As Billy related this, he spoke with the same excitement that he had shown when describing for Sally the incident at the orphanage—with the broken window and fistful of spoons.
Emmett sat down again.
—Billy, you seem to like Duchess.
Billy looked back in perplexity.
—Don’t you like Duchess, Emmett?
—I do. But just because I like someone doesn’t mean I like everything they happen to do.
—Like when he gave away Sally’s preserves?
Emmett laughed.
—No. I’m all right with that one. I meant other things. . . .
As Billy continued to stare back at him, Emmett searched for an appropriate example.
—You remember Duchess’s story about going to see the movies?
—You mean when he would sneak out the bathroom window and jog across the potato fields.
—Right. Well, there’s a little more to that story than Duchess related. He wasn’t just a participant when it came to sneaking into town, he was the instigator. He’s the one who came up with the idea and who would rally a few of the others whenever he wanted to see a movie. And for the most part, it was like he said. If they slipped out on a Saturday night around nine, they could be back by one in the morning, leaving no one the wiser. But one night, Duchess was eager to see some new western with John Wayne. Since it had been raining all week and it looked as if it might rain some more, the only one he could convince to go was my bunkmate, Townhouse. They weren’t halfway across the fields when it started to pour. Though they were getting drenched and their boots were getting stuck in the mud, they pushed on. But when they finally got to the river, which was riding high because of the rain, Duchess just sat down and quit. He said he was too cold, too wet, too tired to go farther. Townhouse figured he’d come that far, he wasn’t turning back. So he swam across, leaving Duchess behind.
Billy was nodding as Emmett spoke, his brow furrowed in concentration.
—All of this would have been fine, continued Emmett, but after Townhouse left, Duchess decided he was too wet, too cold, and too tired to walk all the way back to the barracks. So he went to the nearest road, flagged down a passing pickup, and asked if he could get a lift to a diner up the way. The only problem was that the driver of the pickup was an off-duty cop. Instead of taking Duchess to the diner, he took him to the warden. And when Townhouse returned at one in the morning, the guards were waiting.
—Was Townhouse punished?
—He was, Billy. And pretty severely, at that.
What Emmett didn’t tell his brother was that Warden Ackerly had two simple rules when it came to willful infractions. The first rule was that you could pay the piper in weeks or strokes. You get in a fight in the mess hall and that’s either three weeks tacked onto your sentence or three lashes on your back. His second rule was that since Negro boys were only half as suited to learning as white boys, their lessons had to be twice as long. So while Duchess took four extra weeks tacked onto his sentence, Townhouse received eight strokes from the switch—right there in front of the mess hall with everyone lined up to watch.
—The point is, Billy, that Duchess is full of energy and enthusiasm and good intentions too. But sometimes, his energy and enthusiasm get in the way of his good intentions, and when that happens the consequences often fall on someone else.
Emmett had hoped this recollection would be a little sobering for Billy, and from Billy’s expression it seemed to have hit the mark.
—That is a sad story, he said.
—It is, said Emmett.
—It makes me feel sorry for Duchess.
Emmett looked at his brother in surprise.
—Why for Duchess, Billy? He’s the one who got Townhouse in trouble.
—That only happened because Duchess wouldn’t cross the river when it was riding high.
—That’s true. But why would that make you feel sorry for him?
—Because he must not know how to swim, Emmett. And he was too ashamed to admit it.
* * *
Just as Emmett anticipated, shortly after noon some of the railyard’s employees began walking through the gates on their way to get lunch. As he watched, Emmett noted that he couldn’t have been more wrong about where the vet positioned himself. Nearly every man who exited had something for him—be it a nickel, a dime, or a friendly word.
Emmett understood that the men who emerged from the administrative building were most likely to have the information he needed. Responsible for scheduling and dispatching, they would know which boxcars were to be attached to which trains at which times and where they would be headed. But Emmett didn’t approach them. Instead, he waited for the others: the brakemen and loaders and mechanics—the men who worked with their hands and were paid by the hour. Instinctively, Emmett knew that these men would be more likely to see in him a version of themselves and, if not exactly overcome with sympathy, at least reasonably indifferent to whether the railroad collected another fare. But if instinct told Emmett that these were the men he should approach, reason told him that he should wait for a straggler, because even though a working man might be open to bending the rules on behalf of a stranger, he’d be less likely to do so in the company of others.