‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’ we have Ben on the third floor with the scope, you an’ Cotton on the secon’ floor with the two high powers, an’ me an’ Jonesy down here since we don't have much range?’ Abul said to Baker.
Baker nodded and collected his case.
‘Rub Vaseline on yo’ face when you take yo’ positions. It fights mace,’ Abul said. ‘An’ use the handkerchiefs soaked in vinegar to fight the tear gas. It's boun’ to get in here once the windows get broken.’
“Bout that time,’ Baker pointed out.
The five men picked up their arms and ammunition to depart. There was no fanfare or commotion. Jones had a .38 Special Rossi from Brazil. Menka had a Winchester .22 rifle. Baker and Cotton had identical .30–30 rifles with a case of Norma cartridges and bandoleras. King had a 30.06 with a huge track scope. He carried two metal boxes of ammunition. When the meeting broke up he sat at the base of the stairs and put his gun together smoothly and turned, almost anxiously, to the front window where three of the four panes had been reinforced with metal strips. He nodded to Fred Jones and departed.
There was no final word from anyone. All five men knew what they had to do. Abul was tempted to shake hands because it seemed that only in the past two days had he really gotten to know them, really gotten to be brothers to them. He couldn't find a way to acknowledge this bond without seemingly confessing that he felt death near them. He remained flawlessly cool, crouching behind a sofa and lighting a cigarette.
Barricades had also been placed in front of the entrance to Carver Hall. Earl, Lawman, and Odds sat in the front office armed with a bottle of rum and two quarts of Coca-Cola. There were no guns, no sticks, no knives. They had been drinking since the explosive ending to the meeting with the parents. Their eyes were red, their jokes becoming less and less funny and yet receiving larger laughs, and their underarms were soaked with nervous perspiration, but they considered themselves ready.
Ogden Calhoun was on the line to the security office. Reporters had been running all over campus and a television crew complete with camera was staked out in his outer office. They had been waiting for a statement from him for over an hour and he had been waiting for a call from the security guard for almost that long. Miss Felch had been brewing coffee and making small talk since the reporters had flocked to Calhoun's office from the scene of the explosion. There had been a dictated paragraph at three thirty stating that the explosion was only further evidence that the institution had to be closed. There was less than a word for the next two hours.
‘Hello? Jones? This is President Calhoun. I was waiting for . . .’
‘I just got here an’ listed the things you wanted, sir,’ Jones said breathlessly. ‘There are only two occupied buildings. One is the fraternity house and the other is Carver Hall.’
‘I want you to direct the Guard when they come in,’ Calhoun said icily.
‘Yes, sir,’ Jones mumbled. ‘An’ stay wit’ the Guard unit?’
‘Every damn second! I want to know everything that happens in an instant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jones agreed. ‘It's ten minutes to . . .’
‘Right,’ Calhoun cut in. ‘Come on over.’
The intercom buzzer went on.
‘It's your wife,’ Miss Felch said.
‘Tell her I'm busy,’ Calhoun snapped.
‘I told her that, sir, but she's insisting.’
‘Then hang the damn phone up an’ call the Guard number. Don't take any more calls. Tell the press I'll make a statement when the Guard arrives at the front door. Tell them I'll speak then. I know they'll complain about the lighting an’ all, but kick ‘em out of my office an’ bring me a cup of coffee, please.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Miss Felch replied in her monotone. ‘What shall I say to the Guard?’
‘Tell ‘em I said to come on.’
As Miss Felch dialed the numbers that would bring National Guardsmen onto the campus of Sutton University for the first time in the institution's eighty-seven-year history, Abul Menka was making a startling discovery on the third floor of the fraternity house. He had gone up to the top floor to demonstrate the use of the handkerchiefs-soaked-in-vinegar to Ben King. What he discovered was that one of the two metal boxes that he had seen on the first floor did not contain the supposed clip of 30.06 shells, but instead a plastic bomb.
‘What in hell is that for?’ Abul screamed. ‘Oh! I get it! You stupid bastard! You're the one who blew up that goddamn bus! You stupid muthafuckuh! Where's the goddamn timer?’
‘This is for an emergency!’ King declared picking up the bomb in his hands.
‘Like the goddamn bus two minutes befo’ we coulda stayed on this muthafuckuh with fifty parents an’ seventy women. Right?’
‘All right! I won’ set it!’ the huskier man exclaimed, putting the bomb on a table.
‘Set it? You think I give a fuck? What do I care? All I know is that you fucked everythin’ aroun’ today.’
Baker, Cotton, and Jones all seemed to arrive at the third-floor door at that time. They were speechless. Fred Jones started to wipe Vaseline from his face with a towel. He threw down the handkerchief soaked in vinegar and pocketed his .38 Special.
‘Hard bombs to fuck wit’,’ he said softly as he zipped up his peacoat. ‘Them's the kind that blew up them Weathermen in New York. Hard to trus’ somethin’ like that.’
‘Where you goin'?’ King asked him.
‘I'm leavin’, man,’ Jonesy said in his ever-quiet manner.
‘Why? I made a mistake! You never made a mistake? I thought the meetin’ wuz gonna flop! I wanned everybody to know that we meant business. All right! I made a mistake! I couldn’ go out there an’ undo the fuckin’ thing jus’ because the meetin’ wuz goin’ all right . . . I . . . look, I took a chance, man! I made a mistake. All right?’
‘Fuck you!’ Abul sneered. ‘A silly-assed one-man power play! We wuz a team! We wudn’ fuckin’ aroun’. You fucked it all up!’
‘Team? You never been wit’ a fuckin’ team in yo life. Man, you always by yo'self,’ King flashed.
Jonesy walked between the two men and looked questioningly at Baker. Baker nodded and followed him out of the door followed closely by Speedy Cotton and Abul Menka.
‘Chicken out, muthafuckuhs!’ King raged, running halfway down the landing that led to the third floor. ‘You all jus’ scared a them whiteys! Thass all! You can't hand me that too-disappointed-to-fight story.’
The Black giant evidently had known very little about the point to which he had driven Abul Menka. When King pulled up next to him and pointed an accusing finger in Abul's face the man in the gold dashiki turned and landed a right hand flush in the center of King's face. As his victim stumbled backward, Abul leaped at him, landing punishing blows on the heavier man's face and neck. King tumbled into the corner of the landing covering his face with his arms until Baker and Jones subdued Abul from behind.
King was spitting blood. He made a slight move as though he would attack Menka when he regained his balance, but Baker proffered a restraining hand.
‘I wish you would!’ Abul declared, shaking loose and adjusting his sunglasses. ‘I'd love to beat yo’ fuckin’ brains out.’
King turned from the four men and walked back up the stairs. ‘I'm stayin'!’ he shouted as loudly as he could. ‘They'll have to kill this stupid Black bastard while they pry yo’ asses from between yo’ legs!’ He shook a fist at them from the top of the stairs. ‘Fuck you cats! Fuck you!’
‘That nigger is crazy,’ Abul said to Baker as they went down the stairs.
‘Maybe,’ Baker said collecting his gear. ‘His mama was raped by a white man six or seven years ago. He hate ‘um now. You should see when he git a chance to block one or tackle a whitey. He's a mean muthafuckuh, man. He sees red.’
‘I hear tell some is comin’ fo’ him to tackle,’ Menka said pointedly. ‘They gonna have U.S.A. on their jerseys. He should play a helluva game.’
‘I hope so
,’ Baker said.
35
Downhill Snowball
Miss Felch never had a chance to stop Gloria Calhoun from entering her husband's office. Mrs Calhoun came through the open door to the outer office and barged by the startled secretary before a word could be exchanged.
Ogden Calhoun was both surprised and annoyed to see his wife intrude on him. He was putting the finishing touches on his press statement and having a last cup of coffee when the interruption took place. He leaped to his feet and held out a warning hand to his wife.
Mrs Calhoun's face was bitten with anger, her dark eyes flashing too much despair to withstand the tears she felt about to boil over and smear her carefully prepared makeup. Her hair was glistening from the raindrops that had started to sprinkle the air.
‘I just came to tell you something important!’ she declared ignoring her husband's hand. ‘I came to tell you that I'm leavin’ you tonight. Right now! I swear to God in heaven, Ogden, that if you send those troops down on those boys I'm through.’
‘I have no choice,’ Calhoun said, rushing to the door to be sure that it was closed and locked.
‘That's a lie!’ his wife objected. ‘That's as much of a lie as anything else that's gone on this week. There is a choice. You've always had some kind of choice. But you're old. You don't want to see. An’ now the choice is almost life or death.’
‘I have my duty to . . .’
‘Stop! God, I hate to think that I'm really hearin’ you sayin’ those sort of things. I hate to think of you callin’ on cliches and lies when I'm practically down on my knees askin’ you to take a look at what you're doin’.’
‘I know.’
‘Stop! I said stop!’ Mrs Calhoun almost screamed. ‘I'm very tired. I didn't come here to argue. I didn't even come here to change your mind. I was leavin’ without a word, but when I called to talk to you as usual you were too busy for me.’ Mrs Calhoun sat in the chair facing the president's desk.
‘Gloria, you don't know all the facts.’
‘Maybe not,’ Mrs Calhoun agreed. ‘But,’ she added as she struggled for composure, ‘I do know that there are boys out there ready to die for what they believe in. Boys that are takin’ a stand that you would have taken when you were their age. But, God that must have been a long time ago. And they have to face this, this death, because you're an old man. Not really old. Not too old to see as I see, but all you have been able to see for a long time has been yourself. Any idea that wasn't conceived by Ogden Calhoun is not a good idea.’
‘They're wrong,’ Calhoun said heavily. ‘You're wrong. We never did things like this. There was communication an’ we faced everybody like a man. We sat down an’ argued an’ fought.’ Calhoun was flustered beyond his frayed nerves and late hours. The mask of rock-hard calm had split like fabric stretched too tightly against its subject, leaving him feeling old and tired and open.
‘We never did,’ his wife snapped. ‘WE WHO? We, in the thirties? WE WHO? We, at Howard? For nine years I've watched you fool people and lie to yourself, using Sutton University as an example to show everyone that the same tough man who was fired for speaking his mind about Black psychology is still as tough and as hard to overpower as ever. All I've read about is the history of collective thought you've been in favor of here at Sutton. That's another lie! Everything that you have implemented here that wasn't your idea has been used and publicized as though you had conceived it. Threatening students. “My way or the Highway Calhoun” . . . I feel so sorry for you Ogden. And me, too. I feel sorry for me too. Because I never said anythin’ though I saw it all happening a long time ago. But I thought you knew you were acting. I never suspected that you believed that liberal façade that you exposed an’ the talk about being on the students’ side. I thought you knew that you were only on your side.’
‘You're wrong,’ Calhoun repeated.
‘And you really think I'm wrong too,’ Mrs Calhoun said, standing up as though she had just had another revelation.
‘I know you're wrong,’ Calhoun said weakly.
‘I'm leaving,’ Mrs Calhoun said turning for the door. Her husband didn't look up as she departed. ‘Good-bye,’ she concluded.
Minutes tick-ticked by. Ogden Calhoun stared out of the window watching darkness engulf the campus. He saw the sparkling shadows of the raindrops dancing across the path of the light outside his second-floor window.
Miss Felch cut into his thoughts by way of the intercom.
‘Yes?’ he asked, getting up.
‘The Guard is here,’ Miss Felch said.
‘Where are they?’ Calhoun asked.
‘Their commander is downstairs with Captain Jones. The rest of them will be pulling in in a few seconds.’
‘Good. I'm coming out.’
Calhoun straightened his tie in the small mirror on his desk, finished his coffee, and smoothed out his hair with his palm. When he came through the oak door into the outer office Miss Felch was throwing a sweater over her shoulders. Together they went down the flight of stairs onto the first floor and then out into the misty Virginia evening.
Captain Jones was standing on the second step talking to a man in an army uniform. Flashbulbs went off in the president's face. Huge rows of illuminating camera lights were turned on and the night television cameras started to roll.
‘This is the Guard commander, General Rice,’ Captain Jones said introducing the two men. ‘This is President Ogden Calhoun.’ Calhoun shook the general's hand and more pictures were taken.
‘I'll be very brief, gentlemen,’ Calhoun said to the assembly of reporters and photographers and interested by-standers. ‘In the past forty-eight hours Sutton University has been the scene of over twenty-three thousand dollars’ worth of damage. We have lost ten thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in our resident facilities and today, a thirteen-thousand-dollar school bus, formerly used to transport our teams to athletic events, was blown up. The members of the community were asked to leave in order that we might establish a readmission program, but there are certain members of the community who didn't leave. I think, and Captain Jones will correct me if I'm wrong, that the men responsible for the majority of the damage, the Student Government Association heads and members of a militant group called MJUMBE, are the only students who insisted on staying. All other students apparently saw the sincerity and responsibility from my office to bring peace to Sutton. Therefore . . .’ President Calhoun was interrupted by the large roar of motors as the six huge transport trucks carrying the Guardsmen wheeled around the oval and pulled to a stop in front of the office. Flashbulbs were fired at the halting trucks. One man from each truck dropped off quickly and trotted through the rain toward the building. ‘. . . therefore,’ Calhoun continued, ‘I have summoned the National Guard unit placed at my disposal by the governor, and I am asking them to clear the buildings here at Sutton. That's all.’
Had Calhoun looked up just at that moment he would have seen one last student car leaving the campus. It was a late-model Ford station wagon with Fred Jones at the wheel and Speedy Cotton and Ralph Baker sitting in the back seat as passengers. The other two MJUMBE men were not in the car.
Ben King was sitting in a chair on the third floor of the frat house. He couldn't see through the darkness and mist across the oval to where Calhoun stood in front of Sutton Hall, but he had heard the roaring engines of the transport trucks as they arrived on campus and then idled in front of the administration building. He was readying the 30.06.
Abul Menka heard the trucks entering too. He was standing at the side window of Carver Hall knocking on the glass window, trying to summon Earl Thomas. Abul had turned down an opportunity to ride with Fred Jones and had even got as far as revving up the motor for his own car to leave, but the lights in Carver Hall, just across the parking lot from the fraternity building, made him think of Earl and the reason why he was leaving. He saw no reason for Earl to die because of King's stupidity either.
‘Earl,’ he was calling. ‘Earl!’<
br />
The SGA president finally heard him above the transistor radio that was playing on the desk and went over to the window and opened it.
‘Abul. Whuss up, brother?’ Earl asked.
‘This whole thing,’ Captain Cool replied. ‘Baker an’ Cotton an’ Jonesy already left. We found a bomb that Ben King had made. He was planning to use it this evenin’. He was the one who bombed the bus.’
‘So you leavin'?’
‘What the hell?’ Abul asked. ‘When I realized that whatever those parents saw and felt during that meetin’ explosion really was our fault instead a jus’ somethin’ that someone had planted to blame us, it really took the wind outta me . . . thass why I came over here to tell you to split.’
‘No can do,’ Earl laughed without humor, turning his face up into the mist. ‘The money you guys bet over the las’ couple days is comin’ to be collected. My signature was on the bogus check.’
‘You don’ have ta stay,’ Abul complained. ‘Man, King fucked everything aroun’. Thass part a the reason the ol’ man is sendin’ the Guard in. You don’ have to pay for that.’
‘Look, man. I know how you guys got those papers that Baker made up the demands from. Sheila tol’ me everything . . .’
‘What?’ Abul asked.
‘That Baker took the papers from my desk after she loaned him the key. She tol’ me today.’
‘I didn't know that . . . either,’ Abul said sincerely. ‘Baker convinced us all that you wuz jus’ another bootlickin’ ass-kissin'-type-cat.’
‘Doesn't matter,’ Earl said. ‘Somebody had to start it.’
‘It was like a snowball, man,’ Abul continued blankly. ‘One lie led to the nex’ one.’ Abul looked up again suddenly as the truck engines began to rev again. ‘They comin’, man,’ he declared. ‘Why don’ yawl c'mon out. Can't you see that ain’ nothin’ like we thought it was?’
‘But regardless, man,’ Earl said calmly, trying to peer through the density of the rain now falling heavily, ‘the things on that paper was comin’ to a head, an’ this was the inevitable result.’
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