by Dana Canedy
Charles went to work as an illustrator for a Chicago publishing company, creating art for phone book advertisements, but found the work unsatisfying. In late 1983, he headed south to Mobile, Alabama, where he had relatives, and got a job as a commercial artist at a local newspaper. But office life never suited your father. Unlike the military, there was no rulebook, and he was bewildered by the ruthless politics. He was passed over for a promotion after someone questioned whether he had actually earned his associate’s degree. Deeply hurt, he quit after just six months and spent the next fewyears working at a string of unrewardingjobs.
In 1985, Charles met Cecilia—also an artist—and promptly fell in love. He hoped to marry her, provided he could figure out a way to support them both. Once again he found himself drawn to the military, and this time he did not consult his parents first. But he did tell them after he had visited a recruiter, and his mother was able to talk him out of training to be a paratrooper on the grounds that it was “too dangerous and strenuous.” His second choice was the air force but, at twenty-nine, he was a year too old to enlist. So your father took an entrance exam and a physical and joined the army.
On October 13,1987, Charles swore an oath to protect and defend his country and became Private First Class King. “They cleared him to go, and the next thing I knew he was gone,” his mother said. He married Cecilia two months later.
Military service fulfilled Charles in away that nothing else did. He was a tank crew commander early in his career and then a drill sergeant for four years. He was steadily promoted: staff sergeant, platoon sergeant, master sergeant. As a tank gunner during Operation Desert Storm, he destroyed three Iraqi armored vehicles, earning a Bronze Star. In 1992 he was sent to Kuwait on a security mission. Three years later he worked as the senior noncommissioned officer in Guantanamo Bay, leading a humanitarian mission to aid Cuban refugees who had fled their island nation by sea. He was ultimately promoted to first sergeant—the second highest rank an enlisted soldier can attain, putting him on track for a final promotion to sergeant major. Along the way, Charles earned a chestful of medals for his valor.
It seemed natural that your father’s love of the military would find expression in his art. Although his subjects varied widely, he was proudest of his work depicting African Americans’ contributions to the military. He became fascinated by the history of the 761st Tank Battalion, an unsung unit of black soldiers that fought fiercely in World War II, and created a series of pointillist collages depicting members of the unit as young soldiers and as old men. He said he chose that style because the veterans deserved the time and attention to detail it took to draw each illustration. He loaned ten such drawings to the Pentagon in 1998, where they were displayed during Black History Month, and his work is on permanent display at the Fort Lewis Military Museum near Tacoma, Washington, and at several other bases across the country. More important, he got to present the surviving 761st tankers with autographed copies of the portraits.
The man who longed to be needed had found his calling as a military leader.
Even so, there were notes of dissent. However proud, his family never entirely understood his choice, and his former pastor was even more puzzled.
“I was mystified by his military career,” Rev. Vern Miller said. “His parents explained to me that they both worked for the government and the government was good to them. I was told Chuck was denied a promotion in the private sector where he worked and was looking for an alternative. Because he tended to trust the government, he chose the military.”
Charles understood the doubts, and had an answer for them. When the church youth director asked why a kid from a church that encourages peace would go the military route, Charles considered the question for a moment. Then he said:
“Because the military needs Christians, too.”
Four
Dear Jordan,
Charles’s and my courtship began with a phone call. From my father.
Although my dad had given up liquor years earlier, his voice on my answering machine sounded strangely giddy. “Hey, Punkin,” he said, calling me by the childhood nickname I have always loathed. “Just wanted to let you know that Charles asked me for your phone number. I gave it to him. Hope you don’t mind.”
I cringed. My father was playing matchmaker.
The truth is, I had thought about Charles for a few days after I returned to New York from Kentucky, but not much in the three weeks since. Our encounter had been pleasant but fleeting. He was sweet, handsome, and obviously principled, but I wasn’t in a dating mood.
That spring I had broken up with my boyfriend of two and a half years, and I had not gone out with a man since. Greg was the managing editor of the Boston Globe and twelve years my senior. He was a tall, chocolate-colored charmer with the face and voice of a television news anchor—the only person I knew who loved newspapers more than I did. We discussed books and social issues and, of course, news. He introduced me to cigars and single malt scotch and gave me a copy of Katherine Graham’s autobiography. He took me on vacations to Martha’s Vineyard, where we ate lobster and played Scrabble on aprivate beach.
Our relationship was intense—and combustible. I was insecure about holding my own with a man of his stature and felt more like his pupil than his partner. Greg was preoccupied with our age difference and frustrated that our careers kept us in different cities. In time he became distant. When he bought a house without consulting me less than a year after I moved to New York, I knew we would never live in it together. I left him before he had a chance to leave me.
Even so, I took the breakup hard. (It was the only time I ever lost my appetite over a man.) I was not looking to replace Greg when Charles came along, and certainly not with someone so unlike him.
Yet a few days after my father’s message, there was another one.
“Hi Dana, this is Sergeant King,” Charles said. “I got your number from your dad. Give me a call when you have time.”
He sounded stiff and formal. I called him back the following day, just to be polite.
“Sergeant King,” he answered, and I was instantly conscious of how little interest I had in dating a soldier.
“Hi, this is Dana.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
We were as warm as two people on a telemarketing cold call.
The conversation turned to the weather in New York, then to how hard we had both been working. I tried to wrap things up by saying it was nice of him to phone.
“I’ve thought about giving you a call ever since you left Kentucky,” he persisted. “I’ve just been busy at work and dealing with my personal situation.”
I knew he was referring to his divorce and wanted to ask why he was interested in me at such a tumultuous time in his life, but I did not want to make him feel like the subject of a news story. I was also not so sure about my own motives. Maybe I was simply looking for a candy man—a sweet treat to ease my loneliness.
Despite my misgivings, Charles and I kept talking after that initial call. At first I told him more about the New York subway system than about myself. He talked about military history, but stayed away from the subject of his broken marriage. They were easy, first-date discussions, but without the dates. He said he admired the French artist Erte. I said I loved anything by Längsten Hughes. We discovered that our birthdays were two days apart and that we both liked chocolate—one of us in moderation, the other in abundance.
As that smoldering July became an even hotter August, we began speaking every night. Our conversations turned introspective. We talked about his daughter and about my choice to have a career before a family. In time, I began to look forward to his calm, steady voice being the last thing I heard before I slept.
We became friends.
Charles revealed, with some prodding, that he considered the collapse of his marriage to be the biggest failure of his life. Before he and Cecilia wed, he said, they had shared big dreams—dreams of purs
uing their art and eventually starting a family. They had dreamed of saving enough money to make a down payment on a house, maybe even enough to travel or buy a new car. Afterward, he came to feel that they did not share the same goals and values. Through much of their marriage he was the sole breadwinner, and there were times when he wished she contributed more financially. They never did manage to buy a home, and by the end of the marriage, too much trust had been broken.
I only knew his side of the story, but I could tell how wounded and ashamed he felt He said he had prayed hard that the marriage could be salvaged before he finally decided it was over. He was most concerned about the consequences for his daughter. I urged him to give her time to adjust to such a difficult change in her life. I reminded him that he had suffered a huge loss, too, and should give himself permission to grieve. Mostly, I listened.
As Charles opened up, I did, too. I told him about the pressure of being a black woman in a high-profile position at the New York Times. It was not just that I felt there would be no second chances if I messed up, it was that I sometimes felt like a standard bearer for all African American journalists who aspired to work at the Times. I also never got used to the awkward moments when a white banker or politician I had cultivated as a source on the phone met me and seemed shocked that I was black.
I told Charles about sometimes feeling alone in a city of seven million people. I told him how tough it was to grow up as the eldest daughter of an autocratic drill sergeant and a mother who was too fragile to stand up to him. I also confided something I had told very few people: For as long as I could remember, my dad had told his children the sort of obscene jokes that should have been reserved for his soldiers. I would lower my head in embarrassment and say they were not funny, which would make him laugh harder.
“I was a drill sergeant, too, and I would never talk to my daughter like that,” Charles said one evening. “No father should.”
With those words, I felt a brick loosen in the wall around me. Finally, here was a man who validated my feelings about one of the most uncomfortable and confusing experiences of my life. He was angry for me, which made me begin to think that, just maybe, I could trust him.
I told Charles that the entire town of Radcliff had known of my father’s mistress and that he had made little attempt to hide his affair. In fact, I was the only one of the children who refused to meet her. Most evenings, after dinner, my father would announce that he was going for milk while my mother sat solemnly, head lowered, never questioning him about where he was really headed. It was generally well after midnight when his car pulled back into the driveway; the sound of the engine often woke me. My dad even said that he had never loved my mother and had only married her because she was pregnant and so poor and mistreated that she slept on two chairs she had pushed together to make a bed. My dad said she had “trapped” him by having so many kids and had her own secrets besides. He never said what she was supposedly hiding but often alluded to her having other men and remarked that at least he owned up to his mistakes.
No matter how bad the marriage, I knew my mother would never leave. She had no money, was a high school dropout, and had five children. It seemed to me that she was the one who was trapped. I vowed never to allow myself to be in the same position.
“The way I grew up shaped my views about men,” I explained to Charles. “I’ve had my guard up for so long that I don’t know what it feels like to lower it.”
Charles seemed to understand. He was careful not to move too fast, and I was enjoying the crush I had developed on him from a safe distance. Then, during one of our nightly talks, he said he wanted to know more about New York City. Flirtatiously, I said, “Let me show you my city.”
“Okay, when can I come visit?” he asked, seizing his opening.
“Urn, I don’t know” was all I could manage.
“I have a four-day pass in two weeks. Want me to see if I can find a ticket?”
“Sure, I guess so.”
It was becoming clear to me that, in his own unassuming way, Charles pursued what he wanted, which apparently was me. He said he had always admired strong women and liked my independence and the sense of purpose I drew from my career. He also thought I was beautiful—hips and all.
Despite myself, I had become smitten, too. He was a homebody and a family man. The weekend we met, he had been sweet with my six-year-old niece: when she giggled and asked to see his muscles, Charles lifted the squealing girl off the ground on his arm instead of flexing his biceps. And he had sat beside my father on the front porch, patiently listening to his old army stories. This was a man who adored children and respected his elders.
If only he were a civilian. If only he were a news junkie. If only he did not live so far away.
My father did not say it at the time, but he had hoped from the start that my budding friendship with Charles would develop into something more. He believed Charles was worthy of his feisty daughter’s affections.
“He had an inner strength that I knew was stone-cold soldier and stone-cold man,” my dad said later. “And he had compassion and a soft side.”
Even though I had grown up as the daughter of a military man, I did not yet understand the strength of character it took to be a career soldier, and I had no interest in that side of Charles. As the time of his visit drew near, all I could think was: He won’t be in uniform, but he’s still a soldier. Why am I doing this?
Two nights before Charles’s visit, I went out for drinks with my friend Mia and we discussed my potential new man. Mia, a reporter on the Metro desk, was like a big sister. I needed her advice.
“So do you like this guy?” she asked, sipping her Cosmo.
“I guess I do,” I said. “But he’s not exactly my type. I mean, what if I have to introduce him to the executive editor at a Times event? He mispronounces words and doesn’t keep up with the news.”
Mia rolled her lovely brown eyes and set down her glass.
“Listen,” she said, “how many Times parties do you go to with the executive editor anyway? And who cares if Charles doesn’t speak perfect English? You said he was nice, right?”
I looked away, ashamed for putting on such airs. I was a girl from Kentucky who had not even owned a suit when I went on my first job interview. For years I memorized new words in the dictionary to expand my vocabulary, and I never was any good with fractions. I worked two jobs in college to afford books and food and never came close to making the Dean’s List. Who did I think I was? A big shot who was too good for this big-hearted man?
There was something else, though. I still loved Greg.
Mia reminded me that he was seeing someone else. “It’s time for you to move on, too,” she said. “Just see what happens with Charles.”
She was right. I should at least give Charles a chance.
On the phone, the night before he arrived, I gingerly brought up the issue of sleeping arrangements. I told him I had a sofa bed, and he said that, of course, that was where he would sleep. I was relieved.
“What did you think I expected?” he said, laughingly.
“I don’t know,” I lied, “I just don’t want to set up any unrealistic expectations.”
It sounded silly even as I said it. The man was getting on a plane to spend the weekend in my home. I knew that this was the beginning of more than a friendship.
I quickly switched subjects, giving him directions to my apartment from LaGuardia Airport. I made him read them back to me and then told him how much the cab ride should cost and how much to tip the driver.
“But only if he helps you with your bags,” I instructed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Charles said, seeming amused.
This man had fought in Desert Storm and I was worried about him taking a taxi into Manhattan! We hung up and I lay in bed staring at the ceiling a long time, thinking about how different Charles and I were and how it did not seem to bother him the way it did me. If anything, he was intrigued by our differences.
I w
as not a soldier the way your father was, but there were moments when I felt as if I were on the front lines, too. As a New York Times business reporter who covered the finances, management, and product development of some of the largest corporations in the world—Procter & Gamble, McDonald’s, and Gillette among them—I had dined with the chief executives of Fortune 500 companies. I had written articles that moved their companies’ stocks on Wall Street
It was intense, rewarding work, but it was not the career I would have predicted for myself. As a young girl, I had written poems and short stories. I would lose myself in them for hours, forgetting the pain and confusion of arguments between my parents that ended with my mother trembling and in tears and my father heading out the door. In my high school scrapbook, I wrote that a decade after graduation I would be a writer in New York City, but I wasn’t thinking of reporting. I envisioned myself writing novels that would plumb hard truths about class and race and offer piercing insights into the dynamics between men and women—or fathers and daughters.
Being practical, though, I majored in journalism at the University of Kentucky, which put me on a path to a writing career with job security and health benefits. During the summers, I worked at newspapers, including the Plain Dealer in Cleveland in 1986 and the Wall Street Journal the following summer. Then I got a job after college as a police reporter at the Palm Beach Post in Florida.
That hot, miserable year made me much tougher: I drove into an approaching hurricane to write about an evacuation and went on drug raids with the police. But I was lonesome and missed the change of seasons. And I never got used to those god-awful little lizards everywhere.
Still, I liked nothing better than covering a juicy murder trial, so when the Plain Dealer approached me about a similar job in 1989,1 headed to the Midwest. I thrived. Cops would try to shake up the crime reporters, but they quickly saw that they couldn’t faze me. I once spent a day in prison interviewing a murderer, who casually explained how to produce “instant death, very little blood” by sticking a knife into a particular spot at the base of the skull. But I was best with grieving families. I cared, and they could tell.
