She'd watched him as anger invaded his eyes but she wasn't expecting it when he lashed out suddenly, knocking the radio to the floor. It tinkled, squealed briefly, then fell silent.
"Johnny — there's no call to do that!"
"That's lying whitey shit, that's all that is. Their radio. They even jammin' the North so they can't send the truth through. True Negro got no business even ownin' a radio in this country." He chewed angrily, eyes distant. She put her hand over his.
"Johnny-Jo… tell me the truth, then. I ain't asked you up to now. What all did you and them others do? Did you kill them people last night?"
"Me?" He held up a fist, immense, powerful, the knuckles seamed with bluish-black scars. "You see this? This a Railroad fist. This fist for whitey. It's not for strikin' against my own people." He took another mouthful, then continued: "That's a whitey lie we killed them people. Shit, yeah, we had guns up there, me and Finnick and Sammy — got 'em from a shipment for Turkey. But we was after that fat Mayor, sittin' up there so sleek on the grandstand above all his poor devoted grateful niggers, givin' 'em shows and fireworks. We would have got him, too. Finnick had a clear shot at him."
She waited. He continued, sopping up gravy with a piece of dry bread. "But some cops — they been putting cops on the rooftops now since somebody got that Clinton fella down in Arkansas — they saw us and started shooting before we could. They was aiming down at us but every bullet missed us went right down into the crowd. Well, shit, we haul ass out of there, but them cops kept on shooting. Even when they could see we gone." Hatred gleamed in his eyes. "And now they blamin' it on us."
"Johnny—"
"I don't know, Vy. Sometimes it seem — they ain't no way to do it — no way to fight the cops and the Army and the patrollers and all them fuckin' Toms like their tame Jesus-lovers." He shook his head. "But by Christ I ain't going to stop trying."
She felt sick, and crossed her arms over her stomach. She felt his hand, large and warm, on her neck. "Ain't you hungry?"
"No. I ate while you were asleep."
The whole world, she was thinking. Was the whole world crazy? Or was it only this little corner of it, only the South? The papers said up North it was no better. But whatever they printed was probably the opposite of the truth.
The North. Used to be the Underground Railroad was for getting you there. Now the Wall barred the way — wire, lights, concrete, dogs — and "escape" was a euphemism for death. If they didn't shoot you as you crossed, as you hung crucified on the wire, the guards took you back, to be "conditioned" and returned to work, a zombie, your brain half dead. She'd seen them, able to follow simple orders often repeated, able to say little more than "yassuh."
She looked at Turner, at the ripple of muscle in his arms as he spooned the last food into his mouth. He was uneducated, a child of the city. By day he was a common laborer, a longshoring foreman on the Norfolk waterfront. But by night he was a fighter. And for that — as well as for other things, far more intimate — she loved him.
"That's pretty good," he said at last, leaning back till the rickety chair creaked alarmingly. "I was powerful hungry. Anything to drink round here, girl?"
"Just that 'shine."
"Let's have it." He tried to get up, forgetting his leg, but went rigid and sank back. "Whee-oo," he whispered. "That hurt."
"I'll help you. Lean on me."
Together they tottered back into the bedroom. She handed him the bottle, and he poured the teacup full and drank it down and sank gratefully back against the patched pillow.
"Come over here." Obediently, she slid closer on the bed. His rough big hand slid inside her dress. She leaned forward and their lips met but when his hands slid downward she shook them free and stood up. "None of that stuff when you're hurt. Besides, it's five o'clock. I got to get ready for work."
"Vy." She'd expected him to be angry — when Johnny wanted her, he wanted her now — but instead his voice was serious. "This thing last night. I could have shot back at them cops. But I didn't want for any of our people down below to get hurt."
"I know that, Johnny."
"I'm going to carry off something big someday, girl. Something that'll make all them white piss-ants shake when they see a black man."
"I know, Johnny-Jo." She bent to kiss him a last time, and reached for her purse.
"I wish you didn't have to work at that place," he said, eyes following her to the door.
"Me too," she said, feeling the familiar numbness begin in her belly, feeling the cold under her heart. "But I ain't got the choice. I'll be back in the morning, Johnny. You rest comfortable. And don't answer the door."
THREE
Quidley, mind busy with the implications of what he'd just heard at the briefing, was descending the steps of the Port Control building when someone gripped his elbow. He turned to shake it off — he'd never liked men's hands on him — and found himself facing a smiling, excited Sawyer.
"So, what you think of that?" the Mississippian said. "General Norris — he's first rate, ain't he? Smart staff, too. That Brit admiral's no dummy either. Them damn Yankees'll be mewin' like whipped puppies!"
"I surely hope so, Colonel." He looked at Sawyer's hand until the other dropped it, then glanced around for the car. Where the devil had Roberts got to? "Have they assigned you a vehicle, sir?"
"Don't think anyone has, come to think on it."
"The general must have overlooked it. Why don't you take my Bentley? My man will drive you over to the club, and he'll stay at your disposal for as long as you need him."
Sawyer looked startled, then frowned. "Sure grateful, but I — well, I sort of thought you might be willin' to show me around the town a little. Been a coon's age since I've seen this part of the country."
Quidley sighed inside. Sawyer wanted to be entertained. Next — in the crude way of his class — he'd offer to buy the drinks.
"Why don't we do the town together, Major? Hoist a few? I'll take care of the check."
"To tell the truth, sir, I'd like to. But I have a previous engagement. Dinner, with my fiancee — you understand. Any additional time tonight will have to go into reading this," and he lifted his own briefcase, " — the operation order. And preparing my own activities to mask our intentions and confuse the enemy."
"I see." Sawyer looked disappointed, but only said, "I'll make myself at home at the club, then."
"Again, sir, I'm sorry."
"That's all right, Major, that's all right."
The Bentley appeared at last. Roberts, in the front seat, was hatless. Quidley motioned for him to stay inside and opened the door for Sawyer himself, then leaned in the driver's window.
"Take the colonel to the Officer's Club, Sergeant. Remain at his disposal tonight. Pick me up at eight A.M. tomorrow, at home."
"Yes, sir," said Roberts, smiling. Quidley ignored the grin and fixed the top of his head with a look of distaste and disapproval until the sergeant understood and groped for his cap on the seat beside him and jammed it on. He saluted quickly, but Quidley was already turning away, stepping up to the curb.
He saluted Sawyer as the car pulled away, then wheeled and walked briskly toward the motor pool. He'd get a small car, one of the Tredegars or a Dallas. As he was waited on and scurried after his annoyance with Sawyer and the colored driver dissipated. A gentleman coped with minor annoyances without showing strain. He was assigned a new white Dixie Traveller two-door. As he tossed swagger stick, briefcase, and cap inside and slid in after them his spirits rose even more.
Sharon had been twenty-three, he thirty-three, when they'd met a year before at the club. As he slowed for the gate he smiled, remembering his first sight of her. The clinging black silk sheath had made her blonde hair seem to glow, and the pearls had seemed darker than her skin, and she'd been surrounded by young officers eager to dance.