House of Rougeaux(72)
Boisterous Jack lay in bed, silent as death, staring at the plasters covering his hands. Only when he slept did he make a sound, and these were the low moans that belied his pain. On the third day he said something.
Eleanor had come with Lemuel. She had made Alma go up to the room Eleanor shared with Della to get some rest herself. Eleanor held a bowl of broth with some bread soaking in it, and Lemuel stood with his gloves in one hand, nattering on about a new arrangement they would try with the strings. Jack cut him off.
“I wish they hadda killed me,” he said softly.
“Jack, no,” Eleanor whispered.
Lemuel brought a hand to his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, turning away.
Jack shifted and turned his face toward the wall.
“Sister, let me be now, please.”
Eleanor rose, terrified. She looked over at Lemuel, who had sunk into a chair.
* * *
She returned that evening to see what could be done. Alma met her at the door. Her face was drawn with exhaustion and there was a new light of fear in her eyes.
“He won’t take anything. Not even water.” she said.
Jack lay motionless in the bed, turned still toward the wall. Whether he slept or not Eleanor couldn’t tell. The curtains were drawn but the window was open a crack, letting in a little air and noise from the street, and enough light to see. She stepped past Alma and began to gather the used linens and discarded bandages from beside the bed and heaped them in the corner.
There came a knock at the door. Alma went to see. Eleanor expected her to send whomever it was away, but instead she stood back and several figures filed into the room. First Joop, and Lemuel, and then a handful of men and women Eleanor recognized as some of the esteemed lecturers and West Indian leaders, delegates from the Pan-African Conference, and then, to her greater shock, the refined, angular features of Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois himself.
Hearing all of this Jack roused and took in the unexpected sight. He struggled to sit up and Alma went to help him. Mr. Henry Sylvester Williams, the barrister from Trinidad, spoke first.
“Brother,” he said, “we have heard of the attack, and we have come to speak with you, if you are willing.”
They all waited, and Jack nodded.
“The crime you have suffered,” Williams went on, “is nothing less than what our people have suffered for hundreds of years, and make no mistake, we grieve with you. This is precisely why we all are here in this city, and we are here to offer you any support that we may.”
Sam Jupiter spoke next.
“Jack, we want you to continue the tour with us. As conductor.”
“You have a conductor,” Jack said, his voice hoarse from three days of silence, and all he had endured. He looked over at Lemuel.
“I’m stepping down,” Lemuel said. “I’m going back to the States. Already packed.”
Jack was quiet, and then said with a bitter finality, “I don’t want no pity.”
“Pity.” A voice of great clarity came from the group, and Dr. Du Bois stepped forward. He sat in the chair alongside the bed and locked eyes with Jack. “Pity is not what we are about.”
A hush filled the room, much different than before, a silence heavy with expectation.
“How many of us have been maimed, brutalized, murdered?” Du Bois said, echoing Williams’ sentiments. “Countless numbers. You know that as well as I do. Every one of us here knows it, far too well.”
Jack stared at him. Tears welled up and spilled over.
“All I ever wanted to do was play,” he said. “My whole life. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“Music is your great gift,” said the Doctor, unblinking. “It’s your soul. And that doesn’t depend on the body. Other bodies will play for you, if need be.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Zebulon, we need you,” he said, “your colleagues, your friends, your people. We need you. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“It would be a great honor to have your company play in my country,” Barrister Williams said. “If you come we will show you the spirit of the Trinidadian people. And you will show us yours. And we will all be uplifted.”
When the unofficial delegation took its leave, Eleanor and Hig slipped out after them and he went with her to her own door. There was nothing but nothing left to say. Hig wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into him, letting herself be held for the first time in so very long.
* * *
Joop held a meeting of the company the next day in the large, empty theater they would play in that night. Jack was present, bandages and all, with Alma on one side and Eleanor on the other.
“You all know as well as I do that there ain’t nothing I can say that will make this any better.” He looked at the ceiling, as if some kind of useful words might show up anyway.
“Those dogs that pass for men can rot in Hell for what they did,” Della said, and many in the company called out their agreement.
“We all feel like that, Della,” Hig said, “but we’ve got to look ahead to what happens next. Let’s hear what Joop has to say.”
Joop paced back and forth in front of them. He worried his hand over his forehead. “For all that things are going good over here, we can’t get too comfortable. Everyone should be on their guard. We can’t let this happen again.”