The Criminal Page 12

  Lil man take pitcha out he pockit. You see iss boy befo, he say.

  Mammy lookit pitcha. Mebbe, she say. Mebbe, no. He in trouble, huh.

  Lil man say, Smattuh uh fack, he is, mam. You n yo childrin kin be uh great deal hep to me.

  Mammy say, Huh. Why we hep white boy. Suhv he right.

  Man kina frown. He say, But, mam. He say, mam, ats yo gahden up deah on hill.

  Mammy say, Who say so. Mebbe ouah gahden, mebbe no. Mebbe we don know nuffin bout no gahden.

  Man say, I got reason bleeve you up at gahden fo day ago. You n some uh yo childrin. You deah roun noon when iss boy pass by.

  Mammy say, Who say we wuz.

  Iss boy say you wuz, man say. Say sum uh you hollah at he.

  Mammy say, Well, he say so, why you talkin uh me. Don remembah nuffin about it mahsef.

  But you mus remembah, lil man say. Fo day ago roun noon. Vey impohtant you remembah, mam.

  Mammy say, Who say I got to. Who it impohtant to, anyhow.

  Man say, Possibly some yo childrin remembah, dese fine young men you have heah.

  Mammy say, Dose deah fine young men don remembah nuffin I don.

  Mistah John Brown kina push aroun Mammy. Mistah John Brown jus lil boy n he like at fine young men talk. He say, Mistah, I— n at all he say, cuz Mammy smack him spang in he mouf. She sock he so hahd he sail back, almos knock me n Genril Ulysses S. Grant ovah.

  Lil man kina squirm, shuffle he feet. Lady, he say, I insis on ansuh. Eitha you tell me willingly uh I be foahced to take you inna cote.

  Mammy say, Cote make uh puhsson remembah, huh. Since wen dey do at.

  Lil man say, Yes, lady, dey insis you remembah. You do yo bes tuh remembah. All you jus say you don remembah, knowinly conceal evdunce fum cote you be in vey seious trouble.

  Mammy say, Ats fine. Thanks fuh tellin me. Reckon we tells cote we nevah seen dat boy.

  Lil man lookit me n Mistah n Genril. He look back at Mammy. Mammy kina grin at he. Well, she say, how you like us do dat.

  Mam, lil man say, all I ast is simple ansuh to mah question. Suahly, at isn much to ast, jus simple yes oah no. Did you see iss boy roun noon fo days ago?

  Tol you, Mammy say. Mebbe we see him, mebbe we didn.

  Man muttuh somepn undah he bref. He kina look aroun. He say, Mam, you reelize dis lan city propehty. Some un make complain you not be heah vey long.

  Some un make complain, Mammy say, some un gets in trouble day selves. I say dat some un thretn me, try make me say somepn ain so.

  Well, lil man say.

  Well, Mammy say. You got somepn else on yo min.

  Lil man kina cleah he thoat. Kina look off uh one side uh Mammy. Mam, he say, mus be vey hahd livin dese cuhcumstances. How you like nice lil house close in. Some place mebbe yo childrin cn go tuh school n you cn fin wuk.

  How I like, Mammy say. How I get, mistah.

  Lil man say, Well, mam, I couln pay you tuh say you see iss boy. You unnerstan at, mam.

  Mammy say, I unnerstans, mistah. I unnerstans, awright.

  Lil man squirm. He say, I like be vey cleah on dis point. I could not n would not be pahty tuh procurin false witness. I wan nuffin fum you but de troof. Dey is no connection between whut you say n any sistance I give you.

  Mammy grin. Sho dey ain, she say. We jus do it fo favuh.

  Please, mam, man say. Dis not mattuh tuh joke about. It mus be unnerstood at—

  Sho, Mammy laugh out loud. Who jokin, mistah.

  Lil man lookt Mammy. Mammy laugh some mo. Lil man lookin like mebbe he go way but he don.

  Well, Mammy say, whut you wan do, mistah.

  Well, lil man say. I just wan be suah you unnerstood, mam.

  Ain I said so, Mammy say. Mebbe we bettah go inside, mistah. You lookin kina peakid.

  Lil man n Mammy go inside de house. Mistah John Brown staht cryin. Mistah John Brown jus lil ol boy, think mebbe man goin to huht Mammy. He say, He goin take Mammy way, Presdint. He goin lock huh up n shoot huh, Genril.

  Hush yo mouf, I say. Cose he ain. What you think Mammy be doin while he doin at.

  Bet he do. Mistah John Brown go on cryin. Lock huh up n shoot huh like dey done Pappy.

  Genril Ulysses S. Grant give Mistah John Brown meaneye. Tells him, Hush yo mouf, boy. Don do no talkin about Pappy. All us does is thinkin.

  Lil man n Mammy comes out uh house. Mistah John Brown run n thow he ahms roun Mammy n Mammy stoop down n hol him. Lookit up at lil man.

  Aw right, mistah, she say. We see you fust thing in mohnin. You wan somepn else.

  Mam, lil man say. I do whut I say, regahdless, so will you tell me, strickly fo my own infuhmation. Did you oah did you not see at boy.

  Mammy don say nuffin. She jus stay stoopin down, huh ahms aroun Mistah John Brown. Just lookit lil man n grin, n she don say nuffin.

  Lil man go way.

  13

  Hargreave Clinton

  This was part of my mail (a very small part of it) on the Talbert-Eddleman case. The first item is a postal card, the others are letters:

  Mr. D. A., dere sir, big red kilt that little edelmun girl. we sene her squatin down in the bushes there in the canyun an she had her close pult partways down an big red said o o thats fer me an he hopped off this frate. he is a mean sunabitch, sir, an done me plenty of dirt an i hop he gets the chare. canot tell you his rele name he got so minny but will probly be heddin fer west coast. L.A. or Seatle or mabe Frisco. big redhed fella an i sure hope you git him as he done plenty dirt to me. Awt to ben ded long ago…

  Dear Sir:

  This is purely hearsay, but from what I am told by a good friend of mine, I have strong doubts that Robert Talbert killed Josephine Eddleman. Rather, I incline to the belief that she may have met her well-deserved fate at the hands of some public-spirited citizen whom she seduced, such as this good friend of mine.

  Now, sir, I cannot give you this man’s name, but I assure you that he is a respectable business man and has a fine family of his own, and is absolutely trustworthy in every respect. He tells me that he was kind enough to offer Josephine a ride into the city one day, and she made such advances to him as he could not resist and intimacy resulted. Very foolishly and with the best of intentions, he was kind enough to give her his name and telephone afterwards. From then on he knew no peace. She would make appointments with this man, and deliberately fail to keep them. Or when she did keep them, she would tantalize this man until he was almost crazy and then withhold herself. Sometimes she would allow an intimacy, but not out of kindness or any sense of justice: only to keep him coming back so that she might torment him the more. As much as I hate to speak ill of the dead, she was an evil, wicked, spiteful little slut.

  Now, sir, I cannot give you my name, and of course this is mere hearsay, more or less. But I am convinced that the Talbert boy is entirely innocent of this entirely justifiable homicide. I believe that this friend of mine, who is a very respected citizen and a fine family man, met Josephine by previous arrangement (possibly she had forgotten the appointment) and that driven to distraction by her sluttish wilfulness, he…

  Dear Mr. Clinton:

  I cannot tell you how I know without involving a third party, but Talbert is guilty. This is God’s truth and I can make him admit it with full and irrefutable details. The story I will make him tell is nothing like the one he told you. My services will not cost you one red penny, and I GUARANTEE RESULTS. If interested, as I trust you will be, please address me as follows:

  “Mr. Switch,”

  c/o The Corporal Punishment Association,

  P.O.B. #798,

  City.

  P.S. Can come any time, day or night.

  Honored Sir:

  Having recently received news in these parts that a nigger, one Pearlie May Jones, and family of three nigger boys have given sworn depositions in the Eddleman murder case, I feel duty bound to advise you that this wench is beyond doubt the most uppity, no-account nigger in the country and the truth is not in her nor in anyone rel
ated to her. The whole family are liars, malingerers and scalawags. I would not believe one of them on a stack of Bibles.

  This outfit, which formerly included the husband and father, one Union Victory Jones, were at one time croppers on my plantation. They were always biggity and back-talky, and I would not ordinarily have had them around for five minutes, but the war was on and niggers were hard to come by. I was finally compelled to take steps when the man accused my storekeeper of giving him false weight.

  I ordered him to leave the plantation forthwith. He surlily refused to do so until his crop was in, and he used very bad language to the sheriff whom I summoned to evict him. He was promptly arrested and taken to jail, where, I am not sorry to say, he was killed in an escape attempt. He was a plain bad nigger. His family is just as uppity and no-account as he was. They hate whites, but they have an even greater hatred of the law. Given the chance to obstruct justice, as they were in this case, I have not the slightest doubt that…

  …It was after midnight. I was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of hot milk when Arlene came down the backstairs and peered in at me. Arlene is the peering, peeking type. She is incapable of the direct approach, sans tiptoeing, twittering and head-tilting. I seem to remember a time when I thought her mannerisms charming; on a woman of fifty, with her hair in curlers and several ounces of cream on her face, the less said about them the better.

  “Dear,” she said, coming in, “shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I’ll be up after a while.”

  “But you must get your sleep, darling. You know you won’t feel right tomorrow if you don’t.”

  I didn’t say anything. She has made that remark to me at least ten thousand times, and I can never think of a reply. I wonder why it is that supposedly intelligent men, men of at least better-than-average intelligence, will always marry the stupidest women they can find.

  She sat down at the table next to me, “cuddled” is the word she would use, squeezing so close that I could smell the face cream and the vinegary odor of the hair-curling lotion. For a moment I was afraid she might attempt to “steal a sip” of my milk, but fortunately she forbore. I seem to have her pretty well broken of that particular kind of cuteness.

  “Some more of those awful letters, darling?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Why do you keep reading them, anyway? There’s never anything in them but viciousness and ugly things.”

  “I believe I’ve explained,” I said, “that it’s my duty to read them. Some one of these people who write in may have proof of Talbert’s guilt or innocence.”

  “But you already know he’s innocent! You know you do, dear.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Do I?” I said. “Well, thank you, Arlene. You’ve taken a very great load off my mind.”

  “But, dear. You said—”

  “All right,” I said. “I believe I did feel in the beginning that there was not a very strong case against the boy, but the situation has changed since then. Can you grasp that thought, Arlene? It isn’t actually too complex. Can you understand that circumstances change, that what is true one day may not be true the next?”

  “We-l”—obviously she couldn’t understand it; it was too deep for her—“but what about that Negro family, darling? You said—”

  “Please. Please, Arlene!” I said. “Must you keep quoting me? Can’t I ever make an offhand remark without your throwing it up to me later? What are you supposed to be, my wife or my conscience?”

  “Now, darling…” She laughed trillingly. “You know you did say that—”

  “I said it then,” I sighed. “Then, Arlene, at the time Kossmeyer discovered the family and got their story. I thought it was reasonably conclusive, and I believed the public would think it was. Since the public apparently wasn’t and isn’t completely convinced, I may have been wrong. At any rate, I can’t dismiss the case.”

  She nodded slowly. Her forehead puckered in a frown, creasing the face cream into white, greasy little worms.

  “I see,” she said. “Then, it doesn’t really matter whether he’s guilty or not, does it? Whether he could actually prove that he was innocent? It isn’t what he is, but what other people are. If they say he’s guilty—”

  “They don’t say so,” I said. “They simply don’t say that he’s innocent. They’re not convinced that he is. I”—I hesitated— “I don’t understand it myself, all this furor in the newspapers. They’ve wrung the thing for all it’s worth and then some, but yet they keep on. One following the other, one trying to outdo the other. I know how it got started, but—”

  “But, dear. You said you weren’t influenced by the newspapers. You’ve always said that.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “But you did, dear! I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you say that—”

  “Oh, come now,” I said. “Surely, you’ve kept count. Go on and tell me, Arlene: how many times have I said that I wasn’t influenced by the newspapers?”

  “Silly!” She forced a laugh. “Now you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  I turned and looked at her. I gave her a long, slow look, letting my eyes move over her face, letting her see them move a little at a time. Letting her see what I saw.

  Then, I looked away and picked up my milk.

  She was silent for what must have been more than a minute. She hardly seemed to be breathing. And yet her laughter went on. I could feel her shoulder shiver against mine, sense, without seeing, the rigor mortis-like contortions of body and face. She rocked back and forth, proving herself blithe and unhurt, unaware of intended hurt, silencing the sounds that would have denied the actions.

  It was a splendid piece of acting; I doubt that Bernhardt could have done it as well. But, then, I doubt that the Divine Sarah ever repeated a scene so often as Arlene has this one. I don’t mean to imply that it is the only bit in her repertoire. She has others, The Helpless Child, The Winsome Weeper, The Dignified Doormat, et cetera, and all very effective, too—for, perhaps, the first few hundred times you see them. But she surpasses herself as the Mute and Mirthful Martyr. Practice has made her well nigh perfect.

  “W-Well…” She spoke at last, getting a gasping tremoloish note into her voice. “Y-You see what you do to me, dear? You simply mustn’t tease me any more.”

  “If you’re at all interested,” I said. “I’d like to set the record straight on my attitude toward the newspapers.”

  “Of course, darling. I’d love to have you. Not that you need to do it on my account, but—”

  “I’m not influenced by the newspapers, but I am by public opinion as reflected in the newspapers. They don’t mold it or make that opinion, to any great extent, but they do reflect it. They’re a barometer of what the public wants, or is about to want. They may get a little ahead of the public, but they’re never behind it. They’re never greatly in disagreement with it. When they are, they get in agreement quickly or they go out of business.…Do you understand what I’m saying, Arlene?”

  “Of course. Certainly, dear.” She nodded earnestly. “Not influenced by newspapers…only what’s in newspapers. Is that right, darling?”

  “You know it isn’t!” I said. “You’re deliberately twisting my words. What I said was that—that—oh, to hell with it.”

  “Poor darling.” She patted my arm. “I just hate myself for being so silly and stupid when you have so many troubles.”

  “Well, forget it,” I said. “Maybe that Federal judgeship will come through soon enough to take me off the hook. If, that is, it comes through at all. Kossmeyer is doing everything he can, but…”

  But I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. I wouldn’t blame him if he actually blocked the appointment, made me look like such an abysmal idiot that I’d be dropped from consideration. He could do it. I’d look like seven kinds of a malicious, bigoted fool if I was forced to rip into that Negro woman and her three children, make her look like a liar, a malcontent, an ignorant spiteful—r />
  All Kossmeyer had to do was sit back and let me cut my own throat.

  “Darling…”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “What will happen to the boy if—when—you get the appointment? If the case is still pending, I mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “My successor will have to take care of it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I suppose it would be his responsibility.”

  I turned and looked at her. I said, “If you want something to worry about, Arlene, I’ll gladly help you out. Would you like me to do that, give you some suggestions for personal improvement before you start improving others?”

  “Oh, you!” she laughed. “Now, you just stop teasing me, dear.”

  “Go to bed,” I said. “Do you hear me, Arlene? I want you to go to bed. Now!”

  And, of course, she chose deliberately to misunderstand me.

  “Mmm,” she said, getting up lingeringly. “Oh, you naughty bad boy, you!”

  She moved around the table and struck a pose in front of me—Seduction in Sheer Silk (or, more accurately, Circe in Curlers and Cream). And I had to look away quickly, or burst into laughter, and there are some things you cannot laugh about.

  She’d never put on any weight. She still had that “cute figure”…as they’d spoken of it in the ’twenties. Flat-chested, hipless, thighs hinged to her torso. A build like a clothespin.

  You could have laid a thick book, even a Blackstone, flat in her crotch without crimping the binding.

  I kept my eyes on the table, forced them to stay there. After a time, I heard the kitchen door open, but there was no sound of its closing.

  “Arlene,” I said. “I asked you to go to bed. Please.”

  “Isn’t it terrible?” she said, slowly. “Isn’t it terrible? You’re just like you always were, the very same person, and suddenly that isn’t good enough any more. Now, it’s bad. You’re no good, you’re treated like you’re no good, and there’s nothing you can do to defend yourself. Nothing you can say or do. You were good—you thought you were and you tried to be—and you never stop trying—but now you’re bad. And you’re punished for it…forever and forever.”