William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“None of us,” Ben said. “If you don’t trust me, lock your doors.”

The man once again laughed. “My name is Cecil Jeffreys.”

“Ben Raines.”

“Ben Raines? Where have I heard that name? The writer?”

“Ah… what price fame?” Ben smiled. “Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flip.”

“I didn’t take it that way. We’re in the same wing, just above you. My wife is preparing dinner now—in the motel kitchen. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, very much so. I’m tired of my own cooking.”

“Well, then… if you’ll sling that Thompson, I’ll help you with your linens.”

Ben did not hesitate, for he felt the request and the offer a test. He put the SMG on safety and slung it, then handed the man his pillows. “You’re familiar with the Thompson?”

“Oh, yes. Carried one in Vietnam. Green Beret. You?”

“Hell-Hound.”

“Ah! The real bad boys. Colonel Dean’s bunch. You fellows were headhunters.”

“We took a few ears.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder down the walkway, Cecil’s friends coming up in the rear. Ben resisted a very strong impulse to look behind him.

Cecil smiled. “If it will make you feel better, go ahead and look around.”

“You a mind reader?” Ben laughed.

“No, just knowledgeable of whites, that’s all.”

“As you see us,” Ben countered.

“Good point. We’ll have a good time debating; I see that.”

They came to Ben’s room.

“We’ll see you in the dining room, Ben Raines. I have to warn you though…”

Ben tensed; he was boxed in, no way to make a move.

“…The water is ice-cold. Bathe very quickly.”

Ben, like many, if not most, whites, had never socialized with blacks, never sat down at a table with a black person to have dinner—except for his time in the service, and there had been few blacks in his outfit. In truth, Ben did not really know or trust black people. He didn’t know why he didn’t trust them. He just didn’t.

Ben despised the KKK, the Nazi Party—groups of that ilk—and he would never, ever, hurt a black person, unless that person was trying to hurt him; but, he admitted, as he bathed—very quickly—in the cold water… I guess I really don’t like black people.

But why? he asked himself. Have you ever tried to know or like a black person?

No, he concluded.

Well, you’re about to do just that.

He walked to the dining room through a very light mist. The smell of death hung in the damp air, but it was an odor that Ben scarcely noticed anymore.

“Mr. Raines,” Cecil greeted him in the candlelit dining area. “How about a martini? No ice, of course, but I make a wicked martini.”

“That would be great.” A martini-drinking black? He had thought most blacks drank Ripple and Thunderbird.

Come on, Raines! You’re thinking like an ignorant bigot.

He sat down at the table. Moment of truth. He smiled a secret smile.

“Something funny, Mr. Raines?” a slender man seated to his right asked.

“Not really. Sad, more than anything else, I suppose.”

“Ever sat down and had dinner with blacks?” a woman inquired. Her tone was neither friendly nor hostile… just curious.

Hell, Ben thought—they’re as curious about me as I am about them. “Not really. Only in the service.”

“Well, I can promise you we won’t have ham hocks or grits,” she said with a smile.

“To tell the truth,”—Ben looked at her—“I like them both.”

A few laughed aloud; the rest smiled. An uncomfortable silence fell around them; it was punctuated by shifting of feet, clearing of throats, much looking at the table, the walls. It seemed that no one had anything to say, or, as was probably the case, knew how to say it.

“May I help anyone do anything?” Ben asked. “With dinner,” he added.

“We thought we’d serve it buffet-style,” Cecil said. “Easier that way. Pardon my curiosity, Mr. Raines—”

“Ben. Just call me Ben.”

“Ben. Good. I’m Cecil. But I believe I read somewhere that you lived in Louisiana.”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Burying my family: brothers, sisters, parents. Cairo, Mt. Vernon, Springfield, Normal, then into the suburbs of Chicago.”

The woman Ben had thought white—he still wasn’t sure what she was—asked, “They’re all dead?”

“All but the brother in Chicago.” He looked at her. She was very good-looking. No negroid features about her; but Ben sensed she was black, at least to some degree. “Your family?” he asked her.

“All dead. Cecil and his wife found me wandering… walking out of Chicago… getting out while I could. They took me in.”

Cecil’s wife entered the room and announced that dinner was ready. Ben was introduced to her. Lila. She was friendly and spoke as though she was highly educated. Cecil told him she had been a college professor. The news was not surprising.

The meal was deliciously prepared, and all ate slowly, enjoying the luxury of good food and good conversation. No one mentioned the slight odor that hung about them.

“Have any of you heard about radiation levels in and around the cities that took nuclear hits?” Ben asked.

“The upper east coast is the worst,” Cecil said. “Those cities took a concentration of bombs, most of them nuclear. San Francisco took a low-level hit. What is it called…? I don’t remember. Kills the people but leaves the buildings intact. The United States was lucky in that respect. I’ve heard Russia and China really are gone.”

“How about winds that carry the radiation?”

Cecil shrugged. “There again, nuclear warfare had progressed considerably… in our favor. I have heard there is no danger from that. But… who knows. I’m not a scientist.”

Ben began putting faces and names together. The woman who had asked about his family was Salina. Salina Franklin. There were Jake and Nora, a Clint and Jane Helms, and Anwar Ali Kasim.

Ben took an immediate dislike to Kasim, and felt equally bad vibes coming from him. Kasim confirmed his feelings when he spoke.

“How come you didn’t stay with your brother and his buddies and help kill all the niggers in the city?” Kasim asked, his eyes alive with hate.

Salina rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust. Lila sighed and looked at her husband. Cecil said, “Kasim, you’re a jerk!”

“And he’s white!” Kasim spat his hate at Ben.

“Does that automatically make me bad?” Ben asked.

“As far as I’m concerned, yes,” Kasim said. “And I don’t trust you.”

“Maybe,” Salina said, her words quiet, “he’s just a man who sat down to have a quiet dinner. He hasn’t bothered a soul—brother.” She smiled at her humor.

Kasim didn’t share her humor. “I see,” he said, the words softly spoken but tinged with hate. “Well, now… Zebra got herself a yearning for some white cock?”

She slapped him hard, hitting him in the mouth with the back of her hand, bloodying his lips.

Kasim drew back his hand to hit her and found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 magnum. Cecil jacked back the hammer and calmly said, “I would hate to ruin this fine dinner, Kasim, since raw brains have never been a favorite of mine. But if you hit her, I’ll blow your fucking head off!”

Kasim looked at the man in disbelief. He nodded his head when he saw the look in Cecil’s eyes. “You’d kill me… for him?” He jerked his head toward Ben.

“You’re twisting words out of context, Kasim,” Cecil said, the muzzle of the .44 never wavering. “But you’re good at that.”

Kasim put both hands on the table, one on each side of his plate. “You know what those white bastards did to my sister.”