That was all Barry said.
He put down the microphone, and he left the platform, and the children began to mill around as he descended. Then he joined them and, as a unit, they left the General Assembly chamber.
In a few minutes, they were gone, as quickly as they had come.
What happened next was pandemonium. A pandemonium of laughter. The Russian delegation began, and in a few moments it had spread till the entire room was a bonfire of mirth. The Russians begged to speak and when their representative rose he said this was a poor, shabby trick for the Americans to pull, and that it changed no one’s mind, except that perhaps the Yankees were greater fools than the world had thought.
The US representative accused the Russians.
The Chinese accused the British.
The French accused the Germans.
Bedlam was the order of the day.
And the next day …
And the next …
But on the fourth day, there was no bedlam, because the wars in Europe, Africa and Asia simultaneously escalated. They didn’t last long, however. On the same day, wherever anyone might have been … whether in a bathtub, or on a desert, or in a jungle, or on a mountain-top, they heard the sounds.
The sound that came from everywhere, and nowhere and no place all at the same time. The sound that might have been monstrous ships of space, though no one ever saw them, or saw fire trails in the sky, or anything else. The sound that might have been space tearing and shifting and warping to allow passage.
The sound might have been anything.
Though no one cares too much to find out; no one has been able to think straight since it happened.
On that day, they left.
Where, we do not know. How, we do not know. But they made good their warning. We played the Pied Piper, and we played the wrong tune.
Our children have gone.
It has been a long, long time, and I have not seen my son. It was inevitable that there would be no more sons … or daughters … no children born; that seems to fit, ironically.
We have no children, and we miss them, but we haven’t too much time to worry about it now. After all, there is a war on.
Ten: White Trash Don’t Exist
“White Trash don’t exist! Am I right?”
It was Mister Herm Cressman, startin’ in on me again, and I hunkered down near the jukebox with my slop-pail and my brush. I didn’t want Mr. Herm to see me … ’cept I knew he already had, if he was yellin’ that business about me not existin’.
I knew all right. He was wantin’ to do me ever since I come to work at the Deepwater Cafe. He was standin’ there in the middle of the cafe, with his big old sod-boot on the brass rail, and holdin’ his beer mug ’way up high. He looked like he was callin’ the most important thing in the world, and he yelled it again:
“White trash don’t eat, right?”
An’ all them bar loafers who didn’t want to get in bad with big Mr. Herm, they chimed right back at him. “You right, Herm!”
“White trash don’t breathe!”
“Right!”
“White trash just don’t even exist.”
“Yeahhh, you right, Herm!”
They had to say it; they was afraid not to, with him ownin’ the factory and all and being big besides. That would start him off. He slammed the mug on the bar, spillin’ beer all over for Poppa Jango to wipe up, then he stomped all over where I was scrubbin’ on my hands and knees. He yelled down, “White trash don’t even eat. Right, scum-boy?”
My name is Charles Bennett, but he meant me. I always knew that. I’d never answer. I’d learned.
Then, he gave me a nasty little almost-laugh like I was yellow, an’ just stepped on my hand and spit in my hair and kicked the soap-water bucket over before walkin’ away.
I knew my place, sure enough. You got to be poor and miserable all your life to know what it’s all about. If you ain’t, then don’t even try. You wouldn’t understand none of what I’m tellin’ you, how people never talk to you, they just talk at you. Like they needed all their eyesight to make you out. Like all they could see was the top inch layer of you. That’s how they all looked at me anyways, Mr. Herm ’specially. He hated me clean through. I din’t want trouble. No sir, no trouble.
I guess I was scared right from the start. Then Poppa Jango called me into the storeroom out back of the Deepwater Cafe to warn me, and he was lookin’ all frog-belly white with scare himself. “Charles,” he said, “that Herm Cressman is out for you, boy.”
“I know,” I said, wishin’ I didn’t.
Poppa nodded his head like we’d made a good start on a tough problem, and all the while his face was puckered like a new-born baby. “Good,” he said, soft-like. “But he’s settin’ Lottie on you — to fire you up!”
Then I felt surprised, much as scared, ’cause I’d always stayed far from Miss Lottie, the waitress. She never bothered me much neither, except once or twice to clean up behind the jukebox if I forgot to move it.
“What you mean?” I asked Poppa.
“You know Herm’s been cheatin’ on his wife with Lottie.” He said it like I should know it. Everyone knew it. Those two made up to each other in the back booth at the Deepwater and they didn’t care who saw it. Otherwise Poppa Jango wouldn’t of said nothing. He’s a good man who don’t spread gossip.
I nodded my head like to say yes.
“Well, Herm’s told her he’d take her to New Orleans for a week if she pushed you into makin’ a move on her. I guess he just wants an excuse to do ya, Charles.”
I didn’t wanna believe him, but Poppa was meaning it. Why, makin’ a move on Mister Herm’s woman would be just like killin’ myself sure; an’ I wouldn’t kill myself. Then Poppa told me again, real clear like, so’s there wouldn’t be no mistaking. Miss Lottie was gonna smile all over me and brush me and call me like everything till I got so hungry I’d reach at her. And she could do it too. She was like that. I seen men go almost crazy at the sight of her on some Saturday nights in the Deepwater. She’d set that brown, fluffy hair on top her head like a scoop of brown soapsuds that’s about ready to fly off, and wear those pearl things around that white neck of hers. And she was always about to bust out of her clothes. Like one of the men said once, she might be tall and slim but Lottie’s meaty in all the right places. She really got to men all right. I’ve seen them get tossed right out into the mud in the street by Mister Herm ’cause they made a grab for her skirt when she passed by. She was that bad.
“What I’m gone do, Poppa Jango?”
He looked at me like I should know how to melt and said, “Go away, Charles. He hates you. He’ll go real far to do you. Leave Deepwater — go North. You’d have a better chance there anyway. You’re a smart boy.”
I liked what he said, but I din’t believe him. And I knew he din’t believe it neither. I’m real slow, I am. Then I got all confused. I kept thinkin’ of Mam. Mam would never go. She was born in that shack what Daddy built and we lived in and she was bound to die there. That was her wish an’ she wouldn’t do nothin’ else. All she wanted was the swamp smell, the bright birds that flew over the shack, and her pint. And I wasn’t gonna foul it up none.
“No.” I shook my head. “I got to stay with Mam.”
Poppa reached down to me then, grabbed my big arm muscle high up, looked me close. “Then you got to stay far away from Lottie, Charles. She’ll do it for Herm Cressman. She don’t love him, she couldn’t love nobody, that woman — but he’s got the money to take her where she wants to go and you know how he hates you.”