Out of the Ashes (13 page)

Her husband he left in the house. In bed. Son of a bitch had probably been taking a nap while his wife mowed the yard. Ben wouldn't have buried him even if he had been outside. Her husband was (or had been) a college professor at a local institution; a left-leaning type who got his nuts off just thinking about people like Hilton Logan, who wept every time a mass murderer was taken to the gas chamber or the barbecue chair. Ben despised him and the feeling was shared.

Ben drove on to the suburbs of Chicago, being very careful, all his senses working, for the chatter on the CB—on almost every channel—was picking up, and a lot of it was unfriendly. The hatred that Ben had sensed between the races had leaped to the surface after the catastrophe.

He heard a lot of “motherfuckers” and “honkies” on the CB, and a lot of what Ben called jive-talk. He also heard a lot of “nigger bastards, coons, shines, and porch monkeys.”

The hate had erupted.

Ben had no intention of driving into downtown Chicago.

There was very little actual fear behind that decision, but a great deal of common sense. Ben was not a racist, but he did not believe in giveaway programs that merely squandered money without solving any social ills. He was an advocate of forcing people to work, but only as a last resort. He had always felt that hard work, some conformity, and some bending was needed from both sides of the color line.

Of course, he thought, all that is moot, now.

He adjusted the volume of his recorder to catch all the hatred that sprang from the speaker of his CB.

He gathered that a race war was building between the blacks in the city and the whites in the suburbs. And he guessed, from listening to the chatter, that there must be fifteen or twenty thousand people alive in and around the city. So it was shaping up to be a hell of a battle.

What stupidity, Ben thought. We should all be working to build a wonderful new world from out of the ashes, all this misery. We should be putting past hates and distrust behind us, but instead, here we go again; nothing has changed.

Fools!

“The hell with you all!” Ben muttered. “Go ahead—kill each other. But you are going to regret you stayed in the city come this December, when the cold and snow hits.”

He encountered no trouble until he reached the town where his brother lived. The roads were blocked and armed white men patrolled the area. Ben had to smile at the sight. A sad smile. Back to the jungles, he thought.

“I'm trying to reach my brother, if he's still alive,” Ben told a group of men. “Carl Raines.”

“I know him. He's alive. What do you want with him?”

“Well, goddamn it!” Ben almost shouted the words. “He's my brother. What the hell do you think I want with him?”

“Relax, mister,” the man said, softening his words with a faint smile. “Sure, you can go see him, but you're not leaving once you get in.”

“What?”

“We need every gun and every white man we can get in this fight. We're gonna wipe those damned niggers out once and for all. Then we can rebuild a decent society.”

I don't believe I'm hearing this, Ben thought. He stared at the man.

“Let him go in, see his brother.” The voice spoke from behind Ben.

Ben turned to face an older, neatly dressed man. In his late fifties or early sixties, Ben guessed. “I thank you, mister,” Ben said.

“We're all a little bit tense here, I'm afraid.” The man offered an apology along with an explanation. “We're outnumbered, you see. I'll wait for you here; see you get back out. We have no right to detain you. This isn't your fight.”

Ben nodded his thanks and drove to his brother's house through what appeared to be an armed camp. His brother was waiting for him in the front yard, a walkie-talkie on his belt. He had been alerted to Ben's arrival.

It had been eight years since the brothers had seen one another; the moment was awkward after they shook hands.

Ben opened the conversation. “Get Mary and the kids, Carl ... let's get the hell out of here.”

His brother shook his head. “No. Mary's still alive—thank God. Alice, she's the oldest, you know ... she made it O.K. All the rest are dead, near as we can tell. Isn't safe to go into the city. Can't search for them. I hope they're dead. Be better than gettin' raped by them coons.”

“I'm sorry, Carl. I saw to our brothers and sisters. Mom and Dad. All dead.”

The older man nodded. “Figured they was. Lot of others in the same boat. Terrible thing. No, I'm not leaving, Ben. I'm staying here and protecting my home against looters. The niggers are tearing up the city—rapin' and killin'.”

“Protect your home! Hell, Carl, there must be ten million homes standing empty across this country. Take your choice—live in the governor's mansion if you like.”

“Be niggers in there, eatin' fried chicken and smackin' those five-pound lips. Doin' the jumpin' funky-humpy in the governor's office.”

Ben stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “What's changed you, Carl? You never used to feel this way. We came from conservative stock, yes, but you were not brought up to be a racist.”

His brother's look was just short of being unfriendly. “You changed into a nigger-lover now, Ben? All them words you been writin' done this?”

“I won't even dignify that with a reply, Carl.”

His brother refused to let go. “You didn't used to be a nigger-lover, Ben.”

“Carl, I believe some of the things wrong with this nation—back when we had a nation, that is—could, and probably should be placed on the blacks' doorstep; probably
will
be placed there by historians. Me, for one. The give-me, give-me-more programs. But you can't, in all honesty, blame the black race for this”—he waved his hand—“horror.”

“I'm not sayin' that, Ben. I'm sayin' now is the time to either get rid of them or put them back in their place.”

“Get rid of an entire race! Ben, that's genocide. You can't be serious. Their place? Where the hell is that, Carl?”

“It damned sure ain't alongside me, Brother. Ben, I'm not gonna stand here and argue race with you; you always was too good with words. I'm just a workin' man. Besides, what we're doin' here ... well, it's the principle of it.”

“The principle of it!” The words rolled from Ben's mouth. He laughed in his brother's face. “How about the black children, Carl—you going to kill them, too?”

His brother shrugged. “Little niggers grow up to be big niggers, Ben. They're all taught from birth to lie and steal and lust after white women.”

Ben was shocked and his face was tight with anger. “Carl . . . you don't mean that. Now, I'll admit I don't have many black friends.” He grimaced. “Matter of fact, I don't have any. But you can't believe
all
black people are the way you describe them.” He looked at his brother. “Carl,” he asked slowly, “do you have any Jews in this ... gathering of yours?”

His brother shook his head. “No. All they are is a bunch of nigger-lovers. Just like the goddamn ACLU. Hell, the Jews and the niggers support it. You're the one who has changed, Ben—not me. So maybe you'd just
better carry your ass on out of here
. You don't fit in with us.”

“I sure as hell don't, Carl. That's one thing we agree on. Carl? How are you going to survive this winter? There's no electricity. Do you have a fireplace? How about food?”

“We'll get by with heating oil—lots of that in storage. We'll get the food from stores and warehouses.”

Ben smiled. “By looting it, Carl? Isn't that what the blacks are doing in the city?”

“Why don't you just carry your Jew-lovin', nigger-lovin' ass on out of here?” The voice ripped at him from behind.

Ben turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. The small, wiry-looking man was dressed in a Nazi storm trooper's uniform. A swastika on his sleeve.

Ben looked around him: a crowd had gathered, and their faces were hostile. This was solid middle-class America glaring at him. Ben turned his gaze at his brother.

“Aw ... no, Carl—not this. You're a vet. You fought against what this”—he waved his hand at the Nazi—“turd represents.”

“Maybe, baby Brother,” Carl said, “we were wrong back in '44. George, there, he's convinced me that back then our forces should have let Hitler go on and wipe out the Jews. Then we should have linked up with him and gone into Africa and cleaned up on the jungle-bunnies. I'm glad I was too young for the second world war, Ben. I think I'd have been ashamed to admit I was a part of it. Jews and niggers, Ben—they're just alike. And we're gonna do what should have been done a long time ago.”

Ben stood for only a few seconds, looking at his brother. “I don't know you anymore, Carl.”

“Get out, Ben. Right now. ‘Fore some of my friends take it upon themselves to whip your nigger-lovin' ass.”

“My pleasure to leave, Carl. I'm just glad Mamma and Dad don't have to see this.”

The brothers did not shake hands. Ben brushed past him and the Nazi-lover, fighting back a very strong urge to knock the storm trooper on his butt.

Ben drove fast and he drove with anger eating at him. He just could not believe his brother had changed so, and he wondered just how many men and women this George commanded. Too many, he was certain. One would have been too many.

He drove first to the south, out of the suburbs, and then cut east, crossing over into Indiana. Just before dark, he pulled into a motel off Interstate 65. Thompson in hand, Ben prowled the motel. In one wing he found the rooms had been occupied and they held stinking, stiffening dead. But the entire east wing was clean and free of bodies. Ben chose a room, found the laundry room, and picked up sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. He was walking back to his room when he saw the dark shapes standing in the parking area.

About a half-dozen black men and women. No, he looked closer, one of the women was white—he thought.

Ben made no move to lift the SMG, but the click of his putting it off safety was very audible in the stillness.

“Deserting your friends in the suburbs?” a tall black man asked. Ben could detect no hostility in his voice.

“I might ask the same of you,” Ben said.

The man laughed. “A point well taken. So ... it appears we have both chosen this motel to spend the night. But . . . we were here first—quite some time. We were watching you. So ... which one of us leaves?”

“None of us,” Ben said. “If you don't trust me, lock your doors.”

The man once again laughed. “My name is Cecil Jeffreys.”

“Ben Raines.”

“Ben Raines? Where have I heard that name? The writer?”

“Ah ... what price fame?” Ben smiled. “Yes. Sorry, I didn't mean to be flip.”

“I didn't take it that way. We're in the same wing, just above you. My wife is preparing dinner now—in the motel kitchen. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, very much so. I'm tired of my own cooking.”

“Well, then ... if you'll sling that Thompson, I'll help you with your linens.”

Ben did not hesitate, for he felt the request and the offer a test. He put the SMG on safety and slung it, then handed the man his pillows. “You're familiar with the Thompson?”

“Oh, yes. Carried one in Vietnam. Green Beret. You?”

“Hell-Hound.”

“Ah! The real bad boys. Colonel Dean's bunch. You fellows were headhunters.”

“We took a few ears.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder down the walkway, Cecil's friends coming up in the rear. Ben resisted a very strong impulse to look behind him.

Cecil smiled. “If it will make you feel better, go ahead and look around.”

“You a mind reader?” Ben laughed.

“No, just knowledgeable of whites, that's all.”

“As you see us,” Ben countered.

“Good point. We'll have a good time debating; I see that.”

They came to Ben's room.

“We'll see you in the dining room, Ben Raines. I have to warn you though . . .”

Ben tensed; he was boxed in, no way to make a move.

“... The water is ice-cold. Bathe very quickly.”

 

Ben, like many, if not most, whites, had never socialized with blacks, never sat down at a table with a a black person to have dinner—except for his time in the service, and there had been few blacks in his outfit. In truth, Ben did not really know or trust black people. He didn't know why he didn't trust them. He just didn't.

Ben despised the KKK, the Nazi Party—groups of that ilk—and he would never, ever, hurt a black person, unless that person was trying to hurt him; but, he admitted, as he bathed—very quickly—in the cold water ... I guess I really don't like black people.

But why? he asked himself. Have you ever tried to know or like a black person?

No, he concluded.

Well, you're about to do just that.

He walked to the dining room through a very light mist. The smell of death hung in the damp air, but it was an odor that Ben scarcely noticed anymore.

“Mr. Raines,” Cecil greeted him in the candlelit dining area. “How about a martini? No ice, of course, but I make a wicked martini.”

“That would be great.” A martini-drinking black? He had thought most blacks drank Ripple and Thunderbird.

Come on, Raines! You're thinking like an ignorant bigot.

He sat down at the table. Moment of truth. He smiled a secret smile.

“Something funny, Mr. Raines?” a slender man seated to his right asked.

“Not really. Sad, more than anything else, I suppose.”

“Ever sat down and had dinner with blacks?” a woman inquired. Her tone was neither friendly nor hostile ... just curious.

Hell, Ben thought—they're as curious about me as I am about them. “Not really. Only in the service.”

“Well, I can promise you we won't have ham hocks or grits,” she said with a smile.

“To tell the truth,”—Ben looked at her—“I like them both.”

A few laughed aloud; the rest smiled. An uncomfortable silence fell around them; it was punctuated by shifting of feet, clearing of throats, much looking at the table, the walls. It seemed that no one had anything to say, or, as was probably the case, knew how to say it.

“May I help anyone do anything?” Ben asked. “With dinner,” he added.

“We thought we'd serve it buffet-style,” Cecil said. “Easier that way. Pardon my curiosity, Mr. Raines—”

“Ben. Just call me Ben.”

“Ben. Good. I'm Cecil. But I believe I read somewhere that you lived in Louisiana.”

“That's correct.”

“You're a long way from home.”

“Burying my family: brothers, sisters, parents. Cairo, Mt. Vernon, Springfield, Normal, then into the suburbs of Chicago.”

The woman Ben had thought white—he still wasn't sure what she was—asked, “They're all dead?”

“All but the brother in Chicago.” He looked at her. She was very good-looking. No negroid features about her; but Ben sensed she was black, at least to some degree. “Your family?” he asked her.

“All dead. Cecil and his wife found me wandering ... walking out of Chicago ... getting out while I could. They took me in.”

Cecil's wife entered the room and announced that dinner was ready. Ben was introduced to her. Lila. She was friendly and spoke as though she was highly educated. Cecil told him she had been a college professor. The news was not surprising.

The meal was deliciously prepared, and all ate slowly, enjoying the luxury of good food and good conversation. No one mentioned the slight odor that hung about them.

“Have any of you heard about radiation levels in and around the cities that took nuclear hits?” Ben asked.

“The upper east coast is the worst,” Cecil said. “Those cities took a concentration of bombs, most of them nuclear. San Francisco took a low-level hit. What is it called . . . ? I don't remember. Kills the people but leaves the buildings intact. The United States was lucky in that respect. I've heard Russia and China really are gone.”

“How about winds that carry the radiation?”

Cecil shrugged. “There again, nuclear warfare had progressed considerably ... in our favor. I have heard there is no danger from that. But ... who knows. I'm not a scientist.”

Ben began putting faces and names together. The woman who had asked about his family was Salina. Salina Franklin. There were Jake and Nora, a Clint and Jane Helms, and Anwar Ali Kasim.

Ben took an immediate dislike to Kasim, and felt equally bad vibes coming from him. Kasim confirmed his feelings when he spoke.

“How come you didn't stay with your brother and his buddies and help kill all the niggers in the city?” Kasim asked, his eyes alive with hate.

Salina rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust. Lila sighed and looked at her husband. Cecil said, “Kasim, you're a jerk!”

“And he's white!” Kasim spat his hate at Ben.

“Does that automatically make me bad?” Ben asked.

“As far as I'm concerned, yes,” Kasim said. “And I don't trust you.”

“Maybe,” Salina said, her words quiet, “he's just a man who sat down to have a quiet dinner. He hasn't bothered a soul—brother.” She smiled at her humor.

Kasim didn't share her humor. “I see,” he said, the words softly spoken but tinged with hate. “Well, now ... Zebra got herself a yearning for some white cock?”

She slapped him hard, hitting him in the mouth with the back of her hand, bloodying his lips.

Kasim drew back his hand to hit her and found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 magnum. Cecil jacked back the hammer and calmly said, “I would hate to ruin this fine dinner, Kasim, since raw brains have never been a favorite of mine. But if you hit her, I'll blow your fucking head off!”

Kasim looked at the man in disbelief. He nodded his head when he saw the look in Cecil's eyes. “You'd kill me ... for him?” He jerked his head toward Ben.

“You're twisting words out of context, Kasim,” Cecil said, the muzzle of the .44 never wavering. “But you're good at that.”

Kasim put both hands on the table, one on each side of his plate. “You know what those white bastards did to my sister.”

“I know. But Ben Raines didn't do it.”

“He's still white!”

Ben rose from the table. “I'd better leave, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Cecil surprised him. “I think it would be best. And I'm sorry for having to say that. I was looking forward to some intelligent conversation later on.”

“Perhaps we'll meet again,” Ben suggested.

“You put your white ass in New Africa, motherfucker,” Kasim said, “and it'll be buried there.”

“I will make every effort to avoid New Africa,” Ben promised. “Wherever that might be.”

“Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana,” Kasim said. “A black nation. All black.”

Ben smiled. “My home's in Louisiana, Kasim, or whatever your goddamned name is. And I'll give you a bit of advice. I'm going back to my room and go to sleep. I'll pull out just after dawn tomorrow. There will be no trouble in this motel—that I start, that is. But if I ever see you again ... I'll kill you!”

“Words.” Kasim sneered at him. “Big words. How about trying it now? Just you and me?”

“Drag your ass out of the chair, hotshot.” Ben smiled.

“Cool it, Kasim,” Cecil warned him. “You're outclassed with Ben. Let it lie.”

Kasim met Ben's eyes for a long moment, then dropped his gaze. Ben walked away, toward the door. He paused, turned around. “It was a delicious meal, Mrs. Jeffreys. I thank you.”

She smiled and nodded.

Ben's eyes touched Salina's. She smiled at him.

He walked out into the rainy night, leaving, he hoped, the hate behind him.

He was loading his gear into the truck at dawn, tying down the tarp when he heard footsteps. He turned, right hand on the butt of the .45 belted at his waist.

Salina.

“We all feel very badly about last night, Mr. Raines. All except Willie Washington, that is.”

“Who?”

She smiled in the misty dawn. A beautiful woman. “Kasim. We grew up together ... same block in Chicago. He'll always be Willie to me.”

In the dim light he could see her skin was fawn-colored. “Does he really hate whites as much as it seems? All whites?”

“Does the KKK hate blacks?”

“They say they don't.”

“Right. And pigs fly.” They shared a quiet laugh in the damp dawn. “Kasim's sister was ... used pretty badly, when he was young. Raped, buggered. He was beaten and forced to watch. The men were never caught. You know the story; it happens on both sides of the color line. He's about half nuts, Ben.”

“I gathered that.”

“There are a lot of differences between the races, Ben. Cultural differences, emotional differences. The bridge is wide.”

“I do not agree with what my brother and his friends are doing, Salina. I want you to know that.”

“I knew that last night, Ben. I think ... we need more men like you and Cecil; less of Jeb Fargo and your brother.”

“Who in the hell is Jeb Fargo?”

“His name is really George, but he likes to be called Jeb. He came up to Chicago about five years ago—from Georgia, I think. Head of the Nazi Party.”

“Yeah ... I met him. I didn't like him. I agree with you, Salina. I hope his ... mentality doesn't take root.”

“It will,” she predicted flatly. “What are your plans, Ben?”

He told her, standing in the cool mist of the morning. He told her all his plans, his schedule he had worked out in his mind while waiting for sleep to take him the night before. He told her of his home in Morriston, and how he had literally slept through the horror after being stung.

“That probably saved your life.”

“What are your plans, Salina?”

She lifted her slender shoulders. “I'm with Cecil and Lila. Where they go, I guess I go.”

“Last night, in the dining room, Kasim called you a zebra. What does that mean?”

She laughed, but it was a rueful laugh. “I'm half white, half black. My mother was a light-skinned woman, good-looking. My father was a handsome man. Yes, they were married.”

“I didn't think you were—”

“Pure coon,” she cut in, but she was smiling.

“That was not my choice of words, Salina.”

She looked up at him, then abruptly put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. She turned and walked away.