The Last Ballad(101)

Chesley let go of the rifle. It fell to the grass. Hampton bent and picked it up.

“We cannot fight one another!” Beal said from the stage. “That’s what they want, and we can’t let it happen.” He waited, but Ella did not let Chesley go. “Ella!” Beal screamed. “Ella May!”

Ella finally turned loose of Chesley and stepped away from him. He coughed, touched the place on his neck where the knife had pressed against his skin. Hampton grabbed Violet’s hand, reached for Ella, took her arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“This is all bullshit,” Sophia said.

Hampton looked at her, nodded toward the group of black workers, all of whose faces wore looks of terror. “Let’s go,” he said again.

At first the crowd was silent as they passed through it. Hampton let go of Ella but held tight to Violet’s hand. He felt the weight of Chesley’s rifle where he’d slung the strap over his shoulder. The applause began near the stage, and by the time they’d reached the edge of the crowd on their way to the road, the audience had begun to chant, “Niggers go home!” over and over.

One of the older women in their group had begun to cry, and her crying was the only sound they made as they walked back to the place where they’d left the truck. Sophia ran and caught up with them. Hampton clutched Violet’s hand and pulled her along. They were far ahead of the rest of the group, and he didn’t care if they were moving too fast for some of the stragglers to catch up.

“We’re not giving up,” Sophia said. She spoke as if she were running out of breath. “This ain’t the final word.”

“I ain’t giving up,” Ella said. Her voice came from behind Hampton. He did not turn to look at her.

“This is over,” Hampton said. “This was over before it started.”

Ella ran around in front of him and walked backward so she could look him in the eye. “It ain’t over for me,” she said. She nodded at Violet, who now walked in-step with Hampton. “And not for her.” She looked over his shoulder at the Bessemer City workers behind him. “And not for them neither.”

“It’s over,” he said.

They reached the side street where they’d left the truck parked. Hampton kept walking, but Violet stopped, shook her hand free of his. He looked back at her. “Come with me,” he said.

“Where? Your room?” Violet said. “And what then?”

“Come home with me,” Hampton said. “To New York.”

“Are you serious, Hampton?” she said. “I can’t just leave. Not like you can.”

“No one’s leaving,” Sophia said. “Let’s all just talk about this. Let’s talk about what we do next.”

Hampton turned and walked away from them.

Violet called his name.

“Let him go,” Ella said.

The boardinghouse was only a few blocks away, and Hampton’s fury pushed him toward the solitude it offered. All he wanted was to be alone in his attic room so he could pack his things for the trip home. He was as angry as he’d ever been in his life, but more than that he was embarrassed and sad. He’d walked a hundred yards or so when he turned and saw that he could see the lit field where the rally continued. The dark shapes of bodies moved in silhouette in front of the stage.

Hampton slipped the rifle strap from his shoulder and raised the gun, pointed it at the bodies in the field, felt the weight of his finger on the trigger. He had never fired a gun before. He had no idea how far a bullet would go or what damage it would do if it arrived, but he felt a near-overwhelming urge to shoot indiscriminately into the crowd of white people, to hurt and humiliate them the way he’d been hurt and humiliated. Neither he nor his father had invited violence, but it had found them. His father had met it, and Hampton wondered if he would meet it too.

But he could not squeeze the trigger. He lowered the gun, tossed it into the trees by the road, listened as it crashed through the branches. Throwing the gun caused the pain in his side to flair, and he touched his ribs, wondering what he would feel if one or more of them were broken.

He continued walking south toward Franklin Avenue and the boardinghouse. He crossed over and saw the huge, glowing form of Loray. He thought he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, but there was no one there. His eyes searched the long shadows cast by tall trees and the unlit places in between houses. He found himself desperate to discover the shape of a man rushing toward him. Maybe his imagination had created the sound; maybe he wanted the violence of another confrontation, wanted to exercise the hate that had laid its hand upon his soul.

He reached the house and climbed the three flights of the back staircase to his room in the attic. He turned on the lamp and sat down on the bed. Tomorrow he would send a cable to Weisbord and demand a return ticket to New York.

He reached into his back pocket, found the photograph of his mother and father. He stared at it for a moment, and then he propped the photo against the lamp. He lay down and stared at the ceiling and pictured his parents back in Mississippi, tried in vain to envision his father’s face, but a memory of a time before that night did not seem to exist. He realized that the only memories he had of life with his father spanned the course of the few hours during which they’d fled for their lives.

Hampton closed his eyes. He knew he was waiting for something, but he did not know what it could be.