Deep South Ch.12

Packed together in a small area, held in check by an invisible but powerful wall, I could feel their eyes on my back. Aunt Lil and I sat behind the driver as the bus pulled away from the curb and we headed downhill toward town. It was Sunday and the warm spring air made me sleepy. We were going to see the cherry blossoms and assorted flowers that were in bloom–a lovely sight, she said.

We had gone only two blocks when she pointed out the window.

“John W. Burke. That’s your school.”

I stared across a green field to a long three-story brick building with white paint on the doors and windows. It seemed to be a quiet and lonely place but -it was Sunday. I wondered what school would be like. Would I somehow make a fool of myself.

We passed over a small bridge with a high arch. A train roared by underneath while smoke from the engine rose above the street. We stopped at the bottom of a hill and two colored men stepped up, placed their dimes in the register, and moved to the rear. I turned as they reached a spot where the back door was located. There were no seats and the men leaned against others who had been standing before we got on. Everyone held onto metal posts and the overhead rail.

All eyes were fixed on Aunt Lil and me. They really had no choice since we were the only white folks on board, that is, besides the driver. In between us and them were row after row of empty seats.

The blood rushed to my head. They looked straight ahead-at me or through me. Men, women, and children-each one had that same blank look.

I wondered what thoughts hid behind those faces.

Aunt Lil sat rigid, focused on the traffic in front. I tried to figure it out. Two white folks on a bus all to ourselves and far to the rear, caged up in a small corner were…what? Those who were not our kind.

The bus turned east on Plum Street and all the colored folks, to my relief, left and joined hundreds more strolling on the sidewalk. All the stores in town were closed on Sunday. Those on Plum consisted of bars and one rib joint.

We went north on 3rd Street for a block, then left on Poplar where we exited next to Belk Mathew’s.

I noticed a colored man sitting on a wooden slab with little wheels like those on a roller skate. His legs were missing at the knees. He held up a tin can filled with yellow pencils but most of the people walked around him. Another colored man, very old and lean, walked down the sidewalk, playing his guitar and singing songs that had me mesmerized. He wore a fedora and a long overcoat while a walking cane hung from the crook of his arm. People gave the old man a wide berth as he shuffled along, behind dark glasses.

Sometimes they put coins in a slotted cup attached to the base of his guitar.

“God bless you,” he would say and then pick right up with his song, “Precious Jesus, precious Jesus. Remember me on judgment day.”

‘Let’s cross here, Danny.”

A wide median bloomed with the brilliant colors of spring. Lilies, azaleas, and a variety of other flowers, some with the fragrance of sweet perfume. They provided a delicate border between neatly trimmed hedges and a soft carpet of grass. Above this, cherry trees stretched from Poplar all the way to Cherry Street.

I heard a strange noise, almost, but not quite, like dogs barking. It was a loud irritating out of sync sound and it continued to bounce off the facades of brick storefronts filled with people. They sat there, seemingly oblivious to the howling man, who pounded on a book that he held in his left hand.

I walked close to Aunt Lil as she gazed at the flowers in the distance. I noticed his eyes. They were focused on something far away, something that only he could see.

When we found ourselves at a comfortable distance, Aunt Lil motioned me over to the azalea bushes. Deep red and pink flowers provided a contrast to the old man, their serene beauty soothing the distress I felt.

“I wisht I had the soil to grow me some azaleas. They’re so pretty. If I had the soil, we’ d have ever kind of flower you could think of.”

“Aunt Lil. What’s wrong with that man?”

She looked around, then turned back and leaned over.

“Nothing. He talks in tongues when the spirit moves him. Come on now. Let’s look at the lilies.”

I followed her as we strolled through the park. We passed another man speaking in tongues. I could see his upper body twisting madly behind some shrubs.

My head swirled and my stomach began to churn. But all around me people walked casually through the park, admiring  the flowers and the cherry blossoms. They looked at those who talked in tongues but paid them no mind. Still, no one could be heard near the source of the raucous sounds. Once a proper distance away, though, they proceeded to comment on the fine job that the parks department had done this spring.

At the far end of the park I could see two more animated figures, one on each side of the walk. On the right , the man who moved in down the street on Grant’s Chapel, his face deep red from hours in the sun, shouted his incomprehensible message to the ether while the husky woman, his wife, did likewise. Neither one acknowledged the other.

The man wore a dirty brown hat, a white shirt with open collar and a brown suit marked with years of stains. White socks and brown wingtips completed his attire.

The woman dressed the same as I remembered her, except this time she had on a dark gray skirt. A wide-brimmed straw hat protected her face from the sun.

Both clutched a bible in one hand. She held hers closed while his remained open to some unknown page. He repeatedly pounded on the book with his right hand, never looking at it or the people on the benches.

Their eyes were fixed in different directions. I wondered if they were seeing the same thing. I glanced at the men and women seated across from us. Conversation was useless. All we could do was sit there with our thoughts.

I fidgeted on the wooden bench and looked up at Aunt Lil. She patted her purse with both hands and appeared agitated. The noise grew louder. It sounded like uncoordinated chanting, bouncing off of Belk Mathew’s, across to Cohen’s Department Store-then on and on towards the river.

I saw the colored man, slowly making his way down the street. But no sound came from his guitar. I looked at the flowers. They really were lovely. A pain began to throb somewhere behind my eyes.