It's Good to Be Black

24. The Ugly Mask of Fear

24. the uglg 111ask of fear The night started out to be one of those normal cold winter nights that found Dad sitting by the big base-burner in his stocking feet, with his top shirt off and his red and blue suspenders making a colorful pattern against his ecru woolen undershirt. He was reading the Du Quoin Evening Call. Mother sat on the other side of the stove with a basket of overalls to be mended. She was sewing down the patch on the knee of the pair she had in her lap. Trying to understand Harold Bell Wright's Uncrowned King, I was dimly aware of Spud and Tom playing on the other side of the room. Spud was being Spartacus, king of the Greek gladiators, and the sawed-off mop that he was using as his sword made murderous sounds that mixed up with Tom's squeals of delight. Cecil was having trouble with long division. Helen, who had been busy parching field com in an iron skillet, now came from the kitchen with Bob and Cliff at her heels. She carried an earthen crock filled with the brown grains seasoned with salt and butter. The cause of the gladiators was forgotten as small brown hands reached eagerly into the bowl for the crisp grains. The moaning and crying of the searching wind outside only added to our sense of security and well-being. The heat from the round-bellied stove sent its warmth into the 2 37 it's good to be black farthest comer of the room and we were settled contentedly and gratefully for the night. "Wild horses couldn't drag me out on a night like this." Dad spoke for us all as he rose, stretched himself, and laid the paper on the table. Dad had reckoned without fate. The hammering at the door was loud and insistent. Hurrying to the door, Dad threw it open and Derby George, a cousin, Uncle Robert Berkley, and their friend, Ottoway Scott, followed a blast of cold wind into the room. For a second Dad's "Good evening, gentlemen/' went unanswered by the three men who stood just inside the door, their overcoat collars turned up around their necks and tightly buttoned against the wind. The bills of their fleece·lined caps were pulled down over their foreheads but the eyes that peered from beneath them were filled with urgency and grave concern. "You gotta come with us, Buddy," Uncle Robert said without preliminaries. "J. T. Perkins has killed a white man!" I made myself small as did all the children when grown· up tragedy broke into our happy world and a terror came over me. Instinctively Bob and Cliff, who had been following Helen about the room, crowded close to Mother. Spud and Tom sat hunched on the floor, eyes fixed on Dad and the three men, and they waited as I waited, for the word that would send us from the room. But the word was never spoken. Our presence was completely forgotten. I heard Dad ask quietly if J. T. Perkins was "the scarylooking little fe11a" who had been "made" at the Odd Fellows last meeting, and I saw Ottoway Scott try to speak, then change his mind and nod heavily. There was something in this that I could not understand. Mother stood with her arms crossed over her breasts, as 238 the ugly mask of fear though the doors had suddenly opened all through the house and the wind was howling and tearing at us. As Dad stuffed his shirttail into his trousers, she hurried into the bedroom and returned with his woolen sweater and overcoat. The men had not taken the offered chairs, but stood impatiently and glanced furtively toward the windows . Spud now looked at Dad. A hundred unanswered questions shone from the depths of his dark brown eyes. He opened his mouth, but I nudged him with my foot and slowly shook my head as he glanced toward me. Hurried good nights were said, and Dad followed the men out into the darkness. I went to the east window to lower the shade. Dad, Uncle Robert, Derby George, and Ottaway Scott had crossed the street and were passing the gaslight that stood between Uncle George's house and the Sadberry place. The men were bent forward in the cold wind and their overcoats billowed out like small...