'68 - A Novel...

CHAPTER 11: TUESDAY, APRIL 2


Isaac Washington shook the lawn chair open with his left hand and sat down. Under his right arm, he carried the books and notebooks that he intended to study. The ground was uneven and the chair rocked a little as he settled in. He was sitting just outside the center field fence at Wilson Park, his car parked behind him at the curb. He was determined to kill two birds with one stone. He was there to watch his son Lucas play baseball, but he was also coming down to the wire in his exam preparation and he needed the study time as well. He watched Lucas trot out to his position in the outfield and they exchanged nods. It was a sunny, breezy afternoon with a few puffy clouds sailing overhead. The grandstand behind home plate was about half full and in a minute or two, the game would be underway.

He ran down his study outline, cracked one of the books and began to review the underlined passages. The exam to become a registered nurse was just one short week away. He was determined to be ready, even if it meant cramming night and day for the next week. A lot depended on passing this test: a job he’d dreamed of for years; a career he could be proud of; a brighter future for his family. Those were not easy things to come by for a black man. If he failed to pass this exam, it would not be for lack of effort.

It had been a long hard pull to reach this crossroads. The two-year community college program had taken him four years to complete, given the demands of working and supporting a family. And when he passed the test, and by God he would pass it, he’d still have to go out and find a job. Nothing was certain except for the burning ambition that drove him to be something more.

Isaac worked as a janitor on the shipyard. It was good honest work and it paid the bills, or most of them anyway. He supplemented his pay by picking up part-time jobs with a couple of janitorial services in town. Yet he longed for the day when he would put his broom and mop aside for the last time. That day was coming.

The game and his studies progressed. He paused when Lucas came to bat and watched his son line a base hit to left field. He was about to return his attention to the book in his lap when he saw Big John Harris heading his way.

John Harris was a notorious pacer. He could not sit still in the grandstand when his son was on the field, especially when he was pitching. John would walk back and forth around the outfield fence, pausing occasionally to light a cigarette, and then moving on in a never-ending fidget.

Isaac saw John heading his way and braced himself for impact. Just what I need: this big honky comin’ out here to mess with me. Their sons had been teammates through several seasons and he was familiar with John’s larger-than-life persona: talking loud with his Southern drawl, as though the world was waiting eagerly to hear his opinion. Isaac looked around quickly, but there was no place to run. Study time was about to come to an end.

“Hey, Ike! What are you doin’ out here all by yourself?”

Isaac’s friends called him Ike. It irked him to hear it from John Harris. “Hey, Big John. How’s it goin’?”

“Say, that son of yours is a fine ballplayer. He can really swing the bat. Junior tells me he’s a good student too. A real credit…”

Isaac flinched a little. Oh, sweet Jesus! Was he going to say ‘a credit to his race’? And what race would that be? The human race? He bit his tongue. “Yeah thanks, John. Lucas has always done well in school.”

“So, that’s some pile of books you got there. What are you doin’?”

“I’m studying for an exam – the registered nurses exam. I have to take it next week.”

“Registered nurse? Well, I’ll be damned. I thought all them RNs were women?” John looked at Isaac with suspicion.

“Not all of ‘em, Big John. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

“Well… why in God’s name would you want that?”

Isaac closed his book with a thump that was a little too loud. “I was a medic in the Army during the war. I liked helping people. It’s just what I want to do.”

“The Army you say? Well, I’ll be… Where did you serve?”

“Italy, with the 92nd Infantry Division. The Buffalo Soldiers.”

John Harris was stunned. An Army medic. A fellow veteran of World War II. He didn’t know what to say.

A young girl came running along the fence, toward where the two men were conversing. It was John’s 12 year-old daughter Jenny, all legs and elbows, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she ran.

“Daddy, can I get a hot dog and a Coke? Mom said to get some money from you. Can I?” She grabbed her father’s hand, bouncing beside him, smiling up at his craggy face. “Hello, Mr. Washington.” She gave Isaac a smile and a little wave.

“Sure, darlin’. Come on, I’ll go with you. See ya’ later, Ike. Good luck with that exam.”

With that, they were gone, back along the outfield fence, heading for the snack bar. Isaac watched them walk away, holding hands and laughing. So, that old cracker has a soft heart after all. That little blondie is the apple of his eye.

He opened his book and tried to find where he’d left off.
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CHAPTER 12: THURSDAY, APRIL 4


A couple of guys walked into Skip’s Place, spied a friend and made their way over to the bar.

“Hey, did you hear about this?” The friend was indicating the television mounted above the bar where Walter Cronkite looked sternly into the camera, the fresh news copy held firmly with both hands. The voice-over introduction concluded and Cronkite began:

“Good evening. Dr. Martin Luther King, the apostle of non-violence in the civil rights movement, has been shot to death in Memphis, Tennessee…” He went on, the voice strong and unwavering, the nation’s trusted Uncle Walter, come once again to deliver tragic news. The mood at the bar was quiet and solemn as Cronkite finished his report.

“Oh boy, we’re in for it now. You watch – the cities will burn again.”

“And who’s going to step up now? King was already losing control. We’re gonna see a lot of guys like Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown.”

“What about Eldridge Cleaver and Huey Newton?”

“Well, I think Dr. Martin Lucifer Coon got what he was asking for.”

“Hey, watch it. The man’s dead. Have a little respect. At least he was for non-violence.”

“Yeah, well you know J. Edgar Hoover has a file on King. His organization is full of commies.”

“Ah, bullshit. Where do you get this stuff?”

“Everybody knows that! Just wait – it’ll come out in the news.”

“I say you’re full of shit. He helped a lot of people stand up for their rights.”

“The man could speak, and write too. Letter from a Birmingham Jail. I have a dream. He had some voice.”

“Hey, you can’t go down there in the South and tell those folks how to live. They were doin’ just fine without a bunch of do-gooders from up North stirring up all the nigras.”

“He wasn’t from ‘up North.’ He was from Georgia or Alabama or someplace. And listen to you: ‘nigras’ isn’t even a word. Why don’t you go ahead and say ‘nigger.’ That’s what you mean.”

Skip moved toward the group at the bar, determined to calm the debate. “Hey, look, let’s keep it down a little. I don’t want to hear the word ‘nigger’ in here. Nobody’s a nigger. Okay?”

“Well damn, Skip, I never took you for a nigger lover!”

Skip reached under the bar and gripped the Louisville Slugger mounted there on a rack. He wouldn’t hesitate to tap this guy if it came to that. “Look… see that door over there? Right outside across the strait is the shipyard. I get lots of folks in here, coming from the yard, ship fitters and boilermakers and sailors and marines – white, black, yellow, brown – they all come through that door. If they’ve got the price of a drink, they’re welcome. And nobody is gonna call ‘em names. Not in here. My place, my rules. Got it?”

The man scooped up his change, cursing under his breath, and headed for the door. Skip let go of the bat and moved down the bar to another customer. On the television screen, the photo of King’s closest associates, standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel and pointing to where the shot was fired, was being seared into the nation’s memory.
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Skip was finishing up behind the bar, nearly ready to turn out the lights. The front door was locked and the bar was empty, except for Thad and Bobbie who were wrapping up their cleaning duties for the night. Above the bar, the television was tuned to a station out of the Bay Area. The screen displayed a plain white background with the words, “In Memoriam / Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. / January 15, 1929 - April 4, 1968.” Gospel music played in the background. One song ended, and then the voice of Mahalia Jackson came on, slow and clear and strong, singing “Precious Lord”…

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I am tired, I am weary, I am worn…

Skip watched as Bobbie sat down hard on a chair out on the floor, her face in her hands, her body racked with sobs. He saw Thad go to her side and put his arm around her slender shoulders. And now he could hear her sobs, coming in great spasms with every breath. He braced himself against the counter in back of the bar, his chin dropped to his chest. Until that moment, his concerns had been for peace in the cities across the country, for who would step into the void left by King’s death, and whether the teachings of non-violence would be lost forever. He had not considered for one minute the wrenching personal loss that would be felt by black people everywhere, especially kids like Thad and Bobbie. He walked around the bar and across the room to where they were holding on to each other.

“Look, Thad, Bobbie, I can finish up here. Please, go on home and be with your families.”

They protested but he insisted, and finally, he walked them to the door to let them out. As they went into the cool morning air, their arms wrapped around one another, he called after them: “Thad… Bobbie… I’m sorry…”

He wished there was something more to say, but he knew he’d probably only make it worse.
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Next week: Bobbie takes the leap.  Plus, Ellamae to the rescue.
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