Atwater said nothing, but slowed the car a little. He held the wheel with both hands, the knuckles showing white. His shoulders were hunched. Loretta put the radio on, listened to the weather for a moment, then turned it off.
“Nothing like spending time with the rich and famous,” Mr. Atwater said as they pulled onto Alice’s street.
“I have to meet Albert and Emma at the bus stop on the corner.”
Atwater said nothing, but pulled the car over as they approached the stop. Albert and Emma had met there, coming from opposite directions. They were waiting, holding hands. Marshall gave Atwater the number of Alice’s house, and got out. “We’ll walk up,” he told his mother.
“There’s room for everybody,” Mr. Atwater said.
Marshall shut the door and stepped up onto the sidewalk, holding his wrapped gift. Emma reached for him, and he put his free hand in hers. “Hello, Walter.”
“I’m fine,” Marshall said, realizing that the question had not been asked. “Hello to you.”
The car pulled away with a small screech of the tires.
“I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten us,” Albert said, watching it go. His own gift for Alice was in his jacket pocket.
“Somebody’s angry,” said Emma, turning in the direction of the car speeding away.
“What did you get her?” Marshall asked.
“He got her a book,” Emma said. “Aristotle.”
“It’s a very nice bound book, with ribbons to mark your place.”
“I don’t think Aristotle makes a good birthday gift.”
“Emma wanted to get her these stupid, fluffy slippers.”
“They were very nice. With fur around the ankles.”
“What did you get her?” Albert wanted to know.
“Stupid, fluffy slippers,” Marshall said, and after a moment’s hesitation, they laughed.
“Really?” Albert said. “You’re not pulling my leg?”
“Fur around the ankles,” Marshall said. He led them up the street, to Alice’s door. Mr. Atwater had parked on the grass, and was in the open, lighted doorway, his arm around Loretta’s middle. Loretta looked over her shoulder at her son, then was ushered inside. Other people were coming out, two men and a woman. One of the men, the taller of the two, was smoking a big cigar, and when he spoke, Marshall recognized the raspy voice of a local radio weatherman named Hinckham, whose identifying tag line was “Don’t let it rain in your heart.” Clark Atwater had paused in the doorway and he said, “Mr. Hinckham, what’s the weather?” Hinckham turned to indicate the inside of the house. “It’s not raining in there.”
Atwater laughed, too loudly.
“Zero chance of rain,” Hinckham said. He glanced at Marshall, not quite seeing him, going by, and spoke to the woman. “Who were those two?”
Marshall knew he was talking about Loretta and the social studies teacher.
“Such a lot of people,” said Emma, holding tight to Albert’s arm.
They moved into the foyer, where a very dignified, diminutive, elderly colored man in a dark suit was taking coats. Albert was so much taller than everyone, and Marshall could see that people were looking at him. Albert gave his jacket to the colored man, carefully removing his gift from the pocket, and helped Emma out of her coat. Then he turned in a small half circle, his hand up to his birdlike face, and started toward the arched doorway to his right. He looked curious, almost bemused. The colored man watched him with wide, staring eyes. In his long life, clearly, he had never seen anything like Albert. The crowd seemed to be carrying him away, now, with Emma in tow. Marshall edged toward them, breathing cigarette smoke and the fumes of alcohol. A woman with wine on her breath said “Wait” to another woman, shouldering her way through the crowd toward the front entrance. Behind her was a man whose face Marshall recognized immediately as that of Mitch Brightman. “Tell that idiot I won’t wait,” Brightman said, speaking to the receding two women. “I mean it.” He looked at Marshall. “Yes, are you with the birthday girl?”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” the young man said.
“Oh,” said Brightman. “Well, all right. Certainly. How do.” He pushed on past.
Marshall made his way to the living room, where Alice hurried forward to greet him. There was a pile of gifts in one corner, near the fireplace, and she took his from him and stepped over to put it with the others. She wore a blue gown that showed her shoulders to wonderful advantage, and her hair was arranged in a French twist, so that she looked really quite pretty. There was a bright, almost a desperate sparkle about her. “Where are Albert and Emma?”
“Here somewhere,” Marshall said. “I thought they were in front of me. There’s their gift to you—that book.”
“It’s a book?”
“Sorry,” Marshall said.
“Well, I don’t know what book, yet, do I.”
“Remind me to tell you what happened when I asked Albert what it was.”
“What can I get you to drink?”
It dawned on him that she smelled of wine, too. “Coke?”
“Come on.” She pulled him through the throng, into another room, on the other side of which he saw Albert, still with that expression of mild curiosity on his face. “Have you met anyone yet?” Alice wanted to know.
“Not really.”
“Mitch Brightman’s agreed to visit your school.”
“Already?”
Alice was delighted. “I told you it was no problem. My father got it done in less than a minute.” She stepped to the table and asked another colored man—this one much younger-looking and much less interested in everyone—for two Cokes. “My father’s over there with other people from the station, talking about some kidnapping in Venezuela. Have you been following it?”
“No.” Marshall watched the man pour the Coke into clear glass cups. Alice took them and handed one to Marshall, then leaned close and murmured, “Do you believe all these people?”
“No.”
“A birthday party for little old me.” She drank the Coke. She was searching the crowd. “Come here.” She led him across this room and through another archway to a closed porch and a little knot of young people, in the center of which stood another young colored man whose dusky skin was pitted around the jaw. “This is Stephen James.” Next to Stephen James was Wilbur Soames, the new student Mr. D’Allessandro had brought in.
“How’re you doing,” Soames said.
“Hello,” Marshall said.
“Stephen’s with WSO. We’re all with WSO. Except Wilbur, here.”
“Nice to meet you,” Marshall said to Stephen James.
“We’re talking about tomorrow,” said one of the others, a woman with braids on either side of her face and rounded features, like a series of circles someone might have drawn. Even her makeup appeared to have been drawn by a hand interested in arcs, the eyebrows bowed like half-finished circles, the rouge applied in two equal, round smudges on the cheeks, the lipstick inscribing a small oriental red circle when the mouth was closed. “I hope it doesn’t get cold.”
“This is my father’s youngest sister and my aunt, who is exactly two months older than I am,” Alice said.
The woman inclined her round head slightly and said, “Diane.”
“Oh, didn’t I say your name, Diane? I guess I didn’t.”
“We were talking about tomorrow,” Diane went on. “I thought we’d ride down in the back of Stephen’s old truck. If it’s not too cold.”
“It’s supposed to be in the seventies,” Stephen said. “But I have some friends coming, too, so I don’t think the truck is such a good idea.” His pitted jaw seemed to flex when he smiled, as though the expression had not begun as a smile. His deep black eyes bulged slightly. There was a space between his teeth on one side. He sipped his drink and looked around the room.
“Well, the more the merrier,” said Alice. “I can’t get Wilbur to say he’ll come.”
“You know,” said Soames. “Other commit
ments.”
“I’d like to come, too,” Marshall said to her. “And I’ll bet Albert would.”
“Will that be all right?” Alice asked.
“The more the merrier,” said Diane.
Alice turned to Wilbur Soames. “Well?” she said.
“I’ll pass,” he said, smiling. “Like I said, I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Can we all fit in the truck?” Diane asked. “We could take my car.”
“It’s a big old pickup truck. From my daddy’s farm in Virginia,” said Stephen. “I just don’t think it’s the right vehicle.”
“Your dad has a farm?” Marshall said.
The dark eyes took him in. “Sharecropper.”
“Oh.”
“He died last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
Stephen said, “He was almost ninety. Had me when he was sixty-six years old.”
“Stephen is one of nineteen children. The second youngest.”
“My father’s gone, too,” Marshall said.
“Was he a sharecropper?”
“Oh,” Marshall said. “No.”
“There’s Mitch,” Alice said. “Come on.”
“Shouldn’t I wait until your father introduces me?”
She seemed momentarily puzzled. “I’m going to introduce you.”
“We already spoke, briefly.”
“Come on,” Alice said, taking him by the wrist again.
On their way across the room, they came upon Emma, standing alone, holding a drink with both hands and muttering something. “I’m counting,” she said. “Albert said he’d be back in sixty seconds.”
Soon after this, Albert was there, towering over them. Something about the low ceiling in the room made him appear even taller than he was. “Been looking for you guys,” he said.
They all wended their way to the next room, a book-lined study in the center of which Mitchell Brightman stood talking, a lighted cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. He looked very tan and healthy, though there was a certain puffiness in the cheeks, a suggestion of thyroid trouble, Loretta had said, watching him deliver the news on TV. Up close, he looked as though he were still in makeup. His skin was surprisingly smooth for his age and his dark brown hair was thick and combed straight back, without a part. He might have been a man in his young thirties. Several people, including Mr. Atwater and Marshall’s mother, had crowded around to listen to him. He was talking about the Civil Rights movement. “The real trouble, the next few years, is going to be in the North. That business in Philadelphia and Harlem this past summer, that was no fluke thing. The big cities—Chicago and Detroit and New York. Washington, D.C.” He nodded as a small stir went through his listeners. “Mark my words. Powder kegs, the lot of them. There’s a kind of prejudice that’s unexpressed, tacit, quiet. In some important ways that’s worse than the kind that’s out in the open. At least the Southern kind of bigotry is clear and blunt and in front of you and you know something about how to deal with it. I’m gonna tell you, there’s a lot of discontent and rage and hopelessness in the cities of the North. Seen it in my travels. Ingredients in a recipe for trouble. James Baldwin is right. The Fire Next Time.” He waved the cigarette, seeming to watch the drifting line of smoke from it. Then he took a deep drag and blew the smoke at the ceiling.
“Mr. Brightman,” Atwater said, “what was Jack Kennedy really like?”
Brightman did not respond at first. The question seemed to have put him off, somehow. Then he burst out. “Tremendous charm!” And took a drink.
The others waited.
He looked around, and again his eyes settled momentarily on Marshall before passing on over the other faces. “The most wonderful fun to be around—something about him.” He took another drink. “Ah. Uh—a great president, too. In my opinion. All the way—blazing talent. Had the best memory of any man I ever knew, bar none. And I’ve known some pretty important men.” He held the glass up and seemed about to propose a toast. But then he shook his head, and tears came to his eyes. “Some misfit ex-marine son of a bitch…”
Everyone was quiet.
“Don’t like to talk about it. But let me tell you about—cooperation—”
Alice’s father pushed through the crowd and murmured something in Brightman’s ear. Brightman’s face changed and showed interest. It looked as though Alice’s father was telling him something funny.
“That’s right,” he said and nodded, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Happy to serve in any capacity, Patrick.” He held the glass up. “Battle of good and evil.”
“I think Daddy’s going to announce our engagement,” Alice said.
Brightman looked around at everyone again. “Where was I?”
“Kennedy,” said Atwater. “Cooperation.” He was leaning in, avid, one arm around Loretta, the other around some woman, his sport coat pulled back so that it looked like the button that held it closed might come loose.
“Oh, yeah. Unspoken agreements, see—” He halted, looked around him. Then he shifted his weight and seemed to throw something off. “Never mind about unspoken agreements. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You were talking about President Kennedy,” one of the others said.
“Kennedy,” Brightman said. “Right. Kennedy came back from Palm Beach one time, you might’ve seen this, and announced that he’d been with the people and talking with the people, building it up, right, and then he says, ‘And I’ve come back to Washington and I’m against my entire program.’ We all fell apart, one of the biggest laughs I ever heard in that room. Great wit. And great timing. We used to love it when he’d call on May Craig at the press conferences. And he’d do it knowing there’d be something funny in it. Wonderful wit. And great recall. Did I say that? Faces, names. History—May Craig…” Brightman paused and seemed to consider. “History,” he said again, a man expressing exasperation with something. It was as though Mr. Brightman were talking about a personal friend, and this had its effect on the others. “Tell you what,” he said, raising his voice a little, “we’re in for some awful times, folks. Little wars, firestorms all over the globe. South America, Africa, Eastern Europe, India, China, Southeast Asia. That’s what they’ve set out to do—beat us down with little police actions like Korea. One after the other. Keep us running from hot spot to hot spot until the till’s empty, then move right in. Walk right in. Hell, they won’t even need any bombs.”
“What should we do?” a woman in a feathered hat asked.
Brightman looked at her and smiled. “Pardon?” he said. Then he reached over and took the end of the feather in his fingers. “Can you write with this?” He let go and gave a small bow. “Madam, that’s a most ridiculous hat.”
“I asked what should we do.”
“What would you like to do? I’m open to suggestions.”
“He’s lit,” said the woman, moving away.
“Come on,” Alice said to Marshall, “I’ll introduce you.”
“The strategy,” Brightman said, to the room, “is to get women with big feathers in their hats to think you’re tanked…” He paused. “That may save us in the end.”
“Mitch,” Alice said, “this is my fiancé, Walter Marshall.”
Brightman smiled at her, gave another little courtly bow, and then turned his attention to the young man. He stared, slowly extended the hand with the cigarette in it, paused and remembered the cigarette, put it in his mouth, and reached again. His hand was moist, and utterly limp at first. But when Marshall squeezed as his mother had taught him to do, Brightman squeezed back. “Walter Marshall,” he said. “I knew a Walter Marshall once.”
“My father,” Marshall told him, trying to suppress his excitement.
“Good for you,” said Brightman, letting go of his hand. “Where’s he living now?”
“He died two years ago in Arizona, sir.”
“You from Arizona?”
“No, sir.”
Brightman tottered a little, ta
king the cigarette from his mouth and blowing smoke, nodding, blinking. “Died? Did you say died?”
“He always liked your reporting, though.”
The hand with the cigarette in it waved this away. “Showbiz.”
“He said you have integrity.”
“He didn’t know me that well.”
“No,” Marshall said. “I know. He told me that—”
“Sorry for it,” Brightman said. “You must miss him.”
“I do, but I didn’t really know him. He left us when I was small.”
“He said all this about me when you were small?” Brightman seemed pleased at the prospect.
“No, sir. He came back here for a few days, the summer before he passed away.”
Brightman stared. “Trying to undo old wrongs.”
“I don’t really know, sir. He wanted to see us again.”
“It’s Walter’s school that you’re going to visit,” Alice put in.
Brightman smiled. “We’ll do some good.”
“Y-yes—yes, sir.”
He started out of the room, and the people around him moved to let him through. Mr. Atwater stepped in at his side, pulling Loretta with him. “This is the boy’s mother,” Atwater said, indicating Loretta. “I’m with her. I teach social studies and I’m principal out here at Fairlington Heights. I’m Clark Atwater, sir. I introduced myself to you earlier.”
Brightman gave them a vague acknowledging expression. “Atwatersir?”
“No.” Atwater’s head dipped and then tilted. He straightened, seemed to be trying to stand taller. “Atwater.” He spelled the name.
“Good,” said Brightman. “Good for you.” He took a drag of the cigarette, paused as if trying to absorb the information, then went on, with Atwater talking loudly, following him. “Social studies, civics, and history, that’s me. I was just telling them the same things about the little wars. I know exactly what you mean. The continent of Asia—” They went on into the next room and along the hallway, and a moment later they were at the far end of the stairwell, near the front door. Atwater had Brightman’s ear now, and Marshall’s mother was leaning in, listening to the two of them, looking interested.
“Somehow I want to introduce your mother to my father,” Alice said. “If I could get her away from that awful little man.”
Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea Page 19