CLAUDE SHEATS HAD BEEN in the Brotherhood all his life and then he had tried to get out. Some of his people and most of his friends were still in the Brotherhood and were still very good members, but Claude was no longer a good member because he had tried to get out after over twenty years. To get away from the Brotherhood and all his friends who were still active in it, he moved to Washington Square and took to reading about being militant. But, living there, he developed a craving for whiteness the way a nicely broke-in virgin craves sex. In spite of this, he maintained a steady black girl, whom he saw at least twice a month to keep up appearances, and once he took both of us with him when he visited his uncle in Harlem who was still in the Brotherhood.
“She’s a nice girl, Claude,” his uncle’s wife had told him that night because the girl, besides being attractive, had some very positive ideas about the Brotherhood. Her name was Marie, she worked as a secretary in my office, and it was on her suggestion that I had moved in with Claude Sheats.
“I’m glad to see you don’t waste your time on hippies,” the uncle had said. “All our young men are selling out these days.”
The uncle was the kind of fellow who had played his cards right. He was much older than his wife, and I had the impression, that night, that he must have given her time to experience enough and to become bored enough before he overwhelmed her with his success. He wore glasses and combed his hair back and had that oily kind of composure that made me think of a waiter waiting to be tipped. He was very proud of his English, I observed, and how he always ended his words with just the right sound. He must have felt superior to people who didn’t. He must have felt superior to Claude because he was still with the Brotherhood and Claude had tried to get out.
Claude did not like him and always seemed to feel guilty whenever we visited his uncle’s house. “Don’t mention any of my girls to him,” he told me after our first visit.
“Why would I do that?” I said.
“He’ll try to psych you into telling him.”
“Why should he suspect you? He never comes over to the apartment.”
“He just likes to know what I’m doing. I don’t want him to know about my girls.”
“I won’t say anything,” I promised.
He was almost twenty-three and had no steady girls, except for Marie. He was well built, so that he had no trouble in the Village area. It was like going to the market for him. During my first days in the apartment the process had seemed like a game. And once, when he was going out, I said: “Bring back two.”
Half an hour later he came back with two girls. He got their drinks and then he called me into his room to meet them.
“This is Doris,” he said, pointing to the smaller one, “and I forgot your name,” he said to the big blonde.
“Jane,” she said.
“This is Howard,” he told her.
“Hi,” I said. Neither one of them smiled. The big blonde in white pants sat on the big bed and the little one sat on a chair near the window. He had given them his worst bourbon.
“Excuse me a minute,” Claude said to the girls. “I want to talk to Howard for a minute.” He put on a record before we went outside into the hall between our rooms. He was always extremely polite and gentle, and very soft-spoken in spite of his size.
“Listen,” he said to me outside, “you can have the blonde.”
“What can I do with that amazon?”
“I don’t care. Just get her out of the room.”
“She’s dirty,” I said.
“So you can give her a bath.”
“It wouldn’t help much.”
“Well, just take her out and talk to her,” he told me. “Remember, you asked for her.”
We went back in. “Where you from?” I said to the amazon.
“Brighton.”
“What school?”
“No. I just got here.”
“From where?”
“Brighton!”
“That’s not so far,” I said.
“England,” she said. She looked very bored. Claude Sheats looked at me.
“How did you find Washington Square so fast?”
“I got friends.”
She was very superior about it all and seemed to look at us with the same slightly patient irritation of a professional theater critic waiting for a late performance to begin. The little one sat on the chair, her legs crossed, looking up at the ceiling. Her white pants were dirty too. They looked as though they would have been very relieved if we had taken off our clothes and danced for them around the room and across the bed, and made hungry sounds in our throats with our mouths slightly opened.
I said that I had to go out to the drugstore and would be back very soon; but once outside, I walked a whole hour in one direction and then I walked back. I passed them a block away from our apartment. They were walking fast and did not slow down or speak when I passed them.
Claude Sheats was drinking heavily when I came into the apartment.
“What the hell are you trying to pull?” he said.
“I couldn’t find a drugstore open.”
He got up from the living room table and walked toward me. “You should have asked me,” he said. “I got more than enough.”
“I wanted some mouthwash too,” I said.
He fumed a while longer, and then told me how I had ruined his evening because the amazon would not leave the room to wait for me and the little one would not do anything with the amazon around. He suddenly thought about going down and bringing them back; and he went out for a while. But he came back without them, saying that they had been picked up again.
“When a man looks out for you, you got to look out for him,” he warned me.
“I’m sorry.”
“A hell of a lot of good that does. And that’s the last time I look out for you, baby,” he said. “From now on it’s me all the way.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“If she was too much for you I could of taken the amazon.”
“It didn’t matter that much,” I said.
“You could of had Doris if you couldn’t handle the amazon.”
“They were both too much,” I told him.
But Claude Sheats did not answer. He just looked at me.
II
AFTER TWO MONTHS of living with him I concluded that Claude hated whites as much as he loved them. And he hated himself with the very same passion. He hated the country and his place in it and he loved the country and his place in it. He loved the Brotherhood and all that being in it had taught him and he still believed in what he had been taught, even after he had left it and did not have to believe in anything.
“This Man is going down, Howard,” he would announce with conviction.
“Why?” I would ask.
“Because it’s the Black Man’s time to rule again. They had five thousand years, now we get five thousand years.”
“What if I don’t want to rule?” I asked. “What happens if I don’t want to take over?”
He looked at me with pity in his face. “You go down with the rest of the country.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind much anyway,” I said. “It would be a hell of a place with nobody to hate.”
But I could never get him to smile about it the way I tried to smile about it. He was always serious. And, once, when I questioned the mysticism in the teachings of the Brotherhood, Claude almost attacked me. “Another man might kill you for saying that,” he had said. “Another man might not let you get away with saying something like that.” He was quite deadly and he stood over me with an air of patient superiority. And because he could afford to be generous and forgiving, being one of the saved, he sat down at the table with me under the single light bulb and began to teach me. He told me the stories about how it was in the beginning before the whites took over, and about all the little secret significances of black, and about the subtle infiltration of white superiority into everyday objects.
“You’ve never seen me eat white bread or white sugar, have you?”
“No,” I said. He used brown bread and brown sugar.
“Or use bleached flour or white rice?”
“No.”
“You know why, don’t you?” He waited expectantly.
“No,” I finally said. “I don’t know why.”
He was visibly shocked, so much so that he dropped that line of instruction and began to draw on a pad before him on the living room table. He moved his big shoulders over the yellow pad to conceal his drawings and looked across the table at me. “Now I’m going to tell you something that white men have paid thousands of dollars to learn,” he said. “Men have been killed for telling this but I’m telling you for nothing. I’m warning you not to repeat it because if the whites find out you know, you could be killed too.”
“You know me,” I said. “I wouldn’t repeat any secrets.”
He gave me a long thoughtful look.
I gave him back a long, eager, honest look.
Then he leaned across the table and whispered: “Kennedy isn’t buried in this country. He was the only President who never had his coffin opened during the funeral. The body was in state all that time and they never opened the coffin once. You know why?”
“No.”
“Because he’s not in it! They buried an empty coffin. Kennedy was a Thirty-third Degree Mason. His body is in Jerusalem right now.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“If I told you it would put your life in danger.”
“Did his family know about it?”
“No. His lodge kept it secret.”
“No one knew?”
“I’m telling you, no!”
“Then how did you find out?”
He sighed, more from tolerance than from boredom with my inability to comprehend the mysticism of pure reality in its most unadulterated form. Of course I could not believe him and we argued about it, back and forth; but to absolutely cap all my uncertainties he drew the thirty-three-degree circle, showed me the secret signs that men had died to learn, and spoke about the time when our black ancestors chased an evil genius out of their kingdom and across a desert and onto an island somewhere in the sea; from which, hundreds of years later, this same evil genius sent forth a perfected breed of white-skinned and evil creatures who, through trickery, managed to enslave for five thousand years the one-time Black Masters of the world. He further explained the significance of the East and why all the saved must go there once during their lifetimes, and possibly be buried there, as Kennedy had been.
It was dark and late at night, and the glaring bulb cast his great shadow into the corners so that there was the sense of some outraged spirit, fuming in the halls and dark places of our closets, waiting to extract some terrible and justifiable revenge from him for disclosing to me, an unbeliever, the closest kept of secrets. But I was aware of them only for an instant, and then I did not believe him again.
The most convincing thing about it all was that he was very intelligent and had an orderly, well-regimented life-style, and yet he had no trouble with believing. He believed in the certainty of statistical surveys, which was his work; the nutritional value of wheat germ sprinkled on eggs; the sensuality of gin; and the dangers inherent in smoking. He was stylish in that he did not believe in God, but he was extremely moral and warm and kind; and I wanted sometimes to embrace him for his kindness and bigness and gentle manners. He lived his life so carefully that no matter what he said, I could not help but believe him sometimes. But I did not want to, because I knew that once I started I could not stop; and then there would be no purpose to my own beliefs and no real conviction or direction in my own efforts to achieve when always in the back of my regular thoughts, there would be a sense of futility and a fear of the unknown all about me. So, for the sake of necessity, I chose not to believe him.
He felt that the country was doomed and that the safe thing to do was to make enough money as soon as possible and escape to the Far East. He forecast summer riots in certain Northern cities and warned me, religiously, to avoid all implicating ties with whites so that I might have a chance to be saved when that time came. And I asked him about his ties, and the girls, and how it was never a movie date with coffee afterwards but always his room and the cover-all blanket of Motown sounds late into the night.
“A man has different reasons for doing certain things,” he had said.
He never seemed to be comfortable with any of the girls. He never seemed to be in control. And after my third month in the apartment I had concluded that he used his virility as a tool and forged, for however long it lasted, a little area of superiority which could never, it seemed, extend itself beyond the certain confines of his room, no matter how late into the night the records played. I could see him fighting to extend the area, as if an increase in the number of girls he saw could compensate for what he had lost in duration. He saw many girls: curious students, unexpected bus-stop pickups, and assorted other one-nighters. And his rationalizations allowed him to believe that each one was an actual conquest, a physical affirmation of a psychological victory over all he hated and loved and hated in the little world of his room.
But then he seemed to have no happiness, even in this. Even here I sensed some intimations of defeat. After each girl, Claude would almost immediately come out of his room, as if there was no need for aftertalk; as if, after it was over, he felt a brooding, silent emptiness that quickly intensified into nervousness and instantaneous shyness and embarrassment so that the cold which sets in after that kind of emotional drain came in very sharp against his skin, and he could not bear to have her there any longer. And when the girl had gone, he would come into my room to talk. These were the times when he was most like a little boy; and these were the times when he really began to trust me.
“That bitch called me everything but the son of God,” he would chuckle. And I would put aside my papers brought home from the office, smile at him, and listen.
He would always eat or drink afterwards and in those early days I was glad for his companionship and the return of his trust, and sometimes we drank and talked until dawn. During these times he would tell me more subtleties about the Man and would re-predict the fall of the country. Once, he warned me, in a fatherly way, about reading life from books before experiencing it; and another night he advised me on how to schedule girls so that one could run them without being run in return. These were usually good times of good-natured arguments and predictions; but as we drank more often he tended to grow more excited and quick-tempered, especially after he had just entertained. Sometimes he would seethe hate, and every drink he took gave life to increasingly bitter condemnations of the present system and our place in it. There were actually flying saucers, he told me once, piloted by things from other places in the universe which would eventually destroy the country for what it had done to the black man. He had run into his room, on that occasion, and had brought out a book by a man who maintained that the government was deliberately withholding from the public overwhelming evidence of flying saucers and strange creatures from other galaxies that walked among us every day. Claude emphasized the fact that the writer was a Ph.D. who must know what he was talking about, and insisted that the politicians withheld the information because they knew that their time was almost up and if they made it public the black man would know that he had outside friends who would help him take over the world again. Nothing I said could make him reconsider the slightest bit of his information.
“What are we going to use for weapons when we take over?” I asked him once.
“We’ve got atomic bombs stockpiled and waiting for the day.”
“How can you believe that crap?”
He did not answer, but said instead: “You are the living example of what the Man has done to my people.”
“I just try to think things out for myself,” I said.
“You can’t think. The handkerchief over your head is too big.”
I smiled.
“I know,” he continued. “I know all there is to know about whites because I’ve been studying them all my life.”
I smiled some more.
“I ought to know,” he said slowly. “I have supernatural powers.”
“I’m tired,” I told him. “I want to go to sleep now.”
Claude started to leave the room, then he turned. “Listen,” he said at the door. He pointed his finger at me to emphasize the gravity of his pronouncement. “I predict that within the next week something is going to happen to this country that will hurt it even more than Kennedy’s assassination.”
“Goodnight,” I said as he closed the door.
He opened it again. “Remember that I predicted it when it happens,” he said. For the first time I noticed that he had been deadly serious all along.
Two days later several astronauts burned to death in Florida. He raced into my room hot with the news.
“Do you believe in me now?” he said. “Just two days and look what happened.”
I tried to explain, as much to myself as to him, that in any week of the year something unfortunate was bound to occur. But he insisted that this was only part of a divine plan to bring the country to its knees. He said that he intended to send a letter off right away to Jeane Dixon in D.C. to let her know that she was not alone because he also had the same power. Then he thought that he had better not because the FBI knew that he had been active in the Brotherhood before he got out.
At first it was good fun believing that someone important cared enough to watch us. And sometimes when the telephone was dead a long time before the dial tone sounded, I would knock on his door and together we would run through our telephone conversations for that day to see if either of us had said anything implicating or suspect, just in case they were listening. This feeling of persecution brought us closer together and soon the instruction sessions began to go on almost every night. At this point I could not help but believe him a little. And he began to trust me again, like a tolerable little brother, and even confided that the summer riots would break out simultaneously in Harlem and Watts during the second week in August. For some reason, something very difficult to put into words, I spent three hot August nights on the streets of Harlem, waiting for the riot to start.
In the seventh month of our living together, he began to introduce me to his girls again when they came in. Most of them came only once, but all of them received the same mechanical treatment. He only discriminated with liquor, the quality of which improved with the attractiveness or reluctance of the girl: gin for slow starters, bourbon for momentary strangers, and the scotch he reserved for those he hoped would come again. There was first the trek into his room, his own trip out for the ice and glasses while classical music was played within; then after a while the classical piece would be replaced by several Motowns. Finally, there was her trip to the bathroom, his calling a cab in the hall, and the sound of both their feet on the stairs as he walked her down to the cab. Then he would come to my room in his red bathrobe, glass in hand, for the aftertalk.
THEN IN THE NINTH MONTH the trouble started. It would be very easy to pick out one incident, one day, one area of misunderstanding in that month and say: “That was where it began.” It would be easy, but not accurate. It might have been one instance or a combination of many. It might have been the girl who came into the living room, when I was going over the proposed blueprints for a new settlement house, and who lingered too long outside his room in conversation because her father was a builder somewhere. Or it might have been nothing at all. But after that time he warned me about being too friendly with his company.
Another night, when I was leaving the bathroom in my shorts, he came out of his room with a girl who smiled.
“Hi,” she said to me.
I nodded hello as I ducked back into the bathroom.
When he had walked her down to the door he came to my room and knocked. He did not have a drink.
“Why didn’t you speak to my company?” he demanded.
“I was in my shorts.”
“She felt bad about it. She asked what the hell was wrong with you. What could I tell her—‘He got problems’?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I didn’t want to stop in my shorts.”
“I see through you, Howard,” he said. “You’re just jealous of me and try to insult my girls to get to me.”
“Why should I be jealous of you?”
“Because I’m a man and you’re not.”
“What makes a man anyway?” I said. “Your fried eggs and wheat germ? Why should I be jealous of you or what you bring in?”
“Some people don’t need a reason. You’re a black devil and you’ll get yours. I predict that you’ll get yours.”
“Look,” I told him, “I’m sorry about the girl. Tell her I’m sorry when you see her again.”
“You treated her so bad she probably won’t come back.”
I said nothing more and he stood there silently for a long time before he turned to leave the room. But at the door he turned again and said: “I see through you, Howard. You’re a black devil.”
It should have ended there and it might have with anyone else. I took great pains to speak to his girls after that, even though he tried to get them into the room as quickly as possible. But a week later he accused me of walking about in his room after he had gone out, some two weeks before.
“I swear I wasn’t in your room,” I protested.
“I saw your shadow on the blinds from across the street at the bus stop,” he insisted.
“I’ve never been in your room when you weren’t there,” I told him.
“I saw you!”
We went into his room and I tried to explain how, even if he could see the window from the bus stop, the big lamp next to the window prevented any shadow from being cast on the blinds. But he was convinced in his mind that at every opportunity I plundered his closets and drawers. He had no respect for simple logic in these matters, no sense of the absurdity of his accusations, and the affair finally ended with my confessing that I might have done it without actually knowing; and if I had, I would not do it again.
But what had been a gesture for peace on my part became a vindication for him, proof that I was a black devil, capable of lying and lying until he confronted me with the inescapable truth of the situation. And so he persisted in creating situations from which, if he insisted on a point long enough and with enough self-righteousness, he could draw my inevitable confession.
And I confessed eagerly, goaded on by the necessity of maintaining peace. I confessed to mixing white sugar crystals in with his own brown crystals so that he could use it and violate the teachings of the Brotherhood; I confessed to cleaning the bathroom all the time merely because I wanted to make him feel guilty for not having ever cleaned it. I confessed to telling the faithful Marie, who brought a surprise dinner over for him, that he was working late at his office in order to implicate him with the girls who worked there. I confessed to leaving my papers about the house so that his company could ask about them and develop an interest in me. And I pleaded guilty to a rec-ord of other little infamies, which multiplied into countless others, and again subdivided into hundreds of little subtleties until my every movement was a threat to him. If I had a girlfriend to dinner, we should eat in my room instead of at the table because he had to use the bathroom a lot and, besides not wanting to seem as if he were making a pass at my girl by walking through the room so often, he was genuinely embarrassed to be seen going to the bathroom.
If I protested he would fly into a tantrum and shake his big finger at me vigorously. And so I retreated, step by step, into my room, from which I emerged only to go to the bathroom or kitchen or out of the house. I tried to stay out on nights when he had company. But he had company so often that I could not always help being in my room after he had walked her to the door. Then he would knock on my door for his talk. He might offer me a drink, and if I refused, he would go to his room for a while and then come back. He would pace about for a while, like a big little boy who wants to ask for money over his allowance. At these times my mind would move feverishly over all our contacts for as far back as I could make it reach, searching and attempting to pull out that one incident which would surely be the point of his attack. But it was never any use; it might have been anything.
“Howard, I got something on my chest and I might as well get it off.”
“What is it?” I asked from my bed.
“You been acting strange lately. Haven’t been talking to me. If you got something on your chest, get it off now.”
“I have nothing on my chest,” I said.
“Then why don’t you talk?”
I did not answer.
“You hardly speak to me in the kitchen. If you have something against me, tell me now.”
“I have nothing against you.”
“Why don’t you talk, then?” He looked directly at me. “If a man doesn’t talk, you think something’s wrong!”
“I’ve been nervous lately, that’s all. I got problems and I don’t want to talk.”
“Everybody’s got problems. That’s no reason for going around making a man feel guilty.”
“For God’s sake, I don’t want to talk.”
“I know what’s wrong with you. Your conscience is bothering you. You’re so evil that your conscience is giving you trouble. You got everybody fooled but me. I know you’re a black devil.”
“I’m a black devil,” I said. “Now will you let me sleep?”
He went to the door. “You dish it out but you can’t take it,” he said. “That’s your trouble.”
“I’m a black devil,” I said.
I lay there, after he left, hating myself but thankful that he hadn’t called me into his room for the fatherly talk as he had done another time. That was the worst. He had come to the door and said: “Come out of there, I want to talk to you.” He had walked ahead of me into his room and had sat down in his big leather chair next to the lamp with his legs spread wide and his big hands in his lap. He had said: “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. Sit down. I’m not going to argue. What are you so nervous about? Have a drink,” in his kindest, most fatherly way, and that had been the worst of all. That was the time he had told me to eat in my room. Now I could hear him pacing about in the hall and I knew that it was not over for the night. I began to pray that I could sleep before he came and that he would not be able to wake me, no matter what he did. I did not care what he did as long as I did not have to face him. I resolved to confess to anything he accused me of if it would make him leave sooner. I was about to go out into the hall for my confession when the door was kicked open and he charged into the room.
“You black son-of-a-bitch!” he said. “I ought to kill you.” He stood over the bed in the dark room and shook his big fist over me. And I lay there hating the overpowering cowardice in me, which kept my body still and my eyes closed, and hoping that he would kill all of it when his heavy fist landed.
“First you insult a man’s company, then you ignore him. I been good to you. I let you live here, I let you eat my uncle’s food, and I taught you things. But you’re a ungrateful motherfucker. I ought to kill you right now!”
And I still lay there, as he went on, not hearing him, with nothing in me but a loud throbbing which pulsed through the length of my body and made the sheets move with its pounding. I lay there secure and safe in cowardice for as long as I looked up at him with my eyes big and my body twitching and my mind screaming out to him that it was all right, and I thanked him, because now I truly believed in the new five thousand years of Black Rule.
It is night again. I am in bed again, and I can hear the new blonde girl closing the bathroom door. I know that in a minute he will come out in his red robe and call a cab. His muffled voice through my closed door will seem very tired, but just as kind and patient to the dispatcher as it is to everyone, and as it was to me in those old times. I am afraid because when they came up the stairs earlier they caught me working at the living room table with my back to them. I had not expected him back so soon; but then I should have known that he would not go out. I had turned around in the chair and she smiled and said hello and I said “Hi” before he hurried her into the room. I did speak and I know that she heard. But I also know that I must have done something wrong; if not to her, then to him earlier today or yesterday or last week, because he glared at me before following her into the room and he almost paused to say something when he came out to get the glasses and ice. I wish that I could remember just what it was. But it does not matter. I am guilty and he knows it.
Now that he knows about me I am afraid. I could move away from the apartment and hide my guilt from him, but I know that he would find me. The brainwashed part of my mind tells me to call the police while he is still busy with her, but what could I charge him with when I know that he is only trying to help me. I could move the big, ragged yellow chair in front of the door, but that would not stop him, and it might make him impatient with me. Even if I pretended to be asleep and ignored him, it would not help when he comes. He has not bothered to knock for weeks.
In the black shadows over my bed and in the corners I can sense the outraged spirits who help him when they hover about his arms as he gestures, with his lessons, above my bed. I am determined now to lie here and take it. It is the price I must pay for all the black secrets I have learned, and all the evil I have learned about myself. I am jealous of him, of his learning, of his girls. I am not the same handkerchief-head I was nine months ago. I have Marie to thank for that, and Claude, and the spirits. They know about me, and perhaps it is they who make him do it and he cannot help himself. I believe in the spirits now, just as I believe most of the time that I am a black devil.
They are going down to the cab now.
I will not ever blame him for it. He is helping me. But I blame the girls. I blame them for not staying on afterwards, and for letting all the good nice happy love talk cut off automatically after it is over. I need to have them there, after it is over. And he needs it; he needs it much more and much longer than they could ever need what he does for them. He should be able to teach them, as he has taught me. And he should have their appreciation, as he has mine. I blame them. I blame them for letting him try and try and never get just a little of the love there is left in the world.
I can hear him coming back from the cab.