“So what are we going to do?”
Malcolm lifted his arms to the rattle of chains and cuffs. “What can we do?” he asked.
“Where’s the key?”
“On the table,” said Malcolm. Pym had left it there after recuffing Malcolm and dragging the homeless man’s body out of sight. The table was six feet away. It might as well have been on the moon.
“You can’t reach it?” she asked.
“Maybe Plastic Man could,” he said. “I can’t.”
Malcolm glanced warily to make sure McLarty was not coming up again on his blind side. The two men were still standing near the roll-up door arguing.
“Goddamn it, Clarence, you act like my fucking mother sometimes. It was just one hit, okay?”
“No. Not okay,” replied Pym, voice taut with anger. “We have work to do and how are you going to do your share if your head’s all messed up with that crap?”
Clearly they were engrossed in their disagreement.
“If I could get my hands on something to cut this duct tape,” Janeka said in a low voice, “maybe I could get it. Or maybe go for help.”
Malcolm shrugged. “If,” he said.
“So it’s up to Bob, then.”
There was no humor in Malcolm’s chuckle. “Wonderful. We need an action hero. We got Bob.”
“You’ve got something against Bob?”
Malcolm turned back and spoke over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “No, I have nothing against Bob.”
“I doubt you could convince him of that,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Bob was fired this morning because of you.”
Malcolm was shocked. “What? Why?” Then he answered his own question. “I used his security code to plug that column into the paper.” He paused. “They fired him for that.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Shit,” said Malcolm. “I knew I was torpedoing my own career. I really didn’t care. But I didn’t intend for anything to happen to Bob. They’re just looking for a scapegoat. They shouldn’t blame him for what I did. He doesn’t deserve that. I mean, we had our disagreements, but he was a decent guy. Better than most of them, at any rate.”
“Them?”
“White people,” said Malcolm.
“I see,” she said.
The reserve in her voice angered him. “Come on, sister. I get that he’s your friend, but don’t act like you don’t know.”
“Oh, I know,” she assured him. “Believe me, I know. But I try not to think of them as, you know…‘them.’ Seems to me that just exacerbates the problem. Doesn’t really solve it.”
Malcolm sighed his concession. “Yeah,” he said, “Martin Luther King once told me the same thing.”
“Seriously?” she said. “We’re tied up here, maybe going to be killed by these two lunatics, and you’re name dropping?”
God, but she was exasperating. “I wasn’t name dropping,” he said. “I was—”
She cut him off. “You were name dropping. You were reminding me that you are the famous Malcolm Toussaint, author of ‘A Stone of Hope,’ the so-called last interview with Martin Luther King.” The reference was to a story Malcolm had published in the Atlantic Monthly two years after King’s assassination, recounting his encounter with the great man the week before he was felled. It was the piece that had launched Malcolm’s career.
“I was just saying—”
Again she cut him off. “I wonder what Dr. King would think of what you wrote in the paper this morning?”
Malcolm blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Janeka. “I agreed with your main points and Lord knows I understood your anger. But your blanket condemnation? ‘America can go to hell?’ You didn’t sound like—what was it Rolling Stone called you?—‘the conscience of America.’ You just sounded like some old crank venting.”
Malcolm breathed consciously, working to control his anger. “Lady,” he said in a hiss, “who the hell are you to lecture me? You don’t know me.”
“No,” she said, and anger brimmed in her voice as well, “but I know Bob Carson and he’s a good man, even if he’s one of ‘them.’ He did not deserve what you did to him.”
Malcolm struggled to hold onto his fury, but he felt it deflate, growing soft beneath him. He could not deny the truth of what she had said, could he? That realization wrenched a sigh out of him. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you,” she told him, still angry. “That’s mighty white of you.”
He let the gibe pass. “How do you know Bob?”
“I knew him in college. We were very close. For awhile we were…well, at the time, I thought maybe we were even going to get married.”
“What happened?” asked Malcolm.
She did not answer immediately. Indeed, the silence stretched so long Malcolm wasn’t sure she had heard him. In the corner by the door, McLarty and Pym were still going at it. Malcolm was about to apologize for asking what was obviously too painful a question. Then Janeka said, “You’re from Memphis, right?”
“Yes,” said Malcolm.
“So you remember the march Dr. King held there. The march he tried to hold, at any rate. And you remember what happened.”
Now it was Malcolm’s turn for silence, guilt tumbling in his heart, memories of what he didn’t say and didn’t do. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I remember. I was there.”
Behind him, the woman sighed. “So was I,” she said. “So was Bob.”
twenty
March 28, 1968 dawned overcast and a little cool in Memphis.
Malcolm, who had slept poorly all night, finally gave up trying shortly after six. He rolled out of bed, washed, and dressed. The house was empty. His father, farmer’s son that he was, was already up and out, gone downtown for the rescheduled march.
Standing in the bathroom mirror preparing to follow him, Malcolm put on a black beret he had bought just for this occasion, cocking it ace-deuce til it sat at just the right rakish angle on his head. Then he slipped on a pair of dark glasses and took a look at his handiwork. The effect was startling. The man who faced him was unsmiling, mysterious, and not to be screwed around with.
Malcolm pulled a dark windbreaker over his shirt—he could not yet afford a leather jacket—and the effect was complete. He nodded in approval of the man facing him, dropped his pistol into his pants pocket, and was ready to go. Stepping outside, Malcolm saw Nanny Parker standing on her porch. The old woman was dressed in Sunday clothes, purse held in the crook of her arm, drinking her morning coffee beneath a broad black hat with pink flowers.
She saw him looking. “You walking down there?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s a long walk. My girlfriend Betty from church is coming to pick me up. You welcome to ride over with us, if you want.”
“No thank you, ma’am. I’d just as soon head over there now.”
She smiled. “You want to be with people your age. Don’t want to be tied up with a pair of old biddies like us. I understand.”
“I’m just eager to get there,” said Malcolm. Not quite a lie, not quite the truth.
“I know what you mean,” she said.
Malcolm regarded her, this woman who had given him shelter, standing there so proudly. And here was yet another chance—a last chance. He said, “Are you sure you should be going down there? What if things get out of hand? I would hate to see you get hurt.” It was as close as he could come.
She sucked her teeth in a sound of dismissal. “Who gon’ try to hurt me, old as I am? No, sir. There is no way I am going to miss this.”
“Okay, then,” said Malcolm, stepping down to the street. He had tried to tell her, hadn’t he? He’d as much as said it outright: don’t go. What else could he do?
Nothing, that’s what. Malcolm waved at the little woman and started walking toward downtown. He told himself his conscience was clear.
It
was still dark when Bob and Janeka set out for Memphis. That morning, sitting alone together in his car in front of her dorm, they had turned to one another and Bob had taken both her hands in his. He breathed a soft, simple prayer: “Protect us, Lord. Get us there safely and bring us back in the same condition.”
“Amen,” she said.
“Amen,” whispered Bob. He squeezed her hands. Then he started the car and pulled off.
They drove in silence for the first couple of miles. Finally, Bob spoke, just to have something to say. “I’m looking forward to hearing Dr. King,” he said.
She didn’t answer. He glanced over. “How about you?” he asked. She seemed pensive and small in the darkness of not-yet-dawn.
“I suppose,” she finally said. “But to tell the truth, my main reason for going is to show support for the sanitation men. Have you read about their working conditions? The way that city exploits those men, it’s a sin, is what it is. It’s just a sin.”
“Yes,” said Bob. “But that’s why it’s a good thing Dr. King is coming to lead the march. He’s going to bring attention to the issue, how they’ve been exploiting the laboring classes. He’s going to force Memphis to deal with it. And not just Memphis, but by extension, the whole country.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, gazing out her window to where the clouds had just begun to anticipate the sun. “I just don’t want it to be the same old song and dance.”
Bob glanced over at her, confused. “What does that mean?”
But Janeka just shrugged and did not answer, so Bob turned back to the road. He goosed the pedal and the car leapt toward Memphis.
A police helicopter was parked above Hamilton High School.
A brick flew toward it from the crowd below, hurled by some boy foolish enough to think his missile could reach the hovering machine. The brick arced high, then fell to earth, shattering harmlessly in a street filled with high school students who on this day would not be going to school.
A couple of the boy’s classmates jeered his miss. Then, a more realistic target presented itself, a laundry truck that came trundling unawares down the street. The boys let fly with more bricks. One of them struck home. The truck’s back door popped open and someone’s shirts, pants, and dresses spilled into the street. It made the boys double over with laughter when the uniformed driver stopped the truck, then jumped out to throw the clothes back in. He worked quickly and nervously and kept sweeping the crowd massed behind him with wide, frightened eyes. Then he slammed the door and hustled back into the cab. A brick landed right where he had been standing. The truck took off in a rush.
Malcolm, who had attended Hamilton until just a little more than a year ago, stood across the street watching all of this. The sun had burned the clouds away and the air temperature was rising. Hard to believe snow had lain thick on the ground just six days before. He had his windbreaker folded over his arm.
The crowd of young people milled in the street. Some were dancing. Some were laughing. A white woman came driving down that street now, honking for the kids to give way. But she didn’t understand, did she? Whitey wasn’t giving orders here today. Black people were done giving way.
So now, more bricks flew, bouncing off the hood and the trunk of her car. Malcolm could see the white woman’s face, congealed in terror. The realization that she would not be deferred to or obeyed seemed impossible for her to process. When the street opened up in front of her, she took off, tires squealing.
It was, thought Malcolm, watching her blow through the stop sign at the end of the block, a good thing to see white people frightened for a change. Lord knew black people had been frightened long enough.
And now, wouldn’t you know it? Here came a garbage truck, driven by some scab, some weak-kneed, lily-livered, Uncle Tom nigger, driving behind a police car with lights silently flashing. Rocks, bottles and bricks flew in from all directions, making a sound like a hailstorm as they slammed against all that Detroit steel. Malcolm caught a glimpse of the scab as he drove past, his jaw set like concrete, both hands on the steering wheel, his eyes locked dead ahead.
The sight of him was a provocation Malcolm couldn’t resist and didn’t really want to. He cupped his hands. “You better run, you backstabbing motherfucker!” he yelled.
A boy next to him grinned. “You got that right, baby,” he said.
The crowd of students was seeping like water and had begun to overflow Malcolm’s position. Across the street at the school, teachers—many of them black—were in the parking lot trying to herd the kids back to class. But the kids just laughed and said they weren’t going anywhere. This was a new day. None of the old badges of authority meant jack shit anymore.
“I am a man,” yelled one boy to no one in particular.
“Black power!” yelled another, to the same audience.
“Fuck all you white bastards!” yelled a girl. This, as police cars swept onto the scene. More rocks and bottles hammered against more Detroit steel. There was the satisfying crunch of a windshield spider-webbing with cracks as a brick bounced off. Police came out of the cars. They wore gas masks. They raised billy clubs.
Students scattered. Some ran along side streets; some ran back toward the main school building; some ran toward police, missiles in their hands, lips curled around taunts and screams.
Malcolm ran.
Bob took Janeka’s hand as they walked up Hernando toward the church where the marchers were gathering. She looked at him and he knew she was wondering if this was wise. He didn’t know if it was. He only knew that he didn’t really care. He only knew that he was tired of hiding. Let them look.
And they did. The crowd was a mixture of hard-faced older men and church ladies, of high school students larking about, of preachers in clerical collars and small children playing under the tolerant gazes of their mothers, and of unsmiling young men in berets. Nobody approached him and Janeka, but he felt them marking their passage.
After a moment, Janeka pulled her hand from his. She scratched her cheek, folded her arms.
They stood together in the shadow of the church. Clayborn Temple vaguely resembled a fairytale castle. It even had a tower on one end.
He was surprised there were so few white faces on hand for a march that was to be led by Martin Luther King. The few who were there stood, like him, scanning the crowd. Each white face wore the same expression—that of a person who has fallen asleep and awakened, somewhat bewildered, in a strange new place he’s not entirely certain is safe. A white man nodded at him and Bob realized that in scanning the crowd, they were looking for one another, searching out another pair of blue eyes or ruddy cheeks so that they might feel a little less marooned.
It was an odd and discomfiting feeling.
“Not a lot of white folks here,” said Janeka, and Bob started. It was as if she had read his mind.
“No,” he said, “there aren’t.”
Her grin was quicksilver. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ll protect you.” And she reached and took his hand once more.
“I’m not worried,” he told her. But he was.
Not far away a group of black women stood comforting a white woman who was bawling that someone had stolen her wallet. Her pocketbook gaped open like a mouth. Bob was stunned and unsettled. How could these people do something so low and mean to someone who was trying to help them?
He caught himself. These people. Where had that come from? It wasn’t “these people” who had done this. It was some pickpocket in a crowd.
The fact that he had to remind himself of this embarrassed him. Bob lowered his head, intending to offer a quick prayer of repentance. Before he could get a word out, Janeka was leading him over to the crying woman. He watched, first confused and then amazed, as his girlfriend, her own eyes brimming, touched the white woman’s shoulder. The woman looked up.
“I’m sorry,” said Janeka. “I’m so sorry.”
Like she had done it herself. Like she had reached into this woman’s
purse and plucked out her wallet.
“It’s not the money,” said the woman, still weeping. “I only had $10. The stuff that was in there, it can all be replaced. But I just never thought, at a march like this…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. It finished itself in the helpless glaze of her eyes. Janeka looked up at the other black women. All their eyes reflected the same helplessness.
“Did you hear? Did you hear?” A man’s voice, agitated.
Bob turned and saw him. Some scruffy black guy in a denim jacket, his eyes hot. “Did you hear?” he called again and now people were looking toward him, waiting. “They done killed some girl,” he cried. “Police done killed some girl at Hamilton High School. Bashed her head in, the no-good honky motherfuckers.”
He was looking directly at Bob when he said it.
No girl had been killed at Hamilton High.
At least, Malcolm didn’t think so. The rumor of her death was being passed through the crowd like a virus, but he had just hiked over from Hamilton and hadn’t seen anyone being killed. Certainly, there had been confusion, students running everywhere, ducking between buildings, darting through back yards, police hot on their heels. And a girl had fallen, yes. She’d even been hit by the cop who was chasing her. But she had seemed all right, after. Bloodied, a little scraped, but all right. She hadn’t died.
Had she?
And he realized: he couldn’t really say for sure one way or another. It made his stomach clench.
“Hey, baby, you all right?” Eddie had come up on him and was regarding him with what may have been—it was difficult to tell through the shades—concern.
Malcolm blurted, “You don’t really think they killed some girl, do you?”
Eddie’s smile was tight as a rusted bolt. He said, “Ain’t much I would put past white police. How about you?”
Grant Park Page 30
