Primary Colors

by Joe Klein

  "TRUST THE DUSTBUSTER," she said. " 'It was just my woman's intuition, but I was into wishin' you were here.' Remember that song? Oh, you wouldn't. Too trashy. Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, Henry-poor child: it doesn't maner whether he did or didn't, if she ever FUCKING ONCE said he did. And we know she said it at least twice: to her daddy and to Kendra 'I'm-Going-to-Disney-World' MASON. Henry, grow up already: shit begets shit. Cashmere made ANYthing possible . . . And, whether he did it or not, you think Jack Stanton wouldn't be capable of fucking the McCollister girl? You think he didn't?"

  "Libby, I don't get it. Why would-?"

  She cut me off. "Oh shut UP, Henry," she said. "Why ask why?" "Because it's just too fucking weird," I said.

  "Weird isn't the word for it," she said. "Try disgusting."

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "Ohhhhhhh Henry," and she looked at me, suddenly sane. "We are here because they need us here."

  Luther Charles, like Jack Stanton, was the sort of man who created vibrations whenever he was in a room; the molecules moved differently, there was a sense of anticipation. And so it may well have been animal magnetism--rather than just a glint of light off his gold cuff links--that led my eye directly to the reverend when I walked in the West End Bar, just after eleven, the next night.

  I was somewhat jazzed, in any case. New York did that. It was like reverse jet lag; everything was faster, noisier, more vivid than Mammoth Falls. I had walked the streets of my old neighborhood, agog with the life of the place, the sheer number of people: bums and full professors wandering about mutually befogged, pasty-faced Upper West Side types shopping the Korean fruit stands, Puerto Ricans with boom boxes and gold jewelry hanging on the corners. If you could handle this, everywhere else in America seemed half-speed and half-filled. I not only could handle it; it was, arguably, home. I debated whether to stop in and check out my old apartment. I got into the building itself, then chickened out, daunted by the expectation of roaches scattering in the light, daunted by the reminders of what my life had been after William Larkin and before Jack Stanton, the caesura it had been. I did, however, stop in on Mrs. Flores, the super, who had been forwarding my nonjunk mail to Mammoth Falls. She was small and round, and given to unflattering tank tops. "Henry, you back?" She said. "You governor man he mess up all over de place . . ."

  "No, just checking in," I said. "I was just in the nabe, figured I'd pick up the mail."

  "You go up?"

  "No."

  "I keep fix. Have been two months, I bomb the fuck out of las encarachas. 'S okay now, but they back soon. When you come back, Enrico?"

  "Who knows?" I said. "Maybe soon. Any mail?"

  "I just send last week, but this come few weeks before that. Gets lost abajo my dream book."

  It was from Father. It seemed not only from a different place but from a different time: my old pen-pal days, when the letters from Mohammed Siddiqi in Lahore came in delicate, sky-blue envelopes. This letter was painfully thin. It consisted of a single sheet of tissue paper and a single, manually typed sentence:

  Are you actually working for this man?

  There was no Dear Henry or Love, Father. There was nothing on the page but the sentence. It seemed a physical assault, but different from Susan's slapping me across the face-more like a full-fisted punch, dead center on my stomach; I could hardly breathe. And then I was furious: the son of a bitch had no right. He didn't have enough of an investment in my life to intrude like that, to hurt me like that. In retrospect, though, it was perfect-perfect timing, given what transpired that night at the West End Bar. It was as if Luther and Father had coordinated this attack, their last desperate effort to salvage Henry before he slipped irredeemably into the vale of the pale.

  So, jazzed and smarting-reeling, actually-I spotted Luther immediately, sitting in a booth at the West End, looking conspicuously substantial in blue pinstripes and a white shirt with French cuffs and a gold collar pin (his tie, red and black divided vertically, seemed defiantly downscale, a foot firmly planted in the Sunday service). He had put on weight over the years and lost some hair; Luther had peaked in full Afro and dashiki-rage defined him, and became him. He looked plucked now; Luther in a suit was like Dukakis in a tank.

  He was with a woman, her back to me. He acknowledged my approach with nothing so welcoming as a smile; it was more a nod, then a handshake-a greeting for a white person. "Henry," he said, "this is Gail Powell, a law school classmate of your current employer-and a member of the band."

  "Of the band?" I asked, sitting down next to her. She was a striking woman, long and beautiful, her classic African profile accentuated by closely cropped hair, the first scattered ringlets of gray contributing to the air of dignity and integrity. She was wearing a pearl-gray silk blouse and dark slacks, a small gold cross necklace, simple pearl earrings.

  "Partners Three." She smiled, nodding over to the bandstand. "Some pals from the firm Jennings, Jenkins and Abercrombie. We noodle here, now and again."

  "This sister-" Luther began, but was interrupted by the waitress. I assessed the table: Luther was drinking coffee, Gail Powell something brown-bourbon, it seemed. I had gotten into the habit of drinking margaritas with a double shot-Daisy's drink-but clearly that would not do in this company. I ordered a beer.

  "This sister can tell you some things about Jack Stanton," Luther said.

  "Some things?" I asked.

  "Well, we had a thing," she said, beyond cool.

  "More than a thing," Luther said. "Tell him."

  "Yeah, more than a thing. We were pretty tight. There were times when-well, you know Jack."

  "I know him now," I said. "What was he like back then?" "Same as now, maybe a little shinier," she said. "He glowed." "You knew Bill Johnson?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said. "There weren't enough of us not to know each other, not to be in each other's face on a daily basis-you know, we were pulling for each other, pullin' hard, didn't want to be embarrassed. And I've got to say, Jack was right there with us-fair number of the white boys didn't even see us, too grogged out with the ambition-sickness; others made a pass at it; but Jack was right there. He was easy with the blood, you know what I mean? He didn't have to work at it. And he could sing the birds from the trees. There were times when I thought-I actually did think-he and I would open up that little mom-and-pop legal services clinic he always talked about." "He used the sister," Luther said.

  She laughed lightly. "Now, there's a news flash: Black Woman Used by White Dude. Luther, lemme lawyer you a little: use ain't abuse. I can tell you all about abuse."

  "You knew Susan too, I guess?" I asked.

  "Oh yeah," she said. "But not so well. You're too young to remember the old toothpaste commercials-Colgate with Gardol, the invisible protective shield. With Susan, it didn't just stop at the mouth." "He didn't love her?" I asked.

  She laughed again. "I thought you worked for the man! Jack loved her. Of course he did. He loved her. He loved me. He loved every stray cat in the quad. That boy is not deficient in the love zone-he's got more than enough to go around, and it's all legit. He's never fakin' it. I'm sure he thought he and I were gonna settle down, open a legal services clinic and have mocha chip babies-whenever he was thinkin' it. Trouble was, he was thinkin' too many other things too." "He led the sister on," Luther said, halfheartedly now. This wasn't turning out the way he'd expected. "He went with the white girl because an interracial marriage wouldn't be politically viable." "There is that," Gail said, sipping her whiskey, rolling the glass between her palms, studying it. "But you always had two things goin' on with Jack-your mind and your heart. In my mind, I knew I'd never really have him. He was too needy, and it wasn't the usual male kind of needy-it wasn't just come and blow. He was needy the way a woman is, he needed the physical proximity more than the other. You wouldn't know about this, Reverend," she said wickedly, looking across at Luther. "He was . . . darling." She seemed almost surprised by her choice of words. "He was a lovely boy. Your heart we
nt out to him: he found a way to make you do that. And no, Luther"-she wagged a finger at the reverend-"it wasn't exploitation. I don't think it was ever about domination, having his way. It was about needing, and just getting off on being close. He got as much pure pleasure out of just being there, touching, bein' touched, watchin', hangin' out, as any man / ever knew."

  She turned and looked at me. Her eyes were, simultaneously, onyx-sharp and heavy-lidded. "Of course, in my mind, I knew Jack Stanton was scheduled for something other than legal services-and in that way, Susan was the obvious choice. But it wasn't the cold thing, the partnership, people say. I'd be willing to bet you anything that he got to her, same way he got to me, same way he got to all of us. I'd bet you anything he penetrated that white girl's invisible protective shield. If he hadn't, he couldn't have married her. You've gotta know that Jack can't stand not being loved. Other thing is: if he didn't, she wouldn't have put up with his shit all these years. Too proud. Listen, fell., I've got to ..." I stood up, allowed her to slip past. She was much taller than me. "Reverend," she bowed. "Mr. Burton." She kissed my hand. She took a step away and said, "You know, Henry, I was going to say, it's too bad: he woulda been a great guy if he hadn't wanted to be a great man. But that'd be cheap, wouldn't it? Anyway, I bet--somewhere beneath all the bullshit--he's probably still a great guy."

  She moved off, done with us, moving toward the music. "So, Luther, that was my education?" I said when she'd gone.

  "Look at her," Luther said. "That is one sad sister. She still not over that sucker. And that's your fate too, Henry. He's makin' good use of your pigment. But what do you get out of it? What power do you have? You gave up your heritage and your leverage to carry a white man's coat."

  I couldn't take my eyes off Gail Powell. There was a weary erudition to her, a bluesy wisdom--I wondered if she was a different, crisper Gail Powell at Jennings, Jenkins and Abercrombie. She went over to the bandstand, joined a white piano player and a black drummer; she played bass.

  "She plays bass?"

  "Yeah, you don't often see it," Luther said. "Sister playin' bass. It's puzzling, given how much the sisters get off on that instrument--plucks their magic manger, least that's what they say," he said, checking me out. "My, my, Henry Burton--you think I'm crude. Well, ain't you ever your grandpappy's grandkid! Hey, how much you remember the great man?"

  "Not much," I said. I remembered his fingers, my little ones threading through his big, thick ones; I remembered the smell of cigars coming off him. "He read me James Weldon Johnson--" Luther immediately launched a recitation:

  When I've drunk my last cup of sorrow-

  When I've been called everything but a child of God-

  When I'm done travelling up the rough side of the mountain-. . . ."

  Luther boomed it out, eyes toward heaven. Heads turned in that dark, boozy mom. He was, certifiably, one of God's Trombones. "That was his favorite, wasn't it?" I said.

  Luther nodded and skipped to the end: "Lower me to my dusty grave in peace." He was standing now, waving his teaspoon, playing to the crowd. "To wait for that great gittite up morning--Amen." He luxuriated in the "gittin-up" just--just exactly--as Grandfather had. Luther sat down. He looked at me. We looked at each other hard--for the first time, really; we had made a connection. We could talk now. He searched my face, as if he were looking for traces of my grandfather in me, or maybe my dad.

  "Did he teach it to you?" I asked. Then, before he could answer, I moved closer to the point: "What was he like?"

  "God," Luther laughed. "He was like God, 'cept he had faults, and we knew all about them--but he was still like God, still the voice from the mountaintop, looking down at us, looking down at me. I was always the token, the ignorant street nigger in his Charmed flicking Circle. Too bad he didn't get to know you, he woulda just loved your scrawny ass. You're just his type. Classy. Pale. Dignified. Rev was black as night, but he loved the yaller boys, 'specially the ones come up from the un-i-verse-sah-tah," he said venomously.

  "He went to Hampton," I said.

  "The un-i-verse-sah-tah!" Luther insisted. "Where'd your daddy go? University of Chicago? You look at the roster, the so-called Charmed Circle. Where'd Rev. Artemis Jackson go? Yaller Arty went to Yale. Like that. The Rev loved brothers who ate chicken with a knife and fork, 'stead of their hands. Wore shirts with collars. I'd never seen such a thing. I come up out of the South Side. My daddy could have been anyone on the block. That discomfited him, the Reverend Mr. Burton. He was also discommoded by my lack of patience and manners and couth. And he was also discommoded by your father's lack of . . . interest."

  "It wasn't a lack of interest," I said. "He was just interested in other things."

  "He was interested in being interested in other things than the Rev was--that's for damn sure," Luther laughed. "He wanted no part of the crusade. And he was, most assuredly, not into reconciliation. That made us a pair, your daddy and me. We were among the first who weren't colored, the first who were black, years before Stokely and them found the proper word for it. Colored was nice--colored meant you could be mocha or magenta, or chartreuse; you could be pleasing to the eye, like a Monet water lily. Refined brothers we called water-

  colored, your daddy and me. See, the lovely thing about black was: it was not nice. It was opposition, darkness. It was a great big FUCK NO. It was too harsh for Rev: he was colored."

  "But that doesn't sound like my father--angry," I said. "I don't remember him ever raising his voice. He just kind of kept his distance . . . from everything."

  "Ironically," Luther said. "He kept his distance ironically. See, he knew. He knew the Rev's get-together-with-whitey shit wasn't gonna make it. He also knew my fuck-the-motherfuckers gambit didn't have much of a future. He was--well, you know this--he was into antiquity, looking to where our sorry asses came from. He knew the gettogether-with-whitey shit wouldn't make it, and not just because those sick motherfuckers still can't even look us in the eye--but because we were too damn uncomfortable in our own skins to negotiate credibly, no matter how fucicin' proud we play-acted back then. We weren't ready to be equal. Can't blame us, I guess. We had just cause. We were movin' with all deliberate speed. But that's why I could never understand--"

  "What?" I asked, but I knew what.

  "Your mother," he said. "I never could understand what he saw in her, aside from the obvious. But then, look at the sister"--he nodded over to the bandstand, where Partners Three had drifted into a slow, dreamy version of "Time After Time," Gail Powell caressing the bass, eyes closed tight. "She coulda had any man. She didn't want none of us. You can't say shit about other folks' lovin' or not lovin'. I can't tell you what kind of voodoo your mother laid on him, or what was in your daddy's heart." Luther smiled. "The heart is a lonely hustler." We were quiet for a moment, listening to the music.

  "Henry," Luther finally said. "Your daddy ain't around, so I'm the only member of the Rev's rump caucus available to do the honors. So listen: I know you can't do my thing. I know you're embarrassed by my thing. It ain't worth doin' much longer anyways, most likely. But we were kind of countin' on you to figure out the next thing. Y'know? Booker T Washington was full of shit, right? We can't live with them like the fingers on a hand. We always gettin' thumb-fucked. We can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em, can't ever fuckin' trust 'em--and who wants to, anyway? Truth is, they are just plain disgusted by us, most of 'em. So the Rev's thing won't work. My thing won't work. It's on you and yours to figure out the next move."

  "Me?" I said. "Jesus, Luther. You think I got some mission just because of my last name? I'm not a preacher. I'm a pol. I do what I do. I'm good at it. I like it, most of the time."

  "Exactly so, little brother," he said. "You could've been a dentist or a golf pro or go off to Cairo like your daddy, but you chose to be in the arena-and so it falls on you. I know you went with Stanton 'cause you figured you might be the second most powerful man in the world if he won."

  "I did not," I lied.

>   "Right, there's always the toothpaste woman, right?" Luther said. "She's number two. But you figured it was your ticket to the West Wing. And who knows, you might've got there. But even if you had, even if you do-you got more important business than that, takin' the Rev's business the next stop down the line. I hoped it would be me, you know. I wanted it to be me, not those sophisticated academia niggers. I was the rightful heir-and, man, I couldn't fuckin' handle it when he died. I cried and cried, and yeah I made my move too. And the Circle been talkin' trash 'bout me ever since. Luther, the Fallen Angel. Well, get thee behind me, suckahs! Who made the brothers feel better about their selves, me or the yallerboys? I ran for the president, debated those white boys, damn near took 'em out. And down on the street, they were listenin' to those debates like they listened to Joe Louis in the thirties."

  He stopped. He seemed to realize he'd gotten into self-justificatory bullshit, and that wasn't where he wanted to be. He smiled a little and said, "Henry, I hated the Rev's fuckin' ass. But I hated him like a son hates a father, knowing that he'd never see me the way I wanted him to. And you're his blood, and I don't care what your rationale is, but the Reverend Harvey Burton would not have been proud to see his grandson a servant to some Southern governor."

  "Oh come on, Luther," I said. "You know he's not just some Southern governor."

  "That's not the point, son," he said, his eyes softening, reaching a big hand over onto my arm. "It ain't the quality of the governor. It's the quality of your service."

  That Saturday was awful. We were supposed to launch our New York campaign with a rally at Restoration Plaza in Bed-Stuy, then Stanton would helicopter up to Connecticut for a quick round of events. Rucker had Bed-Stuy wired, we were told. Great pictures for the Sunday papers, we were told.

  The place was desolate. No one was there. It was as if someone had done reverse advance work, as if the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant had been evacuated. There was a band playing in the empty plaza, a soul band with a woman screaming off-key Chaka Khan. (This woman, we would later learn, was the sister of the press secretary of the deputy mayor for economic development, and would cost the Stanton campaign two thousand dollars.) There were five or six heavily bundled and not very enthusiastic volunteers (billed at one hundred dollars per head, for the afternoon) ready to distribute Stanton literature and bumper stickers and stick-on buttons to anyone who happened by. But no one was happening by.