Part 13 (1/2)

George wouldn't answer. He went to sleep.

She got up at four o'clock in the morning and waked everybody in the family. Their Dad built a fire in the front room and then let them go into the Christmas tree and see what they got. George had an Indian suit and Ralph a rubber doll. The rest of the family just got clothes. She looked all through her stocking for the Mickey Mouse watch but it wasn't there. Her presents were a pair of brown Oxford shoes and a box of cherry candy. While it was still dark she and George went out on the sidewalk and cracked n.i.g.g.e.r-toes and shot firecrackers and ate up the whole two-layer box of cherry candy. And by the time it was daylight they were sick to the stomach and tired out. She lay down on die sofa. She shut her eyes and went into the inside room.

EIGHT o'clock Doctor Copeland sat at his desk, studying a sheaf of papers by the bleak morning light from the window.

Beside him the tree, a thick-fringed cedar, rose up dark and green to the ceiling. Since the first year he began to practice he had given an annual party on Christmas Day, and now all was in readiness. Rows of benches and chairs lined the walls of the front rooms. Throughout the house there was the sweet spiced odor of newly baked cake and steaming coffee. In the office with him Portia sat on a bench against the wall, her hands cupped beneath her chin, her body bent almost double.

'Father, you been scrouched over the desk since five o'clock.

You got no business to be up. You ought to stayed in bed until time for the to-do.'

Doctor Copeland moistened his thick lips with his tongue. So much was on his mind that he had no attention to give to Portia. Her presence fretted him.

At last he turned to her irritably. 'Why do you sit there moping?'

'I just got worries,' she said. 'For one thing, I worried about our Willie.'

'William?'

'You see he been writing me regular ever Sunday. The letter will get here on Monday or Tuesday. But last week he didn't write. Course I not really anxious. Willie--he always so good-- natured and sweet I know he going to be all right. He been transferred from the prison to the chain gang and they going to work up somewhere north of Atlanta. Two weeks ago he wrote this here letter to say they going to attend a church service today, and he done asked me to send him his suit of clothes and his red tie.'

'Is that all William said?'

'He written that this Mr. B. F. Mason is at the prison, too. And that he run into Buster Johnson--he a boy Willie used to know. And also he done asked me to please send him his harp because he can't be happy without he got his harp to play on. I done sent everthing. Also a checker set and a white-iced cake.

But I sure hope I hears from him in the next few days.'

Doctor Copeland's eyes glowed with fever and he could not rest his hands. 'Daughter, we shall have to discuss this later. It is getting late and I must finish here. You go back to the kitchen and see that all is ready.'

Portia stood up and tried to make her face bright and happy.

'What you done decided about that five-dollar prize?'

'As yet I have been unable to decide just what is the wisest course,' he said carefully.

A certain friend of his, a Negro pharmacist, gave an award of five dollars every year to the high-school student who wrote the best essay on a given subject. The pharmacist always made Doctor Copeland sole judge of the papers and the winner was announced at the Christmas party. The subject of the composition this year was 'My Ambition: How I Can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society. 'There was only one essay worthy of real consideration. Yet this paper was so childish and ill-advised that it would hardly be prudent to confer upon it the award. Doctor Copeland put on his gla.s.ses and re-read the essay with deep concentration.

This is my ambition. First I wish to attend Tuskegee College but I do not wish to be a man like Booker Was.h.i.+ngton or Doctor Carver. Then when I deem that my education is complete I wish to start off being a fine lawyer like the one who defended the Scottsboro Boys. I would only take cases for colored people against white people. Every day our people are made in every way and by every means to feel that they are inferior. This is not so. We are a Rising Race. And we cannot sweat beneath the white man's burdens for long. We cannot always sow where others reap.

I want to be like Moses, who led the children of Israel from the land of the oppressors. I want to get up a Secret Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars. All colored people will organize under the direction of these picked leaders and prepare for revolt. Other nations in the world who are interested in the plight of our race and who would like to see the United States divided would come to our aid. All colored people will organize and there will be a revolution, and at the close colored people will take up all the territory east of the Mississippi and south of the Potomac. I shall set up a mighty country under the control of the Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars.

No white person will be allowed a pa.s.sport--and if they get into the country they will have no legal rights.

I hate the whole white race and will work always so that the colored race can achieve revenge for all their sufferings. That is my ambition.

Doctor Copeland felt the fever warm in his veins. The ticking of the clock on his desk was loud and the sound jarred his nerves. How could he give the award to a boy with such wild notions as this? What should he decide? The other essays were without any firm content at all. The young people would not think. They wrote only about their ambitions and omitted the last part of the tide altogether. Only one point was of some significance. Nine out of the lot of twenty-five began with the sentence, 'I do not want to be a servant.' After that they wished to fly airplanes, or be prizefighters, or preachers or dancers. One girl's sole ambition was to be kind to the poor.

The writer of the essay that troubled him was Lancy Davis. He had known the ident.i.ty of the author before he turned the last sheet over and saw the signature. Already he had some trouble with Lancy. His older sister had gone out to work as a servant when she was eleven years old and she had been raped by her employer, a white man past middle age. Then a year or so later he had received an emergency call to attend Lancy.

Doctor Copeland went to the filing case in his bedroom where he kept notes on all of his patients. He took out the card marked 'Mrs. Dan Davis and Family' and glanced through the notations until he reached Lancy's name. The date was four years ago. The entries on him were written with more care than the others and in ink: 'thirteen years old--past p.u.b.erty.

Unsuccessful attempt self-emasculation. Overs.e.xed and hyperthyroid. Wept boisterously during two visits, though little pain. Voluble--very glad to see Lucy Davis--mother washerwoman. Intelligent talk through paranoiac.

Environment fair with one exception and well worth watching and all possible help. Keep contact. Fee: $1 (?)'

'It is a difficult decision to make this year,' he said to Portia.

'But I suppose I will have to confer the award on Lancy Davis.'

'If you done decide, then--come tell me about some of these here presents.'

The gifts to be distributed at the party were in the kitchen.

There were paper sacks of groceries and clothing, all marked with a red Christmas card. Anyone who cared to come was invited to the party, but those who meant to attend had stopped by the house and written (or had asked a friend to write) their names in a guest book kept on the table in the hall for that purpose. The sacks were piled on the floor. There were about forty of them, each one depending in size on the need of the receiver. Some gifts were only small packages of nuts or raisins and others were boxes almost too heavy for a man to lift The kitchen was crowded with good things. Doctor Copeland stood in the doorway and his nostrils quivered with pride.

I think you done right well this year. Folks certainly have been kindly.'

'Pshaw!' he said. This is not a hundredth part of what is needed.'

'Now, there you go, Father! I know good and well you just as pleased as you can be. But you don't want to show it.

You got to find something to grumble about. Here we haves about four pecks of peas, twenty sacks of meal about fifteen pounds of side meat, mullet, six dozen eggs, plenty grits, jars of tomatoes and peaches. Apples and two dozen oranges. Also garments. And two mattresses and four blankets. I call this something!'

'A drop in the bucket.'

Portia pointed to a large box in the corner. These here--what you intend to do with them?'

The box contained nothing but junk--a headless doll, some duty lace, a rabbit skin. Doctor Copeland scrutinized each article. 'Do not throw them away. There is use for everything.

These are the gifts from our guests who have nothing better to contribute. I will find some purpose for them later.'

'Then suppose you look over these here boxes and sacks so I can commence to tie them up. There ain't going to be room here in the kitchen. Time they all pile in for the refreshments.

I just going to put these here presents out on the back steps and in the yard.'

The morning sun had risen. The day would be bright and cold.

In the kitchen there were rich, sweet odors. A dishpan of coffee was on the stove and iced cakes filled a shelf in the cupboard.

'And none of this comes from white people. All from colored.'

'No,' said Doctor Copeland. 'That is not wholly true. Mr.

Singer contributed a check for twelve dollars to be used for coal. And I have invited him to be present today.'

'Holy Jesus!' Portia said. 'Twelve dollars!'

'I felt that it was proper to ask him. He is not like other people of the Caucasian race.'

'You right,' Portia said. 'But I keep thinking about my Willie. I sure do wish he could enjoy this here party today. And I sure do wish I could get a letter from him. It just prey on my mind.