J. Powers - The Stories of J.F. Powers

Mrs Stoner was panting in the hall outside his door.

“What is it?”

“Mosquitoes!”

“What is it, Father? Are you hurt?”

“Mosquitoes — damn it! And only the female bites!”

Mrs Stoner, after a moment, said, “Shame on you, Father. She needs the blood for her eggs.”

He dropped the magazine and lunged at the mosquito with his bare hand.

She went back to her room, saying, “Pshaw, I thought it was burglars murdering you in your bed.”

He lunged again.

ALL THEM THAT dropped in at Bullen’s last night was talking about the terrible accident that almost happened to Clara Beck — that’s Clyde Bullen’s best girl. I am in complete charge of the pool tables and cigar counter, including the punchboards, but I am not at my regular spot in front, on account of Clyde has got a hot game of rotation going at the new table, and I am the only one he will leave chalk his cue. While I am chalking it and collecting for games and racking the balls I am hearing from everybody how Clara got pulled out of the river by Sleep Bailey.

He is not one of the boys, Sleep, but just a nigger that’s deef and lives over in jigtown somewhere and plays the piano for dances at the Louisiana Social Parlor. They say he can’t hear nothing but music. Spends the day loafing and fishing. He’s fishing — is the story — when he seed Clara in the river below the Ludlow road bridge, and he swum out and saved her. Had to knock her out to do it, she put up such a fight. Anyways he saved her from drownding. That was the story everybody was telling.

Clyde has got the idee of taking up a collection for Sleep, as it was a brave deed he done and he don’t have nothing to his name but a tub of fishing worms. On the other hand, he don’t need nothing, being a nigger, not needing nothing. But Clara is Clyde’s girl and it is Clyde’s idee and so it is going over pretty big as most of the boys is trying to stay in with Clyde and the rest is owing him money and can’t help themselves. I chipped in two bits myself.

Clyde is just fixing to shoot when Skeeter Bird comes in and says, “Little cold for swimming, ain’t it, Clyde?”

It upsets Clyde and he has to line up the thirteen ball again. I remember it is the thirteen ‘cause they ain’t nobody round here that’s got the eye Clyde has got for them big balls and that thirteen is his special favor-ite, says it’s lucky — it and the nine. I tell you this on account of Clyde misses his shot. Looked to me and anybody else that knowed Clyde’s game that what Skeeter said upset his aim.

“What’s eating you?” Clyde says to Skeeter, plenty riled. I can see he don’t feel so bad about the thirteen getting away as he might of, as he has left it sewed up for Ace Haskins, that claims he once took a game from the great Ralph Greenleaf. “You got something to say?” Clyde says.

“No,” Skeeter says, “only—”

“Only what?” Clyde wants to know.

“Only that Bailey nigger got hisself scratched up nice, Clyde.”

“So I am taking up a little collection for him,” Clyde says. “Pass the plate to Brother Bird, boys.”

But Skeeter, he don’t move a finger, just says, “Clara got banged up some, too, Clyde. Nigger must of socked her good.”

None of us knowed what Skeeter was getting at, except maybe Clyde, that once took a course in mind reading, but we don’t like it. And Clyde, I can tell, don’t like it. The cue stick is shaking a little in his hand like he wants to use it on Skeeter and he don’t shoot right away. He straightens up and says, “Well, he hadda keep her from strangling him while he was rescuing her, didn’t he? It was for her own good.”

“Yeah, guess so,” Skeeter says. “But they both looked like they been in a mean scrap.”

“That so?” Clyde says. “Was you there?”

“No, but I heard,” Skeeter says.

“You heard,” Clyde says. He gets ready to drop the fifteen.

“Yeah,” Skeeter says. “You know, Clyde, that Bailey nigger is a funny nigger.”

“How’s that?” Clyde says, watching Skeeter close. “What’s wrong with him?” Clyde holds up his shot and looks right at Skeeter. “Come on, out with it.”

“Oh, I don’t know as they’s a lot wrong with him,” Skeeter says. “I guess he’s all right. Lazy damn nigger is all. Won’t keep a job — just wants to play on the piano and fish.”

“Never would of rescued Clara if he didn’t,” Clyde says. “And besides what kind of job you holding down?”

Now that gets Skeeter where it hurts on account of he don’t work hisself, unless you call selling rubbers work or peddling art studies work. Yeah, that’s what he calls them. Art studies. Shows a girl that ain’t got no clothes on, except maybe her garters, and down below it says “Pensive” or “Evening in Paris.” Skeeter sells them to artists, he says — he’ll tell you that to your face — but he’s always got a few left over for the boys at Bullen’s.

Well, Skeeter goes on up front and starts in to study the slot machines. He don’t never play them, just studies them. Somebody said he’s writing a book about how to beat them, but I don’t think he’s got the mind for it, is my opinion.

Clyde is halfway into the next game when Skeeter comes back again. He has some of the boys with him now.

“All right, all right,” Clyde says, stopping his game.

“You tell him, Skeeter,” the boys says.

“Yeah, Skeeter, you tell me,” Clyde says.

“Oh,” Skeeter says, “it’s just something some of them is saying, Clyde, is all.”

“Who’s saying?” Clyde says. “Who’s saying what?”

“Some of them,” Skeeter says, “over at the Arcade.”

The Arcade, in case you don’t know, is the other poolhall in town. Bullen’s and the Arcade don’t mix, and I guess Skeeter is about the only one that shows up regular in both places, on account of he’s got customers in both places. I’d personally like to keep Skeeter out of Bullen’s, but Clyde buys a lot of art studies off him and I can’t say nothing.

After a spell of thinking Clyde says to Skeeter, “Spill it.”

“May not be a word of truth to it, Clyde,” Skeeter says. “You know how folks talk. And all I know is what I hear. Course I knowed a long time that Bailey nigger is a damn funny nigger. Nobody never did find out where he come from — St Louis, Chicago, New York, for all anybody knowed. And if he’s stone deef how can he hear to play the piano?”

“Damn the nigger,” Clyde says. “What is they saying, them Arcade bastards!”

“Oh, not all of them is saying it, Clyde. Just some of them is saying it. Red Hynes, that tends bar at the El Paso, and them. Saying maybe the nigger didn’t get them scratches on his face for nothing. Saying maybe he was trying something funny. That’s a damn funny nigger, Clyde, I don’t care what you say. And when you get right down to it, Clyde, kind of stuck up like. Anyways some of them at the Arcade is saying maybe the nigger throwed Clara in the river and then fished her out just to cover up. Niggers is awful good at covering up, Clyde.”

Clyde don’t say nothing to this, but I can tell he is thinking plenty and getting mad at what he’s thinking — plenty. It’s real quiet at Bullen’s now.

“Maybe,” Clyde says, “maybe they is saying what he was covering up from?”

“Yeah, Clyde,” Skeeter says. “Matter of fact, they is. Yeah, some of them is saying maybe the nigger raped her!”

Bang! Clyde cracks the table with his cue stick. It takes a piece of pearl inlay right out of the apron board of the good, new table. Nobody says nothing. Clyde just stares at all the chalk dust he raised.