Corky’s Brother

IT HAD STARTED RAINING again, a thin mist-like drizzle through which the workers passed as they filed slowly into the Indiana Auto Works, droning conversation to each other. In the few minutes when most of the men on the first shift were washing up and the second shift had not yet started, the usual fierce noises had subsided to a dull rumble.

Josh walked to his locker and changed from his neatly pressed black double-breasted suit to his factory clothes. When he arrived at his three-cornered stool, next to his welding press, the paper was already there:

APPLICATION FOR THE NAACP

Name (to best of your knowledge): ....................

Mother’s name: ....................................

Father’s name (list first three possibilities): 1.............

2...................... 3......................

Place of birth (check one):

1. County Hospital....... 4. Cotton patch.........

2. Belgian Congo........ 5. Bathroom............

3. Swamp.............. 6. Brothel..............

Number of children (approximate): ......

Number of gold teeth: ......

Number of wives (including those legally married): ......

Age (to nearest 5-year figure): ........

Species (check one): Big Black Buck........

Boogie Brown........Sambo Tan........

How often do you have your hair straightened?..........

List three most prominent identifying scars: 1...........

2...................... 3......................

Make of car (check one): Buick.......Cadillac.......

Number of Payments made: One.... Two .... Three....

Cost of accessories (don’t count first $200): .............

Number of suits owned: .... Number of lucky charms: ....

Number of TV sets: .......Color of favorite hat: .......

Do you prefer a razor or switchblade?.................

Length of blade: ................

Court convictions (list number of times): 1. Burglary.....

2. Rape........3. Car theft........4. Other........

How many hours a day are you usually sober? None......

One or two...... More than two......

How many loan and finance companies are you indebted to?

(roughly): ........................................

What was the last job you held for more than six months?

(pimping doesn’t count) ............................

If you were given passage and $5 would you go back to Africa?..........................

How do you prefer to be addressed? (check one):

Daddy-o.....Like man.....Blackie.....Shine.....

Nigger-boy.....Coon.....Hey Jig.....

So that the fight between Emmett and Josh that everybody had been anticipating for three years finally came. It had been brewing slowly, simmering, aging, until the moment came when both were ready to make their immense stores of inner hatred visible, tangible, explosive to themselves and to each other. It was only waiting for an excuse befitting the amount of hatred in each. Just any excuse wouldn’t do. Over the years the workers had often speculated about the fight—how it would come, when it would come, who would win, what implements of battle would be used. Around the toilets, in the cafeteria, the Union Hall, in local taverns, at the Coke and coffee machines, and even in the foremen’s offices and toilets and dining room, the speculation went on, coming up every now and then as a topic of conversation, a natural remark passed as a part of the day’s work—another item to relieve the monotony of the work, to vary tried, tested, and tired conversation pieces as the half-assembled trucks moved down the lines.

Emmett had been open about his hatred. “He makes my blood boil,” he would say. “Some day I’m gonna break his ass. The way he never says nothin’ but looks at ya like he’d spit on ya and now wanted ya to beg his pardon fer bein’ in the way o’ his spit—black bastard. I’d give a month’s pay for a chance to bloody that skin o’his…”

Josh never said anything. But in his mind, behind his blood-veined eyes, simmering beneath his haughty, dignified, proud demeanor, he hated Emmett every bit as much as Emmett hated him.

Not even the few friends he had knew the depths of his hatred. But day after day, sitting on his three-cornered stool, pressing the buttons that made the top half of the press meet the bottom and weld the two door sections together, he had his eye on Emmett. And he vowed to himself that if he ever killed a white man it would be Emmett Rumple. Because in Em-mett’s eyes he saw that look of savage disgust he remembered from his childhood, from the white men of Bullett and Troy (Alabama) when a nigger “forgot his place,” that supercilious hateful glare, mixed with, arising from, fear of niggers like Josh who wouldn’t stay in their place but assumed the walk and talk and attitude of any man.

He wondered now. Exactly when was it that he had made his vow? When he was already on the bus heading north? When he was working in the garage? When he’d left school? When he was twelve years old and his father had strapped him for talking back to a white man? He didn’t remember and it didn’t matter. It might have been at fourteen and it might have been at forty. Or it might have been none of those times. That was more likely. It was more likely that the vow had never been made but had simply been there; the vow that some day he would pick out a single white man, would select him. Many nights, walking the streets of the Indiana city, he’d seen men who almost qualified. He’d hated them all, and had almost hated those who’d smiled at him or nodded to him more than those who ignored him.

Long nights alone in his apartment, the thought had kept him alive. In fact, he knew that if the thought hadn’t been there during those nights, hadn’t sustained itself through wonderful dreams of revenge and blood, he’d have been in many fights long before this. Fortunately, though, he’d noticed the way Emmett had looked at him one day. Not indifference in that look. It was the look, the face, that could fill the dreams; and daytime, thinking of Emmett, of spreading his white man’s blood on the coal-black floor of the factory, Josh had developed the twitching habit of touching his side pocket to feel the knife, of laughing. Aloud. He knew many of the men mocked the habit and the laugh, but he didn’t care. He’d have the last laugh.

Now, as he began reading the piece of paper, he laughed again. When he looked up, most of the men on his assembly line were already in their places.

“Get me my relief man,” Josh said to his foreman, not waiting to get an O.K. from the foreman but already walking in Emmett’s direction, the paper now folded in one hand, the other hand loose at his side, itching for the pocket.

“Whaddaya mean? Hey, Russell! Where you going? Come back here. We gotta get the line started up. Goddamn you—I said come back or I’ll slap a reprimand on you.…”

Emmett heard him approaching (he was leaning over his toolbox, getting out his electrician’s holster), but he didn’t look up.

“I’m thinking you left somethin’ over by my chair, mister,” Josh said, his voice low, cracking just a bit with nervousness.

“What?” Emmett said, looking up and seeing Josh’s eyes gleaming at him as if there were little flashlight bulbs behind the lenses. For the first time he seemed to notice Josh’s size, his hulking broad body. But he’ll be slow, Emmett thought, and if I have a little room I’ll be too quick for him. And too smart. This nigger can’t be as smart as he tries to put on. “You ad-dressin’ me?”

“Well, as far as I can figger, I ain’t fergot nothin’. You better be gettin’ to work.”

Emmett strapped on his holster and turned, walking out into the aisle toward the intersection, where there would be more room. He passed Jim Bryant, his buddy, and winked. Already the men in the vicinity had stopped whatever they were doing and were waiting, their eyes eager for the violence they anticipated. Within a minute, by the time Emmett had reached the intersection of the aisles, men were closing around, and groups of Negroes sauntered slowly over, already hearing the whispers that the fight between Em and Josh had come.

Josh followed Emmett, not hurrying, knowing that Emmett wanted to fight, to get it over with also.

“Hold it there, mister,” Josh said. “I was talkin’ to you. I haven’t finished.”

“What else ya got to say?” Emmett said, turning on Josh, a slight smile at the comer of his mouth, his hand resting on the hammer that hung in his holster.

“Oh, this—?” Emmett said, and laughed for the benefit of the men circled round them. A mule driver honked to get through but stopped as soon as he saw the two men facing each other. “I didn’t forget it. I figgered I was doin’ ya a favor. Figgered ya might be interested in fillin’ it out.”

One of the men started to laugh but stopped quickly, noticing a group of Negro workers to his right.

“Ya mean ya got it filled out already? You’re pretty smart fer a—f er a—”

“Nobody treats me like dirt, mister,” Josh said, moving slowly forward. The circle around them was wide now, fifteen feet in diameter.

“Any o’ you boys wanna bet?” Jim Bryant said to a group of Negro workers. “I got fifteen bucks I’d like to double.”

“Nobody pushes me around, mister,” Josh said. He thrust his arm forward, the application clenched in his fist. Emmett started back, whipping the hammer out of his holster. Betting stopped. “You better say you’re sorry and bend down and pick up this thing and tear it up or I’ll cut you from your belly button to the tip of your ugly head.”

Josh tossed the piece of paper in front of him. Emmett rubbed his palms with his fingertips. Wet. But nobody’d make him cower before a nigger. Not in front of all the men.

He held the hammer in his hand as he began to bend over in front of Josh. But then, his body bent over, his hand darted up suddenly in whiplash and the hammer glanced off Josh’s cheek, red blood showing immediately on the black perforated face. With his other arm he grabbed Josh’s leg behind the knee and tripped him, falling upon him and raising the hammer to his full arm’s length and starting it in its downward arc, but never landing another blow because even while Josh was falling backward he had slipped it out of his pocket and as Emmett fell on top of him you could hear the intake of breath as every last man saw the light flash, glint from the switchblade.

Emmett rolled off Josh, clutching at his stomach, and Josh stood up and bent his shoulders down, the knife now visible to all, its silver blade tipped with a dripping of blood, crimson and liquid. Emmett backed away, breathing in deeply, cursing under his breath, gasping.

“Gimme yer bottle o’ whiskey, Jim. Damn it. Where are ya? Gimme yer bottle.”

Bryant reached into his side pocket. He took the bottle out of its paper bag and handed it to Emmett. Emmett took a quick swallow and moved backwards along the rim of the circle, watching, waiting, while Josh just glared and followed him with his eyes, not saying a word; but even Emmett could read the expression in his eyes now. Emmett looked to the side and lifted the bottle, bringing it down with a gurgling crash against a post.

“We’re even now, big man,” he said, dropping the hammer to the floor and holding the jagged edges of the bottle forward. “Yer yeller’ll show now.”

Emmett smiled now, despite the pain that seemed to be somewhere in his back, pulling down and ripping, but he smiled because he felt the worst was over. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to get that close again. Because Josh might be fast with that knife, but he’d be slow otherwise, like all niggers, slow at everything except running. Them nigger boys could run. That was one thing. Like when they used to hell up down in Louisville when he was a kid and get one of them alone and paint on him in white: Keep this nigger running. Keep this nigger running.

Emmett lunged forward, but Josh parried with his forearm and they backed away from each other. Good, Emmett thought. I’ll set him up. He lunged again, and again Josh parried with a sweep of his arm, cutting Emmett’s sleeve with the knife. Emmett backed away and then came forward a third time and lunged. Josh went to parry, but before he could, Emmett had ducked his head and his hand wasn’t there when Josh’s arm went flailing out to meet it. Instead, Emmett’s fake had worked and he had ducked his head and had come plowing into Josh’s midsection, the glass edges aimed for Josh’s groin. In missing Emmett, though, Josh stumbled and avoided the brunt of Emmett’s charge, so that the broken bottle ripped into his thigh and with his left hand Josh clubbed the top of Emmett’s head as he went by. Emmett fell to the floor.

The broken bottle slid across the floor and shattered. Josh moved in for the kill now, hulking above Emmett.

“Who’s got a knife?” Jim Bryant asked. He turned toward two Negroes. “One of you got a knife or a razor?”

The boys looked at each other, then one of them shrugged, reached into his pocket, and flipped a knife into the open circle. Josh kicked it at Emmett, who picked it up and rose to one knee. Josh moved forward slowly, wary now. Emmett watched him, seeing two Joshes as his head refused to clear. He flicked the knife open and waited. The two black faces merged into one and then separated, then merged again. There was a dull ache at the back of his head and his legs felt cold and damp. Above him he saw the black figure coming and he began to lift up from his knee but then everything went blank and the only thing he remembered was being thrown back down and then the sound of something dull, like punching against a sponge, and a warm, liquid feeling all over him, a quiet, almost peaceful feeling, doubled up, his knees trying to reach his chest, his arms rigid, straining.

Josh saw his chance and was on Emmett before he could rise, knocking away the knife and crashing his body against him, driving the knife up to its hilt into the flesh of Emmett Rumple. Satisfaction came with the plunge and he licked his lips and there was no world for him in that instant but only a pale white face before him, under him, and the knife red, withdrawn from the soft bodyflesh, and now a speck of blood on that white face and now another and the eyes that had hated him all these years started to close. Then he hesitated. The factory was still: a hush, funeral quiet in which the workers paid their respects to the act they were waiting for him to conclude.

The silence startled him; he wouldn’t be satisfied! It seemed impossible. It hardly seemed fair. The thought terrified him and his body hurried to carry out the execution; but in the backlash his mind had already reverted, and he was utterly disappointed, petulant, child-like—and he knew it was all over for him. The knife hung in the air, and seeing it there, seeing the doubt on his face, Jim Bryant took advantage and rushed into the circle, knocking him away. Nobody said anything, or even began to collect on the bets. They just stood there, staring, quiet.