The hard-drinking man gratefully accepted another whiskey from George and then settled back to tell his late-night tale. “You see,” he began, “I hear Mr. Bert got the idea while the two of you were playing in Lincoln, Nebraska, some time back. Seems like he went to see an old friend in the hospital and the guard said to him, ‘Would you like to walk around with me and see the place?’ Mr. Bert accepted the invitation and the guard first took him to see the patients that were almost ready to leave the hospital. Then the guard took him to another part of the hospital where the patients were very ill. Apparently there was one fellow in a room alone. Evidently, his mental illness was due to gambling, playing poker. In his room was a table and a chair, and the fellow was in there all alone, talking to himself and acting as though he were in a poker game, for he would go through the motions of having a
drink, looking around the table, and smiling at the other players. He would reach in his imaginary pile of chips and throw in his ante, looking around to see if everybody was in, then smile again. He would shuffle and begin to deal around and after he had finished dealing, he would pick up his imaginary hand and look at each player after they had discarded, to see how many cards they wanted. All this time he would have a smile on his face as if he believed he had the best hand, and as each player asked for cards, his smile would get broader, and he would put up fingers to show he understood how many. Then, when one of the imaginary players stood pat, his smile would begin to vanish. When the deal was all over, the betting would start. Each player would call or pass. When it was up to him, he would look at his hand, put it down, pour a little drink from his imaginary bottle, and look again. Then he would push in the last of his chips and call. After the showdown, he had the second-best hand. He would stand up, brush off his pants, and go back to his bunk, place his elbows on his knees, and, leaning on his hands, shake his head slowly. I reckon that it’s from this fellow that your Mr. Bert learned that particular routine. I believe he picked up plenty by just watching ordinary folks. That’s all. Just watching ordinary folks, then adding his own feel to it.” George smiled and signaled to the barman to bring another whiskey.
Fred Williams opens his eyes and sees his American daughter-in-law standing before him with a glass of juice and a plate of toasted bread. The items are balanced on a tray that she cradles in her arms. She holds it like an offering, and he stares at her. No more barbering. She has made it clear that it is fine for him to stay in the house until he regains some peace in his mind, or until his wife returns from California, whichever occurs first, but his daughter-in-law is adamant that there must be no more cutting.
He looks at her and realizes that his boy has found himself a good woman, and then he closes his eyes and pretends that she isn’t there, but he listens. He hears her put the tray down on the bed-side table. For a moment she stands over him and he worries that she might say something, but she remains silent. He is grateful that his daughter-in-law does not lean over and try to touch him and gain his attention. He keeps his eyes firmly closed and listens as she leaves the room.
A heart heavy like a stone, for he now understands that bringing his son to America was an act of foolishness that has allowed the powerful nation in the north to come between them. The country has made a nigger of the boy and there is nothing that he can do to fight this United States of America, which he now understands habitually snatches children from the arms of those who gave them life and encourages them to become people who their parents no longer recognize, but people who their parents cannot stop loving even though they despise the transformation and resent the loss. A heart heavy like a stone, his handsome West Indian son a stage nigger in America, the boy’s own heart leaden with guilt, his mouth stopped up, his words trapped in his head, unable to reach out to father or wife, deaf to everything but the roar of the white audience.
Tonight we go at each other as though we are animals tearing each other apart. She tries to devour me and I fight her off at the same time as I too try to devour her. Pushing at her, pulling back, and then pulling her on. The orchestra is warming up, playing runs, the blare of the trumpet, the gun rattle of the drums, and there is plenty of noise out there, enough to mask what is going on in dressing room number two with the chair thrust up against the door and the drapes pulled tight. I turn Eva to the side and
push her down onto the floor. She tries to get up and I slap her and she cries out so I force my arm into her mouth and she bites the sleeve of my velvet jacket. Bitch. I spit the word at her and she growls at me. Bitch, I say again and a paw reaches out and slashes at my face and as I turn away a single nail catches me and instinctively my hand goes up. She’s laughing now, and she tries to wrestle me off but I go at her and tear at her dress until it rips. I pull out first one breast and then the other, and then I see the fear in her eyes. Bitch. Cut me? Cut George Walker? I press Eva to the floor as though I’m trying to drive her into the basement of the theater. Down on her, pushing down on her until she stops struggling, and the sweat pops onto her brow, each bead independent, and she is defeated. The stage manager knocks at the door and I hear his raised voice. Mr. Walker. He knocks again. Okay, I’ll be there. The sleeve of my jacket is ripped, gashed purple, and I stand up but Eva cannot move. I know that she is wounded, and I can see that her dress is torn and that she is in disarray, but I abandon her and look in the mirror. There is blood on my cheek. Mr. Walker, your call. I wipe the blood with my damaged sleeve and try to rearrange myself. Mr. Walker. She looks at me, her chest heaving with exhaustion, her eyes still hungry. I’ll wait, she says. I’ll be here. Mr. Walker, please, Mr. Williams is in the wings. I look at her and realize that I don’t have the energy to argue.
“Bon Bon Buddy” by Walker went unusually well.
NEW YORK SUN
Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me,
Bon Bon Buddy, is all that I want to be;
I’ve gained no fame, but ain’t ashamed
I’m satisfied with my nickname,
Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me.
He looks at George and can see that it is happening again. Something is wrong with George, but his partner is not talking to him about it. Once again, George is forgetting his lines.
Bon Bon Buddy, the chocolate drop, dat’s me,
Bon Bon Buddy …
He wants to ask him, George, why are you looking at me like this? Staring at me as though you have seen a ghost. It is the third prompt that George has taken tonight, and his dancing is entirely graceless. He wants to ask his partner what he can do to help, but instead he looks on helplessly as George begins now to mutter the lyrics to himself.
I’ve gained no fame, but I ain’t ashamed
I’m satisfied …
George?
But George is not listening. George is gazing into the middle distance as though he can see something that nobody else can see. I take his arm and make like it is part of the show. I pretend that I am taking pity on this poor deluded colored man dressed up as though he owns half the known world, and as I begin to guide George off the stage I try to create some humor. We both stumble for I have to show them that it does not matter how uppity a colored man chooses to dress, he will always be little more than some bumbling fool with no idea of how to control himself. Initially the audience is not sure what is happening, but they soon gain confidence
and laughter ensues. I start to hurry now for George’s whole weight is upon me and he is not stepping anymore, and I am dragging him like I am toting a large sack of potatoes. Somehow it does not seem right that we still have to be in the act, and then I see Aida waiting anxiously in the wings with a look on her face that suggests that she is about to scream. She reaches out her hands to help for I am struggling now as George has lost consciousness. As the stage manager brings down the curtain we are deafened by a storm of applause from the audience, who demand more.
I lay my partner down backstage and feel for his pulse, which, although weak, seems to obey a steady beat. However, before I can do anything further for George I have to remove my face. The stage manager has already called for the doctor, and Aida is propping up her husband’s head, and so I excuse myself. I’ll be back, Aida. I am unsure if she can hear me, but as I move off I notice that the stage manager is following me into the corridor. Mr. Williams? I turn and face the young man. Miss Tanguay. Before she left she asked if you’d let her know how things are. The stage manager pauses. With Mr. Walker, that is.
I look apprehensively into the mirror and make sure that I have removed every last trace of makeup, and only now do I carefully wash my hands and face. There is an impatient knocking at my dressing room door but I wait until I have toweled off before opening the door. A distraught Aida stands before me and I step to one side so that she can enter. She sits and looks around, and then she lowers her eyes. I know that despite her distress she has waited and given me time to make myself presentable. She looks up now and informs me that a worried-looking doctor is examining George, and he has just suggested to her that George is losing
his health. It is difficult to know what to say in reply, so I say nothing, knowing that Aida must now find the courage to continue. She threads her hands together. What’s the matter with him, Bert? George must have spoken to you about it. I asked the doctor but he said that as yet he doesn’t know, but he was lying to me, wasn’t he? I’m George’s wife, and I’ve got a right to know. It ain’t right that after all these years I should still be feeling that others know more about my husband than I do. I look directly at Aida, feeling the sting of her veiled accusation, but I remain as mystified about George’s condition as she appears to be. This is his health, Bert, and it’s important and I have to know. I understand, I say, but the doctor is the man best qualified to answer your questions. Aida lowers her eyes and begins to silently sob. I look away.
According to Mr. Williams they were in Boston one night, and George Walker was performing “Bon Bon Buddy” when suddenly he began to drone out the lyrics in a thick-lipped manner. Apparently some of the cast members smiled because, to begin with, they believed that Mr. Walker was improvising a new gag, but Mr. Williams knew differently. It was only later that he, and the rest of the company, learned just how ill Mr. Walker was. In fact, he had actually suffered a stroke.
Aida continues to sob, but both she and Bert know that George will still insist on performing every night in
Bandana Land
. However, despite the optimistic bulletin that the Williams and Walker company will undoubtedly send out to the press in the morning, it is clear to Bert that George’s health is beginning rapidly to deteriorate. The following week Bert instructs the costume department to prepare a George Walker outfit for Aida so
that she can deputize in the event of another serious collapse of her husband’s health.
At every theater on the road, George’s dressing room is decorated with a huge display of roses, but there is never a card and Aida never quizzes her husband as to their origin.
In a rooming house in Chicago, a few days before Christmas, I sit downstairs with my wife and listen to Aida, who is upstairs singing gentle lullabies to her fragile George. She sings as though serenading a child, and her sweet notes float through the paperthin walls and then down through the wooden floors, and while one might have ordinarily regarded this as some kind of disturbance, Mother and I just sit and listen, transfixed by the beauty of Aida’s waiflike voice. The next morning, after breakfast, Aida wraps George in a blanket and props him up on a chair with a pad and a pen set neatly before him. A newspaper has commissioned George to write the story of his life, and despite his increasing frailty, George’s pen seems to have found wings. For short periods of time it flies back and forth across the page making short, spasmodic movements, and then the pen comes to rest and George looks all about himself, suddenly ashamed that he is no longer able to dress a point or two above the height of fashion. And then, as though keen to expel this sad reality from his mind, his pen finds life and begins again to dart across the page.
Our payroll is about $2,300 a week. Do you know what that means? Take your pencils and figure how many families could be supported comfortably on that. Then look at the talent, the many-sided talent we are employing and encouraging. Add to this what we contribute to maintain the standing of the race in the estimation of the lighter
majority. Now, do you see us in the light of a race institution? That is what we aspire to be, and if we ever attain our ambition, I earnestly hope and honestly believe that our children, that are to be, will say a good word in their day for Bert and me and them.
GEORGE WALKER
George gave his final performance in Louisville, Kentucky, in February 1909, but George Walker was no longer George Walker. No amount of business could disguise the fact that the man onstage with me was a mere shadow of the same man who had stood by my side for sixteen years. The real George Walker had left the theatrical stage a long time ago, but at least officially, Williams and Walker came to an end on that night in Louisville, Kentucky—a long way from the Barbary Coast, a long way from Broadway, a long way from Buckingham Palace. Williams and Walker died onstage in Louisville, Kentucky, in February 1909, but the public were informed that it would only be a matter of time before George Walker returned. Aida now donned the special George Walker costume and sang “Bon Bon Buddy,” but she understood the truth. The doctor had explained, albeit in painful detail.