A Northern Light(31)

"That you, Mattie Gokey?" a big voice boomed down at me.

"Yes, it is, Mr. Myers. I brought your supper."

Hank Myers, his face red and sweaty, leaned down and scooped up his bundle. He lived in Inlet. Everyone knew him. He threw candy out of the window for the children on the stretches between towns. Sour balls and bull's-eyes and pieces of chewing gum.

"Here's the money, Mattie. Tell Weaver's mamma thank you for me." He tossed me some coins and a bull's-eye. The candy went in my pocket for Beth. I would put the coins in Weaver's mamma's change can. I knew that when she got home, she would empty it into the cigar box she kept under her bed—Weaver's college fund.

As I walked back to the Smiths' cart, I passed a couple from the city standing by their luggage. "Gee whiz, Trudy, hold on, will you?" I heard the man say impatiently. "I don't see a porter anywhere. Ah! There's a darky. You, boy! I need some help over here!"

Weaver was farther down the platform, but he heard the man. He turned around and I saw a bad look in his eyes. One I knew too well. It was the kind of look horses will get when they are young and saddle shy and would rather dash themselves to pieces than be broken by a rider.

I skirted around the man, caught up with Weaver, and took his sleeve. "Don't pay him any mind," I said, pulling him along. "Let him stand there and bellow, the ignorant fool—"

"You! Sam! I said I need help over here!"

Weaver shook me off. He turned around and smiled. A huge, horrible smile. "Why, sure, Mistuh Boss, suh!" he hollered. "I be right along, suh, right along! On de double!"

"Weaver!" his mother called. Her voice sounded frightened.

"Weaver, don't!" I hissed, not knowing what he was going to do but knowing from experience that it wouldn't be smart or good.

"Here I is, suh!" he said, bowing to the couple.

"Take my bags to that wagon," the man said, pointing at a waiting buckboard.

"Right away, boss!"

Weaver picked up the largest one, a sleek leather suitcase with shiny brass clasps, lifted it over his head, and threw it on the ground.

"Hey!" the man yelled.

"Lan sakes! I sure is sorry, suh! I'se one clumsy darky, all right. Don't worry, Mistuh Suh, I'll fix it. Yessuh!" Weaver said. And then he hauled off and kicked the suitcase. So hard that it whizzed across the platform, hit the front of the station, and sprang open. Clothes flew everywhere. He kicked it again. "Yes, suh! Right away, suh! I'se coming, suh! Sho nuff!" he shouted.

The man shouted, too. So did his wife. And Weaver's mamma. Everyone else cleared out of the way. And still Weaver kicked the bag. Over and over again. Across the platform and back. And then the conductors were hurrying out of the station, where they'd gone for a cup of coffee, and Mr. Pulling, too, and Mr. Myers was jumping down from the train, yelling and waving, and in my panic I thought about Weaver's father. And I imagined what Weaver must have seen. White hands on black skin. So many white hands. And I knew that the men running toward us would only make things worse. So I jumped between Weaver and the suitcase just as he was winding up another kick.

"Please, Weaver," I said, flinching. "Stop."

And he did. He turned away at the last possible second and kicked a mailbag instead of me. I swallowed. Hard. Weaver is slender but he is strong, and that kick might have shattered my ankle. I took him by his wrists very gently and pushed him backward, one step at a time. His arms were stiff and trembly. The breath was rasping from his throat. I could smell anger coming off him. And grief. I pushed him over to his mamma's cart, then I gathered the man's clothing and tried my best to shake the dirt out of it. I folded it all neatly and put it back in the suitcase. The case was badly dented, but the clasps still worked. I closed it and placed it with the rest of the man's luggage.

"Now, see here! This won't do at all! He damaged my things!" the man sputtered.

"He's sorry, sir. He didn't mean to."

"He certainly did mean to! He ought to at least pay to have my clothing laundered. And for a new suitcase, too. Do you have a cop in this place? A sheriff or something? I don't want to make trouble, but he really ought to—"

"No, please!" It was Weaver's mamma. Her eyes were frantic. She was clutching her chicken money. "I'll pay you—"

But she didn't get to finish her sentence, because another voice cut in. "No, mister, you surely don't want to make trouble. Best be on your way before his pa shows up. Or his brothers. He's got five. And each one of 'em's meaner than the next."

It was Royal. He was standing on the platform, arms crossed over his chest. He stood tall. His shoulders were broad under his shirt, his arms were thick and powerful. Jim and Will were right behind him. I didn't know where he'd come from. I looked past him and saw his father's buckboard with milk cans in it. He must have been delivering.

The man looked Royal up and down. He looked at Mr. Pulling and Mr. Myers, whose faces betrayed nothing, and then he looked up the tracks as if expecting to see Weaver's father and his five ornery brothers bearing down on him. He shot his cuffs. "Well!" he said. "Well." Then he picked up his suitcase, took his wife by the elbow, and stalked off to the waiting buckboard. I saw him put coins into the driver's hand and point at his remaining bags.