Big Abe had sent Reuben off to boarding school in his early teens. He and Charles saw each other only in the summer. Every summer, Charles had expected him to be changed when he came home, but he was always the same, his hair disheveled, his glasses a little thicker, shirt and pants hanging off a frame that only grew taller and thinner.
Something had happened his junior year at boarding school—Reuben never said what—that caused Big Abe to bring him home for his final two years in high school.
Everyone had assumed that Reuben coming home for those last two years would have Charles fuming because it would ruin his chances to be valedictorian—something Charles had had a lock on in their graduating class of fifty-two girls and forty-eight boys. With Reuben home, his chances went begging. Everyone was wrong. Secretly, Charles had been pleased. It had taken the pressure off. Now he didn’t have to stay up past midnight before a big game to study for a test the next day. It was enough to be president of the class and tight end on the football team.
That junior year when his son came home, it happened that Big Abe wanted Reuben to be on the football team—laughable to everyone but Big Abe. His subsequent contribution of new uniforms to the whole team had resulted in Reuben’s being appointed second-string goal kicker—never kicking a point—and team manager—sitting on the bench, pretending to keep statistics but all the while reading a book.
On the long bus trips to and from away games, they had ended up sitting next to each other and talking about anything that came to mind: girls, books, movies they had seen. There was something about Reuben that drew Charles—his kindness maybe, or perhaps Reuben’s complete inability to develop any kind of veneer, the way one would develop an immunity to ward off disease.
“Look,” he had said to Reuben one night when they were coming out of the gym after a late football practice, “will you stop letting Joiner take advantage of you? He does the same damn thing every day—asks you to repeat all those plays in the playbook. He’s just doing it to make you look like a fool—you repeating it day after day, and all the others laughing at you because you do it every time. Don’t you care that he’s making you look like a dunce?”
Reuben had walked along in silence. “But what if he really can’t understand it and he needs my help?”
“Even if he does need your help, he’s just trying to show off, calling you ‘Repeatin’ Reuben.’ Don’t you see that?” They got in Reuben’s car for the drive home and didn’t say another word until Charles got out at his stop.
“Well, he might not know all the plays by now,” Reuben said. Charles slammed the door and shouted at him as he drove off. “He’s the damn quarterback, Reuben.”
And then came the night of the big game against Huntsville. Billy Joiner had been on the sidelines and the coach had said, “I want you to run something different—XYZ play.” Billy was pumping his legs up and down and shaking his head as if he understood and was about to go back in the game, but he sidestepped to where Reuben was sitting on the bench, ostensibly to get a drink of water. Charles saw the panic in his eyes. Reuben quietly explained the play to him, which resulted in their team winning the game. Then the following Monday, for fear some of Billy’s friends might have heard their exchange, Billy pushed Reuben, clothes and all, in the shower stall and held him there for a good five minutes before Charles came in and saw him still yelling at Reuben, saying that he had some nerve trying to tell him the goddamn plays.
He should have learned his lesson right then, but no, he stood there in front of Charles, wringing wet, vindicated. “I told you he needed my help,” Reuben had said. Charles had almost hit him.
CHAPTER 21
The Candidate
OF COURSE WE’RE SUPPORTING A.W. again this year. Who do you like for lieutenant governor?” Mr. Ben took a biscuit. It was Sunday dinner. Ora Lee walked on around the table from person to person until she reached Charles. He took a biscuit but not the bait.
His brother-in-law Tom was saying, “Hell yes—excuse me, ladies—A.W. is the only reasonable choice, given the circumstances. I wish to hell—excuse me, ladies—somebody decent would run. Some of the boys down at the office say they are gonna vote for Wallace this time. Course I told them not to do it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
Charles stirred his iced tea and tested the waters. “I hear Brad La Forte may be running.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a state senator from down in the middle of the state, supposed to be levelheaded. Supposed to have some sensible ideas about the integration thing.”
“Well if he’s levelheaded, why is he running for governor?” Tom said, looking to the ladies at the table and waiting for them to laugh—and they did.
“Too young, wasted vote,” Mr. Ben said.
“Well, so is A.W., wasting a vote I mean.”
“No, a vote for A.W. shows there is a certain percentage of the population in this state that has some sense.”
“What difference does it make? He lost,” Charles said. “Sometimes we act like voting for the loser is going to put us in the category of the high and holy, but really it’s nothing but voting for a loser.”
Mr. Ben didn’t look up from his plate. “It’s voting for the right loser. You know, we can lose with honor. There are worse things.”
“Maybe we ought to stop losing with honor, stop shrinking back and go out on a limb. Like maybe I’m thinking of supporting Brad La Forte this time.”
Tom gulped down a mouthful of food and burst out laughing. “And maybe I’m thinking of supporting Elmer Fudd. Charlie boy, you want to make us look like a bunch of fools, supporting a nobody.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Brad. In fact, I think I like what I’ve heard. He doesn’t go wild-eyed crazy about the segregation thing and he seems to have a good education plan.”
Mr. Ben turned to address his comment to Tom. “Looks like Charles has been talking to his friend Reuben again. I guess the rest of us men are gonna have to hold the line during this election.”
Mary looked over to Helen. “I forgot. Did we women get the vote yet?”
“Course we got the vote, honey. They just tell us what to do with it, don’t you, Mr. Ben?” Helen smiled and put a hand on Mr. Ben’s sleeve.
“You what?”
Reuben cleared his throat and repeated, “I said I invited Brad La Forte to the house. He was calling to talk to Abe. The secretary put him through to me by mistake.”
“Reuben!” Charles laughed. “As my field hands would say, ‘What’s got into you, son?’ You haven’t invited anybody to this house in—well, let’s see, five years? What did Big Abe say?”
“He doesn’t know I’m having him. It will be a small meeting of a few businessmen. . . .” Reuben trailed off, waiting for the next question.
“What businessmen?”
“Well, so far, you.” Reuben’s fingers fumbled with the pawn he held, turning it over and over in his hand. “He’s very persuasive, Charles, and seems to have good sense—and he’s levelheaded about the integration thing. He told me what he thought about it up front, and he doesn’t even know me.”
“Yeah, but he knew you were Jewish and in the movie business. He probably had a good idea going into the conversation what you thought about the subject.”
“Just because I’m a Jew? Charles, you obviously don’t know a lot of Jews. In fact, I know you don’t know a lot of Jews.”
“I know the families here in town—what, five, six? But get back to your conversation with Brad La Forte. When’s he coming up and who else are you going to invite to meet him? I don’t think he has any supporters here.”
“That’s where you come in.”
Charles’s shoulders sagged. “Damn, I knew you were going say that. I don’t know anybody. I don’t want to do this.”
“You know everybody. You’re the one everybody looks up to, the handsome one. What are you, six three, six four? They can see you. They’ll listen to you.”
“They can see
me? What the hell is that supposed to mean, Reuben? Why do you want to do this? This isn’t like you.”
“That’s what you always say whenever I mention anything out of the ordinary.”
“Well, it isn’t.” Charles picked up a pawn and twirled it on the board.
Reuben’s gaze wandered to the deer head. “Sometimes I get tired of being so removed.”
“It’s what you like,” Charles said, watching the pawn spin. He had heard this so many times, he wasn’t listening. “You’ve always been that way. Hell, look at you.” He thumped Reuben’s book, which was lying on the table next to the chessboard. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to sit down and read uninterrupted for thirty minutes, much less three hours. Reuben, you have a great life.”
“Did I tell you I’m thinking about integrating one of our theaters?”
Charles shook his head and couldn’t help smiling. He sat back in his chair, easy with an old subject. “Yeah, about fifty times. How many times have you mentioned it to Big Abe?”
“He doesn’t know what I do with the drive-ins. He’s left those completely up to me.”
“He will know if you go integrating them. Listen, Reuben: You know I’m against segregation. We need change, but you can get somebody killed if you go too fast on a thing like that.”
Reuben half-smiled at him. “You have no way and therefore want no eyes. Is that it?”
Charles sighed. “Very dramatic—if you’re sitting in freshman English at Yale, but not very practical if you have to get in the car and go to work every day. You act like it’s a homework assignment you can do overnight.”
One of Reuben’s arms was at his waist, holding the elbow of his other arm, fingers drumming his chin, a body posture Charles was very familiar with. He had made up his mind. “About the La Forte matter: How many do you think you can get to come? I don’t want a lot, just enough to fill this room.”
“Is that all?” Charles searched the ceiling.
The candidate stood beneath the deer head.
Charles had thought of several men who would come as a courtesy to him and also who would be delighted to go home and tell their wives about being in Reuben Rosenstein’s den with the fabled mule deer that wasn’t even found around these parts.
Reuben had had his man Horace build a fire, which now flickered shadows out into the room, changing and rechanging the perceived direction of the antlers. Even though the house was cool as a tomb, it was way too warm for a fire. Typical Reuben. The other men pretended not to notice. Charles watched the deer as Brad La Forte made his bid for their support. The antlers seemed at once menacing and then, as the light changed, blunted and innocuous. The guests were mildly listening as the candidate droned on about education and tax reform. They were waiting for the segregation thing, and Charles wanted to watch closely to see how most of this group would react. He had chosen people he knew were not Wallace men—an amalgam of backing for other candidates was sprinkled around the room. He knew when Brad got to the segregation thing, that would make or break it.
Reuben had made himself almost invisible. He had, at first, greeted everyone as they entered, intermittently taking his hands in and out of his pockets, buttoning and unbuttoning his sports coat, clearing his throat in a vain effort to lower his voice from its natural high pitch. He had worn an ill-fitting tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, an attempt to look casual. The others had worn dark suits. Very soon, he had stepped back into the shadows and let Charles take over.
Brad was getting to the important part now. The others stopped fingering their drinks and listened intently to see if they could find common ground in what he said.
The candidate and guests had left with thanks and without much comment. That was expected. No one wanted to commit, and Charles certainly didn’t ask for donations. That they had come was enough for now. He had been aware that there were no noticeable winces when the candidate talked about integration, about what he would do. He had taken what Charles thought was a perfectly reasonable middle ground. He would abide by the federal law. It was the only responsible thing to do, while at the same time he’d take every measure to preserve their way of life, moving slowly forward toward the inevitable. Not bad, he had thought, especially since Brad wasn’t one of them. He was a man’s man, no doubt about that, but he did wear his hair slightly longer than theirs. His suit was in the style of south Alabama, lighter in color, almost the white linen of the Black Belt farmers. Not that any of these men would have been aware of the individual differences. They would have felt not quite as at home with Brad as they might have with some other candidate, displaying a vague uneasiness, somewhat akin to the way they felt about Reuben.
In another world, it would have been blatantly admitted that Reuben was a misfit, but so much of what Reuben’s family had given the town was hard evidence, against which no reasoning, and practical, Bainbridgian could or would take exception. The Rosensteins had given money to set up the town library, had contributed to every worthwhile charitable cause in the county. Big Abe had even bailed out the Bainbridge Methodist Church when it fell on hard times and the bank wouldn’t extend its loan. It was not that they overlooked Reuben being a strange duck; it was simply accepted and attributed to his Jewishness, there being so few Jews within the city limits of Bainbridge with which to strike a comparison.
He and Reuben had pulled up to the fire. Bernice had brought them coffee and then disappeared. “I think it went well. Don’t you think it went well?” Reuben was packing his pipe and saying this as a matter of course, not because he could in any way judge the tenor of the evening. Reuben was not at home with these men, had no way of estimating their mood. He looked to Charles, holding his match in midair and waiting.
Charles drew on his cigarette. “I think . . . I think so. You know you never can tell about these things, but I saw several indicators. Morris Trapp didn’t get that disgusted look on his face that he gets at Rotary when a vote doesn’t go his way, and James Mitchell, he’s always looking out for what’s best for the bank. He was paying attention to every word Brad said.”
Reuben let out a sigh and put match to pipe.
“And that was another thing,” Charles said. “I liked the way Brad couched everything in economic terms, even the integration thing. I think all these men are worried about the economic impact if we start having trouble up here like in Montgomery. He was smart to do that.”
“That was the part of his talk that I found slightly disgusting.” Reuben took a sip of coffee. “I thought it an obvious ploy to gain their support. He shouldn’t deign to hedge his moral commitment.”
“Spoken like a man who never had to worry about where his next dollar was coming from. You know it was James’s brother, the one down in Demopolis, who had to close up his Ford dealership when the Ford Foundation started contributing to the NAACP. Not one white down there would buy a car from the poor fellow. Went flat broke in six months. Had to close up shop and start all over again.
“I thought he was realistic without being condescending,” Charles said. “And we need a realist to squash some of this stuff that’s going on. Have you seen the billboard that’s been put up out on the highway—that picture of Martin Luther King at Highlander Folk School—implies he’s a Communist?”
“I saw it—outright nonsense.” Reuben looked into the embers. “Then you will think about helping to support Brad?”
“He asked me to be his campaign manager for this part of the state when he was leaving, and I said I would.” Reuben looked down at his shoes. Charles set his coffee cup on the side table and got up to put on his suit coat. “Of course he did preface that request by saying that you told him I would do it.”
“You were always an honorable man, Charles.” Reuben smiled through pipe smoke.
“Yeah, right.” Charles walked toward the door. Reuben picked up a book and followed. “By the way, what do you know about the Highlander Folk School, other than they’re a bunch of rabble-rousing crazies up there
?”
“They’re not crazy; they simply advocate radical social reform.”
“As if we didn’t have enough of that going on already.”
That night as Charles walked home along Hawthorne, a breeze blew the low-hanging branches of the dogwood trees planted between the lampposts. The intermittent light cast eerie shadows along his path.
CHAPTER 22
The Rally
I INTEGRATED A THEATER TODAY.” It was the first thing he said when Charles sat down. “I’ve been meaning to do it, and I did it today.” He opened the box that held the chess pieces and let them tumble out on the board.
“Oh really.” Charles took out a cigarette. “Which one this time?”
“The Princess, over in Russellville. Sat in the balcony with all the blacks—that’s what you’re supposed to call them now, blacks. I sat there through the whole feature. That was the worst part. It was a Western.” He picked up the two kings and placed them on opposite ends. “My God, it was boring. I would have gone to sleep, but everybody was looking at me.”
“You always sit in the balcony to check the projection booth when you visit your theaters, and every time you call it integration.”
He looked up at Charles and tapped his bishop on the board. “I have never sat in the balcony of the Princess in Russellville and watched the whole movie. They were all astounded.”
“The colored children who were there to see the Saturday movie and cartoons?”
Reuben’s eyes were half-closed to Charles’s chiding. “Every little bit helps.” He began placing the other chess pieces. “And I suppose you were roundly applauded when you got up at the dinner table and told Mr. Ben and that redneck brother-in-law of yours that you were supporting La Forte.”
The Summer We Got Saved Page 14
