Set the Night on Fire (16 page)

Rain made a soft noise in her throat. “My boyfriend was asked to be the youth coordinator for Bobby Kennedy’s campaign. He . . . we . . . were going to drop out of school for a semester and do it together. I was so excited. I mean . . . to work on a national campaign . . . and for Bobby Kennedy! Then Kennedy was killed, and nothing mattered any more.” She looked up. “We have to stop this war. Bobby would have.”

Alix was quiet. Then, “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“We broke up,” Rain said tersely. She got up and motioned for Alix to follow.

“Where are we going?”

“The El.”

“Why?”

“You’re gonna need supplies for your jewelry. I know a place on Jewelers Row.”

“Really? I’ve never been on the El.”

“Then this is your lucky day.”

T
here’s a period of time in the Midwest that is relentlessly gray and gloomy, as if nature is taking a break after the fire and splendor of autumn—it’s called November, Casey thought. He and Dar came back from India at the beginning of the month.

Consciousness raised meant that consciousness could be lost. Dar meditated twice a day, but otherwise was at loose ends. He made no effort to reconnect with the Movement and took a job at a Wells Street bookstore. Casey didn’t know if his disenchantment was triggered by the trip or by Alix.

Since their return, the two of them were inseparable, often disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door. When he wasn’t at the bookstore, Dar seemed content to help her with her jewelry business, which, to everyone’s surprise, was thriving.

Casey had never been much of a political animal. He took a job at a nearby Chinese restaurant. Rain was working twelve hours a day, taking photos for
The Seed
and selling the newspapers on the street. Payton, who kept pressuring them to read
Soul on Ice
, claimed to be working with the Black Panthers. He didn’t seem to have a job, at least one that Casey knew about, but he always seemed to come up with cash at the last minute. Casey figured he was dealing. Teddy was in and out, never really saying what he was up to, but money didn’t seem to be a problem for him either. Casey wondered if he was getting ready to take off. People were always coming and going—dropping in, crashing, then heading out, usually to Berkeley or the Haight. Or drifting back into the straight world.

For Casey the presidential election was almost an afterthought—a burp in a parallel world that had little to do with them. Neither candidate was acceptable, they all agreed, but Humphrey was marginally more tolerable. Still, neither Humphrey nor Nixon would make much difference in terms of the war, and when Nixon won, no one was shocked.

The weekend after the election Teddy asked Casey, Dar, and Payton to go to Wisconsin.

“Why do you want to go home?” Casey asked, slurping the won ton soup he’d brought home.

“The school called when I didn’t show up last semester. My father’s pissed, and he’s demanding we have a face-to-face.” Teddy leaned against the kitchen wall. “Payton says we shouldn’t cut our ties to family. He says they can be useful.”

“How do you figure, Payton?” Casey asked Payton, who was lying on the couch. “We’re doing exactly what they don’t want us to.”

“If we play our cards right, his father could supply us with provisions, shelter, maybe even money,” Payton answered. “And what’s he going to do to Teddy if all of us are with him? He’ll be outnumbered.”

And might not be able to talk Teddy into going back to school, Casey thought.

Payton addressed Dar, who was on the floor sorting beads. “You’re coming too, right?”

Dar looked up. “Depends what Alix is doing.”

“She hawks jewelry on Maxwell Street every weekend.”

Despite the fact he’d been in India for a month, Dar looked puzzled, even a little irritated that Payton knew more about Alix’s life than he did.

“You need to get back with the program, man,” Payton said. “A weekend in the country is just the ticket.”

* *

The four of them arrived in Madison late Friday night. The traffic out of Chicago was miserable, and the bus seemed to stop at every town along I-90. Teddy, usually the talkative one, was quiet and jiggled his feet the entire way.

They took a cab to the house. On a private beach by Lake Monona just outside the city, the house was all redwood and glass, with balconies on three levels. You had to drive through a strip of woods to find it. The Markhams probably weren’t in Alix Kerr’s league, Casey thought, but they more than met the establishment’s criteria for affluence.

Judge Stephen Markham greeted them at the door. He looked like a man with little else but power to recommend him. Watery blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, hair just turning gray. He was only about five ten, but held himself ramrod straight. Either he’d served in the military or he had a very stiff pole up his ass.

He and Teddy didn’t hug, just nodded at each other. After introductions, the judge led them down a long marble hallway lined with large windows that overlooked the lake.

There was no Mrs. Markham—his parents had divorced years ago, Teddy said. The judge’s housekeeper, a cheerful heavyset black woman, cooked for them, heaping roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, and gravy on plates in the kitchen. She had the whitest teeth Casey had ever seen. Payton wanted to smoke a joint afterwards, but Teddy said they were expected in the study.

“Expected?” Payton’s eyebrows arched.

“It’s time for our audience,” Teddy said, trying to be cool, but Casey heard the edge in his voice.

They filed into a room that could have been a movie set. Dark wood, soft lighting, heavy drapes, oil paintings of ships in rough seas. Judge Markham sat at a polished mahogany desk in a leather chair, watching TV. He zapped the set off when they entered and put down a remote control. Casey was impressed. Not many people had the new TV controller. As the judge swiveled to face them, he picked up a pipe, then made a show of tapping the edge against a glass ashtray, filling and lighting it. The scent of cherry tobacco gradually filled the air.

“I trust you boys were well fed.”

Teddy cleared his throat. “Chassie cooked a great meal.”

The judge nodded and focused on each of them, lingering first on Payton, whose hair was in a ponytail and who was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. “You are who?”

“Eric Payton.”

The judge puffed on the pipe and slid his eyes to Dar. “And you?” 

“Dar Gantner.”

“I’m Casey Hilliard,” Casey said when the bushy eyebrows lifted in his direction.

“And you are all friends of my son?”

“We work together,” Payton said.

“And where would that be?” He blew out a cloud of smoke.

“In Chicago.”

The judge looked at his son. “I see. So that’s where you’ve been?”

Teddy swallowed.

“I assume you were at the convention?” When Teddy nodded again, he asked, “Did you get arrested?”

“No.”

Judge Markham scanned the rest of the group. “Did any of you?”

“Dar was busted twice,” Payton offered.

“I see.” Markham looked back at Teddy. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

Teddy’s face reddened. He looked at the floor. “I . . . I was going to tell you . . ., ” he stammered.

Judge Markham put down his pipe. “What sort of work are you doing?”

“We’re social activists,” Payton said.

“Social activists,” he said disdainfully. “And that entails what exactly?”

Casey tried to make eye contact with Teddy, but Teddy kept staring at a spot on the carpet. Payton’s eyes were veiled as well. Only Dar looked back at the judge, as if he hadn’t expected anything except hostility. A warning bell went off in Casey’s head.

“There’s a powerful movement out there, Judge,” Payton was saying. “Young people won’t tolerate a repressive society.”

Markham picked up a bottle of vodka on the edge of the desk and poured two fingers into a highball glass. “In what way is society repressive?”

Here it comes, Casey thought.

“The capitalist system,” Payton said, “with its focus on progress and the accumulation of wealth, is inherently repressive. In fact, we do ourselves a disservice when we use the word . . . ‘progress.’ What we’re really doing is exploiting our resources, people, and power. The prime example of that is the war in Vietnam, which . . . ”

“So progress is undesirable?” Markham smiled mirthlessly. “Somehow I think you’d have a hard time selling that to most Americans.”

Payton turned to Dar with a look that said he needed help.

Dar jumped in. “Judge Markham, have you heard of the philosopher Herbert Marcuse?”

The judge’s eyebrows knit together. “Of course.”

“Well,” Dar continued, “Marcuse says that progress breeds guilt. He says it actually inhibits happiness and fosters a sense of alienation. All it does, he says, is perpetuate and rationalize the prevailing system.”

“And what does Mr. Marcuse suggest we do?” Markham asked. “Become Marxists?”

“Not at all. He’s as unhappy with communism as he is with capitalism. He believes in a true socialist society.”

“And how are we to achieve this?”

Dar didn’t like patronizing questions, Casey knew. Still, he answered with only a splash of contempt. “Marcuse advocates something called the ‘great refusal’—an attempt to foster oppositional thought and behavior through radical thinking.”

“I see.” Markham tossed down more vodka.

Payton tensed and tapped his foot, as if he was gearing up for a fight. But Dar remained calm. Unflappable. Dar’s cool and Payton’s heat made for a potent mixture. Meanwhile, Teddy didn’t say a word. But this was his father’s turf. That would crimp anyone’s style.

The judge cleared his throat. “Interesting. But there’s a significant flaw in your analysis.”

Careful, Dar, Casey thought. The old man is baiting us.

“Where do you think oppositional thought and behavior leads?”

Dar cocked his head. “Ultimately, to change.”

“No.” Markham shook his head. “It leads to violence. And crime. I’ve been on the bench for years. Before that I was a prosecutor. I’ve dealt with vast numbers of men—and women—who ‘practiced’ oppositional behavior. In every case, there’s a stiff price paid. Their lives are ruined, their families’ too. Oppositional behavior leads to retaliation, punishment, and more repression. Not change.”

“Bullshit!” Payton fired back. “That’s because there hasn’t been a model of what could be. Over time, as more of the populace becomes . . . ”

“When you’re perceived as a hooligan hell bent on destruction,” Markham said firmly, “you don’t do yourself—or society—any good. You’ve simply unleashed your innate impulses toward aggression. And those, as Konrad Lorenz pointed out, are what man needs to control if the species is to survive.”

I’ll call your Marcuse and raise you a Lorenz, Casey thought.

“We’ve tried to work through the system,” Payton said passionately. “But the system has abandoned us. This has been the bloodiest year of the Vietnam War. How much longer do we beat our heads against the wall?”

“What would your father say?” The judge picked up his glass.

“My father ran out on us when I was five.”

“What about yours?” He turned to Dar.

Dar hesitated. Then he said quietly, “My father killed himself when I was fourteen.”

Markham froze, his glass in the air, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry.” He put the glass down.

“He really is,” Teddy said.

“You don’t need to rescue me, Ted,” Markham said. “I am a public servant. Offering my views on what makes society work. Public service is a Markham family tradition. We’ve done more for . . . yes . . . progress . . . than many others.”

He means us, Casey thought.

“And we will continue to.” Markham leaned back. “On that note, gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me, I would like to talk to my son for a moment. Privately.” He paused. “This has been a fascinating conversation.”

Payton raised his eyebrows. Teddy gave him a brief nod. Dar, Payton, and Casey put on their coats, went outside, and strolled down to the beach. Though a thin layer of clouds covered the moon, it shed enough light to see.

“Well, he was a trip.” Payton fished out a joint and lit it.

“He’s dangerous,” Dar said. “Smart, articulate, and arrogant.”

Casey said, “I can see why Teddy doesn’t want to stick around.” 

Dar turned to them. “Have you really talked to Teddy? Do you know what he stands for? I tried once but didn’t get far. I just couldn’t get a reading. He was . . . well . . . slippery. I got the feeling he was telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“Don’t worry.” Payton brushed it off. “Teddy is fine. He’s part of the solution. It’s his father who’s the problem.”

Casey stared at the lake, the choppy waves forming whitecaps visible even in the dim light. He didn’t know if people were problems or solutions. All he knew was that a thick layer of ice would soon cover much of the lake’s surface, turning it into a frozen, deceptive calm. Underneath, though, the water would be churning, cold and heartless, threatening to pull them down.