Till You Hear From Me: A Novel

by Pearl Cleage

  Mr. Eddie shook his head. “You can say that if you wanna, Rev, but most people figure if they get the right man, he’ll bring the right idea.”

  “So that means we’ve got to find somebody new for them to love every time there’s an election?” the Rev said. “What if there’s nobody lovable willing to run? Then what?”

  “Then you get John McCain,” Wes said. Ida B rewarded him with a grin.

  “Half the people we registered went to the polls thinking they were voting for an Obama/Dunbar ticket,” Mr. Eddie said.

  “That would have been Dunbar/Obama.” The Rev laughed. “And don’t forget it!”

  Ida B laughed, too. She was prettier than Wes had first thought. Maybe because she had been a little tense when they first got there. He had watched her slowly relax, laughing at his father’s jokes, shaking her head at the Rev’s life on the road stories, and eventually turning toward him, her gaze intelligent and unblinking, not at all like the shy, skinny kid who never seemed to be able to look him in the eye. She wasn’t a kid anymore. She was almost as tall as he was and slender without sacrificing her womanly curves. Wes was old-fashioned. He liked a woman with a little meat on her bones. Not jiggling and juicy, but enough to give a man something to grab on to when the spirit moved him. He wondered what she liked to grab on to when the spirit moved her.

  The Rev yawned and turned to Ida B. “Well, daughter, it’s getting late. Time for us to take our leave.”

  “Can I help with the cleanup?” she said.

  “Not a chance.” Mr. Eddie shook his head. “You need to get this old man home so he’ll have energy enough to drive himself to Macon tomorrow.”

  “You’re driving yourself?” Ida B sounded surprised. “Why?”

  The Rev stood up and looked at Mr. Eddie. “My right-hand man here is being honored at an assembly event over at the high school. Too late for me to reschedule, so I’m on my own.”

  This was too easy, Wes thought. He almost felt guilty about what he was getting ready to do. Almost.

  “We can’t have that,” Wes said, standing up, too. “I’d be honored to drive you.”

  The Rev looked surprised. “To Macon?”

  “All the way down and all the way back,” Wes said. “It’ll give me a chance to bend your ear about my new office. What do you say?”

  “I might just take you up on that,” the Rev said slowly. “Can you be ready at six?”

  Mr. Eddie was smiling and nodding, obviously pleased that Wes had stepped up without being asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  That’s when Ida B spoke up, sounding concerned. “Aren’t you going to the assembly?” she said, looking at Wes with a small frown.

  Before he could answer, Mr. Eddie spoke up in his defense. “I didn’t invite him. You know I don’t like a whole lot of fuss around me.”

  Wes turned to his father. “What’s going on?”

  “Flora Lumumba’s daughter got me doing a garden with the kids. It worked out pretty good so they want to thank me. I told them to name it after the Rev, but Lu said they still want to give me a plaque or something.”

  Wes wondered whether his father really didn’t want him to come or if he was just giving him a way out if Wes didn’t want to be bothered. And he truly didn’t want to be bothered. Sitting in a high school auditorium listening to a bunch of kids talking about how growing a patch of collard greens changed their lives was his idea of a morning in hell.

  “Well, since Pop didn’t invite me, I’m going to take him at his word that he’s got no particular need to see my face in the place.” He turned to his father, who nodded, looking relieved.

  “But I also think,” Wes turned to Ida B, “that he might not mind having somebody around just to … handle the media.”

  She smiled. “I think I can arrange that. How about it, Mr. Eddie? Can I be your press secretary for tomorrow?”

  Mr. Eddie’s grin alone was worth the price of admission. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Grown Man Fine

  WES HARPER WAS THE KIND OF MAN WHOSE CHARM FOOLS YOU INTO trusting him when your brain is telling you to run for your life. He was fine, too. There was no denying that. Not pretty boy fine, but grown man fine. My type, if someone as deprived as I’ve been lately can even be said to have a “type.” And he had a great smile. I say all that so that the degree of discipline necessary to make what I’m about to say truth instead of wishful thinking will be clear. I did not conduct any testing once I got home to see whether or not Wes was still able to perform the function he had executed so reliably during the three or four years that he was in my fantasy guy stable. It seemed a little inappropriate to go from having dinner at his father’s house to asking his fantasy doppelganger to lick this, or squeeze that, or slow down, or whatever. What would Mr. Eddie say if he knew?

  Or maybe it’s just that it’s hard to bring those masturbation guys back once you retire them. I mean, I had a lot of good moments with Keith Sweat, too, back in the day, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for an encore. That’s the way I feel about Wes Harper. That was then and this is now. If there’s going to be any fooling around between us, I’d rather he was along for the ride.

  That morning, he arrived bright and early to pick up the Rev and thanked me for standing in for him at the assembly. I thanked him for hanging out with the Rev and for a moment, we became a mutual admiration society, bonding over what good children we were. He said he hoped we’d have a chance to talk again soon and I said me, too, but then the Rev presented himself, briefcase in hand, and they were out the door before we got to exchange any specifics. That wasn’t really a problem, of course. We were staying less than two blocks from each other. If he wanted to see me, I was pretty easy to find.

  The good thing was, the Rev wouldn’t be traveling alone. Wes was practically family, which made my recent train of thought perilously close to incest, but be that as it may, he was an appreciative audience and an attentive ear. I had watched the Rev bloom like a rose the night before at dinner while Wes flattered him shamelessly. He was good at it, too. He was a great listener and I admit the first few times he turned that tell me everything about yourself smile on me, I told him more than he probably wanted to know. Good thing I wasn’t going to be there long enough to get myself into trouble. Serious trouble anyway.

  Booker T. Washington High School was farther than I wanted to walk, so I drove over. The parking lot was full, even though I was a half an hour early, so I parked on the street. Students with backpacks and low-slung pants were walking toward the school in twos and threes, along with a few others, like me, who were there to support Mr. Eddie. Miss Iona was standing out front in a light blue coat with a faux fur collar and navy blue pumps, talking to a woman I didn’t know. When she spotted me, she detached herself and headed in my direction.

  “Have you heard anything back?” she said, giving me a quick hug and looking for an update about the plot.

  “I haven’t had a chance to call anybody yet,” I said. “You just told me yesterday.”

  She looked at me. “I hope you are taking this seriously, Ida B. Your father could ruin a reputation he’s spent a lifetime building into something we can all be proud of. This can’t wait!”

  I took her arm and steered her toward the front entrance, past the life-size sculpture of Dr. Washington pulling back that veil of ignorance. When we were kids, we used to say he was really pulling it back down, but never in front of the Rev. He admired Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. DuBois for their very different, but equally impassioned positions on how to uplift the race. No disrespect to either one was allowed.

  “I’m taking it very seriously,” I said. “I’ll see if I can scare up my guy this afternoon and find out what’s going on. I promise.”

  “Don’t do it like it’s a favor to me,” she said, still a little miffed at what she perceived to be my foot-dragging. “He’s your father, not mine.”

  But he’s your hero, I tho
ught.

  “You’ve known him longer than I have,” I countered. “Looks like you would have raised him better.”

  “You better bite your tongue, girl,” she said, smiling again. “When I met the man, he was already fully formed.”

  I’m sure that was true. The Rev probably arrived on the planet wearing a suit and tie.

  The auditorium was filling up, but Mr. Eddie had left instructions that we were to be taken to the reserved section up front whenever we arrived. We followed the smiling usher, whose great big ears and gap-toothed smile made him look like a mischievous ten-year-old.

  “Where’s Wes?” Miss Iona said, her eyes scanning the room as we headed down the center aisle.

  “Mr. Eddie told him not to come, so he’s driving the Rev to Macon.”

  She stopped dead still. “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head. “They left at six. I’m supposed to be his proxy or something.”

  “That doesn’t count,” she said, as our young usher stopped at the second row and looked around for us. “You were coming on your own anyway, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, then,” she said, like that settled the matter.

  “The Rev isn’t here either,” I said, feeling the need to defend Wes in the face of Miss Iona’s disapproval.

  Miss Iona sighed. “The Rev had a previous engagement. It’s Black History Month, for God’s sake! Plus, he was trying not to overshadow anybody. If the Rev walks in, it’s all about the Rev. He was trying to give Ed his chance to shine.”

  “Maybe that’s what Wes was trying to do, too.”

  “Please,” she said, “that boy has never respected his parents. Even as a kid, he was always putting on airs.”

  I knew what she meant, but I just shrugged. “He seemed okay at dinner last night. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf.”

  “New leaf, my foot,” she said. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  That seemed to be her last word on the matter, but we still weren’t making much progress down the aisle because she kept stopping to speak to people. Our usher got tired of waiting and passed us on his way back to the door. Miss Iona never noticed him. She was too busy presenting me to people who remembered me and introducing me to people who didn’t.

  “You remember Ida B,” she’d say, which always elicited a big hug and a question.

  “Are you here for the Rev’s Founder’s Day sermon?”

  “No,” I said the first time somebody asked me. “I’ll be gone before Founder’s Day.”

  The next time, Miss Iona didn’t wait for me to respond. “You remember the Rev’s daughter, Ida B,” she said to a woman about her age, equally stylish in a light gray coat and a spectacular knockoff of the hat Aretha Franklin had rocked at the Inaugural Festivities. “She’s here for Founder’s Day.”

  The woman nodded enthusiastically and hugged me again. “We’re all looking forward to it,” she said. “Even more than we usually do because of everything being so historic this year and all. President Obama’s first year in. Your dad’s first year out. History everywhere you look!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. The woman turned to greet another friend in the crowd and I looked at Miss Iona. “No way I’m going to Founder’s Day. I won’t be here that long.”

  “Of course you’re going,” she said calmly. “Hasn’t he asked you yet?”

  “Asked me what?”

  “To introduce him.”

  We had finally arrived at our seats. Mr. Charles was already there, sitting next to Aretha, who was showing him a digital image on one of several cameras slung around her long graceful neck. I followed Miss Iona down the row, seeking clarification.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He asked me if I thought you would want to do it.”

  “And, of course, you told him yes?”

  “What other answer is there?” she said, sitting down next to Mr. Charles.

  Before I could suggest a few alternatives, Mr. Charles turned to greet his wife and I heard someone call my name.

  “Ida B. Dunbar, is that you?”

  Precious Hargrove looked exactly the way she had last time I saw her, which had to be almost three years ago. Her hair might have been a little grayer, and the laugh lines around her eyes a little harder not to notice, but otherwise she hadn’t changed a bit. Over the past twenty years of her public life, she had created an outstanding record as a state senator by walking that fine line between social and fiscal responsibility. She had stepped in to rescue Mandeville Maid Service when their founder was convicted of running an underground prostitution ring (don’t ask!), and stood by her son, Kwame, when he was involved in a high-profile murder case that went all the way to Blue Hamilton’s doorstep, but no further (don’t tell!).

  Well respected and well liked, she was widely expected to be a serious contender in the next governor’s race. A victory would make her the first African American and the first woman to hold the position. In spite of the Rev’s recent falling out with her, I considered Precious a friend and a mentor. When we shared a brief hello hug, her cheek felt warm and smooth.

  “Senator Hargrove,” I said, honoring her title. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I could say the same,” she said. “Welcome home. Iona told me you were coming to spend some time with your father.”

  There was no use pretending not to see the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.

  “Did she tell you how sorry I was about the Rev’s YouTube debut?”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” she said, quickly. “The Rev and I have had our differences before. We’ll figure it out. It’s just that all this new technology lets everybody else in on the figuring before we get it done.”

  She was right about that. The rise of social networking sites had changed the political landscape forever. It was too soon to tell what the long-term effects would be, but the change itself was a fact. She leaned over to speak to Miss Iona and Mr. Charles, but now they were talking to a man in the row behind us. In her next life, I think Miss Iona is going to be the social director on a cruise ship: the SS Freedom Now.

  Precious leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. “Actually, I was going to call you this afternoon,” she said. “But face-to-face is still the best.”

  “Old-school,” I teased her gently. “What’s up?”

  “We’re not sure exactly,” she said. “But one of my guys told me the feds are quietly looking into some plans they’ve uncovered to illegally purge thousands of Georgia Democratic voters from the rolls before the midterm elections. They’re particularly interested in new voters, all those folks your dad got registered.”

  It never rains but it pours, I thought. Atlanta seems to be like one of those ancient talismans Angelina Jolie is always searching for in the tombs she’s raiding. All the good citizen energy floating around here attracts its opposite in all the bad guy energy that can’t stand progress, even when they know it’s inevitable.

  “They never quit, do they?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Nope, so neither can we. That’s why I need to let the Rev know what we’ve heard so that …”

  On the stage, a slender girl wearing the denim overalls that identified her as an active gardener stepped up to the microphone. “Will Senator Precious Hargrove please come backstage?” she said. “Our program is about to begin.”

  The students clapped and whistled their approval with the enthusiastic boisterousness that usually defines a pregame pep rally in the middle of a winning season.

  Precious waved at the girl and smiled at me. “Showtime! Listen, I know the Rev won’t call me, but Kwame has more information about this if he wants it. Iona’s got the number.”

  I nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

  “It might be nothing,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “But he’s got that list and we know they want it. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  As she moved away, I looked up to
ward the stage and there was Mr. Eddie, standing in the wings as cool as you please. Buzzing around him were four or five more kids in overalls, including Lu. I could also see Flora, sticking close to Mr. Eddie. As Precious joined the group to complete the lineup, I was glad to represent for Mr. Eddie’s extended family, but Miss Iona was right. Wes should have been there.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Make It Plain

  BY THE TIME THE REV SHOOK THE LAST HAND, KISSED THE LAST BABY, and answered a kid’s wide-eyed question about whether or not he had really met Dr. King with a long story about his frontline experiences with the man, Wes was exhausted. He was glad Atlanta was only an hour straight up the interstate.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay over?” the Rev said when Wes tried to stifle a yawn as they pulled onto the freeway. “Me and your pop never do these fast turnarounds anymore. There’s a nice Holiday Inn at the next exit.”

  “I’m good,” Wes said, easing into the passing lane. “I’m just wondering how you two keep this up every day.”

  The Rev laughed. “We pace ourselves. This day just got out of hand. I agreed to do one thing and then two and then that became three.” He shook his head and looked out the window. Once they left Macon, there were long stretches of dark highway cutting through those famous Georgia pines. Wes put the car on cruise control.

  “It’s hard for me to say no sometimes,” the Rev said. “Nobody else who’s talking to them regularly is making any sense. They’re looking for somebody to tell them what’s going on and what they should be doing about it.”

  He took off his hat, smoothed the crown gently, then turned to lay it carefully on the backseat beside his briefcase. “I guess that’s always been my job.”

  “Long as I’ve known you,” Wes said. “And you know what, Rev? You’re still one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  The Rev turned back to Wes and grinned. “One of the best?”