Blues for Mister Charlie: A Play

BLACKTOWN: Man, that’s the southern white lady you supposed to be willing to risk death for!

WHITETOWN: You know, this is a kind of hanging in reverse? Niggers out here to watch us being hanged!

THE STATE: What is your relationship to the accused?

JO: I am his wife.

THE STATE: Will you please tell us, in your own words, of your first meeting with the deceased, Richard Henry?

WHITETOWN: Don’t be afraid. Just tell the truth.

BLACKTOWN: Here we go—down the river!

JO: Well, I was in the store, sitting at the counter, and pretty soon this colored boy come in, loud, and talking in just the most awful way. I didn’t recognize him, I just knew he wasn’t one of our colored people. His language was something awful, awful!

THE STATE: He was insulting? Was he insulting, Mrs. Britten?

JO: He said all kinds of things, dirty things, like—well—just like I might have been a colored girl, that’s what it sounded like to me. Just like some little colored girl he might have met on a street corner and wanted—wanted to—for a night! And I was scared. I hadn’t seen a colored boy act like him before. He acted like he was drunk or crazy or maybe he was under the influence of that dope. I never knew nobody to be drunk and act like him. His eyes was just going and he acted like he had a fire in his belly. But I tried to be calm because I didn’t want to upset Lyle, you know—Lyle’s mighty quick-tempered—and he was working in the back of the store, he was hammering—

THE STATE: Go on, Mrs. Britten. What happened then?

JO: Well, he—that boy—wanted to buy him two Cokes because he had a friend outside—

THE STATE: He brought a friend? He did not come there alone? Did this other boy enter the store?

JO: No, not then he didn’t—I—

BLACKTOWN: Come on, bitch. We know what you going to say. Get it over with.

JO: I—I give him the two Cokes, and he—tried to grab my hands and pull me to him, and—I—I—he pushed himself up against me, real close and hard—and, oh, he was just like an animal, I could—smell him! And he tried to kiss me, he kept whispering these awful, filthy things and I got scared, I yelled for Lyle! Then Lyle come running out of the back—and when the boy seen I wasn’t alone in the store, he yelled for this other boy outside and this other boy come rushing in and they both jumped on Lyle and knocked him down.

THE STATE: What made you decide not to report this incident—this unprovoked assault—to the proper authorities, Mrs. Britten?

JO: We’ve had so much trouble in this town!

THE STATE: What sort of trouble, Mrs. Britten?

JO: Why, with the colored people! We’ve got all these northern agitators coming through here all the time, and stirring them up so that you can’t hardly sleep nights!

THE STATE: Then you, as a responsible citizen of this town, were doing your best to keep down trouble? Even though you had been so brutally assaulted by a deranged northern Negro dope addict?

JO: Yes. I didn’t want to stir up no more trouble. I made Lyle keep quiet about it. I thought it would all blow over. I knew the boy’s Daddy was a preacher and that he would talk to the boy about the way he was behaving. It was all over town in a second, anyway! And look like all the colored people was on the side of that crazy boy. And Lyle’s always been real good to colored people!

THE STATE: On the evening that the alleged crime was committed—or, rather, the morning—very early on the morning of the 24th of August—where were you and your husband, Mrs. Britten?

JO: We were home. The next day we heard that the boy was missing.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: Doesn’t an attempt at sexual assault seem a rather strange thing to do, considering that your store is a public place, with people continually going in and out; that, furthermore, it is located on a public road which people use, on foot and in automobiles, all of the time; and considering that your husband, who has the reputation of being a violent man, and who is, in your own words, “mighty quick tempered,” was working in the back room?

JO: He didn’t know Lyle was back there.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: But he knew that someone was back there, for, according to your testimony, “He was hammering.”

JO: Well, I told you the boy was crazy. He had to be crazy. Or he was on that dope.

BLACKTOWN: You ever hear of a junkie trying to rape anybody?

JO: I didn’t say rape!

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: Were you struggling in Mr. Henry’s arms when your husband came out of the back room, carrying his hammer in his hand?

JO: No. I was free then.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: Therefore, your husband had only your word for the alleged attempted assault! You told him that Richard Henry had attempted to assault you? Had made sexual advances to you? Please answer, Mrs. Britten!

JO: Yes. I had—I had to—tell him. I’m his wife!

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: And a most loyal one. You told your husband that Richard Henry had attempted to assault you and then begged him to do nothing about it?

JO: That’s right.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: And though he was under the impression that his wife had been nearly raped by a Negro, he agreed to forgive and forget and do nothing about it? He agreed neither to call the law, nor to take the law into his own hands?

JO: Yes.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: Extraordinary. Mrs. Britten, you are aware that Richard Henry met his death sometime between the hours of two and five o’clock on the morning of Monday, August 24th?

JO: Yes.

COUNSEL FOR THE BEREAVED: In an earlier statement, several months ago, you stated that your husband had spent that night at the store. You now state that he came in before one o’clock and went to sleep at once. What accounts for this discrepancy?

JO: It’s natural. I made a mistake about the time. I got it mixed up with another night. He spent so many nights at that store!

JUDGE: The witness may step down.

WHITETOWN: He’s worked hard and saved his money and ain’t never had no trouble—why can’t they all be like that?

BLACKTOWN: Hey, Papa D.! You can’t be walking around here without no handkerchief! You might catch cold—after all these years!

PAPA D.: Mr. Lyle Britten—he is an oppressor. That is the only word for that man. He ain’t never give the colored man no kind of chance. I have tried to reason with that man for years. I say, Mr. Lyle, look around you. Don’t you see that most white folks have changed their way of thinking about us colored folks? I say, Mr. Lyle, we ain’t slaves no more and white folks is ready to let us have our chance. Now, why don’t you just come on up to where most of your people are? and we can make the South a fine place for all of us to live in. That’s what I say—and I tried to keep him from being so hard on the colored—because I sure do love my people. And I was the closest thing to Mr. Lyle, couldn’t nobody else reason with him. But he was hard—hard and stubborn. He say, “My folks lived and died this way, and this is the way I’m going to live and die.” When he was like that couldn’t do nothing with him. I know. I’ve known him since he was born.

WHITETOWN: He’s always been real good to you. You were friends!

BLACKTOWN: You loved him! Tell the truth, mother—tell the truth!

PAPA D.: Yes, we were friends. And, yes, I loved him—in my way. Just like he loved me—in his way.

BLACKTOWN: You knew he was going to kill that boy—didn’t you? If you knew it, why didn’t you stop him?

PAPA D.: Oh. Ain’t none of this easy. What it was, both Mr. Lyle Britten and me, we both love money. And I did a whole lot of things for him, for a long while. Once I had to help him cover up a killing—colored man—I was in too deep myself by that time—you understand? I know you all understand.

BLACKTOWN: Did he kill that boy?

PAPA D.: He come into my joint the night that boy died. The boy was alone, standing at the juke box. We’d been talking—(Richard, in the juke box light) If you think you’ve found all that, Richard—if you think you going to be well now, and you found you somebody who loves you—well, then, I would make tracks out of here. I would—

RICHARD: It’s funny, Papa D. I feel like I’m beginning to understand my life—for the first time. I can look back—and it doesn’t hurt me like it used to. I want to get Juanita out of here. This is no place for her. They’re going to kill her—if she stays here!

PAPA D.: You talk to Juanita about this yet?

RICHARD: No. I haven’t talked to nobody about it yet. I just decided it. I guess I’m deciding it now. That’s why I’m talking about it now—to you—to see if you’ll laugh at me. Do you think she’ll laugh at me?

PAPA D.: No. She won’t laugh.

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?

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.

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!

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!

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.

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. Don’t cry. Let’s go on on.

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.

MOTHER HENRY: I don’t need you to tell me I’m under oath. I been under oath all my life. And I tell you, I never saw no gun.

THE STATE: Mrs. Henry, did you ever see your grandson behaving strangely—as though he were under the influence of strong drugs?

MOTHER HENRY: No. Not since he was six and they pulled out his tonsils. They gave him ether. He didn’t act as strange as his Mama and Daddy. He just went on to sleep. But they like to had a fit. (Richard’s song) I remember the day he was born. His mother had a hard time holding him and a hard time getting him here. But here he come, in the wintertime, late and big and loud. And my boy looked down into his little son’s face and he said, “God give us a son. God’s give us a son. Lord, help us to raise him to be a good strong man.”

JUDGE: The witness may step down.

CLERK (Calls): Reverend Meridian Henry!

MERIDIAN: —And here is the prophet, Solomon, the son of David, looking down through the ages, and speaking of Christ’s love for His church. (Reads) How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! How much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! (Pause. The silhouette of girls vanishes) Oh, that it were one man, speaking to one woman!

BLACKTOWN: I wonder how he feels now about all that turn-the-other-cheek jazz. His son sure didn’t go for it.

WHITETOWN: That’s the father. Claims to be a preacher. He brought this on himself. He’s been raising trouble in this town for a long time.

THE STATE: You are Reverend Meridian Henry?

MERIDIAN: That is correct.

THE STATE: And you are the father of the late Richard Henry?

MERIDIAN: Yes.

THE STATE: You are a minister?

MERIDIAN: A Christian minister—yes.

THE STATE: And you raised your son according to the precepts of the Christian church?

MERIDIAN: I tried. But both my son and I had profound reservations concerning the behavior of Christians. He wondered why they treated black people as they do. And I was unable to give him—a satisfactory answer.

THE STATE: But certainly you—as a Christian minister—did not encourage your son to go armed?

MERIDIAN: The question never came up. He was not armed.

THE STATE: He was not armed?

MERIDIAN: No.

THE STATE: You never saw him with a gun? Or with any other weapon?

MERIDIAN: No.

THE STATE: Reverend Henry—are you in a position to swear that your son never carried arms?

MERIDIAN: Yes. I can swear to it. The only time the subject was ever mentioned he told me that he was stronger than white people and he could live without a gun.

BLACKTOWN: I bet he didn’t say how.

WHITETOWN: That liver-lipped nigger is lying. He’s lying!

THE STATE: Perhaps the difficulties your son had in accepting the Christian faith is due to your use of the pulpit as a forum for irresponsible notions concerning social equality, Reverend Henry. Perhaps the failure of the son is due to the failure of the father.

MERIDIAN: I am afraid that the gentleman flatters himself. I do not wish to see Negroes become the equal of their murderers. I wish us to become equal to ourselves. To become a people so free in themselves that they will have no need to—fear-others—and have no need to murder others.

THE STATE: You are not in the pulpit now. I am suggesting that you are responsible—directly responsible!—for your son’s tragic fate.

MERIDIAN: I know more about that than you do. But you cannot consider my son’s death to have been tragic. For you, it would have been tragic if he had lived.

THE STATE: With such a father, it is remarkable that the son lived as long as he did.

MERIDIAN: Remarkable, too, that the father lived!

THE STATE: Reverend Henry—you have been a widower for how many years?

MERIDIAN: I have been a widower for nearly eight years.

THE STATE: You are a young man still?

MERIDIAN: Are you asking me my age? I am not young.

THE STATE: You are not old. It must have demanded great discipline—

MERIDIAN: To live among you? Yes.

THE STATE: What is your relationship to the young, so-called student, Miss Juanita Harmon?

MERIDIAN: I am her old friend. I had hoped to become her father-in-law.

THE STATE: You are nothing more than old friends?

WHITETOWN: That’s right. Get it out of him. Get the truth out of him.

BLACKTOWN: Leave the man something. Leave him something!

THE STATE: You have been celibate since the death of your wife?

BLACKTOWN: He never said he was a monk, you jive mother!

WHITETOWN: Make him tell us all about it. All about it.

MERIDIAN: Celibate? How does my celibacy concern you?

THE STATE: Your Honor, will you instruct the witness that he is on the witness stand, not I, and that he must answer the questions put to him!

MERIDIAN: The questions put to him! All right. Do you accept this answer? I am a man. A man! I tried to help my son become a man. But manhood is a dangerous pursuit, here. And that pursuit undid him because of your guns, your hoses, your dogs, your judges, your law-makers, your folly, your pride, your cruelty, your cowardice, your money, your chain gangs, and your churches! Did you think it would endure forever? that we would pay for your ease forever?

BLACKTOWN: Speak, my man! Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!

WHITETOWN: Stirring up hate! Stirring up hate! A preacher—stirring up hate!

MERIDIAN: Yes! I am responsible for the death of my son. I—hoped—I prayed—I struggled—so that the world would be different by the time he was a man than it had been when he was born. And I thought that—then—when he looked at me—he would think that I—his father—had helped to change it.

THE STATE: What about those photographs your son carried about with him? Those photographs of himself and naked white women?

BLACKTOWN: Man! Would I love to look in your wallet!

WHITETOWN: Make him tell us about it, make him tell us all about it!

MERIDIAN: Photographs? My son and naked white women? He never mentioned them to me.

THE STATE: You were closer than most fathers and sons?

MERIDIAN: I never took a poll on most fathers and sons.

THE STATE: You never discussed women?

MERIDIAN: We talked about his mother. She was a woman. We talked about Miss Harmon. She is a woman. But we never talked about dirty pictures. We didn’t need that.

THE STATE: Reverend Henry, you have made us all aware that your love for your son transcends your respect for the truth or your devotion to the church. But—luckily for the truth-it is a matter of public record that your son was so dangerously deranged that it was found necessary, for his own sake, to incarcerate him. It was at the end of that incarceration that he returned to this town. We know that his life in the North was riotous—he brought that riot into this town. The evidence is overwhelming. And yet, you, a Christian minister, dare to bring us this tissue of lies in defense of a known pimp, dope addict, and rapist! You are yourself so eaten up by race hatred that no word of yours can be believed.

MERIDIAN: Your judgment of myself and my motives cannot concern me at all. I have lived with that judgment far too long. The truth cannot be heard in this dreadful place. But I will tell you again what I know. I know why my son became a dope addict. I know better than you will ever know, even if I should explain it to you for all eternity, how I am responsible for that. But I know my son was not a pimp. He respected women far too much for that. And I know he was not a rapist. Rape is hard work—and, frankly, I don’t think that the alleged object was my son’s type at all!

THE STATE: And you are a minister?

MERIDIAN: I think I may be beginning to become one.

JUDGE: The witness may step down.

PARNELL: She says I called somebody else’s name. What name could I have called? And she won’t repeat the name. Well. That’s enough to freeze the blood and arrest the holy, the liberating orgasm! Christ, how weary I am of this dull calisthenic called love—with no love in it! What name could I have called? I hope it was—a white girl’s name, anyway! Ha-ha! How still she became! And I hardly realized it, I was too far away—and then it was too late. And she was just looking at me. Jesus! To have somebody just looking at you—just looking at you—like that—at such a moment! It makes you feel—like you woke up and found yourself in bed with your mother! I tried to find out what was wrong—poor girl! But there’s nothing you can say at a moment like that—really nothing. You’re caught. Well, haven’t I kept telling her that there’s no future for her with me? There’s no future for me with anybody! But that’s all right. What name could I have called? I haven’t been with anybody else for a long time, a long time. She says I haven’t been with her, either. I guess she’s right. I’ve just been using her. Using her as an anchor—to hold me here, in this house, this bed—so I won’t find myself on the other side of town, ruining my reputation. What reputation? They all know. I swear they all know. Know what? What’s there to know? So you get drunk and you fool around a little. Come on, Parnell. There’s more to it than that. That’s the reason you draw blanks whenever you get drunk. Everything comes out. Everything. They see what you don’t dare to see. What name could I have called? Richard would say that you’ve got—black fever! Yeah, and he’d be wrong—that long, loud, black mother. I wonder if she’s asleep yet—or just lying there, looking at the walls. Poor girl! All your life you’ve been made sick, stunned, dizzy, oh, Lord! driven half mad by blackness. Blackness in front of your eyes. Boys and girls, men and women—you’ve bowed down in front of them all! And then hated yourself. Hated yourself for debasing yourself? Out with it, Parnell! The nigger-lover! Black boys and girls! I’ve wanted my hands full of them, wanted to drown them, laughing and dancing and making love—making love—wow!—and be transformed, formed, liberated out of this grey-white envelope. Jesus! I’ve always been afraid. Afraid of what I saw in their eyes? They don’t love me, certainly. You don’t love them, either! Sick with a disease only white men catch. Blackness. What is it like to be black? To look out on the world from that place? I give nothing! How dare she say that! My girl, if you knew what I’ve given! Ah. Come off it, Parnell. To whom have you given? What name did I call? What name did I call?

LYLE: You think it’s a good idea, then? You think she won’t say no?

PARNELL: Well, you’re the one who’s got to go through it. You’ve got to ask for Miss Josephine’s hand in marriage. And then you’ve got to live with her—for the rest of your life. Watch that gun. I’ve never seen you so jumpy. I might say it was a good idea if I thought she’d say no. But I think she’ll say yes.

LYLE: Why would she say yes to me?

PARNELL: I think she’s drawn to you. It isn’t hard to be—drawn to you. Don’t you know that?

LYLE: No. When I was young, I used to come here sometimes—with my Daddy. He didn’t like your Daddy a-tall! We used to steal your game, Parnell—you didn’t know that, did you?

PARNELL: I think I knew it.

LYLE: We shot at the game and your Daddy’s overseers shot at us. But we got what we came after. They never got us!

PARNELL: You’re talking an awful lot today. You nervous about Miss Josephine?

LYLE: Wait a minute. You think I ought to marry Jo?

PARNELL: I don’t know who anybody should marry. Do you want to marry Jo?

LYLE: Well—I got to marry somebody. I got to have some kids. And Jo is—clean!

PARNELL: Goddamn!

LYLE: Missed it. Ha-ha!

PARNELL: It’s probably somebody’s mother.

LYLE: Watch. (Sights, shoots) Ha-ha!

PARNELL: Bravo!

LYLE: I knew it! Had my name written on it, just as pretty as you please! (Exits, returns with his bird) See? My Daddy taught me well. It was sport for you. It was life for us.

PARNELL: I reckon you shot somebody’s baby.

LYLE: I tell you—I can’t go on like this. There comes a time in a man’s life when he’s got to have him a little—peace.

PARNELL: You mean calm. Tranquillity.

LYLE: Yeah. I didn’t mean it like it sounded. You thought I meant—no. I’m tired of—

PARNELL: Poon-tang.

LYLE: How’d you know? You tired of it, too? Hell. Yeah. I want kids.

PARNELL: Well, then—marry the girl.

LYLE: She ain’t a girl no more. It might be her last chance, too. But, I swear, Parnell, she might be the only virgin left in this town. The only white virgin. I can vouch for the fact ain’t many black ones.

PARNELL: You’ve been active, I know. Any kids?

LYLE: None that I know of. Ha-ha!

PARNELL: Do you think Jo might be upset—by the talk about you and Old Bill? She’s real respectable, you know. She’s a librarian.

LYLE: No. Them things happen every day. You think I ought to marry her? You really think she’ll say yes?

PARNELL: She’ll say yes. She’d better. I wish you luck. Name the first one after me.

LYLE: No. You be the godfather. And my best man. I’m going to name the first one after my Daddy—because he taught me more about hunting on your land than you know. I’ll give him your middle name. I’ll call him Lyle Parnell Britten, Jr.!

PARNELL: If the girl says yes.

LYLE: Well, if she says no, ain’t no problem, is there? We know where to go when the going gets rough, don’t we, old buddy?

PARNELL: Do we? Look! Mine?

LYLE: What’ll you bet?

PARNELL: The price of your wedding rings.

LYLE: You’re on. Mine? Mine!

THE STATE: You were acquainted with the late Richard Henry?

PARNELL: Of course. His father and I have been friends all our lives.

THE STATE: Close friends?

PARNELL: Yes. Very close.

THE STATE: And what is your relationship to the alleged murderer, Mr. Lyle Britten?

PARNELL: We, also, have been friends all our lives.

THE STATE: Close friends?

PARNELL: Yes.

THE STATE: As close as the friendship between yourself and the dead boy’s father?

PARNELL: I would say so—it was a very different relationship.

THE STATE: Different in what respect, Mr. James?

PARNELL: Well, we had different things to talk about. We did different things together.

THE STATE: What sort of different things?

PARNELL: Well—hunting, for example—things like that.

THE STATE: You never went hunting with Reverend Henry?

PARNELL: No. He didn’t like to hunt.

THE STATE: He told you so? He told you that he didn’t like to hunt?

PARNELL: The question never came up. We led very different lives.

THE STATE: I am gratified to hear it. Is it not true, Mr. James, that it is impossible for any two people to go on a hunting trip together if either of them has any reason at all to distrust the other?

PARNELL: Well, of course that would have to be true. But it’s never talked about—it’s just understood.

THE STATE: We can conclude, then, that you were willing to trust Lyle Britten with your life but did not feel the same trust in Reverend Henry?

PARNELL: Sir, you may not draw any such conclusion! I have told you that Reverend Henry and I led very different lives!

THE STATE: But you have been friends all your lives. Reverend Henry is also a southern boy—he, also, I am sure, knows and loves this land, has gone swimming and fishing in her streams and rivers, and stalked game in her forests. And yet, close as you are, you have never allowed yourself to be alone with Reverend Henry when Reverend Henry had a gun. Doesn’t this suggest some lack—in your vaunted friendship?

PARNELL: Your suggestion is unwarranted and unworthy. As a soldier, I have often been alone with Negroes with guns, and it certainly never caused me any uneasiness.

THE STATE: But you were fighting a common enemy then. What was your impression of the late Richard Henry?

PARNELL: I liked him. He was very outspoken and perhaps tactless, but a very valuable person.

THE STATE: How would you describe his effect on this town? Among his own people? Among the whites?

PARNELL: His effect? He was pretty well liked.

THE STATE: That does not answer my question.

PARNELL: His effect was—kind of unsettling, I suppose. After all, he had lived in the North a long time, he wasn’t used to—the way we do things down here.

THE STATE: He was accustomed to the way things are done in the North—where he learned to carry arms, to take dope, and to couple with white women!

PARNELL: I cannot testify to any of that, sir. I can only repeat that he reacted with great intensity to the racial situation in this town, and his effect on the town was, to that extent, unsettling.

THE STATE: Did he not encourage the Negroes of this town to arm?

PARNELL: Not to my knowledge, sir, no. And, in any case, they are not armed.

THE STATE: You are in a position to reassure us on this point?

PARNELL: My friends do not lie.

THE STATE: You are remarkably fortunate. You are aware of the attitude of the late Richard Henry toward white women? You saw the photographs he carried about with him?

PARNELL: We never discussed women. I never saw the photographs.

THE STATE: But you knew of their existence?

PARNELL: They were not obscene. They were simply snapshots of people he had known in the North.

THE STATE: Snapshots of white women?

PARNELL: Yes.

THE STATE: You are the first witness to admit the existence of these photographs, Mr. James.

PARNELL: It is very likely that the other witnesses never saw them. The boy had been discouraged, very early on, from mentioning them or showing them about.

THE STATE: Discouraged by whom?

PARNELL: Why—by—me.

THE STATE: But you never saw the photographs—

PARNELL: I told him I didn’t want to see them and that it would be dangerous to carry them about.

THE STATE: He showed these photographs to you, but to no one else?

PARNELL: That would seem to be the case, yes.

THE STATE: What was his motive in taking you into his confidence?

PARNELL: Bravado. He wanted me to know that he had white friends in the North, that—he had been happy—in the North.

THE STATE: You did not tell his father? You did not warn your close friend?

PARNELL: I am sure that Richard never mentioned these photographs to his father. He would have been too ashamed. Those women were beneath him.

THE STATE: A white woman who surrenders to a colored man is beneath all human consideration. She has wantonly and deliberately defiled the temple of the Holy Ghost. It is clear to me that the effect of such a boy on this town was irresponsible and incendiary to the greatest degree. Did you not find your close friendship with Reverend Henry somewhat strained by the son’s attempt to rape the wife of your other close friend, Lyle Britten?

PARNELL: This attempt was never mentioned before—before today.

THE STATE: You are as close as you claim to the Britten family and knew nothing of this attempted rape? How do you explain that?

PARNELL: I cannot explain it.

THE STATE: This is a court of law, Mr. James, and we will have the truth!

WHITETOWN: Make him tell the truth!

BLACKTOWN: Make him tell the truth!

THE STATE: How can you be the close friend you claim to be of the Britten family and not have known of so grave an event?

PARNELL: I—I knew of a fight. It was understood that the boy had gone to Mr. Britten’s store looking for a fight. I—I cannot explain that, either.

THE STATE: Who told you of the fight?

PARNELL: Why—Mr. Britten.

THE STATE: And did not tell you that Richard Henry had attempted to assault his wife? Come, Mr. James!

PARNELL: We were all very much upset. Perhaps he was not as coherent as he might have been—perhaps I failed to listen closely. It was my assumption that Mrs. Britten had misconstrued the boy’s actions—he had been in the North a long time, his manner was very free and bold.

THE STATE: Mrs. Britten has testified that Richard Henry grabbed her and pulled her to him and tried to kiss her. How can those actions be misconstrued?

PARNELL: Those actions are—quite explicit.

THE STATE: Thank you, Mr. James. That is all.

JUDGE: The witness may step down.

LYLE: I wonder what he’ll grow up to look like. Of course, it might be a girl. I reckon I wouldn’t mind—just keep on trying till I get me a boy, ha-ha! Old Miss Josephine is something, ain’t she? I really struck oil when I come across her. She’s a nice woman. And she’s my woman—I ain’t got to worry about that a-tall! You’re making big changes in your life, Lyle, and you got to be ready to take on this extra responsibility. Shoot, I’m ready. I know what I’m doing. And I’m going to work harder than I’ve ever worked before in my life to make Jo happy—and keep her happy—and raise our children to be fine men and women. Lord, you know I’m not a praying man. I’ve done a lot of wrong things in my life and I ain’t never going to be perfect. I know You know that. I know You understand that. But, Lord, hear me today and help me to do what I’m supposed to do. I want to be as strong as my Mama and Daddy and raise my children like they raised me. That’s what I want, oh Lord. In a few years I’ll be walking here, showing my son these trees and this water and this sky. He’ll have his hand in my hand, and I’ll show him the world. Isn’t that a funny thing! He don’t even exist yet—he’s just an egg in his mother’s belly, I bet you couldn’t even find him with a microscope—and I put him there—and he’s coming out soon—with fingers and toes and eyes—and by and by, he’ll learn to walk and talk—and I reckon I’ll have to spank him sometime—if he’s anything like me, I know I will. Isn’t that something! My son! Hurry up and get here, so I can hug you in my arms and give you a good start on your long journey!

JUDGE: Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?

FOREMAN: We have, Your Honor.

JUDGE: Will the prisoner please rise?

JO: Let’s get out of here and go home. We’ve been here just for days. I wouldn’t care if I never saw the insides of a courtroom again! Let’s go home, sugar. We got something to celebrate!

JUANITA: We, too, must go—to another celebration. We’re having a prayer meeting on the City Hall steps.

LORENZO: Prayer meeting!

LYLE: Well, it was touch and go there for awhile, Parnell, but you sure come through. I knew you would.

JO: Let’s go, Lyle. The baby’s hungry.

MERIDIAN: Perhaps now you can ask him to tell you the truth. He’s got nothing to lose now. They can’t try him again.

LYLE: Wasn’t much sense in trying me now, this time, was there, Reverend? These people have been knowing me and my good Jo here all our lives, they ain’t going to doubt us. And you people—you people—ought to have better sense and more things to do than running around stirring up all this hate and trouble. That’s how your son got himself killed. He listened to crazy niggers like you!

MERIDIAN: Did you kill him?

LYLE: They just asked me that in court, didn’t they? And they just decided I didn’t, didn’t they? Well, that’s good enough for me and all those white people and so it damn sure better be good enough for you!

PARNELL: That’s no answer. It’s not good enough for me.

LYLE: What do you mean, that’s no answer? Why isn’t it an answer? Why isn’t it good enough for you? You know, when you were up on the stand right now, you acted like you doubted my Jo’s word. You got no right to doubt Jo’s word. You ain’t no better than she is! You ain’t no better than me!

PARNELL: I am aware of that. God knows I have been made aware of that—for the first time in my life. But, as you and I will never be the same again—since our comedy is finished, since I have failed you so badly—let me say this. I did not doubt Jo’s word. I knew that she was lying and that you had made her lie. That was a terrible thing to do to her. It was a terrible thing that I just did to you. I really don’t know if what I did to Meridian was as awful as what I did to you. I don’t expect forgiveness, Meridian. I only hope that all of us will suffer past this agony and horror.

LYLE: What’s the matter with you? Have you forgotten you a white man? A white man! My Daddy told me not to never forget I was a white man! Here I been knowing you all my life—and now I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed of you! Get on over to niggertown! I’m going home with my good wife.

MERIDIAN: What was the last thing my son said to you—before you shot him down—like a dog?

LYLE: Like a dog! You a smart nigger, ain’t you?

MERIDIAN: What was the last thing he said? Did he beg you for his life?

LYLE: That nigger! He was too smart for that! He was too full of himself for that! He must have thought he was white. And I gave him every chance—every chance—to live!

MERIDIAN: And he refused them all.

LYLE: Do you know what that nigger said to me?

RICHARD: I’m ready. Here I am. You asked me if I was ready, didn’t you? What’s on your mind, white man?

LYLE: Boy, I always treated you with respect. I don’t know what’s the matter with you, or what makes you act the way you do—but you owe me an apology and I come out here tonight to get it. I mean, I ain’t going away without it.

RICHARD: I owe you an apology! That’s a wild idea. What am I apologizing for?

LYLE: You know, you mighty lucky to still be walking around.

RICHARD: So are you. White man.

LYLE: I’d like you to apologize for your behavior in my store that day. Now, I think I’m being pretty reasonable, ain’t I?

RICHARD: You got anything to write on? I’ll write you an IOU.

LYLE: Keep it up. You going to be laughing out of the other side of your mouth pretty soon.

RICHARD: Why don’t you go home? And let me go home? Do we need all this shit? Can’t we live without it?

LYLE: Boy, are you drunk?

RICHARD: No, I ain’t drunk. I’m just tired. Tired of all this fighting. What are you trying to prove? What am I trying to prove?

LYLE: I’m trying to give you a break. You too dumb to take it.

RICHARD: I’m hip. You been trying to give me a break for a great, long time. But there’s only one break I want. And you won’t give me that.

LYLE: What kind of break do you want, boy?

RICHARD: For you to go home. And let me go home. I got things to do. I got—lots of things to do!

LYLE: I got things to do, too. I’d like to get home, too.

RICHARD: Then why are we standing here? Can’t we walk? Let me walk, white man! Let me walk!

LYLE: We can walk, just as soon as we get our business settled.

RICHARD: It’s settled. You a man and I’m a man. Let’s walk.

LYLE: Nigger, you was born down here. Ain’t you never said sir to a white man?

RICHARD: No. The only person I ever said sir to was my Daddy.

LYLE: Are you going to apologize to me?

RICHARD: No.

LYLE: Do you want to live?

RICHARD: Yes.

LYLE: Then you know what to do, then, don’t you?

RICHARD: Go home. Go home.

LYLE: You facing my gun. (Produces it) Now, in just a minute, we can both go home.

RICHARD: You sick mother! Why can’t you leave me alone? White man! I don’t want nothing from you. You ain’t got nothing to give me. You can’t eat because none of your sad-assed chicks can cook. You can’t talk because won’t nobody talk to you. You can’t dance because you’ve got nobody to dance with—don’t you know I’ve watched you all my life? All my life! And I know your women, don’t you think I don’t—better than you!

ACT III