Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  “Would you buy this for me, baby?” Geneva handed Clarence another one of those creative health-food books. He went up to the counter, choosing the college-aged black girl rather than the fortyish white woman who’d corrected him over the phone about the “African American” section.

  “Did you find what you needed, sir?”

  Clarence looked at the young black girl with surprise. The voice. It was the woman he’d talked to on the phone an hour and a half ago.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No. I…I just recognized your voice. I’m the one who called and asked about a black literature section. You told me you had an African American section.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  It embarrassed Clarence to realize he’d made the same assumption about her she’d made about him. While the clerk processed his Visa, he thought of when he first called a real estate agent looking for a home in Gresham. He explained he was wanting to move out of Portland and asked if east Gresham had good neighborhoods. “Oh, sure,” the man had said, “there’s no blacks or Mexicans or anything.” He’d hung up on him, but he was still angry at himself for not paying the man a visit, showing him the face behind the voice, and maybe putting the fear of God into him while he was at it.

  The four walked out of the bookstore. Though Clarence tried to hide it, the other three knew something was wrong. They walked across the street to Red Robin’s, attempting to make the best of it, Geneva and Janet walking close to each other and a little ways ahead of the men.

  Geneva thought Janet and Jake made a cute couple and kept thinking of them as married. Actually, they’d been divorced five years earlier but had started a dating relationship in the last two years.

  “When’s he going to ask you to marry him again?” Geneva asked as they walked through the parking lot.

  “Maybe when he’s sure it’ll turn out differently this time,” Janet said.

  After they’d been seated and had ordered, Clarence was still quiet.

  “Geneva,” Jake said, “Janet was telling me how you and Clarence met. I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Well, I grew up in Corvallis, one of just a handful of blacks. My parents came from Alabama. Daddy got a job as a custodian at Oregon State. It was his dream for me and my brothers and sisters to go to college there. Three of us did. Anyway, I loved football. I was at our first game when I noticed this big lug of an offensive lineman on the field. I checked his name on the program. I was down there real close to the sidelines and saw him take off his helmet. I memorized his face.”

  She squeezed Clarence.

  “Tell them how you chased after me,” Clarence said, his first words since the bookstore.

  “The program listed him as a junior transfer from Alcorn State in Mississippi. Well, I was a junior too, and I thought, maybe he came out here to Oregon to meet some girls. Figured I might as well be one of the first.”

  Janet laughed and grabbed her arm. Jake and Clarence chuckled.

  “I started visiting practices and watching from the stands. I even used binoculars. Can you believe that?”

  “So when did you finally introduce yourself?” Jake asked.

  “I had a girlfriend who worked in registration. She got me a copy of his winter term class schedule. I saw he had an English lit course, so I signed up for the same section.”

  “You didn’t,” Jake said.

  “I did. And on the first day of class, I made sure he noticed me.”

  “That was pretty easy,” Clarence said. “We had the only two Afros in the room. Oregon State was less than one percent black. Here I was, thinking I’d spontaneously bumped into the girl of my dreams, and all the time she was pulling the strings. Course, hard to blame her. I was a pretty studly young man.”

  “When did you find out it wasn’t spontaneous?” Jake asked.

  “Too late. She already had her hooks in me.”

  Clarence looked at Geneva. He always saw her as she was back then. Young and energetic, short but leggy and Bambi-like. Her neck was long, and she had big vulnerable eyes on top of high cheekbones. She took a positive outlook on life, the perfect foil for Clarence’s cynicism.

  “You both came from Christian homes, didn’t you?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah. We had strong convictions,” Geneva said. “I had to beat off some white girls who kept putting the make on him, you know, hearing the myth about black male sexuality.”

  “What do you mean, myth?” Clarence asked, laughing.

  “We kept our virginity,” Geneva said, “but it wasn’t easy.”

  “Good for you,” Janet said.

  “You made the right choice,” Jake added. “Janet and I have talked about how much we wish we’d waited till marriage. I’m afraid it got us off on the wrong foot. And I take responsibility for that.”

  “Me too,” Janet said.

  “I’m just glad God forgives and we get another chance,” Jake said. He put his arm around Janet and drew her toward him.

  “Geneva, can I have your water?” Clarence gestured at her full glass sitting next to his empty.

  “Just tell me the three little words every wife wants to hear.”

  “Pass the catsup?”

  “No. I love you.”

  “Well, I do. That’s why I married you.” He grabbed her water.

  “He’s a hopeless romantic,” Geneva told Janet. “Hey, I’ve got one for you. Why does it take fifty thousand sperm and only one egg for a new life to begin?”

  Jake and Janet both shrugged.

  “Because none of the sperm will stop to ask directions.”

  They all laughed hard.

  “See why I married her?” Clarence asked Jake.

  “Yeah, I sure do.”

  “Now if I can just survive her health food kick. She’s been feeding me these slimy green drinks made in the blender. Seaweed specials.”

  “I just want you to live longer.”

  “That stuff makes me not want to live longer. I’d rather live shorter and die happy.”

  “Geneva,” Janet said, “You have to tell Jake what you told me the other day about your great-grandmother. What you did for her.”

  “Well,” Geneva looked at Jake, “when she was ninety-two and I was ten, I taught Great-Grandma to read.”

  “No kidding? Wow.”

  “I’ll never forget it, the light in her eyes. She was like a little girl. She could read the Bible for the first time. She lived another five years and she read for hours every day. Sometimes she’d sit in her rockin’ chair shakin’ her head, and she’d say, ‘I’s readin’, chile, I’s readin’!’ She never got over it.”

  “How come she hadn’t learned earlier?” Jake asked.

  “Well, she was the daughter of slaves. They didn’t know how to read. When she started her own family after emancipation, she lived where they didn’t let black kids go to school. The black school was six miles away and there wasn’t any way they could get the children there, so my grandfather grew up not knowing how to read either. Great-Grandma just never had anybody to teach her. It was one of the biggest thrills of my life.”

  Geneva teared up, as did Janet. They sat quietly for a minute.

  “I noticed some of those books in the African American section at Barnes and Noble,” Jake said. “I really don’t know much about black history and racial issues. I was thinking I should go back and do some reading. And maybe get your perspective on things.”

  “Race. You want to hear my food preparation analogy?” Geneva asked. “To whites, race is like a sauce. You can put on as much or as little as you want. To blacks, it’s a marinade. It permeates everything. You can’t take it or leave it. It’s always there, no matter what.”

  “Being black in America is like wearing shoes that don’t fit,” Clarence said, his finger unconsciously running over the leathery patch of skin surrounding the scar beneath his right ear. “Some people will toss them off
completely and go barefoot; some can adjust better, but their toes are always cramped. My mama used to say to me, ‘Boy—’ Now, if you ever heard a black woman say ‘Boy’ that was my mama! She said, ‘Boy, you’ll always be colored, so get used to it. Won’t do you no good to fret about it. Just do your best and leave the rest to God.’”

  Jake and Janet looked tentative, afraid whatever they might say would display ignorance or offend Clarence and Geneva, who were eager to talk, but only if their friends wanted to pursue it. The topic died an unnatural death.

  “You know, I told you Detective Chandler is on Dani’s case,” Clarence said to Jake. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Ollie? Well, he’s brilliant, for one thing.”

  “Brilliant? Are we talking about the same guy?”

  “Yeah. Unorthodox, maybe. A few idiosyncrasies. Okay, more than a few. But he really knows his stuff. I’ve told you about what he did on the case when my buddies died. Remember, he’s the one who saved my life.”

  “That counts for a lot with me,” Janet said.

  “Mormance, over at the Trib,” Clarence said, “told me your Detective Chandler is into police brutality.”

  “Into it?” Jake asked. “There was only one accusation I know of, and he was cleared of all charges.”

  “But was he guilty?”

  “No, I don’t think he was. He did hammer on somebody, yeah, but the guy was resisting arrest and out of control, grabbing everything he could to use as a weapon. He was a danger to everybody.”

  “What color was the guy he beat up?” Clarence asked.

  “Well…he was African American.”

  “You mean black?”

  “Yeah, black,” Jake said. “He was a criminal who happened to be black.”

  “Jake looked into it before he even knew Ollie,” Janet offered. “He talked to some witnesses. That’s how he formed his opinions.”

  “Those opinions weren’t very popular at the Trib,” Jake said. “Ollie got crucified in a couple of articles and an editorial. After a week of research and a half-dozen interviews, I wrote a column in his defense. Okay, he’s a Nam vet, so maybe that’s why I showed some special interest at first. But I don’t believe he’s a racist. And I don’t believe he was guilty of police brutality.”

  “I’ve heard different,” Clarence said.

  “Well, maybe you’ve heard wrong. You’ve obviously gotten one side. If you want to get the other, you better talk to Ollie directly. If you’ve got that kind of prejudice, you’re not going to be able to trust him.”

  What do you know about prejudice?

  “I don’t trust him,” Clarence said. “And he hasn’t told me as much about the case as I’d like.”

  “He doesn’t have to tell you anything,” Jake said.

  “Clarence hasn’t always had good experiences with cops,” Geneva said.

  “Ollie’s had horrible experiences with reporters,” Jake said. “Maybe you both need to trust each other more.”

  A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed.

  “Look, guys, could we talk about something else?” Geneva asked. “We were having a good time. Let’s get back to it, okay?”

  “Sorry, Clabern.” Jake put his hand on Clarence’s, white on brown.

  “Me too, Jake.”

  When the food was served, Jake leaned toward Clarence and said, “One good thing. If you spend any time with Ollie, you won’t have to worry about health food.”

  An hour later they ordered dessert, talking and laughing. Clarence seemed to be enjoying himself again.

  When the waiter finally got a yes to, “Will that be everything tonight?” he brought the check to the table and set it in front of Jake.

  Clarence reached over and grabbed the check. It was his turn to treat.

  They walked over to Clackamas Town Center to look around for forty-five minutes before closing. Clarence had turned quiet again.

  The two couples walked into Meier & Frank. After a few minutes, Janet glanced over at Clarence, who seemed to be pacing and looking over his shoulder. Geneva came up and said to her, “We’ll just be sitting on the bench out in the mall. Take your time. No hurry.”

  “Clarence seems upset, and Geneva looks like she’s about to cry,” Janet said to Jake. “Did we do something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. “Maybe it’s a fight or something. Guess they need some space.” Jake looked out in the mall at the couple sitting uncomfortably on the bench. He felt like he knew them well and yet somehow didn’t know them at all.

  “Clarence seems really angry these days, on the edge,” Jake said. “I’m worried about him.”

  The English bulldog sat poised, his neck two-thirds the width of his colossal chest. His short stocky legs looked like thick pedestals supporting an oversized load. Spike was a fire hydrant on four legs, his head disproportionately sized, almost human in mass, stuck on the end of a short squatty body that looked like a giant bulging sausage.

  “Oh, you’re a fine lookin’ boy, now aren’t you?” Geneva asked Spike. “All the girls are crazy about you! See those cocker spaniels on their walk yesterday? Had their hair done just so? Tryin’ to impress my little boy, that’s what they were up to!”

  His short tawny lion-like coat was bright, smooth, and brindled, flecked with dark spots and little streaks. His largely lion-brown face was divided by a streak of white that culminated in a coal black nose.

  “Can you believe Daddy wanted one of those big ol’ Rottweilers? Yeah, but Mama talked him into an inside dog. You were the only one studly enough for him. That’s my boy!”

  Spike’s wrinkled gargoyle-like face left anyone who didn’t know him ill at ease. His teeth bared and his lower jaw protruded sternly, at least two inches beyond his flat nose. His harness served the purpose of black leather jackets on fifties tough guys, giving an even more rugged look to the most solid forty-five pounds on four feet. His eyes were so wideset, people couldn’t meet them both. Nervous folks glanced back and forth from eye to eye, wondering what the other was looking at.

  “How’s my little boy in a doggy suit? How you doin’, Spikey, huh? Here’s some pizza bones for you.”

  He was putty in Geneva’s hands, rolling in that shuffling, sideways motion. Wriggling the half inch fold of flesh over his flattened nose, Spike took the pizza crusts gingerly from her hand, then devoured them, looking to her for more. Clarence walked in, startling Geneva.

  “You’re spoiling that dog.”

  “Spike? Spoiled?” Geneva laughed. “That’s just part of the fun. You’re not supposed to spoil children. But it’s okay to spoil a dog.”

  Clarence put one knee to the floor, prompting Spike to do the doggy dance of joy. “Mama tryin’ to make a sissy out of you? What happened to your nose? Been chasin’ parked cars again?”

  One glance at Spike’s ferocious profile was enough to terrorize everyone from Jehovah’s Witnesses to the UPS man. But behind the stern face and the intimidating physique was a kindness and loyalty to his family.

  The only ones who needed to fear him were those who brought harm to his loved ones. And they were right to fear him. Given opportunity, he would tear them to shreds.

  Clarence stood outside the big window on the fourteenth floor of the Justice Center, eyed by the receptionist.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. But I’ve got some important information. Trust me, he’ll be interested.”

  Three minutes later Ollie Chandler opened the door.

  “Abernathy. What’s going on?”

  “Got somethin’ for you.” Clarence tried to look casual. “The car was a large gold lowrider, maybe an old Impala or Caprice, late seventies. There were two guys, both Hispanic, wearing white T-shirts. The driver had a light mustache.”

  Ollie stared at him, as if wondering whether this was a joke. “Come in,” Ollie said. He pointed to an interrogation room and closed the door behind them. “Who told you all this?”
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  “I did my own investigating. Found a kid named Mookie who was walking home on Seventh Street, you know, a couple of blocks over from MLK. He heard the shots, then saw them screeching down Jackson. Right in front of him.”

  “I want to talk to this kid,” Ollie said.

  “Sure. I’ve got all the info.” Clarence pointed to the yellow legal pad in front of him.

  “How’d you find him?”

  “I put out word on the streets.”

  “Yeah? So did we,” Ollie said. “What word did you put out?”

  “I offered a hundred dollars for information.”

  “You what?”

  “I said I’d pay for information. I gave Mookie a hundred dollars.”

  “That’s not the way to do it.”

  “Oh? And how many witnesses has your way uncovered?”

  Ollie’s red blotches started to expand. “Okay. I’ll take whatever I can get. Don’t kick a gift horse in the teeth.”

  “You mean, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  “Why would you want to look him in the mouth?”

  “Never mind,” Clarence said.

  “Okay, so how do you know Doogie isn’t conning you?”

  “Mookie.”

  “Whatever. Sounds like an easy hundred bucks for makin’ up a story.”

  “Look, it was all solid. I kept asking him questions, different ways. No contradictions. He sounded authentic. Didn’t come across like he’d made it up.”

  “And you’d know the difference?”

  “I’m a journalist, okay? I have to figure out people all the time. You get a feel for who’s shooting straight and who’s shooting bull.”

  “He didn’t happen to see the license number?”

  “No. Gold Oregon plates, that’s all.”

  “He’s sure on the racial tag?” Ollie asked.

  “Like I said, two Hispanics. He’s positive about the driver anyway. Window was rolled down. Got a clear view. Pretty sure on the other guy, the shooter. Positive on the car—size and shape and color anyway.”

  “Okay, write down his phone number and address for me. I’ll get hold of your Mookie today. Nice job, detective. You maybe found us our best witness.”