“His eyebrows arched, or at least one of them did — and he took on that look Snodgrass described. He suspected I was testing him.You’ve been to Fill-er-delf-ia?
“Oh yes, I said. Mind if I smoke? I offered him one and he took it. I lit it for him, then my own. A minute passed as we took in our smoke, and not an iota of recognition from him of the trap. You see,” Dr. Blackwood turned to Mr. Snodgrass, “The Inquirer building is located near Logan Square where there’s quite a famous fountain, which is called Swann after the family and, incidentally, features many small figures of the bird, as well. But people get it the other way around, thinking the fountain is named for the birds. This urchin was an impostor.”
“I thought he was a rascal!” Mr. Snodgrass said.
“And to close the trap, I asked if he would like a cup of tea, or a glass of water. Except, I didn’t said wa-tah as a Southerner might, but wood-er as a Philadelphian would. And I observed him closely, and yes — not recognition, not familiarity, but the slightest crinkle of confusion on his brow. What should have sounded familiar to him did not! And so I leaned back in my desk chair, hoping my face did not show the smirk I bore toward him, and inquired as gentlemanly as I could muster, And how may I help you?
“Oh, he said, and took a pad and stub of a pencil from his pocket. Something he had seen in a movie, no doubt. I wonder if he’d thought to wear a fedora with a placard marked Press stuck in the band. He meandered — groping like a man destitute of vision in a room full of knives. Some whites are that way. Afraid to say the obvious, as if to acknowledge that I am a Negro is an insult to me. So I said it for him. And that very same question he asked you, Snodgrass. Did I know the Justice boy? Suspecting his perfidy, I declared that I had never heard of him, or the incident in which the poor lad was injured.
“You mean he was... what! I feigned shock. Eunuchized! Who would do such a thing? And in America too.
“The coifed clown went on quite awhile, chattering now that the subject was open. He explained as he explained to you, Snodgrass, about his intelligence from the hooligans at Hueytown High and the KKK of the Confederacy emasculating the boy and leaving him for dead. He went on about the girl too, Emma, not Ella. Quite the Queen of Sparta. A willowy, smoky-eyed blonde by the way he described her, his eyes bright and a pearl of spittle at the corner of his mouth. He claimed the Justice lad met her at the plant gate every night, by arrangement. She pretending to bring supper to her father, and he — well, it was never clear what rationale he was to give. This he claimed the girl said, though he never talked to her directly, or so he told me. He went on in a loquacious stream that grew more rapids-filled as he went. I learned more and more about the qualities of young Emma, even details about her fetching eyes and her nymphet physique. All the time, I remembered young Roland Justice, one of the few students I let into the office. Tall, he was, sepia, good-haired, and as athletic as a young John Henry. He would have been quite the ladies’ man, but he was a dreamer. Though he had more than a few infelicities in his articulation, I enjoyed listening to his dreams. He wanted to be an astronaut, he said. He wanted to fly off to the planets.” Dr. Blackwood paused, blew smoke through his nostrils, and added with a snort, “What Negro doesn’t? But I encouraged him. To dream, even so quixotically, adds a glimmer to the gloom.”
Like many boys back then, I too wanted to fly off to the planets. It was the years of the Mercury program and five men, that is to say American men, had gone up into space in the past year and a half. Just two weeks earlier, Wally Schirra had completed six orbits around the earth and the president said we were going to the moon!
“I had no heart to tell the boy of poor Captain Dwight. Why snuff out his flame? The example of Captain Dwight served as sufficient precedent.”
My father groaned, a sound of agony and agreement. I learned much later that Captain Dwight had been the first black man to apply to join the astronaut corps, but officials had bullied him away.
“Finally, I’d heard more than enough of the calumny, and was about to ask the white deceiver to leave my office, when he put a finger to the corner of his mouth to wipe away a luscious glob of drool that had collected there and I saw a small, broad ring on his pinkie. A woman’s ring. Gold and garnet. And I made out quite clearly the H-U-E-Y of Hueytown High inscribed around the stone. I checked my anger. The poem had been written, so to speak. Now only the rhyming couplet remained unfinished.
“And you believe them to have been lovers? I asked.
“His face flushed, a flare of anger or embarrassment or both. No, he said. Nothing like that. She wouldn’t have been caught dead... He composed himself. I’m only saying what I heard.
“But why would the boy have been so severely punished, if it were not true? If there had been no true romance?
“Romance? There ain’t no romance.
“Romeo and Juliet. O, happy dagger, / This is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die.
“What? He rose from my chair in a near bolt, both fighting and fleeing. You need to be more respectful.
“Indeed, I said, and as he turned I changed my tone to lure him back, back for the final conceit, Young man, one question, please.
“He turned.
“When is her birthday? Emma Grimes? When is her birthday?
“January... He looked puzzled. January the fifteenth. Why?
“No important reason. Just curious. Always curious, I am. I thanked him for his visit, and slowly, as if he were struck dumb by my inquisitiveness, he left the office. I sat listening to the clank of his heels on the stairs. For some long moments my mind seemed clear, not a jingle or rhyme in it. Then the image of that poor lad, lying in a ditch in the darkness with his pants soaked with blood. What horrifying thoughts must have filled his mind. Worse than the pain he must have felt, he must also have felt the fetid gloaming of his future pressing down on him. And then my anger flashed. What an insidious pogrom this petulant pareidolia wages against us! While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, / Making their mock at our accursèd lot.”
The men were silent, but all leaning in, while Dr. Blackwood finished his cigarette and crushed the stub with his foot. “The garnet,” he said quietly, “is the birthstone of January.”
“You don’t think he did it?” my father asked.
“No.” Dr. Blackwood shook his head. “Not the crime. But he couldn’t believe that she hadn’t.”
“Damn!” my father said, and suddenly stood and brought the butt of the shotgun to his shoulder. The other men stood up too, staring into the distance, over the rooftops. I stood. To the north, far down Center Street, a bright light blossomed, momentarily casting an orange bubble in the blackness. There was no sound of the blast. No whine of the speeding car. No screams of children or shouts of the men who undoubtedly rushed to the flames. No sirens. Only the imperturbable cacophony of the cicadas.