by Ka Newborrn
“Strange.” She stood up carefully. An odd smile escaped her lips as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went to the refrigerator for milk and eggs.
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
2012
Jana
“Odette?”
“Yeah?”
“How about living your dreams?”
“Tired.”
“Rainbows?”
“Predictable”
“How about a music theme? Like Come Together?”
Odette set her textbook aside and stared at Jana.
“Nana. Seriously?”
She queued James Brown’s Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved on her phone and started dancing in place.
“What’s wrong with the Beatles? James Brown would be good, too.”
“This is definitely going on the DJ's playlist.”
“Should we make it the theme?”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s perfect.”
“Maybe, if you’re going for a forty-year-old PSA vibe. But with your luck, James Brown’s estate will crash the party looking for royalties.”
The look of horror that crossed Jana’s face made Odette laugh. “I love paying homage to the seventies aesthetic. Heavily. But the project can’t live there entirely; it has to step up to the present.”
Jana dismissed her words with the wave of a hand. “There’s no social relevance in popular music today.”
“You could do a remix. How about, Hey Soul Sister Get Up On The Floor Say Something Right Now Get Into It Na Na Na Get Involved Whatcha Say? I’ll leave you the fine tuning.”
Jana scowled. “You think you’re so clever.”
Odette’s cell phone rang. “Hold that thought.”
She stepped out of the room to take the call. Jana continued to brainstorm.
She stepped back into the room. “That was Nina. I told her we were discussing themes. Her uncle suggested don’t you want to be free?”
Jana sighed. “How about pots of gold?”
“Don’t you want to be free?”
“I am free.”
“Then don’t name it.”
“But there are so many factors. How do we tie them all together?”
“Leave them fractured. They'll come together on their own terms.”
✽✽✽
“Champagne, ma’am?”
“Thank you.”
She couldn’t help feeling a bit weepy as she took a champagne flute from the cocktail server’s tray. She dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.
Oh, no! Did you smear it?
She watched the server follow a trail of sparkling balloons to a nearby cluster of guests.
It’s waterproof, remember? Relax.
Thanks in large part to Odette and the faculty at Lincoln University, she was finally making things right. It had been fifty-six years in the making, but it was happening. Everything had turned out so beautifully. She could hardly believe they had pulled it off.
Not only was it an exceptional turnout, many guests had traveled a significant distance to attend. Spiree had flown in from Los Angeles with a group of her UCLA colleagues. A few staffers from The Natchez Democrat had shown up, too. She was beyond humbled.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art's Skylit Atrium was lustrous. A runway/dance floor paved with gold holographic coins sparkled in the mood lighting. Above the runway, three screens displayed images from Isaac Julien’s Fantôme Afrique, Spike Lee’s Get on the Bus and Shih-Ting Hung’s Viola: The Traveling Rooms of a Little Giant, respectively. To the left, a woman in a sleeveless leather vest spun records in a DJ booth.
To the right of the screens, guests mingled within an interactive exhibit of wardrobe racks and tables set up with cosmetics and toiletries. Framed vintage advertisements, photos of designers and accompanying storyboards hung from standing backdrops. She leaned in closer to make out some of images. Ann Lowe. Scott Barrie. Cardinali. Arthur McGee.
She put her empty glass down on a cocktail stand and brushed down her dress, a sleek, emerald Stephen Burrows midi paired with vintage Yves Saint Laurent mod lace up boots.
“Hors d’oeuvre?”
“Thank you.”
She turned around and took a mini bruschetta from the tray of a different server. Floral centerpieces adorned the long table set up for dinner. Across the lobby, Odette stood among the guests enjoying aperitifs at the bar. She looked ravishing in a floaty, multicolored Duro Olowu dress cinched with a vintage Norma Kamali wide jeweled cummerbund belt.
She felt her shoulders moving to the music as she waved to Odette and took in the scene around her. Maybe she was slightly giddy from two glasses of champagne. Perhaps it was because they’d pulled it off. Almost. She still had a speech to give, hence the two glasses of champagne.
When she thought no one was looking, she test drove an impromptu Mary Tyler Moore spin. Regrettably, her brakes were a wee bit rusty. Or maybe a bit too greased. In any case, she stumbled the tiniest bit and lost her balance. Fortunately, Spiree just happened to be passing by.
“Careful, girl!” Spiree caught her by the elbow and steadied her. “Those boots are smoking hot, but they weren’t made for spinning. I’m so proud of you.”
Spiree was dressed in a cream colored jumpsuit and dangling flower earrings. Jana hugged her. “Thank you. I can’t believe you flew out during the middle of the week to be here!”
“Like I would’ve missed it for anything? Call me reckless!”
“Wearing white after Labor Day? Now, that's what’s reckless, Spiree. And you, Mary Richards, are spinning out of control!”
They turned in the direction of Nina’s voice. She wore an elegant black suit and a mixed metal Konstantino cross pendant necklace.
“I’m wearing open toed sandals, too, Nina.” Spiree giggled. “Got the feds on speed dial?”
“No one’s worried about your misdemeanor when grand larceny’s happening over there.” She winked and pointed.
Across the room, a beaming Lilith was front and center on the runway dance floor boogying to a Rihanna remix and holding a bottle of champagne. She wore a vintage strapless Halston metallic sarong gown. Her red mane defied both the visible color spectrum and gravity as the result of a fresh salon coloring and overnight braidout. She blew kisses as the crowd cheered her on.
“Girlfriend’s still got it. Doesn't she, Spiree?”
“Tell me about it. She makes everything look so easy. She’s beautiful, brilliant, never fucking ages and has more energy than is humanly possible.
“She’s got great genes. She’s lucky.”
“Sometimes I think she’s an alien, Nina. I‘m not even kidding.”
✽✽✽
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
When her name was announced, Odette squeezed her fingers. She walked carefully to her place onstage, took the microphone from the sound designer and remembered to stay calm.
"Thank you all for being here tonight.
Not being able to afford the New Year’s Eve rate for this venue turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Not only are we here together to celebrate the first day of Black History Month, we’re also together on the anniversary of Langston Hughes’ birthday.
My name is Jana North. If you follow the regional news reports, you’ve possibly heard about my story. I’m a woman who despises the spotlight, but, for some reason, the crossroads of my life seem to garner attention.
I’m the widow of Russell North, a civil rights attorney. He passed away in 2010. We were married for thirty-eight years.
A month after my husband passed away, I went to the police and told them that my father was involved in the 1954 murder of Lonnie James, an innocent black man from Natchez, Mississippi.
After Lonnie’s murder, my father lived out the rest of his days without ever being arrested, going to trial or serving time. When I finally went to the police in 2010, I told them how my father came home that night with the red mud from
Lonnie’s property caked on his shoes and bloodstains on his white hood. I told them how I ran straight back to Lonnie’s house, and how the shoes of the police officer who threw me in the back of his paddy wagon and returned me to my father were caked with the very same mud. I submitted DNA evidence, too.
Now that I got that out of the way, thank you all for supporting LONNIE.
LONNIE, or Loving Our Neighbor is the Nexus for Implementing Equality is a community-led initiative against hate and bias crimes.
Thanks in large part to Odette Ridley, her network of colleagues at Lincoln University and an unexpected outpouring of support from various sources, we founded and launched the inaugural chapter in the Philadelphia Metro/Delaware Valley area. We’re working diligently to launch chapters in Natchez, Adams County and New Orleans Metro by 2013.
A long time ago, I went searching for answers and came across two men who saved my life.
Lonnie James was a brilliant creative and an optimist who found good in the worst of situations. He shared a story with me about surviving a tornado as a young boy and losing his home in the process. After his family members and dog were all safe and accounted for, he saw a rainbow and ran off to look for pots of gold.
I wish I could tell you he found them, but I can’t. He paid the ultimate price, and I did the unthinkable. I never made it right. His loved ones never found justice. I could stand here tonight and make excuses about a faulty justice system, the racial climate of Mississippi in the fifties, or claim that it was someone else’s responsibility to take care of it, but I would be lying. Despite marrying a man who committed his life’s work to standing up for himself and others, I made a habit out of falling down and staying down. I never stood up and faced the truth. Until recently.
I can’t change what happened that night back in 1954, but I can change what happens today. Every day of my life, every last bit of my energy and all of the resources that come my way going forward will be collectively dedicated to the implementation of impactful change. It’s never too late to demand justice. It’s never too late to create it, either.
There are dozens of cold cases spanning over a decade’s time that are linked to the Silver Dollar Club, the Natchez-based hate group of which my father was a member. It is my hope that the families of every single victim will finally be able to know justice, closure and peace.
Thank you to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for the use of this venue and the delicious catering. And thank you to Lincoln University’s Visual Arts and Criminal Justice Departments for curating our interactive makeup and fashion museum experience and putting together our runway show. All museum items are up for silent auction tonight. We will be drawing the winning raffle numbers shortly, so hold onto the tickets you received at the door. Thank you. Enjoy the rest of the party!"
Odette met her with a third glass of champagne as she walked offstage and the DJ resumed her mix.
“That was brilliant.”
“I love you so much, darling girl.
“I love you too.”
Odette sipped her champagne. “I checked your messages. An agent reached out and wants to know if you’re interested in writing an autobiography. Alcorn University wants to know if you can speak at a conference.”
“Wow. Well what do you think?”
“That you need to learn how to retrieve emails.”
“Meow!”
“You wanted the truth, right?”
“You’d give me anything else?”
“That's just for starters. Eventually, you'll need to hire an assistant. Between work and my thesis, I’m pretty much swamped. And the arc of Lonnie’s rainbow is widening. Two pots of gold and counting.”
Jana nodded. “You’re absolutely right, and I apologize if I’ve leaned on you too much. I guess I haven’t realized the extent of outpouring or understand why anyone would want to associate with me. Deep down, I don't expect anyone to forgive me.”
“But what happens if they do?”
A man approached Odette. “May I have this dance?”
“Sure.”
Jana gave Odette a knowing smile and stepped out of the way.
“Back soon. Oh. And before I forget, this package came for you.” Odette handed her a clamshell box and headed to the dance floor.
She opened it carefully. Nestled inside a protective mound of tissue paper was a fragile, yellowing playbook. She read the title.
Don’t You Want to Be Free?
She opened the cover gingerly and read the inscription.
To Mercer Baldwin. Best wishes, Langston Hughes
She stopped and looked around, confused. Nina happened to be passing by.
“Hey, Nina?"
"Hey, girl."
"Do you know where this came from?"
"Yes."
"Who’s Mercer Baldwin?”
“My uncle. He’s with the alumni chapter.”
“Have I met him? Do I know him?”
“Funny you should ask that. He’s from Natchez, too. Small world, huh? The folks back home call him Moose.”
Jana looked stricken. She grabbed Nina’s hands and held them tightly. “Moose is your uncle? Moose is still alive? Could you help me get in touch with him? Do you have his number?”
“I could, but why don’t you just ask him yourself?”
Nina pointed. Across the room, an elderly man wearing a tailored blue suit sat amid a group of people at the bar.
A sudden wave of dizziness caught Jana off guard. "You did this, didn't you?"
Nina smiled and held out her elbow. "As I was saying, there's no time like the present. You ready, girl?”
She couldn’t help feeling a little bit punked as she linked arms with Nina, but she held her tongue. She would get over it. More than anything, she was grateful.
The world wasn’t really spinning; it had just slowed down around her. She could certainly stand to get off for a moment. Two moments, even. Regrettably, the ladies' room was in the opposite direction of her destination.
A man standing in the crowd behind the barstools leaned in close to Moose and tapped him on the shoulder. Moose stopped what he was doing and turned his head in Jana’s direction.
Is this what they mean by missing time?
Despite the slowed down world, her feet were still operating in real time and she couldn’t feel her legs. This created a centrifugal effect of sorts. It shouldn’t have come as a shock when they buckled underneath her, but she was full of surprises that night. Her recovery rivaled a level of grace on par with that of a henhouse chicken, which was a pretty low bar to clear. Thankfully, Nina’s strong arms held her up without missing a beat.
“I caught you, girl. Those vintage YSL boots are smoking hot, but they really weren’t made for walking.”
Fifty-six years without justice. And yet, after all this time, you still allow your fear to lead. He saved your life. Stop it!
She thought she could see the slightest tremble in his jaw as they approached the halfway point to the bar. She couldn’t be sure, but she could certainly relate. Her TMJ was always in overdrive, even at the best of times. There was so much territory to bridge and her mind was drawing a blank. Perhaps her tongue wouldn’t betray her. If only she could get it to move. It really was a toss-up at this point. Maybe she could communicate with her eyes instead. Yes. That’s exactly what she would do.
Two men at the bar placed their hands at his armpits and shoulders and gently helped him rise from the barstool. He steadied his own hands against a brass knobbed cane and turned his body in her direction. The hands lingered supportively at his back. His mouth moved. The men nodded and the hands moved away.
“We’re moving. You’re moving. Almost there, girl.”
Don’t you dare look down! You look him straight in the eyes. He deserves your utmost respect. All of it.
She could really see him as she moved in closer. The contours of his face had relaxed over the years. His hair was thinner and completely white. And he was frail. Painfully
so. But it was him. It was Moose.
What can I possibly say? Where do I begin?
His eyes never left hers as she made her way towards him. They communicated the wisdom of a true educator. One who remained teachable and not focused on controlling the moment. One who made a habit of looking beyond the obvious.
Deep down, I don't expect anyone to forgive me.
One who understood that true growth comes from weathering a tangled, reeking stench of experience and not from cherry picking a pretty bouquet of hand-selected soundbytes.
“And we made it! Uncle Mercer. Jana.”
One who understood the difference between that which was best left buried in the past and that which was worthy of welcoming back into the present.
But what happens if they do?
She glanced at the book in her hands and stood in front of him.
Answer him.
Answer the question.
Give him an answer.
Answer his question.
Just answer the man's question.
Why don’t you answer the question?
Can’t you just answer the question?
Forgive me.
Yes.
TRANSIT
2010
Ester
A turn of the tide lifted her from the crater bed and propelled her into motion along the hairline quark that delineated the present from the past. Time-weathered spheres hunched together and watched. Arrogant young comets wagged their tails obliviously.
In Bucks County, Margaret’s phone fell from the bedside table to the ground beyond her reach. A fatal convulsion took hold of her body. She cursed aloud at her son and longed tearfully for Magyar.
In Anaheim, Lasse sat naked and giggling on an examination table with a tourniquet wrapped around his arm. A woman dressed in a naughty nurse uniform held a syringe filled with a lethal cocktail of morphine and adrenaline. “Time for your shot,” she said, licking her lips suggestively. He groaned excitedly and held out his arm.
In Philadelphia, Bela ignored the phone ringing inside his dilapidated apartment and perched at the window to watch a troop of Girl Scouts laughing in the street below. They were happy in the moment and excited for the future, now that cookie time had arrived. His lips parted slowly, revealing lupine, greying teeth.
