Lonely Crusade (28 page)

She put her arms about him and drew him back to her.

Never so violently responsive, so flagrantly wanton, so completely consuming, but it was not the same. In it was a defiance of the forbidden, shaping it in a way he could not tell.

For a long time afterward they were silent, then she asked: “What’s the matter, darling?”

“I’m just unhappy.”

“I knew it when I first saw you. You’re just frustrated, darling.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Frustration always begins with sex, the lack of gratification—”

“But not with you.”

And for a long time again they were silent.

“What are you thinking about, darling?” she finally asked.

“You.”

“What are you thinking about me, darling?”

“I was wondering how you would be as my wife.”

“I would be a wonderful wife to you, darling.”

“I bet you would.”

“Would you like for me to get up and fix something to eat?” she offered.

“No, kiss me—”

“You’re sweet,” he said afterward. And a moment later mused: “I wonder why white women are so much more affectionate to Negro men than our own women are.”

“It’s only in your mind,” she said.

“How in my mind?”

“In your mind we are the ultimate.”

Lee Gordon vaguely wondered whether to be flattered or insulted, and to avoid deciding, smothered her in his arms.

“And we can give you happiness,” she thought triumphantly, offering her body with warm, passionate surrender to another ecstasy.

She could give him this illusion of manhood even while denying that he possessed it, for to her he was the recipient of her grace. But Ruth could give him nothing that to her he did not have. So with Jackie he had these moments that rightfully belonged to Ruth. It could have been wonderful with Ruth, for she had all that Jackie feigned. But he could never be for her what Jackie could make of him for her own designs.

And yet in the morning when they parted, he had given Jackie infinitely more than she had given him. But he did not know it.

Chapter 17

U
PON AWAKENING
that Monday at noon, a sense of drifting seized Lee Gordon as if he were a bloated and forgotten corpse whirling aimlessly in a sea of dead remembrance.

Nothing seemed real—the lateness of the hour, the familiar room with its dotted-Swiss criss-crossed curtains, the view of the neighbor’s yard etched in the vertical sunlight, the smiling face of Ruth from the photograph on the chiffonier, the night before, or the day preceding. And Lee did not seem as real as any of the rest.

Nothing seemed real.

But slowly the hard and pointed memories brought reality again, giving to the torpid emotions of a poignant yesterday a new and bitter life. And the fingers of all things personal began pulling at his mind.

What did he, Lee Gordon, have that so many people wanted? he asked himself. And why did they all deny him the one small thing he needed? What was happening in this world that he did not seem to know?

What was the union’s angle? Did they really need him to organize the plant? Or was his job just another form of Negro charity?

And why would Foster go to the trouble of making a job for him? Surely Foster did not think that by so doing he could hurt the union. But what else could one lone, dark Negro boy, haunted by fears and weakened by uncertainties, mean to a man as Foster?

Rosie? What did Rosie want of him?—giving him that long lecture on the psychology of the Jew. What did Rosie expect him to do about the Jew’s oppression?

And Jackie? It tortured him to think of her, for only the night was made for believing. The sharp sunshine brought the rigid question: what did she, an attractive, single, white girl, want with him? Surely she could not consider him such an asset to the Communist party as to win him with her body. No, this was something more—a frightening thing, exciting, bewitching, and deadly. For it only offered him the fruit of one forbidden tree in a forbidden garden, and after he had tasted it, what then—an unforgettable aftertaste of bitterness, corroding in the society wherein he lived, or something else? For a moment he hoped wistfully that she really liked him more than just sexually—liked him as a person. No one but his wife had ever truly liked him, and she didn’t like him anymore.

And so at last his thoughts came back to where they always ended and began—his wife. He could understand her devotion to security, for it was consistent with the times. But what more did she want of him? Was it merely happiness? But how could they have happiness without having all the rest? And if he had the choice to make, would he choose happiness?

So now the question asked itself: what did he, Lee Gordon, want of Lee Gordon? Viewed in the light of one day hence, his bitter stand of yesterday for honor seemed an insensate thing. Who but a fool in 1943 would have refused the job that Foster offered for so inconsequential a thing as one’s integrity? But if he did not want honor or integrity, what then did he want? What was he looking for—purpose, motive, wealth, fame, or just a long easy ride to a painless death and oblivion? He did not know what he wanted, but it was none of these. It was more—something more.

Now in the slow beginning of despondency, only the union held forth hope—not that it needed him, but that he needed it. For if he could not be important to anyone else in the world, perhaps through the union he could be important to himself. And when his wife referred to his job as a ‘little union job” he would not have to believe it so.

He reached for the telephone and called a number. At the previous union meeting, Buster Boy had offered the use of his house for small midweekly gatherings. Aware that Buster Boy’s chief aim was to fill a gambling game, he had turned the offer down; but now he decided to accept it. He would use any means to gain his end, he resolved, and if the workers could not protect themselves, it was not his prerogative to protect them, their money, or their morals.

“This is Lee Gordon the union organizer,” he said in answer to a woman’s voice. “May I speak to Buster Boy?”

“He ain’t here,” the voice came loudly to his ear. “He say if you ring him to tell you that he can’t do what he say.”

Taken aback, he tried to make it clear. “He offered to let me hold meetings of the Negro workers in his house—”

“He say for me to tell you that you can’t hold ‘em here.”

Perplexed but unalarmed, he did not let it aggravate him. Perhaps the police were on to Buster Boy, he thought, and quickly put it from his mind. Next he tried to call McKinley but was informed that the line had been disconnected, so he stopped there on his way to the plant. But Lester was out, and his wife said he would not be home all evening.

Arriving at the union shack, he found Joe Ptak also absent, so he gathered an armful of leaflets and went down to help Luther work the gates during the change of shift. But Luther was not there either, and a slow presentiment of trouble began forming in his mind. Were the Communists holding a secret meeting? But then Lester would not attend. Was it a meeting at the union council hall? No one had given him notice of it, he tried to reassure himself. But still he was beset by worry that something was happening of which he did not know.

The first concrete indication came from the Negro workers’ manner when they surged from the gates. It was in their eyes when he hailed them, in the drab, repressed tones of their replies, in the way their faces blanked up at sight of him and they looked away.

Certain now that trouble was afoot, he hastened to the little cafe where he and Luther had made a habit of meeting various workers to buy them beers and talk about the union. Finding only three present, two men and a woman, instead of the dozen or more who usually appeared, he asked sharply: “Say, what’s going on? Where is everybody?”

They looked at him and looked away without replying.

“Say, what’s the matter?” His voice was rough from alarm.

“Matter with us?” the man called Play Safe countered with that defensive circumlocution at which some Negroes are perfect. “Look like anything the matter with us?”

“Well, where are all the others? Where’s Scotty and Sugar and Mary Lou? Where’s Shortdrawers, he’s always here.”

“Maybe they had somp’n else to do.”

“You’re here, you didn’t have anything else to do.”

“Maybe we’s the bravest.”

Lee Gordon turned with a quick gesture to hide his irritation and ordered drinks for all, wondering vaguely as he did so why only the most ignorant of Negroes participated in such militant movements as unionism. Was it just in Los Angeles where the migrant Negro workers were in predominance? But even so, there were scores of Negro college graduates in war industries; he knew seven of them employed by Comstock who had never signed a union card or attended a union meeting. Did they feel it in some way beneath their dignity? Only Lester McKinley had shown any signs of active interest in the union. Was it that the others had been bought out like island natives with a few glass trinkets of education and a few bright baubles of wealth? Was this all the educated Negro wanted, or did they expect to some day earn their wings and fly to high heaven with their Cæsars?

The procession of his thoughts was interrupted by the woman’s voice, “We earning our little money same as usual.”

Calmer now, he turned to her. “Look, Susie, for God’s sake cut out the clowning! What’s happened?”

“Course ain’t nobody we can sell out so we just naturally has to be honest,” the man named Johnson interposed.

“What?” Lee asked with a sinking of his stomach. “What did you say?”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” Play Safe confessed, “we heard you folks was selling out.”

First into Lee’s memory came McKinley’s parting admonition, “Beware!” and then the voice of Foster speaking spitefully of betrayal. Foster, of course, would know since it was likely he would be the one to supply the purveyor with the Judas gold. But how could Lester? Yet he must have known from the beginning. Did he have powers of mysticism, or was it just as he had hinted—given Foster for the man and the union for the object, the betrayal of a leader would be the inevitable result?

Who then was the Judas? He could not believe it was Joe or Smitty. Both seemed fanatical in their zealous unionism—Communists, perhaps, but never traitors. And then the mocking voice of introspection asked, were the two so far apart? But what could the Communists seek to gain? he now asked himself. Control of the union? That’s what they wanted, of course. But how could they hope to gain this by breaking the campaign down? Benny Stone? But he was a Communist, too. And that left Marvin Todd. But Foster had said it was a “big boy.” And who would be so foolish as to buy the treachery of Todd? But then, Jackie had said he had a following. The rebels had been known to elect a president, of course, but only of the Confederate states. Was this to be another Dixie rebellion?

Aloud he said: “That’s foolish! Who told you that?”

Even as the denial came rushing from his lips, he recalled that at their first union meeting Lester had been talking too loudly concerning someone selling out. Was this then just the repetition of his words mushroomed into rumor?

“We heard it,” Susie said.

And Johnson elaborated: “I got it straight from high up.”

“High up where?” Lee asked.

“High up,” Johnson repeated.

“Look,” Lee started to explain with a patience that was alien, “no one can sell out the union. The union is too big. The union does not belong to anyone for them to sell it out. It’s your union. If an organizer tried to sell it out, you could go right ahead and organize it yourself and then apply to the national union for a charter. And after that you could ask for an NLRB election in the plant just as we intend to do. The company is well aware that we are organizing the union. You workers have a right by law to organize and join a union—it is the law that you may do this. The company can not stop you. If they take any reprisals or try to harm you in any way for joining the union, the company has broken the law and can be convicted in court—”

“You say it’s the law,” Play Safe asked seriously.

“I say it’s the law. A law called the National Labor Relations Act.” Now he said to Johnson: “You go to the person ‘high up’ and ask them if they have ever heard of the National Labor Relations Act, commonly known as the Wagner Act, and they will tell you yes.”

“They will, eh?”

“They have to.”

“They ain’t tol’ me yet and they tol’ me you was sellin’ out.”

“He don’t mean you,” Susie said quickly with a nervous laugh. “He means one of y’all.”

“An’ we got our s’picions who,” Johnson said.

Luther had come up to the group in time to hear the statement. “S’picions ‘bout what?” he asked.

When Lee had informed him of the rumor, he brushed it off as a gag. “You go back ‘n tell Foster he got to come again,” he said to the workers.

“You go tell ‘im!” Play Safe said. “You the bigges’.”

Luther chuckled. “You tell ‘im, Lee, you the smartes’.”

Lee caught the spirit of the thing since it seemed to be incredibly effective. “I’ll let Joe Ptak tell him, he’s the baddest.”

They all laughed. “He the lion, eh,” Luther remarked. “We just the ol’ signifying monkeys.”

“Who dat, man?” Play Safe asked.

“You never heard ‘bout the signifying monkey?”

Play Safe shook his head.

“It was thissaway,” Luther prefaced, leaning against the bar to order drinks for the lot, and then began to recite:

It was one bright sunny day

The Monkey an’ the Lion met across the way.

The Monkey said to the Lion

Leo I know you’re king

An’ you can ‘bout beat mos’ any ol’ thing,

But there’s a big motherforyou across the way

Says he’ll whip yo’ ass mos’ any ol’ day.

Now he talked ‘bout your mother

An’ your grandma too,

An’ it was a downright dirty shame

The way he talked ‘bout you.

Now this made the Lion mad

An’ he got all in a rage.

He took off through the jungle

Like some frantic 4-F jodie