Dominion (12 page)

“I remember when President Kennedy was shot,” Jake said. “Exactly where I was, in high school my senior year. Gym class. We were playing basketball, and I’d just shot a free throw when the principal’s secretary came in and told the coach, and he told us. It’s like it was yesterday.”

“Yeah? I’ve heard people say that. I remember too, but not as much as when Martin died.” What Clarence really remembered from the day of the Kennedy assassination was his mama asking, with terror in her eyes, “It wasn’t a black man who shot him, was it?”

Clarence decided not to say more. How could he expect Jake to understand why Martin dying was like the descent of the four horses of the apocalypse? It seemed like the end of hope for black people. Martin had his flaws, no doubt about it, but his convictions on equality and his dream of the races living in harmony was from God.

“Tell me about Chicago, Clabern. What were the projects like?”

“They were…like another planet. Alien nation. We thought everything would be great, man, comin’ up from Mississippi to Chicago. I was ten; Dani was six. Blacks couldn’t buy real estate in the outlying areas, so we all got pushed into the Southside. You know, just like in every city, though the truth is we felt more comfortable with our own anyway. My family was better off than most. Daddy and Mama worked really hard to give us kids an opportunity. But the gangs were going even in those days, and the racial tension was hot, you know, the sixties. Whites and blacks were from two different worlds. Still are, I guess. Back then we thought it would be different by now. But it isn’t.”

Jake nodded. He had a few more questions, but held off.

“You know what bugs me, Jake? And this is something Dani and I used to go round and round about. I was raised in poverty, so I want to put as much room between me and poverty as I can. Middle- and upper-class white kids can talk about identifying with the poor and all that noble-sounding stuff, but that’s because they’ve never been poor. When you’ve known poverty, there’s no mystique about it, no appeal. You just want more than anything never to be poor again. That’s why I hate this part of town.”

Clarence looked where the dry cleaner used to be, now a liquor store. Where there was a doctor’s office, now a pawnshop. Where there was once a church, abandoned years ago for the safety of the suburbs, now a gang hideout and a drug-running station.

The broken-down store that had been a Rexall Drugs had an old RX sign from the fifties swaying in the wind and poised to fall and injure some passerby. The only thriving businesses seemed to be the little foreign-owned stores, plastered with signs for Lotto and Powerball. He watched people walking in, eyes full of hope they would win the big one and escape life’s drudgery. Later the same people would feel fear and remorse and shame for having wasted money that could have bought school clothes for their children.

“I can’t stand that stinking lottery,” Clarence said. “State funded temptation for the poor. Makes people think you can prosper without hard work and discipline.” He suddenly pulled over by a freshly painted red sign announcing “Kim’s Grocery,” one of a dozen Korean-owned stores in north Portland. “How about a soda?”

Clarence walked in, Jake behind him, and noticed a Korean woman immediately step into a back room. He sensed the other woman behind the counter gazing at him suspiciously, watching him out of the corner of her eye. For a moment he felt that ever-present tension, as if it was assumed he was about to pull out a piece or shoplift them blind.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” he asked, as he handed her two dollars for two pops. She said a quiet yes and looked down, then placed the change not in his hand, but on the counter.

Clarence seethed as he walked out the door. “Won’t even dirty her hand by touching a black man.”

“What?” Jake sounded startled.

“All these Asian store owners are the same. Koreans, Japanese, Cambodians. They come into the black community, get rich off them, then think they’re better than their customers.”

“But…she seemed very nice. Quiet, but nice,” Jake said.

“You notice she put the change on the counter? Didn’t want to touch my black hand. Like I’m a leper or something. They’re all that way.”

Jake’s forehead wrinkled, but he said nothing.

The streets were the color of soot, somewhere between black and white. Politicians such as Councilman Norcoast had set up photo ops and drawn up plans to restore, beautify, and renovate, to prove Portland was a city that cared about all its citizens. But like most tax money, it seemed to always fritter away in overhead and salaries and plans and discussions and never actually do much good. Clarence resented the politicians, but he also blamed the people, like his sister, who put too much trust and hope in government, expecting it to be a benefactor, to do justice, to take care of their problems.

“It’s up to hard work and individual initiative, Jake,” Clarence said. “The sooner black Americans figure out government just subsidizes and perpetuates their poverty, the better off they’ll be. Government isn’t the solution. It’s a big part of the problem.”

“Still, sometimes it helps, doesn’t it?”

“Forty acres and a mule,” Clarence muttered.

“What?”

“That’s what the government promised all the freed slaves after the Civil War. You know, to help get them started.”

“I’d forgotten that.”

“Don’t feel bad. The government forgot it too. No acres, no mules. What else is new? Lyndon Johnson did a lot of good on civil rights, but then he promised the Great Society’s welfare programs would obliterate black poverty in a decade. Guess what? It’s much worse now than it was then.”

Clarence withdrew into himself. Jake wanted to know what was going through his friend’s mind. But Clarence held his thoughts close to his chest like a poker player, as if he was afraid someone would see his cards.

The two men appeared similar in many ways. Both dressed meticulously. Both were compulsively clean, wearing fashionably cut suits. Both sneaked frequent looks in mirrors. Two differences were dramatic, though—the build of their bodies and the color of their skin. One was thick and black, the other slender and white. One was Clarence Abernathy; the other, Reggie Norcoast. They were scheduled to sit near each other today, with only the Reverend Cairo Clancy between them, on the special rally platform set up in Woodlawn Park.

Clarence had wanted to bail out of this public appearance, but Geneva had talked him into it. She said she knew Dani would want it. That was a low blow.

As the crowds arrived, Clarence sat in his assigned chair, observing Norcoast’s moves around the platform. He studied him as if they were the moves of a chess or tennis opponent, moves that might display both strengths and weaknesses.

With Norcoast, any contact, regardless of its purpose, was a political image meeting. The meeting began the moment he walked in, the agenda was whatever image-enhancing event or perspective was on his mind, and the outcome was whatever he wanted it to be.

Beneath the confident exterior, Clarence surmised, the councilman was nervous and insecure. He reminded him of a dog endlessly sniffing out the ground, trying to find where other dogs had been and, on seeing a new hound, overeager to get familiar with him.

You could see Norcoast’s handshake coming a block away. He’d turned the common handshake into an art form. He clasped with the right hand, but that was just the beginning. His left hand searched out just the right place, sometimes the forearm, the elbow, the shoulder, sometimes the back of the opposite shoulder, making a partial embrace. Occasionally the left hand went on top of the other’s right hand, creating a double-handed clasp signifying double sincerity. This was clearly a man who had a great deal of experience with his hands.

What his hands didn’t do, his ears did. Clarence could almost see them grow as he leaned forward toward each individual he came to. They were vacuum-cleaner ears that sucked up every word, making the constituent feel Norcoast heard him and felt his pain and understood every nuance of his thirty-second gut-spilling, leaving the implicit promise the politician would take action on every word spoken, whether that be as a councilman now, a mayor next year, or a governor in five years. Everything about Norcoast shouted “I care, I
really
do; I am sincere. I
really
am.”

Norcoast was a weather vane spinning in the wind. To Clarence he seemed another life form. The politician.

Walking around within a few feet of the councilman, as if to monitor the variables and make sure nothing got out of control, was his longtime aide, Carson Gray. Only in his late thirties, he was a savvy operator. Gray strutted around like a banty rooster, with quick steps and self-important motions. His skin was pale, with blue penciled veins. Despite his expensive suit, his anatomy resisted a tailored look. He was one of those bottomless men who hikes up his pants and tightens his belt an extra notch to keep gravity from embarrassing him. He was largely responsible for cultivating and watchdogging Norcoast’s political success. Gray stood there, always keeping his finger on the pulse while Norcoast bubbled and smiled and effervesced.

Down in the front row Clarence saw Geneva, looking fine in that pretty emerald green dress. She stood face to face with Norcoast’s wife, Esther, immersed in animated conversation. Geneva had remarked to Clarence several times how kind it was for her to come to Dani’s funeral. They seemed to really be hitting it off. As he watched the two women thirty feet away, he saw the tears well up in Geneva and assumed they were talking about Dani. Esther Norcoast put her arms around Geneva. Clarence saw she was crying too, and he sensed the grief was real.

Well, maybe she hasn’t been infected by politics. At least, not like her husband. Maybe she’s the idealistic people-serving person her husband imagines he is.

Clarence felt guilty, as he often did when realizing his cynicism had led him to misjudge someone. His eyes now caught a familiar slow moving gait and brown polyester suit. He stepped down into the crowd and put his arms around his father.

“How you feelin’, Daddy?”

“Well, when you gets as old as I am,” Obadiah Abernathy said, “if you wakes up in the mornin’ and nothin’ hurts, it’s a sure sign you’re dead.” He laughed hard, from deep within, with a delightful hiss that sounded like air escaping a balloon.

“I’ve been thinking about things today, Daddy. I want to thank you for all you taught me. For raising me like you did. And helping me through college. Thank you.” He hugged him.

Obadiah looked at his son curiously, as if to say, where is this coming from? “Couldn’t have done it without two people, Son. My sweet Jesus and yo’ sweet mama.” His eyes gleamed.

Clarence helped Obadiah into a folding chair. Jake came over to sit next to him.

“Hello, Mr. Abernathy. Good to see you again.”

“Mr. Jake. Always a pleasure, sir, always a pleasure.”

Clarence made his way back to the platform. After a few people came up to greet him, Clarence’s eyes went back to Esther Norcoast. He watched her go up to her husband. Both were all smiles, when suddenly she halted. He thought he saw surprise and anger in her face, but he couldn’t be sure. Words were exchanged. Norcoast looked intent on restoring her smile.

I didn’t even see him say anything. What’s she mad about? Well, she’s a woman. Norcoast probably doesn’t have a clue. Wish I could read lips.