Somebody has placed a blanket over him.
. . .
She stands over him and clutches the blanket to her chest. She has never really spoken to her sleeping husband about Florence, but she has expressed regret that her three nieces are growing up with neither a mother nor a father, their only relative being an aunt who they don’t know. And he has listened to her, and encouraged her to bring the girls from East St. Louis to New York City, where they might have something akin to family life, but she knows that despite his protestations this is not what her husband really desires, for family life would be a distraction from his work. She carefully places the blanket over him and then she turns and leaves the drawing room. She had long ago convinced herself that to be touched was not that important, and she had imagined, as was the case with Mr. Sam Thompson, that once they were married he would choose not to press any serious claim upon her body. And being a gentleman, Mr. Williams has chosen not to do so.
He sits in nigger heaven and looks down at his West Indian son. At first he does not recognize him, and then, when he does, his stomach moves. This bewildered creature with a kinky wig, long ill-fitting white gloves, a shabby dress suit, oversized shoes, a battered top hat, sleeves and trousers that are too short, a mouth exaggerated by paint, this real funny nigger is his son? This coon with big eyeball-poppin’ eyes is his child? He now understands why the boy has suggested that his wife stay at home and recuperate from the seemingly endless train journey. What has happened to his Bert? His Bahamian son who would sit patiently with him for hours and study the manner in which chickens threw dust behind them with their webbed feet. Father and son were inseparable. And then he brought the boy to Florida, and then on to California, in the hope that his child might achieve an education in the powerful country to the north. But this is not his son. ThisShylock. This grotesque simpleton shuffling about the stage who seems to be forever trapped in foolish predicaments. This buffoon. This nigger.
RAREBACK
What in the world did you ask all those questions for?
SHYLOCK
What’s the use of being a detective if you can’t ask questions even if you do know it won’t do no good?
RAREBACK
Well, Sherry, we’ll have to keep our bluff anyway, so we’ll go down to Gatorville, Florida, make old man Lightfoot think we are looking for the box he lost, and if we’re lucky, we may get a chance to get to Dahomey with this emigration society.
SHYLOCK
Say, man, have you got any idea how fast you’se carrying me through life? Ten minutes ago I was a soldier in the Salvation Army. Five minutes after that I’m a detective, and now you want me to be an emigrant.
RAREBACK
( laughing ) Stick to me and after we’re in Dahomey six months, if you like it, I’ll buy it for you. I’ll tell the king over there that I’m a surveyor, and you’re a contractor. If he asks for a recommendation, I’ll tell him to go over to New York City and take a look at Broadway—it’s the best job the firm ever did, and if he don’t mind, we’ll build him a Broadway in the jungle.
At the curtain call, with applause thundering in his ears, Bert looks straight out at the orchestra stalls and bows deeply. He gracefully receives the noisy evidence of their approval. However, as he straightens up at the waist he realizes that his heart is heavy with shame, and try as he might he cannot bring himself to look up and acknowledge his father. Upstairs in nigger heaven.
Act Two
(1903–1911)
H e remembers the tall eleven-year-old boy whose father insisted that he still wear short pants, and who stared at the swath of foam that the ship was cutting into the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean as it edged a slow passage along the far coast of this new country. Above him the wind charged between the clouds, creating space for the lines of migrating birds
. . .
She stands over him and clutches the blanket to her chest. She has never really spoken to her sleeping husband about Florence, but she has expressed regret that her three nieces are growing up with neither a mother nor a father, their only relative being an aunt who they don’t know. And he has listened to her, and encouraged her to bring the girls from East St. Louis to New York City, where they might have something akin to family life, but she knows that despite his protestations this is not what her husband really desires, for family life would be a distraction from his work. She carefully places the blanket over him and then she turns and leaves the drawing room. She had long ago convinced herself that to be touched was not that important, and she had imagined, as was the case with Mr. Sam Thompson, that once they were married he would choose not to press any serious claim upon her body. And being a gentleman, Mr. Williams has chosen not to do so.
He sits in nigger heaven and looks down at his West Indian son. At first he does not recognize him, and then, when he does, his stomach moves. This bewildered creature with a kinky wig, long ill-fitting white gloves, a shabby dress suit, oversized shoes, a battered top hat, sleeves and trousers that are too short, a mouth exaggerated by paint, this real funny nigger is his son? This coon with big eyeball-poppin’ eyes is his child? He now understands why the boy has suggested that his wife stay at home and recuperate from the seemingly endless train journey. What has happened to his Bert? His Bahamian son who would sit patiently with him for hours and study the manner in which chickens threw dust behind them with their webbed feet. Father and son were inseparable. And then he brought the boy to Florida, and then on to California, in the hope that his child might achieve an education in the powerful country to the north. But this is not his son. ThisShylock. This grotesque simpleton shuffling about the stage who seems to be forever trapped in foolish predicaments. This buffoon. This nigger.
RAREBACK
What in the world did you ask all those questions for?
SHYLOCK
What’s the use of being a detective if you can’t ask questions even if you do know it won’t do no good?
RAREBACK
Well, Sherry, we’ll have to keep our bluff anyway, so we’ll go down to Gatorville, Florida, make old man Lightfoot think we are looking for the box he lost, and if we’re lucky, we may get a chance to get to Dahomey with this emigration society.
SHYLOCK
Say, man, have you got any idea how fast you’se carrying me through life? Ten minutes ago I was a soldier in the Salvation Army. Five minutes after that I’m a detective, and now you want me to be an emigrant.
RAREBACK
( laughing ) Stick to me and after we’re in Dahomey six months, if you like it, I’ll buy it for you. I’ll tell the king over there that I’m a surveyor, and you’re a contractor. If he asks for a recommendation, I’ll tell him to go over to New York City and take a look at Broadway—it’s the best job the firm ever did, and if he don’t mind, we’ll build him a Broadway in the jungle.
At the curtain call, with applause thundering in his ears, Bert looks straight out at the orchestra stalls and bows deeply. He gracefully receives the noisy evidence of their approval. However, as he straightens up at the waist he realizes that his heart is heavy with shame, and try as he might he cannot bring himself to look up and acknowledge his father. Upstairs in nigger heaven.
Act Two
(1903–1911)
H e remembers the tall eleven-year-old boy whose father insisted that he still wear short pants, and who stared at the swath of foam that the ship was cutting into the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean as it edged a slow passage along the far coast of this new country. Above him the wind charged between the clouds, creating space for the lines of migrating birds
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