During the month that he was in jail, Fee Jinkins’s duty was to clean the sheriff’s office and the white men’s and white ladies’ rest rooms. He started every morning between six and six-thirty and finished around eight or a little after. He was just getting ready to put away the mop and bucket when he saw them bringing that chair in through the back door. Four people were carrying it, two strangers and the two special deputies, Oscar and Claude Guerin. The sheriff walked in front, and a man wearing a cowboy hat followed the chair. The man with the cowboy hat kept saying be careful, be careful; he didn’t want that chair bumping into anything. The sheriff opened the door to the old storeroom, and the two strangers took it inside, then everyone followed. They did not shut the door, and Fee could hear them talking in there, though from where he was in the hall he could not see them. He could hear the sheriff asking where the chair should be set, and the man in the cowboy hat was saying he wanted it against the wall not far from the window, because those wires from the generator on the truck had to come through the window. Other people who had come to work were also in the corridor. A woman was saying that she had seen it, and it looked just gruesome. A man said it did look gruesome, and that’s why they called it Gruesome Gerty. The man told the woman that whoever sat in Gruesome Gerty’s lap when she was hot never sat down again. The woman replied, “That is gruesome.” Fee heard the man with the cowboy hat tell someone to go out to the truck and bring in the instruments. A white man standing behind Fee asked him if he had seen it. Fee said he surely had, and it looked mean. The white man told Fee he had better watch himself, or maybe they would have to bring Gerty back for him to sit in her lap. Another man laughed nervously. A woman in the hall told the man shame on him, he ought to stop that, just shame on him. Fee could hear the man with the cowboy hat talking to another man through the window. He was asking the man did everything reach okay, and the man out on the truck said yes, everything did. Out in the corridor, more people were coming in for work. They all wanted to know if the first ones there had seen it. Some of them who had not seen it said they had. Someone said if you had not seen it, you would most definitely hear it. And a woman said she wished she had played sick and stayed home today. A man told her that anyone who wanted to leave was free to stay away between twelve and three. The woman said she was not going to be anywhere around here. Someone asked was it always between twelve and three, and another man said yes, it always was. And someone else said the Lord died between twelve and three on a Friday. A woman said yes, and so did two thieves, one on either side of Him. Fee heard the woman saying that she definitely was not going to be here during that time. She said she felt sick already.
Clay Lemon, who worked at Weber’s Café and Bar and Bait Shop and who ran errands for Felix Weber, had just gotten out of the car to go into the bank when he first heard the noise. The sound was coming from the direction of the courthouse, a block and a half away. Clay said later that he did not know what it was, nor did he know exactly where it was coming from. A white man and a white woman walking ahead of him were just about to go into the bank when the woman stopped suddenly and looked back. She said, “Oh, God, don’t tell me that they have started—” and the man said, “Come on, dear, come on; don’t listen to that.” The man held the door open for the woman, but she would not go inside, and Clay would not dare go through the door until the white people did. The man told the woman that nothing was going to happen until after twelve o’clock, and they would be long gone by then. He said that they were just warming up the thing, testing those instruments to make sure everything was in working order. The woman said, “But my God, the whole town can hear that thing.” The man said, “Come on, come on, dear,” and put his arm around her. They went inside, and Clay followed. The woman asked the clerk behind the counter if she had heard it. The clerk asked, “Heard what?” The woman told about the noise that was coming from the courthouse. The clerk said that being inside, they heard very little from that far away. The woman shook her head and said, “It was just horrible. Just too horrible.” The clerk told the woman that her little boy had asked her last night what was going to happen at the jail today, and she said that the sheriff just had to put an old bad nigger away, and she didn’t want him to worry about anything. The clerk said that she checked on her little boy just before she went to bed last night, and he was sound asleep. And today when he left for school with his little book sack, there was not a solitary word; he had forgotten all about it. The clerk said all this while serving the white man and white woman. Then Clay stepped up to the counter—but he had forgotten why he was there. The clerk, who was very thin, with blond hair and gray-blue eyes, looked at him and said, “Well, well, I don’t have all day—didn’t you bring it?” But Clay didn’t know what she was talking about. “Didn’t Felix send you here to get the money, you dumbbell?” she asked him. He must have given her the sack with the note and the check, because the next thing he knew, he had the weight of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies in the sack and he was outside again in the bright sunlight, and he could still hear the noise from the generator a block and a half away.
Paul was in the office when the sheriff and the executioner came in, followed by the two special deputies, Claude and Oscar Guerin. The sheriff sat behind his desk and motioned for the executioner, whose name was Henry Vincent, to have a seat. Vincent took off his cowboy hat and hung it on the rack beside the sheriff’s cowboy hat. Paul noticed that the hair on top of Vincent’s head was not as gray as the sideburns were. The sheriff asked Vincent if he wanted some coffee, and Vincent said yes. The sheriff told Oscar to go down the hall and get that pot of coffee and bring back some cups. Vincent asked the sheriff if the prisoner had been shaved. The sheriff said no. Vincent asked the sheriff if he didn’t think it was about time. The sheriff looked at Paul standing by the window. He told Paul where the things were; he should get Murphy out of the cell and have him do it. Vincent instructed Paul to make sure Murphy did it right, shaved him close. He pointed to areas on the leg and wrist. He said electrodes had to be attached there as well as to the head, and all that had to be shaved very clean. The sheriff told the executioner that the prisoner had hardly any hair on his body other than on his head. Vincent told Paul that Murphy must shave the prisoner everywhere he told him to; electricity sometimes found hair that the naked eye would never see. He said that this was an execution, not torture, that he had seen enough of that for a lifetime. Paul asked the sheriff if someone else couldn’t do this. The sheriff told him that Clark would not be there until later, and that he had to do it. Paul nodded for Claude Guerin to come with him, and they went into the next room. He could hear Vincent asking the sheriff if he thought Paul was all right, and the sheriff saying that he was, but this was his first time. Vincent told the sheriff that all they needed was for one of their own men to come apart. The sheriff assured him that Paul was okay, but that this was his first time, that’s all. Vincent told the sheriff he hoped he knew his men. Paul and Claude left through another door, Claude carrying a washbasin, clippers, scissors, and a safety razor. People came out of their offices to ask Paul if it was time yet. The special deputy told them that it was only hair-cutting time. A man standing at one of the office doors said oh, yes, he had heard that they got a haircut first. Someone else said what an experience, what an experience, you didn’t get to witness this every day. Paul and Claude went up to the cellblock, and unlocked Murphy’s cell and told him they had a job for him to do. Murphy looked at the things in Claude’s hands and asked why him. Because the sheriff said so, Paul told him. Murphy came out, and the three of them went down to the last cell. Jefferson had been lying on his back, but he sat up and looked at them when they came in. He didn’t seem frightened; he appeared tired. Paul could see how red his eyes were and knew that he had not slept at all. Paul asked him how he felt, and he said he was all right. He wore a blue denim shirt and denim trousers. His laceless shoes were halfway under the bunk. The radio and the notebook were on the floor beside th
e wall. The radio was silent. A bird sang in the sycamore tree outside the window. Paul told Jefferson that he had to have his hair shaved. He sent Murphy to get warm water and a piece of soap from the shower room. While Murphy was gone, Paul and the other deputy stood near the unlocked cell door. Jefferson sat on the bunk, leaning forward and staring down at the floor. The two deputies watched him, but no one said anything. The bird continued its chirping in the tree outside the window. Jefferson turned to look at the deputy standing beside Paul and asked him how was Miss Bernice. Claude didn’t know whether he should answer, until Paul nodded, and Claude told him that his wife was okay. And little Roy? Jefferson wanted to know. Claude looked at Paul, and Paul nodded again. Little Roy was all right, too; he was at school. Jefferson looked down at the floor. Murphy came back with a washbasin of warm water and a piece of white soap. He set the basin of water on the floor at the foot of the bunk and took the clippers from Claude Guerin. Claude tried not to meet Jefferson’s eyes when Jefferson looked up at him. The two deputies stood back by the door and watched as the layers of hair fell to the floor. When Murphy had finished with the clippers, he dipped his hand into the basin of warm water and started rubbing Jefferson’s head with the piece of white soap. Claude handed him the safety razor. When the head was shaved, black and shining, Paul instructed Murphy to take the scissors and cut Jefferson’s trouser legs and shirt sleeves. He stood over Murphy and pointed out the areas around the ankles and wrists where he wanted him to shave. All this time, Jefferson obeyed as if he were in a trance, as if he felt nothing. When Murphy was finished, he stood back and examined his work, but Jefferson was looking down at the floor. Paul asked him if he needed anything, and when he did not answer, the deputy motioned for Claude and Murphy to leave. He followed and locked the cell door. As he was about to walk away, Jefferson raised his head and looked at him. He told Paul that he wanted him to bring me the notebook and that he wanted Paul to have the radio. Paul told him he couldn’t take the radio, but he would give it to the other inmates, for use in the dayroom, if Jefferson didn’t mind. Jefferson asked Paul if he wanted the marble that Bok had given him, and Paul told him he would accept the marble. He told Paul to be sure that Mr. Henri got the pocket knife and the little gold chain. Paul said he would see to that. Jefferson continued to look at Paul, a long, deep look, and the deputy felt that there was something else he wanted to say. Murphy and the other deputy were still waiting. “Well,” Paul said, and started to walk away. “Paul?” Jefferson said quietly. And his eyes were speaking, even more than his mouth. The deputy looked back at him. Murphy and Claude did too. “You go’n be there, Paul?” Jefferson asked, his eyes asked. Paul nodded. “Yes, Jefferson. I’ll be there.”
31
AFTER THE STUDENTS had recited their Bible verses, and before classes began, I told them that there would be no recess period for them today, and that I would let them go home for dinner at eleven o’clock, because I wanted them all back at school no later than a quarter to twelve. I told them that at exactly twelve o’clock they would all get down on their knees and remain on their knees until I heard from the courthouse, whether that took an hour, an hour and a half, or three hours.
Louis Washington, Jr., stuck up a grimy little hand.
“S’pose somebody got to be excused?”
“Then he’ll make up that time on his knees after three o’clock,” I told him. “For every minute that you don’t spend on your knees between twelve o’clock and until I hear from that courthouse, you will spend twice that time on your knees after three. Any other questions?”
“Nawsir.”
“Does anyone else have a question?”
No one did.
“All right, open those books, and I want silence, and I mean silence.”
I assigned Odessa Freeman primer and first grades; Irene Cole would teach second and third. Fourth graders opened their books to English grammar; fifth graders, geography; sixth, history. I told them I would test them later, if not this afternoon, then definitely tomorrow morning. I knew I would not be able to concentrate on teaching this morning, so I got my Westcott ruler and went outside.
It was a nice day. Blue sky. Not a cloud. Across the road in the Freemans’ yard, I could see a patch of white lilies on either side of the walk that led up to the porch. An old automobile tire surrounded each flower. Behind the house was the sugarcane field. The new cane was about waist-high to the average man walking between the rows. Somewhere across the field I could hear the sound of a tractor. A white sharecropper must have been plowing the ground, since no colored people were working today. Even those who worked up at the big house for Henri Pichot or for other white people along the river had taken the day off. This had been discussed and agreed at church last Sunday. Those who were not at church were told what the others had decided, that he, Jefferson, should have all their respect this one day. Now, except for the sound of the tractor back in the field, the rest of the plantation was quiet. No one sat out on the porch, no one worked in the garden, no one walked across the yard or in the road.
I looked toward Miss Emma’s house, farther down the quarter. My aunt was there, others were there, but they were all inside. The front door was shut, though the window was open to let in fresh air. I could see the white gauze curtain hanging limp in the window.
I went around to the back of the church. Like so many country churches, it was wood-framed, long and narrow, with a corrugated tin roof and a bell tower. Years ago, I was told, the church sat flat on the ground. Later, it was set up on wooden blocks. During the thirties, when I was a student here, the wooden blocks, which had rotted over the years, were replaced by bricks. A year or two before I started teaching, Farrell Jarreau and a couple of other men removed the bricks and put in cement blocks. But now even the cement blocks had sunk so low in the ground that a child losing a marble or a ball under the church had a hard time crawling under there to retrieve it.
I remembered playing ragball back here, the other children and I, using our fists as bats. We all tried to hit the ball out of the yard for a home run. I supposed I had done so as many times as anyone else, but the number of times was nothing to brag about.
Where were all the others now? Most had gone. To southern cities, to northern cities, others to the grave. Had Jefferson ever hit a home run? He was as big as anyone else, stronger than most, but to hit a home run off a ragball was a feat. Brute strength was not enough. Timing and luck were needed. You had to hit it just right, and that took timing and luck. Lily Green hit as many as anyone else, I supposed. But her luck ran out before she was twenty. Killed accidentally in a barroom in Baton Rouge. What a waste. Such a beautiful girl. All the boys loved Lily Green.
I started back toward the front. What about tomorrow? What happens after today? Nothing will ever be the same after today.
At five minutes to eleven, I was standing at my desk, facing the opened front door, when I saw the minister’s car go up the quarter, with Harry Williams sitting in the passenger seat beside him. They were on their way into Bayonne. I told my students to put away their things quietly. Before letting them go, I reminded them that I didn’t want any running or loud talking and that I wanted them all back at school no later than a quarter to twelve. When they had all gone, I sat down at my desk, facing the door.
I did not want to think. I wanted to sit there until I heard, but not to think before then. No, I wanted to go to my car and drive away. To go somewhere and lose all memory of where I had come from. I wanted to go, I wanted to—God, what does a person do who knows there is only one more hour to live?
I felt like crying, but I refused to cry. No, I would not cry. There were too many more who would end up as he did. I could not cry for all of them, could I?
I wished I could telephone Vivian, but there was not one telephone, public or otherwise, between here and Bayonne that I could use. I would see her tonight, though. I would definitely see her tonight. I need to see you tonight, my love.
But who wa
s with him? Who is with you, Jefferson? Is He with you, Jefferson? He is with Reverend Ambrose, because Reverend Ambrose believes. Do you believe, Jefferson? Have I done anything to make you not believe? If I have, please forgive me for being a fool. For at this moment, what else is there?
I know now that that old man is much braver than I. I am not with you at this moment because—because I would not have been able to stand. I would not have been able to walk with you those last few steps. I would have embarrassed you. But the old man will not. He will be strong. He is going to use their God to give him strength. You just watch, Jefferson. You just watch. He is brave, braver than I, braver than any of them—except you, I hope. My faith is in you, Jefferson.