Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  While Geneva still slept, Clarence looked at the clear bright morning, put on his shades, and went for an early walk. Probably his last walk ever in this neighborhood. He knew he would miss it.

  He strolled down the less-traveled back streets. It had been a long time, he realized, since he took time for a walk. Geneva invited him often, but there was always so much work to do. There were a couple of new neighbors he hadn’t even met, but this was the suburbs and no sense meeting them now anyway. Last time he’d been on this street, Anderson, the old curmudgeon, had been walking his half-breed pit bull down the narrow sidewalk the opposite direction. He hadn’t budged an inch and clearly expected Clarence to step off into the wet grass or onto the street.

  It was possible Anderson expected this because Clarence was the younger man, and that would not have bothered him in the least. But most likely, Clarence supposed, it was because he was black, and Anderson expected blacks should always move out of the way for whites. Clarence had deferred, stepping off the sidewalk to let man and dog pass. The ugly dog growled and the ugly Anderson may as well have. Clarence thought he saw a smug look on Anderson’s face, the look that says, “Know your place, black man.”

  Clarence had reenacted the scene in his mind dozens of times since it had happened two months ago, coming up with all sorts of sarcastic comments he would make if it happened again.

  Today he saw an unfamiliar face coming his way. Must be one of those new neighbors. The man walked out the driveway of the old Thompson place. He’d seen the “For sale” sign taken down a few weeks ago. The man was fiftyish and white as a cumulus cloud, walking his German Shepherd and wearing sunglasses. He and his dog occupied all the narrow sidewalk themselves.

  Clarence determined that today he would not defer. He would gladly move for woman, child, or elderly man, but he would not move for a man just because he was white. He would not send that message or endure that indignity.

  The two men wearing dark glasses in the bright morning sun walked closer and closer toward each other. As he got near, Clarence saw a blank expression on the man’s face. He felt certain he was analyzing and dissecting him. “What’s a black man doing out here?” Or, “So this is the nigger they told me about.” The more he thought about it, the angrier Clarence got.

  Now they were fifteen feet apart, and one was clearly going to have to step off the path. It would be the white man with the dog, not the black man walking by himself. Clarence would not step aside. He would not give a greeting. If the man wanted to be friendly—Clarence was certain he didn’t—he would have to take the initiative.

  They were now just eight feet apart. Clarence determined he would hold his ground if he had to walk right through the man. He walked straight forward, not hesitating, biting his lip involuntarily. It became obvious the man was not going to move off the sidewalk either. The dog squeezed by Clarence’s left leg, but Clarence’s wide left shoulder bumped squarely into the smaller man’s, causing him to totter. He fell part way to the ground, sticking out his hand to catch himself.

  Why didn’t you just move out of the way?

  “Pardon me,” the man said. “So sorry. Not accustomed to this neighborhood yet. Barney and I are still getting used to each other. Narrow sidewalks, aren’t they? Jensen’s the name. Marty Jensen.” The disoriented man stretched out his hand at a ninety degree angle from Clarence.

  Clarence’s ire turned to horror when he realized Barney had the harness of a guide dog. “Sorry,” Clarence whispered, his voice trembling. Embarrassed, he quickly decided he didn’t want the man to know his name.

  Clarence walked away briskly, hearing the man apologize a second time and say, “Have a good day. Hope to bump into you again.” The man uttered a self-deprecating laugh as Clarence retreated.

  Clarence split wood after he returned home. There was no need to do it. It made no sense to be chopping wood as they were preparing to move out. But swinging the splitting maul had always been a way to express himself. It beat biting his lip.

  After forty minutes, he sat on one of the logs, sweat dripping. He looked at his woodpile, seeing one tilted wedge in the otherwise Swiss-perfect symmetrical stack. He corrected the imprecision.

  He looked at his yard, smiling, remembering Jake’s comment when he’d looked in his garage a few weeks earlier: “Clabern, you’ve got enough lawn fertilizer here to get arrested by ATF.” Clarence inspected the neighbors’ lawns. His was still the best. It had to be. If a white man hasn’t mowed his lawn lately, it’s because he’s busy. If a black man hasn’t, it’s because he’s lazy.

  Clarence came in the front door and settled on the living-room couch, straightening out the Black Enterprise magazine on the coffee table. It was the annual special issue, The Black Enterprise Largest 100 Black Businesses in America. He loved reading about legends such as Reginald Lewis, Howard Naylor Fitzhugh, Arthur G. Gaston, and John H. Johnson. There was a special feature on Berry Gordon of Motown. He loved the ads, seeing page after page of successful, well-dressed black professionals. Even though the editorials could be infuriatingly liberal, he loved the magazine. Next to it was Destiny, a magazine for black conservatives. He’d decided Ebony and Jet and Essence had become drivel on the level of People and Us and were too superficial for guests to associate with serious black folk.

  It was now just 9:15 A.M. He put on some late coffee and picked up the Trib he’d pulled from the paper box following his walk. He’d read his own column first, then immerse himself in the rest of it.

  “What a beautiful day!” Geneva said from an oversized padded lawn chair on the deck just outside the living room. Had he looked up at her she would have struck Clarence as catlike, curled up, arms and legs overlapping, brushing the lint off one sleeve and then the other. But he didn’t look up.

  Geneva stared through the gray screen door at Clarence sitting in the living room, poring over the newspaper like a four-point senior studying for his final exams. It was a guy thing, she’d long ago decided. She wondered what it would take to get his attention, and whether she was willing to pay the price.

  “How did this garbage make it on page one?” he said.

  “Good morning to you too, baby. Maybe we could go for a walk,” she said.

  “McNews. Polls, pie charts, scenery pics on page one? A lead article on ‘hot movies’? It’s like the Trib’s been possessed by the National Inquirer. We don’t just need new editors. We need an exorcist! Where’s the hard reporting? Where’s the news? Newspaper. Get it?”

  “Spike wants to go for a walk. Maybe after you’ve read the sports page?”

  “Look at the size of this headline. It’s a no-news day and we’ve got fonts the size of a Mississippi cockroach. What are they trying to be, the New York Post? How’s anybody going to know when war’s declared?”

  “Clarence?” Geneva spoke loudly this time.

  “I’m reading the paper.”

  “I know. You’re always reading the paper.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That…you’re always reading the paper.”

  “I chopped wood this morning; I’m gonna work all day. Make the big move into the city, just like you want. Now let me relax awhile, okay?”

  “You made the decision to move, remember?” Geneva said. “And I don’t want you to work all day. I want you to relax. The kids need you more than the moving company does. How about we just kick back together a few minutes before we start packing up?”

  Clarence sighed, picking invisible particles off his shirt sleeve. “You’re saying I’m neglecting the family again, right?”

  “Stop getting defensive, Clarence. This isn’t a putdown. I just want you to come with me and take the dog for a walk. You need to relax.”

  “I am relaxing.”

  “No you’re not. You’re like a bee trapped in a Mason jar. You’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry!” He said it a little too loudly.

  “Okay, you’re just acting like you’re ang
ry. And you’re a really good actor!”

  “Sure. Fine.” Clarence threw down the paper. “You were hinting at taking the dog for a walk? Well, I went for a walk before you got up. And I’m not a mind reader. Don’t expect me to figure it out. Just come right out and say it, okay? It’s called communication.”

  “Forget it. I’ll walk the dog myself.”

  “Fine. Just don’t make like it’s my fault.”

  “Why does everything have to be somebody’s fault?” Geneva shouted, jumping to her feet. “Look, I’m sorry you lost your sister, okay? But she was one of my dearest friends. And I’m sorry about Felicia. It rips me up too—you don’t know how much. But I didn’t just lose them. I lost you. Excuse me while I go grieve, okay?”

  She charged to the door, then looked back at him.

  “Not that it matters to you. You’ve been sitting around feelin’ sorry for yourself that you’re a black man? Well, let me tell you Mr. High and Mighty journalist. You try bein’ a black woman. Black women are the mules of this world. And we get whipped by black men because they think everybody else is whippin’ them. Well, I’m tired of bein’ whipped by your mouth, you understand me?”

  She grabbed the leash out of the front closet, hustled a salivating Spike out the door, and slammed it behind her.

  Clarence sat stoically, listening to her pounding footsteps recede.

  It was Monday, at Dani’s. Between loads from the moving van, Geneva and Clarence crossed the street to see Mrs. Burns.

  “Thanks for taking care of the kids, Hattie,” Geneva said.

  “Happy to. Always told Dani that. Lordy, Lordy I miss that girl. I want you to know I’ll be here for these children. You ever need help, ever need someone to watch ’em, you call on ol’ Hattie, you hear me now?”

  “We really appreciate that,” Geneva said.

  “Celeste is quiet, maybe too quiet,” Hattie said. “She misses her mama and her sister somethin’ terrible. I’ve been teachin’ her to bake, and she seems to like it. Don’t know how much help I can be for the boy. He needs a strong hand. Needs a man to show him the way. I’m scared for him. The school called a few days ago. He’s not doin’ his homework, skippin’ classes, doesn’t seem to care.”

  “Ty’s a four-point student,” Clarence said.

  “Used to be. Won’t be this year. I think you better talk to him. I tried but he gave me that look boys have nowadays. Like what do I know about life and why should they listen to me.”

  “I’ll call the school first chance,” Clarence said. “Thanks again, Hattie.”

  “Well, my door’s always open to you, hear me? We got to stick together here. It’s our only chance.”

  The next morning Clarence stared at the headline on the front page of Metro. “Hispanic Gang Members Suspected in Murder.” He read the article by Barry Davis.

  The fatal shooting of Dani Rawls and her daughter Felicia that stunned a north Portland neighborhood two weeks ago took on a new twist this week. A witness has come forward indicating that a car speeding away from the murder scene was a gold, late seventies Chevrolet Impala or Caprice. The driver and passenger were both young Hispanic males, perhaps in their early twenties, each wearing a white T-shirt.

  While refusing to identify the witness, police spokesperson Lieutenant W. C. Jannsen said, “The shooting had the earmarks of gang warfare.” When asked if this is another example of growing racial tension in the greater Portland area, Jannsen replied, “Hopefully it was just an isolated incident.”

  “The new eyewitness information confirms the shooting was probably racially motivated,” Councilman Reginald Nor-coast stated. “I have personally talked with the chief of police and asked that the department’s hate crimes division take a closer look at this. I remind the community that the reward still stands, $10,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killers. I believe in this so strongly that my wife and I contributed the first $1,000 ourselves.”

  Clarence threw down the paper.

  I’ve never known anyone to get more mileage out of a thousand dollars.

  “In the next phase of your studies you’ll learn about your family history,” Torel said to Dani. “Your great-grandfather will be your guide.”

  Zeke beamed, champing at the bit to get started.

  “I knew my grandfather was a sharecropper,” Dani said, “that his mama was born a slave and her name was Ruth. But that’s about all I knew.”

  “Ruth was our daughter,” Zeke said. “Nancy and I served the same massa three years, then we jumped the broom together.”

  A time portal opened and Dani watched the ceremony, just as it happened in old Kentucky.

  “You literally jumped over a broom?”

  “Yes’m! It was a combination of African and American wedding ritual. They wouldn’t give us a Christian ceremony, but jumpin’ the broom married us before God and the church.”

  “The church?”

  “Well,” Zeke laughed, “back then the church was just any of the slaves who loved Jesus and that was most of them. See those folks there?” He pointed to the portal. “That was Sam and Darla. They was good friends.”

  “And that little boy dancin’ next to them,” Dani said, “is that theirs?”

  “Yeah, that was little Sam. The massas called him Sambo. They didn’t want two slaves hassin’ the same name. Said it was confusin’.”

  “He’s so cute. And lanky.”

  “Sam and Darla loved little Sam,” Zeke said. “Used to talk about their dreams for that boy. But then Massa Collins sold him. He sold away their only son.”

  A look of horror swept across Dani’s face.

  “Darla was never the same. Shriveled up after that. And ol’ Sam, he heard his boy was at a farm outside Lexington, just a few hundred miles away. After two years he couldn’t stand it no more, so he rans off to find him. Didn’t get but forty miles ’fore they found him. Beat him, then cut off both his big toes so he wouldn’t run again. He did run again. Just didn’t get very far.” Zeke’s eyes misted up.

  “I’m sorry,” Dani said. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain, Great-Granddaddy. I didn’t think—”

  “That there was pain here? Well, it’s funny with that. You know, the promise is that God will wipe away the tears from every eye. But that doesn’t happen until after the ol’ devil’s throwed in that ol’ fiery lake. There’s so much more laughter and joy here than tears—you seen that I reckon. But the joy isn’t in forgetting what happened. It’s in remembering and seeing the hand of God and how he sustains and heals.”

  “And if you didn’t remember the bad things,” Dani offered, “you couldn’t experience God’s comfort for them. Tell me about my grandmother.”

  “Well, ’bout a year after Nancy and I jumped the broom we had a boy. Named him Abraham. Then another year later Ruth was born. And…” Tears flowed again. “She was the most beautiful little girl on God’s green earth.”

  No sooner had he said it than the portal showed the girl in her mother’s arms, with proud young Zeke doting over her.

  “Now look at her. Was I just braggin’ or was I right?”

  Dani was instantly taken with how much this child looked like her own baby pictures. “You were right, Great-Grandpa,” she said, putting her arms around him and squeezing. He reminded her so much of her daddy. She could hardly wait to introduce them to each other.

  “We had some happy years together, Nancy and me and Abraham and Ruth. Not easy years but happy ones ’cause we was free inside and we had each other. See, I hears people say in the Shadowlands that Christianity enslaved blacks. No, it was just the opposite. Knowin’ the one true Master gave us dignity, that God made us, that Jesus died for us, that God gave us the same rights as other men even if nobody acted like it. We knew we had a home in heaven and we could keep our heads high even when our backs was beaten till our shirts stuck to them from the blood.

  “Your great-grandma, bless her, rubbed on lard to grease my back, and it
felt so good—see her doin’ it right there now? The overseers was cruel, though our master was kinder than most. Still, ownin’ slaves did somethin’ to a man’s soul and mistreatin’ them did somethin’ more, shriveled up that soul like an orange drained of its juice. But God kept the juice in our family, I’m here to tell you, Great-Granddaughter. And Abe and little Ruth, they was our pride and joy.”

  “And then?” Dani asked.

  “Well, then it was the same ol’ story. Mr. Collins had promised he’d never separate our family ’cause I was the hardest worker he had, and he was gonna do right by me. Then times turned hard and somebody wanted a field hand and house help. They had some older hands that could train younger ones to do it right, so they wanted chillens. Abraham and Ruth was nine and eight, and in those days you could do a lot of work by that age. So this man inspected the slaves and when he was lookin’ at my little ones I could tell what he was thinkin’. Nancy stole them away into our shack and stayed with them, huddled up in the corner. She was so scared.”

  Dani saw it as it happened, the terrified look in Nancy’s eyes, the frightened children clinging to their mother and each other in the dark far corner of the shack.

  “I kept tellin’ Nancy that Mr. Collins had promised us he’d never do that, and she reminded me what he did to little Sam and how Darla was never the same and big Sam’s toes got cut off and I said, ‘Mr. Collins made some mistakes, but he a Christian man. He gonna keep his promises.’”

  Dani looked at him, anxious yet afraid to hear the rest of the story.

  “Finally Mr. Collins tells me he’s sorry, but he’s gonna has to sell our babies. And I tells him, No sir, you can’t.’ He never heard me talk like that. Didn’t slap me, just stared at me, tryin’ to measure if there was a line you could cross even with a po’ nigger. Well, he’d crossed that line. Finally he gave us a choice. He’d sell two of our family. But we could choose which two. So we gots one day to decide, and we wept all that day. We cried out to God Almighty and asked him to help us. We begged him to let our family be together.”