RICHARD: I know I can do it. I know I can do it!
PAPA D.: That boy had good sense. He was wild, but he had good sense. And I couldn’t blame him too much for being so wild, it seemed to me I knew how he felt.
RICHARD: Papa D., I been in pain and darkness all my life. All my life. And this is the first time in my life I’ve ever felt—maybe it isn’t all like that. Maybe there’s more to it than that.
PAPA D.: Lyle Britten come to the door—(Lyle enters) He come to the door and he say—
LYLE: You ready for me now, boy? Howdy, Papa D.
PAPA D.: Howdy, Mr. Lyle, how’s the world been treating you?
LYLE: I can’t complain. You ready, boy?
RICHARD: No. I ain’t ready. I got a record to play and a drink to finish.
LYLE: You about ready to close, ain’t you, Joel?
PAPA D.: Just about, Mr. Lyle.
RICHARD: I got a record to play. (Drops coin: juke box music, loud) And a drink to finish.
PAPA D.: He played his record. Lyle Britten never moved from the door. And they just stood there, the two of them, looking at each other. When the record was just about over, the boy come to the bar—he swallowed down the last of his drink.
RICHARD: What do I owe you, Papa D.?
PAPA D.: Oh, you pay me tomorrow. I’m closed now.
RICHARD: What do I owe you, Papa D.? I’m not sure I can pay you tomorrow.
PAPA D.: Give me two dollars.
RICHARD: Here you go. Good night, Papa D. I’m ready, Charlie. (Exits.)
PAPA D.: Good night, Richard. Go on home now. Good night, Mr. Lyle. Mr. Lyle!
LYLE: Good night, Joel. You get you some sleep, you hear?
(Exits)
PAPA D.: Mr. Lyle! Richard! And I never saw that boy again. Lyle killed him. He killed him. I know it, just like I know I’m sitting in this chair. Just like he shot Old Bill and wasn’t nothing never, never, never done about it!
JUDGE: The witness may step down.
(Papa D. leaves the stand.)
CLERK (Calls): Mr. Lorenzo Shannon!
(We hear a long, loud, animal cry, lonely and terrified: it is Pete, screaming. We discover Lorenzo and Pete, in jail. Night. From far away, we hear Students humming, moaning, singing: “I Woke Up This Morning With My Mind Stayed On Freedom.”)
PETE (Stammering): Lorenzo? Lorenzo. I was dreaming—dreaming—dreaming. I was back in that courtyard and Big Jim Byrd’s boys was beating us and beating us and beating us—and Big Jim Byrd was laughing. And Anna Mae Taylor was on her knees, she was trying to pray. She say, “Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord, come and help us,” and they kept beating on her and beating on her and I saw the blood coming down her neck and they put the prods to her, and, oh, Lorenzo! people was just running around, just crying and moaning and you look to the right and you see somebody go down and you look to the left and you see somebody go down and they was kicking that woman, and I say, “That woman’s going to have a baby, don’t you kick that woman!” and they say, “No, she ain’t going to have no baby,” and they knocked me down and they got that prod up between my legs and they say, “You ain’t going to be having no babies, neither, nigger!” And then they put that prod to my head—ah! ah!—to my head! Lorenzo! I can’t see right! What have they done to my head? Lorenzo! Lorenzo, am I going to die? Lorenzo—they going to kill us all, ain’t they? They mean to kill us all—
LORENZO: Be quiet. Be quiet. They going to come and beat us some more if you don’t be quiet.
PETE: Where’s Juanita? Did they get Juanita?
LORENZO: I believe Juanita’s all right. Go to sleep, Pete. Go to sleep. I won’t let you dream. I’ll hold you.
(Lorenzo takes the stand.)
THE STATE: Did you accompany your late and great friend, Richard Henry, on the morning of August 17, to the store which is owned and run by Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Britten?
LORENZO: We hadn’t planned to go there—but we got to walking and talking and we found ourselves there. And it didn’t happen like she said. He picked the Cokes out of the box himself, he came to the door with the Cokes in his hand, she hadn’t even moved, she was still behind the counter, he never touched that dried out little peckerwood!
WHITETOWN: Get that nigger! Who does that nigger think he is!
BLACKTOWN: Speak, Lorenzo! Go, my man!
THE STATE: You cannot expect this courtroom to believe that so serious a battle was precipitated by the question of twenty cents! There was some other reason. What was this reason? Had he—and you—been drinking?
LORENZO: It was early in the day, Cap’n. We ain’t rich enough to drink in the daytime.
THE STATE: Or smoking, perhaps? Perhaps your friend had just had his quota of heroin for the day, and was feeling jolly—in a mood to prove to you what he had already suggested with those filthy photographs of himself and naked white women!
LORENZO: I never saw no photographs. White women are a problem for white men. We had not been drinking. All we was smoking was that same goddamn tobacco that made you rich because we picked it for you for nothing, and carried it to market for you for nothing. And I know ain’t no heroin in this town because none of you mothers need it. You was born frozen. Richard was better than that. I’d rather die than be like you, Cap’n, but I’d be proud to be like Richard. That’s all I can tell you, Mr. Boss-Man. But I know he wasn’t trying to rape nobody. Rape!
THE STATE: Your Honor, will you instruct the witness that he is under oath, that this is a court of law, and that it is a serious matter to be held in contempt of court!
LORENZO: More serious than the chain gang? I know I’m under oath. If there was any reason, it was just that Richard couldn’t stand white people. Couldn’t stand white people! And, now, do you want me to tell you all that I know about that? Do you think you could stand it? You’d cut my tongue out before you’d let me tell you all that I know about that!
COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: You are a student here?
LORENZO: In my spare time. I just come off the chain gang a couple of days ago. I was trespassing in the white waiting room of the bus station.
COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: What are you studying—in your spare time—Mr. Shannon?
LORENZO: History.
COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: To your knowledge—during his stay in this town—was the late Mr. Richard Henry still addicted to narcotics?
LORENZO: No. He’d kicked his habit. He’d paid his dues. He was just trying to live. And he almost made it.
COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: You were very close to him?
LORENZO: Yes.
COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: To your knowledge—was he carrying about obscene photographs of himself and naked white women?
LORENZO: To my knowledge—and I would know—no. The only times he ever opened a popular magazine was to look at the Jazz Poll. No. They been asking me about photographs they say he was carrying and they been asking me about a gun I never saw. No. It wasn’t like that. He was a beautiful cat, and they killed him. That’s all. That’s all.
JUDGE: The witness may step down.
LORENZO: Well! I thank you kindly. Suh!
(Lorenzo leaves the stand.)
CLERK (Calls): Miss Juanita Harmon!
(Juanita rises from bed; early Sunday morning.)
JUANITA: He lay beside me on that bed like a rock. As heavy as a rock—like he’d fallen—fallen from a high place—fallen so far and landed so heavy, he seemed almost to be sinking out of sight—with one knee pointing to heaven. My God. He covered me like that. He wasn’t at all like I thought he was. He fell on—fell on me—like life and death. My God. His chest, his belly, the rising and the falling, the moans. How he clung, how he struggled—life and death! Life and death! Why did it all seem to me like tears? That he came to me, clung to me, plunged into me, sobbing, howling, bleeding, somewhere inside his chest, his belly, and it all came out, came pouring out, like tears! My God, the smell, the touch, the taste, the sound, of anguish! Richard! Why couldn’t I have held you
closer? Held you, held you, borne you, given you life again! Have made you be born again! Oh, Richard. The teeth that gleamed, oh! when you smiled, the spit flying when you cursed, the teeth stinging when you bit—your breath, your hands, your weight, my God, when you moved in me! Where shall I go now, what shall I do? Oh. Oh. Oh. Mama was frightened. Frightened because little Juanita brought her first real lover to this house. I suppose God does for Mama what Richard did for me. Juanita! I don’t care! I don’t care! Yes, I want a lover made of flesh and blood, of flesh and blood, like me, I don’t want to be God’s mother! He can have His icy, snow-white heaven! If He is somewhere around this fearful planet, if I ever see Him, I will spit in His face! In God’s face! How dare He presume to judge a living soul! A living soul. Mama is afraid I’m pregnant. Mama is afraid of so much. I’m not afraid. I hope I’m pregnant. I hope I am! One more illegitimate black baby—that’s right, you jive mothers! And I am going to raise my baby to be a man. A man, you dig? Oh, let me be pregnant, let me be pregnant, don’t let it all be gone! A man. Juanita. A man. Oh, my God, there are no more. For me. Did this happen to Mama sometime? Did she have a man sometime who vanished like smoke? And left her to get through this world as best she could? Is that why she married my father? Did this happen to Mother Henry? Is this how we all get to be mothers—so soon? of helpless men—because all the other men perish? No. No. No. No. What is this world like? I will end up taking care of some man, some day. Help me do it with love. Pete. Meridian. Parnell. We have been the mothers for them all. It must be dreadful to be Parnell. There is no flesh he can touch. All of it is bloody. Incest everywhere. Ha-ha! You’re going crazy, Juanita. Oh, Lord, don’t let me go mad. Let me be pregnant! Let me be pregnant!
(Juanita takes the stand. One arm is in a sling.)
BLACKTOWN: Look! You should have seen her when she first come out of jail! Why we always got to love them? How come it’s us always got to do the loving? Because you black, mother! Everybody knows we strong on loving! Except when it comes to our women.
WHITETOWN: Black slut! What happened to her arm? Somebody had to twist it, I reckon. She looks like she might be a right pretty little girl—why is she messing up her life this way?
THE STATE: Miss Harmon, you have testified that you were friendly with the mother of the deceased. How old were you when she died?
JUANITA: I was sixteen.
THE STATE: Sixteen! You are older than the deceased?
JUANITA: By two years.
THE STATE: At the time of his mother’s death, were you and Richard Henry considering marriage?
JUANITA: No. Of course not.
THE STATE: The question of marriage did not come up until just before he died?
JUANITA: Yes.
THE STATE: But between the time that Richard Henry left this town and returned, you had naturally attracted other boy friends?
BLACKTOWN: Why don’t you come right out and ask her if she’s a virgin, man? Save you time.
WHITETOWN: She probably pregnant right now—and don’t know who the father is. That’s the way they are.
THE STATE: The departure of the boy and the death of the mother must have left all of you extremely lonely?
JUANITA: It can’t be said to have made us any happier.
THE STATE: Reverend Henry missed his wife, you missed your playmate. His grief and your common concern for the boy must have drawn you closer together?
BLACKTOWN: Oh, man! Get to that!
WHITETOWN: That’s right. What about that liver-lipped preacher?
THE STATE: Miss Harmon, you describe yourself as a student. Where have you spent the last few weeks?
JUANITA: In jail! I was arrested for—
THE STATE: I am not concerned with the reasons for your arrest. How much time, all told, have you spent in jail?
JUANITA: It would be hard to say—a long time.
THE STATE: Excellent preparation for your future! Is it not true, Miss Harmon, that before the late Richard Henry returned to this town, you were considering marriage with another so-called student, Pete Spivey? Can you seriously expect this court to believe anything you now say concerning Richard Henry? Would you not say the same thing, and for the same reason, concerning the father? Concerning Pete Spivey? And how many others!
WHITETOWN: That’s the way they are. It’s not their fault. That’s what they want us to integrate with.
BLACKTOWN: These people are sick. Sick. Sick people’s been known to be made well by a little shedding of blood.
JUANITA: I am not responsible for your imagination.
THE STATE: What do you know of the fight which took place between Richard Henry and Lyle Britten, at Mr. Britten’s store?
JUANITA: I was not a witness to that fight.
THE STATE: But you had seen Richard Henry before the fight? Was he sober?
JUANITA: Yes.
THE STATE: You can swear to that?
JUANITA: Yes, I can swear to it.
THE STATE: And you saw him after the fight? Was he sober then?
JUANITA: Yes. He was sober then. (Courtroom in silhouette) I heard about the fight at the end of the day—when I got home. And I went running to Reverend Henry’s house. And I met him on the porch—just sitting there.
THE STATE: You met whom?
JUANITA: I met—Richard.
(We discover Meridian.)
MERIDIAN: Hello, Juanita. Don’t look like that.
JUANITA: Meridian, what happened today? Where’s Richard?
MERIDIAN: He’s all right now. He’s sleeping. We better send him away. Lyle’s dangerous. You know that. (Takes Juanita in his arms; then holds her at arm’s length) You’ll go with him. Won’t you?
JUANITA: Meridian—oh, my God.
MERIDIAN: Juanita, tell me something I have to know. I’ll never ask it again.
JUANITA: Yes, Meridian—
MERIDIAN: Before he came—I wasn’t just making it all up, was I? There was something at least—beginning—something dimly possible—wasn’t there? I thought about you so much—and it was so wonderful each time I saw you—and I started hoping as I haven’t let myself hope, oh, for a long time. I knew you were much younger, and I’d known you since you were a child. But I thought that maybe that didn’t matter, after all—we got on so well together. I wasn’t making it all up, was I?
JUANITA: No. You weren’t making it up—not all of it, anyway, there was something there. We were lonely. You were hoping. I was hoping, too—oh, Meridian! Of all the people on God’s earth I would rather die than hurt!
MERIDIAN: Hush, Juanita. I know that. I just wanted to be told that I hadn’t lost my mind. I’ve lost so much. I think there’s something wrong in being—what I’ve become—something really wrong. I mean, I think there’s something wrong with allowing oneself to become so lonely. I think that I was proud that I could bear it. Each day became a kind of test—to see if I could bear it. And there were many days when I couldn’t bear it—when I walked up and down and howled and lusted and cursed and prayed—just like any man. And I’ve been—I haven’t been as celibate as I’ve seemed. But my confidence—my confidence—was destroyed back there when I pulled back that rug they had her covered with and I saw that little face on that broken neck. There wasn’t any blood—just water. She was soaked. Oh, my God. My God. And I haven’t trusted myself with a woman since. I keep seeing her the last time I saw her, whether I’m awake or asleep. That’s why I let you get away from me. It wasn’t my son that did it. It was me. And so much the better for you. And him. And I’ve held it all in since then—what fearful choices we must make! In order not to commit murder, in order not to become too monstrous, in order to be some kind of example to my only son. Come. Let me be an example now. And kiss you on the forehead and wish you well.
JUANITA: Meridian. Meridian. Will it always be like this? Will life always be like this? Must we always suffer so?
MERIDIAN: I don’t know, Juanita. I know that we must bear what we must bear. Don’t cry, Juanita. Do
n’t cry. Let’s go on on.
(Exits.)
JUANITA: By and by Richard woke up and I was there. And we tried to make plans to go, but he said he wasn’t going to run no more from white folks—never no more!—but was going to stay and be a man—a man!—right here. And I couldn’t make him see differently. I knew what he meant, I knew how he felt, but I didn’t want him to die! And by the time I persuaded him to take me away, to take me away from this terrible place, it was too late. Lyle killed him. Lyle killed him! Like they been killing all our men, for years, for generations! Our husbands, our fathers, our brothers, our sons!
JUDGE: The witness may step down.
(Juanita leaves the stand. Mother Henry helps her to her seat.)
This court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
(Chaos and cacophony. The courtroom begins to empty. Reporters rush to phone booths and to witnesses. Light bulbs flash. We hear snatches of the Journalists’ reports, in their various languages. Singing from the church. Blackout. The next and last day of the trial. Even more crowded and tense.)
CLERK (Calls): Mrs. Wilhelmina Henry!
(Mother Henry, in street clothes, walks down the aisle, takes the stand.)
THE STATE: You are Mrs. Wilhelmina Henry?
MOTHER HENRY: Yes.
THE STATE: Mrs. Henry, you—and your husband, until he died—lived in this town all your lives and never had any trouble. We’ve always gotten on well down here.
MOTHER HENRY: No white man never called my husband Mister, neither, not as long as he lived. Ain’t no white man never called me Mrs. Henry before today. I had to get a grandson killed for that.
THE STATE: Mrs. Henry, your grief elicits my entire sympathy, and the sympathy of every white man in this town. But is it not true, Mrs. Henry, that your grandson arrived in this town armed? He was carrying a gun and, apparently, had carried a gun for years.
MOTHER HENRY: I don’t know where you got that story, or why you keep harping on it. I never saw no gun.
THE STATE: You are under oath, Mrs. Henry.