, feeling my hands tighten on the arms of my chair; then, as the murderous hatred drained out of me, feeling them slowly relax and grow limp.

He had done me no injury. His intelligence, his moral stamina, that vaguely concrete thing called character-all had been stunted at the outset. Perhaps they would have amounted to little, regardless; perhaps environment and heredity would have dwarfed them, without the withering a.s.sistance of our long-ago, initial conversation.

At any rate, he had not harmed me; he had not changed me one whit from what I essentially was. Others, doubtless, many others, but not me.

If anything, it was the other way around.

He was frowning slightly, looking a little uncomfortable and puzzled. He repeated his phrase about my having had to spar around with him, until I was sure of how he felt.

"And how did you feel, Hank?" I said. "Basically-deep down in your heart?"

"Oh, well," he shrugged. "You don't need to ask that, Jim. You know how I stand on those things."

"But back then," I insisted, "right back in the beginning. Tell me, Hank. I really want to know."

"We-el-" He hesitated, and spread his hands. "You know, Jim. About like most people, I guess. A lot of people, anyway. Kind of on the fence, and wishing I could stay there. But knowing I had to jump one way or the other, and knowing I was pretty well stuck on the side I jumped to. I-well, you know what I mean, Jim. It's kind of hard to put into words."

"I see," I said. "I hoped . . . I mean, I thought that was probably the way you felt."

"Well," he said; and, after a moment, again, "Well."

He studied me a trifle nervously; then, unable to read my expression, he gave out with that bluffly amiable, give-meapproval laugh of his.