The Compass (4 page)

Chapter 5
 

“Have you heard of the Civil Rights movement, Rudy?” He nodded, yes; he knew something about it. “Well, this story begins long before there were civil rights. They used to call us colored people. When I was growing up, colored people, well, we didn’t have any rights. Do you know we couldn’t drink out of the same drinking faucets or use the same bathrooms as the white people? If we did, we could go to jail or get beat up, or even worse.”

Frederick paused and looked away, staring as if trying to see something that he couldn’t quite focus on. Rudy had, of course, heard these stories but didn’t know if he quite believed them. Yet, here was someone who had lived it. He waited for Frederick to go on.

“Thing was there was not much we could do about it if we wanted to stay safe. It’s just the way it was for a long time. I grew up in the South. My people, my great-grandparents, were slaves and picked cotton on a plantation most of their lives. They were around for the Emancipation Proclamation. Did you learn about the Emancipation Proclamation in school?”

Not waiting for a response, Frederick cocked his head, listening to something he heard stirring in the garden. “Come with me, Rudy.” Rudy put down his sweaty glass and followed Frederick toward the center of his garden, wondering what was going on. Frederick continued talking, not waiting for them to reach their destination.

“I never knew my great-grandparents but heard stories about them from my grandparents. Sometimes I hear them and my other ancestors singing in the garden. Did Jacob tell you that? He likes to have a little fun teasing me about it; thinks I’m crazy.” Frederick laughed shaking his head.

“I know it sounds funny to you, Rudy, but this land was nothing but dirt and weeds more than a decade ago. It was hearing them one morning out my back door that made me want to come out and work the soil as they had a century before.”

Rudy wondered if he was kidding but was just trying to keep up with Frederick’s fast pace. The old guy could move pretty fast; must be those long legs.

“You’ve probably been wondering why I sing so much? When I sing with them… well, it’s a magical feeling. When I sing alone, I still feel like they are near me, and I wonder if today will be the day I hear them again.”

Frederick stopped short and pointed to an area ahead of them. “Actually, I hear them now; it’s coming from over there. Listen, Rudy; close your eyes and just listen.”

Rudy looked incredulously at Frederick, but then changed his expression when he could see that Frederick was serious. Feeling ridiculous, Rudy closed his eyes, uncomfortable and almost snickering yet yearning to hear something. All he could hear was leaves rustling.

“I don’t hear nothin’,” Rudy responded finally.

“That’s okay. You will one day,” Frederick replied confidently and started walking again towards the place that was the heart of Eden.

Stopping, Frederick pointed to a three-foot pedestal surrounded by rose bushes with pink-colored blooms. On top of the dais was a compass covered by a glass dome. “Right here, right in this spot is where I dug out the first weeds. Right here is where I felt I was working alongside them. As the heat rose up, I almost felt it was their hot breath. Here was where their voices were the loudest. That experience has turned out to be a great thing in more ways than one—changed my life.”

Frederick hesitated, reflecting on what he had just said. Rudy pointed to the pedestal and compass and asked, “What’s this?” What he really meant to ask was why Frederick had a compass in the yard.

Frederick seemed to understand and replied, “I wanted to mark the spot where this all began.” He spread his arms wide to encompass all of Eden. “Yoshito gave me the idea. Did you know that in medieval times they thought a compass was akin to the eye of God? That Yoshito is a font of information. I like the idea that God is watching over this place, but I also think there is something safe and grounding about a compass. It helps you find your way home. That’s what my ancestors did for me with this garden—they grounded me to this place.”

Frederick took in a deep breath and looked around at the beautiful garden surrounding them; he couldn’t imagine it being any other way. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Frederick asked, and Rudy nodded. He had to agree that it was unbelievable.

“C’mon, let’s rest under this tree, sit on that fine old bench.” Frederick motioned toward the weathered bench that rested itself under the canopy of the Sycamore that was at the far back of the lot. Rudy followed, and as they brushed against the lavender, its smell was released and filled the air. It was intoxicating.

“Now, let me start again, but at the beginning. Growing up in the South in the first half of the century was not easy for a black man. I was the only son of Calvin and Lilly Washington. They named me after the great Frederick Douglas. You know Frederick Douglas?” Rudy thought the name was familiar but wasn’t sure if he did or didn’t. He was never that good at paying attention in school.

“My momma was the prettiest woman I have ever seen. When I was a little boy, I was so proud of her. No one had a mother that was prettier than mine. My daddy adored her. Used to call her ‘Sugar’ when he was wanting to romance her, even after they were married and I had come along. They would turn on the radio in the kitchen and Daddy would grab her—oh how she would laugh—and they would start dancing, almost like they forgot I was in the room. I liked it though; loved to watch them. Sometimes they would pick me up between them and dance with me in the middle. I have some great memories of that time. One of the reasons I love jazz and the blues is because, if I close my eyes while listening to it, I can almost feel their arms around me. Makes them feel close by.”

Rudy didn’t have those kinds of memories. His daddy had left when he was just a toddler, and he couldn’t remember a time when his mother sounded as happy has Frederick’s momma must have been. Rudy didn’t remember what it was like to have his daddy’s arms around him—maybe his daddy had never held him in the same way Frederick’s daddy did. He wouldn’t be surprised since his daddy had up and left them just like that. Frederick’s voice brought Rudy back to the story.

“My momma used to take in laundry. She would rub her hands raw. We didn’t have any new fangled washing machines like you see today. In those days, she had to rub everything on a washboard; sometimes, scrape her own skin clean off. Then she would stand over a hot iron, pressing everything perfectly. My momma was a perfectionist; built a fine reputation. The white folks would bring their laundry to her. You can bet that my own shirts were pressed and clean when I went to school. I was one of the cleanest and neatest kids there, even if I didn’t have many new clothes. Got a lot of hand-me-downs from the white folks that momma worked for, sometimes through our church too. It didn’t pay much, and it was hard work. We didn’t have air-conditioning, and summer in the South is not only hot like it gets here but also humid and sticky. The air is thick like molasses. The mosquitoes alone could drive you crazy; they were huge. It felt like you could lasso one and hitch a ride on its back. Yes, sir, they loved the wet, sticky air that was so sweet with the scent of jasmine. Why you could make a million dollars if you could just bottle the smell of the summer night air. In southern California, we have what you call a dry heat. In the South, you just stand still and you’re sweating. It can be unbearable. But my momma never complained. She was proud that she was able to contribute to the household income and even put a bit of money aside. Not a lot, mind you, but maybe money to buy me a new suit for Sundays or new shoes. They always thought about me. Just like your momma, Rudy, always thinking about you. She’s a hard worker too, wants to be able to put food on the table. Give you what you need.”

But
what
about
what
I
want?
Rudy thought as he swatted away a fly.

“Didn’t always get what I wanted,” Frederick said as though reading Rudy’s mind, “but I always had what I needed.” Rudy wasn’t sure that that was enough for him.

“We stayed out of people’s business, followed the rules, worked hard, and life was overall good until the summer I was twelve—just about your age. Things changed that year.”

Frederick’s expression sobered. This happy-go-lucky man became serious, sad, then almost looked like he could cry. His voice was different; it was lower, as if someone might hear what he was about to say. He paused and Rudy waited, not knowing if he should say something or not. Rudy leaned forward. The sounds of the birds filled his ears. Finally, Frederick continued.

“Rudy, you have to forgive my emotion, but my daddy was the best man I ever knew. He was a fine, hardworking, decent man. He loved me, loved my momma, and loved God. Don’t find too many men around like him anymore. He turned the other cheek when people called him names or treated him like a common animal. You know that saying, ‘Sticks and stones?’ Well, you might think he was weak to take that kind of abuse, but my daddy was smart; knew how to keep his family safe. He knew the truth, so whatever those self-righteous and ignorant people had to say just didn’t matter to him. Oh, I suppose it did down deep, but he never let it show. He had pride and self-respect. He didn’t like the way he was treated, but it was more important to ensure his family stayed safe. Sometimes bearing your burden silently is the greatest courage there is. He was a fine example of what a man should be.”

Reaching out, Frederick put his rough hand on Rudy’s shoulder and looked him square in the eye. “I know your daddy left you when you were a little boy, and that’s why I want you to hear about my daddy, so that you know there were and are good men in the world—sometimes they’re just not that easy to spot. I just hope I have done him proud. You see, Rudy, even as an old man with my daddy in the grave more years than your momma’s been alive, I am still his son and want him to be proud of the man I have become. You will want your momma’s approval too one day. As far as your daddy is concerned… well, he missed the chance to raise a fine boy. You have every right to be disappointed in that. Just don’t let your anger toward him define who you are and what you can become.”

Rudy was uncomfortable and surprisingly overwhelmed. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. In a way, he felt exposed, like Frederick knew how angry he was at his father for leaving him and his mama. But in another weird way, he felt like he had just had his first man-to-man talk, and he kind of liked it. He couldn’t talk to his mama about his daddy. Somehow, Frederick seemed to get how he was feeling and was saying it was okay.

Frederick released Rudy’s shoulder and drew back his hand. “Well, my daddy worked hard. He worked in a lumber mill. Made a quarter of what a white man would get for the same job. It was hard work—manual labor, just like what you are doing here in this garden. Had to use muscle, sweat, like you pulling out that fence. I remember him coming home, sweaty and smelly with all kinds of aches and pains, sore shoulders, bad back. Still, my daddy did not make waves. He had a good job, was good at it, and just wanted to have a happy life; grow old with his wife and see his son educated and with a life of his own.

“One day, the owner of the mill came to town with his family and wanted to look around; you know, check things out and make sure people were doing what they were supposed to be doing. Seems they were on their way to see some relatives and stopped into town for a few days. The owner was what you would call affluent. Do you know what that means?”

Rudy wasn’t sure and shrugged. His grades in school weren’t all that great. His heart wasn’t in it. He just somehow didn’t see the point of school, didn’t see how Hemingway and algebra were going to get him out of this hell hole of a neighborhood he was living in.

“Affluent means well-to-do, upper class, rich. He was an important man. Seems like when you have lots of money, you have lots more friends than when you are poor. The man was well connected too, known in town. Might be like Donald Trump coming to town today. Jacob would call him ‘Mr. Big Shot Mill Owner.’” Frederick stopped and smiled at Rudy.

“Now this particular day, the owner stopped by the mill with his wife and daughter; wanted to show off. As they were touring the mill, the daughter, who was about eighteen years old, started staring at my daddy, smiling a little. My daddy was a big, strong handsome man in his mid-thirties by then. Had lots of muscles from the long days he put in, sometimes twelve to fifteen hours a day. It was backbreaking work, but he never complained. No, he didn’t. But, he was embarrassed by this girl’s attention and didn’t want any trouble. He just nodded his head in greeting and looked away. It turned out that when they walked by she dropped a pretty kerchief she had worn over her head when they were driving. My daddy saw it and didn’t want anyone to think he was going to keep it, so he went after her to return it. He gave it back to her when her daddy was talking business with the mill management. The daughter was mighty friendly, smiling and laughing, saying how grateful she was. I expect the mill owner didn’t like my daddy talking to his darling daughter, especially behind his back. He got the idea that my daddy was up to no good. Well, one thing you need to understand was that in those days, it was inconceivable that a white girl would ever flirt with a black man; it was unthinkable that any white girl would want to. It was against every societal rule; in some churches, it was against their religion. Can you imagine bringing God into that warped way of thinking? Well, this girl’s papa saw my daddy smiling back at her; thought he was singling her out and flirting with her and called him on it—right on the spot, in front of everyone. He was as mad as a junkyard dog and said, ‘What you doing, boy, looking at my girl that way?’”

“I can imagine my daddy was scared, but he looked that man in the eyes and told him that he was just returning the scarf that she dropped and that she was thanking him, though no thanks were needed. You could see the hatred in this man’s eyes. He did not like my daddy smiling at his daughter or insinuating that his daughter would be thanking him for anything. After all, his daughter was no nigger lover. I’m sorry to use that word, Rudy. It’s a degrading word, but it’s what the man said, and I want you to understand how ignorant this man was.”