THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE4A: free porn video

I had a bad cold. It was just before Thanksgiving. Wearing
a heavy brown flannel robe, I sat up against the headboard as
Martha Jane settled near me on the bed and sat Indian-stlye. In
her hand she had a bottle of green cough syrup, a bottle of cod
liver oil, and a bottle of ear drops.

"Okay, hon, time for dessert."

"That's not dessert," I complained.

"This is dessert for sick folks." She shimmied her hips into
the mattress to get comfy. "Now, let's see, what does this
say...?" She examined the label on the cough medicine. "One
tablespoon. Okay!" With a giddy smile she fished for the spoon
in the paraphernalia she had gathered in a large dish towel spread
on the bed. She held up the spoon. "One tablespoon!" she an-
nounced. Seeming to enjoy every minute of it, she unscrewed the
cough medicine, held the spoon up as she poured the dark green
gunk, and carefully brought the spoon toward my face. "Oookay...
a-a-all for you, hon. C'mon. Yumyum. Yumyum."

"Yumyum Yuch!" I pouted.

"Come on now, you don't want to stay up coughing all night
like you did last night, do you?"

I frowned at the spoon.

"C'mon. It tastes good."

"I already had some of it and I know it doesn't taste good.
It's terrible, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth for hours."

"Well, Speedy, it doesn't taste good because it's medicine.
Medicine isn't supposed to taste good."

"Why don't they make it in the first place so it *does* taste
good?"

"'Cause if it tasted good in the first place, you'd drink it all
the time. You'd live on it, and then it would make you sick."

"If it's medicine, why would it make me sick?"

"Listen, stop bein' so logical. Here. Yumyum. C'mon."

I opened my mouth and she tilted the spoon into it. I swallowed
and grimmaced.

"There, I knew you'd like it."

"Yech."

"Now where's the cod liver oil..."

"Yecch!" I growled, as disgustingly as I possibly could,
stretching my mouth into a horrific grimace that went from ear to
ear. I held the pose as if frozen into it.

"Oh, stop. It can't taste that bad. Here..." She care-
fully squeezed an eyedropper of amber oil into a spoon, and then
squeezed the juice from half an orange into it. As she did this
I sat rigidly against the headboard as if long petrified, my face
still frozen in the same gruesome pose.

"Speedy, stop making that ugly face. Now, here...here's
your cod liver oil. Come on, stop makin' that face and swallow
this."

I looked her straight in the eye, with the same face.

"Speedy, that is the ugliest thing I ever saw. Stop, so we can
get this over with."

I let my face relax, sighed heavily, and opened my mouth. The
orange juice didn't do much to hide the bitter, fishy taste that
clung to the inside of my mouth. "Yah!"

"That's a good boy, that's two outta three. Now let's get this
off the bed so you can lie down and I can fix those ears." She
placed the dish towel of goods on the side table and sat up on her
knees on the bed, holding the bottle of ear drops. "Lie down on
your side. C'mon, you've had earaches before, you know what to do.
At least your ears can't taste this."

"They can too," I insisted.

"Lie down the other way first, hon, facing away from me. That's
right. Now, here..." She bent over me and placed the tip of the
filled eyedropper into the opening of my ear. The sudden contact of
the cold glass tip made me jerk and quiver involuntarily.

"Oh!" She jumped and pulled her hand away. "Oh, Speedy, did I
hurt your ear?"

I shook my head no. "It itches!"

"Oh my god, don't do that! You almost gave me a heart attack.
I thought I hurt you!"

I coiled up into a ball and feigned a low, pitiful groan, then
another.

"Oh, behave. You're not funny. Be still."

I relaxed on my side and then cringed as the cold thin fluid
filled my ear with a small roaring noise. "It itches. Eeew, it's
so itchy."

"It'll settle in and be okay," she said, stuffing a piece of
wadded cotton in my ear. "Now turn over so I can do the other one
..Turn over."

I lay still.

"Speedy, turn over so I can do the other one."

I sat up and pretended I was in a breathless daze. "What?
Did you say somethin'? I can't hear. Where am I?"

Holding the ear medicine in one hand and the eyedropper in the
other, she started to laugh, resisted it, and closed her eyes
patiently. "Speedy, please...you'll make me laugh and spill this
stuff all over the bed. Now...please...stop."

I groaned, "Okay," and laboriously rose to turn over on my
other side. Already weak, I feigned an even greater weakness,
moving slowly and spasmodically, writhing at every turn as if in
pain. "Oh...Uh...Mr. Holmes...uh..call Dr. Watson right away...
it's the deadly, poisoned ear drops...cgh, cgh."

"Speedy, if you make me spill this..." She started to laugh
again, and held it back with clenched teeth. "Stop, or I'm gonna
spank your butt 'till it falls off on the floor."

On my side facing her, I lay still.

On her knees, she shuffled closer to me. "Honestly, I never
in my life saw anybody go through such agony...Now here, this is
the last one."

Once more, the cool fluid rushed into me and greasily leaked
over my eardrum. I shivered again with the same itch in my ear as
before, and Martha Jane sealed my ear with cotton. Then she sat back
and sighed, drooping.

"I am exhausted from this! You're worse than a room full of
sick puppies."

I smiled seraphically.

"Don't you smile at me like that, you little devil." She
leaned closer to me and half-whispered, scowling. "Hon, you have
to get well. We can't fuck while you're sick like this, you're
too weak. So there."

She rose from the bed and brought the bottles and table-cloth
into the kitchen. While I heard her running water and cleaning I
made myself comfortable in the bed, lay on my side, and pulled the
covers up to my neck. I shivered as the 'flu coarsed through me,
but soon the blanket warmed me and I relaxed.

Martha Jane turned off the lights, except for one small lamp in
the living room. Then she came into the bedroom and turned out the
ceiling lamp using the switch on the wall by the door, and reached
under the bedside lamp to turn off the last light in the room. We
were dimly lit by the glow from the small living room lamp.

Martha Jane hiked up the legs of her jeans to make herself more
comfortable in bed, and quietly lay down beside me. She put her
palm on my head briefly. "You still have a little fever," she
whispered. She fiddled with the blankets and straightened my
pillow. She felt me tremble. "You still have chills, hon?"

Lying on my side, I nodded slowly.

"Well, don't you worry, they'll go away soon." She stretched
and pulled blankets about, soothing out the twists and tangles
that were made while we struggled earlier with the medications.
"You just stay nice and warm and...take your medicine the way
you're supposed to, and...before you know it...you'll be well and
gettin' right back into trouble, good as new." She rested on her
elbow beside me. "You ready to go to sleep?"

I nodded. At that moment another chill went through me. I
clasped my arms closer to fight it off.

"Want me to keep you warm?" she asked.

I nodded.

She moved closer to me and put one arm around my head to
slightly lift and cradle me onto her bosom. "There we are," she
said, and as soon as I was settled against her she unbuttoned her
shirt and pulled it open loosely. Then she pulled her bra up,
baring her breasts, and wiggled down so that her left nipple
grazed my cheek. I reached up and kissed the brownish pink bud.
"There...," she whispered. "Sleep, hon."

The shivers made a brief pass through me as I fell asleep
against her softness.

...A week or so later I was standing in Martha Jane's kitchen
as her mother, a thin lady who looked much older than my own and
who resembled her darker brunette daughter more than her fair,
auburn-haired Martha Jane, carefully handed me a large tablespoon
filled with dark green syrup. Her mother always spoke slowly and
with a slight rasp, having never completely overcome the lung
problems that she developed from the long and severe illness fol-
lowing her husband's death in the war.

"There," she told me, "now go in the bedroom and give that to
Martha Jane. And be certain she takes every drop of it."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Holding the filled tablespoon face-high
before me, I walked carefully through their living room and into
Martha Jane's bedroom. She sat up in bed, a pink wool blanket up
to her waist, the place littered with used kleenex and her school-
books. Her eyes and nose were swollen and red. In one hand she
held a thoroughly used tissue.

I grinned maniacally at the door and chanted, "Yumyum."

She winced. "Don't yumyum me, you--Is it already time for
that awful stuff again?"

"Yumyum."

She called into the kitchen, "Mother, I thought I already took
this stuff!"

"It's three times a day, Martha Jane," her mother called back.

"Oh my," she moaned. I had climbed onto the bed and, on my
knees, moved cloer to her with one hand holding the spoon and the
other cupped guardedly beneath it.

"You were right," she said, sniffing. "That stuff really does
taste awful. And you can taste it for a week!"

"Yumyum," I said, moving the spoon closer.

"Oh," she whimpered, wincing again. "Do I have to?"

I nodded. "It hurts me more than it hurts you."

"Right," she muttered, eyeing the spoon with mild terror.
"Oh...all right." She opened her mouth and I dipped the spoon
inside. Mugging and wincing, she took it all, swallowed, and
slithered her tongue around thickly. "Oh, that is so disgusting!
This is supposed to be the atomic age. Can't modern science do
better than this?"

Her mother came into the room and retrieved the spoon. She
stood beside the bed shaking her head.

"Look at this," her mother said, indicating Martha Jane's
books and papers all over the bed. "Look, she won't even stop
when she's sick as a dog. I don't know what to do with her,
Speedy. She was awake half the night studying, and if she wasn't
studying she was coughing *and* studying."

"I have to graduate," she muttered petulantly. "On time!"

"But, Martha Jane, you can't learn very well if you don't
sleep. You need rest, dear."

"Yes, mother, I know. I know, and you're right." She sighed
and played nervously with the kleenex, which she brought back to
her nose, and blew into it. "I hate people staring at me when I'm
sick. I'm so ugly."

"Alright, I'll go back in the kitchen. Speedy, you visit a
while and try to talk some sense into her."

Her mother left and I started to settle on the edge of the bed,
but Martha Jane said, "Don't get too close," holding up a hand. She
sneezed suddenly, and held out her palm, indicating the box of klee-
ex near my knees. I gave it to her and she plucked a new tissue.
"I hate this."

"I'm sorry," I said, and sat on the bed anyway. I leaned
forward to kiss her.

"No," she whispered. "You'll get this same cold again." She
held the kleenex to her nose and sniffled. "Well, alright, a little
one. Right here--" she indicated her forehead. As she held the
kleenex over her nose I leaned forward and gave her a noisy kiss.
"Thank you, Speedy. I'm sorry, hon, you're really sweet. Don't pay
any attention to me. I'm sick!"

"Is this gonna keep you from school?" I asked.

"No, no, it'll just slow me down. I'll have to work like the
devil to keep up. I already worked myself to death, getting in
school a year ahead of my age to begin with. I hope it doesn't hurt
my grades." She settled against the pillow behind her and gazed out
the window. "I have to make those grades. I have to get out of
here. I have to get out of the "Lauderdale Courts U.S. Government
Housing Project"."

Though I wanted her to get well, the thought that she might soon
leave the project was disturbing. Fortunately for her, the Christ-
mas break would soon be underway and she would not miss many of her
classes. And I knew she still had the winter and spring to go be-
fore graduating. But by this time it was something she mentioned
with more frequency than I found comfortable.

Falteringly I tried to think of the questions that would give me
more information about what might happen in the near future. "Would
you move out as soon as you graduate high school?" I asked.

"Oh no, hon, I still have college to go. You can't get a decent
job with just high school, at least a girl can't. Not in good ole
Memphis, Tennessee. My poor sister got her diploma and she hardly
earns peanuts. She was hoping she'd make more, and she wanted to
rent a place for all of us. But she can barely support herself, and
she gives mother money to keep us goin'." She sighed again longingly
and shook her head. "Why can't she marry some filthy rich man who
shows up here in that driveway with sacks of money...? Oh, well,
Evelyn wouldn't do that. She wouldn't marry just for money."

"Would you?" I asked, half smiling, half not.

"No," she said directly and firmly. She blew her nose.
"But I wouldn't complain if some was included."

I had no idea what to do about her completing high school, going
to college, and leaving. But I knew she was unhappy where she was.
Heedless of the fact that the forces of time and economic necessity
and all the rest of it were far beyond my control, I was determined
during the following weeks to please her so well that she might have
second thoughts about never seeing me again. Within a few days she
recovered from her cold and used the Christmas break to work
feverishly on catching up with her studies. Trying to make myself
indispensable, I checked with her daily during the holidays to see
if she needed anything. If she needed note paper I volunteered and
ran to the d**g store to get it. I trailed along with her to the
library and looked up several of her books.

The weekend after Christmas, Mom had a date and Martha Jane sat
with me, but I spent the entire night waiting on her, fixing dinner
and washing the dishes, bathing and cleaning up while she studied.
I even prepared the bed myself so that by nine o'clock she came into
the bedroom to check on me and found everything in place.

"Well!" she said, sliding into bed and hovering over me with
a warm smile. "You didn't even need me here tonight, did you?
You did everything all by yourself."

"You were busy," I said.

"Yes, I was. And so were you. And I'm glad you let me study,
hon, I needed it. And don't think I didn't notice. Now, is there
anything I can do for you?"

I didn't answer. But I could see a sultry look in her eyes.
More than likely, in the pause that followed while we searched
each other's eyes, she saw something similar in my own.

She whispered softly, "I'm all sweaty. I have to clean up
a little. You wait right here and don't go anywhere."

She rose, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. I
heard the bath water running for about five minutes, and later
she opened the door, turned out the bathroom light, and came into
the room wearing her wrinkly old bathrobe that she had worn for
years. The apartment was, like all the others, not very warm in
winter. Her robe didn't fit that well any more, seeming a little
short, more like a short sarong than an ankle-length garment. And
it was too tight around the shoulders, so that even when she held
it closed in front the lapels ventured outward, revealing the soft
glimmering swell of her breasts.

She had just started to slide into bed when I got up and
scooted down, off the foot of the bed and onto the floor. "Wait
a moment, madam," I said, rather elegantly and formally. "The,
uh, services of this establishment go beyond cooking dinner and
making beds."

"Oh, really?" she asked innocently, batting her eyelashes.

"It includes turning out the lights," I said, walking around
the bed and shutting off the bedside lamp. In the dark I con-
tinued, "And many other services to insure that you rest peace-
fully during your stay with us." I removed my underwear.

She asked primly, "And do the services include the manager
of the establishment making himself nekk**?"

I answered, "Yes, madam. They also include the management
making the guest nekk**, too."

"Oh my," she whispered. "I'm shocked. And pleased."

I reached for her hand with mine, and pulled slightly so
that she rose from the bed and stood before me. I noted that we
were just about the same height now. She was only slightly
taller. In a single motion, but gently, I pulled off her robe
and dropped it to the floor. It was, I think, the first time I
had undressed her myself. I whispered, "All madam has to do now
is lie down."

"And then what happens?" she whispered back.

"Management...manages."

"I can't wait."

She moved into the bed, going near the other side to give me
room, and I followed. I stayed on my knees, watching for a
moment as she lay flat on her back, stretching to get comfortable.
Her hands were behind her head, her slim body stretched out in
the moonlight. She spread her thighs slightly, just enough to
show me in the dark that she had begun to moisten and open. I
hovered over her, surprised at how, more and more, I should be so
deeply affected by the sight of her. Then I settled on my elbows
close to her.

She started to put one arm around me, but I whispered, "No.
Don't move."

She lay silently and waited. I began to softly, slowly, and
wetly kiss her, starting with her nose, her face, her neck. "You
don't have to do anything," I whispered. It took me about fif-
teen minutes to move my lips from her neck to her toes, and up
her thighs again. By then she was trembling and sighing. When-
ever she tried to help, I would tell her to lie still. One time
she asked me, "Don't you want me to do anything for you?" I ans-
wered simply, "You are." From that point on she gave herself to
my mouth and hands.

Finally I lay betwen her thighs, my mouth nipping at the
sensitive skin along the tendons and muscles there. She gave a
series of small gasps as she felt my lips licking toward her cunt.
Watching her from below, I shortened each lick as I moved upward,
closer. I have no idea how these techniques ever got into my young
head. I simply learned from her responses. I could see the tension
in her tightened fists as I neared her center. I knew that when she
held her breath she would be completely ready for the touch of my
mouth directly on her. Soon this happened. She lay tense and
unbreathing, her thighs and tummy stiffened expectantly. I removed
my lips from her completely for only a second or two, then lowered
my tongue to nestle directly and lightly on her clit. She exhaled
and whimpered, and her hips swiveled once. I removed my lips again
for another brief pause, then curled my mouth into her slit, took
her clit in my lips, and gently sucked. Surprising even me, she
whimpered helplessly, and started cumming immediately. This was
sooner than I had planned, but I was not one to interrupt. Still
sucking, I arched my tongue rhythmically and slowly along her nub.
She stiffened, and her hips rose slightly off the bed. Her head
rolled languidly to one side. She uttered a strange sound that I
can describe only as the sound of a beautiful young woman cumming
deep and hard, and I could feel her tummy and taut thighs quiver
around me through most of it. Soon her hips fell back to the bed
and she let out a long, breathy "Oh! God!". I continued my gentle
suck, waiting for the subtle sensations that told me her hot clit
had stopped swelling, and soon her thighs jerked once and I knew
she was returning to earth.

I unmouthed her as she regained her breath and I licked her cunt
petals lightly, smelling the cum and the remains of the bathroom
soap on her, nipping at her thighs again, and rose to lie fully on
top of her. For a moment I kissed her neck and her nipples. Then,
rising on my elbows, I aimed my cock by sight and slowly and fully
entered her.

"Oh hon," she gushed, though she still could hardly breathe.
"God, that feels so good!" I didn't move. I could feel her clasp
me inside, once for several seconds, then two or three contractions
around my shaft that waned in strength.

I rose on my elbows. Slowly, the new young a****l in me rising
gradually and fully until I found myself unexpectedly breathing
through clenched teeth, I looked down at where we were so delicious-
ly joined, and wordlessly and with a deliberate and unchanging
rhythm, I fucked her until she came again. I said nothing until she
gave a final quake and went entirely rigid, and as she lay suspended
and frozen in pleasure I moved my lips near her face and breathed
"Cum...cum..." again and again, waivering only when I felt that odd
tickle in my cock sliding inside her, and the soft writhing of
fledgling tubes in my lower gut that I could not resist told me with
a startling jolt of pleasure that a drop of me was oozing into her.

By the time she relaxed we were both overcome. Neither of us
could move. Eyes closed, she lay stroking the back of my neck.
Finally she whispered. "You are such a wonderful fuck." To which I
could only mutter into her bosom, "I had help."

With her cheek resting on my head I felt her face form a wide
smile. Without seeing her, I could envision her teeth gleeming in
the dark.

"Flatterer," she purred, sounding sinfully pleased.



PART 4B:


Two technicalities that didn't particularly plague me at that
time were: whatever happened to Martha Jane's virginity? And what
did she use for birth control?

I assumed that my early sexual equipment had not yet developed to
the size required for breaking hymens. This seemed reasonable, though
I was not that small in those days and from what I had seen and heard
from other boys my age, I was above average in that department. At
the swimming pool in the project and at Malone Pool, a municipal public
swimming pool nearby, plenty of k**s showed up who didn't hesitate to
drop drawers in public and hop into their swim trunks. From all I
saw, I was a definite contender. From Martha Jane's testimony, of
course, I was the best in the business.

Birth control was a different matter. I did my own research, at
considerable consternation to the librarian who fetched dozens of
medical references out of the library stacks. The best information
I could gather and decipher led me to conclude that it was medically
possible for me to do some damage--though I doubted I'd find a
urologist who would dare confirm it.

In addition to official references I garnered more information
from every young boy's ultimate source: the first-hand tales of that
worldliest of peers, the local 12-year-old womanizer. I don't
remember this k**'s name, but he frequented the big grassy lawn that
stretched before my building. It was a ritual about once a month for
this nice-looking, hefty redheaded k** to pontificate on the handling
and seduction of young girls before a group of enthralled listeners
age 4 to 14 or so. At about that time I decided to hang around for
some of these sessions, during which I heard the usual rumors about
virginity often passing without pain or bloodletting, or via other
means (sports, et al). He had his own lurid stories to relate, and
often did so with amazing clinical detail which, through my experi-
ence with Martha Jane, convinced me that at least some of his reports
seemed authentic.

I decided Martha Jane's hymen had probably been taken by me--
exactly when, I couldn't say--and that its inconvenience had been
masked by ardour and passion.

My scouring about the world was not limited to what I could find
in a boring book. I did consort with peers now and then, especially
on the school playground at lunch and recess. I developed no close
or frequent friends that I recall. The one buddy I did take up with
was Stepper.

I spent about a year kicking around with him. He was a black
boy my own age. We didn't see each other regularly because he lived
on the other side of the downtown area, near my Aunt Frances' home.

I met Stepper on one of my expeditions into the downtown business
district. Having been packed off to my godmother's place for a week-
end, I had spent the morning sitting around their restaurant near
busy Union Station. The usual procedure when I spent weekends with
my godparents or my father's parents was to spent evenings in their
home; but since they had no sitter for me and everyone in the family
manned the business during the day, they would drag me downtown with
them when they opened the Tremont Cafe in the morning. I spent half
my time gobbling down ice cream and Cokes and whatever was on the
menu, and the other half exploring the nearby railroad yards, playing
Army games near the grounds of the mammoth post office building next
door, or poring over comic books and sipping milk shakes. I had
exhausted my supply of comics that day and sat around looking bored,
so my godmother (who was also my great-Aunt Frances) handed me two
bucks for more comics.

Searching the newsstands nearby in Union Station and Central
Station uncovered nothing new. So in my usual (i.e., unpredictable)
way I wandered into the thick of downtown Memphis until I discovered
a new and gigantic supply of comics in a hotel near Beale Street. In
1949 two dollars would buy a sackful of comics, and a sackful is what
I held under my arm as I started back toward Aunt Frances' place.

Just beyond the corner of Beale and Main I heard a jazz band.
Following the sound, I found a small crowd listening to the three-
piece band on a block on Beale Street. This was an event in Memphis,
there being ordinances against such things. All three players in the
band were blacks, with a drummer and a bass player, and a trumpeter in
a straw hat with a bright yellow feather. The fourth member was
Stepper, a gangly black k** in loose clothing who was shuffling and
tap dancing. The k**'s style caught my eye. He seemed very smooth
and adept; I had seen enough Fred Astaire flicks at the Suzore's to
recognize fancy footwork.

After he performed a couple of numbers he took a big bow from
the crowd and leaned against the wall of the building for a break
while the band started a number without him. That's when I walked
over to him and, too shy to know how to start a conversation with a
person who seemed so accomplished, I shuffled around without a word
until he happened to notice the corner of a comic book cover that had
crept up over the edge of the paper bag I held.

"Say," he said, pointing to the bag, "you got Plastic Man in
there!"

"Yeah. You know about Plastic Man?"

"Do I? My favorite. Got them funny glasses, and goes stretchin'
his neck all the way around buildin's an' everything. Yeah, it's
funny, it's really weird artwork, the way they draw that guy."

We established an immediate rapport. I found it odd that a k**
who performed with such alacrity and precision could have such a
sleepy, lazy manner of speaking. There was much about Stepper that
I found intriguing: he had a flair for dance and a sense for music
that has never been matched by any k** I knew before or since. He
had practical and apparently hard-earned "street smarts" that I
envied. At the same time there was something about him that was
even more c***dlike than his 8 or 9 years. I kept seeing him as a
youngish Pied Piper.

Before I left that day I offered him my copy of Plastic Man. He
thanked me but said he wouldn't have time to read it on the spot.

But I held the book out to him and said, "No, keep it. It's
yours. I'll get another one."

The k** beamed a big, surprised smile at me and said thanks.
He asked if I hung around there much, and I said I'd try to get
back on a weekend. As I was leaving he said, "Hey, you ever
get back here, look for me. Ask for Stepper. That's me."

A few weeks later I again saw Stepper dancing with the street
band. When I talked with him during his break I was surprised when
he reached into a wrinkled paper sack, pulled out the Plastic Man
comic and handed it to me. He said he hoped it wasn't too damaged,
he had given it to his smaller brother Junior. And even his 5-year-
old sister Truluv had read it.

I asked, "Really? You have a sister named 'True Love'?"

"Yeah, Truluv," he said, and he spelled it for me. "That was my
Aunt Harriet's idea. She got a lot o' goofy ideas."

When Stepper was finished for the day he gave me a brief tour of
Beale Street, which had not changed very much since its heydey at
the turn of the century. This street was "downtown" for blacks who
lived in that area, although many of the businesses had since been
bought out by whites.

Stepper told me his real name was Franklin, which he didn't
like. He insisted on being called by his nickname, Stepper. He was
amused when I told him I had the opposite problem and that I hated
my nickname. Stepper lived in a small house near Beale Street with
his mother, an uncle, his sister Truluv and his baby brother Junior,
and their dog Agnes. It turned out that his home was in the same
neigh- borhood as my Aunt Frances and her next-door neighbor, my
Aunt Josephine Sansone. Stepper said he was familiar with those
names. He told me he had an older uncle, Robert, who was a handyman
and junk collector in the neighborhood. He cruised the area with
his mule and wagon and made part of his living making deliveries or
picking up used tires, refrigerators, sinks, or whatever refuse
could be sold or rebuilt. The local shopping area had a small
supermarket, a liquor store, a cleaners, and a restaurant and beer
hall on the corner of Linden Street. My relatives owned that
property and ran the businesses. The area was a decaying part of
Memphis built in the 1890's. The old two-story houses that were
still standing were populated by whites, many of them either closely
or distantly related to me. The other side of the area was literal-
ly a shantytown populated by poor negro families who lived in houses
little better than shacks.

Stepper became my indispensable guide to many of the dangers I
had somehow avoided downtown. Standing on a street corner one day
he pointed out a very large lady shopper who was crossing the
street, walking in our direction.

"Lookit that lady," he murmured, pointing to her. "See, she got
two shoppin' bags she's holdin' in one arm, and that other bag she
got down at her left side. Lookit dem two bags she's holdin' in her
right arm. See dat? It wouldn't take nothin' to bump up aside her
a little bit, and dem bags come tumblin' down all over the side-
walk. You could grab three or four, maybe five things outta that
bag and run like the devil, she'd wouldn't know it 'till too late to
catch you."

He showed me how several shoppers left themselves vulnerable
and how he could make a getaway uns**thed.

I asked him how he knew these tricks.

"My brother, he's 19 years old and he has this friend, name
is Joel. Joel brung me down here one time and showed me all them
tricks. Said he wanted me to do it with him. But I wouldn't do
it."

"Have you ever done anything like that?"

"Nope. Not me. And I'm glad I didn't. 'Cause Joel, he's in
jail for it right now. And I'm not. But I hope I never get to the
point where I have to steal like that."

"Why would you have to steal?"

"'Cause you get hungry. You don't have no home. Then you
got to. Ain't no other way."

Stepper guided me to many of the secret places in unlikely parts
of the city. Like me, he was inveterately curious. We saw each
other every few weeks or so and explored areas that had not been
touched or seen by anyone in years. We crept through the dank,
silent warehouses of the old cotton shipping district, unused at
that time for dozens of years, and found remnants of an entire
railroad network that connected the shipping docks. We followed the
railroad itself through an old part of town, onto the bluffs along
the waterfront, across the Mississippi RIver on the old Harriman
bridge and into Arkansas on other shore. Traversing the old rail-
road bridge was scary: there was no walkway and only a thin metal
cable for a handrail, and therefore there was no escape from oncom-
ing trains, short of diving into the river. The heavily rusted
tracks told us that the bridge had been unused for years. Still, we
played it safe and walked back to town over the DeSoto Bridge, which
had a pedestrian walkway.

It took over an hour to return to Memphis. Along the way,
Stepper entertained me by forming his fingers tightly around his
lips and showing me how to "trumpet" a blues number with his hands.

When it came to adventuring with people, however, we didn't
fare so well.

One hot, sticky June day I brought Stepper into my back yard and
told him to wait while I went inside to get us some lemonade. Mom
was making a pitcher of it when she noticed Stepper waiting out
there near the edge of the access driveway.

"That little boy out there..is he with you, Speedy?"

"Yeah, that's Stepper. Can he have some, too?"

"Well," she began, looking at him irritably. She turned and
pulled two tall glasses down from the pantry on the wall, and
started clunking ice cubes into them. "All right, but listen to
me..." She bent down close to my face and in a stern whisper, so
Stepper wouldn't hear, she warned me, "...I'll give him some this
time, because I don't think I ever mentioned this to you before.
But don't you bring any black boys around again. Hear?"

Confused, I looked out through the rear screen door at
Stepper, who stood unknowing with his back to us and looked about
at the goings on around him. I turned back to Mom and asked,
"Why not?"

"Because we don't socialize with them."

"But why not?"

"Because he's--" she lowered her whisper to a barely audible
level--"black."

"But why don't we--?"

"Because we just don't. Now you mind yourself, Speedy, and
don't ask me why not, just don't do it anymore."

She gave me two glasses of lemonade and went about cleaning
up, doing little to hide her displeasure.

Perplexed at the harshness of such rules and her unflinching
insistence, I walked outside and handed Stepper the lemonade. He
took a quick drink and yelled toward my mother in the kitchen,
"Thank you, ma'am. This is real good. You make it really good!"

My mother brought her face to the screen door and smiled with
stiff politeness. "I'm glad you like it." Then she went back to
work.

Stepper drank the lemonade in one long, noisy series of gulps
and wiped his lips. Without changing his casual manner he said
quietly to me, "Hurry up and finish yours, and let's go."

"Where we goin'?" I asked.

"You in trouble about this, I can tell. Ain't you?"

I shrugged and sipped my lemonade.

"You in trouble, huh?" he asked again.

I drank deeply and paused. "What makes you think so?"

"I can tell," he said.

Conspiratorially, we both behaved offhandedly as I finished my
lemonade and returned the glasses to the kitchen. "Thanks, ma," I
said nonchalantly as I walked out.

"You be back here at six," she warned.

"Yes, ma'am."

Stepper and I decided that from then on we would meet in a part
of the project where my mother wouldn't see us--which would be any-
where except in my tiny back yard.

Shortly thereafter I was similarly approached by my Aunt Frances.
One Sunday morning as she was cleaning up the breakfast dishes be-
fore leaving to work at the restaurant, she called me inside. I had
been playing in the her back yard with Stepper and his little sister
Truluv, throwing a ball for their dog Agnes to fetch.

Aunt Frances stood in her kitchen with her hands on her very
wide hips, her big face frowning. "You don't let any of them k**s
come in this house when we leave you alone here, do you?"

"No, ma'am," I said--lying, of course, since Stepper and I had
already explored the unlived-in, unfurnished second floor of their
big old Victorian house.

"Hm-hm," she muttered to herself, displaying her usual distrust.
"You watch out who you play with around here. Those k**s belong in
niggertown, over there on Linden Street. They don't have no
business around here."

"Yes, ma'am, " I said dutifully.

Naturally, I disobeyed. On weekends when I stayed with Aunt
Frances and they were home, I met Stepper behind their house. Their
back yard had a wooden one-car garage, and a vine-covered wire fence
that ran along the gravel alleyway separating shantytown from the
homes on Aunt Frances' block. Right behind the garage was our
favorite spot.

I was waiting there one day eating a cookie out of a big batch
Aunt Frances was making for the restaurant. Stepper came around the
corner of the alley before I finished.

"That looks good, " he said. "What kinda cookie?"

"Oatmeal," I said. "Wait. I'll get you one."

"That's okay, I don't want one that bad. Don't get in no
trouble."

"I won't," I said. "Just wait." I went through the yard and
paused at the rear door, quickly swallowing the last cookie bite,
and walked into the kitchen. Aunt Frances stood in a white chef's
apron at the big center table, rolling out cookie dough. I asked for
another cookie.

"I just gave you one. You ate that already?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well...all right, but this is the last one. Don't you spoil
your lunch."

"Thank you," I said obediently, and once outside I dashed behind
the garage. Stepper's little sister TruLuv stood shyly beside him.
I gave the cookie to Stepper and said, "Now she doesn't have one."

"She can have some o' mine," Stepper said.

"No," I said. "Wait here." I dashed again to the back door,
paused to settle down, and strolled casually into the kitchen.

"Can I have another one?"

My Aunt Frances looked down at me in disbelief. "What? I just
gave you another one!"

"I ate it."

"You ate that big cookie already? Don't you chew?"

My Uncle Johnny sat in the living room reading the paper. He
called out in his soft, wheezy voice. "What's the matter, Francis?"

Aunt Frances called back in her shrill voice, "Your nephew eats
cookies faster than I can make 'em."

"Well, give 'im another one."

"He's had two already."

"He's a k**, they eat all day. Won't hurt anything."

Aunt Frances gave me another cookie, with a strong warning: "Now
this is the last one. Don't eat so many cookies, they're not good
for you when you eat so many."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

I ran outside. Behind the garage, Stepper and Truluv had been
joined by their baby brother Junior and Agnes the dog.

I handed Truluv the cookie. "Wait," I said.

Back to the kitchen door. I paused a longer time, hoping it
was enough to cover the consumption of another cookie. Then I
went into the kitchen.

Aunt Frances balked and scowled. "Don't tell me you want
another one!"

"Yeah."

"How do you eat so fast?"

My Uncle Johnny called, "What's the matter now, Frances?"

"Your nephew already ate that other cookie!"

Uncle Johnny gave his usual laugh, an ironic, tired little
wheeze. "Hell, I'm not surprised. What's he want now?"

"What do you think he wants? He wants another one."

"Give him one, Frances, what the hell..."

"Here!" Aunt Frances said, posing another big cookie in my face.
"Now, that's the last one!"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

I ran back to the garage and behind it, and gave Junior his
cookie.

"What about you?" Stepper said, munching. "Now you ain't got
one."

"Aw," I said, "I get cookies outta her all the time."

Stepper grinned, his teeth covered with crumbs. "You some-
thin' else, boy."

This resulted in my being introduced to Stepper's Uncle Robert,
the junk man, a tall, portly, silver-haired elder who reminded me
of cheerful Uncle Remus, whose Walt Disney movie I'd recently seen.
Along with Stepper and Truluv, we went riding on Uncle Robert's
junk wagon up and down Linden and Lauderdale Streets all that week-
end. I spent one Sunday at Robert's own shanty, where he made a
batch of the warmest, crunchiest, greasiest, tastiest Southern
fried chicken I ever ate. He called me "Mister Speedy, suh" and
showed me how he collected the junk and cleaned it up.

It was a few weeks following the February cookie incident that
I was on Robert's mule-powered junkwagon with Stepper and Truluv
and Agnes. We sang and joked our way merrily down Lauderdale in
front of my Aunt Frances' home when we passed my beautiful cousin
Josephine Louise, who was walking toward her mother's home next door
to my Aunt Frances.

We k**s waved and screamed hello. Josephine Louise at first
didn't hear, but when she did she turned to us and her face lit up.
Josephine Louise was a creature of magical beauty. Her wide red
sensuous mouth and huge doe-like eyes were almost as hypnotic to me
as Martha Jane's basic, tender charm. She smiled and waved.

"Hi, Speedy. Y'all havin' a good time?"

"Yep," I yelled back, proud of myself as a veteran rider of
wagons and expert on the back end of mules.

"Stay outta trouble now," she called, and winked her sexy wink.

As the wagon clattered by with its tin cans rattling and its
mule clopping along, I watched Josephine Louise's sultry slinkiness
turn and walk up the front path to her home. If ever I had been
crudely horny as a very young boy, Josephine Louise was the cause
of it.

It was on that day that the proverbial excrement first hit the
proverbial fan concerning Stepper...

The following day, a Sunday, I snuck around the garage behind
Aunt Frances' house and met Stepper in the alley. We began walking
through the shantytown toward his house when we were met by his
Uncle Robert. We both expected his usual, toothy grin and good
cheer. Instead, he had a long and serious face.

"Stepper, you come hyah," he called somberly from a few yards
away. He stopped to wait for Stepper to go to him. Both of us
could tell by his cheerless tone that something unpleasant was
brewing.

Stepper looked back at me as he went to his uncle. "Wait here,
Speedy, Uncle Robert's got somethin' to tell me. I'll be back."

But as soon as Stepper joined his uncle, Robert took the boy's
hand and held him still. He straightened up and looked down at
Stepper sternly. "Stepper, c***d, I got somethin' ta tell ya. This
is serious, now. You got to pay attention and you got to mind what
I say."

"What is it, Uncle Robert?"



PART 4C:


Robert paused, and began again with a strained voice and face.
"You chillun cain't be playin' around here together no mo'. I done
got the word on it from yo' brother Steve, and from Miz Sansone
across the street. She call me on my phone at home, and when Miz
Josephine Sansone calls me at home, I know it's ser'ous. She seen
us all on the wagon yestiddy, and she say...she don' wonna see no
more of it with you and Mister Speedy."

"But why?"

"Now, I told you, c***d, please mind me." He looked up and took
a step toward me. "Mister Speedy, I sho don't like this. But I
got to do what Miz Sansone say."

I looked into his sad eyes and said, "Uncle Robert, you don't
have to call me mister. I'm supposed to call *you* mister."

"I appreciate that and I know what you mean, but...Miss Josephine,
and yo' Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances is all in a big uproar, and...
I ain't got no choice in this."

I asked, "But who told you we were out on the wagon? Was it
Josephine Louise?"

"No suh, now, yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise, she didn't have
nothin' to do with this. So don't you go blamin' her. She's the
sweetest lady I know, and she wouldn't do nothin' like that. Now...
it don't make no difference who said what and who done what. The
end of it is, yo' Aunt Josephine and Aunt Lucille and Aunt Frances
don't want you and Stepper together 'round hyah. And they ask me to
tell you they don't think it's safe, you runnin' round in shantytown."

Stepper broke in excitedly, "Speedy, I'll meet you up by Saint
Patrick's church from now on, won't nobody--"

"Now, Stepper!" Uncle Robert said firmly. "Please, c***d. You
heard what I said." Uncle Robert turned to me. "I'm really sorry,
Mister Speedy."

I said, feeling very staunch and grownup, "I know how they are,
Uncle Robert. I understand."

"Well, I know you is a smart boy, and a good boy, and I know
you see what's going on. I wish it could be dif'ernt, and I ain't
sayin' it's right, but--"

"I *know* it ain't right!" I said defiantly. "It's not fair!"

"Mister Speedy, please. We all know what's going on hyah, so
let's don't dwell on that 'cause they ain't nothin' we can do about
it. Miz Sansone and them is yo' people, yo' family, and you got to
do what they say. So don't be makin' trouble for yuhself. I
confess I did see yo' cousin Miss Josephine Louise at the grocery
sto' this morning when she come to work, and she say she knew what
was happenin', too, and she was sorry. So I know how you and her
feel about dis, but..." Uncle Robert grabbed Stepper's hand again
and straightened up. "But I makes my livin' from Miz Sansone and
other folks round hyah, and...well...we got to do what we got to do.
Come on, Stepper. Let's go see 'bout some lunch."

Silently I watched them go, torn between pity and affection for
Stepper and Uncle Robert, and my growing dislike for what seemed to be
a mounting tide of opposing forces from adults, mean k**s, the possi-
bility of Martha Jane leaving after high school, aunts who hated
giving cookies, and moms who gave no reason for banishing my friends.
As Stepper and Robert walked away, Stepper turned and gave me a lost
look that tugged at my heart. But out of view of Robert he winked,
pointing at himself and then at me, and the message I got was that he
would find a way to come to me. I nodded. When they disappeared into
Stepper's slanted wooden house down the driveway, I turned and trudged
back toward my aunt's house with dragging feet. I was in no mood to
give up an afternoon of Stepper and Uncle Robert for one with grownups
I increasingly resented and could not fathom.

This wasn't the end of it with Stepper. A few weeks later at the
end of March, he met me in the Lauderdale Courts project. He'd
brought with him his pride and joy--a leatherette bag of genuine
cat's-eyes marbles given him for his birthday by his Aunt Harriett. I
knew this to be a prize, as an entire bag of 24 cat's-eyes cost more
than many poor black families earned in a week.

We gathered with several other k**s in a patch of orange dust
a few yards west of my building, near a thick grove of hedges.
This was safe from my mother's view and within sight of most of the
other k**s who lived nearby. We called this grassless patch of worn
ground the Marble Court. It was the perfect surface for hand-
shooting marbles. The common belief was that only sissies played
marbles on smooth surfaces; shooting and rolling in fine dust re-
quired great skill.

About five boys my age, and Stepper and I, and a number of young
boys and some girls were gathered at the Marble Court as Stepper
amazed everyone with his expertise at marbles. I was almost tempted
to take bets on the little tyke, as I had seen Leo Gorcey do with
Huntz Hall in a Bowery Boys movie.

The sun was lowering toward the rooftops near dinner time,
and k**s were wrapping up their final marble shots, when four older
boys strolled hurriedly across the lawn toward us. Looking over my
shoulder, I recognized two of them as a couple of tough k**s that
had been in fistfights in the area.

One of the boys standing near me saw them as well, and he leaned
close to me. "Hey, Ricci," he said, calling me by my last name,
"here come some of them guys from the big buildings on the hill."

I murmured back, "Maybe we oughtta stop the game and spread
out. They're always lookin' for trouble."

"Naw, they look like they're goin' somewhere in a hurry. They
might not stop here. Make like we don't see 'em."

The other k**s, not noticing the quartet, were on the ground,
anxiously hunched around a boy who was making a critical shot. As
I tried to appear unaffected, I heard with a chill the footfalls of
the boys walking swiftly through the grass near my back. With a
sigh of relief I heard them approach and then pass, appearing to be
on their way into the project without noticing us.

But then one of the four yelled, "Hey, Herschell, look at this!"
He suddenly appeared in front of me, headed deliberately toward the
k**s hovering around the game.

One of the other four yelled, "Hey, JB, what the hell 're you
doin'?"

"Just a minute," the hefty boy named JB yelled back, "Lemme
see somethin'."

"Oh, what the hell!" swore one of the toughs. "You're wastin'
my time, JB. You're always wastin' my time!"

JB stepped roughly into the group playing marbles. The k**s
stood and s**ttered immediately. Only another boy and Stepper were
left on the ground.

"Hey, nigger, what you got down there?"

Stepper remained still, staring up at him warily with wide,
white yes.

"You got cat's-eyes, nigger? Hey, Herschell, this nigger's got
some cat's-eyes. Got a nice set, too."

"Are you k**din' me?" Herschell yelled back. "C'mon, man,
we ain't got time for that. We're gonna miss tickets for the game
tonight. Cut the crap and get movin'. C'mon!"

JB stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at Stepper
with a mean smile. "Them your cat's-eyes, boy? Huh? They belong
to you?"

"Yeah," Stepper said politely, starting to get up. "They's
mine."

"Well, they ain't yours no more," JB said, and he reached down
and scooped up a handful of cat's-eyes. Stepper had no choice; JB
was twice his size, and almost twice mine. All the other k**s
began spreading out, away from the Marble Court.

The other three toughs were still walking on their way. "C'mon,
JB," one of them yelled. "We ain't waitin', man!"

JB eyed Stepper with a menacing false friendliness, as Stepper
carefully moved away from him. "Thanks, nigger," JB said, grinning,
spilling the marbles loudly from one hand to the other.

I was a few yards away from JB. I calculated that if I broke
into a quick run, I could pretend to have just arived on the scene
and could brush against his hands, knocking the marbles away. If
the goods were spilled everywhere and his friends were urging him
to leave, he might just forget the whole thing and move off. I was
desperate that Stepper should not lose those marbles and that the
rest of us would not be intimidated. Before I knew it I was rushing
across the front of JB's view, headfirst.

I struck his hands with my right shoulder and arm. Marbles
flew everywhere. Quickly I jerked to a stop and said, "Oh,
'scuse me, mister! I didn't see ya." I bent down, retrieving
marbles, most of which had fallen in the nearby grass.

"Hey, Herschell," I heard JB yell over my head as I bent.
"You see what that little shit did to me?" He gave a rough laugh.
I didn't know what he would do next. I could not see him from
my bent-over position. But I knew I was terrified. I could see
my hands quiver as I fished for one marble at a time. I had no
idea what would happen next.

I didn't have to wait long to find out.

I heard and felt a violent, dull thud on the left side of my
face. My head snapped to the right, straining my neck, and the rest
of me followed into the dirt. I don't remember falling, so I must
have gone down instantly. I hit the ground tummy-first with a
single bounce, my mouth and nostrils filled with sticky, choking
brown powder. One of the little girls behind me screamed. To my
left I heard feet pounding from the direction of the other three
toughs. I was numbed by a growing hum of sickening fear. Were all
four of them going at me? What a stupid thing I'd done!

One of the toughs had run to us and hissed angrily, "JB,
goddammit, get yer butt movin. You wanna see this game, stop
fuckin' around and let's go!"

"Okay, man, okay," JB said, swaggering over to me. "You see what
this nigger-lover did to me? Like I wouldn't know what he was up to.
Hey, boy! You think I'm stupid or somethin'?"

I didn't answer. I didn't think I could speak anyway. I lay flat
in the dirt. Maybe he'd think I was knocked out.

The second tough walked away. "SCrew it, man, I'm tired of your
foolishness. Hey, Herschell, keep movin', this stupid motherfucker's
gonna stay here and play. So long, JB!"

"I'm comin', man, I'm comin'," I heard JB say absently. From the
corner of my left eye I could see his shoes approach me slowly. Then
the shoes moved so quickly they were a blur, and I shifted two or
three feet to the right as a fierce blow crashed into my left side and
ribs. This time I got a good face-full of ground and felt my forearms
scr****g roughly into it. I then realized the left side of my face
was swelling from the earlier blow, and the rapidly spreading mixture
of numbness and stinging pain in my left side meant that I had been
kicked hard. I lay frozen and nauseous, waiting for more.

But more didn't come. JB scoffed, "Nigger lover," and out of
my right eye I saw him walking off. "Okay, fellas, I'm comin"," JB
yelled.

My worst fears gone, the ability to move returned to my limbs. I
saw drops of blood in front of me on the ground, and my nose itched
maddeningly. Rapidly, fear was displaced by rage--so much so, I felt
I might go out of control. I trembled more from anger than from
pain. I rose to my elbows and knees, a throbbing ache spreading
through my head and face. I wondered if the bastard had broken my
nose, or a cheekbone, or a rib. More blood dripped off the tip of my
nose into small red blots in the dust.

Stepper and two other k**s were onto me right away.

"Hey, Ricci! Ricci!" one of them pleaded. "You okay?"

I heard someone sniffling and crying just over my head. I
opened my eyes and saw Stepper's shoes.

"Speedy," Stepper sobbed. "Say somethin'. You alright?"

"I'm okay," I mumbled, surprised that my mouth could move, but not
surprised that it hurt my nose and jaw.

"He's okay!" one of the k**s screeched. "C'mon, let's get 'im
up."

I let out a powerful, growling scream. "Don't touch me! Nobody
touch me! Leave me alone!"

I sensed the others were startled and that they began moving away
cautiously. All but Stepper. He was still crouched near me, his hand
on my back.

"Speedy, please tell me you okay," he sobbed.

I was up on my knees now, and settled back on my haunches. I
nodded. "It's okay, Stepper. I'm bleedin, I guess, but I'm all here."

"This my fault, man."

"To hell with that," I breathed. "I don't wanna hear that."

He sobbed, "He got you in the face, man, and kicked you good.
He didn't have to do that."

"Well," I said angrily, "he didn't have to, but he sure did,
didn't he?" I tried to laugh. My left side burned. I leaned forward
on my hands and let the blood drip from my face. I hissed, "I'll kill
the son of a bitch. I'll kill 'im."

"No, Speedy, you take it easy. We gotta find somebody to help
you. We gotta find somebody."

"No. Stop it," I gruffed in a dull monotone. I felt something
wildly irrational sweeping through me, starting in my gut and spread-
ing into my arms. It was a rage from my dreams about being beaten,
trapped, powerless.

Wobbling, I struggled to stand. Stepper helped me. At first
he tried grabbing me round the waist, but I winced and yelled.

"I'm sorry, Speedy, I forgot."

"It's okay," I mumbled, sounding drunk and unable to find an
equilibrium. I finally stood but swayed, my movements muddled.
Stepper was still trying to help me. I gently pushed him away.

"No," I groaned roughly. "Stepper, no. Move away. Please.
Gimme room."

"You okay?"

"I'm gonna be alright," I slurred, not really sure about it. I
tried to turn and walk to my right, but stumbled. In case anyone
might be thinking of rushing in to steady me I yelled, "Stay away!"

To my left I saw a very young girl in a light blue dress, so
small she seemed puppet-like, rushing as fast as her little feet
could carry her toward the corner of my building a few hundred
yards away. The front screen door of the apartment on that end of
the building opened--it was Martha Jane's door--and the girl and
two other k**s were animatedly talking to her and pointing toward
me. Other k**s were rushing in from across the lawn, toward the
Marble Court where I stood caked with tan dust, lightly dripping
blood down my green plaid flannel shirt.

My rage swelled, ignited, exploded. Not only had someone beat
the hell out of me, but now every k** and mother and everyone else
in sight was going to see me stumbling and bleeding. My eyes
clouded with dust, I saw Martha Jane go to the little girl, take
her hand, and start running toward me. Her mother's face appeared
at the screen door and peered out at us anxiously. I was enraged
at being doubly mortified, at being beaten and being seen beaten.

It was too late for anyone to squelch the primal force that
overtook me so quickly. I stumbled toward the grove of hedges and
began tearing away at one of the shrubs, ripping it apart, looking
for a club, a stick, anything with which to strike at anything
else. I heard myself scream incoherently, a long, throat-scalding
yell. I grasped at the shrubs, throwing ripped-off leaves and
twigs everywhere. I encircled one shrub in a superhuman effort to
pull it from the ground. Of course it was impossible, but I tried
anyway. The hard edges of the branches dug into my arms and torso.
I grunted and again screamed, trying to uproot the plant that was
taller and wider than I was.

I heard Martha Jane plead behind me, "Speedy, what are you
doing? Stop it! Please stop!"

And poor Stepper, pleading and begging, "No, miss! Leave 'im
alone. Pleeease! He'll be okay. I seen 'im do this before!
Please, miss, don't! He won't even know who you are!"

"God, what's he doing?"

"He'll be okay! Please!"

After that I was aware of precious little except my own blind
fury. I jerked at the shrub until I my arms could no longer grasp it,
then trampled randomly into the grove of hedges and found an old four
foot limb on the ground, a dead limb fallen months or years ago from
the giant black oak nearby. I picked it up and charged toward the
tree. I was dimly aware of faces watching in shock as I raised over
my shoulder a dead black limb whose height and size nearly equalled
mine. Crying, screaming, bleeding, I smacked the old wood against the
trunk of the oak. The faces of four toughs loomed before me, and the
faces of those who lied, cheated, stole, killed, maimed. I let into
the tree with savage vehemence and loud whacking sounds. Each effort
tore along my injured side. I didn't care. Again and again I struck.
With each blow, splinters and chunks of black dead bark flew every-
where. Soon one end of the limb was frayed, yellow shards spewing in
all directions. When too weak to hold the log I let it drop; then
after a huge gasp of new air I picked it up again, raised it overhead,
and hurled it lengthwise at the tree with a furious scream. The
broken log bounced back toward me. Stumbling, I grasped it with sore
hands and tried to raise the log over my head again.

I faltered, drained and feeling barely conscious. My legs gave
out first, the weight of the log pulling me to my knees. The
screaming gave way to sobs and heaves. I was out of breath with
the effort. I settled backward onto my ankles.

A soft voice, tremulous, wary, a young woman's voice, was just
behind my shoulder.

"Speedy? Can I touch you, hon? I won't try to hold you down.
I just want to take care of you, hon. Can you hear me?"

"Why won't they let me fight?" I sobbed, choking.

"Can you hear me, hon?"

The limb lay across my thighs. I let it go and it rolled away.
I slumped. I was too tired to move. I felt like falling asleep.
Martha Jane's hand was on my left shoulder. When I didn't resist,
her other hand touched my other shoulder.

A tall long-legged woman in a print house-dress stood near my
left. I could barely see her. She stared at me with a horrified
grimace.

"Is he alright? Lord, what's wrong with that poor c***d?"

"I don't know," Martha Jane said. "But he's alright now.
Speedy? Can I touch you, hon?"

"O