Lonely Crusade (21 page)

So what if he did want in a wife a sycophant and a slave? A wife who, if she could not think of him as great, could at least tell him he was right—a wife who would always be beneath him, who would have to look up to him to look at him at all? So what if he did need such a wife to know that he was not the lowest person in the world? And what if it did make her the lowest instead of himself? It would just be her unfortunate predicament of being married to a Negro man. It was not fair—of course it was not fair. It was a mean, dirty thought, of course, of course, he admitted to himself. But, Lord God, a man had to stand on somebody, because this was the way it was.

No, not Ruth. If she could not understand his antipathy to a hard, critical, competitive wife, she certainly could not understand that to a Negro equality meant special privilege.

Then he thought of Jackie—not that he expected her to be any more understanding than Ruth, or understanding at all. She could not even understand how he, a Negro, might interpret her loss of interest as a subtle invitation for him to overpower her, since in his limited experience he had seen nothing barred in the frantic search for strange sensations from interracial sex.

But he could better bear the thought of her not understanding, since there was no reason why she should. She had no interest in him beyond the physical and he was not expected to marry her. In the place of understanding she offered sympathy. And even though he knew it to be false, no more than a preparatory step to sensualism, it was better than facing the lack of understanding in his wife.

For at least Jackie could be a woman with breasts and limbs and flesh, and not always a condescending counselor like his wife. And to him, a Negro, she could be more than just a woman—a white woman enshrined in the fatal allure of the forbidden, and veiled in the mystery surrounding white women as seen by some young Negro men. And now she had a greater attraction, for she had threatened him.

So it was to Jackie that his hurt pride sent him, for what he did not know. But after he had entered the telephone booth in the downstairs hallway to call her he discovered that he did not know her name. So he had to call Mollie first to get her telephone number, and when finally he called her, the build-up was intense.

“It’s Lee, Jackie—Lee Gordon. Remember me?”

“Of course, Lee,” but her voice was noncommittal.

“I didn’t realize it was so late until after I had dialed.”

“We haven’t gone to bed. Kathy and I were playing records.”

“I thought maybe I could stop by for a few minutes,” and when she answered this with silence, he felt impelled to add: “I want to ‘pologize.” No sooner had he said the words than he regretted them.

She let the silence run a moment longer, and then said cordially: “Please do,” allowing him to breathe once more.

“In about a half an hour,” he said, but now the thrill had gone from it.

After he had hung up he was assailed by a feeling of strangeness, as if he was wandering outside the scope of his own known world. Then a sense of guilt engulfed him as he thought of Ruth. She would be worried again, would probably wait up for him. He began hurrying from his pursuing conscience.

Jackie again looked girlish in the light-blue robe, with her windblown hair falling in a brown cascade about her neck and shoulders. Her face had a scrubbed, tinted look and beneath her hairline a tiny scar, which he had not noticed before, glowed whitely. Only her lips were painted freshly carmine, and her eyes were full of friendly interest, no more.

“Kathy’s turned in,” she said, and led him to the sofa where they had sat before.

It had been Lee’s intention to challenge her about the Rasmus Johnson document but in her presence he felt a tongue-tied diffidence, and the memory of the previous meeting chastened him. He found himself again apologizing. “I’m sorry about the other night. I really didn’t mean—”

“We were both a little drunk.”

“I know, but—”

“Forget it, Lee. It doesn’t count when you’re drunk.”

“Well, I—well—yes.”

She gave a fresh, wholesome laugh. “Where did you pick up that?”

“Pick up what?”

“That Veil—yes.’ It’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I just can’t find the words.”

“How was the meeting?” she asked, channeling the conversation into another course.

“Oh, fine. The rain kept some away.”

“It was unfortunate you had to run into difficulty at your first meeting. But don’t look so downcast, it’s not fatal.”

“Oh, were you there?”

“No, but I heard about it.”

“Oh!” And then doggedly, he came back to it, “What Smitty can’t seem to understand is—” He broke off. Couldn’t he ever let it go? he asked himself.

When it became apparent that he was not going to continue, she asked: “What is it that Smitty can’t understand?”

“Oh, nothing much. We had a little argument about how the Negro workers feel.”

“How do they feel?”

“I was trying to tell him that the Negro workers presented a special problem.”

“Do they?”

He looked sharply at her and then, remembering that she was a Communist, let the question pass, “Oh, I don’t know. I’d rather not talk about it now, anyway.”

She did not press him for an answer, but instead asked pleasantly, “What shall we talk about, then?” She appeared serene and amicable but not overly interested; and he had the slightly disturbing sensation that she was laughing at him.

Again he braced himself to challenge her about the Rasmus Johnson thing, but could not bring himself to put it into words. “You talk about something,” he suggested. “I like to listen to you.” And then spontaneously he said: “Recite some poetry, won’t you?”

A bright, pleased look swept across her face, but she said: “I’m not in the mood for it tonight. Tell me about yourself, Lee. What sort of person are you?”

“Oh, I’m just another guy—an amateur union organizer.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a job.”

“Is that all?”

“Well—no. I believe in unionism too even if I do argue with Smitty.”

“You’ll like it better when the results begin to show.”

“I like it all right now.”

“Don’t you think Luther’s a great help?”

“Not necessarily, no.”

“Perhaps you don’t listen to him. He’s had a lot of experience in organizing, you know?”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“How do you like Benny Stone?” she asked, again channeling the conversation.

“I don’t like him, why?”

“You don’t know him well.” It was more a statement than a question.

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s a marvelous person once you get to know him. We want him for the president of the local, you know?”

“Oh, are you a member?”

“Certainly.”

“At least he would be better than Todd,” Lee admitted.

“Marvin is useful, too,” she said. “He has quite a following.”

Lee was tired of it now. “What is your last name, Jackie?” he asked, channeling the conversation himself.

“Forks. Just remember kitchen utensils. And it’s not knives.”

“Or spoons.”

They laughed perfunctorily.

“Would you like coffee?” she asked.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll turn the fire off under the water,” she said, arising.

He watched the lithe sway of her hips as she walked into the kitchen but experienced no desire. It was enough to be in her presence, to lean on her impersonal strength. When she returned, he said: “I have been thinking of the colonel’s speech you read to me. I find it inspiring—much to my surprise, in fact.”

“I thought you would. The very fact that he is a Southerner shows a sense of awakening.”

“What I mean is, well, you need encouragement sometimes from any source.” At that moment he felt receptive to anything that she might have to say.

Her face leveled under the slow spread of maternalism and when she spoke her voice was beckoning as to a little child. “Communism is the answer to that.”

It caught him like a blow into his stomach and his mind closed rapidly again. He felt only aversion and now he had the nerve to challenge her.

“Why did you put those excerpts from the Rasmus Johnson case transcript into my raincoat pocket the other night, Jackie? Was it to threaten me?”

Her eyes widened as if in complete bewilderment and she looked at him as if fearing that he had gone out of his mind.

“You know what I mean,” he went on determinedly. “Those typed excerpts from the Rasmus Johnson rape trial that you Communists used to pass around.”

“Oh, I remember. That was years ago. I was in San Francisco at the time. What about them?”

“When I got home I found a copy in my raincoat pocket. I wondered if you had put it there.”

“No, why should I?” Her eyes were the essence of pure candor but coldness had come into her voice.

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“If I had felt that way about you I would not have let you come tonight.”

“I was wondering about that. You know now that I had no intention of—well, you know what I mean?” He couldn’t say the word.

A sudden show of anger brought her quickly to her feet, but she moved slightly to one side so that the light from below delicately shaded the exquisite lines of her features and gave the illusion of height and slenderness to her sturdy peasant’s body.

“Lee, look at me!” she said, the sharpness of outrage in her voice. “Do I look like a whore—a cheap tramp who would get a thrill out of your raping me?”

Now he became defensive in the face of her indignation. “Jackie, I didn’t think that, honestly. I don’t think of you in that way at all.”

“But you think I’m a pushover!”

“No, no I don’t. I don’t even want you in that way.”

She turned slightly, showing the curve of her hips and the light caught brightly in her hair. “I am a Communist because I believe in it,” she said evenly, “but that doesn’t make me want to hop into bed with you at your least desire as you seem to think.”

“I don’t think that at all. If you mean you think that’s why I called you tonight, you’re wrong. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Now she wore a wounded look. “I understand so much more about you than you realize, Lee. You’re so confused, so mixed up in your thinking. But you don’t understand me at all. If I have anything to tell you, I won’t tell you in that way.”

“That’s what has been puzzling me. What could you be trying to tell me?”

“I want to help you, Lee.” She thawed slightly and into her voice came a note of genuine sincerity. “Don’t you realize that? I want to help you because you’re important to the union—and because as a person you’re so—so lost.”

The antagonism ran out of him beneath her candid gaze, and he wanted to tell her everything, to confess his fear and his weakness and nurse at the breast of her sympathy.

“I know you do, Jackie. In a way you’re strangely good. That’s why I’m so attracted to you, I suppose.”

Now she sat again and patted the back of his hand, glowing all inside from a sense of triumph. But the longing for him to desire her began riding her again and it showed in her voice as she tried to take her thoughts away from it, “Lee, you can’t solve the Negro problem by yourself. All you can do is work with others, darling.”

“I’m not trying to solve the Negro problem, Jackie. I’m trying to solve my own problem.”

“What kind of person is your wife, Lee?”

The question startled him. “Why, she’s all right. How do you mean?”

“Is she intelligent?”

“Why—certainly. She’s a women’s counselor at the Jay Company.” He said it with a sense of pride.

“Do you get along?”

“Well—yes. We get along all right.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say you were one of those misunderstood husbands.”

“No, we get along all right most of the time.”

“I’m glad for your sake. You need an understanding wife.” And now that she had gotten past her sudden swell of passion, she glanced covertly at her wrist watch with just enough of a gesture to be noticeable but not obvious.

Lee noticed it and jumped to his feet. “Oh, I must go; it must be awfully late.”

She stood beside him and lightly touched his arm. “You’ll be all right,” she said, smiling into his eyes.

He stood for a moment looking at her, searching for the words to express his sense of satisfaction. “I want to thank you for letting me drop by, Jackie,” he finally said. “I enjoyed talking to you.”

Her voice was pleasant as she said: “I enjoyed talking to you also, Lee,” and then she put the three hundred years in between them, “but I would rather you didn’t come to see me again.”

“Jackie!” A sudden breathless hurt was in his voice. “But I want to see you again. I—we’re just getting to know each other.”

“I don’t think we’re good for each other. And I know your wife must be wondering where you are.”

“I don’t care if she is. I like you more than you can realize. Please, Jackie, let me call you anyway.”

Into her eyes came a sudden winning look. But her voice remained noncommittal. “We’ll see.”

He braced himself and said: “I’d like to kiss you, if I may.”

For just a moment she hesitated before she said: “I want you to.”

Beneath his lips hers were cool and unresponsive, and what he got from it was the simple knowledge that he had kissed a white girl while both of them were sober. And yet on the way home he experienced a sense of having gained something. Ruth had gone to bed, and when he climbed in beside her he felt a strange forgiveness—for she knew not what she did, he thought.

Chapter 13

A
ND HOW IS
it going with my fine anti-Semitic friend?”

The words reached out and stopped Lee as he came down the walk from the union shack. Hearing the delayed cadence ending on a question mark, he thought, “Jew,” before he jerked a look down at Abe Rosenberg’s bald head in the sunshine. Sitting on a disbanded wooden casing, feet dangling and his froglike body wrapped in a wrinkled tan cotton slack suit, Rosie looked the picture of the historic Semite. Lee’s reaction was an alerting, a quickening of defensives, a sharpening of caution.