The Plymouth continued up Maywood, leaving the Clark University campus and entering a residential neighborhood of narrow streets shaded by oak and maple trees. The snow had lessened by then, yet the streets hadn’t been plowed; Hillman drove slowly to avoid skidding out. A left turn onto Birch Street, then, three blocks down, he pulled up to the sidewalk across from a wood-frame apartment house, three stories tall with a small front porch, indistinguishable from any other New England three-decker they’d already passed.
“Here we are, sir.” Shutting off the motor, Hillman climbed out. “C’mon in… I’ll introduce you to the rest of the boys.”
Jackson darted a look at him, but there was no trace of condescension on Hillman’s face; apparently, the kid didn’t know what “boy” meant to a black man. Jackson decided to let it slide as he retrieved his suitcase from the backseat and followed Hillman across the street and up the front steps. The corporal didn’t knock or ring the doorbell but instead walked straight in, holding the door open for Jackson.
They found themselves in a darkened foyer with a row of metal mailboxes on the wall across from a stairway. Straight ahead was a hallway; light gleamed from a half-open door at the end. “Hey, there!” Hillman called out as he stamped his feet on the doormat, shaking off the snow. “Anyone home?”
“Back here,” a voice from the door responded. “C’mon back.”
Still carrying his suitcase, Jackson let Hillman lead him down the hall. “Hey, guys,” the corporal said as he pushed open the door. “Here’s the last member of your group… Lieutenant J. Jackson Jackson, U.S. Army Air Corps.”
Jackson walked into a small but cozy parlor. Six men were seated in armchairs, with two sharing a couch near a window; most were reading books or magazines, but a couple were hunched over a checkerboard. A radio in the corner quietly played dance-hall jazz; the room was filled with cigarette and pipe smoke. Through a door on the other side of the room, Jackson spotted the kitchen. Two more men were in there, washing dishes; Jackson guessed that they were cleaning up from dinner.
Everyone stared at him. Jackson knew that look; he’d been getting it his entire life, from high school to college to the Army. What the hell is a Negro doing here? Even the Asian fellow—Chinese, he guessed; couldn’t be a Jap, not on a classified military project—seemed incredulous. The only sound in the room was the Benny Goodman Orchestra.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jackson put down the suitcase, took off his hat. “Pleasure to meet you.” He gave them a measured smile, friendly but not ingratiating.
The silence lasted for another second or two, then a tall, slender man pushed himself to his feet. “Glad to meet you, too, Lieutenant. Name’s Morse… Henry Morse.”
“Hello, Henry.” Jackson offered his hand. When Morse shook it without hesitation, he knew he had at least one guy on his side. “And don’t bother with the rank… my friends call me Jack.”
“Jack?” Another guy, a wiry little fellow with glasses and a mustache, lowered the Life he was reading. “Did I hear Max correctly when he said your last name was Jackson?”
“Yes, you did.”
“And your middle name is…?”
“That’s Jackson, too.”
“Jackson Two?” A wide grin as the others chuckled. “Then I take it your first initial stands for…”
Jackson felt his face growing warm. He hated this part of introducing himself to anyone, especially white folks. “I think that’s obvious.”
“Jackson Jackson Jackson?” This from an overweight, balding man who appeared to be the oldest person in the room. “No wonder you want to be called Jack.”
“No, no, no… you don’t get it.” The little guy shook his head. “If his middle and last names makes him Jackson Two, then the first name makes him Jackson Three. That’s Jackson Cube… Jack Cube!”
That broke everyone up, and for an instant Jackson felt anger surge within. Then he realized that this was a joke only well-educated men would appreciate, a mathematical pun that would’ve gone right over the head of a cracker back home. These men weren’t laughing at him, really; they were laughing at a joke spawned years ago when his parents decided to give their baby boy the most unforgettable name possible.
“Yeah, well… that’s cool,” he replied, managing to keep a straight face. His remark was greeted by a long and heartfelt groan: a pun answered by another pun.
All of a sudden, the room was just a few degrees warmer. One by one, the men got up and came over to introduce themselves. Names accompanied handshakes; the wiry guy was Lloyd Kapman, the plump one was Taylor Brickell, and the Chinese-American fellow was Harry Chung. They were followed by Hamilton “just call me Ham” Ballou, who looked like a stand-in for Clark Gable except for the postadolescent acne that covered his face. Michael “I’m Mike” Ferris was the only person with whom Jackson had had any previous contact, from letters exchanged through addresses gleaned from the American Rocket Society newsletter. Mike obviously hadn’t been aware that his pen pal was black, because Jackson hadn’t believed it necessary to tell him, but he didn’t say anything about it. For Jack’s part, he was surprised that Ferris was apparently his own age; he’d always assumed that Mike was a bit older.
Indeed, everyone was unexpectedly young. Harry, Lloyd, and Taylor were the oldest members of the group, and none of them had yet reached his thirties. Jackson had pegged everyone as being in his twenties when the two men who’d been in the kitchen came in, and he discovered that this estimate was wrong. Gerry Mander—yes, that was his real name, he’d later learn—wasn’t even old enough to drink or vote; a skinny, awkward-looking kid with a bad haircut, he was also the one who appeared most surprised to discover that J. Jackson Jackson was black.
“Where’re you from?” Gerry looked Jack up and down, not immediately accepting Jack’s offered handshake. His Southern accent was unmistakable, a drawl that could only have come from somewhere deep in the heart of Dixie.
“Memphis,” Jack said. “You?”
“Muscle Shoals.” Gerry hesitated. “I hear we’re gonna be roommates.”
The room fell quiet again. From the corner of his eye, Jack could see that everyone was nervously watching this exchange. “I suppose we are…”
The other man from the kitchen coughed in his hand, interrupting him. In his midthirties, he was taller and more muscular than anyone else, but what set him apart wasn’t his size but the Smith & Wesson .45 tucked into the shoulder holster he wore over a starched Arrow shirt. Jack instantly recognized him for what he was: a federal agent, probably a G-man.
“We weren’t aware of any… uh, personal differences… when we made the room assignments,” he said, his gaze shifting between Gerry and Jack. “Is there going to be a problem here?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Jack looked Gerry straight in the eye. “Do you have a problem?”
Again, Gerry Mander hesitated. Then a grin slowly spread across his face, exposing a pair of crooked front teeth. “Well, hell, why not? Half the guys in the workhouse were colored.” He stuck out his hand. “Put it there, boy!”
Jackson bit his lip as he shook Gerry’s hand. For now, he’d have to settle for acceptance and work on respect later. “And you are…?” he asked the G-man.
“Frank O’Connor, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His handshake was firm enough to crack walnuts. “I’ve been assigned to be your security detail while you’re here. Where you go, I go.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Lloyd said. “He’s really our valet. Cooks a mean roast chicken.”
The others laughed again, and Agent O’Connor managed a shrug. “Got some leftovers in the icebox if you’re hungry.”