Jason Overstreet: Beneath the Darkest Sky

Between 1911 and 1915 alone, seven presidents were assassinated or overthrown, one having been beaten, his limp body thrown over the French embassy’s iron fence before an angry mob ripped his body to pieces and paraded the parts through the streets.

These horror stories, and how they’d shaped these women, made Loretta more invested in the community. She was becoming somewhat of a political artist, less concerned about the fact that her career hadn’t taken off in Paris, and she had also found some joy and extra income leading painting workshops.

She’d sold a few paintings here and there, and many Parisian aficionados of art had praised her work, but in terms of a household name, she was still chipping away at that dream, a dream Bobby’s wife believed would eventually come true. He had said as much during the long ship ride over from Le Havre the previous year in August. Not only had we discussed that, we’d also had an extensive back-and-forth about our Haitian mission. He’d seemed resolute about its purpose, and I’d gotten the distinct impression that he was certain Roosevelt would be elected that November, a result that Bobby believed would bring about a policy change in Haiti.

“Make no mistake,” he’d said, as we’d dined and looked out over the glistening Atlantic, “we are going here to put an end to this disgusting, paternalistic occupation, but it can’t happen overnight. We have to creatively, patiently, and calmly use our diplomatic skills to help at least get the ball rolling. Then, once Mr. Roosevelt takes office, the groundwork we will have laid… the exit strategy we’ll have implemented… will shift into overdrive.”

“Is Dorene still on the campaign trail with Roosevelt?” I had asked, cutting into a delicious porterhouse.

“Yes, joyously so. The whole lot of them are in Ohio as we speak. Columbus.”

“Are the children with her?”

“No, they’re in Nantucket with her parents. She will be bringing them with her to Port-au-Prince sometime in December once the election is over. Once she’s finally spent more money than God knows…”

“Stop it,” I’d said. “She’s putting it to wonderful use.”

“I realize that. It’s just that the woman spends her money like a Rockefeller.”

“You’re complaining?”

“You’re right. Forget money. No, on second thought, speaking of money… regarding your personal service contract… what the State Department will be paying you won’t suffice the way I see it. I shall pay you extra—cash—the first of every month. Out of our family’s private account. Consider it done and do not argue. It’s the least I can do considering your education and the fact that State makes it next to impossible for coloreds to enter the Foreign Service.”

“What if I try to argue?”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” he’d said, cutting into his steak. “Of course, you could return to Washington and take the exam if you want to be an official Foreign Service officer. I could try to pull some strings and get you hired as an attaché.”

“I’m not about to go back to D.C. and subject myself to the background checks.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“For all we know,” I’d said, “the same British Intelligence mole left Hoover’s bureau and is now firmly planted inside the State Department.”

“You don’t think Hoover ever pegged him?” he’d asked.

“Actually, I still can’t help but also wonder if it was Hoover all alone in cahoots with the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“Hmm.”

“Think about it, Bobby. Hoover wanted to imprison Marcus Garvey. But SIS wanted to kill him. You don’t think Hoover was willing to give them carte blanche in order to do so?”

“Impossible to rule out,” he’d said.

“What did he have to lose… besides my black ass?”

“Plausible,” said Bobby.

“More than.”

“Back to your contract,” he’d said. “I couldn’t do this Haiti job without you and your language skills. Dorene knows that. And she respects the hell out of you. The State Department may not be in the business of hiring colored FSOs, but Dorene and I are damn sure in the business of paying you , my friend, as if you were one.”

“I appreciate this, Bobby.”

“I’ll see to it that you’re treated with the same decorum as an official diplomat. However high I rise and wherever I’m posted in the world, you’ll always have a job with me.”

I’d lifted my glass of water. “Thank you… future Ambassador Ellington.”

“I only wish,” he’d said. “But it better happen someday soon or Dorene will surely leave me for a more worldly and accomplished bloke.”

“Stop.”

“I kid. But it is her dream as much as it is mine. If only Eleanor, her idol, were as keen on Franklin becoming president as he himself is. It’s certainly his dream and not hers.”

“Well, all I know is you’re leaving your mark on history, Bobby.”

“We both are, Prescott. Whether you’re official or not, we both are.”

Somewhere in Russia

August 1937

MY OBSESSION WITH RAILROAD MAPS DIDN’T LEAVE ME WHEN I left America. And as my son and I sat in our sweaty, wooden, triple seats, having survived the first three days of this horrific journey across Russia, I couldn’t help but wish I had a map with me. Perhaps I’d be able to bring a touch of comfort to James by showing him the different towns we were traveling through, perhaps along the Mongolia border. Then again, even if I had one, how could I point out locations? None of us knew where we were going.

All I knew was that we’d been traveling for three nightmarish days in darkness, the curtains so heavy we never knew when the sun was setting or rising. No hot meal. No bath. No good sleep. The train made the occasional stop, so that officers could refill the water buckets, I assumed, and buy themselves tobacco and real food. Common sense told me they had to be stopping for inspection as well. Still, we never knew which remote town we were in.

One bit of information a blue top had relayed was that we were riding on car twenty-eight. There were fifty in total. I assumed ours was like all of the others—disgusting. So far, the guards had done as promised and let each compartment out separately in the morning and at night to visit the hole at the rear of the car after turning the lanterns on. And that was exactly what it was, a hole cut out in the wood floor in a tiny closet. When not in use, it was covered with a filthy rug.

I’d tried my best to ignore the various moans, hallucinations, and cries throughout the car. On more than one occasion, the lanterns were turned on, the fencing opened, and the brutal sound of someone being pulled from their compartment, taken near the rear, and beaten, could be heard. How vicious the beatings, none of us knew. Fortunately, no one in our compartment had made so much as a peep.

The gash on my ear had scabbed over, as all they’d done was tape some gauze over it at the jail, no stitches, which were needed. I hadn’t been able to see the cut but could feel the lobe split apart when I’d first checked that night. I figured it had scabbed over now because it itched like crazy. But I hadn’t removed the gauze, choosing to leave it taped on for as long as possible.

We’d been given nothing to eat but a small piece of black bread twice a day and a thirty-two-ounce canteen of water to share amongst the six of us. The canteen was refilled each morning and night, but the water was very warm and did little to quench one’s thirst. We craved something hot to eat. Anything. Grain, soup, or even gravy.

Day three turned to day ten with nothing changing for us prisoners except a deeper feeling of agony, all of us having become immune to one another’s unpleasant odor. To say we were hungry is too simple. We were ravenous.