"No. Thank you, Rhoda. I'm going back to my flat and take a shower. It just might happen that I'll get drunk."
Before they started for the lobby, Rhoda asked, "Hunter, what made you so positive Sara wouldn't do—well, something rash?"
He looked down at her, then over to Suds. "Because Sara hasn't given up. Sara won't give up. Not on David. She asked me to say something else to you. That David is good, no matter how things may look. So—I've told you. And she won't give up. That's why I wasn't in the least worried. Shocked, grieved—yes. Defeated? Not our Sara." He turned and walked away from them, toward a door to a flanking side corridor, and said over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow—"
CHAPTER 62
The one incongruous note in Joseph Klein's otherwise modern offices in Boston was an old-fashioned desk lamp with a green glass shade that had belonged to his father. Its light was far more effective in warming the chill grayness of a late winter day than fluorescence would have been. When Mrs. Hubbard, shortly before her death, had insisted that she was going to donate new lighting to the office of ALEC's executive secretary, Klein said, "Nothing doing. It kept me honest in law, it's keeping me in touch with my ancestors now."
When David Champlin and Brad Willis came into the office late in the afternoon nine days after David's last meeting with Rudy Lopez, a last feeble glow of winter sunlight was touching the western window. When it was gone Klein lighted the green-shaded lamp and leaned back in his chair. "Before you two head back south you'll need more detailed briefing than we've been able to manage this afternoon." He opened a lower drawer in his desk and took out a bulging cardboard box. "This is the manuscript of the book by Gardner Pennoyer, the New York Times man, that I mentioned to you. He left it with me for corrections—dates, right names, that sort of thing. It needed damned little. It's a study of the South for the past decade with enough of the century to explain the decade. I'm sure Pennoyer would be glad to have you read it, especially if you'll use the information in the way he hopes it will be used. Just don't take it out of the office." Brad said, "If we could brief it—"
David was leafing through the typed pages. "Give me some legal pads, a bottle of fountain-pen ink, and a Thermos of coffee and I'll get to it."
"Do it tomorrow," said Willis. "You're bushed. You're due home with me for dinner and the night." For three days he had been struggling to keep concern and paternalism out of his voice and attitude. David was a tired man; a man living with mental pain and suffering as he had lived with lameness, quietly; a man withdrawn from his fellow humans, remote, whipping his mind into frenzied activity, communicating with his mind only. Peg had said, "He gives me the creeps, Brad. I love him dearly, but he can't be touched—reached—at all."
"I know," answered Brad. "I've been with him for a week and I'm exhausted. Mind kissing me real hard, hon, so I can get back to reality?"
Now David said, "I'll do it tonight, Brad." Everything he said these days, thought Brad, was said with the same tone of finality. There was no "give" to him.
"You can't brief it all tonight, David," said Klein. "My God—"
"If I can't then I'll work on it tomorrow if you'll fix up a corner for me here. Now, let's get down to business—"
Hours after the night sounds of Boston's downtown streets had died away to silence, David sat at the desk in Klein's office, the green-shaded lamp throwing its circle of light over the manuscript before him and the yellow legal pad on which he was writing rapidly. Once he said aloud in the emptiness, "Thank you, Gardner Pennoyer. You deserve an easier name —" There could be no deadlier weapon, he thought, than fact welded to principle, and Pennoyer used that weapon with lethal accuracy. He stripped from the South—its moderates, its liberals, and its segregationists—every vestige of rationalization, held the segregationists' myth of Reconstruction's total blameworthiness up to the light of objectivity and fact. The "moderate" he left naked, blue and shivering, stripped by the cold winds of truth and analytical thinking. The "liberal" under Pennoyer's searching pen reminded one inevitably of the story of the Pharisee and the publican, and the Pharisee's loud-spoken gratitude to God that he was not as other men, while the publican stood quietly by with downcast eyes and said, "God, be merciful to me a sinner." If there was any lesson to be drawn from the book, David thought, it was that the country had need of those who could say, "Be merciful to me a sinner."
A century of death and terror walked through those pages of facts and figures, although they dealt specifically with but ten years of that century. The death and terror were made more horrible by the writer's calm acceptance of them; nor were the aberrations of death's human instruments treated with other than a calm acceptance of their being, because nothing else was possible.
David damned his hand for its slowness in writing, yet it was racing across the yellow pages. He felt ashamed that he must lean for his background on the work of a white man, realizing at last how far he had removed himself from the life of his people, how close he had come to removing himself from it entirely.
The Thermos had been empty for two hours when he laid down his pen, snapped his hand sharply at the wrist to start circulation in cramped fingers, and looked at his watch. Four o'clock. His mind was flagging now, tired and more liable to make mistakes, and he leaned back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.
He had been lost in his own country for nine hours, and he could not immediately bring himself back from that country, its cities and bayous and swamps, it red dust and redder clay, the stunted scrub oaks, the blue gum and cypress, the gray-green moss-fingers, the arid, lifeless stretches of its western reaches, the green, miasmic moistness of its most southern points... the rattlesnake coiled in cool dust beneath a rock on a Texas prairie, the 'gator sleeping by a riverbank. A black man from the South did not have to have walked each of its country roads and city streets; they were with him always. He could hear the cadence of black voices in the bar of a Birmingham slum, a Mississippi field, a South Carolina farm home, as clearly as he could hear its deep rhythms on the banquettes of the French Quarter.
Black boy, black boy, what do you hear? He thought someone had spoken the words, knew they had not, searched his mind for their origin, found it suddenly. A little boy on his grandmother's lap, crying over a mashed finger. He never knew whether it was a nursery rhyme or whether Gram had made it up.
She used to half-sing it: Black boy, black boy, what do you hear?—I hear a little rabbit an' it's comin' mighty near. Black boy, black boy, what do you see?—I see a purple flower and a yellow bumblebee. He would repeat it after her, mixing it up so that he could hear her laughter, feel it deep in her chest where his head rested: "'I see a yellow flower and a purple bumblebee'—a purple bumblebee, Gram, a purple bumblebee—" and then they would be laughing, he and Gram—mashed finger, tears, forgotten in a purple bumblebee.
Black boy, black boy, what do you hear, all these years later? My own voice, that's what I hear, no better, no worse than the others, the voices of Birmingham and Mississippi and South Carolina and New Orleans. It had been a black voice in an Oxford pub, a Marblehead inn, a Pengard classroom, a Boston courtroom, and his own ears had been deaf to it. Now it would be a black voice among other black voices, sounding, please God, strong when strength was needed.
The eerie predawn quiet of the room, the relaxation after concentration, the lack of sleep—he knew they had combined to make him fanciful. A mind that should have been filled with neatly docketed dates and facts instead was peopled with monsters in khaki uniforms, and with dark-skinned men and women whose arms and hands, once outstretched and pleading, now were high above their heads, fists clenched—the men and women who had been dim singing presences along a riverbank in a little boy's dream—now turned from that river and running forward, their voices a deep roaring, like the rushing winds of a hurricane.
He tried to bring himself back to reality, reestablish himself in a dim and empty office above a sleeping Boston street. And found that he could not, bec
ause beyond the glow of the lamp on the desk there were still other people, silent ones, quiet, without voices, standing in the dimness, people whose eyes caught a fugitive ray from the light in a quick gleaming, whose teeth showed white in shadowed faces. Some had
names, some were nameless; but he knew them all. Mack Charles Parker, Emmett Till, Thomas Foster, in his country's uniform, Joseph Champlin and his father, David—the known and the unknown, blood of his blood, mind of his mind, begotten, born, living, suffering, in a world that denied them humanity and in the end denied them life itself. Black boy, black boy, what do you see? Death.
He got to his feet abruptly. He'd managed to stay this side of the bend so far; he wasn't going around it now if he could help it. The hotel where he and Brad had breakfasted a long time ago, where he often stayed, was only two blocks away. He'd go there and get some sleep. It was too late to go clear out to Brad's and risk disturbing them. Once in bed the devils of the past would give way and the devils of the present would pluck at his eyeballs, different devils, the devils of sorrow and loneliness and the realization of what he had done and its immediate consequences, the devils of memories of Sara, and of Sudsy's voice on the telephone from London. She's not at the Crown now.... I have no intention of telling you where she is.... I'm speaking, in a sense, as her medical adviser.... If she wants to, she'll get in touch with you. I hope to God she has better sense.... Suds! Christ, not Suds, turning like that! Then Hunter, quiet, controlled. You're spending too much dough on telephoning, dad.... Suds?... Yes, I know. I've tried to talk to him.... I think he'll snap out of it.... She's all right, David, but I agree with Suds. It would be better—for her, that is—if you didn't call her.... I know what you want to tell her. Hell, I already have.... She's all right. Couldn't be in better hands. You have my word for it.... Don't make it any rougher on her than it is by talking to her.
These would be the ghosts that would crowd the room where he'd sleep tonight. They were with him now as his steps sounded unevenly in the cold darkness of Boylston Street. Would those others, the ghosts of the black men and women long dead, newly dead, the pain of their dying in their spectral eyes, be lying in wait for him in Klein's office tomorrow? They would lie in wait for him wherever he was.
***
Brad and David arrived at the ALEC office late the following morning. Klein was ready for them, desk cleared. "Give me as clear an idea as you can at this point what your plans are and your itineraries."
"I'm leaving tomorrow for New Orleans," said David.
"Some sessions with 'Saiah, and after that the northern part of the state, then Mississippi and then into Memphis to give Brad a hand there if he needs me."
"You, Brad?"
"New Orleans with David. I'm going to stick with him for a couple of weeks, for a sort of orientation course. I might get thrown in jail for using the wrong can."
"You won't," interrupted David. "They've got signs. Real clear. And in English, yet. Even our most illiterate blacks can read w-h-i-t-e o-n-l-y. Other kids learn how to spell 'cat' and 'dog' and 'house,' unimportant stuff like that, first. We learn 'white' and 'colored.'"
"I can hardly stand the waiting," said Brad. "Anyhow, I'll go to Memphis after New Orleans. Then some of the larger cities. At first I'll be guided by Watkins and you, Joe. And the brat here."
Klein laughed. "I wish you'd stop calling him the brat. You're not that much older."
"Granted. But I've lived with him professionally for a long time. Or so it seems."
David said: "Brad, my car. It's in storage, as you know. When I thought I was—was leaving the country I authorized the garage to find a buyer and arrange the sale with you. I've changed my mind."
"You going to drive it down there?"
"No. You think I'm crazy? You think I'd drive that honey in the Deep South? Sugar in the gas tank, sand in the transmission, nails in the tires—"
"How're you going to get around? Bicycle?"
"No. If Rudy Lopez hasn't left for California, I'm going to ask him to put that jalopy Chuck's driving into shape and I'll swap with Chuck. I wired Rudy this morning to stick around a few more days. Joe, will you take care of it for me?"
"Sure. But it'll break my heart. Your car makes me drool. Mine's eight years older. And I've seen that thing of Martin's, and spent hours wondering what holds it together."
"Rudy'll paste it together, don't worry. Put a new motor in it. When he gets through it will outlast mine. And still look like hell, if that's the way I want it. Chuck can drive mine back down there, reregister it in Louisiana. Massachusetts license plates could spell almost as much trouble as a brown skin."
"So. That's set," said Klein. "Now, David, give me some dope on this kid you want to take with you. You've only met him two or three times. Frankly, I'm leery. Even if he is a distant relative of Brad's. What's his name again? Luke Willis?"
"Right. I'll take the responsibility. You think I want any dead wood or potential troublemaker along? I think I've sized him up right. Brad agrees. I'll pay him enough—"
"Hold it!" said Brad sharply. "Remember me? The guy with a hand on the purse strings? You haven't got that kind of dough. What's been going to Gramp goes back in the kitty, and don't give me an argument. Emergencies happen."
Klein interrupted. "If you're both convinced he's O.K., ALEC'll put him on the payroll in a small way—the only way we can. We can do it, since David's being so blasted Quixotic about his own reimbursement."
David smiled. "Save my stipend for bail money. Luke won't need much. No travel expense for a while. I won't be sending him anywhere on his own, not until I've got him licked into shape a little, the sharp edges worn off. The main expense will be film and photographic supplies, developing, that sort of thing."
David was remembering the Luke Willis who had come to the house the afternoon after their meeting in Hank's Place. Brad had been there, and Rudy. Luke had been wary, almost sullen, watching Brad with something close to hostility. David ignored his attitude, treated him with casual friendliness, knowing too much warmth would scare the kid off. Gradually the wariness had left, the withdrawn, near hostility given way to interest. He had picked up a copy of a national news magazine on the table, become lost in a spread on slum conditions in Philadelphia, said, "Man! That's great stuff!"
Something in his tone made David say, "You interested in photography?"
"Sure am. I've got me a Leica—" and he had expounded for ten minutes on the subject.
When he managed to get a word in, David said: "Want to bring some of your stuff over? Maybe we can come up with something—a job of sorts—where you can use photography."
The photographs had been outstandingly good; an interior shot taken in Hank's Place was exceptional, the faces of the men and women, caught unaware and photographed by available light, stark and haunting. David offered to buy it, but Luke insisted on giving it to him. "Got all my negatives," he said proudly. "Fixed me up a fine file."
Klein was saying, "Where'd a kid without a job get a Leica? That's the kind of thing I was getting at."
"I didn't ask," said David. He'd known damned well the odds were high Luke hadn't gone in and bought a Leica— new, secondhand, or hocked—but even Joe Klein couldn't be expected to accept that fact as a matter of course.
Brad said quietly: "We'll get him to ditch it. They're damned easy to trace. I'm sure, though, from something he said, that the little miniature one is his own."
"I've been thinking while we were talking," said Klein. "When Pennoyer comes in to get that manuscript, I'll ask him how he feels about mapping out another book, using your reports and Luke's pictures. A more subjective treatment this time, with Luke supplying some behind-the-scenes stuff. God knows it's needed. Everyone in the United States knows now what a Negro boy looks like when he's prodded with an electric cattle goad, or a woman knocked down by a stream from a fire hose. How many know what that boy's home is like? How many know what a group of little black children looks like, watching white kids
swimming in a tax-supported pool—from behind a fence. I saw that myself, and unfortunately I think I always will see it—"
"It's all right with me," said David. "It'd be a boost for Luke—"
"I'll talk it over with him." Klein looked at his watch. "Let's do a quick recap before we go to lunch. Now. ALEC, working partially from its own funds and partially from a legacy from Mrs. Augusta Hubbard, is sending out a task force to establish citizenship classes in the South and attempt to register voters, and gather concrete and documented evidence of interference with the voting rights of United States citizens. The wording of Mrs. Hubbard's will actually allows a little more latitude. I quote: 'and for such other educational endeavors among the Negroes in the South as ALEC deems necessary, etcetera, etcetera.' David Champlin to be in charge of this project under the general supervision of the New Orleans and Boston offices, and will undertake the job of surveying the rural areas and smaller towns, and instituting these classes and—or—educational endeavors. Brad Willis will do substantially the same thing in the larger towns and cities. You'll both have help, and you'll both work closely with the N-double-A to avoid duplication of effort. There's no question but what you'll be called on to act in a legal capacity, for the defense, many times. That chore goes along with it."
David said: "We're going to have to play it by ear, Joe, from day to day—or at least week to week. The red-neck is a predictable animal, and those predictions better take in lethal acts. You could set up your plan, and before you could implement it be high-tailing down a dirt road or through a swamp. Get this, friend, I'm no damned hero."
Klein laughed. "How do you know you're not?"
"Want to bet? Now, listen, Joe, don't hold your breath waiting for results. The very word 'vote' can start a stampede of running Negroes in some places down there. Because, man, that's a killing word. And I'm going to be working with the men and women who live in the little houses off the road, and thinking of how they feel when they hear a car slow down outside."
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