by Tom Hogan
Carol gave the question some consideration. “Before I answer, let’s ask Lexi,” she said, using The Gimp’s nickname for Alexis that no one had adopted. “You were going to see her in Chicago, whether you drove for her or not. What were you hoping for?”
“Part of it was the obvious—curiosity. You’d been gone a while. But mostly it was hoping to hear new thoughts. I don’t need answers—I can come up with them by myself. But you were asking different questions. And from what I’ve been reading from the writing you guys have been doing, you still are.” She looked over. “You’re not as negative as you think you are. You’re just realistic.”
“I feel like a singer who’s trying out some almost-finished songs on her audience,” Donna began. “It’s not fair to those of you who are expecting my greatest hits, but I find that ideas grow best by trying them out on educated audiences who can think for themselves and push back. So please, bear with me.”
She paused and looked down for enough time that the audience began to shift. “For almost a year now, from a number of podiums like this, I’ve talked about how women need to take control of defining ourselves, individually and collectively. That our history of second-class citizenship has empowered others—our mates, our families, our governments—to define us before we get a chance to. But now that we recognize the problem, if we allow it to continue, it will be due to laziness on our part, not to malice on the part of our opponents.”
She stopped for a moment. “I need to qualify what I just said. While I’m up here preaching self-definition and self-empowerment, I’m not naïve. I realize that this conversation is one that the majority of women in this world—especially third-world societies—can’t participate in. Whether we’re talking about child marriages, stoning for adultery or immolating wives rather than divorcing them, the idea that these women are contemplating the same ideas as the women in this room is sadly laughable. But ideas that begin in the first world often find their way into the third, so it’s our duty to try, not just for ourselves but for those women.”
She went on like this, without notes, for another twenty minutes. Then she glanced at her notes and smiled out into the audience. “I’m wrapping up now, so you can relax.” She stepped to the front of the stage. “Scholars like to equate our political awakening with the civil rights movement. I’m not completely sold on that equation, but I do have some thoughts on what we can learn from those who preceded us into the political arena.
“Today’s history of the Civil Rights movement focuses primarily on the marches and sit-ins, with the heroic figures being Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King and the Freedom Riders. But that history is incomplete.”
She returned to the podium and took a sip of water. “I take away three things from the civil rights movement. The first—and this is something we have to emulate—was having a common goal: full enfranchisement. Nothing else was acceptable. Second, they used the media to hold a mirror up to society and its hypocrisy. And third, they gave white America a choice. It’s that third component that I want to talk about today.
“When you look at the history books about the Civil Rights movement, you’ll see them wax poetic about Rosa Parks and Martin, to the sit-ins and the “I have a dream” speech. But they omit mention of Malcolm X and Huey Newton, of Watts in ‘65, and Detroit and Newark in ‘68.”
She turned her palms up. “Martin’s message of satyagraha, of the passive resistance he adopted from Gandhi, was powerful in its own right. But it was made far more effective—far more attractive to white America—because of the violent alternatives the Muslims and Panthers espoused.” Her palms balanced, like scales. “Martin appealed to our collective conscience—Malcolm and the Panthers appealed to our collective fear. It made for a powerful combination, if not alliance.” .
She paused and looked out at the audience, as if taking its temperature. “Change comes hard to people, even harder to institutions. To hasten that response, you need a full arsenal of weapons. For every sit-down strike there should be a brick through a window or an act of sabotage. For every Rosa Parks there needs to be an Eldridge Cleaver. Because institutions—and society at large—change not when they want to change but when they need to change. Our job is to accelerate that change, wherever we can, however we can.”
It took more than two hours for Donna to exit the hall. Her speech had inspired a lengthy Q&A, followed by interviews with the local television channels, each wanting a quick five minutes. And behind them lurked the sea of well-wishers.
Finally, Alexis and Carol moved in and guided her through the rest of the crowd to the car. “How much time before the flight?” Donna asked as she settled into the front seat.
“Ninety minutes,” Alexis said. “The airport’s twenty minutes away, thirty max. You need to speak to anyone else?”
“No. Let’s just go. I’m whipped.”
As they drove away, Carol looked over. “I liked the direction you took it.”
“Before I get too full of myself, let’s get a tape of it and break it down and see if it holds up. If it does, once I’m back from the camping trip, we’ll get to work.”
As they drove through the streets, headed for the freeway, the talk turned from the conference to Pete and Harry. “The funny thing is, after all my worrying, Pete caught four trout and Harry two that first day.” She smiled. “There’ll be no living with them after this trip.”
They eased back into their seats and listened to the music until they reached the airport. Having made good time, Alexis and Carol said they’d walk her to the gate. Donna needed to change out of her suit and leave it with the others. She emerged from the bathroom in jeans and a blouse, the dress over her arm. Handing it to Carol, she picked up her carry-on and headed towards the gate.
As they approached the gate, Donna’s face broke into a smile. She nudged Alexis. “Look at our welcoming committee.” She nodded towards the check-in counter, where Josh and Clark were standing, hands in their pocket, searching the corridor.
“What are they doing here?” Alexis said to Carol, as Donna skipped down the corridor.
“Josh, you should have been there. It felt like…” She stopped. “Are you guys all right?”
She caught the slightest glimpse of Clark’s red, liquid eyes as he looked away, then saw his knuckles, white as they held tight to Josh’s arm. Then at Josh’s sickly grey face.
“Oh my God,” she screamed, her voice bouncing off the glass and tile.
CHAPTER 35
It had been dark, the police said. And wet. The van had had a flat, the tread marks indicating they had coasted to a wide shoulder on the winding mountain highway. They were well clear of traffic, the report said, safely off the road in most situations. But it had been dark. And wet.
Josh flew out to identify and claim the bodies. He never said a word about the morgue or the state of the bodies; he simply returned with two stark pine boxes, a local carpenter in the remote Rockies town near where the accident happened refusing to take any money for his work. Though the coffins had been secured, Josh rode in the back of the flatbed, his arm tight across the smaller box, for the three hours down to the airport.
Clark and William met the plane, along with a representative from the funeral parlor. They saw the coffins safely unloaded from the plane’s belly, then followed the black van to the mortuary, where they finalized the arrangements.
Though he’d been gone less than forty-eight hours, when Josh came back to Moetown, it was not to Donna, but to her shell. Her eyes dull and distant, she was unresponsive to any of the voices or movements around her. She hadn’t said a word since the airport, hadn’t eaten anything; she simply sat in the rocking chair Pete had made for her, her fingers wrapped around the cord of Harry’s robe, which lay across her lap.
William spoke for the community at the funeral. His voice started strong, though the tears flowed throughout his remarks. He made it through th
e remarks about Pete and the difference he had made—to Donna, then to the community—but when he began to talk about Harry, his voice quivered, then collapsed. He attempted to right himself, staring above the crowd, gathering his strength. He tried to speak again but failed, then he stood there until Lucky rose from the front row, took him by the elbow, and guided him back to his seat. The minister concluded the service with some generic, vapid commentary.
At the graveside, when the two boxes had been lowered, Josh dropped the first handful of dirt on each coffin, the sound containing an emptiness that made the assembly flinch. Eventually the rest of Moetown, followed by the mountain community, had covered the boxes with handfuls of dirt, at which point Josh and Clark worked the shovels, their dull rhythm sounding like solid punches to the body.
Donna stayed back at Moetown, a windless sail. Alexis sat with her for the entire day as Donna silently rocked. Harry’s cord was beginning to fray. Everyone else retreated to their cabins. William went to bed and curled up, one hand between his knees, the other jammed in his mouth. Lucky sat straight up in his bed, staring fixedly at the far wall. Clark sat on his front porch with Zeke, who caught his master’s mood and leaned against his knee. Carol sat at her desk, an empty pad of paper in front of her, and cried.
After an hour, she got up and walked over to Donna’s cabin. Knocking gently, she opened the door and motioned Alexis outside.
“Any change?”
“She knew the funeral was at three, so I looked to see if she checked the time. But her eyes never moved, and she never stopped rocking.”
“Did she eat anything?”
“Nothing. I tried soup, then toast. I put it right under her nose, trying to stimulate some kind of response. Anything. She didn’t even seem to know it was there.”
“Okay, I got her now. Tell Josh he’s on at midnight, okay?”
Alexis started towards Josh’s cabin, then changed direction and went into the L. As she opened the door, she could see Josh in the kitchen. All the cupboards were open and he was pulling down boxes and bottles from the shelves. Alexis looked at the trash bag and the animal crackers, vanilla wafers and boxes of juice. “Looks like we had the same idea,” she said. “I’ll take the refrigerator.”
Moving silently as a team, they finished the kitchen and moved to the living room. Josh changed bags and held it open as Alexis put in the toys, blocks and stuffed animals. They stood back and surveyed the room, Alexis’s hand on Josh’s shoulder. Then Josh walked across the room to the rack of pool cues next to the table; he pulled down the miniature cue Clark had honed and shaped for Harry just last week. He put it in the bag, his head turned away from Alexis.
He put the bags by the front door, saying he would take them to the shelter the next day. He went into the kitchen and came back with two beers, handing one to Alexis. The two of them sat silently at the kitchen table.
Finally Alexis looked up. “You know her far better than I. Is she going to come out of this?”
He didn’t answer immediately, rolling the bottle of beer between his palms. “It’s too soon to tell.”
“What was she like when Vasquez died?”
“She was shattered, but her grief had this backbone to it. She was going to expose the system, whatever it took. That anger kept her going, even when the system won.” He took a pull. “Pete helped put her back together again. And Harry was the final piece.” His eyes welled. “Jesus,” he muttered.
They drank together, neither saying a word. Alexis finished her beer first and went to the refrigerator for two more. “Did you ever have anyone die on you? Not someone older, like your parents, but someone…”
“You mean like Pete was to Donna?” Alexis nodded. “Not really. You?”
“My brother Danny. He was eighteen when he went to Vietnam, nineteen when we got the letter.” She took a long pull. “I basically raised that kid, so when I got the news, it tore a big hole in me. It felt like I’d never be whole again.”
“What happened?”
“I fell apart. Didn’t leave the house for six months, cried off and on for over a year. But I knew that time would eventually layer over the pain and that I had a life to get back to. With Donna, I’m not sure that’s the case.”
Josh nodded and looked at the floor. “A long time ago, when I was inside, there was a hard case—name was Max Benton. He took me under his wing, protected me from a lot. He had lived hard—two packs a day, a quart of scotch. Anyway, it took its toll, and one day he had a major heart attack. But the thing was, Max was mobbed up and the government needed his testimony, so they did everything to not only keep him alive but bring him back. Quadruple bypass, cardiologists, the works. And they had a complete recovery program for him as well—no smoking or whiskey, salt-free diet. And lots of exercise.”
He paused and almost smiled. “I guess you’re wondering what the hell this has to do with anything. It was the exercise. Max decided he was going to live, hopefully long enough to testify and then go into witness-protection. So he started walking five miles a day, as prescribed. Then he got the exercise bug. Since I was the only runner in the joint, he started running with me. Pretty soon we were up to ten miles a day.”
His smile broadened. “Then Max decided he wanted to run a marathon. The warden and the doctors liked it for the PR value. And Max wouldn’t run without me, so we both got a day pass and ran. We finished in a little over three hours. It was great.”
He tapped a fingernail against the beer bottle and looked away. “We were sitting at the finish line with our Gatorade when he slumped against me, looked up at me with this startled look. He’d had a massive stroke. The doctors were right there celebrating with us, so they were on him in a second. I rode with him in the ambulance, holding his hand. He was alert, he just couldn’t speak.”
He paused, his eyes wandering out the window. “The doctors were talking to him in the ambulance, trying to keep him with us. They were telling him how he’d beat this once, that he’d do it again. And he just turned to me and held my eyes with his. It was like he knew what was ahead of him—all the pain and work—and he didn’t have it in him to do it again. It was all there in his eyes and that sad smile. And I squeezed his hand, to let him know I understood. He nodded once more, closed his eyes and was gone. They did what they could, but they couldn’t bring him back.”
“And you think that’s what’s going on with Donna? That after that first time with Rubin, she doesn’t have it in her to do it all over again?”
“I think that’s what she’s trying to figure out.”
“What if she just stays in that chair and keeps rocking?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. For now, I think we let her rock. But I do know two things: we need to get some food into her and we need to get her on her feet at some point and out of that cabin. The air in there smells too much like death.”
The next evening, as William sat next to Donna, an unopened book in his lap, she stirred. Her eyes flickered, glided over William, then returned to him. She opened her mouth but didn’t speak; it was like she was tasting the inside of her mouth, working a sense back to life.
“They’re gone,” she said in a low, rusty voice. William nodded, eyeing her cautiously. Donna quit rocking, then leaned her head back until her neck arched. She stared at the ceiling for over a minute, not saying a word. Then she brought her chin down to her chest, filled her lungs and pushed herself out of the chair.
William waited, arms at his side, as she took the three steps to him. She stopped, her arms limp, almost weightless. Slowly, clumsily, she raised her arms and locked them around his neck. Then she put her head on his shoulder and began to cry. She didn’t gulp, sob or shudder—she just let the tears drain out of her. They stood that way for over an hour, Donna leaning on William’s sodden shoulder.
Finally, she pulled back from him. “You’re a good friend, William.”
“Has it? I’m not hungry.”
“Come on, then.”
She shook her head. “I’m not ready for people. Maybe tomorrow.” She covered his hand on her elbow, as if restraining his urge. “Tell you what. Make me some soup and bring it back down here.” He started to object, but she held a finger up. “Please.”
Twenty minutes later William knocked lightly and entered cautiously. Donna looked up from her chair and almost smiled. She nodded at the table. “Put it there, please.” She stood up, walked over to the table and sat down. As William moved to join her, she shook her head. “I need to ask a big favor, Will. I know how you and the others have been with me this whole time. But what I know is that I’ve got to start getting used to being alone.” She looked around the cabin. “It might as well be tonight.”
William stood there awkwardly, then nodded. He inclined his head to hers, then left the cabin. He went up to the L and told the others about her request. Carol thought it was too soon, but the others thought Donna was right: she had to start being alone sometime.
Later that night, Lucky awoke in a heavy sweat. He sat straight up, his body shuddering, and gripped himself with damp hands. He’d been dreaming of Pete and Harry, he told William later. He’d been in the van with them, and when the flat happened, they sent him up to the curve as sentry. As the rain increased, drumming on the payment, he saw the truck approaching—a little fast, a little reckless. He called down to Pete, but the rain swallowed his warning. He started running towards the van as the truck rumbled past him.
He woke up before the impact, sat straight up and drew his knees to his chest. He sat there until the night air dried his sweat. Wide awake and not wanting to bother William, he headed up to the L to watch television. As he headed up the path, he saw the light on in Donna’s cabin. He looked at the moon, low on the horizon, then back at Donna’s cabin. He started over.