Dominion (6 page)

Geneva hugged him tight from the left, leaving her wet makeup on the shoulder of his suit. His father put his frail, feather-light hand on Clarence’s. He couldn’t believe it was the same hand that used to throw a baseball to first without it dropping an inch, that used to swing a chopping maul for hours on end, that used to overpower him in arm wrestling even when young Clarence used both hands against him.

The pastor spoke on, but Clarence didn’t hear him. He was in a Mississippi pasture, with Dani, watching the color of buttercups on her face. “Do I look high yella now, like Aunt Licia?” Aunt Licia, Mama’s sister, was always so proud to be high yellow, the closer to white skin the better they thought in the old days, and if you could pass for white, that was the ultimate.

Dani. Oh, Dani.

The funeral procession snaked toward the graveyard. Clarence’s mind traveled to another graveyard, thirty years ago, outside Puckett. They’d gone to bury Papa Buck, his mother’s father, and he and seven-year-old Dani walked hand in hand. The funeral procession entered a beautiful cemetery. It was a peaceful, lovely, manicured plot with sculpted velvety grass and colorful arrays of flowers, growing wild and gathered in bouquets. He and Dani thought this was a fine place for Papa Buck.

But Uncle Elijah explained, “We’s just passin’ through the white section.” Soon they came to an unkempt pasture where instead of beautiful marble tombstones, plastic covered notepaper marked the graves. Looking around, Clarence saw that after exposure to the weather, no names would be left visible. Even in death it was marble monuments for whites and thin, rain-soaked paper for blacks. Little Dani had cried then. He drew her close to him and told her it didn’t matter, even though it surely did. He wanted to reach out and touch that little girl’s face again.

The rest of the day—Dani’s graveside service, family feast, all of it—passed for Clarence as if it were a television movie with bad reception going on in the background when your thoughts were somewhere else. When he got home, he withdrew to his office, withdrew from Geneva and the children and his daddy, the loved ones still with him, to brood about Dani, the loved one now gone. He kept thinking of that angel-like face, that face that looked just like…Felicia’s.

“You can’t have Felicia, God. You took my sister. But you can’t take away that little girl.”

He came out of his office and announced he was driving to the hospital. Geneva insisted she come with him. He relented.

“Let me inside, Clarence,” she said as he drove. “I know you’re grieving. So am I. Talk to me, please.”

He wouldn’t talk, not out of meanness but because he was afraid of what he would say, afraid he would frighten her. Besides, talking seemed so useless. What would it change?

Geneva tried repeatedly to fill the silence. But she couldn’t penetrate the dark winter of her husband’s soul.

“Felicia’s condition hasn’t changed,” the doctor told them. “Obviously, it’s a good sign nothing is worse. But she’s not out of the woods yet.” Clarence insisted on going into ICU to watch over Felicia, who still lay motionless on the bed.

Clarence stood at his bedroom doorframe, leaning back against the sharp edges, positioning the center of his back just so. Then he rubbed back and forth, up and down. Geneva always teased him about this, how he was her lumbering grizzly bear. She didn’t tease him now.

He flashed back to college football days as an offensive lineman. The defensive man could try all day to get to the quarterback. If he made it through once for the sack, he was a success even though he failed nine out of ten times. But if an offensive lineman succeeded nine out of ten times yet failed to protect the quarterback just once, his day was a failure. It didn’t matter how many times you succeeded. If you failed even once, everything could be lost.

His mind replayed sharp images of specific sacks he allowed twenty years ago, one at Alcorn State, a couple more at OSU. He could still see the enemy coming at him, feel himself getting knocked off balance, leaving his quarterback defenseless, vulnerable for the hit. He didn’t remember those hundreds of times he’d done his job, hardly any of them. But he did remember every time he hadn’t.

Spike, their English bulldog, marched into the bedroom, swaying side to side like an overstuffed sausage, walking like Charlie Chaplin. Spike looked up with his soulful eyes and tried to console his master. Dogs were so loyal, their lives so wrapped up in their masters, they could go days without eating until they were in his company again. Cats could take people or leave them, Clarence thought. It would be easier to be a cat than a dog.

After lying quietly in bed and having no idea what he’d spent fifteen minutes reading, he turned off the light. He rehearsed his last conversation with Dani.

“It’s bad in here, Antsy. Children are dying, and they’re killing each other. You’ve got to come help. We need men like you. You said you’d always be there for me, and you always have been, big brother. But we need you here.”

“My dream is the same as it’s always been. A house in the country. Peace and safety for my children. And for you too, if you’ll only come join us. That’s not such a bad dream, is it Sis?”

The dream was gone, replaced by this nightmare. Even the hope of moving soon to that country house five miles farther out wasn’t enough to lift his spirits for more than a fleeting moment. How far from the city would a person have to move to escape the realities of sin and death?

Night covered the open bedroom windows like a grainy cloth. Clarence Abernathy became part of the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him. He felt like a bird shot from the sky, dying in the reeds below, no longer able to see the horizon.

In a moment’s time, seemingly without warning, his grief began to transmutate, taking on a more powerful identity—rage.

Who killed my sister? And why? What makes him think he can get away with it?

For over an hour as he lay in the darkness, his mind filled with dozens of imaginary scenarios in which he tracked down and came face to face with the killer. Teeth clenched, he rehearsed in detail what he would do to him.

It was late Thursday afternoon, two days after the funeral. The temperature had dropped from the eighties to the sixties. Clarence returned from a hard bike ride and took an extra long shower. When he got out, Geneva joined him in their bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“Dr. Newman called,” Geneva said meekly.

“The shrink? What’d he have to say?”

“The
psychologist
felt it wouldn’t be good for the kids to stay out here in the suburbs, at least not now.”

“That’s what he
felt
, huh? Why?”

“Too much change, too much stress. He said loss of a loved one was worth so many points of stress, and more for Celeste since she was in the room where it all happened. He said when you add moving and a new kindergarten and isolation from friends, it’s too much, the stress goes over the top.”

“So he knows how many points everything’s worth? Smart guy. No wonder he costs a hundred twenty bucks an hour.”

“Plus there’s the racial pressure.”

“Of transferring to a white school? How many points is that worth?”

“The kindergartens out here are decent, and Barlow’s a good high school. But we’re talking what, a dozen black kids out of sixteen hundred? Celeste would withdraw, and Ty would…Who knows what Ty would do? It would be hard to adjust.”

“Our kids have adjusted,” Clarence said.

“They’ve lived here since they were born. They’ve made friends. It still hasn’t been easy. But Ty and Celeste would have to start from scratch, move from a black world to a white one. Dr. Newman thinks it’s just too much after losing their mother. I agree.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“I talked with Hattie,” Geneva said. “She’s like a grandmother to them. She’ll keep them as long as we want her to. Since she’s right across the street, it would be the closest thing to home.”

“Closest thing to where their mom was murdered. The neighborhood’s the problem, not the solution.”

“I told Dr. Newman about Hattie’s offer. He said given the limited options, the pros probably outweigh the cons.”

“That’s encouraging. If somebody else gets killed will he take responsibility for it?”

“You have another solution? I’m listening.”

“Okay.” Clarence sighed. “I’ll talk to the kids.” He walked down the stairs to the family room where Celeste was reading the Berenstain Bears with Keisha. Ty, looking like a caged animal, paced in the far corner, talking quietly on the portable phone.

Celeste seemed to be doing amazingly well, all things considered. With Ty it was hard to tell. Clarence sat down with them to explain the options.

“You could stay here with us or go back to your neighborhood for awhile, stay with Mrs. Burns.”

“Don’t want to stay here,” Ty said. “Need to get back to my friends.”

Celeste’s big brown deer eyes, identical to Dani’s, peered up at her uncle.

“What do you want, Celeste?”

“I want to stay at the hospital with Felicia.”

“I know, but we can’t do that. But we’ll keep visiting her every day till she’s better.”

“We could move your house to our hood,” Celeste said. “So we could still be with you and Aunt Geneva and Keisha and Jonah.” She smiled broadly, having come up with the perfect solution.

“We can’t do that either, sweetie. But we’ll figure something out.”

Clarence heard the doorbell ring, warning of an intruder. He listened from the bottom of the stairs.

“Jake!” Geneva exclaimed. “Hi. Come on in.”

Clarence bounded up the stairs. “Hey, Jake. What’s up?”

“Nothing, really. GI Joe’s has a big sale going. Thought maybe we could check out fishing rods or tennis racquets or whatever.”

“Sounds good. Let me change. Just take a minute.”

“No need, Clabern. You look fine. It’s not Club Med.”

Truthfully, Clarence in his designer jeans and classy Green Bay Packers sweatshirt was almost overdressed for GI Joe’s, especially compared to Jake in his faded Levis and stained gray sweatshirt. But that was one of Clarence’s peculiar habits, Jake had noticed. They’d gone to a mall together a few weeks ago on a hot sweaty day and Clarence had dressed up like he was taking a brief to the Supreme Court.

“How is he?” Jake asked Geneva, knowing he’d get a straight answer from her he wouldn’t get from Clarence.

“He’s really struggling. But he’s pretty good at pretending. I’m glad you dropped by. He came up those stairs with a spring in his step that hasn’t been there since… everything happened. He needs a friend.”

“Yeah. We all do.”

Clarence reappeared in slacks, sweater, and a tie. As he walked past him and out the front door, Jake stared at him.

We’re headed to a sporting goods store, and Clarence looks like he’s going to close a deal with Bill Gates at Microsoft.

Jake looked back at Geneva for an explanation. None came.

Sunday morning Clarence’s family drove to Covenant Evangelical Church in Gresham, where they’d been attending the last few months, their third church since moving to Gresham ten years ago. Ty had been painfully uncomfortable, the only black teenage boy in the church, the only black at all besides Clarence’s family. Clarence insisted he go to the high school Sunday school class and peeked in to be sure he followed through. He saw him sitting sullenly in a corner, defying anyone to reach out to him. As far as Clarence could tell, no one did.

After steaks and salads at the Road House Grill, Clarence and his family took Ty and Celeste to Hattie Burns. Hattie showed Celeste her own little cot, miraculously missed by the spray of bullets, tucked up next to Hattie’s big bed. The little girl stood there and stared at it. Hattie had prepared her sewing room for Ty. It once belonged to her two boys, one of whom was now a successful welder with a strong family, the other serving time for armed robbery.

Why did people growing up in the same home turn out so different? Clarence thought about his brothers, Harley and Ellis—Harley the professor at Portland State, Ellis having spent almost as many years in prison as out of it. He tried to tell himself it would work out, Ty living under Hattie’s roof. But he wondered how she could possibly give him the discipline he needed.

“The boy needs a father, Antsy,” a familiar voice said inside him.

While the children moved their things into their new rooms and Geneva talked details with Hattie, Clarence wandered out the front door, over to Dani’s house. He stared at the riddled siding and the boarded up bedroom window. He looked down on the tattered porch where the bullet casings had lain, highlighted by those forty yellow markers.

He peered through a crack in the board and noticed much of the room’s contents had been removed. Hattie had a key. She’d moved Celeste’s cot. Maybe she’d taken care of the rest too. Lying in the corner was Felicia’s cot, what was left of it. At least the blood had been cleaned up. He saw the little lunch pail and stared at the giraffe, focusing on the hole in its head.

Clarence made it to the
Oregon Tribune
building before seven Monday morning, an hour earlier than usual. He wasn’t about to put himself on display by walking into a room full of people.

As always, he carried his brown soft leather briefcase, so habitually overstuffed that on a low-load day, such as this one, it looked like a relaxed trumpet player’s sagging cheeks.

Clarence came up the elevator to the third floor, walked out briskly, and headed to the right, toward sports. He carefully avoided eye contact as he bypassed the southern fringes of the newsroom.

The place buzzed with motion, the harmony of steady routine punctuated by the melody, the excited bursts of breaking news. The air smelled of paper and ink, copy machines, fax machines, laser printers. Paper was everywhere. Pieces thumb-tacked to corkboard, taped to computers, hung on walls. Blue, green, red, and gold paper, much of it in the form of little Post-it notes, desperately vied for attention.

Clarence glanced at the vast spread of 120 low-partitioned cubicles linked together—cookie cutter workspaces. All that distinguished one from the next were photos, knickknacks, and various degrees of disorder. A zoo with barless cages. Being a journalist required a practiced ability to ignore the commotion around you and preferably to feed on it.

His walk to sports made him wish for the old days when he worked for the
Oregon Journal
, before it was bought out by the
Trib.
Sports was its own self-contained world then, glassed off in a corner, on the north side, right by its own elevator. You could park, come up the elevator, go to work in sports, and never interact with a single non-sports person. The news reporters were just bodies in the distance, scurrying around dealing with inconsequential events such as assassinations and plane crashes and moon landings, while the really important stuff—whether the Portland Trailblazers were beating the Seattle SuperSonics—all happened in sports.

Back then, Clarence imagined one day his desk would be alongside the news reporters. He dreamed of writing stories about regular black people—good salt of the earth, hard-working, family-loving, church-going folk. Stories unrelated to sports, entertainment, poverty, discrimination, protests, or crime. He’d take one of those photographers, take him where he’d never been, and reveal to the people of Oregon black life as they’d never imagined it. He’d show them the black community had a whole different face, a much bigger one than the isolated and slanted glimpses they caught in news stories. That vision once fueled him, energized him.

Clarence finally arrived at the archipelago of partitioned desks that comprised the sports section. He sat down in his semi-private columnist’s cubicle. It wasn’t an office, just a self-contained space enclosed on three sides, with partitions rising three feet above the desktop, rather than the standard eighteen inches. He’d never felt comfortable with those eighteen-inch dividers any more than with those obnoxiously low partitions in some public restrooms. His work station was adjacent to the main maze of partitions. People could see his backside, but by journalistic standards it was private. He could almost ignore the hum of the newsroom, even if it required popping in his foam earplugs when deadline loomed.

Clarence settled into his desk, figuring he was somewhat safe. The guys in sports weren’t the touchy-feely type, and there were just two women on the sports beat. Not that he didn’t like women. Just that he didn’t want to be blubbered over. The guys wouldn’t know what to say, so they’d either talk business or stay away. Either was fine with him. The last thing he wanted was to have some sensitive man of the nineties come over and tell him he understood his pain.