New Boy (14 page)

When we reached the train station, I got my suitcase from the trunk. In spite of my misgivings about Draper and the turbulence of the events the night before, I was eager to return to school. I was beginning to get used to the idea of being on my own and thinking for myself, and as long as I could do those things, I felt I was free. As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for my parents to leave, my mother rolled down the car window. I leaned in and gave her a kiss and reached across to shake my father's hand. In the midst of the uncertainty swirling around me, it occurred to me that the one thing I could count on was their love.

Inside the enormous station I stood on the train platform looking for Burns, but he never appeared. While I was waiting, several fellows from Draper came by and I asked if anyone had seen him, but no one had, and when the conductor called, "All aboard!" I stepped onto the train and found an empty seat. I rode back to school alone. It was a long ride, and I slept most of the way. There were a few fellows from Draper in my coach, but we barely spoke. When the train finally reached the stop for Draper, it was almost dark and the streetlights were on. Still groggy from my nap on the train, I slumped into the first seat available on the bus that was waiting in the parking lot. I was sitting next to the window, watching passengers get off the train in the purple dusk, when someone said, "Is this seat taken?" I looked up, and it was Burns.

"Gordie!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here? I stood on the platform in New York for half an hour looking for you. I thought you'd missed the train." He was all dressed up in a dark
blue suit and white shirt with a red silk tie, and he reeked of cologne.

"My father took us to breakfast at his club this morning and we were having such fun, we lost track of the time. I almost missed it. I was running down the platform as the train was pulling out of the station, and I barely managed to hop on the last coach; then I found a seat and did my math homework until I fell asleep. I'm still tired," he said with a yawn. "Some night, huh?" and he grinned at me, at first, but then his face became serious. "I haven't figured out how to tell my parents about Tyrone. Remember, they thought we were going to a movie. But I guess I've got to say something. It felt really strange today when Tyrone drove me to the railroad station. He was in such a mood. Usually, he's kidding around, you know, and has a lot to say, but not today. He wouldn't even look at me. What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should call your parents and tell them what happened as soon as we get back to Draper," I said, in a low voice. "I think the guy is dangerous. I wouldn't want him around me." Gordie seemed surprised.

"Aw, come on, Rob," he said. His voice was softly pleading. "He's not that bad. He just got a little upset, that's all." I couldn't believe what he was saying.

"Did you hear the things he said last night, about me being a Jew-lover?" I said. "That was vicious. And did you see the way he tried to climb across that car to get at me?" We were both
speaking quietly, our voices nearly drowned out by the groaning motor of the bus.

"Yeah, but that was you," said Gordie. "He was angry because of what you called him. I'm telling you, I've known Tyrone for years. He's a part of our family. He just had a bad night, that's all."

"There's a difference between me saying the word and you saying it, and he should know what it is. He shouldn't lose control over something like that. I'm telling you," I said, "I think he's dangerous. Didn't you notice? Even Minister Malcolm couldn't control him." It was clear that Gordie didn't want to accept the idea that Tyrone was dangerous, but what really surprised me was the ease with which he was willing to overlook what Tyrone had said.

"Tyrone loves my family," Gordie insisted. "He knows we're Jews. For God's sake, he drives us to services at synagogue every week and takes us home afterward. Are you saying he's an anti-Semite?"

"If someone called you a nigger-lover because they saw us together, what would you think?" Gordie seemed stunned and leaned back in his seat. For the rest of the way, we listened to the drone of the bus motor without speaking.

When the bus arrived at Draper, everyone got out and stood around while the driver unloaded the luggage compartment. It was dark and chilly, and, as we waited for our bags with our hands in our pockets, the steam was pouring from our nostrils as
though we were a herd of cattle in a corral waiting to be released. I found my suitcase and Gordie found his, and silently we walked across the campus together until we reached the fork in the footpath that led to each of our dormitories.

"I've thought about what you said," said Gordie. "I'm going to call my father as soon as I get back to the dorm," and he walked down the path toward his dormitory until he disappeared into the darkness.

The next morning after breakfast I saw him in the hallway on the way to class. "I spoke to my father last night," he said. He seemed proud to give me the news.

"Did he say anything about our trip to Jinxie's?"

"Not after I told him what happened. He's going to have a word with Tyrone." I was puzzled.

"Is that all?" I said. "What do you expect Tyrone to say?"

Gordie seemed nettled. "How do I know? Look, I talked to my father and now it's in his hands. I can't do any more than that." I suppose it was easier for me to make a judgment about Tyrone than it was for Burns or his father. After all, they had known Tyrone for much longer than I had. But it seemed obvious to me that Tyrone had changed since joining the Black Muslims, changed in ways that he had kept to himself, and in ways that he knew his employers would not approve of. It also seemed obvious to me, from the events on the sidewalk that night in Harlem, that Tyrone was a man who was capable of great rage, toward me, to be sure, and toward anyone who angered him, even Minister Malcolm, and I wondered if Gordie or his father had given it any thought. I decided not to discuss the matter with Gordie again unless he brought it up. I had said my piece, and it was clear that he was uncomfortable discussing the subject.

There were only a few weeks to go before Christmas vacation, when I would return home for the first time since the beginning of school. I had not seen Vinnie around and I wondered how things were going in the infirmary. I was still spending most of my time in my room studying when I wasn't in class, but I reminded myself to go over and visit Vinnie before long. We were near the end of the marking period and I had a good chance to make the honor roll, so I worked as hard as I could, and sure enough, one morning I checked my mailbox and found a slip with my first-semester grades and congratulating me on making the honor roll. I wanted to call home and tell my parents right away, but I knew they were both at work. I knew once I told her, however, my mother would circulate the news right away, so that everyone would know by the time I got home.

Christmas vacation was approaching and I found myself looking forward to returning home, even though I expected to find things pretty much the same. I was curious about the student group that my mother had mentioned and whether they had ever gotten beyond the talking stage. I wanted to see Russell and the others to find out if they were serious about doing something and what their plans were. I didn't know if I could participate from Connecticut, but I was willing to give it a try.

One evening before dinner, I ran into Gordie in the hallway outside the dining room. The dining room doors had not been opened, and other students were slowly arriving, filling up the hall. While I had seen him around the campus, I hadn't spoken with Gordie since we had returned from New York. My misgivings about his defense of Tyrone and the way his father had chosen to deal with the situation had not changed, but I still considered Gordie a friend, and I was glad to see him.

"Are you going to be in New York over Christmas?" he said.

"I thought maybe we could get together and take in another jazz club, if we can both manage to get out of the house." We laughed uproariously, savoring the memories of our secret night on the town. Our schoolmates were staring at us, as though they were missing out on something. "You know that waitress we had was really cute," said Gordie.

"She sure was," I said. "If we'd had more time, I would have liked to get to know her."

"Too bad," said Gordie. "Well, if you're in New York over Christmas, maybe we'll go back to Jinxie's and try to find her." The hallway continued to fill up with students waiting for the dining room doors to open, closing in around us until there was little room to move.

"I won't be going to New York," I said. "I'm going home." And it occurred to me that for all its faults, life for me at Draper was still an improvement over life in the South. In the South, I could never stand, as I stood then, in the midst of a group of white people without a prickly feeling that my presence was considered offensive, or worse, that I was in imminent danger. I would have to take the greatest precautions to avoid touching them, not even brushing against their clothing, for fear of being accused of an impropriety or subjected to an act of violence. "What's that I smell?" "Well, I never. Boy, what in the
world
do you think you doin'?" "You are getting out of line, nigger," the words uttered with eyebrows arched in high indignation or with slap or even a. punch, knocking you to the floor, where you lay
humiliated, wondering what to do next, suppressing your rage, as you calculated the consequences of unleashing it. By December, I still felt a sense of unease with the students at Draper, as well as the teachers, but I had to admit that it did not come close to how threatened I felt around whites at home.

The dining room doors opened and everyone rushed in to find a table. Gordie and I took seats at the table of my history teacher, Mr. McGregor, a shy, aging bachelor, tall and slender, with a thin face and sad gray eyes. McGregor was a demanding teacher. My first papers were returned awash with his unflattering comments scribbled in red ink, and I had to work as hard to decipher his handwriting as to understand his comments. Gradually I got the hang of his approach, and I earned an A for the first semester.

As usual, Mr. Spencer said grace before we all sat down. Most people bowed their heads when grace was said, although I never did and neither did Burns, and when I looked around I noticed that Mr. McGregor didn't bow his head either. We took our seats and our waiter, a senior named Goodlow, went into the kitchen to get the food. Goodlow was not considered a brilliant student. Burns, who had had a mathematics class with him a year earlier, once confided to me that Goodlow used his fingers for the simplest computations. Goodlow was, however, a stalwart member of the hockey team, and it was apparent from the way he swaggered off to the kitchen in his white waiter's coat that the hockey season had begun. A few minutes later he returned from the kitchen with a metal tray laden with dishes of steaming food. Although no match for Cousin Gwen's or even my mother's, the food at Draper wasn't bad and there was usually enough for seconds. The serving dishes were placed in front of Mr. McGregor and he filled each plate except his own with string beans and mashed potatoes and a slice of roast beef. On his own plate, he dropped a modest serving of mashed potatoes and a few string beans, passing up the meat altogether. Once everyone was served, we ate. At Mr. McGregor's end of the table, an upper-classman named Knowles was bending his ear about the League of Nations, eliciting a bemused look from the teacher, who picked at his dinner but ate little, and at Goodlow's end the discussion never ventured beyond the schedule for the Dragons hockey team. Burns and I were seated in the middle, listening to the others.

"Wilson was a great president, wouldn't you say, sir?" said Knowles. Mr. McGregor smiled and fed himself half a string bean with his fork without responding. "Maybe the greatest of the twentieth century," Knowles continued. "I mean, to come up with the idea of the League of Nations at that time was incredibly farsighted. He must have been really brilliant to come up with an idea like that, with everything that was going on at the time." Woodrow Wilson was from Virginia, from the same part of the state as my mother's people, and I grew up hearing stories about him. When he was president, he made sure everything in Washington was segregated. He even told jokes about Negroes, referring to us as "darkies."

"Wilson was a segregationist," I said. Everyone at the table suddenly stopped talking and looked at me. Mr. McGregor was smiling, with a twinkle in his eye.

"So what?" said Knowles. "That's what the people wanted, and a lot still do. You can't blame him for respecting the will of the people. He was still a great president and a great leader of the country."

"A great leader isn't afraid to stand up for what is right," I said. "Even when it's unpopular." There was an edge to my voice, and although the dining room was humming with conversation, our table seemed strangely silent.

"How do you know what's right?' said Knowles. "In a democracy, it's what the people want." He looked at Mr. McGregor for support. "Isn't that so, sir?" Mr. McGregor furrowed his brow.

"In theory," he said, "you are quite correct. That is what Plato said." Knowles wore a smirk as he listened. "But history has given us countless examples of how the majority can become tyrannical. Consider Athens in the time of Socrates. Or Germany's recent treatment of the Jews, for instance."

"Or the South's treatment of the Negro," I said.

"Hey, wait a minute," said Knowles. "You can't compare the two. The South didn't exterminate six million people, for God's sake."

"They just kept us in chains until the Civil War forced them to release us," I said. "And even now they treat us like dogs." Knowles looked deflated, as though his final line of argument
had been exhausted, and an uneasy silence seemed to settle over the table. Goodlow got up to clear the plates. I felt exhilarated. I had spoken my mind at the dining room table, taking on an upperclassman, no less. I would never have spoken up before, but I couldn't allow Knowles's adulation of Woodrow Wilson go unchallenged. The table was cleared.