by Joseph Souza
Clarissa’s caterer works in the kitchen as we converse over wine. While things sizzle away on the stove, we sit in the dining room, laughing and joking. We polish off the first bottle of wine in no time. I take an occasional sip of beer so as not to hurt Clay’s feelings. I really don’t like beer. It’s yucky and bitter tasting and tends to leave me bloated. I’ve never told this to Clay, but he knows my view on the subject and does not seem offended by my preference for wine. Complimenting him on his beer is kind of like faking an orgasm.
We’ve polished off two bottles of Merlot and Cab by the time dinner is served. Surprisingly, their caterer is an older white woman, and it’s surprising because the menu tonight is fried chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, chitlins, fried okra, and watermelon salad. It fits the stereotype a bit too neatly for me, but it’s their culture and not for me to judge. The food is delicious, especially the crunchy fried chicken. Russell gently coaxes us to try the chitlins, and as much as the sight of them repulses me, I try a teensy-weensy bite. They crack up when I gag, and I have to spit the chitlins into my napkin while laughing hysterically. An acquired taste, Russell says. Gourmet food for the slaves.
I feel happy and content. Finally, all my hard work has paid off and we are becoming friends. But somewhere in the back of my mind I can’t reconcile my feelings with the other Russell. The Russell from the diary who’s a cheating abuser.
Clay goes to pour me another glass of wine, but Russell takes the bottle from him, grabs my hand, and fills the glass. His grip surprises me and I momentarily freeze in stunned silence. What is he doing? He holds it there a few seconds, smiling at me from across the table. Wearing an uneasy expression, I look up at Clarissa, but she is in deep discussion with Clay. Russell finally lets go and I feel a sense of relief. My queasiness is suddenly replaced by a sense of chagrin. I giggle drunkenly, believing that I’m imagining things. Yes, all the wine has gone straight to my head and I realize I’ve made a big deal out of nothing.
Russell engages me in conversation and we laugh happily. At the moment, he seems like the most erudite and nicest man I’ve ever met. I can see how Clarissa was initially attracted to him. Clarissa laughs loudly as Clay pours the remainder of the dark beer into her glass. She takes a sip and compliments him on concocting such a tasty porter. Her hand reaches out and rests on his, and stays there throughout my conversation with Russell.
Am I losing my mind? I turn and look at Clay and see his beer-flushed face focusing on Clarissa’s face. She looks stunning tonight and it‘s clearly obvious Clay‘s flirting with her. He doesn’t try to remove his hand, nor does he pay any attention to me. He has no idea that Russell is “allegedly” abusing her. I turn back to Russell, who is leaning forward and speaking to me in a low voice. I’m flustered, confused, my mind racing in so many different directions that I can’t hear what he’s saying. I nod repeatedly as he talks, not wanting to spoil a potentially good friendship because of my paranoia. Or because I’m unnecessarily worried about my husband flirting with Clarissa.
They laugh and look into each other’s eyes. I want to run over and put a stop to their shenanigans. What the hell does Clay think he’s doing?
The woman cooking our dinner sets down a peach cobbler and a sweet potato pie. She pats Clarissa on the shoulder and says good-bye to us. The four of us compliment her on such a fantastic meal as she makes her way out of the house. Russell goes back to the kitchen and uncorks another bottle of Pinot and pours everyone a glass. Looking at the others, I can tell that they are as drunk as I am.
“How you liking that Pinot, girl?” Russell asks me, a devilish grin on his face.
“Quite delicious,” I say, my taste buds on the verge of neuropathy.
“Grapes grown and pressed by a black family out in Oregon. Visited that winery myself.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“Nice folks too. Kind of funny that they’ve got a bunch of Mexicans working for them. Have their own vineyard with their own slaves. It’s the modern-day version of a plantation.”
“Here’s to the free market,” Clay says, raising his glass.
“All labor in this market is a matter of exploitation. Because when you come right down to it, we’re all slaves in one form or another.”
“I’d say that’s a pretty cynical view of things,” Clay says, laughing in a manner that tells me he’s quite buzzed. “With two employees on the payroll, that must make me one sorry-ass plantation owner.”
“It’s not the size of the plantation that matters. It’s how you exploit it.”
I find that statement odd but decide to keep my mouth shut.
“Where’d you come up with that theory?” Clay asks.
“Says in the Bible, ‘If one is burdened with the blood of another, he will be a fugitive until death.’ One man’s enterprise is another man’s plantation, plain and simple.”
I sip my wine as Clay laughs in boozy consternation. For some strange reason, I sense that this cheerful mood is about to change into something dark and sinister. My only consolation is Clay: he’s always been an easygoing soul with a long fuse.
“You really believe that?” Clay says.
“Don’t matter what I believe. The truth is the truth, man.”
“Peach cobbler, anyone?” Clarissa asks.
“I’ll have some,” I say cheerfully, trying to remain upbeat.
“Does that make your caterer a slave?” Clay asks.
“You familiar with the old saying about ‘calling a spade a spade’?”
“Play nice, Russell,” Clarissa says playfully.
“I find it ironic that you hired an elderly white woman to cook us this soul food,” Clay says.
“Judge a person not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character—unless they can cook like Miss Judy.” Russell roars with laughter.
“Miss Judy cooks the best soul food in the area, right, baby?” Clarissa puts a hand on her husband’s arm.
“Where would we be in this town without Miss Judy? My dear wife here is a working girl and can’t cook a lick. Not like her forebears, anyway.”
“That’s because I’m not your slave, dear.”
“I love a modern girl.” He turns to his wife and caresses her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Clarissa smiles awkwardly. “As for being a slave, you’re not going to find anyone makes a better peach cobbler in these parts than Miss Judy. Of course, my momma made the best cobbler I ever ate, but my poor old momma’s not around anymore.”
“I so enjoyed that meal,” I say. “Except for the chitlins. They tasted like shit.” I break out laughing, so happy with my witty and edgy banter.
“That’s because chitlins are a lot like my husband,” Clarissa says, laughing. “Completely full of shit.” We all laugh drunkenly.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed my people’s food,” Russell says, placing his large hand over mine. “It’s a reminder of our heritage. It’s a sure sign of the times when the children of slaveholders can break bread with the children of the slaves they once oppressed.” He holds up his glass and we all toast.
I take a sip of wine, let a few seconds pass, and clear my throat. “So what do you make of this missing girl?” I say, changing the subject.
“A real tragedy,” Russell says, sneaking a look at his wife before turning back to me. “There’s haters everywhere in this country. Haters are born to hate. The only difference today is that it’s hidden behind the facade of civility and good manners. When it emerges, it erupts from the bowels of this earth in the most violent fashion and in the unlikeliest of places.”
“Can you say ‘lacrosse team’?” Clarissa says.
“Why do you think they attacked her?” I ask.
“Mycah was outspoken in her support for civil rights and economic justice,” Clarissa says. “Maybe too much so for her own good.”
“It’s a plantation mind-set,” adds Russell. “People around these parts don’t like an uppity, intelligent black woman gett
ing in their business and pointing out the hidden racism that exists here in Dearborn. Everyone knows that Chadwick College has a long and shameful history of racism. So when they see someone like her on campus, speaking her mind about economic justice and police brutality, they fall back into their old tribal patterns.”
“Then why did you come here to Maine if you think it’s such a bad place?” I ask.
Russell laughs. “What’s the difference where we live? Racism is everywhere you turn. Police stopping and murdering young black men for no other reason than the color of their skin or that their britches are riding too low. Young black men turning to gangs. Higher rates of incarceration and poverty in the inner cities.” He turns to Clay. “Born the right color in this country, you’ve been granted a privilege denied to the rest of us. Whoever killed Cordell and kidnapped Mycah Jones is sending a message that the Confederacy is alive and well in these parts. Wouldn’t even be surprised if it’s someone on campus.”
“Then why didn’t they kidnap Cordell?” I say.
“Why do you think? Trying to humiliate an upstanding black man by absconding with his woman. It’s a form of emasculation. It’s how the plantation owners asserted their dominance over those proud slave men, by selling off their women.”
“I certainly hope the police find the creeps who did this,” Clarissa says. “I want those racist bastards to pay for what they’ve done. In this day and age, no black person should have to walk around in fear because of the color of their skin.”
I study Clarissa’s face to gauge if she’s being authentic or merely spouting platitudes. After reading her diary, I feel that something is off about this dinner. Have we been invited here to listen to them pontificate? The strange thing is that they’re preaching to the choir. If only Russell knew that I was on to him. That he abuses Clarissa in private and has been unfaithful to her. What a messed-up marriage these two are mixed up in. Despite Clay’s occasional missteps, it makes me thankful to be married to him. He’s not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination, and neither am I. But at least we love and respect each other.
“Do you think they’ve hurt her?” I ask. “Assuming she’s still alive.”
“Who knows what they’ve done. But I can tell you this: if it had been a white girl who’d gone missing in Dearborn, the police would have surely found her by now.” Russell once again places his hand over mine as if to emphasize his point.
I try to remain calm and not let Russell intimidate me with his physical prowess. Clay’s face turns noticeably flush at the sight of Russell’s hand over mine, or maybe it’s because of all the beer he’s consumed. I remain still, slightly nauseous from all the wine and rich food. Russell’s thumb gently massages a circle in my palm. Clarissa looks over at me with an uneasy smile. Is it possible that he’s trying to make me uncomfortable? Or am I once again overreacting?
“Funny how history defines us. We’re all descended from Adam and Eve, but then some of our ancestors took a detour to get where we are today,” Russell says.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
He laughs. “You?”
“Yes, but we haven’t gone to church in some time.”
“Going to church has nothing to do with believing in God,” Russell says. “How about you, Clay?”
“Of course I believe in God,” he says. “To quote Ben Franklin, ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.’ ”
Russell laughs and lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Did you grow up Christian?” I ask, pushing on for some meaning.
“Well, I suppose you could say that. Grew up in a Southern Baptist family, so I suppose that qualifies me as a Christian man. Like you, it’s been a while since I been to church. My great-great-grandfather on my momma’s side was a Southern preacher in Mississippi during the Civil War.”
“My relatives fought on the side of the Union,” Clay says rather smugly.
“Well, I sure do thank your people for their sacrifice. But it still is not enough to remedy all the wrongs done to us black people.”
“How so?” Clay asks.
I try to gently pull my hand away, but Russell refuses to let go.
“Tell him what you mean, baby,” Clarissa says.
“Why don’t you tell him, hon? You the one with the silver tongue.”
“Russell believes that only reparations will settle the score and make our people right again,” Clarissa says, looking uncomfortably at me.
“Reparations?” Clay’s expression changes in a manner that worries me.
“It’s the only right thing to do. You wrong me. I sue for damages. Eye for an eye, like the good book says.”
“Payback to every black person in this country?” Clay asks.
“Unless you got a better way to repay that debt, that’s the ticket.”
Clay laughs. “That’s absurd. My family never kept slaves. In fact, they fought to emancipate your people.”
“My people?”
“Yeah, your people. Besides, the two of you don’t look as if you need reparations,” Clay says, his words stinging with acrimony.
“Reparations don’t have to be just money, my good man. It can come in many forms. Maybe you the one that needs reparations.”
“From what?”
“From the damage slavery has done to your own family. The guilt. The sins of the father passed on to the son.”
“I don’t need shit,” Clay huffs. “Look, I’m sorry that your ancestors were slaves, Russell, but that has nothing to do with us, right now, sitting here at this table and enjoying a nice meal.”
“It has everything to do with us. The past affects everything we do. We’re all slaves in this goddamn country because of the past.”
“Come on, man, be real. You know what I’m talking about.”
“For your information, Mr. Clay, my ancestors were not even slaves. Okay, maybe way back on God’s dark continent they were once slaves, but in the Deep South my people were the masters who owned slaves.”
“Your ancestors were white?” I blurt out, confused.
Russell laughs. “Hell no, they were as black as Georgia molasses and some of the richest folks in the Charleston area. My great-grandfather on my daddy’s side raised crops and sold off his slave women for profit. He was known as the harshest taskmaster in the South, and his slaves were the worst fed and most poorly clothed of them all. Those poor slave bastards hated that mean old son of a bitch more than any of the white masters. In fact, they wanted to wipe that old geezer off the face of the earth. He ruled his plantation with an iron fist and kept his niggas in line. Cross him and you got a whipping you’d not soon forget.”
“I never even knew there were black slave owners,” Clay says.
“Lot of black folks owned slaves. Part of history a lot of people don’t know about,” says Russell.
“Why did his slaves hate him more than the white plantation owners?” Clay asks.
“Because he was black like them and he sold off their women. Kept a ratio of one woman for every twenty men. How do you think them boys felt when they got a little frisky? Before you know it, they started turning against each other, the plantation owner, and then the system in general. Many resorted to homosexuality like the cats in prison. By the time the Civil War started, William had more than one hundred slaves. His kids branched off and had their own slaves too. Sort of a family business. That old dog even managed to produce a commercial gin mill as well.”
“Then why would you want reparations?”
“Because it was the system that failed us. Failed us all. Caused black people to turn against each other. Led to all this black-on-black crime. The paper bag test. Turned many a proud man homosexual. Those wrongs must come home to roost, Clay. It’s inevitable,” Russell says, still gripping my hand.
“I’m still not buying it,” Clay says.
“Now, I’m not saying that I or my family require financial remuneration. Sure, we done good. But r
eparations can come in more ways than money. Take this get-together, for example. My wife and I invited you two over for a nice meal. Good food, conversation, and plenty of wine. Neighborly stuff like that. Pay our respects.”
Clay laughs as if amused by this. I simply want my hand back but am too afraid to appear ungrateful. Maybe Russell is just being affectionate, and this is his way of showing it. But for some reason it feels creepy and strange and makes my skin crawl.
“We’ll certainly repay the debt and invite you two over sometime,” Clay says.
“There you go. Or we could become closer in other ways.” Russell’s hand moves slowly up my forearm.
Clarissa reaches out and touches Clay’s hand and he immediately recoils at the touch.
“What? You’re telling me that you’re not attracted to a beautiful, intelligent black woman like my wife?” Russell says, a sly smile creeping over his face.
“You’re crazy,” Clay says, knocking over his chair as he stands. He grabs my hand and pulls me up, saving me from further humiliation.
“Sure, I’m crazy. But that doesn’t take away from the truth of the matter. Which is that I’m taken aback by your antipathy toward my African queen.”
“See this.” Clay holds up his ring finger. “I’m a happily married man.”
“As am I,” Russell says, holding up his own ring finger. “Why the hell do you think I’m so happy?”
“We’re not like that.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Russell says.
“Let’s go, Leah.” Clay pulls me by the hand. “We don’t need this bullshit.”
“Are you implying that I’m unfaithful because, on occasion, I step outside the lines?” Russell says.
“Take it any way you like,” Clay says, helping me on with my coat.
“Swinging’s enhanced our marriage.”
“Good for you.”
“What about those poor slaves who were forced to share their precious women. Would you accuse them of being unfaithful?”
