A Fine Dark Line

13

NEXT DAY, having slept poorly, I awoke early, checked all the locks on the doors and windows. There were no signs of anyone trying to break in.

I was checking the sliding back door when Daddy came in, pushing his hair back, wiping sleep from his eyes with a forearm.

He noticed what I was doing, studied me for a moment, said, “Sit down, boy.”

I sat down at the table across from him. Half expected him to ask me where I had been last night.

“Don’t let this Bubba Joe thing get to you,” he said. “He isn’t going to do anything to us. I’ll make sure he leaves us alone. Wouldn’t surprise me if the police have already picked him up. I’ll call them right after I have coffee and breakfast. Want to help me fix Mom and Callie and Rosy some breakfast?”

“Sure.”

While we prepared breakfast, I thought about last night. Maybe Daddy was wrong about Bubba Joe not being able to hurt us. A man like that, he might just come to our house with a knife in his hand.

Fact was, he may have been near our house last night, followed us to the tracks. I thought on that awhile, decided, not likely. With us on bicycles, that wouldn’t have been easy, so maybe he picked up on us at the sawmill road. He could have been there. Hiding in the sawmill after burning down the house where he and Rosy Mae stayed.

Or he hadn’t followed us at all. It was possible when we reached the railroad tracks he was in the vicinity. The woods were thick near the tracks and he could have been hiding most anywhere.

Whatever the case, I felt certain he had known who Callie and I were, and that he came after us as a sort of revenge for housing Rosy.

Rosy said he carried a knife or a razor, and I had no reason to doubt her. If he had caught us last night . . . Well, I didn’t want to dwell on that.

As I thought about all this, I took the bread from the toaster, buttered it and applied jelly on top of that. The actual cooking of sausage, boiling the coffee, I left to Daddy.

When it was ready, he said, “Go wake ’em up, tell ’em breakfast is ready.”

As I was heading out, Daddy said, “We ought to enjoy these summer days. School starts soon, and we won’t have these lazy times together. It’s good we’re all home at the same time.”

“Yes, sir.”

I started out again. Daddy said, “Son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I love you.”

I smiled at him, said, “You too,” and I went to get the women.

———

THAT AFTERNOON Buster didn’t show. He had been coming in early, but when I expected him, no Buster. When it came time for him to actually be there, still no Buster.

Daddy said, “Where in hell is that sonofabitch?”

We were out on the veranda by the snack bar. I said, “He told me if he didn’t come in today, he was sick.”

Daddy studied me with those steely eyes, and for a moment, I thought I’d crack. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I forgot. He said he wasn’t feeling well, and he might not be here, but I thought he would, and I just forgot about it.”

“That so?”

“Yes, sir . . . But I can run the reels.”

“You can?”

“Buster taught me how.”

“Good. Real good. You go set it up, son. Tonight, you’re the projectionist.”

As I started for the booth, I felt a sense of relief. Sure, there was a certain feeling of guilt, having lied for Buster, but I felt it was a good lie. What Mom called a white lie. Buster was my friend and deserved my support.

That night I ran a Randolph Scott Western, and it went well, with only a slight delay between changing reels. This was greeted with horn honking and yells, but I made the transition quick enough, and by the end of the movie I felt like a pro. Daddy even brought me out a hamburger, Coke, and french fries.

He set the meal on the little table by the reel machine, said, “How would you like to take Buster’s job?”

I didn’t feel so smart anymore, and I sure didn’t feel good.

“Oh, no, Daddy. I had trouble with that reel. I wasn’t too smooth.”

“You did all right. It was quick enough. Practice will make you better.”

“Daddy, I don’t think so. It’s Buster’s job.”

“You and that old nigger have gotten pretty tight, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stanley, you can do this job, and if you do it, I can pay you, keep the money in the family. And, frankly, I can pay you less. Until you have experience.”

“I don’t want Buster’s job . . . I wouldn’t want to do that, Daddy.”

“All right. I respect that. But I’ll tell you this. It’s only a matter of time anyway. He’s getting old. He drinks quite a bit. He’s surly. Kind of uppity, if you ask me. And you can run the projector.”

“He taught me. I don’t think he did it so I could take his job.”

“He misses again, doesn’t plan ahead by telling me, and I don’t mean leaving some message about how he might get sick, you are the projectionist. Understand, son? We have to work together. We’re family. I know you like Buster but we have to take care of us first. Way we’re going, we’ll have every starving, sad nigger in town working here at the drive-in. We can’t afford that.”

Daddy gave me a pat on the head and went away.