Daybreak

by Belva Plain

  PART

  III

  Tom

  CHAPTER

  4

  “And while I know you folks all are sorry Jim couldn’t be here himself tonight—but he’s trying to cover the state, every nook and corner that he can before November—I want you to know that I appreciate, and Jim appreciates, the attention that you’ve given me in his stead, and I want you to know that every word I’ve said here tonight is what he’d have wanted me to say and want you to hear because we’re all in this together! All together, every last one of us!”

  The voice boomed out of a throat gone raw; amplified, it ricocheted off the walls, exploded upward to the highest balcony and filled the darkened cavern below the glittering stage.

  Two thousand voices roared reply: “All together! All together!” Then came antiphony: “What do we want? Power! Power!” And again the cry from voices now, so late in the evening, gone hoarse: “All together! All together!”

  When they subsided, the speaker, a short man with thinning blond hair, resumed. His red forehead sweated and gleamed in the spotlight.

  “We have a message for Washington. Yes, we’ll get there, and don’t think we won’t. You put Jim in the state senate, then make him governor, then send him to Washington, to the top, and watch him turn this country around. That’s our message to Washington, folks: Watch out. We’re on our way!”

  “On our way, on our way!”

  “We’re fed up with integration, busing, and reverse discrimination. Fed up with job quotas dictated from Washington by a government of foreigners. Let’s get going! Less talk and more action. Stand with Jim Johnson and we’ll show you action!”

  “Action! Action!” bellowed the crowd, many of whom had now risen to their feet, roaring and clapping.

  For a few minutes the speaker stood beaming his satisfaction. Suddenly he stretched up his arm in its short-sleeved shirt and gave a high, flat-palmed salute. The band struck a triumphant air, and the men who had been seated in the row on the stage behind the speaker marched out with jaunty steps.

  “Military music stirs my blood,” Tom said, looking down at Roberta, who reached to his shoulder.

  “Fabulous,” she murmured. “It was fabulous.” Her black eyes sparkled with awe. “And that speaker! I was disappointed when we learned that Jim wouldn’t be here, but I felt my blood stir, anyway. You’ve never heard Jim, though. Wait till you do.”

  They jostled their way through the crowd to the doors and out into the warm night. The long flight of steps to the street was lined with men dressed in a suggestion of a uniform, dark trousers, black leather belt, and a conspicuous red Jim Johnson button on the shirt.

  “Most of them are armed, you know,” Roberta whispered. “And see that girl in jeans? That’s Flora Deane. She’s the security chief. Been in politics for years. She must be about thirty. Now she works for Jim. You see how we have to guard ourselves? It’s disgusting. You never know what these radicals will do. A bunch of wild blacks or God knows—hi, Lou, Jessie, Norma! Great, wasn’t it?”

  A little group made a circle around Roberta. Tom, half in and half out of the circle, watched; it pleased him that this tiny girl, this fiery, bright, black-eyed doll of a girl, was a leader of men and women; it delighted him that she, who could have had so many others, had chosen him to love. He was a year younger than she, who was a junior, and he had even taken her away from a senior who was mad about her. Last month at a dance he had simply walked over and taken her away from the guy. She was his first real girl; she knew the arts of love. She told him that he was the perfect lover, and she meant it.

  When asked his age, he always answered, “I’m almost twenty.” There was a much better ring to that than to “nineteen.”

  “But you look older,” Robbie always told him. “You’re a gorgeous man, you know that, don’t you? And brilliant, besides. I’ll tell you something, I can’t stand being around stupid people, and half the people at this university don’t belong here in the first place.”

  Robbie had a right to talk. Look what she had accomplished, scratching her way up from nothing! She was as well read as Tom’s mother and practically all straight A’s from the start. In tough courses, too. You couldn’t bullshit your way through chemistry or physics; and she was a chemistry major, taking honors classes.

  On top of all that, she ran The Independent Voice. A couple of fellows were hawking it right now on the sidewalk in front of the Civic Center.

  Tom looked back up the slight rise on which the building stood. It had elegance. Low to the ground, it gave, nonetheless, a vertical effect with its tall, narrow windows, banked so closely that the structure, poised between sky-glow and its own artificial lights, seemed to be all glass.

  It might be nice to be an architect, he thought, if I weren’t already planning on astronomy. And if the country weren’t possibly going to pieces. Who’d need architects? Who really could plan any future anyway?

  But that’s no way to talk, Robbie remonstrated when he said things like that. You have to get out and work for what you believe in. This rally here tonight proves what sprouts when you water the roots; that’s what she would say later tonight when they talked about it.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said now. “Get the bikes and fly. It’s not often that I have the room to myself for a weekend. Martha had to go home. Her mother’s sick.”

  “I never have my room to myself in the dorm. Clem’s a nice enough guy, but he’s always there studying Latin and Greek. A classics major. We hardly ever talk.” Tom laughed. “He has no time.”

  “But if he had time, could you talk?”

  “You mean enlist him? No. He wears a Ralph Mackenzie button.”

  “That’s the problem with the dorm, you can’t choose your roommate. Did I ever tell you why I moved out and got a room in a boardinghouse? Well, on move-in day last September, I walk in, and who’s there getting her stuff unpacked but this Jewish girl—can you imagine me? Me? ‘Hello,’ she says, friendly as can be. ‘My name’s Enid Somebody-or-other.’ I can’t even pronounce the name. ‘My mother brought food, she thought the cafeteria might not be open yet. There’s plenty for both of us. Try the chocolate chip cookies, they’re great, and blah, blah, blah,’ while she’s unpacking enough for a trip around the world. Then in comes the mother with a diamond as big as a doorknob. And she starts, ‘Blah, blah.’ I was so mad, I was speechless. Then they drive away in a Lincoln. I looked out the window. Late model, top-of-the-line. Dad’s a doctor, or maybe a lawyer. Some sort of crook, anyway. So I ran down to housing right then and there and got myself a room with a decent human being.”

  Tom winced. Dad was a car buff, and he bought the best. His latest was the Lincoln Mark VIII. Mom was still driving the small Mercedes that he’d given her when she’d turned thirty-five. Still, Dad was American. Been here for generations. Earned it honestly.

  “Hey,” he said, remembering something, “aren’t you working tonight?”

  “Oh yes, five nights a week. But I took off for the rally, called in sick.”

  “I don’t know how you do it all.” He had dropped in at the place where she worked, a real greasy spoon, noisy and jammed with jostlers at the bar. She’d been carrying trays of dirty dishes, squeezing her way among the tables, and he had felt guilty about the cash and the American Express card in his wallet. Once, very tactfully, he had offered to give her some money or even lend her some if she insisted, to help her out of a tough spot, but she had refused any help. She had a bold independence. And he repeated now, “I don’t know how you do it all.”

  She gave a little shrug; he found the gesture charming.

  “I have a lot of energy, don’t need much sleep, and I learn fast. A matter of luck, that’s all.”

  He asked curiously, “How did you happen to get into all this political stuff? Your family?”

  “Nope. Just got hold of some books, mostly about race, that started me thinking. My family’s too messed up to teach me anything. My dad
came originally from New Zealand, why I don’t know, nor why he married my mother, except that she must have been a beauty. Beautiful and stupid. You can’t believe how stupid. He had the brains. I got her looks and his brains, thank God for that. Anyway, he used to teach school in New Zealand, and when he couldn’t stand living with my mother—it was a battleground, I can tell you—he up and went back to New Zealand. Never sends me a dime except for a little something at Christmas and my birthday. What little I get comes from my granny and she’s not far from being dirt poor herself.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She met some man and went to Chicago. I hear from her now and then. Very now and then. I have an idea the man dropped her, because she’s working now, in a cafeteria. At least she’s working, which is more than my brother’s doing. Twenty-four and never held a job for more than a month. Stupid. Takes dope. Takes after Mama. But I’m going to make something of myself. Teach chemistry or better yet, work in research.”

  Tom was silent. What a dirty deal the world had given to this bright, brave girl! And a sudden image of his home flashed before him, a picture of evening, with the books, the piano, and his mother’s fair head gleaming in the lamplight. Dad was reading the paper, Mom had a book, and Timmy was doing his homework in the alcove.

  Robbie sighed. “You’re lucky you’ve got a good family.”

  “I know.”

  “Except, of course, for your brother. Poor kid. He won’t live long, will he?”

  Tom hadn’t ever said that to Robbie, nor to anyone, for that matter. The words would have stuck in his throat. And he replied with another question. “Why do you say that?”

  “You told me he had cystic fibrosis, and I looked it up. I like to understand things.”

  “So you know. It’s a rotten deal.” He burst out, “It’s cruel. And he’s the best little guy, good-natured, not like me—”

  “Why, Tom Rice, you have a wonderful disposition. Don’t say that.”

  “No, really. I’ve got a temper, and he’s just so—so nice. And so smart. He knows what’s going on in the world. You’d enjoy talking to him even though he’s only eleven.”

  “Talking politics?”

  “Well, not our kind. Not local politics. Not yet. I wanted to get a Jim Johnson photo for his room, but my mother got so upset that I dropped the subject.”

  “She’s for Mackenzie?”

  “Yes. Oh, my mother’s wonderful, but I just can’t talk to her about politics. My dad’s different. He’s a Johnson man, but quiet about it, not deeply involved.”

  “But he doesn’t mind if you are.”

  “No, no, he’s okay. He agrees with me about a lot of things. He’s happy about anything I think or do as long as I behave. For himself, he’s got too much on his mind, mostly my brother, naturally.” Tom paused, remembering. “God, it’s awful to see the kid looking at Dad’s football pictures. And you know he’s got to be thinking, I’ll never do anything like that.”

  “You’re a sweet man, Tom.”

  “Yeah, I’m sweet,” and he grinned inwardly, wondering how long it would take to get her into bed this time. It wasn’t that she was reluctant, she certainly loved it plenty once she got there! It was only that she could get talking with such enthusiasm about anything and everything that she forgot to stop.

  They had pedaled away from the center of town and its traffic, out past the university’s columns and red brick, past oaks in heavy leaf, into the meager suburban village and down the familiar street.

  There were no lights in the enormous gabled Victorian except for the lamp that Robbie’s roommate had considerately left lit in the bay window above the wooden gingerbread front porch.

  Twin beds, two desks, and two easy chairs at the bay window filled the room. Stuffed animals lay on the pillows. An enormous blowup picture of Jim Johnson, twice as large as the one Tom had at home, hung on one wall. The room smelled clean, and it was clean; coming from the old Paige house as he did, Tom cared especially about that.

  He grinned happily. “Two in a twin bed. I really like that.”

  “Oh God, so do I. I changed the linens as soon as I knew you were coming. Usual day is Wednesday. Bought lilac sachet, too.”

  She dimmed the light way down to a pale pink glow, although not far enough to hide the thrilling contrasts: the corona of black hair falling to pure white shoulders and the heavy breasts, ripe as fruit, above a waist so narrow that he was able to span it with his two hands.

  Hungry and hurried, they rushed into the bed, collapsed into the fragrances of lilac and hot flesh, moved together in a perfect rhythm, rose and sank and quickened into a fine completion. And then they lay back, panting, to wait for the incredible arousal and repetition that would not be long in coming.…

  Late at night the street had gone so quiet that they could hear the night wind rustle through the trees. When Robbie got up and blotted out the lamplight, moonlight swam in to replace it. Fulfilled at last and content, they lay close in the narrow bed and, although there surely was no one in hearing, spoke in the whispers that seemed to fit the mood of the gentle night.

  “Nice here. I wish you had this place to yourself all the time.”

  “Greedy! But you can stay tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got two more exams next week. I’ve got to hit the books.”

  “Bring the books here. I’ve had my last exam, but I have to do an editorial for The Independent Voice. Last edition until September. That’s another thing that’s good about having this room besides its being cheaper. No snooping. My roommate’s on our side, so I can feel really private. I don’t have to hide what I write. I can even leave Mein Kampf right out on the table.”

  “Have you actually read it?”

  “You won’t believe it, but I’ve read it in German.”

  “German! That’s pretty good after only two years. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s easy for me to pick up a language. I have a good ear. I figured everybody’s read books about Hitler, but I don’t know one person who’s actually read his own words, even in translation. So I decided to try. And it was fascinating, I can tell you. That was one brilliant man. Things would be a lot different if he had won, if the world hadn’t ganged up on him. The lies they’ve told! The biggest propaganda fakery of all time, gas chambers. Six million dead.” Robbie giggled. “That quote from Mein Kempf in The Independent Voice—I can’t imagine who sneaked it in, can you?”

  “I think maybe I can.”

  “Oh, they make me sick. That dressed-up thing I almost had to room with complained to the student council—in fact, I see she’s gotten herself elected to the council for next year—all about unemployment among the blacks and the condition of the schools, and South Africa. A couple of us gave those big-mouths something to squawk about. Sent them a few sweet messages slipped under their doors on the Jewish holidays. Can you imagine the righteous indignation? Buzz, buzz, buzz. There’s something about an anonymous letter or a message on an answering machine that can really get to people. They don’t know who sent it and can’t do anything about it. Really drives them crazy.” Remembering, she began to choke with laughter. “We send dirty letters to the feminists. Half of them are lesbians, anyway. And we send condoms to the lesbians. Could you die?” The bed shook with Robbie’s laughter.

  Then abruptly she became serious. “You’ve got to fight these people before they turn the country inside out. I’ve known that for a long time, Tom. I’ve been political since I was fifteen. I’ve done a lot of thinking.”

  “I’ve just come to it. Didn’t really firm up my thoughts till I got here. We never talked much about politics at home, anyway. My mother’s wrapped up in music and Dad’s wrapped up in his business, although it’s clear to me that his basic sentiments are a lot like yours. You’d like my dad anyway, aside from that. He’s big-hearted, smart, honest—the best father you could have.”

  Robbie squirmed and turned to kiss Tom’s neck. He felt her eyelashes brush his skin, and he f
elt the soft movement of her lips murmuring, “You’re so sweet, Tom. I’m crazy about you. I’m going to miss you all summer.”

  “Hey! I’ll be seeing you! Working in the business, I can get time off pretty much when I want it. Dad’s easy that way. And I always can get one of the vans. That’s the reason I don’t have a car of my own. No need to. How far is this bookstore where you’ll be working?”

  “Shouldn’t take you more than an hour to get to. Straight out Highway Nine, then about three miles east, that’s all. I’ll give you directions. And I’ve got a room, not too bad, but the best thing is, no roommate. Got it all to myself.”

  “Summer’s looking better and better.” Tom chuckled. “How about some sleep? My eyes are closing.”

  “Sure.” Robbie laughed. “We worked hard tonight.”

  His body lay easily, not the least bit cramped in this bed, just comfortably intertwined with Robbie, neatly fitted, like a pair of spoons. His thoughts floated peacefully. The day had been wonderful, from the morning’s astronomy exam, in which he was confident he had done very well, to the blood-pounding rally at the Civic Center, to the last delicious hours in this room.

  And he began to feel a sense of mounting power and joy. Home again! Working with Dad. His mother’s good meals, a steak and a chocolate cake, for a change from college food. Sunday afternoons, he’d find a cool place and take Timmy swimming. Home. Five more days.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Down the great central boulevard through the city’s heart, they marched, they strutted, plodded, and swung. Some of them from time to time in response to cheers raised their straight arms in the fascist salute. But for the most part, they were stone faces, closed faces like those of men on their way to battle. Flanking them on either side came police on sputtering motorcycles, and behind these came more police in cars with top lights flashing. On the sidewalk their supporters, chiefly teenage boys, old men, and housewives in loose cotton dresses—for this being a weekday morning, ablebodied men were at work—kept up with them all the way to their destination at the monument in the center of the circle.