Just Above My Head Read online

  Yes, it was something like that I always wanted to say: for after all, human suffering is human suffering. I’ll say this: I saw some—not many, but some—white boys and girls and men and women come to freedom on that road, and it was as though they couldn’t believe it, that they could actually be, just be, that they could step out of the lie and the trap of their history. What I had always wanted to say to them is almost exactly what they said to me, and their being recalled to life was a beautiful thing to behold.

  Look at a map, and scare yourself half to death. On the northern edge of Virginia, on the Washington border, cattycorner to Maryland, is Richmond, Virginia. Two-thirds across the map is Birmingham, Alabama, surrounded by Mississippi, Tennessee, and. Georgia. Peanut calculated that we could drive from Richmond to Durham in about three hours, and from Durham to Charlotte in another three hours. If we left at six in the morning, as we planned, we would be in Charlotte around noon, and we could have lunch there. Then, we would drive from Charlotte to Atlanta, arriving in Atlanta after the sun went down. We would sleep in Atlanta, and the next day we would drive to Birmingham, in time for Arthur’s engagement. Arthur’s final engagement was in Atlanta, the following night. We were going to be forced to spend one night in Birmingham: there was no way around that. From Atlanta, we would drive back to New York, maybe stopping for a day in Washington.

  But, to execute all this can be far more frightening than the frightening map.

  For one thing, Mrs. Reed says firmly, “Don’t you try to do no desegregating in Charlotte. Don’t you try it. Lord, them white folks in Charlotte just knew they had the best niggers in the South. They just knew it. And now, they so ashamed, they can’t hardly hold their heads up—reckon they might have had to close what few hincty restaurants they did have.”

  “Or, if they do let you in,” said Mr. Reed, “and let one of them aristocratic colored folk serve you, it might be your last supper.”

  We laughed. We had made it home safely from the church, and were sitting around the Reeds’ living room, too wound up to sleep, or even to eat yet, having a few drinks.

  Peanut said, “But I got family in Charlotte, and they expecting us for lunch.”

  Arthur choked on his drink. Peanut looked at him, half grinning, half frowning. “Don’t be like that, man. They done greatly improved since we was last there.”

  “You see them often?”

  “I can’t say I see them often.” Peanut was blushing. “Only from time to time. They’ll be glad to have us for lunch. Besides—they know you a celebrity now.”

  “Yeah. What they mainly know is that we won’t be staying for dinner.”

  Peanut said to us, “Arthur didn’t dig my cousins—”

  “They didn’t dig us! they thought we was a bunch of funky niggers.”

  “Why,” said Mr. Reed, “I wouldn’t let that upset me. I sure wouldn’t let it cut my appetite—eat like a funky nigger, that’s the way you handle them people.” We laughed. “Well,” he continued, “let’s say the cousins feed you. By the time you hit the Georgia state line, the sun will be long gone. You know anyone in Atlanta?”

  “Just the people who invited us. But they not expecting us until the next night—not tonight.”

  Mr. Reed sighed, and looked at his wife. “We have friends in Atlanta,” Mrs. Reed said.

  “You think,” asked Mr. Reed, “that they might have room?”

  “It’s late,” she said, “but I just think I’ll take a chance on calling them. I’m sure they won’t mind.” She stood up. “Excuse me a minute,” she said, and left the room.

  “Listen,” said Mr. Reed, “it is still a very bad idea to arrive anywhere in the South after the sun goes down. They had to take down some of them signs—didn’t look good, we being the leaders of the Free World, and all”—he made a puking sound with his lips—“but they got them in the back room, just waiting.” He looked steadily at the three of us. He had our entire attention. “But if you do have to arrive after the sun goes down, make sure you got a destination. Three northern niggers, with New York license plates on their car, going from door to door, looking for a place to sleep”—he shook his head, and gave a low whistle—”down here, now? They got all kinds of things they can pick you up on. And, when they pick you up, they don’t hand you a phone, and say, ‘Call your lawyer.’ Hell, they don’t do that up North, neither, but, at least up North, they’ve heard of lawyers and they know a nigger might have a lawyer. They don’t know nothing like that down here. They ain’t got no lawyers, how you going to have one? You just a symptom of Northern interference, come down here to stir up the good darkies—in truth, you much more than that, but that’s what they put it on.” He smiled. “You boys look tired. Ruby’s going to fix you all a bedtime snack and send you off to bed.”

  “I thought it was bad down here,” said Arthur, “when we was here before.”

  Peanut looked very grave.

  “And how,” he asked, “about stopping on the road—but I guess it just gets worse as you go down—you know—to get gas, and go to the bathroom? I ain’t really had no trouble to speak of before, but”—he laughed—“I wasn’t going to Alabama.”

  Mr. Reed sighed. “Well, they got their tricks. They sell you the gas, but the bathroom might be out of order—they got more tricks than I can name, man.” He sighed again. “If you alone, it’s easier. Sometimes they just sort of grin and bear it and sometimes they real nice, talk to you about the baseball scores, shit like that. Besides, people, most people, ain’t really so low that they got to crack one lone nigger’s skull—except in times of stress, that is,” and he grinned. “But, if you more than one—I don’t know, they seem to feel that you come to do something to them—like you the advance patrol of an army.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. The best thing is not to expect goodwill and don’t expect bad will. But that wears you out.”

  I watched him as he stood up and walked to the bar. I suddenly had great respect for him.

  “I poured you gentlemen the first drink,” he said, “but now, you on your own. Just help yourself.” He poured himself a bourbon and ginger ale.

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Arthur said, and joined Mr. Reed at the bar. “Hall, you want anything? Peanut?”

  “I’ll get it,” Peanut said, and I indicated that I was all right.

  “Where are you from?” Arthur asked.

  “Not too far from where you going. Town called Tuscaloosa.” He sipped his drink, and smiled. There was something fearful in that smile. “Whatever you do, don’t go there, neither after the sun goes down, nor at high noon, neither.” He lit Arthur’s cigarette. “You say it was bad when you was down here before. When was you down here?”

  “Oh. Six, seven years ago.”

  Mr. Reed laughed. “Oh, when this shit was just getting started.” He paused. “Well, it is worse now. You see, then, they didn’t like those desegregation laws, in schools and such, but they figured they could fuck over that in the courts until the year two thousand. Hell, they knew they could, they had friends in Washington showing them how to do it.”

  Mrs. Reed came back into the room. Mr. Reed paused, and looked at her. His deep-set eyes were larger than, at first glance, they seemed; and, when one realized this, his whole face changed, becoming, at once, more vulnerable and more determined.

  “What did they say?” he asked his wife.

  Mrs. Reed smiled at Arthur, and then, at all of us. “Well, I explained the situation to them—to our friends—and I explained that this was a celebrity, traveling with his accompanist, and his brother”—the celebrity laughed, and so did his entourage—“and they said they would be delighted.” She moved to the side table, next to the easy chair where she had been sitting, and picked up her drink. “I’m real pleased. Oh—there’s just one problem. They’ve just painted one bedroom, and if the paint’s not dry by tomorrow evening, one of the boys may have to sleep on the sofa—the smallest one,” and she laughed again.

  “Well
,” said Peanut, “I guess that’s where the celebrity is going to have to sleep.”

  “He is the smallest,” said Mr. Reed. “Don’t hardly seem fair, does it, son?”

  “It’s a comfortable sofa,” said Mrs. Reed. “I slept on it myself, once.”

  “We’re very grateful,” I said, “for all your trouble.”

  “What trouble? I’m just glad it worked out. Makes me feel a little easier in my mind.” She finished her drink, and set the glass down. “You all excuse me again, I’m going to fix you all a snack and make up your beds—you all ain’t going to get much sleep.”

  “Well, if we know exactly where we going tomorrow night,” said Peanut, “it makes the time thing a little bit easier.” He rose. “I believe I will have a refill.” He walked to the bar. “Mr. Reed, you had me so scared, I couldn’t hardly swallow. I was kind of scared when we was here before, but we was young boys then, traveling with”—he and Arthur looked at each other, laughed, and slapped palms—“a guardian!”

  “Whatever happened to that guardian?” I asked.

  “I think Crunch threatened to kill him,” Arthur said, grinning, “and old Webster kind of crawled back into the woodwork.”

  “That must be where he is right now,” said Peanut. “I know ain’t nobody seen him.”

  “I might as well join you all,” I said, and I, too, walked to the bar.

  “I’ll give you boys the name and address and phone number of our friends,” said Mr. Reed. “And a map—I’ll draw a map, so you can find them. And you call here, the minute you set out from Charlotte—I won’t be here, but Ruby’ll be here—and she’ll call them and give them a description of your car, and your license plate numbers, and give them an idea of when they should expect you.”

  I said, “Wow.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Reed. “The crackers is hot. They got fucked. They fucked themselves. While they was working out their all deliberate speed bullshit, the people hit the streets. And now, they got the kids in their faces every time they turn around. And they got nobody to negotiate with. And their friends up North can’t help them; they scared, too. They know the storm is heading their way. Can’t these crackers do nothing else but kick ass.”

  “Or hope it goes away,” I said. I poured myself a drink—vodka, because there wasn’t any Scotch.

  Mr. Reed looked at me. “Yeah. When was the last time you hoped something would go away?”

  He looked at me. He was not that much older than I, though his manner, and his high forehead made him seem so, at least at first sight. But now, I realized that he was a little younger than his wife, about thirty-eight, or -nine, pushing forty.

  I liked him. I would have liked to have got to know him better. He had a long tale to tell. Tuscaloosa. And that was another thing about those years: one was always running into people with tremendous life and dignity and charm with real humor, people you would almost certainly not have met under any other circumstances, and you hoped to get to know them better. But it was very nearly impossible. What had bought you together also kept you apart: everyone was too savagely overworked. You met before, during, or after an event, or in the planning stages of an event, you met in strategy meetings, in lawyer’s offices, senator’s chambers, the homes of friendly Congressmen, the homes of movie stars, in prisons, in remote backwaters you scarcely knew existed (and which you could not believe existed, even though you were there), between trains, buses, planes, in and out of cars, at airports, the one on the way to raise money in Cleveland, the other on the way to a remote church in Savannah. Every once in a while, you might meet at a party, fighting against passing out, and going home early. You might share an hour or two in an airplane together. But neither could really concentrate on the other. One’s concentration was on the fact that the plane was going to land, and one had another gauntlet to run.

  And when the dream was slaughtered, and all that love and labor seemed to have come to nothing, we scattered: it was not a time to compare notes. We had no notes to compare. We knew where we had been, what we had tried to do, who had cracked, gone mad, died, or been murdered around us. We scattered, each into his or her own silence. It was in the astounded eyes of the children that we realized, had to face, how immensely we had been feared, despised, and betrayed. Each had, with speed, to put himself together again as best he could, and begin again. Everything was gone, but the children: children allow no time for tears. Many of us who were on that road then, may now be lost forever, that is true, but not everything is lost: responsibility cannot be lost, it can only be abdicated. If one refuses abdication, one begins again. The dream was repudiated: so be it.

  My father said to me, a long time ago, “Son, whatever really gets started never gets stopped. The trouble is,” he added thoughtfully, after a moment, “so little ever gets started.”

  I was far more the pragmatic American then than I am now. Now, watching my children grow, old enough to have some sense of where I’ve been, having suffered enough to be no longer terrified of suffering, and knowing something of joy, too, I know that we must attempt to be responsible for what we know. Only this action moves us, without fear, into what we do not know, and what we do not know is limitless.

  But we had no trouble at all on the road the next day, and it was a very beautiful, bright day. The leaves on the trees were turning, like the changing colors in the sky, and, as the miles increased behind us, our apprehensions dropped, and we were very comfortable with each other. We were comfortable with each other, among other reasons, because, whatever was coming now, we were in it together, and we could not turn back: this sense of having crossed a river brings one a certain peace.

  I was driving. Arthur sat beside me. Peanut was stretched out on the backseat.

  He had been talking about Red, and how he had first discovered Red was a junkie. It was clear, from his voice, and from Arthur’s face, that he had never spoken of this before: there was scarcely anyone else to whom he could have spoken.

  From Arthur’s face, too, I realized that he was thinking of Crunch—Lord, so long ago!—and wishing that he had been able to speak of Crunch the way Peanut spoke of Red.

  “You know how close we were. He was my heart, my whole heart. It was like we had always known each other, but we didn’t meet, really, until I was about ten, when Grandma brought me to the city. What it was, I didn’t have no mama, nor no daddy. I just grew up with my grandma, and I know she did the best she could, but she was just too old to be raising a young kid. All she knew how to do was slap me and scold me and she didn’t want me to play with the other kids because they wasn’t good enough for us, and I’d get my clothes all dirty, and, oh, man”—with a low chuckle, as I kept my eyes on the road, and the trees flew by—”it was awful.

  “So what happened, when we moved to the city, I had a friend for the first time in my life. And we were distant cousins, or something, and so Grandma didn’t disapprove like she usually did. I think she was relieved, really, that here was some other folks to help her look out for me, and, you know, she wasn’t a cruel woman, she was just strict because she was scared, and I think she was happy that I was happy. Anyway, she’d let me stay over at Red’s house and his mama got to be like that with my grandma, she couldn’t do no wrong far as my grandma was concerned, and Red’s mama got to be like my mama. And they all treated me like that, like I was one of them, and Red was a little older than me, he could teach me things. Like we used to ride the subway in the summertime, maybe go to Coney Island and lie on the sand and talk about what we was going to do when we got big, and Red taught me to swim. I hadn’t ever seen the water. I was scared, but I couldn’t be scared in front of him, you know, and so I got to be a pretty good swimmer. And we spent a lot of time running around in Central Park, around the reservoir and the lake and we used to love to watch the horseback riders. They looked so neat, especially the girls, you know, in their little hats and boots and shit, and with that whip, and that horse so proud, just stepping. But the men, they were fine
, too, and I wanted to grow up and be one of them men on a horse like that. We didn’t never see no black riders, but Red said there were lots of them out West, and, when we got old enough, we’d go out West and buy a ranch and raise horses. Then we’d be rich, and we could send for my grandma, and his mania, and they wouldn’t have to work no more.”