Antaeus

Antaeus

 

Borden Deal (1922 - 1985):

   This was during the wartime, when lots of people were coming North for jobs in factories and war industries, when people moved around a lot more than they do now and sometimes kids were thrown into new groups and new lives that were completely different from anything they had ever known before. I remember this one kid, T. J. his name was, from somewhere down South, whose family moved into our building during that time. They’d come North with everything they owned piled into the back seat of an old model sedan that you wouldn’t expect could make the trip, with T. J. and his three younger sisters riding shakily atop the load of junk.

   Our building was just like all the others there, with families crowded into a few rooms, and I guess there were twenty five or thirty kids about my age in that one building. Of course, there were a few of us who formed a gang and ran together all the time after school, and I was the one who brought T. J. in and started the whole thing.

   The building right next door to us was a factory where they made walking dolls. It was a low building with a flat, tarred roof that had a parapet all around it about head-high and we’d found out a long time before that no one, not even the watchman, paid any attention to the roof because it was higher than any of the other buildings around. So my gang used the roof as a headquarters. We could get up there by crossing over to the fire escape from our own roof on a plank and then going on up. It was a secret place for us, where nobody else could go without our permission.

   

   I remember the day I first took T. J. up there to meet the gang. He was a stocky, robust kid with a shock of white hair, nothing sissy about him except his voice — he talked different from any of us and you noticed it right away. But I liked him anyway, so I told him to come on up.

  

   We climbed up over the parapet and dropped down on the roof. The rest of the gang were already there.

  

   "Hi," I said. I jerked my thumb at T. J. "He just moved into the building yesterday."

   He just stood there, not scared or anything, just looking, like the first time you see somebody you’re not sure you’re going to like.

   "Hi," Blackie said. "Where you from?"

   "Marion County," T. J. said.

   We laughed. "Marion County?" I said. "Where’s that?" He looked at me like I was a stranger, too. "It’s in Alabama," he said, like I ought to know where it was.

   "What’s your name?" Charley said.

   "T. J.," he said, looking back at him. He had pale blue eyes that looked washed out but he looked directly at Charley, waiting for his reaction. He’ll be all right, I thought. No sissy in him ... except that voice. Who ever talked like that?

  

   "T. J.," Blackie said. "That’s just initials. What’s your real name? Nobody in the world has just initials."

   "I do," he said. "And they’re T. J. That’s all the name I got."

   His voice was resolute with the knowledge of his rightness and for a moment no one had anything to say. T. J. looked around at the rooftop and down at the black tar under his feet. "Down yonder where I come from," he said, "we played out in the woods. Don’t you all have no woods around here?"

   "Naw," Blackie said. "There’s the park a few blocks over, but it’s full of kids and cops and old women. You can’t do a thing."

   T. J. kept looking at the tar under his feet. "You mean you ain’t got no fields to raise nothing in? No watermelons or nothing?"

   "Naw," I said scornfully. "What do you want to grow something for? The folks can buy everything they need at the store.

   He looked at me again with that strange, unknowing look. "In Marion County," he said, "I had my own acre of cotton and my own acre of corn. It was mine to plant ever’  year."

   He sounded like it was something to be proud of, and in some obscure way it made the rest of us angry. "Heck!" Blackie said. "Who’d want to have their own acre of cotton and corn? That’s just work. What can you do with an acre of cotton and corn?"

   T. J. looked at him. "Well, you get part of the bale offen your acre," he said seriously. "And I fed my acre of corn to my calf."

   We didn’t really know what he was talking about, so we were more puzzled than angry; otherwise, I guess, we’d have chased him off the roof and wouldn’t let him be part of our gang. But he was strange and different and we were all attracted by his stolid sense of rightness and belonging, maybe by the strange softness of his voice contrasting our own tones of speech into harshness.

   He moved his foot against the black tar. "We could make our own field right here," he said softly, thoughtfully. "Come spring we could raise us what we want to ... watermelons and garden truck and no telling what all."

   "You’d have to be a good farmer to make these tar roofs grow any watermelons," I said. We all laughed.

   But T. J. looked serious. "We could haul us some dirt up here," he said. "And spread it out even and water it and before you know it we’d have us a crop in here." He looked at us intently. "Wouldn’t that be fun?"

   "They wouldn’t let us," Blackie said quickly.

   "I thought you said this was you all’s roof," T. J. said to me. "That you‑all could do anything you wanted up here."

   "They’ve never bothered us," I said. I felt the idea beginning to catch fire in me. It was a big idea and it took a while for it to sink in but the more I thought about it the better I liked it. "Say," I said to the gang, "he might have something there. Just make us a regular roof garden, with flowers and grass and trees and everything. And all ours, too," I said. "We wouldn’t let anybody up here except the ones we wanted to."

  

   "It’d take a while to grow trees," T. J. said quickly, but we weren’t paying any attention to him. They were all talking about it suddenly, all excited with the idea after I’d put it in a way they could catch hold of it. Only rich people had roof gardens, we knew, and the idea of our own private domain excited them.

   "We could bring it up in sacks and boxes," Blackie said. "We’d have to do it while the folks weren’t paying any attention to us. We’d have to come up to the roof of our building and then cross over with it."

  "Where could we get the dirt?" somebody said worriedly.

   "Out of those vacant lots over close to school," Blackie said. "Nobody’d notice if we scraped it up."

   I slapped T. J. on the shoulder. "Man, you had a wonderful idea," I said, and everybody grinned at him, remembering he had started it. "Our own private roof garden."

   He grinned back. "It’ll be ourn," he said. "All ourn." Then he looked thoughtful again. "Maybe I can lay my hands on some cotton seed, too. You think we could raise us some cotton?"

   We’d started big projects before at one time or another, like any gang of kids, but they’d always petered out for lack of organization and direction. But this one didn’t ... somehow or other T. J. kept it going all through the winter months. He kept talking about the watermelons and the cotton we’d raise, come spring, and when even that wouldn’t work he’d switch around to my idea of flowers and grass and trees though he was always honest enough to add that it’d take a while to get any trees started. He always had it on his mind and he’d mention it in school, getting them lined up to carry dirt that afternoon, saying in a casual way that he reckoned a few more weeks ought to see the job through.

   Our little area of private earth grew slowly. T. J. was smart enough to start in one corner of the building, heaping up the carried earth two or three feet thick, so that we had an immediate result to look at, to contemplate with awe. Some of the evenings T. J. alone was carrying earth up to the building, the rest of the gang distracted by other enterprises or interests, but T. J. kept plugging along on his own and eventually we’d all come back to him and then our own little acre would grow more rapidly.

   He was careful about the kind of dirt he’d let us carry up there and more than once he dumped a sandy load over the parapet into the areaway below because it wasn’t good enough. He found out the kinds of earth in all the vacant lots for blocks around. He’d pick it up and feel it and smell it, frozen though it was sometimes, and then he’d say it was good, growing soil or it wasn’t worth anything and we’d have to go on somewhere else.

   Thinking about it now I don’t see how he kept us at it. It was hard work, lugging paper sacks and boxes of dirt all the way up the stairs of our own building, keeping out of the way of the grownups so they wouldn’t catch on to what we were doing. They probably wouldn’t have cared, for they didn’t pay much attention to us, but we wanted to keep it secret anyway. Then we had to go through the trap door to our roof, teeter over a plank to the fire escape, then climb two or three stories to the parapet and drop down onto the roof. All that for a small pile of earth that sometimes didn’t seem worth the effort. But T. J. kept the vision bright within us, his words shrewd and calculated toward the fulfillment of his dream; and he worked harder than any of us. He seemed driven toward a goal that we couldn’t see, a particular point in time that would be definitely marked by signs and wonders that only he could see.

   The laborious earth just lay there during the cold months, inert and lifeless, the clods lumpy and cold under our feet when we walked over it. But one day it rained and afterward there was a softness in the air and the earth was alive and giving again with moisture and warmth. That evening T. J. smelled the air, his nostrils dilating with the odor of the earth under his feet.

  "It’s spring," he said, and there was a gladness rising in his voice that filled us all with the same feeling. "It’s mighty late for it, but it’s spring. I’d just about decided it wasn’t never gonna get here at all."

   We were all sniffing at the air, too, trying to smell it the way that T. J. did, and I can still remember the sweet odor of the earth under our feet. It was the first time in my life that spring and spring earth had meant anything to me. I looked at T. J. then, knowing in a faint way the hunger within him through the toilsome winter months, knowing the dream that lay behind his plan. He was a new Antaeus, preparing his own bed of strength.

  "Planting time," he said. "We’ll have to find us some seed."

  "What do we do?" Blackie said. "How do we do it?"

  "First we’ll have to break up the clods," T. J. said. "That won’t be hard to do. Then we plant the seed and after a while they come up. Then you got you a crop." He frowned. "But you ain’t got it raised yet. You got to tend it and hoe it and take care of it and all the time it’s growing and growing while you re awake and while you re asleep. Then you lay it by when it’s growed and let it ripen and then you got you a crop."

   "There’s those wholesale seed houses over on Sixth," I said. "We could probably swipe some grass seed over there."

   T. J. looked at the earth. "You all seem mighty set on raising some grass," he said. "I ain’t never put no effort into that. I spent all my life trying not to raise grass."

   "But it’s pretty." Blackie said. "We could play on it and take sunbaths on it. Like having our own lawn. Lots of people got lawns."

   "Well," T. J. said. He looked at the rest of us, hesitant for the first time. He kept on looking at us for a moment. "I did have it in mind to raise some corn and vegetables. But we’ll plant grass."

   He was smart. He knew where to give in. And I don’t suppose it made any difference to him really. He just wanted to grow something, even if it was grass.

   "Of course," he said. "I do think we ought to plant a row of watermelons. They’d be mighty nice to eat while we was a laying on that grass."

   We all laughed. "All rigth," I said. "We’ll plant us a row of watermelons."

   Things went very quickly then. Perhaps half the roof was covered with the earth, the half that wasn’t broken by ventilators, and we swiped pocketfuls of grass seed from the open bins in the wholesale seed house, mingling among the buyers on Saturdays and during the school lunch hour. T. J. showed us how to prepare the earth, breaking up the clods and smoothing it and sowing the grass seed. It looked rich and black now with moisture, receiving of the seed, and it seemed that the grass sprang up overnight, pale green in the early spring.

   We couldn’t keep from looking at it, unable to believe that we had created this delicate growth. We looked at T. J. with understanding now, knowing the fulfillment of the plan he had carried alone within his mind. We had worked without full understanding of the task but he had known all the time.

   We found that we couldn’t walk or play on the delicate blades, as we had expected to, but we didn’t mind. It was enough just to look at it, to realize that it was the work of our own hands, and each evening the whole gang was there, trying to measure the growth that had been achieved that day.

   One time a foot was placed on the plot of ground ... one time only Blackie stepping onto it with sudden bravado. Then he looked at the crushed blades and there was shame in his face. He did not do it again. This was his grass, too, and not to be desecrated. No one said anything, for it was not necessary.

   T. J. had reserved a small section for watermelons and he was still trying to find some seed for it. The wholesale house didn’t have any watermelon seed and we didn’t know where we could lay our hands on them. T. J. shaped the earth into mounds, ready to receive them, three mounds lying in a straight line along the edge of the grass plot.

   We had just about decided that we’d have to buy the seed if we were to get them. It was a violation of our principles but we were anxious to get the watermelons started. Somewhere or other, T. J. got his hands on a seed catalogue and brought it one evening to our roof garden.

   "We can order them now," he said, showing us the catalogue. "Look!"

   We all crowded around, looking at the fat, green watermelons pictured in full color on the pages. Some of them were split open, showing the red, tempting meat, making our mouths water.

   "Now we got to scrape up some seed money," T. J. said, looking at us. "I got a quarter. How much you all got?"

  

   We made up a couple of dollars between us and T. J. nodded his head. "That’ll be more than enough. Now we got to decide what kind to get. I think them Kleckley Sweets. What do you all think?"

   He was going into esoteric matters beyond our reach. We hadn’t even known there were different kinds of melons. So we just nodded our heads and agreed that yes, we thought the Kleckley Sweets, too.

   "I’ll order them tonight," T. J. said. "We ought to have them in a few days."

   Then an adult voice said behind us: "What are you boys doing up here?"

   It startled us for no one had ever come up here before, in all the time we had been using the roof of the factory. We jerked around and saw three men standing near the trap door at the other end of the roof. They weren’t policemen, or night watchmen, but three men in plump business suits, looking at us. They walked toward us.

   "What are you boys doing up here?" the one in the middle said again.

   We stood still, guilt heavy among us, levied by the tone of voice, and looked at the three strangers.

   The men stared at the grass flourishing behind us. "What’s this?" the man  said. "How did this get up here?"

   "Sure is growing good, ain’t it?" T. J. said conversationally. "We planted it."

   The men kept looking at the grass as if they didn’t believe

it. It was a thick carpet over the earth now, a patch of deep greenness startling in the sterile industrial surroundings.

   "Yes, sir," T. J. said proudly. "We toted that earth up here and planted that grass." He fluttered the seed catalogue. "And we re just fixing to plant us some watermelon."

   The man looked at him then, his eyes strange and faraway. "What do you mean, putting this on the roof of my building?" he said. "Do you want to go to jail?"

   T. J. looked shaken. The rest of us were silent, frightened by the authority of his voice. We had grown up aware of adult authority, of policemen and night watchmen and teachers, and this man sounded like all the others. But it was a new thing to T. J.

   "Well, you wan’t using the roof," T. J. said. He paused a moment and added shrewdly, "so we just thought to pretty it up a little bit."

   "And sag it so I’d have to rebuild it," the man said sharply. He turned away, saying to a man beside him. "See that all that junk is shoveled off by tomorrow."

   "Yes, sir," the man said.

   T. J. started forward. "You can’t do that," he said. "We toted it up here and it’s our earth. We planted it and raised it and toted it up here."

   The man stared at him coldly. "But it’s my building," he said. " It’s to be shoveled off tomorrow."

   "It’s our earth," T. J. said desperately. "You ain’t got no right!"

   The men walked on without listening and descended clumsily through the trap door. T. J. stood looking after them, his body tense with anger, until they had disappeared. They wouldn’t even argue with him, wouldn’t let him defend his earth rights.

   He turned to us. "We won’t let ‘em do it," he said fiercely. "We’ll stay up here all day tomorrow and the day after that and we won’t let ‘em do it."

   We just looked at him. We knew that there was no stopping it. He saw it in our faces and his face wavered for a moment before he gripped it into determination.

   "They ain’t got no right," he said. "It’s our earth. It’s our land. Can’t nobody touch a man’s own land."

   We kept on looking at him, listening to the words but knowing that it was no use. The adult world had descended on us even in our richest dream and we knew there was no calculating the adult world, no fighting it, no winning against it.

   We started moving slowly toward the parapet and the fire escape, avoiding a last look at the green beauty of the earth that T. J. had planted for us ... had planted deeply in our minds as well as in our experience. We filed slowly over the edge and down the steps to the plank, T. J. coming last, and all of us could feel the weight of his grief behind us.

   "Wait a minute," he said suddenly, his voice harsh with the effort of calling. We stopped and turned, held by the tone of his voice, and looked up at him standing above us on the fire escape.

   "We can’t stop them?" he said, looking down at us, his face strange in the dusky light. "There ain’t no way to stop ‘em?"

   "No," Blackie said with finality. "They own the building."

   We stood still for a moment, looking up at T. J., caught into inaction by the decision working in his face. He stared back at us and his face was pale and mean in the poor light, with a bald nakedness in his skin like cripples have sometimes.

   "They ain’t gonna touch my earth," he said fiercely. "They ain’t gonna lay a hand on it! Come on."

   He turned around and started up the fire escape again, almost running against the effort of climbing. We followed more slowly, not knowing what he intended. By the time we reached him, he had seized a board and thrust it into the soil, scooping it up and flinging it over the parapet into the areaway below. He straightened and looked us squarely in the face.

   "They can’t touch it," he said. "I won’t let ‘em lay a dirty hand on it!"

   We saw it then. He stooped to his labor again and we followed, the gusts of his anger moving in frenzied labor among us as we scattered along the edge of earth, scooping it and throwing it over the parapet, destroying with anger the growth we had nurtured with such tender care. The soil carried so laboriously upward to the light and the sun cascaded swiftly into the dark areaway, the green blades of grass crumpled and twisted in the falling.

   It took less time than you would think ... the task of destruction is infinitely easier than that of creation. We stopped at the end, leaving only a scattering of loose soil, and when it was finally over a stillness stood among the group and over the factory building. We looked down at the bare sterility of black tar, felt the harsh texture of it under the soles of our shoes, and the anger had gone out of us, leaving only a sore aching in our minds like over‑stretched muscles.

   T. J. stooped for a moment, his breathing slowing from anger and effort, caught into the same contemplation of destruction as all of us. He stooped slowly, finally, and picked up a lonely blade of grass left trampled under our feet and put it between his teeth tasting it, sucking the greenness out of it into his mouth. Then he started walking toward the fire escape, moving before any of us were ready to move, and disappeared over the edge while we stared after him.

   We followed him but he was already halfway down to the ground, going on past the board where we crossed over, climbing down into the areaway. We saw the last section swing down with his weight and then he stood on the concrete below us, looking at the small pile of anonymous earth scattered by our throwing. Then he walked across the place where we could see him and disappeared toward the street without glancing back, without looking up to see us watching him.

  

   They did not find him for two weeks. Then the Nashville police caught him just outside the Nashville freight yards. He was walking along the railroad track; still heading south, still heading home.

   As for us, who had no remembered home to call us . . . none of us ever again climbed the escape way to the roof.

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