In the Shadow of Alabama Page 8

  The New Yorker snickered. “He’s saying, ‘grits, grits, grits.’ ”

  “Are we allowed to smoke?” one of the American privates called out. “We were told not to smoke.” He glared over at the French soldiers who were exhaling smoke like freight trains. So did Major Dugger.

  “Y’all can smoke. As far as I’m concerned, y’all can play with yourself,” the major yelled back through the bullhorn, “as long as y’all keep it in your pants and stay in this area. I repeat, y’all cannot leave this area until your commanding officer arrives.”

  Willie waited while the major called out the names of the American soldiers, one by one, going through the list, checking them off as he heard responses.

  “Dalton, William J. Staff sergeant.” There was no answer. He called out the name again.

  “He’s playing with himself,” the sergeant from Brooklyn called out. “You just gave him permission.” There was an explosion of laughter.

  “Well, aren’t you the comedian!” The major glared at Brooklyn.

  “William Dalton, and I’m here,” a voice called apologetically from far back. His name was checked; the major continued through the list.

  “First Sergeant Martin Fleischer.” Brooklyn answered to his name. One by one, they all responded, including Willie, each one getting checked off. A few more names and the major climbed back into the jeep and motored away.

  They waited some more.

  The air was a shower curtain, sticky, almost slimy, as they waited for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do next. They stood in clusters, wilting, sweating, growing more irritable with each minute.

  * * *

  It seemed to Willie that the actual fight was started by the French. A remark was made, possibly by one of the Southern boys, about the small stature of the French cadets, which got the Frogs a bit touchy. Maybe there was a question about them being able to reach the pedals of the planes, maybe it had something to do with the size of their manhood, as well, but a fight broke out, and before Willie knew it, the station was a small battleground of flying fists and swinging duffel bags, and sweat pouring off the brows of overheated, overzealous soldiers.

  Except for the colored soldiers, of course. They knew better than to get involved.

  “Didn’t think I’d ever get the pleasure of seeing this,” Lindsey Davies mused loudly to Fleischer, as they leaned against a wall, watching the fray with detached amusement. “So, the damn Frogs can fight.”

  “Yeah, looks like they fight real good here,” Fleischer agreed. “It’s nice and safe in Alabama.”

  * * *

  The fight was now becoming a brawl of international proportions, attracting several more personnel from the RAF, all of the French, some of the Aussies, and most of the Canadians. By Willie’s standards, it was getting quite entertaining, when a jeep wheeled around the corner and skidded sideways in front of the station. A sergeant jumped from the back and screamed the men to attention. Fists were dropped, hats were retrieved, and the men on the platform pulled to a ragged truce. “I’m First Sergeant John Hogarth,” he yelled. “Pull yourselves together. The major has ordered jeeps to pick y’all up and take y’all to your barracks. Welcome to Alabama, men.”

  Another jeep pulled up behind his, an RAF sergeant in the passenger seat. He took his place at the edge of the platform to face his group of cadets.

  “RAF—hop into the buggies, get settled in your barracks, and then report to Orientation,” he called to his men in a cheery British accent. “And welcome to hell, mates.”

  Suddenly the platform was surrounded with jeeps and noncommissioned officers screaming orders, capping them with a bellowed “On the double! Two lines. Move it! Move it! Move it!” The men jerked into action, the Americans piling into jeeps, the Frogs scrambling into three more vehicles, the RAF pushing and laughing, gratefully getting into theirs.

  The colored soldiers stood at attention and watched the jeeps fill up. Willie dropped his duffel bag, letting it rest on his shoes. August had thrown his over his shoulder, and stood stiffly as they waited to be dispatched. The platform was emptying quickly; the Canadians were gone now, the French driven away, the Australians with their sliding accent, gone. They waited. There was no one left now except the colored men and there was one jeep left. The one that had brought Sergeant Hogarth, and he had just filled it with the few remaining white Americans. The jeep began to back up, readying to turn from the station.

  “Sarge,” Willie called over. “What about us?”

  Hogarth turned around in the driver’s seat to face him. He stared at Willie for a full minute before replying. “It’s sergeant, boy,” he said. “Y’all just stand there with your fellow tribesmen.” He smiled broadly and the men in the jeep chuckled. “We’ll have a colored sergeant take y’all to your barracks in short order. Y’all will have to march there; I’m afraid we’ve run out of jeeps.”

  He gunned the engine and screeched away.

  “Put your bag down,” Willie said to August. And they stood on the platform, with the other men, watching the last jeep disappear into the dust, and waited.

  Chapter 10

  There is a carton of memories in the bedroom with me. Not my memories; these belong to Willie Jackson.

  I am sitting on the bed in Rowena Jackson’s guest room. She has graciously allowed me to stay here, in this lovely room, with its pale blue floral and green ivy print climbing the wall and into the drapes. There are pictures on the dresser, of an infant Rowena with her parents; another of a thin, young Willie in uniform with his arm around a pleasantly plump woman dressed in white, in what I realize is a nurse’s uniform; of Rowena as a child, big pink bows in her hair, Rowena in a cap and gown. There are no wedding pictures, which tells me that she, like me, has never married.

  Or has divorced.

  The carton is on the floor, at my feet. There is a thick manila envelope of photos inside, along with an old air force hat; buttons saved from a uniform and stored in a small pink-striped cotton purse with a gold snap; a silk parachute, its delicate, pale material wrapped in a blue pillowcase. One glance inside the case and I knew right away what it was. My father had one just like it, saved for my mother. Yards and yards of cream silk, incredibly fine, flimsy, but strong enough to carry a man to the ground. It had shredded, then turned to dust, while I was still a child; silk does not hold up to time. I reach into the pillowcase. My hands graze against the brittle fabric; it catches on my fingertips, because skin is too rough to receive its fragile tenderness. I recognize the meticulous pleating of the skirt, the drape of the canopy. The way it lay, precisely folded, because improper folding will keep it from opening, one careless line of fabric could mean death. And even though I am pretty sure this parachute, like my father’s, was never used, I recognize the lines and feel of the past.

  I had spent the day with Willie, though I didn’t call him that at first. I addressed him as Mr. Jackson. “Call me Willie,” he said, covering my hand with his. “You can call me Willie.” But I thought his age demanded a certain respect. He feels, I think, that he knows me through my father. That he knows me through his past, but I can’t come to him on those terms.

  He had begun his story over lunch, starting it in slow, measured words, each word carefully picked, polished, each, though, an old jewel to bring back into the light, to hold up for a final examination, a final decision to keep or discard. I listened. Impatient at first, for him to get to the point, to the part I had traveled here to learn, but then his deliberate cadence caught me, and I put my thoughts aside, my heart slowed, and I began really listening.

  * * *

  My cell phone rings. It’s David. I sit down on the bed and we speak for a while. I’ve always loved his voice; it is deep and chocolate rich. My mother always said he sounded like a radio announcer; my father always said he sounded like he was selling cemetery plots. His voice seems strained now, tentative. He tells me he has to fly somewhere on sort of a business trip and won’t be back for a week. Puerto
Vallarta. I sit up.

  “Sort of business?” I ask, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. “What’s a sort of business trip?” There is a tightening in my stomach. I can’t remember him ever having a business trip anywhere out of the States.

  “Well, Harold told us not to bring spouses, they would only get in the way,” he said.

  Harry is his boss, the senior partner, and has been divorced three times.

  “I guess it worked for Harold,” I say with some sarcasm. “No one ever did get in his way. When did you find out you were going there?”

  “A few weeks ago,” he replies.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask quietly, trying to push down my anger, which is slowly rising like the morning sun. “Maybe I would have liked to go with you. I could have postponed this trip.” I know that before this, spouses from his law firm frequently went on business trips—whoops—I’m not a spouse....

  “Didn’t see the point in it,” he said. “Since you couldn’t go anyway. It was around the time your father was—dying.”

  “Anyone else going?”

  “John Ellison and his wife, you met them,” he says.

  “So, how come John is bringing his wife?” I ask, feeling a bit like a prosecution lawyer.

  “Just the way things worked out.” He sighs with impatience. “Look, I’ll talk to you soon.” We hang up. I know in my heart that this isn’t a business trip. I don’t want to call him back and accuse. I don’t want to be like Sandra, who has been married five times. Sandra, who, as David once pointed out, couldn’t find happiness if she had a compass pointing to H with a smiley face next to it. But I feel empty. It was an empty conversation. No depth, no emotion.

  I’m here in Massachusetts, and he’s going to be in Mexico. I suspect not alone. Malachi is wrong, I tell myself. I don’t need to tie a rope. I don’t want to secure someone to me like that. It should be voluntary.

  * * *

  Rowena taps on the door and pokes her head in. “I want to make sure you’re comfortable,” she says, then sees the carton on the floor, the parachute in my lap.

  “He never needed to use that,” she says, smiling. “I’m not even sure it was issued to him. A lot of men sort of wound up with stuff after they were discharged, if you know what I mean. I’m surprised he didn’t sneak a plane home, too. Have you looked through any of the photos? Your dad is in some of them.”

  “I haven’t looked at them yet,” I said, carefully sliding the parachute back into the pillowcase and tucking it neatly into the carton, before closing that, too.

  “Come have a cup of tea with me,” she invites, holding the door open. “We can look through that stuff together.”

  I carry the carton to the kitchen, where Rowena takes it from me and sets it on the table. She makes tea, offers me a choice between chamomile and African Rooibus red tea, which is what I choose because I’ve never had it before. It fits in with the theme of her living and dining rooms, with their carved ebony African masks and intricate beadwork hanging on the walls. There is an old upright mahogany piano with an African robe draped over the top. I am careful not to look at the piano.

  “I’m afraid this is all I have to go with the tea,” she says, bringing out a package of Lorna Doones. “I never did learn how to bake.” We had eaten dinner out, my treat, and we had both decided to pass on dessert as a concession to our waistlines, but now we’re making concessions to our cravings.

  “Thank you.” I take a cookie and she sits down and lifts the envelope of pictures. She lays them out on the table, facing me. Old pictures, faded to sepia. There is one picture clipped to the top of a larger picture. I slip it from under the rusted paper clip and look closely. A young man, in a uniform I don’t recognize. His face is startlingly handsome, not even old-fashioned, considering the time, and his light hair is falling into his eyes. He is sitting in the cockpit of a small plane and laughing. The canopy is up and the sun is glancing against his face, his head is tilted back, and he is squinting and laughing into the glare. He reminds me a little of David. The light hair; the long, sweet face and high cheekbones. Laughing. Maybe he doesn’t look so much like David as laugh like him; he looks like he has a ready laugh. And a sweet smile. Like he was always prepared to enjoy every second of his life, and then I realize that David hasn’t looked like that in a long time. Did I do that, take his smile? Ensnare him in my tangles and knots? I didn’t mean to. I was trying so hard, so hard not to. Please, God, don’t let me have done that. I was trying to protect both of us. I look at the picture again. This man has an open smile full of goodwill.

  I turn the picture over, but there is no name on it. Rowena shrugs her shoulders when I show it to her; she doesn’t know who it is, and I return it to the envelope.

  The other pictures are faded with age. There is a group picture of a squadron. Thirty-six men, all black, standing shoulder to shoulder, in their army fatigues, their names printed in a small, cramped paragraph below. The heading reads: 823rd Quartermaster Company. Rowena Jackson points a finger to a face, young, serious, standing in the rear. I recognize the eyes. Willie Jackson.

  “Your father,” I say.

  “Yes.” She smiles at his face. “And see who else is there?” The question in her voice puzzles me, and I look down at the picture again. Am I supposed to know someone? Every face is young, so young, expectant, lean with youth. Black. Then, there, in the corner, I see him. A washed-out white dot above the army uniform. A white face among thirty-six black faces. Also serious. Also young. And not yet touched with the anger that I know. He is smiling, in a rueful sort of way. He never liked to be photographed, would not even stand with me when I graduated from high school, our last family portrait. He always stepped out of range. But he is captured here, with an awkward, self-conscious half smile.

  “My father?” I say. “He looks so out of place.”

  “He was their sergeant,” she says. “Did you know he was their sergeant?”

  “No,” I say, baffled that he is standing among them. “Their sergeant?” I know little about my father’s time in the Army Air Force. He never spoke of it. But surely this is wrong. Was there no black man who could command them? No black sergeant who could lead them? He is out of place. Then, I realize, it says 1941. It is Montgomery, Alabama. My father is a Jew. A New York Jew, and he is commanding a platoon of black men. I understand, suddenly, the implications of a white man, this particular white man, standing with thirty-six black men.

  “My father was studying to be an engineer,” I say.

  “So was mine,” she replies.

  “But—” I am confused, and I point to the paragraph under the picture. “I don’t understand,” I say. “This platoon—my father—”

  “I know,” she says. “It says Housekeeping Unit. They were cleaners. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  “That two-year-old is sold,” Malachi reports when I call him later in the afternoon to ask him how things are going on the farm. “Seventy-five hundred dollars. Cash.”

  “Wow,” I exclaim. “How’d you get cash?”

  Malachi chuckles. “I says to them, it’s all cash or I can slap on a little ol’ sales tax.”

  “That’s illegal,” I remind him, “not to charge tax.”

  “It made the sale.” He sniffs. “By the way, Lisbon’s leg looks good. The swelling is gone. And I found a new place to turn him out. A safe place.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  He pauses. “Your front lawn.”

  “What?”

  “You got that fancy wrought-iron fencing around it,” he says, “so he’ll stay put. And I gave him extra hay.”

  “It’s not a horse fence,” I protest. “And David is a fanatic about the grass and we planted all those flowers. Turn him out with the other geldings.” When I mention David’s name, I feel an odd sensation in my chest. Like a wire seeking a connection that is capped off.

  “Toby is kicking the crap out of him,” Malachi says. “I can always plan
t more flowers, but Lisbon won’t grow another leg. We’ll get him off the lawn soon as you build a paddock for him.”

  “Lisbon has to learn to defend himself,” I retort. “A gelding belongs with geldings.”

  I know I’m being stubborn, but Lisbon is a wimp, and I hate that. He has been turned out with several different groups of horses, and he has been the underdog every time. All he has to do is stand up for himself. It’s important to me that he learns to stand up for himself against the bullying. Abusive past or not, he has to stand up for himself.

  I, myself, am not courageous. I never had the courage to stand up for myself. When I was in my teens, my father would viciously berate both me and Sandra: I didn’t help enough around the house, I was useless, who would ever want to marry me? She was dumpy, noisy. I stood there, eyes lowered—like my brain was filled with oatmeal—counting the tiles on the kitchen floor, over and over, one hundred and fifty beige porcelain tiles.

  Sandra always argued back. Her courage frightened me. I thought it was going to end the world. I would run upstairs, into my bedroom, and pull the covers over my head while she argued back. I am sorry I didn’t stand by her. I have no courage at all, but still—Lisbon has to defend himself. Survive his abusers, or he will be nothing but oatmeal.

  “It’s nature,” Malachi is saying. “They’re not going to accept him. And he’s going to wind up getting hurt.”

  “It’s not nature,” I snap. “He will learn. Give them each their own pile of hay and put out an extra one. That should solve it.”

  I hear Malachi sigh very loudly on the other end of the phone. “I’ll do it, but it’s not going to work,” he says.

  “It’ll work,” I reply. “Give it time. All I’m asking is that he gets along with the other horses.”

  “It’s been two years.” Malachi snorts. “All you’re asking for is a miracle.”

  Chapter 11

  The colored barracks were at the very end of Gunter Field, close to the swamp that lay heavy with mosquitoes and snakes and lizards and things that made noises Willie never heard in Harlem. The “colored barracks,” they were called, though they were barely more than a row of elongated tents, part of Tent City, the temporary housing the Army Air Force had thrown up for its sudden huge influx of men. Supplies were scarce everywhere, but especially in the colored barracks, which were furnished with old and broken equipment handed down from the white barracks. The bunks were discards, the mattresses were crumbling, the sheets and blankets almost nonexistent. Not that Willie was thinking of using a blanket in that heat. Floor fans stood in corners, but they were motionless; a few men played with the switches in an effort to turn them on, but it was as though the motors were paralyzed by the high temperatures.