“He was my hero,” said Albert with a sniff. I realized that he was crying. I kept holding him. He was so idealistic, above the ordinary fray. “I can’t imagine the world without him.”
We sat down on his sofa and held each other for a long time. Albert barely moved. “He was the first president to invite a black man to the White House,” he said simply.
“Yes, he was. He was brave and perhaps too good for the dirty game of politics.”
“Too good…” Albert began to cry again. “To die like that.”
“Oh, God,” I started to cry with him. “I loved him like a father. It doesn’t seem real.”
We lit candles and turned out the lights to honor Kennedy. Little was said after that, and we went to sleep, side by side, without the bubbly – a goodnight kiss sufficed.
Albert and I still left for Los Angeles the next day, but without the fanfare and high expectations we’d had the day before.
Everything had changed. Alexia still wanted to meet us. She was Italian; the death of our President hadn’t affected her as much as if she were an American. I wore dark clothes. So did Albert. We were in mourning.
We decided to cancel the tour along Pebble Beach Golf Course and the spectacular seventeen-mile drive. We had a solemn late breakfast in Santa Cruz, a small town south of San Francisco, and headed for my parents’ house. The fact that they were staunch Republicans hadn’t entered my mind; I was too tired to think much of anything. Who killed Kennedy kept going through my mind like a flickering neon light. Was it really John Oswald, like they said on the news?
“Albert, how could one man kill Kennedy? He was surrounded by bodyguards, wasn’t he?” I gave him a bewildered look. I couldn’t believe that some nobody from nowhere had killed the President of the United States.
“That’s what they say,” murmured Albert in a subdued tone. We exchanged glances as he drove through the lush Santa Cruz country, redolent in pines that gave off the scent of Christmas. Only this was Thanksgiving and there was nothing to be thankful for.
He clicked on the radio. We keened our ears to pick up every word as they described the death of President Kennedy and its implications. Suddenly, there was a break in the news. “Ladies and gentleman,” said the newscaster, “Lee Harvey Oswald, the assailant of President John F. Kennedy, has been shot by Jack Ruby, a man with an unsavory reputation, known to have mafia connections.”
“No!” I said.
“There goes the testimony,” said Albert, quietly.
“This is too convenient! They’re up to something.” I frowned and tried to make sense of what I’d just heard.
“Never trust a white man,” said Albert.
“Never trust…” I looked at him and burst out laughing. Then, I shut up and regretted my irreverence.
But something was wrong, very wrong in Dallas, Texas, and it might be spreading. I wondered if Lyndon Johnson, who had just been sworn in as president, could have had anything to do with it. He had been the governor of Texas before he ran for president and ended up being Kennedy’s Vice-President. Little did I know how much the C.I.A. hated John Kennedy for the botched Bay of Pigs and not-so-secret plans to downsize them. He’d even fired John Foster Dulles, the head of the C.I.A.
“Adrianne must know something about this, or at least suspect something,” I said. “Can’t we call her?”
“Yes, we can,” said Albert. “But first, we must meet your parents.”
I could tell by the look of grim determination on his normally animated face that Albert wouldn’t turn the car around to talk to Adrianne. Not today.
The thought of introducing him to my arch-conservative parents today made me more than apprehensive. I couldn’t do it. Not today.
“Albert, my parents are Republicans. They’re members of the John Birch Society. Let’s drive straight to Los Angeles and postpone meeting them until we return.”
“What did they think of Kennedy?”
“They’re down on almost everybody,” I said, burying my face in a map I took out of the glove compartment. “Besides, we could stop in Malibu for seafood.” I did my best to smile, but I think I must have looked a bit grotesque, somewhere between misery and sheer hell.
“We’ve got to give our full attention to Venus’s Delight, whether we like it or not. Did you know that Alexia and Alessandro recently married in Mexico, last year?”
“I heard they had problems because he was already married.”
“They have to have their marriage annulled because of the Catholic Church. They won’t allow divorce in Italy.”
“Mama mia!”
Albert laughed for the first time in two days. He let out a roar, and I joined in. After that, the world looked more palatable, but I knew the world was no longer in trustworthy hands.
As we drove through Montecito, towards my parents’ house, Albert murmured, “It’s very beautiful here. I’ve heard about Montecito. Are your parents wealthy?”
“No, but they like to live in wealthy neighborhoods. Their house didn’t cost that much; Santa Barbara is cheaper than Los Angeles and San Francisco; Montecito is even cheaper.” Albert swung his fairly new Chevy sedan into the ample roundabout in front of the front door. Luscious azaleas flanked the driveway, and a lovely eucalyptus tree arched over the right side of the house where the bedrooms were. It was a pretty house, but not one of the expensive manors, such as those built at the end of Cima Linda Lane, which was a horseshoe-shaped street with the curving part overlooking some of the hilly part of Montecito and the Pacific Ocean. Our house was modest in comparison.
“Sure doesn’t look like where I come from,” laughed Albert, coming out of his torpor. “But then, we had…”
“Yes?” I encouraged him.
“Oh, Billy Holiday, people jiving, and a sense of community, black community, it’s different, but it’s like someone always is looking out for you. Plus, my father was a doctor, so we had more than enough.”
I kissed him. “Don’t worry. It’s deadly dull here. The only good music is down on Haley Street, at the King’s Supper Club.”
“Are the musicians black, by any chance?” Albert grew more and more animated at the thought of black musicians.
“What makes you think that?” I giggled. “Of course, they are! I’ve been to some pretty good parties there. It’s the liveliest spot in town.”
He parked and walked around to my door to let me out. We walked towards the front door, Albert still wearing Navy blue slacks and a tan jacket; I wore a dark skirt and a button-down blouse. We rang the doorbell. My mother answered it. She stared at Albert in shock. “You can’t…” she looked at me. “Oh, Inny, how could you!”
My father appeared in the distance, holding a Scientific American magazine in his hand. My mother ran past him to draw the kitchen window’s blinds shut. She rushed us past the kitchen, into the living room, without offering us a seat. Her face contorted in rage. My father dropped his magazine.
My mother quickly closed the blinds, even though we were nowhere near our neighbors.
“Don’t you have any self-respect? You know we don’t allow black people in Montecito!”
“This is my good friend and English professor from Berkeley, Albert Curtis, Mother.”
My mother walked up to me, raising her hand. Ready for what was to come, I grabbed her hand and turned my face away. Tears welled up in my eyes. We grappled for a moment before she came to her senses.
“Don’t talk back to me, Inny. Don’t you ever dare do that! As for your English professor from Harlem – he can go back there for Thanksgiving.”
“How did you know I was from Harlem?” Albert smiled a contrite smile. "Inny and I are writing a screenplay for Alexia Roma.
She’s going to be a screenwriter. You should never be angry at your daughter for succeeding, even if you’re jealous."
“Jealous? Of Inny? Writing for that Italian harlot? Hardly,” said my mother, sitting down with her arms folded over her crisp, dark blue shirt-maker d
ress. “Now, tell us what this man really does for a living, Inny.” My mother uncrossed her arms and started drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair.
My father sat down on the sofa as inconspicuously as possible. He was unable to cope with the situation. He disappeared into his Scientific American magazine, his usual hiding place.
“Are you a pimp? Don’t tell me you’ve gotten involved in something horrible, Inny.”
“I teach English literature at Berkeley. I’m also planning to start a film festival in San Francisco.”
My mother took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to Albert. "I don’t care if you’re the king of Siam. Get out of my house! She stepped towards him as if she were a bull about to charge a bullfighter.
I got up and stood between them.
“Albert is twice as well-educated as we are.”
“He’s a nigger!”
“And you’re Lady Macbeth! You’ve criticized me, hit me, never a kind word…”
My mother’s face turned dark red. “You ungrateful child!” She pushed me. I stood my ground.
“Ladies! Stop it!” Albert tried to separate us, but not before my mother grabbed his Brooks Brothers Ivy League shirt. Albert tried to pull away. The sound of cloth tearing seared my brain. She’d torn the sleeve. I screamed as Albert pulled his shirtsleeve from her grip.
She turned to face me. Her normally smooth, agreeable countenance was contorted with anger. “Inny… I’m going to kill you!”
“You won’t have the chance. I’m never coming back here!”
My father stood in the background with his jaw agape. His magazine slid to the floor. He didn’t budge. He gasped. “Iris!”
“Let’s go, Albert!” I took him by the arm and we ran for it.
“Come back here, Inny! You can’t go with that man! Get rid of him and come back with someone who looks like us!” My mother tried to block the front door, but we were faster than she was.
“Faster,” I breathed, and we beat it out to the car and jammed out of Montecito as if the devil himself were chasing us. Albert slid behind the steering wheel and took off, the tires skidding on my parents’ curved driveway.
The beauty of Montecito faded fast as we got on the freeway and headed toward Ventura.
“Now, you’ve met my parents,” I said.
“I’ve never met anyone quite like them,” said Albert. “I’ve run into all kinds of crazy white people, but none of them ever attacked me.” He winked at me. “Maybe a psychiatrist could help your mother.”
“I’ll say. I think my father needs to see one, too. But I’m a student, not a psychiatrist. They don’t believe in psychiatry, anyway, and wouldn’t spend a penny on a shrink. They say Freud was a sex fiend. Of course, sex is a taboo subject in our household. I don’t think they even…”
“Do it?” Albert chortled. “Look, at least you got out.” He gave me a sympathetic look. Blood trickled down his forearm where my mother had ripped his shirt; her nail had nicked his arm. I found a Kleenex and tried to wipe it off.
“Some things can’t be wiped off,” said Albert. He sighed. “But we still must forgive.”
“I’m sorry I took you there,” I said, aghast at what had transpired. They were far worse than I’d imagined, and Albert was right: they needed professional help. I thought of all the secrets behind closed doors in Montecito, with its beautiful façade. Perhaps the more beautiful the façade, the darker the secrets, I thought. “We need to be around creative people, joyous people,” I said.
“Wait till you meet Alexia.” Albert grinned, in spite of himself.
“She sounds so happy, so playful,” I said.
“And more!”
“Amore!”
“Yes! Alexia Roma is all about love. You’ll learn from her. But you must forgive your mother.” He turned and gave me a serious look.
“I hate my mother!” I frowned, miserable.
“Unless you forgive her, you’ll carry all that anger in your heart and it’ll eat you up.”
I turned to him with wide-open eyes. The beauty of the Pacific Ocean dazzled me as we drove on, but I couldn’t forget what Albert had just said. It turned round and round in my numbed mind.
Chapter 9
Mrs. Johnson walked into the master bedroom, went to the dresser drawers, searched through various articles of clothing, and pulled out a revolver. She looked at it with an uncharacteristic smile widening on her face. She put it back in the drawer and walked into the living room, where her husband sat reading his Scientific American.
She strode over to where he sat, immobile, and stood over him. “Craig, we have to go to Berkeley.” She crossed her arms over her chest resolutely. She brooked no quarter, and he knew it.
“Now, Iris,” he said, trying to calm her. “Inny’s always been a bit wild. This will pass, like her other…”
“Other what?” demanded Mrs. Johnson. “She’s never been in trouble with the police before; she’s always been a good student. The boys have run after her, but she’s held her own. This time, she may need some professional assistance.”
Mr. Johnson’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, Iris?” He was scared stiff of his wife.
“There are ways of dealing with black men who take up with your daughter.” She paced back and forth. “I need to contact…”
“Not our relatives!” Mr. Johnson put his hand to his mouth, aghast.
“No, no one we know. A stranger.” She paced faster.
“I don’t like the sounds of this, Iris.” He couldn’t believe his ears.
“I’m going to put an end to this! No one must know!” She gave him a look that would have intimidated the Iron Maiden.
Mr. Johnson shrank back. “I don’t think he’s a Communist,” he said, weakly.
“He’s black, Craig, black as the ace of spades! I’ll not have her seen with him!”
Mr. Johnson turned his back and wandered out onto the patio and into the garden. He picked a flower absent-mindedly. He understood science, not people. His mind wandered.
Mrs. Johnson looked at her husband in the garden, stalked around their spacious house, and sat down to leaf through a book, a detective novel she’d been reading. Then, she sat bolt upright. A look of profound determination came over her face. She stood up, smoothed her elegant dress, straightened the fake pearl necklace around her neck, and picked up the phone. She called the San Ysidro Ranch.
“Hello, could you let me speak to Andronicus, please?” she purred in her most seductive Southern accent. “He isn’t? Could you tell me how to get in touch with him? At his father’s house? Senator Michael Dorland? Thank you so very much.”
She put the receiver down and called information. She got Senator Dorland’s number and dialed it.
“Hello, could I speak to Andronicus, please? This is an acquaintance of his.” She tapped her high-heeled shoe impatiently while she waited. Then, Andronicus answered. “Hello, Andronicus. You may not remember me, but I’m the mother of a girl whom you’d probably like to forget. No, no, don’t hang up! This has nothing to do with the police! I’d like your help!”
Andronicus, stupefied, listened to what the woman had to say, in mild shock. “She’s dating a black man? What does that have to do with me? I’m white.” He shifted his weight uneasily.
“You’d like to meet with me? You need my help? Mrs. Johnson, I never touched your daughter… You need my help to get rid of the black man? How?”
Mrs. Johnson gritted her teeth. “I don’t care how you get rid of him. I’ll be willing to…”
“Lady, my father is a state senator. Oh, you know that. Look, I’ve got some friends over; can I call you back?”
Andronicus hung up the phone and sat down heavily in a large, overstuffed chair in his father’s vault room, where the family kept their valuables. He glanced at the vault and fell deep into thought. A smile crossed his face from time to time. Get rid of a black guy who’s fucking Inny, ran through his mind. His smile broadened.
> He picked up the phone and called Mrs. Johnson.
“Would you care to meet me for lunch?” he said as Mrs. Johnson fluffed her well-coiffed brunette hair, batting her lovely long eyelashes ever so slightly. She had lovely porcelain skin that refused to age. Instead, it had a creamy glow to it.
She glanced at her husband, who was sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, the expensive chintz Inny had liked, instead of the usual rug-like material they preferred. Ensconced in the Santa Barbara News-Press, he giggled a bit at the funnies. His mild Walter Mitty look emanated from the pages.
“Where would you like to meet?”
“At the Biltmore Hotel’s restaurant.”
Mrs. Johnson’s face flushed in excitement. She hadn’t been to a nice restaurant in years. Ever since she’d married, they’d scrimped on luxuries. After all, her husband was only an engineer, not the president of the Washington, D.C., post office. Which was the position her father had held until he was fifty, at which time he quit. He spent the rest of his years commuting between a dairy farm that would later become Dulles Airport and Grandma’s house. Grandma knew he met a young women there, but she ignored the situation and sang louder than ever in church. Indeed, they asked her to leave, as no one could hear the other voices. Her daughters knew, too, but said nothing, thinking their mother had gotten fat and it was her fault.
“It would have to be for lunch. I have to fix dinner for my husband.” She spoke with a nervous thrill.
All her life she’d been a good girl, maintaining her virginity until she married. Mr. Johnson trusted her implicitly; he adored her.
She dressed carefully for the luncheon date with Andronicus Wyland, adding touches to a fine linen frock, a silver pin her mother had given her, with matching earrings. She no longer had the downiness of youth. Her brown eyes shone in anticipation, and her hair was permed to perfection. She’d put on a bit of weight after bearing two children, but it only made her more voluptuous.
She got in the car and drove to the sparkling Pacific, on which the Biltmore was a crown jewel of architecture and luxury. She parked her car nervously, bumping another’s bumper as she did so. She got out quickly, so no one would notice. She ran to meet Andronicus like a schoolgirl.
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