Black & White

by Lewis Shiner

  At the same time, the reality of what he’d done began to sink in. Undoubtedly he’d made an enemy of Barrett Howard, which could be disastrous for Mason and Antree. Someone might have recognized him at the Biltmore or on the street outside. Word could get back to Ruth, or, worse yet, her father.

  Then he remembered the sensation of Mercy’s arm sliding around him and her voice saying, “Did you forget about me?” His face felt odd and he touched it, finding it stretched wide by a smile he hadn’t known was there.

  He fell asleep to “Moonglow” playing in his head.

  *

  All day Saturday Robert worried that Antree would call. He might be fired. How could be possibly explain?

  In the early afternoon he made a weak excuse and drove to St. Joseph’s AME church in Hayti, remembering what Maurice had said. And it was true. The thing on top of the steeple was the same symbol that hung from Mercy’s ears. The memory of his fingers on her lips, the heat of her breath on his fingertips, made him squeeze his eyes shut, not to push it away but to hold on a little longer.

  *

  That night he took Ruth to the country club for dinner. Afterwards they danced to Lawrence Welk-style schmaltz delivered by a band of senior citizens. After three songs Robert excused himself to stand out on the patio, light a Lucky, and stare at the gently rolling fairways of the golf course. He was alone except for a teenage daughter of Durham society, who nursed a bottle of Coke and pretended not to watch him.

  The eastern sky glowed with the lights of downtown, turning the clouds a smoky red. Hayti was over there, and Barrett Howard was probably out in it with Mercy. Her body was probably moving under her dress the way it would under satin sheets, the fabric soft and clinging, still not softer than her skin.

  A waiter stepped out from the kitchen, dressed in white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. He was the same age as Robert. He carried a white towel over one arm and an empty tray under the other. “Beautiful evening, ain’t it, sir?” he said. He began to clear glasses from one of the tables.

  “Yes,” Robert said. “Yes, it is. Won’t be this cool much longer.”

  The man chuckled as if Robert had offered some profound wisdom. “No, sir, you got that sure enough right. Summer be down upon us before you know it. Ain’t no doubt about that. No, sir.”

  Reflexively Robert offered his Luckies. The man held up one hand and said, “No, thank you, sir. Very kind of you, but we ain’t allowed to smoke on the job.”

  The “we,” Robert understood, referred not to the job description but the skin color.

  “Anything I can bring you, sir? Drink from the bar?”

  “No,” Robert said. “Thanks. I need to be getting back in.”

  “Then you enjoy your evening, sir.”

  Robert nodded, deeply uncomfortable, at a complete loss for a way to bridge the chasm between them. I’m not who you think I am, he wanted to say. I was in Hayti last night, dancing at the Biltmore. How condescending did that sound? How many unwarranted assumptions did it make?

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. He flipped his cigarette into the thick, green lawn and went inside, back to the cool, clean arms of his wife, the tepid music, the loud voices of white men, the clinking of glasses, the life that was laid out before him like a narrow road with high, neatly trimmed hedges on either side.

  *

  All the way to work Monday morning Robert dragged his anxiety behind him like an anchor. The night had been one long, anxious dream of lost piece drawings, desperate searches, waking, turning, falling again into nightmare.

  He was at his desk by 8. Antree arrived at 9:15 and went straight into his office without speaking. It was a relief when, half an hour later, he finally opened the office door and called Robert in.

  Too much coffee and too many cigarettes had left Robert feeling breakable. He sat with his elbows on his knees, shaky hands clasped in front of him.

  “Howard is going forward with the union thing,” Antree said. Nothing in his tone pointed to Robert’s betrayal of Friday night. The feeling of relief was so powerful that Robert thought he could fall asleep where he sat. “Even Leon and Tommy were thinking about it. This could do us real harm.”

  “He’s asking for what, more money for the workmen?”

  “I don’t care about the bread. There’s enough of that around, and those men get paid pretty good anyway. The hassle is that Howard is asking us to come through on our promises. The shopping center, the apartments, the housing developments, everything.”

  “I don’t understand. We’re planning to do all of that, aren’t we?” He finally met Antree’s eyes and saw claustrophobia there.

  “It’s not up to me. I’m just a cog. Howard may single us out because of the expressway. He said at one point Friday, he said, ‘There’s not going to be an expressway until we get houses.’ But then, you weren’t there for that part.”

  Uh oh, Robert thought.

  “He can stop the freeway if he has a mind to,” Antree said. “We don’t have the right of way yet, can’t get it until DoT makes the route official. He can make that hard. Strikes, sabotage…it could get ugly.”

  “Can’t we build some houses?”

  “That’s not our contract.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “I don’t think that’s been bid yet.”

  “The freeway contract you keep saying is ours isn’t let either.”

  “Yeah, only that one is guaranteed to come our way. You may not think too much of me. I know a lot people think I’m a happy-go-lucky idiot. The thing is, this is a lot harder than it looks. It’s a balancing act, every day. If it was just me I wouldn’t care, but I got employees, I got overhead, I got the people in Hayti I made promises to, I got the future of Durham at stake, because if RTP doesn’t work, this whole town could go under.

  “I got into this business because I wanted to do some good in the world. I guess I was pretty naïve, all right. But I’m not ready to pack it in yet.”

  It was all Robert could do not to look behind him, to see if there were someone else in the room that Antree was performing for.

  “There is a point to this,” Antree said, “and the point is this. Howard seems to like you, God knows why.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d be looking to kill you, myself, after Friday night. Apparently he’s used to that kind of thing with her. Seems she told him she liked the way you handled yourself, that you were a quote unquote real gentleman.”

  Robert longed for detail that he knew Antree didn’t have. He forced himself to concentrate on what Antree was saying.

  “He wants to meet with you. Wednesday afternoon, one o’clock. Meet him in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. You know where that is, right?”

  Robert saw the bait and refused to take it. He was keeping his night with Mercy strictly to himself. “Yes,” he said. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “Haven’t got the foggiest. And I’m counting on you to take mental notes. I want to know everything he says to you and the tone of voice he says it in. You dig?”

  Robert stood up. “This is all too weird. What did I do?”

  “I don’t think what you did is the issue. It’s more about who you are.”

  Robert shook his head. “Is that supposed to be mystical or something?”

  Antree waved his hand and started looking through the papers on his desk. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”

  Robert reached for the door.

  “One more thing,” Antree said.

  Robert froze, thinking, here it comes.

  “You may have used your connections to get this job, but don’t push it. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Connections?” Robert said, turning slowly to face him.

  Antree stared. “Your father-in-law? And his pal, the voice of race hatred on WRAL?”

  Robert sat down again. “What are you talking about?”

  “No, you wouldn’t know, would you? I was wondering how s
omebody so cold-blooded could pull off that innocent act so well. Only it isn’t an act at all, is it? That’s what Howard and Mercy and everybody else is so taken with. Me too, God help me.”

  “Are you talking about Randy Fogg, the sportswriter? I don’t even know the guy.”

  “Maybe you don’t. Ruth’s father does.”

  “And what does Fogg have to do with you or this job?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I said anything, all right? Forget about it. Forget I said anything at all.”

  All Robert could think of was the way he’d bragged to his father that he’d won this job through skill alone. What did he have, really, that was all his own? His skills as an engineer, which he’d barely used. A hi-fi and some records, an aging Mercury hardtop sedan.

  “Get to work,” Antree said, with a cheer that rang as false as his earlier melodrama. “Go on, now.”

  Robert stood and walked numbly to the door.

  “And don’t forget Wednesday,” Antree said. “One p.m. sharp.”

  *

  For the rest of the day his mind circled between Randy Fogg, Wilmer Bynum, and Ruth. He’d told Ruth, naturally, when he applied for the job, given her all the details. She must have known about Randy Fogg’s connection to Mason and Antree—whatever it was—and gone to her father.

  For that matter, the idea that Antree was involved with a racist like Fogg was baffling, incredible. As badly as he wanted to know what the relationship was, he was equally afraid of finding something out that would make it impossible to go on working there.

  Behind it all lurked his own sense of guilt. He was in no position to talk about betrayal after Friday night. Not to mention the thoughts he’d had since, more vivid and more credible now than they’d been the week before.

  At five he left the office determined to have it out with Ruth, only to feel his will erode the closer he got to home. He ended up staring at the reservoir from Club Boulevard until he was late for dinner. He spent the rest of the night swallowing his feelings the same way he’d choked down the overcooked, tasteless pork chops, listening to Ruth prattle on, remembering the long, stoic silences of his father and not wanting to repeat them, unable to find a way to break the pattern.

  By Wednesday the pain had dulled, and the need for reckoning lost its urgency. It was easier to carry the hurt than share it.

  And by then it was time to meet Barrett Howard.

  *

  Robert got to the Biltmore ten minutes early. Once he was sitting in an overstuffed chair, gazing into the ballroom where he and Mercy had danced, the tie he was wearing seemed too much. He pulled it off, folded it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

  He’d lain awake for an hour that morning, watching the hands of the clock crawl toward 6:30. He’d pictured Howard taking him out into the countryside, pushing him to the ground and shooting him in the head. I won’t kneel, he’d thought. If he’s going to shoot me anyway, at least I can die on my feet.

  In the light of day the fantasy had seemed ridiculous. It came back full force when Howard finally walked into the lobby, scowling, the stub of a cigar smoldering in the corner of his mouth.

  Robert stood up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Howard said, and offered his hand. His left eye was squinting against the cigar smoke, Robert thought, that was all. He wore jeans, a blue chambray work shirt, and a flowered tie. “Been waiting long?”

  “No,” Robert lied. “Not long.”

  “You up for walking? I want to show you some things.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  They turned left outside the hotel and walked past the Regal Theater, then turned into the Donut Shop. The space was long and narrow, with a chrome counter and stools along the right hand wall and booths along the left. Middle-aged men in suits filled half the seats, teenaged girls in long dresses the rest. The air smelled of yeast and sugar, and Ray Charles was on the jukebox, singing “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” A middle-aged woman at the soda fountain flipped Howard a two-fingered salute, and he leaned across the counter to hug her. “Anybody in the Jade Room, Miss Ella?”

  “Just let out,” she said. “You want anything to eat?”

  “Not this time. Showing my friend Robert around.”

  “Hello, Robert,” she said, with a smile.

  Even as Robert saw the “my friend” for the blatant manipulation it was, he couldn’t deny the warmth it gave him. “Hi,” he said, and smiled back.

  A door at the far end of the shop led into a second, parallel room, even more narrow, done in pea-green wallpaper with pink trim. Square, unframed mirrors every ten feet or so gave the illusion of more space. Eight pedestal tables, side by side, ran the length of the room, covered with white tablecloths and the remains of lunch. Two middle-aged women in elaborate dresses were fussing with their hats and gossiping as Robert and Howard walked in.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Howard said.

  Apparently they recognized him. Heads down and all but clucking their tongues, they squeezed past and bustled out the door.

  “The Jade Room,” Howard said. “Official meeting place of everyone from the North Carolina Lawyers Association to bridge clubs and kids’ birthday parties. This is where community happens, here in this room.”

  His sincerity was palpable. Robert felt petty when he asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you need to understand what it is that you’re tearing down. These are not just buildings. This isn’t just history. This is a living, thriving culture with roots that go deep into this particular patch of ground. You cut the people loose from Hayti and you’re not only taking away their homes and their businesses, you’re taking away the glue that holds them together, that makes them strong. You’re taking away their barbers, their babysitters, their mechanics, the faces they nod to every day even when they don’t know their names.”

  “You act like I have some say in this. Like I have the power to stop it.”

  “Mitch Antree listens to you. He trusts you. Why else did he bring you to that meeting the other night?”

  Because I ran into him on the street, Robert thought. Instead he said, “This is bigger than Mason and Antree, and you know it. If Mitch refused to do the work, they’d just get somebody else in here, probably somebody who’d take a lot more pleasure in it and get the job done a lot faster.”

  Howard slowly deflated. He settled into a chair and slumped forward. “Shit,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. No, you’re right.” Howard pushed his massive fingers through his thick, unprocessed hair. “All you have to do is look around, see what’s going down everywhere else. Paradise Valley in Detroit, the Shaw District in DC, the Hill District in Pittsburgh. What the government hasn’t knocked down yet they’re going after.”

  “I could quit,” Robert said. “You could work on the next guy Mitch hires, maybe you could get him to quit too. And the guy after that.”

  “No, that ain’t no good either.”

  Robert sat down facing him. “Well, at least you could finish showing me around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m interested.”

  “You don’t have to humor me.”

  “This is for real. I want to know.”

  Slowly Howard got onto his feet. “All right. Come on, then.”

  Robert followed him out to the sidewalk. They stopped at the Biltmore Drug Store, occupying a corner of the hotel lobby, to get Howard a fresh cigar. The woman behind the counter was the daughter of Gloria Pratt, “the most beautiful woman I ever saw,” Howard said. “I used to come in here and buy a pack of Juicy Fruit every Friday afternoon, just to look at her.” He smiled at the cashier. “You’ve got her eyes.”

  Robert hadn’t known that Negroes could blush until that moment. “You’re still going to have to pay for that cigar,” she said.

  “So you grew up here,” Robert said to Howard.

  “Born in Monroe, North Carolina, down around Charlotte.” He took his chan
ge and held the door for Robert. “Moved here when I was four. Left when I was 17 to live with my auntie in Chicago so I could go to school at Chicago State. Got a master’s in sociology. Got tired of racism in the north and came down here to fight it at the source. Married once, too young. Got a son I don’t get to visit. I like to bowl. Throw a decent hook and own a 201 average. Something about that little black ball and all those white pins. Anything else you want to know?”

  There was a lot Robert wanted to know. Most of it had to do with Mercy and he wasn’t ready to borrow that particular trouble yet. So he asked, “What do you do with a master’s in sociology?”

  “Teach. I got three sections at NCC, one freshman and two advanced. When I can, I teach some classes at Durham Tech. And the other thing you do when you’re a black man with a sociology degree is, you have opinions. That’s the problem with education. You get to thinking your opinion is worth more than some ignorant fool’s.”

  “Any fool in particular?”

  “If you’re trying to get me to say Mayor R. Wense Grabarek, then I would ask you why you want to ask a question if you already know the answer?”

  Howard’s confrontations with the mayor of Durham were a recurring story in the Herald, and something in his tone made Robert let out a short, surprised laugh. Howard smiled, and for the first time Robert saw the vulnerability and need to please under the showmanship.

  They were in front of the Wonderland Theater. “I know you know this place,” Howard said. “I want you to know something about the man that built it.”

  “Tell me,” Robert said.

  “His name was Frederick K. Watkins. They called him ‘the Movie King.’ He built the Wonderland in 1920. He had a chain of theaters across the southeast, and he lived here in Hayti. He went before the City Council in the thirties, trying to get black police officers for Hayti. Didn’t get them, but he tried. He got his start in movies by making them himself and taking them around and showing them in schools.”