Our Man in the Dark (31 page)

I take my eyes off Martin to look in the hallway and see if anyone is coming. I take advantage of the cloak of his dark mood and step inside, closing the door behind me. He doesn't offer, but as I did on that night of our intimate conversation, I take a seat across from him.

“I didn't ask him to do it. And I'm not trying to claim any moral high ground here. I didn't ask him because I didn't want to deal with the burden and guilt of doing so . . . not again. I should've asked him—I would have been completely within my rights—but I didn't. I didn't want that feeling, that I betrayed him. I didn't want to carry that burden. I just couldn't do it.”

I lean forward, prompting him. “Go on, Martin,” I say.

He rests his chin on his clasped hands and sweat begins to bud on his brow. “I am not one to judge how men express themselves
sexually
. When it comes to the test of loyalty and friendship, I worry that I may have failed. I turned my back on a man who was like a brother to me. He helped me shape my mind when it was still a crude ball of clay. I betrayed him to protect my image. I am on the right path. I have chosen this path, but he was the one who presented the path to me in the first place. After reaching national prominence on the concepts that he introduced to me, I turned my back on him.”

He won't say his name, but I know he's talking about Bayard. Bayard
Rustin, noted pacifist of the Gandhian variety. Aide to A. Philip Randolph. Architect of the March on Washington. A man who was Martin's mentor. An elegant man. An excruciatingly intelligent man. But a homosexual man.

With slow, labored movements, he unbuttons his collar and loosens his tie. “When the competition got too hot, that's when I got the call. I got threatened, brother. They threatened to expose my indiscretions, but this wasn't anonymous—this was from a leader in the movement. He felt I was getting too big for my britches and I should call off plans for a protest that he didn't agree with. If I didn't back off, he said he'd tell everyone that my mentor and I were involved in some sort of . . .
entanglement.
I've never been more disgusted with myself than I was at that moment, but I caved. I've suffered beatings, arrests, and insults, but the assault on my masculinity, my vanity—brother, that was too much to bear. And I have been trying to correct myself, correct the flaw ever since. So no, I did not ask Gant to leave—he did it himself.” With his elbow propped on the desk, Martin rests his head in his palm. He looks askance at the many papers covering his desk. With his free hand, he picks up a pen and twirls it absently. “The urge is strong,” he says. “It can make you do so many things. The irony is that something so . . .
life-affirming
can be so destructive.” His eyelids droop as if weighted by anchors.

I look at him, and I hear him. I feel an intense brightness blooming in my chest. I didn't take advantage of it during our previous conversation—I just sat there and let him do all the talking. I didn't even attempt to share any of myself. But now, this is an opportunity to rectify that.

“This urge—”

I jump in. “Yes, Martin. I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel this urge, this intense feeling comes over me and it turns into something like an animal propelled only by hunger and desire. I see the world through a different lens. The world is my hunting grounds, its inhabitants are my prey.”

His eyes trail off from making contact with mine. I realize we are not talking about the same thing. He holds up his palm for me to stop. “Humanity, brother. Humanity. I am talking about the urge to serve humanity.”

“Of course,” I say. “Well, I guess I'll be going.” I look at my watch and
stand up at the same time. “You have a good night, Martin.”

“You do the same, brother. Let me follow you out.” He lets out a groan as he stands.

I should have left it at that, but for some reason I can't seem to keep my mouth shut today. I turn back and say, “Don't worry about Gant. I'm sure we'll get along fine without him.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, but the pain becomes so unbearable that I have to shrug him off. He looked exhausted before, but now he looks near death. He reaches out to me and grabs my shoulder again. “I just need a second,” he says, then collapses in my arms. He's a heavy man and I am not that strong. All the weight is borne by my bad leg. I can feel the metal digging into my skin as I try to prop him up and keep both of us from falling on the ground. Within seconds, it becomes a mission not to fall down holding him. I want this image to be ingrained in everyone's mind when they recall the story. So I squat, putting his weight on my good leg and my lower back, and I immediately feel the pain. I call for help—someone—just as much for Martin's sake as my own. First, it's Gant—our fight seems to be long forgotten—then Abernathy and Young come on the scene and lift Martin off me. He is limp in their arms, too, as they carry him out of the building, Young with his hands under Martin's armpits and Abernathy supporting him by the ankles.

Out of the building and into Gant's Lincoln, Young and Abernathy are in the back with Martin, while Gant is in the driver's seat. Young looks at me as I stand there watching them, wondering what I should say or do. “Get in the goddamn car, man,” Young screams at me, “What the hell are you waiting for?” I get in the front seat. Martin's coming to and moaning softly. They offer him words of comfort as Gant runs stop signs and terrifies slow-footed pedestrians. I offer no such words; if Martin survives, their tactics will only grow more vicious and desperate.

The collapse was due to dehydration exacerbated by poor diet, insomnia, and extreme stress, the doctor informed us. Martin will be fine, but he must take it easy for a few days—but that's unlikely. Around midnight, a nurse brought a telephone to his bedside. Oslo was on the line: Martin had won the Nobel Peace Prize. He was immediately rejuvenated, and all evidence of his horrific fatigue was a distant memory—even the IV bag that floated above him glowed like a cartoon idea bulb.

“You're the first Negro to win a Nobel,” Abernathy declared.

“No,” Martin corrected him, “Ralph Bunche was the first. But I'm damn sure the prettiest!”

They all laughed, then Young added, “No, motherfucker, you're the
shortest
!” The laughter opened up to howls, but I didn't join in. I saw Coretta coming in with the children, and I used it as an opportunity to excuse myself to the waiting room.

After a while, among the uncomfortable wooden seats, the pea-green linoleum, and old copies of
Ebony
and
Jet
magazine—some of them even have Martin on the cover—I start to see the situation more clearly. The harm wished upon Martin has grown more sinister. They have sent him tapes and letters. Maybe, for his own sake, it's time for him to step down and give up the limelight.

I see Coretta leaving with the children, but I don't bother to acknowledge her, and she seems grateful. Somehow, I have come to that point where you can't tell the difference between bravery and foolishness.

I walk into Martin's room, where Young, Abernathy, and Gant are gathered around his bed. “There he is,” Young says smiling. “
H-H-Help me! Somebody, help me!”
They laugh and Martin tells them to take it easy, then they look at me in astonishment as I just stand there trembling
and speechless. They are waiting for me to say something, but no one tells me to get out. It's almost as if they know I have come to deliver some important news but they are not sure what—and neither am I. I open my mouth, and my lip and chin start to shake. All I can say is, “They're not going to stop. They won't ever stop.”

In letting go, I feel a surge of relief and it's overwhelming. My eyes surge with heat and tears. How I must look to them. Abernathy looks down at Martin and grabs his hand. Young rubs his face and lets out a deep soulful sigh. And Gant only says my name.

“It's okay,” Martin says. “It's okay. I know there are things out there. Forces, people who wish me and my family harm. Some of them feel they are doing God's work by praying for my demise. But I know I must stay calm.” He pauses and points to his chest. “My scar here reminds me that I must be strong. It's no accident that the scar is cross-shaped. I know that the power of God is working through me. Throughout our struggle, I have asked him to remove any bitterness from my heart and replace it with the strength and courage to face any disaster that comes my way. I know that I have a Divine Companionship in this struggle. It may sound grandiose, but I know no other way to explain it. While all this turmoil is going on, God has given me an inner peace. He has given my family the strength to adjust to threats on my life, and threats of violence. I know the price I pay for a nonviolent movement. It doesn't mean that violence won't be inflicted upon me or anyone. But I am willing to allow myself to be a victim of violence, even though I will never inflict violence upon another. I live by the conviction that through my suffering, my cross bearing, the social situation for everyone may be redeemed or improved.”

Abernathy offers an amen, and suddenly Martin is surrounded by congratulatory praise. “I know this son of a bitch didn't just give his Nobel address from a hospital bed,” Young says. I could easily slip out of the room without being noticed. The love-in that has emerged does not move me. It's strange, but I have quickly shifted from guilty and apologetic to detached and cynical. In some shape or another, I have heard those words from Martin before, and I am tired of hearing them. He talks of God for his public strength, while I know of his private weakness. When the problems of life become too difficult to bear, he and I try to escape to the same place, preferably between the arms and legs of a woman. I am sure the others in this room are acquainted with the dirty details as well as I, yet they eat up this sermon like spoon-fed oatmeal. Haven't they grown tired of the sermonizing? I don't want reassurance; I want a tutorial. How does one maintain such a sterling image to others and to himself while his private life continues to corrode? Mathis asked me that question in so many words, and I didn't have an answer then either.

I'm ready to see her. I didn't realize it until after the craziness of the other night, and I didn't have anyone to share it with, anyone who could understand.

I park down the street from Candy's place—Candy and Lester's place—and wait for him to leave for work. When he does, I knock on her door. She looks different, no makeup. She has two spots, freckles, on her left cheek that I've never noticed before.

“Hello, John,” she says. I can't tell how she feels about seeing me or if she feels anything at all.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“Haven't heard from you in a while . . .”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize. I don't like it when women apologize to me. It makes me nervous.”

She sees me looking at the piles of clothes waiting to be washed, too much of it to belong to just the two of them. “You think Count would let us live without paying a price?” she asks. “He took most of what I had to leave us alone. It's driving poor Lester crazy. I'm doing folks' laundry just to make ends meet. You ever feel like life is running away from you? And you're not living for yourself?”

Yes, with every heartbeat.
“I'm not sure what you mean,” I say, before lighting a cigarette.

“I thought being with him would help, but it didn't. He let me believe he was helping me, giving me what I wanted. I didn't even know what I wanted. Even though the man never jokes, I know he was laughing at me. I judged you, and I shouldn't have. I can admit that now. I pitied you for wanting to be like them—for wanting their power so much. But I was just
like you. I felt small and wanted to lash out against the world, but now I see that on the inside nobody is smaller than them. Nobody hates themselves more than they do. I just didn't see it then, and now I do.”