Lonely Crusade

by Chester B Himes

  It was Lee who answered: “No, we never could afford them.”

  Ruth wished he hadn’t used the word “afford”; it sounded too much like a bid for sympathy, and now she sought to cover it. “Everything has been so—well—indefinite. The depression and now the war.”

  Foster did not want to dwell on it. “Would you like to take a dip? We keep the water tepid.”

  “Yes, we would!” they both replied in unison, and Lee thought: “Well at least we agree on one thing.”

  “But we don’t have suits,” Ruth added.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something here to fit,” Foster said as he escorted them to the dressing-rooms in the tiny cottage called the “Dolly House” at the end of the pool. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  The first to change, Lee came out alone, and suddenly was overwhelmed by the immensity of the place. For a moment it seemed that he stood naked in the windows of the house, and he walked quickly to the edge and dove beneath the water to escape the accusing eyes. When he came up for air a big bass laugh soared above him. Looking up he saw a grotesque woman with a bloated stomach, tall in the angle of his vision.

  “I’m Mrs. Foster and you’re Mr. Gordon,” she said, laughing.

  Thinking that she was laughing at him and hoping she was not, Lee became so painfully embarrassed he could not find his voice.

  “No one introduced us; that’s the way we do things around here,” she said, dragging a canvas chair to the shade of a parasol. “Go right ahead and swim. I’ll sit here and watch.”

  Lee mutely nodded and dove again to escape the sight of her.

  What Foster had done to his wife, and why, no outsiders ever knew. At that time she was a fifty-year-old Ophelia, not so much an idiot as uncaring. Signs that once she had been beautiful were still visible in her full, florid face; but she had deliberately let her body go to seed as a defense against her husband’s brutal passion. Now she wandered vacantly about the house, bemused with the cheap sherry she drank against reality, her deep pointless laughter echoing from room to room. Despised by Hortense, unknown to Martha, and ignored by Abigail—her daughters paid allegiance only to their father and obeyed only their nurse—she was not so much a mother as a stranger in the house. Denied voice in its management and forbidden the kitchen, on occasion, however, when Foster was absent and Charles his secretary elsewhere occupied, she would slip into the kitchen and ask the Negro cook: “If it’s not too much trouble, if it doesn’t upset your routine, if you don’t mind, would you bake me a small chocolate cake? And just leave it in the pantry, I’ll find it.”

  Now suddenly and without sound, Foster stood behind her, brown and muscular in blue swim trunks.

  “I see you’ve met Mr. Gordon,” he said blandly, and as Ruth came from the bathhouse, he added: “This is Mrs. Gordon. Mrs. Gordon, Mrs. Foster.”

  “Welcome to our swimming pool,” Mrs. Foster greeted, booming out her laugh. “I don’t swim in there myself. Louis keeps his snakes in there and I let them have it.”

  “Snakes!” Ruth almost screamed, and Lee echoed: “In here!” swimming for the ladder.

  “Dear, you know those little snakes have been gone for months,” Foster said, giving his wife a slow imperturbable look.

  “Well, they were there once and that’s enough for me,” she said, making herself more comfortable in the chair.

  Foster turned to Ruth with an ingenuous smile. “They were just a pair of tiny water moccasins, pets of Martha’s. They were perfectly harmless; she used to carry them around with her.”

  But the swimming pool had lost its attraction. Ruth went in for a few minutes out of courtesy but she did not enjoy it. Later, after they had showered, Foster mixed and served cocktails on the dining-room veranda. One by one the other members of the household—the three daughters, the secretary Charles Houston, a bachelor who had no other home and seemingly no other friends or relatives, and the middle-aged, motherly-appearing nursemaid Miss Martin, whom he had employed in London for the sole purpose, it sometimes seemed, to vent his spleen for the English, whom he loathed—drifted in and were introduced.

  The conversation reverted to the house again, and Mrs. Foster commented that she did not like the automatic lights in all the closets. “Whenever I open one of those doors absent-mindedly, the light pops on and frightens me to death.”

  “Oh, I think that’s a good feature,” Ruth said. “I mean when you get used to it,” she added lamely.

  To cover her embarrassment, Lee said politely that he enjoyed the swim. “The water was just right.”

  “Louis often invites Negro couples out to swim in his pool,” Mrs. Foster informed them, and Lee wondered if the snakes had been there. “Our friends are horrified,” she added frankly.

  “Are you familiar with Pasadena?” Foster inquired.

  “I was born here,” Lee replied.

  “Then you know of its narrow-minded traditions?”

  “In a way.”

  “Are you a native also?” he inquired of Ruth.

  “No, my home is in St. Louis. I came here on a visit with my mother eight years ago, and Lee and I were married.”

  “Oh, a real love match!” Mrs. Foster exclaimed.

  Ruth smiled. “When I saw that guy I knew that he was mine.”

  “How wonderful!” Mrs. Foster said.

  “Were your parents in business here, Lee?” Foster asked.

  “No sir, they were domestic servants.” Just the recollection of his background had compelled him to give the title of respect.

  “And you completed college?”

  “Yes sir—U. C. L. A. My mother helped and I worked also.”

  “There is no place like America,” Foster said, and the emotion in his voice was genuine because the opportunity for betterment afforded by America was his special love. He was convinced that any American (except women, whom he did not consider men’s equal; Negroes, whom he did not consider as men; Jews, whom he did not consider as Americans; and the foreign born, whom he did not consider at all), possessed of ingenuity, aggressiveness, and blessed with good fortune, could pull himself up by his bootstraps to become one of the most wealthy and influential men in the nation—even President. The fact that neither he nor any of his associates had been faced with this necessity had no bearing on his conviction. Like other fables of the American legend, the truth made little difference—as long as he believed, just as he now believed that there was no other place on earth where a Negro son of servant parents could achieve a college education. “No place like America,” he repeated.

  “No place!” Lee echoed, and he meant something else again.

  “And this is the challenge which lies ahead,” Foster continued as if Lee had not spoken, “whether we shall retain these principles of democracy or lose them to a handful of crackpots and Communists.”

  Now once again Lee Gordon felt the compulsion to agree, flatter, serve the vanity of this great white man, but he could not show such base servility in the eyes of his wife and expect her to still respect him. So he forced himself to offer a contradiction, “I don’t believe that there are enough Communists in the United States to form any real danger.”

  “There is no danger in the Communists themselves,” Foster said. “They’re nothing but a bunch of malcontents, individual failures, and professional agitators. The danger lies in the people who are influenced by them.”

  “I doubt if many people are influenced by the Communists,” Lee said. “Most people I’ve met are as opposed to Communism as I am.”

  This drew a smile of commendation from Foster and now his voice became inclusive again. “No, but they are influenced by the President who sanctions Communism, and they are influenced by the President’s wife, who associates with Communists. Each time Mrs. Roosevelt attends a Communist demonstration it has a direct bearing on public opinion—and she knows this.”

  “Oh, but I don’t think Mrs. Roosevelt is a Communist,” Ruth protested.

  Foster’s face we
nt completely still. “I’ve often wondered how colored people felt toward Mrs. Roosevelt,” he slowly said. “I’ve always thought her patronizing friendliness toward colored people was a cheap political trick.”

  “I think she’s a great woman,” Mrs. Foster interposed with calm defiance.

  Foster did not look at her, but when Ruth echoed: “Oh, I think so, too,” he chose to answer.

  “I know nothing of her greatness,” he said, “but I doubt her sincerity. And I don’t feel that the daredevil escapades in which she indulges are benefiting the colored people.”

  “I’ve never particularly been a fan of either of the Roosevelts,” Lee ventured. “But I think we have to give Roosevelt credit for the way he’s handling the war effort.”

  Foster appeared thoughtful. “Lee, I wonder if the war effort would not have gained impetus and cohesion without so much governmental interference.”

  “Well—big business has its own way of doing things—”

  “But don’t you think it’s an effective way?”—this alchemy of turning human effort into profit, which was always to Foster not only the zenith of a system, but the zenith of man—to become the maker of men, and with profit—“Look at what it’s done for America.”

  “Well—yes. But I thought production was sort of slow getting under way after war was declared,” Lee said.

  “There has been so much governmental interference and red tape it is a miracle that production has reached its present peak,” Foster insisted. “Take the President’s fair employment directive, for instance. Before my retirement I employed colored workers in all of my plants on the same basis as others. Here at Comstock I have made no distinctions. Americans are inherently fair-minded, and many of us find such a dictatorial order unnecessary and offensive. I know of several instances where the results were actually adverse.”

  “You mean that it influenced firms against hiring Negroes?”

  “Exactly. We Americans hate dictatorship. We are engaged in a war against it. And it appears as if that is what our President is endeavoring to establish.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Ruth said. “The President must have extraordinary powers in time of war. Otherwise he could never get anything accomplished.”

  “But we have won quite a few wars and accomplished a great deal without the benefit of Franklin Roosevelt,” Foster said, smiling at her.

  Charles came in and interrupted the conversation with the announcement that it was time for dinner. They went into the dining-room and served themselves from the sliced rib roast and array of vegetables arranged on the buffet. During the meal the children dominated the conversation. Lee’s experience with young white girls was a tragic memory and he felt stiff and ill at ease. With the unconscious cruelty of youth, the girls did nothing to allay his uneasiness. Hortense asked him if he had seen Roy’s baby since she began to teethe, assuming that the two of them were old acquaintances, and Martha said witlessly: “She’s the blackest little thing to be a baby,” and blushed a moment afterwards.

  And now that the sharp focus of his interest had become diffused, Lee began to wonder again what it was that Foster wanted. A slow resentment against Foster, inspired by no particular incident, began building in his mind.

  Dessert was a peach mousse which momentarily held the center of attraction, and afterward the grownups went into the living-room for Scotch-and-soda highballs.

  Charles, acting as Foster’s straight man, a role which was the major part of all his duties, said to Lee: “So you’re the young man from the union? How do the workers react to being organized in time of war?”

  “Well, we’re making a little progress,” Lee replied.

  “Don’t you think that during a war is a pretty bad time to be trying to organize workers in essential industry?” Charles asked bluntly.

  “No, I don’t,” Lee replied. “I think it’s the best time. We have full employment now and after the war there might be a great deal of unemployment. You know a union only organizes the employed; we can’t organize the unemployed.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Charles said. “These people are working for the war and it’s not fair to the boys at the front that they should be agitated by a union.”

  Foster had come up with a drink for Lee and he gave Charles an indulgent smile. “Charles is anti-union,” he commented. “I can’t do a thing with him.”

  “So I see,” Lee said quietly.

  “Yes, I am,” Charles said. “I’m not blaming you, Gordon, but most of these fellows who run these unions are nothing but crooks. I know, I’ve been a member.”

  “All unions are not the same,” Lee pointed out. “There are good unions and bad unions. Perhaps you belonged to a bad union. But our union is different. You can’t condemn unionism itself because there are a few unions run by unscrupulous men.” He turned to Foster. “What do you think, sir?”

  The three of them were standing by the unlighted fireplace while across the room Ruth and Mrs. Foster were engaged in conversation. Outside, a soft golden twilight filled the patio with a burnished luminescence and turned the swimming pool to molten metal.

  “The privilege of collective bargaining is the democratic right of all workers,” Foster solemnly replied.

  “I don’t think they have the right to be carping at production in time of war,” Charles said.

  Foster made a slight gesture of annoyance. “I have never considered an honest union as an obstruction to management,” he continued as if Charles had not spoken. “In fact, I think of it as an ally of management, both working together for the benefit of the employees and of the employers—”

  “The trouble with the unions is their leaders,” Charles interrupted. “Communists and opportunists have gained control of the unions and now they’re only out to fleece the workers.”

  “There’s not so much of that now,” Lee said. “The way most unions—our union, for instance—are organized, the structure of the union, I mean, makes such corruption impossible.”

  “My boy, I have been dealing with unions and union men for thirty years,” Charles said. “I know them pretty well, what they will do and what they will not do, those that are honest and those that are not. And I will tell you frankly there are very few, if any, top union men who are not thieves and liars by the clock. Your own union will not touch the problem of colored workers.”

  Caught off guard by the last remark, Lee could only stammer: “Well—but that’s just during the war.”

  “But you just said that during a war was the best time to organize,” Charles said insistently. “You know, as well as I, that colored people in industry pose a special problem that must be faced forthrightly by those who would claim to be their friends.”

  “Well—that’s true,” Lee had to admit, since not long before he had advanced the same argument to Smitty.

  “No doubt your union leaders call Mr. Foster a dirty capitalist, but he has faced your people’s problem squarely at Comstock. He has employed colored workers in all departments at the same rating and doing the same work as all others. Does that sound like a friend or an enemy?”

  “Oh, I don’t think Mr. Foster’s an enemy.” He appeared so embarrassed that Foster gave him a reassuring smile. “But that’s all the union wants. How would it interfere?”

  “That’s where I disagree with you,” Charles said. “The union is controlled by Communists, and you must know where you colored people stand with the Communists by now.”

  “Well—” Cornered, Lee did not know what to say.

  And there Charles left him. “I must run!” he exclaimed glancing at his watch. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Gordon, but you’re on the wrong team, boy.”

  “Glad to have met you too,” Lee said.

  Both he and Foster turned and watched Charles as he crossed the room and went from sight, and then Foster took the ball. “Of course, Charles’ experience with unions has been pretty bitter. He is a highly qualified journalist, but because of
political differences with the officials of the Newspaper Guild, he is not allowed to work.”

  “But he shouldn’t condemn unionism as a whole,” Lee said stubbornly.

  “His bitterness impairs his judgment and gives rise to his silly bias,” Foster commented dryly, and Lee looked up in sharp surprise, taking the bait as offered.

  For this was the way it worked in all things concerning Negroes: Charles playing the perfect stooge, mouthing the maledictions while the master retained his dignity sacrosanct in the halo of impartiality and denounced Charles as the offensive ogre of the lot. This was the way it worked both on the Negroes whom Foster had to dinner and the Negro servants who served the dinner. For instance, the management of household affairs was ostensibly delegated to Charles but actually directed by Foster with picayunish attention to detail, even to the reprimanding of the servants and the more subtle punishment of arranging the meals so as to keep them late on their half-days off. While Foster, for himself, maintained a seemingly frank and good-humored relationship with the servants, kidding them, making humorous allusions to Charles’s “choleric” disposition, and passing out the rewards, which were sometimes money and other times a day off. And though they were underpaid and overworked, the former to satisfy a vanity that they liked to work for him, and the latter because the work was there, they truly loved Foster and hated Charles. Foster appeared amused by this but actually it was a matter of great pride.

  Now with this criterion, he went to work on Lee with complete confidence in its efficacy. “As for myself, I don’t see the union in such awesome aspect. It has its faults, yes, but what large organization doesn’t?”

  “I am certainly glad to hear you say that, sir,” Lee said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I thought perhaps the reason you had us to dinner today was something concerning the union.”

  “No, I am more concerned with people than with unions,” Foster said with inspirational intensity, “with what affects them, their lives, and their futures, with the things that influence them, the courses they may take. It is always my most optimistic hope that I may be able to point out to them what will be beneficial and what may be detrimental. Only in this way may we preserve the spirit of our democracy—our American way of life. Are you proud to be an American, Lee?” he asked with sudden sharpness.