Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  Click.

  That merited a Lucky break so I took one, then moved on to Tubbin’s office. Like BDS, I had one primary goal. To discuss the mayor’s attitude and policies toward blacks. Being a politician, he’d deny having any attitude or policies toward blacks, but at least I’d get him on record as disclaiming what everyone knew to be true.

  I dialed Mayoral Assistant Michael Lundquist, a necessary hurdle before getting to His Highness. I’d bumped into Lundquist at various official gatherings and found him surprisingly down-to-earth for someone so near the seat of power. He reinforced this impression now by answering his own phone, and after only two rings.

  “Lundquist.”

  “Hi, Mike. It’s Nate Rubin of the Gazette.”

  “Nate, how yuh doin’, man? Long time no see.”

  “Yeah, it’s been a while. Listen, I’m working on a story about a new Dearborn resident, a black woman living on Miller Street, and I wanted to talk to the mayor about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, not many blacks live in Dearborn, and this one belongs to BDS.”

  “BDS?”

  Like he never heard of it. But I played along.

  “Blacks for a Democratic Society. Mike, is the mayor available?”

  “I’m afraid not, Nate. He’s got meetings all morning and a speech to the VFW this afternoon. But of course you can talk to me as his official representative.”

  Of course. This was a setback but not a deathblow to the story. Lundquist often spoke on Tubbin’s behalf regarding city policy.

  “Okay,” I said, “so what about this black woman, the one who’s moved into Dearborn?”

  “What about her?”

  “Care to comment?”

  “Regarding what? People move in and out of the city all the time, though naturally most of them stay because Dearborn is such a great place to live.”

  “Why haven’t more blacks stayed, or even tried to move in?”

  “I have no idea, except maybe, you know, people like to live among their own, which is why so many blacks reside in Detroit.”

  “What if Dearborn became another Detroit, or even Inkster, with lots of blacks living among their own. Would the mayor have a problem with that?”

  “I’m surprised you’d even ask such a question,” Lundquist said. “Why would the mayor have a problem with that? Anyone can move here. We welcome all people, as long as they obey the law and respect their neighbors.”

  I pictured him trying to keep a straight face.

  “Let me understand this, Mike. Dearborn, and the mayor in particular, aren’t trying to keep blacks out of the city?”

  I hadn’t intended to be that direct, but so much for good intentions. Maybe I was just tired of all the bullshit.

  “Why, that’s downright insulting, Nate. Maybe we’d better end this conversation. It’s been good talking to you, though. Let’s grab a drink sometime, okay? And don’t forget, when you write your story, tell no lies.”

  He chuckled and hung up. I did likewise.

  Hung up, that is.

  #

  I planned to interview Amanda’s neighbors in late afternoon, when most people were home from work, after which I’d try her again, hoping things went better than the previous day. I piddled around the office until 4 p.m., then grabbed a pastrami-on-rye to go and ate it on the drive to Miller Street.

  I started with the home adjacent to Amanda’s. Three rings and two knocks failed to produce results so I moved on to the next house, where a bat, a basketball, two pairs of roller skates, a tricycle, three rag dolls and several water pistols of varying shapes and sizes obscured the front lawn. I thought I heard the grass cry out for help, but that might have been my imagination acting up again.

  I rang twice before a woman of about thirty going on sixty came to the door with her hair in disarray and not a dab of makeup to mar her pinched face. She was holding an infant whose head rested on her shoulder. Pinch Face looked at me with fear in her eyes, for which I couldn’t blame her since I’d come armed with a pen and notebook.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “Ma’am, I’m a reporter for the Dearborn Gazette and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Why? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

  Apparently I resembled a cop posing as a reporter.

  “I know. This isn’t about your doing anything wrong.”

  “What’s it about then?” She shifted the baby to her other shoulder, eliciting a gurgle.

  “May I come in?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t let no strangers in the house without my husband bein’ here, and he’s still at the factory, workin’ overtime again.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, can we talk out here?”

  “For how long? I got things to do.”

  “Only a minute, I promise. A minute of your valuable time.”

  “Damn right my time is valuable. Whaduhyuh wanna talk about anyway?”

  “Your new neighbor.” My eyes wandered over to Amanda’s house.

  “You mean the nigger?”

  I figured this was not a good time to protest her word choice. “Yes.”

  “What about her?”

  “How do you feel about her moving into the neighborhood?”

  She patted the baby’s back, producing another burble. “Howduhyuh think I feel?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Her look implied I was in dire need of therapy. “Okay, you wanna play it that way, here’s how I feel. She can’t get her black ass outta there fast enough to suit us … me and the neighbors. And she’ll be gone real soon, you can bet on that.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because no one wants her here,” Pinch Face explained, “and we let her know that loud and clear.”

  “How?”

  Her pale-brown eyes turned cunning. “We have our ways.”

  “Tell me, why don’t you want her there?”

  Now her expression said not even therapy could help me. Still, she was kind enough to answer. “I, we, don’t want her around because niggers are dumb, dirty and, I guess you could say, got no morals. Half the men are pimps and drug dealers and half the women are whores and dope fiends. Plus they dirty up their property and ruin a perfectly good neighborhood.”

  My eyes swung from the woman’s front lawn to Amanda’s stately grounds, with its freshly mowed grass and precisely trimmed hedges.

  “Mister, yuh got kids, things get a little messy. As for her, the couple used to live there kept their property real nice and she ain’t had time to ruin it yet. You wait, another month and it’ll look like all nigger homes.”

  Since I couldn’t afford to wait that long, I brought the interview to a close.

  “May I have your name, please?”

  “Whaduhyuh want it for?”

  “So I can say who said these things.”

  “This gonna be in the newspaper?”

  “Some of it.”

  She waved off the notebook. “You never mind then. Just say a neighbor said it.”

  And with that she shut, but did not slam, the door.

  #

  At my next stop, the house south of Amanda’s, the occupant surprised me by answering the door on the first ring, as if anticipating my arrival. Given his stooped torso and unsteady legs, it was a wonder he could answer it at all.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” His voice, high and phlegmy, had known better days too, as had his creviced face.

  “Sir, I’m a reporter for the Dearborn Gazette and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure. C’mon in, son.”

  His eager invitation didn’t surprise me. I’d learned that old people often lived alone and hungered for company. On the other hand, if his living room was any example, they did not long for an uncluttered house. Dishes, silverware, papers and magazines were scattered throughout the room, including on shelves and furniture, but especially on the floor, which may or may not have
been carpeted.

  “I’m sorry,” the old man said, “but ever since my Maudy passed on the place has gone to pot. Good thing my grandson takes care of the outside or it’d look like hell too. Can’t afford a maid, and don’t wanna move in with the kids ’cause I don’t have the heart to leave her. Maudy’s spirit still lives here, yuh know.”

  Ever the diplomat, I smiled like I knew.

  “Why don’t we talk in the dining room,” my host suggested. “It’s a bit tidier in there.”

  I danced around the items littering the floor while he shuffled ahead of me into the next room, which was scruffy but not as chaotic. In fact, the stacks of newspapers on the old oak table were almost orderly. We sat, and I shoved aside the pile in front of me to make room for note-taking. Meanwhile the old-timer settled into a chair, one limb at a time.

  “What was it you wanted, young man?” he asked.

  “I’m a newspaper reporter,” I reminded him, “and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “Your new neighbor.”

  “What new neighbor?”

  “The, uh, black lady living next door.”

  “There’s a Negro living next door?”

  I told him there was.

  “Well then, I’m against it.”

  “Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “’Course I don’t mind. That’s the reason you’re here, if I remember rightly, to ask questions.”

  “Yes, correct.”

  His face went blank.

  “Sir?”

  “Help an old man out, son. What was the question again?”

  “You said you were against a black lady living next door, and I asked you why.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He went silent and I thought I’d lost him again, but seconds later he rebounded. “The reason I’m against it … well, first off, let me just say for the record that I’m a lifelong Democrat, the progressive sort I guess you could call me. Voted for Wilson, Roosevelt, Truman, all those boys, and that Kennedy fella even though he was Catholic, and LBJ despite I can’t understand a word that man says ’cause of his whatchamacallit, his accent I think it’s called. And I’ve always been for them civilian rights, ’cause everyone oughta be treated equal is what I believe.” He hesitated, and once more I feared losing him. “Here’s the thing, though,” he said, much to my relief. “If I had a young daughter, which of course I don’t but if I did, I wouldn’t want her marrying one. A Negro, that is. And I don’t much like a colored person moving next door.” I was about to repeat my question, but he barged ahead. “Now, I can hear you asking why to all of that, because you’re a newspaper reporter and it’s your job to find out the why of things. So I’ll tell you why. I like colored folk, and personally I’ve always gotten along with ’em. But … I’m not sure how to put this so I’ll just throw ’er out there … but trouble seems to follow ’em wherever they go. Drinking, whoring, gambling, fighting and I don’t know what all. Get my drift? So when I hear a Negro woman has moved next door … you sure about that, by the way?”

  I told him I was.

  “Well, if you say so. In that case, I’m nervous. Real nervous. She’s not running a cathouse is she?”

  “No, uh-uh.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve been to her home. It’s almost as nice as this one. And no whoring going on that I could see.”

  “Drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Gambling?”

  “Not that either.”

  “Fighting?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “In that case, she might not be so bad. But I’d prefer it if she wasn’t there. See what I mean?”

  I told him I did even though I didn’t, then got his name, which was Andrew Forrester—his friends called him Andy.

  I stood and thanked him for his time.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said. “You’re a fine young man and I’m a foolish old one.”

  I headed for the door while Andy shambled behind me. I thanked him again and let myself out.

  I’d taken only a few steps when I heard, “Come back anytime. I enjoyed our little talk.”

  I swung around, waved goodbye and continued on my way.

  Nice neighbors. Now to interview the object of their affection.

  #

  She opened the door before I could ring the bell.

  “So you been talking to my neighbors,” was her greeting.

  “Um, yes.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Well, I’m sure I can guess. They’ve already said a lot to my face.”

  “And written you a note.” I pointed my chin at her newly decorated T-Bird. “You drive it around like that?”

  “Damn right I do. I’m proud of being a niggerbitch. But please don’t tell them that.”

  I promised not to, and I asked if I could come in.

  She replied with a question of her own. “You thought about what I told you to think about?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Kinda, huh. Then the answer is no.”

  “Amanda, please. This is my job. I won’t take long.”

  She did that Rodin thing again and I tried not to stare at her breasts, more prominent today than yesterday because she’d replaced the shift with a white T-shirt tucked snugly into a pair of blue jeans. The shirt was imprinted with a stylized likeness of MLK, who turned a jaundiced eye on me.

  “Tell you what,” Amanda said, “a ‘kinda’ gets you in the front door but you ask your questions standing in the foyer. And ask them quick, ’cause a ‘kinda’ doesn’t buy you much time.”

  I went in and she closed the door.

  Since I had a limited amount of time, I got right down to cases “Why’d you move to Dearborn?”

  “Because the city can use a few more blacks. I mean, it needs some soul. But otherwise it’s a pretty good place to live.” I looked for that mischievous smile, or some other sign she was putting me on, but none appeared. “Plus it’s near Detroit,” Amanda said, “where I work as a secretary at Burroughs, case you’re interested.”

  “Your neighbors don’t want you here.”

  “Too bad.”

  “They may … well … do something other than write love notes on your car.”

  “You think that’s all they’ve done so far? Hell, they’ve punctured my tires, smashed my back window and placed a few presents, like dog poop and such, by the front door. Plus of course they’ve called me all kinds of names to my face. The store clerks haven’t been too friendly either. No one’s left a burning cross on my lawn, but I expect that’s next.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “What about them?”

  “Have they harassed you any?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I—”

  Her laugh cut me short. “One time they gave me a ticket for going too slow. On a residential street, mind you.”

  I stopped scrawling and glanced up. “I don’t get it.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “Why you tolerate all this, why you moved here in the first place. What good does it do? What’re you trying to prove?” I hesitated a second before adding, “And don’t give me that Dearborn’s-a-pretty-good-place-to-live baloney.”

  Dinny, in his own tight-assed way, had tried to explain, but I wasn’t sure about his lion’s den analogy. Seemed to me only a black masochist would want to live in this city.

  Amanda looked at me with obvious displeasure. “Spoken like a true honky.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means y’all will never understand what it’s like to be black in white America. And you will never understand what it means to fight back, how that requires putting up with all the shit, sometimes literally, and yet standing your ground.” She pointed at my notebook. “You take that down, every word of it. Shit is spelled s-h-i-t.” I took it all down,
though I knew the censors would blue-pencil the s-word. “I could go on,” Amanda said, “but your time’s up. That’s all a ‘kinda’ gets you.”

  Before I could protest she had the front door open and was motioning me through. Fortunately, I had enough for a story, which I intended to buttress with a few more neighborly interviews and a little research at the library. But at the moment my mind was on something else, like losing Amanda Fontaine again, maybe this time for good. Watching her as she stood by the door, all regal and composed, I realized how much I liked her, in addition of course to wanting her. Yes, she’d changed, become considerably sterner, more serious, but she hadn’t lost her spunk, or her sense of humor, though that was much edgier these days. Plus she was honest, maybe the most honest person I knew. And I realized something else. In addition to being my first love, Amanda might be my first like, or at least my first female like. Yes, I liked the few other women in my life, but she was the first one I’d want to be around even if I couldn’t have her.

  “Well?” She nodded toward the open door.

  I groped for something to say that would prolong my stay but couldn’t think of anything. Grudgingly I started to leave, but after a couple steps I stopped and faced her.

  “What?” she said.

  “We … we might never see each other again.”

  “So?”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  She looked out the front door toward the sparse traffic on Miller Street, a slight breeze stirring her Afro. “I remember you thought we could be together,” she said after turning back.

  “Yes.”

  “And I explained to you why that wasn’t possible.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So what do you want now?”

  I was a little fuzzy on that, so I said, “Nothing, never mind,” I stepped out the door and then I knew, sort of. “Maybe …”

  She sighed, and not with satisfaction. “What? Maybe what?”

  “Maybe we could be friends.”

  From her stare, you’d think I’d said maybe we could be identical twins. “Why the hell would you want us to be friends?” she asked.

  “Because I still like you.”

  “And that’s all you want, to be friends?”

  “Yes.”

  Of course that’s not all I wanted, but I’d take it and maybe hope for more later on. Or maybe not. I’d never been through this before, this liking thing. It was weird, even more so than love, which previously had topped my Weirdest Things in Life list.