Our Man in the Dark (4 page)

The beautiful woman approaching me is obviously a working girl. She says she's seen me in here before. It embarrasses me to think of all the humiliating scenes she must have witnessed. I too have seen her before, on the dance floor, with the men who come in after work, seducing them with moves designed especially for payday. My focus has always been Candy, although out of necessity, I have occasionally solicited the company of other women; but I have never approached her. She compliments me on my change and evolution, and she makes it easy for me to reconsider. She has the kind of dark brown skin that takes in light and sends it back to you with an extra layer of polish and shine.

We talk. I tell her about work, and she seems genuinely interested until I run out of things to say and reach my limit of what the bartender has to offer. She whispers in my ear while caressing my chest, inviting me to the room in the back. Her torso is small, but taut and athletic and anchored by wonderfully wide hips that, for some reason, invoke the excitement and frustration of an aimless journey. I follow her to a dimly lit hallway in the back of the bar. There are only two ways to enter this passageway: be chosen by one of the girls or offer a secret code at the door that faces the alley. She manages to nibble my ear, even as I limp down the corridor. Talented girl. There are alternating colors coming from the
room up ahead—a color wheel of red and blue, spinning in front of a light bulb. Inside the room, she is engulfed by color, and though it's hard to believe, the man with her, shirtless and smiling, is me.

I stand alone under the changing colors. Once the money is spent, the party must end. As I struggle to get dressed, the girl flees the scene. She's been paid, so there is no reason for her to stick around. I came here for Candy, for her to see me in a different light, but that's not how things turned out.

I leave Count's feeling a little ashamed of the desperate episode that occurred in there. Women, when I am lucky enough to have one, are the source of so many of my troubles. I have hoped to be more complicated than that, but then I think of the company I keep, and the guilt doesn't last long. A few weeks ago, Martin and I had an encounter that began to shape my perspective.

I was working late one evening when I heard the sound of a man crying. This startled me, to say the least, since I thought I was working alone. I entered the hallway and discovered that the sound was coming from Martin's office. The door was open and the lights were off, but I could still discern his unmistakable frame. “Dr. King?” I flipped on the light switch, and the fluorescent bulbs flickered and dimly illuminated the office, changing the contours of his face from light to dark. His eyes were red with sadness and fatigue, and a cloying, sweet fragrance seemed to emanate from him. He'd been with a woman, not in the office but somewhere else, and not that long ago. In a way, it made sense that he returned to the office—that place has a way of punishing you and absolving you of your sins.

He motioned for me to have a seat, and I eased myself into a chair facing him.

“It's Martin,” he said leaning forward to offer me a cigarette. “No need for the formalities.”

“Thanks . . . Martin,” I said, taking the cigarette and immediately feeling uncomfortable. Two buttons of his shirt were undone, and he had draped his tie around his neck like a sleeping snake. A silence followed that did not seem awkward, but completely appropriate. I lit my cigarette,
and Martin just nodded.

I wanted to tell him I was proud to be working with him and the organization. Even then, and for some time before, I saw him as a kindred spirit. I considered saying so, but ultimately did not.

The last of the lights finally came on. The smoke drifted up toward them, creating a sheer curtain that covered Martin's face and the dying scent of perfume.

He hasn't been the same since that crazy woman in Harlem stabbed him in the chest with a letter opener. I once overheard Gant and Abernathy talking about the incident, and soon after, I too noticed a change. When you talk to Martin, he's engaging and effervescent. His mastery of such an array of weighty subjects and his interest in you can be both impressive and overwhelming at times. He'd be blind not to see how much people expect of him. Even the most innocent of interactions demand that he charm, impress, and enlighten and prove himself worthy of such adulation. But when the conversation's over, and the spotlights of admiration are dimmed or cast elsewhere, I can almost see him fading, moving through the SCLC like a gauzy semblance of his public self.

For him, danger lurks everywhere. It was this way from the beginning, but he seemed to be aware of the romantic quality of his adventures, accepting his responsibility to the movement like some gallant knight savoring not only the victory but also the significance of the battle. You can see it in the footage that accompanied his arrival on the national stage, in that first mug shot following his arrest in Montgomery, or when the police officers slammed his shoulder into the counter of a booking station right in front of Coretta—there's still a roguish glint in his eye. Like the photos of World War II vets broken, beaten, bloody, but
smiling
from the scorched rubble of Gothic ruins.

Something changed after Harlem. He must have looked down at that blade in his chest, its ornamented handle snapped off and staining the autographed copies of
Stride Toward Freedom
with his blood, and thought how trivial it is to put your life on the line for a book signing. No blistering water hoses or prodded dogs and their angry masters, no marchers, no protesters—just an endless parade of stargazers. Yes, after that, he was different. Every day, every hour, every second—all of it was borrowed time.

It's just a few days since I helped myself to the money, and I've already made some big mistakes. My reformation has drawn too much attention from my coworkers. Because of the car and the much-needed visit to the tailor, I have stirred up an unusual level of commotion at work. In this suit, even a man with a limp as severe as mine can look graceful and authoritative. They see the fitted, perfect silhouette of my jacket, the tie, rakishly dimpled, and the shoes shined to a high gloss—it's all too perfect. I should reel some of it back, but part of me resents having to play the harmless hobbler. It's as if they are offended that I chose to improve myself.

I decide to ignore them, even though I know they are still watching as I enter my office. The walls of the SCLC are thin. I can hear the murmurs, those envious voices encircling me.
Did you see him? Strange . . . where did he get the money for that getup? What is he up to?

I stand at my desk, looking around my office. It now has the unearthly tranquility of a taped-off crime scene. I hear footsteps, and then Gant passes by my open door. The sound of his footsteps stops, then starts again. Only his head appears in my doorway. He looks me up and down and lets out a whistle. “Nice, Estem . . .
nice
!” His head disappears and his footsteps fade down the hall.

Throughout the day, I continue to have an overwhelming feeling that someone is speaking poorly of me. The walls of the SCLC really
are
thin, and hostility has no trouble penetrating them. Regretfully, I long for a more receptive audience.

I'm starting to sober up from the drunkenness of easily acquired money, and I'm feeling anxious. I have to see my mother. I need her approval.

I arrive in my brand-new Caddy at my parents' house, a cottagestyle one-story on the tree-lined end of Auburn Avenue. Little colored children play in the street, chasing a ball and each other. Briefly, I see them looking my way as I get out of the car and give the finish a quick buff with my jacket sleeve. The children grin and wave, their faces lighting up when they see my inspiring visage.

I return to reality and begin to brace myself before I see my father. Too late—my parents have seen me drive up and are already coming outside.

I climb out to greet them, and my mother, practically dancing, smiles upon seeing me. As always, my father dons his mask of stone. She says the car is beautiful, and I offer her a ride. She runs to the car, giddy with excitement, while my father stands still with his arms folded.

“Kind of a fancy car for a bookkeeper,” he says. “How you pay for that?”

“God! Leave the boy alone. He probably got a raise. All that hard work.”

“Yeah, Dad. I got a raise . . .”

“Seems a bit soon. For what?”

“Probably for organizing all those marches,” my mother says, “and helping Dr. King with all those speeches and getting all those ballsy Negroes out of jail.”

“I see. Is that what you do? Get ballsy Negroes out of jail?
You
help Martin Luther King write speeches?” The old man has a strange way of riling me up. Maybe it's envy. He's the son of a sharecropper, a former bootlegger, and a retired gardener. I'm the first member of my family to go to college. When I went away, his biggest concern was whether all the reading and lecturing would do a fine job of turning me into a pansy.

Mother strokes the car's interior. I get back in and turn the ignition. The car doesn't start. I look at her and smile. I try again, but it refuses to start.

“Looks like those marches will come in handy,” my father says,
“'cause you gonna be doin' a whole lotta walkin'.”

I stare at his face, his features, searching for a sign that would prove that we are not related. I've played this game before, and it's led to the usual disappointment. When I was a child, the man thought that my acquiring scarlet fever and developing polio was somehow my fault, that my weakness taunted the disease to attack me. Once it was clear that I would live, but never walk normally without the support of a brace, my father didn't believe it. He would tell me to take off my brace and make me walk around without it. “The boy will walk normal when he gets tired of falling,” he'd say. I don't know if he truly believed it—maybe it's an old Negro superstition—but most of his actions are laced with an element of cruelty.

I say a silent prayer while tracing the steering wheel with my open palm. I turn the ignition once more and it starts. I notice a car across the street. There are two men inside. White. I would not have paid any attention to this had they not looked at me with the intensity of hunters in a blind.

I sometimes struggle with the fact that I actually have parents. I often think of myself as suddenly emerging from the shadows fully formed—some sort of nocturnal creature that withdraws during the day, only to resurface as the sun sets and darkness falls.

I want the visit to be over as soon as I turn the corner. The chitchat is tedious. I make an effort at seeming interested, but I can't stop checking my rearview for those two men. Mama must see that I am troubled, because she asks me to pull over. I put the car in park, but keep the engine running. I stay silent, eyes on the mirror.

“Can I ask you something, son?” I bring my attention back to her. I can already tell this is about money. That's how family is. They see all that you have done for yourself, and then they start thinking about what you can do for them.

“What is it, Mama?”

“They put a lien on the house.”

“Who put a lien on the house and why?”

“Taxman. I haven't paid the property taxes.”

“What did Daddy say? Is that why he's in a bad mood?”

“He don't know about it. . . . Haven't told him.”

Of course he doesn't. My father is the kind of man who breaks his back to earn his money but refuses to crease his brow figuring out the best way to spend it. He leaves it to her to take care of all the taxes and bills. Those things just confuse him.

I want to ask her where the money went, but I already know. My mother is a good Christian woman, so some of it went to tithing—the choir needs robes and the preacher needs wheels—and even more of it went to those custom-made church dresses and hats. Segregationists in this state love to harangue anyone who will listen about how Negroes contribute ten cents for every dollar a white man pays in taxes. Those numbers are dubious, but I can't help but feel embarrassed—for us both.

“How much do you owe?”

“Five hundred. . . .”

About half of what I have left. “Jesus, Mama. . . .”

“Don't use his name. . . . I didn't want to bother you with it. I know money is hard to come by, so I prayed on it. I asked Him to give me a sign. And then you come by in this car, and I knew everything would be okay. . . . Well, can you help me?”

I think about giving her the money, but to be honest, I don't trust her with it. I'd rather handle it myself. Besides, I didn't even think of helping them when I got the money. Maybe this good deed will give it a good rinse.

“Don't worry about it, Mama. I'll take care of it.”

After taking a short drive around the block, I drop my mother off at home. She's disappointed that our time together has ended so quickly, but she tells me to keep our conversation to myself. I promise her as I drive away. I don't know if she heard me, but I'm eager to get out of here. I have a strong feeling that the two white men were following me. They are no longer around, but something inside tells me not to go home—anywhere but home—so I head to the assessor's office to take care of the tax bill.