TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chicago, 1968
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Charlotte Carter
Copyright Page
for Bonnie (Neysa) Pessin
and for Carol Brice, Tor Faegre,
Phyllis Forsbeck, Karen Kamarat,
Saundra Pittman, Mark Riegel, and Stan Zuni
CHICAGO, 1968
They say hell is other people.
But what do they know?
Call me a reformed loner. After a lifetime of singleness, I am now living with a group of people almost any one of whom I would cut off an arm for.
We live in a tumbledown apartment that vibrates with the comings and goings of eight reasonably healthy young people living in their time. We study for exams, work shitty-paying gigs selling blue jeans or repairing bicycles, we talk about movies, bake bread, listen to records, and throw our hearts and bodies into the antiwar effort.
The demonstration at the Van Buren Street draft office today turned ugly, and thanks to the shiny billy clubs of Chicago’s finest, one of the sweeter residents in our urban commune, Cliff Tobin, has a fat lip. The rest of us proudly wear our assorted bruises. But we are all okay. We have made it back home.
Music is playing now, loud and defiant. One of our number is rolling enough good dope to cool out the state of Oklahoma. At the secondhand kitchen table, we will have a magnificent soup with root vegetables newly out of the earth, bum cigarettes, drink from one another’s cups. Later in the night each of us will be somewhere in the city lying with a lover. Even me.
Even me, freckle-faced not-so-good-looking little black girl from the South Side, a happy recruit in the rock ’n’ roll army of my generation, acid-dropping, yes to love, no to authority, eating life with a spoon, and whatever I was like last year, it’s all different now.
Yes, I know: The world has been around a long time, doing just fine without us. We probably think way too much of ourselves. I don’t care.
And anyway, it’s almost Christmas.
CHAPTER ONE
MONDAY
1
“Hey, Cassandra,” Wilton said in that sleepy voice of his.
“Huh?” I said.
“How much you bet me?”
“About what?”
“I bet you and me are the onliest niggers in Chicago know every song on the Creedence Clearwater album.”
“No bet. I know we are.”
We fell out laughing.
Truth to tell, I had nothing against Creedence and neither did Wilton. But our friend and roommate Dan Zuni, a beautiful Pueblo Indian kid with a mane of coal-black hair and the slim-hipped build of a female fashion model, had a psychotic thing for them. Night and day he had Creedence on the record player in his bedroom. Once in a while I had to beg for mercy. He was always nice enough to give it a rest when I complained, but a couple of hours later “Suzie Q” would be blasting again.
Wilton had me laughing so hard my ribs ached. But that wasn’t such a tough assignment. I was stoned—we both were—and just about everything was funny.
We lay side by side on the floor of my room, only a couple of feet away from the new space heater my uncle Woody had paid for. Winter in Chicago is nothing to trifle with. You might think you know about our winters because of that record Lou Rawls had where he referred to the wind whipping off Lake Michigan as the Hawk. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t know. At night my room was like the north face of Everest. But I was low on cash, so Woody sprang for the heater, despite his being none too pleased with me these days.
Uncle Woody loved me, no question. But I had recently left home, moved out of the spacious high-rise apartment in Hyde Park where I had lived with him and my aunt Ivy since I was eleven years old. They were pretty pissed about it.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been such an affront if I’d taken a nice studio apartment in a respectable South Side development like Lake Meadows. Maybe they’d have been able to write it off as an understandable step toward independence. That’s not what I did, though, when I left home.
I moved all the way up to the North Side, to a rambling apartment with sloping floors and niggardly steam heat, where I had anywhere from three to seven roommates, depending on who was sleeping at a lover’s apartment, who was hitchhiking to California, or who was back home in Indiana for some holiday. At the moment we were without any pet critters, though it was just about time for one of our number to find another stray kitten or take in an orphaned parakeet.
Woody and Ivy Lisle are my de facto parents. My mother, Haddy Perry, left me in my grandmother’s care when I was eight, and she’s been in the wind ever since. The years with Grandma Perry were brief but hideous. To put it mildly, we never hit it off. And, in a masterpiece of understatement, let me say I was not a happy child.
As I get older, I try not to blame her so much for her part in my misery. The best I can figure, she and my mother had never been the greatest of pals, and as soon as Mom was of age, she cut herself loose from home and hearth. Then, at just the time in the old lady’s life when child rearing should have been far behind her, she got saddled with a needy youngster—that would be me—subject to bouts of depression, panic, and rage.
Like her husband before her, Grandma was called home, in the Negro parlance, at a fairly young age. My guess is, she had had it up to here and was good and ready to go. At any rate, that’s when her younger sister Ivy took me in.
As for my biological father? You tell me. My family history is lousy with secrets, vague explanations that don’t hold water, and outright lies. The story of how I came into being partakes of every one of those things.
The three years with my weary grandmother at her house on Forest Street, at the heart of the heart of the South Side’s ghetto, are now a blur of loneliness and resentment. Ivy and Woody saved me.
I was spared from the home for wayward juveniles and the welfare rolls, if not from a revolving cast of school bullies who hassled the shit out of me for being teacher’s pet.
Under the fond gaze of Woody and Ivy, my love for reading and excelling at school was rewarded with gift-boxed fountain pens, season subscriptions to the Young People’s Orchestra, and summers at theater arts camp, where I painted flats for Death Takes a Holiday and then wowed them as Berenice in The Member of the Wedding.
And at home I got away with murder: my own television, no bedtime curfew, allowed to drink coffee with my breakfast and mingle with the cocktail party guests, sipping 7-Up from a martini glass and eating myself stupid on deviled shrimp canapés.
So, goody-good little Cassandra, who used to write those prize-winning essays for Negro History Week, joined a hippie commune. Yep, I’m all grown up now, twenty years old, and taking my rightful place as a black freak. With visions of group sex, drug addiction, and me never again folding my dinner napkin, my very proper aunt Ivy had near about fainted when I broke the news.
I took a big pull from the joint I was sharing with Wilton and passed it over to him—tried to, anyway. He was lost in his own thoughts now, and didn’t notice me until I made a fist and knocked gently on his forehead.
Those limpid eyes of his seemed to shine love out at me.
My friend Wilton’s upbringing, despite the fractured grammar he affected, had been even more rarefied than mine. Both his parents were of the black professional class, mother a pediatric surgeon and father a big-bucks attorney. Wilton was born into the high bourgeoisie,
as his parents and their parents before them had been. Fact, going back to the Reconstruction, his family tree hung heavy with scientists, teachers, and industrialists.
In keeping with the cloud cover over my family history, I really don’t know where my aunt Ivy’s refinement or my uncle Woody’s money came from.
I was grateful to Woody and Ivy for converting my life from shit to sugar. I tried never to hurt or disappoint them, and I’d been the best girl I could be for a long time.
If you asked them, they’d likely say my days as an obedient child had ended without notice some time during the month of April 1968. I guess they’d be right. Something had happened to me that record-setting, murderous spring, with its weather from heaven and headlines from hell. You ticked off the horrors as spring folded into summer: King murdered; urban riots; the war inflating like a corpse in muddy water; RFK murdered; students assaulted and killed all over the globe.
And then there was the convention, Chicago’s local sideshow that turned into a world event and made Richard J. Daley a bigger star than Jane Fonda.
But I had my own list of upheavals, events in my personal life that shook me down to my shoes, things that were changing me, shaping me, making me for better or worse into someone else—
—Number one, I’d been witness to an ugly murder, and very nearly a second victim. Woody’s nephew had been knifed in the old neighborhood, just minutes from my grandmother’s Forest Street house, and I had watched him die.
—Then, too, a beloved friend had disappeared on me, doing nothing less than altering the course of my life along with his.
—Another change revolved around loss, too, but it had nothing to do with war or death. Quite the opposite. Contrary to my long-held belief that I’d go to my grave without ever getting laid, I finally did. A fellow named Melvin had deflowered me under some pretty harrowing circumstances. But that didn’t stop me from loving it.
Melvin was long gone. But openhearted, decent, handsome, ironic Wilton Mobley truly liked and understood me, wanted to be my friend. The feeling was ever so mutual. When he invited me to move in, it looked as though I’d fallen into a honeypot. It just seemed natural that Wilt and I, two Afro-American freaks, would get together, maybe even build some kind of life that would outlast our time at the commune.
My luck is strange, though. I have this giveth-and-taketh-away thing going with the gods. Wilton never became my lover. Instead he was devoted to a lissome white girl named Mia, whose complexion was something out of a Vermeer and whose disposition and heart were so lovely, you almost expected to see sparrows tweeting in formation around her head. Mia Boone was the mothering, pie-baking, herb-gardening, homemade-soap, meat’s-no-good-for-you, mantra-chanting, candle-burning heart of the commune, and she and Wilton were so much in love it made me feel dirty to imagine either of them with another partner.
As I was doing most days as of late, I had blown off my classes, telling myself I’d read like crazy long into the night and be caught up with everything by the end of the week. And for the nonce, I was whiling away the afternoon with Wilton, smoking his excellent weed. The new heater was doing its thing and we were doing ours.
Then, through my laughter, I heard Mia call from the kitchen, “Lunch, guys!”
At the sound of her voice, Wilton’s ears pricked up like a devoted Great Dane hearing his master’s step on the gravel path.
“You better get a move on, Wretched, or there won’t be any delicious vegetarian tacos left,” I said.
I started calling him Wretched because it was taking him so goddamn long to finish reading Fanon’s book. The dog-eared paperback had been gathering dust on the TV table for months. After a while, he began calling me Wretched, too. It was a bit of conspiratorial silliness. But I took a childish thrill in the easy, telegraphic way Wilt and I communicated. I knew it probably made the others feel excluded sometimes. And I knew it wasn’t worthy of me. But it was fun.
I heard a child’s voice out in the hallway, too. It belonged to little Jordan. Who rarely missed a meal at our place. The ten-year-old son of a junkie couple up the block, he spent the bulk of his time in our apartment. In the journal I was keeping the first few weeks I lived here, I referred to him as the feral boy. That sounds snotty and heartless. I didn’t mean it that way at all. I actually kind of like the boy, and God knows I feel sorry for him. But until I got to know him a little better, I was almost afraid he would bite me if I approached him. That’s how bizarre he was.
Jordan had attached himself to Mia because she was the source of food. He bonded with Cliff Tobin, another commune resident, because Cliff was so generous with his time, attention, and empathy. He bought roller skates and ice cream cones for the kid, watched over him as he slept on the cot in Cliff’s room, took him hiking, taught him how to swim, and generally placed himself between Jordan and the nasty realities of the boy’s parents’ life. In return, Jordan stood ready to lay down his little life for his ultimate big brother. Understandable. In his place, I’d have done the same.
I heard dishes clanging dimly in the massive kitchen, conversation, laughter. I remained where I was, on the makeshift hearth before the heater. I was thinking back on the weekend we’d all spent at the Wisconsin farmhouse owned by the parents of one of our roommates, Annabeth Riegel.
Oh, we had a great time on those enchanted walks in our clunky boots through the muddy fields, tripping like mad on the acid one of our number had supplied. And we had gorged on Mia’s gingerbread and mountains of her hand-churned ice cream. But I remembered feeling weird as I stood alone watching the sun rise from the attic window. Not lonely. Not envious of the ones who were coupling downstairs. Just a bit ill at ease.
“Sandy?”
I looked up. Cliff was in the doorway.
That’s right, he’d called me Sandy. Everyone in the house did. Not Cass—by which I had been known all my life until I packed my suitcases and moved to Armitage Avenue—Sandy.
I loved being called that.
“Great tacos,” Cliff said. “Better hurry up.”
“Okay. I’m coming.”
Another male voice rang out then. “You’re coming! Close the door, for Christ’s sake.”
That master wit was Barry Mayhew, an on-again, off-again roommate fifteen years or so older than any of the rest of us. I didn’t know the full story on him, only that he had had some kind of white-middle-class epiphany the previous year. He’d walked away from his straight job. Walked away from a wife and family out in the suburbs, too. What was the mantra? Turn on, tune in, drop out.
For Barry, the Summer of Love apparently stretched on through the fall and winter of ’67 and was still going strong at the end of ’68. His mission in life was to bed as many young women as he could. He’d hook up with one girl or another, maybe move in with her for a week or two. But eventually he always came back to the commune.
As for the turning on part of that advice, Barry was real serious about that. Not only did he buy, sell, and smoke googobs of dope, he was the source of some of our most memorable tabs. It went a long way toward compensating for all the communal duties he neglected—buying paper goods, swabbing the bathroom, and so on. Barry was rarely around to do his part. But given what he contributed over and above his share of the rent, we let him slide.
He was at the stove now, dipping a hunk of seven-grain bread into the cast-iron cauldron, being careful of the leather coat he was so proud of. “Hey, Mia. You make this?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Jesus, Barry, are you speeding again? It’s mealtime, okay? You’re ruining the vibe.”
“I’m sorry, Madam Krishna. I’ll be good. But I’m serious, baby. You can really burn some groceries.”
Wilton rolled his eyes. “Be careful there, dude,” he said. “Don’t spill nothing on your love beads.” It was okay for Wilton to pepper his language with underclass Negro slang, but he resented it when Barry talked that way.
On at least one occasion, Barry and Wilt had nearly come to blows o
ver the black language thing. Barry had used a word that sent Wilton over the moon. He said he’d bought some bootleg records off a spook he knew.
Wilton was in Barry’s face within a nanosecond.
“Take it easy, brother man . . . Damn. We supposed to be about peace and love.” Barry’s nervous smile reminded me of the cowardly, wisecracking persona that Bob Hope took on in those silly movies of his.
“For the last time,” Wilton said, “you ain’t no nigger, Barry. You haven’t even earned the right to call me brother. What the fuck do you know about us? You were born and raised here, but you don’t know shit about what the South Side of Chicago means. Look at somebody like Cliff—old Yankee Connecticut and shit, man. Ask him who Gwendolyn Brooks is. He knows, okay? Ask him who Toussaint was, or Henry Tanner. His mother and big brother went to Selma with Dr. King, man.”
“Not exactly,” Cliff said meekly. “They heard him speak in Washington.”
But Barry and Wilt’s difficulties didn’t end there. If Wilton’s version of the facts was to be trusted, Barry had been after Mia from the first day he laid eyes on her. Not hard to believe. Most guys were drawn to her. It seems he and Wilt had been tossing zingers at each other ever since.
“Who’s up for a function at the junction tonight?” Barry asked no one in particular. “You people are so lame,” he said when no one answered.
He passed behind my chair and gave a tug to my braid. “What’s happening, Sandy? You want to party with me, don’t you, you little sex goddess?”
He was making fun of me. Barry never ceased hitting on Mia. He flirted with our roommate Annabeth Riegel, too, and with Clea, a black friend of hers who was at the apartment often enough to be considered a roommate. But never once had he shown any interest in me.
“Sandy’s out of your league, man.”
It was Cliff who had spoken.
Barry bristled. “Say what?”
“She’s way too smart for you,” Cliff said.
Wilt leaned across the table to give him five. “Who ain’t?”
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