A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (38 page)

April 17, 2003

Everett:

I thought you were the one I could trust.

I thought our mutual blackness would bond us. I am not black, thank God, but all the same things like that should count for something. It is not all your fault. It is deconstruction and moral relativism. But it really is nobody’s fault but yours.

I do what I must do now painfully.

Yo da man.

Barton

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

April 17, 2003

Martin,

Why would you lure me in and then throw me back, like a fish hooked out of season?

I know you’re in bed, but so what? Hospitals never were fortresses in any time. Don’t pretend they are now. What was true for Henry V is true for me. But not for you, apparently.

My family has long memories. Long. This is not a threat, but if you continue in your present conduct it could become one. You think you have it bad now? You in pain now, Martin? Real bad pain? Think of your pain, Martin.

I paid my taxes, honestly. My father always did too. He said one should always favor the government when in doubt. That says it all. Next to my father, Martin, few can stand. Even fewer deserve to live.

Barton

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

April 17, 2003

Dear Juniper,

You are worst of all. I know you can be kind. It seems almost whimsical of you to mark me off as the one person to whom you choose not to be kind. I cannot understand that. Is it really something about me, or do you simply get pleasure from the cruelty? Do you masturbate there at your desk, picturing me in agony?

I keep thinking things could have been different. But they won’t be because you are who you are. Maybe you can’t help yourself.

But you deserve to be punished.

I could change, you know. You don’t believe it, don’t want to believe it. I can see very clearly when I’ve got off on the wrong foot and am very adaptable to what other people think. I have always been able to change and make people love me. Even at the age of 2, I could charm anyone, even when at first they didn’t like me.

Please don’t talk about me when I’m gone.

Barton

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

April 17, 2003

Dear Reba,

Of all people to lash out at me and join in the thoughtless persecution of the innocent! I think it’s almost enough to make me give up, to find you in this crowd. Others I can stand against. I can fight. I am no coward. But when I see you there, I falter. I can see you so plainly.

You really have the kindest face. You’ll think I haven’t seen it, but I have. Your brother once showed me a picture. He was very kind then too. I don’t know what happened. I mean, what changed things? I try to remember, but I can’t. That ever happen to you? All of a sudden everything is different and you can’t trace why? I don’t suppose it matters. We have to live with what is. Play it as it lays.

Honey you been dealt a winning hand. That’s what Maria says in Play it As it Lays. I like that book. She also says, “Maybe I was holding all the aces, but what was the game?” I didn’t use to understand that.

I’d like to get back to where I was, I guess. That occurs to me a lot. Maria would say there wasn’t any “back there” and there sure isn’t any now. That’s so. Sometimes I remember it, though. I know I’m fooling myself. After Dawn Ann that I told you about, nothing has been very steady. Maybe Dawn Ann I’m making up. Did I tell you about her and me? Nothing to tell, really. At least that’s good.

I can only see one way to go with this, Reba, and that is to clear my path. Clear it. Once it’s clear, I can go.

Sincerely,

Barton

K
INCAID AND
E
VERETT
V
ISIT
T
HURMOND AT HIS
O
FFICE

Jim and I took the Metro from National Airport (now sadly called Reagan Airport). We’d decided that another visit to the Senator was in order, needed, important. This then will be a description, if not a transcript, of that encounter. Jim, as you may have gathered from our correspondence, is an open and friendly person, possessed of a mean streak, but fun and loveable nonetheless. On the Metro he smiled at people and even once said to an Asian woman, who possibly didn’t speak English given the way she stared at us, “We’re on our way to see Strom Thurmond. Working on a book. There’s a crazy man involved and we’re somewhat afraid for our lives. Are you from Washington?”

“Jim,” I said, pulling him by the tie he’d insisted on wearing, “leave her alone.”

He straightened his tie and I looked at my own. He’d insisted I wear one as well. I can’t recall his argument, but it seemed compelling at the time. Now, I was just uncomfortable. We’d called ahead of time and Thurmond was expecting us, so our names were on the list to get into the building. Still, Thurmond was not in his office. The place was buzzing with activity, aides and interns, secretaries and a detachment of South Carolina State Highway Patrolmen. As well, the space was being shared by the staff of Tom Daschle, his office still unfit for occupation.

“Are you seeing this?” Jim asked.

I didn’t say anything. That was my affirmative response. Tom Daschle’s people were mid-twenties to early thirties, mostly male, mostly homely, furrow-browed and pasty. Thurmond’s crew was early twenties, cute in the South Carolina young beach Christian sort of way and white, white, white. Except for one black woman who was simply white, white. Her name was Dora and she had one of the best accents I ever heard.

“Are y’all the writers?” she asked.

“Yes, we are,” Jim said.

Dora looked at me. “You’re the one who started all that flag business, aren’t you?” she said.

“I guess.”

To Jim, “The Senator isn’t in the office.”

“We were told he’d be here,” I said.

“He’s here,” she said, with what might be called a “tone,” and added, “He just isn’t in the office.”

Two other aides stepped over. Dora introduced the blond bookends as Mary Lyn and Melinda Sharinda. “These here are the writers who are helping Daddy Strom with his book,” Dora said.

“Daddy Strom?” Jim and I said together.

The aides giggled, covering their mouths like shy geishas.

“Where can we find the good Daddy?” Jim asked.

“He’s downstairs in the gym. He’s playing racquetball,” Dora said.

“Racquetball?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Mary Lyn. “He plays every Thursday with Senator Kennedy. Just take the elevator to the basement, the guards will direct you.”

We rode down to the basement, walked past a couple of frozen-faced Marines, and found ourselves standing in front of a glass wall, peering in at a marvel of nature. Two of them. Thurmond, though slow, was moving about the court, whacking the blue ball, his spindly legs poking out of orange Clemson trunks. Ted Kennedy was leaning against the left wall, hands on his knees, stretching the fabric of his pantaloon-like sweat pants. Kennedy was not paying attention to the ball at all, but seemed to be concentrating on each and every panted breath.

“Nine zip, Teddy, old boy,” Thurmond said.

The Senators came off the court. Kennedy stumbled wordlessly past us to the locker room. Thurmond stepped spryly and tossed himself into a wheelchair. We were somewhat startled by the sudden appearance of the thing, pushed of course by Hollis.

“A pleasure to see you boys,” Thurmond said. “Of course, at my age, it’s a pleasure to see anyone.”

“Senator,” I said. “Mr. Hollis.”

“Follow me,” Thurmond said.

We followed him to the door marked “Lockers of the Male Senators of the United States.” Thurmond stopped and turned to me. “This is as far as you go,” he said.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Kincaid can come in, but you can’t.”

Jim and I exchanged the proper glances.

“Gotcha,” Thurmond said. Then he and Hollis laughed.

“That’s a good one, Senator,” Jim said.

“Take a steam with me, boys,” Thurmond said. “Hollis will show you the guest lockers.”

Jim, though a little shy about his body, undressed in front of me and I in front of him. We wrapped ourselves in the thick towels (nothing like the napkins passed out at my gym) and found our way to the steam. Hollis was stationed, in tie and jacket, at the door.

“You’re not coming in?” Jim asked.

“No, sir,” Hollis said. Then he let go a slight smile.

“Over here,” Thurmond said as we entered. “Come over here and sit by me.”

We found him and sat on either side of him on the tile bench. A few men sat scattered throughout the room. A man in a suit sat some ten feet from us.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“That’s Tillman,” Thurmond said. “He’s a SLED man. State Law Enforcement Department, South Carolina. He’s around all the time. Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don’t, but he’s always around.”

“Was he at your house when we visited?” Jim asked.

“You betcha he was.”

“Where was he?” I asked.

Thurmond shrugged.

We sat for a minute and sucked in the steam.

“What do you think of these towels?” Thurmond asked.

“Very nice,” I said.

“Nothing but the best up here on the Hill.” Thurmond stroked the towel covering his middle. “Egyptian cotton. Can you believe that? Goddamn cottom from a bunch of ragheads. We grow the best cotton in the world in South Carolina and Alabama and I’m sitting here with Egyptian cotton covering my ding-dong. What do you think of that?”

“What do you think, Jim?” I asked.