Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea

by Richard Bausch

  “Situation?”

  Natalie had gone into the kitchen, and in a moment she returned, accompanied by a heavyset, dark-haired man in shirtsleeves with a large, squarish jaw and a scar running along one side of his face. The man stepped to the table opposite the Negroes and put his hands down, regarding them with a kind of tolerant incredulity.

  “Here?” he said. “Here? There’s no problem here.”

  The Negroes said nothing, yet they seemed to attend to him with courtesy. One looked straight at the man and simply waited.

  “Well?” the man said.

  “May we please have menus?” the one said to him.

  “That’s all you want?”

  “We want to eat, sir.”

  The menus were in a small rack on the wall. Natalie took some from there and handed them around the table.

  The man straightened and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t want trouble. Okay?”

  “No trouble, sir,” one said. He appeared to be the leader. He had large, brilliantly black eyes, and a wide, flattened nose. His skin was the color of deepest night.

  “Hell,” the man said. “You want trouble. That’s exactly what you want.”

  “No, sir,” said the leader, quietly. “We want dinner.”

  The man turned and gestured to Natalie. “Take their orders. We’ll see how long it takes for me to get dinner. We’re very busy.” He looked around the room, and his eyes settled on Marshall’s table. “Ain’t we very busy, folks?”

  Albert said, “No.”

  The man seemed not to have heard. “Very busy,” he said. “But we’re in compliance with the law. We’ll try. You’ll get no trouble from us.”

  “We’re glad to hear you say that,” the leader told him. “Friends of ours told us it was inclined to be slow in here, regarding service. We disagreed, of course. We said we were sure that there was no problem here.”

  “No problem,” the man said bitterly.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Understand, it might be a while.”

  “And by ‘a while,’ what did you have in mind, sir?”

  “That’d be hard to say. We’re very busy tonight.”

  “Well, we’re very patient, I think you’ll find.”

  Natalie kept her head down. The proprietor walked back into the kitchen and storage area, and she came over to where Marshall and the others were sitting. Her face showed no emotion at all.

  “What’s going on?” Emma said.

  “Should I order for you, dear?” Albert said.

  “I thought Alice was ordering for us.”

  He smiled. “I’ll do it. “Then he turned to Natalie and ordered pizza and Coke. Marshall ordered a Coke.

  Natalie wrote everything down without looking up from the pad. Then she went to take the orders of the young black men. She did so, Marshall saw, with the same impassive expression. She kept her gaze averted from everyone. A moment later, two women entered, and headed for a table, only to pause suddenly, seeing the young men, and turn around to leave.

  Alice said, “I don’t see how people can be so stupid about skin color.”

  “Albert, why is everything—” Emma said. Then she seemed to realize. “Oh,” she said.

  “I swear,” said Alice. “The stupidest thing.”

  The five young men talked quietly among themselves, and waited for the food that wouldn’t come for a long time, if at all.

  Alice went on about it all the way to the school—telling about a friend of her father’s from the war, an Apache Indian, who had been refused medical help in Arizona last year and had nearly died of an infected cut on his one thigh. The other leg, she said, was lost at Normandy, defending the freedom of the very people who refused to help him. This brave man had fought the worst prejudice in history and, in the bargain, had given up a normal life for it; he came home and couldn’t get medical treatment because he was an Apache. “It makes me sick,” she said. “And then I think of those three poor young men in Mississippi and it makes me mad, too.”

  “I’ve got some Indian blood,” Albert said. “Way back.”

  “I felt so awful eating in front of them.”

  “There wasn’t anything we could do,” Emma said.

  Alice said, “We should’ve supported them somehow.”

  “We could’ve given them our food,” said Marshall.

  “They wouldn’t have taken it, Walter. That’s not the point, anyway.”

  “But this is Washington, D.C.”

  “I’ve joined a group here,” Alice continued. “WSO. We Shall Overcome. Actually, so far, it’s made up mostly of concerned white people, but we’re going down to Charles County this Saturday.”

  “You are?” Marshall said, looking at her.

  She nodded. “I’m driving. I’m going to be at a sit-in.”

  Marshall stared.

  She turned to Albert. Apparently she meant this as a kind of dismissal of Marshall. “Want to go to a sit-in?”

  “Listen,” he said, smiling. “My high school friends still call me Abe.”

  “I think people ought to stay with their own kind,” Emma said abruptly.

  They were all stopped by this.

  “You don’t mean that, honey,” Albert said.

  “Sure I do. After all, I come from a long line of Southerners. It’s just custom. It doesn’t have anything to do with people not wanting other people to be free. It’s just keeping folks with their own, that’s all. We don’t think people ought to go where they’re not wanted.”

  There was a silence that seemed to draw out. They had come to the front of the school.

  “I don’t have anything against Negroes,” Emma said. “But I keep to myself and my own kind and I expect them to do the same.”

  “Well,” Albert said. “But—that’s not really what’s the matter—”

  “I don’t care,” Emma said. “That’s how I feel.”

  “But you don’t…” Albert began. Then he seemed to think better of it. “I wonder if Mr. D’Allessandro will be here—”

  “Don’t skip over it,” Emma said angrily. “It won’t go away, you know. What does that stuff mean—we shall overcome? They keep singing that. Overcome. Well, I don’t plan on being overcome by anybody, and that’s just that.”

  “I don’t think it’s meant quite that way,” Albert said gently.

  “I don’t know what else they mean,” said Emma. “Do they know what they mean? I swear, sometimes I don’t think the coloreds know what they want. They didn’t come from any civilization. Did they? If it wasn’t for us, wouldn’t they still be uncivilized?”

  “Honey—what do you mean—uncivilized?”

  “They’d still be savages. Killing people for food and sacrifice and all the rest of it.”

  “How civilized, Emma, were the Nazis? Listening to Mozart while the corpses of the thousands of people they murdered were burning.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “And you know it. The coloreds just aren’t like us.”

  Alice put one hand to her mouth and stifled something, a cough, or a groan. She turned from the others and started up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry if that makes you mad at me,” Emma said.

  “No,” said Albert. “Not mad.” He took her by the arm. “Let’s talk about something else, though.”

  “You’re not going to change my mind,” Emma said.

  They filed into the building, and up the stairs to the glass doors, in a silence that seemed to grow thicker with each passing second. All the others were there, including Mr. D’Allessandro, who looked a trifle less florid but seemed himself. He greeted Alice with a special excitement, shaking her hand and smiling that wide, tight-skinned, grimace-smile. Then he rattled the keys on his belt, opening the supply cabinet where all the tape cartridges were stored, and proceeded with the evening’s work as though nothing at all had taken place. It took a little while for Marshall to realize that Mr. D’Allessandro was putting on the best face fo
r Alice, addressing all his talk to her. He talked about integrity, and being faithful to the trust of one’s audience, being truthful. This made for an odd evening, since the night’s format was top-forty music. Mrs. Gordon read the news off the wire, and Ricky Dalmas read a commercial he had written about Christmas:

  It’s a rotten thing to open a gift on Christmas morning and realize it’s not what you wanted. That you can’t keep from making a face, that you’ll never be able to convince anyone that you’ll get used to it. It just makes you sick to your stomach, doesn’t it? Do you want your kids to feel that way on Christmas morning? Do you want your kids making faces and getting nauseous and questioning that there’s really a Santa?

  All through the evening, Marshall watched Emma and Albert, who sat side by side at the console in the studio while Albert played disk jockey and tried to be glib and quick, as he apparently supposed a top-forty deejay ought to be. Mr. D’Allessandro stayed close to Alice, and hurried through each stage of the class, his keys rattling on his belt. Toward the end of the session, a Negro strolled in and stepped to the wall, arms folded, watching the proceedings. He wore a beige trench coat and a suit and tie. His black shoes were shined bright. He looked vaguely amused by everything, watching Mr. D’Allessandro conduct the class. When it ended, Mr. D’Allessandro gathered everyone and announced that he had managed to get permission to broadcast the Mitchell Brightman evening locally on December twentieth, using a small station in Falls Church. He had accomplished this by promising that Brightman would lead a discussion of the news and President Kennedy. He looked at Walter Marshall as he said this, and then bowed to Alice. “This is in great part due to the help of Miss Alice here.”

  Alice nodded and seemed confused, her face flushed in big patches on her cheeks.

  “Now, I have accepted a new student, as of tonight. And I want you all to meet him. He’s got some experience in broadcasting, and he’ll be a wonderful addition to our group. Everyone, this is Wilbur Soames. Wilbur?”

  The Negro pushed away from the wall. “Hello.” His smile was startling; it changed his whole face. He raised one hand slightly, then leaned against the wall again.

  “We’re almost halfway through the fall term of the second year,” Mrs. Gordon said.

  Mr. D’Allessandro nodded. “As I say, Wilbur has some experience already.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Broadcasting experience, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Doing what?” she persisted.

  “Little of everything,” Wilbur Soames said. “I’d like to get back into it.”

  “Mr. Soames worked at a radio station in Vermont, back in the early fifties. He can add a great deal to this class,” said Mr. D’Allessandro, grimacing or smiling.

  Marshall stepped across the small space between them and, offering his hand to the new man, introduced himself. Soames’s hand was leathery, and soft. He smiled, tipping his head back a little. The others introduced themselves. Joe Baker gripped his hand and spoke too loudly about how happy he was. “Not all us folks from Alabama are benighted fools,” he said.

  “I’m happy to know that,” said Mr. Soames, still smiling.

  “I was with the guard,” Baker went on. “I fought off the mobs when it all came apart in Montgomery.”

  “Glad to know you,” Mr. Soames said. “Really.”

  When Mrs. Gordon gave him her hand, he held it between his thumb and index finger. “Very happy to meet you also,” he said.

  She nodded, looking too serious.

  Ricky Dalmas moved a little to one side as he shook hands, as if to size up the new man. He kept his pipe in his mouth and said nothing.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Soames said to him.

  Dalmas responded with an overweening dignity. “Likewise, I’m sure.” He continued to watch as Martin Alvarez leaned in and said his name, smiling, looking straight at the new student with the open trusting expression of a man who believes others will like him. Finally, Albert stepped up. “Very glad to have you here,” he said simply.

  Mr. Soames’s smile changed slightly. And then he glanced away.

  “This is my fiancée,” Albert said, ushering Emma into the circle.

  “Happy to meet you,” said Soames, extending his hand.

  Albert took Emma’s hand and put it into the other’s.

  Soames looked at them both with an expression of extreme study, as though he were worried about being wrong concerning what was politely expected.

  “You have nice, gentle hands,” Emma said.

  Alice looked at Marshall and smirked, then quickly caught herself, glancing at Albert.

  “Well,” said Mr. D’Allessandro, obviously relieved and happy to have gotten through this, “see you all next week.”

  And the class broke up.

  On the stairs going down, Albert asked if they could get something to drink from the machines in the basement, and Marshall followed him down. The two women waited in the foyer, looking nervous and faintly sorry to be stuck together.

  “Well?” Albert said as Marshall watched him get a Coke out of the machine.

  “Well, what?”

  “I guess Emma kind of had some surprises for us tonight.”

  “You didn’t know she felt that way?”

  Albert shook his head. His features were so sorrowful that Marshall felt the need to look away. It appeared that Albert might cry in a moment. “I guess it was wrong to do that to her just now. And it wasn’t very kind to Mr. Soames, either. But I knew—it was clear she couldn’t tell from his voice that he’s—well.”

  “You’re sure she couldn’t?”

  Albert shrugged. “Maybe not.”

  “Look,” Marshall told him. “It’s not that important, is it? A lot of people feel the way she does. It’s just going to take time, that’s all. She’ll learn.”

  “It changes everything,” Albert said. “Surely you can see that it changes everything.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Marshall. “Come on.”

  “Never would’ve believed it. Soft-spoken, kindly hearted Emma.”

  “It’s nothing, Albert. To tell you the truth, I was a little worried about that ‘overcome’ business myself, at the beginning. My mother wanted me to go to Philadelphia with her the weekend of the march on Washington because she was afraid there’d be violence or something.”

  “Did you go to the march?” Albert asked him.

  “Yes,” he lied. He had watched the whole thing on television, and felt wrong for not going once it was clear that there would be no bloodshed. He had told himself that he must obey his mother’s wishes, for her peace of mind, but there had been, he knew, a small, cowardly part of himself that kept him at home. He could not look back at Albert, who stood there waiting for him to say something else.

  “I was there, too,” Albert said finally. “And I’m sure I talked about it when I first knew Emma, and she didn’t react at all—never let on that she was against it.”

  “She didn’t say she was against it,” Marshall said. “She said people ought to stick to their own kind. She can learn to feel another way about it.”

  “I wish she’d never brought it up.”

  “Come on,” said Marshall. “Let’s go.”

  “So discouraging,” Albert said. He hadn’t moved.

  “They’re going to wonder what happened to us,” Marshall told him, pulling at his arm. “Come on, you can change her mind, can’t you?”

  Again, Albert shook his head, and now one hand went up to scratch it. “It’s just such a big surprise.” He took a step, then paused and seemed to peer at Marshall. “I grew up here, Walter. I went to places where they wouldn’t let colored people in, and I sort of took it all for granted. You know? I accepted it like it was the right thing—all those years. I never questioned it.”

  “Me, too,” Marshall said.

  “Well—and I’ve been trying to make up for all that—just with myself. Quietly. Just with me. These killings in Mississippi—it—that kin
d of thing happens because something in the way things get said all around us—something in the air from the time we’re babies—something must convince these people that it’s all right to do such things. Kill people because they have dark skin, or they’re trying to help people with dark skin. Something makes people think they have the right to do a thing like that. That something they think they’re defending is worth doing a terrible thing like that. And then Emma—Emma winds up—well, it’s very depressing—”

  “You can work on changing the way she feels about it,” Marshall said.

  “I have a weak heart,” Albert said matter-of-factly. He opened the Coke and drank most of it down in a gulp. “I probably won’t live much past thirty-five. I’ll be lucky to get that far.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  He gave Marshall an almost impatient look. “It’s what they told me.”

  Marshall simply stood there.

  “Emma is so stubborn.”

  “She’ll come around,” Marshall said.

  Albert raised one steep eyebrow. “I wasn’t talking about that anymore.”

  Upstairs, the two women were quietly waiting, watching the street. They did not seem particularly uncomfortable, and Alice immediately embarrassed Marshall by throwing her arms around him. “Thank you for a lovely time,” she said.

  They went out onto the front stoop. Albert helped Emma down the stairs. “Well,” he said, then paused, looking up and down the street as though uncertain of which direction to take. Marshall thought his face was sad, and felt an ache for him. Emma held out her hand to say good-bye. Alice took it, then embraced her.

  “I know we’re going to be such good friends,” she said.

  Albert looked helpless. He started guiding Emma down toward the bus stop on the corner. Alice took Marshall’s arm, and they followed. There was a slight chill in the air, but there wasn’t any wind, now. The stars were bright above the black edges of the city’s rooftops, and a sliver of moon put off more light than seemed possible. At Emma’s stop, they all said good-bye. For those few seconds everyone seemed as before. But then they had started away, and Alice walked back and embraced Emma and Albert again, and things were abruptly very awkward.