Dominion (26 page)

One voice within always said to him, “It’s so much better than the days of slavery, so much better than sharecropping and Jim Crow.” Laws had changed, opportunities had changed. Now a black person could be stopped only by the limits of his abilities and determination. That’s what he always told himself, and usually he believed it. But not today, not here, not now.

As he was often reminded at stoplights, on elevators, and in department stores, no matter what he had accomplished, no matter who he really was, to some whites and to some blacks—sometimes even to himself—he would always be just one more nigger.

Dani continued studying her life on earth, reviewing obscure incidents long forgotten. She’d looked again at Bible passages she’d failed to live by, heard again the wise counsel of her parents she hadn’t followed, listened to sermons she hadn’t paid attention to, taken a fresh look at life experiences she hadn’t seen from an eternal perspective.

“It’s as if,” Dani said to Torel, “Elyon is teaching me here all the lessons I failed to learn on earth.”

“That is exactly right,” Torel said. “He brings to his redeemed certain lessons he desires them to learn. If they are not learned on earth, they must be learned here to prepare you to serve in your appointed place.”

Dani looked confused.

“Surely you have read in Elyon’s book that you will reign with him, sit upon his Father’s throne, even judge angels. That those who were his faithful servants on earth would be appointed leaders in heaven. That those trustworthy in small matters would be put over large ones. I know you read these things. I looked over your shoulder as you read them.”

“To read is one thing; to understand, another,” Dani said. “It seemed too fantastic to believe.”

“Everything Elyon says must be believed. It is not for you to pick and choose.”

“I realize that now. You speak of service, but heaven is a place of
rest
, is it not? I’m surprised how active I’ve been here, studying my life on earth, observing the dark world, interacting with others, traveling back in time to see history unfold, running and exploring and enjoying the incredible beauty here. I’m grateful for all the activity. I’d just expected there would be much less to do.”

“Rest is a condition of the soul,” Torel said. “You are at rest when you are where you should be and doing what you should be doing. At times you choose to do nothing here, just to soak it in and enjoy it—even here there is the Sabbath rest. But surely you didn’t imagine you would sit around and do nothing? Good is multifaceted and deep; evil, monolithic and shallow—that is why hell is endlessly boring and heaven endlessly fascinating. As for activity, does not Elyon’s Word say that in heaven ‘His servants will serve him’? What is service but action and effort and duty and responsibility? These do not conflict with rest. Heaven is a place both for rest and for activity. But I am moving ahead to another lesson. Tell me something you have been learning.”

“For one thing,” Dani said, “all this study of my life on earth has been a surprise. I thought I would never look back. I find that what I experience in heaven is largely an outgrowth of earth. The two aren’t disconnected. It’s not a new and separate reality as much as an extension of the old reality.”

Torel nodded, as if she had said something self-evident.

“My mind is the same mind, only sharper; my soul the same soul, only completely pure. My skills are the same skills, but less hindered in their expression. I was not a mountain climber on earth and do not have some sudden desire to be one now, though perhaps I will eventually. But I loved to paint and swim on earth, and I love to even more now.”

“Of course,” Torel said. “You are the same person. Earth leads directly into heaven, just as it leads directly into hell. Your life on earth was your running start into heaven, just as for those who do not know Elyon, it is their running start into hell. What you learned there you bring with you here. The treasures you laid up when you were there will be yours here. Elyon’s gifts are irrevocable. He made you to be an artist not for time but for eternity. You learned to be an artist there to prepare you to be one here.”

“Then in the coming kingdom will people have the same jobs as they did on earth?”

“Gifting and vocation are not the same. The doctor, undertaker, police officer, and paramedic will not have the same job here. But they will have the same gifts and new opportunities to use them.”

“I expected heaven to be entirely different than earth,” Dani said.

“Elyon is the same Creator, you are the same creature. It is the same universe. You have simply relocated to a better part of it. It is
you
in heaven, not some new creature that did not exist on earth. The same person who steps out of earth is the one who steps into heaven.”

“I used to think heaven was an entirely new book, with a new cast of characters—a nice setting, but with no drama, no plot.”

“On the contrary,” Torel said. “It is the next chapter of the same book, or perhaps a sequel to it. A continuation. The viewpoint is more comprehensive, the setting more varied, the characters have more depth, the plot is more interesting, the anticipation more heightened.”

“Will there be other characters in the drama?” Dani asked.

“Elyon is the Author,” Torel said. “I am sure his cast of characters is not exhausted and never will be. My comrades and I have often discussed this very thing. We ask ourselves what creatures and what worlds he will create in the ages to come, and what adventures he will lay out for us, and what more we will discover about him in our journeys. This is the wonder of heaven—always more and always better as we move further in. Is it not compelling?”

“More compelling than anything I could have imagined,” Dani said. She appeared eager to go, a smile of anticipation on her face. “I want to paint now, Torel. I want to paint something for the Carpenter, something beautiful, just for him.”

The movers were coming Monday. Today and tomorrow the Abernathys would have to get everything ready.

Clarence began a final inspection of his orderly Gresham home, contrasting it to the ones he and Dani grew up in. Mama and Daddy had calendars on every wall. Real estate, insurance, and funeral calendars, all free, some decades out of date. Those who had little clung to what was free. They hung on to things the affluent would toss without thinking. Clarence had grown up a saver but was now a tosser. The thought of moving into Dani’s house, the house of a saver, didn’t excite him. There would have to be lots of tossing.

While Geneva still slept, Clarence looked at the clear bright morning, put on his shades, and went for an early walk. Probably his last walk ever in this neighborhood. He knew he would miss it.

He strolled down the less-traveled back streets. It had been a long time, he realized, since he took time for a walk. Geneva invited him often, but there was always so much work to do. There were a couple of new neighbors he hadn’t even met, but this was the suburbs and no sense meeting them now anyway. Last time he’d been on this street, Anderson, the old curmudgeon, had been walking his half-breed pit bull down the narrow sidewalk the opposite direction. He hadn’t budged an inch and clearly expected Clarence to step off into the wet grass or onto the street.

It was possible Anderson expected this because Clarence was the younger man, and that would not have bothered him in the least. But most likely, Clarence supposed, it was because he was black, and Anderson expected blacks should always move out of the way for whites. Clarence had deferred, stepping off the sidewalk to let man and dog pass. The ugly dog growled and the ugly Anderson may as well have. Clarence thought he saw a smug look on Anderson’s face, the look that says, “Know your place, black man.”

Clarence had reenacted the scene in his mind dozens of times since it had happened two months ago, coming up with all sorts of sarcastic comments he would make if it happened again.

Today he saw an unfamiliar face coming his way. Must be one of those new neighbors. The man walked out the driveway of the old Thompson place. He’d seen the “For sale” sign taken down a few weeks ago. The man was fiftyish and white as a cumulus cloud, walking his German Shepherd and wearing sunglasses. He and his dog occupied all the narrow sidewalk themselves.

Clarence determined that today he would not defer. He would gladly move for woman, child, or elderly man, but he would not move for a man just because he was white. He would not send that message or endure that indignity.

The two men wearing dark glasses in the bright morning sun walked closer and closer toward each other. As he got near, Clarence saw a blank expression on the man’s face. He felt certain he was analyzing and dissecting him. “What’s a black man doing out here?” Or, “So this is the nigger they told me about.” The more he thought about it, the angrier Clarence got.

Now they were fifteen feet apart, and one was clearly going to have to step off the path. It would be the white man with the dog, not the black man walking by himself. Clarence would not step aside. He would not give a greeting. If the man wanted to be friendly—Clarence was certain he didn’t—he would have to take the initiative.

They were now just eight feet apart. Clarence determined he would hold his ground if he had to walk right through the man. He walked straight forward, not hesitating, biting his lip involuntarily. It became obvious the man was not going to move off the sidewalk either. The dog squeezed by Clarence’s left leg, but Clarence’s wide left shoulder bumped squarely into the smaller man’s, causing him to totter. He fell part way to the ground, sticking out his hand to catch himself.

Why didn’t you just move out of the way?

“Pardon me,” the man said. “So sorry. Not accustomed to this neighborhood yet. Barney and I are still getting used to each other. Narrow sidewalks, aren’t they? Jensen’s the name. Marty Jensen.” The disoriented man stretched out his hand at a ninety degree angle from Clarence.

Clarence’s ire turned to horror when he realized Barney had the harness of a guide dog. “Sorry,” Clarence whispered, his voice trembling. Embarrassed, he quickly decided he didn’t want the man to know his name.

Clarence walked away briskly, hearing the man apologize a second time and say, “Have a good day. Hope to bump into you again.” The man uttered a self-deprecating laugh as Clarence retreated.

Clarence split wood after he returned home. There was no need to do it. It made no sense to be chopping wood as they were preparing to move out. But swinging the splitting maul had always been a way to express himself. It beat biting his lip.

After forty minutes, he sat on one of the logs, sweat dripping. He looked at his woodpile, seeing one tilted wedge in the otherwise Swiss-perfect symmetrical stack. He corrected the imprecision.

He looked at his yard, smiling, remembering Jake’s comment when he’d looked in his garage a few weeks earlier: “Clabern, you’ve got enough lawn fertilizer here to get arrested by ATF.” Clarence inspected the neighbors’ lawns. His was still the best. It had to be. If a white man hasn’t mowed his lawn lately, it’s because he’s busy. If a black man hasn’t, it’s because he’s lazy.

Clarence came in the front door and settled on the living-room couch, straightening out the
Black Enterprise
magazine on the coffee table. It was the annual special issue, The Black Enterprise Largest 100 Black Businesses in America. He loved reading about legends such as Reginald Lewis, Howard Naylor Fitzhugh, Arthur G. Gaston, and John H. Johnson. There was a special feature on Berry Gordon of Motown. He loved the ads, seeing page after page of successful, well-dressed black professionals. Even though the editorials could be infuriatingly liberal, he loved the magazine. Next to it was
Destiny
, a magazine for black conservatives. He’d decided
Ebony
and Jet and
Essence
had become drivel on the level of
People
and
Us
and were too superficial for guests to associate with serious black folk.

It was now just 9:15 A.M. He put on some late coffee and picked up the
Trib
he’d pulled from the paper box following his walk. He’d read his own column first, then immerse himself in the rest of it.

“What a beautiful day!” Geneva said from an oversized padded lawn chair on the deck just outside the living room. Had he looked up at her she would have struck Clarence as catlike, curled up, arms and legs overlapping, brushing the lint off one sleeve and then the other. But he didn’t look up.

Geneva stared through the gray screen door at Clarence sitting in the living room, poring over the newspaper like a four-point senior studying for his final exams. It was a guy thing, she’d long ago decided. She wondered what it would take to get his attention, and whether she was willing to pay the price.

“How did this garbage make it on page one?” he said.

“Good morning to you too, baby. Maybe we could go for a walk,” she said.

“McNews. Polls, pie charts, scenery pics on page one? A lead article on ‘hot movies’? It’s like the
Trib’s
been possessed by the
National Inquirer.
We don’t just need new editors. We need an exorcist! Where’s the hard reporting? Where’s the news? Newspaper. Get it?”

“Spike wants to go for a walk. Maybe after you’ve read the sports page?”

“Look at the size of this headline. It’s a no-news day and we’ve got fonts the size of a Mississippi cockroach. What are they trying to be, the
New York Post?
How’s anybody going to know when war’s declared?”

“Clarence?” Geneva spoke loudly this time.

“I’m reading the paper.”

“I know. You’re always reading the paper.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That…you’re always reading the paper.”

“I chopped wood this morning; I’m gonna work all day. Make the big move into the city, just like you want. Now let me relax awhile, okay?”

“You
made the decision to move, remember?” Geneva said. “And I don’t want you to work all day. I want you to relax. The kids need you more than the moving company does. How about we just kick back together a few minutes before we start packing up?”

Clarence sighed, picking invisible particles off his shirt sleeve. “You’re saying I’m neglecting the family again, right?”

“Stop getting defensive, Clarence. This isn’t a putdown. I just want you to come with me and take the dog for a walk. You need to relax.”

“I am relaxing.”

“No you’re not. You’re like a bee trapped in a Mason jar. You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry!” He said it a little too loudly.

“Okay, you’re just
acting
like you’re angry. And you’re a really good actor!”

“Sure. Fine.” Clarence threw down the paper. “You were hinting at taking the dog for a walk? Well, I went for a walk before you got up. And I’m not a mind reader. Don’t expect me to figure it out. Just come right out and say it, okay? It’s called communication.”

“Forget it. I’ll walk the dog myself.”

“Fine. Just don’t make like it’s my fault.”

“Why does everything have to be somebody’s fault?” Geneva shouted, jumping to her feet. “Look, I’m sorry you lost your sister, okay? But she was one of my dearest friends. And I’m sorry about Felicia. It rips me up too—you don’t know how much. But I didn’t just lose them. I lost you. Excuse me while I go grieve, okay?”

She charged to the door, then looked back at him.

“Not that it matters to you. You’ve been sitting around feelin’ sorry for yourself that you’re a black man? Well, let me tell you Mr. High and Mighty journalist. You try bein’ a black woman. Black women are the mules of this world. And we get whipped by black men because they think everybody else is whippin’ them. Well, I’m tired of bein’ whipped by your mouth, you understand me?”

She grabbed the leash out of the front closet, hustled a salivating Spike out the door, and slammed it behind her.

Clarence sat stoically, listening to her pounding footsteps recede.