Delvin wanted to run back and put a stop — to what? To the painful feeling, some painful feeling. Make Winston pull himself together. Something in him felt like beating the poor fissle til he quit crawling. Felt like hauling him to safety.
The men walked away from the half-wrecked boy. The women hooted at him from the steps, shaking their flimsy morning skirts.
The boy gathered himself and got to his feet.
Joe stepped up and gave him a kick in the ass, sending him stumbling into a trot that carried him right at Delvin who stepped back to let him pass. As he did he smelled again the odor of shit, now augmented with the wet, sour-smelling dirt.
The boy fumbled at the low side gate of unpainted wood palings that separated the back from the front yard. Delvin came up behind him and snagged the latch for him and swung the gate open. The boy looked wildly at him, his pale eyes blinking in the light that had always seemed too much for them.
“I just wanted to get down in the dim spot,” he said.
Delvin didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.
“You didn’t have to pull me out of there.”
“Yes I did.”
With the side of one finger Morgred scratched his eyebrows hard and then he screwed his eyes tight shut and opened them. His eyelashes were orange like his hair.
“You got a dime?”
Delvin started to say no but then he said, “I got one.”
“Let me have it. I got to get me somethin to eat.”
“Way you look nobody’d sell you anything if you had five dollars.”
“Let me have the dime.”
“I tell you,” Delvin said suddenly, and it was as if he had fallen through a shaky patch of leaf shade, “you follow on behind me to the house.”
“To the undertaker? I’m scared to go there.”
“You’re safer there than anywhere else I can think of.”
The boy dropped his eyes then looked quickly up as if trying to catch Delvin in some piddling joke at his expense. Delvin could see he was done in, that he had no other place to go.
“Just lope on along behind,” he said.
He started out across the street and ran along the dirt path that served as a sidewalk in Red Row and turned right onto Sweet August street running fast. In his mind he didn’t know if he was leading the boy or trying to lose him; maybe both. Children played in a puddle under the big gum tree that stretched heavy, grooved branches over the dirt street and humped it up out in the middle with its roots. Delvin gave the children a sharp eye as he passed but still he could hear them hooting at Morgred as he came along. The path went up a plank step to the section of wooden sidewalk in front of New Big Bethel Baptist church. The wooden portion ran along the rest of the block and dipped down again two steps into the street.
Delvin ran steadily and he only looked twice to see if the boy was still with him; he was, both times, straggling but coming on in a half-lame trotting style, holding his pant remnants up with one hand and his pale squinting eyes looking squarely at him.
They came up the alley from wind-flecked Brocade street. Delvin checked off the flimsy leaves of chinese elms hanging over the board alley fence of the Askew house and then the great blanket of cherokee roses sagging from the crumbling brick fence of the Lewis house, running. Then came backyards opening directly on the alley, exposing gray- and yellow-streaked red packed dirt yards stacked with boxes or old horse collars or fragments of no longer identifiable machinery, pump parts or busted forge buckets or pieces of streetcar undercarriage or canvas-covered piles of plaster or old weathervanes — roosters or codfish or racehorses — and, in each yard, lines of washing; raised among these like guardhouses were the neighbors’ wash sheds and kitchens emitting mixed and penetrating smells of lye and raw ashes and boiled pork-fortified greens and cornmeal and brushwood fires. He checked these off and he checked off old Mr. Berke petting his blind german police dog and Mrs. Sanderson accompanying her tiny triplet daughters sitting side by side tied into a little blue wagon and Billy Batts who wore his engineer’s cap at all times and sang sorrow songs as he dug holes in his yard searching for confederate gold and Mrs. Opel and Mrs. Crawford, the former dancing twins, not dancing this afternoon, and a couple of the Pursleys who all looked exactly alike and Mrs. Vereen carrying on a big tray several of the fruit pies she baked and sold at the market over on Leopardi street on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and he checked off Mr. Campson who was home sick from the grocery store he owned at the edge of the chinese quarter, and Biddy Comber, the retired boxer, once a sparring partner for Jack Johnson and father of James who loved only the piano, Biddy standing in the center of his yard staring up into a pecan tree as if from there the Second Coming might commence. Hello and hello and hello. Hidy, yall, he said, checking each one off.
He already felt trailed — hunted really — by the boy loping behind him. He wished he hadn’t said anything to him. The Ghost. He gave him an angry look. Elta Napier, a girl his age, stood out in her yard stringing ragged shirts on the washline. She wore a white shift that dragged up her thighs as she reached to pin a fluttering gray shirt. Delvin wanted to leave his self-appointed duty and go speak to Elta. Her thick hair was tied around with a pale blue cloth. His heart took a leap; it was a day, he thought, for heart leaping. He wanted to rush across the yard and push Elta to the ground. He wanted to fly to her and kneel on the packed and swept dirt at her feet. He slowed down, stopped and gave her a wave; Elta waved back without looking at him.
The boy came and stood close enough behind so Delvin could smell him.
“I thought you was going to show me a place.”
“We’re on our way to it now,” he said without looking at him. “I thought I told you to hang back.”
“I got to lie down.”
“Well come on then.”
He led him to the shed and piled a bed of straw for him in one of the unused stalls. As Delvin worked, the boy watched without offering to help, an impatient, grieving look on his face. The two horses shifted uneasily. The big gray nickered at him and Delvin stroked his nose. “Yall be friendly,” he said to the pair.
“You can camp here,” he told the boy. “I’ll go up to the house and get you something to eat.”
Willie and the yardboy Elmer were nowhere about and Delvin wondered where they’d gotten off to. No one was in the kitchen either. Delvin went into the pantry and made up a basket of food from the array of delectables they had received from the two funerals Oliver had presided over earlier in the week. The pantry was always stocked with a bounty — layer cakes and big yellow hams and roasts in gelatin and eggy puddings and covered casseroles and blueberry and huckleberry pies and tureens of soup covered with cheesecloth. Delvin made a couple of ham and roast beef sandwiches on thick slices of white bread he cut from a long loaf. He filled a bowl with Brunswick stew made by Mrs. Constable Brown to serve at the funeral of her husband Harry J, the bullying boss of a negro road crew working out on the Capital highway.
Where was everybody? He went out to the dining room and stood listening. In the big enameled tin plates propped along the chair rail Delvin could make out his distorted reflection. No sound in the house except for the hollow ticking of the big clock in the hall and the finches Mr. Oliver kept in the big cage in his office. The birds peeped and rustled and the familiar sound seemed the sound of the house itself. Then he picked up the low sound of voices coming from the workrooms downstairs. He went back through the pantry into the kitchen and down the back stairs where he met Mrs. Parker coming up. She was wiping tears with her apron.