A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond (39 page)

“I think it’s a damn shame,” Jim said.

“You’re goddamn right, Kincaid.”

Thurmond hummed a tune for a long minute.

I was about to speak when Thurmond started.

“I’ve got one for you. What do you say to a redneck in a suit?”

“What?” Jim asked.

“Will the defendant please rise.” Thurmond giggled a bit, then added, “I used to tell that with ‘N’ word. But I grew older. I grew up. Hell, I keep growing up. Nobody appreciates it, but I’m a different man from the man who was governor of South Carolina.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “I think these steams might be the secret to my longevity. Steams and exercise. I used to be a high school coach. I’m as fit as I was then. I suppose Kennedy could say the same thing, but he’d mean something different.”

Jim cleared his throat. “We’re here because we’re still experiencing a series of intellectual hurdles in figuring out just what you and the publisher have signed us on to facilitate or accomplish.”

After a silent beat, I said, “We don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”

“Oh, well, sons, that’s simple. You’ve been hired to eradicate an image, regardless of its apparent or actual truth. You’ve been hired to make me a national hero to all Americans, to make it clear that I have been misunderstood my whole career, to put my face on a stamp, on the nickel or a fifty-cent piece.”

Jim and I were stunned at the clarity of Thurmond’s statement; we shared a glance.

Then Thurmond said, “What the hell am I saying? I’ve watched the colored people of this country rise from sharecroppers to good, decent, hard-working members of society. The good ones anyway. The good ones are just like any white person. They just happen to be brown or some shade thereof. I knew some Negroes back in South Carolina who were as white as you, Kincaid, with blue eyes and blond hair.”

“How’d you know they were black?” Jim asked.

“Because they are,” Thurmond said. “If you saw an allwhite eagle fly down you’d say, ‘Look at that white eagle.’ Same thing. Don’t you think, Everett?”

Jim appealed to me with his eyes, trying to calm me. But perhaps he was telling me to let the old sonofabitch have it. Anyway, I said, “Senator, we’re here to ask you if you simply want us to write what you believe to be the history of African-Americans or if you’d like us to paint a pretty picture of the misery, destruction and lies you’ve contributed to black life.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of that,” Thurmond said. “Say it again.”

“Do you want us to tell the truth or lie?” I asked.

“Why, son, I expect you to lie. All truth needs some lies to keep it honest.”

“You don’t believe that,” Jim said.

“Of course I do,” Thurmond said. “And I’m right. I’m a thousand years old. I think I know a little more than you whippersnappers.” Thurmond coughed up some phlegm and spat it onto the floor we couldn’t see. “Let me tell you a story. When I was a boy my daddy forbade me to go to the town square where a bunch of Klansmen were going to lynch this poor colored man. But I went anyway. I sneaked out the kitchen, past my mother. She didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was good. She was cooking up some candied yams that day and I remember the smell was just marvelous. Do you like the smell of cooking candied yams, Everett? I don’t bother asking Kincaid because I know he’s from North Dakota.”

“Ohio,” Jim said.

“Same thing. So, I sneaked past her. I couldn’t have been more than ten. Have I told you this story? It doesn’t matter. I never tell it the same way twice. That’s what I mean about truth. I sneaked into the town square trying to see through the sea of bodies. Then I saw them string that poor boy up. His legs jerked and his feet wiggled. His eyes were open the whole time and I remembered that I had seen the boy before, on the street when my daddy and I were on our way home from Sunday school. He had beautiful hands. I remember that vividly. Long, thin fingers. I’ll bet you anything he played the piano or maybe the organ in church. Anyway, Daddy caught me sneaking back into the house and he knew sure as a frog’s got no hair where I’d been. ‘Get a good look?’ he asked. I told him I had. Then he asked me if it was ugly and I told him it was. I told him about the man’s hands and he said it was all a waste. He said he knew that man to be a good colored and it was a shame to lose him.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I felt my blood pressure rising and I made a mental note to see my doctor when I got home. “Are we allowed to editorialize or interpret what you pass on to us?”

“By all means, but my people get to approve your interpretation. I think that’s only fair.”

“That sucks,” Jim said. “We’re not free to write anything then.”

“This is my book,” Thurmond said. He adjusted the towel over his lap. “Hollis!”

Hollis came, suit and all. “Senator?”

“Have my chair brought in here. I don’t feel like walking. And I feel like spending the night over at Walter Reed.”

While the Marine struggled with Thurmond and the chair, Jim and I watched without speaking.

“Egyptian cotton,” Thurmond spat.

April 20, 2003

Dear Barton,

Of course I know what you mean. You mustn’t think that you are alone in finding the world suddenly changing, waking up to find yourself in a new land. One minute you’re doing fine and can count on the people around you and can count on yourself. The next minute you can’t.

Barton, I know you are frightened, but there’s nothing that some relaxing chat won’t cure. Most of all, I can see that you are blaming yourself, imagining that somehow you’ve failed everybody. I know you are lashing out at others, but you don’t mean to do it. It’s your way of handling a confusing problem. But Barton Wilkes would never hurt another creature. Your way is to help and heal. I can tell.

Why don’t you come down and see me—or we could meet where you say. Don’t be frightened. I won’t propose marriage or try to initiate you into a cult. I think we could have a nice afternoon talking. I think you would like it too.

Juniper and my friend Septic will probably drop by too, but not until you and I have had a chance to swap stories about what an uncertain world this is and how uncertain our own minds are to us. You’re not alone in this, Barton, nor am I. We’re not alone, you and I.

Fondly,

Reba

April 20, 2003

Dear Percival Everett and James Kincaid,

Did I ever tell you of what happened to Johnson Trotter? No? Well, I will. Johnson Trotter was the only son of the Trotters, who owned the jewelry store. It was a family with lots of money, most of which didn’t come from the jewelry store, if you know what I mean. Johnson was one of those rich kids who try to be just like everybody else. He didn’t dress any different, wore his hair like the rest of us, didn’t have manicures (I did), and didn’t even have his own car. He was kind of quiet and he hung around me a lot. I wrote stories then and Johnson Trotter said he liked them. Don’t get me wrong. Johnson Trotter and I weren’t handling one another behind the barn. I was very modest and he pretended to be. I never even saw Johnson Trotter’s underpants, that’s how clean and good our friendship was. The summer we were 16, I remember we were 16, his parents told him he had to go to Europe with them to see the sights. He said he wanted to invite me to go along. They said sure. I knew they were doing it to embarrass me, though, so I said no. Johnson Trotter told his parents that if I didn’t go, he was going to stay behind. He asked me if he could stay with me and I said no. I didn’t think he was trying to embarrass me, even then, but I was embarrassed. Really I was ashamed. So he said he would stay at the hotel. But I told him to go, that I didn’t want him around. He went and got killed there, that summer. He died, I mean. Something got stuck in him and they did surgery and he died. And I never saw him again. It’s all I ever wanted was to see him again.

I know the lives you two lead. I will admit I am surprised. Yesterday, Everett spent the whole day, though it was a school day, feeding a lot of animals, building a trellis or something for grapes I guess, digging a hole that has no purpose I can see, and gabbing with a woman I suppose is his wife. He did peck around at his computer a bit and read some papers. He went into a building with no windows, and I don’t know why. I did catch a glimpse. Looks like a hideout to me. The day before, Kincaid got up real early with another woman (not the same woman at Everett’s) and made some kind of health breakfast. I should say that both these women are good looking, which is the last way you’d describe E and K. Anyhow, after the woman left, K did some hopeless treadmilling at a speed appropriate for the crawling bug he is. Then he ate some candy and pecked away for hours at his computer—when he wasn’t accessing sports sites to read about various professional teams from Pittsburgh. He also dug around a little in the dirt, but did not produce a hole. He seems less fit than E.

What does this tell you? Let’s just say that I don’t miss much. Perhaps you will take steps. That’s what you’re thinking. But I have already taken those steps. Any steps you take will lead you to where I already am. I’d think twice about going there if I were you.

Barton Wilkes

Interoffice Memo

April 22, 2003

Percival—

For once, you’re listening to me. I have this student who works for school security. He knows that world of security and bodyguards and general tough guys. He says he can get us a good rate on round-the-clock protection. I figure the school will cover it. I gave him a tentative go-ahead, wanting to confirm this with you. Confirmed?

Jim

F
ROM THE
D
ESK OF
P
ERCIVAL
E
VERETT

April 23, 2003

Jim—

Yeah, so he’s looking in our windows. So what? If he wanted to hurt us, he’d do that. Probably he just wants to be invited inside. Whichever one of us sees him first ought to give him a beer (in your case, a diet Shasta, you cheap fuck) and ask him how his life is, after Strom. He must actually NOT be with Strom. But who knows? Wish we at least knew that. Maybe we can help him.

What on earth were you doing digging? Digging what? Watch yourself, Chubbo; you get all enthused with those uppers you take and imagine you’re 62 again.