-14-

The rally is over. People cluster around Melvin to congratulate him. Her admiration will be bestowed at home tonight. His speech defending the Panther 21 and excoriating the police for false arrest was electric, the tone dynamic. Thank the universe he wasn’t one of those arrested, though he seems almost disappointed. Maybe he thinks it means that he’s not as important. Anyway, he’s working around the clock to raise money for his comrades’ defense.

The police are out in force, some on horses. As usual she searches their numbers for Johnny; so far, so good, no Johnny. Anyway, what could he do? Pull her out of the crowd? That would be unprofessional. If he’s anything, he’s respectful of every rule that attends to his position. God, why in heaven’s name is Johnny taking up residence in her head? Her family manages to spook her even when they’re nowhere to be seen.

She’s reluctant to leave, but Maisie is waiting. She heads to Central Park, already sorry she didn’t stay to chat with some of the Panthers, especially Rosemary. After working at the breakfast program last week, the two of them spent quality time together. A lot of personal insights were shared. Rosemary, who was born and raised in Harlem, intends one day to become a physical therapist. Josie shared how glad she was to get away from her suffocating family, their values, and the South Bronx. No, she admitted, she had no idea what she wanted to become when all the shit was behind them. Later that day, thinking about Rosemary, she wondered if not having a particular career in mind was a result of her having dropped out of high school or of a belief that the movement, with all of its needs and activities, would last through her lifetime. Definitely something to ponder.

The tall buildings bordering Central Park are golden in the soon-to-vanish sun. An elderly man on a bench turns his face to catch the last rays. Children climbing nearby rocks call loudly to one another.

Sitting cross-legged beneath a chestnut tree, Maisie waves to her. Josie joins her on the softening ground.

“I have serious a conversation to share,” Maisie greets her.

“Okay.”

“We need to leave the male-dominated movement and form a separate women’s organization to develop our own politics. Women are already doing that elsewhere.”

“We have a women’s caucus.”

“Not good enough,” Maisie asserts. “Women want change. They-slash-we no longer want to spend more time at the mimeograph than in formulating theory. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Look, I just came from an intense rally. Melvin was riveting. The words are still creating noise in my head.”

“You make my point.”

She feels a spark of anger, but this is Maisie, her friend. “I don’t understand.”

“Instead of hearing me all you can focus on is what happened at a male-dominated rally, important as I’m sure it was. I’m asking: Do you have a problem with a separate movement?”

She doesn’t appreciate being put on the spot. “Separating would dissipate too much energy. A lot is happening now. The struggle is changing, becoming more militant. People are writing manifestos on guerrilla warfare. Men are refusing to fight, disappearing to Canada or going to jail. It’s the wrong time to create more havoc.”

“We can be as antiracist and anti-imperialist as any man and still put forward women’s issues. None of the male-dominated organizations will do both. Women’s demands are seen as divisive or as later for that.”

She isn’t used to Maisie being so determined; it annoys her. “Perhaps at a future date,” she says, unwilling to engage in a long-winded argument, anxious to get home.

“That’s what women always say. Not the right time to leave, not the right time to change, not the right time to seize the time. It is, Josie. It’s the perfect time.”

“It would be a breach, though, don’t you think?”

“What you’re really saying is that movement men will be angry and rejecting. Who cares? Think about this. Why isn’t it a breach to always have our politics explicated by men? Who are we in this movement? We sure as hell do as much, but the power remains theirs. And worse, they don’t even recognize our oppression. They’re mired in chauvinism.” Maisie’s eyes steady on her.

“Movement men aren’t our enemies. Think Nixon—”

“If you define ‘enemy’ that way, of course. But if you define ‘enemy’ as any man who keeps us from our liberation, then too many movement men do just that.”

She feels gut checked, accused of something she didn’t do, judged for something she doesn’t feel. Actually, men often gut check: make harsh statements about people’s politics. She hates that. But saying so would just prolong the discussion. “Have you shared your thoughts with Nina?”

“Nina believes we can raise women’s consciousness within the same organization as men. But since they moved in together, she’s influenced by Lowell. He’d be totally pissed at the idea. What about Melvin?”

“We do our own things. What matters are the goals. He might think it stupid to pull out of a growing movement just now. He already believes white radicals aren’t committed enough. Anyway, I’m not convinced a separate women’s movement is worth the disruption.” Though she does believe that disruption is good. It moves things, lets you see what might be hidden beneath. Isn’t that what she tells everyone?

“I’ve been discussing my hopes, dreams, and despair as well as my politics with a group of women. It’s a wonderful experience to find others who understand the way I feel. Women energize each other because deep down we each know the truth about our lives. Sharing feelings is more than cleansing; it’s revolutionary. Think about this: How comfortable would you be talking about the lack of good birth control with Lowell in the room? Would men write a flyer calling for an end to the bombing on one side and an end to women’s oppression on the other? Only a separate women’s movement can make that happen.” Maisie’s voice loud with certainty.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that it doesn’t seem feasible now.”

“It’s already happening, Josie. Women are beginning to view the world through our own experiences. The political will become personal and that’s powerful. We’re not there yet, but the dogs are waking. Anyway, my group is planning a women’s sit-in at a radio news station. We intend to read a declaration of women’s demands over the air.”

“What about an end to the war, racism?”

“They are also our demands. We’re calling ourselves the Mother Jones Brigade.”

“Why not the Madame Binh Brigade?”

“Why not? Come to the planning meeting; bring it up.”

Melvin will dig the action. Why for one fucking second should that matter?

On Josie’s way to the supermarket, Maisie’s words refuse to let go. She should’ve been more encouraging. Why wasn’t she? The word “separate” frightens her. It brings to mind Melvin’s Blackness and her whiteness. It signifies aloneness or maybe even abandonment, but of whom? The men? Melvin? No, that can’t be.

In the brightly lit supermarket, which is in stark contrast to the falling darkness, she does her best to shunt Maisie’s words aside. She’ll buy a box of linguine and a jar of spaghetti sauce and then pick up a bottle of cheap red. They’ll toast Melvin’s success at the rally. She isn’t sure when he’ll arrive home, but he did say he’d see her at dinner.

She grabs her items, then waits impatiently to pay. The line is long. In front of her, a woman’s cart is filled with jars of baby food.

“It must be expensive having a baby these days,” Josie says.

“If I didn’t have to work, I’d make this shit myself. A few vegetables and a strainer, but who has time?” The woman’s tired voice, tired face, and slumped shoulders underscore her words.

“We should be grateful for supermarkets, I guess.”

“Yeah, well . . . save time but spend too much money.” The woman shakes her head.

Would this woman give a fuck about a separate women’s movement? How would it benefit her? Or is a separate movement only for the already enlightened? She should’ve asked Maisie that. Obviously she’s still somewhat pissed at her friend. She doesn’t like being blindsided, especially if the idea has merit.

She sets out two bowls, two glasses for wine. The pasta water has begun to boil. The phone rings. Oh, please, no, she thinks, turning off the flame.

“Hello.”

“Baby, something’s come up. I’ll be home in a few hours or less. Tell you about why later.”

“I just cooked us dinner, wine and all. To celebrate. It was a great speech, Melvin.”

“Sorry a million times over, really have to do this. I’ll hurry.”

Jesus. What now? she worries. “Are you okay?”

“Couldn’t be better. Save me some of the wine.”

“That depends.”

She could eat and then do a little cleanup of the apartment, which smells as if the pile of dirty clothing in the corner has come alive. Even if Maisie’s right, is it the—

There’s a hard, rapid knocking at the door.

No one she knows would bang like that. She doesn’t respond. The knocking persists as if the person knows she’s right there.

“It’s Johnny. Let me in.”

Damn. She unlocks the door, prays Melvin doesn’t get home while Johnny’s here.

In uniform he appears taller, broader. He’s never visited before. Seeing things through his eyes, she notes the Panther newspapers and radical magazines strewn everywhere, also the political posters that paper the walls.

“How dare you give my address to the New Jersey police for your slimy business? Who do you think you are, queen of crap?” Blue eyes blazing, he tosses his cap on the table.

“Sorry, it was a nervous moment. I’ll call and correct it. I’m about to leave now.”

“Too easy, Josephine Anna Marie Russo, too easy by far. You’re a little snot, never calling Ma.”

“Who made you family guardian?”

“Who else is there? And you bringing shame on your family, engaging in dangerous activities, leading Miles down the alley with you. Don’t you care?”

He always had a temper but never at her, his little sister.

“Don’t think I’m stupid,” he says.

“Why would I think that?”

“Because you believe you’re better than the rest of us ordinary people. Who are the longhair guys you mess with? No one you can bring home, that’s for sure. You think you can fight city hall and win. You can’t. It’s a waste of your time. Sooner than later you’ll be caught doing something illegal. You’ll be jailed, maybe killed, kill Ma too. A coffeehouse? Giving soldiers treasonous information? I’ve been in law enforcement enough years to know that you’ll pay dearly.”

He’s circling her, taking in the environs, looking for what she isn’t sure.

“Fighting the police with sticks and stones, how dumb is that? Are you looking for broken bones? None of your friends show any respect. They even dress dirty. What kind of a person spits at officers, calls us pigs? Who treats authority like that?”

He continues to roam the apartment, lifting, touching, his eyes a camera. What gives him the right? This is her home. “You should go. Now.”

“I haven’t finished yet.”

“I think you have.” She tells herself that Melvin only just phoned; he couldn’t possibly be on the way home.

“So you’ve become like the rest of them, disrespecting family, authority? If Pa was still alive, he’d have another heart attack.”

How dare he invoke her father? “You think you’re authority? They stick a gun in your pants, a pair of handcuffs on your ass, and guess what? Your so-called authority is most useful to rich people who need you to clean up and do the dirty work. You’re hired to help the Man keep his property private. You’re hired to protect them, not you and yours. The department gives you a steady paycheck to shut you up and keep you where they need you to be. They buy your allegiance, and you think it’s your choice. You’ll retire early and wonder why you’re depressed for the rest of your life. What really upsets you is seeing my friends go after real values, real hope, real freedom and treat you like you’re just in the way, which you are.” Near tears, she stops.

He looks at her but says nothing. That he isn’t responding upsets her.

“Where’s Miles?” he asks.

“What?”

“Celia said he never picked up his draft notice.” His tone subdued.

“Celia wants him to go in the army?”

“She doesn’t want him in jail.”

“I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Tell me something: If you find Miles, are you going to turn him in?”

“Don’t be stupid. I want to make him think about his choices. He’s a college guy, smart, could go places, but with a criminal record, he’ll end up worse than his father. Celia thought you’d help; she knows how close you two are.”

Not for a second does she believe Celia sent him. “I don’t know where he is, but I do know he’d rather go to jail than fight in this war.”

“He can’t escape the law, Josie. That’s a fact.”

“Going to jail could save his life. Richie is already in the war. How many sacrifices do you need?”

“I just want to talk to him.” He crosses both hands in front of his belly, but he’s not at ease.

“If Miles contacts me, I’ll give him your message,” she says.

He picks up his cap. “And call Ma. Are you listening?” He opens the door, but not before taking note of the three locks, then closes it softly.

He registered every piece of paper in the apartment, of that she’s certain. He’s smart, tough, and relentless, like her.