by Richard Dry
Easton began to sketch, brushing the black stick lightly across the top of the paper, his eyes on Sandra, then flicking down every once in a while for a glance at his work. Little Lida walked over and stood across the table from him, staring at his hand and the strokes on the page.
“One day,” Saul said, “Corbet, he came up to me and he said, ‘We’re not going to fight unless we get paid the same as the White infantry.’ See, Easton, this is where you get your fire.”
“That boy and I aren’t blood kin, Saul,” Corbet said, and shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. Fire, it leaps around like that. In any case, the whole company sent him up to tell me. And I took him to be telling the truth.”
“He just nodded his head and called General Lehey,” Corbet said. “That’s when I knew he was all right. Then they integrated us, but that was only in the army. Came home and I still couldn’t stay in a hotel for my own victory parade. I couldn’t take that kind of foolishness anymore. That’s why I come out here.”
“That’s why you disappeared and left Mama,” Easton said. He looked up at Ruby, who shook her head at him.
Corbet took a sip of his bourbon, “C’est la vie. I know it’s tempting to judge me, but life’s too messy to simplify like that. You wouldn’t even be born if I hadn’t.”
“Are you going to let us look at your sketch?” Saul asked.
“You’re the first person he’s done that isn’t from a photograph,” Corbet said to Sandra. “You ought to be honored.”
She smiled.
“She’s quiet,” Corbet continued. “Watch out for the quiet ones, son. They’ll use your own mind to make you crazy.”
“She’s not so quiet when she knows you,” Easton said.
“Is that right? What are you studying in school, young lady?”
“I don’t have a major yet. But I’m thinking about anthropology. I also love art history. I brought Easton a book on Picasso.”
“Is that right? Let me see that here.” She picked the book off the table and handed it to him. “We know Picasso very well. Don’t we, Saul?”
“Sure, yes.” He looked over Corbet’s shoulder while he slowly turned the pages, as if they were precious old pictures of themselves.
“This lady will take you places, son,” Corbet said softly. Sandra bowed her head and Corbet spoke up: “Now, do you do that just to look pretty or are you really that shy?”
“Please, Papa,” Easton complained.
“Let the boy do his own work,” Saul said.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Corbet leaned back into his chair and put the bourbon to his lips.
“Just to look pretty,” Sandra said.
“Mmm-hmm. See, she’s got some spunk in her.”
Easton held the drawing tablet away from him. “Okay. I’m done. Here it is.”
Sandra took it from him. “Do I really look like this? Oh God, I look so young, I guess. I mean, it’s good. Really good. You’re really talented. I wish I could do something like that.” She passed the tablet over to Corbet.
“See, the real talent isn’t the drawing itself,” Corbet said. “It’s how he caught you smiling and kind of shy. He can see people’s vulnerability. That’s his real talent.” He handed the tablet back to Easton.
Saul went into the kitchen and put on a teakettle. There was a silence, and Corbet watched Lida toddle over to the windup musical bear she got from Ruby. She shook it, and a few notes of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” chimed out.
Corbet felt Sandra watching him.
“You want to ask me a question?”
“No. It’s just that … I’m not very familiar with Negro people, and I feel that it’s really important that I understand how it feels to be colored so I can be better at fighting for civil rights.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Ruby said nothing. She rolled her eyes, stood up, and went into the kitchen.
“You know what I mean?” Sandra asked him.
“I think I know what you think you mean.”
“I don’t mean to be nosy.”
“I know, but first tell me, Sandra: how does it feel to be White?”
Sandra laughed. “It doesn’t feel like anything, really. I mean, I guess I don’t really think about it.”
Corbet sat back and sipped his drink. “Well, that’s the difference. I think about it. I think about my skin color because it always mattered, the way you feel when you’ve got a big old pimple right in the middle of your forehead, like everyone is staring at you because of it, like people won’t like you, like you want to cover up, but you know you shouldn’t have to.”
Sandra nodded and quickly touched her fingers to her forehead.
“But it isn’t the same out here,” he went on. “It’s only because I was spoiled in France. Honestly, you’d have to ask Easton. He’s the new generation. My mind is filled with memories and old battles.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Easton said. He put the portrait down on the table. “I don’t feel colored. I’m just like anybody else. Negro is out there. It’s everybody else that’s ‘Negro this’ and ‘colored that.’ They want to keep reminding you that you come from slaves, that you’ll never be the same as them. I don’t feel Negro. I just feel like me.”
Corbet nodded. He wanted to say something to comfort Easton, but he knew there were no words equal to the task. He settled for: “It’s tough when you can’t find work.”
“Before the war,” Saul said, “I couldn’t get a job either. I’d go to all the offices, fill out their applications. Nothing. I’d always write my name, Saul Rubenstein, on the top. I was qualified for those jobs. I could even type. But they took one look at me, my name, my yarmulke, and boom—sorry, no job. There had to be a job, or why would they be giving out the applications? Am I right? So one day I come home to dinner and I tell my father, I’m changing my name on these applications. I’m going to call myself Sam Roman, and I’m not going to wear my yarmulke. Of course he goes verrucht, out of his head, storms to the icebox, takes out the milk bottle, and pours it onto my plate of meat, then leaves the table. This is a big no-no for us. Next day I fill out my application: Sam Roman, no yarmulke, and boom—first time, I’m hired as a stock manager at Sheraton Office Supply. That’s why I wear this yarmulke and clothes now. Shame. It’s the very worst. It will eat you from the inside. Don’t ever be ashamed of yourself.” He smiled at Easton and looked to Corbet for confirmation, but Corbet didn’t meet his eyes.
“I’m glad you told me that story,” Easton said. “I was about to change my name and go out on more interviews.”
Corbet looked at him and they shared a smile. Saul shook his head. “I see. Well, I suppose I’ll go and join Ruby now.” He stood up and went into the kitchen. While they watched him go, Lida picked up a charcoal stick from the table and drew a line across the portrait of Sandra.
“No!” Easton yelled. “No.” He grabbed her wrist with the charcoal in it and squeezed until she dropped it. “Shit.”
“It’s all right,” Sandra said. She went over to Lida and picked her up.
“It’s not all right. This is all the paper I’ve got. I don’t have any more charcoal. I can’t afford to waste any of it. How come I’ve got to take care of Ruby’s baby? How come she can’t take care of her own child?”
No one spoke. Sandra rocked Lida, who stopped crying and played with Sandra’s beaded earrings. Corbet stared down at the Picasso book on his lap.
“Ants in the sink again,” Saul yelled from the kitchen.
Easton closed the cover on the tablet and lay back on the couch. He let out a long breath and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 7B
DECEMBER 1976 • RUBY 39, LIDA 16
THE FUNERAL FOR Easton was held right around the corner on Tenth, at Baptist AME Church, a square pink building that used to be a movie theater. Inside were rows of seats instead of pews, but there were never any complaints from the congregation who felt it was more comfortable that way. Lida and R
uby sat onstage in folding chairs. The curtain had been pulled aside to expose the screen, upon which the preacher projected slides of the deceased. A large photograph of Easton’s face looked down over the room like Big Brother. Lida, in her black dress, shaking her leg, faced away from the screen but could feel Easton’s presence through the faces of the congregation who stared above her in the dim light as if she were not even there.
“You can find what you have lost,” the preacher said. “Just as sure as you can lose what you have once gained.” Lida pulled up the shoulder of her dress, as though the scratches were still visible. Two small children at the back of the church screamed and chased each other, their mother snatching after them. Lida watched the children play in their suits, rolling on the red carpet without a care.
“Before I have Ruby and Lida speak to you, I want to read from the source of wisdom we must cling to in trying times.” The preacher bent his head and read from the Bible, which was lit by a small reading lamp:
“‘All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again. Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth? Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?’
“Let us rejoice today in the works of Love Easton Childers. He was truly, as his name portents, love embodied. Many days you could see him here at the church with his friends, handing out free food.” The preacher pressed the button in his hand and the slide changed. “He worked tirelessly to elect our new mayor. Many afternoons you could find him at de Fremey Park testing little children for sickle-cell anemia. He was a leader and a giver.”
Ruby put her hand on Lida’s knee to calm her shaking leg.
“He was a family man without his own children. I want to impart to you my memory.” He turned to Lida and smiled. She clenched her fists around the hem of her dress; all eyes were on her. “I remember when you were just a baby, how he took care of you day after day, holding you in his arms with so much tenderness.”
Her breathing slowed now, and a familiar sensation came over her that she felt whenever she was trapped, one of submission and numbness, of vanishing and leaving her body. Her mind, almost drunk, blurred and blended the words and the faces together. The preacher continued: “And when he saw that his future, and the future of his whole family, of this community, was headed toward destruction, he put his life on the line to protect us, to challenge us to think, to give us hope. And that is what I want you to take from here today, that spirit of life and hope, which he has passed on to us. Although his life was short, like Jesus’, it was plentiful. Many a man has lived twice as long and done half as much in God’s glory, and for that, God will reward Easton Childers in heaven.”
The preacher stepped toward Ruby and Lida, but Lida pulled back and straightened up. He helped her mother stand and escorted her to the pulpit. Ruby wore a black pillbox hat of her own design from which black lace hung and covered her face, like a widow’s. She didn’t look up, but stared instead at the pulpit as if a speech were placed there.
“My brother,” she whispered. The crowded church fell completely silent. “He had all of you friends.” She did not move or add anything, and for a moment it wasn’t clear if she intended to continue. Then she cleared her throat. “Thank you all for coming.” She turned away, and the preacher ran up to her and helped her to the bench. He gave her an engraved leather Bible and said, “Peace be with you.” She nodded and held it to her chest.
The preacher smiled at Lida and held out his hand to lead her to the pulpit. She shook her head a little, but he did not back away. The pressure of all those eyes on her grew until it forced her up. When she stood, it was fast and hard, like a determined witness called to the stand. She straightened her shoulder straps and exhaled loudly. She approached the pulpit. Her eyes were dry, and she stared to the back of the congregation, at the children on the carpet.
“There’s a lot of things people don’t know about him.” One of the children in the back grabbed the other by the lapels and shook him until he fell on his knees. “There’s some things you should know.” She looked at the faces of the congregation and saw that, although they were silent and waiting, they were not looking at her, but at the screen above and behind her, at Easton. “I don’t think you’ll believe me when I tell you. Maybe you know already. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you. Maybe it shouldn’t matter to me anymore ’cause he’s dead and I should just let it pass.” She shivered and stepped back from the pulpit but felt a hand on her lower back gently urge her on.
She moved to the pulpit again and parted her lips. The people seemed to lean forward in their seats as if to hear her whisper a secret. She felt herself leaving her body again, her ears plugging up, a cold sweat upon her forehead.
“I see he did a lot of nice things for all of you, and that’s good,” she said. “And I hope he got heaven for that. I really do.” A number of people nodded. “But things are just so mixed up,” she said. “They look one way, then they change around. And he’s dead now. I’ve been thinking a lot, about how I would say this, now that he can’t say anything back, but now it seems like he’s always going to get the last word. I should have said it when he was alive. What’s the difference now that he isn’t coming back?” She waited to see if, in anyone’s face, there was some sign of recognition, that she was not alone. But she saw nothing except confusion, even the potential for anger. “You didn’t know him like I did, that’s all I can say.” She went back to her chair and squeezed herself up like a pencil, her legs straight out and her shoulders pressed together. Ruby reached out and touched her arm. Lida had a strong urge to move both away from and toward her mother, but instead, she sat there and waited for it all to be over.
IT WAS A a week after the funeral before Lida stepped foot in the house again. She sat naked on her mother’s couch as the silence vibrated inside her chest and arms. After closing the curtains in the living room, she’d taken off all her clothes and wandered around the empty house.
Now she stood up and lifted her arms out like a bird, stretching her fingers to the corners of the room, her breasts pushing forward, her legs apart. She turned around twice like this and then dropped her arms.
She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The cold air raised her skin like sandpaper, forcing her to squeeze her body together. She removed an apple from the top shelf and bit into it, then walked back into the living room and contemplated her next direction.
She had not hopped on one foot or licked the knob of the staircase or scratched her arms. She simply wandered the house freely, taking up as much space as possible.
But she hadn’t been in Easton’s room yet. She turned with determination and walked up the staircase, slowing as she got closer to his door. This was the only room she hadn’t wandered through naked, hadn’t looked at herself in its mirrors and stretched herself in its spaces. She opened the handle slowly but didn’t go in at first. She peered in from the entrance, using the door to block her naked body, as if he might still be inside.
The bed was made, and his charcoal sketches were still on the wall. She took another bite of the apple, then pushed the door wide open as if a trap were set for something to fall on her. Nothing happened. She walked in, swinging the apple at her side like a purse. She strolled up to a sketch of him with Huey Newton and stared at his face. They were looking over a piece of paper with a speech written on it, and Easton was pointing to a word. She tried to read the word, like it might be a clue. But the printing was blurry and crooked.
She looked at the other sketches on the wall, Coltrane and Bobby, and then at the books on the shelf. She traced her finger over the spines of the books, reading the titles and authors: The Wretched of the Earth, by Fanon; The Communist Manifesto by Marx; Inside View of Slavery by Parsons; Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave; A Docu
mentary History of the Negro People in the United States; The Autobiography of Malcolm X; Rage, all on one shelf, and then below, Anna Karenina and Alain Locke’s New Negro Renaissance and art books of Munch, Picasso, Léger, Dalí, and Schiele. Her breathing quickened as she pulled out the book Rage, but the cover just had a picture of Huey on the front, and she put it back on the shelf.
She opened his closet, and his belts clanked against the door. In the darkness, the smell of leather and cologne mixed together like a sharp heat. Jackets hung on one side and shirts on the other. She reached into the pockets of his black leather jacket and pulled out coins and a couple of scraps of paper. She held the papers under the light of the room to read them. One was a receipt from a grocery and the other a chewing-gum wrapper. She threw them both on the floor and noticed boxes at her feet. She bent down, naked in the dark closet, and grabbed one box.
She pushed it out next to the bed and opened it. Inside were photographs, originals for the charcoal sketches, a letter, and other receipts. The letter had a painting on it of two people dancing and inside, written in long, round, cursive:
Greensboro, Alabama, 1967
Sorry I didn’t write sooner but I’m real busy. Isn’t it funny that so much time passes and seems like a long time and like a short time at the same time. Anyway, I hope you’re doing well and say hi to Ruby and Corbet and little Lida for me. We just saw the movie The Graduate. I really liked it. It’s exactly how I feel: lost. It would have been nicer to see it with you. But anyway, it’s actually nicer now, don’t you think? I kind of only remember the good stuff. Charles says Hi too. I know you won’t believe it, but we really did not plan this. We’re not always thinking about it. I don’t know if that makes sense. Anyway, I hope you’re doing well. Good luck
—Alexandra
Lida dumped the box on the ground and sifted through the photographs. She found a picture of Easton and Ruby when they were much younger, standing by a field, a picture from South Carolina. She looked at Easton closely. He was dressed nicely in a Buster Brown striped shirt and a cap; his hands were at his sides—not in his pockets, which might have meant something. He was looking straight ahead. He smiled: a normal smile.