William Melvin Kelley
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William Melvin Kelley was born in New York City in 1937 and attended the Fieldston School and Harvard. The author of four novels and a short story collection, he was a writer in residence at the State University of New York at Geneseo and taught at The New School and Sarah Lawrence College. He was awarded the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award for lifetime achievement and the Dana Reed Prize for creative writing. He died in 2017.
BY WILLIAM MELVIN KELLEY
A Different Drummer
A Drop of Patience
Dunfords Travels Everywheres
Dancers on the Shore (short stories)
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JUNE 2020
Copyright © 1967 by The Estate of William Melvin Kelley
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1967.
Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:
Name: Kelley, William Melvin, 1937–2017.
Title: Dem / William Melvin Kelley.
Description: First edition. | Garden City, N.Y., Doubleday, 1967.
Identifiers: LCCN 67019079
Subjects: LCSH: Middle class men—Fiction. | WASPs (Persons)—Fiction. | Race relations—Fiction. | Men, White—Fiction. | Manhattan (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.
GAFSD: Psychological fiction. | Satire.
Classification: LCC PZ4.K285 De PS3561.E392
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/67019079
Anchor Books Trade Paperback ISBN 9781984899330
Ebook ISBN 9781984899347
Cover design by The BearMaiden
www.anchorbooks.com
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This book is dedicated to the black people in (not of) America.
His dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
—F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, The Great Gatsby
The ruin of a nation begins in the homes of its people.
—ASHANTI PROVERB
Note:
Superfecundation is the fertilization of two ova within a short period of time by spermatozoa from separate copulations. It is only distinguishable from usual two-egg twinning if the female has coitus with two males with diverse physical characters, each passing his respective traits to the particular twin he has fathered.
—ALAN F. GUTTMACHER, Pregnancy and Birth
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by William Melvin Kelley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
When Johnny…
Opal
The Search for Love
Twins
næʊ, lǝmi tǝljǝ hæʊ dǝm foks lıv…
When Johnny…
1
SOMEONE, thought Mitchell Pierce, is having his apartment painted.
A large pile of painter’s rags—what looked like a spotted gray tarp, an old Indian blanket, a black unblocked fedora—sat on the pavement just outside the front door of his apartment building. In the June morning heat, steam rose from the rags. Mitchell walked from under the awning, stopped, felt a lukewarm sun on his shoulder, and wondered why he was not beginning to sweat. Then a hand grabbed his ankle.
“You got a dime, chief?” Under the black hat, the Indian smiled with only one side of his mouth; the other side held a cigar. Now Mitchell could smell him, sweet and pungent as old bananas. “Come on, chief, a few silver trinkets.”
Mitchell tried to pull his leg free, but the Indian held fast, red and black eyes staring from a broad brick-colored face cut by a thousand tiny wrinkles, coated with soot, caged by two thick braids. Breakfast, not long crushed, began to turn in Mitchell’s stomach. He put his foot into the Indian’s chest and tried to kick him away.
“Just a dime, chief, so I can make the happy hunting grounds.”
Pulling change from his pocket, Mitchell aimed at the Indian’s face; the hand left his ankle. Late already, he did not wait for a thank you. At the office, his stomach still upset, he was told by his secretary that Mr. Cook wanted to see him immediately.
He knew why. Mr. Cook had assigned Mitchell and a coworker, John Godwin, a commercial. Since Mitchell knew very little about the intricacies of selling such a product, Godwin had volunteered to do it alone, and Mitchell had agreed. He had seen Godwin’s work only minutes before they submitted it to Mr. Cook. But those few minutes had been enough. Even Mitchell knew it was a bad job. Now he would have to face Mr. Cook, and accept half the responsibility for the failure, or confess that he had done no work at all.
Mr. Cook’s office did not have a desk, only fifteen orange leather chairs, arranged into three circles in various parts of the room. They sat in the chairs nearest the window, the sun just outside, above the river, Mr. Cook’s back to the window. Mitchell was glad to be squinting. It would be harder for Mr. Cook to know what he was thinking.
“I’m not going to ask which of you fellows is basically responsible. I think I know already. Besides, the last thing I want is a spy system around here.” Mr. Cook, eyes shaded by yellow-tinted spectacles, smiled at Mitchell and John Godwin in turn; the sun lit his thinning hair from behind. “All I care about is creating a one-minute play that will educate people about their need for HECES. So maybe if we sit here and work on it together, we can get something by lunchtime. All right?”
Mitchell had just torn out a match, the cigaret already between his lips, when Mr. Cook asked the question. He answered as quickly as he could: “Yes, sir.” Godwin simply nodded and Mitchell wondered if ever he would have that kind of courage.
Mr. Cook did not seem to notice. “Now, we have this couple, in their early thirties. Two ugly people. The husband is balding. The wife? No hairdo. Straight hair, brown, a little curl on the end. Am I right? Those are the kind of people who buy HECES. What’re they wearing?” He smoothed his tie, and waited.
Godwin, to Mitchell’s right, crossed his legs. “What time of day is it?”
“You’re supposed to be telling me, John.”
“I thought you might want to change it.” Godwin looked at Mitchell for a second. “We put the time in the early evening, after supper.”
“All right. Now, what’re they wearing?”
Godwin turned to Mitchell. “I think you have some ideas on that.”
This was not true; he rephrased what Mr. Cook had already said. “Well, sir, I saw them as working people. The wife has on a cheap housedress. The husband has on a white shirt, with his sleeves rolled up.”
Mr. Cook was happy, but did not smile. “Now look what you have here? The man says: Gee, honey, this room smells really good tonight. Did you use some air freshener? And she says: No, I used HECES. And then you go into the demonstration and the rest of it. It’s all wrong. Awareness of a
problem must come before a person begins to look for an answer to that problem. Those people aren’t that smart. You see what I mean?”
Mitchell was not sure, but nodded anyway.
Godwin lit a cigaret, exhaled, looking out of the window.
Mr. Cook sighed. “Now, do you have any suggestions?” He sat back in his chair, his thumb and index finger starting at the tip of his nose and sliding up, under the two yellow circles to press against his closed eyes.
Godwin signaled Mitchell to lead off.
Mitchell doubted that Godwin was actually giving him the opportunity to answer the question. More likely, he was trying to get Mitchell to test out Mr. Cook. Then Godwin could judge Mr. Cook’s reaction and make his own suggestion. But he decided to gamble and accept the challenge. “Well, sir, it seems to me that we must make people aware of their fears.” Mr. Cook nodded. “And don’t people fear rejection most of all?”
“Right.” Mr. Cook came forward in his chair. “Go on.”
He glanced at Godwin, who, surprisingly enough, seemed genuinely pleased. “So we can start with silence, no music, just these two ugly people sitting in their living room. We have a close-up of the husband, balding, needing a shave, an ape. Then his wife, plain as a grocery bag. They’re sitting in the living room, just staring at each other. Their life is boring and dull. They’re lonely. Then the husband says: Gee, honey, I wonder why no one ever comes to visit us?”
“Good, Mitchell.” Mr. Cook smiled at Godwin, who nodded as if Mitchell were his younger brother, though they knew each other only slightly. “Then what does the wife say?” Mr. Cook had stopped smiling.
Mitchell tried several answers to himself, but none seemed right. The room was very quiet.
“Something like: The Jensens always have a house full of friends. Right, Mitchell?” Godwin was trying to help him; Mitchell could not understand why.
“All right, John.” Mr. Cook frowned. “But that doesn’t really advance the action. We have the rejection theme started. We have to keep it moving.”
Godwin nodded, did not defend himself.
But Godwin had given Mitchell time, and he thought he had the answer, and even decided to risk coming to Godwin’s aid. “Excuse me, Mr. Cook, but I think John is trying to give us a second for reflection. I may be wrong—I mean, you’d probably know better—but I wouldn’t rush them. Let this new awareness of their loneliness sink in.”
Mr. Cook thought for a moment. Godwin seemed to be watching a bird, wings sparkling, circle away toward the river.
“All right, Mitchell. I’ll accept that. But then what?”
“Then the husband says: You know, I’ve been hearing about something new, called HECES. Then he tells a little bit about it…”
But Mr. Cook was shaking his head. “No, Mitchell. You’ve made a mistake. The wife’s got to get the idea. She’s the one who does all the buying. She’s the one who watches television all day.”
“You meant wife, didn’t you, Mitchell?” The bird had disappeared and Godwin had returned to them.
Surprised again, but picking up his cue, Mitchell made himself laugh. “Did I say husband? I’m sorry, sir. I mean wife.” He watched, but could not tell if Mr. Cook believed him.
“All right, the rest is easy. The demonstration. Then what?” Mr. Cook smiled at them. “I want you fellows to earn your money.”
“The obvious stuff, Mr. Cook.” Godwin sat up. “We give the husband a good shave, a suit coat, and a tie. The wife gets a nice simple hairdo, not too much to notice, and a cocktail dress with some spangles on it. We change the lighting. And a house full of people, a party setup, some music, and couples dancing in the background. The husband kisses the wife, and says: Gee, honey, I’m sure glad you made me get some HECES. That what you had in mind, Mitchell?”
He nodded.
“All right then. When can I see a final draft with camera directions?”
“In a week, Mitchell?” Godwin crushed out a cigaret and started to get up.
“I think so.” Mitchell gathered his notes.
Mr. Cook walked to the door between them. “I always have a better lunch when I know I’ve done a good morning’s work. What about you fellows?”
He and Godwin agreed.
They walked the two flights down to their offices, Mitchell following. Godwin held the door for him. “It was nice of you not to say I messed up the assignment, Mitchell. My mind isn’t within a million miles of here.”
“What about you?” Mitchell was still puzzled. “You kept throwing me fat pitches.”
“Why not?” Godwin shrugged. “Listen, how about lunch? You have anything on?”
“No.” Mitchell shook his head. “Sure, let’s have lunch.”
2
THEY MET in the lobby of their building, near the cripple’s newsstand, and walked out into the street. Most of the millions of secretaries—in short cotton dresses, under shining helmetlike hair—were already hurrying back to their offices.
At the corner, a yellow taxi and a blue sedan had collided. The two drivers, a neckless Italian and a balding man, his white arms sticking from rolled-up plaid sleeves, stood in shattered glass shouting threats. Godwin wanted to watch, but Mitchell had a three-thirty appointment.
“That’s the third one I’ve seen this week.” Godwin stopped again to light a cigaret. “Listen, Mitchell, I’m really sorry you had to share the blame for that mess.”
Despite all that had happened, Mitchell had been expecting an hour of excuses. Now he wondered why Godwin had wanted this lunch. “We haven’t got very much to do now.” He pulled open the thick glass door of the restaurant, and began to shiver.
Godwin dropped his cigaret, twisted it apart with his right toe.
They sat in a back booth and waited for their drinks. Godwin lit another cigaret. “You were in the last Asian war, weren’t you?”
“That’s right.” Mitchell waited, a habit. Whenever someone began a new conversation, it was best to see how it developed before joining it.
“So was I.” Godwin exhaled. “Marine Corps. I was just out of college when it started and I wanted to toughen myself up.” He thought a moment. “And I guess I did.”
Godwin did not look or talk like a Marine. He was tall, thin, gaunt even, with hands too small for his long arms, and almost shaggy hair. In meetings, he did not say much, did not seem very ambitious.
Their drinks came and they ordered lunch.
“My mind wasn’t on that piece at all, Mitchell. The Marine Corps is calling me up.”
“No kidding? Asia again?”
“I guess so.” He shook his head, smiling. “It was a real surprise. I didn’t think they’d need the old men for this one.”
“I’m sorry, John.”
The waiter arrived with their lunch—for Mitchell, a steak ringed by hard little potatoes; for Godwin, lamb chops and spinach. They each ordered another drink, pausing in their conversation until the waiter, too attentive, had left them.
Because there was no particular rivalry between them, and because of Godwin’s conduct that morning, Mitchell offered honest sympathy. “I really don’t think you’ll have to worry about your position, John. They give leaves of absence. Naughton got called up last year and there didn’t seem—”
Godwin’s arm waved his small hand. “Sure, sure, if they want me back, I’ll be back.”
Mitchell could feel his brain swelling with alcohol. “No, I don’t think you have to worry.”
With metal tools, Godwin carved the meat away from the bone, which he picked up in his fingers. “I don’t think you understand, Mitchell. I liked the Corps.”
“Liked it?” Mitchell used his broadest smile.
“I’m serious.” Godwin’s eyes were blue. He did not continue, instead, lowered his mouth to his bone. “Is there a good hardware store around
here?”
Mitchell did not know. He was still thinking about the way Godwin had looked at him.
“My power mower’s broken. I have to get a part for it.” He shrugged. “Well, I didn’t feel like mowing the lawn this weekend anyway.”
Mitchell had been enjoying his steak. Very carefully he had separated the rim of fat from the lean red meat and pushed it to the side of his plate, wishing he could hide the fat somewhere. “How do you like it out there?”
“It’s wonderful. Especially for the kids. Before we moved, my boy was always losing fights. But since we’ve been out there, he’s gotten much tougher. He can really take care of himself.” Finishing his bone, Godwin cleaned his hands. His napkin looked like shredded waxed paper. “I don’t go for all the stuff the Marine Corps dishes out, but a kid does have to know how to handle himself. At least they taught me that. You know anything about the Marines?”
“Not much.” Mitchell’s throat was dry; he looked for the waiter.
“Well, every man in the Corps is essentially a rifleman. Then they teach you a specialty. It can be cooking, or radio, or killing by hand. That’s my specialty. I know seventy different ways to kill with my bare hands. Scares me sometimes, knowing how to do that. But at least I can walk through that God-damned park without being afraid.”
Mitchell envied that. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, he would put Jake, his baby son, in his carriage and push him through the park. Whenever he passed a Black man, his heart would knock under his coat. He would walk on, hoping the Black man was not following him. For a moment, he looked at Godwin’s small hands. “You ever do it?”
Godwin nodded. “About thirty times, I guess. I used to go on a lot of missions behind enemy lines.”
“I had some combat duty, but it was the usual stuff, shooting at a bush or a rock. I don’t think I ever saw one of them.”
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