Till You Hear From Me: A Novel (22 page)

T
HE
R
EV TOLD ME NOT TO WAIT UP FOR HIM, BUT OF COURSE
I
DID
. I had grown up accommodating the Rev’s schedule. It was second nature to me and, truthfully, I liked having the house to myself. By the time I saw the car pull up out front, the fire had burned down and I was settled on the couch in what had been one of my favorite daydreaming spots as a kid reading a book Flora had given me. It was called
Along Martin Luther King: Travels on Black America’s Main Street
. These two guys, a writer and a photographer, went all over the country for a year, talking to people and taking pictures on some of the six hundred and fifty streets named after Dr. King. The book is a record of what they found. After too many bad jokes by too many black comedians about the need to run for your life if you look up at the street sign and realize you’re on one of those six hundred and fifty streets, it was great to see somebody take the whole idea of black America’s main street and flip it another way.

I marked my place on the page where an artist who calls himself Franco the Great, the Picasso of Harlem, was explaining how he
started painting murals on the metal riot gates that store owners use on 125th Street to secure their properties from thieves. When I went to open the door for the Rev, he was already coming up the front steps. Wes, idling at the curb, tapped the horn in friendly greeting. I threw up a hand as he pulled away.

“Welcome home,” I said, kissing the Rev’s cheek, and stashing his briefcase next to the hall table while he put away his coat and hat. “How’d it go?”

“It went long,” he said. “I think I presented every child in Macon with an award for something.”

“Well, I’m sure they deserved it,” I said, poking the fire back to half-life. The Rev sat down in his favorite chair, loosened his tie, and sat back with a sigh. “They’ll probably remember this day their whole lives. Like when I got that letter from Mayor Young for writing the best essay about Atlanta when I was ten? I still have it.”

The Rev smiled at the memory. “Andy was always good about communicating with constituents. Not as good as Maynard, but pretty good.”

As the city’s first black mayor, Maynard Jackson would always hold a special place in the hearts of Atlantans who were old enough to split time into before and after his election. As a young pastor, the Rev had worked to send Maynard to the mayor’s office all three times, and as far as he was concerned, nobody had ever done the job better.

“Want some cocoa?” I said. “I got marshmallows while I was out today.”

“How about a glass of red wine?”

I poured us each a glass and touched his lightly. “What are we toasting, daughter?”

“Us,” I said. “You and me sitting by this fire. Isn’t that enough?”

“Good enough for me,” he said and took a long, grateful swallow of merlot. “How’d the assembly go this morning?”

“You would have loved it,” I said. “The principal had Precious Hargrove there to introduce Mr. Eddie and Lu led the garden kids in this great poem about how growing things had changed them …”

“Did you have a chance to speak to the senator?”

I hesitated, wondering if this was the time to pass on her concerns. “I did. She said … she was sorry you two hadn’t spoken in a while.”

“Those Chicago Negroes aren’t going to let her speak to me.”

“You should call her,” I said. “She’s got some information about …”

He didn’t even let me finish. “If she’s got something to say, my number hasn’t changed.”

I steered our conversation back around to Mr. Eddie. “Flora got a proclamation from Mayor Franklin and at the end of the program, they read it out and declared this Edward Harper Day in Atlanta.”

The Rev laughed. “Well, ain’t that nothin’? I guess I’m going to have to drive
him
down to Albany tomorrow instead of him driving me.”

“How’d your second string handle the job today?”

“Wes?” The Rev chuckled and slipped off his shoes, stretching his legs toward the fire, wriggling his toes in their black thick and thins. “I wore that boy out.”

“I’ll bet you did,” I said, picturing the two of them zipping around Macon all day. “You see I had the good sense to stay right here.”

“He wants to find me a sponsor.”

“A what?”

“A sponsor. He seems to think one of his clients might be willing to make a sizable contribution to BAC-UP! so we can keep our registration drive going.”

“In exchange for what?”

The Rev looked at me and nodded. “Good girl. That’s exactly what I asked him.”

“And?”

“He said anybody doing business in Georgia would see the value of having access to the folks on our mailing list.”

Miss Iona’s warning whispered in my ear:
I don’t think the Rev has any idea how many people would love to get their hands on that new voters list he keeps bragging about
.

“What kind of access?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ve never had a sponsor before. I don’t know exactly how it works.”

“I do. They underwrite all your expenses and in exchange they put their name on everything.”

“Is that such a terrible thing?”

“Depends on what they’re selling. Coca-Cola’s one thing. Pimp Juice is another.”

“Pimp Juice?”

“It’s an energy drink, like Red Bull. One of the rappers is backing it.”

“Why in the world would they call it that?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “It must be a man thing.”

“No, daughter.” He shook his head. “That’s a
fool
thing.”

“And a bad example,” I said. “I’m sure Wes isn’t working for anybody like that.”

“If he is, I’ll find out soon enough. I told him we could talk more about it again when me and Ed get back from Albany. He’s going to bring his assistant by here tomorrow or the next day to take a look at some materials in my office. Let them in, will you?”

Before I could ask him to be a little more specific, he yawned and suddenly I could see how tired he was. I glanced at my watch. It was after midnight and the Black History Month Express was pulling out for South Georgia in the morning. They’d be gone two nights, which gave me plenty of time to see what Wes was up to.

“You better get some rest,” I said. “How early is Mr. Eddie coming tomorrow?”

“Too early,” the Rev said, finishing up the last of his wine and standing up. The fire was down to coals again. “You sure I can’t talk you into riding down with us?”

The miles of open space and empty cotton fields between here and Albany were familiar to me. I had made that trip with the Rev three or four times as a kid and it always felt twice as long as it actually was.

“Not a chance,” I said.

“All right, daughter. Don’t say I didn’t ask. You coming up?”

“In a little while,” I said, holding up the book. “I’m reading about black America’s main street.”

The Rev looked at the title and nodded. “If Flora has her way, all those King streets will be lined with sunflowers and roses.”

It was a wonderful image. All those neglected thoroughfares blooming under the loving hands of gardeners who saw the potential for beauty in their own backyards.

The Rev leaned down and kissed my cheek; then he looked at me kind of funny.

“What?” I said, smiling up at him. I was happy for these small moments in the midst of so much motion. This doing something for freedom can be a full-time job if you let it.

“I’d like you to do something for me, daughter.”

“Yes?”

“You know Sunday is Founder’s Day at Rock of Faith and I’ll be preaching my first sermon as pastor emeritus.”

“I’m surprised they let you back in there, as bad as you talked about their new pastor,” I said, teasing him and immediately wishing I hadn’t.

The Rev didn’t miss a beat. “Pastor Patterson has a forgiving and compassionate heart, daughter. Not only has he invited me into his pulpit, but he has graciously agreed to allow me to pick the person
who will introduce me. And that person is you, if you will do me the honor.”

And he sort of bowed a little courtly bow, but I couldn’t imagine introducing the Rev at Rock of Faith.

“What can I possibly tell them that they don’t already know?”

He grinned and headed toward the stairs. “You can tell them something nobody knows but you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“Tell them how it feels to be my baby girl.”

I laughed and surrendered. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Good night, daughter.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

“Don’t forget to say your prayers.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

A
FTER THE
R
EV AND
M
R
. E
DDIE ROLLED OUT OF HERE AT EIGHT
o’clock sharp, I put in a call to Joe Conner, a campaign buddy of mine in D.C. who I hoped could help me get to the bottom of that weird little feeling I had last night when the Rev was telling me about Wes’s offer of support, even though Wes is the most apolitical person I’ve talked to in a long time. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to just check it out. Miss Iona was right. This was no time to be careless.

Me and this guy went through three primaries together. After election day, he went back to teaching political science at Georgetown, his Obama campaign experiences told and retold as his favorite stories in a repertoire that also included a tour of duty in Iraq that he never talked about unless other veterans were present, and a nomination for a MacArthur genius grant, which he couldn’t stop talking about, although that whole process is so secretive most people don’t even know they’re under consideration until they get the call.

From his book-crammed office in a quiet corner of the campus,
he kept up with a far-flung network of political insiders, obsessive bloggers, and conspiracy theorists of all kinds. His information was usually reliable and he had a lot invested in being able to get to the bottom of the rumors that always swirl around D.C. like autumn leaves. He probably had two or three moles deep in the RNC who could be queried with discretion and confidence. His voice mail answered on the second ring and the message was short and sweet.

“This is Dr. Conner. Leave a message.”

“Good morning, Professor,” I said. During the campaign I used to call him professor after discovering that we both love that scene in
The Philadelphia Story
where Katharine Hepburn’s character is teasing Jimmy Stewart’s character, whose name happens to be Conner, by calling him professor because he’s a writer. “This is Ida Dunbar. I’ve got a question that I hope you can answer for me. I’m in Atlanta on some family business and folks down here keep hearing rumors about a move to enlist the help of well-known, but slightly disgruntled Civil Rights pioneers in discrediting the president. It’s making them a little nervous, especially since there are already a few juicy whispers about a major voter purge floating around. So, you know the drill. Find out what you can and call me. Later!”

No way he wouldn’t call me as soon as he got the message. In the meantime, I was going to return Flora’s book and stop by Miss Iona’s to let her know I was on the case.

It wasn’t even ten o’clock when I opened the door to the Grower’s Association and found myself face-to-face with a poster-size photograph of Barack and Michelle Obama walking down Pennsylvania Avenue just after he got sworn in. He’s smiling from big ear to big ear, and she’s wearing that amazing chartreuse outfit with those fabulous green leather gloves and they look so happy and healthy and confident and
connected
that it’s hard to believe they’re heading to their new house in the 1600 block of that same street.

“Is it straight?” Aretha was standing on a chair adjusting the picture
according to the dictates of Lu Lumumba and another young woman I didn’t know.

“Down a little on that side,” Lu said, pointing.

“Left or right?”

“Right,” the two girls said at the same time.

Flora was sitting at her computer with a young man who was staring at the screen intently. When the little bell above the door announced my arrival, she looked up and smiled in welcome.