by Zakes Mda
The rayless sun now looks like a giant moon in a silver-gray sky.
The meeting takes place in the tiny office of the Athens County Mediation Council on the third floor of a Court Street building. Beth Eddy sits on a sofa directly facing me and Obed. We are sitting in easy chairs. A coffee table separates our territories. She looks quite different from the slip of a girl in sleepwear that I saw on the night of the parade of creatures. This time she decided to respect the occasion with a black pants suit that has a long jacket, possibly reaching her mid-thigh when she is standing. The blouse is white and maybe silk or some synthetic material that pretends to be silk. Her feet are shod in black closed-toe pumps. This office outfit tells me that she takes her appearance before the mediation council seriously. She is petite, yes, but she looks fearless and confident in her thick spiky brown locks. When we enter the room her clear oval face and big brown eyes return my greetings with a smile. That gives me some hope.
There are two mediators on chairs facing each other: a man and a woman. Both quite mature and gray. Both friendly and informal in their attire of jeans and T-shirts. Each has a number of loose sheets on a clipboard. Occasionally they jot down notes. They smile a lot, even at Obed. Hopefully that will make him feel at ease. He is a bit uncomfortable when he first sees Beth. He becomes even more fidgety when he sees the grinning face of the male mediator. It is before the woman’s arrival. I wonder why the man seems to give him the jitters and I pat his back, asking him to relax. He whispers his problem to me when the man goes out to get pop from a vending machine on the first floor: he had a terrible encounter with the man some years back. More than twenty years ago, in fact. The man used to work at Kroger. Obed had previously learned from his father that he—Mahlon, that is—used to steal bottles at the back of the store where they were kept and then sell them at the front. Those were the days when pop came in real bottles, not plastic, and one was paid two cents for every bottle returned to the store. Little Obed, hoping that history would repeat itself and in the process enrich him, gathered bottles from the Dumpster behind the store and attempted to sell them at the front, as his daddy had done before him. It didn’t register in his little greedy mind that pop bottlers had long since gone for non-returnable bottles. The man shooed him away. Angry at being denied his God-given right to participate in the capitalist system, Obed dumped a garbage bag full of pop bottles on the floor of the store and dashed away for his life. But he could not outrun the man. Soon he caught up with him. “Yeah, he beat the shit out of me,” whispered Obed. “You could beat the crap out of kids back in them days and nobody would say nothing.”
Now his fear is that the man will be prejudiced against him. But the man does not seem to remember him. He is all smiles as we all introduce ourselves to one another. After realizing that I really did not have a direct role in the events in question he says that only the parties involved in the dispute should be in the room. I cannot sit in to support Obed since Beth has no one to support her. It would not be true mediation with supporters and advocates in attendance. I am about to leave and wait for Obed outside when Beth tells the mediators that she does not mind my presence. She, in fact, pleads that I stay. I know. It is the result of the talk we had yesterday. She sees me more as her support system than Obed’s.
The man explains the mediation process. It is not a trial. Mediators are not judges. They merely serve as neutral and impartial guides to enable the conflicting parties to reach a solution that is acceptable to both parties. Theirs is not to establish guilt or innocence. Theirs is to help the disputing parties reach some kind of reconciliation. This will not be forced on the parties; the parties themselves must work toward finding an acceptable solution. All decisions reached through this process will be the disputing parties’ and not the mediators’. Everything said in this room will remain in this room. We therefore must share our ideas freely and respect confidentiality.
“We all hope that by the end of the process Obed and Beth will reach an agreement,” says the man. “But even before we start the process we need to reach our first agreement: we are going to listen to one another, aren’t we?”
Both Obed and Beth agree that indeed they are going to listen to each other.
The mediators display great excitement at this, but I suspect they are faking it. The woman says, “You see, it shows that we are capable of agreeing on something.”
This gives me hope that Obed will cooperate and forget all ideas of “walking.” But I am wrong. After the mediators ask the parties to tell their stories, and when Beth gets to the point where she switches on the light and spots the cowering flesh-and-blood Nicodemus, Obed shouts that it was not him. He was never anywhere near the sorority house that day. In fact, he does not even know where the sorority house in question is located. In any case, he goes on with his rant, how does Beth know it was not the real Nicodemus who fondled her breasts? Where does she get off blaming a poor man just because he is poor and is not white and is not from the university?
Beth is astounded. She starts to weep and the female mediator hands her a box of tissues. I spring to my feet and, begging the mediators’ pardon, drag Obed out. In the passageway I tell him how disappointed I am in him: “Do you think you can just piss on all the trouble I took to get this girl to agree to withdraw the case if we have mediation? I tell you, if you continue this way I will not be in your corner anymore and for sure you will find yourself in jail.”
We return to the room and Beth is able to complete her story without further interruption. The woman mediator is curious to know why she wants mediation in what should rightly be a criminal case…why she doesn’t let the police and the courts handle the matter. Beth tells her that she could feel the sincerity in my voice when I begged her to withdraw the case and believed me when I said the young man had no evil intentions. Now that she has heard Obed’s denial she will not withdraw the case and doesn’t see the point of the mediation. The man suggests that perhaps Beth and I should have a private talk to decide whether the mediation should be salvaged or not. He gives us thirty minutes. The woman is not pleased with these repeated attempts to save Obed’s ass, as she delicately puts it. She is obviously disgusted with him and would like to see him rot in the county jail where he rightly belongs. I must admit that I share her disgust, though I think I must not give up on him just yet. Otherwise what am I going to tell Ruth?
I suggest to Beth that we go to a coffee house downstairs and see if we can sort this matter out, without Obed. I ask him to wait in the hallway and not dare go anywhere until we come back.
Over steaming mocha I once more plead with her to withdraw the case and continue with the mediation. She admits that she is more inclined to withdraw the charges because she hates the adverse publicity that will surely follow court appearances. However she will definitely brave the publicity if Obed refuses to show remorse. Already she is taking a lot of flak from some of her sisters for even considering withdrawing the charges. If the breast fondler gets off free, they argue, that will help perpetuate sexual assaults on women, which have increased in the city lately.
I feel very sorry for Beth Eddy. She looks fragile and all the confidence I’d seen earlier has disappeared. She confesses that she feels partly responsible for what happened. She went down to the basement to provoke the ghost. I can see her anguish and this makes me mad at Obed. I am no longer interested in persuading her to withdraw the case, and I tell her so. She must not be scared of publicity, I now argue, because she is the victim here. The press will be sympathetic to her and will expose Obed for the scoundrel he is. Yes, Ruth will find out about it and will be unhappy with me for not letting her know in the first place. But really Obed does need to learn a lesson. I am sick of his attitude: his lack of appreciation for the trouble I took to set this up and for Beth’s readiness to forgive.
It is Beth’s turn to talk me out of the case. There was a rape in Athens a few weeks ago, she tells me. It was in the papers every day and the case dragged on and o
n, with lawyers questioning the reputation of the victim. She doesn’t want to go through that. She fears that her reputation will be tainted by the revelation that the girls enjoy playing naughty games with the real Nicodemus. Lawyers always manage to dig up such scandals. She can do without the publicity. After all, she was not actually raped. The scoundrel merely touched her breasts in the manner that Nicodemus had touched them before…to her pleasure. Yes, the mediation should continue.
“Okay, but if that boy continues with his silly stunts I’ll insist that you do not withdraw the charges,” I tell Beth. And I mean it. “I think it’s high time our breast fondler learned a lesson.”
After this the mediation continues without further incident. I notice that the mediators listen very attentively. After each side has given its story they summarize the key points, all the while complimenting both parties for trying to work out their differences. Obed’s story is a very simple one. Yes, indeed, he went to the sorority in the spirit of the day. He had heard of the ghost of Nicodemus, who had died at the sorority house more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when it was one of the stations of the Underground Railroad. He decided to appropriate Nicodemus’s identity because there were rumours circulating that he haunted the sorority house and the girls enjoyed his company. He thought he would share in the ghost’s good fortune because in any event Nicodemus was his relative who was mercilessly murdered by slave catchers. He really did not have any intention of committing a crime. All he wanted was to scare the girls, and then proceed to the Court Street parades to enjoy the evening.
After Beth Eddy has expressed her own feelings about the incident—how she felt soiled and violated by it and how she thought her life was in danger—the mediators ask the parties what they think the solution should be. To my surprise Obed expresses his remorse and asks to be forgiven for his foolish and thoughtless behavior. He vows that never again will he play such dirty tricks on anyone as long as he lives, and he is willing to put that in writing, provided Beth puts it in writing that she will withdraw all the charges she has laid against him at the police station. Beth is ready to forgive him unconditionally when I butt in. Surely the young man must not get off so lightly. I remind Beth: “When I spoke with you yesterday you said there should be some restitution before you withdraw the case.”
“He has shown remorse,” says Beth.
“Obed and I think that is not enough,” I insist, looking at Obed for confirmation. “We think there should be some kind of restitution.”
“We don’t think no such thing,” says an indignant Obed.
“Oh, yes, we do!” I stand my ground.
“Hey, you ain’t even supposed to be here,” he screams at me.
“Perhaps he can paint your sorority house,” I suggest. “Why don’t you discuss it with your sisters? I’ll help him if he needs an assistant.”
The woman mediator does not think it’s a good idea to let Obed loose anywhere near the sorority house. Who will guarantee the girls’ safety?
Once again Beth surprises me.
“I think it is a good idea,” she says. “I’ll call you after talking with my housemates.”
The mediators incorporate that in the agreement and both parties sign. The mediators are happy. Especially the man. The mediation has been a great success. We all shake hands. Beth and the female mediator are the first to leave while the man asks me about my origins and what I think of their beautiful city and the fine weather that was quite foggy in the morning. As we walk out of the office Obed glares at me and mutters: “I thought you was my friend, man. I thought you was my freakin’ friend.”
“I think I am your freaking friend, Obed,” I say, chuckling to myself.
The man stands at the door and calls after Obed: “Hope you’ve learned your lesson, Mr. Quigley.”
“I sure have. No more playing with them girls’ breasts.”
“And no more dumping bottles at Kroger,” says the man, wagging his finger at him.
Obed is slightly taken aback. He didn’t think the man had recognized him. He didn’t imagine he remembered after all these years.
“Come on, man,” he says. “I was only a kid.”
Out on Court Street it is after midday and the sun has become the sun again. Yet its rays do not reflect any joy on the people’s faces. Men and women are walking in a daze, shoulders drooping and faces crestfallen. Their gait is that of mourners. Ohio has once again given America to George W. Bush and Athens’s world has come crashing down. Athens, the only county in the state to give John Kerry a landslide vote. And now, on this beautiful November 3, Kerry has conceded defeat and gloom has fallen on the Athenians’ lives. Ruth must be celebrating back in Kilvert.
Crowds have gathered on the steps of the courthouse, spilling to the sidewalks. Some are milling across the street in front of the bank. There are those who cannot contain their emotions and are weeping openly, while others are resorting to group hugs as some form of consolation.
It beats me how a rally has been organized so fast. The elections were only yesterday. The Democratic Party candidate conceded only a few hours ago. Yet here we have multitudes gathered and equipped so well for the mourning of their hero’s defeat. This has turned into an anti-war demonstration judging from the slogans on the posters and banners, none of which even mention Kerry’s name. Some read in red: Vengeance Is Not Justice; while others are printed in bold black: A Call for Humane Treatment of All Detainees. I can see the group of young women I first spotted at the parade of creatures, the Billionaires for Bush. They are the only people who are all dressed up in fur coats and extravagant-looking—but obviously fake—jewelery. They are not chanting slogans as they did at the parade, but are quietly listening to a speaker who is leaning against the pillar on the topmost step making a speech. Only the banner they are holding above their heads speaks for them: How did our oil get under their sand?
One agitated person after another climbs the podium, grabs the megaphone and makes a speech. They all berate Bush in measured tones and pained voices. It is like we are on the set of a tragic play, which is completed by a big backdrop with photographs of American soldiers who perished in the war and bold black letters that read: 1,110 Soldiers Dead, 8,030 Wounded, 100,000 Civilian Iraqis Dead—Support Our Troops, Bring Them Back Home.
As we walk away to the city parking garage behind the bank I can hear the demonstrators sing Holly Near’s “We Are a Gentle Angry People” in sad and subdued voices.
If I thought I would find Ruth celebrating I was deluding myself. She has taken Mr. Bush’s victory in her stride, in a matter-of-fact manner, for she knew all along that he would win. God told her so right from the beginning, even as she was casting her vote.
So, today she is spring-cleaning. That is what she calls it, even though it is not spring but fall. She does it once every few weeks, especially in fall when homes are invaded by Asian lady beetles—so called because they were first imported to these parts from China to eat aphids that destroyed trees and other agricultural crops. Now the tan little buggers with faint black spots have become a nuisance at this time of the year. A silent menace that leaves the feeding sites with the end of summer and swarms into buildings to hibernate for the winter.
They multiply at alarming rates annually because they have no natural enemies in these parts, except for Ruth and her fellow humans who are not keen to share their abodes with the pests. She seeks them out in crevices and cracks around window and door frames with a broom and sweeps them on to an old copy of the Athens News. After covering them with the newspaper she stamps on them with her heavy feet shod in worn-out sneakers. They emit an acrid odor and stain the paper with a yellowish secretion.
“I wouldn’t be killing them that way if I was you, Mama,” says Obed.
“You ain’t me, so shush and get working on the spring cleaning,” she says and continues to search for the enemy. She is leaning on the cane with the left hand as the right hand operates the broom, reaching for the remotest n
ooks in the furniture.
“They always think they are smarter than God,” she complains to no one in particular as she discovers more lady bugs hiding behind the portrait of Jesus the Shepherd on the wall. “Them crazy scientist people, I mean. They brought them bugs to our good ol’ U. S. of A. ’cause they think God didn’t know what he was doing when he created them in China.”
“Better spray them with House Defense Insect Killer, Mama,” says Obed, watching his mother with amusement, his hands in his pockets. “That way they won’t stink to heaven.”
“If the spray killed them dead the last time I used it why do I still see them here?”
“You didn’t spray the insect killer before the first freeze, Mama, that’s why. You gotta do it before the first freeze for it to work.”
Ruth turns to me and says that all Obed can do is give orders on how things should be done. That’s what he knows best. He never does anything with his own hands. He always finds the slightest excuse to shirk work. He thinks things will just fall into his lap. Like manna from heaven. He has no ambition. Just like his sister, Orpah, has no ambition. She was brilliant at school, but had no interest in furthering her education even when her classmates from the high school in Stewart went to Hocking College and at least one to the university in Athens. She had the potential to be the first university graduate in the family. Ruth nagged her no end about her lack of ambition but Mr. Quigley said she must be left alone. Mr. Quigley has always been soft with the children. Only God knows what she has done to be cursed with lazy children like this.
From the first day I landed in this country I have admired the American work ethic. Americans take pride in their work. To them service is not servitude. And they don’t “class” work. I think that’s how they got to where they are today. I wonder why Obed is so different. And Orpah. If, of course, their mother is right about them. And so far there is nothing that has shown me she could be wrong. At their age, both of them are still living with their parents. And neither of them seems to be engaged in any gainful employment.
