Southland

by Nina Revoyr

She was looking into Jackie’s face now, worriedly. And Jackie, from her considerable distance, experienced her lover’s hand on her breast like a cold, wet reptile. “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s just…not now.”

  Laura pulled away completely. She walked across the room and then turned to look at Jackie. “What is it? Tell me. What’s bothering you?”

  Jackie looked at Laura. It would be so easy to say that everything was fine; that she was just tired and feeling moody, and until a couple of months ago, that was what she would have done. Then her anger would fester inside her with all the other, older angers, eating away at her stomach, driving her to the medicine cabinet for the chalky white liquid she always used to neutralize her rage. And she didn’t exactly know what was troubling her, anyway—or she knew what it was, but didn’t know why it should matter, when such things didn’t normally bother her.

  “Why isn’t Jimenez standing up for those women in Westlake?”

  Laura looked at her as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language. “What do you mean?”

  “The Thai workers, the indentured servants. I heard they might be getting deported. Why isn’t Manny trying to stop it?” She knew she sounded ridiculous, and was too angry now to care.

  Laura laced her fingers together behind her neck and exhaled. “It’s not as simple as you think,” she said. “There are a lot of factors—home country situation, certain criminal records. The press has made it sound like a case of slavery.”

  Jackie stepped into the middle of the room. “It is that simple. Those women might be getting deported, and other council members are making a stink, but your boss is too concerned about his own selfish ass to speak out about it, isn’t he?”

  “He’s not—”

  “Isn’t he?”

  Laura backed away and looked down at the floor. “You really don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re right, I don’t understand. Manny Jimenez, of all people. I mean, give me a fucking break. If those women were Latino, he’d be having a press conference on the steps of City Hall every day, and you know it. But then again, he’s a politician, so I guess it’s not surprising that he’s going back on everything he’s ever stood for. But what I really don’t understand,” she paused and glared at Laura, “is how you can go along with this.”

  Laura’s cheeks filled with color. “Well, I don’t understand why you care so much. Since when are you concerned about what happens to those women?”

  “Since now. And what really bothers me is why Jimenez is doing this.”

  “What are you talking about? You should get this, Jackie. Sure, those women were in an awful situation. But that doesn’t make them any less illegal. I’m not saying that Manny wants them to get sent back to Thailand. He’s just taking a second to think about it.”

  “Right. And this would have nothing to do with his wanting to run for mayor.”

  Laura narrowed her eyes. “Jackie, that’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “Well, it’s not as horrible as what he’s doing.”

  “He’s not doing anything. He’s just waiting to see how things develop. People shouldn’t take a position on such a controversial issue until they have all the facts.”

  Jackie looked at Laura as if she’d never seen her before. “Jesus, you’re quoting right from the manual. Just listen to yourself. It’s crazy.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  “I can’t believe you’re talking to me like this,” Laura countered. “I mean, you’re the one who encouraged me to take this job in the first place, and now you’re jumping on me for supporting the man I work for.”

  “That’s before I knew that supporting him would mean going back on yourself.”

  Laura stared at her, mouth open. “Fuck you,” she said calmly. “Just fuck you.” She paced back and forth, and then turned back to Jackie. “You know what I think this is really about? It’s about the fact that I don’t tell you what I’m working on anymore. I mean, God forbid I keep anything from you. Since you, of course, tell me everything that you do.”

  “Oh, Jesus. This isn’t even about me.”

  “Of course it is,” said Laura, “Isn’t everything?”

  They stood there now, not moving, just glaring at each other, Jackie feeling the pull of the door. She remembered the sensation of Laura’s hand on her hip, on her breast, and she stepped backwards, away from the memory. Now, looking at Laura—at her red cheeks, her tense mouth, her blond hair and milky skin—she felt a repulsion so strong it made her shudder. “I’ve got to go,” she said, and then she walked out the door and slammed it behind her. She half-hoped that Laura would follow her, but the door didn’t open again. And as she walked down to Oakwood and headed toward home, she remembered what Laura had been like the first year she’d known her, when she was still in college, and even the first few months after she’d moved to L.A. She’d been so full of conviction then, so strong in her faith in government; in her belief that it could be used to help people. Jackie had been half-amused by Laura’s idealism, but also more than a little admiring. She couldn’t believe that the same person she knew back then could rationalize the current situation. She couldn’t believe that she herself was so upset about it. And what scared her, more than anything, wasn’t that Laura was going along with what Jimenez was doing, but that she didn’t even seem to see it clearly. She wondered if Laura really believed her explanations; whether she was honestly that far gone. And if she was, Jackie thought, then she was turning into someone that Jackie didn’t want to know anymore.

  When Jackie reached her own place, she sat on the couch and turned on the news. There was a piece about the workers, further details of what their captors had made them endure. Then a story about the murder of a young Asian man in Orange County whose killer had been caught because of letters he’d written, bragging about murdering a chink. Then a story about white parents in Cerritos who were upset about the influx of Asians. One woman, despite her child’s junior high being one of the top-ranked schools in the state, announced, “I haven’t paid taxes for twenty years for my daughter to be a minority in her own school.” Jackie shook her head, not believing what she heard. Had it always been like this? Had she simply failed to notice? Because she was thinking such things, she picked up the phone and called Rebecca. Her heart beat with an anticipation which surprised her; please, she thought, let her be home. When Rebecca answered on the fourth ring, Jackie sighed in relief. “Wanna get drunk?” she asked without saying hello.

  Rebecca paused for a moment, and Jackie could feel her smiling. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll be right over.”

  The phone woke Jackie up in the morning. It was a wrong number, and as she fumbled with the receiver, trying to hang it up again, she wondered why anyone would call so early on a Saturday morning. Then she looked at her bedside clock. She felt dizzy and weak, but even through the haze of her hangover she could make out the blurry red numbers: 11:36.

  “Shit,” she said aloud. When she tried to get out of bed, it was as if a giant, flat hand was holding her down. She sank back into her pillows, closed her eyes, and cursed herself for drinking so much. Rebecca had come over a little after eight, and they’d walked up to Santa Monica Boulevard, had dinner and drinks at the French Market Place. They’d only had appetizers—nachos and potato skins—but their favorite waiter, Dennis, kept bringing them beers and vodka shots until they could barely keep their heads off the table. Wincing now, Jackie tried to recall how they’d gotten back, and wondered if Rebecca had made it home. But then she remembered, hazily, that she’d set her friend up on the couch. She dragged herself out of bed, put on a robe, and staggered out to the living room. Rebecca was twisted in blankets, fully clothed, and when she saw Jackie, she groaned.

  “Are you living?” Jackie asked.

  “Barely.” She waggled her brown boots in Jackie’s direction. “Bitch, why didn’t you at least take off my shoes?�
�

  “You think I was doing any better than you?”

  “Well, you managed to get yourself undressed.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve had years of practice.”

  Jackie sat down on the end of the couch and Rebecca propped her boot-clad feet on her lap.

  “God,” Rebecca said, “Are you as hungover as me?”

  “It’s not too bad. My head hurts, though. Does yours?”

  “I don’t know. I’m lost in such a haze right now that I can’t even tell where it is.”

  For the next ten minutes they did a postmortem on the evening, pausing now and then to hold their heads.

  “Listen,” Jackie said finally. “You’ve got to go soon.”

  “Wait. You get me roaring drunk, painfully hungover, and now you’re just kicking me out?”

  “You have to. I’m sorry. I’m having company.”

  “Laura?”

  “No. The guy from Crenshaw—James Lanier.” She’d almost forgotten—he was coming over at 12:30 to look at the things in the box.

  “Oh,” Rebecca said, sounding way too interested. “You mean, I don’t get to meet him?”

  “Well, see, no. I—”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “In like half an hour.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to see if I’m ready by then.”

  She smiled, and Jackie rolled her eyes, knowing that her friend was staying put. Jackie needed coffee, water, a shower. She still had to straighten up the apartment and she didn’t want Rebecca to answer the door, so she just started a pot of coffee and postponed her grooming. She gathered her notebooks and papers and stuffed them into her schoolbag. She fluffed the pillows on the couch and placed them back neatly, working around Rebecca, who was dressed now and watching with amusement. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  “Hey,” Lanier said when she opened the door.

  “Hey,” answered Jackie. “Come in.”

  She moved aside to let him pass and shut the door after him. He was dressed casually today, in Saturday clothes—worn jeans, sneakers, a faded blue sweatshirt, a beaten old cap that said “Long Beach State”—and he looked decidedly boyish.

  “You a fan?” she asked, indicating the cap.

  Lanier touched the lid self-consciously. “No. Well, kind of. I went there.”

  “Really?” said Rebecca. “So did I.”

  Jackie and Lanier turned toward her. She was sitting on the couch, made-up and smiling, and she looked like she was waiting for a date.

  “Uh, James,” said Jackie, “this is my friend Rebecca, from law school. Rebecca, this is James.”

  “Hi,” Rebecca said. She stood and crossed the room in what seemed like one huge step and held her hand out for Lanier. He shook it. “So when’d you go there?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “State.”

  “Oh. Well, a long time ago. Way before you, I’m sure.”

  “It couldn’t have been that long ago.”

  “I graduated in ’80.”

  “Really. Well.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You look great for such an old man.”

  Lanier laughed a bit nervously. She kept smiling at him, head cocked to one side, and Jackie could see what Rebecca thought about Lanier, and didn’t like it at all, and couldn’t figure out who she was jealous of.

  “Anyway,” Jackie said, “Rebecca was just leaving. Right, Rebecca?” She gave her friend a look.

  Rebecca nodded at Jackie. “Catch you later,” she said. Then, to Lanier, “It was a pleasure.”

  When she was gone, Jackie didn’t know what to say. “Long night,” is what she came up with. “Too much to drink.”

  She indicated that he should sit, and went to get him some coffee. She was definitely jumpy this morning. Lanier wasn’t helping matters, either. He was paying attention a little too closely, which made Jackie feel scrutinized. Now, when she came back to the living room, he was standing up again, looking at a picture of her and Laura at Laura’s birthday party the year before. They had their arms around each other and they looked happy. Lanier turned when he heard Jackie enter, and she could tell by the smile on his face, by the way he looked at her, that he understood. She expected him to ask about Laura, but instead he asked, “Is this your family?”

  He was pointing at another birthday party picture, her father’s, from several years ago. Jackie said that it was. She pointed out her mother, her father, her paternal grandparents—Frank hadn’t gone to this party. She showed him another picture of Mary and Frank in front of their house in Gardena, and then another, of her college graduation. But Lanier was there to see other pictures, the ones in the box, so she retrieved it from her bedroom and carefully handed it over. They both sat down on the couch. Lanier gently lifted the lid off and picked up one of the velvet boxes. He opened it, and his eyes grew wide.

  “Wow,” he said finally. “This is a Silver Star.” He opened the other one and whistled. “And this is a Purple Heart. Did he ever show these to you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never saw them before this week.”

  Lanier put the medals down and started sifting through papers, smiling at an article about Jackie’s moot court victory at the law school the previous year. He held this up, along with several pictures of her. “This man loved you,” he said, and Jackie couldn’t tell if the odd, low tone in his voice was scolding. He shuffled through the news clippings, flipped over a couple of postcards. There were several envelopes, but Jackie had found nothing interesting in the letters, so Lanier just set them aside. He looked at the obituaries and then the letter from Curtis, and he seemed to age years right in front of her. He pressed his lips together and then shook his head slowly when he saw the pictures of Frank at the store. “This is him, that’s exactly what it looked like.” He held up the shot of Frank and Old Man Larabie, and then the second one, which he tilted to get better light. “And this is Derek Broadnax, you know.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “They look exactly like I remember them. This couldn’t have been too long before Watts.” His voice was shaky and he was rocking a little. Instead of laying this last picture on the coffee table with everything else, he placed it next to him on the couch. “Is there a picture of Curtis?”

  “I think so,” Jackie said, pointing into the box. “At the bottom. There’s a picture of a bunch of people at a bowling alley and I’m sure it’s the Holiday Bowl.”

  Lanier looked into the box, pushed some papers aside, and fished the picture out of the bottom. He held the photograph up at eye level. Jackie watched him examine it, saw his mouth twist and his eyebrows furrow. “I don’t see Curtis here. I don’t recognize these boys at all.”

  “Really?” said Jackie. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” Lanier replied, tilting the picture this way and that. He shook his head. “Curtis isn’t in this picture. I don’t know any of these—” He stopped. “Wait—holy Jesus.”

  Jackie leaned forward. “What?”

  He brought the picture in closer, and then lowered it and looked up at Jackie. “This is Alma.”

  She stared at him, confused. “But she’s, those people…”

  “Look here,” Lanier said. He held the picture out and tapped the image of the girl on the end. The girl was elegant and thin and straight-backed. She was wearing a simple white v-neck blouse and a long dark skirt; her hair was held back by a clip or a tie. She was smiling at the camera easily, and Jackie thought she was beautiful—deep brown skin, strong nose, generous mouth, and the expression on her face was confident, direct.

  Jackie looked at Lanier, whose face was closer now, leaning over the picture. “Are you sure that it’s her?”

  “Yes. No doubt.”

  “How old do you think she was?”

  Lanier shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot younger than when I knew her. Late teens, early twenties, maybe.”

  “How do you think he got this picture?”

  “I don’t know,” Lanier
said. “Maybe he asked her for it.”

  Jackie looked at it again and wondered if Alma had, in fact, given Frank a picture of herself. The questions flew at her from all directions, impossible to handle all at once. Why would Frank have had this photo, and what could it have meant? Exactly how well had Frank known Curtis’s mother? She met Lanier’s eyes, not saying a word, and they just sat there and stared at each other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CURTIS—1963, 1965

  SIXTY-THREE was the year Curtis started to change. That was the year of police dogs and firehoses, the year a bomb killed four girls at a Birmingham church. Every night there was a story of violence or resistance in Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas. But despite his mother’s attempts to link the Movement with their lives, despite the lectures from Angela’s oldest brother, Gene, about white devils and separate existence, despite Akira Matsumoto’s denouncing of cops whenever he came into the store, all the politics and protest had seemed distant to Curtis—as far away as news of war in Europe. The day after Bull Conner let German shepherds loose on children, Curtis and Alma were watching a second night of television commentary. Curtis shook his head at one of the people talking, an organizer for the Ku Klux Klan. “Man, I’m glad we live in L.A. It’s messed up down there.”

  His mother looked at him sideways. “Down there?” The way she said it made him know that she meant, “and it’s not messed up out here?”

  “Well, the white people in California ain’t that bad,” Curtis said—except, he thought, for one.

  “They worse,” said Bruce from the dining room table, where he sat polishing a pair of shoes. “Here, the white man smiles when he’s got murder in his heart. Down home, he don’t act like he likes you, so at least you always know where you stand.”

  “You really think it’s that bad out here?”

  Bruce put his shoes down on a newspaper. “Curtis, every day I got to answer to this skinny young white boy who never once in his life has got his hands dirty. He couldn’t run a machine if he had to, yet he pays me less than the white men who got easier jobs. A foreman’s no different than a master, far as I’m concerned. Ain’t no mistake people call this place the Southland.”