“Don’t you love me, Jackie?” he asked, so softly and so prayerfully.
“Yes, I love you, darling,” she replied. “You know I love you, darling. That’s why I want you to be happy. You go back to your wife and—”
“If you love me, Jackie, that’s all that matters,” he said, taking a step toward her.
“No, Lee,” and she took a step away.
“Jackie, if you will marry me, I’ll—” He broke off to watch her stoop to lift his bag.
Patiently, as with a little child, she extended it to him and said in a patient voice, dismissing him: “Go to a hotel, darling, and think this over. Then call me tomorrow. But call your wife tonight and tell her where you are. She’ll understand.”
“What’s the matter, Jackie? Are you afraid of me?”
She could not tell him that now in her mind, in the whiteness of her soul, she was repelled by the very blackness of the skin that sexually had first attracted her. So she continued to simulate this sympathy for Ruth.
“I can’t do that to a Negro woman, Lee.”
“Why not?” he wanted to know.
“I couldn’t do it. My conscience wouldn’t let me do it. I couldn’t take that much advantage over her.”
“What advantage?”
“I’m white, Lee—white! Can’t you understand? I’m a white woman. And I could not hurt a Negro woman so.”
For a long, emasculating moment, during which he suffered every degradation of his race, Lee Gordon stood looking at the whiteness of her face.
“Well—yes,” he finally said, and accepted his bag from her hand and went out of the door.
Chapter 26
HE WALKED fast through the dark streets of early morning, going nowhere. And a sickness came into his face, all up and under and around his nose and mouth and eyes. His muscles and his skin felt sick, and his eyes felt sick as did his stomach, and his soul felt sick.
Her being white was nothing newly found; she had been white at the beginning, and at the beginning, he recalled, she had used it as at the end. But he had gotten past thinking of her being white, and he had hoped that she had too. And now as the hurt came, it drenched him because he had gotten past believing that she would use it thus to reduce every mood they had captured into nothing.
It was as if his heart had been taken out and beaten with a hammer. Because he had wanted to marry her, to adore, protect, and support her; to walk with her through life, defy traditions, and track fulfillment down. And to have her at his side he had been willing to pay whatever cost—his life, his honor, or his tears. No, not that she was white, but that she was the woman he truly loved. Now to have this extreme ardor of his self-immolation rejected on racial grounds was all the more agonizing because he had been defenseless from tire first.
So he hastened through the deserted streets, not seeking a place to go, but trying to escape where he had been. But he carried it along in the dull, beaten memory of the words: “I’m white, Lee. White! Can’t you understand?”
And this was her rejection, not the product of environment. For this was Los Angeles where many interracial marriages had brought success and happiness; where it was up to the people involved. As two people they might have failed, but they could have tried, he thought. She did not have to do what she had done to him, and this was the fact that hurt, for it removed all reasons but that she had wanted to—and made of him from the beginning just a beast to satisfy her sexual urges, or perhaps a therapy to ease her personal hurt. The realization was like salt sprinkled in an open wound. By this she had denied him all the qualities of manhood—soul, mind, spirit, emotions, and honor—everything but just one organ. And she had done so at her pleasure.
This in the end became the greatest outrage—not so much what she had done, as that she would do it. It was this racial advantage all white women have over Negro men, to employ or not according to their whims. Outraged by the indignity that they should have this advantage; that in this predominantly masculine society the hammer of persecution over the male of the oppressed should be given to the female of the oppressors. It was this that completed his spiritual emasculation. First, Ruth, his own wife, could not see him as a man; and now Jackie, who could, would not.
For a moment he contemplated calling her and saying vile and abusive things over the telephone. But he knew this would not make a dent in her white soul and only bruise his own; and she would know why he had done it—this more than the other decided him against it.
His mind went back, moment by moment, over all the time he had spent with her to see where he had failed. Should he have shown less excitement over her body, or expressed more emotion over her music? The first time she had let him have her, he had cried, he recalled. Was it weakness, then, that had repelled her? Or was it that he, Lee Gordon, did not have a soul? Was that it? Was that what all these people looked for within him and could not find?
Suddenly in the groping torment of his thoughts his mind came face to face with Ruth. He saw her as he had at the bottom of the stairway leading down from Jackie’s, and he was rooted to the spot, somewhere beside a hedge on a lonely street in Beverly Hills. Perhaps she did not think he had a soul, either. But she had loved him—the only woman who had ever loved him. And as his mind scanned the period of his life, he corrected—the second woman; his mother had been the first.
And now came the sudden gouging realization that not only had he tossed away her love, but he had been willing, anxious, and eager to destroy more. Beyond the irremediable damage of this, he had offered the complete destruction of their lives, like the bloody head of Saint John on the platter of Salome. Now in the shadow of a hedge in the beginning dawn, to realize that he had done this to Ruth was inconceivable. And what he had done it for was now incomprehensible.
Was there some capacity for self-destruction in the traditional status of Negro men which only white women could release? Was it this capacity that made every act of interracial sex a gamble for one’s honor? Was it the challenge or the threat; or just the human impulse, planted in Eden, to seek the forbidden?
But at this cost? Was the simple fact of lying in a nude white woman’s arms worth this much to him? Was it the mere white legs and pinkish brown nipples of her breasts? Certainly she was no more noble in her soul than the wife he’d abandoned—nor more beautiful physically.
Or was it pity that had taken him back to her; and only pity afterward instead of love? But that he could have felt such a degree of pity for a white woman as to destroy the love of his Negro wife would take no form but lunacy in his present state of mind.
The questions passing through his thoughts added to his despair. It was more; he knew it was more. If he had not loved her, he had wanted to, so very much. And now he felt an emptiness, a betrayal, a loss not so much of what had been, as of what might have been.
It started him on the move again, not toward a destination, but to a conclusion whereby he could live through the day. He lowered the stark chagrin in his eyes unconsciously to the ground and hurried on, each step a separate torture. Later, when the taste of salt came into his mouth, he knew that he was crying and put down his bag to wipe his eyes. But seeing the bag again brought the realization that he had left Ruth and his home and quit his job—and for what? Had it been just for this woman, who in the end was no more or less than she had been in the beginning?—white!
Now this question brought the conclusion he had sought but did not want: that he, Lee Gordon, was simply this kind of a nigger. He had never been anything but this kind of a nigger, and never would be; and all the rest had been just so much self-delusion.
He caught the Santa Monica red car back to town and rode the yellow “U” car over to a hotel at the lower end of Skid Row. Stepping out into the bright sunrise, livid against the early morning desolation of the now-closed joints and flophouses, he felt a sudden affinity with all the other unkempt, unshaven, dirty, bedraggled, desperately sober bums in sight. Here at last was where he belonged, he thought.
He had been heading toward it for a long time. And now he had made it. For this was the end of the line for all those who did not embrace the color of their skins and live by it, he told himself with cynical self-deprecation.
He saw a cheap hotel and entered it and rented a room without a bath. Once for a fleeting moment he thought of Ruth and how it might have been with her; and of Jackie and how it had been with her. And in the doorway going out, some tattered remnant of the man he’d always wanted to be halted him for a moment’s self-appraisal. When he began walking again he knew where he was going and what he was about to do.
Eight o’clock found him, now showered and shaved, waiting in the anteroom to Foster’s office, with dull, glazed eyes in his thin, sagging face, and thoughts so low he could not look into them. Now he was on the slave block, the next logical step toward the completion of his degradation. He had put himself here of his own free choice, out of his own conclusion that to live in fair comfort, relieved of the necessity to protest, his sexual urges satisfied by those who made a business of it, was worth more than all the freedom and virtue he had attained or hoped to attain. Now in the end he recognized the simple fact of his inadequacy to cope with both life and race. No doubt there were many Negroes who could do both with honor and integrity—and did so. He did not know. He only knew that he was not among them.
Ruth had been right about Jackie, after all, Lee Gordon thought with sudden hurt.
If he could just get it out of his mind! He had begun it. And now, please, God, just let him go ahead and finish it without so much awful memory. His mind soared and flared as he struggled to clear it of the memory of Ruth’s eyes when she had begged: “Just let me go and talk to her—”
Foster passed through the anteroom, drawing his attention. He half rose, but Foster’s glance just briefly touched him and went on, and he sank down again.
After a time the receptionist informed him that Mr. Foster was busy and requested that he wait. Now once again the choice was given him. He could have risen and left—and tried again—How did that verse go, out of his past?
I’ve stood alone, deserted,
And sweat my heart’s red blood.
I’ve seen the waves of failure
Engulf me in a flood.
I’ve felt the throbs of error,
I’ve seen my fortunes spin;
But by the living God I swear
I’ll try again and win!
“But not for me,” Lee Gordon thought. Now, by the simple alchemy of events, this job, which once would have meant a definite advancement, was an admission of failure. He admitted this in seeking it. Within himself he was through. Ruth had always known that he was nothing without her, he thought bitterly. And he was nothing.
At eleven o’clock Foster admitted him, smiling cordially across his desk.
“Good morning, Gordon. Have a seat.”
“Good morning, Mr. Foster,” Lee said nervously, groping for the seat.
“How is the organizing coming along? Do you have all of our workers signed up now?”
“I don’t know. I’m not with them any more.” And now the falter was in his voice again.
“You don’t say? As I recall, you turned down a very nice offer I made to remain with the union.”
“Yes, I did. But now—”
“You’re through with them,” Foster said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you differ with them on tactics or objectives?” Although his manner still retained its polished charm, now there was the slight indication of contempt in it.
“Well—tactics, I suppose,” Lee replied. “They’re a bunch of dirty, rotten double-crossers, and I got out!”
“Is that so? There was a young woman in my office who got into some sort of difficulty with the union and was expelled.” His sharp blue eyes searched Lee’s reaction. “Did you know about it?”
“That was one of the reasons I quit,” Lee felt compelled to admit. “She was innocent. The Communists framed her.”
“So I heard. Do the Communists control the union?”
“No, not yet—”
“But they are working toward that end?”
“Yes, I suppose they are.”
“It would work a definite hardship on all of the employees if the Communists got control of the union,” Foster said, as a threat more than a remark.
“I don’t think they have much chance of getting control.” Lee found himself defending them involuntarily.
“Perhaps not. They are an untrustworthy lot—but wily. There was a colored boy, a big black fellow who worked with you, I believe. McGregor.” Foster chuckled over the name. “I always thought he was a Communist. Was he a union organizer?”
Now Lee knew that he was being baited, but there was no way out. “No, he didn’t have any connection with the union. To tell you the truth, he’s a Communist Party organizer. We just let him work with us because at that time we felt that his help was valuable.”
“Oh, I see,” and Foster’s sharp blue glance penetrated. “It’s the union policy to accept the aid of the Communists. That’s rather dangerous, though, don’t you think?”
“They didn’t make a rule of it. They just used McGregor because they felt I needed some help with the Negro workers.”
“They didn’t object to subjecting the Negro employees to communistic propaganda.”
“McGregor didn’t have much opportunity to disseminate any propaganda. And anyway, he’s through now.”
“He is?” Foster showed a surprise which Lee felt certain was false. “Why?”
“Well—I don’t know,” Lee said, avoiding Foster’s eyes. “He—well—just quit, I suppose.”
“Smitty isn’t a Communist, is he?” Foster shot the question.
It caught Lee unawares. “Oh, I don’t think so; I couldn’t be sure though.”
“I’ve always considered Smitty a square shooter.” Now he was suave. “I have the greatest respect for him.”
“Well—yes. Smitty’s all right.”
“As I told you before, Gordon, I am not opposed to the union as long as it is a representative union of the employees and not a tool of the Communists.”
“Well, I’m not opposed to the union, either,” Lee said. “I just couldn’t put up with the double-crossing tactics of the Communists in the union, along with some of the officials.”
“What officials?”
“Well, Joe Ptak—”
“Is Joe a Communist?”
“I’m not sure. But he upheld them when they framed Miss Forks.”
“Then he’s a Communist or he would not have done it.”
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose so though. I hadn’t thought of him as a Communist, but as you say, if he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have upheld them.”
“Gordon,” Foster stated, “you will always know a man by the company he keeps.”
“Well—” and that was as far as he could get, because what this made of him he would not think.
“Now what can I do for you?”
“Oh!” Now again caught unawares, he lost his sense of tact. “About the job! You remember—the job you mentioned. I wanted to talk to you about it. I—”
“At that time, Gordon, the job was open,” Foster said, cutting him off. “But it is no longer available. Perhaps I can place you in the assembly department.”
Well, that was the way it went, Lee Gordon thought dejectedly. When you were down to the level of the boot, the boot was for you.
Standing, he replied: “Well, thanks, but I have my mind set on some sort of office work. You see, I’m a college graduate.”
“Yes, I know. It’s difficult for you colored boys with education,” Foster said sympathetically. “There are so few white-collar jobs which you can fill.”
“Well, I’ll look around for a while anyway.” He turned to leave.
“Do you have any definite plans?” Foster stopped him.
“Well, no. If I don’t find anything today, I think I’ll leave the city.”
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u Give me your address, Gordon,” Foster asked. “If I think of anything before the day is out, I’ll get in touch with you.”
As he gave him the address of his hotel, Lee thought that was the end of it, and went out into the day. Walking down the street to catch the bus back to town, he saw Joe Ptak from a distance. But though Joe saw him, Joe did not speak, nor did he.
The bars were now open on Skid Row and he turned into one. But after he had ordered the drink and it had been served, he was afraid to drink it. He was afraid now to affect in any way the structure of his emotions, afraid of what he might do afterward, or what might afterward be done to him. He paid the bartender, turned about, and went out, standing in the hot morning sun, absorbed in vacancy.
The first terrible hurt had now passed and the shock of his chagrin had worn to a thin, constant humiliation in the back of his mind, depressing but not compelling. And the despondency was yet to come. It was as if he were drugged, or entering into some mental state resembling amnesia where he had not so much actually forgotten who he was, as that it did not matter.
He went into a restaurant and ate—what, he never knew—and then over to Main Street to a cheap theater. Nothing of the picture, whatever it was, penetrated his walled-in mind. He sat there in growing discomfiture until the one thought stung him—but she was white at the beginning. Then he arose and went into the street again.
A streetcar came to a stop. He boarded it, and when it came to the end of the line at 51st Street and Hooper, he alighted and began walking through the afternoon sun. At Slauson, seven blocks distant, he turned west and continued until the sun was in his eyes. But at the end he was where he had begun. Nothing had changed but weariness. And yet, turning, he kept on walking, north now, because it had to change, because one goddamned man couldn’t keep on like this. Something had to break—his body or his mind.
His tall, gaunt frame sagging from the pull of gravity, sweat-soaked from head to foot, he plodded on, bone-tired. His legs were artificial things, hacked off and unrelated to the dead weight of his torso; and his heavy, wet coat, which he had not taken off since morning, was a vile and horrible growth out of the marrow of his bones. He walked from Slauson and Jefferson boulevards in Culver City back to his hotel on Fifth Street, more than twenty miles.
Lonely Crusade Page 34
