by Pearl Cleage
“And our new president can see a new America?” she said gently.
“It’s all changing,” I said, wondering if she had a Kleenex I could borrow, since all of a sudden, I was feeling a little sentimental, too. “And I want to be part of that more than I ever wanted to be part of anything so that when I get old, I can look around and see the changes and say, Yeah, I helped make that happen.”
We just sat there for a minute. I think I was talking to myself as much as I was talking to Flora.
“Well,” she said finally, “I think you can stop worrying about looking for that real good man.”
“Why is that?”
“You just fell in love with your country, girlfriend, and nobody can compete with that.”
FORTY-THREE
Targeting the Warriors
FLORA AND I SAT THERE FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS. WE WATCHED THE rest of the movie and talked a little bit about the Grower’s Association, but mostly we just sang along with the Von Trapp kids and watched Maria blush in the arms of the handsome, but emotionally wounded Captain Von Trapp, thereby melting his heart and ending forever her earlier ambitions to enter a convent. Neither of us could do much more than carry a tune, but we sang along at the top of our lungs anyway. I figure if you can’t sing off-key when the Nazis are coming, when the hell can you?
I told her we’d make another appointment to talk business and as I headed down her front walk and turned back toward home, I was really happy she was coming to D.C.
Whatever direction work or love took us, I knew we would be friends. I had turned off my phone so Flora and I could do our interview uninterrupted and hadn’t bothered to turn it back on, but I reached into my pocket now to see if the Rev had checked in from the road. He hadn’t, and no word from anybody in D.C., but there were three messages from Miss Iona. I didn’t even listen to them. I just punched in her number.
She picked up on the first ring. “What is the point of having a cell phone if you never turn it on?”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s him.”
“What’s him?”
“Didn’t you tell me that Wes Harper offered to set your father up with a tour sponsor?”
“He said his clients would love that kind of exposure.”
“I’ll bet they would,” she snapped. “I’ll just bet they would.”
This was getting us nowhere. “Please slow down and tell me what’s going on.”
“My reporter at The Sentinel said that program he told me about where they’re targeting the warriors?”
I loved that she called them the warriors. I loved that she thought of them that way.
“What about it?” I said.
“It’s full steam ahead,” she said, “and in this first wave, they are rolling out the big guns to woo these guys. Book contracts, radio shows, and, are you listening? Tour sponsorships!”
My stomach did a little flip when she said that, just like it did when the Rev first told me Wes was interested in the list, just like it did last night when I was at Brandi’s with Wes and he was talking about how he could help the Rev.
“I’m on my way.”
FORTY-FOUR
The Matter at Hand
“THIS POLITICAL SHIT IS WREAKING HAVOC WITH MY SEX LIFE,” TONI said when they pulled up in front of the Rev’s neat Victorian. After he talked to Oscar last night, sex had been the last thing on Wes’s mind and Toni didn’t appreciate it. “I like it better when we’re just figuring out how to sell more barbeque pork rinds.”
“Doesn’t pay as well,” Wes said, looking around the front yard and the driveway like he’d never seen them before.
The Rev’s house, complete with the elaborate gingerbread molding that gave the West End Victorians their distinct character, was set farther back from the street than its neighbors on either side. The Rev had never been one for West End’s fanatical gardens, so he had picked the house for its rolling front lawn, not because it had space enough in the back to grow two rows of collards, two or three of tomatoes, and maybe some sweet corn.
The narrow driveway meandered along the side of the house and deposited visitors at a brick walkway up to the big front door with the stained glass window. Another brick path from the street ensured that no one ever had to walk on the Rev’s perfectly manicured front lawn, which, even in mid-February, was almost impossibly green and neatly clipped. Sometimes people actually stopped walking by and reached out to touch it to be sure it was real.
“Do you think he dyes it?” Toni said.
“His hair?”
“His grass.”
“Who gives a fuck?” Wes said, wishing she would focus on the matter at hand.
Toni narrowed her eyes. “Politics isn’t doing much for your disposition either.”
“See what I was telling you last night?” he said. “If you drive the van right up there, nobody’s even going to notice it.”
“It won’t matter if they do,” Toni said, flipping open the mirror on the visor in front of her seat and checking to be sure there was no lipstick on her teeth. “Who’s going to question a van from the New Orleans Children’s Relief Fund?”
He turned to her. “What?”
Satisfied that she was as lovely as she remembered herself to be, Toni smiled at Wes so he’d remember it, too.
“Two magnetic signs. One for each side of the van. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”
“New Orleans Children’s Relief Fund?”
“Pretty good, huh?”
“You’re going to hell, you know that?”
“I love you, too,” she said. “Now let’s go case this joint.”
FORTY-FIVE
Invisible Horns
MISS IONA AND I WERE IN THE REV’S OFFICE GETTING HER SETTLED IN at the computer when that awful sound that passes as the Rev’s front doorbell blasted us both half out of our skins.
“Showtime,” I said. “You ready?”
“Hardest thing for me is going to be not telling him all about his sorry self the minute he walks in that door.”
“That’s not the plan,” I said quickly, hoping Miss Iona would stick with our hastily drawn scenario and not go rogue on me à la a certain Alaskan governor who shall remain nameless.
“All we’re trying to do is buy some time until I can convince the Rev that we’re on to something and get him away from Wes long enough to bust the folks at the top.”
“I know, I know,” she said, restacking the pile of cards we’d staged next to the Rev’s rarely used computer. “Go on and let them in before they ring that awful bell again. My nerves can’t stand it.”
Mine couldn’t either. We hadn’t been able to get the Rev or Mr. Eddie on the phone, which meant we were left to our own devices as far as dealing with Wes, who I had only recently considered breaking my chastity vow for and now wanted to turn over to the Justice Department as fast as I could find their number. Except we didn’t have enough proof yet. Miss Iona’s guy was working on it, but these guys were pros. So far, no hard evidence had shown up and nobody would go on the record for fear of reprisals. What we needed now was to protect the Rev and his shiny new voters while we gave Wes enough rope to hang himself.
Wes and his assistant smiled and greeted me in unison when I opened the door. “Good afternoon.”
They looked like a corporate diversity ad in Black Enterprise magazine—smart, stylish, amoral. I added the amoral part. Or they did.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Please come in.”
She was younger than I expected and prettier than I hoped she’d be, even though it didn’t matter anymore since no way I was sleeping with a man like Wes Harper. He was as attractive as he’d been last night, except now I could see the invisible horns growing out of his head.
“Ida Dunbar, Toni Cassidy.”
“My pleasure,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m sorry my father isn’t here to greet you. He’s in South Georgia until tomorrow.”
“Moultrie, right?” she sa
id, with a little condescending smile.
“South Georgia.”
“Wes told me his father often travels with Reverend Dunbar.”
“Two old road dogs,” Wes said like it was an affectionate joke we shared. “The schedule they keep would kill most men twenty years younger.”
Toni was looking at the pictures hanging in the hallway. The Rev and Dr. King sharing a laugh. The Rev and Nelson Mandela on an Atlanta stage with their fists raised in solidarity. The Rev and Mayor Jackson on the night of the first inauguration. The Rev and Julian Bond outside the Georgia Capitol when they refused to seat Julian because of his opposition to the Vietnam war. The Rev and Mr. Eddie as much younger men, on either side of Mrs. Fannie Lou Hamer.
“It must have been amazing to grow up like this,” Toni said.
“It was.”
She turned toward me, the Black Enterprise smile still in place. “I’m surprised there’re no pictures of your mother.”
“Do you know my mother?” I said, surprised at the question.
“We read her book in my Women’s Studies class at Barnard,” she said. “I think that’s when I became a feminist.”
“My parents are separated,” I said. “She lives in San Francisco.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” And she actually looked like she was for a minute. “But to tell you the truth, I never understood how she could have been married in the first place. Your mother was one angry woman.”
Sensing dangerous conversational waters, Wes jumped in quickly. “Shall we get down to business and take a look at what we came to see?”
“Of course,” I said, leading them down the hallway to the Rev’s book-crammed office. “Follow me.”
Miss Iona had closed the door to the office, already improvising, and when I opened it, she was sitting at the computer, peering over her glasses at an index card. She looked up and shook her head, annoyed. “Can you read this, Ida B? Is it Corrina or Calinda? I swear these people need to just go on and make an X like they used to and be done with it.”
“I think it’s Calinda,” I said, handing the well-smudged card back and turning to our guests.
“Miss Iona Williams, meet Toni Cassidy. Wes Harper, I think you already know.”
“Of course I know Wes Harper,” Miss Iona said, looking at Wes with a tight smile. “Been knowing him since he was born practically.”
“How you doin’, Miss Iona?” He rounded his accent to reflect his southern roots like that would make her more comfortable.
“I’m doin’ just fine, Wes. How about you?”
“Can’t complain,” he said.
Miss Iona turned to Toni. “Is that your job?”
“Ma’am?”
“The complaining?”
Toni smiled and shook her head. “No, ma’am. My job is to solve people’s problems.”
“Then you’re right on time,” Miss Iona said, handing the card to Toni. “Is it Corrina or Calinda?”
Toni squinted at the card just like I had, but had no more definitive answer. “Corrina?”
“Is that one of the cards?” Wes said, reaching for it, but Miss Iona snatched it back first. Startled, Wes drew back his hand.
“What else would it be?”
I shot her a look and jumped in. “One of many,” I said, crossing to the Rev’s closet and pulling open the door to reveal the neatly stacked boxes taking every inch of available space. The one box that Miss Iona was ostensibly working on had left the only opening when we slid it out carefully to complete our charade. The sight of all that very raw, and very valuable, data seemed to render Wes and Toni temporarily speechless.
Miss Iona was happy to fill the void. “The man’s crazy. When he first showed me all these cards and started talking about me typing them up into some kind of master list, I said, are you crazy? And he said, Iona, you’re the only one I trust to do it. And I said, I ain’t studyin’ you, Horace Dunbar. My days of typing up mailing lists for men who can’t be bothered are over.”
Toni and Wes walked slowly over to the closet. They still couldn’t believe it, but there they were, all two hundred boxes, neatly labeled with the date they joined in the stack, waiting patiently for processing.
“He wanted you to type all these up?” Toni said.
“He didn’t want me to; he expected me to,” Miss Iona said. “That’s the way the Rev is.”
“All by yourself?” Wes said, reaching out to run his hand over the stack closest to him.
“Of course all by myself. That’s the whole point. The Rev won’t hardly let anybody even look at these cards. I think you’re the first ones other than me and Eddie. Ida B hadn’t even laid eyes on them until yesterday.”
“And not a moment too soon.” Toni turned from the cards back to Miss Iona. “We’ll get some guys in here to load up everything and I’ll take it from there.”
“The Rev didn’t say anything to me about moving them,” I said calmly. “It’s my understanding that he wants the cards to stay here. For security reasons.”
Toni looked at me. “So how do you propose we get it done?”
“Don’t worry,” Miss Iona said. “I’ve had a change of heart. Call it a Black History Month miracle, but I’ve decided to take on the task myself, as per the Rev’s expectations.”
“Miss Iona, if you’ll forgive me …”
“Don’t have much choice really,” she said. “Ida B isn’t much of a typist on her best day.”
She was laying it on thick and they were getting more confused by the minute. Wes smiled at Miss Iona again, totally unaware that his charms had no effect on her at all. “Do you have any idea how long that will take you?”
She shrugged as if the question were beside the point. “I have no idea. As long as I’m done in time enough for Precious Hargrove to use it when she gets ready to run for governor, I’m good to go.”
“That’s two years from now!” Wes looked shocked.
Miss Iona actually patted his hand reassuringly. “It shouldn’t take me any longer than that.”
Toni looked at Wes and raised her eyebrows like you’ve got to be kidding. He turned to me.
“I thought we were on the same page about this,” he said, chiding me gently.
“It’s not my choice,” I said. “What happens to these cards—where and when and how—is up to the Rev. I thought you understood that,” I chided him right back.
“I’m going with the first initial only,” Miss Iona said, squinting at the Corrina/Calinda card again as she typed it into the computer and reached for another.
Wes’s smile was less sincere, but he offered it anyway. “You’re right, of course. It’s clearly something I should take up with the Rev.”
Recognizing an exit line when she heard one, Toni tucked her purse under her arm.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” I said, like I was being helpful. “But he’s preaching at Rock of Faith on Sunday, so he probably won’t be available until Monday.”
That would give us time enough to make our case and get the Rev back on the good foot.
“You got that right.” Miss Iona nodded in agreement. “Don’t nobody disturb that man when he’s getting ready for Founder’s Day, even if they are almost family.” She underlined that almost with her voice.
“Monday it is then,” Wes said.
“I’ll be here,” Miss Iona said brightly, the sound of her tap-tapping receding behind us as I showed them to the door.
FORTY-SIX
The Smaller the Crew, the Safer the Secret
“SEE WHAT I MEAN ABOUT PEOPLE WRITING IN PENCIL?” TONI SAID AS they left West End and headed back to midtown. “You can go blind trying to read that shit.”
“Nobody’s asking you to read it,” Wes said. “How many guys you think we’ll need to get the damn things out of there?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just call the man and try to talk him into letting us come and get them?”
“You heard them! He can’t be disturbed until Monday. That�
��s too late. I told you what Oscar said. We’ve got to do it Sunday when they’re all in church.”
“All right,” she said. “Get me one guy. The smaller the crew, the safer the secret. You got anybody in mind?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, reaching for his cell phone and punching in a very recent number. “Estes? I need to talk to your son.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Home From the Wars
I HAD CONVINCED MISS IONA THAT IT MIGHT BE EASIER IF I TALKED TO the Rev alone and she reluctantly agreed. She made me promise to call her as soon as I could and helped me fix the Rev a dinner fit for a king. She was a firm believer that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and even though I reminded her that we were aiming at the brain, she said it couldn’t hurt.
After we got it all done, I set the kitchen table for two since he’d know something was up for sure if I tried to get him to eat in the dining room, and went to get the card I’d bought at the CVS that afternoon when I realized Saturday was Valentine’s Day. It was a kid card, something an eight-year-old would sign and seal with a kiss, which was probably appropriate since I felt like an eight-year-old. The closer it came to the Rev’s estimated time of arrival, the more nervous I got. The last and only time I’d tried to question my father’s judgment was a disaster. He wasn’t used to it, least of all when it came to how he handled his business. I was his child and even though I had carved out a niche where my opinions were sought and my skills were valued and people who knew about such things bandied around the idea that I might be invited to work at the White House one day, in the Rev’s eyes, I was still his baby girl. It was outside the realm of his possibility that we could exchange ideas with something of value being offered from both sides. His role was to teach and lead and my role was to follow. But not this time. There was too much at stake, for him and for me.
