Norman Rush - Whites

Christie spoke. “Good evening, sir. Might I step inside?” His tone was friendly.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“Won’t you permit me in, Mr. Napier? There are matters.”

“You have a complaint?”

“Possibly so, yes.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me.”

“We’d best sit down over it, I think.” Christie was being mild. Frank felt his self-confidence pick up. Christie was coming closer, like someone hard of hearing. Frank was encouraged. It was his house. But he needed a good reason for saying no to Christie, who was coming across like a member of the family.

“What do you say to tomorrow, Mr. Christie? I’m pretty tired tonight. In fact, I was dozing.…”

What was Christie doing? He was walking in, almost . He had his foot on the stoop and was inside the screen door, which had never had a lock. Where should Frank draw the line? Christie had his hand on the door and was pressing it, and Frank, slowly back — but smiling apologetically, it seemed to Frank, the whole time. Frank set his foot against the door, but the waxed floor betrayed him. Frank was divided. He was furious. But he was afraid that showing his fury would kill his last chance to manage Christie. He felt sick. The thing was to convert his resistance into the opposite. He opened the door to Christie. Christie was inside.

They stood facing one another in the dim coral light of the breezeway. Christie was upset too. This was costing him something. That meant there was hope. He was going to get out of this, thanks to God. He had to choose his words. He had to get Christie contained in one place, sitting down in one place in the living room. He wanted to batter Christie. But if he could get Christie sitting down, he could go to the kitchen for tea or Fanta or anything and get the key into the right hands and get his little friends out the back door. He had to let Christie see he was astonished at him but that he was honoring Christie’s emotions, whatever they were.

“This is my house,” Frank said. “So won’t you come and sit down, since you’re here.” He was pleased with the way it sounded. He would usher Christie into the living room in the same spirit. He would disarm him.

But Christie was different now, all of a sudden. He was ignoring Frank. Christie was already in the living room, staring around, sweeping the room with the beam of his flashlight. Christie had to sit down: it was all Frank asked.

“Excuse me,” Frank called out. “Would you mind sitting down for a second? You said you wanted to.” Frank switched the ceiling light on.

What was Christie doing? Frank felt like he was always two steps behind Christie. God alone could control Christie. Frank would do more for God. Anytime the church came up, any church or sect, the stupidest, he would be silent. He’d go into radio silence until the conversation got around to something else. Christie was religion with the bit between its teeth, pushing into his house. Christie was Beirut.

He thanked God there was nothing for Christie to see in the living room. Christie was not sitting down. “I’ll go get some tea,” Frank said. There was desperation in his voice.

Christie reminded him of a lizard. He was quick. He seemed to be looking at something in the far corner of the room and then he was running for the hallway to the back of the house. He dodged past Frank. Frank felt betrayed. He reached for Christie, too late, stumbling. Frank was outraged. Christie would do anything. He would look under beds. Frank got to his feet and followed after Christie, his mind full of wordless pleading.

Christie was in the kitchen. Frank got there in terror. The scene amazed him.

It was brilliant.

Moitse, fully dressed, was sitting on a stool by the sink. She had a towel across her knees and the bowl of sugar peas in her lap. On the floor, sitting facing her with their legs straight out, were her sisters. They were watching her face fixedly. She was showing them how to string peas. Each of the younger sisters was clutching a handful of peas. There were little piles of strings on the floor. Christie was silent.

Moitse was speaking distinctly to her sisters. “You must just go this ways. I showed you about it. You must pinch this one that is thick, and pull around the top. The pea has a top, a back, like as if it is a man lain down on his face. So you must pull the thick one along the man’s back. Then you must pull the small one along the man’s stomach, where it is round.” She demonstrated.

Frank was weak with relief. She was brilliant. He was coming to life again. Strong vasomotor reactions swept over him. Christie was beaten. Frank could think. It was all over.

“Now you must clean,” Moitse said to her sisters, who began sweeping up strings with their hands. “They are little, and we must go for home,” she said directly to Christie, a little sadly.

“It’s homecraft,” Frank said. He was giddy. “She’s teaching them homecraft. I said she could. It’s nice for them. Why not? It’s a nice thing. They don’t have access to a real kitchen like this. So why not? Time to go, though, children.”

Christie looked around at him, his face mottled, his expression intense but unreadable. He turned back to the girls, addressing them in Setswana. His first questions were in a gentle tone. Christie knew how to use his voice. Then he was impatient, and spoke sharply. He addressed questions to the younger two, but Moitse answered for them, angering him. She was hard. Frank could tell she wasn’t giving anything away. She was hard as nails. He was in good hands with her. It was over. She was being sharp back to Christie. She was in charge. Frank unlocked the back door. One child’s name was Gopolang. He wanted to talk to everybody, his relief was so great. That was dangerous. He was elated. He was feeling expansive. He could say too much.

“Remember to take the milk when you go,” Frank said. He was improvising. He wanted to give everything in the house away, he felt so good.

“You must always listen to your sister,” he said to the small girls.

He felt like talking to Christie. “You can always learn something, am I right? These peas. I always mangle them when I string them, you know? I learned something.”

“It’s past time they were home in bed,” Christie said grimly, over his shoulder.

Frank said, “For sure. Time to get going. Better hurry. They get interested and they lose track of time. My fault, because I dozed off in the living room.” The two younger sisters went out, one carrying the milk.

Christie retreated to the kitchen doorway. Frank said, “If you want to talk about anything, we can. Maybe you’d like to apologize for charging in the way you did.” Christie was self-absorbed. Would he say anything before he left? Frank let himself feel slightly sorry for Christie. He could patronize Christie. He wanted to hurt Christie, but he could afford to be understanding.

Frank wanted Moitse out fast. He was avoiding looking directly at her. She might reveal something. She was still a child, smart as she was. She was enjoying her victory. He motioned her to go. Christie could turn around and revert to his animal self, the way he’d been in the living room when he thought he had the scent. Moitse left. Frank locked up. He needed two hands to do it.

Now Christie was leaving. He was hurrying. Frank caught up with him in the breezeway. Christie had the door open already.

“You owe me an apology,” Frank said. He was playing. He was toying with Christie. He couldn’t let Christie go so easily.

Christie looked at him. “God is not mocked,” Christie said, pronouncing God as “gaud,” and using his most penetrating tone. “God led me here tonight. I go where He leads me. I am His servant. I have no apology to make. My pride to me is dust and rags. I am God’s man. Good evening to you.”