Part 8 (1/2)
”All I'm sayin' is, we finally found someone to take our place on the bottom of the heap, and along comes this fool professor and focuses the attention right back on us.” Thornton took a quick puff. ”Now I've got to pledge allegiance three times a day in public.”
”Everybody knows you're a patriot. You still got your flag on your Rolls, don't you, Doc?” Winston asked good-naturedly.
”Sure do,” answered Thornton. ”And I'll let you in on a little secret: I got me a Confederate one in the glove compartment, just in case of emergency. My motto is, be prepared and stay flexible.”
”I think you've twisted flexibility just about as far as it'll go,” remarked Reynolds. ”Which may be our only hope.”
”You know what your problem is, James?” asked Thornton. ”You're a black man with integrity, and that's a mighty lonely place to be.” He looked at the men around the table with a twinkle in his eyes. ”Or so I've been told.” Everyone except Reynolds laughed.
”Now, as far as this mess with Matheson,” continued Thornton, ”it's one thing we got to live down these ignorant punks weaned on criminal activity, but you can't get no more educated than a Ph.D. He's our best and brightest. If he goes wrong, what does that say about the rest of us to white folks who are just waiting to say, *I told you so'?”
Reynolds looked at Miller. ”Todd, when a white person screws up, do you feel personally embarra.s.sed or responsible?”
”Yes,” confessed Miller.
”I forgot who I was asking,” corrected Reynolds. ”You're Caucasian twice removed.”
”Don't forget,” Winston joined in, ”Matheson's father is a pastor.”
”That's exactly my point,” Thornton shot back. ”If he's a bad seed, then none of us are ever gonna be trusted. He's setting the race back another hundred years.”
”Yeah,” said Winston, ”but remember when you were young and went looking for a hot tenderoni? What was every full-blooded man's dream?”
The men looked at each other. Miller guessed, ”That you'd have enough gas money to drive around and search?”
”That you'd find a preacher's daughter!” Winston proclaimed excitedly. ”You knew she'd be so repressed all you had to do was touch her b.u.t.ton and bam! You wouldn't be able to walk straight for a whole week.”
”Why are we listening to your boyhood fantasies?” asked Reynolds.
”Wait a second,” interjected Thornton. ”Winston's onto something. Same principle applies to a preacher's son, except a man reacts differently to being repressed.”
”Yeah,” agreed Reynolds. ”He studies hard and goes to medical school.”
”You don't want to listen, suit yourself,” Thornton said, annoyed. ”But you won't convince me you're not paying a heavy price for that man's actions. Before this is over, there's gonna be a lot of nervous and angry people in this city, and that's a combination killed more black folks than King Cotton.”
”Thornton,” Miller interrupted, ”can I ask you a personal question?”
”Be my guest, and don't forget that's who you are.”
”Are you a Republican?”
Thornton put his hands on his hips and lectured Miller. ”I'm for anyone who lowers capital gains and eliminates the estate tax.” He looked around and included the other two men. ”I don't need no black fist in the air or no poor hands in my pockets; just let me keep and invest my money, and we don't ever have to discuss civil rights again.”
The doorbell chimed.
”Saved by the bell,” Miller said thankfully.
”Dinner is served,” announced Thornton, much to the relief of Reynolds, who'd come close to losing his appet.i.te.
The rest of the evening the men avoided political and religious discussions, although Thornton did his best to interject the matter of race with every new slice of pizza. At midnight they'd had enough and thanked their host for an enlightening evening. They located their respective shoes and exited through the rear door so as not to scuff the imported marble in the foyer.
Reynolds drove while Miller sat silently in the pa.s.senger seat. Miller's sports car remained in his mechanic's shop over the weekend to get an ”oil change and ma.s.sage.”
”You've been noticeably quiet; that's not like you.”
”My friend,” Miller said in a depressed voice, ”I haven't been like me in quite some time.” He paused and looked inquisitively at Reynolds. ”Did what I just said make sense?”
”For someone who's had a six-pack of German beer and half a bottle of domestic wine, I think you're perfectly coherent.”
Miller rolled down his side window and inhaled a breath of fresh air. ”You ever ask yourself if it's worth it?”
Reynolds stared straight ahead. ”Every day.”
”And is the answer ever yes?” Miller wondered.
”To tell you the truth, it's a rhetorical question. That means it's not supposed to be answered,” responded Reynolds.
”My father told me never to trust a black man who began any sentence with *To tell you the truth.'”
”Why did he include only blacks?”
”My daddy's a bigot.”
Reynolds slowed down to turn a sharp curve. ”My father told me never to believe any white man who began any sentence.”
”Began any sentence with what?” asked Miller.
”That's it. Any sentence, if started by a white man, was enough for my father to dismiss as an outright lie.”
”How come he included only white men?”
”He was wise,” answered Reynolds. ”And, he hadn't met Dr. Thornton Starr or his moneymaking real estate sidekick.”
Miller laughed. Reynolds stopped the car at a red light. He rolled down his window. A car pulled alongside. The stereo from the vehicle blared full blast, playing a rap song with the word ”n.i.g.g.e.r” interspersed frequently with the phrase ”black b.i.t.c.h motherf.u.c.ker.” Reynolds and Miller turned toward the source of the noise and discovered a blonde, blue-eyed girl in her teens, joyously moving her head back and forth to the rhythm.
The white girl noticed Reynolds and smiled politely. He nodded h.e.l.lo. She blew a small pink balloon of bubble gum, then gathered it in and resumed chewing. The light turned green, and she drove through the intersection.
Reynolds's foot remained on the brake. He looked at Miller. ”We have met the enemy,” he said diplomatically.
”And it be us,” agreed Miller. ”Where's Marvin Gaye when he's needed most?”
”His father killed him,” answered Reynolds.
”That's what fathers do best to their sons, although it's usually over an extended period of time.” He looked at Reynolds with an irrepressible grin. ”Make me wanna holler, throw up both my hands.”
Reynolds floored the accelerator and burned rubber. He dropped off Miller before taking the long way home. He always needed additional time alone after playing cards with ”Baby Doc.” Tonight he'd need more than usual. Civil rights discussions often required an extra twenty minutes to wind down.