by Kia Corthron
She led him down to the front, to Max and his parents who were surprised and thrilled to see her as they had long ago lost contact. There were warm hugs, and when she introduced Dwight, the family was very touched as if he were Eliot’s proxy, embracing their former attorney’s brother as well. The Williamses had restaurant reservations and invited Didi and Dwight to join them, but they both declined, saying they needed to get on the road.
When the family had gone their way, he turned to her to initiate their adieu.
“Well.”
“Oh not yet for you, mister, we have a little catching up to do. Take you to lunch?”
It was a quiet place, and they ordered salads. Didi would be forty-five now, looking gorgeous as ever. She chatted on, the same ease and delight Dwight had remembered from that weekend long ago, Rett’s chistening as an infant, she and Dwight among the godparents, and another time when they were both in Indianapolis for the boy’s fifth birthday. She had been living in San Diego seven years now and loved the weather if not the political conservatism. She had Nellie, a black German shepherd she cherished, a pool, and her walls were adorned with the work of local artists.
“Would love to buy something from you. Have a drawing of yours in my home.”
“Be happy to make that happen, but it would be a gift, no buyin.”
When the salads, which were quite large, were brought to them, Didi had dug into a chunk of chicken, chewing, her thoughts drifting back to the events of the day.
“Funny to think now about the conditions we worked under, defending those little boys back in ’60. All the progressive Supreme Court mandates that came down later that decade, and I mean in addition to the civil rights laws. In re Gault established constitutional rights for juveniles, we would still have been dealing with race, but had Gault been in place we wouldn’t have felt so mice against mountains. Then Gideon—did you know before ’63 there was no federal directive for a public defender? The poor accused of felonies sent away to the state pen years because if they couldn’t afford a lawyer, they just had to stand up and defend themselves in court: a layperson against a district attorney! And before Miranda ’66, the police were under no obligation to inform an arrested individual of his rights, oh my God! how did we do it?” She shook her head. “But I suppose if we hadn’t been doing it then, then would still be now.”
“You know what become a the other little boy? The little chatty one?”
“Jordan?” She sighed. “The latest was five to ten for robbing a convenience store. Both those boys spent the rest of their growing up targeted as pariahs by the local whites. And between the bigger boys and the guards, who knows what happened to them those months they were in the reformatory. Jordan became the criminal they all made him. The miracle is Max didn’t.” They were both quiet a few moments.
Dwight noticed no wedding band around Didi’s finger. She began telling amusing anecdotes about her life since moving to the West Coast, and at one point she mentioned a Glenn twice in the course of three minutes.
“Is this Glenn someone special?”
“Yes. He can hold an erection for thirty minutes straight.” She had squealed with delight, seeing the embarrassment on Dwight’s face. “Oh Dwight, I have no interest in marriage or children! I just like having a good time.” She smiled. “Thirty minutes straight. That would be a good line for Tease. Next installment.”
Dwight’s face went blank. “You don’t know I’m a novelist? I’ve written a whole series! Black lawyers, mysteries. Ludwig and Tease, attorney partners and lovers.”
“Well. Congratulations!”
“Thank you. Not that I have any delusions that I’ve created great literature. It’s crap. But it’s page-turning crap, and it’s fun.” She fed herself an olive with her fingers. “I guess something snapped one day, and I finally got too tired and frustrated with the reality of the legal system. So I decided to write it as it should be. And if I attract readers who generally do all their book shopping from the supermarket checkout line, then maybe I’m not just preaching to the choir, maybe my life’s served some kind of purpose.”
At a far table, a black girl in cap and gown chatted energetically with her proud family. Between his elbowing with all the parents at the graduation and this restaurant lunch, Dwight had been feeling like an impostor all day. Being among folks who had normal functioning lives. His own existence generally fluctuated between part-time and full-time junkie, peppered with sporadic vows to go straight which lasted from a few days to (in one particularly inspired period) six months. Even the year and a half he spent in prison—burglary to support his habit—he barely remembers a day of sobriety. He routinely slept with men who would provide him with a temporary roof. He was doing just that at the time, the apartment where he’d seen the news broadcast that had brought him to L.A. was leased by his latest, a Vietnamese immigrant. (He’ll never know for certain whether it was some inadvertent narcotized memory confusion or petty passive-aggressiveness that caused him to shower his filthy self at Keith’s rather than at “home.”) These were times of semi-temperance. At worst, Dwight’s home was the street. But today had made him long for the luxury of ordinariness and, once again, he made mad promises to himself as he smiled at Didi over the flower vase centerpiece.
“And you?”
“Me?”
“What sort of purpose is your life serving these days? Remember you’re in competition with a fluff paperback writer so I hope it’s something equally lofty.”
He had looked into his plate, a smile thinly concealing his shame. “I guess I’m not doin much at the moment.”
“Anybody special?”
He did not recall an occasion ever to have discussed his sexuality with Didi in the past, but if she would have a problem with it, he may as well find out. “What you said about Glenn? Thirty minutes? Nunna my men been that special,” and Didi had cracked up. Then she sipped her wine.
“I heard you were having some troubles.”
Dwight, still staring at his plate, sighed irritably.
“I’m not going to get into your business. But I hope the struggles are a thing of the past.” She had then gazed at him meaningfully. “Like all the bad times.”
He had looked at her quickly, then away, and nodded.
“Hey. You hear about Andi’s good news?”
“I got an announcement for Rett’s graduation and there was a letter. He mentioned somethin. Gonna be a judge?”
“Not just any judge. She was appointed to the federal court, Southern District of Indiana. Very prestigious!” Didi had then sat back in her chair, taking in what Dwight had said. “Eliot’s son graduating high school?”
“Coupla weeks.”
A wistful smile and a shine returning to her eyes, her thoughts far away. “Time flies.”
As she perused the dessert menu, Dwight felt it coming: sweat, tremors, fear that he might retch.
“Say, Didi, I think I gotta get on the road. What do I owe you?”
“If you recall I offered to take you to lunch. The only repayment. I’d better see that artwork in the mail.”
“You got it. And I’ll definitely be lookin for Ludwig and Tease.” Dwight had stood, then Didi.
“I’m gonna stay a little while longer. The brother at the bar has been giving me the eye, and without you sitting here cramping my style I’d like to see where that goes.” She hugged him, kissed him on the cheek. “It was great to see you again, Dwight.”
“You haven’t changed a bit, Didi.”
“I’m gonna opt to take that as a compliment.”
Usually it would be easy to ward off the monster near a college campus, the dorms full of provisions, but with graduation, classes were on hiatus until the summer sessions began. In the neighborhood, however, Dwight was able to make contact with a few fellow travelers, the score calming him for the drive back up the coast. At 3 a.m
. he pulled into the neighborhood where he’d snagged his lift the night before, parking three blocks away. The following weekend he had strolled the scene of the crime in broad daylight and noticed the car in its original place, so San Francisco’s Finest had apparently proved worthy in returning the auto to its owner, if not in ever resolving the mystery of its borrower.
Dwight exits the bus and walks the two blocks to the gallery. The show is a collection of racist mainstream cartoons, screening everything from Betty Boop’s visiting a reservation to teach ignorant Indians how to make real music (jazz, ironically) to Sunflower the Centaur, a Buckwheat-like character of Disney’s Fantasia. Among the print comics are the World War II anti-Japanese images Dwight remembers from his childhood. He had reconciled with Dr. Seuss over the years, appreciating that the man had regrets for those days and wrote Horton Hears a Who in support of a more internationalist point of view, the book dedicated to a Japanese friend of the author’s. “The Sneetches” blatantly condemned prejudice, and the story concludes in a beautiful redemptive spirit, but for Dwight there were aspects of the violent Jim Crow era of his young adulthood that he will never forgive, a tight ball of bitterness formed and expanded in his soul. To that end, he finds the sentiment of the whole ugly generation more epitomized in the Seuss story wherein the northbound Zax and the southbound Zax obstinately refuse to step aside to let the other pass, and therefore neither goes anywhere. Though the creatures were meant to represent opposing opinions, to Dwight the bigger issue is both of them united in their clinging to set ways, perfectly analogous to the Southern stubborn, and often lethal, defiance of even federally mandated change. And change happens, the entire world built around the bullheaded Zaxes, who still in the end remain unmoved.
3
Dwight waits at the TWA gate. He finds it odd that the internship would start right on June 1st, a Wednesday, but who knows the bureaucracy involved in these programs. To make up for taking the afternoon off, he’d worked an extra hour every day last week. After dinner yesterday he held Rett’s senior picture, the one enclosed with the boy’s high school graduation announcement and which Dwight had miraculously managed to keep all these years, now framed and prominently displayed on the coffee table. Eliot all over, Dwight had thought when he looked at it the first time, so he didn’t imagine he would have trouble picking his nephew out of the deplaning crowd.
It has crossed his mind that Rett might not be on the flight. What if Dwight’s reply had gotten lost in the mail so Rett made other plans? Or if something unforeseen had come up at the last minute? Did Rett even have Dwight’s phone number? After all his anxieties regarding his nephew’s visit, he realizes only now that for it all to not happen would be a bit devastating.
And out of the blue flashes a memory of being thirteen and sitting on his bed. He hadn’t been outside in days since the brutal death of Parker the Cat, and Eliot had not said a word to him. His mother had told Dwight she wanted to talk to him, and it was her gentleness, the tenderness in her eyes, that had terrified him. She sat down softly next to him.
“You been wantin your own room, right?”
He’d stared at her. Eliot had vigilantly lobbied against this.
“Your brother said he’s ready now. Eliot’s gonna move out, into the guestroom, so you get to have the ole room all to yourself.”
And Dwight had bawled harder and longer than he had ever remembered, his mother holding his violently shaking body. Where Eliot was during all this—outside and aware or not that his directive was being handled at this very moment, or in the house and unmoved by his brother’s sorrow, his overwhelming guilt and regret—Dwight would never know.
Agonizing as the recollection is, it’s still a part of him, he can’t just let it go. He sighs and takes out the composition book from his bag. He’s just finishing when the arrival of the flight from Dallas is announced, and he stands. For those who had originated in Indianapolis, he had calculated a ten-hour travel time including layover, thus the many fatigued expressions now emerging through the gate. Dwight nearly drops his coffee when he sees him, the high school photo having not prepared the uncle. The spitting image of Eliot, only Rett is about three inches taller. Slim, and dressed neatly in what appears to be a new, crisp outfit: jeans and a green and white horizontal striped shirt. He dons dark-framed eyeglasses. Earphones hang from his neck, the wire falling into the duffel bag he carries, where presumably is the attached Walkman. In the other hand he holds a guitar case. He walks up to Dwight with a tired smile.
“Hi, Uncle Dwight.”
After all the time and distance, it doesn’t occur to either of them to embrace. Dwight is still marveling on Eliot’s genetic photocopy when Rett says, in reference to the instrument, “I hope you don’t mind. I’d like to practice sometimes in the evenings after work.”
Dwight smiles. “I don’t mind at all.”
The uncle splurges on a taxi, and after they’re dropped off, Dwight gazes at his home, seeing it for the first time as Rett might. A lovely old three-storey mansion, now converted into three single-floor apartments, Dwight’s at the top. “The bus stop’s just a block away. See it? If you gimme the address of your workplace, I can call, get the Muni directions.”
“Oh thanks, but I can call myself. I’m usually better hearing directions firsthand.”
They climb the two flights, and Dwight unlocks the door. Rett takes it in: the large living space, the comfortable couch with matching chair and loveseat. “Wow. This place is great, Uncle Dwight.” And Dwight believes Rett is earnest but has noticed nary an exclamation point in the boy’s unwasted words—polite but solemn. Rett gazes out the picture window at the spectacular view.
“Well I kind of inherited it. It was my friend’s place. I’ll show you your room.”
He does, and Rett sets down his things. Then Dwight brings him back out to the living room and hands him a set of apartment keys and a piece of paper.
“The phone number here, till you memorize it. Make yourself at home. Eat anything out the fridge. There’s the big stereo out here, the smaller one in your room, you’re welcome to either. Headphones so you won’t disturb me if I’m workin and vice versa. And you can call home to Indianapolis anytime, don’t worry about the cost.”
“Thank you.”
“You need to call your mother, let her know you arrived?”
“Yeah. In a little while.”
“Tired? Wanna nap?”
“I’m okay.”
“Want some juice? Water?”
“Water please.”
Dwight nods, gazing at his nephew. “Guess you’re legal now. At restaurants you can order your wine or beer, but nothin like that in my home please. No alcohol, no drugs. And marijuana is a drug. And cigarettes, if you don’t mind keep all that outside. Okay?”
“I don’t do that stuff, Uncle Dwight. No drugs, and I don’t want lung cancer. And I hardly ever drink. I won’t do it at home.”
“I appreciate it.”
Dwight goes to the kitchen.
“We have these.”
The uncle looks into the living room. Rett is referring to the seven books in the Ludwig and Tease series, displayed on a bookshelf. Dwight smiles. “Page-turners. You read em?”
“Only the first. Guess I’m not much into law stories. Get that enough at home.”
“I bet.” Dwight brings in water for Rett, cranberry juice for himself. “But you still interested in law yourself?”
“Oh sure. But reading about it in fiction too. Guess it makes my life too redundant.”
Dwight chuckles. Rett studies Keith’s two paintings on the wall for some time, then walks to the drawing board. “This architect table’s great.”
“Mm hm. Also was my friend’s.”
“Keith’s?”
Dwight is startled. “Yes. Keith.”
“I heard about him. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Rett moves to some framed photographs on a mantel. He picks up the one of Eliot graduating from law school, flanked by his beaming parents and brother.
“You all have a copy of that, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Rett sets it back. “You don’t have any of when you and my father were little?”
Dwight shakes his head. “We didn’t take millions a pictures back then like people do today.” He hesitates. “I think. I useta keep a storage unit, but. When I missed some monthly payments, guess they got throwed out with the resta the stuff.” He had sobbed a year later when he’d remembered, during a sober moment, about the photos in the compartment. Before he can slip into a minor melancholy, Carver enters, walking up to Rett.
“That’s Carver greetin ya. The black one’s Banneker. He’ll show his face eventually. Aloof.” Then a sudden worry: “You’re not allergic, are ya?”
“Oh no.” Rett stoops down and strokes the feline. “Hi, Carver.”
“I was more a dog person growin up. But then I found em, two abandoned babies. The other two in the litter lyin beside em dead.” He picks up his shoulder bag. “You like Chinese?”
They walk around Chinatown, and Rett seems to come alive a bit in the bustle of the neighborhood.
“This your first time in San Francisco, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well we’ll have to ride the cable car back.”
Rett smiles.
“We got the whole summer for sightseein. Maybe I’ll show you around a little Saturday? Golden Gate Bridge? Japanese Tea Garden? Or Lombard Street?”
“It all sounds great.”
He takes Rett to his favorite restaurant for dinner. As Dwight chews on his kung pao chicken he studies his nephew, who looks around as he eats, speaking only when spoken to. Something doesn’t jibe with the confident young man who had written that letter, taking the daring plunge of asking a long-lost relative if he could crash at his place the entire summer. But then Dwight remembers his reply, the exclamation points ad nauseum that intimated an enthusiasm that was certainly an exaggeration if not a boldface lie.
