his way of raising his children until
now. Billy rarely came home. Now Celeste had run to Mississippi and didn't
even tell him until she was already there. That's not how things were supposed to be.
"Why we got to be the ones always fighting for something? Paying
double, triple, quadruple?" In the thin light, Chink's yellow-tinged skin
shone dingy white.
Shuck felt prophetic. "That's what the whole damned thing's about.
Paying dues until they wear you down. What you need is a gun. You got
the right gun, you'll get your rights. Now, you take those peckawoods in
Mississippi. I bet you give those Negroes some guns, they won't have any
problems registering to vote. White folks understand two things. Guns and
money." He might take his own gun and go down there. That would be the
end of it. Bring Celeste home. "Damn."
"You got a gun, Shuck, you better pack it up and send it down there to
your daughter." Iris sounded delighted, gripping the rounded edge of the
oak bar as if the room was spinning. "The government needs to take care
of that stuff anyway."
Shuck put a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, twirled it a couple
of times. "Whole lot of things they're supposed to do." He dropped the
toothpick in the ashtray next to his empty glass, his hands trembling.
"It's those slow-assed niggers in Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama letting crackers walk all over them. They the ones needing some rights. Not
us," Rodney said.
"You need to leave it alone, Rodney." Chink's warning floated like a
buoy at low tide. "When's the last time you stood up to one, huh?"
Millicent talked to her drink. "Nothing between them and us but a
few miles."
"Not even that." Chink moaned.
Iris shot a look to Shuck. "Where in Mississippi is she, Shuck?"
What difference did it make where in Mississippi Celeste was? It was the
same damned thing. Mississippi didn't have any good neighborhoods for
Negroes. It wasn't like Detroit. Dearborn might be a bad zone for Negroes, but Detroit was a good one. None of that in Mississippi. No place to run.
No place to hide.
"Down south, they have sit-ins, nonviolent stuff. Up here, we have riots."
Millicent's cigarette created a small white crossbar to her brown fingers and
deep pink nails, jabbing the air in Shuck's direction. "Nobody's thinking
about nonviolence up here."
"I'm still happy to be up here." Rodney said.
"You one of them `I'se-so-happy-to-be-here' Negroes, always saying
thank you, massa' for something that was yours to begin with." Posey stared
at Rodney without a hint of fellowship in his eyes. But no matter what
anyone ever said to him, Rodney shrugged it off, burly and untouchable.
Rodney sneaked a look at the floor. "Well, I saw them dogs and fire
hoses on the news. Where would you rather be?"
"Shut up, Rodney." Posey glared at him.
Shuck heard them and didn't hear them, jumping over their references,
scanning his own life and past, seeing Celeste and Billy as children, each
holding one of his hands, walking on the island park, Belle Isle, going
to the movies, buying ice cream, sitting in Momma Bessie's rose-scented
backyard.
"I remember the race riot, man. 1943. Now that was awful. June then,
just like now and already hotter than hell." Posey sounded like he wanted
to say it and didn't want to, like he was pushing a conversation about
something else, anything in the past, to help Shuck.
Rodney yelled out above Posey, above the suction vents, air conditioners, icemakers, humming ceiling fans, jukebox. "Shit always happens when
it's hot." He folded back in his chair.
Shuck let the memory of those old days float into his head. Back in the
forties, waves of Negroes and whites from the south overwhelmed Detroit.
Instead of Packards and Cadillacs, they built tanks, jeeps, army trucks,
airplanes, and PT boats. People lived jammed too many to a room, slept
in closets, on porches, wherever a mattress would fit, or just a folded blanket would do. Lines for