It's Good to Be Black

12. Echoes of Algires

12. eehoes of Algiers If you had asked 100 people in DuQuoin the nature of Big Chick's illness, 99 would have told you that he was stricken with brain fever. The hundredth would have leaned over and whispered what at least 50 per cent of the others be~ lieved, "Chile, Big Chick's been conjured." Big Chick's name had been mentioned frequently as checkweighrnan at Davis' mines. The union election was corning up and those in the know figured Big Chick already in office. That was before his sister, Cerelia, had found him one morning, staring up at the ceiling, unable to move, unable to speak. Every morning Dr. Gillis stopped by to see how he was getting along. Every night the brothers of the Sir Knight Lodge sat up with him. The women of the neighborhood passed in and out of the three~roorn house, helping with the cleaning and washing or taking over a plate of choice food that Big Chick scarcely touched. The finger of suspicion wavered unsteadily in the direction of Lane Gordon, self~styled conjurer, for Lane boasted openly of the "Jack" he carried that made him "master over every nigger in Perry County." Lane had suggested that his boy Chester should be given the berth. Dad tried to reason with Lane. Chester was too young. The job of checkweigh~ man was a juicy plum passed on to a seasoned miner who had won loyalty and respect after years in the pits. Chester 124 eehoes of Algiers wasn't dry behind the ears yet. Undaunted, Lane had talked to other miners, bragging of Chester's ability to handle the job and making veiled threats to anyone who might oppose him. What the Negroes whispered to each other, Scotch-Irish Maggie Wheatley said right out loud in front of God and everybody. "Maybe somebody's put a spell on Big Chick. I've heard me mither talk aboot it 'appenin' mony a time in the ole country. Tain't natchal, him a-layin' there day after day-not sayin' a word-not makin' a sound." Maggie had stopped in front of our house by the little maple sapling we had planted the spring before. Mother opened her mouth to speak, but upon second thought said nothing. Aunt Dea indulged in a slow wide grin and looked in Mother's direction. "Guess maybe some folks'll believe what we been sayin'. Bless God if they ain't got it in black and white." Most of the caucus meetings for union activities were held at our house. This was the last meeting they would hold before the election at the union hall in two weeks. Dad, Charlie Brayfield, Button Cunningham, and Will Crayton were sitting around in the front room waiting for Matt Gustatt, union boss of Little Italy. Cerelia, Big Chick's sister was nearly out of her mind with worry. Othenvise she never would have had the courage to blurt out her troubles before the other men. She had come looking for Dad. It wasn't until after she had whimpered , "Braxton, folks are saying somebody done fixed Big Chick." Then she looked hesitantly about and mumbled an "Excuse me, y'all." "I wouldn't put no stock in that mess, Cerelia." Dad was 125 it's good to be blaek impatient with this evident holdover from the dark age of slavery with its ignorance and superstition. "God, no!" Will Crayton exploded. "Ain't a damn thing to it. If niggers knowed anything, whyn't they conjured some o' them plague-gone mean white folks in slavery time--" he stopped in confusion as he glanced in Charlie Brayfield's direction. " 'Cuse me Brayfield. I didn't mean no harm. I forgot you was white-" "I guess that's about the highest compliment you coulda paid me," Brayfield extended his hand to Crayton. "There was no offense meant and none taken, WilL A man can always speak his mind among friends." "I know-but I didn't want you to think I'd try to show off on you, jes' cause we're three to one. I wasn't cut out that little. But I been hearin' about ghosts an' hants an' conjurin' ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I got chillblains settin' in the graveyard 'til midnight-trying to see something. Used to go outa my way to make...