As Berkley chatted with the congressman, Clarence stood close to the wall, perusing framed front pages of the Trib and the Journal going back thirty years. He thought about the favor and disfavor you could fall in and out of under Raylon’s dominion. The publisher had distanced himself from Jake Woods the last few years. The scuttlebutt was that Jake’s change to more conservative values or perhaps his embracing of a “fundamentalist” Christian faith had been viewed as a betrayal of the man who’d hired him. Since then, Raylon had redoubled his efforts to get closer to Clarence. He supposed this was because of his skin color, which Raylon considered a political asset, not entirely canceled out by Clarence’s irritating conservatism, which in fact exceeded Jake’s considerably. Things had improved, Clarence had to admit. At the Trib ten years earlier the same conservatism would not have been merely irritating, but intolerable.
In the early days, Clarence had been paraded into Berkley’s office to meet VIPs as if he were a champion show dog or a carefully cultivated prize rose. “See, we’re progressive. Meet our black man.” In subsequent years, Raylon had hired dozens of other blacks, nearly all of them liberal, so Clarence was rarely brought in on the dog and pony shows. He didn’t miss them.
Berkley reappeared with a friendly but efficient gesture. “Okay, Clarence, come on in.” After fifteen minutes of small talk, name dropping athletes he knew personally and asking Clarence how he liked the transition from sports to general columnist, Raylon finally cut to the chase.
“I was talking recently with Reg Norcoast.”
“Oh?”
“He said he’s confused. He’s taken a real interest in your sister’s…situation.”
It’s called murder.
“And your niece, of course. He was really shook by this thing. Went to your sister’s funeral, I hear, and named a memorial fund after her to improve North Portland. Even contributed his own money to the reward to find the killers. Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he tells me that on two occasions you’ve been…let’s say, very angry with him. He said you lashed out at him and he doesn’t understand why. Seems to think you have something against him. You’ve done a couple of articles critical of his district. Some folks have said they feel like it’s coming across as a little racist.”
“My main criticisms were of Norcoast’s policies,” Clarence said. “What’s racist about that? I’m a black man criticizing a white man because I think his policies and programs are counterproductive.”
“Yes, but his district is predominantly black.”
“I know that. I’m living in it.”
“Right. Well, then I’m sure you’ll want to be sensitive to the community concerns.”
“I’m not sure the community’s concerns and Norcoast’s are always the same. My main criticism was Norcoast’s history of hiring known gang members, young thugs. Twenty thousand dollars to put up and take down signs, pass out his literature. Think of the potential for intimidation and legitimizing gangs. Are you saying you disagree?”
“Not exactly,” Berkley said. “I don’t know. It’s being done in the larger cities, you know. Some people feel it’s a good gesture, hiring kids to do legitimate work, maybe get them interested in something meaningful, politics and all. These gang summits have established some positive relationships both directions.”
Clarence decided not to argue his case. This wasn’t the time or the place, and Raylon certainly wasn’t the person.
“Anyway, I know you and Reggie, and respect you both. I wondered, is there anything I could do to help patch up this rift between you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I realize you don’t trust politicians, Clarence. And I know you’re pretty adamant about your conservatism. I’m just asking you to give the councilman a chance. He’s a good friend. A good man. Don’t judge him without getting to know him. I’ve got an idea.” He said it with the confidence of a man used to fixing life’s problems. “I mentioned it to Reg. I know you both play tennis. Why not get together and play a few sets? Get to know each other as people.”
What is this, Fiddler on the Roof? You the matchmaker or something?
“I’m not going to order you to do it, of course. But I’ve tried to give you every opportunity here, Clarence. I’ve let you in the door as a second conservative on-staff columnist, which is a major change. Very few papers have done that. So, call it a favor if you want, but I’m asking you to give Reg Norcoast an opportunity. I’d like to see you have a civil relationship. Does that sound reasonable?”
“Yeah, okay,” Clarence said, hating himself for saying it. He felt as though he’d just been set up for a prom date with the most obnoxious girl at school.
Raylon walked over, put his arm around him, and asked him about his family, asked if he needed anything. Clarence told him everything was fine, though he knew that wasn’t true.
Geneva walked out of Kim’s Grocery on MLK with a paper sack containing a half gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and a tub of margarine in one hand and her purse in the other. It was only a four-block walk back to her house, but it was almost evening. The darkness was creeping in. She trembled involuntarily, less from the cold than from the idea of not being able to see clearly what was happening around her. She drew in her red mid-length fall coat and buttoned the top button.
After walking briskly two blocks, she saw some shadowy figures to her left and heard a whistle.
“Now there be a bumper kit,” a male voice said loudly.
“I feel like gettin’ me somethin’, don’t you?”
Geneva tensed up and walked a little faster. She wished she was wearing her Nikes instead of her pumps. Half a block later she heard footsteps behind her but decided not to turn around. One more block and she’d be home.
The footsteps seemed to be gaining on her. She considered running all out, but whoever was behind her probably didn’t know she was close to home. It might be better not to turn it into a chase she was certain she’d lose. She looked to see if any neighbors were out who she could go up and talk to. There was nobody.
The footsteps kept coming, and she could hear breathing now. She hoped it was just her own. Only thirty feet from the walkway to her house.
She felt a hand on her neck, and she turned and screamed. The stocking-capped figure pressed up close against her. He grabbed her purse and pulled. She held tight to the strap, but heard the stitching rip and felt it slip out of her hands into his. She fell backward to the sidewalk, hitting her head, groceries tumbling. Frank, the next door neighbor, ran out of his house as the teenage boy in the Air Jordans sprinted off in the other direction. Frank chased after him about twenty feet, then shouted at him.
“Run, punk. Come back and see me, you want some trouble, boy. I’ll make you wish you was sittin’ barebottom on a short order grill, you hear me now?”
Hattie Burns charged across the street like a rushing linebacker, running as fast as her queen-sized body would let her. She plopped down on her knees over her fallen neighbor, just as Frank reached her.
“Geneva!” Hattie cried, desperation in her voice.
“You okay, Mrs. Abernathy?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. I think I’m all right.” She sat up, rubbing the back of her head. “Thanks.”
Hattie comforted Geneva, making a bit more fuss than Geneva liked, but she appreciated the concern. Frank picked up the loaf of bread, milk, and margarine and wadded up the torn grocery sack.
“You have any mace?” Frank asked Geneva. “Or one of those pepper sprays? You know, the ones you can carry in your coat pocket or on your key chain?”
“No. I don’t.” She’d never thought she needed one.
“Well, I get ’em for my wife and daughters. Got an extra. I’ll bring it over later.”
“Thanks.” She heard the shakiness in her voice.
Hattie and Frank escorted Geneva, arms still trembling, up the stairs.
“Didn’t have no church buildin’s,”
Zeke told Dani, “but that was all right because we was the church, and that made us feel powerful important. We’d meet in our slave quarters or outside. The mens would rise up and tell Bible stories. Ol’ Zachariah, he’d always say, ‘The day’s acomin’ when negroes will be slaves of none but God Almighty.’ We’d look at him big-eyed and didn’t believe him. That was when no black man dared to think of freedom except by runnin’.”
A man appeared in the portal. Dani could sense his meanness.
“That’s Daniel,” Zeke said. “They called him the nigga driver, the overseer. He’d sooner beat the breath out of you than draw one of his own. We was scairt of Daniel, I won’t deny it. We’d set on the floor and pray with our heads down low and sing soft. But when you’re praisin’ the Master, you just can’t stay quiet too long, and next thing we knew, Daniel he’d come and beat on the wall with the stock of his whip.”
Dani watched Daniel do this very thing and heard him threaten, “I’ll come in there and tear the hides off your darky backs.”
“Now ol’ Daniel,” Zeke went on, “besides likin’ his liquor, he took special pleasure in whippin’ coloreds. He’d strip us to the waist and take a cat-o’-nine-tails and bring up the blisters to where you’d pray God would take you home then and there. And then he’d bust the blisters with a wide strap o’ leather fastened to a stick handle. You’d be all blood from the neck to the waist.
“Sometimes they’d strip us naked when they beat us, and that was the worst, the women and the children seein’ you humiliated like that. Wasn’t enough to break your skin; they tried to break your spirit, and sometimes they succeeded and black folk lost their self-respect. Womenfolk would git us a sheet and grease it with lard and wrap us up in it, and sometimes we’d wear it under our shirts for three or four days after a bad beatin’.
“Ol’ Daniel, one day Isaac sassed him, and Daniel he took Isaac down toward the pond. We knowed that was terrible bad ’Cause he usually whipped us in front of each other to teach a lesson. Well, an hour later he come back without Isaac, and Isaac’s wife was wailin’ ’cause we all knowed what it meant. A few days later somebody found Isaac’s body floatin’ in the pond, and some folk said, ‘That ol’ nigger just didn’t know how to swim.’ Course, Daniel got away with it, but just for a little while. ’cause we knowed God would get him one day and do worse to him than we ever thought of. And sure enough, he did. Once I seen him through the portal, like Lazarus seen the rich man. Just for a moment, but I saw him in hell and he saw me here, which must have made hell even worse for him.”
Dani shuddered. “Daniel. Ironic that he had a biblical name.”
“There was men that beat me named Peter and Timothy, and the meanest woman I ever knowed, that was Martha. Always thought it strange to hear those Christian names of folk who didn’t understand what bein’ a Christian meant. Always felt sorry for them, knowin’ that unless they repented, Elyon’s avenging angel would take ’em down to the pit.”
“I’m surprised you could live under that kind of oppression,” Dani said.
“A man can live under anything long as he keeps his eyes on the prize, on what will be instead of what was and what is. I’d think about the ol’ ship Zion takin’ me across the Jordan, away from Egypt and Pharaoh, into that land of milk and honey. I’d think about Jesus and how he suffered so much more than I did because of car-ryin’ the sins of me and ever’body else, includin’ ol’ Daniel. And I thought to be punished for my own sins, much less Daniel’s, was more than any man could take. Sufferin’ ain’t all bad, you know. That’s one of the lessons I learned since bein’ here and watchin’ what goes on in the Shadowlands—faith falters where it should thrive and thrives where it should falter. Most God’s chillens fail the test of prosperity but pass the test of adversity. How’s that for some lessons?”
Dani nodded her approval. “I look forward to learning them myself.”
“Sufferin’ shouldn’t surprise God’s chillens, that’s for certain. Peter say, ‘Do not be surprised at the fiery trial you are suffering, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice that you are partakers of the sufferings of Christ.’”
Dani watched through the portal of the past as another scene materialized.
“Ol’ Master Jacobs, now he was a religious man, but only as it suited him. You know that ol’ Negro spiritual, ‘Everybody talkin’ ’bout heaven ain’t goin’ there’? Applies to blacks and whites and every color folk, and sure did apply to Master Jacobs. He’d have the traders come in and he had this big ol’ stump, and after selling off hosses and cattle, he’d parade up the slaves. He’d take their scars from beatin’s and fix ’em up with some brown tar he’d put on hot, burn right into your skin, ’cause the higher price come with the smoother skin. He’d strip ’em to shows off their muscles.”
“Did you think much about trying to escape before you finally did?”
“Thought about it every day—a man wants freedom not just in the life to come, but in the life he’s livin’ now. If it was just me, would’ve been easy, ’cause it was either get free or die and be with Jesus and be really free. I even thought of takin’ a few of the meanest overseers with me—I don’t deny it—but I didn’t. I was heaven bound and I knew they wasn’t. Besides, when I still had Nancy and the chillens, I knew I couldn’t escape with them, and I wasn’t gonna leave them or has them get beaten ’cause I runned off. I’d never leave my family. Sooner die a thousand times than do that.”
Dani looked at Zeke with admiration, seeing so much of her daddy in him. She treasured this Christian heritage going back two generations before her father. She wished she’d known more men like Zeke and Daddy on earth.
“But after Nancy and Ruth was gone and Abe growed up, I didn’t have to wait no more. Wanted to be free. Free in Ohio, free in Canada, or free in heaven.”
Dani looked through the portal and saw a man come to Zeke, a well-dressed man, the master.
“Now, Zeke, I know you’s happy livin’ here with me. And you know I takes good care o’ yous, don’t I now, boy?”
Dani realized the man was talking down to Zeke, talking poor black slang, but not knowing quite how to do it.
“Yessuh, Massa Jacobs,” she heard Zeke respond, “I was jus’ sayin’ to the niggas what a good massa you is. Thanky, thanky so much fo’ bein’ such a good massa. Yessuh, I thanky.”
The man seemed to hesitate, as if he wondered whether Zeke might be working in a little sarcasm at his expense. He seemed to dismiss the thought, as if Zeke’s mind were incapable of such craft and subtlety.
“Well, Zeke, I just want to be sure you’d talk to me if you ever got wind of this Underground Railroad nonsense. You ever hear anything about that, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure I would, now, massa, sure I would. I heard stories of course. Underground Railroad? Now if that don’t beat all. Can’t believe some a dem darkies would play with such foolishness. Don’t realize how good they got it, that’s what I says. No suh, must not be a brain in dose dark heads.”
Dani looked over at Zeke next to her, surprised at his words. He had a big smile on his face. They both listened as Jacobs spoke again.
“All right, there’d maybe be some reward in you tellin’ me, specially if we caught a few runaways. Maybe give you one of my old silk shirts to wear for your own. How would you like that, Zeke?”
“Yessuh, yessuh, massa, you can count on Ol’ Zeke. One of your silk shirts, you say? Now, wouldn’t that be somepin’ fancy? Yessuh. Ol’ Zeke be the first to tell you, massa. Silk shirt, you say?”
The master nodded his approval, slapped Zeke on the back, and sent him on to his work. “Yessuh, yessuh, I’d tell you all about it iffen them fool slaves tries to run,” Zeke said as he turned to shuffle off. Then under his breath he added, “The day I start ridin’ a pig sidesaddle.”
The master stopped short. “What was that you said, Zeke?”
“Oh you know me, massa. Jus’ mumblin’ mah fool black h
ead off, that’s all. Said the day’s gettin’ on and I gotta feed them pigs and polish yo’ saddle.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Zeke. Good boy. You’re a credit to your race.”
“Yessuh, kind o’ you to say so, thanky massa, thanky.”
The scene shifted to that night. Dani saw a big plantation party. It was getting late, and the house slaves were finally done with all the serving and washing. They’d gathered outside with the field slaves, away from the party. They were singin’ and dancin’ up a storm. One of the masters peered out the window and joked, “Look at them nigger fools hoppin’ around to their darky music!”
Dani felt disgust at this scene. It troubled her and she looked to Zeke for answers.
“You has to keep watching, chile. I should explains we learned to communicate to each other in codes. Like, we’d be out in the fields and start singin’, ‘Steal away, steal away to Jesus.’ That meant an hour after sundown we’d be havin’ chu’ch. Havin’ chu’ch down at the swamp, so the slaves should steal away to get there.”
“The swamp?”
“Had to go somewhere the masters wouldn’t go to at night. Guess you could call it ‘First Fire Baptized Church of the Swamp’ or somethin’ like that.” Zeke laughed. “Then the next day, all us slaves would wonder if we was in trouble, if the massas had heard us. Once somebody found out fo’ sure everything was all right, they’d start singin’ ‘I couldn’t hear nobody praying.’ We’d talk with each other through the songs. But the ‘Steal Away’ song, one night that had a special meaning. It was the most thrillin’ and scariest night of my life down there.”
Dani started to ask him to elaborate, but he pointed to the portal where she could see her answer just as it happened.
The slaves sang and danced, Zeke playing on his harmonica and a Jew’s harp. “Steal away…steal away to Jesus.” The slaves’ eyes fired up with fear and hope. It was the message they’d been waiting for, the message from Zeke telling them this was the night. The Underground Railroad was going to steal some of them away, either to death or to freedom. It was a farewell party. “We’s prayin’ for you, Zeke,” Dani heard an old woman say. “I’ll sees you in the north or I’ll sees you in heaven.”