by Pearl Cleage
“Is that such a terrible thing?”
“Depends on what they’re selling. Coca-Cola’s one thing. Pimp Juice is another.”
“Pimp Juice?”
“It’s an energy drink, like Red Bull. One of the rappers is backing it.”
“Why in the world would they call it that?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “It must be a man thing.”
“No, daughter.” He shook his head. “That’s a fool thing.”
“And a bad example,” I said. “I’m sure Wes isn’t working for anybody like that.”
“If he is, I’ll find out soon enough. I told him we could talk more about it again when me and Ed get back from Albany. He’s going to bring his assistant by here tomorrow or the next day to take a look at some materials in my office. Let them in, will you?”
Before I could ask him to be a little more specific, he yawned and suddenly I could see how tired he was. I glanced at my watch. It was after midnight and the Black History Month Express was pulling out for South Georgia in the morning. They’d be gone two nights, which gave me plenty of time to see what Wes was up to.
“You better get some rest,” I said. “How early is Mr. Eddie coming tomorrow?”
“Too early,” the Rev said, finishing up the last of his wine and standing up. The fire was down to coals again. “You sure I can’t talk you into riding down with us?”
The miles of open space and empty cotton fields between here and Albany were familiar to me. I had made that trip with the Rev three or four times as a kid and it always felt twice as long as it actually was.
“Not a chance,” I said.
“All right, daughter. Don’t say I didn’t ask. You coming up?”
“In a little while,” I said, holding up the book. “I’m reading about black America’s main street.”
The Rev looked at the title and nodded. “If Flora has her way, all those King streets will be lined with sunflowers and roses.”
It was a wonderful image. All those neglected thoroughfares blooming under the loving hands of gardeners who saw the potential for beauty in their own backyards.
The Rev leaned down and kissed my cheek; then he looked at me kind of funny.
“What?” I said, smiling up at him. I was happy for these small moments in the midst of so much motion. This doing something for freedom can be a full-time job if you let it.
“I’d like you to do something for me, daughter.”
“Yes?”
“You know Sunday is Founder’s Day at Rock of Faith and I’ll be preaching my first sermon as pastor emeritus.”
“I’m surprised they let you back in there, as bad as you talked about their new pastor,” I said, teasing him and immediately wishing I hadn’t.
The Rev didn’t miss a beat. “Pastor Patterson has a forgiving and compassionate heart, daughter. Not only has he invited me into his pulpit, but he has graciously agreed to allow me to pick the person who will introduce me. And that person is you, if you will do me the honor.”
And he sort of bowed a little courtly bow, but I couldn’t imagine introducing the Rev at Rock of Faith.
“What can I possibly tell them that they don’t already know?”
He grinned and headed toward the stairs. “You can tell them something nobody knows but you.”
“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”
“Tell them how it feels to be my baby girl.”
I laughed and surrendered. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Good night, daughter.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
“Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
A Few Juicy Whispers
AFTER THE REV AND MR. EDDIE ROLLED OUT OF HERE AT EIGHT o’clock sharp, I put in a call to Joe Conner, a campaign buddy of mine in D.C. who I hoped could help me get to the bottom of that weird little feeling I had last night when the Rev was telling me about Wes’s offer of support, even though Wes is the most apolitical person I’ve talked to in a long time. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just check it out. Miss Iona was right. This was no time to be careless.
Me and this guy went through three primaries together. After election day, he went back to teaching political science at Georgetown, his Obama campaign experiences told and retold as his favorite stories in a repertoire that also included a tour of duty in Iraq that he never talked about unless other veterans were present, and a nomination for a MacArthur genius grant, which he couldn’t stop talking about, although that whole process is so secretive most people don’t even know they’re under consideration until they get the call.
From his book-crammed office in a quiet corner of the campus, he kept up with a far-flung network of political insiders, obsessive bloggers, and conspiracy theorists of all kinds. His information was usually reliable and he had a lot invested in being able to get to the bottom of the rumors that always swirl around D.C. like autumn leaves. He probably had two or three moles deep in the RNC who could be queried with discretion and confidence. His voice mail answered on the second ring and the message was short and sweet.
“This is Dr. Conner. Leave a message.”
“Good morning, Professor,” I said. During the campaign I used to call him professor after discovering that we both love that scene in The Philadelphia Story where Katharine Hepburn’s character is teasing Jimmy Stewart’s character, whose name happens to be Conner, by calling him professor because he’s a writer. “This is Ida Dunbar. I’ve got a question that I hope you can answer for me. I’m in Atlanta on some family business and folks down here keep hearing rumors about a move to enlist the help of well-known, but slightly disgruntled Civil Rights pioneers in discrediting the president. It’s making them a little nervous, especially since there are already a few juicy whispers about a major voter purge floating around. So, you know the drill. Find out what you can and call me. Later!”
No way he wouldn’t call me as soon as he got the message. In the meantime, I was going to return Flora’s book and stop by Miss Iona’s to let her know I was on the case.
It wasn’t even ten o’clock when I opened the door to the Grower’s Association and found myself face-to-face with a poster-size photograph of Barack and Michelle Obama walking down Pennsylvania Avenue just after he got sworn in. He’s smiling from big ear to big ear, and she’s wearing that amazing chartreuse outfit with those fabulous green leather gloves and they look so happy and healthy and confident and connected that it’s hard to believe they’re heading to their new house in the 1600 block of that same street.
“Is it straight?” Aretha was standing on a chair adjusting the picture according to the dictates of Lu Lumumba and another young woman I didn’t know.
“Down a little on that side,” Lu said, pointing.
“Left or right?”
“Right,” the two girls said at the same time.
Flora was sitting at her computer with a young man who was staring at the screen intently. When the little bell above the door announced my arrival, she looked up and smiled in welcome.
“Hey,” she said. “Welcome back!”
“How about now?” Aretha said.
The girls cocked their heads in an identical motion and squinted their eyes.
“Perfect,” Lu said, nodding her approval.
“I just love them,” her friend said, gazing adoringly at the first couple. “They are so cool.”
“You got that right,” Aretha said, stepping down. “Too cool for school. How you doing?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“Can you hang out for a second?” Flora said. “I won’t be long.”
“No problem.” I took a chair near the seed catalogues.
Lu’s friend winked. “I told you it wouldn’t take him no time. Cornell is a genius.”
“He’s a nerd,” Lu said, loud enough for Cornell to hear. “ShaRhonda Smith, this is Miss Dunbar.”
“Nice to meet you,” ShaRhonda said. “She’s just jealo
us because I’m dating a college man.”
“A college nerd,” Lu said, rolling her eyes.
“I hope you know I can hear you,” the boy behind the computer said without taking his eyes off the screen. “And that I know you are just jealous because you couldn’t figure this out without my expert advice.”
“For which we are always grateful,” Flora said, laughing and intently watching what he was doing.
“That’s such a great shot,” Aretha said, adjusting the portrait slightly. “I wish I’d taken it.”
“I wish you had, too,” Lu teased her. “Then you’d be famous.”
“I’m a legend in my own mind,” Aretha said. “And don’t you forget it. All right! I’m outta here!”
“We gotta go, too,” Lu said. “Mom! Are you going to release the nerd anytime soon or should we go next door and get a cappuccino?”
The boy turned to Flora. “You got it, right?”
She nodded. “I got it.”
“Then my work here is done.”
The boy stood up then, or should I say unfolded. He was taller than I had guessed and lean without being skinny. He spread his long arms wide and smiled at ShaRhonda. “I’m all yours.”
“Not quite so fast, nerd boy,” Lu said. “You’ve got to help me finish my project first. Then you and Miss Girl are on your own.”
“Well, let’s go,” ShaRhonda said, taking Cornell’s hand. “It takes you forever to do anything.”
“That’s because I want to do it right,” Lu said, reaching for her backpack and blowing her mother a kiss. “We’re going over to Tech. Be back in time for dinner.”
“Of that I have no doubt. Be careful.”
“Call me if you have any problems with that program,” Cornell said, grinning and holding the door for the girls. “And don’t worry, Mrs. Lumumba. I won’t let the other nerds anywhere near them!”
Flora’s laugh followed them out the door. “It’s a madhouse around here today!”
“They seem like nice kids.”
“They’re great kids. She’s from right outside West End, lots of family drama, so she came to live with us when she was eleven. Cornell is a second-generation computer whiz. His dad works in the registrar’s office down at the county and he’s a freshman at Tech. He’s the one who keeps us up and running. We’ve been streaming video from the King Peace Gardens Tour and he just figured out how we can do it faster and with a lot better quality.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Which is a good thing, but which is probably also adding to the general confusion around here. We’ve already got more email than we can handle!”
“Then the problem is to find somebody to answer it, not to cut back on the programs that are generating such a big response,” I said, laying the book on her desk.
Her eyes widened. “You finished it already?”
“Last night,” I said. “I started to call you, but it was after midnight.”
“I’m a night owl,” she said. “Especially when Hank’s in D.C. You can call me anytime.”
“Next time I will,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you that the King Peace Gardens are a great idea.”
Flora beamed. “I think so, too! I told Miss Abbie when she first said it. I’ve always thought it was terrible that we just let those streets go.”
“The whole time I was reading it, I kept picturing all the M. L. King streets I was on during the campaign and almost all of them were horrible.”
Flora smiled. “Nothing a few sunflowers won’t cure.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But since I’m not very good at growing things, here’s what I can do for you.”
“I’m all ears,” she said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
All Manner of Misinformation
“HE’S HOT FOR IT,” WES SAID, SITTING ON THE PLANE HE’D FLOWN IN on less than a week ago, having a quick drink with Oscar, who was passing through on his way to a mission in New York he was being obnoxiously mysterious about. They could have easily met at one of the airport bars, but Oscar didn’t want to be seen in the terminal. Something about not being in two places at one time. Arrangements had been made in advance and when Wes arrived, he was driven out to the plane on a golf cart.
The buxom blond flight attendant welcomed him aboard with a twinkle that was probably part of her job description, but Wes didn’t have time to flirt.
“Good work,” Oscar said, taking a sip of his Coke, the only thing Wes had ever seen him drink. “Sounds like you’ve got us within a cunt hair of our goal.”
Wes smiled. White boys say cunt, he thought. Niggas say pussy.
“The good thing is that the model can be replicated,” Wes said. “He’s already thinking about Detroit, Baltimore, Cleveland.”
“You think we can activate a purge in all those places?”
Wes shrugged. “Even where there is no possibility of purging, we’ll have a way of communicating all manner of misinformation.”
Oscar smiled. “You’re still the best.”
Wes accepted the compliment, knowing it was his due. He had worked up several mailers for urban populations (read: African American and Latino) aimed at making people afraid to show up at the polls. It wasn’t hard. Tell them they’d get picked up for back child support or unpaid traffic tickets and you can clear out a whole precinct.
“How long you figure it will take to actually get your hands on a copy of that disk? Our guy in the registrar’s office is getting a little antsy, so time is of the essence.”
“We’ll have no problem getting it done by your target date,” Wes said. “Piece of cake.”
“We need to move that up a little if we can.”
There’s always one more thing. “How far up?”
“March first.”
“That’s less than three weeks from now!”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Oscar said, sounding surprised. “I thought you said we were within a cunt hair.”
Wes was beginning to really hate that expression. He wanted to say: How many times do I have to tell you? Pussy, muthafucker. Niggas say pussy.
“There is a logistical challenge that may make that difficult.”
“Nothing we can’t fix, I’m sure.”
“There is no disk to copy,” Wes said. “There is no master list of any kind. The names—all one hundred thousand of them—are on index cards in shoe boxes, stacked in the Rev’s closet.”
Oscar looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“What word hung you up?” Wes snapped. He didn’t want to rush the Rev. In gaining trust, timing was everything. “These guys don’t trust technology so they don’t use it.”
“Ever?”
“Not if they can help it.”
What had the Rev said: You been in the big city too long.
“This is insane,” Oscar said, looking like he wanted to get up and pace, his best thinking move, but the space was too compact for that. “How can these people do business like this?”
“They’re not trying to do business. They’re trying to get free, remember?”
Oscar looked at Wes and gave him a tight smile. “Certainly an admirable goal, but what the hell, Wes? Our guy in the registrar’s office is really getting antsy. He’s so paranoid he sees feds in the trees. We can’t afford to let him slip through our fingers because of a bunch of backward preachers.”
This was not the time to remind Oscar that these backward preachers had just elected a president. Wes made his voice sound soothing.
“Nothing is slipping through our fingers, okay? This is a logistical problem. He already trusts me to have his best interests at heart. All he’s got to do is agree to let me pick up the boxes and we’ll get it done.”
“How long?”
“Hard to tell until we actually see what we’re working with,” Wes said. “Do you want me to talk to this guy?”
“That might be a good idea. Just cool him out a little.” Another tight smile. “You know, brother to brother.”<
br />
Wes put his glass down and stood up without smiling back. “What’s his name?”
“Estes. Major Estes.”
“I’m on it.”
TWENTY-NINE
Sugar for Sex
MISS IONA CALLED TO TELL ME THAT MR. CHARLES HAD LEFT THAT morning to spend two weeks with his daughter by his first wife, who had just delivered his third grandchild, but that wasn’t the first thing on Miss Iona’s mind when she opened her front door just as I was reaching for the bell.
“Have you heard anything?”
“I left a message for my guy,” I said, knowing I’d get my greeting later. “I’m just waiting on him to call me back.”
“That’s my girl!” She sounded relieved. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I said, pointing at her coat. “Are you coming in or going out?”
“I’m on my way to the market. I’m restocking my refrigerator for two weeks of being a solo act,” she said.
“Want some company?”
“I’d love some,” she said, stepping outside and turning up her collar like she always did. She was pulling one of those little wire carts that old ladies use to carry their groceries home and she still looked stylish in her red coat and black boots.
“How’d the Rev survive without Ed for one whole day?”
“He did just fine,” I said. “I think Wes spent the day making him feel like a rock star.”
“The boy is such a little ass kisser. Always was.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t trust him. Do you?”
I wasn’t expecting her to turn the question back to me, so I stumbled a little over my answer. “I don’t trust him or not trust him. He just doesn’t seem as bad to me as you think he is.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, looking at me like I was hiding something. “Where are you on your way to?”
“I’ve been where I’m going,” I said. “I was over at the Grower’s Association pulling some stuff together for Flora.”
