“Why,” he wondered, “would anyone want to preserve the Cashmere?”
It was an abandoned low-rise housing project with crumbling garden apartments, centered on a garbage-strewn lot that used to be the main square. And it was only the powerful plea of Lamont Green, who had done good work around the state, that had made Craig come out to see the place for himself—rather than rely, like the rest of his DUDC colleagues, on reports from the county’s urban planners. If the most recent report he’d read was any indication of their feelings about this property, the last thing the city of Durham needed was to resurrect the kind of community that was buried beneath the rubble that he and Lamont were forced to make their way through this morning.
He walked around the building again, this time paying more attention to its design rather than being distracted by its decay. This two-story brick house had to have been a beauty back in its heyday. Even in this dilapidated state, it still retained some of its former glory from the period when this community was flourishing. Or, at least that’s what Lamont had told him. Back then, Craig lived in one of the “whites only” sections of town and never found occasion to visit the “most thriving Negro neighborhood in Durham,” as his black colleagues labeled it.
Craig came and stood over Lamont, who was sitting on the stoop of the building staring out over the blighted landscape.
“You have a point. It is a shame to have let all of this deteriorate,” Craig stated, not feeling as convinced as he hoped he sounded, as he glanced at the stone plaque set in the brick wall. “So, this was the Meeting House I have heard so much about, huh?”
“Yes, the Meeting House in two senses of the word,” Lamont said, wondering why white Durhamites had so much trouble understanding why this particular building meant so much to black Durham. If this had been a decaying house owned by a Duke or any other white town father or town mother, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation.
“Daniel Meeting,” Lamont continued, “was an early-twentieth-century black architect who trained a whole generation of designers and builders here at Evangeline T. Marshall University, or what was then the Eva T. Marshall Normal School for Colored People. He was a fierce advocate of Social Gospel thinking, which motivated him to instill in his students, that the poor, like everyone else, deserved—and also needed—to have beauty in their everyday surroundings. The Meeting House is one of the finest examples of his work, and even in the midst of this decay, it remains one of the most architecturally significant buildings in the state. And, you know something?”—Craig could hear the pride swelling in Lamont’s voice—“I even got to meet the noble professor when I was a teenager.”
“What was he like?” Craig asked, feeling sorry that the designer of the place some in Durham still called the Mecca of black urban family life might have come to a tragic end. “Was he broke? Miserable? An alcoholic? Demented? Depressed and sad?”
“Pleaz,” Lamont answered, laughing. “Daniel Meeting lived to be 103, was healthy until the last two years of his life, and remained rich, happy, and still trying to flirt.”
“Flirt?”
“Yeah, flirt. This brother took on the state of North Carolina during the Jim Crow era, lived to brag about it, and kept his position as a professor at a state-funded school. He outlived three wives and then spent his last years just enjoying his freedom. You don’t really think that a man with that much gumption would pass up hitting on a good-looking woman, do you?”
Craig smiled, relieved that such a great black man came to the end of his life with the same joy and passion that he lived it. He said, “I see what you mean.”
Then he stammered, “Uhhh, uhhh—I had no idea there was such a rich history attached to a building in the . . .” He stopped, not wanting to insult Lamont by calling his birthplace “the ghetto.”
Lamont smiled at Craig, whose face was now a bright red. Utley was good people, even if he didn’t know as much as he needed to know about black folk.
“I don’t understand,” Craig went on, “why the state didn’t grant this building landmark status.”
“I do,” Lamont replied evenly. “Daniel Meeting was a strong proponent of civil rights. He sued the state for the right of a private black developer—not unlike myself—to buy this land and build on it when the Cashmere was first proposed after World War II. Although he lost that battle, and the county was allowed to own the land, he did win the right to design and select who would work on the actual construction of this building.”
Lamont kicked at a rock. “No, Craig, I don’t think there were any state legislators clamoring to honor this site when the community began to spiral downward in the eighties.”
Craig scanned the Meeting House’s facade. He was tempted to walk up onto its broad veranda and push open what was left of the large, fire-scorched mahogany door to peek inside. Now he wished he’d taken Lamont’s advice and gone online to look up Daniel Meeting and see the pictures of the old Cashmere before coming over here. “You’d think that the black movers and shakers in the city would be all over themselves to preserve this place,” he said.
“You’d think,” Lamont answered. “But unfortunately, there are too many black folk in Durham who remember the Cashmere only as liquor and numbers houses, as those makeshift confectionaries on back porches selling cornflakes and powdered milk, Stanback and BC headache powders, hairnets and hair grease, and cheap toilet paper stolen off delivery trucks. Of course, in the late eighties and early nineties, it wasn’t just sundries folks were selling but marijuana, heroin, cocaine, and finally crack.”
Lamont rested his cheeks on his hands, with his head down, as all those wonderful memories about the Cashmere he loved came rushing in. He stood up and put his foot on the loose, rotten steps leading up to the veranda of the house. He thought about the drug dealers who had taken an entire community hostage, reducing the Cashmere to this sorry wreck of a place. His aunt was right when she said, “The vermin who destroyed this community probably drafted the blueprints of hell.”
As if reading his thoughts, Craig said, “It’s a doggone shame that some devils got up in here and drove all the good folks off.”
“But here’s the question,” Lamont replied. “Why is it that we allow the devils to get a stronghold in neighborhoods where poor folk live? If somebody started selling crack over there on Dover Road in Hope Valley, right across the street from the country club, what do you think would happen?”
“I know what would happen,” Craig said with a dry, harsh laugh. “I live on Dover Road. If somebody like that crackhead character on the old Dave Chappelle show turned up, a SWAT team would descend on him before he even lost his high.”
“Hey, what you know about the Dave Chappelle show?” Lamont asked, smiling. Craig Utley was full of surprises. He looked as straitlaced as could be, standing there in the classic white-boy uniform—expensive khaki slacks, finely tailored navy blue jacket, light blue oxford shirt, and red/yellow/blue striped silk tie, accessorized by brown loafers.
“More than you think, and even more than you know,” Craig said, and then burst out laughing.
“What is so funny?”
“You, standing there with your mouth open because I watch Dave Chappelle. He’s a nut and he makes me laugh.”
“Yeah, that Negro is definitely a straight-up fool.”
“That he is,” Craig said. “But you’d better not tell anybody I said that. Last thing I need is an irate black man or woman all up in my . . .” He snapped his fingers, face wrinkling in a frown, as he tried to remember the phrase.
“You mean, all ‘up in your grille.’”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it . . . all up in my grille.”
Craig stretched out his palm, and Lamont slapped it on “the black-hand side.” The gesture was corny and dated, but it brought to mind that special era when the Cashmere Estates was making its mark as the premier neighborhood for working-class black families.
“My house used to be right over there,” Lamo
nt said, as he pointed to a pile of bricks on what looked to be a fifth of an acre of land behind the Meeting House. “Used to sit on my front porch and watch all of those famous folks staying at this place.”
“Famous people?” Craig asked. “Here?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Lamont told him. “There were only a few places famous black folks could stay when they visited Durham—the Meeting House, the Elegante Hotel, the homes of prominent black Durhamites, and what used to be Lester Lee’s Boarding House over near Eva T. Marshall University.”
“But who stayed here?” Craig asked again, pointing to the house.
“Elroy Thorn and the Gospel Thornbirds, Big Johnnie Mae and the Revue; several major bishops in black denominations, like Bishop Percy Jennings, Bishop Murcheson James; other artists like Carlton Quickly—you know, he wrote those gritty novels about urban black life during the forties and fifties.”
“Carlton Quickly?” Craig said, now excited. “I’ve read everything he’s ever written. What did you think of him?”
“He was brilliant but humble and real and down-home. He wrote about my world—my life—and he gripped my heart and inspired me. Why, we even had our own Blind Man with a Gun here in the Cashmere, shooting at the pushers who finally forced him from his home.”
“Really!”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re so lucky!” Craig said.
“Lucky? I guess. But really I was in the right place at the right time, to gain an understanding of the world I lived in—and of myself!”
“Your Cashmere was a pretty great place to grow up in, huh?”
“Yeah,” was all Lamont could say. He couldn’t explain to Craig why his Cashmere was so wonderful—that it was a place full of laughter; of arguments over checkers and bid whist games on front porches; of double-Dutch jump ropes hitting the pavement; of the clapping hands and singsong rhythms of hand games; of metal roller skates in the street, and of car horns honking at the skaters; of Aretha Franklin, Archie Bell and the Drells, Freda Payne, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Sly and the Family Stone, James Brown, the Dells, the Delfonics, Al Green, and Johnnie Taylor blaring from the radios in the windows; of mothers calling their children in to eat juicy homemade burgers or famous North Carolina chopped barbecue sandwiches, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, red velvet cakes, and sweet potato pies; of soft whispers of mothers and fathers who’d put their children to bed early so that they could become lovers, completely unaware that their laughter and shared kisses wafted out of windows left open to catch the soft breeze of a Carolina pine-scented night.
“Tell me about it?” Craig’s voice broke through his reverie.
“The Cashmere was sweet, warm, safe, and homey—a black Norman Rockwell painting just waiting for the first stroke on a canvas. There were hardly any robberies—certainly no shoot-outs—and about the only reason the police came cruising through, other than to keep a few known parolees on their toes, was to smell where the best rib and chicken dinners were being cooked. It was a community that loved celebrating with block parties and rent parties. There were rallies and concerts, with even outdoor trunk shows offering cheap and stylish clothes, hats, shoes, purses, local artists’ paintings, eight-track tapes, books by black authors, and some furniture from New York.
“There were so many families living in Cashmere Estates who had very little money, but Lord knows those folks were rich in spirit, and faith in God. Everyone, even the marginal folks, had clean homes, enough food to eat, decent-looking clothes, medical care when they needed it, a safe haven from the harsh realities of inner city life—and they had love. There was enough love floating around Cashmere Estates to cure the national deficit, then and now.”
“Sounds lovely,” Craig said.
“More than lovely, it was home—a place where being neighbors really meant something, and family life was just the way it was. The Cashmere was what inspired me to become a builder,” Lamont finished with a sweeping flourish of his arms to take in the whole Cashmere.
“It showed me that it was possible for people to live in dignity, even if they were poor.”
Lamont knew he could rebuild this place. But it was going to take a miracle of Old Testament proportions. Jehosophat—sometimes he felt just like his name was Jehosophat.
Craig was staring at him, listening intently.
“I’m sorry,” Lamont told him. “I didn’t mean to ambush you with a speech and all. But you can see that this is more than just a development to me. Where other folks see blight, I see heritage—heritage that we black folks owe it to ourselves and our children to preserve.”
“I can see that,” Craig said.
“And you know that if Jethro Winters starts building here,” Lamont added, “he’s not gonna stop. Once this prime central-city location is developed, all the surrounding neighborhoods . . .”
Lamont waved a hand to indicate the established black communities in view of the Cashmere.
“. . . will be fair game—if you think the word fair is applicable to Winters. Because working folk—teachers, nurses, police officers, librarians, construction workers, and small-business owners—will be pushed out. And where will they be able to find homes and a neighborhood as nice as that, at the prices they paid, elsewhere in this city?”
Lamont sighed. He was preaching again. But he didn’t know what else to do or say to reach Craig Utley, the one reasonable and fair-minded individual on the DUDC.
“Lamont, I want you to win that contract,” Craig announced.
“Huh?”
“I get it. I really get it. The Cashmere is history, culture, and heart. It has traditionally been a home for good, hardworking people. Jethro Winters has no sense of history, and especially not of black history. He is a boor, and a pack of rabid, hungry wolves has more heart than he does. He doesn’t need to build here—not at the cost of destroying history, of destabilizing an entire segment of the population. That’s what those professional reports don’t figure in with any reliability. Remember all those ‘urban renewal equals Negro removal’ deals of the past? You’re giving me the reasons to fight that.”
“How so?” Lamont asked. “I feel like I’m up against a huge cash machine, the public, with an urban commission that was formed to ‘eliminate blight’ on the surface, and stick it to ‘the folks,’ when you get down to the nitty-gritty of it. And once ‘blight removal’ gets a toehold into this area, property taxes will increase as fast as the new and improved luxury houses go up. How can I compete with what will look like progress and more revenue to run this city?”
“For starters, you have to raise enough money to fund a closing-grant program to make sure that lower-income people can qualify to successfully complete a contract to buy. The DUDC will need to see that you can deliver a certain number of creditworthy buyers, or people who have someone to co-sign. That can be a hard mountain to climb when you’re dealing in building affordable housing developments.”
“I know,” Lamont said with a heavy sigh. “There are plenty of folks in Durham who can afford to pay a monthly mortgage, but can’t afford the closing costs. And there are lots who can’t raise enough money to tighten up their debt ratios and credit reports.”
“True,” Craig stated. “Good folks who are good risks, despite some glitches in their credit history. I’ve battled underwriters for years about this at my bank. And right now, we are in a rough-enough economy, which calls for some compassion and faith when assessing lending. Of course, men like Jethro Winters can get their hands on hundreds of millions of dollars, with all kinds of breaks and allowances. But when somebody like your aunt, Miss Queen Esther, comes to get a loan, they act like she is trying to cheat them and get something for nothing.”
“So what can I do?”
“Well,” Craig said, “Winters’s strength is that he has promised to give DUDC eleven million dollars if they give him the contract—three million up front when he breaks ground, one million when he starts construction
, one million when he finishes, and the rest to come over a three-year period to begin once the units start selling.”
Lamont scratched at the almost imperceptible whiskers on his chin. Eleven million dollars was a lot of money—a whole lot more than he had to offer through his company. Craig held up his hand and finished.
“That sounds awfully good, I know. But the only problem is that Winters is always late on paying his notes for new construction. And although the banks continue to give him money, they will take any extra funds that he has available if he’s late. So, all of that money he promised will come in much tinier dribbles than you’d imagine. And of course, there are other incentives.”
“Green ‘Benadryl Cream’ to soothe some very itchy palms?” Lamont said.
“Well, you know Durham politics. You’re not naive,” Craig replied.
“I’d bet Winters is paying a couple of the DUDC’s members kickback money.”
“How’d you know that?”
Lamont smiled and said, “I have connections in places you would never think to look. And my connections tell me that Terrell Richards and Dotey Matheson will hop in bed with anybody with a fat-enough bank account.”
Craig raised his hands to stop the conversation.
“No more. I know too much already. Despite how I feel, I have to remain as impartial as possible. And I have to work with these people.”
“Better you than me,” Lamont said, “’cause CNN would make a beeline to get here and report on all the damage done, once I started pimp-slapping jokers left and right, up and down, and every which a way.”
“You’re not alone,” Craig said with a chuckle. “And I would not reserve the ‘pimp-slaps’ for the men, either. Those two lone women on the committee—Clara Perkins and Patricia Harmon—are pieces of work. And one of them is sneaking around with Winters. I don’t know which one, though.”
“Must be Patricia,” Lamont said matter-of-factly. “All of Winters’s other women look like Patricia—tall, thin, and blond with those gigantic boobs that don’t move when she does—and gray or light brown eyes.”
Holy Ghost Corner Page 8