-27-

Melvin’s light, even breaths rise and fall beside her as the nightly sounds of disaster escalate and retreat: police sirens, ambulances, fire trucks. The usual questions without answers bang at her brain: How long before the feds knock at her door to ask about Miles? When will she be able to finally see Richie? And what is Melvin doing that keeps him away from home for so many hours? Is it something more than taking care of Panther activities here and abroad? And then, too, how will Celia cope with Miles’s situation and, now, Paul’s death? These are the perilous thoughts that continue to threaten her sleep.

She could nudge Melvin awake to discuss her worries, but then they’d have to go outdoors. Anyway, it would be cruel to wake him. It’s one of the few nights he’s gotten to bed before three in the morning. She has to admit, though, that he has no second thoughts about waking her in the middle of the night for some loving, which can be annoying, which, come to think of it, he hasn’t done in a while.

The apartment feels cold. She thinks to burrow back under the covers. Then remembers it’s Saturday, glorious Saturday. No work. Melvin is out buying newspapers. In a few minutes, they’ll have breakfast together. Slipping into jeans and Melvin’s old sweater, she studies her face in the small magnetized mirror on the fridge. The swelling around her nose has gone down, though the bruise beneath her eye is still apparent.

Each weekend she promises herself to make order in the apartment, though too often other needs intrude. Today her plan is to find empty boxes in which to store the newspapers, leaflets, and magazines that are strewn about the place. Then she’ll take dirty clothes to the Laundromat. No one in her family would live like this. Still, how often is she even at home? After work as well as on most weekends, she’s out at meetings, organizing, or whatever. And she can’t help but wonder if the life she’s leading is her decision or a result of being her age in the here and now.

She peers into the fridge. Nothing inside will do for breakfast. Hopefully, Melvin will bring back—

There’s a quick, hard rap at the door. “It’s Rosemary,” a serious voice calls out.

She unlocks the door. “Hi, come in. Melvin went for the papers; he’ll be right back.” She leads Rosemary to the kitchen table, but she’s not interested in sitting.

“It’s you I want to talk to,” Rosemary says in an even tone she doesn’t recognize.

“What’s up?”

“Here’s what we need you to know. We in the party like you and respect the work you do. But Melvin is a leader in the struggle, a Black leader who shouldn’t be living with a white woman. It sends the wrong message not only to Black sisters but also to the struggle. It’s how the party feels. Nothing personal, Josie, understand?”

She stares at Rosemary’s expressive eyes, her brown satin skin, the close-cropped black hair and long silver earrings that brush the shoulders of her leather jacket. Hears Melvin’s keys unlock the door, sees him deposit a paper bag and newspapers on the table.

“Hey, sister, what’s happening?”

“I came to speak to Josie and I did.” Rosemary’s voice is low.

“If this is a woman thing, I’ll disappear, but if it’s about me, sister, don’t waste Josie’s ears. I don’t want her bothered. Understand? Anything to share, I’m listening.” He smiles, though his eyes are blazing.

“You know why I came, Melvin. See you at the office. No offense, Josie. Take care.” And she’s out the door.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles on his way to shower.

She empties the bag—half dozen eggs and loaf of rye. Finding a bowl, she breaks four eggs, adds spices, while Rosemary’s words repeat in her head: “You know why I came, Melvin.”

As she beats the eggs, a woman making breakfast for her lover, her soul mate, a blizzard of questions assails her. Why did she remain mute? Why didn’t she tell Rosemary that she wouldn’t accept backward requests no matter where they originated? No revolution is damaged by love, she could’ve said that. Why not challenge the party, ask that they analyze what good could come from their request? She and Melvin together are more than the color of their skin. They’re comrades, repositories of many experiences. Why didn’t she assert as much? Or make a million other rejoinders? No one would accuse her of being shy. What stopped her?

His body still damp from the shower, he dresses quickly. She watches his long muscular legs disappear into pants, dark arms slide into a white shirt, the contrast suddenly blinding.

“Don’t let the sister’s words upset you, the visit most unfortunate,” he mutters. “Okay, girl? Listen, I have to take care of something. See you later.” He grabs his jacket and is out the door faster than she can think what to say.

A sense of numbness rises to still her. Is he on his way to scream bloody murder at Panther women for their interference? Or will he avoid the office and the criticism-self-criticism session that’s bound to occur there? Wherever he’s headed, it won’t include her. Whatever is discussed, he won’t tell her. It’s better that way. Having to defend herself for being a handicap to the struggle . . . it’s too awful to consider.

Strangely, she isn’t pissed at Rosemary. It must’ve been tough to be the one to inform her. They’ve been friends. Melvin has told her that the party believes carrying out difficult tasks helps members develop a hard skin in the face of adversity. But it feels mean.

The beaten eggs, like flayed flesh, repel her. She flushes them down the toilet. Then sits at the desk, an old door thrown across two police barricades they “borrowed” one summer evening after a demonstration. Glancing out the shadeless window at the uncaring sky, she makes a list in her head of what needs to be accomplished today, beginning with the Laundromat.

Melvin’s been at home more than five minutes but hasn’t yet spoken. Her eyes follow his movements for any hint of what’s to come. The cold dark sky is lit by a full moon.

He fills the old kettle with water, rinses out two cups, places them on the table, spoons in instant coffee, then when the water boils, fills each cup.

“Let’s have coffee.”

They sit at the table facing each other.

“I wish this morning didn’t happen, Josie.” The streetlights paint the wall a sad yellow.

“Me too.”

“I wanted to bring up the issue weeks ago but couldn’t figure out how to deal with such a hard task. I’ve been walking the avenues, but there’s no good way, none at all.” Words slip from his too-familiar lips. Nothing complicated here, yet her ability to absorb is greatly impaired. “Thing is . . . this is a racist system. You know that, girl, right? Say you know it.”

“I know it’s so.”

“Other thing is, the party is right, though I resent the interference. Present conditions, that is, this racist country, make living with a white woman a problem.” No hand slides across to reassure hers.

“You want to leave because I’m white?” Her words so soft she wonders if he hears them.

“That’s a misrepresentation.”

She gazes at his earnest expression but won’t modify her statement.

“It’s about the struggle. You know that.” He stares at his coffee cup as if the script is written there.

“Isn’t it Stalinist to do whatever the party says no matter what?”

“I don’t give a shit what the party says.” And his eyes log her face. “It’s what I believe that counts.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake.”

A flicker of doubt or maybe annoyance crosses his face. “We’re not talking choices or personal preferences. We’re talking how to do all that’s necessary to make ourselves available to the historical moment.”

“What does history have to do with our life together?”

“Black people are in the vanguard of the struggle. Everything we do is noticed, counted, reflected upon, judged, see? It would give the Man great pleasure to destroy us, not just the party, but also any Black rebel. They’ll use whatever ruse they can. A Black man with a white woman is grist for their mill.”

“Why give in to their racism?” Because isn’t that the crux of the matter?

“It’s timing, Josie, timing. What we do today, tomorrow, makes another scene possible later.”

“You’ve said this before. What’s different now?” She’s struggling to keep her voice above a whisper.

“I’ll be traveling. A lot. In addition to international prospects, we’re opening party offices in the South. Actually I’m about to leave to organize college students in North Carolina, Alabama, and Mississippi to help run these offices. If we achieve national representation, young blacks will flock to us.”

The ceiling light shines on his face as if he’s on a stage. It’s Melvin, her Melvin, the man who held her all night after her father died, who washed away the blood from her beating. “How can you use politics to make decisions about our relationship?”

“Everything is political; it’s what fuels the struggle, helps us evaluate next steps instead of bowing to old ways of thinking.”

She’s trying, really she is, to take in his every word, but nothing adheres.

“Those who rule this country preach, teach, and insist on American individualism. They exalt the few who pull themselves up by their bootstraps, neglecting to say how many millions still walk barefoot.”

His sudden intensity, the quick frown. He’s found a cogent point of view and it energizes him.

“Look at the important work that you’re doing to organize white people,” he continues. “You’re trying to change racist thinking. You’re trying to create a different kind of thinking, marchers against the war, women fighters. You’re trying to make it happen here and now, and it’s what you should be doing. It’s where you should be doing it, not with me living in some rural Black area.”

“What if the people in the South don’t agree with your plans? What if they aren’t ready? How do you know it’s time—”

“Are you saying Black people should wait? That the time isn’t ripe to insist on our rights, fight for our freedom, and do whatever’s necessary? Because if that’s what you’re implying, you’re dead wrong. Black people are stirred now and want to take action. History offers few spontaneous moments, and this is one of them.”

“And you’re an agent of history?”

“The party is ready to consolidate and translate rural needs into action. In addition to breakfast programs, we’ll squat on the land and carry out other operations suitable to the people living there.” His patient tone indicates he’s prepared to go on, convince, reiterate. “And living with a white woman invites trouble, especially down there, and distracts from our fight for liberation.”

“Liberation?” she repeats as if she’s never heard the word before, because other words, “betrayal,” “treachery,” “breach,” run in a headline around her brain. Her muscles tighten as if by a screwdriver.

“Yeah, baby. To achieve it we have to bring together Blacks in the North and South, solidify ties with Africa, and make a mountain out of a minority. Confronting this racist society will take all of that and more, and I know you know that too. Right now we must buy Black, live Black, and love Black.”

This is the conversation she never wanted to have, the one she can’t win.

“My people’s needs are my priority, my reality. I must abide by that. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

You’re my heart is the lyric in her head.

“Can you understand, girl?”

The Vietnamese woman, rifle in hand, infant on her back, stares out of the wall poster with sudden indifference. “I don’t. I can’t.”

“Baby, you think it’s easy for me?” He leans toward her with troubled eyes. “It’s hard for both of us. I know that. You got to know that too. But the revolution comes first, before me, before you, before any particular individual. Otherwise we can’t succeed. Malcolm, Martin, Fred. How many others have already given their lives to the struggle? Didn’t they have lovers, children, parents?” His tone a plea, his face drawn, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his tasks.

For a weird second, she wants to console him, afraid he’s offering up his life. And she tries to see past his words to the core of him, where her trust dwells, but a painful weariness wraps itself around her. Appeal, lament, argue against his arguments, she could do that. But even if she found a way—miraculously—to change his mind and keep him here, would it be the same?

The poster of Ho Chi Minh sitting on a log exudes tolerance, tenacity, wisdom.

“Baby, we’ve had great years together.”

“Had?” she says softly. The distance between them widening like an oil spill. But still their clothing rests together on chairs, their shoes under the bed, their books on the floor, his pillow near hers. The room is cold, but her cheeks are hot, feverish.

“Josie, please, I need you to understand.”

He needs her to agree so he can leave without guilt. She can’t agree. She won’t.

His eyes remain steady on her. What does he see? Is she crumbling? She’s upright in the chair, no tears. Two hands in her lap, her hammering heart loud but personal. Weird pressure squeezes her brain, and her frozen body is burning, but how would he know? Still, he waits for a response, the one he wants.

“Love never damaged a revolution” is all she can muster.

“I’ll always love you, girl. You must know that.” He’s out of the chair, pulling her to her feet. He wraps his arms tight around her, his lips on hers so urgent this must be the final nourishment.

“Not sorry about us, ever, no,” he mumbles. “You take care, girl,” he whispers. Then he closes the door behind him so softly she barely hears it. But the sound of the locks, one, two, three, is loud and clear.

Knife-edged light pries open her eyes. Sun glazes the wall as filigreed shadows slink across the bed. The phone rings. Her neck feels stiff, her arms useless, and her legs leaden beneath the crumpled sheet. Car horns, rumbling trucks, the phone still ringing, steam pipes banging, though heat rarely arrives. A neighbor flushes a toilet, a middle-of-the-night sound, but it’s daytime. Why is the overhead light still on? Melvin is gone. He’s not coming back. The phone continues to ring. She covers her ears but hears it anyway and lifts and replaces the receiver; the ringing stops.

Once, when she was little, she woke from a nightmare to discover a horrid huge roach crossing her chest; she screamed. Her father came running in, told her she’d been dreaming, that there was nothing there, and that everything was okay. No one can tell her that now. The nightmare is real. Melvin is gone; he’s not coming back. The phone rings again. She lifts the receiver intending to keep it off the hook but hears Maisie’s voice.

“Where are you? We’re waiting.”

“Melvin’s gone.” The words an incantation.

“What?” Maisie’s incredulous tone doesn’t help.

“Left last night. Finished between us.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Black, I’m white, and the world won’t have it.”

“We’ll come to your place after the action.”

“No. I need sleep, not talk.” She replaces the receiver.

Pulling the blanket up over her head in search of oblivion, her too-awake brain won’t comply. Her mind combs through the last weeks, last days, for signs she must’ve ignored or rationalized. How could he extinguish love like a candle? How could his words about how special things were between them, how lucky they were to have each other, become worthless? How could the struggle to create a more just society lead to such misery? Revolution? He left her for the revolution? How dare he leave her for an idea?

She never did go to the Laundromat. Her eyes take in the usual clutter, dirty clothes in a pile, posters, newspapers; nothing has changed, and how can that be? Where are her tears? She’s in pain. She doesn’t want to go through this. There must be another way. People can deny or forget anything. What exactly does she want to forget? That he left, that he was ever here, that she’s expected to go on? Go on with what? The minutia of daily life, leaflets, meetings, and demonstrations? Why should she? What’s the point? In the end it is personal, isn’t it, God damn it to hell, all of it? Why did she never buy a shade to lock out the sun so she could pretend it’s night? Only sleep can insulate her. Somewhere she read that when roused from a coma, a person can experience the past differently. But it didn’t say how to induce one.

The banging at the door wakes her. If she says nothing, maybe it will stop.

“Josie, let me in.”

The ceiling light still blazes, but outside now, the blue haze of dusk. She wants only more sleep. Her head feels hot and achy. A fever that will spike and land her in a hospital where someone will get word to Melvin, and . . . Pathetic. Did Che’s wife suffer when he took off to Bolivia? Did she feel abandoned? Did Che even discuss it with her? Or did the New Man leave his woman the way men have left for eons?

“Josie, I heard about you and Melvin,” Ben calls loudly.

Even if she doesn’t respond, he won’t go away, but the neighbors will get an earful. Slipping off the bed, she finds Melvin’s T-shirt coiled like a snake on the floor, pulls it on, finds her way to the door, unlocks it, and heads back to bed.

“Maisie told me that Melvin left because of the struggle. Is that a fair description?” Ben perches on the side of the bed, Melvin’s side.

“Fair?” She laughs and it’s a harsh sound. “What’s fair about one person deciding about two people’s lives? What the fuck’s fair about that, Ben?”

“I’m here to help you.” His denim work shirt offers the stale smell of weed.

Her mind entertains the word “help,” but it’s not good enough, holds no promise. If he can’t offer her at least one of three magical wishes, there’s little he can do to help. “Don’t believe you can do that.”

“Let me do . . .” He stretches out beside her. The shadow of a beard darkens his cheeks, his curly hair a halo around his head; maybe he is an angel.

“Do what, exactly? Sex? The cure-all, end-all, be-all, of healing, the culmination of every male-female dilemma?”

“I bring only comfort.” His tone gentle, his usual merry eyes worried or maybe just sad for her.

She averts her head to hide the sudden tears and stares at the varied cracks in the wall, which she and Melvin used to interpret. He saw famous black faces. She described wild sex scenes, which made him laugh.

“It’s a bad patch. You’ll see.”

“See what, Ben?”

“That you’ll heal, get back to yourself.”

“Don’t want to.”

“What does that mean?”

“Too complicated to explain, too tired to talk. I need to sleep.”

“What’s complicated? You’ve been ditched. It happens to all of us. Love comes again, believe me.”

Maybe . . . for others, but she doesn’t want it to come again with someone else, doesn’t subscribe to the cliché “Better to have loved and lost”; how could it be better? Her perspective has been turned inside out, her ability to trust eroded, and her sense of security been shot to hell. Love another man? Why would she dare? Ditched for the revolution . . . Our love, our relationship, an impediment to meeting the needs of the people?

“It hurts, but Melvin is a Black man who—”

“Oh, spare me. I can’t hear it again.”

“Why else would he leave? You’ve been happy together for years,” Ben says.

“Maybe I missed the clues.”

“Do you believe him?”

She doesn’t answer.

“The Black struggle is heating up. He is a leader. So go with the facts.”

“What makes you suddenly wise?”

“Probably the dope I smoke.” His tone still gentle.

She gazes at the poster-filled walls.

He slips off the bed. “I’m about to serve tea for two.”

“Ben, stop. I can’t drink anything; sleep is all.”

He gazes at her. “Then give me a set of keys so I can check on you.”

“How come you’re not high?” He’s rarely this serious.

“I’m about to amend that when I leave here.”

“In the top drawer, an extra set.” She watches him pocket the keys, open and close the door. Yes, she thinks, of course Melvin left for the struggle and for no other reason. What hurts is that he did so without her.