The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (36 page)

Benja an Ma cryin, walkin by the casket. I come up to it, my brother peaceful laid out.

Hey B.J., I say. Open your eyes.

He don't move.

B.J., it's a dream, you in my dream you ain't really dead. Talk.

He don't stir. Then I get it.

Oh!

Course he ain't answerin, he can't hear me! So I reach for his han, put it aroun
my
han so he can feel me finger-tell it. But his han's ice cold, stone hard. I try movin his fingers, workin all my strength. Then his pinkie snap off an fall to the bottom a the coffin,
clink
.

Wake up, Randall.

My eyes flash open. There stan the guard, that Jesse. A little light shinin in from out where the sheriff's desk is.

I got a present for ya.

I don't react a jot.

That Yankee nigger lawyer? You know, he a good man. He apparently got a tenderness in his heart for po white trash. Went back to whatever nigger's house he hidin in an come back here. He come back for ya, Randall.

From behine his back Jesse pull out two wingtips which he promply throw through the bars at me. They ain't the finest quality but they ain't bad. Just a little worn through, still in good shape.

This is what he said: I brought these in case some Negro needed em, but then. An he tips his head toward your cell, turns aroun an leaves. See, Randall? He foun you more pitiful than the worstest-off niggers.

Now the phone ringin at the sheriff's desk. An I hear every blamed word.

This is Sheriff Tucker.

Ma'am, ma'am, now calm down.

Who again? Mrs. Evans? Mrs. Randall Evans? You his wife? Yes, he's here. Yes, his bail's set at—

Ma'am, you gotta stop cryin now, I can't understand ya. You gotta calm down now, ma'am, you gotta calm down!

 

17

Near midnight by the time he's released. He ties the colored lawyer's shoes together, flings them over his right shoulder. She and he walk home in silence, her gait brisk and a few feet ahead of him. She goes into the house, proceeds directly to the guestroom and shuts the door. He heads for the basement.

He gathers every freight car and passenger car, every automobile and tree, the school bus, fire station, stop sign, traffic light. He collects the park bench and baby stroller, the pedestrians and the little terrier, every bit of track, all thrown into a couple of old burlap potato bags. He carries it all up the steps through the house, through the kitchen, out to the yard. He goes to the toolshed, grabs his gas can and, because there is just a sliver of the moon, a flashlight.

He drives to the junkyard, steps out of his truck. He is alone. He brings the bag to a clearing and empties it.

He sets up the town—the school and the police station, the streets and the park, the drugstore and the butcher and the automobiles and the mother shopping for groceries and the shoe store. He lays the track and arranges the train on it. He walks back to his truck, siphons gas into the can, carries the can back to Train Town and holds it high over the miniature metropolis: a gentle spring shower.

“It was all a very tragic accident.”

He tosses the match and the town blazes. He throws one of the colored lawyer's shoes into the flames, then the other. He remembers a Sunday school verse:
And they burnt all their cities wherein they dwelt, and all their goodly castles, with fire.
He stays throughout the incineration of the homes and the businesses and the people and the train. The inferno is reflected in his baby blue irises, and though forty-five minutes later there's nothing left but gray cinders and ash, the fire in Randall's eyes continues to flash and burn.

 

 

1959–60

Indianapolis, et al.

 

1

There are six floors and the rickety elevator stops at the fifth with a worrisome jolt. The bus driver steps out. He did not know what to expect and yet imagined the law offices to be something a trifle more elegant than this shabbiness. Fingerprinted walls, threadbare carpet. The carelessness signals to him instability, yet he knows the establishment has been in operation a good twenty years. The receptionist is a slim, medium-dark woman wearing a brown blouse and deeper brown skirt, her shoulder-length straightened hair equally sensible. She checks her appointment book, makes a call, and the middle of three closed doors is opened. The attorney who now stands before him is a slender, handsome, dark man of about five-eight, no older than mid-twenties. He wears a suit, presents a professional air. His smile is close-lipped, and he holds out his hand. “Hello. I'm Eliot Campbell.”

The table in the conference room is old and marred, but clean and polished. Eliot offers the potential client coffee, and they sit.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

J.C. Kane, paper-bag brown, middle-aged, and carrying forty pounds too much, twirls his bus driver's cap between his fingers. Such a personal issue. How can he discuss it with a stranger? He is not here because of a battle with a landlord nor because he has been embezzling money from his company nor because he is contesting his millionaire uncle's will, though he supposes on some level they are all private matters. Anyone coming to a lawyer is exposing himself, opening up his most vulnerable wounds for the world's judgment.

“Sir?”

“I was workin a twelve-hour shift. There was the usual. Woman tryin to claim her ten-year-old son was five, free fare. Drunk refuse to get off enda the night. So I come home, not a lot to ask, dinner on the table. She ain't cooked nothin! Not a damn kidney bean, she sleep! I know she big, expectin, but this behavior was goin on before. Also, since she been with-child the house seem to go to pot. Like a steam locomotive run through it, sink full a dirty dishes, stuff flung all over the livin room. This our firsborn, she can't handle things now how it be our fourth? Also, we live right here in Center Township like everybody else, lately she been talkin bout wantin to move when the baby come, better neighborhood, now what realtor gonna sell a house to a Negro north a Thirty-eighth Street? Dreamin! Also, she on the phone with her mother
all the time
. Lucky it a local call, long-distance woulda bankrupted me. Also, she has not been lately interested in anything marital. An I hear for some women this condition can continue for months after the baby come out, well what
else
I'm sposed to do? Also,”

“‘What else'?”

The attorney's tone is dry, noncommittal. J.C. has been pouring it out to him, all his frustrations of the last months, and in the lawyer's face he can read nothing but detachment. The bus driver looks down at his cap again.

“Well, I can't. I need.”

He sighs, then notices the clean ashtray in the center of the table.

“Can I smoke?”

Moving only his index finger the lawyer pushes the object a few inches closer to J.C., who pulls out his Kents, lights up, and sits back, as if acting more relaxed will make him so.

“What about we jus ain't happy together no more?”

“That's not grounds for divorce.”

“It oughta be!”

Eliot says nothing. J.C. puffs, the cigarette faintly trembling between his fingers.

“I
told
ja she ain't doin her wifely duty.”

“If that was not the situation before she became pregnant, it's not grounds for divorce.”

“The house a mess!”

“That's not grounds for divorce.”

“She ain't gettin no younger!”

“That's not grounds for divorce.”

J.C. Kane slams his cap against his knee, stands, turns away to face the door, hands on his hips. Eliot glances at the clock, then speaks.

“When you said What else were you supposed to do.”

J.C. Kane does not turn around.

“I'm a man, ain't I?” His chest rises and falls, deep silent breaths. “She. This girl. I'd seen her before, work up on The Avenue. Barmaid. She jus.”

Eliot allows for J.C. to go on. When he doesn't: “That
is
grounds for divorce.”

J.C. swings around, his face now bright, hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Your wife's grounds. If you've been unfaithful.”

“Well. That's okay!” J.C. smiles. “What's the difference?”

“The settlement. She'll likely get it all, the house, car. And alimony.”

J.C.'s smile fades. He stares at the younger man, whose expression of disengagement has remained unaltered throughout their interview. The bus driver roughly stamps out his unfinished cigarette and puts on his cap. “
That
I coulda got without speakin to no attorney.” He yanks open the door, then turns back around. “All them years a law school. For
that?
”

“Definitely
not
.”

J.C. Kane stares at the lawyer, confused. Then leaves, noting the extraordinary period of time since Eliot Campbell has batted an eyelash.

 

2

Eliot is startled by the ring.

“I was so surprised when the mail come! seein the shape of it. Another book! I don't know any other mothers, their sons regularly sendin em poetry.”

He smiles. “You're welcome, Mom.”

He hears Beauregard Greene's pencil sharpener again, his neighbor to the right seeming to employ the device twenty times a day. The walls are thin, the three tiny rooms, wherein sit the three lawyers, having once been one large office, now partitioned. As the rookie, twenty-five-year-old Eliot has been placed in the middle between fifty-something Beau and forty-something William Mitchell. The modest rest of Winston Douglas and Associates is comprised of the conference room/library, the reception area, the larger office of Winston Douglas himself, and the bathroom.

“You should see the size a the turkey! An I know how you like pineapple upside down, I made that an punkin pie both.”

Eliot gently moves his finger along a scratch on his desk.

“Don't tell me.”

“I tried. Really! But I think it's too late. I was waiting to see if I could've gotten off early but, Wednesday afternoon, you know how the traffic'll be.”

Silence.

“I'll be home in a month for Christmas.” Nothing. “You know I come when I can. I just saw you in August.”

“Yes, when you knew Dwight an his friend were takin their fishin trip, he wouldn't be here.”

“I'll be home for Christmas.”

“Good, I'll tell Daddy an we'll all be expectin you. An Christmas is Friday this year so you'll be able to stay the whole weekend.”

After he puts the receiver back into its cradle, he stares at his closed door, his coat and wraps hanging from it. Dwight and his friend.

He walks out to reception, glancing at the gold nameplate:
ANDREA MEYERS
. She stops typing to look up at him.

“Andi. Can I talk to you a second?”

She doesn't reply, as if her staring at him is answer enough.

“I wish. In the future, could you please buzz me to let me know who's on the phone before putting it through?”

Her eyes remain fixed on him, though he perceives a flicker.

“It was your mother.”

“I know but—”

“Sorry. Usually I do buzz you but I had three people on hold and it got a little hectic, sorry, I thought you wouldn't mind speaking to your mother.”

Is she
reprimanding
him? “Andi. I know you're busy. Just, I'd appreciate—”

“I'm sorry. Honestly. My fault. It won't happen again,” and she turns back to the typewriter to resume her previous task. He feels clumsy as he often does after conversations with her. In addition to her receptionist duties she serves as secretary to the four lawyers, so he never has been certain if her abruptness is because she never much cared for him or because she's just very busy. Noting the way she expertly ignores him while he remains awkwardly standing at her desk, he presumes a little of both.

As he starts to turn back into his office, the elevator gate is pushed open.

“Miss?”

A middle-aged white man dressed in his Sunday best, hat in hand.

“Yes?”

“I'm wondering if I could see somebody. I have this problem. Could I talk to somebody?”

Andi and Eliot stare at him.

“Sir.” Andi is delicate. “You realize this is a Negro law firm?”

“You turn white away? I'n't that discrimination?”

“We have had a handful of white clients. I just wanted to be sure you knew—”

“Don't I get it from the white
an
the black. I'm colored!” He sits on the couch. “That's my curse.”

Eliot puts his hands into his pockets, speaking in a steady tone. “How exactly is being colored a curse?”

“No! Lookin white! I
want
to live among other colored people, but all those places.” He shakes his head. “So I find a very nice house with a very nice yard for my three kids plus one on the way an a very nice flower garden for my wife, an it's affordable! More affordable than the ghetto.” He sighs. “But all the neighbors. They favor me. Which is to say they do not look like my brown-skinned wife, they do not look like my light brown kids. I said yes, I signed on the dotted line. These nice places I have been shown before when my family is not with me. I have said yes before but it never went so far as me being shown the dotted line because I would always mention, in case it wa'n't clear, that I'm colored, and suddenly there would be some other family who'd got there first but that fact had slipped the realtor's mind till now. So this time as an experiment I neglect to mention I'm not white. I am never asked and I do not volunteer the information.” He chuckles. “You shoulda seen the surprised eyes of our new neighbors on moving day! Oh that first week there were the dirty looks, ‘Nigger nigger' screamed at my kids comin home from school. But I thought, Sticks and stones.” He sighs. “Eight days after my family crossed the threshold, the first
real
stone come crashin through the livin room, Sunday evenin while we watchin
Ed Sullivan
narrowly missin my nine-year-old daughter. We barricaded ourselves behind the couch. Called the police but they did not arrive until sixty-five minutes later, just five minutes after the bombardment suddenly subsided. Interestingly. The police acknowledged the extensive damage to our home. The television a pile a scrap, our furniture. However, it was obvious from the looks the officers gave us that little would be done in the manner of investigation. For the present we are all crowded in with my wife's sister's family. The realtor, who out n out claimed I had deceived him by not tellin him I was colored, says that he can nonetheless set aside his feelings for the sake of business, the realtor is eager to sell. Well I don't like him, an I can't set aside
my
feelings.” Here the white black man pauses.

“What is it you wish us to do, sir?” asks Andi.

“Put em in jail!”

“That would be the job of the district attorney.”

The man lets out an exasperated breath.

Eliot speaks. “Perhaps you'd be interested in filing a civil lawsuit?”

“Yeah! Sue em all! The cops an the neighbors an the goddamn realtor!” He holds out his hand. “I'm Roscoe Foster.”

Forty-five minutes later Eliot sits at his desk, his office door open. He looks over a divorce case related to a husband's gambling obsession. He hears Winston Douglas's door opening. The quality of Winston's polite farewell to Mr. Foster clarifies for Eliot that the case has been accepted, and as soon as Mr. Foster has closed the elevator, Eliot flies to his boss's door.

“May I speak with you, sir?”

Winston Douglas's office may be large compared to his associates' but there is no indication of executive luxury. His sofa a bit frayed, the file cabinets somewhat dented. Eliot sits forward on the couch to make his case.

“Sir, when you hired me eight months ago, I felt honored. I knew that your firm had taken on job discrimination suits and housing discrimination suits, that you had defended Negroes in claims of police brutality and black men falsely accused of rape when colored service institutions shied away from such cases. I was thrilled to start a new life in Indianapolis, I felt
privileged
to have been invited to be a part of such a vigorous, vital organization, and I am eager to start contributing to your esteemed mission. Once I heard Charles Hamilton Houston speak. He said that the
Negro students he taught at Howard Law School were to become more than lawyers, they were to become
social engineers
as his protégé Thurgood Marshall has already proven, and every civil rights case we accept is on that path. Right, sir?”

Eliot had always found his boss to be fair and understanding. Winston Douglas, born in Indianapolis, a self-named “lifelong Hoosier,” a man who remembers well the heyday of “The Avenue” of J. C. Kane's barmaid, Indiana Avenue, the historic Negro cultural hub. This respected attorney wanted his birthplace to be more than revived to its former glory but to be
better,
Eliot is certain Winston had not brought him here just so he could spend his career divvying up the spoils of wrecked marriages. Now the elder gazes at his recruit.

“Eliot. This establishment could never survive on civil rights cases alone, most of which we do pro bono or nearly so. We are supported by the income of divorce cases, of accident claims. You are still our junior member, you are young and earnest and are learning quickly. When you're ready, you certainly will be assigned race discrimination cases, there is unfortunately no shortage of that work. But for now, I'm giving the Foster case to Beau. I
do
have a new assignment I'd like you to look at. A woman almost had a knock-down drag-out with her sister at their mother's funeral. Contesting the will.”

Eliot is back in his office, slamming the pages of
The Probate Law and Practice (of the State of Indiana)
. Usually he works till at least seven but today when the clock strikes five he's out the door. It's still later than everyone else who left early, three, for the holiday weekend, with the apparent exception of Beau Greene, as Eliot still hears the irritating grinding of his pencil sharpener through the wall. The usual six-minute wait for the ancient elevator is interminable.

“Hold that for me!” when the bell finally sounds. Beau comes running.

Riding the lift down, the older attorney asks, “My wife'll kill me if I forget to pick up the cranberry sauce for tomorrow. You have big plans?”

Eliot shakes his head, not turning to Beau. Then a momentary fear erupts, that Beau, in the spirit of the holiday, might actually ask Eliot over for dinner with his family. Eliot quickly mutters, “Wanna catch up on some work.”

“So Winston's giving you all the crap cases.”

Eliot's face flushes warm, keeping his hard eyes trained on the elevator door. It had not occurred to him that his colleagues may have perceived his impatient ambition, and he remembers now the thin walls, wonders how much of his pathetic appeal to Winston was not the closed-door conference he'd assumed. Beau laughs loud and hearty.

“You can't become the Negro Clarence Darrow overnight. Patience, boy. Patience!”