Maggie woke at 7:00 a.m. because her left black-watch-plaid, pajama-clad leg kept slipping off the damn Naugahyde sofa, her first thought, then no Sam. The Guard must’ve called him up. Damn, Loretta will be setting up her salon; Stella working; Clyde with kids, wife, work; Aunt Jo getting ready for her job at Hudson’s; Issie wrangling the boys for school. Maggie groaned at her narcissistic self-pitying in the space of Dr. King’s assassination and Sam’s guard duty. Who the hell did she think she was anyway? She’d head downtown to the library and read the Free Press to see if there was any news about local riots or the National Guard. Maybe she’d check the library’s microfiche files to see if they had anything on her parents or Jacques Ruivivar. Something! Anything! Maggie was determined not to spend the day grieving in a clean apartment waiting for Sam to call. She and her grief would find legs.
“Bon soir, Marguerite,” called Sam.
“Bon soir, soldier boy!” cried Maggie as she slid across the clean tiles in her stocking feet and gave him a hug. “I’ve missed you. No work tonight?”
“No work. Sorry I wasn’t here when you got word about King. Did you call Issie?”
“Loretta called crying. I thought she was upset because you were hurt and I fell apart on the phone. Ten minutes later she showed up dressed like an African queen—red turban, robe. It was wild. She demanded I put on my coat and walk to the Student Union. Sam, after Dr. King was pronounced dead, Loretta stood on top of a table and drew a huge crowd of angry students to her like disciples. Before long, everyone was crying and hugging, determined to carry on Dr. King’s work. It was crazy. I had no idea Loretta had that kind of power.”
“Oh, Mag, I’m glad you weren’t alone. Loretta’s a freaking sorceress. I’ve seen her smack down gang members with one glance. She is an African queen when her back’s against the wall.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Yesterday’s stew and day-old bread coming up. Any signs of Carl Stringer or Avenge last night?”
“None. There was talk about a group called the Invaders, in Memphis, who were pushing peaceful protesters toward violence and creating some of their own. The buzz is the Invaders were on the FBI payroll to ramp up the chaos and shut down Johnson’s support of King and the Civil Rights Movement.”
“No shit? What does the FBI have to gain from that?”
“My dear Maggie, J. Edgar is a raving, tight-assed conservative and flaming bigot who thinks civil rights activists are dangerous subversives and communist sympathizers. He’d do anything he could to undermine our work.”
“I don’t get it. Why would a gay guy in a closet object to civil rights?”
“I hope to hell our apartment isn’t bugged. Are you kidding me? What makes you say that?” asked Sam, as he glared through squinted eyes and squeezed her hand so hard it hurt.
“Seriously? You’re not worried about saying the Invaders are on the FBI payroll, but you’re worried about me suggesting Hoover is homosexual? What’s that about?”
Sam shook his head and said, “Let’s talk about your day. Mine is obviously too full of shadows and boogiemen.”
Maggie grinned and said, “Now that you mention it, I ran into some cloaks and daggers today. I spent most of my time at the library to see if I could find out if our city was burning down and dredge up something about my parents’ vanishing act. No word on the National Guard, so assumed you’d show up before too long. Then, in an old clipping, I found Jacques Ruivivar, Raymond’s and Anna’s patron. Tracking the microfiche forward, it looks like he’s alive and well in Toronto. More recent articles link him to the FLQ, the Front de Liberation de Quebec—a militant separatist group supporting Quebec’s sovereignty. No peaceful protests there. The FLQ guerrillas, the Felquistes, trained with the Palestine Liberation Organization in Jordan and are hell bent on pushing for a French Quebec. And, get this, one of the Felquistes, Pierre Valliéres, just published a book called White Niggers of America, drawing a parallel between French Canadians and blacks in the U.S. Make no mistake, I’m horrified by their use of guerrilla tactics and violence, but somehow prouder to be a Soulier. Make any sense?”
“I don’t know. Nothing seems to make sense these days.”
“Anyhow, it looks like Mr. Ruivivar is a big time activist or terrorist. Sam, can we take a few weeks this summer and see if we can find him? See what he knows about my parents’ disappearance?”
“Sure. We can figure something out, ride into the great unknown; take a look at the latest version of the French Revolution. But first, we have to decide where we’re going to live. We only have married student housing until mid-May. I think our best move is to find a rental in northwest Detroit before we buy.”
“Moving two more times seems nuts. What if we find the perfect fixer-upper? Why wouldn’t we just buy it?”
“Because, my love, we don’t have real jobs. Where we work and what we make has a significant impact on qualifying for a mortgage and buying a home.”
“Ah, the MBA speak I so love to hear,” groaned Maggie.
“I have a few other languages at my disposal.”
“Like what?”
“Like what do you think about making a baby?”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t even had a real job yet. I can’t get pregnant now.”
“I’m not kidding. We’ve been talking about this for months. It’s time, Mag. I’m ready. I think you are. Maybe because we both lost parents when we were young. We’ll have beautiful, smart, sassy kids. I want to be young enough to play with them, take them places, get to know them.”
“Holy crap. I need time to think about this. I mean, I always thought I wanted a child, as in one child. But, there are times when I’m not sure. Besides, even if I was certain I wanted a baby, I’d want our kid to have a place to call home. It doesn’t make sense if we both need jobs before we buy a house.”
“In some ways it does. You might not get pregnant right away, but if you do we can make it work. Like teaching a few night classes in poetry so I can be home with the baby. Mag, there’s no question. You’ll be a great mom.”
“You’d do that? Stay home with the baby so I could work evenings?”
“Sure. We want to start a family. There’s no perfect time. Why not? Besides, it would be a lot of fun trying to get pregnant.”
“Speaking of trying, let me show you what I bought today.”
Maggie opened a Woolworth’s bag and pulled out an orange and white checked bibbed apron. “I thought you might be impressed by my Donna Reed clean house and dinner. This seemed to be the icing on the éclair. I could try it on for you,” said Maggie with a coquettishness that Sam thought sounded both tender and wildly seductive.
Before she was done speaking, Sam started to unbutton Maggie’s blouse. No bra. Maggie unwrapped her wraparound skirt and let it fall to the floor. No panties. Sam’s hands began to shake as he slipped the apron over Maggie’s head. He ran his fingers along the edge of the bib and turned Maggie around until his hands were resting on her Bermuda Triangle. Sam felt a certain déjà vu—or was it a flashback? He wasn’t sure. The shadows and boogiemen reappeared. The ax seemed to be suspended in air, waiting to drop.
11
Cartels and Conspiracies
So however difficult it is during this period, however difficult it is to continue to live with the agony and the continued existence of racism, however difficult it is to live amidst the constant hurt, the constant insult and the constant disrespect . . . we shall overcome . . .
—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
JULY 1968—“Before we begin, I want to thank Robin, in absentia, the only word I remember from high school Latin, for making a cake to celebrate our one-year anniversary as The Eights. She said, wait a minute, here’s her note:
A nutty pineapple right-side-up cake as a sign of our kickass stick-with-it-ness in this wacko upside-down world!
Peace and Love, Rocking Robin & Red-Winged Willie
In case you didn�
�t know, the Johnsons are on their first ever road-trip vacation to New York City. Literally, their first ever road trip, first ever vacation and first ever trip to New York City. Robin wanted to go to Mackinaw Island, but Willie nixed that by saying he didn’t want to be handed a dishtowel when they got to The Grand Hotel. Anyone been to Mackinaw?” asked Clyde.
“As a kid. The island was pure white, including stable hands, busboys, and housekeepers. Lots of rich college types waiting tables. Suit and tie required in the dining room. Prissy as hell,” said Sam.
“I went two years ago with Aunt Jo for my bachelor’s degree celebration. Whites only north of Saginaw. In fact, I think I was the only brunette on the island. Mackinaw’s horse-and-buggy-eighteenth-century motif comes replete with racism,” said Maggie.
“I say we all go next year and replete ourselves. Order chitlins and greens, dance buck naked around a campfire and drink from the public water fountains,” said Blanche.
“Damn it to hell Blanche, drink from the public water fountains? Have you lost your friggin’ mind?” said Loretta.
“Someone’s gotta do it,” said Blanche.
“I’m there,” said Stella.
The group’s laughter felt forced, it’s energy flat. It had been three interminable months since Dr. King’s assassination and one wretched, agonizing month since Sirhan Sirhan’s bullet took down Bobby Kennedy. Both deaths were still swinging from cottonwoods, oaks and willows in small towns and large cities across the country. The shrouds of these two men hung heavy as civil rights workers slogged through the summer of 1968. People talked about the new Jim Crow—assassins hired by powerful, wealthy cartels. Conspiracy theories made more sense than the random loss of the nation’s finest civil rights leaders by lone assassins—JFK, MLK and RFK. Hope plummeted.
Exasperated, Loretta leaned over the table and said “Look at us, catfish picking through rubbish at the bottom of the Detroit River for what? To avoid daylight, oxygen? Who are we waiting for in this dark, airless place? You think Ralph Abernathy is going to lift us out of these dining room chairs?”
“It’s a time for mourning. Three months isn’t long when we look at over three hundred years of slavery, oppression and segregation. A week after Dr. King’s assassination the ‘68 Civil Rights Act was signed. Two months later, RFK was assassinated. We’ve been brought to our knees but we haven’t stopped,” said Stella.
“Stella, we’ve been down this road before. Three weeks is too long. You think George Wallace is mourning? You think his bid for president was slowed down by grief? Or you think, just maybe, he’s dusting off his speech about segregation forever? I know it’s hard, I know it hurts like hell, but we’re it. No one’s going to do it for us.”
“Loretta’s right. We can’t sit around wringing our hands like a bunch of girls,” said Clyde.
“Screw you,” said Maggie.
“Maggie, why do you always take my old saws so personally? I didn’t mean you’re wringing your hands.”
“Words wield power—like legends, fables, fairy tales. What crap. You’re too smart to pretend it’s okay to bust an entire class of people.”
“Sorry. I can’t help being an asshole, which is why I surround myself with bad-ass women.”
“You got that right, and you can bet your sorry ass we’ll remind you when you forget,” said Blanche.
Usually quiet and always kind, Blanche’s unexpected barb shut down the room. Through the screens, the sound of crickets took over. Clyde looked down, wound his wedding band back and forth, before he looked up and said, “Back to Loretta’s point. No more time for mourning. The polls show Wallace gaining support from blue-collar workers in both the north and south. It’s dangerous to blow him off as a joke. Until November, he’s got press, microphones and audiences. We don’t. We need to get our act together and get the word out. Maggie, where are we on Carl Stringer’s pocket protector avengers?”
“Not much going on since they crashed King’s talk at Grosse Point High last March. Carl’s rabid obsession is dangerous, but most of his co-workers think he’s a complete jackass. They say people agree with him to get him off their backs so they can get back to work. No one’s able to pin down the number of active members in Avenge because it draws crowds from the Birchers, the Klan, Nazis and other bed-wetters. Bottom line, Carl’s scare tactics are getting old. My sense is he’s more nuisance than threat.”
“Let’s not get blindsided by the number of whites who talk the talk but hope we stay where we are, in the ghetto and out of their lives. If anyone here thinks Detroit isn’t heading to become one of the biggest, meanest ghettoes in the north, think again. We’ve got to move this act to the burbs. Dr. King and RFK may have been shot by single assassins, but James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan had the support of millions of white racists. These racists might have been silent, they might not have held the guns, but they sure as shit helped pull the triggers,” said Loretta.
“And,” continued Loretta, “we know there are far too many muckety-mucks who rig the game and call the plays. The FBI sure as hell didn’t tell Dr. King about the threats against his life. Instead, Clyde Tolson, Hoover’s henchman and not-so-secret-lover, called Dr. King ‘the most dangerous Negro leader in America.’ Dangerous? Give me a break. This peaceful, non-violent civil rights leader was dangerous? Seriously, who was afraid of Dr. King? The FBI? The Klan? King Henry Ford?”
Sam leaned forward, stretched his right arm across the table and pointed at Loretta and said, “Loretta’s right. Tolson’s decision to call King ‘the most dangerous Negro leader in America’ was no misspeak by the Bureau. Tolson took his orders from J. Edgar and J. Edgar wants to rile white suburbia. More importantly, Hoover wanted MLK gone. I confess to being cynical as hell, but the conspiracy here is dressed in neon.” Pulling his arm back and looking around the table, Sam continued. “Here’s my take. King spent most of his life working on civil rights legislation that attempts to reinstate the civil rights of non-whites and women. Hear me when I say ‘attempts to reinstate.’ The right to vote was given to Negroes—I mean black men—one hundred years ago. Then, fifty some years later, women got the right to vote. The Civil Rights Act Stella talked about reinstates voting and property rights with sharper teeth. But let’s not kid ourselves, it’ll take frigging years for court cases to test, argue and achieve what this new Act claims to protect. Right now, our job is to push these fragile eggs through the fallopian tubes of white courts. To, finally, enforce these birthrights. We can’t wait for daylight or air or a period of mourning. We’ve got to grab it and fight for it, or live without it.”
“Sam Tervo, is that you or are you channeling Dr. King?” said Stella. “You sound like a civil rights leader.”
“No way; not me. Loretta’s the leader. I just took what she said and dog paddled through the shallow basin of my mind.”
“Sam, thanks for saying ‘black men.’ So, how about it SistaHood, you ready to do some preaching? Next ‘Revival Meeting’ at Hope Chapel?” asked Clyde.
Loretta looked at her friends sitting around the Webster’s dining room table—Clyde, Blanche, Stella, Sam, Maggie. They were a reckless crew of normal, broken, hungry people. Loretta thought, who are we to think we can flip the switch? And me, I don’t have enough time to get through the day. Before she finished that thought, images of Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman tap-danced on her wooly head. Loretta smiled then said, “Hell yes! All you white dudes in my old history books need to move your sorry asses over and make room for Sojourner and Harriet and all those who spent their lives fighting for equal rights. I don’t know where I’m going to find the time and energy, but I’m surrounded by friends, and ghosts, who are ready to help me hatch some eggs.”
Sam had a hard time believing a year had passed since the riots. The smell of smoke and ash haunted Detroit neighborhoods. Burned out buildings, charred skeletons, stood like ancient ruins—monoliths of humankind’s rage against poverty, invisibility, injustice. Just west of the blight, Sam an
d Maggie had rented a small gray-shingled bungalow on a month-to-month lease. Vacant for the past six months, the house was clean but in deep decline. Door, cupboard and faucet handles were loose; windows sealed by layers of paint or nailed shut; linoleum buckling and wallpaper peeling. On the plus side, it was dirt cheap, only six miles to Sheer Juice and an easy bus ride to The University of Detroit where Maggie snagged a part-time teaching job for the Fall. Poetry positions were legacies. Poets did not give up teaching positions. Maggie soon realized it was a waste of time to surf the obits for dead poetry teachers, because positions were filled before the incumbent gasped his last breath. Like so many before her, Maggie would begin her fine arts career teaching Freshman English. Sam had his resumes out to most of the car companies and a few banks. Car companies paid twice as much for new MBAs and offered more interesting work, better benefits and chances for advancement. Sam was keeping his fingers crossed.
“Hey Clyde, I think the ax is starting to fall. Zito called and wants to make sure I’ll be at work tonight. Says he needs to talk to me,” said Sam.
“Time for Big Boys?”
“Literally and figuratively. I’m not sure I have a big enough dick to deal with this myself.”
“Well, I can understand why you’re calling a black guy.”
“Thank god. I must have misunderstood Blanche.”
“Fuck you, Tervo.”
“Noon tomorrow?” laughed Sam.
“I’ll be there.”
Sam got to Big Boys early. Clyde usually arrived first to steal away from work and family, but today Sam needed some alone time. His shallow breathing wasn’t about King, Kennedy or civil rights. His shallow breathing was about his own sinkhole of moral turpitude. In street language, it was the cost of being a dickhead.
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 9