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BOUKSHAD
50 E. 13t!
New York


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O CANAAN!
A NOVEL
In O CANAAN! Mr Turpin achieves new importance as a
novelist. His story concerns Joe Benson, Mississippi field
hand who abandoned a ruined cotton crop in the bad year
of 1916 to lead his family and a troop of neighbors aboard
a labor train headed north, laden with black labor des-
tined for factories which were war-hungry for workers.
Weary of fruitless labor in the fields, the Negroes saw a
new life ahead in the promised land to the northward. Mr
Turpin pictures a great social movement and its effect on
a group of sharply etched characters. Joe Benson, his fam-
ily and neighbors, their ephemeral adventure with success,
their slow failure or abrupt doom, depict in terms of flesh
and blood the ordeal of a race set apart, struggling, with
a will to live, for human rights. Here, then, is a novel of
prime human significance on a theme never before ap-
proached in American literature. An unforgettable story,
told with sweep and power—and with a burning convic-
tion—o CANAAN! is a splendid achievement by a writer
whose work is certain to command the interest of critic
and book-buyer alike.


BOOKS BY
WATERS E. TURPIN
O Canaan!
These Low Grounds


WATERS E TURPIN
O CANAAN!
A NOVEL
BOOKSHOP
50 E. 13th Sti!!
New York, N. YS

Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc.
NEW YORK
1939


PRINTED AT THE Country Life Press, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. 8. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1939
BY WATERS E. TURPIN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION
CL





CONTENTS
PART I
Into Canaan
3
Part II
Wilderness
151
PART III
The Tides of Spring
195
PART IV
Rock in a Weary Land
.237





... and how shall a Southern oak, in its full-blown
prime, be transplanted to a Northern prairie where the
blasts of winter bowl from an inland sea ...?
O Canaan!
We turned our eyes toward Canaan in a day of confusion
and trouble. ...
And great was the fire in our bosoms ... as we shook
the dust of the homeland from our garments ... as we
sang a new song ...a brave song ... a song of hope
and a new day. ...
O Canaan!
Our peasant feet shall tread your broad avenues. ...
You shall bear our voices . . . and we shall be yours ...
and you shall be ours. ...
Land of the rich and the blessed: you beckoned to us,
and we answered. ...
O Canaan!


JOE BENSON scowled down at the relentless figures in the
worn, gray-backed ledger before him on the counter. One
of his hands gripped a pencil stub angrily while the other
thudded the scarred boards. Finally their thick fingers spread
out like the branches of the blighted willow that screened
the window at his back, both hands relaxed, palms down.
"Dam' bo’ weevil!”
The words rumbled out like the growl of a captive bear
whose cage is too small.
Joe Benson was a big man, with a bigness that, whenever
he was indoors, reminded one of a caged animal. And when
he was angry, as he was now, this quality became more
pronounced. At such times his great chest would heave, and
his huge hands would thrust themselves into the depths of
his pockets so violently that the seams gave, stitch by stitch.
All these indices of his ire were evident now as he stalked
from behind the counter to the doorway of his little store.
There he slouched in moody contemplation of the narrow,
white-dusted road whose ruts were baked to unyielding
hardness by the late August sun.
Only yesterday he'd gone out with Sol to observe the


O Canaan!
havoc wrought by the pest upon his fifteen cotton acres. He
had spat out a flavorless chew and leaned his powerful body
upon a rickety fence beside which they had paused. From a
wild shock of crisply curling hair he had slowly and re-
signedly pulled the battered remains of his dusty felt hat to
let it droop, as tiredly as he, in his toil-knotted fingers. And
despite the absence of the headpiece, which had warded off
the brilliance of the hot bottom-land sun, the shadows had
deepened in his brooding face. The alluvial black land, gift
of the Great Muddy coursing off westward to the delta, had
stretched out in all its seeming lushness of growth-to the
casual eye a promise of future abundant yield. But Joe
Benson had known-he'd seen it before-he'd known it to
be the diseased harlot it was, mocking now his son's toil as
it had his own and his father's before him. ... Dam' bo'
weevil!
"Mought's well gone home, son," he had said to his dis-
couraged oldest boy.
“Don't see why we don't pull out fo' the North like the
rest o' the folks is doin', Pa,” the big-framed boy had
ventured. Joe had grunted, noncommittal.
Now he snorted disgustedly at the silent row of white-
washed shacks perched on the opposite side of the road, like
muddy leghorn hens squatting in forlorn idleness. Empty-
every damned one of 'em! And here it was Saturday after-
noon with not the first cropper in town! It was the second
Saturday that Three Forks had been like this. . . . Joe
Benson's great head lolled heavily. His leathery features,
which evinced a fierce battle between the Negroid and the
Indian, took on a deeper frown.
"Dam' lynchin'!” he growled once more.
From lips that were firm even in their grossness a brown
stream jetted to roll amoebalike in the dust of the road.
Piercing and mournful, a distant train shrilled. Joe looked
at his watch, huge even in his mammoth paw. Four-twenty


O Canaan!
on the dot . . . Blue Comet up from the delta. Joe locked
the door and swung up the road at a gait which testified
that, for all his size, he had no great amount of fatty growth
beneath his patched blue overalls and sleeveless shirt. His
was the peasant's trudge, one that for the majority of his
forty years had followed unhurried mules in the bottom
lands. As he walked his corded arms crooked slightly forward
from their power-sloped shoulders, and his fingers curved
in a habitual posture. His was a figure that somehow seemed
to belong here on this flat, dusty land—as if he had sprung
from the very soil upon which he trod.
“Hey, Joe! Whar you bound?”
A prodigious tuft of hair shooting perpendicularly from
the left side of an unswerving part in his small head, a short,
spare man grinned at Joe from the doorway of what once
had been a one-room shanty resembling the others along
the road. A scrawled sign leaning beneath its one paneless
window proclaimed to all and sundry that within one could
procure a shave and haircut for fifteen cents.
"Hullo, Sam," answered Joe. "On my way to the depot-
ain't nothin' else to do.”
Sam speedily locked his door and joined Joe.
"Ain't gonna be nothin' mo' to do in this man's town,
buddy!” he rejoined.
"Yeah ... that's what I bin thinkin' fo’ the last two
weeks since they lynched 'at boy,” said Joe disconsolately.
"Look-it them shacks!”
"You know whar they's went?” asked Sam. "I'll tell you:
they's went up to Jackson, jes' sho's my name's Sam Cum-

Weah, I know," said Joe. "That labor agent, he come
sough right after they raised all that hell. Told ever'body
er jobs an' freedom aplefity up in Chicago. Said his
opny was runnin special trains from Jackson fo' 'em ef
t's there Sat'dyight. They bin leavin'same's skeeters


O Canaan!
wa
hand nigger! Said they warn't nev nothin' but high-class
folks-jes' 'cause ole Lem Lawson an' his pappy was butlers
fo' ole Tit Lawson an' his pappy! Shucks! My pappy an' his
pappy was fo’mans fo’ the Lawsons—run the whole planta-
tion fo’ 'em! Ef I'd-a bin yaller they wouldn't-a said a
mumblin' word!”
"I’member," nodded Sam. “They sho' was mad when you
run off to Natchez wid Christine 'at Sat'dy night! Lawdy!”
"Huh! I know—they must o' wanted Christine to do like
them other gals o' theirn-
Joe's voice was lost in the rumble of wheels as he and
Sam mounted the narrow platform at the station and made
their way to the car just back of the panting engine. It was
half baggage and half passenger; from the windows of the
latter compartment dark faces were thrust with friendly
greetings.
"Whar you bound?” called Sam to one old man whose hair
was a mat of white above a dried apple of a face. Beside
him sat a beldam who was undoubtedly his equally aged
mate. She was dressed in gingham, and her ancient straw
hat shaded a worried frown.
"Jackson," quavered the old fellow, "an' from thar”-
his stained teeth showed in a grin—"we's bound fo'-
Canaan!”
As if this were a signal to the other occupants of the
crowded interior (Sam saw that the very aisles were packed),
they burst into song:
"O Canaan–O Canaan,
O Canaan-Canaan over me-
An' befo' I'll be a slave
I'll be carried to my grave
An' go home to my Lawd an' be free!”
Just then the engine resumed its labored puffing, and the
train rattled on across the flat, hot earth.


O Canaan!
"You hear that?" asked Sam.
"Yeah,” answered Joe slowly. “What'd he mean by
'Canaan'?”
"That's what they's callin' Chicago, man!” exclaimed Sam
as they walked back along the solitary street. “You know
like the Hebrew chillun in the Bible. This here's old Pharaoh's
land an' the North is Canaan. See? They gits that from 'at
feller writin' in the Champ'on.”
"Canaan, eh? H'm ..." Joe bit off a chew decisively.
"Somep'n tells me I'm a-headin' fo' Canaan! Look here-
how you go 'bout gittin' that comp’ny to run a train?”
"Well, it's this-a-way,” explained Sam. “Cordin' to the
paper, you gits 'bout fifty to a hunnerd folks what wants to
go, an' the comp’ny gits club rates fo' all you. Three-fifty's
'bout what they's payin'—the mo' goes the less'n you pays.
That's why so many's goin' to Jackson—so's to git in on the
club rates. This here war 'cross the water done took a whole
lotta mens 'way from the comp’nies up North, an' they wants
colored folks to work up there. Payin' good money, too!
Jess Bowman's boy writ home he was makin' money hand
over fist!”
“Look here, Sam”-Joe stopped and spat—"you ain't
makin' no money an' I ain't makin' none. Now they ain't no
use o' us stayin' here ef they ain't nobody gonna be here
but us. Now is they?"
"Sho'nuf the truth, Joe! I swear, I ain't seed two bits
fo' so long I'd drap daid ef I did, 'fo' the Lawd I would!”
"Well, s'posin' me an' you scare up some folks to git them
club rates," said Joe. "I gots five chilluns, an' don't care ef
'tis Canaan, it's gonna take a sight o' money fo' me to git
up North.”
"Man, I sho'nuf wid you!” exclaimed Sam. Then his
enthusiasm wavered. “What's them Lawsons gwine say?”
Joe's face hardened. “They ain't gonna have no say!” he
declared.


O Canaan!
Christine Lawson Benson (that was the way she wrote her
name in Spencerian flourishes) came of a breed whose
bloodstream was threefold; it was easy to perceive which
was dominant in her. After seven years in New Orleans,
where she had been an indifferent charge of a boarding
school, she had come home a prospective teacher. It was
during the summer of 1896. From behind two sweating
mules Joe Benson, only son of Titus Lawson's plantation
overseer, had stolen one longing look at the auburn-haired
beauty of the slender octoroon. His white grin had streaked
across to her as she stood with her father, who was passing
on some orders to old Joe. Her gray eyes had roved over
his lean torso, bare to the waist and glistening in the sun.
The slightly hawked arch of her thin nose had tilted in
simulated disdain; but the sensitive nostrils had quivered-
and her nostrils were one of Christine's emotional
barometers. And the fields had seen more of Christine by
sunlight and moonlight. . . . Neither old Joe nor his house-
hold equal in rank, Lem Lawson, had an inkling of what
was happening beneath their very noses. Then came the
Saturday night just before the time scheduled for Christine
to assume her duties in the town's one-room school.
From that time on Joe Benson hated the appellation
"field-hand nigger.” Old Lem had spat it into their faces
when Joe brought his bride back from Natchez. Amid the
belly laughter that secretly rocked Three Forks' colored
section, Joe's father had flared up at Lem Lawson's resent-
ment. They never spoke to one another again, though they
sat in the same pew of the church which knew them as
deacons. Old Joe gave the bridegroom two thirds of his
forty acres on the outskirts of town. But neither Lem nor


10
O Canaan!
his sister, housekeeper at Lawson Oaks, ever completely
forgave Christine.
For four years her sisters, Henrietta and Consuela, lean
vestiges of an earlier beauty resembling Christine's, had
ceased to recognize her. And this despite the wild escapades
of their youth and hints of the ball they had attended in
New Orleans every year where no Negro male showed his
face—all common gossip of the town. But they were married
to mulatto butlers of the town's two other "aristocratic”
families. So they turned up their thin noses at their sister,
who had degraded herself. ...
They were somewhat appeased, however, when after giv-
ing birth to a deep brown boy Christine produced in rapid
succession pale little Lem and (hallelujah!) that veritable
magnolia blossom, Connie (named as a further peace offer-
ing by Christine). With these two bright flowers of her seed
as passports, Christine once more could sit upon the porches
of her sisters' pretentious houses which were sandwiched
between the border lines of the white and Negro quarters of
the town.
"Dam' uppity cusses,” Joe had boiled as he worked his
fields, followed by his silent young Solomon, “I'll show 'em!”
Six years later he had shown them. He threw up a white-
and-green structure beside theirs, just as pretentious and
matching theirs line for line. Old Joe must have squirmed in
his fresh grave at this wanton sacrifice of fifteen hard-earned
cotton acres! Then, as if to celebrate this coup de maître,
one almost on the heels of the other, Essie and the junior
Joe came with snapping black eyes, strangely curling lustrous
hair, and (alack!) brown as dried cotton seeds. And from
her earliest days Essie hadn't cared how much her aunts
sniffed at her. She ignored them; as a matter of fact she
ignored most persons except her father and her brother
Sol. When Henrietta, in a moment of what must have been
weakness, had attempted to stroke the child's head, Essie


O Canaan!
II
had shied from the scrawny hand with a roll of her expres-
sive eyes. Her father had chuckled robustiously and juggled
her in one huge palm with malicious glee.
Essie was always by her father's side when he was at home.
She was there now as the family group sat on the porch
during what was to be its last Sunday afternoon in Three
Forks. Joe shaded his eyes from the sunlight flickering
through the oak that mingled its branches with those front-
ing the houses of his sisters-in-law. He spat out his chew
and turned to his wife.
"We's leavin' fo' the North, come Sat'dy,” he announced.
Christine whirled in her chair to face him with the look
of a woman who, even after many years of marital famil-
iarity, is pampered by a doting husband.
"There you go again!”
Her soprano shrilled plaintively. It sounded like the voice
of a petulant child, and justly so, for Christine, married
though she was and a mother, had never really grown up.
Her father and older sisters had never allowed her to do so.
"Every time there's a bad season you get to talking about
going North!” she continued. “And what good 'll that do
you? None! You heard what Reverend Jones said this morn-
ing. These people leaving the South now are just good-for-
nothings. They'll never amount to anything anywhere! And
they're a lot better off down here than they'll be up there
in Chicagoma-freezing and starving to death! White folks
don't care a thing about you up there. Down here they'll at
least help you—
"You bes' start gittin' stuff together you wants to take,
come tomorrer," interrupted Joe calmly. For the life of him
he'd never been able to speak with genuine harshness to his
wife. Where she was concerned he was like a great rock
which allowed the waves of her emotional storms to dash
against it unheeded.
"Ain't no use o' me foolin' myself," he went on. “These


O Canaan!
13
lips curled over her brilliant teeth. "Ef Uncle Ben don't keep
his hands to hisself, I'm going to take somep'n and knock his
head off!”
"What's he a-doin' to you?” Joe's frame tautened. He
glowered fiercely at Christine, who had sunk back at the
startling words of her daughter. Joe forgot his easygoing
ways with his wife. "I told you not to let 'er go to work over
there!” he growled.
"You know what you're saying, Connie?” demanded the
mother feebly.
"Sho' I knows what I'm sayin'!” retorted the girl. “I told
ole Miss Lawson 'bout it, an' she ain't done nothin' but
laugh! Says I'm out'n my head!” Connie clenched her fists
savagely. "I sho' wish you would leave here, Pa! I'm sick o'
this place! I wants to be somebody-an' you sho' cain't be
nobody in this town!”
"Well, you's leavin' now," assured Joe. “You stay here
an' help yo' ma wid the house an' packin' this week. Sol, do
ole man Tibbetts still want that land?"
"Yeah, he want 'em all right nuf,” answered Sol. “Come
round yestiddy sayin' as how he done hear all the niggers
is leavin' town an' thinkin' mebbe you had a hank'rin' the
same way. Dam' his stinkin' hide! I heard he was one o' the
head ones in that lynchin'— "
"More 'n likely he was,” grunted Joe. “How's Lem doin'
out there?”
"He's all right,” said Sol. “That gimp laig o'hisn holds 'im
back some—but he's all right, fo' a young'un.”
"I want 'im to help me wid the stuff at the sto' this week.
Reckon he's over to Henny's, Christine?”
"Dere he!” chirped Essie, pointing.
Across the neighboring lawn limped a frail lad with a
curly thatch of reddish hair.
“How's your aunt Henny?” asked Christine when he had
gained the porch. “Her back any better?”


14
O Canaan!
Connie snickered. She liked her aunts no better than
Essie. And even at her early age she had heard old gossips
of the village whisper about how Henny was beginning to
reap the bitter harvest of the sins of her youth.
Christine cast a threatening look at her precocious
daughter.
"Hush your mouth, gal!” she warned.
"Humph!” grunted Connie, unperturbed. “Tain't my
fault she's rotten an' stinks!”
"Hush up, gal!” ordered Joe. But he concealed a malicious
grin.
Christine rose abruptly and set out for her sister's house.
"Ain't no use fo' you to say nothin' 'bout us leavin'
town,” Joe called after her. “This time I don't want no
mouth out'n them sisters o' yourn! See?”
But Christine already was mounting Henrietta's porch.
Joe shrugged and looked sheepish under Connie's amused
glance. She was a slick one, that Connie—always had been.
"Where's that Joe?” he demanded by way of diverting
her attention. “Confound, that boy ain't never home!”
"Reckon he's down by the branch,” conjectured Sol.
"I'll git him,” said Essie, and was off in a twinkling.
Joe stole a look at Connie, but she was buried once more
in her book.
3
"... An' ain't nothin' you or nobody else do is gonna
stop me! You's jes' wastin' yo' breath!”
Joe leaned over the counter and fairly bellowed the words
into the sharp face of his father-in-law. He hadn't been
surprised to see old Lem hobble into the store just before
noon. Christine had been "raisin' ruckus” all week in addi-
tion to having enlisted the aid of her sisters. He had blasted
them back to their homes in short order, and now he was
treating their sire to a heavy barrage.


O Canaan!
15
"So you won't listen to me, eh?” quavered the old man.
"You's jes' mulish like yo' pappy befo' you! Here I done
told you Mistah Lawson 'll let you have the job o' fo’man ef
you stays here whar you b’longs, an' you's jes' too blame
cussed to take it! You ain't had no business settin' up no sto’
noways-orter stayed on the land whar you b’longs ”
"Jes' a field-hand nigger, huh?” sneered Joe. He leaned
nearer his visitor as he grated: “Well, I ain't gonna be no
field-hand nigger! See? An' I ain't gonna stay here an' let
no gal o' mine be no strumpit fo' nobody! See?”
"What you mean, nigger?” Old Lawson flinched, and his
gray eyes flashed as the red flooded his freckled neck.
"You knows what I means!” leered Joe. “Ever'body
knowed 'bout Connie an' Henny back there b'fo' they was
married! Ever'body knowed where them purty clo'es use
come from— "
"Shet yo’ black mouth!” shrieked the old man, turning
livid.
Joe laughed unpleasantly. "Ain't no use gittin' on no high
hosses wid me!” he retorted. “You knows I don't give a
dam' 'bout nobody in this town, jes' like my pappy b'fo'
me! See? An' ef they tries anything on me an' mine ..."
Joe jerked a revolver from beneath the counter and spun it
expertly. Old Lawson recoiled. Joe's deep chuckle was ugly
as the weapon disappeared. "Now ef you thinks you kin stop
me from takin' my wife wid me, you bes' git the fool notion
out'n yo' haid!”
"You ain't comin' to no good! You hear me, Joe Benson?”
The subdued butler fingered his black bow nervously. "You
wait ’ll you gits up North wid hard times a-pest'rin' you!
Jes' wait!” With that he shambled out as haughtily as his
years would permit. Joe's laugh mocked him.
A few minutes later Sam Cummins came in and took a
seat upon a box. He was dusty and fatigued, but he wore
an air of suppressed excitement.


16
O Canaan!
"What you doin', man?” he inquired, wiping his face.
"Makin' a list fo' Dave Lennert's boy 'cross town what
jes' set up in business," answered Joe. “He's a purty nice
po' white boy—somep'n like his pappy. Says he'll gimme
what the list calls fo-takin' the whole caboodle. How'd
you make out up the country?"
"Man,” exclaimed Sam, “ever'thing's set! Some o' them
folks up there's walkin' 'way! An' look- " He produced
a letter. "These here people says they's runnin' a train Labor
Day night all the way from the coast! All you needs is
three-fifty from Jackson— "
"Hot dam?!” shouted Joe. “Man, you's all right! 'Bout
how many's leavin' wid us?”
"Near 'bout fifty, countin' chilluns. Man, Moses ain't got
nothin' on us! They's leavin' Sunday night. Me an' my ole
woman's mos' ready." Sam hesitated a minute. “Look here,
Joe,” he said haltingly, “I'm kind o short o' money—you
knows how things bin wid me. An' I cain't git nothin' on
my house. "
"Here.” Joe took out a roll of bills and peeled off three
tens. “You gone home an' finish gittin' ready. You kin pay
me when you gits started in Chicago."
Sam was profuse with gratitude, but Joe waved him out
and went on with his accounts.
"Come on-git over an' give a lady a seat! What's the
matter wid you menfolks? Ain't you got no manners
nohow?”
With his youngest son in his lap, Joe sat facing the
sleeping Christine, at whose side, slumbering with his head
on her shoulder, was Lem. Connie shared the seat with Joe
and held the wide-awake, excited Essie on one knee.
Joe looked up from his calculations on a scrap of wrapping


O Canaan!
17
paper. The strident voice belonged to a buxom brownskin
of Christine's age. She was clad in widow's weeds but had
not the least vestige of sorrow in her bearing. She was
addressing the group seated directly behind Christine and
Lem. One of her plump hands straddled a bulging hip, while
the other gripped a valiselike pocketbook. Her big, luminous
eyes were full of scorn as the three men squirmed but re-
fused to move.
“You kin set here, lady,” offered Joe. He rose with an
inviting wave of his hand.
"Well, now—that's real nice o' you, mister," beamed the
woman. She threw a last contemptuous look at the indifferent
group before she moved.
The train had just jolted out of Memphis and was roaring
on into the night. Joe upended a suitcase and sat facing this
woman, who even in repose bubbled with limitless energy.
"Here, gimme that lil rascal,” she commanded, reaching
for young Joe. She grunted, surveying the car with swift
glances. “Folks sho' nuf leavin' from down here, ain't they?
Never seed so many colored folks on one train in all my
bo'n days—’cludin' 'scursions!”
"Yeah,” agreed Joe. He had wanted to talk for some time;
the journey was becoming monotonous. "Reckon they's all
headin' fo’ the same place-Chicago?”
"Near 'bout. From what I gits from the papers, though,
some's stoppin' in St Louis. Big meat places there, you
know.”
"What's yo'name?" asked Joe. "Mine's Joe Benson. That's
my wife an' these is my chillunsman' there's my oldest
boy yonder settin' wid Sam Cummins an' his wife. We's
all from Mis’sippi—Three Forks-
"Well, suh!” interrupted the woman eagerly. "I'm from
down that-a-way too! Come up to Memphis wid my man
twenty year ago. Name's Maggie Dawson-Maggie to my
friends ”


18
O Canaan!
"Now that's sho' nuf nice,” said Joe. “We's goin' to
Chicago. Where you bound?”
"Same place," answered Maggie, very pleased now that
she was among "home folks." "My man he went out an' got
hisself shot up by a woman 'bout a month ago—serve him
right fo' his two-timin' ways—so I'm a-goin' North an' start
all over agin. Sold out my eat shop an' ever’thing-figgers
on startin' another one soon's I gits to Chicago. Folks got
to eat, you know!"
"I'm gone do 'bout the same thing," said Joe, and ex-
panded. "I figgers I kin git started up there in a sto’-ought
to make real money wid prices like they is ”
"Now you's talkin'!” agreed Maggie. "Ef I'd-a had a man
like you "
"Who's that woman?” Christine had jerked up suddenly
out of her sleep. "If you'd-a had a man like who?" she
demanded, her nose rearing.
"Wait a minute—wait a minute, honey!” chuckled Joe.
He hastened to introduce them.
“How's you?" Maggie smiled uncertainly. “My, but you
gots nice chilluns! . . . Jes’ like you, this gal o’yourn—an'
that purty-haired boy there, too.”
Christine's face lost its hostility, for it pleased her vanity
to have the looks of her children praised.
As the two lapsed into feminine conversation Joe left his
seat to wander through the littered aisles that smelled of
stale food, sweating bodies and the fortifying liquors which
some of the migrants had brought with them. He met
similar sights in each of the fetid coaches: here a raucous
huddle of drunken city loafers; there a loud-mouthed group
of women whose rouge, perfume and postures manifested
their means of livelihood; yonder a sober parson hemmed
about by his flock. But dominating all, like symbols of the
strata to which they belonged, were the easily identified
farm laborers, brawny stevedores and dock hands, some


O Canaan!
19
still wearing the grimy garments of their occupations-
black labor of the South hearkening to the call of the
bustling, fabulously rich, industrial North.
And some had visions:
"... yeah, man! They's payin' real money! Gonna see
my chilluns wid a fittin' eddication. ..:
"... gonna vote an' be a man!”
"... gonna own my own house!”
And some had illusions:
"... says you kin go anyplace you gots money to
go. ..."
"... nobody to tell you 'stay in yo' place, nigger.' ..."
"... don't work half hard's you does back home. ..."
And some were jubilant and sang-sang the old songs
while the whole coach joined in:
"Crossin' over-into Canaan,
An' I couldn't hear nobody pray!”
And on the morrow that great titan city of the Northern
prairie, sprawled about an inland ocean, would fling out its
wide-stretching arms to receive them for what they were.
And their heartbeats would mingle with its never-ceasing
throb of life. And somehow the lusty texture of its pioneer
bloodstream would sweep up theirs—for better or for
worse. ....


Lusty, virile, and boisterous city ... city of the high,
the low, the merchant prince and the consuming pauper
... of the polyglot racial spawns spewed from all the
quarters of the globe ... Great pioneer city, sprung from
the hut of Du Sable: nor Northern rigors of climate, nor
disaster of fire could defeat you! You bared your brawn to
the elements and roared defiance! From ashes you reared
yourself to splendor! You dispatched your lake tramps,
laden with commerce ... you gathered the bogs and
beeves from the prairies and Western plains and cast them
with sinews of steel into the world's hungry maw. . . . You
mingled your leaping heartthrobs with the economic pulse
international and established your own pumping stations.
... You stretched forth your arms in welcome and em-
braced, with a huge belly laughter, the polyglot racial spawns
spewed from all the globe's quarters. . . . You gave them
each a portion of your broad bosom to suckle as you drew
strength from your commerce, waxed gigantic, and sprawled
around great Michigan, monarch of land-locked waters.
... Great Canaan, ugliest where you are ugly ... alto-
gether beautiful among ten thousand, where you are beauti-
ful ... O Canaan . . . Titan of the prairies!


THE TRAIN staggered to a stop. The contents of the coaches
seemed an endless stream.
"My God! Never knew so many of 'em was in the coun-
try!” ejaculated a commuter as he and a companion el-
bowed through the milling throng.
"Been like this all summer," panted the other. “Might
be good, but I doubt it. Too many, b’Jesus!”
"Mistah, how you gits to Thirty-fifth an' Dearbo’n?”
"Take the State Street car ..."
"Cousin Lonnie say he was gonna meet me. ..."
"Hello, honey! Sho' is glad you made up yo' mind to
come!”
"You seed that boy o' mine? Plague take his hide! ...
Allus gittin' hisself losted!”
"This way out! This way out!” bawled a station attendant.
"You all come wid me,” bade Maggie. She helped Christine
to gather countless bundles. "Here come here, gal!” She
took up Essie in one arm. “My sister Josie lives up on State
Street an' she ought to be able to put us up fo' a while. I
writ her I was a-comin'."
"I sho' is much 'bliged to you, Mis' Dawson,” said Joe
21


22
O Canaan!
warmly. "Come on, Sol-you an' Lem git the rest o' them
bags. Connie, you take that bundle an’ git hold o' Junior's
hand. Hey there, Sam, you an' Maymie- "
The little barber was standing bewildered in the aisle.
Behind him his wife seemed to cower like a fat child in
fright. Her mulatto features of infantile snubness were
flushed, while her double chin shook with excitement. At
Joe's boom, however, the pair moved forward with their
baggage expectantly.
"Whar you gwine?" whispered Sam.
"Come on wid me,” said Joe.
Out on the platform some thirty men, women and chil-
dren were huddled. When they saw Joe they bore down upon
him in a body.
"What we gone do now, Mistah Joe?"
"Whar we gwine go?”
"I sho' is hongry- ”
“Mammy here ain't feelin' a bit good— ”
"Kinda wish I was back home- "
They swamped him, but Joe rose to the occasion.
“Come on, all o' you, follow me!”
And like the remnant of an army, with restored confi-
dence in its leader, they fell in step behind him. That he
didn't know where he was taking them didn't disturb Joe
in the least. His head was up, a light was in his eyes, and his
step seemed to lose some of its peasant's trudge. Maggie
threw him more than one admiring smile as she moved
along at his side.
“Whew! Man, I ain't never walk so much in my bo’n
days!"
With his toes pointed ceilingward, Joe slumped on the
worn cot. Night had come. The rumble of streetcars and
the clatter of other vehicles in the street below assailed the


O Canaan!
23
open windows of the small, boxlike room that served as
Josie's parlor.
Josie was shorter than Maggie but just as buxom as her
older sister. Aside from the one difference, they could
have been twins.
“You must o' had a time gittin' places fo' all them
people,” she said. “Sorry I didn't have mo' room, but you
see I ain't got no more 'n fo' myself—an' one o' them's
rented. Dern rent's so high!”
"Yeah,” chimed in her stocky husband, whose round dark
countenance had lost none of its good nature at this sudden
barging in of his sister-in-law and a strange family. "Ef it
warn't fo' the rents an' the eats you mought make some
headway up here."
"I sho' hates to be puttin' you all out like this, Mr
Jethro— ”
"Jes' Jethro 'll do,” his host interrupted Joe with a cor-
dial smile. "You's a lodge brother, an' I reckon we kin
manage till you all gits another place. You ain't bin here
more 'n half a day an' ain't had time to look round. They's
some houses over on Dearbo’n Street what ain't the wuss-
co’se they ain't nothin' to brag on. ..."
"Yeah ... I was lookin' at some o' them,” said Joe.
He shook his head doubtfully. “I don't mind, but Christine
ain't noways hankerin' to stay in none o' them! I know
that right now! Where's she at?”
"Gone to bed-plumb give out,” said Josie. “Her an' Mag-
gie both. All us women's gonna sleep in two rooms an' you
menfolks kin scatter round. Yo' three boys is in the room
down the hall "
"An' I gonna sleep on that,” Jethro pointed to the couch.
"Well, you all's jes' like home folks!” Joe exclaimed. “Met
some folks today, though, that warn't-up on Wabash
Avenue. Kinda uppish-like, they is.”
Jethro grunted. “Them's folks what tries to be dickty!


24
O Canaan!
Families bin up here a long time. Mostly Pullman po'ters an'
folks wid hifalutin eddication. They don't mix wid us over
here-don't even want set in same pew wid you "
“Like some folks down home, eh?” growled Joe. "I'll show
'em!”
“What you aimin' to do?” asked Jethro.
Joe told him briefly, and added: "Puttin' that oldest boy
an' gal to work, an' use Lem in the sto''cause he cripple.”
"I kin git them young'uns jobs in the stockyards wid me
-comp’ny needs plenty 'cause they shorthanded now.”
"That's right nice o' you, now,” said Joe, “an' I ain't
fo’gittin' it!” He yawned. “Reckon I'll git to bed. Ef any
mo' folks from home come round, jes' say I ain't here. Look
like they takes me fo' they pappy! Ef some of 'em don't
git mo' backbone, they ain't gonna make it!”


It was a Saturday afternoon during the latter part of that
first October. Already the prairie winds and the lake blasts
were converging their chilling eddies upon the city, and
Sam was muffled to the ears in a greatcoat as he strutted
into Joe's newly established store on State Street. He
flourished a sheaf of bills under Joe's nose and slapped them
down on the counter exultantly.
"There's yo' thirty-count 'em!” he chuckled gleefully.
He leaned complacently upon the counter and surveyed
Joe's merchandise. "Got to give it to you, man,” he said
finally. "You sho'nuf knows what the folks wants, all right
nuf!”
He watched Lem stack the cases of canned goods in neat
designs on their shelves. “Sho' don't take you long to ketch
on, Joe,” he continued. "That's jes' the way them other
sto’keepers does they things. Looks purty, too.”
"You cain't let no grass grow under yo’ feet, man, up
here," answered Joe. “Ever' day I goes out an' sees what
they's doin' in other places an' then I does 'bout the same
thing—keeps my prices right ’long wid theys's an' buys from
the same wholesalers. Nick Cohen-he what keeps that bake-


26
O Canaan!
shop next do'-got me in wid some friends o’hisn what's in
the wholesale business 'cause Lem an' me help put out a fire
in his place last month. Sho' makes a diff'ence in the prices.
Ef they was 'bout five o' us fellers together we could buy
bigger lots an' that'd make things even better. I bin tryin'
to git some o' the folks what come up wid us to put they
money to use, but they won't listen- ”.
"Some of 'em done gone plumb crazy!” declared Sam with
a shake of his head. “Some o' them single men-an' married
ones too—what works over to the slaughterhouse wid May-
mie ain't doin' a thing but givin' they money to them hussies
what lives next do' to y'all- "
"Them dirty strumpits!” growled Joe. "They's the nastiest
bunch o' whores I ever seed! Back in that hot spell they'd
git out in they back yard wid not the fust stitch on! I cotched
'em tryin' to git Sol an' Lem to come over, an' I told them
boys ef I cotched 'em havin' anything to do wid 'em I'd cut
the hide off'n 'em! Nasty high yallers an' po' white trash!”
"Ain't they a mess? Us folks ought git t'gether an' go to
the police 'bout it!” Sam was vehement. “An' look like
they's a saloon wid a gamblin' hole in the back on ever'
corner-
"Ain't gone do no good,” said Joe. "I went to the police
last month an' they ain't done nothin' yit. Only thing I see
to do is move 'way soon's I'm able. I ain't wantin' them gals
o'mine round no sich mess like that!” He remembered a
question he'd wanted to ask Sam, who, as in his Southern
home, acted as a news carrier. "What's done happen to Jim
Ed Boozey an' them Wilsons from up the country? Ain't
seed 'em round fo’ more 'n two weeks now.”
"Man, they bin gone back home,” informed Sam. “Jim
Ed got daid drunk one Sunday night an’ was late fo’ work,
come Monday mornin', over to the packin' house. Maymie
say the boss man warn't gwine do nothin' but take off his
pay, but Jim Ed was feelin' mean on 'count o' his likker an'


O Canaan!
27
went to talkin' 'bout what he gwine do ef the boss man mess
wid his pay. So the boss man fires him an’ Wilson 'cause Wil-
son was late the same mornin'."
"Now ain't that somep’n!” growled Joe. “Here they was
makin' mo' money ’n they ever made in they life an' got go
to cuttin' the fool! Us folks jes' ain't right, that's all — "
"They ain't-haven't—had a chance to get set, Pa,” in-
terposed Lem, who had been listening to the episode. "This
is all new to us folks from the South. I ain't-I haven't-
never-ever-been in school with white boys and girls be-
fore, and I find it hard 'cause it's jes'—just-strange.
Everything's new ... different ..." Lem paused for lack
of expression for his thoughts, but his sensitive face held a
light of comprehension. "I remember,” he continued, "how
the whole class looked at Connie and me when we fust-
first-started night school in September. Sho' did feel
funny. ..."
"Sho' do wish I warn't so old,” breathed Cummins. "I'd
go git some o' that eddication, b’lieve me!”
"But you're not too old,” said Lem quickly. "Why, there
are plenty of foreigners in our classes who are as old as
you-
"Nope,” interrupted Sam with a positive shake of his
head. "Too late now. You cain't teach a ole mule a new trot.
Wal, guess I'll git back over to the shop—'bout time fo’ the
boys to be comin' in.”
"That's the trouble with us,” said Lem when Sam had
gone. "We're always saying what we can't do instead of what
we can do!”
"Is that sho'nuf right 'bout them furriners, son?" asked
Joe slowly.
“Sho', Pa! And some of 'em are older than you!”
"Well, I reckon I'll gone over there an' see what they gots,”
said Joe decisively. “Come on now,” he snapped, “git 'long


28
O Canaan!
wid them cans-gotta rig up them vegetables. Git a move
on!”
So it was that Joe sought the portals of learning after a
lapse of over thirty years. He was placed in the sixth grade,
but he shut his jaw down grimly and went to work on his
books. During slack hours in the store he pored over them
and thumbed them until they were grimy with grease and
vegetable stains. Grammar was his nemesis; as a matter of
fact he dismissed it with a shrug. But history, arithmetic
and geography were his meat.
"Where's Ree-o-dee January?” he'd suddenly demand of
Lem.
No sooner would Lem supply the answer, or pretend he
didn't know in order to give his sire a triumph, then Joe
would offer some arithmetical conundrum. At times when
business fell into doldrums Joe was wont to be "fretracious";
Lem would lure him away into the field of history, where
they'd fight again momentous battles and discuss the
significance of the "scraps of paper" with which men have
padded their earthly records. In all he became an avid seeker
after the knowledge he had missed in his youth.
Nor did the interest of Joe wane until he became the
proud possessor of a certificate two years later. Then it was
that he said he "had to git down to business” and “ef they's
mo' to learn I'll learn myself.” And literally he did just that.
Few book salesmen with their "short cuts to knowledge”
found him an unfavorable prospect. He bought books on
business, law, travel and-most beloved of all-politics.
He'd learned the use of the dictionary during his two-year
intellectual foray, and with the aid of it he doggedly plodded
through volume after volume. His chief delight was to corner
Lem and Connie on some point and then roar his rich abdom-
inal mirth at them after he had stumblingly but successfully
expounded. And this fever did not leave him even after he
had become the prominent figure which the South Side was


O Canaan!
29
to know as one of its leaders--the one to whom men of
far superior formal training were to come for advice and
help, and whose favor they were eagerly to cultivate.
For Joe Benson had that inner something which marks the
born leader. Out of all that black horde which swept blindly
Northward under the impetus of social, economic and
political pressure from the bottom lands of the South, Joe
was among those best fitted to survive. His was a physical
bigness and surging health that resolutely breasted the
prairie's bitter sieges of ice and snow of the winters of 1916
and 1917, and set him apart from the others. While some fled
back to their Southern haunts, Joe reveled in the bite and
sting of the elements.
He would be up at five in the morning and go clumping
downstairs to a frigid kitchen. Soon the great fire that he
had kindled would roar its summons to the rest of the family.
Connie and Christine would shiver downstairs, their teeth
a-chatter and their shoulders hunched.
"Come on, gals!” he'd thunder at them. "Let's git goin'-
I gots to git over to the sto' an' clean off the walk! ...
You Sol! You Lem! Git up from that bed! . . . Git a hustle
on! You's up North now, and you's got to git out an’git!”
And the boys would descend, sleepy and unashamed be-
fore their womenfolk, barefoot and in their long drawers,
and dragging their outer garments behind them to dress in
the warmth of the red-hot stove. Then Joe would get his
youngest. He'd begin by tickling Essie and smacking Junior
upon his quivering and rebelling buttocks; then, gathering
the kicking and squealing twain under one mighty arm,
he'd march back to the kitchen where the table creaked
beneath the morning meal.
Though he was a good provider for his family ("Rather
feed you than pay a doctor!” he'd declare) Joe was a
thrifty man during those first years. His aproned, hulking
form became familiar to the tellers in the colored bank


30
O Canaan!
across from his store. But he was cautious; he put the bulk
of his profits in a near-by national bank.
"Don't do to trust nobody too much,” he told Lem with
a crafty wink. “Co’se I says with the rest o' the folks: we's
got to stick together. But I done seen our folks mess up a
heap, son. We gots a long way to go in this here business
game—a long way!”
It was at a meeting held in one of the large colored
churches that Joe first caught the eye of the South Side.
The meeting was sponsored by several civic organizations
and had as its purpose to help the migrants from the South
to adjust themselves to their new environment. The main
speaker was a college-bred young Negro who, from the
general tone and substance of his discussion, was intensely
in earnest about the welfare of his people.
"I know that you've suffered all kinds of injustice down
home,” he said at the conclusion of his talk, “but that's no
reason why you should take it out on these people here. You
mustn't become too easily insulted! Be steady in your jobs;
save your money; keep your children off the streets and
send them to school regularly. You have a chance up here
if you'll only take advantage of it. Don't go around with a
chip on your shoulder. And remember: a clean, self-
respecting, intelligent, industrious Negro is welcomed here
in Chicago; but a vicious, dirty, lazy, ignorant Negro is a
menace to his own people as well as to the other group!
That's why you've been reading these spurious-bad-
articles in the newspapers about us. Whatever one of us
does that is bad is placed in the account of the whole group.
If you're going to get into streetcars dirty and drunk and sit
beside other people because the law allows it, then you're
going to bring trouble to all of us. If you're going to fight
because a man accidentally knocks against you in a crowded


O Canaan!
31
street, then you're going to cause trouble. Just think-think
more and feel less, and you'll become a great part of a great
city!”
After the applause the chairman called for an open dis-
cussion. As is usual in such cases, an embarrassed silence fell
upon the gathering. Then a deep voice boomed from the rear
of the auditorium, and all eyes swung to the speaker. It was
Joe Benson, his great head thrust forward and his blunt
fingers raking through his shock of hair.
"I’grees with the gen’man,” he said haltingly, "but they's
mo' to it than what he done say. What 'bout these here bad
houses what we folks got to live in? I don't know 'bout
other folks, but”-here his voice became proud—“I didn't
live in no shack like I'm livin' in now 'fo' I come up here!
I owned my house—an' I'm gonna own this one, too, 'fo'
I'm through!” Applause broke out. "Then I'm gonna fix it
up! But what I'm gittin' at is these here landlords makin' us
pay these high rents fo' these shacks! Look like the law
ought make 'em fix 'em up! Lawd knows it costs nuf to heat
a house 'thout havin' to heat all out do's so's to keep warm!”
Laughter and applause greeted this sally. "An' some o' these
houses ain't got the fust water in 'em! ... Ain't that so,
neighbor?" Joe turned to a big red man at his side who
nodded vigorously. “Yes sir! My neighbor here has to tote
water from my place, an' he's payin' the same rent I was
payin' 'fo' I start buyin' my house! An' that ain't all. What
'bout these here whore houses an' gamblin' places?”
A shocked stir ran through a group of elegantly dressed
women sitting to the right of the rostrum, but Joe blurted:
" "Tain't no use o’lookin' like that! You all don't have to be
bothered wid 'em 'cause you live over on them high-class
streets, but us folks what jes' come up here has to live in
them hog-waller streets wid all kinds o' good-fo’-nothin'
trash! Now I done come up here to stay an' I'm gonna git
what I wants 'cause I ain't gonna let nothin' stop me! But


32
O Canaan!
some o' these folks I come up here wid cain't help theyselves.
Now what you folks what's done bin up here fo' the Lawd
knows when gonna do 'bout it? You kin hold all these here
meetin' talks all you wants, but that ain't gonna do a thing
ef you gonna hold yo’selves off from us like you bin 'fo'
these newspapers started printin' things you all didn't like.
You jes' give us a chance an' help us—an' don't think you
all's so good 'cause you bin up here long ’n us—an' we'll
show you somep'n!”
Amid the prolonged applause Joe sat down and mopped
his face, for the unaccustomed role had taxed him mightily.
At the termination of the meeting the young speaker rushed
into the audience and caught Joe's arm.
"Wait a minute, mister!” he said eagerly. "I'd like to talk
to you! My name's Carter.”
"Mine's Benson,” said Joe. "I kind o'liked yo'talk.
"S'posin' you come 'long wid me to my sto' so's I kin lock
up fo' the night.”
"Mr Benson,” said Carter as they walked along in the
still cold, "you brought out tonight exactly what I've been
saying all along to my superiors. Now that they've heard
you, there 'll be something done about it, I hope. My plan
is ..."
He outlined his scheme of attack, which consisted of lin-
ing up all of the social welfare agencies, with the churches
as focal points, in a concerted drive. He'd form clubs among
the young men and women of the older families of the city
who'd make visits to the homes of the migrants; he'd
organize the children of the latter group into "health and
civic pride” clubs; he'd have a committee meet with the
landlords . . . In short, Mr Carter was at that age when
one is most energetic and optimistic, with visions of the
choicest idealism. ...
However, Joe shared his enthusiasm and worked heartily
with him. But human nature being as it is, and man the ani-


O Canaan!
33
mal that he is, conditions surrounding most of the migrants
remained the same; for the simple reason that time-stamped
traits of the common horde are not easily eradicated. The
gamblers, the harlots and the saloons continued to infest the
blighted section. The housewives of the transplanted families
took one look at the neatly dressed, smiling daughters of
"old Chicagoans” and reacted in no uncertain terms to their
advice on hygiene and household cleanliness:
"Mind yo' own business!”
“Who you think you is? Round yuh tryin' tell me how
to run mab house!"
Such were the rebuffs suffered by these young crusaders.
The majority of male newcomers slouched past the
"Christian Welfare" building with its welcome sign in the
window, squirted a stream of tobacco juice in its general
direction, decided that it was too "dickty” and returned to
the places of amusement more to their taste.
Young Carter's efforts were not all fruitless; nor did he
and the organizations with which he was affiliated subside in
their efforts. Some of the more intelligent settlers took ad-
vantage of the opportunities presented and made their chil-
dren follow suit. Such was the case of the Benson family.
But only Time and his chastening agents were to have a
greatly significant effect upon that uncouth, surging horde
which swarmed into Chicago's South Side when Joe Benson
first trudged into his Canaan.
There was another tangible good that came of Joe's meet-
ing Dan Carter; it brought together Connie and Mae, Dan's
sister. For Dan's small, sharp eyes had squinted appreciatively
from his lean, coppery face at Connie's points of beauty.
It developed that the Carters, who lived on Wabash
Avenue in an ivy-grown brownstone mansion, had been a


34
O Canaan!
part of the city for generations. The Carters' record was a
chronicle of success. Great-grandfather Carter had been a
"free" mulatto of old Charleston and during the Reconstruc-
tion had fled his headwaitership in a famous hostelry which
he had made nationally famous because of his phenomenal
memory for names and faces. He had settled in what had
ultimately become the Loop, and lived to see his son take
over a prosperous catering business which his own industry
had built. The present head of the family, Dan senior, had
taken advantage of his ability to be white or colored at
will and turned barrister, in which role he had been no
mean player. If his real-estate holdings were an indication
of the man's astuteness, he most certainly had done well by
himself. And now young Dan was following brilliantly in
the trail blazed by his father. Ere long, the latter predicted,
his boy, whose record at the university's law school was
enviable, would be headed for the legislature. And the old
man would finger the fine white mustache which he knew
gave him the appearance of a Solon. And his plump, sealskin-
brown partridge of a wife, too, would preen her yellowish-
white hair with fat hands that long since had lost traces of
the laundry she had done before snatching the prize marital
catch” of the nineties from under the very noses of her
more socially fortunate rivals. Now her dinners, luncheons
and suppers were always listed conspicuously in all the week-
lies. Also she doted on their daughter, though teen-age Mae,
carrying her social diadem with a grace in spite of her tartaric
attitude, often stated her antipathy for the Carter tradition.
"Make yourselves right at home," she told Connie and
Lem the Sunday during the Christmas holidays when they
had finally accepted Dan's invitation to call.
Connie and Lem had stared at the display of well-being
in the Carter living room. Everything exemplified a taste
which had developed through years: the old furniture, the
not too brilliantly bulbed tree with its heaps of presents


O Canaan!
35
beneath it, the family portraits upon the soberly papered
walls. And in this setting the easy conversation of Dan and
Mae flowed as though it naturally belonged here.
Friendship soon drew Mae and Connie together in spite of
Dame Carter's protests to her daughter. Mae had a mind of
her own. Besides, she made no bones of her being smitten
with the blond good looks of the girl-shy Lem.
Mae was to become one of those little women whom men
are prone to regard (erroneously) as animated adult dolls.
Men were to look at her and know immediately that the least
too much pressure would break any one of her pretty parts.
She quickly dissipated the illusion, however. From adolescence
onward she was a half pint of tacks—the finely pointed
kind-wrapped in cherubic, dark-eyed brown daintiness.
When occasion demanded, her chirping voice carried a snarl
like that of a peevish Pekingese. It had been that same
snarl which had quelled the sly aspersions thrown at Connie
by the snobs in Mae's set.
"Always remind 'em where they came from,” Mae had
advised. "If you don't know, your guess will be pretty near
right. Then watch 'em run! Remember that their Plymouth
Rock was an auction block, just like ours!"
Their friendship was lasting, and it was Mae who finally
persuaded Connie to follow teacher training when she had
finished high school at the head of her class.


“How's MY BABIES TODAY? In school, are they?”
Christine smiled welcome to her blue-clad, puffing visitor,
for this was Miss Jane Saunders, a school nurse of the South
Side. She was a robust, energetic mulatto with something of
the sprite in her chubby, youthful face, which even the
thick lens of her spectacles could not disperse.
"Come right up to the stove, Miss Jane,” invited Christine.
"Your face is red as a beet! How in the world do you stand
all that snow and cold?”
"Lord, honey!” laughed Jane, unwrapping a blue scarf
from her neck. “If you had on as many clothes as I have,
you'd wish it was colder!”
"Here-give me your coat,” said Christine. "I'll hang it
near the stove "
"Nope,” said the nurse, "I'll just sit here and blow a
minute. Just stopped in to see how the kids are getting on.
Check-up work, that's all.”
"I'll get a nice cup of tea ready for you," offered Christine.
"It ll help warm you up. You know," she confessed shame-
facedly, "I didn't like the idea of you coming here at first-
36


O Canaan!
37
looked like buttin' in. You see, we don't have nothing like
you all down home- "
"I know,” said Jane easily. "I could tell that when you
didn't want me to take Essie and Junior to the hospital back
in December. But I couldn't let them stay here—you know
what the conditions were. I have to give it to you, though.
You and your folks certainly have cleaned it up.” She sighed
heavily. "You ought to see some of the places I have to go
into! Lord! I don't see how any human can stand 'em!”
Christine glanced proudly about her brightly painted and
scrubbed kitchen.
“We were used to good living before we came up here,”
she said. “All my family's good livers. But some of these we
came up here with ain't never been used to nothing. They
used to live in cabins, and some of these places up here's
like heaven to 'em!”
Jane nodded understandingly. "I know. It reminds me of
the little town I lived in as a girl.”
Christine was surprised. “Where was that?" she asked. "I
thought you was born here."
Jane started buttoning her coat and laughed. "No, indeed,
honey!” she exclaimed. “I was raised by an aunt down in
Maryland. She was a midwife, and I guess I take after her.
Folks down there—some of them—don't live any better
than some of the folks you came up here with.” She chuckled.
"I guess nearly all the colored folk here in Chicago come
from some part of the South.” She moved toward the hall
door. “How's Essie and Junior getting along in school? And
how's your husband's store coming on? I hear he made quite
a to-do at a welfare meeting not so long ago.”
"They're getting on all right,” said Christine. “Essie says
some of the white children are mean-like sometimes, but she
fights 'em and makes Junior do the same. She's got plenty
spunk! The store's coming on tolerable fair—though Joe
ain't never satisfied ”


38
O Canaan!
"Your husband's that kind,” said Jane. "He's going to
make good here in Chicago. That's the kind of men we need
here. How's Sol and Connie doing at the Yards?”.
"Fine. Sol's in the slaughterhouse and Connie's working
in the canning—they changed her when the blood made her
sick, though she didn't say nothing."
"That's lovely ... that's lovely,” said Jane. "I certainly
hope your husband makes them save their money. Times are
good now, but they won't always be- "
"Yes, indeedy," interrupted Christine. “Joe makes 'em
bring every cent to him. We ain't letting our children run
wild like some of these folks. And Connie and Lem's going
to night school, too.”
They were at the front door and Jane paused. "Well ...
I certainly am glad you seem reconciled to being up here
now,” she smiled. "The Lord knows you had your husband
some worried for a while! And you don't want to go back
home now?"
"No, indeedy!” declared Christine. "I guess I was plumb
foolish at first—and I was worried, too: no place to live,
everywhere noise and dirt! But I like it now, because, just
like Joe says, it's better all round.”
"That's lovely ... that's lovely. ..." Jane patted the
older woman's arm. "I guess you won't be seeing me so often
now, but I'll be dropping around every now and then just
to see how you're getting on.” With that she pushed out into
the snow and sleet that lashed the prairie for nearly forty-
eight hours.
2
Christine hurriedly shut the door against the bitter cold
and went about her housework. The shift from the drowsy
monotony of Three Forks to the bustle of the great city
had been beneficial to Christine. She had lost her listlessness.
And if she had any complaints there was no one to listen to


O Canaan!
39
them. Now that she was away from Consuela and Henrietta
she developed a new independence of spirit. She took pride
in making a home of the wreck of a house into which Joe
had moved his family-one at which the airful Henrietta
would have raised horrified hands. There could be nothing
done about the weather-discolored exterior until spring,
Christine had decided. But with the aid of Lem, when he
was not at the store, she had gone to work with paint and
calcimine until the filthy six rooms were now clean-smelling
and spotless. Even Essie and the shirking Junior had been
enlisted in the scrubbing of the floors after school hours.
And Joe, delighted by this sudden energy of his spouse, had
told her to spend what she wanted for furniture. Hence
Jane's approval of the house's appearance.
Hitherto neglectful of her younger children, Christine
now took intense interest in them-especially Essie. That
bright-eyed youngster was distinguishing herself at school
and stood out in contrast to the backward older children
who had accompanied their Southern parents during the
summer and fall migration spurt of 1916. Noticing the
slovenly condition of these children, Christine determined
that Essie and Junior should be models of neatness when
they left each morning and noon for school. As compensa-
tion for this new maternal care, Essie and the boy brought
home report cards that were a succession of high marks.
Junior's deportment column, however, was criminal. And
no amount of warmings received from his father's calloused
palms could bring about any change in the boy.
Christine was taking an active part in church work also,
as had been her wont at home. Circumstances had chosen
Bathsheba Baptist Church for hers and, therefore, the
family's place of worship. It was two blocks below them on
Dearborn Street. The pastor, Rev. B. V. Williams, was an
enterprising soul who had, of necessity, followed his flock
from Mississippi the year before. He was portly and sleekly


40
O Canaan!
brown, and his voice, coupled with his bearing, glorified the
shabby "store-front” church he had established.
"I guarantee,” he had cadenced during the call he made
on Joe and Christine shortly after their arrival, “that
within two years we'll be worshiping in our own church-
and, Brother Benson, there won't be a Negro church to com-
pare with it! We people from Mississippi ought to stick to-
gether. I've been to these churches up here, and I've never
seen such lukewarm Christians in all my born days! They're
stiff as plowshares! They makes you feel like you ain't wel-
come! Now you know the Lord don't like nothing like that!
Now ain't that right?"
"Humph!" Joe had grunted to Christine after their visitor
had gone. "I ain't never bin no church man. You an' the
chilluns kin go where you wants to. But I gots to 'tend to
business! That Eye-talian 'cross street from me stays open
all day Sunday an' so do Nick Cohen-an' people up here
buys ..."
Notwithstanding the adverse remarks of the Rev. Wil-
liams concerning churches other than his, Christine had tried
one the very next Sunday. Pastor Williams had been clever:
Christine went to church with a very large and precariously
balanced chip on her shoulder; she saw, or thought she saw,
what she looked for.
"They sure did pop their eyes at us, all right!” she said
to Connie on their way home.
"Looks like they didn't want us sho' nuf,” replied the
girl bitterly. "Must have been these hats an' coats we got
on!” And she had sulkily snatched off her outlandish head-
piece. “I saw some o' them girls a-snigglin' at me! I ain't
never goin' there no mo'!"
“So they's like that, is they?" Joe had growled that
evening. "Where's that Reverend Williams' address?"
From that moment the success of Bathsheba was assured.
After his long conference with the pastor the latter deputized


O Canaan!
41
Joe as deacon. Joe canvassed every family from Three Forks
for membership in Williams' church. He brought Sam Cum-
mins' loquacity to play among barbershop customers. Jethro
passed the word along to his fellow workers at the stock-
yards, and Maggie Dawson placed a huge sign of Bathsheba's
invitation "to feast on the Gospel” in the window of her
thriving "eat shop” next to Joe's store. By spring of that
year Rev. Williams, beaming his most unctuous smile, gave
out the following announcement amid vociferous rejoicing:
"Brothers and sisters: it affords me great pleasure to bring
good tidings of great joy this morning! I've been informed
by the trustees and deacon board, of which Brother Benson
is our beloved and most earnestly working leader, that we
are now able to make the first down payment on our new
home, one of the finest and largest churches in the city! All
of you have seen it-it's right down here on the corner-yes,
sister, that's it,” he assured one amazed and delighted old
faithful, “that same fine, beautiful stone building-seats
three thousand easy! It 'll be ready for worship Easter
Sunday morning! May the Lord be praised, for His mercy
and goodness endureth forever! Hear me! Hear me! And I
don't want you good people to forget our good Brother
Benson, who has given so much of his time and goods to
help bring about this miracle—for miracle it is for a group
like ours to raise so much money in so short a time—but you
can't hold back true children of God! No sir! Hear me-hear
me! I want every one of you under the sound of my voice
to patronize Brother Benson's store! He's got the same
thing for the same price! Ain't no use giving our money to
somebody else, now is there? Now ain't that right? We got to
learn to help one another! Now ain't that right? And don't
forget Sister Maggie Dawson and Brother Sam Cummins!
I tell you, Sister Dawson can sho'nuf fry chicken. I know,
'cause I gets mine there every Sunday the good Lord sends!
Don't I, Sister Dawson? Yes sir! And I ain't letting nobody


42
O Canaan!
cut my hair but Brother Cummins! Hear me-hear me!
Hear me, children! Bathsheba's marching to Zion! Are you
with me, children? Amen! Amen!”
So Joe had been drawn into church life along with his
wife. But Joe wore his new garment loosely. With Christine
it was a matter of being a part of the great social program
with which Williams cleverly held his growing congregation
together. Christine headed committees and was a controlling
voice in the Pastor's Aid, as well as being soprano in the
choir. To her all this fanfare meant a dictatorial prestige
among her sisters of Bathsheba. The fact that Lem and Con-
nie were attending night school spurred other young folk
of Bathsheba, upon further urging by the pastor, to do
likewise. And about the two grew a group of these aspiring
youths who, following the Reverend's eager suggestion,
formed themselves into a B.Y.P.U. Christine's cup was
sweet and full, and she was proud at last to be the wife of
Joe Benson, head deacon of Bathsheba.
But to Joe the music of his cash register was more pleas-
ing by far than that of any choir, celestial or otherwise.
"How's business, feller?”
Maggie Dawson stood in front of her little restaurant, her
arms wrapped in the folds of a greasy apron. It was April,
but there still was a penetrating chill in the air which the
sunshine could not dispel.
"That's sho' nuf some nice writin' Lem's a-doin'," she
observed. She nodded to the window on which Lem was
skillfully printing. "Kinda wish you'd let 'im do some fo'
me. I'll pay 'im what he ask-
"Sho',” said Joe. He looked up from the cabbage he was
arranging on a stall. "He'll do it free o'charge.”


O Canaan!
43
"Sure, Miss Maggie,” said Lem with a wink. "All I'll ask
is a piece of that sweet potato pie of yours—best I ever
tasted!”
"I got it, son!” grinned Maggie. "Seem like I ain't able
to make nuf fo' the mens nowdays. Them rascals come
a-rantin' over here from the Yards when they shift is over,
an'-swear to my rest—I works like the devil! Look here,
Joe-ef Connie 'll work fo’ me I'll give 'er same's she makes
over to the Yards. I needs help! Chance to make tips. An' I'll
make her hours so she kin go to school jes' like she wants to.” :
"I reckons business kind o' good wid you, eh?” Joe looked
directly at his neighbor.
"Guess you ain't got nothin' to kick 'bout yo’self,” re-
turned Maggie just as shrewdly. "Don't I see folks totin'
whole sacks o' stuff 'way, come Sat’dy nights—an' ever'
night, too? You ain't no jay bird!”
"Look-a-here, Maggie.” Joe measured the big woman.
"You ever think what we mought do ef we was to run our
places in partners?”
"I ain't bin thinkin' nothin' diff'rent!” ejaculated Maggie.
"That's what the white folks does.” Her eyes widened as she
looked up and down the busy street. “An' another thing I
bin thinkin' 'bout: all these colored people up here in one
part o' the city . . . S'pose you an' me had some houses to
rent ”
"Doggone!" blurted Joe. "You know one thing? I bin
thinkin' the same thing! The white folks is movin' 'way so's
not to be near us-over on Prairie an' Michigan too. An'
we's making money hand over fist! Wid rents like they's
gittin' from colored folks—why, gal, we'd make mo'
money ’n we could shake a stick at!”
“S’pose we gits together an' talks this thing over,” said
Maggie.
"All right," agreed Joe. "I knows a lawyer an' real 'state


44
O Canaan!
man. An' s'posin' from now on you an' me runs these two
places together? What I don't sell, you cook it an' sell it. We
cain't neither one lose!”
"Suits me to a T!”
They had merged.
"Befo' I'm through I'm gonna have me one o' them swell
places on Prairie-see ef I don't!” cried Maggie.
"An' I gone be so close to you I kin spit right in yo'
kitchen!” vowed Joe.
And both looked at each other and laughed a peasant's
full-bodied laugh of the pride of possession.
A
June 1917 came. Morose Sol and easygoing Jethro marched
off to camp along with Dan Carter and other recruits of the
Old Eighth Illinois. For the first time since his birth Christine
drooled emotionally over her taciturn son. But Sol seemed
more embarrassed than anything about his mother's display
when he came home just before the regiment was ordered
entrained for France in the spring of the following year.
"Aw-ain't nothin' gonna happen to me,” he comforted
her roughly. And in his big, khaki-clad trimness, Sol looked
capable enough to take care of himself. “Only thing us boys
is fretracious 'bout is this here bombin' of colored folks's
houses! Wish they'd turn us loose on the dirty suckers! I
bet we'd put a stop to it!”
"I'm gonna give 'em a chance to bum me!” growled Joe,
chewing the end of his cigar viciously. He'd discarded his
plug tobacco. This was a token of his advancing prosperity.
The parlor of the Benson home was resplendent with new
furniture. At the time Joe sprawled upon its mammoth,
overstuffed divan. He toyed with the thick gold chain across
his paunched belly and went on:
"We gonna move over on Prairie, come July. An' the first


O Canaan!
45
cracker I ketch messin' round my place is gonna git a load
o’shot in his tail!”
That night, instead of the regular Sunday services, Bath-
sheba held a mass meeting. National songs were sung along
with popular war ditties crammed with sentiment and
patriotic fervor. White and colored orators swayed the
crowd by extolling "the bravery and undying loyalty of the
colored soldier in every war of the nation's history.” Liberty
bond pledges were made. At the end the gathering stood,
some in tears, and sang the national anthem while the boys
in khaki filed out to keep their rendezvous with whatever
fate might await them.


"SALLIE AND PETE's been fighting again, Joe.”
Joe mopped the profuse perspiration from his freshly
shaved face. It was the fifth of July and the city was
sweltering. He was about to answer Christine when a series
of small explosions crackled in the back yard. He jumped
to his feet and hurried to the rear porch of his newly acquired
Prairie Avenue home, a finely proportioned brownstone house
with something of the French in its contours.
On the lawn Essie and Junior were about to set off another
of their firecrackers when the boy looked up and scampered
away.
"You come on here, you Essie!” snapped Joe angrily.
"What'd I tell you 'bout raisin' a ruckus fust thing in the
mornin'? Take that!”
Essie's hands flew to her outraged, tingling backsides
where her father's expert palm had descended with pre-
cision. She choked back the tears and rushed through the
house to the living room. There she plunged her dark curls
into a pillow on the divan and silently sobbed out her anger.
"Sure now, Mr Benson, she's only a child and meant no
harm.”
46


O Canaan!
47
The mother of the family next door was hanging out a
wash and had paused to watch the tableau. Her plump,
kindly face and soft voice were conciliatory.
"Sure, my Rosie would be after doing the same thing if
she had any left," she added.
"I know, Mrs Cohen,” said Joe, "but you knows how the
people in this block thinks 'bout me an' Maggie movin'in
here. They don't want us noways. Co’se, you an' Nick don't
mind 'cause we does business together. You all done got to
know us an' figgers we ain't so bad an' ruckshus as these
newspapers bin sayin' us colored folks is.”
"Sure,” smiled Mrs Cohen, shaking a sheet, "and they was
the same way about me and Nick! That's the trouble-
people don't wait and see what other people are before they
make up their mind about 'em. People is people, is what I
says to Nick when you moved in here. And my Rosie says
as how your Essie is a smart girl in school. And Sammy
says as how your Lem is a nice boy and all. 'So what do I care
if now it's colored they are?' says I to Nick. Faith, and I'd
rather have you next door than some noisy no-gooders I
know!”
"That's a right nice way to look at it,” said Joe gratefully
but with a sigh. "Some o' our folks is right bad, though. Seem
like they jes' cain't git theyselves sot right. ... Now I
gots to go over to Forty-eighth an' Wabash this mornin'
an' git one of 'em out'n jail. You know 'im-Pete Thomas.
Gits his bread from you all's bakeshop "
"Sure—sure,” said Mrs Cohen. "He's such a nice man
when he ain't drinkin'! Pays his bills on time and everything.
But he will get drunk when he gets his pay. What 'd he do
now-same thing?"
"Yeah. Gits drunk an' when Sallie tries to git some sense in
his head he turns on 'er an' beats 'er up—an' he's sorry
after.” Joe shook his head gloomily. "I tell you, Mrs Cohen,
I wish sometimes I'd o'never got some o' them folks to come


48
O Canaan!
up here! Ever' time one of 'em gits in trouble they runs
straight to me! An' look like ain't nothin' but death gonna
cure some of 'em-jes' ain't no-count!”
"Well, now, I wouldn't be after sayin' that,” reproved his
neighbor. She brushed back a wisp of fiery hair from her
freckled face. “You oughtn' feel that way. Faith, you ought
to see some of the sights down on Maxwell Street when I
was a little one! Sure, and I never seen anything worse 'n a
drunk Irishman! And, faith, I ought to know because I'm
Irish m'self- "
"Why,” exclaimed Joe, "I thought sho'nuf you was
Jewish!"
Rose Cohen laughed with a merry wave of her hand as
she picked up her basket.
"A good man's a good man,” she said. “And, faith, they're
so hard to find, it makes no difference to me what else he is!
And 'tis I, m'self, that says it!”
"By God, I'm so damned sick o' pickin' up drunks I could
break every one o' their heads!”
Officer James Milburn lounged against the rail before
the judge's bench and spat his disgust into the freshly cleaned
cuspidor at his feet. His tan countenance and crumpled hair
showed the effects of his twelve-to-eight patrol. Yet, sleepy
as he was, the vitality of his compact body poured from his
coldly gazing eyes and the even lineaments of his face. At
the moment his teeth were clamped behind compressed
lips, and his tautened jaw had an ugly jut.
His companion, a tall blond with a Slavic prominence of
cheekbones, laughed softly.
"Take it easy, Jim," he said. “What else can you ex-
pect- "
"I wish to God they'd-a stayed South where they came


O Canaan!
49
from!” blurted Milburn. "By Jesus, as soon as they get up
here where the pressure's taken off 'em they run wild!”
His voice took on a drawling, argumentative note as he
faced his fellow officer. "You know, Mick, we ain't had all
this before!” He thrust an arm in the direction of the noisy
courtroom. It was packed with what appeared to be the
dregs of every racial group in the city, the majority being
Negroes.
"Sure," said Mick, "but you never had so many colored
and white living near each other, either. You can't ex-
pect- "
"Yeah, but look at what they're here for! This guy I just
brought in-beating his wife!”
"Ho-ho!” scoffed Mick. "You oughta go over to the
Yards station! Ain't no difference, Jim. If they're scum,
they're scum!”
"I know," admitted Milburn, "but you don't understand.
When I first came to Chicago ten years
ago ten years ago, the colored
people here were a quiet, industrious group and getting
along fine. Now this bunch comes up from the South and
ruins everything! You mark my words: you're gonna see
trouble—and it ain't gonna be long, either! You know peo-
ple don't like this low class of Negroes to move into the
same block with 'em. Hell! I don't want to live with 'em
myself! These bombings we been having is just a sample.
You wait!”
"Here comes that Benson fellow again,” said Mick. He
pointed to the back of the room. "I understand the people
he came up here with look on him as a leader. They say the
politicians are after him to swing votes for 'em.”
"He's all right,” said Milburn. "If they were all like him
there wouldn't be so much friction. But he's made a mistake,
moving over there on Prairie in that white block.”
"I've talked with some of the people over there-it's on
my beat,” said Mick. “They don't seem to mind him so


50
O Canaan!
much, but that woman who runs that restaurant on State
has moved in next to him. And she runs a rooming house.
The folks over there say that those people in her house raise
hell sometimes. When she's home, which ain't often on ac-
count of her shop, they act all right because she makes 'em.”
"That's the way it goes,” shrugged Milburn. "One or two
are pretty good, but the majority-uh! The juvenile court
ain't never been like it is now. Seems like that these men
throw away the good money they make before they get
home. Then the hungry kids go out and steal. Then as soon
as the big-time crooks finds out a section is nearly all col-
ored, in come the saloons and whore houses! Hell! What
kind of a background is that for kids? Look at that house
over on Dearborn-damned near a killing a week!”
"Why don't decent colored people get together and pro-
test?” speculated Mick.
"They do. They've organized civic improvement clubs
and all that. Does some little good. But the majority of the
higher-class colored people are ashamed of this new element
and don't want to be associated with it. You notice how
many of 'em's moving out to the suburbs? Especially since
Barnes, the real estate guy, was bombed?”
"Say, that was pretty bad, wasn't it?” exclaimed Mick.
"They say that they had it in for him for selling and rent-
ing to colored people in white neighborhoods."
"That's right. I told him a couple o' weeks ago to watch
his step after we got those orders from downtown. But he's
a stubborn guy! Says now that he'll stick till hell freezes
over! Says if they can move a big colored man like himself
they'll figure they've won.”
"I like his guts,” said Mick simply.
“Good mornin'," greeted Joe as he came up. He took his
cigar from his mouth and eyed both officers in a straight-
forward manner.


O Canaan!
SI
"Hullo, Benson," answered Milburn gruffly. “What's on
your mind—that Thomas guy?”
"Yeah,” said Joe. “I was figgerin' mebbe you could kinda
go easy on 'im when the judge come in. I bin talkin' to 'im
out in the cage, an' he says he's sorry 'bout what he
done
"
"Sure he's sorry!" snorted Milburn. "That's the same thing
he said last time! And what'd he do? Just soon's he gets
paid he's gonna do the same thing all over again!” Milburn's
conviction was emphasized by his singsong stressing of
words at regular intervals. “Jesus Christ, Joe! I can't have
that sort o' thing on my beat "
"Sho'-sho',” agreed Joe tactfully. "But ..." He paused
and pointed over to a little, wretchedly thin woman. She
was rocking silently back and forth in her misery on a
bench occupied by a group of buzzing women whose faces
and bodies bore the marks of their livelihood.
"Look at that woman's eye!” snarled Milburn. His body
seemed to coil like a tightening spring. He pulled up from
his lounging position, and little creases gathered about his
fighter's eyes. “Why, the-why, damn his soul! I ought to
go break my stick over his head!”
"Ease up-ease up, Jim!” counseled Mick. “The guy was
crazy with booze.”
"She says ef you put 'im in the Bride'll her an' the chilluns
ain't gonna have nothin'," put in Joe hurriedly. "She says he
won't do it no mo'. ..."
Milburn swore softly and once more spat his disgust.
“By God,” he breathed, "there ain't no limit to some col-
ored women's patience! Well, if she wants him, I don't give a
damn! But if I catch him beating her again I ain't listening
to nobody! He's going to the Bride'll!”
Joe grinned his relief. “Thanks, Mr Milburn! You all
smoke cigars?” He offered a handful to them.
“Never mind the weeds,” said the gruff Milburn. He


52
O Canaan!
fumbled without success through his pockets. “Say, Mick,
you got any o' them tickets for the game Saturday?"
"Sure!” Mick eagerly produced a pack.
"Here.” Milburn extended two to Joe. "They're a buck.
apiece-police and firemen's benefit. Now you get that
woman out o' here before Judge Nicolli gets in here. If that
little Italian sees her eye he'll give that guy plenty time!
He's a tough Oscar on wife beaters. Maybe I can get Thomas
a D.W.P.”
Joe thanked him again and hurried Sallie out of the court-
room.
"He's a good egg,” said Mick.
"Yeah, but I still says we gonna have trouble!”
"Aw, it 'll turn out all right. You gotta give these people
time to get themselves together. Besides, Chicago's a great
city, Jim. Nothing's ever gonna lick it!”


THE SKY was dismally overcast, but the towers of the Loop
bravely flaunted their banners above the crowds that
closely packed the sidewalks and overflowed against the inter-
locked arms of the policemen lining the triumphal march
route from the Coliseum. Broad Michigan's bitter winds
eddied through the canyons of masonry along its prairie
shore. But the multitudes ignored the gusts of the lake. For
this one day of patriotic triumph even the Problem, which
was growing more acute, was forgotten. Black and white,
laborer and capitalist, mingled and became one to bestow
honor where honor was due. Roar on roar of acclaim poured
over the heads of this dusky, proudly stepping regiment.
It was February of 1919, and the survivors of the now
famous Old Eighth Illinois, dubbed “the Black Devils” by
war correspondents, were returning from "Over There"
after having helped "make the world safe for democracy.”
"Don't it make you feel tingly all over?" gasped Connie
into Mae's ear.
"There's Dan!” shrieked Mae, and she pinched Lem's arm.
Lem nodded as he shifted his weight from his crippled


54
O Canaan!
leg. “It's hard to tell 'em apart,” he said, craning his neck
over Connie's shoulder. "You see Sol yet, Mom?"
Christine shook her head, her shining eyes riveted on the
marching rows of helmeted men.
"Oh look-it!” shrilled Essie, who was perched upon her
father's shoulder. "There he is! It's Sol, Daddy!”
The family group pressed forward. Christine's grip tight-
ened on Junior's arm as she sighted the figure swinging along
with the passing squad.
"Hey, Sol!” trumpeted Joe. But the effort was lost in the
tumult about him.
"Reckon they cain't hear nothin' in all this ruckus," he
said to the others. "Well, he'll be home soon anyways. Come
on, Lem. Let's git started uptown an' open the sto'-purty
nigh to fo''clock.”
It was nearly a month later before Sol was discharged.
He had been silent enough before his war experience; now
he was doubly so. His formerly robust frame had grown
gaunt, and the bones of his face stood out like rocks beneath
a thin layer of earth. He dodged conversation concerning
the war by giving short, curt answers or by staring vacantly
at his inquisitor. And the only two members of his family
who seemed to hold any interest for Sol were Essie and
Junior.
Each morning he walked to school with them and Essie's
playmate, Rosie Cohen. Upon his return he would sit for
hours on the back porch, or upon Christine's request he
would help her with the cleaning. When the weather was
bad he invariably went to the cellar and whittled objects of
interest for Junior and Essie. He had brought home a pocket
knife which had an automatic device for opening and shut-
ting its long keen blade.
Often as Christine went about her work he would sit in


O Canaan!
Mamma!” panted Rosie, scampering up the steps to her
mother. They're fighting at the beach! The colored and
white people, Mamma-chey're fighting!”
The devil you say!" Rose paled. She whirled to Chris-
tine, who was remonstrating with Sol. "Mrs Benson, what's
the trouble?
As Christine turned to her neighbor the screen door
slammed behind Sol.
aSol says it's a riot!” she exclaimed. "Says he brought the
zie's home so’s they wouldn't be hurt. Says they're heading
"Oh, my God! I better call Nick at the shop!"
Tell him to tell Joe to come home right away, Mrs Cohen!
Sai's zone plumb crazy! Says he's going to kill up everything
wire! I can't do a thing with him— Sol!"
Sol nad slammed back through the screen door. The lack-
Sistem kad been routed from his eyes by a crackling blaze.
Tiere was a bulge at his hip, and he grinned as he mechani-
caiz opened and shut his long-bladed knife.
"S * Christine seized him frantically by the arm.
"Dra't-don't!" she entreated.
His face became more gaunt. He smiled peculiarly at his
motha and patied Essie's head. Then he was gone down the
street at a brisk military double-quick.
He was hardly out of sight when Lem and Connie, fol-
lowed by Mazzie Dawson, hurried up from the opposite di-
rection,
"What's the matter, Mom?" asked Lem quickly. “Any-
body been here yet?"
"Dad says there's a riot going on," put in Connie.
"I closed up soon's I heard 'bout it," puffed Maggie. She
sank into a chair. "Mr Milburn's tellin' ever body they bes'
close up fo' the day. But Joe an’ Nick's still open-says ain't
nobody gonna bother 'em.”


O Canaan!
57
Christine, who all the while had stood in stunned silence,
groped for a rocker and trembled down into it.
"Sol's gone!" she moaned, twisting her hands.
"Gone?”
"Where?”
Connie and Lem bent over their mother while Maggie slid
forward on the edge of her chair.
"Which way did he go?" asked Lem. "I'll go after him.”
He turned to limp from the porch.
"No!” Christine's voice was a wail. She sprang after her
son and caught him frantically by the shoulder.
"Look up the street!” cried Maggie, who had started for
her house.
Like a brown rabbit in flight, Junior was sailing toward
home. As he took the porch steps with two effortless leaps
the cause of his haste rounded the corner. A ragged body of
babbling young ragamuffins were jostling one another along
their destructive way. When they came to Maggie's three-
story house they stopped and showered it with bricks and
stones.
"The little nigger's in there!"
"Let 'em have it!”
“Run all the niggers out!”
Maggie waddled forward amid the screams and crash of
glass.
"Here-here! You devilish boys! What's the matter wid
you? Is you crazy in the haid?” she bayed. She rushed at
them, gesticulating wildly, with Connie and Lem at her
heels.
"Let 'em have it!” yelled one of the gamins, and he threw
back a threatening arm.
"No, ye don't, ye rascally spalpeens!”
A fiery figure as buxom as Maggie's overtook and passed
the endangered trio and planted itself in the way. It was


58
O Canaan!
Rose Cohen. Flushed of face and flashing of eye, she bristled
with scorn as her freckled hands firmly braced the formida-
ble girth of her middle.
"I know ye, Mike!” she went on, advancing at each word.
"And it's to Father Brennan I'll be reporting ye in the morn-
ing!”
Her sudden appearance disconcerted them, especially
their leader, whom she had singled out. When she referred
to the priest several dropped their missiles, and all began
backing away. She followed them the length of the block
until they turned tail and fled.
"Sure, and they're a bunch of no-gooders!” she said to
Maggie, who was mournfully contemplating the damage done
to her property. "Brennan's Tigers, they call themselves—a
club of 'em that does no good when the Father ain't around
to watch 'em.”
"They sho'nuf was wantin' to kill me,” shivered Maggie.
"You was sho' nice to stop 'em, Mis' Cohen.” She stiffened
with anger. "I'll fix 'em. The next time they comes round
they ain't gonna git off so easy!”
"You better get inside,” advised Rose. "They're a bad lot,
they are. I'm going to call the station house, I am!”
"Say, Joe, I'm closing up! Rose just called and said they
was raising hell over home a while ago.”
“Reckon I better do the same, Nick," answered Joe.
Nick and his son were at the door of Joe's store. Sammy
was about Lem's age and had the swarthy, aquiline features
and slender build of his father. Both were excitedly wiping
their hands on soiled aprons.
"Say, I forgot to tell you,” added Nick, "Rose says that
your wife wants you to come right home. Sol's gone out and
she thinks he's going to join the fighting-


O Canaan!
59
"What?” Joe stripped off his apron. "Help me wid these
vegetables, will you, Nick?”
"Here's some! Let's git the white "
Nick and Sammy dropped their loads and shrank against
Joe's display window. Over a score of Negroes armed with
clubs and stones rushed the trio from the opposite side of
the street. At the sound of their babble Joe whirled and
strode to the curb.
“What's the matter wid you all?” he growled as they
halted. “What you meddlin' wid these people fo’? They ain't
done nothin' to you— "
"Git out the way, white folks's nigger!” snarled one of
the foremost. “You ain't- "
Joe's bludgeonlike fist felled the fellow with one blow.
As he groaned at the feet of the others Joe leaped back, his
huge revolver weaving an arc in front of them.
"Git out o' here, quick!” he snapped. “An' take him wid
Urb.
you!”
Mumbling threats, the subdued mobsters gathered up the
limp form and moved off. When they had gone Sammy and
Nick were eloquent with gratitude.
"Boy, what a sock you got!” grinned Sammy, wiping the
cold sweat from his face.
"I ain't forgetting it, Joe,” breathed Nick. He gave Joe's
hand a nervous squeeze.
"Come on, let's git from here,” said Joe.
For the next three days Joe kept his family indoors. Dur-
ing that time no word was received concerning Sol, though
Joe made a special plea to Jim Milburn to be on the lookout.
All the while sporadic and intense rioting flared in different
sections of the city. Streetcars were stopped and victims
dragged forth to be murdered brutally. Marauding groups


60
O Canaan!
of both races preyed upon all who had the misfortune to fall
into their hands. It was an eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth, all done with the dispatch of heedless mob spirit.
Two vicious animals were at each other's throats, and there
was no quarter to be asked or given. Jim Milburn's somber
prophecy was being fulfilled.
The immediate area of Joe's store was surrounded by a
cordon of police for the first two days, then withdrawn to
a less quiet vicinity where the rioting had broken out with
renewed vigor. Sultry and gray, Wednesday morning came.
Joe argued with his distraught wife at breakfast.
"I'll be all right, honey!” he said. “I jes' cain't let my busi-
ness run down-I took in right smart yestiddy."
“What do I care about business!” cried Christine. "Here
Sol's gone, and now you want to go cuttin' the fool!”
"The boy's all right!” scoffed Joe. "Ef he warn’t we'd-a
heard 'bout it- "
"Hey! Anybody home?”
The voice was punctuated by a terrific pounding on the
kitchen door.
"It's Miss Jane!” cried Essie.
"What's she doing out in all this?” exclaimed Connie.
"Hey! Open up here! It's Miss Saunders!”
Lem went to the door. Jane breezed in with her usual calm
smile and energy.
"Hello there, pretty boy,” she greeted cheerfully. "I rang
the bell at the front, but it must be out of order "
"It is, Miss Saunders," said Lem. He noted the glaring
headlines of the paper she carried. "May I see the news?”
"Sure, go right ahead. White and colored folks are going
crazy in this town, boy! Where's my babies?”
"Here they is,” called Joe from the dining room.
"Well-well,” beamed the nurse as she strode in. "Hello,
Connie. Haven't seen you in a good while; pretty as ever.
What's the matter, Mother?” She patted Christine's shoulder.


O Canaan!
61
"She's frettin' 'bout Sol,” said Joe. “He ain't bin home fo'
three days."
"Well, now," comforted Jane, "you oughtn' to be like
that, Mother. Many bullets he ducked 'Over There,' this little
fracas don't mean a thing to him
"Is it very bad out?” asked Connie.
"I'll say it is!” Lem whistled over the paper. “Listen to
this: 'South Side in Throes of Reign of Terror'!” He read
aloud the lurid account of wholesale violence.
"Aw, shucks!” disparaged Jane, taking Junior upon her
lap. "That fellow's just putting in a lot of that stuff! The
whole thing in a nutshell is that everybody's surprised that
the colored are putting up such a scrap. They're calling out
the militia, I hear, tonight. This thing's been coming on for
years. They tell me some of the boys of the Black Devils
have a machine gun planted down on Wentworth and
they're giving 'em lead every time those gangs ride
through!”
"I'll bet that's where Sol is,” ventured Connie.
"Look here,” said Joe as Jane got up to go, "whyn't you
git some cops to go ’long wid you?”
"No sir!” replied Jane. "If they knew I was out they'd
make me go back home and report me downtown. I'm not
letting anything stop me from getting to my babies! Espe-
cially during this hot weather.”
"Wait,” said Joe. "I'm going 'long with you!” He ignored
Christine's and the nurse's protests, seized his hat and piloted
Jane out of the house.
"They've shifted the police,” said Jane. "My boss called
me up from downtown and told me not to go out until
things quieted. But I pretended I didn't understand and
hung up.” She tittered at her ruse.
"I'm gonna see ain't no harm coming to you, Mis' Saun-
ders,” said Joe firmly. "You was moughty nice to us when
we first come up here. Where you got to go?"
BOOKSHOP
50 E. 13th St!
New York, N. YJ


O Canaan!
"Over on the West Side.”
Joe faltered in his stride. “What? You means you goin'
over there 'mongst them Pollocks an' Hunkies? The paper
says they think some colored mens sot that fire over
there ”
"Sure they have babies too,” came the merry reply.
"Wait a minute. ..." Joe stopped and rubbed his cheek.
Then he said: "Come on. I got it!”
"Did you ever see State Street as quiet as this?” chuckled
Jane as they turned into the almost deserted thoroughfare.
Here and there they passed shattered store fronts and an
occasional fire-gutted building that gave mute evidence of
the destruction of the mobs.
"Sho' bin raisin' ruckus, all right! Never heard so many
fire engines and police wagons in my bo’n days!” Joe turned
into a narrow alley beside an empty barbershop. He knocked
at a door from behind which came muffled voices. The door
cracked cautiously after a silence.
"Who that?" came a whisper.
The door swung open to Joe's answer, and he and Jane
entered a dark hole of a room that reeked strongly of alco-
hol.
"It's all right, Sam,” said Joe. “This is jes’ a nurse what's
got to git over on the West Side "
"West Side!" Sam Cummins' thatch of hair fairly bristled.
"Why, man, they bin chasin' ever'thing ain't white from
over there fo' the last two days! These here boys ain't able
to git to the Yards-
"Look here, miss," rumbled one thick-shouldered fellow
whose scarred face topped even Joe's, "ef you wants to git
over there to them cusses, we gwine to git you there! See?
An'ain't a dam'soul gwine tech you! See? Lemme see ..."
He looked over the round two dozen men in the room. All
were in their work clothes and smelled of the strong stuff
they swilled. "Hell! We gots plenty! Follow me, men! Come


O Canaan!
63
on, miss, you show us where you wants to go, an'-by
Jesus!—we's wid you!”
Snatching her black kit, he grabbed Jane by the arm and
steered her up the alley. His cohorts lurched and reeled be-
hind them.
"This is Jeff Jackson, Miss Saunders,” said Joe.
"Jackson . . . Jackson ..." mused Jane. "Say, didn't
I have one of your wife's babies? You're from Georgia,
aren't you?”
"Yes 'm, that's right,” grinned Jeff. “Reckon this is the
fust time I seed you. Wife talks 'bout you a lot. Says as how
you's so nice an' all — Oh, 'scuse me, miss!” He released
her arm as he felt Jane flinch. "Reckon I must think I'm
a-rasslin' them steers!”
They were approaching the railroad athwart Thirty-first
Street. The men had stopped their loud talk and even ap-
peared to sober considerably when they drew nearer this
barrier. On the western side of the tracks a cluster of figures
gathered rapidly.
"Git ready, boys," warned Jeff over his shoulder.
Jane looked back and saw that her escort was armed to
the teeth. Jeff and Joe had their right hands in their pockets.
When they were within twenty yards of the tracks a
dark-haired, unshaven member of the West Side contingent
strode to the fore and stood wide-legged between the rails.
His followers moved up behind him, a wall of menace.
"C'mon, git back 'cross town where ya b’long, ya black
sons o'— "
His threatening arm suddenly dropped to his side, and his
look of hate turned to one of confusion. Before the detain-
ing hands of Joe and Jeff could reach her Jane had stepped
forward. The two men sprang after her with drawn guns.
"Oh-'tis you, is it, Miss Saunders?" The dark-haired one
retreated a step.
"Sure it is!” Jane smiled as coolly as her racing blood would


64
O Canaan!
permit. “And I'd like to see that wife and baby of yours if
you don't mind, Mike- "
"Ef you ain't movin' when I counts three I'm shootin'
sho 'n hell!” Jeff's rumble drowned out Jane's quieter tones.
“We ain't movin' a dam' step, ya— " Mike's face con-
vulsed with rage. He also drew a gun. "Come on over here,
Miss Saunders,” he bade. "Ain't nobody gonna bother you.”
“No-no, Mike," pleaded Jane. She faced her escort.
"Come on, boys,” she said, “put your guns away now "
"We ain't lettin' you go over there by yo’self!” declared
Joe.
"She ain't gonna be bothered, I tell you!” shouted Mike.
"We ain't hurtin'no women-only the likes o’you! You bet-
ter stay over there where you b’long "
"Put yo'gun away an' I'll beat hell out'n you!” roared Jeff.
And he pocketed his weapon and moved forward.
"Sure! Sure!" came Mike's answering roar, following Jeff's
example. “ 'Tis all I want ya to say!”
"Boys! Boys!” Jane stamped her impatience. "You're wast-
ing my time like this! Now, Jeff”—she caught him by the
sleeve-"there's no need to go on like this! Mike's promised
to take care of me on his side. You're doing the same on
yours. Now go back so there won't be any unnecessary trou-
ble. I don't want anybody hurt on my account. And if you
boys are in any way uneasy about my safety I'll come past
the shop when I'm through—
"We'll meet you here!” said Jeff stubbornly. He glared
over her head at Mike.
"All right, all right,” said Jane placatingly. “That's lovely
-that's lovely. I'll be back here in about two hours. I'll look
for you boys "
"And we'll bring her back," said Mike.
"You better, you dam'- ".
"Now, now ..." soothed Jane. She took her bag and
waved to the watchful men at Jeff's back, then hurried over


"I SEE Jim Milburn's been made a lieutenant, Joe.”
Christine shook the weekly Champion free of wrinkles and
read aloud the article concerning Milburn's promotion. Joe
settled more deeply into the comfortably inclined chair and
blew thick cloudlets from his fragrant cigar and nodded.
"Yeah,” he said, "the boys bin tellin' me he would git it.
You remember he got cited after the riot-saved Mick Sil-
vensky from a bunch o' bad Oscars. We's springin' a party
fo' him, come Sat’dy night. You know—sorter congratulate
’im.”
"I didn't know he belonged to the club,” said Christine.
"Sho'-ain't nothin' but big shots in it,” explained Joe.
"You knows what a hard time I had gittin’in.” He chuckled.
"Hadn't-a bin fo’ Dan Carter wantin' to swing that real
'state deal, I never would-a got in.”
He tossed a half dollar thoughtfully and mused:
“Good ole dough . . . ain't nothin' to beat it but mo' of
it!”
Christine smiled; she well knew her husband was intoxi-
cated with money and the power it gave him. She was also


O Canaan!
67
aware of the source of Joe's mounting wealth. They had
come a long way since the night of Sol's death. ...
At first Christine had been frightened when she learned
that Joe and Nick Cohen were among the leading bootleg-
gers of the South Side. Though the Cohen family had moved
away after an increased influx of Negroes into their block,
Nick had not forgotten the incident during the riot.
"You might as well make the money,” he said to Joe, who
had displayed some qualms about sponsoring the very thing
which he as a colored leader had fought. The gold had been
too bright for Joe's conscience. For the past six years he and
Nick had flourished. And, laughing at his wife's fears, Joe
had showered her with lavish sums to use as she desired.
With Joe's successful eluding of the law, Christine soon
lost her misgivings. Then the house and family blossomed.
From top to bottom former furnishings were replaced by
the most expensive kind. Telephones were installed. A
garage was built at the back to accommodate two cars of
costly design which gave way to new models each year.
"Nix on the show-off stuff, Joe!” Nick had warned.
"Aw, shucks!” jeered Joe. "Ain't we got protection?
Mought's well git some o' the good as you go 'long-ain't
gonna do you no good when you's dead!”
Nick had shrugged his despair, and the splurging con-
tinued.
Upon her graduation from normal school Connie had
fretted over the possibility of her not being placed in a
teaching position; but Joe had calmed her fears with a
knowing grin. He gave her a roadster that "tipped like a
Maltese kitten” and told her to "take a peep at New York
an' the East.” When she returned in the fall there was an
opening ready for her.
In keeping with the trend of the times among the South
Side's "socially prominent” families, Lem had been shipped
East to school and his picture inserted in the Champion with


68
O Canaan!
an explanatory caption. He was now "hither and yon on the
Atlantic coast" (as he put it in his letters) on vacation from
his first year of postgraduate work.
Junior and Essie were in the first and second years of
high school. Of the two, Essie was by far the more studious.
During his last year in the grades and at the beginning of
adolescence, Junior sprouted until he was almost as tall as
his father. A happy leaning toward track and field athletics
had helped to save him from skinniness. No football and
basketball for him in high school, he had vowed: too much
danger to his facial comeliness, of which he was acutely
aware because of his already numerous female conquests;
besides, the victory was more personal when one broke the
tape ahead of his less naturally endowed competitors. His
father had pressed the boy into service at the store during
after-school hours and on Saturdays. This proved unsatis-
factory, however, for Junior failed to appreciate the im-
portance of promptness in his capacity of delivery boy,
especially if he were to encounter any of the fair creatures
whom he knew, Complaints from impatient housewives
ended his brief career, Thereupon Joe put the indolent one
behind the counter, A howl immediately went up from the
young, begoggled Tuskegee graduate whom Joe had hired
to run his business. The cash register's ribbon never tallied
any more with the goods sold. Evidence pointed very
strongly against Junior's honesty. A sound thrashing had
made no definite change in the larcenous bent of the boy,
and he had been relieved of that duty, Christine had been
reading some of the "new theories of child rearing. She
suggested to Joe that he institute a system of allowances
for both of the younger children.
"New, hell!" Joe had growled. "I oughta cut his behind
to pieces!"
But against his better judgment Joe consented and gave
over the administration of the scheme to Christine. Junior


O Canaan!
69
became the envy of his schoolmates when he flashed his
superior "change” nonchalantly in their faces. His offhanded
liberality bound many a pseudo friend to his prodigal side.
Able to twist his mother around his finger because of her
sentimental coddling of her "baby,” he never feared run-
ning short from week to week. All in all, at the age of
fourteen, Joe's youngest son was not one in whom a thinking
father could justifiably take pride. His only saving grace-
if it may be called that—was an unfailing sense of humor
and an indolent good nature that seldom took offense at
anything. It showed in his carefree face and lazy, effortless
walk, and in the ease with which he laughed off any barbed
flurry Essie launched at him. This was often, for Junior's
delight was to tease his sister.
Every "exclusive" social club among her set sought Essie
for membership. She was a petite, lithe creature of dark
brown beauty. Her glossily black, boyishly clipped hair was
a wild crest while she was in flight on the cinder track and
the tennis and basketball courts. Hers was the satiny smooth
skin of her particular type, and to enhance it her effervescent
health gave to it a ruddiness which deepened whenever
strong emotions seized her. This was often, for her temper
flared easily, and when it was on a sustained rampage it was
to be quelled only by her father; even he was hard put at
times.
She was wroth now as she sizzled into the room where Joe
and Christine were sitting. Oblivious of her rage, Junior fol-
lowed lazily.
"Dad, if you don't make Junior leave my money
alone
"Here, here!” Joe's thunder halted the girl's outburst.
“What's the big noise, sister?”
"Aw, I just want her to loan me a deuce until next week,
Dad,” said Junior blandly.


70
O Canaananda
!
"Shet up!" Joe thrust out a hand to grab Junior, but that
wary one eluded him.
"Joe!” protested Christine, extending a restraining hand.
"Haven't I said that isn't the sensible way?”
"Give it to him, Dad!” exclaimed Essie maliciously.
"Mother doesn't do a thing but spoil him!”
"Essie!” Exasperated, Christine turned on her daughter.
Though they had grown closer since their coming to the
city, there still remained a subtle animosity between them
which increased with Essie's advancing age and which
cropped out with progressive frequency.
"Well, you do!” declared Essie, her head thrown up in
unconscious emulation of her mother.
"Shet up, I tell you, Essie!” snapped Joe. He had heeded
his wife and had sunk back into his chair. "Set down, both
o you—I wants to talk to you anyhow. I done told you
'bout bein' so snappish wid yo'ma, gal! Yo'temper's worse 'n
yo' grandpappy's was. Gonna git you in trouble yit—see 'f it
don't! Both o'you young’uns needn't think 'cause you got on
grown-up clo'es you's gonna sass grownups. How come you
ain't got none o'yo' money left, boy? Ain't yo' ma give you
same's Essie? You jes' leave yo' sister be! An' don't you give
'im a red cent, Christine. When I was his age I didn't have
nothin' but a quarter on Sat’dys after doin' a man's work-
glad to git it, too!”
Thinning her lips, Essie smoothed her pale green frock and
sat down. She dearly loved green-so much so that her
abundant wardrobe was dominated by it. And every April
the invitations to her birthday party had a dash of the color
upon them.
"Now,” resumed Joe, motioning his son to a seat, "what I
sho'nuf wants to talk 'bout is this here high-school business.
Opens up tomorrow, don't it? Connie an' Lem had to git
theirs the hard way-workin' an' goin' to night school. You
all ain't had to hit a tap— "


O Canaanan
71
!
"I do your typing for you, don't I?” asserted Essie de-
fensively. "And Rosie Cohen only beat me by a little to lead
our class when we graduated last year from grammar school.”
"Okay, okay,” said Joe easily. "I was proud o' you too.
Ef I hadn't-a bin I wouldn't-a give you that birthstone fo'
a present. That there piece in the paper sho' nuf looked
good. Yep, you done all right. But here's what I wants to
say: I ain't wantin' you messin' round none o' these no-
count boys! You ain't- "
“Joe! She doesn't bother ?”
"I don't mess with boys!” Essie interrupted her mother.
Her small, heart-shaped face reared angrily. "You ought to
talk to Junior about girls.”
Junior chuckled with a teasing, sidelong glance. “Seems
to me the new preacher's nice little son has a heavy crush on
you!”
"Humph!” sneered Essie. "That silly Ronnie Brown? He's
a bigger sissy than you!”
Joe roared and slapped his thigh, but checked himself
after a quick frown from Christine.
"Ronnie's a real nice boy,” said the latter. "At least he has
good manners.”
Essie grimaced but said nothing.
"You still gonna stick to that business co’se?” asked Joe.
"Oh, I do wish she wouldn't!” put in Christine. “All the
ladies who have daughters in my club say that theirs are
preparing to teach- "
"I don't want to teach!” said Essie with finality. "If I had
to bother with kids like some of them I was in grammar
school with I'd slap their heads off. No sir! Nothing doing.”
"Well, you could take up social work,” suggested Christine.
"I was talking to Miss Saunders not so long ago, and she said
that it is a coming field-
"Huh! That's worse!” said Essie. "Nope, I'm going in for


72
O Canaan!
something I can get something out of! I don't want to be
bothered with a lot of no-count people.”
“Atta gal!” agreed Joe. “Dough's what counts-an' the
only way to git it is to have somep'n folks want an’ sell it!”
He expanded and prepared to plunge more intensely into
his favorite theme. But Christine cut him short.
"Never mind, Joe. We know—we've heard it a million
times.” She addressed Essie: "You're going on with your
piano and organ lessons starting next week.”
"Aw, Mother, do I have to?” asked Essie plaintively, and
she shot a nasty look at her grinning brother, who stretched
out languid arms to pantomime an overzealous maestro.
"Gone an' learn that music, gal,” said Joe. “Mought come
in handy someday—you's bo’n but you ain't buried yit.”
"Mother just wants me to play the organ at church. I
already play the piano for Sunday school—tired of it, too!”
"I'd think you'd be glad to be organist for Bathsheba,”
said Christine with hauteur. “We have one of the biggest
choirs in the country, and there isn't- "
"-a larger congregation in the city,” finished Essie
mockingly.
"Don't be so smart, gal!” warned Joe.
He hid his grin, however, for Christine's church zeal was
a source of amusement for him. While he still kept his
deaconship, he had no illusions about Bathsheba or religion.
The city had served to crystallize and bring to the fore-
front of his character the attitude which he had long held.
Joe saw life eye to eye. Chicago was just the place for him,
he had decided; and the cramped feeling he had had in Three
Forks fell from him after his migration. His physical bigness
had become synchronized with the wide, sweeping stretches
of this swaggering behemoth of cities. He liked the fare it
served. For him there was no time for sentiment or contem-
plation of a "better life to come”; let others, who could do
no better, feed on that. As for him, he'd take life as it was;


O Canaan!
73
and if the church helped him to get what he wanted from
life, well and good; in return he'd help the church. Besides,
Christine enjoyed it. ...
"Well, if I have to, I have to—but I ain't liking it!” said
Essie sulkily.
"There's the bell,” said Christine. "Guess it's Ronnie-he
generally calls at this time on Sundays."
"Yeah, I know,” said Essie laconically. Her snub nose
wrinkled as she mimicked: "'Mother sends good afternoon
to all of you. Ah-won't you go for a stroll in the park with
me?!” With a final grimace she flounced out.
"I don't know what these youngsters are coming to,”
sighed Christine, taking up the paper.
"Jes' what we come to," chuckled Joe, "chilluns an' tryin'
to git somep'n to live on!”
Essie came back relieved.
"Here's Miss Maggie,” she announced, and quickly retired
after a grin and a pat from her patron saint. Of all Joe
Benson's children, Essie was Maggie Dawson's "fav’rite.”
"Come on in, Georgie,” she bade the slim young man she
had in tow. "Well, Junior, what you doin' in the house this
time o' day? The gals all quit you?”
"Naw, Miss Maggie,” answered the boy, assuming a mourn-
ful pose. "Sis' won't loan me a deuce I need to keep a movie
date with
"Aw, shucks, now!” laughed Maggie. She took a five-dollar
bill from her pocketbook and shoved it into the artful
youngster's hand. Before either of his parents could speak
he had rushed out with a cursory thanks to his benefactress.
"Cute devil,” grinned Maggie. "Sho' do look good in that
nice brown suit, don't he, Georgie?”
Joe's eyes narrowed as he watched this sleekly groomed
personage slink to a seat beside Maggie, quickly dart a long-
lashed glance at Christine's well-turned legs and then with
an amused smirk take in the too sumptuous furnishings of


74
O Canaan!
the room. Joe had seen his bland yellow face with its tiny
mustache in the poolrooms whose proprietors dispensed the
products of Nick Cohen's secret stills. And from observing
the feats of the fellow's cue, Joe had decided that Georgie
used the green table as a means of livelihood. Now, as he
scrutinized him, Joe came to another conclusion about the
man.
"This is Mr Weeks,” introduced Maggie.
Her ring-laden hands fluttered slightly. But for all her
showiness in the matter of jewelry, Maggie's clothes were
strictly conservative, kept so by constant admonition from
Christine and the dressmaker whom they both patronized.
Hence Mrs Maggie Dawson, deaconess of Bathsheba and one
of the South Side's successful restaurateurs, was a severely
tailored "stylish stout."
Joe remained silent during most of the conversation that
wended through various subjects. He found that this Weeks
had more than ordinary colloquial ability. With its smooth
flow, his voice fell on the ear with a lulling effect. The words
he used sounded to Joe like those which Lem and Connie had
used to address audiences in their B.Y.P.U. days. Christine
trailed him eagerly. The pair soon outstripped Maggie and
left her to join her partner's studied muteness. Of no mind
to countenance this monopoly, Maggie soon rose abruptly.
"Guess we'll be goin',” she stated, a curious quiet having
come to her usually strident tones. She gave Christine a
quizzical look as the latter graciously suggested that Mr
Weeks be brought around again.
"My!” Christine turned radiantly to Joe after she had
seen the callers to the door. “Isn't he an interesting man?
He's had so many experiences teaching school down South!”
"Humph!” Joe's grunt was eloquent, but Christine con-
tinued to gush until she found that her husband was gently
snoring. She sat exasperated, resentment twitching her deli-
cate nostrils. Then her gaze became subtly speculative.


O Canaan!
75
Joe found Maggie humming a sprightly tune amid the
clangor of her kitchen. Her smile was a broad swath of white
across the sweaty chocolate of her face.
"Hey-o, feller!” she greeted, vigorously kneading a moun-
tain of dough.
"Place sho' looks fittin' since we made it bigger," Joe
commented. “Yep, I told you puttin' these two fronts to-
gether would do the trick!"
"Ain't bad, sho' nuf,” agreed Maggie. "How you likes my
cooks?”
She waved to the long range where two young men moved
swiftly between it and the serving table.
"Sho' looks fittin' in that white, don't they, boy? Got 'em
all the way from Memphis—an' I'm gonna make 'em so good
ain't nobody gonna have better eatin' noplace in town! Man,
I got 'em comin' from the Loop late nights! Things keep up
like this, we kin fork up all them payments on them two
Parkway houses in no time ” Maggie stopped in con-
fusion, for Joe wasn't sharing her enthusiasm. “Well?" she
demanded. Then she looked away sheepishly and attacked
the dough with accentuated motions. "You ain't likin' 'bout
yestiddy ... Georgie ... that it?" she panted.
"No, I ain't likin' Georgie,” said Joe flatly. "Is you plumb
gone crazy, Maggie? You knows he ain't nothin' but a
pimp-
“He ain't no sich a thing!"
Joe was taken aback by Maggie's vehemence.
"Well,” he growled, "ef he ain't, you knows dam' tootin'
he's younger ’n you! Ain't much older 'n Connie-an' here
you is old nuf for his mammy! Whyn't you give Sam Cum-
mins a chance? You knows Sam bin wantin' you ever since
Maymie died wid the flu- "


76
O Canaan!
"What I want wid some old dried-up man?” scorned Mag-
gie,
"Be better 'n lettin' a no-good cuss like this guy do you
out'n yo' money!" retorted Joe.
"He ain't gonna do no sich a thing!” Maggie was out-
raged. “Why, jes' yestiddy I loan 'im some money to set up
a poolroom "
"What?"
By a supreme effort Joe lowered his voice, for the young
chefs were idle at the moment.
"Sho'," answered Maggie. "He signed a 'greement an'
ever'thing-
"Did you go to a notary?"
"No, co'se not! Warn't none open yestiddy- "
"I'll be damned!”
"Well, he ain't goin' nowheres. He likes me sho' nuf. ...
He's fixin' up down on Thirty-fifth now. You kin go an'
see.”
Maggie's voice became plaintive:
"He bin nice to me . . . takes me places where I allus
hankered to go. That's more 'n anybody else does! I gits
tired o' jes' workin' all the time. I gots to have some fun
sometime. . . . He nice to me-I gonna be nice to him. Ain't
no harm in that, is they?"
Joe flung his cigar into a garbage pail. He started to speak
but turned on his heel instead and stalked out. Maggie
fingered a biscuit she'd cut and frowned. She soon bright-
ened, though, and went on humming at her work.
With increasing concern Joe saw Weeks's gradual but
steady worming into Maggie's confidence. It was like watch-
ing a creeping disease. By the middle of autumn Georgie


O Canaan!
77
had moved into Maggie's house next door to Joe's. And at
Thanksgiving ...
"Name of God! Well, so help me!”
Drowsy with turkey and wine, Connie perked up in her
seat by the bay window of the sitting room.
"The guy must be good!” she murmured, stroking the
waves of her hair with pink-nailed fingers.
Christine and Essie hurriedly stationed themselves by
Connie; but Joe remained in his chair grinding a fireless
cigar while the three females peered through the lace cur-
tains. He knew what they saw in the frosty dusk. He struck
a match savagely.
"Hot ziggety!” giggled Essie. "That ain't a car—that's an
overland boat!”
"Well, I declare to my rest!” breathed Christine. "Look
at Maggie. She looks like a Christmas tree!”
"She's high, too!” put in Connie.
"Ain't it bad nuf fo' her to make a fool out'n herself
'thout you all pleasurin' in it?" growled Joe. "Come on 'way
from that winder, Essie.”
The soft purr of a motor faded into the distance, and the
three turned from the window.
"Never thought Miss Maggie would go for a gigolo," said
Connie. She stretched languidly, a statuesque figure of beauty
with a barely perceptible stamp of the city's sophistication.
When he heard her speak Spanish, as she did sometimes with
Essie in order to help the younger girl's efforts with the
language, Joe often thought that Connie looked like she
belonged over on the West Side more so than here in his
home.
"And the way she used to pinch pennies when I worked
for her!” continued Connie. “Georgie sure must have a sweet
line! He's doing the same thing with Jeanette Allen- "
"You mean that girl who lost her husband last year?” ex-
claimed Christine.


>8
O Canaan!
"One and the same. They say—
"Guess you bes' git on to that show you was goin' to,
Essie,” said Joe suddenly.
"Oh, let her listen!” protested Connie, placing a restrain-
ing hand on her sister's shoulder. "She may as well listen
and learn! She's not a kid any longer. I'll bet she could spot
us all some. And I don't know but it isn't best after all.”
She pulled Essie down beside her affectionately.
"Yes,” Connie resumed. “This guy's getting to be the talk
of the town. As I was saying: they tell me Jeanette dumps
her check to him. And are her folks hot about it! You know,
she used to live with them. Now she's rented an apartment
over on South Park, and from what I can get, it's the little
love nest so cozy and warm. ... Why, she even brings
him to our club dances! And does the cold shoulder ice him?
Not on your life! There was talk of putting Jeanette out.
But darned if some of the other good sisters haven't gone and
fallen for him too! Oh, he's good, all right!” Connie's lips
twisted her distaste. "You should have heard the line he threw
me last night at the dance! He thinks Mother is so charming.
And, Pop, you're a pioneer in Negro business! I felt like
spitting in his weaselly face!”
"Maybe it's all just talk, honey," interposed Christine.
"You know how people talk. After all, a young man could
pay attention to an older woman without having any bad
motive ”
"Et tu?” exclaimed Connie archly. "You sound like one of
my dear club members ”
"Don't be silly, Connie!” Christine's face went crimson.
Connie gave her a long stare.
"Yep,” said Joe, “he's a slick article. I went past that
place o' hisn last week, jes' 'bout time school was lettin'
out. You listen to this, Essie.” He turned squarely on his
younger daughter. "I went down to the court buildin' wid


O Canaan!
79
Jim Milburn last week, an' I tell you I ain't wantin' no gal
o'mine endin' up like some o' them I saw down there! Some
warn't no older ’n this gal I'm tellin' you 'bout. Well, as I
was sayin', it was jes' 'bout lettin'-out time fo' school. An'
this Weeks had some fresh gal talkin' to 'im then. She warn't
more 'n seventeen an' I knowed she was a schoolgal 'cause she
had 'er books wid 'er— "
"I bet I know who it was,” interrupted Essie quickly. "Was
she about my size and big up here?” She indicated her small
bust. Joe nodded with interest.
"And she's got sort o' red-like hair and uses a lot of lip-
stick and rouge, doesn't she?" ventured Essie. Joe nodded
again, and his eyes fastened intently on the girl.
"How you know so much 'bout 'er?” he questioned.
"I ought to know her! She's in my class and has more
clothes than any girl in it. Changes every day, and carries a
big roll of dough- "
"How do you like that?” Connie was cynically triumphant.
"She lives over on Dearborn near our old house,” Essie
went on, enjoying the interest of her elders. “It's a regular
shack! Her folks came up here from Pittsburgh last year, she
says. Her name's Gladys—Gladys Colton. And is she tough!
And the cuss words and dirty jokes shem "
“Well, you keep 'way from 'er!" commanded Joe harshly.
"Who, me?” said Essie defensively. "I don't have anything
to say to her unless she talks to me first. Maybe you'd like
to know that she told me the other day that you were a
bootlegger- "
Joe bolted upright in his chair. "Don't you be talkin' none
to her!” he roared. “The hussy's jes’ sayin' what she
hears "
"You needn't yell at me, Dad,” said Essie, her head rear-
ing. "I've been knowing about that. Haven't I been keeping
your books for you? I'm no dummy. But I don't talk. . .."
She grinned at her sire and winked.


80
O Canaan!
Connie smiled exultantly at Joe as she and Essie left the
room arm in arm. Joe suddenly chuckled deeply.
“Joe,” said Christine, moving closer to her husband, who
had sunk into a reverie, "hadn't you better give up this
liquor business—for a while anyway?"
"Can't quit now," answered Joe. "Still got them two
houses to finish payin' fo’. Wid Maggie cuttin' the fool like
she is it takes longer. Wish to God that Weeks would drop
dead!”
The Christmas season came and Christine at last realized
her long-cherished hope. Old Lem Lawson had finally been
lowered into his grave during the preceding summer. Upon
her return from the funeral Christine had prevailed upon
Joe to have her sister Consuela spend the holidays with them
in the city, Henrietta being confined to her bed with the
disease that plagued her.
Aunt Consuela came with her sharp nose ready to sniff,
but she stayed to stare in popeyed wonder. She was dazzled.
For the first time she warmed to Joe as she cavorted in the
splendor generated by the money “Brother” Joe poured
forth. Joe was showin''er! He allowed Christine to drape her
sister's washed-out, skeletal frame in the finest of garments
and to lavish expensive little trinkets upon her which would
serve as mementos of the occasion.
« 'Cause the next time I give 'er anything,” explained Joe
caustically to Essie, “I'll be buryin' 'er!”
Joe was "showin''er"!
"How are the two white ladies?” asked Mae Carter merrily
just before New Year's. Mae's mother had given a dinner
party for Consuela.
"Name of God!” Connie exclaimed. "I don't see how the
old beanpole can stand the pace!"
Christine took Consuela on a shopping tour and secretly


O Canaan!
81
laughed as the latter gushed about the festooned Loop.
She gasped at the finely appointed homes along Michigan
Boulevard and South Parkway into which Joe's money and
political potency had gained admission, even over that social
obstacle, recency of migration to the city.
Aunt Consuela's stay of a fortnight was one long round
of visits and countervisits with so-called "first families.”
Teas and dinners of elaborate courses were served. The con-
versation strove to be indicative of "culture,” with sources
having sickly, immature roots in a very thin layer of pseudo
art: the New This, the New That, the New the Other ...
So-and-so has caught the very soul of his race. ... Mmm!
My dear, we must take you to thus-and-so. . . . And, my
dear, have you seen thus-and-so? It's perfectly marvelous!
Mmmmm!
As a climax Connie and Mae took Christine and the now
flabbergasted Consuela to a Black and Tan. Christine's tri-
umph was complete when the master of ceremonies singled
out their party to be introduced to the hilarious patrons
just before the floor show. After the final Sunday night
service within Bathsheba's regal walls (Consuela had been
introduced to the congregation the Sunday morning before)
Christine whirled her sister down to Union Station in Joe's
big limousine and placed her, wilted and bewildered, in a
lower birth of a limited.
"You can pass, so don't change," she told the exhausted
Consuela after having tipped a porter's eyes nearly out of
his head.
Christine's sleep was most complacent that night.


"Now THAT'S THE WAY IT IS, Joe-take it or leave it!”
Jim Milburn clasped his hands across a stomach already
grown paunchy since he no longer walked a beat. Joe also
settled back in his swivel chair and drummed softly on the
sliding extension of his littered desk. The two were in a
second-story office on Forty-seventh Street into which Joe
had lately moved. On the window, streaked with irregular
flurries of March snow and rain, a gilded sign told the be-
draggled walkers below that this was the seat of Joe's real
estate activities. Over in the corner near the door was a
smaller desk bearing a covered typewriter. On the wall
above this desk an electric clock silently moved its hands
toward half-past three.
Unheeded, the ashes spilled from Joe's cigar to the dull,
wine-tinted rug which Essie had selected to match the
draperies at the window. Milburn glanced over the other
niceties of the compact, neat room: the plump red leather
armchair near the window, the small bookcase filled with
leather-bound law volumes, and the one quiet landscape, copy
of an old master, which relieved the blankness of the wall
facing the door. In all, the room had an air that reached for
quality, and it appealed to Milburn.
82


O Canaan!
83
"You know,” he said, his voice losing its usual hardness,
"I gotta hand it to you. ... I've been rather interested in
watchin' you since you come up here ten years ago. I could
tell you had somep'n that would take you places when you
first come round to the station to help them folks out o'
trouble. You didn't go runnin' after the 'fays soon's you
started makin' a little, like so many of the boys do up from
the South. You been co-operative with the civic agencies
that's been tryin' to help the folks from the South—though
damned if I believe some of 'em ever will make it!—and,
best of all, you ain't never sold your folks out to the poli-
ticians. But ..."
"But what?” coaxed Joe as Milburn looked out of the
window.
A muscle flexed in the stubborn jaw of the policeman and
he sat forward in his chair to look Joe unwaveringly in the
eye. He sat thus for a moment, then he relaxed again to
blow small rings of smoke at the picture. When he spoke
his voice was singsong.
"All right,” he said, "here goes: you're jammin' your hand
too hard, Joe. You been holdinaces for ten years. Since
you been in the hooch racket-come on, don't look so sur-
prised!—you been holdin' even the joker. But you can't
expect your luck to hold out. And I'm tellin' you, as a
friend, you better quit now while you're ahead. First place,
you're a swell guy, and I like you, Joe-not just because you
helped me out of a hole once, either. Second place, the mobs
are gettin' more vicious than ever-don't give a damn
about nothin'! You know that-look at the papers. Third
place—and this is the most important—they're crackin'
down on the department and demandin' action. It's gonna
take a heap o' jack to pull clean when they take you!"
"But I got pull!” protested Joe. "An' I don't have nothin'
to do with the mobs—Nick takes care o' them.”
Milburn laughed shortly. “Don't kid yourself about the
vou're a swout of a holious than
look at th


84
O Canaan!
pull! Young Dan Carter's hungry for power-never saw a
man change like him since he came back from France—and
he's gettin' the power, too. And as for Nick takin' care of
the gangs—ha, that's a laugh! Why, the poor sap's booked
to go any minute! Only reason he ain't dead is the big mugs
are layin' low for a while. Just let 'em get peeved with
some small amount of cash he turns into 'em. He'll go just
like that!” Milburn snapped his fingers contemptuously.
"Then you'll be next.”
"Hell! I ain't a-scared o' dyin'!” growled Joe, shifting his
shoulders aggressively. " 'Sides, I cain't quit now till I
gits "
"Until you're through payin' for this real estate you're
buyin' up,” finished Milburn. “Sure, I see your point, Joe.
But I also see that you could turn legit an' still pay for it.
Cut down on your expenses. Christ, I never seen it to fail!
Soon's some o' you guys make a little headway you gotta
buy a coupla cars, fur coats for your wives, all kinds o'stuff
you'd get along without if you didn't have the money to
get it. Can't you see you ain't gonna be makin' dough like
this all the time? Remember 1920? Well, you're gonna see
some more years like it. Go read your history; don't take
my word for it.”
"I know,” said Joe worriedly. “But ef I keeps goin' jes'
six mo' months I'll be in the clear. An' then I'll kiss the
racket good-by."
"In six months this town's gonna be hot as hell for you
guys, Joe! I ain't talkin' through my hat-I know! Then
you'll either be takin' a nice long vacation with no expenses
or you'll be taken for a lotta dough. You better get out now.
You can't do nothin' in jail.”
"I gotta take a chance,” said Joe with stubborn finality.
"Okay, Joe. ..." Milburn rose. “But don't say I didn't
warn you about "
“Greetings, boy friend!”


O Canaan!
85
Essie stood at the door shaking her green slicker and hat.
"Hello there, Brownie!” Jim Milburn lost his stolidity,
for he and Essie were great friends. They had been so since
the day he rescued her from a group of her grammar-school
enemies. He had come upon the little fury putting up a
sturdy fight in retreat, and he had quickly drawn her to
safety under one arm while the sight of his uniform had put
to flight her besiegers.
"I hear you're too bad on your basketball team,” he said,
pulling on his black raincoat.
"Huh!" pouted Essie playfully as she began shifting papers
from her father's desk to her own. "A lot you care about it!”
"Aw, now, Brownie," defended Milburn, ruffling her
hair, "you know I ain't had time to come see you play!”
"Baloney!” retorted Essie. Then she smiled her brightest
at him. “But thanks for the candy you sent me Christmas”-
her smile changed to a frown as quickly as April sunshine to
shadow—"even if you didn't come to see us!”
Milburn laughed. "She's just as stubborn as you are," he
said with a significant emphasis to Joe. He blew Essie a kiss
and departed.
"What did he mean by that?” Essie looked across the top
of the typewriter at Joe.
Joe grinned thoughtfully and shrugged. Essie's face
clouded.
"Maybe you better listen to what he was saying just be-
fore I came in,” she suggested shrewdly.
"Maybe you better git to work!” snapped Joe. Then
gruffly, as her lower lip dropped: "Aw, fo’git it!”
"Did you go to the doctor about that dizzy spell?" asked
Essie suddenly.
“Naw! Ain't nothin' the matter wid me,” said Joe off-
handedly. "Must o' bin somep'n I et.”
"Now, Dad, you ought not to
"Git to work, gal!”


86
O Canaan!
The next morning Georgie Weeks sauntered gracefully
into the office. He adhered to the "collegiate” mode of the
day, but his Oxford-gray Chesterfield overcoat, his blue
cheviot suit with hat and accessories to match, gave him the
conservative touch of the habitually well-dressed male. He
smiled with condescension at Joe's brief, none too cordial
greeting. Making himself comfortable in the armchair, he
talked as he slowly removed his gray suède, fur-lined gloves.
On his left hand scintillated a huge diamond which had not
been there when Joe first met him.
"Maggie jes' gittin' up?" asked Joe pointedly.
The man looked at Joe searchingly but saw only a blank
face cons wondering,"
anking about...hostill expression-
"I was wondering," he said, "if you'd be interested in the
proposition I've been thinking about. ..."
"What kind o'proposition?” Joe's face was still expression-
less.
"Well, I'm inclined to think it 'll be a very profitable
venture,” said Georgie with smooth conviction. "You
probably have noticed any number of unattached, attractive
young women about town. I've made a little study as to
their living conditions. Quite a few of them are domestic
servants, and others fall into different classes; all are making
money. Being a real estate man, you know the housing con-
ditions here. Do you follow me?"
Joe nodded for him to continue. His eyes were closed now.
"You and Mrs Dawson have a house you're buying over on
South Park, from what I can gather. Now I propose that you
two turn it into a kind of lodging house for women. Have
it nicely furnished, a matron to look after its upkeep and
so forth. I'm willing to go in with you and Mrs Dawson to
help with financing the scheme. In return all I ask is one


O Canaan!
87
fifth of the profits and—a chance to sell yours and Nick's
liquor— "
"Who's Nick? I don't handle no liquor.” Joe was out-
wardly bland while inwardly he seethed. So Maggie was run-
ning her mouth!
Georgie shrugged. "All right, have it your way. You don't
handle liquor. Maybe you know somebody who does. That 'll
do just as well.”
"These women you was talkin' 'bout,” said Joe, ignoring
Georgie's smirking suggestion, "you cain't git that many of
'em to fill that house. An' ef you did, they wouldn't want
to pay them high rents-
"Oh, but these women I know wouldn't mind the rents,"
assured Georgie. "You know what I mean, Mr Benson.” He
winked. “They have gentlemen friends over on the North
Side. We could even get a cut from the money they make
every-
Georgie shrank back as Joe rose slowly to his feet, big
and scowling. In a trice the dapper pimp was yanked up and
held suspended against the wall. Disdaining to use his fist,
Joe slapped the yellow face until it looked raw. Then with
one contemptuous motion he flung the cowering fellow in
the direction of the door. Throwing a hateful look at the
glowering Joe, Georgie scrambled for the hallway.
His teeth grating, Joe strode the length of the office while
he thrust his hands deeper and more fiercely into his
pockets, and even the expensive cloth and workmanship did
not save the seams. He saw Georgie's hat. He slammed open
the window and tossed it out, grinning his satisfaction when
it landed in a puddle. Then suddenly he'swayed and gripped
his chest with one hand as he groped for the armchair with
the other. Breathless, he slid into it. When the spasm had
passed Joe shook his massive head, ran trembling fingers
through the shock of his graying hair and stared grimly at
the wall. From his desk drawer he took a pint bottle, started
to use
it looker
notion het


88
O Canaan!
to pour a small glassful, but instead tilted the bottle to his
mouth for a long, lusty pull.
April came with cold rains and just a hint of spring in
the air. Joe, still uneasy, held tenaciously to the course he
had set for himself. It took sheer nerve now to hold on.
All about them on the underworld's fringe where he and
Nick trod catastrophe, swift and sudden, was overtaking
those who walked with them. The Big Shot was cracking
down to destroy ruthlessly the lesser of his kind. Under
the strain Nick became drawn and furtive, and the least
noise sent him into paroxysms of fear.
"I wish I was out of it!” he whispered one Saturday night
toward the middle of the month. He had come to divide the
week's profits in Joe's office. He spread a tabloid on the desk
and pointed a trembling finger at the headlines and the grim
picture of death beneath them.
"Aw, fo'git it, Nick!” Joe folded the paper and dropped
it into the wastebasket. He coolly checked the money.
"I'm bein' followed!” exclaimed Nick, pacing back and
forth in his agitation. “Every minute they got somebody on
me—I know it! Jeez, I can feel it. ..."
Joe heaved to his feet. "Listen,” he said easily, "ain't no-
body gonna lay a finger on you in this part o' town. Come
'ere.” He led Nick to the window and pointed. Lounging
indifferently in doorways across the street were six men, all
of whom approximated the burly build of Joe.
"See them?” asked Joe. "Ain't none tougher on the South
Side! All of 'em was wid Sol in the war an' knows they rods,
brother!” His smile was grim. "S'pose you move back over
here from that dickty place you's in— "
“I'll be movin' tonight!” declared Nick. His eyes lighted
hopefully, and he started for the door.


O Canaan!
"You better take a couple of 'em wid you," suggested Joe.
"I'll call 'em- ”
"No!” Nick paled. “I'm bein’ watched, I tell you! They'll
think something's funny if they see your boys with me."
"Okay.” Joe smiled ruefully after the hurrying Nick.
"Boy's some scairt!” he chuckled.
Selecting a crisp bank note, he placed it between an
elaborate birthday greeting and scrawled on the envelope:
"To Essie from Dad.”
As he slid into the front seat of the limousine at the curb
the six indifferent loungers casually crossed the wet trolley
tracks and climbed in, two sandwiching Joe and four
flanking him. Joe handed each a bill, and the car eased out
into the traffic.
A saxophone moaned to a chattering banjo while the grand
piano's dignity was shattered by fingers that ripped weird
chords from its classic depths. Essie's party was in full
swing. The French doors between the dining and living
rooms were flung wide to afford more space for the young
couples huddled beneath the dim light shed from the chande-
lier's green bulbs.
Connie whispered to the serious-faced young man with
whom she sat:
"All you'd have to do, Bran, would be to substitute fig
leaves and trailing gossamer webs for the tuxedos and gowns,
and you'd have a modern version in bronze of the fauns
and nymphs, eh?”
Bran's coppery features remained impassive, except that
his tawny eyes narrowed as he considered her bantering sug-
gestion.
"I'd rather substitute a tomtom for the music,” he said
dryly; "then, anthropologically speaking, you'd have some-
thing."


90
O Canaan!
"Oh, you medicos always stick to your scientific guns!"
laughed Connie. “Now look at Essie—if she isn't a nymph,
there never was one in mythology.”
Bran shifted his attention to the slim, green-sheathed
Essie. While other pairs, like intertwined saplings, swayed
in spots to which they were rooted, she and her partner
glided gracefully among them to the throb of the music.
"Her face is as cool and impersonal as a poker player's,”
observed Bran. "No adolescent urges uncontrolled there."
"If you're surprised,” said Connie, "you can attribute it
to tennis and the like. She's the athlete of the family; she's
already knocking the ball around on the indoor court, and
basketball season isn't over yet.”
"I'm not surprised—not after knowing you."
"You've known me only two months—since you came
out to intern at the hospital.”
"You forget I was in school with your brother. And he's
all right. He'll make a good teacher too.”
"If he can forget his lameness,” added Connie. "Well, how
do you like our little town, now that you've had a real chance
to see it? You know I stopped you from judging it on first
sight.”
"First of all, it's not a little town,” corrected Bran. “I
thought New York was something, being from Boston by
way of Virginia as I am. But this place it overwhelms one!
Why, if the South Side continues like this, Harlem will be a
big laugh. It is already to me. I don't see how the folks do
it out here."
Connie smiled. She had become a Chicagoan and liked to
hear the city praised, although she had no illusions about the
South Side.
"Nothing to it,” she said. “Guess the spirit of Du Sable
sort of infects our folks once they get here. You know about
him—first trading post and all that?"


O Canaan!
91
"Yes. I notice that your average colored Chicagoan takes
pride in pointing out that historical figure.”
"Well,” continued Connie, "right here in this room is a
good enough example of the reason for the progress made by
us in Chicago.” She paused as Bran looked surprised. The
dance had stopped, and Essie's young guests were making
noisily for the punch bowl in the dining room.
"See the big boy at Essie's side with the suspicious bulge
at his hip? That's the watermelon king's youngest son— "
"Watermelon king?" puzzled Bran.
"Sure. Came up from Mississippi on the same train with
us back in ’16. Found out that colored folks like watermelons
in the city as well as down home, and he decided to sell them.
Made enough to set up a store-hence the perfectly fitting
tuxedo his son's wearing."
"Well, sir!”
"See the slinky kid with the black gown which she be-
lieves makes her sophisticated? Her dad's lousy with money
-runs a policy wheel. He used to work in the stockyards
when I was there "
“You-stockyards?”
"Oh yes,” affirmed Connie. She enjoyed his obvious as-
tonishment. "I know more about a hog than his mother!
See the youngster calmly pouring his grog from that beauti-
ful flask, and who thinks he's a Valentino? His father buried
more flu victims than any other colored undertaker in the
city. If he doesn't watch out he'll be burying that youngster
of his—and he won't have to use any embalming fluid!”
"You seem to know all about them,” observed Bran.
"I ought to. Their mothers belong to the same clubs and
lodges with Mother. And what do women do at club and
lodge meetings? Guess!”
"Go on, I'm interested,” urged the young intern. “You
see, up in Boston the colored folks have their social dis-
tinctions-old Bostonians, and all that!”


92
O Canaan!
"Old families?” laughed Connie lightly. “We have 'em
too! Oh yes!” The music had started again, and she pointed
hastily. "The chap there who could pass for your younger
brother? His family used to live down where the Loop is now.
Here since the year 1. And are they proud of it! It was his
mother whose delicacy was shocked by the sight of folks
just up from South picking their toenails and corns on the
grass plots in the center of South Parkway. She wrote an
editorial about it in the Champion and organized a club to
fight further migration. It was like waving a red rag at a
crazed steer! The brethren paid her no mind—as you can
see for yourself. Took Mother seven years to get into her
club: Dad loaned her husband some money, or something
or other. Great social climber, Mother! That's why I'm
chaperoning tonight. She's at one of her meetings. What
they do until one and two in the morning beats me! But
coming back to first families: it seems that all a family has
to do is to find someone away back yonder who did some-
thing out of the ordinary before any other Negro did it. Or
if you can find an Indian lurking somewhere around the
family tree, or some other racial hybridism-presto!—first
family. Of late, though, it's the folks with money who are
counting. And it doesn't make any difference as to how the
money's made. Just make it, flash it, and you're among the
bronze Who's Who!"
"I take it that you don't set much store by this ‘first
family business either!” laughed Bran.
"No!” Connie was emphatic. “With me, if you've got any
good stuff in you, it makes no difference to me who your
folks are, or where they come from, or how much money
you've got! Give me a man with guts enough to get what
he wants and who's willing to pay the price of it! Like Dad.
He may not speak the king's English, and he may look like
something-sent-for-and-couldn't-come in a dress suit, but
when it comes to his standing on his own legs, he's got it!


O Canaan!
Frankly, I get sick of hearing about - Why, here's Dad.
Hey, Dad!”
Joe stepped smiling from between the heavy portieres at
the hall door where he had paused, hat in hand, and still in
his overcoat.
"Young folks sho' dances 'culiar these days,” he voiced
above the blatant saxophone. “Look like they ain't doin'
nothin' but huggin'!"
"That's what they want to do,” laughed Connie. “You
remember Doctor Branshaw, don't you, Dad?”
"Sho'-sho'!” Joe extended a friendly hand. “Lem sent
his regards to you in his last letter, Doc. How you gettin'
on?”
Notwithstanding Joe's cordiality, Bran couldn't suppress
the feeling of wonder he always experienced whenever he
saw Joe. He had liked the man instinctively. He liked Joe's
bigness, the sense of being confronted by an earthly figure
that emanated a primordial quality. And it was this rugged-
ness of Joe's physique and features which Bran found hard
to associate with Connie, even when he weighed Christine's
flawless beauty into the account. One never knew how the
chromosomes would act, he reflected.
"Can't figure it out?” Connie's voice was amused. Joe had
trudged off to "spruce up a bit," as he put it.
"Figure what?” Bran started guiltily.
"Oh, you don't have to be twitchy about it,” said Connie
with genuine unconcern. "Lots of my friends have wondered
how we children differ so much from Dad. But to tell the
truth, we don't differ very much, except on the outside.
Maybe I ought to say that we're about evenly divided be-
tween our two parents or nearly evenly. Carrying out the
-whose theory? Mendel?”
"I don't get it."
Bran looked at her and shook his head. He just couldn't
afford to fall in love with this interesting woman at his side.


94
O Canaan!
She was earning more money right now than he'd make even
after years of practice. But she was a lovely thing. He
couldn't help himself, that was all. ....
"Well, it's easy,” said Connie. “Lem's like Mother-sort of
thin-skinned and none too substantial. He looks like Mother,
too, if you're observant. I look like Mother, but I have
Dad's mind. With me, a thing's a thing—just what it is and
nothing more. Essie's Dad all over again on a feminine scale.
She's acquisitive to the nth degree, and a fighter from
away back. That curiously coarse crimpiness of hair and the
cheekbones she and Dad have? Well, it seems that there was
a Creek Indian somewhere back yonder-great-grandfather
or something. See? There it goes! But we don't put any
premium on it. If you were to hear Aunt Connie and Aunt
Henrietta you'd get another side. I suppose you can guess
that, though?"
"You're pretty cool about it all, aren't you?" Bran smiled.
"You know your family right down to the bricks and make
no bones about it.”
“Why should I? They're just human beings.”
"How do you classify the mischievous little brother there
dancing with the swooning creature yonder?”
Connie frowned and lost her detached attitude.
"Frankly, I worry about him," she said. “It may sound
harsh, but it's my opinion that he was a mistake . . . that if
he had never been born the world would not have been
very much at a loss.”
"Oh, come now!” protested Bran. "Aren't you being a
little too hard? After all, he's just a kid.”
"Yes, I know. But he's been handled a little too loosely, I
think. Then he's not bad to look at-like Essie, but different
in mind. When we lived over on Dearborn the loose ladies
of the house next door used to kidnap him until Mother
complained to the police. And my girl friends used to make
over him. All he had to do was to throw his big soft eyes on


O Canaan!
95
them and right away there was a quarter for ice cream!”
"Well, that's only natural!” laughed Bran.
"Yes, but he's big for his age. By the time he's seventeen
I'll wager he'll be full grown physically. Then it won't be
ice cream he'll be getting! You know how any city is. ...
Here's an example of what I mean coming in now.”
Bran looked toward the door and gaped. "Who's she?” he
demanded.
"Maggie Dawson," informed Connie. “How do you like
the backless velvet and the diamonds? Real sparklers, too.
She's Dad's partner, you know.”
"So that's Maggie Dawson!” Bran sat back and crossed his
long legs.
"That's the lady, all right. And the example of what the
well-dressed man should wear is the sugar daddy. Now do
you get what I mean about Junior?” She rose. “I'd better
greet them and forewarn Dad-he hates the sight of that
Georgie Weeks, and it 'll be wise to coach him on the duties
of host. Mind if I bring them over here?”
"Mind? I'd love it!”
And as Connie crossed the floor with her free-limbed
stride, Bran felt again that surge which came to him when-
ever he thought of her. He clenched his hands, rebelling as
he often did of late at his puny financial means. What a
magnificent creature she was with that pale green, shiny slip
of a thing rippling about her tall form! And that huge knot
of auburn hair dropping almost to her gracefully held shoul-
ders! Bran swore morosely to himself and awaited the ap-
proach of the three. Feigning a smile, he acknowledged the
introductions Connie made in her low-pitched drawl. And a
violent resentment swept over him as he noticed Georgie's
eyes trailing her out of the room.
“Very striking, isn't she?” said Weeks brazenly.
Bran's agreement was curt. He felt like punching the fel-
low's head. He was glad Essie breezed over to them.


96
O Canaan!
"Gee, I'm glad you came, Miss Maggie!” she exclaimed.
"Thanks for the pocketbook and what you put in it.”
"Glad you likes it, chile,” grinned Maggie. She looked the
girl over with approval. "You's sho’nuf gittin' purty, gal!
Uh-huh!”
"Oh, stop, Miss Maggie!” protested Essie. “Now listen
here: I don't want you folks to sit around and not dance at
my party. I'm going to play the piano for the next dance, and
I want you all to get up and shake a leg! I'll wait till Connie
comes back, Bran.” She added slyly: "Of course I know you
don't want to be bothered with Connie!”
"Here, here! Stop trying to vamp my man, Essie!” Connie
had come in pulling Joe behind her.
"Hey there, partner!” cried Maggie. "Just come off so's
to git to the gal's party, an' Georgie left his place so's to
come wid me. How ’m I doin'?” She stood and turned about
so that Joe could better appraise her.
Joe grinned broadly at Maggie's bedecked bulk and turned
a wary eye upon Georgie. The latter breathed more freely
when he saw no signs of hostility in Joe's inscrutable face.
"Glad you come,” said Joe cordially to Maggie. "Essie was
some fretracious 'cause you didn't come last year. How'd
you all like to have some real stuff to drink?" He placed his.
hand over his heart as casually as the pain would let him and
went to the small cabinet in the dining room. “Git goin' on
that piano, Essie! Git some glasses, Connie.”
"I wish you'd persuade Dad to let you examine him,"
whispered Connie to Bran as Joe poured the liquor. "Essie
says he's having regular dizzy spells, but he's stubborn about
it and won't see a doctor."
"I'll do what I can,” replied Bran.
Just as Essie's nimble fingers trilled into one of her own
improvisations of the "Blues” the telephone rang.
"Guess it's yo' ma wantin' Junior to come fo' her," said


O Canaan!
97
Joe. He sauntered out into the hall. In a few seconds he was
at the portieres beckoning frantically to Connie.
"Excuse me a minute, Bran,” she said, and quickly joined
her father, who was trying hard to conceal his agitation.
Connie propelled him back into the shadows.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nick—they's got ’im,” said Joe. "That was Rosie Cohen.
They dumped his body on 'er porch 'bout ten minutes ago!”
The doorbell rang. Joe reached for his hip pocket.
"No!" commanded Connie. "Wait here."
She went to the door and cautiously cracked it. Four men
stood on the porch, two white and two colored.
"Open up, lady,” said one crisply. He flashed a badge.
She let them in. "If you don't mind,” she said, striving
to be calm, "please wait here. My sister's having a birthday
party-
"You all wants me?” Joe stepped forward out of the dark.
"That's Benson," said one of the colored men. “Get his
coat, miss.” He showed a pair of handcuffs to Joe. Joe
grinned and shook his head.
“Bring my coat out to the car, Connie,” he said. “Tell the
folks I had to go out on some quick business. In the mornin'
you call up my lawyer ”
"I know,” said Connie, her face drawn.
"Let's go.” Joe strode through the door.,
Connie forced a smile and rejoined the impatient Bran.
At the piano Essie was swaying and singing in a warbly con-
tralto:
"Some o' these days
You gonna miss me, honey!”
"Play it, Essie!”
"Aw, whip it, baby!”
"Yeah, man!”
The party was a roaring success.


98
O Canaan!
"Oh, name of God, Mother-please!” Connie shook Chris-
tine's shoulder impatiently. "There's no sense in your carry-
ing on like this—absolutely none whatever!”
"I told him all along to stop,” wailed Christine. She lifted
her tearful face from the crook of her arm. Her untouched
breakfast lay before her on the table, and in its stead she
nursed a glass filled with a cloudy liquid.
"You've had enough bread soda to cure a horse's indi-
gestion!” declared Essie sourly. "For cryin' out loud, Mom,
snap out of it! You sure don't make a pretty picture sitting
there like that.”
"But what will all our friends say?" sniffed Christine.
"Friends!” Connie's tone was barbed with irony. “You
needn't worry about your friends, Mother! Dad's got plenty
salted away, I think, and so long as you're as loose with your
pocketbook as you have been, your friends will stick around!
And Dad 'll be able to buy out of this I hope!”
"That reminds me," spoke up Junior. "Just when do I get
my week's dough?”
"Look in my pocketbook," said his mother wearily.
“Wa-a-ait a minute!” Essie sprang ahead of Junior, who
was already on his way. “You wait right here, brother! I'll
dish the dough out to you!”
"Ah-so you're the big boss since they jugged the ole
man, eh?” laughed the boy. "Okay by me, sister! Only don't
snitch on me, see!”
He took the money Essie shoved into his hand. Counting it
hastily, he pursued her into the kitchen.
"Hey, what's the big idea?" he howled. “You ducked two
bucks ”
"You're tellin' me!” snapped Essie, facing him. “Hope to


O Canaan!
99
tell you I did! You've been owing me that deuce for two
months. Now I'm collecting, see! Any objections?”
Junior grinned sheepishly. "Okay, palsy!” he shrugged,
and sauntered out of the house.
“Sometimes I'd like to ...” Connie glared disgustedly
after her blithe brother.
"Not you, Sis—I would!” hissed Essie. "You'd think he'd
stick around and go with us to see Dad, wouldn't you? Him?
Not him-aw, no! He's too cute and stuck on himself! Too
busy chasin' the chippies! That's where he's going—to some
fresh girl's house whose mother's out to work. You ought
to hear him brag about what a sheik he is! Let him keep on
-one of these days he's going to get more than he's looking
for!” With that, Essie made for the upper rooms, where she
could be heard moving about in her usual tempestuous
fashion.
"Mother, you'd better take that boy in hand before it's
too late!” warned Connie as the doorbell rang.
"I guess that's Dad's lawyer,” she said. She started for the
hall and turned. "Come on, Mother, pull yourself together.
Name of God! I hate all that silly sniffling!”


ONE BY ONE Connie listlessly dropped the pile of books into
her brief case. Her lips thinned as she scanned with tired eyes
the forty empty seats and desks of her homeroom. Well,
it was over again! No more noises, smells, petty quarrels
and sudden emotions until September. Then the grind would
start once more ... and the next year ... and the year
after that ... all over again . . . Funny, she reflected,
she'd never felt like that before.
"Say, what are you dreaming about?”
Connie did not look up. She knew it was Mae Carter.
"Come on," chirped Mae, "school's out and it's time for us
to have fun! Ditch the boy friend for once and come on
with me out to the country seat.” She wrinkled her pert nose
at the last two words.
Connie smiled slowly; Mae was a tonic at all times.
"What's that-a new one your mother's brought on you?”
she asked.
"You guessed it!” said Mae. "She and her airs are getting
my goat! Now that architectural monstrosity out in the
park is a country seat! Guess the next thing she'll spring on
me will be a crew of servants! And, take it from me, when
www
100


O Canaan!
IOI
it gets that bad I'm burning that shack down! Didn't want
to go out there in the first place. Like going from New
York to Brooklyn every night. Remember when we were
back East?” She executed an exaggerated mimic of her moth-
er's mannerisms: “ 'But everybody of consequence is mov-
ing away from the congestion, my dear!?”
Connie laughed and followed Mae out into the corridor.
"If I didn't know you, Mae, I'd swear you hated your
mother. But I know better; if anything were to happen to
her or your dad you'd have a fit.”
"You're right,” agreed Mae. “But I get sick of a lot of
silly airs all the time. You'd think we were millionaires or
something by the way Mother likes to spend! Keeping up
with the Joneses! But you can't talk sense to her, and Dad
trails right along with her. Every time you turn around it's a
bill—and, sister, such bills!” Mae whistled.
Connie frowned as she climbed into Mae's defiantly shabby
coupé. “So you're having the same trouble too?" she queried.
Mae's hand lingered on the brake and her bright, birdlike
eyes shifted to Connie's. They both laughed.
"Don't tell me!” exclaimed Mae as the car lurched away.
"I didn't know we were in the same boat. What's the mat-
ter? Momma's on a spending spree?"
"You got it,” said Connie. "Dad shelled out a lot of cash
to beat that bootlegging rap-nearly wiped out all his
profits. But does Mother care? She called in the decorators,
to celebrate, I guess! Bills? Girl, you should have seen that
one! Then it's party, party, party! The managers of the
stores downtown must rub their hands when they see her
coming. She seems to have a mania or something. ..."
"Lawdy me!” Mae's favorite expression was followed by a
mirthless cackle. “It must be a disease! I tell you what-
let's not go out home. I know a nice little speak-easy where
we can drink two cocktails apiece to our dear mothers! I
feel an urge to drive dull care away. And we ought to cele-
;" said pending she same bohe car lur


104
O Canaan!
"Maybe you're right,” reflected Connie.
"Maybe? I know I'm right! Look, Connie—this teaching
is okay for somebody like me, but not you. You take it too
seriously.”
"How can I take it any other way, coming from where I
came?” said Connie soberly, and with a far gaze in her eyes.
"You don't know-nobody who's ever had the advantages
you have had, Mae, can ever know-what it means to want
a chance to learn—to read books—to make something of
yourself—and to have that chance denied by circumstances
over which you have no control. . . . That's why I take my
job so seriously."
"I understand,” said Mae more quietly. She paused briefly,
then resumed her bantering tone. “I know you, too, sister!
What you want besides this teaching is a nice little apart-
ment, an ambitious husband like Bran to steer ahead, and a
couple of brats to worry with.”
Connie laughed.
"Don't laugh!” said Mae. "You know it's true. That's all
those spells of impatience are of yours. Me? I reckon I don't
want any part of it ... maybe. Don't want anybody but
Lem anyway! And he won't give me a tumble, the lofty-
minded Galahad! You ought to see the letters he writes me
about his glorious job teaching down South! Nope, if I do
marry-after Lem turns fool and takes up with a gal who
doesn't understand him-it 'll probably be to confirm my
skepticism and to get a nice brawl of a divorce that the
Champion can feature on the front page!” Mae's laugh was
gayly cynical as she ordered a second round of drinks.
"Yes," she continued, "you're not like you used to be.
You used to be a regular ole she-pirate with a chip on your
shoulder when I first met you. Here lately, you've softened
up like a ripe peach ready for plucking! And, since you're
so ready, I don't see any better guy to pluck you than Bran.


O Canaan!
105
Why, with the money you make, you could help him a lot
for a couple of years until he got on his feet- "
"That's an idea!” Connie set her glass down decisively.
"I've been thinking the same thing for the last two months.”
"Well, what's the matter now?" demanded Mae sharply,
for Connie had suddenly lost her enthusiasm.
"He wouldn't listen to it.”
"Lawdy me! Now I know you're getting soft! Well, I
swan, gal! Have you forgotten the string of boy friends
you've led around on pink ribbons? How come he won't
listen? My eye he won't! Here it is summer with all kinds of
moons and the biggest parks in the world right in your back
yard, and you talking about what a man won't do!” Mae was
all scorn. "Now I know I'm going to have another drink!”
Connie sought to restrain her, but Mae was not to be
denied.
"You know,” she giggled, "I can just see myself swinging
down the aisle with a great big bouquet and all diked out in
pink!”
“You've just got to marry me off, haven't you?” chuckled
Connie. But her gray eyes were softly lighted.
Mae made a frame with her hands and giggled anew.
“What a bride! What a bride!” she sighed. “Well, that's
settled! I'll get my own dress, and you won't have to bother
about a present for— "
"You'll do nothing of the kind!” blazed Connie before she
could check herself. They both giggled like mischievous
schoolgirls. And Bran's fate was sealed.
Then Mae blinked unbelievingly over Connie's shoulder.
“Lawdy me!” she gasped. “You may as well look now. Is
that your little brother, or is that your little brother?"
Connie pivoted quickly. Junior waved nonchalantly at her
and then proceeded to seat a stoutish, flashily dressed woman.
Her face suddenly scarlet, Connie started to rise.
startedly dresseatly at her


106
O Canaan!
"Whoa! Whoa!” Mae hauled her back. "You can't do that
in here! Relax-relax! So, bossie—so-so, bossie!”
"Why, the dirty-old-fashioned— ”
Mae closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears.
“What a whale of a difference the stockyards make in
one's vocabulary!” she giggled. “Poor me! My sheltered life
as a girl was a handicap. Wish I had half your cuss words.”
"Oh, but, Mae, it's ridiculous!” snapped Connie. “That
woman could be his grandmother! And bringing him into a
place like this! I've a mind to— ".
"Forget your mind!” ordered Mae quickly. "If I'm not
mistaken, that bloated and painted clotheshorse is Minnie
Light, one of Dan's female powers in his ward. For atten-
tion paid by him she helps Dan swing votes. I give you one
guess as to what she does. She's got money's mammy, and
her weakness is young and tender pig meat-sort of a high-
yaller Maggie Dawson. Your best play is to ignore her and
talk to the little brother privately."
“Let's get out of here before I pull her eyes out and drag
him away by the nape of his neck!”
“Gott in Himmel! Wait for me, Brunhilde!” called Mae.
She hastily drained her glass.
Connie fired a black look at Junior as she strode past the
table where his companion was stroking his arm much in the
manner of a spinster caressing a stray kitten. The boy's grin
was its most insolent.
"Well, I must say,” panted Mae, hard pressed to match
Connie's angry strides, "the old cat's got an eye for pickin'
'em! If he weren't your brother, now, I'd "
"Oh, shut up!” Connie's voice was an accentuated drawl,
a sure sign of her ire. “Give me the keys—I'm driving!”
"Okay, sweetness. I feel a little whoozie anyway."
The gears ground out Connie's wrath, and the coupé tore
from its parking space. There was a terrifying screech of


108
O Canaan!
much? Do Mother and Essie know yet? What time is it? My
arm's in "
"Lawdy me, gal!” Mae bolted upright. “Wait a second-
one at a time! Just ease up the pressure, and I'll give you an
itemized account.”
“Shoot-quick!"
"All right. Now. Item one: your arm's busted and you
barely missed having a concussion. It seems that you're
rather hardheaded. Item two: from now on signal all ten-ton
trucks before you pull away from a curb. Nevertheless,
I'm grateful for your complete disposal of that eyesore on
wheels "
"I'm sorry, Mae. I'll "
"Think nothing of it. It was insured, and I've been think-
ing about a new one for months. Sometimes, though, cars
get next to you-like dogs. The older they get, the more
you hate to get rid of them. Poor thing! I feel like wearing
a dash of black for it. Next time you get ready to do the
same job, try pushing over a cliff. Less painful, wouldn't
you think?"
"You must still be tipsy!"
"No ... I got kind of bighearted and scattered bless-
ings in sundry places immediately after the crash.”
"I'm terribly sorry "
"Are you going to listen? Item three: Bran's going to see
Essie and the mother, and phone my folks. Girl, that M.D.
is certainly taking care of you! Me? Wouldn't have made the
least difference to him if I'd cashed in, the heartless brute!
Oh well, I'll get even. It 'll be a pleasure to lead him to his
fate-me all dressed in pink- "
"Quiet, please!” A sturdy nurse stood at the doorway. "It's
seven o'clock. You both should be asleep.” She pressed a
button, plunging the room into semidarkness.
"Nite-nite, Mrs Branshaw!” Mae snuggled deeper amid
the sheets and sighed rapturously. "What a break-right in


O Canaan!
109
the same hospital where your man is! This setup's better
than a park in the moonlight, girlie
Connie gave a rattling snore.
"Okay, girlie!” snickered Mae. "I'll be seeing you at the
altar! What a break. Lawdy me ..."


"I DON'T WANT to be married in church! Is that plain?”
Connie's drawl was impatient as she paused before her
mother.
"It's my wedding, isn't it?” she resumed. "Name of God!
One would think you were getting married— ”
"All right, all right,” said Christine in an injured tone. "I
only thought that since your father and I are looked upon
as pillars of Bathsheba "
“Pillars of Bathsheba!” interrupted Connie scornfully.
"You know Pa doesn't care a hang about Bathsheba! And all
it means to you is a chance to show off before your dear sis-
ters!”
"Connie!” Christine was aghast.
But Connie was not to be repulsed, and in spite of the
oppressive August heat which poured through the screened
windows of the living room she paced the floor.
"Yes," she continued, "that's all you want to do, and you
know it. As if Pa hadn't enough to do paying these crazy
bills you're always making! Name of God, Mother, I don't see
how you have the heart to do it!"

110


O Canaan!
III
"Well, I can't afford to entertain my friends in a shabby
way,” simpered Christine. "After all, you've got to keep up
appearances ”
"Appearances!” Connie brought her heels together smartly
on the hardwood floor. “Sometimes I wish we had never
moved from Dearborn Street, Mother! It's gone to your
head, that's what! When you were over there you could do
your own housework. Now-name of God!—you must have
a girl”—Connie's voice was a whining imitation of her moth-
er's—"to clean house for you and help with dinner par-
ties "
"All my friends have girls to help them,” said Christine
defensively. "I only have one now and then. Why, the Law-
yer Wilsons keep a girl all the time "
"Yes, and he can afford it, too,” replied Connie. "Pa hasn't
half the money he has—especially since that mess in April
and it cost a pretty penny to keep that out of the papers.
And on top of that, Maggie Dawson's gone and let that
pimp of hers wade right into the profits of the restaurant.
And believe you me, that snake is taking everything that
isn't nailed down!"
"But Georgie says ” Christine checked herself.
"Georgie says what? Say—what do you know about what
Georgie says?" Connie fastened a steady gaze upon her moth-
er's frightened face.
"Well, I–I,” stammered Christine, "I met him yesterday
... coming from the library- "
"Listen, Mother,” said Connie scornfully, "are you falling
for that dirty little smooth-talking worm?”
"Connie!” All shocked and bruised sensibility, Christine
fluttered a handkerchief to her nose. "How could you talk
so to your own mother?”
"Oh, stop it!” commanded Connie relentlessly. “Mother
or no mother, you're a woman, and—if I must say it-with
not half the common sense Maggie Dawson has. She knows


II2
O Canaan!
what she's doing where Georgie is concerned and probably
doesn't mind what he does so long as he doesn't thieve too
much from her. She's a lone woman, but you're a wife and
mother, with a husband whose heart is subject to go like
that any minute now if he doesn't ease up on the pace he's
going just to grub dollars for you to throw away! You know
what Bran told us last week about Dad.”
"Can't I meet a person I know and talk with him without
being under suspicion?” countered Christine with a show of
spirit.
"All right,” shrugged Connie. “Have it your own way.
All I say is, it seems to me that you could pick out a different
person to be seen talking to!” She made for the hall, where
she turned. “If I were you, I'd try to see that we didn't have
a Georgie Weeks of our own in the person of your darling
son! I told you that I saw him with that Minnie Light in a
speak-easy back in June. Maybe that's where he stays those
nights he doesn't come home!”
Christine was visibly shaken as she watched her daughter
stride down the walk to the street. After some hesitation
she went to the phone and spoke a number softly into the
mouthpiece. In the midst of her cautious murmurs she stif-
fened and quickly hung up. She turned to face the insolent
leer of Junior.
"Hello, Mom," he mimicked her murmur, "I just wanted
to ask you if you could let me have a ten-spot."
Christine's head went up in her characteristic gesture, and
her thin lips parted. But the sharp rebuke would not come.
The boy's eyes were too knowing. Her head sank, and she
whispered: “Wait here."
Junior's grin was triumphant as he watched his mother
hasten up the stairs.


O Canaan!
113
“Wal, Joe, yo' gal's sho'nuf gwine from you now."
Sam Cummins stropped his razor and gently fingered the
deep creases of Joe's heavy jowls.
"Yeah,” said Joe, “that's the way it goes: the pappy works
like the devil to set 'em straight, an' some squirt comes
along an' grabs 'em up!”
"Heh-heh—that's sho'nuf the truth, man!”
Sam always made a leisurely operation of Joe's shaves
because these were about the only instances which gave the
two old friends "a spell together," as Sam put it, so diver-
gent had their lives become.
“Now, suh, that sho' nuf was some weddin'!” he ex-
claimed. He poised his razor and looked off into space.
Sam was a talker who captured one's attention, and the
loafers in the narrow, mirrored rectangle of his shop always
gave ear to him. Perhaps it was this picturesque, quaint, col-
loquial ability of the little barber that bound so many of
his clientele to him. Once Sam Cummins cut a man's hair or
shaved him, he had another customer almost invariably. For
Sam knew when, what, how and to whom to talk. And if he
were ignorant of a subject—which was seldom—he had the
good sense to listen in such an ingratiating manner that the
individual speaking experienced that sense of abundant
knowledge so appeasing to the male ego.
"Uh-huh ...” he mused, raking his whitened tuft of
hair and executing a few lightning strokes with his precise
razor (Sam's boast was that he never nicked a face, no mat-
ter how bumpy it might be).
"You was there, too, wasn't you, Pop?” prompted his as-
sistant, a sloppy, bald, overly fat octoroon whose bleary
eyes and pimply nose were indices of his daily bouts with
the bottle. But he was a good barber-he needed only scis-


O Canaan!
IIS
talkin' 'bout she cain't eat no mo' an' eatin' fit to bust all
the time!”
"Did you tell Maggie you still wants to hook up wid 'er?”
chuckled Joe under his lather.
"Huh!” scoffed Sam, scraping away, and with his voice
more directed to Joe. “She done got too highfalutin fo’ me!
An' her runnin' wid that slick Oscar down in Thirty-fifth
Street what runs that poolroom! Whyn't you talk some sense
in 'er head, Joe?”
"Ain't no use, Sam. No fool like a old fool, you know.”
“Sometimes I thinks you all's both fools!” stated Sam with
the license of long friendship. “You an' her done quit comin'
to church, ain't you? Swear to my rest-
"Ain't got time, Sam,” said Joe. “Look like the mo' a man
gits, the mo' he got to git to keep what he got! An' the mo'
you got, the mo' you gots to spend— ”
"Ain't got time fo’ Jesus, eh? That's what wrong wid you!”
Sam was expounding on his favorite theme with Joe. “You
all done come up here an' fo’got yo' Jesus "
"Now you knows that ain't so," protested Joe tolerantly.
"Don't I keep up my dues? Ain't I looked after gittin' that
Jewish church so's this Reverend Brown kin move you all
to a nicer neighborhood?”
"That's all right," interrupted Sam, “but that ain't what
the Lawd wants. He wants yo' heart! An' you knows yo’
heart ain't in no church, Joe! An' I ain't sho' the Lawd wants
us to be buyin' up a grea' big church so's this man, what
took Rev'end Williams's place when the Lawd took 'im
home to glory, kin rare an' pitch in. Somep'n tells me he
ain't no mo' called by the Lawd 'n a mule! Sho'—he kin
preach all right, an' make them sisters jump an' holler, but
they ain't no Jesus there. You hears me? An' them sisters-
Christine 'cluded—talkin' 'bout gittin' him a car an' sendin'
him off on a vacation! Vacation! Jesus didn't need no vaca-
tion! Doggone "


116
O Canaan!
“Well now, Sam,” chuckled Joe easily, “the Bible done
said a man ought to be worthy of his hire-
"Hire!” exploded Sam as he wrung a steaming towel and
applied it to Joe's face. "The Lawd don't hire nobody!
Jesus calls 'em-an' ef they ain't called they ain't no good,
that's what!”
Joe chuckled louder, and Sam became belligerent.
"You mark my word, Joe, the Lawd ain't gwine stand too
much foolishness! He gwine show you somep'n one o' these
days, suh! He gittin' tired sho'nuf now! This place 's gittin'
jes' like Sodom— "
"Thought it was jes' like Canaan when we fust come up
here, Sam?” reminded Joe.
"It ain't no mo',” replied Sam, unruffled. "Israel done
fo’got her God an' the day o'wrath is a-comin', you hear
me! You cain't do 'thout the Lawd, Joe!”
"Sam, you ever stop to figger why the white boys is so far
'head o'us?” asked Joe, wincing from the sting of an astrin-
gent.
"They ain't so far—they jes' look like they is,” said Sam
with a knowing wag of his head.
"You mought be right,” said Joe. He paused as he pressed
a big hand against his suddenly heaving chest.
"What's the matter?" questioned Sam, noticing the action.
"Oh, it ain't nothin',” replied Joe as the pain subsided.
"What I was sayin'—you mought be right and you moughtn',
Sam. These white boys is slick—ain't no gittin' 'way from
it-an' we gots a long ways to go yit—a long ways. Now
the biggest trouble wid us, Sam, is we bin thinkin' too much
'bout Jesus an' fo’gittin' 'bout livin'! We bin sayin': 'Gimme
Jesus an' you all kin have the world.' Now the way I figgers
this thing is, ef Jesus an' the Lawd 'll jes' gimme a chance
’long wid the other folks, I ain't gonna worry 'bout heaven
-I gonna try an' git somep'n myself down here an' not fret
the Lawd 'bout it too much! You ever stop to figger what


"TAKE A LOOK at these letters, Dad.”
Joe read one after another without comment, then leaned
back in his chair to look over Essie's head at the landscape
on the wall.
"Who told you to write 'em?” he asked slowly, his voice
an ominous rumble.
"Well, Dad, if you don't tell these stores not to let Mother
charge things ”
"I didn't tell you to write 'em!”
"I know, Dad,” said Essie, “but you've got to do it.
Look.” She handed him three invoices. "Those are the coal
bills for September, October and this month. It takes a lot
of money to heat those Parkway houses. And now that
you've sold out the store ... Remember you haven't quite
paid for those houses yet, and you're selling "
"I oughta kept on sellin' likker,” muttered Joe, fingering
the letters.
"Well, I'm glad you're not!” Essie laid an affectionate
hand on his shoulder. “We'll pull through all right, Dad. But
you'll have to let me send those letters. It ʼll do Mother good
to pinch a little. Let me show you something."
118


O Canaan!
119
She went to a tall filing cabinet and brought back four
indexed sheets.
"Here are our records from ’25 through ’27 and up to now
in this year. We're just about even. Now if we can keep
going until 1930 we'll be in the clear!”
"That's sho’nuf right nice bookkeepin', gal,” said Joe. He
grinned appreciatively at his daughter. “You's a right smart
gal. Reckon that high-school co’se must o' bin all right.”
"It was hard enough,” laughed Essie. She ran her fingers
through his nearly white shock of hair and kissed him on
the nose. "Have you taken your medicine?” she demanded.
He fumbled in his desk drawer. She tittered at his facial
contortions as he downed a teaspoonful and spluttered:
"That devilish Bran kin fix up some o' the nastiest mess
fo' me to take! Swear to my rest!”
"You're worse than Junior used to be about castor oil!”
snickered Essie. "Anyway, the medicine's doing you good.”
"Ef it don't cure me it 'll sho'nuf kill me!” growled Joe.
"Where's that Junior anyhow?"
"You're asking me?” shrugged Essie. "The last I saw of
him he was heading for Milwaukee-goes there nearly every
week. I don't see where he gets all his money- ” She
stopped short. She did know. She continued: "He just
laughed in that crazy way of his when you cut off his allow-
ance and told him to find a job after he flunked out in June.”
"Reckon he ain't ’mountin' to much," mused Joe pen-
sively.
"He's just no good, that's all,” said Essie. "The women
like him too well.”
"Well, when he comes home this time I'm givin' him his
walkin' papers! Ef that's the kind o’ life he wants, I'm gonna
give 'im a chance to git a bellyful. Maybe he'll git some sense
in that head o'hisn. . . . Gal, you never knows what you's
gittin' when you born a chile. Ain't no tellin' ... no
tellin'. ..."


120
O Canaan!
Joe drummed his desk absently. "You go past Connie's
today?” he asked as an afterthought.
"Yes, and that little rascal of theirs is as fat as a butter-
ball!”
"That Charlie's a mess!” chuckled Joe. “Ever' time I goes
there he gits ahold o'my finger an' won't tu'n loose fo' noth-
in'! Reckon I'll drop in on 'em after I git through seein' ole
Dan Carter an' Barnes. I'll mail these letters on my way ef
you'll put 'em in envelopes.”
While Essie typed the addresses Joe drew on his fur-lined
overcoat that made his massive figure more portly. Essie
watched him from the window as he strode along. She
watched him lovingly, for she was proud of her father. He
was head and shoulders above the Saturday evening crowd
of shoppers along teeming Forty-seventh Street. And she
noted that some of them paused to follow with respectful
eyes that towering, commanding height and breadth of him
as he moved along, head and shoulders above them all.
Essie's snapping eyes grew worried as she watched her
father. How long ... ? Bran was always evasive except to
say that any severe shock would be damaging and that Joe's
vitality was such that there was no definite prediction to be
made in his case. Joe's money-getting and striving after
power had exacted a price: the man's great heart had weak-
ened in the strife, though his will was as strong as ever.
And now her mother ... Essie's brow contracted be-
neath her curling bangs. Her mother and Georgie Weeks
... For Essie knew_had known when she came upon
Junior and Christine one day as the boy was demanding his
tribute for silence. A brown fury, she had assailed them:
"If you ever let Dad find out about it, " she had
hissed her unfinished sentence through clenched teeth.
And the boy, knowing the wildness of his sister's temper,
had slunk away to plague his mother no more.
Essie had lashed Christine with the whips of scorn until


O Canaan!
I21
the older woman had cringed and whimpered a promise to
abandon her liaison. But Georgie had been unyielding; he
had demanded payment-an exorbitant sum—under threats
of exposing the affair to Joe. And tonight was the dead-
line.
"I'll see him myself,” Essie had told the distraught Chris-
· tine. "And from now on you don't spend any of Dad's money
except what I let you have, you-you- "
She had clamped her lips on the vile name and left Chris-
tine prostrate in terror and shame. And the girl spoke no
more to her mother unless Joe was with them. Christine
avoided her daughter, for now on the one hand there lay be-
tween them nothing but scorn that bordered on hate, and
on the other bitter humility and fear that bred hate.
Essie drew her shoulders erect and walked slowly away
from the window. Just as slowly she put on her sleek musk-
rat coat and green hat, gloves and scarf. Then her move-
ments became quicker as her strong lower jaw lifted and a
wild light kindled in her black, snapping eyes.
When she strode forth the lights of the city pierced the
prairie dusk. Though she was comparatively small, her lithe,
erect figure, too, stood out from the crowd; and many were
the sensuously admiring male eyes that stared after it.
Georgie Weeks lounged upon the softly cushioned window
seat overlooking Michigan Boulevard and blew thin wisps
of smoke toward an amber-bulbed floor lamp. It was the
right light for Georgie, and he knew it. They'd always given
him amber lighting when he'd been a star player in his
dramatic club at college back East.
: "College ..." mused Georgie.
He glanced about the sumptuous furnishings of this, the
living room of his three-room apartment. Culture for serv-


122
O Canaan!
ice! This was a damned sight better than teaching in a one-
room school filled with a lot of smelly, snotty-nosed kids!
Forty dollars a month! Georgie's sensuous lips turned up in
a sneer. He'd made college pay real dividends. And there
was that silly little country teacher wanting him to marry
her! Women ... women! Georgie's sneer became more
pronounced as the bell rang.
"About time she got here!” he muttered. Smoothing his
glossily pomaded head, he lighted another cigarette before
he rose. He adjusted his silk dressing gown of oriental
design and walked leisurely to the door. That black Benson
would pay off now for that slapping! He opened the door
and drew back in surprise.
"Why--this is a pleasure, Miss Benson!” he exclaimed,
falling into his part like the actor he was.
"Nix on the smooth line, brother!” answered Essie. She
stepped briskly across the threshold. “And you can drop
the movie pose too ”
"Won't you have a seat?” interrupted Georgie. His trained
smile did not break though he raged inwardly. So the old
bitch had blabbed! He'd fix her!
"Never mind the seat!” Essie's husky contralto was as hard
as the sharp lines of her face.
"You know why I'm here,” she went on, "and I've come
to tell you this: if you write any letter to Dad I'll kill you,
you dirty bastard! I'll kill you, so help me God, I will! And
you needn't think I'm just running off at the mouth!”
Her voice was like the tremolo of an oboe now, and her
teeth showed full against the flushed brown of her heart-
shaped face. Georgie backed farther away, but the fury
followed him as she barely whispered:
"I love my dad—you hear me? And before I'll let you
hurt him-you son of a bitch—I'll kill you!”
She wheeled and ran from the room, to lean quivering
and with closed eyes against the hallway wall.


O Canaan!
123
"What 're ya doin' in there?”
Essie stared. It was Gladys Colton.
With sodden cigarette hanging from a corner of her
smeared lips, and a menacing scowl upon her violently
rouged face, she brought the full glare of her disease-ridden
gray eyes upon Essie.
. "What 're ya doin' in there?” she demanded again, her
right hand fumbling at her pocketbook.
"What's it to you?” snapped Essie. She switched away,
her high heels clicking impudently upon the tiled floor.
Gladys' hand came swiftly from her bag with a small shiny
object with which she drew a bead upon the retreating girl.
The hand wavered, then fell as Essie's head disappeared
below the top step of the stairs leading to the floor below.
Impatiently Gladys rummaged in her pocketbook and
finally extricated a small paper packet. She dumped a portion
of the white powder on the back of her trembling hand and
sniffed it vigorously. Her whole body twitched spasmodically
and steadied, and her smirking face was ugly as she rang
the bell of Georgie's apartment.
"Why didn'cha go my fine?" she snarled. He had hardly
opened the door.
"Now wait a minute, Gladys!” gasped Georgie, retreating
hastily. He stared fearfully at the round black hole of the
small gun she held.
"So ya wanted to make time with a chippie and let me
take a rap, eh?”
"Wait a minute, for God's sake! Let me- "
The sentence was never finished. The woman's finger had
tightened, and the round black hole did not waver. ...
Old Dan and Joe Benson were chuckling gleefully in the
former's office atop Barnes's bank on State Street. It was


124
O Canaan!
this room that Joe had used as a model for his office; only
here the furnishings were more worn and of an earlier mode.
"Well, how do you gentlemen like my proposition?" asked
Barnes.
He was standing with a half-filled whisky glass in his
hand-a tall, dull black man with keen features made more
distinguished (he thought) by pince-nez spectacles perched
upon the indented bridge of his thin nose. Winged of
collar, spatted of shoe, and wearing his iron-gray, stubborn
hair in a severe pompadour, he was as immaculately groomed
as old Dan. That he was more orator than executive was
easily detected.
"Sounds good to me,” said Carter, scratching the ends of
his white mustache with the tip of his little finger. "And
you want each of us to take a third of this new stock, is
that it?"
"That's right,” vouchsafed Barnes, "and immediately you
have an equally controlling interest in the bank along with
me.”
"How come you wants us in on it?" asked Joe shrewdly.
"Because, Mr Benson, I am interested in the growth of
Negro business—and that interest is not a selfish one!”
answered Barnes oratorically. "You gentlemen know how
I stuck to my post—at great loss to myself, I'd have you
recall—when those bombing outrages were at their worst?
I assure you, gentlemen, that it would have been easy for
me to give up then. But did I? No, gentlemen, I refused to
budge! And as a result Negroes are now able to live in
neighborhoods never before occupied by them in the history
of the city. You gentlemen are aware of that—and very
profitably so, if I'm not mistaken.” He smiled slyly at them
and sipped his drink.
"That's right,” agreed Joe. "We followed you when we
started buyin' up houses, sho' nuf.”
Barnes continued:


O Canaan!
125
"Gentlemen, I'm not thinking just of the present. I'm
thinking of the day when our boys and girls will be coming
out of schools and colleges and taking their places in busi-
nesses owned and operated by Negroes. There's no getting
away from it—unless we as Negroes become more eco-
nomically competent we're doomed! I'm thinking of the
day when south State Street and Forty-seventh Street will
be teeming-teeming—with Negro business! There's room
for us, gentlemen, if a few pioneers like ourselves will have
vision enough and courage enough to strike while the iron
is hot. And, gentlemen, the iron is hot now! I know what
I'm talking about. Stocks are rising every day. Before the
end of 1929 this stock you're buying will have reached
inconceivable peaks, and the bank—our bank—will be
absolutely solid-even more solid than it is now. What do
you say, gentlemen?”
"I'm wid you!" rumbled Joe. “Let's git them papers
signed.”
They drank another round after the transaction was
completed, and Joe and Barnes left together. When the
door closed upon them young Dan emerged from the office
adjoining his father's.
"Well, you went through with it, didn't you?" he said
with an ironical twist of his full, mobile lips.
Dan's lips and eyes were his chief assets as a lawyer. They
were both fascinating; the former were very facile in the
delivery of a speech and writhed and twisted as emotion
directed; the latter were intense and piercing, and the
degree of their marked squint forewarned of the vitupera-
tion about to be ejected by his strong baritone. During such
moments of vitriolic objurgation, which grew more frequent
as he grew older, Dan's head, rather long from front to
back, would shoot forward on its sinewy neck and lower so
that the four regular, thick waves of his hair were high-
lighted. And to add formidableness to the pose with which


O Canaan!
127
"I haven't any objections to a man's making an advan-
tageous marriage, O volatile-tongued barrister!”
"Oh, Dad, for the love of Mike!” Dan finally broke off his
tirade. For in spite of the pungent arguments in which the
two frequently engaged, the son loved and admired his
father. And it had been the older man's cutting sarcasm
that had brought the youngster out of the dejection caused
by his first defeat at the bar.
"Listen, son,” said old Dan, also abandoning his vitriol,
"I appreciate your point of view. But, after all, what is
business? In the final analysis it's a chance. Now don't think
I've decayed so much as not to have investigated this thing.
The stock's all right-perfectly sound. The boys downtown
are going for it strong. Besides, even if the whole thing
collapses I'll still have plenty left. You see, son, I've been
thinking about this Negro business a long time—since before
you were born, in fact. And I think that now's the time,
while we're on an economic crest, as it were. Why, Negroes
are depositing their money in Barnes' bank by the thou-
sands! Success is bound to come! Don't you want to see
your old man a bank director? Don't you want these kids
finishing school to have a chance?"
"All right, all right,” said Dan, resigned. "Have your
old man's pipe dream. An economic crest, as you call it,
may be all right, but my economics says to buy low and
sell high! Of course I'm just an upstart, and you old heads
are always right. ... Go on and be a bank director-and
I hope you like it! As for these kids coming out of school-
humph! These gin-totin', slang-talking brats don't impress
me. The war taught me one thing, Dad: in life it's every
man for himself and to hell with the hindmost. Life's a
struggle, Dad! And the more older Negroes coddle the
youngsters—making it easy for them—the least they can
expect ”


128
O Canaan!
"But we intelligent and able Negroes can't let the others
drift, son "
“Damn the others!” exclaimed Dan impetuously. "They're
the ones who make it hard for those who 're trying to do
things! You can't make a thoroughbred out of a plow horse.
I found that out twelve years ago when I had those silly,
altruistic ideas in my head. All I got was a cussin' out for
my trouble. To hell with 'em! If I can feed on them I'll do
it. May as well ... others do it.”
"I wish you'd never gone to war, son," said old Dan. "It
did some ugly things to you. I wanted you hard, but not too
hard-especially where your own people are concerned.”
"Who are my people?” asked Dan somberly. “What do
you get for being soft? I was soft with Connie, and look
what happened. I lost her.”
"Still bothers you, eh?”
"I'll get her yet!”
"Some things aren't meant for some individuals, son.”
"Humph! Women are just peculiar, that's all,” scowled
Dan. "Look at Mae--swears she's going to marry Lem! And
for what? He hasn't got what it takes—no guts, no push.
But that's the kind women like the soft, dependent kind-
our women, anyway."
"That's quite a compliment to me, to say the least,” put
in old Dan, smiling queerly as he rose. "You know, one of
our women married me. ... When are you coming home?
Your mother's complaining because you don't visit us more.”
"I'll be out tomorrow. Got to check on my wheel.”
"You'd better go slowly with that policy game, son. As
soon as they tighten up you light out.”
"Can't quit now, Dad,” grinned Dan ironically. "I've got
to be ready to catch you when you fall from your bank
roof.”
"I'll bounce, son.”
With this parting shot old Dan bundled up and went out


O Canaan!
129
to brave the fine, driving snow that presaged a prairie
blizzard.
Meanwhile Joe trudged toward Connie's, highly elated. A
bank director! He chuckled so deeply that other passers-by
looked askance at him. He came to a mailbox and bethought
himself of the letters. With great silent glee he tore them to
shreds and flung them into the gutter where they cavorted
in the prairie wind and snow.


"DOGGONE! I knowed it!”
"What's the matter, Joe?” queried Christine.
"Ain't nothin' the matter,” said Joe, gulping the re-
mainder of his breakfast coffee. "Some gal's done jes' blowed
Georgie Weeks' brains clean out!”
Christine gave a faint gasp and half rose from her seat,
but sank down at a look from Essie.
“Who did the job, Dad?”
"Says here," answered Joe, bending closer to the paper,
"some gal by the name o'Gladys—Gladys Colton. ... Say,
ain't that the gal you was tellin' us 'bout once?"
"Must be,” said Essie indifferently. "What do you think
they'll do to her?”
"They oughta give 'er a medal!” growled Joe. “She say
they had a fight an' she shot in self-defense. I reckon she
git off wid jes' time fo'totin' a gun.”
For some reason Essie breathed a quick sigh of relief and
rose from the table.
"Did you mail those letters last night, Dad?” she asked
before she left.
130


O Canaan!
131
"Sho'-sho',” lied Joe and bent more attentively to the
paper. “Ain't you goin' to church this mo’nin', honey?” he
asked Christine, who continued to gaze fixedly at her plate.
"Oh . . . you know, I hardly realized it was Sunday!"
fluttered Christine.
When she and Essie had gone out together with their
purple robes on their arms Joe assumed his favorite position
in the living room-sprawled upon the divan and puffing at
long intervals a fragrant cigar. He had not been there long
before the familiar steps of Junior sounded on the porch
and in the hall.
"Come here, boy!" rumbled Joe. He sat up and snatched
the cigar from his mouth.
"Hi, Dad!” greeted Junior with a leisurely flip of the hand
to his sire.
Joe clamped angry teeth upon his cigar.
"Look at you!" Joe covered the distance between them
with three swift strides, gripped the boy by the overcoat
collar and shook him as a bear shakes his cub. Then he
shuttled him across the room with a violence that crashed a
coffee stand.
"Now you git out o' here—an' stay out!” roared Joe,
standing over him. "I done ever'thing fo’you a pappy kin-
give you ever'thing—but you jes' ain't no dam' good! Git!”
Junior struggled to his feet and mumbled:
"Gimme a chance to get my clothes, will you?”
"You gots all the clothes you need on yo' back!” stated
Joe adamantly. "Ef you wants mo', work fo' 'em! Dam'
you—you'll work now!”
"That's what you think!” was the sullen rejoinder. And
before Joe could intercept him the boy was gone.
Joe sank upon the divan and clutched his bosom. Then
he made his way to the dining-room cabinet, where he
downed four glasses of whisky in rapid succession.


132
O Canaan!
"Bran! Look--they've done it!”
Connie rushed excitedly through the small combination
living-dining room and into a smaller bedchamber. She
snapped on the light and shook Bran by the shoulder.
"Wake up, darlin'!” she cried. “Wake up! They've done
it!”
With a simulated groan Bran rolled over and sat up,
pained tolerance and sleepiness combating for possession of
his lean, tired face.
"Who's done what, baby?” he yawned.
"Mae and Lem! Listen: 'We did it stop Blame Santa Claus
stop See you in 1929 stop Mr and Mrs Lemuel Benson.'
They're in Detroit. They must have gone over last night.
Isn't Mae the limit, though? She said she'd do it!"
Connie tossed the telegram to Bran and gathered their
kicking son from the crib beside the bed. He was a redhead
with Bran's tawny eyes peeping out of cheeks so chubby
that they dropped away from his tiny puckered mouth like
the jowls of a solemn, fat old man.
"Some bouncing boy, honey!” Jane Saunders had ex-
claimed when she made her routine call.
And Jane had not been her matter-of-fact self concerning
Connie and the boy, for she had continued close to the
Benson family through the years that saw her rise, through
her efficiency, from one of hundreds of child-and-mother
welfare nurses to the directorship of the South Side branch
which she had established and developed. And except the
slight stoutness that had supplanted her youthful stockiness,
Miss Jane was the same calm, energetic soul who had battled
many a prairie blizzard and covered many a hot mile under
the blazing prairie sun in the faithful pursuit of her duty.
"Well, here's luck to them!” Bran snatched the boy from


O Canaan!
133
Connie and tossed him until his gurgles turned to squeals.
"I hope it doesn't detract from Lem's thesis writing. And
speaking of the thesis, I must say he sure picked a whopper!”
"He looks a little peaked to me,” said Connie. “Here, give
me Charles Branshaw, III, before his father ruins him! For
a doctor you can do some of the worst things to your own
son!”
"Lem does look peaked,” agreed Bran thoughtfully. "He's
taking that stuff too seriously. But he always was that way,
even as an undergrad. I'll have a look at him when they get
back.”
"I wish you would. By the way, how are you coming with
that paper of yours? Any more for me to type?”
"Nope, not yet. Have to wait for Miss Saunders' material
on luetic mothers.” Bran's face lighted. "Now there's a
woman for you! Boy! She's more thorough than many a
doctor I've known. You know that side wasn't my idea-it
was hers. Seems that she's been keeping a sort of independent
case record since she started her station. I'm telling you,
when we explode these findings on syphilis in the South
Side ”
"Oh, Bran! Not before breakfast!” Connie made a face.
"Okay, baby,” laughed Bran. “But I'm telling you if
something isn't done it 'll be the next plague-
"How do you want your eggs?" broke in Connie merrily.
This scientist husband of hers was a case! But how she loved
him. You saw it in the way she looked at him, the lilt she
put into his name.
"All right!” He laughed again. He tousled her hair, which
she now wore in a long bob. "Shipwreck 'em-and if they're
scorched I'll beat you!”
"Okay, Cap'n!” Connie snatched the bedclothes from his
long body. "Now suppose you do the duties by our little
bundle of love this morning! You know, you're just as much
to blame for him as I am. ... And don't say you don't


134
O Canaan!
know what to do, Doctor.” She shouldered one end of the
blankets and dragged them behind her to the kitchen.
Bran sat up and ruefully eyed his son, whose bright,
tawny eyes looked up expectantly.
"You doggone little tyrant, you!" yawned the father.
"Blub-blub, pooh!" came the answer, accompanied by a
pommeling of the crib blanket.
"Okay, Your Majesty.” Bran picked up the boy and made
for the bathroom.
"Gee, I'm glad you got a break this Christmas and don't
have to go to the hospital!” exclaimed Connie.
They had eaten breakfast and Bran was on the floor
amusing the baby with toys. Beneath a tiny tree in one
corner of the room lay their own presents.
"Yep, it's swell all right," agreed Bran. "Now if Mom
were just able to get away from those two New England
spinsters who swear they can't eat anybody else's cooking,
everything will be jake. I sent her the money to come last
week, but I haven't heard from her.”
"Bran,” asked Connie thoughtfully, "do you think your
mother really wants to see us?”
"Why, of course she does!” declared Bran. "Say, what
are you driving at?"
"Well . . . you know ..." hesitated Connie, looking
away.
"Know what?"
"Well, she didn't even acknowledge the announcement
we sent her about Charlie. ..."
"Oh, that?” Bran laughed. “You don't know Mom, that's
all. She probably laughed all day to herself and told all her
girl friends about it. She doesn't like to write. She's a little
sensitive about her limited education "
"That's just what I was driving at, Bran. I thought when


136
O Canaan!
"That's Essie,” said Connie, going to the door.
"Yippee! Merry Christmas and all that to you!” cried
Essie as she flapped into the room with her galoshes open.
“What do you think about Lem and Mae?"
She was followed by a thin, effeminate young man who
sighed his relief when Bran took from him the toppling
packages that were about to throw him.
“What have you been drinking?” demanded Connie. She
took their coats and hats. "Mae's crazy, but I'm glad she got
him. Hello, Ronnie—just home from school?”
"Yes,” gasped the sallow-skinned one. He wiped the
moisture from his horn-rimmed glasses. “Mother and
Dad ”
"-extend to you the season's greetings and trust that
you will worship with them this coming Sunday!” finished
Essie with an impatient look at her abashed escort.
"Don't be so rude, Essie!” scolded Connie, but with the
corners of her mouth turned down.
“Say, I've heard that same speech four times already this
morning!” stated Essie with a toss of her head. She picked
up her nephew and to his gurgling delight swung him aloft.
"Young man,” said Bran to Ronnie solemnly, “it is the
duty of the male of the species to place a firm curb on the
female whenever needed. Get me?”
“Yes,” said Ronnie as he sank into a chair with a sigh, "but
I'm afraid some females don't submit willingly to the treat-
ment."
“Dad wants you to have dinner with us,” announced Essie.
"And, Bran, he says for you to leave that stethoscope of
yours at home! Say, did you have any inkling about Lem and
Mae? They sent us a crazy telegram from Detroit about
Santa Claus and an elopement "
"Isn't it something, though?” exclaimed Connie. “Next
thing we know you'll be running off-
"Not me!” interrupted Essie decidedly. “Never no that for


O Canaan!
137
little Essie, Sis—not for a long time! Why, I ain't sowed me
wild oat yet!”
"You're impossible,” said Connie. "You ought to take a
club to her, Ronnie.”
The bell broke in upon their laughter. Bran opened the
door, gave a wild howl of joy and whirled back into the room
with a small, white-haired woman in his arms.
"Connie—here's Mom!” he cried.
Bran's and Connie's misgivings about his mother's attitude
were quickly dispelled during the week of her visit. Her still
youthful, tawny eyes had put Connie at ease as they looked
approval at her; and she gave tangible evidence of this by
the way she confidentially whispered certain choice culinary
secrets to her daughter-in-law, as though she were afraid
other ears might hear.
"You know,” she said one morning after Bran had gone
to the hospital, "my son told me what a sweet girl you was.
And now I knows fo’sho'. I sho' glad he took up wid you.”
And Connie breathed thankfully, for she saw that this
small, unlearned woman had an innate wisdom that was not
to be deceived by outward show.
"No, thanks, honey,” she had quietly told Christine at
the Christmas dinner. "I done heard so much about this city
I just rather look around a bit. Don't you worry about me.
I don't play no cards anyway-never had a chance to learn."
Christine had felt somewhat repulsed, for Bran's mother
had a quiet air of refinement which charmed those who met
her. Bran's associates at the hospital marked the tailored
neatness of her little figure and the distinctiveness of her
snowy hair and small-featured brown face, and exclaimed
their approval to him after she had gone.
She was really like a young girl with her lively curiosity


138
O Canaan!
and countless questions about all she saw. Connie took her
on a tour of the stockyards, where she was fascinated by the
skillful dispatch with which the animals were transformed
into the meat of the world.
“So that's where this smell comes from!” She sniffed as
she gazed out upon the penned cattle from a high bridge
connecting the units of one plant.
"You ought to catch a whiff of it on a hot day when the
wind's from the west,” laughed Connie. "You can tell our
city by its perfume.”
Joe and Harriet Branshaw enjoyed one another. They made
an odd pair: she so tiny and he so huge. He had Essie drive
them through Washington and Jackson parks, through the
roaring Loop, and along the Lake Shore Drive, and the
boulevards where the "horde” had stampeded eastward and
southward from the narrow confines of its 'Teen boundaries.
"You folks are sho' doing things, Mr Benson,” she com-
mented. “Won't I have somep'n to tell my friends when I
get back East!"
And Joe had swelled with justifiable pride, because he felt
himself an important element in the epochal migration.
"I'm sho' glad Miss Jane and Miss Ella went to Florida this
year,” she sighed with a fullness of spirit when Bran and
Connie had put her on the train at the end of her stay.
"Guess I'll have to write everything down so's to be able to
give 'em a good account, 'cause they gone want to know.
Don't you fo’git to write 'em, son. They wants to know mo'
'bout this here extra work you doin'. Come here, boy."
She took her "grandboy” into her arms tenderly. "You
rascal, you! Got a good mind to steal you and take you
back with me! How'd you like that, huh?"
The boy blubbed his reply and from his antics seemed not
averse to the proposal. She had done a good job of spoiling
him.
"Take good care of yourself and my son, honey,” Harriet


O Canaan!
139
had whispered as she gave "her girl” an affectionate hug.
"Don't you let him work too hard—'cause he don't know
when to stop when he gits into somep'n.”
And Connie had smiled happily as Harriet waved a gloved
hand at them while the train pulled out of the station.
Maggie Dawson was evidently none the worse because of
her loss of Georgie. Having recuperative powers of the first
order, she had indulged in just one outburst at the demise
of her lover: heavily veiled and in the severest black, she
had followed the body to the cemetery, placed a gigantic
heart of roses upon the bier and returned to her home,
where in solitude she had consumed a quart of the best
bootleg whisky obtainable. After she had thus completed her
period of mourning she settled down to business. And Joe
breathed easier, now that the restaurant was yielding steady
profits.
"Well, feller, how we doin' now?” she grinned to Joe.
It was the day after New Year's. They were seated in a
corner of the palm-decked, Christmas-wreathed restaurant
which had become a veritable show place: there were murals
on the walls, finely finished tables and chairs, expensive
linen, individual lighting for each table; and two shifts of
uniformly liveried waitresses, running the gamut of brown
and mulatto beauty, were no small part of the gastronomic
appeal of "Madame Dawson's Palm Café.”
"Sho' cain't kick," commented Joe, puffing contempla-
tively on his cigar. "Now ef I could jes' make you see this
here bank proposition "
"Nothin' doin', boy!” interrupted Maggie with a decided
shake of her head. "I ain't wantin' to be cotched barefooted
as a goose in the wintertime! I ain't trustin' no colored
bank—done seed too many of 'em fall through. Nawsuh!


142
O Canaan!
"A-ha!” he laughed briefly, looking from one to the other.
"Two old married hens exchanging connubial cackles! My
card, ladies—divorces cheaply and quietly arranged. I never
fail.”
"Note the alliterative quality of his speech!” observed Mae
tartly to Connie.
She took the extended card, tore it to bits and showered
Dan with them. “There's your rice, my sweet little nasty! I
suppose you want to make a belated attempt on this fair
damsel's heart, eh?”
"I?” queried Dan, striking an attitude. "Why, you wrong
me, my sweet chit! I would but dance with the fair one.”
Connie took his proffered hand.
“Pay no attention to him, Connie,” warned Mae, follow-
ing them down the stairs. "I wouldn't trust him behind a
pin!”
"You mustn't mind anything my sister says,” laughed Dan.
"There's a streak of insanity in the family, and she inherited
it, poor thing."
Mae plucked him soundly on the head.
"Ouch!” exclaimed Dan good-naturedly. "You see,
Connie? What did I tell you?” And he received another
pluck.
He said little while he danced in his stiff fashion, but as
he escorted Connie to the punch bowl and about the dining
room to view the presents which Mae's many friends had
given her, he launched out:
"I suppose you know how I still feel about you?”
"Now, Dan ..." protested Connie.
She admired Dan's aggressiveness and tenacity, but there
had always been engendered within her a feeling of repulsion
by those very qualities. The man was too intense.
"Don't say it!” exclaimed Dan. "I know—you've told me
before. But I just want you to remember how I feel. And
remember this." He gave her his most intense look, half


O Canaan!
143
frown and half cynical smile. "If you ever need help I'm
always ready ..."
Connie laughed. “And what's the string attached to it?”
"What do you think?” he asked.
She drifted away with the same merry laugh with which
she had always rebuffed him. He glanced impatiently at his
watch, made a hurried excuse to his mother and went to get
his wraps in the hallway. As he swung toward the door he
collided with a slender, pretty, brown-skinned creature
whose heart-shaped face puckered angrily until she smiled
recognition.
"Knock me down, Dan!” she exclaimed.
"Pardon me, Essie!” he begged. "Say, you're getting to be
some looker! How are you, Miss Maggie?” He extended a
hand to the latter, who bulked behind the girl.
"Hey-o there, boy!” she greeted. "That was some party
you brung in t'other night! Where 'd you git all them purty
gals from?”
"Sh! Sh!” cautioned Dan with a wink. He turned further
scrutiny on Essie. "I've an idea that I've been missing some-
thing! When are you at home, young lady?”.
"Hey! None o' that!”
The group turned their attention to the uniformed figure
just entering. It was Jim Milburn, his tousled, iron-gray
head thrown forward and the mirth crinkles more pro-
nounced about his eyes.
"This is my gal, now that the young college squirt has
gone back to school!” he announced with a chuckle. "And I
ain't lettin' no shyster lawyer cut in on me, either!”
He gathered Essie to him with one arm and playfully
scratched her ear with a thin growth of beard that no razor
could conquer.
“Just my luck!” groaned Dan, snapping his fingers. "Well,
enjoy yourself, folks—I'll be seeing you!”
"This ain't no raid, folks," announced Milburn as he


144
O Canaan!
barged into the front room with his arm still about Essie.
There was general laughter at this sally, and he continued:
"Just got off duty and thought I'd drop out to wish the
newlyweds my best. Here ..." He tossed a package to
Mae and shook Lem's hand.
“What you blushing about, boy?” he roared. “Shucks!
You done broke your neck now—you're an old married man!
Haw-haw! Now if I could just convince Essie here to run
off with me, everything would be jake! How 'bout it, Joe?"
Joe grinned and took a puff on his cigar, and everyone
laughed once more, for they all knew Jim Milburn to be a
confirmed bachelor.
"Reckon it's kind o'late fo' you, Jim!” chuckled Joe.
"Come on here an' git some o' this punch. You an' me
ain't no mo' trouble!”
And so the party continued until the small hours of the
morning. And there was happiness abounding, for this was
the infancy of that year, the peak-of-prosperity year. The
city was a brave, swaggering giant come to the prime of its
virility and gorged with profits that soared higher each time
the sun rolled up out of the lake and dropped behind the
broad hinterlands to the west. And from the Loop to its
farthest-flung environs, comparatively few were the dwell-
ings ungraced by the yule tree and the good cheer of the
season. The Christmas spirit had descended and was lingering
like the diffusion of a rare perfume which one breathes once
in a lifetime and which ever after haunts but returns no
more. And this land—the ever young Western land from
ocean tide to ocean tide, and from gulf waters to lake waters
-- had greeted the infant year and had gathered its strength
for the bright tomorrows. ...


THE WINTER WANED, spring came to the prairie, and Essie
gave her party. Summer heat drove the horde of the South
Side to promenade the broad avenues and haunt the spacious
parks and splash in the blue waters of Michigan. Joe watched
his paper profits mount in gleeful satisfaction. The summer
faded as chill winds blew from the lake. Few were the prome-
naders, and only the very young with their attendants and
the very old walked beneath the burnished leaves in the
parks. Joe ceased to count his paper profits. ...
Then came that night in October when seared leaves fled
across the boulevards and the sky was a murky yellow above
the false light of the Loop.
They were in old Dan Carter's office: Barnes, Joe and old
Dan. There was a frightened air about the first two.
"I don't understand it-nobody does!” exclaimed Barnes,
a feverish light in his small, closely set eyes.
"The boys downtown are in the same boat,” said Carter
more steadily. He was still the cool gambler, worried though
he was.
"Ain't there nothin' we kin do?" inquired Joe anxiously.
One hand was pressed across his great chest, and the usually
145


146
O Canaan!
ruddy brown of his skin had turned ashen. He drank deeply
from his glass and refilled it.
"Nothing but raise more capital,” stated Barnes. "I'll stand
for a third—I'll have to mortgage just about all of my
property. ..."
"I'll meet your amount,” said Carter as though he were
tossing chips in a poker game.
"I got to see Maggie first,” said Joe. “I reckon I kin git
her to do it. Ef I don't I'll have to sell my share in the
property and use that.”
It continued through October, and in November they
knew that all was lost. Then came the misty day when the
panic-stricken depositors stormed the bank and threatened
Barnes's life.
"It's over!” moaned Barnes into his trembling hands when
they met that night.
"Ain't got nothin' left but my house," rumbled Joe
brokenly.
"Gentlemen, we played a game and we lost,” said old Dan,
his mouth grim. “Better luck next time.”
The other two left him there with his white head still
unbowed, fingering his stiff mustache and staring at a
framed diploma beside the door.
“Go ahead and say it, son," he said softly as the door of
the inner office opened and Dan looked down at him
sardonically.
"There's nothing to say,” said Dan. His expression
softened. “Sorry, old man. ... I must say, you took it like
a thoroughbred. How much did you lose?”
The old man quietly stated the sum.
"Whew! Say, you're just about washed up! I thought you
said you weren't going any deeper than-


O Canaan!
147
"I know I know—but I couldn't let Joe down. If you'd
seen the look in his eyes tonight ..."
"Well,” said Dan with a deep breath, "you and Mother
won't have to worry. I told you I'd catch you, and I will.
But no more of this, though, Dad!”
"And, son”-old Dan rose tiredly—“if you don't mind, I
wish you'd go over to Joe's office and have him make the
deed of his home over to Mrs Benson or one of the children
-so there won't be any wolves snapping it up, you know.
See if you can catch him before he goes home, will you?”
"Okay, Dad.”
Old Dan lit a cigar as Dan departed. He drew on his
overcoat and marched out like the thoroughbred he was.
Dan had just left. Joe slumped back in his swivel chair
with a glass of raw whisky before him. He was still in a
daze. What would he tell Christine . . . and Essie? And
Maggie, who had let him have his way about mortgaging the
property? Joe gulped doggedly and rose, swaying against
the desk.
He ignored his car parked at the curb. He wanted to walk,
though the dull ache in his chest was becoming sharp. Maybe
he could think.
And he trudged along in his peasant's trudge while the
cold wind brushed away the mists from the stars of the
moonless night. He trudged more wearily, with now and
then a misstep that caused him to stumble slightly and
which brought him up with a sharp stab of pain. Up Prairie
Avenue he moved, the sweat streaming down his rugged face
in spite of the cold.
Gone . . . gone . . . all gone. . . . He felt bruised and
beaten. Gone? Gone. . . . And he swayed like a gnarled oak
that refuses to bow its crest to the storm. All gone? Gone


148
O Canaan!
... Gone ... like cotton smitten with the weevil ...
like seed when the Big Muddy overflowed the bottom lands.
. . . All gone. ....
Then he laughed—a horrible laugh, a deep belly laugh,
as elemental as the mounting wind that now rushed and
howled across the flat prairie and whined through the bare
tree branches. And he continued to roar his unearthly mirth
to the stars while other pedestrians stared. He laughed as he
turned into the walk leading to his hard-earned housea
dwelling, pride of a peasant's heart. But when he raised a
foot to mount the steps of the porch he collapsed and rolled
upon the dead grass of the lawn. And he clutched a handful
of the still unfrozen earth in his big peasant's fist and lay
still-a transplanted Southern oak fallen at last upon the
Northern prairie, while the low-hanging stars flickered down
and the wind roared on, carrying the strong stench of the
Yards lying to the west.


Long Night with a slow dawn ...
O ruthless Fortune that swoops down upon a Northern
prairie's shore-that lays low a Southern oak transplanted
where the blasts of winter rage, and all is strife to live ...
What shall we do now, we who struck our roots beside
the oak and knew the shelter of its stalwart limbs?
Where shall we find sustenance, we who twined our lesser
stems about its rugged trunk and drew therefrom our life's
blood?
What remains for us who have not now that strength
which com passed us and fended the buffets of daily strife?
Now we must fight, if we would live, and naught else
will sustain us. ...
O autumnal Time ... O dawnless Dark!
We will fight, for Life is Strife, and naught else can sustain
us now. ...


THE SHEER WILL TO LIVE snatched Joe Benson back from
the wrack of that November night. The man's constitution
was of primordial stuff; and though the flesh seemed to fall
away from him until he was only a gaunt remainder of the
mighty figure that had caused people to turn and stare as
he trudged the prairie streets, now and then a flash of his
old intrepid spirit would manifest itself. For two weeks after
Essie and Christine had struggled his unconscious body into
the house he lay in a kind of torpor. Then one day before
the Christmas holidays, as he sprawled listlessly on the divan
with his eyes closed, Essie came in stamping the snow from
her galoshes. Peeping into the room and seeing him ap-
parently asleep, she tipped past. He sat up attentively when
he heard her voice and Christine's lifted in contention.
"The money's gone-gone, Mother! Do you understand?
Gone!” Essie's voice was full of exasperation.
"I can't understand it!” whined Christine.
"You ought to!” retorted Essie. “God knows you spent
enough of it while Dad was making it! Showing off before
everybody!”
151


152
O Canaan!
"I—I guess we'll have to mortgage the house," sighed
Christine.
“We'll do nothing of the kind!” blazed Essie. “Dad deeded
this house to me, thank God! And I'll eat garbage before
I'll lose it! See?"
The wrangling waxed hotter. Joe's first impulse was to
rush into the kitchen and silence Essie. Instead he fell to
pondering over his lot. Self-pity had burned itself out in
that walk from his office that night. Besides, he had never
been one given to mawkishness. What was done, was done.
Now he thought dispassionately through his situation. He
had no illusions about getting help from those whom he had
aided. They'd certainly kept their distance since his fall.
Only Maggie, Miss Saunders and Jim Milburn had taken
the trouble to call during the interim. He was too proud
to seek help, at any rate; he'd fight his own fight. He'd have
to begin all over again. Looking down at his big hands, he
doubled them into fists and arose, his shoulders erect and
his chin thrust out at its old fighting angle.
"All right-you kin cut out all the fussin'," he said as he
entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Gimme my
dinner now, Christine-an' gimme plenty 'cause I'm gittin'
out o' here fo' a spell this afternoon. Git my overcoat fo’
me, Essie.”
“But, Dad, Bran said you weren't to exert yourself!”
exclaimed Essie.
"Git my coat, gal!” growled Joe, his brows beetling. Essie
hesitated for a moment, then went to do his bidding. Joe's
voice had lost none of its command.
"Now, Joe,” began Christine, "don't you do anything
foolish ”
“Rush that grub, woman!” interrupted Joe. “I'm the man
o'this house, an' I'm gonna keep on bein' the man! What
you think I am? Think I'm gonna lay round here a-doin'
nothin' whilst Essie's out tryin' to scuffle up on a job so's to


O Canaan!
155
Joe flung him aside contemptuously and breathed heavily
as he pressed a hand to his chest and boarded the trolley
which had just drawn up. Quite a few of the men had wit-
nessed the encounter and eyed him respectfully when they
passed.
"I bin wantin' to smack ’at guy down fo’ a don't-know-
how-long, Joe!” laughed Jeff. "But he jes' ain't never gimme
no chance. Damn his soul-I gone drap his dirty yaller body
in one o' them furnaces one o' these days.” Jeff looked
directly at the fellow as he said this, but that one moved on.
"So you wants a job, eh?” Jeff turned to his companion.
"Yeah, I gots to git one,” said Joe, “but the boss-man jes'
told me I was too old.”
"Aw, that boss-man's crazy!” declared Jeff bluffly. “But
you don't want no job like this noways. An' 'fo' long they
gone be drappin' men anyways. I kin git you a good job ef
you'll take it."
"Where?” demanded Joe eagerly.
"Runnin' on the railroad,” replied Jeff. "I'd take it myself,
but my ole woman swears she ain't wantin' me 'way from
home all that much. Says I mought fo’git to come home one
time!" Jeff here let out a loud guffaw and winked. “You want
try it? The man what kin put you on is from my home town
an' all I got do is say the word an' you got the job.”
"Railroad, eh?” said Joe disappointedly. "You mean a
po'ter?"
"Kinder . . . sorter like ..." Jeff eyed his friend cau-
tiously. "Co’se you don't git much pay, but the tips use to
be good. But don't take it ef you don't want to. I was jes’
tryin' to help out a little like you done fo' me Christmas 'fo'
las' when I lost 'at money an' you lemme have some so's my
ole woman wouldn't know nothin' 'bout it.”
"Well, I reckon that's 'bout all I kin do now anyway,” re-
flected Joe. “When do I start?”


156
O Canaan!
"Now you talkin'!” exclaimed Jeff. “I'll have ever'thing
ready fo’ you come next Sat'dy night. That 'll make it so
you'll git good tips on 'count o’the holidays.”
"All right,” said Joe. "Thanks fo' the help, Jeff. I'll come
past yo' house next Sat'dy afternoon. Okay?"
"Okay, Joe,” said Jeff, and muttered to himself: “Sho'
ain't what he used to be, sho' nuf.”
Thus began for Joe this new period of his life. Everything
in his nature rebelled against it, but he gripped himself and
held on. He knew that he would never be able to retrieve
what he had lost, but he was satisfied that he would not be a
burden to anyone. As time wore on he became more accus-
tomed to the treadmill existence of Pullman portering. Two
of the days of his weeks he had at home; the rest were spent
shuttling back and forth either to the West or to the East.
And though he could never assume the menial air of which
his fellow porters were master, he did acquire an efficiency
which marked him well in the eyes of some travelers and
upon occasion resulted in heavy tips. In time, too, under the
steadying routine, his heart attacks became less frequent. But
on the whole, the job was just a job to him-a bulwark
against an idleness that would have proved both loathsome
and fatal to him.
"Sho'glad you done got yo’self together, feller,” remarked
Maggie two months later as he came into her restaurant.
"Wish I could git somep'n to do. Things keep on like this an'
I gone have to close up!”
"Don't close up, Maggie,” said Joe. "Things got to break
sometime—can't go on like this. I jes' wish I had "
"Here, have a piece o' this pie,” put in Maggie hastily.
"Don't go startin' that wishin' no mo-ain't no use. When a
cow's done give all her milk, ain't no mo' till next time, 's


O Canaan!
157
what I says. We come up here an' had a good time right off.
Now's the hard time an' ain't no use cryin' 'bout it. Least-
ways, you ain't turned fool an' kilt yo’self like some. Shucks
—what diff'ence it make anyways? When we dies we ain't
able to take a red cent wid us! What's matter-Christine
cryin' the blues agin?”
“Yeah.” Joe frowned into his coffee. "I'm doin' the best I
kin, Maggie. But they jes' ain't no suitin' that woman "
"You's a fool fo' tryin'!” interrupted Maggie laconically.
"Good a man as you's bin, a woman's a fool to fret when
you ain't able to do what you has done. Dern ef I'd let it
bother me!”
"Reckon you right,” said Joe slowly. "But she keeps sayin'
she gone go homemtired o' bein' up here."
"Huh!” Maggie's grunt was contemptuous. "Praise God-
I sho' wouldn't cry ef she did go home, ef I was you. You's
done the best you kin-an' that's that. Say, whyn't you all
take in roomers? Seems to me they ought be some o' them
men you works wid wantin' a good place to stay."
"I bin thinkin' o' that,” said Joe. “But Essie 'll have to take
care o' things. That young’un sho' got spunk! Don't know
what I'd do without her.”
“You tell Essie I say she kin have a job here ef she wants,"
said Maggie. "Ain't much pay, but they's some tips. An’ she
kin have Sundays off so's to play the organ in the morning
like she bin doin'. I'll talk to her 'bout takin' in roomers.”
Essie took the job with alacrity. And one Sunday morning
when Joe was on a run she broached the idea of lodgers to
Christine.
"Take in roomers?” cried Christine.
"That's what I said!” snapped Essie. “And you needn't be
so shocked about it, either!”


158
O Canaan!
“But what will my friends ”
"Mother, if you start talking about what your friends will
say, I'll—I don't know what I'll do! I don't give a damn what
they say! We have to live, don't we? And you may as well
make up your mind that your so-called friends know you're
broke, so you don't have them to worry about. They're prob-
ably all figuring out ways to drop you. Be your age, will
you? Come down to earth; the party's over, see! Now if
you're ready for church, come on. And you may as well get
used to walking, because I sold the car yesterday- ”
"What!” gasped Christine.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Mother-how do you think we
could have paid the bills we owed? Skip it! Come on.”
"I'm not going,” sighed Christine.
Essie shrugged and left her.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with Mother, Sis,” she
told Connie when she stopped at the latter's apartment on
the way from church. "She gives me the willies, moping
around the house feeling sorry for herself.”
"She's like that,” said Connie, who was bathing the baby.
"Just pay her no mind. You find a job yet?”
"No," said Essie glumly. "The only other money I'm mak-
ing is that I get for playing the organ. And Dad doesn't make
much. He sure is taking a licking—you can just see that job
eating into him every time he comes in. But he won't quit. I
think I'll keep Miss Maggie's job until I get some office work
to do.”
"Atta girl!” approved Connie. "It won't hurt you. I'm
going to try getting back into the school system. They're
talking about cutting the hospital staff, and Bran's private
practice is mostly charity work now—the people just can't
pay. And there's all that equipment he has to pay for. He
doesn't think I know it, but his mother sent him a check last
week. I'll work in the Yards before I'll let her do that.
Things sure are tight!”


O Canaan!
159
"You're tellin' me! But I swear Dad and Miss Maggie sure
can take it! You know, Miss Maggie lost her money when her
bank failed. She's sold out half of the restaurant and got rid
of her chefs and all her waitresses. Her sister's with her
now, and she has a man who takes charge at night. Says
she's going back to selling corn bread and pigs' feet. Her
house is mortgaged to the roof, and half her roomers are
out of work. Says as long as she has anything we don't have
to worry about eating.”
"She's all right,” said Connie. “I wish Mother had half her
backbone. ... What's Junior doing? I saw him the other
day when I was around.”
"What's he ever done?” countered Essie bitterly. “Came
home last week, and Mother made Dad let him stay. He
hasn't done a thing but eat, sleep all day and run all night!
He gets money from somewhere—his women, I guess. But he
doesn't say a thing about giving any toward expenses. I'm
going to tell Dad that I'm going to put him out, believe me!”
"Go on!” urged Connie, her voice hard. "If you're to run a
rooming house as you said, you can use his room. Times are
tight, Essie, and you've got to figure every way possible to
make ends meet. That's what I tell Bran about his patients,
but he's too idealistic to see it.”
Connie frowned and gave young Charlie a finishing smack
on his bottom that sent him to his toys in the living room.
She went to the small bedroom and relaxed on the bed with
a heavy sigh.
"What's the matter, Sis? Tired of being married?” asked
Essie.
Connie placed her hands behind her head and looked at
the picture of her and Bran and the baby which stood on
the bureau. She smiled softly.
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I know this is what I want
and I'm still happy and in love. But I'm worried about the
future. Bran can't make it without my helping someway.


160
O Canaan!
Yet I know he's going to resent my wanting to work. He's
that way.”
“Ha! That's the reason little Essie's going to stay single!”
Connie threw a quizzical, knowing look at her sister but
said nothing.
By the latter part of February all the bedrooms were
taken. Essie had chosen her lodgers carefully after consult-
ing Miss Maggie, and she had forbidden Christine to admit
women or couples.
"The women will start bringing that boy-friend stuff on
you, and before you know it we'll have a bed house on our
hands,” she said. “And I don't want to listen to any fights
between men and their wives. We'll stick to men. Any enter-
taining they want to do, they can use the living room for it.”
With her father's sanction she had ignored Christine and
sent Junior packing after her talk with Connie.
"And stay away!” she warned. "You're through leeching
around this house.”
And he had gone, making nasty insinuations about the
male lodgers.
The idea of pursuing beauty culture was suggested to
Essie one Thursday late in March when Josie was hurrying
her clean-up work at Maggie's now unglorified “Eat Shop.”
"Say, if you're in such a big rush to get off, I'll finish that
silver for you," offered Essie. “What's all the hurry for any-
way? Going out with your boy friend?”
"Yeah,” grinned Josie. She doffed her apron gratefully. "I
got to git my hair done, and I paid the woman seventy-five
cents already fo' two o'clock."
Essie's ears pricked up. “You mean to tell me you pay
seventy-five cents to have your hair done?"
"Sho-an'that's cheap," assured Josie. "Used to be a
dollar 'n a half-still is in some o’the big shops.”


O Canaan!
161
Essie became acutely conscious of hair from that moment.
She noted the number of women with straightened hair when
she walked the streets. She scrutinized the heads of her
friends when she infrequently went to the dances sponsored
by her set. Why, there were literally thousands of women in
the city who were addicted to the straightening comb! She
enrolled at once in the school on South Parkway and made
arrangements with Maggie about her working hours.
"Sho', gal, go right on,” said Maggie. "You's jes' like yo’
pappy-plenty o'gitup in you. I ain't got much now, but
when you finishes yo'co'se I'll see ef I kin lend you somep'n
to help you git started."
The harshness of existence was impressing itself upon Essie
and was forming the philosophy which was to color her
whole life. It stared at her across the long counter of Maggie's
restaurant–from the faces of the young, the old, the middle-
aged customers whom she served. They became more ragged
and unkempt as the months passed, and sullen glumness
followed the first looks of indifference. She heard it in their
conversations:
"Man, I ain't had a job in so long I wouldn't know how to
start!”
"Bin laid off fo’ five months now.”
"Where the hell is all the money?"
"Cain't even buy a job!”
"Doggone ef I ain't gonna hafta git in 'at bread line, things
keep up like this!”
“Dam' ef I ain't gonna start stealin'."
They had hard-bitten, peasant faces and labor-scarred
hands. And as their bodies grew leaner their tempers short-
ened; the slightest friction brought on open brawls which
often ended in flashing blades and the rushing of the police
to the scene. Canaan was Canaan no more. ...


162
O Canaan!
But not until she had gone with Jane Saunders on a round
of the latter's calls to the homes of new mothers did Essie
realize the utter destitution that stalked the South Side.
It was July and one of Essie's free Thursday afternoons.
Loath to go home and listen to Christine's now constant
whinings against the fate that had overtaken them, and feel-
ing low in spirits herself, she had dropped in at the nurse's
station a few blocks below the restaurant.
"So you're down and out today, are you?” said Jane, rais-
ing her thin eyebrows. She was packing her bag and giving
brisk orders to the two assistants working at desks in the
freshly painted store that served as her clinic.
"Yes,” sighed Essie, "I'm just not getting anywhere, that's
all. Here I am an efficient stenographer and could do the
work of a secretary. And what am I doing? Slinging hash and
beans and chitt’lin's— "
"You don't sound like that father of yours," interrupted
the nurse. “Look at what he's had to do—but you don't
hear him complaining. You come along with me. I'll show
you a few things that 'll make you think you're living like a
princess!”
They climbed into Jane's dilapidated Ford and turned into
Dearborn Street. Essie, who had not been on the street for a
period of years, was amazed at what she saw. The houses had
been ramshackly enough when the family had lived there,
but now ...
"My God!” exclaimed Essie as the nurse drove slowly
along. "People don't actually live in those awful places, do
they? I thought State was getting to be bad enough ..."
Miss Jane smiled grimly. "You see them sitting on the
porches, don't you? And there's plenty of them living in
them, too. But wait until you see the insides! Here—we'll
stop here first.”
She pulled up to a two-story dwelling which, like most of
the other houses in the block, had a flight of wooden steps on


O Canaan!
163
Od lees. Besid. , hair
the outside leading to the second floor. Jane mounted these
and rapped on the door. It was opened by a dull-eyed, bovine
woman whose hair was a grimy mat.
"What you want?” she demanded, her breath reeking of
whisky. “Oh, it's you, eh?” Some of the gruffness left her
voice. She let the door remain open, shuffled to a filthy, fly-
swarmed cot and sank upon it. Immediately she was asleep.
From a back room came a faint, infantile cry.
Essie's small nose wrinkled with disgust as she picked her
way gingerly after the nurse into the back room. What she
met made her suddenly sick at the stomach.
An emaciated brown girl lay amid a wad of bedclothes
that fairly crawled with vermin. Her hair was a mass against
the almost black pillowcase. Beside her squirmed a naked
infant whose arms and legs were festerous with running
sores. It was sucking at a bottle containing a thin, yellowish
liquid.
"Hello, Mother!” greeted Jane, seeming not to mind the
filth and unearthly stench. "I came to tell you that we're
moving you to the hospital tomorrow, and I want you and
Baby ready by nine o'clock sharp. Hear? I'll be here for you."
The girl shook her head. "Did you all find Johnny?" she
whispered.
"Not yet, but we will," said the nurse, patting her arm.
She gave Essie some coins. "Go down to that little store three
blocks away and bring me a pint of milk," she ordered.
When Essie returned she found Jane washing the girl. The
child was washed and salved and in a clean garment.
"Go into the kitchen there and heat the milk. Here-
wash out this bottle in boiling water you'll find there."
The nurse's voice was so crisp and commanding that Essie
forgot her nausea. She found the kitchen a small cubicle with
one window, and with smoked and crumbling walls like the
outer room. It was a mystery to her how Miss Jane had
coaxed a blaze into the greasy oil stove upon which the kettle


164
O Canaan!
simmered. Within a few minutes, after a constant battle
with flies, she had the bottle ready. Then with Essie's help
the nurse spread clean sheets on the bed.
“Good girl!” approved Miss Jane. "I'll make a nurse out of
you yet!”
After some final instructions to the young mother she
made ready to leave.
"Nurse”—the girl's voice sounded from the bed—"I ain't
got no dress fo'to-
"She can have one of mine," offered Essie quickly. "I'll
bring it to you tonight, Miss Jane.”
"That's lovely—that's lovely,” breathed the nurse. She
smiled her brightest and turned to the girl. “There you are,
Mother—this young lady's going to give you a dress!”
"Thank you.” The girl's face took on a weird grin.
"My God!” shuddered Essie when they had moved off in
the car. "How in the name of all that's holy can they live in
such a hole?"
"Ha, child, that isn't anything to some of the others,” re-
plied the nurse.
"Tell me about her,” requested Essie. "She isn't as old as I
am by years ..."
"She's only sixteen. Same old story, honey. They came up
here the same time that you folks did. The father got tangled
up with another woman and left that one you saw back there.
She took to the bottle. Lost her job last year and the girl ran
wild. There you have it—illegitimate baby, and its father's
run off to Jelappi or someplace. Mess, isn't it? I just found
out about the case this afternoon-one of their neighbors
got conscience-stricken. The baby isn't listed in any records,
so I guess the old lady must have acted as the midwife. ..."
Essie shuddered again. "God! I'd—I'd kill myself and the
baby, too, before I'd live through that! God!”
They made more stops, and the scenes were but repetitions,
in more or less degree, of human misery and degradation. For


O Canaan!
165
those peasants who had trekked Northward during the great
exodus, their Canaan had become a howling wilderness, and
there was no rock in the weary land except the religion
which they had brought with them. Here and there all along
their route Essie saw innumerable "store-front” churches
with names scrawled upon boards over their doors, such as:
"Holiness Tabernacle” and “Church of Christ and Saints of
God” and others. They were as thick as mushrooms after a
rain.
“Our folks certainly believe in their religion when times
get hard," opined the nurse on their way back to the station.
"Yes," replied Essie. "They're flocking into the churches
now. Reverend is getting fat on the depression. You ought
to see the money he takes in every Sunday morning. And all
he does is supply them with a means of forgetting their hard
lot-an emotional cathartic and an anesthesia against the
pain of reality! The old so-and-so!” Her eyes blazed and her
lips curled. "And he's got the nerve to try to be fresh, the
old pimp!”
The nurse laughed aloud at this outburst, so typical was it
of the girl's temperament.
“I suppose there's no use in my trying to change your
mind about social work?” she asked as they alighted at the
station.
"Nope!” Essie screwed up her face. "If I had to look at
what I've just come from every day, I'd go batty in no
time!” Her face hardened. "Everybody for himself, and God
for us all! That's what Dad says. Life's hard and mean, and
the only way I see to buck it is to be hard and mean right
along with it. I found that out a little when I used to play
basketball and tennis. If you don't beat, you get beaten!”
"Well now, I wouldn't get too hard, baby,” advised Jane
with a parting pat. “Don't forget the dress, honey."


BY AUGUST Connie had made up her mind. There was nothing
left for her to do; she had to get her job back. Her applica-
tion for reinstatement received one of those roundabout re-
plies that affirmed nothing and denied nothing. Bran had
become more worried and peaked of face with the passage
of each month. His salary had been cut to the limit. Then
came the notice that the financial straits of the hospital re-
quired that salaries be cut further. He came home that night
and glumly related the details. He looked beaten.
Next morning Connie called at Mae's apartment on the
floor above hers.
"Lawdy me!” exclaimed Mae, looking like a wide-eyed doll
in her lounging pajamas. "Where's the funeral?”
"They've cut Bran's salary to the bone,” announced
Connie.
"No!” Mae became serious. "Say, Connie, if you're short,
I-I- "
"It isn't that bad,” interrupted Connie, lying bravely.
“Besides, there's Lem's summer tuition and all. When is he
going to finish that work?”
166


168
O Canaan!
have that job—I've got to! And I'm not letting anything
stop me!”
With troubled eyes Mae followed her to the door, then
hurriedly dressed. When she was ready to leave, Lem walked
in.
"Where are you off to?” he asked, dropping his bulging
brief case beside a chair and wiping his flushed, perspiring
face.
“Want to get a few things for dinner,” she explained
briefly. She gave him a hasty kiss and left him gazing
somberly after her.
Dan leaped to his feet and strode eagerly toward his
visitor.
"Surprised?” she questioned, placing cool fingers in his hot,
moist hand. She sat down in the chair which he drew up to
the desk.
"No. I've got over being surprised at anything," he
answered. He settled back in his chair and clasped his hands
beneath his nether lip, looked at her for a moment, then
said in a bantering tone:
"What charges do you want to make: infidelity, cruelty-
has he beat you yet?-or just plain incompatibility? Good
ole incompatibility!”
He laughed as Connie smiled negation. That slow widen-
ing of her lips stirred him as sharply as it had always done.
His clasped fingers tightened, and he squinted more narrowly.
"Don't say it. I know—you still love the guy!” He leaned
forward. “Anything your little heart desires—ask it, and it's
yours.”
Connie smiled again and came directly to the point.
"I want you to lend me some money until I get my job
back in the fall,” she stated evenly. “Wait—let me finish.”
Her gray eyes did not waver as she went on calmly as she


O Canaan!
169
had planned. "I said something to you about strings when
you made an offer once. I know I can't get anything for
nothing." She lifted her head higher and added: "You can
attach any string you want to it—any string your little heart
desires."
Dan walked slowly around the desk to confront her. His
head was lowered in its bullish fashion, and his hands were
twitching at his back.
"How do you know you're going to get your job back?”
he demanded.
"If I don't I'll pay you some other way."
Dan scowled. "What have you been reading?” he rasped.
"True-life stories?”
"No, I simply want to play fair with you. I need money;
you can lend it to me. I'm willing to pay for what I get,
that's all.”
"And just what would your husband say to all this?”
"I can't help what he'd say," came the studied response.
"All I know is that times are hard and tight. Bran isn't
making anything. I've a baby and a home to think about.”
She looked at him fiercely. "You'll probably never under-
stand it, but I'd do anything for them! Anything!”
"Sort of a ‘man begs, woman sells' proposition, eh?” Dan's
lips were writhing in irony now.
"Call it what you like.”
Dan swore softly.
"According to the books," he said with barbed sarcasm,
"the thin veneer of civilization should drop from me now-
or some other poetic nonsense and I ought to seize you
hungrily and devour you with hot kisses, hissing, 'Ha, me
proud beauty!' Hell! What do you think I am?”
He scowled about the room and came up in front of her
again.
"I never bought a woman in my life. And I don't intend to
start now—especially with the woman I love!” He gripped


170
O Canaan!
her shoulders roughly and as suddenly released them. “You
know I love you, don't you?”
"No, you don't love me,” said Connie, still calm though
her flesh smarted from his strong grip. “You know and I
know that you just want me. You couldn't love anyone but
yourself, I guess. Let's not quibble.”
With a short bitter laugh he strode to the safe in back of
his desk.
"Here!” He tossed a sheaf of bills into her lap. “Will that
be enough?”
He did not wait for her answer.
"I'll get you your damned job back!” he stormed at her.
"Now get out of here before I stop feeling so damned
squeamish!”
He dropped into his chair and jerked open a drawer from
which he snatched a pint bottle. When he looked up Connie
had gone. He took a hearty pull at the flask, then slipped a
sheet of paper into his typewriter. He had just begun to peck
when the door opened.
"What do you want?” he snapped peevishly.
"Bite my head off, brother!" came back Mae's chirp.
"And just why are you looking at me like that?” he de-
manded.
"What did you do when Connie was here?" she retorted.
"I know she was here, because she told me she was coming,
and I was right across the street waiting for her to come
out!”
"Listen, I've had enough theatricals for one day!” The
ironical twist came to Dan's mouth. “So you thought you'd
stand guard to protect Little Red Ridinghood from the big,
bad wolf, eh?” He laughed loudly and reared back in his
chair.
“What did you do?" snapped Mae. She edged around to
the side of the desk. "If you tried any of your tricks, Dan
Carter ..."


O Canaan!
171
"Relax-relax!” grinned Dan. "No, my little guardian of
vestal virgins, I didn't try any tricks. Thanks for the compli-
ment! Your dear brother has gone suddenly chivalrous. No,
he's an angel, if you ask me! And right now I'm going to
celebrate my sprouting wings by getting good and damned
drunk on some of the rottenest liquor since prohibition!
Won't you join me?" He waved with mock graciousness at
the bottle.
"I don't care if I do—with a gentleman!” Mae reached
over and pecked him on the cheek.
"Don't do that!” he growled, and toasted: "To the Car-
ters—and to the guy way back yonder in the first generation
who must have been a sucker for a redhead!”
Taking a sip, he murmured: “If she just hadn't put it that
way ..."
"Took you a mighty long time to get those groceries,”
observed Lem caustically as Mae came into their apartment.
"I stopped past Dan's,” she said, stepping out of her dress.
The raw whisky was making her perspire freely.
"And I suppose that one drinks with one's brother?” he
suggested witheringly, sniffing.
"If one is of a mind to!” she retorted. Then she turned her
wide eyes to the rag-stuffed poodle on the mantelpiece above
the mock fireplace and giggled. "He's jealous, Poochie!”
"I'm sorry," relented Lem, and added: "I don't suppose a
fellow who's living on his wife's money has a right to be
jealous anyway. ..." He sat down on the edge of a chair
and stared glumly at her picture atop the radio cabinet.
"Oh, Lem, let's not quarrel about that any more," she
pleaded. She pushed him back in the chair, sat on his knees
and ran her small fingers through his red hair that was gray-
ing prematurely at the temples. “What better use could I
put my money to than to help you get started? I'd be throw-
ing it away if I didn't have you-honest I would.”


172
O Canaan!
"You've hardly bought any dresses since we were
married,” he stated, "and those you did buy were cheap ones
for formals. Hell! I'm not a husband—I'm a—I'm a pimp!”
"Never mind the clothes, just look at our bankbook," she
said. She kissed him and nipped his ear as she whispered:
"You just keep on being a good pimp for me!”
"Oh, but, Mae, I don't like "
"The argument is closed!” she said firmly. Then she
giggled merrily: "One of these days I'm going to whip up
twins! Then you'll have enough to keep you from being so
gloomy!”
"You'll probably do just that, too!” exclaimed Lem,
brightening a little.
"Won't I though? You just wait and see!”
And they laughed together—a young laugh of the newly
joined.


ESSIE WAS LOOKING through her wardrobe and frowning her
vexation at the outmoded, shabby dresses. She couldn't ask
Connie for another loan; she still owed her sister for the
gown she had worn to Ronnie's fraternity formal in the
spring. Lem had just got his job, and here Mae was blossom-
ing with pregnancy already. No borrowing from them! The
frown melted as Essie thought of her humorous sister-in-
law. Mae was too funny for words. “I look like any—any
polliwog!” she had tittered when Essie last saw her.
"She sure didn't waste any time!” mused Essie half aloud.
The frown returned. Ronnie had recently arrived from
divinity school and had asked her to make a tour of the
Exposition with him this Sunday. But what to wear?
The doorbell rang timidly below.
"That's Ronnie,” she sighed, her black eyes lifting ceiling-
ward and the corners of her mouth curving downward. Why
couldn't he ring like a man!
"Hello," she said casually as she slouched languidly into the
living room. She marked Christine's hasty withdrawal, and
her eyes smoldered. She knew that her mother would glory
in her acceptance of Ronnie's constantly reiterated proposal.
173


174
O Canaan!
The young man answered in his queer treble, grinned the
sheepish grin which he always gave her, and started un-
certainly to rise.
"Don't get up!” Essie's husky contralto was charged with
irritability. Then in her quick way she felt ashamed, and she
smiled to soften the sharpness of her tone.
He absorbed the show of teeth gratefully and returned an
anemic replica of it.
"Damn!” fumed Essie to herself. “If he had a tail he'd wag
it!” And her shame left her as quickly as it had come.
She looked him over as he talked: at his immaculate gray
tropical-weave suit, white-and-tan sport oxfords, and his
matching blue silk tie, handkerchief and socks; his spotless,
starched white shirt; his scrawny, palpitating neck, receding
chin, and weak, full lips forever moist at the corners; his
thin, delicately arched nose forever twitching his glasses into
a new position; his narrow, veined forehead topped by a
well-oiled pompadour, and the small ears sprouting mouse-
like from his hollow temples. . . . Essie jerked her eyes
away from the sallow, spotted face. She was glad she didn't
have anything to wear!
"I've a splitting headache, Ronnie,” she said after they
had talked awhile. "I guess I need to stay home and rest. It's
pretty hard going at the restaurant, you know. ..."
He became solicitous, which oddly enough infuriated her.
She breathed thankfully when he reluctantly left.
"You ought to treat Ronnie better than that,” said
Christine, who came in as soon as he had gone.
“What do you want me to do?" retorted Essie maliciously.
"Play up to him and tap him for money like some people I
know?"
Christine flushed painfully. For Essie had come home early
from a dance one spring night and caught her mother steal-
ing from Mr Nichols' room. Mr Nichols was a Pullman porter
of the "old school,” a light brown-skinned, portly bachelor


O Canaan!
175
somewhat younger than Joe who believed in "spreadin' joy,”
to use his own phrase, when he was in from a run on the
road. His runs were conveniently opposite to Joe's, so that
when Joe was out Nichols was in. He had made his first "hit"
with Christine when he brought her a dress which he said he
had "picked up” in New York. Christine had given Joe to
know that Connie had made her the gift, which was plausible
since Connie and Lem both were in the habit of shifting
whatever they could spare to their mother. So whenever
Essie was out of the house and Nichols was in from a run, it
was the favorite amusement of the other lodgers to listen for
Christine's moans from the man's room. Yet the two thought
that they eluded detection. And Christine had brazenly faced
Essie, on the occasion alluded to, with the flimsily pieced lie
about a sudden attack of indigestion which poor Nichols had
suffered.
"Indigestion!” Essie had mocked.
"I won't stand for your insults!” cried Christine now on
this Sunday afternoon. "I'll leave first! I've got a home to go
tomeven if your father does think more of you than he does
of me and gave you this house!”
"Don't you say anything about my father!” blazed Essie.
"Go to hell on! And take that bald-headed Nichols with
you! If I didn't think that telling Dad would set him off on a
spell I'd have done so long ago!”
"I have a right to have friends just as much as you do!”
screeched Christine, livid and trembling with rage. “All your
father does when he's off the road is hang around that barber-
shop and play pinochle with that Jeff Jackson! None of my
old friends come to see me—never invite me anywhere! And
you've put Connie and Lem against me "
"That's a lie!” Essie advanced on her retreating mother.
"The reason they don't want you around is that you're always
meddling in their affairs—and whining for money instead of
working like any other woman with any sense would do!”


176
O Canaan!
"But I can't find any work.” Christine had broken down
and was whimpering. "Don't I keep things clean here in the
house? Don't I do the washing and all-
Essie's flare was subsiding now, and the cold contempt
which she held for her mother was taking its place.
"All right-all right!” she exclaimed, suddenly weary. She
sprawled on the divan as she had seen her father do so often.
And Christine whimpered out of the room and upstairs.
"What a mess!” muttered Essie.
Her eyes roved about the fading furnishings of the room
and lighted upon a photograph of Joe. It had been enlarged
from a snapshot which she had stolen one Sunday at the
beach during their good times. Joe had been extremely
camera-shy.
"What you want do—bust it?" had been his invariable
reply to all requests.
Essie took the likeness from the mantelpiece and smiled.
One could not help answering Joe Benson's grin, for it had
been at its broadest that day. Somehow, momentarily Essie
felt cheered. There was something strong and undefeatable
about Joe of which she was proud, even now when he was
but a residue of his former self. It was spurring to watch him
trudge off to his trains after his usual cup of coffee at
Maggie's, when he would pat her on the head with a "Take it
easy, daughter." There just wasn't any conquering of her
father's spirit, she mused as she put the picture back and
sauntered over to the piano where she became absorbed in
improvising, one of her chief diversions when under mental
or emotional stress.
Her fingers moved almost of their own accord, for her
mind wandered at random. Then it settled on one thought-
the future. When would she have enough to start out! It was
hopeless now to look for help from Miss Maggie. Though
Maggie was all business and fighting valiantly, it was all she
could do to keep the restaurant on a halfway paying basis,


O Canaazi!
177
what with food prices soaring, low wages and unemployment
rife. And for all her "No Trust" signs, Maggie was a soft
touch for panhandlers. She could not refuse a hungry person.
Her customers increased because of this, but they were of
the lowest kind who were barely able to scrape together the
fifteen to twenty-five cents which Maggie asked for her
homely meals. She constantly asserted, however, that she
would rise on this meager foundation to the heights she had
known before the hard times. And Essie, hardheaded as she
was, believed that Maggie would do just that—eventually.
But when? And Essie was too stubbornly independent to ask
Connie and Lem for a stake. Besides, they were barely making
ends meet themselves. Anyway, she wanted her beauty shop
to be hers. ...
As she became more absorbed in thought, Essie played
louder, her impatience mounting with the strong, somber
minor chords. The doorbell finally pierced the fierce har-
mony.
“Essie!" cried the stylishly dressed girl who peered through
the screen.
"Clo Hart!” Essie swung open the door and pulled the
visitor into the living room.
"I thought you were down South teaching!” she exclaimed.
"Naw-I quit that racket right after Dad died,” said Clo.
She was of a smooth, fawn complexion, oval of face and
slimly pliant of body. Carelessly dropping her handbag and
trailing summer fur upon a chair, she sat down beside Essie
and crossed shapely legs that were sheathed in the sheerest
of hose. The rest of her was precisely matched from high-
heeled blue pumps to the slither of blue felt that served as a
hat.
"Well, whatever you're doing must be all right!” breathed
Essie. She took Clo's flamingo-nailed hands and scanned the
rings-seven in all.
The other arched her penciled brows and winked.


178
O Canaan!
"You know lil Clo,” she said.
"You must have 'it'!” laughed Essie. “Come on, let a pal in
on the secret, will you? Where ’ve you been?"
"Oh, Pittsburgh ... Philadelphia . . . Atlantic City ...
New York ... different places ..."
Clo reeled off the names indifferently and lighted a ciga-
rette.
"I thought I'd come out and look the old town over while
the Fair's on,” she ended with a wry face. “Say, I was over
on Dearborn yesterday_looks like a junk pile! I thought
things were bad enough back East, but—damn ..." Her
throaty voice cracked as she laughed—a hard, mirthless
sound.
"Remember how I used to have to bring our water from
your house?” she recalled. “And how we used to peek at
those women in the house next to yours when they sat
almost naked in their back yard-until your dad chased us
that day?"
They fell into conversation about old times, comparing
experiences, for Clo's family had been among those coming
North with Joe Benson. Hers had been a harsh lot. Her
mother and two older brothers had succumbed to influenza
during the winter of 1917. From that time she and her father
had been at odds, and many had been the occasions that Joe
Benson had rescued the girl from the blind, drunken rages of
her redheaded mulatto sire. When Clo was in high school Jake
Hart had taken unto himself a woman-an obese Bohemian
with a fondness for drink that equalled his. And Clo had
moved into Maggie Dawson's house and worked after school
hours in Maggie's restaurant until she went East to work her
way through college.
"So you want to open a beauty shop, eh?” she said when
Essie had divulged her plan. “It's a good racket if you can get
started.” She cautiously patted the curling ends of her long,
reddish bob. "This cost me a mint! But what are you going


O Canaan!
179
i want plu Eco's mer!
to do-borrow money on the house? Gosh, I used to envy
you like anything! I thought your father was good and
fixed.”
Essie smiled grimly and shook her head.
"No, I've sworn never to lose this house. I know Dad
wouldn't want me to. That's why he gave it to me. Guess I'll
have to keep on plugging."
"Listen, Essie”—Clo's voice was hard and earnest—"you
used to be darn nice to me-lending me your dresses and
inviting me to things and all. ..." She stopped and looked
shrewdly at Essie. "You'll never get anyplace like this. You
got to have a racket nowadays to go places. Get wise to your-
self!”
"What do you mean?"
"Listen: all this noise about depression and no money is a
lot of bunk! There's plenty money-and I know what I'm
talking about.”
"Oh yeah?” queried Essie sarcastically. “Well, I wish I
knew where to find it!”
“Where do you think I got these?” Clo indicated her
jewelry and clothing.
"I'd hate to say,” was the laconic response.
"Well, I don't mind saying it!” snapped Clo. “And do I
look like I've been through the mill?”
"I can't say you do."
"Get wise, Essie! You're twice as good-looking as I am, and
look at you! And you used to talk about what you'd do with
your first million!”
"I don't want to go that way!” declared Essie. "Maybe you
won't believe me, but I still have my first oat to sowthough
a hell of a lot of good that's doing me!”
She stopped, for Clo was laughing at her.
"Why, you sap!” exclaimed Clo. "What do you think I
am—a streetwalker?”
"Well," puzzled Essie, "you as good as said so."


O Canaan!
181
them drunk. Then it wouldn't be so hard to take a few dollars
they might have. And after a while we could put them in a
taxi and send them about their business-
"But suppose they went to the police?" interposed Essie,
who had followed the recital with increasing interest. She
was thinking about her father and his intimacy with Jim
Milburn.
“Would they want to explain?” countered Clo.
"You're right!” exclaimed Essie. “But suppose they get
rough?”
"You used to play a mighty strong game of basketball and
tennis,” replied Clo. She got up and prepared to go.
“When do we begin?” asked Essie briefly.
"Atta girl!” approved Clo. She scribbled her address on an
envelope. "Meet me there at eleven,” she directed.
When Essie had seen Clo off she sprawled once again upon
the divan. But now her small teeth were set hard against her
tightened lips.
2
She awoke the next morning with a sour mouth and a
thumping head. She blinked about the strange room. Then
she remembered and hastily fumbled at the cleft of her
breasts beneath their snug brassière. With a relieved and
triumphant grin she pulled forth the wad of bills and counted
them.
"Not bad, eh?” chuckled Clo. She was at the doorway clad
in a trailing negligee of fine lace.
"It was worth it, the slobbery, old beet-faced ..." Essie
paused for lack of a suitable epithet and climbed out of the
rumpled bed. She put hands to her head and groaned.
Clo's laugh was pitiless. “I tried to signal you to ease up
on the liquor,” she said, “but you paid me no mind.”
"What was I to do?” moaned Essie. She stumbled to the
bath and put her head under a faucet.


182
O Canaan!
"Drink ginger ale, sap!” Clo laughed at her spluttering.
"Don't forget I'm new to this game!” retaliated Essie,
applying a towel vigorously.
"Well, I must say, for a virgin, you certainly do all right
by yourself!"
"Guess I come by it natural,” was the cynical response.
"What time is it?”
"Ten o'clock.”
"Holy mackerel! Miss Maggie 'll raise the roof!”
They sipped their coffee and talked in the small kitchen
adjacent to the bedroom. At times they laughed uproariously
about some incident in their night's escapade.
"I thought I'd die when you put the strong arm on the old
boy!” howled Clo. “And he'd been calling you his lil brown
doll!”
Essie spat out a nasty exclamation. “I felt like scratching
his damned eyes qut every time he put his slimy hands on my
legs! He had the nastiest-looking mouth I ever saw!” She
shuddered her revulsion. “Damn! I can't go it again, Clo, I
swear! I feel all crawly!”
"Aw—you'll get used to it," assured Clo.
Essie did not see Clo for another week. Then the following
Thursday night she received a phone call at the restaurant.
"Meet me at the Shanty,” said Clo. "I got two nice birds
lined up for plucking.”
Essie wavered. The lure of the easy money dangled tempt-
ingly.
"Okay,” said she finally.
as
The Shanty Inn was one of the South Side's honky-tonks
which had assumed the name of "cabaret.” It was above


O Canaan!
183
Thirty-fifth on State, for the night life was shifting south-
ward from that corner which had once been the hub of the
South Side. Even the Strand, the theater to which all the
sepia stars of the boards had once come, had ceased to be the
chief house of entertainment and was now specializing in
movies of the five-and-dime vintage. Before the depression
the site now occupied by the honky-tonk had been that of a
thriving food market where the fabulously prosperous black
migrants had done their Saturday "grubbin' up.” Under the
hand of a decorator, who had probably never seen a shanty,
and at the behest of its Sicilian proprietor, who had an eye
for what he thought was verisimilitude, the interior had be-
come a garishly glorified twentieth-century concept of the
former abodes of its dusky habitués. Its walls were of hewn
logs (stained papier-mâché) and its chairs and tables were
of rustic design. In keeping with the general motif, the
waitresses wore screaming bandannas and full gingham
dresses. At the far end from the entrance was a brightly
illuminated platform where the second of three nightly floor
shows was in progress when Essie came into the smoke-hazed
"house of rhythm” (so designated by the dapper master of
ceremonies).
She meandered through crowded tables, liberally sprinkled
with white couples and parties of varying numbers: some
blasé and bored with this, another unsuccessful attempt at
escape from themselves and their world; others hilarious and
frantic in their efforts to capture what they thought to be
the "negroid abandon” of their duskier associates, who ap-
peared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Upon the stage a comely female impersonator was singing
in a husky tenor, the sum total of which was to ascertain
whether or not the glamorous reports he had heard about
"Dixie” were true. And at his back a chorus of diminutive
brownskins and a quartette of impersonators in white satin
pranced to the raucous rhythms of an eight-piece band.


184
O Canaan!
Essie smiled recognition of the brief introductions Clo
made. She shuddered inwardly, though, as she examined the
two "birds” Clo had ensnared. They were but replicas of the
first pair: piggish and watery of eye, pendulous of lip, scant
of hair, mottled of skin, and puffy of paunch and jowl. From
their fiery countenances and bubbling laughter they had
been heavily plied with drink already, Essie judged.
"These boys are from out of town,” said Clo with a wink.
"You're out for a big time, aren't you, boys?”
Her brilliant teeth flashed at them, and Essie thought im-
mediately of a purring cat.
"We sho' are!” chorused the lecherous "Mr Smith” and
"Mr Brown.” They leered at each other and locked their little
fingers in silent wishes.
Mr Brown, he of the thickly bushed eyebrows, let his fat
hand crawl over to Essie's. Her nostrils flared even as she
smiled at him and suffered his moist fingers to play upon
hers.
"Suppose we take the boys over to the apartment,” sug-
gested Clo. "It's hot in here anyway, isn't it, boys?” Her
voice was its most seductive, and she moistened her carmined
lips.
"Sho'!” agreed Mr Smith eagerly. His eyes lighted behind
their dark pouches.
"Thash a capital idea!” blurbed his companion, his ani-
mated eyebrows reaching new heights. “Waitressh! Here
shomep'n fo' you.” He handed the grinning girl a ten-dollar
note. “Keepsh shange!” he commanded with a grand wave of
his fat hand. And the girl winked at Essie, who answered just
as swiftly and imperceptibly.
"Alwaysh wash parsh—parsh-parshal to mah brown-skin
babiesh!” he informed the world at large. And his bullethead
lolled toward Essie.
While Essie and Clo piloted the two inebriates to a taxi a
quietly dressed, keen-eyed man left his table in a far corner


O Canaan!
185
and followed them. When they drove off he signaled a large
black sedan, gave its driver swift instructions and sprang
into it.
Jim Milburn cast tired eyes over the crowded courtroom,
which was occupied on the side next to the window by
women and on the side next to the noisy corridor by men.
Far below the traffic of the city hummed and roared, while
through the windows the strong stench of the Yards drifted.
Jim Milburn mopped his perspiring face and spat with
habitual precision into a convenient cuspidor. He hated com-
ing to the Women's Court with its family squabbles and
smirking prostitutes ready to pay the fines for their care-
lessness in soliciting. He hated the scurrying lawyers, young
and old, foraging for cases like scavengers among garbage.
"Buzzards!” muttered Milburn after an aged fellow whom
he had addressed as "Counselor” had hobbled away.
“What's the matter, boy friend?” inquired a familiar,
cheery voice at his elbow.
He looked up into the bright, alert face of Nurse Saunders.
"Hello,” he returned almost gruffly. "What ’re you down
here for—another pappyless baby?”
"Not this time," she answered, sitting beside him. “Just
some routine. Saw you here and thought I'd drop in for a
minute. Business must be picking up for you boys, eh?” She
scanned the room and chuckled mischievously.
"Yeah,” snorted Milburn. "Makes you sick! Why 'n hell
don't they go on and have a red-light district, like in the old
days?”
The nurse shrugged. "Say, I have good news for you! You
know Bran-Connie Benson's husband?”
Milburn grunted his acknowledgment.
"Well, he's been appointed to the V.D. clinic upstairs and
starts work this morning."


186
O Canaan!
"That's swell!” exclaimed Milburn. "I was 'round with Joe
talkin' to 'em about a month ago—you know their kid calls
me 'Uncle Jim'—and Connie was tellin' me she wanted to
help Essie get started in this beauty-shop business she's been
talkin' about. Reckon she'll be doin' it now. Nice kid, that
Essie. Got guts like her old man.”
"They've been pretty plucky about the old man's tough
luck. He certainly is holding up well, though Bran says that
the least little thing to upset that heart of his might prove
fatal.”
"Yeah,” said Milburn, "Joe's my kind. He can take it. He
comes out to the house sometimes, and we play pinochle and
talk over old times. Doesn't let it get him down any. By
God, I don't know what I'd have done in his place.”
"He's all right,” agreed the nurse. "You know, Bran's de-
serving of that job. He's worked like everything on that sur-
vey he made of venereal diseases in the South Side ”
"Well I'll be damned!”
Jim Milburn's mouth had dropped open, and he was star-
ing unbelievingly at the aisle between the two sections of
the room.
A court attendant had just bawled: "Mary Green, Sally
Jones, James Smith and Robert Brown!”
Up the aisle from the women's side walked Essie followed
by a slim, stylishly dressed girl. Behind them waddled two
crimson-faced men.
"Well, sir!" gulped the nurse.
Milburn rose abruptly and entered the railed section be-
fore the bench. The nurse was at his side in an instant.
“There must be some mistake!” she breathed.
Milburn grunted.
"What are the charges here?” The judge was lean, gray,
saturnine, and spoke with the weary voice of a confirmed
cynic.


O Canaan!
187
"Soliciting and running a disorderly house, your honor.”
The prosecuting attorney was a young chap who looked as
though he had just been graduated from law school-all
spruce of dress and freshly groomed of face and head.
"Where's the officer who made the arrests?" inquired the
Bench. His jaundiced eyes dropped on the perspiring men
of the quartette, while a brief sneer flitted across his face.
The pair shifted their bulks uncomfortably and looked
away.
"Officer O'Malley of the vice squad,” replied the attor-
ney, indicating the keen-eyed one with a nod of his head.
"Is there a counsel for the defense?”
A hawk-nosed mulatto in shiny blue serge stepped for-
ward and presented himself to the Bench.
"They're in the streets!” whispered Milburn to the nurse.
"That guy's poison!”
"State the case of the prosecution,” ordered the judge and
added pointedly: "Please be brief!”
The prosecutor rapidly sketched the facts: the two women
had been found in a Michigan Avenue apartment at one
o'clock in the morning with the two male prisoners; they
had been drinking, and at the time of entrance were danc-
ing. The two men had been vociferously drunk.
"Your honor," began the soft-spoken defense lawyer whose
spectacles did not hide the glint of his cold gray eyes, "may
I question the officer in this case?”
“Proceed,” ordered the Bench shortly.
"Did you at any time hear the two ladies solicit the two
gentlemen?" asked the hawk-nosed one of the officer.
The latter looked confused.
"Well—er-er-no, but- "
"Do you have a witness who saw the two ladies accept any
money or valuables from the two men?”
"Er-er-no, but- "
"Did you find the defendants in any incriminating pos-


188
O Canaan!
tures—I'm sure you don't consider dancing incriminating-
when you entered their apartment?”
The broad lips of the mulatto now twisted into a sarcastic
leer, though his voice remained the essence of politeness.
"Well, they was drinkin'-and- "
"Your honor- "
"Case dismissed!” snapped the judge.
"But, your honor— " began ,the devastated prosecutor.
"The case is dismissed!” The judge's tone was icy. "Take
these women upstairs and have them examined.”
"Yo' honor- ” wheezed Mr Brown.
"Well?”
"Well, yo'honor, Ah believe one o'them wenches "
“You will refrain from the use of epithets, or I'll hold you
in contempt of court and fine you!"
"Well, pardon me, yo' honor—my wallet's been
stolen-
A titter ran through the lawyers and attendants grouped
about the bench but stopped immediately at a fierce look
from the judge.
"It is not the business of this court to act as guardian of
your personal effects,” he stated coldly and with a trace of
satire. "My advice to you is to stay away from where you
don't belong. Next case!"
"How much did you take him for?” whispered Clo as they
were conducted by a female attendant to the floor above.
"I don't know," replied Essie. "I stuck the thing between
the cushions of the divan when the cops came.”
Clo snickered. “Good going."
"Shut up!” snapped Essie somberly.
"Okay, toots!” shrugged Clo. "If that's the way you feel
about it ..."
“I'm sorry,” said Essie. “But I just saw Mr Milburn "
"What!” Clo missed a step. “Did he recognize us?”
"I'll say he did! And Miss Saunders was with him.”


O Canaan!
189
"Too bad, kid,” said Clo. “It's all my fault, I guess.”
"It's my own!” said Essie fiercely. "Forget it!”
They entered a long room lined on the window-exposed
side by booths of frosted glass and on the other by rows of
chairs. Over half of these latter were occupied by men and
women who held large case-cards in their hands. There was
a strong disinfectant and medicinal odor that made Essie's
stomach heave.
"Now who's that staring at us?” whispered Clo.
Clad in white, with one rubber glove half on, and stand-
ing in a doorway marked “Laboratory” was Bran.
Connie found Essie sulking in the unlighted living room
that night.
"Go on and rave!” snarled Essie.
She was in no mood to be counseled. Clo had left the court
building a half-hour ahead of her, for Bran had detained his
sister-in-law with a tongue-lashing that had almost reduced
her to tears. When she went to Clo's apartment she had
found nothing but disorder. Clo had flown, and with her the
money which Essie had hidden under the divan cushions.
"I'm not raving,” answered Connie soberly. "I simply want
to talk to you as an older sister should— ”
"I can take care of myself!” Essie remained defiant. “You
attend to your affairs and I'll attend to mine! You're all
set-you're married, got a job-life's plenty clear for you.
But not for me I have to make mine the hard way, see!
You don't have to listen to Mother's whining all the time.
You don't have to watch Dad wither up by inches. You
don't have to wear old clothes until they're ready to drop
off you. You don't have to sling hash for next to nothing.
Don't think I want something for myself, do you? Why
do I- "


190
O Canaan!
"Haven't I always been willing to let you have what I
can?” reminded Connie. “Oh, Essie, I'm not scolding you-
truth be known, I've little right to. But—well, maybe you
don't know it, but your girl friend, Bran tells me, is diseased
right now. Do you want to end up like that?"
"I hope she rots!" scowled Essie. “You don't have to
worry about me, I haven't done a thing but drink a little
and let some old snakes feel over me. I'm not going that way
any more.”
Connie sighed her relief.
"Please, Essie, let's be friends just as we've always been,"
she pleaded. “I've fixed it with Mr Milburn and Miss Saun-
ders so that Dad and Mother won't find out about it. And"
-she tendered a check to Essie—"here's a check to put with
whatever you may have saved to get started in your shop.”
Essie ignored it and turned sulkily away from the arm
which Connie tried to place about her shoulder.
"All right-act like an ass!” drawled Connie. “And I hope
life beats some sense into your bullhead!”
With that she strode out. And a barrier had come be-
tween them.
Two weeks later Junior came home. It was Sunday morn-
ing, and Christine and Essie were preparing for church.
"Can't you see I'm sick?” he answered dully to Essie's
sharp demands.
Essie shrank back in disgust. His face was full of scaly
sores, and he stank.
"Get out of here!” she ordered. "Dad!” she called to Joe,
who was sleeping, having just come in from a run.
"You let him alone!” said Christine. She put an arm about
her son and met Essie's fire with a sudden strength.
"What's going on down there?" rumbled Joe from the
landing above, clad in a shabby dressing gown, remnant of


O Canaan!
191
his better days. He descended the steps on seeing Junior.
"I done told you to stay 'way from here, boy!” he roared.
"You ain't no good "
"You let him alone, Joe Benson!” interrupted Christine.
"He's sick-can't you see?”
Joe looked more closely at his son.
“Good God!” he groaned. “You sho' is one chile o' sor-
row. ... Take 'im upstairs, Christine. I'll go git Bran. Gone
to church, Essie.”
Essie stalked out, muttering: "What a mess! What a
mess. ..."
When Bran had examined Junior he shook his head.
"There's little chance of recovery,” he told Joe and the
sobbing Christine. "He's too far gone, if I'm not mistaken.
It must have been working on him for a period of years
now. Cases like that often ..."
However, he arranged to have the boy sent to a state
sanitarium. But his diagnosis had been correct. In Novem-
ber of that year Christine boarded a train in her mourner's
weeds to take her son's body back to the homeland. She had
moaned and wailed to such an extent that Joe had gone to
Connie, and between them they had scraped the money to-
gether to satisfy Christine's whim about "burying my boy
where he ought to be buried.”
Once at home, Christine stayed. She wrote Joe that the
Lawsons had promised her a small house on their land if Joe
would return to take charge of the farm.
"Still wants me to be a field-hand nigger!” he snorted over
the letter. He looked at Essie and grinned.
"I reckon we kin make it all right by ourselves, eh, gal?”
he muttered, tossing the letter aside.
"We won't miss it!" came the resolute response.


اور امارات


PART III
The Tides of Spring


There is no place for us, and we wander. ... We turn
our faces to the four winds, and at last toward the sun-
set. ...
In our youth we wander, and there is no place for us. ...
Where shall we find the indefinable for which we seek, when
the hot blood mounts quickly, and hopes are born one mo-
ment to be strangled in the next? Where is the one in whom
we may anchor our soul when the tides of spring surge
within us, and we would ride the winds of March to far
places?
In our youth we wander, for we are lonely. Though called
a lighthearted people, even from the womb we come lonely
and seeking. ... And nowhere in all the earth is there
peace for us. ... We seek and think we find that which we
sought, but a void remains to baunt our soul forever. ...
O Canaan! Have you that which we would find before the
Night ... the dawnless Night ... bids us, at last, to rest?


AND WHERE shall a young man turn with his strident ambi-
tion to garner a portion of the world's goods for his very
own? Where to, from Maryland's lowland shore washed by
tidal waters that feed the bay ... from the hearth and the
fields of his grandsire, Jim Prince, who called life "these low
grounds of sorrow"?
Not to the Queen City on the Patapsco, for in our youth
we strain at the home ties to seek the new, the distant. But
across the pine-bordered lowlands and the narrow Dela-
ware plains Jim Prince's youngest grandson journeyed to
touch the Quaker City; then onward through the Jersey
meadows to glimpse Manhattan's towers upflung against the
evening's haze. Then ...
Harlem!
Harlem of the swarmed black folk from every quarter of
the earth . . . Harlem of the fiction writers' distortion;
pseudo-bohemian, glamorous, fabulous ... Harlem of the
mundane, of the terrific struggle for existence; the elevator
operator and the dogged university student ... the "bot
goods” salesmen ... the young pimps waiting for their
downtown maids at the subway stations every Thursday
195


O Canaan!
199
"Just look at us,” Paul followed up. “We both want to be
in business for ourselves. We tried selling dresses-good
dresses they were too. We made a little money, and the
women started finding fault-swore we were giving 'em
cheap stuff. So what did they do? Went downtown and paid
twelve and fifteen dollars for the same dresses we were sell-
ing for six! They're your people, Bobby! Hell! It 'll take two
hundred years more to drill anything into their heads. Yet
back there in March they raised all that hell about stores not
hiring 'em on Twenty-fifth Street-breaking windows and
stealing! And they wouldn't have done that if they hadn't
got all emotional about that geechy kid who was shoplifting.”
"You let these folks bother you too much, Jack," was
Bob's opinion. "They're going to be what they're going to
be, that's all.”
Paul snorted, continuing:
"And look at us college tramps! Up there at the political
club you can find more trained minds in that pack of poker
players than anywhere else in Harlem! They can discuss any
subject intelligently—from creation to communism! Darn
near every colored college in the country represented! And
these government work projects—why, you can hardly get
on one if you don't have a degree! Collegiate tramps, that's
what we are-whoring and drinking and dancing and
gambling our time away, no thought for tomorrow-to hell
with tomorrow_live today and have a good time—you
only live once!” Paul punctuated his scorn with a nasty ex-
clamation.
"What's a guy going to do if he can't get a break?” coun-
tered Bob. "Take yourself, for instance: you worked for that
Greek in that delicatessen for over a year at ten bucks a week
-and he started you at seven! What was he paying his Greek
clerks? Twenty to thirty! You even had to steal from him
so's to make room rent and board-and you with a B.S. in
business!”


200
O Canaan!
“I don't blame him," declared Paul. “My own people
haven't been able to build up any businesses—with a few
exceptions—in fifty years and more. He came over as an
immigrant who couldn't even speak the English language,
and damned if he didn't build up one in fifteen years! Why
the hell should he pay me as much as he pays his own peo-
ple? The odds are against us, but I still say we don't half try
-we're too busy enjoying life!” Paul shrugged and went on:
"I've been out of school for four years—so ’ve you,
graduated in '31. And what have I done? Well, I've saved
exactly two hundred and forty-seven dollars and sixty-
three cents. I've spent a don't-know-how-much on rent,
food, clothes and amusement-at least what I thought was
amusement. I'll bet if you were to ask every fellow on our
project how much money he had saved, about five out of ten
couldn't show you next week's carfare—and we were paid
off yesterday. The other five will have to borrow before next
payday. Now what's the answer?”
"We just haven't learned the value of a dollar, that's all,”
replied Bob.
"Yet we're always whining about what we don't have!”
sneered Paul. “Hell, I'm tired of hearing it! Big as this coun-
try is, there ought to be someplace where I can get
started!”
"You forget the depression is still on,” reminded Bob.
“Damn the depression!” exclaimed Paul, the big vein
welling in his forehead. "I'm sick of that too! Hell, man,
five years from now I'll be nearly thirty-in exactly eleven
years I'll be thirty-five. And, brother, something tells me if
you don't have some kind of a foothold somewhere by the
time you're forty, you're a lost ball in high grass!”
"I'll be twenty-seven my next birthday ..." mused
Bob.
"I don't see why you don't go back South and help your


O CanaanVIL
201
!
father with his undertaking business,” said Paul. "If you
can't sell 'em you can bury 'em!”
"There are plenty of business opportunities in the South,"
said Bob thoughtfully, "and I liked working with my old
man. ..." His face darkened and he bit into his cigar.
"Hell, Jack, I told you I can't take it from those crackers!
When I was down there I got to the place where I'd made up
my mind to kill a son of a bitch! That's why I left I didn't
want to put my folks in the middle. I know when I got a
bellyful.”
"All white folks aren't alike,” reminded Paul.
"I know," said Bob, "but you're always running into the
low cusses who want to put you into what they call your
'place'-"hey, nigger, this' and 'hey, nigger, that.' I got tired
of it, that's all! Got so I felt a big white hand shoving me
down ... down. ...” Bob's face grew sullen at the
memory.
“What are you going to do?” asked Paul.
"Stick it out a couple more years up here and go back to
med school. After that I'm heading for South America.”
“What about Lil?”
"I'm going to med school!”
“But you two are practically-well, married, so to speak.”
Paul put it very deferentially.
“I'm still going to med school!”
Paul shrugged. “You know," he said, “it's funny how a
fellow can drift into things up here. Guess we're all drift-
ers. ..."
He resumed his packing, and Bob rose to go.
“Say, we ought to have a little party-kind of farewell
get-together-tonight. What say?"
"Okay,” agreed Paul. “Where 'll I meet you—at the apart-
ment?”
"Yeah-around eleven," answered Bob and sauntered out.


202
O Canaan!
A moment later a short, plump, brown-skinned woman,
with mouth and eyes that perpetually smiled, came in. She
was followed by a snagger-toothed man clad in shabby, non-
descript remnants.
"Well, boy, you's really gittin' ready, ain't you?”
"Yes ma'am, A'nt Lizzie,” replied Paul.
"Why you—why you wan' go, bye?" questioned the
shabby one in a decidedly foreign accent. “Harlem no can
do weethout you, bye!”
"Oh yeah?" disparaged Paul, hastily donning a shirt.
"Nev' mind the shirt, boy!” said A'nt Lizzie sharply but
with a twinkle behind her rimless spectacles. “I done seen
mo'o'you boys than yo' mammies when you's sick!”
"That you have,” grinned Paul. He chucked her under the
chin and winked. “But what's a guy's best gal going to do
but nurse him when he's sick, sweetheart?” He kissed her
swiftly on her cheek.
"Go 'way from heah, boy!” cried A’nt Lizzie. "These dev-
ilish boys ain't a bit o' count, G. B.! Jes' carries me a gait all
the time, plague take 'em!”
"You—you tell-a me?" grinned G. B. “Nize byes, dough
-nize fellas ..."
"Well, if we're so nize, suppose you go bring in that right-
eous number, G. B. Mantos, you snaggy spick!”
The newcomer was of about Paul's height and coloring
and spoke in a throaty, hesitant voice. His apparel and the
manner in which he nonchalantly smote the side of his leg
with the latest edition of a tabloid would have given one the
impression that he was an office worker. In reality, however,
Russ Holt was just another chap in his middle twenties, up
from Carolina with a year of college behind him, and a hope
of finishing someday ... someday. Meanwhile, to use the
facetious phrase he had borrowed from some wag, he was
"lifting humanity”-twenty stories a day in an elevator
downtown. His thin face evinced surprise at Paul's activity.


O Canaan!
203
"Look-a-yuh!” he exclaimed. “Cat, you're really takin' it
on the lam, eh?"
"Aw, no! He cain't do that!” whined a voice at his back.
It belonged to a youth of their age, build and complexion
whose face beamed good nature and seemed absolutely void
of any problem whatsoever. He wore white pants, gray
sweat shirt, and crepe-soled shoes; a whistle dangled from a
string about his neck.
“What do you know, Patton?" greeted Paul. “What's mat-
ter-payday today?”
Patton made him a swift sign and eyed A’nt Lizzie fur-
tively.
"Naw, man-all the play-street kids are down to a track
meet in the park,” he explained blandly. "Sure God glad, too!
I ain't seen the bed in two days!”
"Better stop cattin' 'round ever' night," advised A’nt
Lizzie. “An' look-a-heah, boy-I ain't foolin'- I wants my
back rent!”
"Now there you go!” whined Patton, winking at Paul and
Holt. He quickly undressed, unabashed before his landlady,
and slipped between the sheets of the cot.
"I told you I'm going to pay up next week—when the
project gets paid,” he continued, already sleepy. “Money
ain't come from Washington, A'nt Lizzie. Pay you next
week ... next . . . week. ..." And he was dead to the
world.
"That devilish boy could sleep in a boiler fact'ry!" de-
clared A’nt Lizzie. She stepped to the cot and pulled the
sheet from his face. "Devilish rascal!” she grumbled while
she picked his pants and shirt from the floor and hung them
on a chair.
"What's that correct digit going to be, A’nt Lizzie?"
asked Holt jocularly, winking at Paul. “Come on now, all
jokes aside.”
"Quit worryin' me 'bout the number, boy!" commanded


O Canaan!
205
"Ain't this a pistol!” breathed Patton, now thoroughly
awake.
"Everybody cross his fingers!” cried Holt. He began fever-
ish calculations in a notebook.
"What good 'll that do?” scoffed Paul, shutting his two
shabby suitcases. "It's going to be what the racketeers want
it to be, and there's no use in our employing a lot of Caro-
lina fogyism."
"All right, you ole Maryland oyster snatcher!” grinned
Holt.
"What was it this time last year, Russ?” asked Patton. He
winked at Paul.
"Never mind, cat, I see you!” laughed Russ. He turned the
pages of his much-thumbed notebook. “Here it is! Well, I'll
be doggone!”
"Now what?" demanded Paul skeptically. He crawled into
bed beside Holt. "I suppose you're going to tell us that it
was four eighty-one last year today!”
"You don't have to believe me, cat,” said Holt in an awed
voice. "Here's the book!"
He pointed a bony finger at his notations and said:
"There it is—June 3, 1934! What's the number?”
"Damned if it ain't!” puzzled Paul. “But it's mathemati-
cally crazy!”
"You're right, Paul,” said Patton, the gambler of the trio.
"It don't make sense."
"Sense, hell!” exclaimed Russ. He jerked a swift thumb
in the general direction of A’nt Lizzie's front room and con-
tinued: “I ain't never seen it to fail—any time Ole Dice in
there wants a little money for her church over in Jersey she
prays to her Lord and the number jumps, Jack! I'm telling
you now!”
"Aw, fooey!” snorted Paul. “Give up, cat!”
"Who—who got eet? Who—who got eet?" G. B. burst
into the room and grinned tantalizingly.


206
O Canaan!
"Listen, cat,” growled Holt, "if you know what's the
number, tell us—before I throw the whole room on you!”
"Türow on who? Me? T'row—t'row on who?" bristled the
snagger-toothed one in mock belligerence.
Holt groaned. "Skip it, Jack! Skip it! What's the digit?”
"The numbair—she eez—she eez- "
"It's fo'eighty-one!” cried A’nt Lizzie, shoving G. B. aside
and excitedly waving a slip of paper.
"Hot damn!”
Paul and Russ sprang from the bed simultaneously and
started dressing, but Patton, gambler that he was, turned his
face to the wall and mumbled:
"Take twenty and keep the rest for me, A'nt Lizzie.” He
went to sleep immediately.
By midnight Paul had finished his tour of collecting the
winnings from the magic number four eighty-one. It had
taken him the length and breadth of Harlem—from a finely
furnished apartment on St Nicholas Avenue to a low dive of
prostitution on 113th Street; from a delicatessen on Eighth
Avenue to a bakery on Fifth; two saloons, two restaurants
and two poolrooms completed the route. He came back to
A’nt Lizzie's six-room apartment exactly two hundred and
seventy dollars richer.
The place was in a hubbub. Annie, A'nt Lizzie's moon-
eyed, chocolate-hued niece, met him at the door.
"Hey there, you lucky ole tightwad!” she yelled, throwing
her one hundred and sixty pounds of buxomness about his
neck. She must have bathed in whisky, thought Paul.
"Hot damn, boy!” she raved, giving him a very moist,
ample kiss before he could disengage her arms. "I hit that
damned number for ten cents! Fifty-four smackers, boy!
Talk about high! Man, I ain't thinkin' 'bout goin' on no job


O Canaan!
207
tomorrow! Come on, have a drink on me! I know you ain't
bought none, you ole tight dog, you! Right on the dinin'-
room table ..." She finished with a flood of obscene invec-
tive.
Paul finally struggled away to his room. He found Holt
on the bed solemnly counting a pile of bills and small
change.
"What say, cat!” grinned Russ. "Told you to put six bits
on it! Look-a-yuh- ” He seized a handful of the bills and
went through the motions of washing his face in them.
"Nigger-rich, eh?" laughed Paul. “Did you collect it all?”
"All but twenty-seven fifty,” replied Russ. "Man, a cat
all reefered up caught one of the runners over on Thirteenth
Street and filled him just as full o’holes as a sieve! Cat didn't
put his numbers in and didn't tell anybody about it-tried to
be slick! He'll be slick no more! Bet they'll have to use a der-
rick to lower him into his grave, he's so full o' lead!”
"Where's Patton?”
"Man, that cat got up about an hour ago and bought a
pint o' whisky. He and Annie sat down and drank that up,
and then she bought a quart. He left out o'here drunk as a
lord!”
"Yeah—and I bet he'll want to borrow from us in the
morning, too!” scowled Paul.
"No, he won't!” A'nt Lizzie had come in. "I made that
drunk rascal leave ten dollars with me! You'll find some fried
chicken in the icebox fo' yo' lunch on the road, Paul—that's
ef you's gwine leave now. Reckon you'll stay awhile longer
now, won't you?”
"No’m, A’nt Lizzie,” said Paul decidedly. “This is the
first time Harlem's ever given me anything, and I'm getting
out before she takes it away! Here—here's two hundred and
fifty I want you to keep for me until tomorrow.”
She counted the money and wrapped it in a handkerchief.


208
O Canaan!
"You send any o' that money home, boy?" she inquired of
Holt.
"Yes ’m,” he answered, "a hundred and fifty-wired it to
Mom. Here's a hundred to keep for me.”
"Doggone!” exclaimed the old lady, scratching her sparse
gray hair as she took the money. "I got a great mind to run
off with ever' last cent of it!”
Both young men laughed heartily at this, for they knew
that this Virginia woman who had been a veritable mother to
them was as safe as a bank for their money.
Annie teetered in, her round face streaked with tears.
She waved a bottle at them and sobbed:
"All righsh fo y'allsh! You don't have to drinsh wish me!
Hic! Done won allsh dash money an' ain' boughsh the firsh-
hic!—drinsh! All righsh fo' y'allsh ..."
“Gal, ef you don't gwine to bed I'm a-gonna wring yo'
devilish neck!” declared her aunt, striving hard to suppress
a grin. “Git on to bed, I says!"
"Don' nobody lovesh me!" wailed Annie. She staggered
over to Russ and threw her arms about him. "You lovesh me
-hic!-do' you-hic!—Russh?"
"Sure, babes! Sure!” snickered Russ.
"He donsh-hic!-lovesh me-hic!” She pointed at Paul,
lost her balance and flopped to the floor.
"She's out like a light!” exclaimed Russ. “Come on, Paul,
help me get her to her room.”
“Drunk wench!” grumbled A’nt Lizzie as she followed
them.
Bob's party had spread to the two other apartments on the
floor when Paul arrived.
"More power to you!” cried Bob, who met him at the
door. "Patton was here about an hour ago, high as a Georgia
pine! He swears you hit the number for nearly half a grand!”


O Canaan!
209
"That cat's crazy!” scoffed Paul, and lied: "I just hit for
ten cents!”
“Oh, hello, darlin!”
From the dimly lighted foyer of the apartment opposite
a petite vision of brown loveliness minced. She was clad in
white satin, and her face evinced the highest in the cos-
metician's art. She felinely patted the waves of her smart
bob with brilliantly tipped fingers as she advanced, and her
white teeth gleamed a wide smile.
"Oh-oh!” warned Bob. “Here comes your Babe!” He with-
drew hastily into his three-room apartment, where the radio
was moaning softly and couples were clinging and swaying
in the half-light.
"Hello, Babe,” said Paul coldly.
“My," murmured she, still smiling. “Isn't he chilly-on
such a warm night, too!”
"Cut the smart line! Where'd you get it—the movies?”
His voice was terse and hard. "I suppose you heard I had a
little luck, so you decided you'd come around and collect
again, eh? What is it this time-twins?"
"Now why be like that?" she pouted, casting her long-
lashed, sloe eyes at his. "I heard that you were leaving town
and just wanted to say good-by."
"Wasn't that too nice of you!” sneered Paul. "Well, good-
by!” He turned to enter the apartment, but she grasped his
arm.
"Now what?” he demanded.
She took three bills from her white pocketbook and ten-
dered them silently.
"Never mind," he said. His quiet voice was disdainful as
he added before he left her: “Suppose you keep it for services
rendered.”
The party was more boring than he expected it to be: the
same senseless crowd, reciting the same senseless drivel, drink-
ing the same senseless concoctions, dancing the same sense-


212
O Canaan!
ous to the conditions surrounding them—who lived from
day to day and took naught but a passing thought of the
morrow. He thought of the women he had known and pos-
sessed, always with a feeling of incompleteness and a vague
resentment at himself and them. What had the four years
profited him? How far astray had he floundered from the
climax of the oration he had delivered on the class-day pro-
gram when he and Booker had been graduated from the
Institute?
" "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'”
Indeed! Waste . . . naught but waste, those four years
here in Harlem ... except to learn that life is hard and
that to live one must struggle ceaselessly, relentlessly. ...
Holt was propped up in bed busy with his pad and pencil
despite the clamor of the Cuban party going full blast in the
apartment below.
"Still figuring, eh, Russ?” mocked Paul, stripping off his
clothes.
"Yeah, man! I'm bustin' 'em wide open tomorrow! Put-
ting two bucks on nine ninety-four. Better get on it heavy,
cat!”
"You mean you'll be two bucks short tomorrow," cor-
rected Paul. “Don't you know any time a man offers you odds
of six hundred to one you haven't a chance except in rare
cases like today? Man, why don't you pull out for home
while you're ahead?”
"Now you know what I keep telling you about home!”
grinned Russ. "Keep telling you I'd rather be a lamppost in
Harlem than a big shot in my home town!”
"Who do you think you're stuffing?" answered Paul, falling
into bed in his pajama pants. "I know what you want,
you're just like thousands of us. You want to drive up to
the old homestead in a big boat as long as from here to yon-


O Canaan!
215
plunged into the work of the farm like a veteran. He was a
true son of the soil. Even in the bad year of torrential rains
and a sudden drought he had wrested crops from the sullen,
stubborn earth. Then he had sent little packages of the soil
to the Wizard down at the school in Alabama. And he had
rigged up a bench in his room over the kitchen, where during
the long winter evenings he puttered with some vile-smelling
substances and liquids—"chemistry of the soil” was the
phrase he had used to explain to his grandfather. Afraid to
scoff because of the boy's success with other "tomfoolery"
-such as the laying mash which Booker had administered
to the chickens—Jim Prince had let him have his way with
the wheat experiment. And here it was—a don't-know-how-
many bushels from the acres planted! And the same thing
with the corn and tomatoes! That Booker was some p'n, now.
. . . And he had rigged up lines from the highway and put a
mess o' wires around in the house so's all you had to do was
pull a string and you had light in every corner of a room,
just like in the houses over in town! And that radio! All you
had to do was turn some knobs on a box and you could hear
the President way over yonder in Washington-even heard
the King o’England at Christmas! And now Booker was set-
ting up some kind of a machine that was going to pump
water to any part of the house; even talking about a bath-
tub you didn't have to tote water for-as if the old wash-
tub wouldn't serve the same purpose! Well, sir, that Booker
was a case. ....
Jim Prince looked up as a small roadster jolted up the
ruts of the shell lane from the highway. It stopped midway,
and a familiar figure vaulted the fence bordering the field
in which Booker was working. The latter had halted the
tractor and was striding rapidly with outstretched hand
across the stubble of the wheat. Jim Prince watched them,
puzzled, for his eyes were unable at that distance to dis-
cover just who it was that Booker had lifted bodily and


216
O Canaan!
whirled joyfully in the air. They were both approaching in
the vehicle now. Booker leaped out in the yard, yelling in his
deep baritone:
"Pa! Ma! Here's Paul!"
And Jim Prince, his gaunt old face alive with joy, hobbled
forward to grasp the hand of his grandson, who, everybody
said, was the spittin' image of him in his youth. And Blanche,
brown, buxom mother of the two young men, slammed
through the kitchen door to the yard and seized her son in a
capacious embrace upon her hearing bosom, and breathed
to the bot sky:
"Praise the Lord! You done come, boy—you done come
home!”
Eagerly he listened to the news of home from Booker that
night as they lay abed.
"So Ellen and Jimmy-Lew are proud parents of a boy?"
he laughed. “Where are they now?"
"Over on the western shore," informed Booker. "As the
superintendent of schools in this county, Dad thought it
best to have them transferred the year following the lynch-
ing. You know how Jimmy-Lew is. He got so he carried a
gun with him everywhere. And with that temper of his, he'd
have used it, too. It's better all around for them, because
they're supposed to get more salary over there, after this
year.”
“Does Dad finish that work at Penn this year?"
"All but the thesis. He'll be home after summer school in
August. You staying this time?"
"Naw! I wouldn't have come home now if Mom hadn't
written that Grandpa was sick.”
"Nothing wrong with him but age,” laughed Booker.
"He's tough as a pine knot. He'll be here a long time,
brother! Where do you think you'll head when you leave?"


O Canaan!
217
"I don't know," said Paul wearily. “Sometimes I wonder if
there's any use going anywhere. ..."
"You got something there! But you wouldn't stay. I know
you—you've got a little maggot inside of you that keeps
squirming and it makes you foot-loose.”
"I'll find a place!” Paul's voice became determined. “I'll
find one if I have to tramp all over this country!"
Booker grunted and turned over, mumbling:
"I wonder if you'll know it when you find it!”
Paul fell into the monotonous life of the farm with an
ease that surprised him. By the side of his bull-necked, huge-
thewed brother he labored in the fields of his grandfather.
For the first time in months he experienced the pleasure of
an appetite at meals. And his mother took delight in plying
his plate until he could eat no more.
"Chappie, they must have been starving you up there in
the big town,” observed Booker one day after their father
had come home from summer school. The family was at Sun-
day dinner, and Paul had just pushed his plate aside long
after the others had ceased to eat.
"Leave him alone, you Booker,” said Blanche. "He don't
eat a bit more ’n you.”
"I know," laughed Booker, "but I'm a big man. That fel-
low's little compared with me. But he sure has been shoveling
it in ever since he's been home. Couldn't eat the first morn-
ing—all he wanted was a cup of coffee and a couple of bis-
cuits! Ho-ho! Now he packs up, I mean!”
Paul grinned but continued to strip the chicken bone he
held in his hand.
"All right, guy!” he retorted. “I know I'm the prodigal
and you're the good son who stays at home. Doggone, the
way you work me, you ought to be glad to have me eat. I've


218
O Canaan!
been wanting to stick my teeth into some home-cooked grub
ever since I left here. And believe me, I ain't thinking about
not laying it away!”
"Go to it, Broadway,” chuckled Booker. “Tomorrow we
pitch hay.”
“What, again?”
"Don't you let him work you too much, son,” cautioned
Blanche, passing him a piece of apple pie.
"You needn't worry about that, honey," spoke up her
husband, Ike, a studious-eyed, chestnut-colored man with
the leanness of some scholars. “Seems to me, when I'm out
there with them in the field, both of them try to make me
do all the work.”
"That's what I say about these schoolteachers," winked
Booker to Paul, “just can't take it when it comes to doing a
man's work.”
"Ain't none o' you know what work is, ef you asks me,"
put in old Jim, puffing away at his pipe. "I minds when I was
a boy-
"Oh-oh,” whispered Booker to his brother so that their
grandfather could not hear, "here it comes—one of those
good-old-days things, you know.”
"Han? What say?" questioned the old man.
"Nothing, Pa-nothing," said Booker in a louder tone,
then sotto voce to Paul: “Don't let him fool you—he can
hear when he wants to, especially if it's something you don't
want him to hear!”
All the while old Jim was recounting the hard-working
exploits of his boyhood with the boastfulness of old men
who still feel ambition's stir though they are unable to put
the impulse into action. And the boys did listen, for under
their air of banter was a pride in the achievements of their
grandfather-he who had through toil and perseverance
kept the land which his father before him had acquired as
a free man among slaves. So they let him have his say, listened


O Canaan!
219
through half a century of musings that had become familiar
to them as barefoot youngsters by constant repetition.
And Paul was glad again that he had come home before
trying the world once more. He looked at the cheerful, ever
calm countenance of his mother and the care-lined face of
his father; and it dawned on him that what he had done in
Harlem was something of which they would not have wholly
approved. Yet within himself he knew that he would never
be able to measure up to their expectations of him—for
expectations they had had since they had struggled through
the last two years of his and Booker's training at the Insti-
tute in spite of the depression. Even as he sat there tides,
which seized him in spring and stayed to sweep him through-
out the summer, were rushing through him now, urging him
to be up and away.
But he stayed. He went with Booker to the social functions
in Shrewsbury, one of the more progressive towns in the
lowlands, and took the easy favors of the village belles by
night. He was home from New York! The fact placed a
premium upon him. They frequented the dingy little beer-
and liquor-dispensing "taverns," surprisingly numerous for
so small a town. These were equally dissatisfying—what with
their clamorous music boxes, noisy clientele of oyster shuck-
ers from Deerfield, crude and rough-spoken farm hands and
bucolic strumpets with their diseased faces.
A young schoolteacher, just out of training school,
afforded him congenial company for a while; but she, too,
fell under the pernicious spell of the environment into which
she had been thrust and became as loose as any of the native
girls. He tired of her almost insatiable cravings. He avoided
her until she became piqued.
"You want a husband,” he told her abruptly, “and I'm not
the man!”


220
O Canaan1
!
And she had tossed her marcelled head, pouted her full
lips and gone her way. Cynically he watched the attractive,
intelligent creature wallow deeper into the mire of the vil-
lage. She did not return after the Thanksgiving recess.
But still he remained through the harvest season and the
winter when the stark lowlands were their most dreary and
lashed by winds from the bay. Only Christmas and the radio
offered surcease from the sameness. Spring broke early and
Paul followed Booker at the plowing, the harrowing, the
planting. Then one day in May, when the smell of the new
strawberries was strong upon the pine-sifted westerly breezes,
Paul rose early and began to pack.
"When you gotta go, you gotta go!” was his laconic re-
sponse to Booker's query.
"... and now, blessed Master, go with this here boy o'
ourn wheresoever he mought be-keep 'im in the hollow o'
Thy hand and be a lamp onto his feet and a light onto his
path. . . . Guide 'im an' pertect 'im, Lawd! And when we's
done bendin' down on humble knees and a-prayin' fo' all
we's duty-boun' to pray fo', when we's done a-stumblin'
down here in these low grounds o sorrow, take us all home
to the bosom o' Jesus, where we'll meet ouah love ones and
praise His name, world without end-amen!”
Jim Prince's voice sighed to a stop. And as he rose slowly
from his knees there were tears in his fading eyes which he
wiped away with a hand that trembled a little.
"You ought to conquer the world with that blessing, boy!”
whispered Booker as the family group followed Paul to his
roadster.
"You're tellin' me!" ejaculated Paul. “Well, let the old
man have his way. May be something in it. ..."
"Sure will miss those haircuts I've been getting from you,


O Canaan!
221
boy.” Booker slapped his younger brother on the back and
swallowed hard. Paul forced a grin.
With the brusqueness of youth he kissed his mother, who
was straining back her emotions. He shook hands with his
somewhat gloomy-browed father and gave a none too atten-
tive ear to his counseling.
" 'Member you gots a home to come to, son," quavered
Jim Prince, clinging to his arm. Paul squeezed the wrinkled
hand affectionately.
“Luck to you, chappie,” he said to Booker. “I'll see you
when I make my first ten thousand.”
"What, piker-no million?” exclaimed Booker sarcasti-
cally. “Last time you were here you swore by the beard of
Haile Selassie that was your goal.”
Paul gave him a swift poke in the ribs and sprang into the
dust-caked roadster.
"Ten thousand, farmer-and you can take it or leave it!”
he came back. He jerked the car about and shot out over the
ruts in a cloud of dust.


ACROSS THE LOWLAND FIELDS he fled in the rising sun.
Through the town of the marrying ministers he coasted and
at noon ate a hurried lunch just west of the Monumental City.
Up gradual slopes he rolled into western Maryland, clad in
the tender verdure of springtime and alive with the voices of
orioles, cardinals and robins. When the sun was yet high
he bore down upon Barbara Frietchie's town, and he still did
not know whither he should go.
He sought the little cottage of his cousin, Jimmy-Lew,
which the latter and his wife were buying in a back street
of the town. He stopped overnight with them and their
baby, and far into the night they talked of home and their
childhood together on neighboring farms. Paul and Jimmy-
Lew, a big golden-skinned athlete with the brooding eye and
face of the idealist, argued as of old on questions of para-
mount importance to them.
"I tell you, we who have been better privileged are for-
saking our duty to the downtrodden!” declared Jimmy-Lew,
his black eyes flashing and his dark curls lowering toward
his adversary.
From the kitchen where she washed the supper dishes
222


224
O Canaan!
an unconscious dramatic gesture of his orator's hands. "He
thinks it's his salvation, poor fellow. It's his destiny to be
like Tantalus: forever reaching for the inaccessible ”
"Inaccessible, baloney!” defended Paul, rising. "There's
nothing inaccessible to him who tries and is willing to pay
the price for it. I haven't had my ears slapped back for
nothing, believe me! And I'll go on seeking until I find
what I want. Every man to his own poison, I say. You and
Ellen go on and teach-stick to your High Calling, as
Jimmy-Lew labels it. That's what you like, and I guess it's
your job. As for me”-he took a coin from his pocket-
"heads it's Pittsburgh, tails it's Chicago!"
The flipped coin turned tails.
"I'll be seeing you!” he said. He picked young Jimmy-Lew
from his high chair and held him aloft until the hazel-eyed
youngster gurgled his glee.
Hand in hand the young couple watched the roadster
until it turned a corner.
"I have to hand it to him he knows what he wants, at
that,” said Jimmy-Lew. .
"I wonder ..." murmured Ellen.
Past the monuments of Gettysburg's field of battle he
rolled and veered abruptly west at the town's circle. Then
mountains loomed in the distance, the Appalachian spine, and
Paul drank great draughts of the tangy air. One hundred
miles of them he climbed and began the precipitous descent
of their western slopes. Engine trouble delayed him, but he
did not care. For him this was high adventure: to absorb in
passing the ever-changing beauty of America. And he
thought: "What a great land is this. Surely there is a place
here for me and those of my blood who may follow.” And
subconsciously he rejoiced in his young manhood. For the


226
O Canaan!
highway, and he found himself upon the black earth of
Indiana's prairie-long, monotone levelness with scarcely a
bend in the hot, concrete road. On either hand he viewed
with almost a feeling of awe the unending fields of grain
and the green spaces where sleek porkers rooted, cleaner
than any he had seen. Labeled with unpronounceable names,
prodigious barns and comparatively small houses commanded
the flat, rich land. His grandfather's eyes would have
sprouted from his head, thought Paul.
Fort Wayne disappointed him. He had seen the name on
the maps and had expected an inland metropolis rivaling
New York. Instead he found just another prairie town, a
little larger than the rest, but with the same ugly regularity
of architecture and layout of thoroughfares. He found
lodging with a family who lived on a street lined with
cottonwoods, and whose scampering children made the
night ring with their free play.
The restaurant in which he ate the next morning was
located on a street that strangely resembled Gatlin's Alley
in Shrewsbury. All was squalor with the same dingy pool-
rooms, ramshackle dwellings and corner loafers.
"You cain't miss the highway, suh,” responded Mrs
Hammond, the proprietress of the “Eat Shop.” To Paul
she looked like any number of gray-haired, hard-pinched
women whom he had seen in Virginia and Maryland towns.
"All roads leads to Chicago from heah,” she assured.
"Whar you hail from?”
He had to give her full particulars, and as reward she
replenished his plate with fried potatoes that went with the
T-bone steak and biscuits—all for thirty-five cents.
"Oh, I bin up yuh nigh on to twenty y’ars. Alabam's mah
home," she expanded to his questions. "All the show folks
stops yuh.” She swept the fly-swarmed little dining room
of her "hotel,” the walls of which were liberally hung with


O Canaan!
229
Sam, working away with his clippers. Maybe, if he could get
them to talk, they would wait for him to do the jobs him-
self. Confound that Jack!
"Ain't no better,” said Jeff. “They needs another war!
Wish I was back in the Yards. ... We ain't workin' more 'n
three days a week. An' the boss-man's havin' a lot o'worrya-
tion outn the unions. Glad I ain't no union man! 'Pears to
me like they don't know what they wants. Hell! The boss-
man ain't layin' off nobody ef he kin help it—an' the man
sho' ain't gittin' no orders. Them dern unions is all right
sometimes, but they's a mess, too, at the wrong time!”
“Funny thing,” chimed in another hard-handed fellow
whose build and garments proclaimed him a laborer, "them
unions didn't start wantin' us to jine up 'twell these here
hard times come along!”
"Look like to me them com-moonists is the only ones
sho' nuf wants to play fair wid you," put in a third whose
drawl over fifteen winters among swiftly speaking North-
erners could not quicken.
"They ain't no diff'rent ’n the rest!" asserted another.
"Jes' wants use you like them others—ain't no diff'rence!”
"I ain't trustin' none of 'em!” avowed the fifth, a wiry,
sharp-featured fellow. "They ain't givin' a damn 'bout us!
Only way we gwine git somep’n is git fo' our damned
selves!”
Sam breathed easier. Even if they did ignore his "No
Profanity” sign, at least they were not leaving. Just then
the boy shuffled in. Sam raised a finger to his lips and
beckoned.
"Did you find 'em?” he whispered.
“Sure," answered the boy and grinned. “They's both
drunk!”
Sam lost his religion. He swore with the complete abandon
of any child of Satan, and doubled the quantity and quality
as a lean-faced, sprucely dressed fellow peered through the


230
O Canaan!
window and walked in. Here was a new—a new-customer,
and Jack Whitney drunk!
"Pardon me," said the young man, "but I saw these men
waiting and the empty chair. I wondered whether you
needed any help.”
Sam looked him over keenly and noted the oblong tin box
under his arm.
"Is you a barber, sho' nuf?” he demanded eagerly. "Ef
you is, git a coat out’n that back room there an' git to work!
Ef you's all right, the job's yo's!”
"Okay!” The young man was at his post in so short a time
that Sam nodded his approval.
So animated and engrossing had their argument become
that the waiting men had not noticed what had occurred.
"What's yo' name, young feller?” whispered Sam.
"Paul-Paul Johnson.”
"Got a license?"
Paul shook his head fearfully.
“That's all right-I'll fix that,” said Sam, and bawled:
"Next!”
The men looked up, too surprised to speak.
"Who's next, gentlemen?” smiled Paul.
“Who all's this?” demanded Jeff Jackson, nodding a
matted head at Paul.
"Mr Johnson, my new barber," announced Sam.
"Listen here, Cummins," growled big Jeff, eying Paul
meanwhile, “I come in here to git a haircut an' I ain't wantin'
to git messed up next do' to Sunday! I looks bad nuf as
'tis!”
“Uh-huh! I bin tellin' Jeff he's a ugly soul!” guffawed
one of the men. "Now he done come right out wid it!”
The others joined in the merriment at Jeff's expense, but
Paul held his face impassive.
“Just a second, mister," he said in a conciliatory tone.
.


O Canaan!
231
"I'll strike a bargain with you. If I fail to suit you I'll give
you the price of a haircut and shave as compensation."
"Doggone! Listen at 'im talk!” roared Jeff, turning to his
friends. “Sound like one o' them there schoolboys—though
he don't look no ways triflin'. . . . All right, schoolboy,
do yo' stuff!”
Jeff lumbered to the chair, and Paul adjusted the cloth
about his thick neck.
"What style, mister?” he asked, poising his clippers.
"You's the barber, ain't you?” asked Jeff curtly.
All eyes were on the operation. Paul put aside his clippers
immediately after trimming the nape of Jeff's neck. From
then on he used the scissors and comb exclusively. His
maneuvers were expert; there was no waste nor inaccuracy
in the rapid snip-snip of the scissors.
"Doggone ef he don't use them snippers jes' like Jack!”
declared the protagonist of communism. The others nodded
their agreement.
"How's that?” Paul held a small mirror to the back of
Jeff's head.
"You's all right, ain't you, schoolboy?” approved Jeff.
"See what you kin do wid these here sprouts.”
As Paul lowered him into shaving position Jeff admon-
ished:
"Now I ain't got but one neck, schoolboy! An' mind out
'bout them hair bumps."
Paul smiled and with tweezers began to extricate the
hidden curls of hair beneath the bumps.
: "Ow!” howled Jeff. “What you tryin' do, schoolboy-
kill me?"
His cronies slapped their thighs in appreciation of his
discomfit.
"You see,” explained Paul, “your hair grows in a spiral-
unlike the prismatic growth of the yellow and white men.


O Canaan!
233
Whitney swung about to ease the pressure. But Paul jerked
the whole arm upward until the hand nearly met the back
of the man's pudgy neck. Whitney sagged to his knees.
"You got enough?" demanded Paul.
"Y-yeah! Lemme up!” yelled the man.
Paul released him and backed away. In a flash the man
whipped out a razor and lunged. But Jeff Jackson was faster.
He seized Whitney's wrist and slowly squeezed. The muscles
of his bare right arm bunched and writhed as he lifted
Whitney's until the man was on tiptoe. The paralyzed fingers
of the latter unclasped and Paul picked up the razor which
clattered to the floor.
"Let him go, mister!” he bade.
Jeff complied, and Paul collared Whitney and pinned him
to the wall.
"Now listen, you!” he grated. “The next time you come
around here with that kind of stuff I'm going to break your
damned back! Understand?” He shook the wilted man.
Whitney nodded, gasping.
"Get going!” Paul shoved him toward the door.
"Schoolboy, you's all right!” Jeff gave Paul a resounding
thump on the chest.
"Thanks for the help, mister," said Paul warmly and ex-
tended his hand.
"Jeff's the name," said the other and took the proffered
hand in his rough palm. He grinned down at Paul, who was
certain that he'd made a friend worth having.





PART IV
Rock in a Weary Land ...


... an' I'm a-climbin' up the rough side o' the moun-
tain, chillun ... but I ain't a-gittin' no-ways tired ...
'cause I done come through the howlin' wilderness ...'cause
I done sot my eyes on the mo’nin' star ... 'cause I kin rest
on the Rock-in-a-weary-land . . . 'cause I'm gonna cross
over Jordan into Canaan! An' all you what b'lieves in the
worth o' prayer-pray fo' me!”


"DON'T BE FOOLISH, Essie!”
Connie laid the yellow check on a stand beside the divan
and rose to go. She threw a swift glance about the room
and frowned.
Gone was the opulence of its former days. Though all was
cleanliness, all was shabbiness as well, from the moth-eaten
velour of the chairs to the mended lace of the curtains.
Down the center of the high ceiling a stained crack had
crept, while in one corner a portion of paper had peeled.
A faint odor of smoke clung to everything
"I'd advise that you take out some insurance," continued
Connie, ignoring her sister's sullen air; "then if you have
another fire you'll be covered. I'm willing to pay half until
you're able to take care of it yourself. Dad does enough to
keep coal in and to pay for the light and gas.”
Connie waited for an answer, but Essie maintained her
silence.
"Name of God, Essie!” ejaculated the elder sister im-
patiently. “Don't be so stubborn! It's dreadful the way
you've acted these last two years! You might at least have
acknowledged the birth announcement of Mae's baby. ...
And here Lem has been sick for two months and you haven't
237


O Canaan!
239
"What's the matter-do I look that bad?” The young man
suddenly smiled. Again Essie felt that shiver.
"N-no—I mean-yes, I'm Miss Benson!” blurted Essie,
and she was immediately impatient with her confusion.
"Well, I'm Paul Johnson," informed the young man. "Mr
Cummins, the barber for whom I started working yester-
day, told me to come see you about a room. But you looked
so—so young, I thought I was at the wrong house."
"Oh, come in!” Essie swung open the door and led him
into the sitting room.
"You're from back East, aren't you?" she hazarded, in-
dicating a chair for him.
"Yes. How did you know?” Paul squinted his admiration
of her comeliness.
"Oh, I could tell.” She smiled.
"Great day in the morning!” exclaimed Paul to himself.
"What a gal! What a gal! This place is strictly the play."
Aloud he said: "I hope that won't be held against me,
Miss Benson. How about the room?"
"The room? Oh yes—the room.” Essie had forgotten
about the room. Pressing her lips impatiently, she assumed a
businesslike air.
"I do have a room, but I don't know whether you'd like
it. Come on—I'll let you judge for yourself.”
He took full advantage of the opportunity to gaze at
her lithe figure as he followed her up the stairs.
“What a gal,” he told himself again.
“Last week one of the roomers went to bed drunk-and
with a lighted cigar,” divulged Essie on the way.
"I don't suppose he'll do that any more," ventured Paul
humorously.
"Nope," assured Essie with grim irony. “He died yesterday
of the burns. Do you smoke in bed?”
"Not any more!" ejaculated Paul.


240
O Canaan!
"I thought you wouldn't like it,” she said, noticing his
frown as they looked at the room.
: "Oh yes!” he smiled quickly. "I was just thinking how
closely you resemble someone I know.”
“Wife?” Essie held her breath.
He laughed and shook his head. "Do I look like a married
man?"
"Well, you never know ..."
“I'll probably never marry,” he said bumptiously and in-
stantly regretted the utterance. "I-I-I mean—well ..."
"You mean you'll probably never marry!” Her teeth
showed teasingly. “Well, what about it?”
"Maybe someday when I have enough dough to support a
wife and kids I'll — "
"I'm talking about the room.” Again her teeth gleamed.
“What? Oh, the room ... It's swell! I'll take it. How
much?”
"Aren't you going to look at it?" she laughed. “We can't
afford to paint it yet awhile."
“How much?” demanded Paul impatiently.
"Five dollars a week.”
"Okay.” He handed her a bill.
"I have another mattress—a little old, but clean. You
mind helping me with it?"
"Show me where it is, and I'll bring it up myself.”
"Wait a minute,” she advised. “You'd better change into
some old clothes—it's pretty dusty in the cellar.”
"All right," agreed Paul. “I'll bring my bags in from the
car. By the way do you have any place I can keep it?"
"There are two garages in the back that haven't been
used in years,” she informed him.
"Two?” Paul looked his surprise. "You mean to tell me
that you and your folks used to have two cars?”
He did not like the smile that played upon her lips as she
answered cryptically and with a shrug:


O Canaan!
241
"Times change, you know!”
"I know it's none of my business," he said quietly with
his eyes full upon hers, "but you ought never to twist your
lips like that—you're too nice to look at to be spoiling it all
with that— "
"Say, you're a fast worker, aren't you, Mr Johnson?”
Essie's face hardened, and her eyes grew sharp.
"Nope. I just mean what I said,” he answered more quietly
and descended to his car. She felt repulsed and a little mean,
and she vaguely resented the feeling.
"Suppose you change in my room," she suggested when
he returned with the suitcases. She opened the door for him.
Then she remembered that her pocketbook was on the
dresser. Hesitating a moment, she entered the room.
"Excuse,” she said, “I'd like to get my handkerchief.”
She snatched the purse and beat a hasty retreat. He had a
beautiful pair of shoulders, she thought, and, stripped to
the waist, as he had been when she entered, he reminded her
of that leopard she'd seen pacing his cage out at Brookfield-
he was just that lean.
He quickly rejoined her in a pair of worn trousers and a
frayed shirt. With a queer grin which somehow threw her
into a state of discomfiture he locked the door and handed
her the key.
"I–I didn't mean to be rude," she said, descending the
stairs ahead of him.
"Think nothing of it,” he answered easily. "After all, I am
a total stranger to you—as yet.”
She wondered how his face looked as he added the last,
peculiarly emphasized words.
During their rummaging about the celler, Paul unearthed
a pair of tennis rackets, each encased in a rubberized bag and
clamped in braces. He discontinued his dusting of the
mattress and examined them.
"Say, who plays the tennis?” He balanced one and


O Canaan!
243
She broke off to resume tucking the sheets. Paul did not
press questions upon her, for he guessed she had almost
touched upon a point that was unpleasant to her.
"I'll take you out to the park and trim you some Sunday
when I'm not too busy,” she offered after the pause.
"You and who else?” he replied, assuming a mock polite-
ness of tone. He nearly laughed, for he had had three years
of varsity play.
“I won't need any help,” she informed him just as politely.
"Oh yeah!” His lip curled.
"Ah-ah!” she teased. “Remember what you told me a
while ago?”
"Okay.” He accepted the jibe. “But I still say: you and
who else!”
She finished the bed and beckoned him with a derisive
finger to the door of her room. She entered, rummaged about
for a few minutes and returned with a tarnished loving cup
a foot high.
"That, my good Mr Johnson, is one of the few tokens
of my tennis prowess," she informed him icily. "And these”
-she dumped a heap of medals upon her palm-"are a few
lesser trophies!”
"I salute you!” He bowed stiffly from the hips. “And now,
Miss Benson, may I take the liberty to inquire: so what?"
"Just that you couldn't beat me a set if you tried until
you grew a beard!” flared Essie, and wondered at herself
meanwhile. Here she had just met him ...
"If I were to supply the balls, Miss Benson, would you be
so kind as to allow me to test my meager skill against your
superb ability upon the clay courts?” He repeated his
mocking bow.
"With pleasure, Mr Johnson!” She curtsied just as mock-
ingly.
He laughed suddenly, and she joined him. It was the first


244
O Canaan!
real, wholehearted laugh she had indulged in for a long
time . . . a long time.
"Say, how did we get into that?” she exclaimed.
"I don't know," he said gayly, "but we're in it! What do
you say to next Sunday afternoon?”
"It's a go,” came her ready agreement. "And I'll give you
that racket if you beat me two out of three sets. But if I
beat you, you treat me to dinner.”
"Okay! Dinner . . . That reminds me—I'm starved!”
“How'd you like to help me get dinner downstairs?" she
offered quickly, and again she wondered at her forwardness.
"You're a fast worker, Miss Benson!” he said, tongue in
cheek.
"Oh well, now, if you're going to be like that ..." She
stiffened.
"Think nothing of it, lady—think nothing of it!” he
soothed. “Just lead me to the kitchen!"
2
"Um ... Say, lady, did anybody ever tell you that you
can really lay something into a chicken?” Paul dropped the
bone he had stripped and dabbed up the last of the gravy
on his plate. He slouched lazily in his chair and licked his
fingers.
"How much do I owe you?”
"You just scrape up enough for that dinner next Sunday,"
replied Essie. “Besides, it's been rather enjoyable having com-
pany to eat with. Dad's so seldom at home on Sundays."
"I understand,” said Paul. “I used to get tired of eating
in restaurants when I was in New York.”
"Tell me about Harlem,” requested Essie. "Is it really like
everybody says? My sister ..."
"Your sister, you were saying,” prompted Paul, squinting
at her intently.


O Canaan!
245
"Tell me about Harlem,” she said, looking away.
"Oh, there's nothing to it.” Paul's voice became cynical.
"Nothing but a lot of colored folks jammed together in one
spot, like a-like a bunch of blowflies on a piece of rotten
meat."
"My stomach, Mr Johnson-please!” Essie grimaced.
"Forgive it.” He bent his small head toward her and gave
her one of his intent looks. “Suppose you tell me about your-
self. You and your father live here all alone?"
"Sure-except for some roomers. What about it?” She
was on the defense.
"Nothing, only ... These roomers—are there any
women?”
"No women for me. All men, four Pullman porters," she
told him while she eyed him curiously.
"You mean to say that you live in this house with nothing
but men?" ejaculated Paul.
"What's so remarkable about it?” she demanded. “My
father's here."
"But your father isn't here often. Mr Cummins says that
he's a-he works on the railroad.”
"You needn't look like that!” she rapped out. "I know
what you're thinking! Well, it may interest you to know
that I can take care of myself-been doing so since I was
knee high! And if you have any crazy ideas in your head
you can take your things and get out! And here's your
money!” She flung the bill he had given her across the table.
"Whew! Just like that!” Paul smiled easily and noted the
ruddiness that now deepened beneath the brown of her skin.
"Listen, lady, I don't have the first idea! Now let's not spoil
our dinner. Suppose we wash the dishes. I'll dry them.”
His calm put her to shame.
"I'm sorry," she said in a quieter tone and bit her lip,
impatient that he could make her feel at all. And she had to


O Canaan!
247
"I know someone from the Eastern Shore,” she said after
he had finished. She told him about Jane Saunders
“She sounds interesting,” said Paul. “I'd like to meet her.”
"Well, she's—very busy,” stammered Essie. She had
avoided the nurse and Milburn since the episode at court.
Conscious of her confusion, Paul didn't push the subject
further. This little brown was a peculiar one, he decided.
But, peculiar or not, to him she was a lovely thing ...a
lovely thing. Every ounce was in its proper place, he also
noted while she moved about the kitchen. Why, she made
Babe look like a scarecrow! Fickle young huntsman ...
"Put the dishes in that cupboard, will you?" she requested
as she went to answer the timid ring of the doorbell.
Her face was as changeable as March weather, he judged,
for impatience was now clearly stamped upon it. He
hurriedly stowed away the dishes and sauntered through the
hall. He was curious to know who had caused her to
frown so.
Essie called him into the sitting room. “This is Mr Brown,”
she said, "who is assistant pastor at my church.”
Paul took Ronnie's hand and wondered that a man's could
be so soft. Through the screen door he sighted a big shiny
car parked behind his. The contrast made him grin. He lifted
his brows in secret mirth.
"Well, I guess that's that!” he told himself while he washed
and dressed. "Thought you were a little too lucky, Paulie.”
He watched them drive off and finished his dressing feeling
somewhat chagrined.
Paul gathered much about Essie and the Benson family
from the talkative Sam Cummins that week during idle
periods.
"Yep,” said the little barber in the course of one recital,
“Joe Benson fo’got his God, an' the Lawd showed him


248
O Canaan!
somep’n, sho' nuf, jes' like I told 'im. 'Tain't no use tryin'
fo’git yo' Jesus, suh! Plague on ef you don't wind up like
cotton when the weevil hit it! I told Joe and Maggie Dawson
the same thing. Now Maggie done got some sense in 'er
haid-got so she 'tends church reg'lar an' keeps in the path.
But Joe, he don't never come no mo'. You cain't buck the
Lawd-nawsuh!”
Sam indulged in one of his many flights of biblical
eloquence:
"The sins o' the father comes down on the chilluns too.
That youngest boy o'Joe's went to runnin' wid all kinds o'
womens an' the Lawd smought ’im down in the flower of 'is
youth. An’now that Lem what used talk 'bout colored folks
spendin' too much time an' money in church done gone
an' got the consumption-an' the Lawd gwine take 'im 'way
from here, sho's you's bo’n to die. You cain't buck the Lawd!
An' you bes' not mess none wid His chilluns—nawsuh!”
With his tuft of white hair and pinched face, Sam looked
like a weazened prophet rejoicing in the fulfillment of a
prophecy, mused Paul.
"I thought you and Joe Benson were such great friends,"
he reminded Sam.
“We is!” avowed Sam quickly. "An' they ain't a better
man, 'cep'n his religion, than Joe Benson! I ain't sayin'
nothin' agin him—what I is sayin' is you cain't fo’git yo'
Jesus! I'd say the same thing to my brother. That's what
wrong wid you young folks today—you done fo’git yo'
Jesus!”
Sam was an adamant Isaiah.
"No, I ain't got nothin' agin the man pussnally, y'under-
stand,” he continued. "Hadn't bin fo' him I wouldn't be up
here today. An' I 'spect Bathsheba wouldn't be the church
she is, 'twarn't fo' Joe Benson. By the way, you wants to
git Essie to bring you over next Sunday. You oughta hear
that gal play a organ!” Sam lifted his eyes rapturously.


O Canaan!
249
"She plays the organ?” Paul remembered the piano in the
sitting room.
"I mean she do!” attested Sam. "I'm a-tellin' you, when
that gal feel right ain't nobody in the world kin beat 'er!
Make you think you's right in heaven!”
"I'll be over,” said Paul.
"That's right, son," counseled Sam, "don't you let the
city git you 'way from the church.”
"I'll be there every Sunday!”
Sam looked at him and grinned.
"Uh-uh!” he grunted knowingly. "Now ain't no use o'
you tryin' to co't her! The Rev.'s son-he second pastor; we
got two, you know—the Rev.'s son got his eye on her. Bin
sot on 'er sense they warn’t more ’n chilluns."
I
him and growingly. "Now and pastor; WE
During the week Paul met Joe and the four lodgers, and
he smiled at the thought which had come to him when
Essie told him about the latter. The four could have been
quadruplets, he decided, if their shuffling gaits, servile old
faces and bodies could link them. They were nothing like
Joe, Paul had decided, for though his meeting with Essie's
father had been a casual one in the hall, he had been at
once impressed by the great stature and bearing of the man.
He was still a king, even though dethroned, thought Paul.
"You's sho' in a nice place,” one of the lodgers, Zack
Moton, informed him one morning when the two made
themselves acquainted. He had warmed to Paul because of
the young man's patient interest in his recital.
"I'll come in an' git you to cut my hair,” he offered. He
chuckled as he patted his shiny pate. And he did, bringing
his three friends with him.
"Yes,” he expanded without coaxing from Paul, “this here
gal sho' takes care of you. Gives you plenty covers in the


"SO YOU WANTS to go in business, eh?"
Joe lighted his cheap cigar and surveyed Paul through a
cloud of smoke. They had just finished their Sunday break-
fast and Paul was helping Essie with the dishes.
"Yes sir," answered Paul. “Always did want to be my own
boss, even as a kid. And I guess I like the idea of handling
money-my own money.”
"It's a great game, son,” mused Joe, raking his hair in his
characteristic gesture. "I reckon Sam done told you 'bout
me?” He chuckled as Paul nodded. “Ole Sam swear the
Lawd done smacked me down 'cause I done wrong. But
'tain't so, son; business is business, an' the slick feller gits
ahead. When he stop bein' slick he gits a kick in the pants,
that's all. Reckon that what happen to me. ... What kind
o'business you want try? Barber?”
"No sir," replied Paul thoughtfully. "I want to sell -
doesn't make much difference to me what it is, so long as
people want it and buy it.”
"You done had trainin', ain't you? That's what Essie told
me.”
"So, you've been talking about me?” teased Paul to Essie.
255


256
O Canaan!
"Merely passing conversation, mister!” she retorted.
"Mought o' bin passin',” chuckled Joe, heaving to his feet,
"but it sho' didn't sound like that to me! Sound like you an'
her done chewed up a whole lot o'rag."
"Dad!” protested Essie.
"Well, that what it sound like,” persisted Joe, ruffling her
hair. "Told me mo' 'bout you, young feller, than I ever
heard 'bout other squirts what used to run after her-
cludin' Ronnie." He gave one of his huge laughs, then looked
keenly at Paul. “She's a good gal, boy, an' I don't know
what I'd do 'thout 'er.” He started to trudge out, but
pused to smile down on them. “Hope you 'joys yo' game
after church. Don't let 'er beat you, young feller, 'cause ef
she do you'll never hear the last of it! I'm goin' round to see
Lem an'Connie. You be by today, daughter?”
"Tell them I'll be past sometime during the week,” lied
Essie.
"All right. I go out tonight, so I reckon I won't see you
all no mo''twell sometime in the week. Have a good time,
now."
"He certainly has a lot of guts,” voiced Paul when Joe
had gone. "If I'd lost as much as Sam says he lost, I guess I'd
have jumped in the river.”
Essie nodded. “Yes,” she said, "but it worries him, though
he tries to conceal it. And all the time he's out on the road
I'm wondering if that heart of his will hold up.”
"Pshaw!” disparaged Paul lightly. "He's just like my grand-
father-hard as a pine knot. My brother Booker often says
that they don't make that kind any more. And I guess he's
right. You don't have to worry about your dad—he can take
it. Come on. It's about time for us to be getting to church,
isn't it?"
It was the first Sunday morning in June, and the day
promised to be one of those ideal ones of abundant sun'with
just enough breeze from the lake to moderate the heat.


O Canaan!
259
"Sho' do miss you at the shop,” she said warmly. "Co’se
I'm glad you's makin' more ’n you was. Things is pickin' up
agin, gal. Who's this here?”
Essie presented Paul, who received Maggie's instant ap-
proval.
"Uh-huh!” she chuckled slyly at Essie. “Look like the
young Rev. gone have trouble, eh?”
Essie laughed off the hint, but Paul, watching her closely,
thought her eyes sparkled brighter.
"You all come round an' see me sometime," offered Maggie
while Paul handed her (to her delight) up the steps. "I'm
over on Vincennes still—you knows the house, Essie. Tell yo'
pappy I missed him this week. I'll be lookin' fo' you, now."
And she was conducted into the auditorium by a bridegroom-
like usher.
"I'll see you later,” Essie told Paul. “Hope you enjoy the
show.”
2
When he was settled into his seat Paul was astounded by
the vastness of the circular interior. Its design was a mixture
of Gothic and Byzantine with flying balconies and embossed
ceiling of gold and silver. With the exception of two panels,
one on either side of it, the rostrum stretched the entire
breadth of the auditorium, the floor of which dropped
gradually from front to back, like that of a theater. The
portions of wall space to the left and right of the platform
held depictions of the Baptism and Ascension of the Christ,
whose features were definitely negroid, as were those of the
angels and cherubim. At the back of the white-draped pulpit
and the high-backed chairs of choicest wood and workings
were the three sections of the choir. Above this was a glass-
enclosed baptismal pool with a painted river running down
the wall to suggest to the highly imaginative the river
Jordan. To the right of the pulpit a large grand piano of


262
O Canaan!
The minister was a dapper, light brownskin who walked
with a peacock's strut. From his diction, Paul knew that the
Rev. Mr Brown, Sr had been exposed to excellent training
in his sacred calling. But the Reverend knew his congregation
and its needs. He threw training to the winds after his intro-
ductory remarks on the theme of the Samson and Delilah
episode. He rose to dramatic heights when he suited actions
to words and illustrated the famous strong boy's walking
away with the gates of a city; one could almost see Samson
straining at the very hinges. His language and examples also
were made significantly concrete with what he called "down-
home" and "cornfield” expressions familiar to his flock in
their original Southern pastures. After each climactic utter-
ance which brought fervent outbursts from his congregation,
but which were lost on Paul, he would breath in an exhausted
and laborious manner:
"Ah, God!” “Pray with me, children!” “Why don't you
say amen?" "Ride on with me, children!” And numerous
others were his stock in trade. They never failed to raise the
temperature of the flock, Paul observed. All in all, it was a
deluge of words, gestures and intonations well calculated to
bring about the desired effect upon the sin-ridden ones who
heard it. To the zealous religionist it was another sound
thrashing which Satan had absorbed.
After this morning course of their weekly spiritual
nourishment the rank emotionalism gave way to affairs of a
more practical nature. The clerk, a finely bedecked lady
with a clear, carrying voice, read the notices of the day and
week: the church's employment agency had jobs to dispense;
the day nursery was available for working mothers, free of
charge; Sister So-and-so had some discarded clothes which
might be had by any needy member; Sister Maggie Dawson's
restaurant was being renovated to accommodate a larger
patronage; Brother Tate's funeral parlor was offering re-


264
O Canaan!
an agreement we could make with the owners. And here's
what the rabbi told me these are his exact words, and I
know that what he said was true, because at the time Brother
Benson was one of our leading realtors. Here's what he said:
‘Reverend Brown, we've had offers from a leading manu-
facturing concern that wants this building you contracted
to buy. They offered us a fourth more in cash than you are
paying, but I told them that we do not want an edifice which
we dedicated to our God to be used for any other purpose.'
Now those are his very words! Why don't you say amen?”
"Amen! Amen!”
"And the rabbi let us set our own payments at the lowest
rate of interest! Now ain't that fair? You know any so-
called Christians who would do the same thing?" He glared
at them.
"Now, children, you know what you're going to do for
me this morning? You're going to dig down in your jeans and
give me that money right now! Let the choir sing as the
ushers serve you!"
The collection was taken with a precision that made Paul
stare. At the conclusion of the hymn twelve of the ushers
marched down the middle aisle with laden wastebaskets, and
the pastor smiled upon his willing givers. After the obsery-
ance of the sacrament ritual, Doxology was sung, the choir
marched out, and Essie joined Paul as the congregation be-
came a noisy rabble.
"Do you mean to tell me that he got the amount he asked
for?” demanded Paul skeptically.
"He'll have more than that after the night's services,” de-
clared Essie. “Come on, let's get out of here before Ronnie
finds me—I gave his ring back to him this morning before
services began."
Paul looked at her sharply, but she kept her face averted.
He smiled and said, to change the subject:
"You know, I could take that preacher, a brass band and


O Canaan!
265
enough bright uniforms, and lead my people anywhere I
wanted them to go!”
"There's no use in your frettin'," laughed Paul. “Just relax
and save your energy—you'll need it!”
Essie sniffed. “These chumps always hog the courts," she
retorted impatiently. "There's no telling when we'll get on!”
Clad in white ducks, sweat shirt and low-cut tennis shoes,
Paul lounged with her on one of the benches along the high
wire fence enclosing the white-marked courts. To their
right, just beyond the cars shunting swiftly up and down the
boulevard, piles of rugged rocks bulwarked the strand against
the blue-green waters of Michigan which gleamed in the mid-
afternoon sunlight.
"Do you swim?" asked Paul.
She was standing wide-legged between him and the sun,
and he marked the trim lines of her figure through the thin
white divided skirt and loosely fitting blouse.
"With all that beautiful water,” he added, "you ought to.”
"Sure, I swim," she replied. “Come on, there's a match
ending on the center court.”
"Let's take a few dives after we finish here,” he suggested.
"You have shorts on under your skirt— "
"You're too fresh!” she snapped, but smiled. “You'd better
concentrate on your tennis. If you've enough left in you after
I'm through shellacking you, maybe we'll take a dip.”
"You're a cocky snip!” he grinned. “Just for that crack
I'm going to beat you a love set right off the reel!”
"You better say maybe!” she retaliated, her little jaw set
at a stubborn angle. “Here, fish, see what you can do with
this!”
They were on opposite sides of the net and she smashed
one over that nearly turned his racket. She laughed as the
ball skewed into the net.


266
O Canaan!
"Love set my eye!” she jeered.
Paul smiled. He knew her style now-a smashing, volleying
game all the way. He knew, also, just the dose for that, but
he gave no indication while they went through a lengthy
period of warming up. He volleyed along with her, gripping
his racket tighter as the force of her forearm drives in-
creased.
"Toss for the service, fish!” she ordered finally, coming to
the net.
"Back East, 'fish' means 'chump,'” said Paul as he care-
lessly twirled his racket to the ground and she won. “I sup-
pose the term has the same meaning out here, eh?”
"You guessed it, mister!” She grinned. “If you know any
prayers, start saying 'em!”
“Okay, lady,” he rejoined calmly, "I'm practically on my
knees now!”
“Ready, fish?” she called from her stance on the back line.
“Service, my little minnow!” retorted Paul.
The ball was a white blur that zipped across the net and
caromed off the ground at an angle. Paul's racket sliced the
air in a vicious chop stroke, and the sphere barely topped the
ribbon to skim in a short six-inch double bounce. Though she
shot forward desperately, Essie was too late.
"Oh, so that's your game?” she panted angrily. "Why don't
you play a man's game?”
"Because I'm playing a female minnow!” grinned Paul,
unruffled by the taunt.
Anticipating his action, Essie made for the net on the
next service, but Paul, as though reading her mind, volleyed
a hard angle shot to her backhand which she missed by feet.
"Oh, you!” cried Essie. She dropped her racket and glared
at him. Paul laughed. He was not even breathing hard.
The battle waxed grimly from that point on in silence
except for the dull twang of racket meeting ball. Sensing the


O Canaan!
267
intensity of the rivalry on the center court and appreciating
the finesse of the play, other singles and doubles opponents
abandoned their matches to form a gallery. Some of the girls
and women knew Essie and gave her cheers whenever she
made a particularly brilliant shot. The men, cognizant of a
chance for fun, formed a partisan group for Paul. Many
were the jibes that passed back and forth between the two
factions.
Paul made good his threat and took the first set six-love,
though Essie threatened all the way.
"Got enough?” he asked as they paused to change sides.
Essie's response was a black look.
"Serve up!” she snarled.
Paul admired her tenacity; he eased his play to such an
extent that she won four straight games.
“What's the matter-can't you take it?" she taunted. Her
gallery cheered vociferously.
"Pin his ears back, Essie!" called one pretty cream-colored
rooter. “The big brute!”
Paul waved his racket at the fair one and winked. And
now did these two lithe brown youngsters battle furiously.
Every point was contested with bitter, tight-lipped grim-
ness. But Paul, his male stamina standing him in good stead,
prevailed. Slowly he whittled Essie's lead until the count
stood five-all. The gallery was intensely quiet. The count
went to seven-all; still Essie refused to yield. Finally Paul
broke Essie's service, and the count stood eight-seven in his
favor.
"Here you go!” he called.
Previously during the match he had used a simple cut
service. Now he shifted to a reverse that bounced low and
hard on Essie's backhand. Unaccustomed to it, Essie, who
was feeling the effect of her long absence from the game,
drove the ball tiredly into the net four times in succession.
The match was over, and she sank to the ground even as the


O Canaan!
269
things don't suit you, down drops your lip—like it's doing
now! Who do you think you are? Why, you— "
"Let me alone, will you!” Essie sprang from the car and
barely missed being hit as she dodged through traffic to the
lake side of the thoroughfare. Paul locked the car and
leisurely followed.
"Suppose you wait until you've cooled off before jumping
into that cold water,” he said when he had made his way to
the spot where she was discarding her skirt and shoes. "You'll
catch cramps if you don't.”
"Go chase yourself!” she snapped and took a running
dive.
She was as graceful in the water as she had been on the
court, he observed. That overarm stroke came only after
much practice. Shivering, he followed, wading. Holy smoke!
The water was cold. ... His teeth were chattering when
he caught up with her.
"So you can't take it!” she taunted, and splashed him un-
mercifully. Then she ducked out of sight and came up at a
distance of twenty yards from him.
"Come on, sissy!” she jeered. “Swim!”
Scowling, he plunged in and chased her. Unmindful of the
distance they had traveled from the shore, they disported
themselves until a warning whistle shrilled. When they
veered about, her face reflected her dismay.
"What's the matter?” asked Paul quickly, treading water.
"Nothing!” she gasped and sank.
When she rose he grabbed her by the shirt and held her
head above the water.
“Let me go!” she gurgled, and lashed at him.
The anger vein welled in his forehead, and he smacked her
smartly. Her eyes widened, and she ceased struggling.
"Grab my shoulders and keep still!” he ordered. She
obeyed meekly, while he pulled for the shore. In a few min-
utes she could wade, and he half carried her to the sand.


274
O Canaan!
wing
"I know you've wondered where I work,” she said as Paul
turned into the street. “Well, I'll give you a chance to see.
Only”—she looked mysterious—"you must keep your mouth
shut. And don't be surprised at anything you see. Here we
are.”
Paul followed her down a dark, foul-smelling alley which
ran abruptly into the tin side of what appeared to be a large
garage.
"What are you-a night mechanic?” whispered Paul,
tittering
"No, a machinist," she corrected and laughed noiselessly.
They had come to a doorway lighted by a single bulb.
She signaled by rapping twice. A slot opened in the door,
and a pair of eyes examined them briefly. A bar scraped, and
Essie led Paul through the opened door. The hulking possessor
of the sharp eyes climbed from his stool to advance on Paul.
"He's okay, Thug," said Essie.
"Uh-huh,” grunted the man. Nevertheless, he patted Paul
from ankles to shoulders. “Okay!” he said gruffly, pulling a
lever. A ponderous door slid on oiled rollers and Paul squinted
in his amazement.
The high-ceilinged, raftered enclosure into which they
stepped had been a garage of immense proportions, Paul
judged, for the concrete floor, over which discarded
remnants of theater seats were rowed, still bore dark grease
spots. Along the left, from the entrance, was a long narrow
space occupied by machinery and workbenches of the former
garage. It was now manned by a motley crew who appeared
to be setting type and preparing a series of small printing
apparatuses for action. Along the right wall, across the width
of the place, stretched a section of three screened cages.
Down its entire length ran a high counter where girls, all


276
O Canaan!
of the work. The nondescript crew moved with efficiency
equal to a well-organized unit in a legitimate business con-
cern. Long two-inch rolls of paper were fed to the machines,
which printed and cut sets of the announced numbers. As
quickly as the machines ejected them, the crew stacked and
packed them into suitcases, boxes and other conveyors. Paul
knew now where all those policy slips of various colors came
from that one found in the streets of the South Side. Paul
nodded his appreciation of the printers' adeptness, and one
ink-smeared young fellow grinned and winked.
Regaining his seat, Paul once more focused his attention
on the counter where Essie worked. Every so often men and
women, whom he guessed to be comparable to runners in
New York's number game, hurried to the counter to dump
piles of change, bills and policy slips. Depression! snorted
Paul to himself. Depression his eye!
An hour after the last drawing he was joined by Essie,
and the crowd departed silently.
"I never saw so many colored people together as quiet as
that in my life!” exclaimed Paul. “Why, you'd think that
they were working in a bank, or some big business!”
"That's just what it is,” smiled Essie. "It's where you in-
vest and wait for the outcome. You ought to see it some
Saturday nights and just before holidays! Tonight's crowd
was a small one.”
"It's a sweet racket,” mused Paul. "Who owns that one?”
"My brother-in-law used to run it,” said Essie as she
stepped into the car and they drifted away. "He gave it up
last year, because the risk is getting to be too great. I was
going to work in that big department store on Forty-seventh,
but he offered me twice as much as the store pays.”
They were headed for home, but Essie told him to take
Michigan Avenue to the north. "I'll show you something to
make your eyes pop,” she said, chuckling. “You Easterners
don't know what it's all about!”


O Canaan!
277
"You got us back there," agreed Paul. “That place would
last just about as long as a snowball in hell if they tried it
in Harlem!”
"That's how you make money these days,” she said. “Since
our folks love to gamble and are always looking for some-
thing for nothing, the guys with brains figure they may as
well dish out the dough to their own kind. Quite a few of
these legitimate businesses you see run by us come from the
good old wheel!”
"It's a pretty fair game, too, isn't it?”
"About as fair as any other gamble. At least you get more
than one number to shoot at-like in New York.”
"I think I'll have a try at the wheel,” said Paul quietly.
"Don't let it try you!” she advised. “Turn in here."
Though the hour was late, the place which they ap-
proached was ablaze with light. The entrance looked like
that of a theater and was swarming with habitués of the bar
at the right. They mounted two flights of broad stone stairs
to a narrow green door. A silent, glum-faced fellow accosted
them. He made Essie open her pocketbook and patted Paul
swiftly. That this was a wise procedure was attested by the
collection of tagged guns, knives and blackjacks pigeonholed
in an open case over which the attendant kept guard. Satis-
fied as to their harmlessness, he let them pass.
What Paul witnessed now transcended the policy house.
They entered a large, glaringly lighted room flanked on
either hand by tiers of seats, all occupied by sober-faced men
and women holding numbered cards. The center floor space
was sectioned into areas for nearly every game of chance
known to Paul. At individual folding tables sat foursomes;
around the walls, faro, wheels and dice held forth. Every
racial group was represented—slant-eyed, silent Mongols;
diminutive islanders; pale Nordics, from blond to brunette;
and, dominating all, the gamut of Afro-Americana. Over-
looking the entire assemblage were the vigilant gamekeepers


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O Canaan!
"I better not see him if he doesn't have my money!” grated
Paul grimly.
"He's a slicker," informed a loafer. "I won wid him once,
an' he swo' 'fo' the Lawd he lost my slip. Got all bad an'
pulled a razor on me, too! I ain't never played nothin' wid
him since that "
"Heah you is, schoolboy!”
Paul, Sam and the waiting customers stared aghast. Big Jeff
sagged against the doorframe, partially supported by a
scared-looking taxi driver. The latter hopped into his machine
as soon as Paul reached Jeff's side.
"Sweet Jesus!” cried Sam. "He's bloody's a hawg!” .
Jeff was bloody. A long, cleanly opened cut on his left
cheek welled a profuse stream which descended the side of
his neck to his hulking chest; this was augmented by a con-
stant flow from his nose. Another slash in his left arm dripped
on the floor.
"Git a doc!” he ordered, brushing Sam aside.
Paul led him to a seat and tied a handkerchief above the
arm wound.
"I found 'im!” growled Jeff. “Son of a bitch won't mess
wid nobody else's dough! Over on Wabash gamblin' wid my
money!” He laughed harshly, ignoring his paining lips. "Five
of 'em up there in a 'partment playin' Georgy skin—then
come tellin' me 'bout I warn't gwine git my money! Hell-fire!
Tried t kill ever' one of 'em, the bas’ards! Reach yo'han' in
my pocket, schoolboy. Don't know how much they is—took
all I could find. ...'
The doctor, a young man with a studied professional air,
came in briskly and examined Jeff's wounds.
"H'm ...” he murmured casually, "razor cut, eh? Now
if you'll be very still, I'll fix you up so that there 'll be as
small a scar as possible.” He turned to Paul and directed him
to hold Jeff's head.
"Don't need nobody to hold my haid!” snorted Jeff.


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O Canaan!
"You'll pull it through,” she assured him, "because you
could pull anything through!”
And, leaning against the door, she watched his brisk figure
until it was out of sight.
Two hours later he returned, picked her up and whirled
about the shop.
"It's all set!” he cried. “We open in April on Forty-seventh
Street—your birthday, Miss Maggie says, for luck! How ’m
I doin'?”
The Boulevard Terrace was a model housing project in the
heart of the Black Belt. Financed by a prominent philan-
thropist as an experiment, its six-story, articulated buildings
of fine brick occupied an entire block. With spacious outer
and inner courts artistically landscaped and abundantly scat-
tered with trees, shrubbery and play spaces for children, it
was a complete community within itself-an oasis in the
desert of the surrounding areas, which, like the rest of the
South Side invaded by the horde, were fast deteriorating into
slums.
"A’nt Lizzie ought to see this,” remarked Paul as he and
Essie entered one of the sunny courts that Sunday morning.
"Yes—but don't take her into the next block!” added
Essie.
Connie eagerly opened the door for them. By her side a
chubby-faced boy in a sailor suit viewed them with tawny
eyes that held the peculiar gravity of childhood before
strangers.
"Don't show any surprise at Lem's appearance!” whispered
Connie hastily to Essie. She conducted them into the living
room from whence came the sound of a piano.
Bran, who was strumming the keys when they entered,
advanced with outstretched hand to Essie. He made no men-
tion of her long withdrawal from the family group.


O Canaan!
289
"You're just in time to help me pick out a piece," he smiled
to her, and grasped Paul's hand cordially.
Essie, meanwhile, could scarcely suppress a cry when she
saw Lem. He was without color, and the veins and bones
stood out sharply beneath his transparent skin. But most
shocking of all were his eyes. They were already dead; they
stared rather than looked at you.
"Hello, Essie,” he whispered, forcing a horrible grin. "Glad
you finally got around to see me.” He paused for breath and
continued with grim humor: "Mae's taking me into exile
today, Sis. Aren't you, Mae?"
Mae had come from the rear of the apartment, followed
by a delicately brown toddler with blond curls and her
plump mother's black eyes.
"Lawdy me!” cried Mae, kissing Essie. “Here's your aunt
Essie, Rosetta,” she informed the child, who fled to her
father.
Throughout the excellent dinner Paul sensed the restraint
which stilted the table. He endeavored to offset this by dis-
cussing current topics with Bran and answering Lem's
wheezes about Harlem. He and Essie were teased about
marriage; the antics of Rosetta while eating afforded
pleasantries which under ordinary circumstances would have
produced hearty laughter. But the pall remained. It became
worse when Lem suffered a coughing attack that left him
nearly breathless. He shoved his barely touched plate from
him in vexation.
"No use!” he fretted gloomily. He glared around the
table, laughed harshly and painfully, and coughed again.
"Why don't you say it?” he demanded as sharply as he
could. "Say you know I'm going out there to die!”
A spasm crossed Mae's worried face, and she looked plead-
ingly at Paul.
"I wouldn't say that, Lem,” said Bran quietly.
"I wouldn't mind it so much,” whispered Lem, "but you're


290
O Canaan!
all so damned healthy!” He grinned his horrible grin and
drank from a brown bottle. It seemed to relieve him, for he
continued without so much painful effort, and his tone was
derisive.
“You and Johnson have been trying to dispose of the
dictators for fifteen minutes. You shifted from that to this
God damned race question, which you tried to solve in
twenty minutes! Hell! You want me to solve it for you?" He
laughed again and coughed. Bran tried to stop him, but Lem
would not listen.
"I give you my solution!” he said with as much force as
his lungs would permit. “Death! That solves everything! It
would have solved Dad's problem-it solved Junior's ...
Sol's . . . Everything, you hear?” Another coughing spell
left him weak and shaken, but he raged on:
"What we need is more plagues! Plagues that you and your
learned associates, Bran, couldn't lick. Then you wouldn't
have unemployment-no slums! And we ought to have a
special plague for us—something worse than what's got me-
that would wipe out all these good-for-nothings cluttering
up your great civilization all those good-for-nothings I
used to put on relief! Then you healthy, prosperous people
with your fine education and the lords of the earth wouldn't
have to worry with us scum! We need a plague-
“Let's get ready to make the train," interjected Mae, biting
her lip in anguish.
“I believe I'll have a highball after that!”
Connie dropped wearily into a chair. They had returned
from the station, and she sent the children to play in the
court.
"Perhaps we'd better have one all round,” said Bran, re-
pairing to the kitchen.
“We don't have such good breaks with the males of our


O Canaan!
291
family, do we, Connie?” said Essie ruefully. "First it was Sol,
then Dad and Junior—now it looks like it's Lem. ..."
"If he would only brace up!” Connie made a despairing
gesture. “But Mae says that all he talks about is death. He's
even threatened suicide-says that he doesn't want to be a
burden on Mae. He had that complex once before—when he
didn't have a job. Mae certainly has been a brick to stick it
out.”
Connie smiled at Paul, who was looking silently out of a
window.
"'I suppose you think we're a pretty somber lot, Mr John-
son?" she ventured.
"No—no more than any other family," answered Paul
thoughtfully. "I guess all families have their ups and downs.”
He chuckled. "My grandfather has seen so many that he calls
life 'these low grounds of sorrow'—he's an old man, too.
What do you think of that?”
"I think he's got something there!” laughed Connie, pick-
ing a glass from the tray Bran offered.
"I don't know," frowned Paul. “One's attitude toward life
and living depends largely upon the experiences he has, I
guess. My grandfather's lived all his days in a section not
readily given to change—where the next generation may meet
the same handicaps which he and his children have had to
face, and where the struggle for existence is just that and
nothing more. But out here—I think it's a bit different.”
Connie's face became ironic. "Have you taken Mr John-
son over on Federal and Dearborn and into some of the
blocks on the other streets below the Forties?" she asked
Essie. "You should have made a few rounds with Lem before
he became sick!”
"And don't leave out Miss Jane!" put in Essie.
"I've seen something of what you're hinting,” said Paul.
"But who's to blame for those people's condition? Quite
often they are themselves! We are to blame for a lot of our


292
O Canaan!
own misfortunes. Take my case, for instance. It took four
years of Harlem to knock some silly notions out of my
head! And there are thousands of fellows like myself-
college-bred, supposedly intelligent, and with abilities, yet
they're throwing themselves away-chasing phantoms!
They're romanticists instead of being realists, that's the
trouble. They want to start big and stay big-scrambling
after high-sounding degrees, unwilling to work up in some
drudging occupation which supplies the world's needs. Then
when they wind up as failures they very often hide behind
the bugaboo of race! Take these people who buy and sup-
port huge churches. Why, if I could get every Negro who
puts his money into the church's coffers to put the same
amount into a fund to start a producing business—just for
one year—that business would employ thousands! What do
you think, Doctor?”.
Bran balanced his glass and crossed his legs.
"You're half right and half wrong." He smiled quietly.
"I've been out here for nearly ten years and have had deal-
ings with all kinds of people. To my mind Chicago, taken in
all its aspects, offers about as fair an opportunity to all its
people for advancement as any city I've lived in. The average
visitor from the East goes back home with tales of splendor.
And he's right as far as he goes. You'll find more businesses
run by Negroes here than in any other Northern city; you'll
find finer homes also. But, like any city, ours has its seamy
side. It offers you both. It says to the newcomer: 'Here are
my wares—take what you're strong enough to take and hold.
No city can offer more!' And she's right. If you're weak,
then you get the weakling's portion, and the other way
around. That's the law of life, I've found. So far you're right,
Johnson— "
"But what about the other side?" demanded Connie heat-
edly. "I don't know whether Essie remembers, but I do. We
came up here in ’16, and on the train there were folks from


O Canaan!
299
they's is they's. I ain't never gone set down on 'em-no suh!
Young'uns got nuf do to take care o' theyselves nowadays.”
And he trudged out to his work. Maggie shook her head
approvingly after him.
"There goes a man what is a man, sho'nuf!” she avowed to
an indolent helper who leaned upon the idle counter. "He's
jes’ like the old song says: 'Jes' like a rock in a weary land!'”
"Yeah, he's a man all right nuf,” mused the indolent one,
pursing his lips, "but look like to me he ain't here fo’ long,
ef you ask me, big as he is. Sometime when he git that short-
ness o'breath I swears I done seen him fo' the last time.”
"Humph!” grunted Maggie defensively. "I bet he'll be
here when they's pattin' dirt in yo’ face! S'pose you git to
work on them ’taters an' stop lookin' like a two-bit gambler!”
The shop's trade increased, for Mae and Connie had pre-
vailed upon their colleagues to shift to Essie for their mas-
sages, waves and manicures. The bank account grew accord-
ingly, and Essie hired a helper every week end.
"Things keep on like this, we'll be in the clear by June,"
she declared to Paul one rainy night in April.
"Say, what's eating you?" she demanded. "Aren't you glad
to hear what I've just told you?”
"Miss Maggie's decided not to open the tavern,” said Paul,
his face plainly stamped with disappointment. "I've talked
my head off, but she won't see the light. Says her business is
down and she's afraid to take a chance until things get better.
That place on Forty-seventh won't be vacant much longer,
either. I passed there Friday and saw a couple of Italians look-
ing at it.”
He grew more morose, though Essie's shop prospered as
the weather became warmer. The spot on Forty-seventh


300
O Canaan!
Street had been leased and turned into a saloon that did a
thriving business.
"I told Miss Maggie that's what would happen!” he fumed
to Joe. “All because I didn't have the money myself, there
goes a swell business up the rainspout!”
"You all ain't doin' so bad here," reminded Joe. “In a
couple o' years you'll have enough so's to have one o' yo'
own.”
“Yeah, maybe!” he said skeptically.
In June the big championship prize fight, which was occu-
pying more newspaper space than a war in Europe, began
packing the city with fans from all parts of the country.
Paul fumed anew at the trade he saw the newly opened
saloon enjoy. Essie was kept busy from early morning until
late at night at her irons and curlers. The South Side was
preparing to herald the first Negro heavyweight champion
in over a quarter of a century. Lose? Why, their boy couldn't
lose! What about that fight last year? Aw, that was a phony!
The barbershop became a clearinghouse for opinions, and
woe to the dissenter who strayed from the universal belief
that "the idol of his people” would win. You had big Jeff
Jackson to "whup” if you did stray. Paul's ears wearied of
listening to the daily wrangling that waxed hotter as the
night of the battle neared.
“You want to see a sight?” asked Essie when Paul came
home that evening. She had closed the shop because cus-
tomers had stopped abruptly after seven o'clock.
"Cheer up!" she coaxed. “I reached a new high in receipts
today. Come on, I'm going to show you how Chicago cele-
brates. Dad's already around to the Jacksons-he and Jeff
are going to listen in together on Jeff's new radio that he
bought just for tonight.” And she dragged him forth
despite his protests.
A peculiar tenseness gripped the South Side. When they
reached Forty-seventh and South Parkway the air was


O Canaan!
309
his even as another spasm raged through her, and tears of
remorse mingled with the sweat.
Through the night, alone they suffered until it was over
in a veritable crescendo of travail that left her tortured
young body quivering even after the agony had passed away
and she knew rest.
Joe noticed their subdued manner, though they had put on
a good show of their appreciation for his securing Dan's
backing for the tavern. However, when their laughter be-
came more infrequent and their countenances more brood-
ing, Joe looked questioningly at them. He was startled to
find that within a few weeks Paul had developed a streak of
gray down in the center of his small head and that Essie no
longer hummed at her work.
They were at early supper two Sundays later, just prior to
Joe's leaving for his run. All during the meal the burden of
conversation had been upon him. Essie had barely touched
her plate, while Paul's eating had been mechanical, as though
his mind were fixed on some far event.
"Well, son," remarked Joe, "look like you gone open up
next Sat’dy-leastways that what Dan says.”
“Yeah . . ." said Paul absently. “I mean, yes sir!” he cor-
rected.
“Business picked up this week, didn't it, Essie?” Joe shifted
as Paul fell into his apathy again.
Essie nodded. “Twice as much as last week,” she mur-
mured.
Joe pushed back his chair, eying them humorously as he
did so.
"I sho' will be glad when that young 'un gits here,” he
chuckled, pulling on his coat. "I bet, doggone, you all won't
have no time to be lookin' so sad then! I mind when Sol was
comin' ”





MAY - 3 1940


UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 00902 2487
BOOKSHOP
50 E. 13th St
New York, N. Y: