Reparations

by Stephen Kimber

  “Ironically, these rock-throwers and placard-wavers were supposedly protesting the portrayal in a school textbook of some African Negroes as savages,” the paper’s editorial declared. “We don’t know about the Negroes in the textbook, but we can say for a certainty that those who took part in the demonstration this week acted like savages. We can only be thankful for the swift, decisive and restrained response of the forces of law and order, which prevented further property damage and hooliganism.”

  Black Pride held an emergency board meeting, after which it apologized for the “irresponsible actions of a few” and announced that the drop-in centre would close immediately. Some board members demanded that Calvin fire Ray, too, but he resisted, creating a split among board members, a few of whom hinted Calvin was protecting a “communist troublemaker” just because his sister was dating the young man.

  The fallout from the demonstration itself had barely subsided when the local CBC broadcast the National Film Board documentary, which stirred things up all over again. In editing the film to fit its half-hour time slot, the filmmakers—intentionally or unintentionally—made it appear as though Ray had orchestrated the entire demonstration. Ray’s praise for the young people for organizing the demonstration ended up on the cutting-room floor; his comments about the racist, capitalist education system became a damning voice-over for the dramatic film of the confrontation between the riot squad and the demonstrators.

  Bowing to renewed pressure from the board, Calvin called in Ray to tell him he was being suspended for one week without pay for what the board described as “conduct detrimental to the future of Black Pride.”

  “I’m sorry, Ray, I truly am,” Calvin said, “but what they really wanted was to fire your ass. So be thankful it didn’t go that far.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said. Then he got on the phone and called Jack Eagleson. “Mr. Eagleson,” he said, “when’s the next sitting for those admission tests?”

  Jack Eagleson was as good as his word. And better. He not only wrote a compelling letter of reference for Ray, which, coupled with Ray’s own high scores on his LSATs, got him accepted into the program, but he also arranged for Ray to receive a bursary to cover tuition, books and modest living expenses for all three years of law school. The cheques came from the Winners’ Fund. “An organization I belong to has a fund that supports worthy causes,” Eagleson explained with one his laughs. “You seemed worthy enough to me.”

  Ray had waited most of his first year for the other shoe to drop, for Eagleson to demand something in return, but he never did. In fact, the only communication Ray had from his benefactor was a note after his final exams that year, congratulating him on “doing far better than I did in my first year. Good luck with the rest of your studies.”

  Eagleson never once mentioned the suitcase full of money he’d tried to bribe Ray’s father with, either to defend his actions or to apologize for them, although Ray figured that must have had something to do with Mr. Eagleson’s support. But Ray, of course, never asked Eagleson about that either.

  In that, he was not his father’s son. Lawrence Carter frequently let his son know exactly what he thought—about Ray’s decision to quit Black Pride “at the first sign of trouble”; about his decision to throw his lot in with “the white vultures preying on your own people”; about his decision to accept help and, worse, money from a man like Jack Eagleson, “the very same fellow I told to go to hell”; and even about his decision to break up with Rosa, “the only one in that whole family who was worth a damn.”

  They’d split up just before Ray started law school. Ray’s stupid idea. They had to stop seeing each other, he told her, so he could focus on his studies. He’d not only been out of school for seven years but he’d never even been inside an undergraduate university classroom, let alone a place like law school. So he wouldn’t have time to be a proper boyfriend. Ray couldn’t simply do well, he had to do better than his classmates. The dean, the profs, the students, probably even Mr. Eagleson himself, were all just waiting for him to live down to their expectations. He had to show them, he told her. Rosa could understand that; she could, couldn’t she? Rosa couldn’t. And didn’t.

  Ray couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t sure he understood either. Had he been honest, or was there something more to his inexplicable desire to walk away from a relationship that seemed to be everything he could have hoped for? Maybe he was just scared. Was he really ready to settle down with one woman? Shouldn’t he see other girls, make sure Rosa was really the one for him? That would have been acceptable, but Ray wasn’t even sure that was what was behind his decision. Could it be that he was embarrassed to introduce Rosa on campus as his girlfriend? Ray was twenty-four; Rosa was eighteen. And still in high school. Ray was going to be a law student. Could it be that Rosa was, well . . . that she was . . . too unsophisticated for the life he was about to lead? Unsophisticated? Was unsophisticated code for black? Jesus . . . could it be that he, a black man, was embarrassed to have a black girlfriend? Worried that the other students might think he wasn’t smart enough, or ambitious enough, to have a girlfriend to fit his newly elevated social status?

  Within days of breaking up with her, Ray had come to his senses, told Rosa he was sorry and asked, then begged her to forgive him his stupidity and take him back. Rosa refused. In the beginning, she’d been hurt, which morphed quickly into anger, and then finally obstinacy. She’d show him. And she did.

  Within a week, she was dating a boy from her high school, a football player. Within the month, they were going steady.

  Ray had been right about how hard first-year law school would be. But he was wrong that breaking off with Rosa would help him concentrate on his studies. In fact, it had the opposite effect. When he wasn’t moping about how he’d screwed things up, he was hatching schemes to win her back, schemes he seemed incapable of following up. He passed his Christmas exams, but barely.

  A few days after Christmas, he finally called Rosa to invite her over to his apartment for a drink, “because, well, it’s Christmas and we should at least be friends.”

  She acquiesced, but there was a coldness in her tone. Perhaps that was why he’d felt the need to have a drink while he waited for her to arrive. And then another. And another. He was drunk by the time she got there. Drunk and maudlin and stupid. He careened from bragging about how well he’d done in law school to weeping about how much he missed her to complaining about how unfair she’d been to him.

  “Unfair to you!” she fired back. “I wasn’t the one who dumped you.”

  “But that was a mistake. I said I was sorry.”

  “Sorry? Sorry came way too late.”

  Afterward, he wouldn’t remember how they’d ended up in bed together. Perhaps the answer was in the bottom of the empty quart of rye on his night table. At some point, they’d started passing it back and forth, drinking the alcohol straight from the bottle. And then suddenly—at least that’s the way it seemed in Ray’s memory of it—they were rolling around on the bed, frantically ripping at each other’s clothes. There was nothing romantic about their lovemaking; it was aggressive, cathartic, as if they were taking out all their hurt, and anger, and love on each other’s body. He was driving his hardness as deeply into her body as he could; she was clawing at the skin on his back, scratching, cutting. And then, in what seemed like a single, shuddering explosion, it was over. They fell asleep entangled in one another’s arms and legs.

  “This doesn’t change anything, you know,” she said the next morning, sitting on his bed, fastening her bra.

  “But—”

  “We shouldn’t have. But we did. And now . . .” There was a hesitation, as if, he imagined when he replayed their conversation in his head later, her resolve was melting, but then she willed the ice back into her voice. “I have to go.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t make it harder.”

  “But last night—
”

  “—was last night,” she said, cutting him off. “You know, when you broke up with me, that hurt. A lot. But now I can see that it was the right thing to do. We’re too different in too many ways. You were right to think I couldn’t fit into your law school life.”

  “But that’s not what I—”

  “I know that’s not what you said. You didn’t have to say it. Your eyes said it for you.” Ray looked away, tried not to let her see how right she’d been.

  “I have to go,” she said finally. And she was gone.

  He found out she was pregnant during Reading Week that February. Aunt Annie told him. The story came out in fits and starts when he went to visit her to lie about how well he was doing at law school. And to ask, as casually as possible, if she’d heard how Rosa was doing.

  “Gone,” she said with a shake of her head. “Girl just done gone. Her and her daddy had a knock-down-drag-out. Heard ’em myself from down the hall. Shoutin’ to beat the band. And then Rosa up and left. Just disappeared.”

  “You know what were they arguing about?”

  “Not much I don’t know,” Aunt Annie said with a twinkle in her eye. “Seems our little Rosa is gonna be a mama.”

  “A what?”

  “She’s gonna have a baby.”

  Ray called Rosa’s father’s apartment; the Deacon said there was no one named Rosa living at that number. “It’s Raymond, Raymond Carter, Deacon Johnstone. Can you just tell me how I can get in touch with Rosa?”

  “Young man,” the Deacon said in his Reverend voice, “I don’t know anyone named Rosa and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call here again.”

  He thought about calling Calvin, asking him about Rosa. He hadn’t seen Calvin since he’d handed him his letter of resignation the day he was supposed to return to work after his suspension. They’d promised to keep in touch. But he hadn’t. Now, it would be awkward. Hi, Calvin. Sorry I knocked up your sister. You couldn’t tell me where I could find her, could you?

  In the end, he’d waited for Rosa after school.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “It’s a free country,” she said and started walking.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, more forcefully than he’d planned.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’re having a baby.”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  Ray was taken aback. But he pressed on. “It is if I’m the father. Look, Rosa, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened but I do love you. And I’ll make it right. I mean, we can get married . . . I’ll quit law school, get a job, we can find a place, we can—”

  She stopped, turned to face him. “What makes you think it’s your baby?”

  He hadn’t even entertained the possibility, hadn’t allowed the image of Rosa with someone else—her football player boyfriend?—to enter his mind. “Is it?” he asked weakly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t need your pity.” And began walking again.

  Ray remained rooted in place, considering. The baby was his. It had to be. But . . . what was he supposed to do if she wouldn’t even acknowledge that? And maybe . . . maybe it really wasn’t his baby. It had been just that one night. What made him think he had to be the father? Part of him wanted to run after her, make her tell him the truth. But part of him didn’t want to know, didn’t want to quit law school, give up on the future . . . he was too young to be a father . . .

  And then she was gone. Turned the corner. Out of sight. He didn’t follow. And he hadn’t seen her since. He’d heard from Aunt Annie she’d had a son. “His name’s Lawrence,” she said. “And I hear he’s a handsome one.”

  Ray had tried dating white girls again. There were only a few at the law school, but they were easier to talk to than the white guys. Maybe, like Becky back in high school, they were just looking for an adventure, a chance to rebel before they conformed, or perhaps they wanted to know if it was true what they said about black men and their big dicks. Ray wondered what they thought afterwards. He never asked. And they never offered.

  Was that why once seemed enough for most of them? Curiosity satisfied, time to move on? Sometimes, after, they’d be friendly enough, even over-friendly, as if to make up for the fact that they didn’t want to sleep with him again. Sometimes, like Sandy this morning, they’d pretend they didn’t even see him.

  He’d noticed her coming out of the library a few minutes before his hallway encounter with Montague. She’d seen him too, he was sure of that, but she’d looked away before “Good morning” could escape his lips. He’d swallowed the words as he felt another invisible curtain come crashing down. Was it something he’d said or done—or not—last night? Was it about the boyfriend back home she’d mentioned before and after? Or was it about the colour of his skin?

  That was the problem, he thought. You never knew for sure whether’ someone was rejecting you, or your race. Or was race, at least some of the time, just the convenient receptacle into which you could put the blame you didn’t want to take on yourself?

  She doesn’t like you because you were an asshole last night. You got drunk and stupid, came on to her. Pressured her to go to bed with you, wouldn’t take no for an answer and then, after it was over, just walked away like you’d got what you wanted, and screw her. No wonder she didn’t want to talk to you today.

  But was that really it?

  You saw her sitting at the bar in that miniskirt, legs winking open in invitation. She wanted your big black dick. She didn’t say no to going back to her place. And she was the one who unbuckled your belt, who reached down and wrapped her hands around it. And now, now that she’s got what she wanted, she knows what she doesn’t want. A black man complicating her life.

  Why did everything have to be so complicated? Like Montague’s simple “Good morning, Mr. Carter.”

  Ray needed to get away from Sandy, and Cecil Montague, away from law school itself. Now. So he didn’t go to his next class, just kept walking past other students and faculty, out the door, turned left on University Avenue and headed downtown.

  He hadn’t planned to end up at the Provincial Law Courts building, but once there, it seemed only logical to go inside, to see if he could find some reason not to quit.

  “Arraignments are in Courtroom 1.” The helpful deputy pointed down the hall. At first, Ray thought the sheriff’s deputy must have realized he was a law student and was simply helping him find his way around. But then it struck him that the man couldn’t know that and must have assumed Ray was here to be arraigned. That the deputy was black didn’t ease the sting. Ray was tempted to go anywhere but Courtroom 1 just to prove there were other reasons for a black man to be in this courthouse, but he didn’t. He slipped into the back of the courtroom, bowed to the still-empty judge’s bench and looked for a seat. There was none. Just a sea of faces, many black, awaiting their turn to concede their guilt or assert their non-guilt.

  Ray’s eyes were drawn to the young woman standing alone at the front of the room. It took a moment for him to register that the woman was Rosa. In that same moment she recognized him, too. She looked at him, then away as if from a flame. She turned back to face the front of the empty room and sat down on the bench. She hunched over, trying, Ray thought, to make herself invisible. What was she doing there? he wondered. He should go up there, ask her about her son (his son?), apologize, tell her he loved her, beg her to take him back. He didn’t. He turned on his heel and pushed the courtroom door open, ran down the hall past the startled deputy and out into the air. He needed to breathe.

  “Hey.” His come-on.

  “Hey.” Her response.

  It was close to two in the morning; even the Derby Tavern—the usual excuse white south-enders offered for being on this part of Gottingen Street at night—had long since closed its doors.

  “How much?”
/>
  “Depends . . .”

  “On what?”

  “Depends on what you want.” She sounded bored, then forced. “But whatever you want, honey, I got.”

  Ward Justice could not see her face. He was staring at her midsection across the empty passenger seat and through the open window of his new Lincoln Town Car. She was standing on the curb, her face above the car’s roof. It was dark, the electricity was out, and the only light came from the blowing, drifting snow. It was the first storm of the season, unexpected and unseasonably early, so the plows hadn’t even been mobilized yet. Worse, it had rained just before the temperature dropped. The roads were slick with ice. What the hell was he doing out here in this weather at this hour?

  Except for the girl, the streets were deserted. She wasn’t dressed for the weather. Under an open jacket, he could see she was wearing a frilly white top that showcased her breasts and a micro-miniskirt that left little for him to have to imagine.

  “You want anything or you just lookin’?” she said when he didn’t answer. “Because it’s frigging cold out here, you know. It’s ten for the best blow job you ever had, twenty for the works.”

  Why was he doing this? Because he was drunk? He was definitely drunk, way too drunk to be driving. He’d told himself when he was elected he’d never do a Dauphinee but here he was, piss-drunk and at the wheel. He should have called the cops. Partying politicians regularly called the police for free cab rides. Ward had discovered that soon after he was elected. He’d been celebrating late into the night in Seamus O’Sullivan’s hospitality suite at the Nova Scotian during the party’s annual meeting when Jack suggested they head up to the Paradise, the all-night greasy spoon, for a burger and fries. “Just call the cops,” Jack said. “They’ll send a car for us.” Ward thought he was joking. “They’re just driving around anyway, so what the fuck?” Jack told him. “Consider it one of the perks of power. Just call the dispatcher.” So Ward did. And sure enough, a few minutes later, a patrol car pulled up at the hotel entrance and drove them the three blocks to the Paradise.