Dominion (13 page)

Norcoast appeared to be giving her assurances in the universal language of men with their tail between their legs, with the added dimension of not wanting several hundred people to suspect anything was wrong. After twenty seconds of intense but discreet dialogue, the appropriate smile returned to Esther Norcoast’s face, no doubt to the relief of Carson Gray, whom Clarence noticed was also watching.

Norcoast’s a master. If I could get Geneva to smile at me again within thirty seconds of making her mad…wow. What if you could bottle that and sell it to men across America? You’d make Bill Gates look like a pauper.

Reverend Clancy gave the invocation and introduced Norcoast. He had no words of lavish praise, just a simple introduction—“Our Councilman.”

Norcoast stepped up to the microphone with the familiarity of a drunk stepping up to the bar.

“It’s been just two weeks ago since we lost an outstanding member of our community, Dani Abernathy Rawls. Murdered senselessly in her own home. And her daughter still courageously clinging to life in an intensive care unit, where I visited her just this morning.”

He went to the hospital? So he could tell us he did. What a jerk.

“Up on this platform with me are the silent victims of crime in this city, victims who will remain silent no longer.”

Clarence looked around at the faces on the platform, nearly all black, most of which he didn’t recognize. But at the front of the crowd, down on one knee, Clarence saw a familiar figure, dressed casually and wearing a press pass. It was Carp, his favorite photojournalist. She was thirtyish, blonde, and infuriatingly liberal, but he liked her anyway. They sometimes took coffee breaks together. As she positioned herself for another shot, he caught her eye and they both smiled slightly.

“Now, there are those who take simplistic solutions to the problems of our community.”

Like the people wanting to run against you for mayor?

“But I’ve brought on a new task force chairman to deal with these problems. A young man who’s a success story from this community. A Howard graduate, Derrick Morton.”

There was applause. Clarence had met Derrick. He was a nice enough kid, smart and talented. But it felt like tokenism. Norcoast was parading black faces to show how in touch he was with black concerns. It reminded Clarence of all the social gatherings where well-meaning white folks, or WMWF, as they’d been dubbed by blacks, would feel compelled to bring up that they had a doctor who was black or they knew a black stockbroker or used to live next to a very nice black family or had some “good friend” who was black, upon whom they would lavish unctuous praise. Of course, if they employed black house help, this never came up.

Norcoast went on and on, talking about the task force, how much progress was being made in the community. He proposed a ten-point agenda for fighting crime, most of which Clarence saw as the same old political drivel that gave the illusion something was being done just because something was being said.

“We have to send a message, my brothers, we have to send a message to the gangbangers. The message is, this isn’t
your
hood, this is
our
hood!”

He noticed Norcoast even imitated inflections and rhythms of black speech. Perhaps it was because black voters were his ticket and he didn’t want some black candidate coming along to take his district from him.

“The chief of police tells me there was only one witness to the murder of Dani Rawls. This witness wasn’t sure of the race of the perpetrators. But it’s possible this was a racially motivated crime. If it was, I promise you, I’ll personally make sure the hate crimes division gives it top priority!”

The crowd applauded enthusiastically, the first clap coming from Carson Gray.

Racially motivated? Who said anything like that? When’s the last time two whites did a drive-by shooting in North Portland? You’re just stirring up the crowd, Norcoast. Being big white savior to your colored folk, that it?

“My office has approached businessmen inside and outside the community, and I’m pleased to announce we have raised a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever committed this horrible crime. I’ve donated a thousand dollars of that myself. I promise you, I will make sure these culprits are brought to justice.”

You on the case with Ollie or what? Carry handcuffs in that fancy briefcase?

“So that as a result of our efforts done in their memory, as a tribute to their lives, Dani Abernathy Rawls and all the others, whose dear families you see before you today, will
not
have died in vain!”

Norcoast’s voice cracked as he said the last few words. The applause surged, but Clarence’s hands remained frozen on his lap.

Race-baiting opportunist. Exploiting tragedies to make your self-serving political statements.

He thought of what those on both the right and the left did with Waco and Oklahoma City. It nauseated him to see those political peacocks posturing in the wake of human suffering. He wanted people to mourn his sister’s death, not capitalize on it.

A few follow-up announcements, a number from a black church choir, and it was over. Clarence detested himself for having said yes to sitting on the platform.

“Hello, Clarence.” It was Barry Davis, from
Trib
city beat.

“Hey, Davis.”

“Can I ask you a couple questions?”

Clarence didn’t feel like talking, but he nodded.

“The councilman said this may have been a racially motivated crime. A hate crime. Do you believe it was?”

“No, I don’t. But I really don’t care.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t care.”

“But how can you not care…she was your sister. I mean…”

“I care about my sister. I just don’t care if the shooter was black or white or brown or yellow or purple. I don’t care if he was a high school drop-out or a college professor. It doesn’t matter—it all comes out the same. Don’t you get it? My sister’s been murdered. My niece is…lying there in the hospital with tubes in her. Norcoast is just looking for votes, and you’re just looking for a story angle.”

“But if it’s a hate crime—”

“What? If murder’s done black on black you think that makes it a
love
crime? Who cares? When you’re dead, you’re dead!”

Normally Davis would have pushed it, but he knew Abernathy’s reputation well enough to realize that would be a mistake. Clarence sat on his platform chair with a scowl so noticeable, no one else approached him.

He looked at Norcoast, now thirty feet from him, down in front of the platform, immersed in the crowd. His smile looked to Clarence less like a facial expression than an implant. The politician’s sparkling eyes made the journalist wonder if there was some new product called “Sparkling Eyes” and Norcoast was a beta tester. The man’s right hand searched the crowd like a heat-seeking missile wanting, needing to make contact.

Carp moved in close to the councilman, one camera draping from her shoulder, a bigger one in her hand. She got still another angle on Norcoast.

“Hello, Lynn,” Clarence heard him say, as if she were his favorite cousin.

Who else would know photographers by their first name but a baby-kissing glad-handing crowd-working politician like Norcoast?

“Say,” he looked at Carp. “How about we get a picture with my good friend Clarence Abernathy?”

Carp stifled her smile. As Clarence started to wave them off she said, “Yeah, let’s get you two buddies together here. Come on Clabern, shake the councilman’s hand. Yeah, turn this way, hands clasped, big smiles.”

Clarence let Carp’s cajoling get to him, and when Norcoast reached out his hand he didn’t slap it away like he wanted to. He did pull back his hand, but too late—Carp already took the picture in the micro-second their hands had clasped.

Clarence stood there, noticing for the first time Norcoast’s tie. It was burgundy, very distinctive, but the material seemed inexpensive, not at all Norcoast’s standard fare. It was covered with identical designs of various sizes, like irregular triangles, with the black line on the right side thicker than the other two lines. The whole effect was slightly lopsided. It was the sort of tie your aunt might give you for Christmas. You’d keep it at the back of the tie rack and wear it only if she was coming for dinner.

You’re slipping, councilman. Dress isn’t up to par.

This moment gave Clarence pleasure. He looked up at Norcoast’s face and for a moment thought he saw his first sign of weakness. A nervous twitch of his left cheek. A tic.

Norcoast moved off toward Geneva, greeting her warmly. Geneva, Esther, and good old Reg seemed to be hitting it off. Clarence sat there sulking, staring at Norcoast with eyes that could drive a penny nail through a four-by-six.

Clarence’s skepticism about politicians didn’t stop at Democrats like Norcoast. He considered Republicans just as opportunistic. To him most elections were choosing between a suspected witch and a known devil. Politics were very important in the black community—too important in his mind—but he felt blacks were often used and exploited by politicians, both black and white. It irritated him to think Norcoast had used him today.

As the crowd dissipated, Carp came over again, this time to pay her respects. “Hey, Clarence. How you doin’?”

“Okay. Just not enjoying the company.”

“Oh, Norcoast’s all right—for a big old bag of hot air, I mean. He’s a real hero, you know. Should have seen him visiting your niece this morning.”

“You were there?”

“Sure. You don’t think he would’ve done it without calling the
Trib
first?”

“A staged photo? Who sent you out? Betty?”

“Yep.”

“I can’t believe how he uses the
Trib
.”

“Raylon’s his bud, remember. Gets a lot of free PR from us, doesn’t he?”

“Is Betty really going to use it?”

“I don’t know. Hey, I’m just the photographer. I don’t decide what goes in. I do what I’m told.”

“Yeah, that’s what all the Nazis said at Nuremberg,” Clarence said, his voice so sullen it was comical.

Carp slapped him on the shoulder and giggled girlishly. “Well, here he comes now. I’ll leave you two buddies to bond. I’ve had enough of Reg for one day.” Carp walked off the other way, pretending she didn’t see him coming.

“Bye, Lynn,” Norcoast called out.

Nobody calls her Lynn. She’s just Carp.

“Oh, bye, Reg,” she said. “Nice tie.”

“Clarence,” Norcoast extended his hand again, “thanks so much for coming today. Your presence spoke volumes to the community.”

This time Clarence rejected Norcoast’s outstretched hand.

“Why the sudden concern for my sister, Norcoast? Was she one of the niggers on your plantation, that it? You lookin’ out for your coloreds? Or are you just lookin’ out for yourself?”

Norcoast’s left cheek contracted and twitched. He looked stunned.

“Clarence, I’m shocked. My record makes clear I’m the furthest thing from a racist. I’m an advocate of your people. When I looked at your sister and when I look at you I don’t see the color of your skin.”

“What, you blind or something?”

“But…”

“I suppose when you look at your wife you don’t see a woman?”

“Well, I…”

“When I look at you I see a white man. When you look at me you see a black man. Don’t lie about it. What you’re saying is that you won’t hold my skin color against me. Well, why should you? Do you mean you’ll forgive me for being black, or that you’ll pretend I’m not black? Well, I don’t need your forgiveness and your pretense and your condescension. You got that, Bwana?”

Clarence watched Carson Gray’s expressionless face, as he stood five feet behind his flustered boss.

“I know Dani’s death and your niece’s condition have to be hard on you,” Norcoast said. “I’ll chalk up your comments to your grief. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Chalk it up to whatever you want, Councilman. I’m gonna get the dudes that killed my sister. And I don’t care what color they are. They’re going to bleed red.”

Clarence walked the North Portland streets for two hours, starting a dozen different conversations. He asked all the older folks if they’d seen or heard anything the night Dani was killed. Nearly all of them heard, none of them saw, other than the smoke in the air after the car was gone. Most said they’d been talked to by the police. Some hadn’t.

He waved to two boys eleven or twelve years old, about Jonah’s age.

“Hi. I’m Mrs. Rawls’s brother. Tyrone’s uncle?”

They nodded suspiciously.

“What are your names?”

“Jeremy.”

“Michael.”

“Did either of you see or hear anything the night Tyrone’s mama was killed?”

Jeremy shook his head, Michael nodded. “Lots a shootin’,” he said.

“Did you see anything?”

“Nuttin’. I looked out the window, but I live on Moffat, next street over. Couldn’t see nuttin’.”

“Okay, listen, I’m asking you to do something. There’s money in it for you. I want you to spread the word that if anybody was on the street or looked out their window and saw anything that night, before or during or after the shooting, I want them to call me. Here’s my numbers at work and home.”

He handed them both an important looking business card.

“What’d you say about money?” Jeremy asked.

“If they have anything for me, anything new, anything I don’t know, I’ll give them a hundred dollars. And whoever brings or sends them to me, he gets a hundred dollars too. That’s you. Okay?”

They both nodded.

“Now, I don’t want anybody foolin’ with me. I’ll know if they’re making up a story. They’ll be in big trouble. So will you. You hear me, Michael? You hear me, Jeremy?”

They nodded again.

“Okay, guys. Spread the word.”

They ran off. He saw them stop the first two boys they saw. Word would be out in no time.

Clarence continued to ask questions on the street, giving the same offer to a half-dozen other boys. He’d gotten a similar offer thirty years ago in Chicago from a private investigator working a case in the projects. It was twenty dollars then. Inflation.

After a dozen conversations with people under twenty—many of them dominated by
ain’t
and various obscenities—Clarence walked back toward his car.

He remembered a sociology prof at Alcorn State saying, “Whites talk white, blacks talk black. White’s no better than black. You need to be with people who understand when you say ‘ain’t’ it’s because you’re choosing to.”

But a literature prof took the opposite tack. “Don’t ever say ain’t. It isn’t proper grammar for anyone, white or black. You speak good English, you get the best jobs. People take you seriously. And swearing? You talk this garbage mouth stuff, you think people will want to be around you? It gets you nowhere. You want to go start your own country, okay. You want to succeed in
this
country, that’s the way it is.”

It was his literature teacher, not his sociology teacher, whose philosophy he followed. And it was a geeky speech teacher’s enunciation lessons they’d laughed at in class that he secretly practiced every day for years. “Twenty dwarves took turns doing handstands on the carpet. Round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran.”

Nineteen years later, his diction long since perfect, he still rehearsed some of those sentences. He didn’t speak in double negatives. No cotton in the mouth. No ghetto-speak for Clarence Abernathy. While his mind often traveled back to Chicago’s Southside, he policed himself to not let his tongue go with it. Clarence had learned to clip the words as they come out, hardening every
d, t
, and
ing.
He spoke crisply. The exception was when he kicked back with his family and old friends, his guard down. When he relaxed, his childhood Mississippi twang came out. When he got angry, a Chicago Southside dissonant jive could take over. The old dialects weren’t bad. They just wouldn’t get him as far in mainstream society as he intended to go.

His enunciation had produced a lot of tense situations. After calling people and arranging interviews, Clarence was always ready for the first surprised look. Occasionally someone would say, “I thought you were white. I mean, you don’t
sound
black.”

“Oh?” Clarence always asked. “Just how does black sound?”

Clarence unlocked the door of the Bonneville, whispering, “Round and round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran.” He set out in rush hour traffic, mind immersed in his inner world, leaving only eyes and reflexes and instincts to take care of the outer one.

His daddy hadn’t worked so hard to give him a chance so Clarence would blow it. He thought back to his two years at Alcorn State. He’d considered Howard and Fisk and Morehouse, the black answers to Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. Half the black doctors in the nation had graduated from Howard, and Daddy wanted him to go there, but there just wasn’t enough money. Alcorn State in Lorman, Mississippi, was only fifty miles from where he grew up. He could live with Uncle Elijah and Aunt Emily, who’d moved to Red Lick, only a few minutes from the campus. That way he wouldn’t have to pay room and board, and his scholarship covered most of the tuition. In those days you always adjusted your dreams to what you could afford.

After two years at Alcorn State, he wanted to try an integrated college. If he was going to succeed in a white world, he needed to see it closer up than he had in the all-black neighborhoods in Mississippi or the all-black projects of Chicago or the all-black classrooms of Alcorn State. His senior year of high school, his family had moved out to Oregon where Uncle Silas found a mill job for Obadiah. Oregon State University in Corvallis, south of Portland, offered him the transfer football scholarship he needed to move from Alcorn State. The bonus was it would bring him back less than two hours from his parents and Dani, by then a junior at Jefferson High in Portland.

He’d built on his transfer credits and gone through the journalism program at OSU, staying on for a two-year masters degree and entering the job market in 1978—the perfect year, since the 1968 Kerner Commission Report had concluded the media ignored blacks or portrayed them in a negative light, and the ten year follow-up report showed sixty percent of American newspapers still didn’t have a single nonwhite reporter or editor.

So just as he was looking for a job came the rush to correct the imbalance. Newspapers tripped over each other to show who was the least racist. Affirmative action policies were implemented everywhere. Recruiters swarmed J-schools, searching for blacks. To Clarence it seemed a great opportunity. Still, the minority hiring frenzy made him feel as if he was being put out on the auction block, like his ancestors. He knew he was highly qualified—he’d worked hard and he was good. But he had the unsettling impression some newspapers would have hired him even if he wasn’t. If you were black, could tell time, and speak an intelligible sentence, it was as though you’d overcome some genetic flaw and already exceeded the highest expectations of whites.

He remembered overhearing a white reporter say, “Yeah, Abernathy’s okay for a quota boy.” He knew he’d earned his job, but the affirmative action that helped some people get jobs also perpetuated the myth it was impossible for blacks to win jobs unless things got tilted their way. It troubled him then, and it troubled him now.

The
Oregon Journal
wined and dined him, especially fortyish and independently wealthy Raylon Berkley, who after the merger—by one of those strange quirks of business—had become a VP, CEO, and finally the publisher of the
Trib.
Berkley himself took Clarence to a Portland restaurant where he was one of three blacks, the other two busboys. It was far and away the fanciest dinner he’d ever had. That unforgettable evening Berkley made his big offer, and a few days later Clarence signed with the
Journal.

When he got his first paycheck it embarrassed him. It was so much money, much more than his daddy had ever made, over twice as much as his janitorial job. For a while he felt the token black, which was its own kind of slavery without the whippings. He learned that editors could lash out verbal beatings, but they did it to whites too. In time, he fit in, at least on the outside.

Looking back now, Clarence felt guilty he’d ever compared his experiences of racism to those of his ancestors. He felt he’d cheapened their ordeals, trivialized their sufferings when his were so much less. While he’d heard black people didn’t have many opportunities, his experience in the workplace suggested otherwise. This was the beginning of his gradual fifteen-year swing from moderate liberalism to die-hard conservatism.

At a family gathering eighteen years ago, hearing he was going to work for a newspaper, one cousin warned him, “Stay black, man.”

He’d thought about that exhortation often. If black was just a skin color, how could he
not
stay black? He knew the real message. Only white people succeed in America. If a black man succeeds, it means you’re a porch nigger, an Uncle Tom, a traitor. The cousin who’d told him to stay black had deserted his wife and children, sold dope, and gone to the pen for armed robbery and grand theft auto. Yet Clarence imagined his cousin probably still took pride in thinking he’d “stayed black.”

Clarence was no more comfortable with racial applause than with criticism. In North Portland, some people would read his columns and talk about them in diners and say to his parents or to him, “We’re so proud of you.” It was as if every column, every accomplishment struck a blow for equal rights, as if he were the Martin Luther King Jr. of the sports department. He was a success story, and it felt good. But something about it bothered him, as if any young black man off drugs and working and not knocking off a 7-Eleven was a regular Frederick Douglass.

I’m just a reporter, for crying out loud. Don’t lay the world on my shoulders.

Still, he told himself something he’d heard many years ago. “Your reputation is all you have.” Clarence Abernathy had worked painstakingly to build that reputation. He would never let it slide.

Clarence sat downstairs in the family room, turning upside down the front page of the
Trib
, not wanting to see again the two pictures of Norcoast, one at the rally, the other at the hospital.

He relaxed in his ancient recliner, stuffing oozing out the breaks in the brown Naugahyde. Geneva had wanted to toss it ten years ago when they moved in, but in a compromise it was demoted to the basement. As he sat back to experience the chair’s friendliness, he smelled something familiar, something sweet, like the residual of an old perfume. He turned around. Right above him was the stitchery his mother had done for him fourteen years ago, a millennial scene with lion and lamb lying down together. Under it was the caption from Isaiah, “And the whole earth will be filled with the knowledge of God, as the earth covers the sea.”

She’d worked on it for a year, finishing it not long before she died. Her hands and her heart had gone into it, and the countless hours had immersed it with her comforting fragrance. But the smell disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen. It was so elusive. He would never forget his mother, of course, but many of the details had been eclipsed by the passing of time, and that bothered him. He wanted to hug her again, look at that old cracked black skin, that beautiful skin that was now more of an impression than the sharp image it used to be.