He entered the minuscule lobby, with its spotted rug and seven threadbare chairs, and waddled to the reception desk. No one was there. Peering off, he saw the pimply young clerk at a table in the office, head in his arms, snoring softly. Leroy Poole went behind the desk, pulled down his key, and then walked toward the rickety self-service elevator. He paused at the newspaper rack, to buy the late edition, but the rack was empty. Disappointed because he had anticipated seeing the space the Mississippi demonstration received, he considered going out in search of a newspaper. At that moment he sighted one newspaper folded on a chair. It proved to be a discarded early evening edition, and the headlines proclaimed T. C.’s death and Speaker MacPherson’s succession to the Presidency.
Leroy Poole took the newspaper up to his second-floor room, and once he had bolted his door, he sought the results of the Turnerite demonstration in Hattiesburg. As page after page made no report of it, he began to believe that the newspaper had been printed too early to carry the news. And then, on page eighteen, he found it.
The wire service story was brief: To counteract the terror of the revived Ku Klux Klan in Mississippi, a Negro activist group, the Turnerites, had sent twelve members, wearing black hoods and robes, to picket a department store owned by the local Klan’s Grand Dragon; the white proprietor had rushed out, unmasked one Turnerite picket, and thrown sulphuric acid in his face, permanently blinding him; the Negroes had gone berserk, beating the white Klan leader, smashing his store windows and damaging most of the showcases inside; the armed police and their dogs had come, and two of the Turnerites were in the county hospital, critically injured, and the other ten were in jail.
The news report infuriated Leroy Poole in two ways. First, it related that the Turnerites had retaliated for Klan violence with peaceful if dramatic picketing, and, as always, had been brutally attacked; and second, this horrible story, deserving of a page-one notice which might inspire national revulsion and action, had been buried on a back page because, unluckily, the President of the United States had died.
This defeat, as well as all his other frustrations and disappointments, had again filled his head, the instant the alarm jangled this morning. It would not be easy to undertake his daily exercise, and for seconds he considered skipping the exercise this once, but then he knew that he must not permit himself any inner flabbiness.
After that, he began his calisthenics.
Alabama. State flower: camellia. State tree: Southern pine. Motto: We Dare Defend Our Rights. Whose rights, you bastards? Father, a cotton picker, old, old at forty, dead at forty-one of malnutrition, pneumonia, fright. Mom, maid, cook, laundress, slavery (“Look, old lady, we know that lying nigger talk of yours, so if you’re too sick to come to work, you stay sick and stay home for good”). Older sister, prostitute for peckerwoods, not even mossbacks, but red-neck pecker-woods, the gutless bitch. Older brother, high I.Q., a shoeshine entrepreneur. His favorite cousin, grave outside Mobile. Almost a teacher. Walking in the woods with an educated white girl. Seen. Next day, six grabbed him, putting a blowtorch in his face. Leroy, Mom’s hope, youngest, running scared, hiding scared, hungry. Jewed by the hunchback, kicked and stoned by the squat red-necks, stealing once, twice, three times, wanting books, wanting everything, having nothing, but shoved, spat upon, threatened, cursed at, slapped, scared, always scared.
Pennsylvania. State flower: mountain laurel. State tree: hemlock. State motto: Virtue, Liberty, and Independence. Job in a trucking firm. Bullied and underpaid. No friends. No service in restaurants. No rooms in rooming houses. No nothing. Only freedom to read and read and read. College. Himself lonely, isolated, freakish. Scared, writing good English papers, amusing one white girl. She curious. Some meetings to talk literature. Discovered. Boy friends “protecting” her. Behind the gym at night. Holding him down, pulling off his pants, shorts, brandishing knives, then laughing (“Not enough to cut off, black boy, but keep it buttoned or you’ll lose it”). Humiliated, scared, quitting. North worse than South, because of pretense. North worse, because no place else to go.
New York City. New York Harlem. Flower: none. Tree: none. Motto: Don’t Want Your Daughter, Mister, Just Want Half Her Freedom. Black ghetto Harlem. Squalid, stinking, poverty, danger. Knives, booze, heroin, hot goods. Fleabags and tenements, and dinner out of garbage cans. Listening to New York voices, white: They’re illiterate, they’re shiftless, they’re not dependable, they’re criminals, they’re best in their place. Listening to Harlem voices, black voices: They sure is mean folk, they smells more than us, they is gougin’ crooks, they scared of us more than us of them, they no good never. Talk a waste. Learning, improving, escaping, all that counts. Reading books still free. Finding writer’s magazine in library, finding writing is paid for. Writing, writing, writing, first writing foolish white writing for money, can’t sell, then writing the Leroy way about what’s inside, crude, true, and the small magazine saying come over, and the Jew editor, a good Jew, saying you write, we’ll buy. Writing, writing, writing, and never stopping until his people make the scene, the American scene, but all of it still too slow. Need to cry out, to protest. Need to talk to someone, Mom too far, too scared. Joining everything. NAACP. Too slow. Crispus Society. Too slow. New thing, Turnerites, doers, not scared. Better. Much better. Mister, what’s wrong with me marrying your daughter? What’s so special about her? And, mister, who in the hell are you that’s in any way better than me?
As this exercising went on, strength growing through hot memory of oppression, Leroy Poole began to feel invigorated and purposeful. He decided that he would do one more minute of it before rising. His mind returned to the South, to personal offenses, to recollections of being shoved off the street, hustled to the rear of a bus, to degradations that he had witnessed, to recollections of his cousin being turned away from the polling place, his best friend being hooted away from the white high school. His mind did these push-ups, sit-ups, bends; his mind shadowboxed and ran a mile, until the blood throbbed in his temples, and his breathing came in gasps, and the rage coursed through his blood to quicken his heart and his determination never to relent.
It was the ringing of the telephone that stopped his exercise.
Satisfied with his preparation for the day, he shoved himself off the bed, hitched up his pajamas, and on bare feet hastened to the chipped telephone next to the armchair. Sitting, taking up the phone, he hoped that it would be Jeff Hurley, with a full report of the Mississippi trouble, and anxious to enlist Leroy Poole’s advice as a member of the Turnerite strategy board.
“Yeh, hello?”
“Oh, hello there. I hope I have the right room. Is this Leroy Poole, the writer?” The voice from the other end surprised him, for it came from a female, unmistakably from a refined Southern female.
“That’s right. This is Leroy Poole.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting your work, Mr. Poole. This is Sally Watson. Remember me?”
The name reminded him of no lady of his acquaintance. This did not surprise him. There were not many. However, occasionally club-women called, to request him to lecture or sit in on a civil rights panel. “I’m not sure, ma’am. The name is familiar.”
“Last night,” she was saying, somewhat distraughtly. “We met last night at the party for you. I was there with a friend. I’m Senator Hoyt Watson’s daughter—”
He placed her now. The well-shaped, edgy blonde. “Of course,” he said, “of course. How could anyone forget you?” He swallowed, restrained himself, not yet prepared to go on in this vein with a white girl, not while the remembrance of his cousin’s grave outside Mobile and his own humiliation behind the college gym were alive within him. “I enjoyed the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Watson.”
“And I enjoyed hearing you read from your new novel. I think it’s wonderful.”
Wonderful, he thought, a savage novel in which whites were reduced to a ten-per-cent minority in one imagined American county. “I’m glad you were open-minded enough to like it,” he said.
“Don’t let my accent or my father’s voting record fool you,” she said. “I’m quite my own person, and I count at least fifty Negroes among my good friends.” She paused, and then she said, “You must be very excited about the news this morning.”
“What news?” he asked.
“The new President, I mean.”
“Oh, that. I read all about it last night. I don’t think there’s anything especially exciting about MacPherson becoming President. He—”
“MacPherson?” She almost screamed the name through the telephone. “You mean you don’t know?”
He was utterly bewildered. “Know what? I just woke up, and I—”
“MacPherson died, too. One of your own people was sworn in as President last night. Your friend Douglass Dilman.”
The news vibrated in his ear. He sat thunderstruck, speechless and uncomprehending.
“Mr. Poole, are you there?”
“I—yes—I—are you sure? I can’t believe it.”
“It’s the truth. It’s all over the place. Everyone’s talking about it. Well, I’m glad I could bring you the news—”
“Miss Watson, you’ve knocked me out. I’d better turn on my radio and find out what’s been going on. I sure appreciate your—”
“Mr. Poole,” she called to him urgently, “I really phoned about something else. I wanted to discuss a personal matter—”
“Look, jingle me back in ten minutes, will you? I’ll be right here. Thanks, Miss Watson.”
He slammed the receiver down, almost certain that he was having his leg pulled, jumped up, and found his tiny red transistor radio. As he switched it on, he became positive that she had been teasing him. How in the devil could a rabbit-hearted twerp like Dilman become President of the United States? He was only a second-rate senator, and a Negro besides. That dizzy, sick dame, with her sadistic Southern joke, damn her.
The volume on the transistor radio was turned high, and the pontifical voice of a network editorial philosopher engulfed him. He listened, incredulous, and then began spinning the selector to other stations. There were news broadcasts. There were interpretive analysts. There were discussion panels. There were taped reports from the man on the street. There were faded reports from London, Paris, Moscow, Rome, Tokyo. Miss Watson was right. It was true. His boy Dilman was the Chief Executive of America the Beautiful. Lor’ Mighty! I’ll be John Browned!
He listened for five minutes, until he had the facts and they had sunk in, and then he turned the radio off. He wheezed about the room in his baggy pajamas, trying to sort it out, convert it into a facsimile of reality. Once he interrupted his walking, thinking, to ring the desk downstairs and ask the clerk to send the handyman next door for a carton of coffee and a doughnut, overcoming resistance with the promise of an extravagant half-dollar tip.
He resumed his heavy pacing, which finally led him into the closet-sized bathroom. By the time he had finished his quick shaving, nicking himself twice, his washing, and had changed into sweat shirt, corduroys, and moccasins, his mind had moved from the enormity of the news and narrowed down to himself. What did this upheaval mean to Leroy Poole?
His weeks of intimate conversation with Dilman made it clearly evident that the Senator, now President, was a loner. Whenever Poole had begged for relatives or friends whom he might consult for more objective information, Dilman had turned him aside. “I have almost no one close to me,” he had said. Eventually Poole had extracted several names: Dilman’s son, Julian, at Trafford University; Dilman’s maiden aunt, Beatrice, in Los Angeles; Dilman’s old sponsor and still political boss in his home state, the union leader, Slim Dubowsky; Dilman’s tenant, the Reverend Paul Spinger; Dilman’s acquaintance, the national chairman of the Party, Allan Noyes; Dilman’s good friend in the Second World War, the liberal trial attorney, Nathan Abrahams, in Chicago. “That’s about it, Leroy,” Dilman had said on that occasion. “Fact is, except maybe for Nat Abrahams, you yourself know me as well as, maybe better than, any of them.”
Of this list of friends, Poole now saw, he himself was one of the three who were in Washington, near at hand, ready with friendship and counsel. In short, his association with Dilman could be turned to profit, now that Dilman was the head of the country.
First off, the hack biography, since its subject was on all lips, would not be just another book that sold three thousand copies, but would be an intimate, inside look at a new President that might sell a hundred thousand copies. It could make Leroy Poole wealthy and give substance to his by-line. Second, and more important, far more important, there was his relationship with the President; their scheduled meetings in the coming weeks would give Leroy Poole access to the ear of the most powerful figure in the United States.
Dilman, as Leroy Poole saw him, was a weak and tentative public servant, who had spent so many years mouthing the Party’s pronouncements that he had become a mere ventriloquist’s dummy for his white superiors. He was unoriginal, without a single dynamic or progressive idea or program of his own. His head was a receptacle of platitudes and ayes. But it was a head, and it could be filled with ideas by one near enough to him. The possibility excited Poole. With real effort he might make Dilman swallow, digest, and regurgitate the Turnerite demands for full equality now. And even more might be accomplished. Great Negroes—forceful ones, brilliant ones, like Jeff Hurley—might be appointed to high and key government offices, possible, possible, provided there was one at Dilman’s arm to guide him in the right direction, even push him ahead.
Leroy Poole left the bathroom to answer the knock at the door with the conviction that fate had made his own future role unique. At last, as never before, in a way more effective than his essays and books, or his work on the Turnerite board, he could help promote his people to their rightful place.
He accepted the carton of tepid coffee, learning the cream and sugar were already in it, and the crushed doughnut, and reluctantly handed out a quarter and a half dollar for the breakfast and tip. After closing the door, he felt less worried about his extravagance. He was way up there now, potentially rich, potentially the savior of his people.
Then, gradually, as he squatted on the armchair to drink his coffee and munch the tasteless doughnut, the conviction that he might serve himself and every Negro through Dilman became fainter. Dilman, no matter what had happened, was still no more than the man Poole had come to know and despise. Dilman was as scared of whites as Poole himself had once been. Dilman had never once tried to break out of the servile, bowing, watermelon world of the Uncle Toms and Aunt Jemimas. He was a figurehead fink, using his color in a state where it mattered, to gain office, rejecting his color in the gentleman’s Chamber of the Senate, where it mattered more. How could a person who trembled so constantly even hold onto a new idea? How could a person always backing away from responsibility be reached?
In fact, Old Chub the Rabbit-Hearted might even renege on the biography now, Poole realized with a shudder. In the last minutes, the biography had become as valuable to Leroy Poole as a First Folio Shakespeare. As an obscure senator, Dilman had been afraid of the biography, recoiling from any attention. It had taken the intervention of the foremost Negro publisher in America, and pressure from several Negro leaders, including Spinger, to convince Dilman that a short, innocuous, political biography would be more useful to him than harmful.
Immediately after Poole had arrived in Washington, he had found Dilman reserved and tongue-tied about discussing his personal life. Cleverly Poole led the Senator into discussions of his public career. Since the facts had been published, Dilman had proved easier, more amiable, more talkative. Recently Poole had led him back to his private life, and Dilman, at last conditioned to these interviews, more trusting of his interrogator (who had not told him of his connection with the Turnerites), had been more helpful, but still not frank and open. If Dilman had been so timorous before, Poole wondered, how would he be now, when his every word might be examined by a suspicious or hostile citizenry? W
ould he call Leroy Poole in and tell him that the project was finished? Or would he simply evade Poole, postpone interviews, and allow the project to languish and die?
Leroy Poole put aside his coffee container, wiped the crumbs from his mouth as he brought the telephone to it, and put in a call for Dilman’s secretary, Diane Fuller, in the Old Senate Office Building. Told that her line was busy, Poole waited. Presently he heard her harassed voice, her speech ungrammatical as it was whenever she was under tension. Poole had always been flattering to the scrawny, nervous colored girl, because he had long ago learned that personal secretaries were important, sometimes alter egos, and even if Diane did not measure up, it paid to play it safe. As ever, Poole greeted her effusively, and congratulated her on the elevation of her boss.
“Oh, what a day,” she groaned. “Everybody’s callin’, and it ain’t—isn’t—no fun. I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, Leroy.”
“Then I won’t keep you, honey chile,” Leroy Poole said sympathetically. “I just want to know where I stand. I have an appointment with him day after tomorrow, around two in the afternoon. He was going to give me a full hour. But now that he’s moved from the Senate to the White House, I want to be sure the date’s still good and to know where to come. Has he had time to mention it?”
“Leroy, so much is happening, I haven’t even seen him yet. Got to talk to him once on the phone, no more. I don’t know where he is or what he plans. I have your date on the calendar. First chance I get today or tomorrow, I’ll remind him.”
“That’s my sweetie pie. And look, I want to be reasonable. The poor guy’s been hit on the head with a country. If he’s crowded day after tomorrow, you tell him I can wait. But try to get a firm appointment out of him for this week, even if it’s a shorter time.”
“Sure thing, Leroy, I’ll call you . . . whoa, there’s three other phones. Good-bye.”
(1964) The Man Page 15
