Our Man in the Dark (30 page)

The plan was to ruin Mathis as he has tried to ruin Martin; and now I have the means to do so. I look at the photos of Mathis and the girl—Pete's daughter, Lucinda—and their front seat fondling. I have it all here. I sent photos to Mrs. Mathis, but I suppose she ignored them. Maybe it was a common sight for her, something she'd seen before, something she was used to; but I know of another audience that won't be so forgiving. A father in rage is a dangerous animal. Pete will do to Mathis what I cannot.

But when I leave to send off the pictures, I encounter the vision of four little girls outside my apartment playing jump rope and rattling off the rhythmic tongue twisters that accompany the sport. Hopscotch squares drawn on the sidewalk are already used and abandoned by the many little footprints still visible in the chalk. Why have they chosen this street? I have never seen them before. They make me think of those four little girls killed by Klan members in that church bombing last year. No matter how much I want to hurt Mathis, I can't send these pictures to Pete. I have no guarantee that only Mathis will see harm. In this situation, who knows what will happen. Pete could blame poor Lucinda for being too alluring and too provocative, and since she didn't have the decency to say no, he may insist she's a whore and harm her physically in some horrible way. All of that could happen. Yes, I think of those little girls. I think of the twenty others that were injured, and the way that children get hurt when adults play rough. That kind of violence was perpetrated by Pete's kind of people—who knows what he's capable of? I don't know Lucinda, but I don't wish that upon her.

So, I guess they've won. I thought I was learning to play, but I am bad at this game. I don't have the ruthless skill set of Mathis and Strobe. I've learned there are actually some things I won't do. I can't say the same for the agents—and that's where they have the advantage.

Work. The SCLC has seen an increase in donations since Martin's Nobel nomination. Most of the lower-level staff are delighted to be associated with someone bestowed with such a prestigious honor, but Martin's executive staff has been walking around in a perpetual state of anxiety. They are smart enough to know that this honor brings attention, and that is always followed by scrutiny. They think someone is always plotting to make it all come tumbling down. They are more right than they know.

I feel sad as I prepare the contribution thank-you letters. In some way, they feel like coded Dear John letters:
This must end . . . it's me, not you.
Yes, this will all be over soon. Martin's indiscretions will be made public, and he'll only be remembered as a depraved charlatan. No one will remember how much he sacrificed and loved this country. Nor will they understand how the burdens of love and sacrifice can lead to such desperate behavior. I find a little comfort knowing that my contribution will be forgotten as well. And to think at one time I had the foolish notion of being a public figure. No, thank you, limelight—the shadows suit me fine.

Gant knocks on my door and pokes his head in. “Estem, can I talk to you in my office for a second?” He looks somber.

“Sure.”

I follow him to his office and take a seat. He gets right to the point. “Estem, I won't be working here any longer. I have offered Martin my resignation, and he has accepted it.”

I'm shocked, but strangely, the first thing that comes to mind is my apprenticeship. I haven't really thought about receiving my certification in so long. I am only a year away from completion.
Only a year away.
I think it and say it aloud. Gant appears unmoved.

“Don't worry. This won't affect you. You're very resourceful, Estem. I'm sure you'll find some way to finish the requirement . . . if that is what you truly want. Is this what you really want? Can you envision yourself doing anything else? If the answer is no, well, maybe you should find the thing that drives you the most, occupies your thoughts, your desires, your hopes. I don't mean just for practical reasons, but for larger,
existential
ones. To find out who you truly are is a gift. What do you want out of this world, and what type of mark do you want to leave on it?”

I don't respond.

“This is just a reflex reaction,” he continues. “I'd be surprised if you ever think about me when I'm gone.” His arms are crossed, and I detect a slight smirk on his face. I want to tell him to go to hell, and I plan to, but when I open my mouth all that comes out is, “Don't go.”

“Look,” he says, “I've been offered a job at a prestigious accounting firm in New York. The doors are finally opening, if only just a crack. Isn't that what we're fighting for, equal opportunity? I think this is a good time for me to leave. It's best for Martin, and for the movement.”

I suppose he's right, but that makes me think of all the other Negroes I'll have to compete against. My desire to join an elite club of one hundred or so Negro professionals won't mean as much now. It will be the first thousand, the first ten thousand, and so on.

I can't help feeling that he's doing this to me on purpose, leaving just as I am so close to accomplishing my lifelong dream. Maybe this is not a coincidence. Maybe this is a parting shot. He sets fire to my dreams—an arsonist of ambition—he burns my hopes to the ground and flees with the matches. But then I come to my senses and remember the blackmail. I never realized how much he loved the SCLC until he stole from it to remain a part of it.

“What's prompting the urgency? Why now?” I ask.

“They've sent photos this time, Estem.”

“What sort of photos?” I have to think for a moment to be sure that it wasn't me. Photos. No demands for money. Would Mathis and Strobe show their hand so deliberately?

“Photos of me . . .” he says, “with other men.”

His honesty and lack of shame impresses me. “I don't know what to say . . .”

“It's funny, Estem, but that's not the response I expected.”

I'm silent.

“Did you know that I am a homosexual, John?”

“No . . .”

“The South is hard, but the world . . . the world is cruel. There were threats to expose me—to even lie and suggest that Martin and I are . . . involved.”

“Who do you think is behind it? The same as before?”

Gant is silent, but his look speaks volumes. “I have my suspicions,” he says finally. “I have to step down, John. I can't let them undo everything we have worked for. Threatening letters, vile recordings, it's all too much. I don't know how Martin puts up with it, but I can't continue to add to his burden. You can't imagine the toll it's taking on him. This has brought out the worst in me. I even had myself investigated by a private detective to see how much of my dirt someone could get their hands on if they so desired. It was less than I expected, but ample enough. That's why I'm stepping down.”

I recall the day I watched a man in a wrinkled trench coat give Gant a gift in the punishing rain.

“They even think I'm a communist. Hell, I'm no communist. I did attend the occasional meeting, but that was to impress a beautiful dark-haired boy. He had the eyes of a Gypsy king. It's strange what we'll risk for those fleeting moments of pleasure.”

Gant's airy-fairy reminiscing makes me look away.

“I apologize, Estem. I must be making you uncomfortable with all this lavender-scented talk.”

“No, sir. Of course not.” My shoulders shift in my suit. “Please go on.”

“Puritans,” Gant says. “The country is being overrun by puritans. This is what it comes down to, John—who are you fucking and who is fucking you.”

I feel sad for Gant. He wants to seem seasoned and wise right now, but then I think of that photo, that alley, and the payoff. If with all of his wisdom he couldn't avoid being reckless, there is little hope for me.

He comes down from his soapbox and looks me over to assess the effect of his sermon. He squints his eyes and arches an eyebrow. He must not like what he sees, because he turns his back on me and addresses me over his shoulder. “Know this, Estem. You are not trusted. People are suspicious of you—Martin is suspicious of you. And he isn't suspicious of anyone. Keep your hands clean. I won't be here to protect you.”

Martin is suspicious of
me
? I'm used to the judgment of my coworkers, but I never would have guessed that Martin shared their way of thinking.

“Sir, I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I won't be here to protect you . . . as I have been,” he says, turning to face me again.

I'm made rigid by a sudden surge of indignation. Who is he to protect me? I taught him how to save his own hide. Mathis and Strobe reached out their hands and gave me Gant's life to do with as I pleased. You could have added that scene to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for its beauty and significance.

“Aaron, I need you to elaborate. I'm completely in the dark. I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I suspect—forgive me—that I should be offended.”

“Estem, you don't have to pretend with me any longer. The new car, the new clothes—your tailor is an artist, by the way—all these things are signs to me. Flashing red stop signs. I know you're spying for them.”

His words rattle me. For a moment, I want to kneel and beg for clemency, but I feel as if someone has just tugged at my spine. Can it be true that all this time Gant has been playing me for a fool? Even in my fear, I can admit that I am impressed, but I do not respond. Gant is obviously impressed with himself as well.

“It's hard out there, believe me, I know,” he says. “There is a great deal of temptation competing with the level of sacrifice that we demand of you. So I don't blame you, brother. I'm disappointed, but I'm not going to judge you. The NAACP is a fine organization—longstanding— it's understandable that they would feel threatened by Martin and us. It's flattering that they think so much of us that they would pay you for information.”

I'm up to my glasses in an alphabet soup of intrigue. First, the SCLC, and then the FBI. I almost think that the NAACP is one of their subsidiaries. When I realize what he's saying, I have to smile.

“Some of the people in the office think you're an FBI informant, but I put an end to that talk. I said, ‘Estem? Really? How ridiculous. He's too harmless and unimportant for the FBI to even be aware of.' Isn't that the funniest load of shit you've ever heard?”

At first, I feel my jaw flex and then tighten. I swallow just to keep my head from bursting. Then I start to tremble, and I know I've been doped
with that intoxicating dose of stupidity and courage.

“It's funny that you would talk about people being suspicious of me, while you're cavorting with strange men . . . and embezzling money to save your ass,” I say as I stand. “You can play the victim all you want, but I know you, Aaron. I know you better than anyone. You're an arrogant son of a bitch. Retiring, my ass. Martin fired you. Discretion, you say. You wouldn't know discretion if it sat on your face and shat. I see through you. You're a weak and troubled man, Aaron. You can pretend that you're doing Martin a favor by leaving, but we both know you're being pushed out—shown the door. You're a liability—you always have been. You didn't care how your homosexuality affected Martin, until they sent pictures. And you speak of discretion. If you're leaving, then leave. I'm not going to be your deferential audience so that you can feel superior. Not anymore.”

I feel good after that, so I turn to go.

“Is that all, Estem? What's your point?” He walks over to me and gets very close. I feel his breath and smell his cologne. “Was it you? Since you know me so very well—was it you who sent those photos? You seem like the type that likes to watch. Did
you
blackmail me? You little sour-mouthed, crippled motherfucker. You're here because I allow you to be. When I resigned, Martin asked me, ‘Are you taking Estem with you?'—like you were a piece of office furniture I was fond of. I said no, because an assistant is just a professional man's tool, like the tools any other workingman uses. I said, no, he stays. When a janitor leaves he doesn't take the mop, now, does he?”

“I think you know what you can do with your mop,” I say. “Get creative. And by the way, I am not working for the NAACP.”

“You don't have to worry about convincing me of anything, Estem.”

I leave his office. But inside, I have conceded. I dreamed of having an advantage over him for so long. I thought I had it, but I was wrong. They threatened him with exposure, but such an unveiling was Gant's deliverance. Mathis and Strobe gave him the chance to be free, and he took it.

I'm on a belligerent high after my spat with Gant. I walk out of his office and into my own. I sit at my desk, tapping it with my pencil to the recent events playing in my head. The nerve of him. There is something positive that has come from all of this. I knew Gant's contempt for me was real, not imagined. This confirms it. But satisfaction only visits for a
moment; then it's gone. He's definitely prodded my insecurities. I need to get out of here, head home. Maybe muster up enough courage to head to Count's—get myself a real drink like a real man, maybe a woman too. . . .

I gather myself and walk out into the hallway. As I approach the exit, I notice that the door to Martin's office is open and he's inside. I stand in the doorway, looking at him. He's seated, but looks so exhausted that he wishes the chair were a bed. He seems deep in thought, but then he becomes aware of my presence. My eyes must be still buzzing with anger because when he looks at me he says, “Don't look at me like that. I didn't force him out.”

I only let out a short clipped breath in response.

“He could have stayed if he wanted. It was his choice.” He brings his hand to his face and strokes his chin. “He wanted to make the sacrifice . . . make a stand. He wanted to protect the movement—and that wasn't a sacrifice I asked him to make.”