Our Man in the Dark

by Rashad Harrison

  For him, danger lurks everywhere. It was this way from the beginning, but he seemed to be aware of the romantic quality of his adventures, accepting his responsibility to the movement like some gallant knight savoring not only the victory but also the significance of the battle. You can see it in the footage that accompanied his arrival on the national stage, in that first mug shot following his arrest in Montgomery, or when the police officers slammed his shoulder into the counter of a booking station right in front of Coretta—there’s still a roguish glint in his eye. Like the photos of World War II vets broken, beaten, bloody, but smiling from the scorched rubble of Gothic ruins.

  Something changed after Harlem. He must have looked down at that blade in his chest, its ornamented handle snapped off and staining the autographed copies of Stride Toward Freedom with his blood, and thought how trivial it is to put your life on the line for a book signing. No blistering water hoses or prodded dogs and their angry masters, no marchers, no protesters—just an endless parade of stargazers. Yes, after that, he was different. Every day, every hour, every second—all of it was borrowed time.

  It’s just a few days since I helped myself to the money, and I’ve already made some big mistakes. My reformation has drawn too much attention from my coworkers. Because of the car and the much-needed visit to the tailor, I have stirred up an unusual level of commotion at work. In this suit, even a man with a limp as severe as mine can look graceful and authoritative. They see the fitted, perfect silhouette of my jacket, the tie, rakishly dimpled, and the shoes shined to a high gloss—it’s all too perfect. I should reel some of it back, but part of me resents having to play the harmless hobbler. It’s as if they are offended that I chose to improve myself.

  I decide to ignore them, even though I know they are still watching as I enter my office. The walls of the SCLC are thin. I can hear the murmurs, those envious voices encircling me. Did you see him? Strange . . . where did he get the money for that getup? What is he up to?

  I stand at my desk, looking around my office. It now has the unearthly tranquility of a taped-off crime scene. I hear footsteps, and then Gant passes by my open door. The sound of his footsteps stops, then starts again. Only his head appears in my doorway. He looks me up and down and lets out a whistle. “Nice, Estem . . . nice!” His head disappears and his footsteps fade down the hall.

  Throughout the day, I continue to have an overwhelming feeling that someone is speaking poorly of me. The walls of the SCLC really are thin, and hostility has no trouble penetrating them. Regretfully, I long for a more receptive audience.

  I’m starting to sober up from the drunkenness of easily acquired money, and I’m feeling anxious. I have to see my mother. I need her approval.

  I arrive in my brand-new Caddy at my parents’ house, a cottagestyle one-story on the tree-lined end of Auburn Avenue. Little colored children play in the street, chasing a ball and each other. Briefly, I see them looking my way as I get out of the car and give the finish a quick buff with my jacket sleeve. The children grin and wave, their faces lighting up when they see my inspiring visage.

  I return to reality and begin to brace myself before I see my father. Too late—my parents have seen me drive up and are already coming outside.

  I climb out to greet them, and my mother, practically dancing, smiles upon seeing me. As always, my father dons his mask of stone. She says the car is beautiful, and I offer her a ride. She runs to the car, giddy with excitement, while my father stands still with his arms folded.

  “Kind of a fancy car for a bookkeeper,” he says. “How you pay for that?”

  “God! Leave the boy alone. He probably got a raise. All that hard work.”

  “Yeah, Dad. I got a raise . . .”

  “Seems a bit soon. For what?”

  “Probably for organizing all those marches,” my mother says, “and helping Dr. King with all those speeches and getting all those ballsy Negroes out of jail.”

  “I see. Is that what you do? Get ballsy Negroes out of jail? You help Martin Luther King write speeches?” The old man has a strange way of riling me up. Maybe it’s envy. He’s the son of a sharecropper, a former bootlegger, and a retired gardener. I’m the first member of my family to go to college. When I went away, his biggest concern was whether all the reading and lecturing would do a fine job of turning me into a pansy.

  Mother strokes the car’s interior. I get back in and turn the ignition. The car doesn’t start. I look at her and smile. I try again, but it refuses to start.

  “Looks like those marches will come in handy,” my father says, “’cause you gonna be doin’ a whole lotta walkin’.”

  I stare at his face, his features, searching for a sign that would prove that we are not related. I’ve played this game before, and it’s led to the usual disappointment. When I was a child, the man thought that my acquiring scarlet fever and developing polio was somehow my fault, that my weakness taunted the disease to attack me. Once it was clear that I would live, but never walk normally without the support of a brace, my father didn’t believe it. He would tell me to take off my brace and make me walk around without it. “The boy will walk normal when he gets tired of falling,” he’d say. I don’t know if he truly believed it—maybe it’s an old Negro superstition—but most of his actions are laced with an element of cruelty.

  I say a silent prayer while tracing the steering wheel with my open palm. I turn the ignition once more and it starts. I notice a car across the street. There are two men inside. White. I would not have paid any attention to this had they not looked at me with the intensity of hunters in a blind.

  I sometimes struggle with the fact that I actually have parents. I often think of myself as suddenly emerging from the shadows fully formed—some sort of nocturnal creature that withdraws during the day, only to resurface as the sun sets and darkness falls.

  I want the visit to be over as soon as I turn the corner. The chitchat is tedious. I make an effort at seeming interested, but I can’t stop checking my rearview for those two men. Mama must see that I am troubled, because she asks me to pull over. I put the car in park, but keep the engine running. I stay silent, eyes on the mirror.

  “Can I ask you something, son?” I bring my attention back to her. I can already tell this is about money. That’s how family is. They see all that you have done for yourself, and then they start thinking about what you can do for them.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  “They put a lien on the house.”

  “Who put a lien on the house and why?”

  “Taxman. I haven’t paid the property taxes.”

  “What did Daddy say? Is that why he’s in a bad mood?”

  “He don’t know about it. . . . Haven’t told him.”

  Of course he doesn’t. My father is the kind of man who breaks his back to earn his money but refuses to crease his brow figuring out the best way to spend it. He leaves it to her to take care of all the taxes and bills. Those things just confuse him.

  I want to ask her where the money went, but I already know. My mother is a good Christian woman, so some of it went to tithing—the choir needs robes and the preacher needs wheels—and even more of it went to those custom-made church dresses and hats. Segregationists in this state love to harangue anyone who will listen about how Negroes contribute ten cents for every dollar a white man pays in taxes. Those numbers are dubious, but I can’t help but feel embarrassed—for us both.

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Five hundred. . . .”

  About half of what I have left. “Jesus, Mama. . . .”

  “Don’t use his name. . . . I didn’t want to bother you with it. I know money is hard to come by, so I prayed on it. I asked Him to give me a sign. And then you come by in this car, and I knew everything would be okay. . . . Well, can you help me?”

  I think about giving her the money, but to be honest, I don’t trust her with it. I’d rather handle it myself. Besides, I didn’t even think of helping them when I got
the money. Maybe this good deed will give it a good rinse.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mama. I’ll take care of it.”

  After taking a short drive around the block, I drop my mother off at home. She’s disappointed that our time together has ended so quickly, but she tells me to keep our conversation to myself. I promise her as I drive away. I don’t know if she heard me, but I’m eager to get out of here. I have a strong feeling that the two white men were following me. They are no longer around, but something inside tells me not to go home—anywhere but home—so I head to the assessor’s office to take care of the tax bill.

  Thank God, there are no stairs. The directory leads me through a maze of doors with frosted glass and freckled beige linoleum until I find the right place. The office is appointed with file cabinets, venetian blinds, and dust. Their caretaker is a large woman with bifocals that seem attached to her unconvincing wig. She hears me rattle in and looks at me. “What do you need?” she asks.

  “I’m here to pay a tax bill.”

  “The girl will be back in fifteen minutes. She deals with the delinquencies.”

  “I didn’t mention that it was delinquent.”

  I stand at the counter and she stays at her desk.

  “Well, is it?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Fifteen minutes,” she says again.

  I take a seat on the hard bench next to the entrance and watch the back of her wig move subtly to the rhythm of her typing.

  Fifteen minutes pass and I tap on the counter again. She only blinks lazily at me. “Can’t we take care of this now? I’m sort of in a hurry.” That makes her neck stiffen and the wig shift. “Excuse me, ma’am. . . . I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just in a hurry.”

  She calms down but still offers more of the same: “The girl isn’t here yet.”

  I wait another fifteen minutes and a young, skinny colored girl enters from the back holding a brown paper bag that presumably contains her half-eaten lunch. “You’re late,” the woman says to her.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the colored girl says. She looks at me as if she’s surprised to see me. “How are you?”

  “Fine. . . . And you?”

  “Oh, I’ve been fine.” She looks back at her wigged supervisor who has now decided to focus all of her attention on the two of us.

  “Well, I’m here to pay a bill that’s a bit past due.”

  “Okay. I can help you with that.”

  “The name is Estem.”

  “Of course it is,” she says smiling. She shuffles through some papers looking for my parents’ house. “Oh,” she says when she sees how much they owe. “You’re going to be taking care of this . . . all at once?”

  “Yes.” I pull out a roll of twenties, and the scratch of the currency narrows the eyes of the fat woman. I keep my eyes on her wig and ask the girl for my receipt. She gives it to me and I thank her for her time.

  Once outside, I look to see if those two men are around. They’re not. I must be getting paranoid. Maybe it showed back in the assessor’s office. I start the car and turn the corner—and pass the two men in a parked car. It’s strange, but now I realize that I know the girl. We went to school together. Samantha DePlush.

  I drive for a long time, frequently glancing at the side mirrors. Eventually, I pass the Royal Theatre, and its faux-Egyptian columns offer me an immediate sense of security. This seems appropriate, given the relationship I had with movies during my early years with polio. Even then, they were a sort of safe haven and appealed to my innate sense of adventure and romance. They were amusing friends that did not taunt or tease, only solicited my approval. Maybe the child inside me still watches all those montages of seductions, cracked cases, double crosses, and car chases. Maybe he watches from the darkened theater of my mind.

  It seems like a good place to spend some time. It’ll give me an opportunity to lose those men on my tail and clear my head.

  Although movie theaters have been desegregated for two years, the Royal Theatre is still the theater of choice for Negroes of respectability and a discriminating nature. There are gilded murals depicting the raising of the pyramids, and balconies embossed with violet scarabs. Above the screen hangs a large curtain with the bird-headed image of the sun god Ra. Quite the spectacle. I take one last look around as the theater lights start to dim.

  The movie was about some international spy, a resourceful fellow who always managed to light a cigarette whenever his life was in danger. I wonder if such a thing would work in reality. It seems to buy you crucial thinking time.

  As I leave, I notice two white men seated at the rear of the theater. The Royal is nice, but it’s still quite strange for a white person to choose to patronize a Negro theater. I’m not sure if these are the same men from earlier, but I begin to fear the worst. The money? Maybe they’re just two light-skinned Negroes and I’m imagining things. I walk along the purple runner that leads to the exit, peering out of the corner of my eye. As I get closer, they don’t seem so interested. Their heads do not turn to follow me. I’m relieved, but not convinced. The money. Was I being too flashy? Police? Whoever they are, they give off a vibe that is neither cop nor criminal, but something in between.

  I make it to my car. They aren’t behind me, but I hear that voice again—the one telling me I can’t go home. So I don’t. I drive, floating through the city, just trying to keep the strangers and the sun off my tail, waiting for the night to come and hide me safely so I don’t have to run anymore.

  As night approaches, it dawns on me that all this may be ending, yet Candy has never seen the new and improved version of me. Wasn’t she the reason why I did this? The fear of regrets, not knowing what could have been, offsets my paranoia. I’ll go to her and face the consequences. Right now, I have the detached acceptance of an inmate before execution. If only she would be kind enough to honor my last request.

  The place is crowded. Immediately, I feel the press of flesh. Some local rhythm and blues man yelps and strums at his guitar as I look for Candy through the dancing crowd, over bobbing heads and through the narrow spaces between swaying bodies. I find her in Count’s arms on the other side of the bar. I take a seat at the bar and order a drink, keeping an eye on them both. At first, her body is rigid in his embrace, but then she relents. He nuzzles her neck with his wide mouth. She does not move. He lifts his head and looks at her. She sees me. I lift my drink and nod to her. Then, and only then, does she smile.

  Why is she smiling? he must be wondering. He follows Candy’s gaze. He sees me, but I don’t avert my glare. He makes a motion toward his two men in a far corner. They seem to be practically identical: both are large and Negro and dressed in brightly colored zoot suits, one purple, the other yellow. They walk over to Count. He seems agitated, and then he points in my direction. As his men walk toward me, a path slices effortlessly through the crowd. Suddenly, I feel compelled to light a cigarette.

  “Hey, little man. You buyin’ or just window shoppin’?” questions the yellow suit.

  I sip my drink and then puff my cigarette.

  “’Cause if you ain’t buyin’, and you just window shoppin’, you need to do that shit outside.”

  “Yeah. Count don’t like you starin’ him in the face,” says the other.

  I feel a surge of reassurance, power, if you will. I have my drink, my cigarette, and a pocket stuffed with cash. These are the only weapons I need. I pull out a fistful of money and place it on the bar. “You tell Count that as long as I’m spending money in this dive, I’ll look wherever I see fit. Now why don’t you fellows take a few dollars and buy yourselves some real clothes.” I wad some cash and toss it at them.

  They look at each other and laugh. “Oh, we’ll take the money, chump. But it’s gonna be a lot more than a few dollars!”

  I think I see his yellow shoulder twitch. My instincts take over. Before I realize, I’ve thrown my drink in the man’s face, followed by my lit cigarette. He does not burst into flames. Movies have misled
me. The cigarette extinguishes itself with an uneventful sssst.

  They carry me out into the alley behind Count’s.

  Almost instantly, I receive a punch to the stomach. I feel my intestines forcing their way into my scrotum. I double over and fall to my knees, gasping for air and looking at their cheap shoes: faux alligator, worn and creased. I vomit all over their shoes. One of them boxes my left ear, the other kicks my intestines back into place. My glasses fall from my face and land in the vomit. I’m dazed; I see stars . . . then I see headlights.

  I hear car doors open at the end of the alley. Two figures step in front of the headlights and cast what seem to be pistol-wielding shadows along the sides of the building. I can’t discern their features. I’m still stunned from the attack and somewhat blinded by the brightness of the lights. I look up at my assailants. They too are looking in the direction of the two figures. I know it is not an apparition.

  “What the fuck you crackers want?” demands one of the goons.

  They cock their pistols in response.

  “Okay, okay, we get the picture.” My assailants raise their hands and back away from me.

  The unknown men approach me and help me to my feet. They walk me over to their car, not saying a word, with guns still pointed at those violent Negroes.

  One of them opens the car door and quickly pushes me into the backseat. The car starts and slowly backs out of the alley.