A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (29 page)

Continuity does not mean stagnation; it does not mean always planting the same crop in the same field. There is no opposition between continuity and sound ideas on crop rotation. I am not ashamed to say that I know something about these matters. There is not that much difference, to an alert mind, between life in Washington and life on the farm. Know crops and livestock, the world of modern agriculture, and you know politics.

We have a team here, a team that is working very well together. Oh sure, we have had our little bits of static, a few interruptions of our program for announcements that were nothing more than personal vanity. I don’t deny it. But if you, Martin, were not expecting this, then you’re nothing but a little boy showering after his first gym class (usually Grade 7), worried that people will see his pecker.

Continuity is to us what the Pentecost was to Babel.

Take steps immediately to reinstitute continuity. Just do it, Martin, no questions asked. You’ll be glad you did it.

You didn’t respond to my telepathic guesses as to your social life and personal bearing. Are you cooling?

Call me Lars,

Barton

James R. Kincaid
University of Southern California
University Park Campus
Los Angeles, CA 90089

January 30, 2003

Dear Reba,

You don’t mind me calling you “Reba,” do you? I feel that I know you, and know you not distantly either, having come to understand and admire your brother so. He often speaks of you. I think I can say that, distance aside, I know you both well, as if you were my own brother and sister. I never had a sister, but still, the heart is a lonely hunter, as Carson McCullers once said.

You may be wondering why I am answering you and not Percival. It’s not that he doesn’t like you; let me assure you of that. He likes you a lot. It’s just that he thinks my people skills are more advanced than his, that I am what we might call more sensitive. It’s not that Percival doesn’t have his virtues. He’ll be glad to hear you like his novels, assuming you do. And I’m sure you do, as you say you do. I know you would never say one thing and mean another. I can tell that instinctively. I have very good instincts in these matters. Percival does not.

As for your brother, what we’re doing is, we’re contacting Senator Thurmond’s office directly so as to put pressure on Martin Snell there at Simon & Schuster to rehire Juniper. He’s resigned, as you know, but he was so badly treated we wouldn’t be wrong to say he had no choice. But trust us: we know Senator Thurmond and can call on his influence. Whatever you think of him—and believe me I have my thoughts too—he does have influence. And he knows how to use it.

So, Snell will rehire Juniper and treat him well. Count on it.

Of course, we would have loved to employ Juniper ourselves and get to know him even better close up. Maybe you would have moved here too. But those are pipe dreams, better left to waft away in the breezy ocean air we enjoy out our way. We didn’t really have the occasion to offer him suitable employment, you see, nor, to be frank, the funds.

This way we can keep a fatherly eye on him. And on you too.

Very cordially yours,

James R. Kincaid

James R. Kincaid

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

February 3, 2003

Dear Marty,

Have you rehired Juniper yet? I have heard nothing.

Is it possible that you did not see the application of my last letter? No, it is not possible?

Yes it is.

By “continuity,” I meant rehiring McCloud. You wouldn’t have fired him in the first place had you understood continuity. And don’t tell me somebody else fired him, or he quit, or some such.

I don’t care.

Just give him a raise and get him back on this book.

Look, Martin, Juniper may have his oddities, but who of us do not? I may be odd myself, but I do not like to see good people hurt. Juniper is a good person and probably deserves much better people than you and me around him. I know I don’t exactly provide for those I love an easy passage over life’s rough spots. Sometimes I am one rough spot myself. And so are you.

So do a decent thing for once and give McCloud back his job and treat him better.

If you don’t, I’ll get you fired. I’ll send a letter signed by Strom that will have such rock-in-the-water resonance you’ll never work in publishing again—anywhere.

So do the kind thing.

Love,

Barton W.

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

February 3, 2003

Dear Juniper,

I have these moments when things are clearer for me, though they are not always welcome. They let me see the wrong things.

I cannot imagine you are very happy to receive a letter from me. I just hope I haven’t hurt you somehow over the past months. God knows I might have.

This is to let you know that a cabal of your friends—me, Kincaid, Everett, and probably your sister—have put pressure on that Snell to rehire you, to lure you back with more money and promise of kindness—by which he probably means personal attentions you could well do without. But maybe not.

Anyhow, things will be better. You’ll be working on the book. Everett and Kincaid are good sorts—at least Everett is.

You’ll have to deal with me too. I can only say that I right now see what a grim prospect that must be. I have no right to ask it, but if you could summon the graciousness of heart to tell me it won’t be so bad working with me, it’d mean much. I don’t ask for the truth; a lie will do fine.

Your friend,

Barton

S
IMON
& S
CHUSTER
, I
NC
.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

February 10, 2003

Dear Barton,

Let me say at once that you and I are on the same page. There is nothing at all separating our thinking on this point.

Enough said? Well, certainly, considering how quick you are, how deft. Still, it may be as well to spell it out in a little detail, unnecessary as that also is. I have offered R. Juniper McCloud a reinstatement at an improved salary, under what, I think we both would agree, are improved conditions. I mean by that last point that he will be protected from Vendetti. By me. I won’t trouble you with details as to how that unfortunate transfer of our Juney was forced on me. I could see how he drooped and withered away from me. I was helpless to fertilize his leaves, water his roots.

Consider my situation.

But all that is changed. Believe me, as I know you must.

You refer also to friendly questions you raised a while ago (January 10) about my social life. I had not answered, Barton, as it would have seemed to me presumptuous. You understand, of course. Who am I to thrust personal details on such as you? I mean, of course you asked, and that would be grounds enough for some to load on you the most personal, the most embarrassing of revelations. Not me.

Now I see that you have repeated your gesture, so I will tell you that my dating life is and always has been—well, not quite always, of course, but since the time, and I was precocious, when I graduated from playing doctor and hide-theoreo to what might justly be called “dating”—highly inventive. That’s a hard sentence to follow, isn’t it? My dating life is, I am happy to say, creative and unbounded by rules or public declarations. I am not one to say, “I will only date people who do A, or people who eat B, or people who are proficient at backyard C, or people who—.” You see. Your comments on my complexion (poor), slouch, and bad hair are fine jokes. Very manly. That’s just one thing I like about you. I think we are the sort who could, if we liked, have some beers, eat peanuts, watch football, insult one another, and pee on the floor. That is, if we wanted to, if you wanted to. I mean we could do that, not necessarily that we would or anything like that. It’d be up to you.

As always,

Martin

S
IMON
& S
CHUSTER
, I
NC
.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

February 10, 2003

Dear Juniper,

I come to you extending the hand of remorse and contrition. The average person would likely say that these words both mean the same thing. But you are not an average person.

I’d like to think I too am not an average person, but I am not able to deny that in my treatment of you, I was average. I know that your generous nature—shall I call it a generous heart?—will spring to deny this, to bring succor and comfort. But allow me this one moment of valor.

I was wrong. I was average.

The project on which you and I have, together, prayed and bled and perspired needs you. I need you too, but I make this plea in the name of the project, hoping you cannot but respond to that call. Knowing you cannot but respond.