by George Cain
WHERE CAN I TAKE IT? Not home, too many explanations. Nichole’s house. Hail a taxi and head downtown.
Walking to the building think of what I’ll say. Saw her the other day for the first time in four years when I took Sabu home.
Her nosy Italian neighbors crowd the stoops, grandmothers gossiping in Italian while their grandchildren run around screaming American curses. Used to hate them in their black clothes, Catholicism and death. Always hanging around like bad luck. They watch me suspiciously as I stand in the lobby searching the directory for her bell. Got to get off the streets this trunk is making me hot.
“Daddy George?”
Sabu smiles up at me and opening the door with a key on a string round her neck, she leads upstairs and runs inside the apartment.
“Mommy. Daddy George is here.”
“George. George, how’re you. Come on in. What’s that you’ve got?”
“Hey baby how’re you. Do me a favor? Let me leave this trunk here for a while. Got to see my P.O. in an hour. Talk to you when I get back.”
“You can put it in the room.”
I drag it into the room, snatch some money and push the trunk under the bed.
“I got some important things in there, papers and what not. Don’t let Sabu get to it. Be back this evening.”
“Let me give you this extra set of keys, may not be here when you get back.”
She goes through a drawer and comes up with the keys, handing them to me with a look I know.
IV
RIDING THE SUBWAY to the bus depot, dreams fill my head, I am rich, and can do anything. At 42nd catch a bus for Newark. We pull in downtown Broad Street, place full of shoppers and workers going about their business. The TV and news reports must’ve been a dream, see no blood-splattered pavements, broken windows or angry mobs. But again there is the hate I felt when visiting my people. Not till I reach Springfield Avenue do I see the marks of rebellion. Blackened storefronts, glass and broken goods litter the streets. The air stinks burnt and damp from fire and water. I walk through, the whole avenue to myself. Where is everyone, have they packed them off to detention centers in the country? At high noon Springfield is a ghost town. Turning around, I head for the courthouse. It’s early, and having an hour before my appointment, I sit up in the courtroom watching the proceedings.
The stage and setting are familiar, white-haired judge, dark wood paneled theater, ever-present flag and eagle, jurors, lawyers and D.A.’s. Begin sweating, my stink fills my nose and the courtroom.
“You George Cain have been found guilty of murder.”
The prosecutor jumps up and screams, “Guilty,” and points gleefully at me, my defense whispers the word in my ear—“Guilty.” I hear but don’t feel anything, am drained of everything, there is nothing they can do or take from me. The spectators and jury rise at a sign and chant in unison, “Guilty, guilty.”
Tapping gavel brings order. Looking down, the judge says, “Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?”
Can see the place, its furnishings, light subdued coming from somewhere overhead, the smiling faces. Smiling at the knowledge of their righteousness, belief in this justice they administer. Faces eager, expectant, ears up like animals to hear my guilty words. They watch me, waiting for a sign, a gesture, a bursting hate-filled tirade, a begging remorseful cry, anything to justify them who sit in judgement. But there is nothing. Am sad, an infinite sorrow which silences. Nothing, except the all answering silence.
Run from the courtroom to a toilet, lock myself in. Vomiting and sick with need. Cook up shaking all the while. Hit and blackness.
A banging on the door wakes me and I snatch the dropper of coagulated blood from my arm. “Be out in a minute.”
I clean the mess and stumble into the empty marble halls. Another near fatal O.D., but always I return from the dead to try again, my life is always on the line. Hesitate outside the office. My voice and eyes will betray me. Put on my shades, check for bloodstains and walk in. The receptionist takes my name.
“Mr. Romo will be out in a minute.”
I’m trying to collect myself when he comes out.
“Hello George. How’re you? Come on into the office.”
I follow, stumbling to regain balance.
“Have a seat. Smoke? Well how’s it going? Haven’t been able to get in touch with you, you’re never home. Guess your father told you I called. Nice man, your father. You’re lucky, he’s very concerned about your welfare. You’re living at home? Your father couldn’t tell me, understand he’s only there on weekends. Very intelligent man.
“You know you’re not to leave the state without first calling to get permission, even if it is just across the river. How long have you been on parole? You know the rules better than that. You were born there and all your friends are there? You can make new friends out here. That’s what you need, your former associates are what got you in trouble in the past.
“You like sports. You know the YMCA downtown? I go two nights a week myself. You can always meet people there, they give dances and socials. You’re not too old to make new friends and it’d be good for you, the exercise and everything. Build yourself up, look like you’re losing weight since the last time I saw you. Try it? Good, good, know you’ll enjoy it. Some nice people there, tell them I recommended you.
“So now what about your living at home? You don’t want to? Why not? You’re a man now. So what’s that got to do with anything? You pay rent don’t you? Just as if you were living somewhere else. It helps them too, why shouldn’t they get the money? That doesn’t make sense, you’re a man so you can’t live at home. There isn’t any friction between you and your family, is there? You knew one of the conditions of your release was that you would reside at home and you did agree to that. Can’t possibly see what your being a man and living at home have got to do with one another. Sure I can see if you said a woman every now and then, I understand that and don’t mind your staying out once in a while, we’re all human.”
The words are useless, he doesn’t understand a thing I say. I understand him only because I have to to survive and every word from his mouth is a brick in the wall between us.
“Are you working? When do you plan to start? Really now, you’ve been back long enough to have gotten a job. You talk about being a man? Well act like one, a man must work. You think I or anybody else wants to work? Of course not, but we’re men and we have duties and responsibilities.”
I listen to this fool ranting about a job, what do I need with a job, got more money than he’s ever seen and he talks about a job.
“Look, Mr. Romo. Why don’t you can that shit, just let me fill out the forms each month and stop bothering me. My mother gets tired of you calling and I don’t like the idea of you upsetting her with inquiries and threats of what you can do to me, she got enough troubles without that. I’m three times seven and don’t need anybody telling me how to live this one, you ain’t my father.”
Hurt by my ingratitude, he continues, “Sorry you feel that way George. Had thought of us as friends and I’m only looking out for your benefit. You should see how some of the other officers work, they don’t care what a man does, long as he sends in the forms and doesn’t get arrested. But I care about you, I go out of my way to help. That’s what I’m here for, to help you and anything less than that would not be doing my job. I know how you feel about your arrest and the law. But I had nothing to do with that, I don’t make the laws and until they’re changed there is nothing to be done. This riot should teach you something. I sympathize with your people but they must seek redress through the courts. Things will change. You’re intelligent, you can see that George. And the same applies to you. You’re high right now I bet.”
“Yes I’m high.”
“You know that’s grounds enough for violation. How long you been doing it?”
“Since the day I got back. That was the first thing I did.”
“Why do you do this to yourself? You want me to
violate you? You want to go back to jail? Don’t you George? It was easy there, three squares and a bed, somebody always telling you what to do, no responsibility? It’s too tough out here for you. Some kind of man, can’t cope with life. What’s the problem George? Tell me and we can work it out.”
“You whitey, you’re my problem.”
“That’s not fair George. Be reasonable, you’re intelligent, how can you say that, categorically saying all whites are bad. That’s prejudice and that’s wrong.”
“It isn’t prejudice, I didn’t prejudge you people. I lived and watched you and I know what my problem is better than you.” Hearing myself and the frustration of not being understood make me see how crazy this is.
“Well, looking through your record it doesn’t seem as if whitey did you any harm. Scholarships to the best private schools and colleges in the country. Your family has a higher income than mine. On your first arrest you were given special consideration because of the testimony of a white clergyman. You had it better than most, white or black, so I don’t see where you can talk about ‘whitey.’ What’s ever been done to you that you didn’t bring on yourself?”
“You know so much about how good whitey’s been to me. Maybe you can tell me why. Why did he treat me so good, why did he tell me that I was different from the others, why did he fill me with all that shit of his, why?”
“I don’t like that word whitey, wish you wouldn’t use it. I respect you as an individual. Please show me the same courtesy. I don’t know why they gave you so much or what they did to you, but why indict me for something in the past? This is today and I want to help you, let me.”
“I told you what you could do. Leave me alone. Other officers only ask that you fill out the forms and stay out of trouble. I can do that if you leave me alone. Stop taking such an interest. I’m gonna do what I want to anyway. You know I’m no criminal, so what are you going to do, violate me, send me to the penitentiary? You’re interested in my welfare, act like it.”
“I agree, you’re not a criminal and prison isn’t the place for you, but what am I to do? You tell me. Let you go along doing what you’re doing until you’re dead of an overdose, then I share the blame, cause I knew and if I’d done my job could’ve prevented it. I got to sleep at night too and I’ve got a job to do.”
“Who am I hurting? Ain’t hit nobody over the head. This ain’t nobody’s business but mine.”
“Well something’s got to be done. You say you’re not hooked. I’m going to make an appointment for you at Pines Hospital. They have facilities for detecting narcotics in the body. We’ve worked with them before and they’re good people. I’ll make the appointment for the end of the week. That will give you time to dry out. If you don’t keep this appointment, I’ll have no alternative but to think that you are hooked and no longer in control and shall have a warrant for your arrest taken out. I’m not fooling with you George. Now that that’s over, why don’t you stay and talk. Tell me what you think of this riot.”
“Ask yourself.”
I’ve hurt him, his fallen face shows it. Brush past his extended hand and out of the office. How do I feel about the riot, what kind of question. . . . Like asking a dead man is he dead. How are you supposed to feel?
RIDE BACK TO THE CITY wondering what possessed me. Made me carry on like crazy. Know he won’t violate me. Chump really thinks he can help somebody, faggot ass M.F. needs to help himself. Why don’t he leave me alone?
Prison. Its memory sobers. Got to be clean for that examination. Takes seventy-two hours to dry out. Got five days. Plenty of time. The money begins working its magic, throttling the monkey. It cures. Am secure, calm, no anxiety about the next moment—it shall pass without illness. Money insulates me from life. No longer must I throw bare soul against the machine. Money eases the pain and keeps me from the edge. Not since prison have I felt this free from need, from throwing that brick. Know now how artificial my desperation is. All my problems are created by the time and place I live in.
Take the bus downtown to Washington Square. Walking across the park see strange signs and omens. Young white beggars fill the streets, pawing and panhandling. Dirty and drugged. Everywhere gross acts and running obscenities. Bold, they exhibit their infirmities for sympathy and inspection, dead souls and lost minds. The cancer has found a fatter host, it began somewhere deep in my bowels and now consumes America. Tourists roam the place. Laughing and giving freely for what they think funny, not knowing it is their own death they’re watching.
Coming onto Thompson Street, go into my bag. I swagger and sneer at them. Italian women dressed in dumpy black, hanging from the windows and stoops, cursing me in their foul tongue while counting beads and blessings.
Climb the stairs wondering why have I come back to this place, a woman I haven’t seen in years and child I don’t know. Make up my mind to leave, find a place somewhere. Got money. Fuck the parole, I’ll take a trip, buy things, they’ll never find me. Stand listening outside the door wondering what we’ll say after all these years. The house is quiet. Her note on the table says to meet them at the playground. Think about leaving right now, but it’s too late in the day. Check the trunk and the money and go down laughing at her.
“The playground,” a reference to our common history, that time to which she intends to tie us again, using the child as her agent. How can she know I hate her, hate that time and have returned only to see how far I’ve gone. She and that history are only a point of departure from where I can see my progress and evolution. Coming out the building bump into them and Nichole performs for the eager Italians watching and straining to hear while Sabu confused hides in herself.
“Hello George, how’re you? Look who’s here Bu. Your Daddy George has come to see you.”
Bu smiles and takes my hand.
“See how she loves her father.” Nichole talks loudly for the audience. The whisperers she calls them. All these years they’ve laughed knowing there wasn’t a father around. They thought it fit punishment for one so shameless, living with black men. The Lord had punished her and to think this parable had been acted out before their eyes, not so it could be forgotten and its moral lost. Nay, a story they would elaborate and tell far and wide as evidence of God’s will.
From dawn to dusk whispering about what goes on, while their rude brats run around cursing and howling. The men, fathers and husbands to these people, lusting fools with drunken eyes, are no better. Coarse and brutish, all-American, wishing us dead, especially the child. She’s testimony to what I’ve done. Egged on by grog, friends and family, how often have they baited me and come so near dying? Put my hands on Nichole and fondle her. She smiles. Her stupidity irks me and I slap her. The sound raises the men. They move as if to do something. Dare them with my eyes and they turn away. I’m gratified by the intense hatred this generates around us. It’s a contest between me and them and I always win.
Have only to touch Nichole and she thinks I want her, unchanged since I saw her last. It’s as if I’d never gone. There is nothing to say, she will not believe and doesn’t want to hear what she already knows. I left because I hated her.
“I’m sorry baby.”
Kiss her on the forehead and squeeze her for them, she smiles and all is well.
“Don’t you love your father?” Nichole repeats to make sure they’ve heard her.
“Let’s go to the store, ain’t nothing upstairs to eat.”
“You got money George?”
“All you want.”
“Daddy George got money? Buy me a toy?”
Throw Bu on my shoulder and Nichole takes my waist to spite the world. Once off Thompson, feel the tension leave as I slide back into anonymity. My color, beard, white woman and half-breed child attract little attention. Even the police on every corner ignore us, we’re a common sight in the Village proper.
We meet friends of Nichole’s in the market and she introduces me as Sabu’s father. They act as if I were a dirty word. Wonder what she’s told
them. Buy Bu a doll to quiet her and she goes outside to play.
Five minutes later she asks me to come out with her. Leading me by the hand, takes me outside to meet a pack of half-breed children like herself. “This is my father. He brought me this doll.”
They look at me strangely, trying to cipher the cryptic statement. “You really her father?” one boy asks. There’s something wrong with these kids, can see it in their eyes, they lack innocence and I feel uncomfortable. Nichole calls me to come help her and rescues me from their gaze. Walking away hear them talking.
“That’s not her father.”
“Yeah, he’s just another man.”
Turn around to glimpse them again. One kid makes an obscene gesture and goes tearing down the street. Pay for the groceries and head back to the pad.
“Who’re those kids?”
“The children from the playground, friends of Bu’s. You met most of their mothers in the store.”
Begin to understand. Those kids, products of the integration time, trapped by black awareness. It took their mothers’ lovers, their fathers, leaving bitterness. Remember the chicks she introduced me to, they were all white, American and for some reason Jewish. Wonder if Nichole has switched allegiance after being burned by so many blacks. When I had her, she was nigger struck and couldn’t stand her people.
By the time we get back it’s dark and the audience has departed to eat. Spot one or two spying from blacked out windows. For them Nichole has an obscene gesture. We laugh going up the stairs. She must think it’s like old times, we versus the world.
Once we thought we were different, not black or white, something unique, special. Why couldn’t everyone be like us? There’d be no race or any other problems. Arrogance and blind stupidity. We were two racists living together, knowing only the myth of each other, speaking a language of homonyms. From such different places with different ways, we offended and didn’t know we did and by the time it was over, the myth had become reality.