WHITE

by Neal Arbic

  Internally, both went over the eight month investigation: the many leads, the different suspects, all leading nowhere - how slowly her case files were moved off their desks or covered by other files. Lastly, they remembered the photo of Gwynette that stayed on the bulletin board for years, her grade three school picture, her missing-a-tooth smile like a benediction over the office: Gwynette Sanders - the patron saint of unsolved murders.

  Jack remembered the day in June, 1953, when he walked into the office and noticed the picture was gone. He realized then, the killer had gotten away.

  The hunter voice in both men whispered: maybe…if they opened the files again, they’d see it now. Maybe after all these years? Both men brushed the voice aside. They had already done that countless times on many a slow night.

  The music on the jukebox returned. The gaggle of voices brought them back to the here and now.

  Pat sighed. “Yeah. You’re not a real detective until you get a case…you never solve.”

  The two men were silent.

  Pat’s eyes lit up.AJack, you got someone in your family, your granddaughter. She must be a teenager now. You could talk to her.@

  “I haven’t talked to them since Martha’s funeral.”

  “The funeral? Why so long?”

  “My daughter, Lynn, had just got divorced, showed up with her kid and…a coon boyfriend. A coon! She held his hand as they lowered Martha into her grave.”

  Pat shot straight up with wide eyes. “She was dating a colored?”

  Humiliated, Jack spoke softly, “Yeah. Should have seen it coming when she got pregnant in college and never married that guy. She went wrong long ago.”

  Pat’s eyes were still wide with disbelief. “A colored? Your own daughter!”

  Jack nodded, deflated.

  Pat hunched back over the bar. “Well, she was a wild one, Jack. Hanging out with beatniks and all.” He put a comforting arm around his friend. “Jack. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “After the funeral, I swore I’d never talk to her again.”

  “That’s rough.” Pat pulled his arm away. “What do you think the chances are your granddaughter’s a hippie?”

  “She’d be about nineteen. Yeah, I’m sure she’s the barefooted type, if she’s anything like her mother.”

  Pat shook his head. “Well, you need a real hippie - hundred percent – a pot smoking, cop hater – who’s not afraid of you, who doesn’t see you as the law. Delware may be young, but he’s still a police officer. No one can be a full fledge hippie with a badge and gun. Cops see the world in a certain way. You need to talk to your granddaughter. Give her an unofficial visit, off the record, just family stuff.” He swigged his last beer.

  ***

  The night was misty and the streets abandoned. Jack weaved under the glow of a street lamp, fishing for coins in his pockets. A few drunken off-duty cops stumbled out from O’Malley’s across the street. Jack lurched into a phone booth. He tried to drop a coin in, it took him three tries. Finally, he dialed, very slowly.

  The operator came on. “You’ll need to deposit another nickel to place your call.”

  Jack grumbled.

  The female voice returned. “Sir, are you still there? You’ll need to deposit another nick-”

  “Yeah, yeah, you stupid broad! Shut up, will ya!”

  Another nickel disappeared into the slot. Jack listened to the phone ring at the other end. Then a sleepy voice questioned from the other side. “Hello?”

  “Hi Lynn.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  Then came a startled panic. “Is everything all right?”

  Jack gave a slurred, “Yeah, yeah.”

  There was a pause on the other end. She had caught the slur and was already rolling her eyes. “What is it, dad?”

  “Where is Julia?”

  “Julia? She’s in San Francisco. Frank was just out there.”

  “Yeah, I don’t give a shit about him.”

  It hadn’t even been a minute and already she was exhausted by her father. “So what do you want, dad?”

  “Her address.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to pay her a visit.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t a man visit his own granddaughter? Are you going to give me her address or not?”

  “Hold on.”

  Jack listened to his daughter’s breathing, drawers opening, paper rustling. He had loved Lynn as a child. She was sweeter than sunshine - a fine young lady. Jack worked hard and broke a lot of rules to get the money needed to give her what he and his family never had: a college education. But she came back pregnant by a beatnik boyfriend. She was another person then. She spoke about equality for blacks and women, criticizing the way Jack treated Martha – his own wife! Lynn started calling him a fascist, a male chauvinist. He hadn’t sent her to college to come back a goddamn communist.

  Jack felt betrayed by his daughter, his country, the crummy college he had given all his money to. What the hell are they teaching these kids in school today anyways?

  “Dad, are you ready?”

  Sunday, August 24th, 1969, 6:45 PM

  From LA, Jack tore up the I-5 into San Francisco in less than six hours. The sun began to sink behind the Golden Gate Bridge as he headed towards The Haight: an abundance of cheap student housing gone mad. By the time he hit the stop sign at Haight and Ashbury all types of music filled the air: rock, jazz, folk. He couldn’t believe it. Hippies were everywhere: long hairs sauntering down the streets, bare-foots sitting on the sidewalks, beards inside mini-vans, girls with flowers in their hair hanging out of windows, young women in saris, mini-skirts and big floppy feathered hats, bare-chested guys riding down the streets on motorcycles. Blacks and whites laughed, walking together like there was no difference between them. It was a world upside down.

  He turned onto Page Street. The low rent Victorians on the sloping side streets were painted up like rainbows. The Packard pulled up in front of a broken down mansion painted lemon yellow. Black spray-painted letters across the second floor declared: Yellow Submarine.

  Jack made his way up multi-colored steps and knocked. Music blared behind the door. It opened revealing a young black man wearing nothing, but a stoned smile. Jack took a step back, trying to comprehend. The stoned smile vanished. Even in plain clothes, Jack’s gray crew cut and grim face were more conspicuous than any badge.

  The man tried to close the door, but Jack’s foot wedged it open.

  His voice came from behind the door. “Hey, look, man. You need a warrant to come in here. I know my rights!”

  “Relax, this isn’t business. I’m looking for Julia Middleton. She’s my granddaughter.”

  The door stopped pushing on Jack’s foot. “There’s no Julia here, man.” He peeked out at Jack, his eyes lit up. “Aaahhh, Julia. You mean Missy.”

  Jack didn’t like the way he said ‘Missy.’

  The door opened, the music became clearer. Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane spun on a turntable inside.

  “Come in, man.” Smiling and nodding, the man was amused to see someone so straight enter the Submarine. “I’m Coyote.”

  The smell of marijuana wafted through the foyer. A three-legged hound scampered across the elaborate parquet floor. Two Siamese cats eyed the strange visitor from a broken sweeping staircase.

  Jack took a step, but Coyote held up a hand. “Wait! I wish there was a hip way to say this, but there are some preliminaries. I know you’re off-duty, so you shouldn’t mind this.”

  Coyote began to frisk Jack. “You see. We don’t know where your head’s at…and…no one enters the Submarine with firearms.”

  Jack smiled at his amateur pat down.

  Finishing Jack’s legs, Coyote rose. “Sorry, man. After those murders in LA, the whole scene is pretty uptight.”

  They passed a crowded living room of hippies sprawling on pillows, couches, and window sills. Walls were painted with florescent colors
in abstract shapes. Stuffed animals littered the floor. There were blacks, Asians, white kids, all lounging together, huddled like a family – laughing and whispering; rolling, passing and smoking joints.

  Jack stopped and counted the illegal activities: a line of coke on a handheld mirror, a bowl of colored pills and capsules, loud rock music way above the noise ordnance. Their faces turned concerned at his appearance. Coyote interjected, “He’s cool, man. He’s looking for Missy.”

  One kid pointed a bitter finger. “He look’s like a cop!”

  “Cool it, man. He’s her granddad.”

  Coyote lead Jack past a kitchen where long-haired guys played guitars and beaded girls drummed on pots. Leading him up the backstairs, the black man’s big naked buttocks were right in Jack’s face. The second floor was a maze of rooms, each doorway revealed strange new scenes: a dope fiend’s pad, a meditation loft with candles and hippies doing yoga, a dim den of naked hippies spacing out to soft, sensual jazz.

  Looking back at Jack, Coyote smiled proudly. “Some real shit is happening here.” He led him around another corner. “So what’s your scene, man?”

  Jack frowned. “What? Speak English, will ya.”

  Coyote glanced back at the confused old man. “I mean, why are you here…to rap to your granddaughter about?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  Coyote shook his head. “You scared me, man. I’m about to leave. I’m dodging the draft and headed down Mexico way. I thought you were coming to drag my ass off to Vietnam. Man, I’m not going 10,000 miles to murder people so the white slave-masters can dominate dark people on that side of the world too. Fuck that! This is the day and age when that evil shit comes to an end, dig?”

  If Jack had his cuffs, he would have slapped them on and dragged the kid to the nearest army base. Jack growled, “You afraid to fight?”

  “Hell, no! I was raised in the ghetto, man. It’s just that I ain't got no quarrel with the VietCong...no VietCong ever called me nigger.”

  Coyote stopped before a purple door. He motioned. “That’s her room, man.” Smiling at Jack, he sauntered away.

  There was music on the other side: Coltrane’s A Love Supreme. Jack stood outside the door for almost ten minutes, staring at the floor, trying to picture his granddaughter, the last time he saw her, what she was wearing, how old she was. But he couldn’t picture her now. He whispered to himself, “Eight years.”

  He opened the door.

  Before him was a large room with high ceilings. A hippie was on his knees painting circles onto a young woman’s naked breast. She stood completely naked and smiled at the stranger in the doorway. The hippie on his knees turned and squinted. “Can I help you, man?”

  Jack barked. “Yeah, you can get the hell away from my granddaughter, you fucking pervert!”

  The hippie jumped to his feet backing away, waving his arms. “Hey man, I’m an artist. Everything is righteous. No need to flip out.”

  Without a hint of shame, the woman cocked her hip to one side. “Granddad?”

  Jack lowered his head and covered his eyes with his thick shaking hand. “Goddamn, Julia, cover yourself, will ya!”

  The young woman took her time slipping on a summer dress. The artist took advantage of the old man’s blindness to make his escape, closing the door quietly behind him.

  She smiled at her grandfather’s embarrassment. “You can look now.”

  Jack lowered his hand and a woman appeared before him. He shook his head. “You were just a kid last time I saw you.”

  Julia smiled. “I was eleven.”

  Jack thought of Martha’s funeral and whispered, “Eight years.”

  His granddaughter pointed to an unmade mattress on the floor. “Sorry, I don’t have a chair, but we can sit on the bed.”

  Jack made his way over and awkwardly sat down. She sat beside him, brushing the hair from her face.

  Smelling hashish smoke in the air, Jack looked at the grimy floor and the second-hand dresses draped over milk crate bookshelves. “How the hell can you live like this?”

  Julia shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “We’re not hurting anyone, Grandpa.”

  Jack frowned.

  Julia straightened her dress. “We share everything. It’s really beautiful.”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s pinko, commie talk.”

  Julia’s smile only widened. “No, it’s not, Grandpa. It’s love.”

  Jack waved her words away. “You kids should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  She frowned. “Why shouldn’t people be free to live as they choose? We’re not judging each other here, we listen and create a space where everyone can find themselves. What’s so wrong with doing your own thing?”

  “It’s immoral, illegal.”

  Julia’s face hardened. “Grandpa, don’t be so uptight. If more people turned on, the world would be a more peaceful place.”

  Jack didn’t know it, but he was entering a debate that raged in living rooms, bedrooms and classrooms across America: young versus old, tradition versus freedom. A generation gap so wide one side could barely hear the other. It remained relatively civil for the first twenty minutes, after that, they began sniping. Jack was immovable. “All I’m saying is, get a job, get a haircut and grow up, will ya!”

  Julia’s voice was turning hot and cold. “You’re just part of the establishment; telling us how to live, how to think. Young people are experimenting, looking for new ways, new doors into reality. Why should we copy you?” Julia got up and paced. “Your generation labels everyone. All you care about is profits. There won’t even be an America if we don’t change. We’re poisoning the earth! The cold war could wipe out the whole human race in seconds! Why would we want to be like you? We’re not free in America. We’re judged by our sex, race and wealth. Well, we don’t want your cold war, gray suits, and little box houses in the suburbs…or marriages that end in divorce. We want to get back to what’s real, to nature. Is that so hard to understand?”

  Jack reached for his flask, but found the pocket empty. He shook his head. “My generation worked hard - all our lives - to give you kids the opportunities we never had…and now you throw it back in our face like it’s worth nothing!”

  As they passed the hour mark, Julia’s young pretty face was red. “Every week a hundred boys come back dead from Vietnam, and a hundred more are drafted. You say that’s the price of freedom, well, where was their freedom?!”

  His temper boiled. “Hey! Watch your mouth! This is America, love it or leave it.”

  They moved on to family stories: stories Jack would rather forget. Arguments that had started with his daughter decades ago returned. Now his life was on trial and his daughter, granddaughter, sat in judgment. Julia raised an accusing finger. “You think women should stay at home, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen! Just like Grandma, whose biggest worry was the length of hemlines that year, getting her hair done every week and up in rollers every night. Women have a right to choose their own lives!”

  Years of frustration, watching his daughter go astray, came back in a flash. “Is it too much to ask you kids to show some respect and live like decent human beings!” Jack waved an angry finger. “You know your mother is to blame for this - dating that goddamn Negro right in front of you!”

  As they neared the two hour mark they were reduced to insults. Jack’s arm waved at the disheveled room. “So this is what you want? To live like a bunch of animals?”

  Julia stood militant and proud. “Animals? Who do you think you are?” She stabbed an accusing finger. “The police are nothing but the goon squad for the rich capitalist pigs!”

  The word ‘pigs’ slapped Jack across the face. He paused, her words replayed in his head. “What did you just say?”

  “You’re part of the uptight pig power structure.”

  “Capitalist pig?”

  “Yeah! Rich, greedy pigs!”

  It shook Jack to the core. The song Piggies played in his head: the harpsichord, the sn
ide voice. It clicked: ‘pig’ didn’t mean cop. It meant rich. It meant the establishment. It meant anyone living in Bel Air. Jack fell silent –snatches of lyrics whirled inside is head. The White Album started to fit together.