Sam stared at Clyde and said, “You’ve got my attention. I’m scared shitless, but I don’t know why yet. How did my name end up on this dance card?”
“I don’t know why or how, but know you’re a lab rat in some mind-altering game, and no one is giving you a choice to opt in or out. The CIA calls it Project MK-ULTRA. At first, they wanted to see how LSD and other drugs work during interrogations, a kind of no-touch torture. From there they moved to different kinds of drugs with exploitation films and gaslighting. In your case, they might have drugged you and shown you a film with a bunch of guys hitting on the Cuban broad, sliced with sounds from the Liston fight and porno flicks of guys jacking off. Who knows? They’re big into mind-control to build invisible armies. Zombies, guys who could assassinate someone and not remember. They have no memory. No way to interrogate someone who has no memory. The feds are home free.”
“Where’s the mob in all this?”
“According to the CIA dick, they’ve been testing LSD and other drugs on mob bosses, like Whitey Bulger, in exchange for shorter sentences. Get this, the mob and the CIA had a plan to assassinate Castro. This mobster was going to have his Cuban hooker bring Castro LSD-laced cigars to set up the kill. The plan got waxed. There must be a connection between LSD, gaslighting, Cuba and you. The problem here is there’s no line between the good guys and bad guys, so no one to ask.”
“I don’t get it. What’s the mafia’s take?”
“Tervo, the mafia is in the same league as the CIA and FBI. They’re all into protecting their territories, building their take-no-prisoners scary-ass reputations and collecting intelligence; or in this case, they’re inventing intelligence to mind-fuck the next guy. What do they have to peddle besides influence and power? Total, fucking reapers when it comes to money, fear and death. Based on what I’ve heard, their poker games are like swap meets to trade techniques for torture, extortion . . . you name it! The mob probably came up with waterboarding.”
“Why me? Think about it. What the hell does some schmuck like me have that anyone would want?”
“We know there’s something. How about Sheer Juice and the new preservative deal? Sounds like big money if no one asks too many questions or blows the whistle. Might be enough money to keep you on a short leash. Or, could be Maggie’s parents. Why is their case open nineteen years later? I don’t know what’s involved, but it must be big. Maggie said they pissed off the CIA, MI5 and the mob. Maybe they think they can get to Maggie’s parents through you. Or, maybe they’ve got some future shock plan involving cars, unions or civil rights. Who knows? I’ve heard Hoover goes apeshit when he sees whites fighting for civil rights. Might be Hoover has a hard-on for you because your pretty face was photographed in Memphis or Detroit.”
“Might be all or none. But if I take this to the extreme, you could be one of the bad guys. What if all you’re telling me is more gaslighting? You’ve shrunk my world, made me think I have no allies, no resources except you.”
“Go on.”
“We keep coming back to this. How do I know you’re on my side, that you’re my friend?”
“You keep asking the right question. How do you know? Then again, how do I know you won’t bust me on this, take me down, hurt my family?”
Sam looked at Clyde and wondered how the two of them landed here, right now, at Angelo’s pizzeria on July 13, 1969. Then Sam wondered who was most scared, a white guy in a white world or a black guy with his ass in a sling? Sam leaned across the table and grabbed the front of Clyde’s shirt and whispered, “I know, dickhead. I know because you’ve always been there for me. I love you, Blanche, the boys. I’d never do anything to hurt you or your family. That’s how I know you’re my friend.”
22
Daylight
You can’t ride in my little red wagon, the front seat’s broken and the axle’s draggin’. Second verse same as the first.
—Camp Song and U.S. Army Cadence
JULY 20, 1969 ANTE MERIDIEM—Up on his elbows, Sam watched Maggie swing her legs over her side of the bed like a human pendulum to reach a sitting position. Gripping her rotunda with both hands, Maggie lifted the weight from her legs before attempting to stand.
“Oh, babe, you look miserable, like a Radio Flyer red wagon with an eighteen-wheeler load. If I could, I’d carry the weight for you.”
“My axle’s broke and my tongue is dragging, same thing second verse. I can’t confirm this, but it feels like I’m caught up in some mad, perverted fluke of nature, that I’m not pregnant and will never, ever again, wear a belt or see the tops of my feet.”
“I thought it goes ‘the front seat’s broken.’ Never mind. You want to walk to Cunningham’s for lunch and spin around on the stools?”
“I’m desperate to get outta the hood, outta the heat. How about spending the day in air conditioning—the movies, an early dinner at Big Boys? Tonight we can kick back, and from the comfort of our living room, watch twentieth-century pioneers land on the moon. Can you freaking believe it? Millions of people around the world, sitting on their couches, drinking beer and watching men land on the moon.”
“Both outlandish and otherworldly! Have you thought about how our lives will change? Once the baby’s born, we won’t have the freedom to see a movie or have dinner on a whim.”
“Samuelsan, we can always revert to drive-in movies and carhop dinners. But no more putt-putt on a whim.”
“Putt-putt? Have we ever played putt-putt?”
Maggie started laughing so hard she had to sit back down. “Oh god, the burbs, putt-putt, drive-in movies, carhops! We already sound like two cutouts from suburbia. Do you think it’s too late? Have we slipped off the edge? Lost ourselves in some mainstream, colorless monotony?”
Sam couldn’t help himself. He fell back on the bed and laughed until he began to cry. Maggie tipped her body sideways then trundled over to look at Sam. She wiped his tears with the tip of her thumb and kissed his forehead. Maggie said, “Was it Einstein who said ‘there’s no time or space, just now?’ Now, when you and I are about to meet our baby on this lonely planet, circling the sun, a rocket ship is heading for the moon. Think of it! All that we thought we knew is changing—we’re changing, our lives are changing, our world is changing.” Maggie started crying as she kissed Sam’s face then nuzzled his neck. She could hear his heart beating and feel the stretch of muscles in his arms as he wrapped them around her shoulders. Sam whispered, “Maggie, I need to tell you something.” Maggie began to push away, “Oh god, sorry. I have to pee.”
“Hey, Loretta. What’s up?”
“Waiting for your call. No baby yet?”
“No baby. Thought I wanted to go to the movies to pass the day, but the pressure of six pounds of baby and thirty pounds of water makes me feel like I have to pee every five minutes. Not sure I’ll make it to the hospital without diapers!”
“Yep, getting close. That baby bundle is tap dancing on your bladder. You weepy?”
“Crying over everything—sunlight on withered geraniums, Vietnam, an empty box of Cheerios, putt-putt golf. I’m a walking, talking rodeo of hormones. Even strangers go out of their way to avoid me. Speaking of strangers, have you talked to Stella lately? She and Kenny have both been MIA.”
“Talked to Stella last week and it sounds like being an Oreo couple in Detroit is a walk through pur-ga-tory. They’re not banned from restaurants, just ignored until they leave. At the movies, they wait in line to be told the show is sold out, at least until they walk away. Fuckers. Kenny has a hard time keeping his cool, so it’s a double whammy for Stella. They’re talking Canada, Mexico, even Europe.”
“We knew it’d be hard, but living it is something else. Imagine being stared at, judged and publically humiliated for doing ordinary things. Does anyone speak up? Try to protect them?”
“Oh god, I don’t have to imagine. Been there, live there. Most folk don’t have the balls, or ovaries, to speak up. They’d rather live out some fantasy of brotherhood and peace, both b
lacks and whites. I swear we’ve got an Uncle Tom for every Jim Crow. When I was fifteen, Ma took us kids to the pool at Rouge Park. Like today, it was hotter than hell. We four kids, my baby brother and two boy cousins, were so hyped about getting out of the tenements and swimming in a real pool. We’d never even seen a pool close up. Ma bought us bathing suits from Woolworths and borrowed her brother’s car. She told us to wear the suits under our clothes so we didn’t have to change in the locker rooms. My guess is we had a buck’s worth of gas and a couple bucks for drinks. We packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. Have you ever been to Rouge Park?”
“Once. It was very white.”
“This was in the late forties, after the war, lily white. The only black person besides us was the janitor. When we walked into the pool area, every head turned and people stopped talking. Total, absolute silence. Ma whispered, ‘It’s okay. Just behave yourselves and don’t make a lotta noise. We got rights. Don’t matter.’ I sensed the danger but wanted Ma to be proud of me. I took my little brother’s hand and walked to the shallow end. As soon as we stepped in the pool, there was panic. The other mothers were screaming for their kids to get out of the pool. I heard the words ‘niggers in the pool, get out, get out now!’ Kids were climbing out, throwing themselves on the edge of the pool rather than using a ladder. One red-faced mother was shaking her fist at the lifeguard. I heard the sharp sound of a whistle, then the lifeguard lifted a bullhorn and yelled, ‘Niggers out of the pool NOW! RIGHT NOW! No niggers in the pool!’ My mother tried to talk to the lifeguard in his high chair. He tipped his bullhorn down, close to her ears, and shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘Get you and your nigger kids away from the pool before I call the cops!’ ”
“Oh god, Loretta, sorry. What a sick, ugly world this can be. Here we are, going to the moon, and we treat each other like aliens. What’d your mom do?”
“Ma gathered us together and told us to stand tall, put our shoulders back, hold our heads up and walk slow. When we first got to the pool, the quiet scared the crap out of me. On our way out, the quiet felt cowardly. The black janitor, in his freshly pressed one-piece khaki uniform with shiny silver snaps and a name badge, tucked his head down and whispered, ‘sorry’ as he held the gate open. But Ma, in her faded green and white checked ruffled sundress and straw hat, stood tall, nodded her head and smiled as if she was showing off Christian Dior’s couture on a New York runway. On the way home, we stopped for ice cream and Ma told us that we own our dignity, no one can take it away. That’s why I keep Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth and Ma nearby. They remind me of my dignity.”
“Which reminds me why I love you so much. You’re lucky you had such a beautiful and wise mom. Speaking of dignity, and my lazy-ass self, did you hear back from Cooley about the scissor talks?”
“Yadda, yadda, yadda. The principal was going to run our proposal by the school board before summer break. I didn’t hear back and I was afraid to call. Me, afraid to call! Remember when you asked if I ever felt like I was underwater and I said ‘every day?’ Lately, it’s more like an undertow. I got the impression this sorry ass principal thought cutting off someone’s hair was a modern-day Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn stunt. Rather than deal with the issue of racism, he’s pretending the recent quiet means everything’s okay. It’s more of that same cowardly quiet, like my own cowardly quiet when I didn’t call. Sorry, Maggie. Here you are, ready to have a baby, and I’m dragging you through my poor-pitiful-me swamp.”
“Loretta, we’ve always had the most perverted and peculiar ways of dealing with our poor-pitiful-me swamps. For these few minutes, I stopped thinking about pregnancy, labor pains, or the nearest toilet. I’ve been such a slouch since we moved here. I’ve let everything I care about go to seed. But not you; you’ve been doing the work. You’ve never been quiet when you needed to speak up. My guess is there’s a reason, a sixth sense, for not calling. When I think of this tiny being taking her, or his, first breath on this wild, lush, and very broken planet we call home, I’m more determined to drag these swamps and keep the faith with you until we’re done dragging and keeping. Don’t let me drop out.”
“Baby doll, what on earth are you talking about? You lost your marbles? No way in hell you’re dropping out. We’re in this together.”
Maggie heard the three short rings and tried to ignore it, but their next-door neighbors shared the party line and the same ring echoed through the screens.
“Hello!”
“Bonjour, mon cheri Marguerite!”
“Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Jacques Ruivivar! How are you?”
“The question is, how are you? Still with child?”
“Won’t be long. This baby is head-down-ready for her trip to planet Earth. Will you be watching the moon landing?”
“Of course! This is very exciting. I hope they find moon people—moon food, moon music, moon language. Audacious to think we’re the only life form in this infinite universe.”
“Are you suggesting we earthlings are smug and self-centered to think everything in the solar system was designed for our viewing pleasure?”
“Quick study. So, my dear Maggie, you’re about ready to have your first child and I’m jumping out of my skin with joy for you and Sam. Once you’re home from the hospital and catch your breath, will you please call collect so I can hear the news from you?”
“Absolutely! I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“Thank you. And, before the year gets away from us, I’d like to queue up for a visit. I’ve put off some business in Detroit until you’re ready for company. Don’t panic. I’ll stay at a hotel, but would love to meet the baby and catch up with you and Sam. More than that . . . well, we’ll talk again when you call. Oops, almost forgot. Catherine wanted me to say hello. She’s angling for a reason to join me in Detroit so she can meet the baby. Fair warning, she’s an Olympic angler.”
Before Maggie reached the phone to call Issie, there was a torrential cloudburst of wind and rain, the kind that turns umbrellas inside out and sends squirrels skittering to lower ground. Holding her rotunda up with both hands, Maggie did a mock race through the house, checking the kitchen, living room and bedroom windows to see if rain was coming through the screens. The two front bedroom windows, with sliding screens, were being pummeled. Using all her strength, Maggie pushed each window up a half inch and pulled in the screens. Then, hanging like a monkey from the top of each frame, Maggie forced them closed, banging her rotunda on the window ledges and leaving her moo-moo soaking wet.
After holding up her moo-moo and wringing it in the kitchen sink, Maggie picked up the phone. “Hey Iss, Jacques just called. Get this, he wants me to call him collect after the baby’s born so he and Catherine can plan a trip to Detroit. Seriously, Catherine!”
“Why are you so out of breath? Are you in labor?”
“Closing windows. I can’t walk to the bathroom without getting winded. Come on, Iss, tell me what you think.”
“Oh, Maggie, I know what you’re thinking and I’m not sure what to say. I’m kind of pissed he called when you’re about to deliver.”
“Well, what do think this means?”
“I have no idea what it means. But there’s something I’ve held back that you deserve to know. Last year, during one of our kitchen talks, I limited you to three questions. What I didn’t tell you was how jealous I used to be when ‘Uncle Jacques’ seemed to prefer you. I can’t point to anything he ever said or did. It was more about his face and tone of voice. No doubt Jacques liked me, but Maggie, he adored you. At first, I thought it was because you were younger. But my instinct, or major stretch of my imagination, made me wonder, then believe he was your father.”
“You actually thought Jacques was my father? Was it just the way he talked to me or was it more? Anything to do with Catherine? Sam’s positive she looks enough like the photos of Anna if you make allowances for some plastic surgery and dental work. Oh god, I’m hyperventilating aren’t I?”
“This is all
so wacky, like some B-grade pocketbook mystery. I don’t know. Keep in mind I was an eleven-year-old who believed in Camelot. I was jealous because Jacques acted like he loved you more. Smoke and mirrors. We were both raised on fairy tales, literally and figuratively, so I don’t want you to jump to conclusions. But, you have a right to know, even if it comes from the memory of a screwed up, needy pre-adolescent girl. This might mean something, or it might mean nothing.”
By her soft intake of breath, Issie knew Maggie was trying not to cry.
“Thanks, Iss. It’s probably nothing.”
“Or, my grown-up baby girl, it’s everything.”
After Sam and Maggie devoured six White Castle hamburgers, two orders of fries, and two vanilla shakes, Sam unbuckled his belt and tipped back in his chair.
For the first time in more than a year, Sam felt a sense of power and calm. Maggie’s updates on Loretta, Kenny and Stella weren’t surprising, but it reminded him of his sidelined commitment to the civil rights movement and all the work in front of them. Sam had the sensation he was outside of his body, watching himself and Maggie at the table. The man he saw was no longer a boy. He was a husband, a provider, a civil rights worker and soon-to-be-father. When Maggie told him about the secrets Issie had kept, Sam felt Maggie’s sorrow. He was struck by a new awareness that Maggie had lived far too many years with people who claimed to love her, but didn’t trust her to know the truth. Sam didn’t want to live a lie. Not with Maggie. Clyde had given him the best advice he knew to give when he said ‘tell no one.’ Sam didn’t want to put anyone at risk, but Maggie had to know some things now—not everything, but some things.
“You’re quiet. What do you think about Issie musing that Jacques was my father? Crazy or what?”
“I’m drawn to the ‘or what.’ Sorry she didn’t tell you sooner, but get that she didn’t want to up the ante on a family history that’s already packed with intrigue. Are you pissed?”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 21