Pete Hamill - Loving Women

“You can,” he said. “But the first thing they would do is call the Navy PIO guys. And they wouldn’t confirm it. They’d just say that all Navy personnel records are confidential, or something like that.… And, of course, the Klan doesn’t give out press releases.”

I went over to see Sal and Max and they were in a fury. They wanted to hunt down Buster and give him the beating of his life, because they were sure that Bobby had been tracked by Buster’s boys after rescuing me that day on the road.

“Set him on fire,” Sal said. “Hang him on a meat hook.”

Max said, “Break his hands and ankles.”

But as we stood in the sunlight beside the hangar, we slowly realized that we weren’t sure that it was Buster. We didn’t know how many others had come in the night to beat Bobby Bolden and Catty Wolverton and burn their house to the ground. We didn’t even know what had happened to Bobby Bolden’s Mercury. The anger seeped out of us.

“There oughtta be something we can do,” Sal said. “There oughtta be some ass we could kick.”

Max shook his head: “It’s going after ghosts.”

After the MPs left with the artifacts of Bobby Bolden’s life, I went up to the Kingdom of Darkness. The door was locked. I knocked and Rhode Island Freddie answered. He looked at me and started to close the door without saying a word.

“Hey, man, wait !” I said.

“Git outta here, mothafucka.”

“Hey, I didn’t do it!” I said. “ I drove him to Mainside. I cut down Catty. It wasn’t me . I just came up here to say I was sorry and—”

“You know somethin, boy?” he said. “You dumb . Dumber than shit. And Bobby, he was even more dumb. He take you as a friend. He take the white bitch as a friend. What it get him, huh? Answer me that? What it get him? You seen whut it get him. You seen it. Man never get to play that fuckin horn the rest of his fuckin life, that what it get him. Why? Answer me that. And you know why. White folks! ”

“Yeah, but—”

“You all white. You and the bitch and the Klan and Abe Lincoln and the fuckin president and every fuckin officer in the Navy. All white. And all the fuckin same.”

He slammed the door. On me, on all whites.

And it didn’t end there.

At lunch time, the food was disgusting. Greasy, half cooked. The messcooks seemed to be wearing masks as they made their protest. I said hello. Nobody answered. They just looked past me. I gazed at the greasy vegetables and the pink half-boiled chicken on my tray. And then saw Harrelson at a table.

I went over to him.

“You prick,” I said.

He smirked at me.

“Oh, my ,” he said. “We got us an angry nigger lover, don’t we?”

I reached across the table and grabbed the front of his jumper and lifted him toward me.

“Say another word and I’ll bite your nose right off your face, shithead.”

“You touch me , Yankee,” he hissed, “you might git what the nigger got.”

I let go of him but I wasn’t finished. The mess hall was quiet. I faced him, talking louder.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I said. “You fingered Bobby Bolden for the Klan.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sailor.”

“You knew he was living down there by the lake.”

“The whole damn world knew that , boy.”

“Maybe so. But the rest of the world didn’t care and you did.”

Harrelson got up and lifted his tray, still covered with uneaten food. He looked at me.

“You sure lookin to git yore ass whupped, nigger lover.”

I came around and grabbed his arm.

“Not by you, prick.”

I was ready to hammer him, make him eat the tray itself, and then Red Cannon was beside us, and I could see Chief McDaid standing at the door.

“Ten- shun !” Red barked.

We both came to attention, Harrelson still holding his tray. The chow hall was absolutely silent now, except for the whistling of a coffee urn.

“What’s this all about, Mister Harrelson?” Cannon said.

“The Yankee here’s got a big mouth, that’s whut it’s about.”

“Ask him about Bobby Bolden,” I said. “Ask him when he called up the Klan.”

“I wuddint addressin’ you, sailor,” Cannon said.

“You asked what it’s about . Well, it’s about Bobby Bolden. That’s what it’s about . This prick called down the Klan on him.”

McDaid came over, smiling in an oily way.

“At ease, sailors,” he said. He cleared his throat, knowing that others could hear him. “We all feel bad about what happened to Bobby Bolden. But you two aren’t going to help matters by fighting each other. Let’s both of you go back to work.”

He nodded at Red and then they walked across the chow hall and left. McDaid was clearly washing his hands of the whole matter and letting Red Cannon know it wasn’t his business either. Harrelson smiled thinly at me.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Not me,” I said. “Your mother.”

Harrelson turned his back and walked quickly to the garbage disposal as the room gradually filled with the murmur of conversation. None of the blacks behind the steam tables would look at me.

That afternoon, Harrelson was transferred to Mainside.

I had the duty in the Supply Shack that night and for once I was glad. I knew that Eden must have spent the night at Roberta’s. She certainly didn’t go back to the trailer. But even if I could find her, I didn’t know what I would say to her. So when Donnie Ray gave me the duty, I was relieved. I took my pad and chalks with me to the shack and worked on the portrait of Captain Pritchett’s dead wife for a few hours. There wasn’t much business at the front counter; it was as if the base had emptied so that everyone could go somewhere and mourn Bobby Bolden’s murdered hands.

I kept trying to get Pritchett’s wife right, but her face wouldn’t come off the page. I threw sheet after sheet into the trash basket. And I soon realized what was happening: the long-dead Catherine, the woman the Captain loved, the woman whose memory had been turned by him into banks of flowers, kept coming out looking like Eden Santana.

Around midnight, Miles came in. His skin looked yellow. His eyeglasses were dirty. He sat down at his desk and stared at his hands and talked about Bobby Bolden.

“I kept thinking about his hands,” he said. “Kept thinking how he used to play in the afternoon for us. For himself, first, I guess. But for us too. And then I thought of those shitass rednecks and how much they must have enjoyed smashing up the hands of a colored man who had more talent and brains and heart than all of them combined. They must’ve loved it.”

“You know they loved it.”

“But I could’ve warned him.”

“Everybody warned him, Miles.”

“Then maybe he wanted it to happen.”

“Don’t be stupid, Miles.”

“Maybe he did . Some people are so afraid of their own talent, they’d rather have someone else destroy it than have to do it themselves. They provoke . They make death happen.”

“Bobby Bolden wouldn’t have given these dirtbags that satisfaction.”

A mechanic came in and I waited on him and when I was finished, Miles Rayfield was gone. He didn’t know how crucial a part he’d played the night before; in a strange way, his existence might have saved Bobby Bolden’s life; if I hadn’t argued about him with Eden, I wouldn’t have stormed into the night and found Bobby writhing in the bushes. I looked at my drawing. Miles had made a few marks on it, a tuck here, an emphasis there. I saw clearly what I’d done wrong. I started over one final time and finished quickly. And when I was done with Catherine Pritchett, I did a drawing of Eden Santana.