A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (20 page)

November 24, 2002

Dear Reba,

I mailed a letter to you about 2 hours ago. If ever a letter got lost in the mail or somehow destroyed, I hope it was that one. It was a monstrous letter. Please throw it away.

Your letter caught me off guard in a variety of ways. Maybe I should say it slipped by a lot of my guards. But that is no excuse. I did a shameful thing.

When I play through all my memories of you and me, Reba, I somehow can’t find a one that doesn’t make me ashamed of myself. Was I ever kind to you, even as a little kid? I hope so, since you have been nothing but kind to me. When I read the part of your letter where you ask about Wilkes and me and then start worrying about me and then you ask me not to be mad about you “meddling”—I can’t tell you how shocked I was. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden it came on me like a swarm of yellow jackets that I had spent so much time being embarrassed by your attention to me, your good humor and social inventiveness, when I was the embarrassment, always.

Let me say it out loud, Reba, no matter how bad it sounds. I was ashamed of you, Reba. I thought I was better than you and didn’t want anybody to know you were my sister. That is so awful, I don’t know how I can say it. But it was much worse to be it and do it. I know I am hurting you, but I also know you have realized all that and remained, despite all the hurt and humiliation, not only loyal to me but loving.

Reba, please forgive me. You are a thousand times the better person.

I promise you that I will be a good brother to you and honor your fine qualities and try to give you someone you can rely on. I do need help. I’ll tell you about it later in this letter or in another.

But please tell me about yourself. Naturally (unnaturally), I know almost nothing about even the outer details of your life. I am sure you have a million friends, that you are busy working and partying and volunteering in the lousiest neighborhoods. Please tell me.

As for me, I am trying to make good decisions in a maze of confusion, much of it brought on by people around me but much of it inside me too. I was lucky to get a wonderful job, or at least a job I wanted really bad (and didn’t deserve) with a terrific publishing house. That part’s good, and I keep reminding myself of it. But my boss is insecure, a lunatic, and, in his paranoid and frightened way, eager to have sex with me. He’s a man. You can’t believe, Reba, what narrow escapes I’ve had—and only partial escapes, sex not really being the issue even. I’ll give you details later, but I want to get on to other things.

Namely Wilkes. Reba, don’t have anything to do with him. I don’t know if he’s dangerous at all, but he is even loonier than my boss, Martin Snell, and that’s like saying—well, it’s like saying he’s King of the Loons. I have no idea what he is up to, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t either. He sends the most jumbled letters and I had to spend a weekend with him.

Here’s the details. Martin Snell, my boss, is in charge of this project, a book putatively by Strom Thurmond. Now Wilkes has been the contact person for Thurmond, in fact he says he speaks for the Senator, as if he were the Senator. Very suspicious, of course, but he does work for Strom; we’ve checked. He bombards us and the ghost writers (named Everett and Kincaid) with deranged letters and shields us from Thurmond. We aren’t sure that this isn’t really Wilkes’s book, which is one problem. But Mad Martin Snell has staked his job on this project and uses me as a fall guy, dirty-work guy, and office sweetie. He ordered me, Snell did, to get close to Wilkes and try to determine what his game was. What a disaster. First, Wilkes wormed stuff out of me and revealed nothing himself. I felt like Rosencrantz or Guildenstern with Hamlet. Compared to me, they were super sleuths. Then Wilkes insisted on a weekend together, insisted and insisted, and Snell made me go. It turned out to be a weekend of cooking in the room, playing board games, and blah-blah-blah. Odd as hell, but not the end.

So stay away.

But about me, honey. I don’t want you messing with the Wilkes business, but I hope I can talk with you about the job that has me in such a mess. I’ve appealed to Everett and Kincaid for help, but they haven’t had time to answer yet.

I am going to write you soon about my inside problems, problems inside me, I mean. But I’ve gone on too long. Please throw that last letter away and keep this one please.

Forgive me. I won’t stop drawing on your kindness; but if I have so much to ask for, perhaps I can muster up some to give.

Your loving brother,
Juney

November 24, 2002

Dearest Reba,

Just ran down and mailed the letter, came back, sat down, and remembered I had rudely ignored your suggestion of Ritzi. If you still think you wouldn’t be mortified to have me take out a friend, I’d be awfully happy to meet her and ask her out.

One other thing, while I’m talking about how fucked up I am, I shouldn’t hide anything about what a fuck I am. One of the secrets Wilkes got from me, and I can’t honestly say he wormed it out; I just blurted it, was about Mom catching you masturbating and you telling her she ought to try it.

But I love you and promise to do better—and promise not to weigh down your life with three letters a day!

Love,
Your brother

Memo: Snell to McCloud

November 25

McCloud:

Under the guise of an office memo, I transmit to you material that is
PERSONAL IN NATURE, HIGHLY
.

First, tell me how Wilkes is behaving. I mean, what have you gleaned as regards his motives and plans? I am sure his interests include you, as I am unable to imagine a sensibility that would be immune to your boyishness. (As I told you, one of your appeals, though by no means the only one, is that you could be passing papers, just riding by on your little bicycle with the bell and throwing papers onto porches, your little butt in those cut-off jeans bouncing on the seat, with your shirt riding up and revealing a little skin and just a hint of those cute whitey-tighty undies, the waistband part, so one could make out only the tops of the letters and have to guess at the word (Hanes? Jockey? JC Penny?), just as they would have to guess at how soft your butt might be, what sensations might be imparted by molding and smacking those little cheeks.)

So, what is the story on Barton?

Thanksgiving, of course. I am a hopeless traditionalist as regards Thanksgiving. I put up cut-outs in the window of Pilgrims and the helpful Indians. I play the merry songs of the season. I thank the Lord. I prepare a hell of a turkey “cum gin.” You’ll be there. I won’t mention the costumes, just hint (as with your undies). Priscilla, Squanto, the stern Cotton Mather, the lovely John Alden, Pocahontas, Hester Pryne, the Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale, Edgar Alan Poe. As always, you’ll get to choose the first round.

We need to get cracking on the project. I can’t in conscience bother Kincaid and Everett yet. But what does Wilkes say about the progress? Give me an exact account. And, as they say in bad movies, have it on my desk by 9 in the morning. I am not kidding. This is no movie. This is life, McCloud!

M.S.

Memo: McCloud to Snell

November 25, 2002

Dear Martin,

As for the progress of the book, Wilkes has, candidly, not said a word. You told me to get personal with him, worm my way inside his head. That’s what I am doing. Give me a little time, though, and I’ll be so deep in his head I’ll know everything about his motives and plans.

As for Thanksgiving, Martin, I’d love to. You know that. The costumes sound delightful, as does the food. However, I’m tied up with Wilkes. Following your orders, you know, even on holidays.

I never had a paper route.

Best,

Juniper

S
IMON
& S
CHUSTER
, I
NC
.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

November 26, 2002

Dear Barton,

You know without me saying it that I would like nothing better than a weekend with you. I got your message inviting me and I at once promised myself I would do it. All this is plain as day to you, and I won’t insult you or me by insisting on its veracity.

The problem is—you guessed it—my boss and his way of making my attendance at his maniacal private get-togethers unavoidable. I could resign my position, of course, but that is what it would take; and I needn’t tell you that I am not situated in such a way as to make resignation a realistic course.

And then my sister is making demands for after Thanksgiving, and I must see her at some point, crone that she is. I’m telling you, Barton, you’d be happier and safer cozying up to Jeffrey Dahmer than to my sister. Not that you would, of course. I’m just expressing how lethal she is.

Have a great holiday!

Juniper

O
FFICE OF
S
ENATOR
S
TROM
T
HURMOND
217 R
USSELL
S
ENATE
B
UILDING
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C. 20515

November 29, 2002

Dear Juniper,

Do you realize that you signed your last epistle “Juniper.” Not so much as a “Yours truly” or “Love.” You just slam the fucking door without so much as a by your leave. I would think decent manners would have made you more gracious, even if heart-stirring feelings couldn’t.