By William Demby
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The man demanded, grasping hold of Johnny's hand as if to pull him away. Bill Trapp couldn't open his mouth to speak. He was deaf. There was too much sound about him. He could hear the clock on the table inside the house. What did it mean, having these people on his porch? He was afraid, but he had gone this far, there was no turning back. "He wasn't hurting me, Uncle David," the boy said. " "I respect people's property, Mister. I'm a law abidin citizen. I'm an old man now. But I don't hurt nobody.
In fifteen years he had had only one visitor, a tramp who came to his door to beg because he was too proud to beg from the Negroes down by the bridge. He gave coffee and sandwiches to this tramp, who, as soon as he had finished eating, went away. Once some colored ladies started to come into the yard and he chased them away with his shotgun. Sometimes, out of a furious impulse to break the clammy silence, he would begin singing songs he had heard in the towns along the river. Once a week, when he went to town to fetch the provisions he needed to live on or to sell the fruits and vegetables he grew, he found himself still talking in whispers, and people who spoke with him then would whisper too.
He had a long, red scaly neck. " Johnny didn't know what to say. This was more than he had hoped for. They were really asking him to join their club! " "You'll be initiated," Baby Boy whispered to him excitedly. It was too dark to see anything at first, but the Leader struck a match and lit a lantern that swung from the ceiling. The room was larger than it appeared from outside. Johnny liked the fetid, closed-in smell of the room, a smell like that of a moldy, damp pocketbook he had once found under his back porch.
Beetlecreek by William Demby