Mrs. Whiston, we’d been in Egypt earlier. It is dry and outstandingly beautiful but as far as a place to live and work, it lags way behind Ohio. But, maybe that’s just me. Thanks to Egypt, I had the worst case of diarrhea I have ever heard of or read about. You cannot believe how low a case of diarrhea can bring a person’s spirits and better judgment. Because of it, I voted Yes, enter Tongaville. In my condition, a bus parked on the desert, where there’s not one blade of grass much less a bush for fifty miles, was just no place to spend the night. So, like a pack of fools, we drove into Tongaville, right into the middle of it.
The bus was air-conditioned, and we couldn’t exactly hear what all of them were shouting at us. Then Miss McMillan, who’s in your parents’ snapshot and at seventy-nine is still sharp as a tack, she said, “CIA, they’re yelling CIA,” and she was right. First it sounded like some native word but that was because they were saying it wrong. Miss McMillan was on target as usual. The only ones who’d voted to skip Tongaville were her and the three Canadian teachers who often acted afraid of us Americans, especially the Texans, and who wore light sweaters, even in Egypt. “Father Flannagan’s World Tours” was spelled out in English all over the bus. Some of our people said it had probably tipped off the natives about our being Americans. But after three weeks with this group, I knew we weren’t that hard to spot. I never thought I’d be ashamed of my home country, but certain know-it-all attitudes and rudenesses toward Africans had embarrassed me more than once. This might have been my first world trip, but wherever I am I can usually tell right from wrong. The Texans especially were pushy beyond belief.
Hotel workers came out and joined hands and made two lines for protection, a kind of alley from the door of our bus to the lobby of the Hotel Alpha, which was no great shakes but, by this time, looked pretty good to me. Your father, I remember, was the last to get off because he kept photographing rebels through the big tinted back window. They had already started rocking the bus and he was still inside it running up and down the aisle taking pictures of their angry faces near the glass. Your mother just plain told him to come out of there this minute and he finally did. I made it upstairs to my room and looked out the balcony window. The crowd had climbed up on our bus and pried open the door. They swarmed all over it, about a hundred half-dressed people, so skinny it hurt you to look at them. The bus’s sunroof was glass and I could see them in there scrambling over every seat. The street in front of our hotel was just crawling with people. One group waved brooms. A few boys had found golf clubs somewhere and were throwing these up then catching them like majorettes would. A naked man and a woman danced around, holding a vacuum cleaner over their heads. He lifted the body of it and she’d slung the hose over her shoulder and kept shaking the wand part at people. Even from the second floor, I could tell it was an Electrolux. The crowd didn’t seem to know what a vacuum cleaner was. They kept staring up at the thing. Seeing this scared me more than anything so far. Then our bus drove off. Most of the Africans ran after it, all cheering. I stood there at the window thinking, Well, there our only hope goes. This is probably it, what could be worse for us? That’s when I noticed our tour guide. He went sneaking across the street, looking left and right, guilt written all over him, and carrying a red Samsonite makeup case exactly like Mimi Martinson’s, a rich divorcee’s from St. Pete. That little Arab turned a corner. I knew then we were on our own, with this mess out of our control.
I decided to build a barricade in front of my door but realized that the rest room was out in the hall. We had to share. Father Flannagan’s leaflet said in big printing, “Rooms with private baths at the best of the earth’s four-star hotels.” I went to find the bathroom but somebody was in there and four more of our people were waiting in line.
Old Mr. McGuane, one of the Texans, stood around, real casual, holding a pistol. He was telling the others how he’d brought it along just in case, and somebody asked how he’d gotten it through customs and the hijack inspections and he said he didn’t know, it had been right there in his bag all along, but he could tell them one thing, he was mighty glad to have it with him now. Other people asked, just in case, what his room number was. I had to use the bathroom so much but I knew it was going to take forever. Seeing people from our tour had depressed me even more. So I walked back, locked my door, and just sat down on the bed and went ahead and had a good cry. I thought of Teddy and Lorraine, my son-in-law and daughter, who’d given me this trip to get my mind off my husband’s death. I couldn’t help believing that I’d never see Toledo again. I kept remembering a new Early American spice rack I’d hung in my kitchen just before leaving. It’s funny, the kind of thing that gives you comfort when you’re scared.
I told myself that if I just lived through this, if I got to go one more time to the Towne and Country restaurant near my home, and order their fantastic blue-cheese dressing, and then drive over to the Old Mill Little Theater and see another production of Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well, I’d give five thousand dollars to the Little Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. I vowed this and said a quick prayer to seal it. I found some hotel stationery and sat down and wrote out my will. I already had a legal one back in our safe deposit box, but it soothed my mind so much to write: I leave all my earthly goods to Teddy and Lorraine. I leave all my earthly goods to Teddy and Lorraine. Sitting there, I fell asleep.
I know I’m rambling worse than ever. But in emergencies like this, little things bunch up and get to seem important as the big facts. So I’m putting most everything in.
I woke up and at first didn’t know where I was, then I remembered, Africa, and I thought, Oh Lord. Even in Ohio, sometimes this feeling comes over me and I wonder, What exactly am I doing here? In Tongaville, it was that same question but about five hundred times as strong. I crawled to the end of my bed and looked out the balcony window and that’s when I saw your mother and father wandering around down on the street. Frankly, Mrs. Whiston, I thought they were pretty foolish to be out there. When our bus was hijacked, its spare fell off, and now the street was totally empty except for your parents and the tire and a beggar who was propped up in a doorway down the block. I think he was only there because the mob had carried off his crutches as two more things to wave around.
Your dad was taking a picture of the tire and your poor mother was looking at the light meter. You probably know how your father asked her to help by testing the brightness of the light. He pretended to include her in his hobby but, in my opinion, he never really listened to Lily. Many times I’d hear her say, “Fred, it’s way too bright out here. Without some filters, every shot is going to be way overexposed. This is Africa, Fred.” He’d nod and go on clicking away. She acted like she didn’t notice this, but after forty years of a thing, you notice. It made me remember my own marriage to one basically good man. I wondered, Is it wise or crazy to put up with so much for so long. Your dad was mostly kind to her and he didn’t mean any harm, but this once I wish he’d told her not to bother, to just go on upstairs and take a nap or something. Instead, there Lily was, two stories down, the poor thing holding out a light meter of no earthly good to anybody, squinting at it and wearing her pretty yellow pantsuit. I should have called to them. If it had been just her I definitely would have, but when a woman’s husband is along, you often act different.
Then they both looked down the street. By leaning out the window, I could see a whole parade, this whole mass of people carrying signs painted on sheets stretched between green bamboo poles. The writing was a foreign language, foreign to me, at least. Groups came down the street and sidewalks, pushing, waving scrap lumber and garden tools. They all moved together. They looked organized and almost noble, like they knew just what they wanted and deserved, and, right now, were headed there to get it. I expected your parents to run straight back into our hotel. They had time. But instead, your father changed cameras. He wore about three looped around his neck and he crouched down like a professional and started taking pictures. The Africans were shouting som
ething hard to understand except I think the CIA part was still in there. The chants got louder and echoed between buildings. Your dad stayed put. Lily looked confused but tried to make herself useful anyway and held out that light meter toward the crowd, like she was offering it to them. Lily kept glancing at the hotel doorway. Somebody must have been signaling for her to come inside. But she didn’t budge, she stuck out there in the open with your dad. He hunched down facing them. I just stood upstairs and watched. I kept believing he knew things I didn’t.
His camera had a long black lens and this was pressed up against his face, and I don’t know if people thought it was a gun or what, but along with their chant, I heard this one pop, no louder than a firecracker, and your poor father fell right back. It was as fast and simple as that. It seemed like he did a backflip he’d been planning all along, or got more interested in the sky between buildings than the crowd, because he was lying there staring right up at the sun. He tried to toss the camera to your mother, like the camera mattered most. She caught it and looked down at the thing for a minute. Then she seemed to wake up and she took two shaky steps toward him. But that moment the people shoved past our hotel. There were hundreds of them and they were running fast. Some were banging on pots and garbage-can lids. They carried things along over their heads. A phone pole on its side, people hanging onto the loose wires like these were leashes. Along came what looked like a huge snake held up by dozens of black hands, but it was just the vacuum hose. I could see flashes of her yellow suit down there. The last of the parade went rushing by, women, children, and some bony dogs hurrying to catch up. Your mother was face down on the street, way beyond your dad. People had taken her blouse off. All the cameras were gone but one that had been trampled. They’d carried off the tire, and your poor mother’s yellow blouse.
I just fixed myself a cup of coffee, Mrs. Whiston, and ran cold water over my writing hand. I’m in such a state trying to get this down. I plan to start forgetting just as soon as this letter is done. But I think it’s important to face the hard facts at the time, and not let yourself off easy.
My Willard died at the cement works where he’d been their employee for thirty-five years. I drove out a week or so after the funeral and talked to the boys he’d worked with on his last morning alive. They told me little things they remembered from that day. One man, a colored fellow named Roy, he’d been with Diamond Cement as long as my husband. He said Willard told a joke just before lunch hour, which is when he passed away. His heart went. The joke was about the three priests trying to catch a train to Pittsburgh. Willard must of told that one about five thousand times. He’d got it down to an art, this priest joke and some other favorites. I asked Roy, Which joke? like I’d never heard it. He probably guessed that in the twenty years Willard had been telling that corny thing, I’d have to know it by now. But he started up anyway, understanding that I needed it. Roy went through the whole thing, waiting in the right places, adding all Willard’s extra touches. When he finished, I laughed out loud like it was new to me, and not just for show but from the heart. Hearing it helped me so much. I’m not sure why I started telling this. I think it’s to show why I’m not holding one thing back, not sparing you anything, no matter how bad it sounds.
I tore the sheets off my bed and unlocked the door. People had stacked their luggage as a barricade across the stair landing. I shoved through this, and some fell down the stairwell but I didn’t care. I ran into the lobby. A black bellhop tried to stop me but I got past him through the revolving door. Out in the sun and heat, seeing them stunned me all over again. I bent down beside your father and felt him. One camera had been stepped on, lens glass was shining all around his shoulder. Then I ran down the street to your mother and put my hand on the side of her face. Both your folks were dead. Her back looked so bare and white, and the bra strap seemed to be cutting her. I spread the sheet over Lily and then I lifted it up and undid the clip of her strap. The beggar had leaned out of his doorway to stare at me. For some reason, this made me feel guilty, like I could have saved them or was stealing their watches. I stood up dizzy but made it back and called the bellboy to come out here and help me carry your folks inside. I kept waving but he’d just press up against the glass and shake his head no. Then he crooked his finger for me to come back in. I saw something move upstairs and I looked up there, and it astonished me. There were three guests in every balcony window, our whole busload all lined up in rows and staring down at me with your poor parents.
Cora White peeped over the grillework on the third floor. When she saw me looking up, her head jerked back. But one of her arms stayed there holding the Polaroid, then her other hand came out and poked the button. Many people were taking pictures. The whole group from Texas was, every last one of them. I put a hand over my eyes for shade and called, “Come help us, come help us. The Madisons are dead,” and I pointed to your folks. But nobody budged. It was a scary and terrible sight, Mrs. Whiston. Most windows were closed, so I called louder. Some of the women would look at each other and back at me, but not one soul up there moved. So then, when I saw what was going on, I started screaming names. I’m not a young woman, Mrs. Whiston, but with all my might I hollered upstairs, especially to my friends who, like me, had signed up for this at Holy Assumption. “Deborah Schmidt, Cora White, LaVerne and May Stimson, I see you, and I know you, so you all come right down here and help us.” But as I called their names, they’d ease back into the rooms or let the drapes fall over their faces. I was out in the sun, feeling totally lost. I was starting to shake. People weren’t even looking at me or your folks any more but along the street in the other direction, and when I saw a crowd headed here even bigger than before, I stooped down and ran right back inside. The bellboy jammed a baggage cart half into the revolving door, then the two of us ducked under the front desk and we stayed there.
I’d turned into just as big a coward as the rest, so who am I to point the finger? All the same, I won’t forget how it is to be the person who needs help, and to look up and see your group, your people, lined up like in a department-store window, and every one refusing you. Your dearest friends on earth doing that.
I never figured out how the Marines from the U.S. Embassy knew where we were, but all of a sudden they showed up in a truck, carrying rifles. I was so concerned for my own safety I hardly gave your parents’ bodies another thought, Mrs. Whiston. The Marines looked very young, like they couldn’t be old enough to drive, and here they were rescuing us. I asked if the Embassy had maybe picked up your parents, because by this time, they were both gone, nothing left but broken glass on the pavement. The Marine said, “No, Ma’am.” I wish you could have heard him say that. He was tall and had a sweet pink healthy face. Like all of them, he seemed to talk in a Southern accent, and when this boy told me, “No, Ma’am,” it was so full of politeness, so old-fashioned and American in the good way that after what our busload had just done, I broke right down in the lobby. Nobody on our tour would come near me now they’d gathered downstairs, all shy to see me still alive. The Marine looked embarrassed. I thought if he would just put his arm around me for a minute, I’d be all right. And I’m sure he was going to, but when he saw that no one else was rushing over to help, not even one of our women, he said, “Excuse me,” and hurried off. He was just shy, a man’s body and this little boy’s face.
Up drove the Embassy’s four black cars to rush us to the airport. American soldiers and government secretaries were driving anything they could lay hands on. They said to leave all the luggage we couldn’t carry in our laps. Mimi Martinson asked everyone but me if they’d seen her precious makeup bag, so why should I have told her where it went? More officials arrived, two sports cars and a Buick that looked bigger than ones at home but was a lot like Teddy and Lorraine’s, only yellow. For one second, I really thought it was them come for me. That’s how crazy I’d turned. By this time, I didn’t know Africa from around the block.
A Volkswagen camper with Delaware plates pulled up i
n front. I rode in that. It belonged to the Ambassador’s daughter. We unloaded food from the little refrigerator to take on the plane with us. The freezer was full of Stouffer’s Lobster Newburg dinners, and more of these were waiting at the airport in ice chests from the Embassy Commissary.
We’d started for the plane when we heard the biggest explosion yet. An oil refinery, this row of tanks went off like bombs and in one minute the entire sky got black. We had to keep low in the camper, but at an intersection near the refinery I heard something and looked out and saw two sheep running through the empty streets. I think oil had spilled on them and their coats were on fire, Mrs. Whiston. They both ran down the center of the road right along the dotted line. Smoke came blowing off their backs and real flames and they were making noises so human, so terrible I cannot describe it. When I was a child, I was sick a lot and had nightmares full of horrible sights, and this was like some dream from then but worse.
The Embassy man tried to tell me that these sheep were headed toward some river and would be all right. But, if there was a river through the desert, how could it stay a desert and dry? We flew to Athens then to Brussels then home to Kennedy. We were treated like royalty, except by the reporters, who were rude. The Ambassador and his wife acted just like everybody else and weren’t a bit stuck up. He said he’d known there was some trouble brewing, but as for a revolution, he guessed he’d been caught napping.
Now, I am home. I’m safe and sound at my own kitchen table. When I walked in here for the first time last week, my new maple spice rack looked like an altar to me. I’m tired and never plan to leave the security of Toledo again.
Mrs. Whiston, it’s hard for me to believe that our earth has gotten this bad this quick. I’m not saying your dad was right in doing what he did, rushing outside without understanding how dangerous things are now. He just forgot his place and took way too much for granted. He thought all people on earth were as good-natured as himself, and with as much free time, and would pose for him. But he overlooked hunger. That is bound to make terrible changes in people’s dispositions. White or black, people are more miserable and less willing to be scenery than the National Geographic would like us to think. Every fact I once held dear has swung around and turned into something else.
White People Page 4
