Little Fists

8/14/2019 Little Fists

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Peter Lehu

163 Oak StreetBinghamton, NY 13905

Word Count: 3777

Little Fists

Harvey Ludwig's right eye was purple and puffy. A vein of dried blood streaked down his fleshy cheek.

He sat on a stump in Mr. Cinjun's front yard. There was no grass, just dusty red clay and a few spindly rose

bushes. Little else would grow in the summer heat in Georgia. A fence made of sticks and thick rope

surrounded the sparse yard and a tiny, paint-chipped house. Mr. Cinjun was there too.

"Harvey, you got to fight back, man!"

Mr. Cinjun dabbed Harvey's eye with a rag of peroxide. The morning sun glinted off of Harvey's moist

face. Harvey sat still and stared ahead, only his hands moved, cupping and uncupping.

"I tried," said Harvey. His voice was deep like a man's but unsure like a child's.

"Well you didn't try hard enough. You're a big man, Harvey! Nobody should be able to bruise you up like

this."

"I tried."

Harvey Ludwig was a big man. When he sat, his knees rose above his waist. His expansive belly rested in

his lap. Even sitting on the stump, he looked down at Mr. Cinjun. But then again, Mr. Cinjun was a very

small man. He stood no taller than five feet and had a shrew-like face crowned with a ring of hair like a

monk. He had to lean over Harvey to reach the welts on his wide forehead.

"You got to stick up for yourself, man. Those trash ain't any better than you," said Mr. Cinjun in a voice


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that was also quite shrew-like.

"But, Mr. Cinjun, I tried."

Mr. Cinjun lived in the white part of town. On account of his small size and his rodent-like appearance, h

didn't get the respect he deserved among the whites. Mr. Cinjun worked for the Tyresville Mining Company

where they had a special smaller wheelbarrow for him. After work, he couldn't get a drink at the bar without

being made a fool by the other men-- snickers as he walked in, an elbow rested on his head. He couldn't find

a wife either. But Mr. Cinjun had a liking for himself so he looked for respect elsewhere. He had found som

on the black side of town. Even though he had as much color as a plucked chicken, Daisey Ludwig knew th

Mr. Cinjun was a respectable person. Mr. Cinjun had volunteered to watch over her son for parts of the week

Mrs. Ludwig had gotten older and couldn't move so well. She needed help looking after Harvey.

"Come inside, Harvey, we got to get you washed up. You can't be going to church looking like this. It's

disrespectful."

"It's okay, Mr. Cinjun."

"No, it ain't Harvey."

On Sunday mornings, Harvey would walk down the dirt path to the river and then he would follow the

river to James Street where Mr. Cinjun lived. He and Mr. Cinjun would drive to church in a red pick-up.

"I reckon I'm going to have to pick you up from your mama's house from now on."

"But I like to walk, Mr. Cinjun."

"And you like to got walloped too?"

Mr. Cinjun took Harvey inside his white house which was little more like a shack. It originally had two

rooms but Mr. Cinjun had made a third by building a wall out of oil cans that were beginning to rust. The

place was scattered with mouse turds and empty bean cans. In the corner that stood for the kitchen, Mr.

Cinjun tried to scrub the blood stains out of Harvey's collared, Sunday shirt. He wrapped a rag around

Harvey's forehead to cover where the shovel had hit. Then he rested an undersized hat on Harvey's head to

cover the bandage.

"I reckon, Harvey, I ain't got the size you got but I would put up a heck of a fight."

"It's okay, Mr. Cinjun, I'm okay." Harvey looked like more of a man in the wide-brimmed hat.


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"It ain't okay, Harvey."

Every Sunday, they would go to the Holy Mother Church, the Negro church, because Harvey wasn't

allowed at St. Mary's with its white steeple and stained glass. Holy Mother was made of logs and had a flat

roof. Flies buzzed around the sacraments and the parishioners fanned themselves with their missals. When

Mr. Cinjun walked in with Harvey he got some looks on account of his white skin but most of the

parishioners knew he was a respectable man for looking after Harvey.

During mass the chairs creaked and the babies cried. Harvey stared out at the preacher and the big woode

cross behind the altar. He listened to the readings because he liked stories and he tried to understand the

sermon. Mr. Cinjun didn't bother to listen. He didn't need to pray because he knew God was already happy

with him for bringing Harvey. Instead, Mr. Cinjun thought about women and cold drinks and counted the

knots in the wood of the ceiling. Eventually he dozed off to the rhythm of the preacher's deep voice. When i

was time to stand and kneel Harvey didn't bother to wake him. The songs woke up Mr. Cinjun instead and h

sang, his nasal voice standing out among the black chorus. Harvey sung sounds instead of words. When he

took communion, the pastor stood on tiptoe to slip the Eucharist into Harvey's mouth. Mr. Cinjun received

his wafer in cupped hands.

"Oh, Harvey! Did them white devils get you again?"

To Daisey Ludwig, Mr. Cinjun was the exception. All her life, white folk had given her nothing but

trouble. They had found Harvey's father face down in the river eighteen years ago and she was sure the

whites had something to do with it. And now they were beating on her son.

Mr. Cinjun took off his hat and Harvey ducked as they entered Mrs. Ludwig's house. It wasn't much

bigger or neater than Mr. Cinjun's. In the main room there was a basin, a small, black stove, and a table. Mrs

Ludwig sat in a deep, sagging armchair. She wore a loose green smock and rolls of fat peeked out the arm

holes.

"I'm okay, Mama." Harvey kissed his mother on the cheek.

"Mornin', Mrs. Ludwig," said Mr. Cinjun, "I reckon it ain't safe for Harvey down on James Street. I'm


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terribly sorry for what those crackers did to your boy."

Mrs. Ludwig first met Mr. Cinjun one time when Harvey had wandered off. Some of the boys at the

mine had told Mr. Cinjun that the women were shorter down the rail twenty miles at Cooper's Station. He

tried not to believe them but that Saturday he found himself down there walking the streets in his finest

overalls. Harvey, who had gone off after a rabbit and found himself in a freight car, was also wandering

around Cooper's Station. Mr. Cinjun didn't find any miniature females but he recognized Harvey ( everyone

from Tyresville could recognize Harvey ) and drove him back home. Mr. Cinjun spent the drive lecturing

Harvey on the dangers of trains and when they arrived at Mrs. Ludwig's he found himself offering to watch

over her boy sometimes. Mrs. Ludwig was suspicious but Mr. Cinjun was so small that Mrs. Ludwig figured

even if he tried to pull something off, Harvey could get away. But Mr. Cinjun had turned out to be a good

man, a white devil that was only half devil on account of his size.

"'Taint your fault, Mr. Cinjun. Poor Harvey don't know how to stand up for himself. Let me look at your

face, boy," said Mrs. Ludwig. The bruises on Harvey's face had become a whole range of colors. She

struggled like a flipped turtle to get out of her chair.

"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Ludwig. I cleaned him up. He'll be all right."

She dropped back into her chair with a grunt. Mrs. Ludwig's mind and body had been sharp once. She

raised Harvey and his four brothers all by herself. But over time her body got mushy and her mind had

trouble focusing. She did a mighty fine job bringing up Harvey except that she had been bringing him up fo

thirty-one years now. She still treated him like a boy and for some reason he still acted like one.

"I reckon I could pick Harvey up from now on," said Mr. Cinjun.

"I like to walk, Mama."

"Harvey, keep quiet. Me and Mr. Cinjun is talking. Why don't you fix Mr. Cinjun and your mama some

lemonade?"

"Mr. Cinjun likes whiskey."

"Lemonade will be just fine," said Mr. Cinjun, his face reddening slightly. "As I was saying, Mrs.

Ludwig, I could drive here from now on."

"Don't bother yourself. Harvey's a big boy. He has to learn to stay clear of those light-skinned devils."


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"That's it!! Fight back, you dumb Negro!" Mr. Cinjun kept pounding with his other fist. Spike's deep

barks punctured the surrounding silence. Harvey was soon on his back and had both of Mr. Cinjun's wrists i

his grip. His belly was covered in dead pine needles. Mr. Cinjun eventually stopped struggling to escape.

Harvey's sad, confused eyes met Mr. Cinjun's fiery ones.

"Mr. Cinjun, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight the dog," blubbered Harvey.

But Mr. Cinjun wasn't done. He kneed Harvey in the groin. Harvey grimaced in pain and anger replaced

his confusion. He released his grip, matched fierce eyes with Mr. Cinjun, and clobbered him in the side of th

head with an open palm. The blow sent Mr. Cinjun rolling over and over until he lay face up and still in the

needles.

Harvey sat there on the ground for a while. Spike sat too and began to whimper.

"Mr. Cinjun?," Harvey mumbled.

Harvey brought himself to his feet. Coated in blood, dirt, and pine needles, he looked like a beast with

pants on. He walked over to the still figure. Its right ear was beginning to puff up. Blood trickled from its

temple.

"Mr. Cinjun?"

It coughed.

"Mr. Cinjun, I don't want to fight the dog," Harvey weakly pleaded.

It coughed and rolled over and kept coughing. And then it laughed. Mr. Cinjun reached up to feel the

blood on his neck.

"Forget the dog," he said, coughing and shaking his head. "Harvey, help me up."

Mr. Cinjun climbed up Harvey until he stood next to him. He held onto Harvey's arm and swayed.

"Whew, what a wallop! Good hit, Harvey. Now that's what you got to do to those crackers who pick on

you." Mr. Cinjun's world spun but he was not badly hurt. He looked at the blood on his fingertips with a

smile. He leaned on Harvey and they made their way back to the pickup.

"Oh, Mr. Cinjun! Did those devils get you too?"

Daisey Ludwig was in the same chair. The creaking of the screen door had woke her up from a nap.


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"No, ma'am. Your boy did that. Your boy is a fighter now," said Mr. Cinjun proudly displaying his woun

"Mr. Cinjun wanted me to fight a dog but I didn't wanna fight no dog and then..."

"Oh, hush up, Harvey. Let Mr. Cinjun talk." Harvey and Mr. Cinjun had already been down to the river t

wash up. Harvey wore his fresh Sunday shirt.

"Nothing much to talk about, Mrs. Ludwig. Your boy done walloped me good. Now he's ready to wallop

them no good trash."

"Harvey, you 'pologize for whackin' Mr. Cinjun. You only hit other white folk from now on, you hear?"

said Mrs. Ludwig in a faraway voice. The midday sun was in full effect and she soon dozed off again.

That afternoon Mr. Cinjun drove up again. This time, instead of a dog, there was a white mound in the

back of his pickup. He had filled a pillow case with clay from the river and tied a thick rope around the open

end. He hung it from a tree in Harvey's front yard and with some mud he drew a face on it with crosses for

eyes.

"Now Harvey, I want you to punch this here bag every day for an hour. Really wallop it good. Pretend it

one of them crackers who wallop on you," he said.

Harvey obeyed. Everyday in the late afternoon he would amble over to the tree and punch until Mrs.

Ludwig hollered out the window that an hour was up. Harvey thought the face was funny and he aimed for

the crosses. By Friday of that week, Harvey's neighbors stopped pointing and laughing at the giant and his

swinging bag. Mrs. Ludwig encouraged her son. It got him out of the house and gave him some exercise. Sh

was also happy that the face on the bag was white. "Finally I got a man to protect me," she would say as

Harvey came inside breathing hard with a V of sweat at his collar. But Harvey didn't think much of it. They

told him to do it so he did it. Once he tried to punch the tree to vary his routine but it hurt too much and his

knuckles got all bloody. On Wednesday, Harvey got the idea that if he did a good job punching the bag, Mr.

Cinjun might let him play with that dog and he began to punch harder. Sometimes the bag would swing back

and hit him in the face and when it did Harvey would get a small taste of that same feeling he got when Mr.

Cinjun had hurt him in the groin. He would hit the bag even harder.

The next Sunday, Mr. Cinjun did not pick Harvey up. Harvey walked up James Street to Mr. Cinjun's


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house alone, covered in blood.

"Harvey! Holy Jesus! What happened?!" said Mr. Cinjun as he slid out from under his red pickup. Mr.

Cinjun had been trying to get his truck to start all morning.

"I punched them."

"You fought back? But all this blood?"

"It's ain't my blood," said Harvey in a quiet voice like a child.

"It's the blood of them trash? You beat them, Harvey? Good for you! They won't bother you no more! I

done taught you right!"

But Harvey didn't seem happy like Mr. Cinjun. Instead of his usual blank stare, Harvey looked worried.

His hands shook. Mr. Cinjun didn't notice anything was wrong.

"Let's get you cleaned up and then off to church. We're walking today. Darn truck won't start."

They followed the dirt roads through the dusty town. Mr. Cinjun made some comments about the

weather and about his truck but Harvey kept quiet. There was a cool wind in the air and the sun was hidden

by a blanket of clouds. Two vultures circled low.

At Holy Mother Church, Harvey stared at the floor instead of the altar. Mr. Cinjun tipped his hat to the

old ladies. The preacher's voice echoed against the wooden walls as fat raindrops dotted the dust outside. Th

sermon was about casting stones and turning cheeks. Harvey listened and tried to make sense of what had

happened that morning. He had thrown punches, not stones. He had turned their cheeks, not his own. As the

walked back to Harvey's house, he kept turning to Mr. Cinjun as if to say something. Finally words came ou

"I made a mistake," said Harvey as they walked down a muddy lane.

"How do you reckon?" said Mr. Cinjun.

"I hit one o' them men too hard and then he wasn't movin'," said Harvey, his eyes still on the ground.

"They was hittin' you, right Harvey?"

"They tried."

"Then I reckon they got what was coming to them. You done good, Harvey." It was raining steadily. Mr.

Cinjun quickened his pace but Harvey lagged behind. They walked along the river through the black part of

town. Harvey stopped underneath one of the willows on the riverbank. He circled the tree as if looking for


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something. The grass underneath was matted and disturbed.

"What in blazes are you doing, Harvey? Come on, lets get you home and out of this rain," said Mr.

Cinjun. Harvey circled once more and walked out from under the drooping branches.

"I made a mistake," he said.

They were waiting at Harvey's house. Two of them had shovels. The third used his fists. Outside, the

white pillowcase had been slit and the clay from the river lay in a heap on the ground. Inside, the big

armchair was empty.

Now Mr. Cinjun was a proud man all his life. As soon as he saw them he clenched his fingers and raised

his fists. He was being attacked after all. He used all the strength and size God had given him. They called

him a nigger lover. They laughed at his size. They could have called him anything and he would have fough

like he did. He stood no chance, of course. If there was only one, or maybe even two, Mr. Cinjun could have

held his own. But the blows kept coming and the shovels drew blood. Before he fell to the ground, Mr.

Cinjun did get a few shots in. As he lay there broken on the cabin floor, he was proud of those few punches

and the amount of pain, small and insignificant as it was, that they caused. Mr. Cinjun hoped that when the

white folks found him the next day, they would see the cuts on his knuckles and finally realize that he had

been a respectable man.

Harvey recognized them. They were all there, even that one that hadn't gotten up and had been left lyingunder the willow tree. Harvey watched them hit Mr. Cinjun. He heard his friend cry for help. He saw the

anger in their eyes. He saw the same anger in Mr. Cinjun's eyes as his little fists swung wildly. Harvey

wanted to help his friend but he wanted no part in that anger. He would do as the preacher said. He

would be like Jesus. Harvey stood there as they brought Mr. Cinjun to the ground. Then they started on

Harvey. When they realized Harvey wasn't going to fight back, they dropped their shovels and worked only

with their hands. Harvey accepted each blow. He didn't understand the anger or the pain but he knew that

striking back only brought more of it. They brought Harvey down too. He lay there, his arms at his side and

a warmth in his belly.

Little Fists

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