Blood on the Leaves Read online

  “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 appetite.

  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 passenger seat. Miller’s sports car remained in his mechanic’s shop over the weekend to get an “oil change and massage.”

  “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 “nigger” interspersed frequently with the phrase “black bitch motherfucker.” 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 hello. 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.

  Thornton belonged to every black bourgeoisie organization in the city. When he criticized them, he did so with a great deal of authority and a significant amount of expertise. The good doctor’s firsthand experience shaped his jaded views regarding the state of black affairs. He understood better than most that Gucci shoes were not exactly meant for marching, which explained in part why today’s community leaders flew first class and slept in five-star hotels. That reality, along with his views concerning the marketing of martyrdom, resonated with Reynolds in a way that left him increasingly depressed and pessimistic about the likelihood of African-American progress.

  A year before, at the insistence of his wife, he’d taken the entire family on a tour of civil rights museums. She felt the history lesson would give their children a sense of the struggle. He argued that the concept of a continuing “struggle” represented little more than a euphemism used frequently to explain failure.

  He resisted the trip but eventually relented, to his utter chagrin. The first two stops were Montgomery followed by Birmingham, cities responsible for more than their fair share of human misery, therefore requiring extra large facilities to adequately warehouse it. That suffering formed the basis for the exhibits now permanently enshrined in sanitized buildings that charged admission for the privilege to relive the torment. Reynolds noticed that the first site happened to be in close proximity to a zoo on one side and a newly constructed public aquarium on the other, which gave the term theme park a whole new meaning.

  During their visit several street vendors were arrested for selling souvenirs without official permission from the protectors of copyright infringement laws. Evidently, the words spoken by slain black leaders couldn’t be listened to without payment of royalties to family survivors. Reynolds considered this a bit odd since most assassinated black men had died fighting for the rights of the oppressed. They had intended their beneficiaries to be the family of man, not their own personal estates. Reynolds managed to buy a Dr. King coffee mug, a tape of his famous speeches, and a Malcolm X T-shirt at discount before the unlicensed entrepreneurs were hauled away by the franchise guardians. The institutionalization of human suffering had indeed become big business.

  His home state had given birth to the blues, and while it might be heresy to think this way, Reynolds believed the singer of the blues always felt better than the people forced to listen. The songs of despondency were synonymous with his people’s history, interchangeable and indistinguishable from one another. And as he’d learned from his father’s life experience, once you dwell on the struggle, you invariably and inevitably drown in it.

  In Reynolds’s estimation, the crisis in black leadership could be traced to various grave sites, many without the benefit of headstone or manicured plot. Death left an unexpected legacy, a warning heeded by those who dared to wear the mantle of the fallen hero. The price paid for worshiping at the shrine of dead martyrs included the inescapable knowledge that when you lead, you die. No matter how that message might be packaged, whether in a holiday parade or a funeral procession, that self-defeating conclusion remained essentially the same.

  That lesson had influenced today’s newly installed leaders, who, whether self-appointed or democratically anointed, stood a greater chance of being killed by a television crew’s camera than by an assassin’s bullet—and, in truth, a few had almost trampled each other to death in the race to be the first to the microphone. They feared a fall of their stock portfolio more than any downward movement of a sheriff’s nightstick. And while they denounced poverty with an elegance matched only by their custom-tailored designer wardrobes, their lavish incomes were derived from, and contingent upon, the very system that maintained it.

  Oh, what a tangled web is weaved, reflected Reynolds, when ser-vice to the poor conceals a lucrative scam and faith-based devotion masks a clever tax shelter. No wonder Matheson b
ecame so popular so quickly. When the moral compass hasn’t worked in a while, movement in any direction tends to be viewed as a hopeful sign. And when you’ve been lost so long, you’ll follow any path that leads you out of despair to the promised land and a victory over your enemy, even if that foe is undefined and unavailable.

  In the absence of any truth, a lie will serve as an acceptable, even desirable substitute. If that lie’s told often enough, it becomes the standard by which you measure your history, your value, your life. Matheson offered an alternative to both the blues singer and the song: Swing instead of sing, and then make someone else pay the piper. Reynolds feared that in short order this would become a tune to which many would tap their feet and dance to their hearts’ content.

  Reynolds arrived home and pulled into his driveway. He walked across the lawn and, when he reached his front entrance, remembered something Thornton had said. A vision came to him of Dr. King’s widow in a red party dress, moving to the beat of a carefree drummer. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold? he thought. It might soothe the spirit and even be enough to ignite a fire, spark a new movement no longer dependent upon bowed heads, closed eyes, and broken hearts.

  He didn’t know precisely what role Matheson would play in closing the door to perpetual mourning and opening another door to something potentially more destructive. But, as the saying goes, “You’ve got to dance with the person who brought you.” Matheson’s might be the first song or possibly the last, but Reynolds hoped everyone would leave the prom better off for hearing it.

  CHAPTER 17

  MATHESON CANCELED HIS appointments today because he wanted to be alone. His increasing celebrity had begun to interfere with his teaching duties. He needed some quiet time to grade papers and complete a new course syllabus for next term. He’d told his secretary to turn off the lights in the outer offices; then he sent her home early. He skipped lunch and worked at his desk until late afternoon. He was thinking about taking a break when an attractive young woman entered. He’d seen her before at several campus functions and guessed she might be a sophomore.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “My grandfather’s on your list.” She walked to the chair in front of his desk and sat down. “I’d like you to take him off.”

  Matheson studied her. She sat perfectly erect and brushed the blond hair away from her face. Her hand trembled slightly. He noticed a minor flinch of her left shoulder, which signaled tension, and when her eyes avoided his gaze, he sensed more than nervousness.

  “You are . . . ?” he inquired politely.

  “Melissa Grayson,” she answered forcefully. “My grandfather’s Chester Grayson.”

  “Did he send you?”

  “He has no idea I’ve come.”

  Matheson looked at her for a moment. She was telling the truth or had learned to lie very well. Given her bloodlines, he wasn’t prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. He slid open his desk drawer and searched through a file. He removed a folder and placed it on top of his desk, then nudged it slowly toward her.

  “Do you want to read about your grandfather, or do you already know about his sordid past?”

  “He’s helped raise me all my life. I don’t need to read about him to know the kind of man he is.”

  “Who he is, isn’t terribly important. What he was and, more to the point, what he did, is.” He opened the folder. “Family’s important to you?” he asked kindly.

  “Yes.”

  “It was important to them, too.” He placed several black-and-white photos along the front of the desk and positioned them so they’d face her. He touched the first picture. “The man your grandfather murdered had three sons. The oldest was seven. His wife was pregnant with his daughter, the one he’d never see, or hold, or bounce on his knee.”

  Melissa looked away, then stared at the floor.

  “Did your grandfather ever bounce you on his knee? I’m sure he must have. And, I’m equally sure you giggled and he laughed and probably someone snapped a photo.”

  He pushed a second picture near her. She didn’t look at it. “Perhaps it was like that one. Children laughing. Happy. Not a care in the world. Rushing to greet their father, who has his arms filled with presents and love and hugs and a promise of a future he couldn’t deliver.”

  She looked at the photo, then at him. “My grandfather’s a good man, Professor. He’s one of the most decent and gentle men I’ve ever known.”

  “He castrated a black man, then threw his testicles into a fire.” This time Matheson looked away. “That man was studying to become a doctor, someone who’d take a vow to heal the sick. A policeman killed his oldest son, the one with the brightest smile in that picture, after a botched robbery attempt. His middle son became a heroin addict and overdosed before his fifteenth birthday. The state institutionalized his youngest son. They diagnosed him as crazy because he stood on a bridge one night screaming about how much he hated white people.”

  Matheson looked at her without any anger. When he finally spoke, he conveyed only sadness. “And the daughter who’d never been held by her father? She sought comfort in the arms of any man who’d hold her, whether they paid her or not.” He leaned toward her. “Your grandfather didn’t kill just one man. He destroyed an entire family.” The sadness disappeared, replaced by defiance. “I don’t give a damn how much he’s changed. I’m not taking him off the list.”

  After a moment of silence during which Melissa dug her nails into her thigh, she took the file and began to go through it. Matheson searched her face for some type of expression. She gave no clue to her feelings. He wondered if she was actually reviewing the folder or just wanted to avoid his eyes.

  “Do you conduct similar research on all the victims?”

  The question surprised him. He waited for her to look at him, but she kept herself occupied by shuffling the documents.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve spoken to their families?”

  “Whenever I could.”

  She placed the file back onto his desk. She looked at him and spoke calmly. “Do they have as much hate in their hearts as you?”

  Her eyes held no indictment, making Matheson’s response more difficult. “You think this is about hate?”

  Her eyes changed suddenly. They became bright and intense, a jeweled, dark blue fire that consumed the room. “Who the hell made you God?”

  “If I had been God, you’d never have known your grandfather.”

  At the casualness of his reply, she slumped back into her chair as if struck hard in the stomach. She waited for a moment, rose quietly, and headed for the door.

  “Miss Grayson, I’ll take him off the list.”

  She stopped to look at him. He stood behind his desk.

  “All he has to do is admit publicly what he did fifty years ago. He doesn’t have to say he’s sorry. He doesn’t have to apologize. There’s no one left in the family to pay restitution to. He just has to admit he murdered a man. And he doesn’t even have to say why.”

  He walked slowly toward her. He opened the door and waited for her to accept the offer or leave. She didn’t move.

  “I’ll do you one better, Melissa. He doesn’t have to announce it publicly. He just has to admit it . . . to you.”

  Her eyes closed briefly. She opened them and spoke softly. “Whatever my grandfather did when he was young, I know he’s paid for it every day. I only hope, Professor, that you’ll suffer as much for your sins.”

  He remained motionless for several moments after she left. When he finally moved, he became aware for the first time of her perfume. The fragrance reminded him of the bath bubbles his mother used to pour into the water; as a child he refused to wash unless the cherry-vanilla bubbles overflowed the top of the tub. He hadn’t thought about that for many years. His mother had left him before he turned eight. From that point on, he took showers.

  He returned to his desk and picked up the folder. It felt heavy. He removed a photo of Grayson and stared
at his face. Melissa had her grandfather’s eyes and mouth. He wondered what else she’d inherited. He closed the folder without replacing the photo, which he slowly tore in two.

  CHAPTER 18

  EARVIN COOPER RACED out of his home brandishing an ax handle. “Get the hell away from here!” he shouted at the two young black men on his front lawn.

  Delbert held the base of a signpost as Brandon finished hammering it into the ground. Delbert headed quickly away but stopped when he noticed Brandon hadn’t followed.

  Cooper stood face to face with the powerfully built black who was calmly holding a hammer. “Take that thing out my lawn,” Cooper said without looking at the sign.

  “Take it out yourself,” Brandon responded. “If you don’t know what to do with it, maybe you can burn it. You’re pretty good with fire, aren’t you, Mr. Cooper?”

  Cooper gripped the ax handle and raised it a few inches. Brandon waited patiently and tapped the hammer against his side twice.

  Delbert joined Brandon. “We better go,” he said.

  “Better listen to your friend and get your black asses off my property,” Cooper warned. “Or you can come back later and I’ll have more than this stick in my hand.”

  “Maybe I’ll just do that,” answered Brandon. “You be sure to be here and welcome me yourself.”

  “I’ll be here, boy. You can count on it.”

  Brandon and Delbert proceeded to the car parked across the street. Cooper followed a safe distance behind and scribbled the license plate number on his hand. Brandon sped off, his tires kicking up dirt and gravel.

  After the car disappeared, Cooper returned to the signpost and read: A MURDERER LIVES HERE BUT NOT FOR LONG. He stared at the sign, then placed both fists around the ax handle and began hacking the sign into pieces.

  CHAPTER 19