Stay Down, Old Abram (Revised and Edited short story, 12-2008)

Stay Down, Old Abram
(Revised and Edited Version, 12-2008)


From Part One, of the book, “Stay Down, Old Abram,”
Chapter Four (Written in 2002-2003, and Published in 2004) Based on some
Facts, reedited, 12, 2008


Alabama Days
[l969--l970]




Stay Down, ‘Old Abram


He sat on his porch rocking back and forth looking out into the muddy and uncombed fields of his farm, empty of eatable growth, empty of everything but long-haired grass, weeds, rocks, and snakes: -- with only a few crows flying to and fro, they also were being unfed. The old man stopped his rocker for a moment, stared into the untilled field ahead of him; he could faintly see a figure by the hanging tree, the tree Abram hung from. He stood up from his rocker, you could still hear it rocking, wood against wood, it distracted him for a moment as he squinted his eyes to get a better glimpse of the figure walking in his field, his 84-year old spine bent over like a bending weed, his elbow leaning on his porch railing
"A damn soldier," he grumbled out of his hoarse rustic throat, and up from his stomach, up through his vocal cords and out his mouth…came the added words, “a dame Yankee to boot—I bet!” almost vomiting it out…
the figure was now standing by the hanging tree, the soldier, the old man shaking his head back and forth, as if to say: it was none of his business to be where he was, and he wanted him to move on his way, move on and out of there, it was his land: “Get off it,” he mumbled to himself, out loud, “get out of here,” he said louder (thought about what he could be up to), and continued to stare bending overt the railing, his elbow getting sore, his back getting a cramp, almost liking what the soldier was seeing—just not caring for him to be invading his property without his consent; he was trying with the best of his eyesight—forehead in a strain—to catch a glimpse of the young man’s expression, hoping it was punishing for the soldier's face—perhaps the message being, ‘We down here in the south, don’t take niggers lightly, not like you folks in the north,’ (or at least that was the message he would have liked to give, would give if given the chance, was preparing to yell, if only his voice could endure the strain, he wanted to give the young buck of a soldier a real taste of southern comfort.
Yes indeed, after a few more minutes of observation, he saw a grueling, and tiring look on his face, barely could see it, but it was there, harsher than he thought it would be, he told himself, he’d wait a moment longer, then he'd tell him to get out again, he wanted to see more. Yes, yes, he wanted him to absorb the moment, get full of it then move on; if he could laugh loud enough, he might have tried, but it was hard enough just keeping his balance.
The old man yelled:
"He's dead, cant youall see that—you dumb son of a bitch, move on now git on off my property, you jest a damn moron, that's all you is boy, move on now before I fetch my gun and shoot your ass from here to kingdom-come!"

"Yaw, yaw, I know," Chris mumbled to himself, out loud, but mostly moment to accommodate the moment, so he could hear himself to defend his right to be where he was. But of course the old man couldn't hear a word; he, the young soldier was spellbound, dumbfounded, and aghast at what he was witnessing. The blood soaked ground, a rope hanging frightfully from a strong branch that come outward from the thick and tall tree then upward, almost as if it was created as a hanging tree, as if someone might have cultivated it to grow that way a hundred years in the past. It was a Bald Cypress, about 70-feet high, a thick trunk, a pond was nearby. It might have even been a pleasant area at one time, that is, a time before this, and possibly before that old man was born, and all his relatives. Because whatever he was saying—so the young soldier figured—was from the heart and soul, the twisted mind, the hate that boils in the blood from one generation to the next, inborn from the souls of parents, and handed down from one mouth to the next.


Yelled the old man again:
"I say now, git on off my property, boy, its my last warning to yaw—an d leave the nigger bones where they lay.”
Now the old man was mumbling to himself, ‘I done told the boy twice, yes I did, two times now ' then the old man yelled again, “Leave them bones where they lay, ...stay down, stay down, stay down, old Abram, let them bones soak in the dirt' then he yelled to the boy, “He wouldn't get back up, the crazy old nigger fool, now you get on off my property, we don’t take to your kind around these parts, go back north where youall came from, or I’m goin’ to shoot your ass full of holes!"
Chris pretended not to hear the rustic-yelling's of the old man, somewhat afraid to speak, lest he should precipitate some calamity; but of course he heard every damning word and looked briefly at the old man's coming toward him, but only for a moment, only to see his distance from him, to measure it with his eyes for timing of his escape should he need one.


The body of the aged man known as Uncle Abram, or Old Abram [Abram Boston], was naked as a jay-bird, a rotting corpse, with stink all about, an odor that made one cough, gag and almost vomit;-- his skin was picked apart to the bones, matter of fact, his bones were laying all about like broken pottery at some archeological site, his intestines were covered with dirt as they hung out of his abdomen; --human remains, objects to a quick observer, everything looked like unkempt matter, meaningless to most people, even to some animals—Chris imagined as he scanned the surrounding area, but Chris knew they would be most reflective if not emotionally intense for Elsa, should he see her again, and have to tell her how her uncle was—for it was her who had briefly told him about Uncle Abram, as he was walking down main street in Huntsville, Alabama a day ago, and she tried to avoid him, in fear some white folk may catch her talking to him, and tar and feather her, as he tried to ask for directions to a drycleaners for his Army uniform.
Again the old coot, now standing about twenty feet from his porch, yelled:
"[Forearmed] you'd better go on stranger" go’ on home, back to the north, or dat damn Army base before I comes and shoot yaw...ass, shoot your young ass I say, shoot your ass boy."
The young lad looked at the old man, he had bones of bigotry, but there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t change a man that age, he’d never understand, hence, no sense of quarreling with him, so he told himself.

Chris was from the Midwest, Minnesota, born with the inexperienced, or even felt, and most likely shut, because of his green lack of the word, and its sound, bigotry, consequently, to Chris' ears: what he was hearing and seeing were shadows he read in books, ringing truths he only thought were syllables in story books.
He started to dread a longer stay in Alabama, at that very moment, and the moment was still in motion, and yet he had only seen, or better put, scratched the surface of the face of bigotry, thus far by one old man, how was the rest of Alabama, or for that matter, the south. What would it look like under it surface? Scratching the surface of evil, not the evil accomplished, but the evil yet to be, is what was distorting his vision, as he looked at the bones, picking one up, then another, putting them gently into a bag. It was a plague seen by the naked-eye he was looking at, so he told his subconscious: seeing and watching the old man hobble his way in the field trying to get to him, all for the sake of white bones that belonged to a black man.

At this point, it was obvious to Chris, the farmer was not sensitive to, or offended by the Blackman's remains, his bones, and his rotting flesh, Chris knew that immediately, and although Chris had seen Army movies of autopsies, this was too real for his nerves, yet, perhaps the experience made it bearable to deal with, but just bearable, for he remained calm in the grips of the devils shadow. When a man sees raw flesh and blood, and exposed parts of a body, all discolored, all uncooked, it can be sickening to the point of becoming ill, or nausea, if not down right passing out. The human body was not meant to be seen like this with untrained eyes; but then eyes of intolerance could withstand it, why couldn't he, Chris asked his inners, and so he did.
What could produce such indifference in a human mind; he asked himself, in that brain of his, referring to the absorption of the situation, now and before, before meaning when Abram was living through the hell, the hell that Chris was putting together at this very moment, what was in that old coot's brain then, and now, man destroys man, and then the earth he lives on, until there is nothing left to destroy? He was the perfect gift for the enemy of mankind.
The next thought, in Chris’ mind was: possibly he had seen too much in his life way too much, much more than his mind could take, and became insensitive, but that is a zoological excuse he told himself, to allow the man to be pitied, when pity was for the completely disabled, this man was never so, he had no excuse, non but dehumanization for whatever he reasons he allowed to dominate him; he tried to apologize for the old man, but the regret always sank a food deeper, every foot the old man got closer to Chris.
But that was really not the answer; he was making up the questions and now started to answer them, for it surely was the only way he’d get anything close to logic out of this unanswerable hate for a branch of the human race. What was the answer; insensitivity was it, wasn't it? It had to be, no, maybe he thought, no, he had another idea, quietly alarmed he whispered to himself, He's bored sitting on that damn porch, rocking his golden years away, bored, bored to death; this suffering he enjoys, it is ongoing, hence, entertainment for him, and who controls the streets of Alabama. Yes control again comes into the equation, it never leaves, he tells himself. He felt helpless in a way, as he looked about.
He thought, when nothing can be done one must practice self-restraint, patience, or get more personally involved, and he chose restraint. It wasn't his war he told himself, yet he felt he had to do the 'Good Samaritan,' thing.
As he picked up another bone, he knew the inquisitive past of the South was turning out to be, or would turn out to be, a haunting experience for him somewhere along life's journey—yes, indeed, somewhere down the road he’d have to write about this, but who would believe him?
If he remained in Alabama, got stationed here full time, if it became his duty station, not just his advance training base, as it was for now, where he’d leave in three months, there would be faces among faces returning to his brain, imaginary at first, and then if the nightmares continued, it would all become intolerable at second glance, thus at that moment he prayed he’d not have to stay in Alabama; -- he would never know who was and who was not part of the 'boredom' group of elders, or the 'entertainment' group of the youth, or the 'Control' group in the middle. By and by, he would have to sort it out, one by on the reasons behind all this nonsense, but for the present, he knew he was too young to put the world on his shoulders, but maybe for a moment it would suffice. As he stood there and sucked in the rotten air, willingly, but none the less, his head felt like a vortex.


Christopher leaned over quickly picking up several more fragments of bones to bring back to Elsa, the skull was separated from the body—his eyes were picked out by crows, an ugly sight; a piece of red cloth that was wet and perturbing from the mud he picked up also, it was Abram's surely he thought, putting those items, small and large all in a small sack, about twenty-items: the old man was now coming towards him faster, almost in a wobbling-run, hobbling like a sick duck.
Chris quickly tied the sack tight and proceeded to the fence about 600-feet behind him, separating the farm from the road, where his friend's car (Corporal Thompson) was parked (which he borrowed for the day trip), the road being more like a dirty street, thus, jumping the fence with a quick stride, he now felt a little safer being off the old man’s property; as he looked about, it was middle dusk, and the evening shadows were creeping in, with rain clouds gathering about, and getting darker.
"Whar you gwine in such a hurry?” yelped, the old man, exhausted from the long stride, then knowing he had no way to get to Chris, added,
"Gwome keep them old bones,--yaw thief…(he hesitated then added) keep them I dont give a damn, cant prove a thing, I told Abram to stay down, stay down, but he wouldn't listen, damn-fool, he kept getting up, they hung him...keep them old bones, black bones...!"
The old man rattled on and on; --the old coot didn't notice the bones were even white, thought Chris, how blind can a person be. As the old man approached the fence after resting, catching his breath, he leaned his body against a post, while Chris put the sack in the trunk, checking out the dark clouds, ghostly clouds, clouds that looked like feet, and tails, heads and ears, conspicuous looking clouds with monster shapes, while strands of darkness laced through a canopy like atmosphere: state of existence, which towered over the big cypress tree as if it was guarding both bigotry, and Abram’s bones, as if the tree was not part to either side. Chris quickly jumped into the automobile taking off, leaving the old man to look at the dust from the wheels.

♦


As the old man walked back to his farmhouse he got to thinking, remembering the old story of Abram's grandfather, why it wasn't triggered before the hanging was a good question, one he'd never bring up to mind, but one that might ask 'why now [so he got to daydreaming about Jeremiah and Abram both]:'

Jeremiah the Wretched

As the men stood stone-still in the field outside of the city, watching Abram hang, dangling from a tree [l969], a few remembered his Grandfather, Jeremiah, or at least they remembered the story, it wasn't a fable, for it took place for sure, it wasn't talked about much though, not now-a-days anyhow, but it wasn't a yarn either, 9 it did happen, and there is an account of it, simply one need only go to the town library—look for the news clippings on it. All things considered, Abram was just like his Grandpa, his wretched old grandfather, or so people have claimed, said, repeated to him a hundred times; a pain in the neck for most white folk.
It was l861, Alabama, --yes the same area, Huntsville. He was a tall darkie they recalled him, tall and strong, like Jack Johnson, the famous black Negro fighter, the ones the white folks didn't want to fight, didn't dare to fight, and wouldn't admit he was tougher. Yes Jeremiah was like him, not in fighting but in arrogance. He didn't act like a nigger, that's what got everyone mad, until that fatal day when they hung him, and still he didn't cater to the white dominance.
Old Jeremiah at one time was a refugee slave, a sawmill worker and a Sharecropper cotton picker. For fifty years he worked for Mr. Mac Camp, Jonathon Mac Camp, who’s family, or some of his family, had moved to the Midwest. He stayed put though, liked the area where he grew up, and told his children go on north if you wish but don't send for money. Mr. Mac Camp had even sent Jeremiah Boston to school once to learn his ABC's and some adding and subtracting, but he got bigheaded, or so Jonathon Mac Camp implied, and grabbed his 'nigger help', as he called him, out of the schoolhouse and put him back to picking cotton: where he belonged, so he bragged. Well, now Mr. Mac Camp was seventy-four years old, and Jeremiah fifty. He wanted his freedom, and demanded that it should be given to him by none other than Mr. Mac Camp, himself, saying:
"Youall promised me it come my fiftieth birthday, eyes be a free man, now I wants it...!"
Jeremiah didn't add a 'yes, or please sir' with the statement, nor any apology for being outspoken, he just got to the point.
Said Mr. Mac Camp, in reply:
"No I didn't say that, thirty-years ago, I said: if you worked hard for me, I'd consider it, and all you do is get bigheaded, and never appreciate a damn thing, now get away from me, and get on back to cotton picking, that's all you ever gona end up doing anyhow--you jest a nigger man, that's all."
Well, that didn't go over well with the six-foot four, 270-pound Jeremiah, and with his powerful hands he picked up Mr. Mac Camp, and held him in the air, his feet dangling, trying to touch something solid, trying to escape,--then talking to him, Jeremiah commented:
"You like to be the boss, aint that right boss, whut you tell me now--Haw? Not a thing!”
He was holding the old man up in the air, “…hahaha!” went Jeremiah.
By the time he put the old man down he was dead: he didn't mean to kill him, but he was dead nonetheless: a heart attack, and behind him were three white men coming out to see Mr. Mac Camp about work and that was that, they pulled their rifles off their horses and aimed them at Jeremiah, and emptied them.