Southland (25 page)
B
EFORE THE gunshots, before the looting, before the radio and TV newsmen said they’d better stay inside, Lois knew something awful was happening because the sky was filled with smoke. It wasn’t their sky yet, but the sky southeast. And it wasn’t an isolated plume, as if from one small fire, but a thick, gray blanket over Watts. It had started to form on Thursday, the second night of the riot. And by Friday, when the National Guard came, the whole city smelled of smoke. The people who dared to go to work at all left their jobs and stores early, eager to get home before dark.
Lois slept fitfully on Friday, because of the unusually hot night, and because she feared what would happen tomorrow. By dusk, it was clear to everyone in the Crenshaw district that the smoke was moving closer. On Saturday morning, the Sakais awoke early and the whole family gathered around the kitchen table. Frank, who was baggy-eyed from getting no sleep, instructed everyone to stay in the house.
“We’re almost out of toilet paper,” Mary informed him. “And milk.” She seemed irritated, whip-folding towels as they talked, as if Frank had cooked up the riots to inconvenience her.
“I’ll bring some from the store,” he said. “I’ve got to go make sure everything’s locked up safe, and I’ll be back within an hour. Just keep the door locked and the TV on, and wait for me.”
Lois didn’t want her father to leave. Although both her mother and her sister looked sober and alert, she was downright scared. Would the looters just do what they’d done so far—rob and burn the stores and businesses, abuse the cars that crossed their path? Or would Crenshaw be the place where they finally went further—off the streets and into the houses? Would the boys from the neighborhood jump into the fray or defend themselves against it? And if anything happened to their block, to their house, how would they be able to stop it? No, she didn’t want her father to leave them, so as he walked through the door, she went outside with him and into the hot, hot day. It was so humid the Japanese shutters wouldn’t close. It was so sultry the manicured bushes were drooping, heavy with the weight of themselves.
“You’ve got to stay here, Lo,” her father said, using the shortened version of her name he only did when they were alone.
“Let me come with you, Dad,” she pleaded. They were on the walkway in front of the steps.
“No, honey, I’ll be right back.”
Then came a low, booming voice from next door. “I’ll protect them,” it said. They turned and saw Bill Acres, a thick red-faced man who looked like the Indiana farmer he once was. He was sitting on a chair he’d pulled out to his porch, a rifle propped up on his knees.
“What are you doing, Bill?” Frank asked. He looked from Acres’ gun to his face. Lois, frightened, just stared at the gun, fighting off the urge to run inside.
“I bought this yesterday,” Acres replied. “An M-1 Carbine. Ain’t it a beaut? Hell if I’m gonna let some punk-ass niggers run roughshod over my neighborhood.” He didn’t say the rest, but Lois knew what it would be—
bad enough they live here already.
Lois could remember a time when he wouldn’t talk to the Sakais and forbade his daughters from playing with her and Rose. But their stock had risen considerably, in Acres’ eyes, once the blacks began to move there in earnest.
“Well, thanks,” said Frank. “But I’ll be right back. Don’t go pointing that thing at my house.”
“I’ve got another one inside. You want it?”
“No, thanks, Bill. I’ll be fine.”
Lois watched her father walk across the street, his quick, slightly forward-leaning stride. After giving a fake smile to Acres, she went back in the house, where her sister and mother were sitting in front of the news.
“There’s looting over on Western,” Rose informed her.
“As soon as this is over,” their mother said, “we’re getting out of here. We’re going to Grandpa and Grandma Takayas’.”
Lois nursed a cup of tea and sat with her family. Just as she was worrying about the time he’d been gone, her father came home with the items that Mary had asked for. He walked into the living room looking grim.
“The boys were there,” he said to his wife, “wanting to protect it. I had to send them home.”
“Why? Why not let them be useful for once?”
He didn’t answer, knowing he’d helped create some of the bitterness he despised, and Lois wondered if he was sorry for trying to talk about the store, which almost always brought such a response. Now he leaned forward and looked at the screen. “Anything happen since I left?”
“No,” Mary said. “It’s getting closer.”
This was like a storm, Lois thought—everyone knowing, vaguely, that it was approaching; people locked inside, away from the elements. Her family watching the news to track its progress and destruction, knowing they weren’t going anywhere. Except. Except this storm was personal—it burned buildings and dragged people out of cars. Except this storm recruited, maybe boys that Lois knew. Lois understood the rage, or thought she did, but not the way it was playing out. The problem wasn’t just the lack of jobs, the hunger. It was, as the Yellow Brotherhood always complained, the sense that people were being threatened, watched— even her, even her sister. The police were like an army, and acted that way. In Crenshaw, only the straw-haired Irishman was cordial—the rest, especially Lawson, who’d taunted her sometimes, and even the black ones, trying hard, at the expense of those they policed, to make themselves feel like men, were frightening, and always to be avoided. After another hour or two of near-silent watching, they heard the first whoops on the boulevard. And then the sounds of breaking windows, of people running, of guns fired into the air. They were only two blocks from Crenshaw, and the wind brought it all—the voices, the textured and complicated laughter, bats and crow bars against glass and steel. And the smoke was now filling
their
part of the sky, too, and the neighborhood was covered in gray. From next door they heard gunshots, and Frank shook his head. “That fool’s shooting into the sky.”
They weren’t watching the news now, just listening to the street, and Lois began to cry. All the businesses she walked past, the stores where she shopped. She was sure her father’s store would be hit, too.
When Frank closed the curtain and turned from the window, his face looked pale and blood-drained. He wouldn’t meet Lois’s eyes—he wasn’t looking at any of them—but she knew how he felt. The place where he’d lived since he was a boy. Their neighborhood, their streets, were in chaos. At least her grandmother wasn’t here to see this—she’d passed away the year before—but Masako’s son wasn’t taking it any easier than she would have. He was hurting almost physically, while Rose just looked scared, and Mary, something else entirely. She seemed to be taking a certain pleasure in the fact that this place she so disliked and wanted desperately to leave; this place that had changed so much the last ten years, was falling apart all around her. But Lois felt more like her father. And when he sat down heavily in his upholstered chair, she wanted only to be a little girl again so she could sit in his lap, with her head beneath his chin and her ear against his chest, while he rocked her fears away.
They didn’t eat dinner that evening—no one was hungry— and the fires burned on through the night. The whole house smelled like smoke, but they hardly noticed anymore. Mary and Rose eventually went to bed and Lois stayed downstairs with her father, who was pouring himself drinks from a bottle of whiskey he’d produced from the back of the linen closet. They watched the news, switching channels, and Frank occasionally looked out the window. All the street lights were out and it was quiet now—on the boulevard, looters might be picking through the dark, but the shouting and shooting were over. Lois was drifting off to sleep around one in the morning when she heard her father speak.
“You don’t think we should leave here, do you?”
Lois shook herself awake. “No.”
“Your mother wants us to leave.”
“I love it here, Dad,” said Lois, but he didn’t seem to hear.
“Maybe the store is gone now.”
“You could call Mr. Conway or Mr. Hirano.”
He shook his head. “Maybe the store is gone and we’ll have to leave.”
Lois looked at him—his face seemed strange in the TV light, odd colors and shadows crossed his cheeks and eyes. And as he sipped from his glass, it occurred to Lois that he was drunk. “Dad, don’t talk like that. The store will be OK. You’ll see. We won’t have to move.”
“Maybe your mother is right,” Frank said. “But a man can’t leave his family.”
“Dad. You’re right here.”
“A man can’t leave his family,” he repeated.
He was scaring her, but she stayed there, and the next thing she knew it was morning. Her mother shook her awake—she had slept on the couch, her father in his chair—and the newsmen were saying that the riot was controlled, the raging fires finally contained. They were just finishing breakfast when someone knocked on the door. Frank went to get it, and when he pulled the door open, they all heard Kenji Hirano.
“It’s over, Frank. It’s all over. You better come quick.”
And so he left, and he was gone for several hours. Lois again watched the news. They were reporting damages now—property losses, dozens of deaths, the beginning of clean-up efforts. She called a few friends to make sure they were all right, exchanged stories of fright and adventure, heard a firsthand account of the tanks on Crenshaw, rolling armed and silent down the boulevard. But then her father burst in. And he was wild-eyed, unhinged, his hair sticking up in tufts as if he’d been pulling it. He gestured and paced and wouldn’t talk to anyone, and when Lois tried to approach him to ask what was wrong, he whipped around and yelled at her.
“Everything! Everything! Every Goddamned thing in the world!”
And since Frank was a man who neither shouted nor swore, Lois was shocked and began to cry. He didn’t notice or acknowledge the rest of his family, and he stormed out the back and slammed the door, going straight into the garage. They didn’t see him for the rest of the day. And although Lois was terribly lonely, and worried, and confused about what was happening, she didn’t have much chance to work on getting Frank to come inside, because by morning she and Rose had packed most of their things, and their mother drove them down to Gardena.
W
ITHOUT BEING totally aware of it, and without knowing why, Jackie avoided Laura for several days. They talked on the phone every night, though, and Jackie was curt; she could hear in the silences that Laura felt this but tried to ignore it. On Friday, she finally ran out of excuses. She walked over to Sierra Bonita a little after six, feeling grim and pessimistic.
Laura answered the door quickly, as soon as Jackie finished knocking. “Hi,” she said, hand anxiously turning the knob.
Jackie considered her from what seemed like a very long distance. Even when she stepped through the door and felt Laura’s arms around her, she didn’t feel any closer. Still, out of habit, she raised her arms and embraced Laura—but awkwardly, as if unused to her contours and shape. When Laura pulled back and brought her mouth up to Jackie’s, the kiss felt like something dead against Jackie’s lips.
“What’s wrong?” Laura asked, pushing a bit of hair off Jackie’s forehead. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Just tired?”
“I guess. It’s been a really long week.”
“I’ve missed you,” said Laura. “It
has
been a long week. My bed’s seemed so empty without you.” She leaned into Jackie, tightening her embrace.
Jackie kept her hands on Laura’s hips, lightly, conscious of the texture of her jeans. “Where are Rodent and Amy?”
“Amy’s staying at her boyfriend’s tonight. And Rodney and Lisa, his latest woman—Holly’s upset, didn’t I tell you?—went to Tijuana for the weekend.”
Above them, Holly, one of Rodney’s girlfriends, was playing the piano beautifully. She was a classical pianist, and now, in the angry, mournful notes that floated down through the ceiling, Jackie heard how Holly felt about the trip.
“So the place is all yours,” Jackie observed.
“All
ours.
”
Laura squeezed again and then started kissing Jackie’s neck. She tugged lightly on Jackie’s shirt until it came untucked, then slipped a hand beneath the fabric and touched her back. “I’ve missed you,” said Laura again, between kisses. Jackie felt Laura’s hands move over her skin, felt them cup her shoulder blades, touch her sides, trace the hard line of her backbone. But all of these sensations seemed remote, barely real, as if someone were tapping lightly at a thick wooden door on the other side of a very large house. Laura parted Jackie’s legs with her knee and pressed into her. She ran her hand up roughly to Jackie’s breasts. And it was when she pushed aside Jackie’s bra and took the nipple between her finger and thumb; when Jackie failed to respond even to this, that she finally asked, again, “What’s wrong?”
She was looking into Jackie’s face now, worriedly. And Jackie, from her considerable distance, experienced her lover’s hand on her breast like a cold, wet reptile. “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s just…not now.”
Laura pulled away completely. She walked across the room and then turned to look at Jackie. “What is it? Tell me. What’s bothering you?”
Jackie looked at Laura. It would be so easy to say that everything was fine; that she was just tired and feeling moody, and until a couple of months ago, that was what she would have done. Then her anger would fester inside her with all the other, older angers, eating away at her stomach, driving her to the medicine cabinet for the chalky white liquid she always used to neutralize her rage. And she didn’t exactly know what was troubling her, anyway—or she knew what it was, but didn’t know why it should matter, when such things didn’t normally bother her.
“Why isn’t Jimenez standing up for those women in Westlake?”
Laura looked at her as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language. “What do you mean?”
“The Thai workers, the indentured servants. I heard they might be getting deported. Why isn’t Manny trying to stop it?” She knew she sounded ridiculous, and was too angry now to care.
Laura laced her fingers together behind her neck and exhaled. “It’s not as simple as you think,” she said. “There are a lot of factors—home country situation, certain criminal records. The press has made it sound like a case of slavery.”
Jackie stepped into the middle of the room. “It
is
that simple. Those women might be getting deported, and other council members are making a stink, but your boss is too concerned about his
own
selfish ass to speak out about it, isn’t he?”
“He’s not—”
“
Isn’t
he?”
Laura backed away and looked down at the floor. “You really don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right, I
don’t
understand. Manny Jimenez, of all people. I mean, give me a fucking break. If those women were Latino, he’d be having a press conference on the steps of City Hall every day, and you know it. But then again, he’s a politician, so I guess it’s not surprising that he’s going back on everything he’s ever stood for. But what I
really
don’t understand,” she paused and glared at Laura, “is how you can go along with this.”
Laura’s cheeks filled with color. “Well,
I
don’t understand why you care so much. Since when are
you
concerned about what happens to those women?”
“Since now. And what really bothers me is
why
Jimenez is doing this.”
“What are you talking about? You should
get
this, Jackie. Sure, those women were in an awful situation. But that doesn’t make them any less illegal. I’m not saying that Manny wants them to get sent back to Thailand. He’s just taking a second to think about it.”
“Right. And this would have nothing to do with his wanting to run for mayor.”
Laura narrowed her eyes. “Jackie, that’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Well, it’s not as horrible as what he’s doing.”
“He’s not doing anything. He’s just waiting to see how things develop. People shouldn’t take a position on such a controversial issue until they have all the facts.”
Jackie looked at Laura as if she’d never seen her before. “Jesus, you’re quoting right from the manual. Just listen to yourself. It’s crazy.”
“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”
“
You
figure it out.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking to me like this,” Laura countered. “I mean, you’re the one who encouraged me to take this job in the first place, and now you’re jumping on me for supporting the man I work for.”
“That’s before I knew that supporting him would mean going back on yourself.”
Laura stared at her, mouth open. “Fuck you,” she said calmly. “Just fuck you.” She paced back and forth, and then turned back to Jackie. “You know what I think this is
really
about? It’s about the fact that I don’t tell you what I’m working on anymore. I mean, God forbid I keep anything from you. Since
you
, of course, tell me everything that
you
do.”
“Oh, Jesus. This isn’t even
about
me.”
“Of course it is,” said Laura, “Isn’t everything?”
They stood there now, not moving, just glaring at each other, Jackie feeling the pull of the door. She remembered the sensation of Laura’s hand on her hip, on her breast, and she stepped backwards, away from the memory. Now, looking at Laura—at her red cheeks, her tense mouth, her blond hair and milky skin—she felt a repulsion so strong it made her shudder. “I’ve got to go,” she said, and then she walked out the door and slammed it behind her. She half-hoped that Laura would follow her, but the door didn’t open again. And as she walked down to Oakwood and headed toward home, she remembered what Laura had been like the first year she’d known her, when she was still in college, and even the first few months after she’d moved to L.A. She’d been so full of conviction then, so strong in her faith in government; in her belief that it could be used to help people. Jackie had been half-amused by Laura’s idealism, but also more than a little admiring. She couldn’t believe that the same person she knew back then could rationalize the current situation. She couldn’t believe that she herself was so upset about it. And what scared her, more than anything, wasn’t that Laura was going along with what Jimenez was doing, but that she didn’t even seem to see it clearly. She wondered if Laura really believed her explanations; whether she was honestly that far gone. And if she was, Jackie thought, then she was turning into someone that Jackie didn’t want to know anymore.
When Jackie reached her own place, she sat on the couch and turned on the news. There was a piece about the workers, further details of what their captors had made them endure. Then a story about the murder of a young Asian man in Orange County whose killer had been caught because of letters he’d written, bragging about murdering a chink. Then a story about white parents in Cerritos who were upset about the influx of Asians. One woman, despite her child’s junior high being one of the top-ranked schools in the state, announced, “I haven’t paid taxes for twenty years for my daughter to be a minority in her own school.” Jackie shook her head, not believing what she heard. Had it always been like this? Had she simply failed to notice? Because she was thinking such things, she picked up the phone and called Rebecca. Her heart beat with an anticipation which surprised her; please, she thought, let her be home. When Rebecca answered on the fourth ring, Jackie sighed in relief. “Wanna get drunk?” she asked without saying hello.
Rebecca paused for a moment, and Jackie could feel her smiling. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll be right over.”
The phone woke Jackie up in the morning. It was a wrong number, and as she fumbled with the receiver, trying to hang it up again, she wondered why anyone would call so early on a Saturday morning. Then she looked at her bedside clock. She felt dizzy and weak, but even through the haze of her hangover she could make out the blurry red numbers: 11:36.
“Shit,” she said aloud. When she tried to get out of bed, it was as if a giant, flat hand was holding her down. She sank back into her pillows, closed her eyes, and cursed herself for drinking so much. Rebecca had come over a little after eight, and they’d walked up to Santa Monica Boulevard, had dinner and drinks at the French Market Place. They’d only had appetizers—nachos and potato skins—but their favorite waiter, Dennis, kept bringing them beers and vodka shots until they could barely keep their heads off the table. Wincing now, Jackie tried to recall how they’d gotten back, and wondered if Rebecca had made it home. But then she remembered, hazily, that she’d set her friend up on the couch. She dragged herself out of bed, put on a robe, and staggered out to the living room. Rebecca was twisted in blankets, fully clothed, and when she saw Jackie, she groaned.
“Are you living?” Jackie asked.
“Barely.” She waggled her brown boots in Jackie’s direction. “Bitch, why didn’t you at least take off my shoes?”
“You think I was doing any better than you?”
“Well, you managed to get yourself undressed.”
“Yeah, but I’ve had years of practice.”
Jackie sat down on the end of the couch and Rebecca propped her boot-clad feet on her lap.
“God,” Rebecca said, “Are you as hungover as me?”
“It’s not too bad. My head hurts, though. Does yours?”
“I don’t know. I’m lost in such a haze right now that I can’t even tell where it is.”
For the next ten minutes they did a postmortem on the evening, pausing now and then to hold their heads.
“Listen,” Jackie said finally. “You’ve got to go soon.”
“Wait. You get me roaring drunk, painfully hungover, and now you’re just kicking me out?”
“You have to. I’m sorry. I’m having company.”
“Laura?”
“No. The guy from Crenshaw—James Lanier.” She’d almost forgotten—he was coming over at 12:30 to look at the things in the box.
“Oh,” Rebecca said, sounding way too interested. “You mean, I don’t get to meet him?”
“Well, see, no. I—”
“When’s he coming?”
“In like half an hour.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see if I’m ready by then.”
She smiled, and Jackie rolled her eyes, knowing that her friend was staying put. Jackie needed coffee, water, a shower. She still had to straighten up the apartment and she didn’t want Rebecca to answer the door, so she just started a pot of coffee and postponed her grooming. She gathered her notebooks and papers and stuffed them into her schoolbag. She fluffed the pillows on the couch and placed them back neatly, working around Rebecca, who was dressed now and watching with amusement. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.
“Hey,” Lanier said when she opened the door.
“Hey,” answered Jackie. “Come in.”
She moved aside to let him pass and shut the door after him. He was dressed casually today, in Saturday clothes—worn jeans, sneakers, a faded blue sweatshirt, a beaten old cap that said “Long Beach State”—and he looked decidedly boyish.
“You a fan?” she asked, indicating the cap.
Lanier touched the lid self-consciously. “No. Well, kind of. I went there.”
“Really?” said Rebecca. “So did I.”
Jackie and Lanier turned toward her. She was sitting on the couch, made-up and smiling, and she looked like she was waiting for a date.
“Uh, James,” said Jackie, “this is my friend Rebecca, from law school. Rebecca, this is James.”
“Hi,” Rebecca said. She stood and crossed the room in what seemed like one huge step and held her hand out for Lanier. He shook it. “So when’d you go there?” she asked.
“Where?”
“State.”
“Oh. Well, a long time ago. Way before you, I’m sure.”
“It couldn’t have been
that
long ago.”
“I graduated in ’80.”
“Really. Well.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You look great for such an old man.”
Lanier laughed a bit nervously. She kept smiling at him, head cocked to one side, and Jackie could see what Rebecca thought about Lanier, and didn’t like it at all, and couldn’t figure out who she was jealous of.
“Anyway,” Jackie said, “Rebecca was just leaving. Right, Rebecca?” She gave her friend a look.
