Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  Rachel looked so vulnerable right then I wanted to put my arms around her and protect her from the outside world and all its bullshit. But she might not go for that so I refrained.

  “I understand,” I said, “and I accept the assignment.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. It’s about time we did this.”

  Rachel shifted in her chair and leaned closer, as if about to tell me something in confidence. But then she straightened.

  “Okay, work on the story for the issue after next. Have it on my desk by Friday afternoon, Monday morning at the latest. I’ll handle this week’s paper, with a little help from some evergreens.”

  “Um … I could use the woman’s name, address and phone number.”

  Rachel’s face reddened. “Jesus, I must be losing it with all that’s going on. Hold on a sec.”

  She stood, strode to her desk and snatched a sheet of paper from her typewriter, then returned and handed it to me.

  “Here’s her name and address. The woman’s not listed in the phonebook yet, so you’ll just have to show up on her doorstep. Any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  Rachel returned to her desk while I glanced at the sheet of paper. Good thing I was sitting.

  The new resident’s name was Amanda Fontaine.

  #

  So nervous was I at the prospect of seeing Amanda again after all these years I barely saw the road en route to her Miller Street address. That I didn’t wind up in Inkster or Wyandotte or Canada was a miracle, even though I didn’t believe in such things. On the other hand, maybe I should. Among the thoughts racing through my mind was the possibility that some force, which I refused to call God or a Higher Power, might be orchestrating my life. How else to explain all these people from my past showing up? I believed in coincidence, but this was spooky. Rachel Solomon, Ellen Drury, Ann McCory, even Lenny Klinger, had all reappeared. And now Amanda Fontaine.

  Seeing her name after eight long years I realized she was the first love of my life, though we’d never even gone on a date, let alone had sex. We’d talked three times and that was it. And that was enough.

  I tried to prepare for this fourth encounter by cautioning myself that she could be a different person now. She may have gotten chubby like Ann McCory, or religious like Ellen Drury, or married like most women her age.

  I arrived at her residence without wandering into Windsor but remained a bundle of nerves.

  #

  Amanda’s neighborhood was typical middleclass suburban, not too shabby but nothing fancy either. Same with her home, a modest A-frame, and her car sitting in the driveway, a powder-blue, slightly worn Thunderbird.

  I rang the doorbell and whistled a happy tune—or at least a tune—to settle my nerves. I’d arrived at the coda when the door opened.

  She wore a vaguely African shift featuring shapeless, free-floating objects on a dazzling background of red and gold. She also wore an Afro, a popular hairstyle among blacks these days, as well as among whites going through an identity crisis. Afros varied in size, and Amanda’s was the most abundant I’d ever seen, bushy enough to dwarf that lovely face of hers. And yet nothing could eclipse those large almond eyes now staring into mine.

  “My God, is that you?” She either remembered me or thought I was someone else.

  Ever the optimist, I said, “Yes, it’s me.”

  Amanda made a show of cupping her chin and furrowing her brow. “Nate, right?”

  “Yes again … Amanda.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Her eyes darted about as she feigned searching for something. “Where’s the groceries?”

  “None today, I’m afraid.”

  “Guess I starve to death then.”

  Sensing we might exhaust this filler material sooner rather than later, I said, “I’m here with something else today.”

  I removed pad and pen from my inside coat pocket and held them up.

  “Hmm,” she said, looking warier than a hen surrounded by foxes.

  “I’m here in a professional capacity,” I explained.

  Professional capacity? Could I have sounded any stuffier? Probably not.

  Amanda thrust out a hip and planted a fist on it. “What kind of pro-fesh-onal capacity?”

  “I’m a reporter, for the Gazette.”

  The love of my life, critical to the most important story of my career, slammed the door in my face.

  After recovering, I rang the doorbell again.

  Nothing.

  And again.

  Same result.

  And a third time.

  Ditto.

  Now I felt more frustrated than nervous. Forget my feelings for Amanda; I couldn’t very well do the story without her. Yet I couldn’t just stand there all day either, so I started back down the path while mulling my next move.

  “Hey, white boy” came a voice from behind me.

  I about-faced.

  Amanda was barely visible through a narrow opening in the slightly ajar door.

  “You fold your cards too quickly,” she said. “If I gave up that easily I’d still be cleaning houses. C’mon back.”

  I returned at a near-trot. Amanda opened the door wider while looking nervously over my shoulder. I entered and she double-locked it, then led the way into the living room. She pointed at a red leather sofa. I sat, and she did the same at the other end.

  “So, what you want?” Amanda asked.

  “To interview you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitated while groping for an answer that would gain her cooperation. Also, I was flustered. Amanda had changed. Gone was the warm, playful girl I recollected, full of spice and innuendo, replaced by a chilly, severe woman now sitting erect on the sofa’s edge alert for any sign of danger.

  “Well,” I said, “you’re, uh, black.”

  “You noticed.”

  “And this is a white neighborhood.”

  “Do tell.”

  “In fact, Dearborn is almost all white.”

  “Almost is right. You gonna interview every black resident?”

  “No, but—”

  “Why not?”

  Things were going from bad to awful. Amanda had put on war paint, and even worse, she was interviewing me. I figured the best defense was a straight answer.

  “We’re doing a story on racism in Dearborn, and we’re using you as a jumping off point.”

  “And how you gonna do that exactly?”

  “Well, you moved here recently.”

  “So?”

  “And you belong to Blacks for a Democratic Society.”

  “So?”

  “Um, the group’s goal is fair treatment of blacks, so we intend to connect that with how Dearborn treats them.”

  “That’s your intention, huh?”

  “Yes, uh-huh.”

  Amanda looked skeptical. “Dearborn’s been racist since that lard-ass took over two decades ago. Why you doing a story now?”

  Same question I’d asked Rachel, but the answer Miss Solomon had given me wouldn’t suffice here so I had to improvise. “We’re doing it now,” I said, “because things are coming to a head. I mean, the country’s in a tizzy over race relations, so what better time?”

  Not bad, all things considered, but instead of commending me on my reply Amanda cupped a hand to her ear. “Did I hear right? ‘In a tizzy?’”

  Don’t ask me where I got that expression. My mother may have used it once.

  I amended my answer. “Okay, turmoil. The country’s in turmoil.”

  To which Amanda replied, “In a tizzy, in turmoil, doesn’t matter to blacks being treated like dirt in this country. And speaking of dirt, you working for that newspaper is why I slammed the door in your face, case you haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Maybe she’d had a rotten day, or maybe she’d changed even more than I thought, into one of those protesters who found trouble around e
very corner. Whatever the reason for Amanda’s quarrelsome attitude, I felt the energy draining out of me and the interview hadn’t even begun yet, at least not the one in which I asked the questions.

  “C’mon,” Amanda said when I didn’t respond to her comment on the Gazette. “I remember you being a pretty smart guy. You must realize that newspaper is a pile of garbage.”

  Really? Now she was exaggerating. Granted, the Gazette wasn’t the Philadelphia Inquirer, but neither was it the National Enquirer. After all, it had some socially redeeming value.

  “I know no such thing,” I said.

  “Okay, maybe I wasn’t specific enough. It’s a racist pile of garbage.”

  Jesus.

  I dared her to name one racist thing the Gazette had ever said or done.

  “As far as I know,” she said, “it hasn’t said or done anything racist.”

  Ha!

  “Explicitly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Amanda rose from the couch. “I’ll tell you when I get back. Right now I gotta pee.”

  At least that hadn’t changed, her candor regarding her bodily functions. But this was small comfort and not at all arousing, as it had been at Mrs. Weinstein’s.

  I used the respite to check out the living room. Facing the sofa were two armchairs, one orange, one yellow, the combination as bright as Amanda’s shift. The abstract paintings on the walls were no more restrained, though the walls themselves were a subdued taupe. On the end tables flanking the sofa stood foot-high sculptures of a man and a woman, both African I think, each poised to hurl the spear they were holding.

  My supposed interview subject returned and again sat at a distance from me. “Now where were we?”

  I professed ignorance.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Overt versus covert racism. Explicit versus implicit. The Gazette is implicitly racist.”

  Christ, at this rate the interview, the one I’d come to conduct, wouldn’t begin until midnight. Yet I couldn’t help asking what she meant by her last statement.

  “First of all,” Amanda said, “can we agree Richard Tubbin is a racist pig?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “All right, yes, he is.”

  “Good. I always look for common ground with my adversaries.”

  So now I was her “adversary.” At this rate, by the time I left I’d be her archenemy.

  “How often has the Gazette criticized that man’s racism on its editorial page?” Amanda asked.

  “Never but—”

  “And how many photos have shown him cutting a ribbon or hosting a ceremony or receiving a civic award, like he was an upstanding citizen and an outstanding mayor?”

  “Well, a lot but—”

  “And how many times have your editors treated him with respect … like he deserved it … at civic events, cocktail parties and such?”

  I was too exhausted to reply.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said.

  “Could we maybe—”

  “I’ll bet you think you’re a man of character.”

  “No, not hardly.”

  “But at least you’re not a racist, right?”

  “Yes, right. Whatever else I may be, I’m not that.”

  “Then why are you working for the Gazette, whose silence implies support for the mayor’s policies?”

  I couldn’t agree with her, that the Gazette and I were racist, and yet I could see her point. The paper had shown a remarkable tolerance for hizzoner’s intolerance. On the other hand, it hadn’t exactly praised his policies either, and I guess it was this fact that kept my conscience clear. Relatively.

  But I suspected this rationale would not impress Amanda, so with minimal enthusiasm I said, “I work for the Gazette because it’s a good start for my career and it’s an excellent newspaper.”

  “And it fawns over a racist mayor while ignoring his disgusting policies. How excellent is that?”

  Yes, how indeed. I scrambled for an answer and came up with, “I already said, this is a story on racial problems in Dearborn, so while the paper may not be excellent by your standards, it’s making progress. Can we agree on that?”

  “We’ll see how your article turns out, and what that rag is willing to print.”

  Sensing an opening, however narrow, I went for it. “Before it can print anything, Amanda, I’ve got to write the story, and to do that I’ve got to interview you. So how ’bout we begin.” I opened my notebook. “Why’d you move to Dearborn?”

  Instead of answering, she got to her feet. “You come back after you think all this over. Then maybe we’ll do an interview.”

  “But—”

  “I said think it over.”

  I didn’t need her towering over me to feel small, so I stood too. “Okay, but—”

  “No more buts. Time for you to leave.”

  And time for me to feel more frustrated than ever. Mixed in with my affection for Amanda—and yes, vestiges of it remained—was the threat of potential failure on my most important assignment yet for the Gazette.

  I left disheartened, and became even more so at the sight of Amanda’s T-Bird sitting in the driveway. Freshly painted along the driver’s side was a single word in large red letters.

  “Niggerbitch!”

  Chapter 79

  The next day, Wednesday, also known as hump day (no lewd comments, please) I plowed ahead with the story, trying not to think about my non-interview with Amanda, or about her claim that I worked for the Devil. My next order of business, which I hoped would go more propitiously than the first, was to call Samuel Dinny, director of BDS’s Detroit branch, and Michael Lundquist, spokesman for the Mayor’s Office.

  I intended to ask Dinny what role, if any, BDS played in Amanda’s move to Dearborn and, just as important, what he and his organization thought of Dearborn and its mayor.

  Typical of executive secretaries, Dinny’s ran interference for him, so I had to persuade her I really was a reporter for the Dearborn Gazette, and I really was doing a story on one of its members, a Miss Amanda Fontaine. Naturally she put me on hold for twenty-four hours, more or less, giving me time to make out a lengthy grocery list. I was appending Oreo cookies to it when I heard, “Samuel Dinny speaking.”

  In no mood to waste yet more time, I asked him right off if BDS had encouraged one of its members, Amanda Fontaine, to move to Dearborn.

  “No.”

  “She received no encouragement from you or your organization?”

  “No, none.” Obviously Dinny was not the loquacious type. Yet he managed to add, “Mr. Rubin, we don’t tell our members what to do. They get enough of that from white society.”

  “So you didn’t in any way suggest Miss Fontaine move to Dearborn?”

  I thought I heard a tsk, but maybe not.

  “As I’ve already told you,” Dinny said, “no, we didn’t. But we’ve made our primary goal clear to all our members, and encouraged them to do whatever they feel is necessary and appropriate to help us reach it.”

  “And that goal would be?”

  “A fair and just society, in which hatred and bigotry are things of the past and blacks are treated as they deserve to be … fairly, justly and equitably.”

  I could get behind all that, but I chafed at the man’s studied language and stiff-assed delivery. No doubt he aspired to political office.

  I asked how BDS intended to achieve its goal.

  “Our main path is through education … books, pamphlets, lectures, press releases, media appearances, etcetera. And of course, the ballot box.”

  “So you campaign for certain candidates?”

  “Yes.”

  “And against others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Against Mayor Tubbin?”

  “For years.”

  “To no avail apparently.”

  “In addition to fairness and justice, Mr. Rubin, we believe in patience and persistence.”

  “What a
bout Dearborn?”

  “What about it?”

  “What do you think of the city?”

  “Sir, with Richard Lee Tubbin as mayor, I believe you can guess what we think of it.”

  I could but preferred not to. “My guess is not important to this story, Mr. Dinny. Your opinion is.”

  It took a second or two before he said, “Very well. We believe Dearborn has earned its reputation as a caldron of racism in the North.”

  “Okay, given that belief, why not conduct a boycott … I mean, of the city?”

  Ice clinked in a glass and I assumed Dinny was quenching his thirst. With Scotch maybe? I could use a belt myself.

  Whistle whetted, he said, “Boycotts can be instrumental in bringing about change, as Dr. King has proved in the South, but it is not the appropriate strategy in all situations. You can’t transform an entire city by boycotting it. You must enter the lion’s den and alter it from within, with nonviolence and perseverance. Dr. King adopted that approach too, and thanks partly to him the times they are a-changing.”

  I couldn’t compete with Martin Luther King and Bob Dylan at the same time, but I could recognize a possible weak link in Dinny’s reasoning.

  “If I understand you correctly, you’re saying that to change a city, you must alter it from within. Is that correct?

  “Yes.”

  “In Dearborn’s case, that would require more blacks moving there and, along with sympathetic white residents, working for change. Am I right?”

  “Yes.” And after a brief silence, “If by this line of questioning you’re implying we must indeed have dispatched Miss Fontaine to Dearborn, you’re wrong. We merely described the situation there, though she was already aware of it, naturally, and suggested possible strategies for change. She was free to adopt any or none of them.”

  While I scribbled away Dinny grew impatient. “Mr. Rubin, I have a busy schedule. Will there be any other questions?”

  Yes. Why are people in authority always, or at least frequently, such pompous asses?

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got all I need. Thanks for your time.”

  “You’re entirely welcome. Good day to you, sir.”