Erasure

14

The fear of course is that in denying or refusing complicity in the marginalization of “black” writers, I ended up on the very distant and very “other” side of a line that is imaginary at best. I didn’t write as an act of testimony or social indignation (though all writing in some way is just that) and I did not write out of a so-called family tradition of oral storytelling. I never tried to set anybody free, never tried to paint the next real and true picture of the life of my people, never had any people whose picture I knew well enough to paint. Perhaps if I had written in the time immediately following Reconstruction, I would have written to elevate the station of my fellow oppressed. But the irony was beautiful. I was a victim of racism by virtue of my failing to acknowledge racial difference and by failing to have my art be defined as an exercise in racial self-expression. So, I would not be economically oppressed because of writing a book that fell in line with the very books I deemed racist. And I would have to wear the mask of the person I was expected to be. I had already talked on the phone with my editor as the infamous Stagg Leigh and now I would meet with Wiley Morgenstein. I could do it. The game was becoming fun. And it was nice to get a check.

Jelly, JellyJellyAll night long

Behold the invisible!

Bill did not come home that night, but came in the following morning, smiling and talking fast. I had collected some of Mother’s favorite recordings and was taking them to her with a CD player. He seemed high to me, but I couldn’t imagine on what and I had never been good at making those kinds of calls. I asked if he was all right.

“Yeah. Why?” was his response.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You just seem different.”

“Different? Like how?”

“Never mind.”

“No, I want to know how I seem different.” The edge on his voice was amplified by its suddenness.

“There was no subtext,” I said. “If you want to know, I thought that maybe you were high.”

“High on what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“This is because I’ve been of no help regarding Mother, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“You’re mad because I stayed out all night. Should I have called?”

“I’m going to see Mother.”

“That’s why I’m in town.” Bill tried to look like he wasn’t high. “But I can see that my presence isn’t urgently required.”

“I was on my way out when you came in. I waited around this morning for you and so I decided to leave. Now, you’re here. So, I’m asking you, would you like to go with me to visit Mother.”

“I need to shower. And it’s my business where I’ve been.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No, that’s okay. You go on. She’s probably wondering what’s keeping you.”

I watched his lips and realized I understood nothing he was saying. His language was not mine. His language possessed an adverbial and interrogative geometry that I could not comprehend. I could see the shapes of his meaning, even hear that his words meant something, but I had no idea as to the substance of his meaning. I nodded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

He was mocking me. That was it. He understood my confusion and was using it against me. I nodded again.

“Go on.” As I reached the door, he said. “I was wrong to think you’d understand. Actually, I didn’t expect you to at all. You’re just like Father. You always were and you’re growing up to be him.”

I nodded.

“Go on. Go see Mother without me. Time has a way of deflating purpose and becoming all those things that the center of our being would rather reject. Be that as it may though, my center is far more centered than that tainted middle of yours. I’m true to myself in spite of the detours and interruptions I have encountered beyond the shelf of what is my beach.”

I didn’t nod this time, but left.

Sitting in the attending physician’s office, awaiting a report on Mother’s first night’s stay, I was able to examine the small shelf of books behind the doctor’s desk. There were books by John Grisham and Tom Clancy, a paperback of John MacDonald and things like that. Those books didn’t bother me. Though I had never read one completely through, I had peeked at pages, and although I did not find any depth of artistic expression or any abundance of irony or play with language or ideas, I found them well enough written, the way a technical manual can be well enough written. Oh, so that’s tab A. So, why did Juanita Mae Jenkins send me running for the toilet? I imagine it was because Tom Clancy was not trying to sell his book to me by suggesting that the crew of his high-tech submarine was a representation of his race (however fitting a metaphor). Nor was his publisher marketing it in that way. If you didn’t like Clancy’s white people, you could go out and read about some others.

Where fo’ you be goin?Mis’sippi.Why fo’ you gone way down dere?I gots to get ‘way from this souf-side Chicago.Shit, Mis’sippi aint nofin but da souf-souf-side Chicago.(They laughed together.)

The doctor was a fat, unhealthy-looking man, but a natty dresser. His wingtips were polished to a shine and the sweater vest (despite the warm weather) he wore blended perfectly with his suit. He sat behind the desk and I imagined him to look like Tom Clancy, though I had never seen as much as a newpaper photo of the man. Then I imagined him trying to squeeze through the small hatch of a submarine.

“Your mother is not having a good day so far. We’ve had to sedate her. We have a nurse at her bedside now. I don’t really know what to say, Mr. Ellison. Sometimes patients take a sudden turn. Perhaps tomorrow she’ll have a better day.”

Then the fat doctor was my sister Lisa. She leaned back in the chair and lit that imaginary cigarette and said my name. I allowed my awareness of my hallucination to serve as evidence that I was not in fact insane, but I had to note that coming on the heels of my brother’s linguistic show I was a bit concerned.

“There’s nothing to do, Monk,” Lisa said. “Go home. Make a home. Relax in the knowledge that Mother is not suffering. In fact, to her each moment is new. Think of it like that. You know the joke: What’s the best thing about Alzheimer’s? You get to meet new people.” Lisa laughed. “So, run along. And don’t let Bill get you down. He’s trying to find his way. He can’t help it if he’s not likeable. At least, I never much liked him.”

“How do you know Mother’s not suffering?” I asked.

The fat man, whose desk plate read Dr. H. Bledsoe, said, “Pardon me?”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I was talking to someone else.”

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Ellison?”

“Yes, just fine. Here I brought some of the music my mother loves.” I put the bag on his desk and stood to leave. “Do you think familiar things like the music will help?”

“I doubt it. It’s possible.”

Bill was not at the house when I returned. On the dining room table I found a note, which read:

Upstairs in the study you will find a note which explains everything.

I went up to the study and found an envelope on the desk. Inside was a note, which read: FUCK YOU!Bill

Ain’t you Rine the runner?

Wiley Morgenstein flew into D.C. to meet Stagg Leigh. Stagg was a little nervous about the lunch and so he spent extra time preparing. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced frowning, carving a furrow into his forehead, above the bridge of his nose. He shaved off his mustache and made his apologies to its original owner. He tried on a hat, but couldn’t bring himself to leave it on for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Who are you trying to fool?” he asked the mirror.

Should he wear knob-toed shoes? Sneakers? County jail flip-flops? He decided on brown weejuns, khakis and a white shirt with blue stripes and a button down collar. The clothes were available.

He was to meet Morgenstein in the restaurant on the roof of the Hotel Washington. Stagg put on his dark glasses and went there late.

The balcony of the restaurant overlooked the east lawn of the White House, but Morgenstein had taken a table inside, a booth in fact, in a dimly lighted corner of the main room. Stagg was shown to the producer’s table. There was a young woman seated with him and they both rose when Stagg arrived. They shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Stagg,” Morgenstein said. “This is my girl Friday, Cynthia.”

“Oh, I can’t tell you what a privilege this is. To meet an author of your notable station.” She giggled a high-pitched giggle.

“Well, sit down, have a seat, have a seat.”

Stagg sat and tried to see the man in the dim light from behind his shades. Morgenstein was heavier than he had imagined, dressed casually in a tee-shirt beneath a blazer. And Cynthia was no more his assistant than Stagg was a real person. The young woman was nearly wearing a strained piece of fabric around what were, no doubt, enhanced breasts.

“Sorry about the table inside here and all, but, hell, I’m fat and I need air conditioning.” Morgenstein laughed.

Stagg did not.

“You’re not all that fat, Wiley,” Cynthia said.

Morgenstein ignored her comment. “Your editor was shocked that I was getting a meeting with you. Thanks for coming. Would you like something to drink?” He was already summoning the waiter. “Hey, I love that damn novel. I laughed my ass out. Oh, it’s sad too, don’t get me wrong. And real as hell. We can just lift the dialogue right out of the book.” The waiter arrived. “What’ll you have?” Morgenstein asked Stagg.

“A Gibson,” Stagg said.

Morgenstein struggled through a frown and continued. “You know I would have paid for the damn novel even if you refused to meet with me. I just decided to see what would happen. Three mil talks, don’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” Stagg said.

Morgenstein offered a puzzled look to his young friend. “You know, you’re not at all like I pictured you.”

“No? How did you picture me?”

“I don’t know, tougher or something. You know, more street. More …”

“Black?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’m glad you said it. I’ve seen the people you write about, the real people, the earthy, gutsy people. They can’t teach you to write about that in no college.” He turned his face to Cynthia. “Can they, sugar.”

Stagg nodded a cool nod.

“Hey, look at the menu and see what you want,” Morgenstein said. “This is all right, isn’t it. I had a hell of time picking a place. I was reading the book again on the plane and I thought about meeting at Popeye’s.” Morgenstein laughed. Cynthia wrapped her fingers around his arm and laughed, too. “See anything you like?”

“I think so.”

The waiter came back with the Gibson and waited for their orders.

“Me and the lady will have big steaks, medium and whatever else you bring with that. But no butter on the potatoes. Ranch dressing on the salads. Stagg?”

“I’ll start with the carrot and ginger soup. That’s served cold, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t see it on the menu, but I’d like just a plate of fettucini and a little olive oil and Parmesan.”

“Not a problem, sir.” The waiter looked to Morgenstein. “Wine?”

Morgenstein looked to Stagg.

“Anything you like,” Stagg said.

“Bring us a red wine,” Morgenstein said. As the waiter collected the menus and left, the fat man turned to his date with a troubled expression. To Stagg, “You know, you really ain’t at all what I expected.”

“We went over that. Why did you want to meet?” The tough act was working. Stagg saw a slight recoil of fear in Morgenstein.

“No reason in particular.”

They sat quietly for a while. Cynthia whispered something to Morgenstein, then giggled again. She played with a lock of her blonde hair and looked at him, her head tilted.

“So, you’ve done some time,” Morgenstein said. “I almost went to the joint, but my Uncle Mort got me off. It was a bum rap anyways, some kinda interstate commerce shit. What’d you do?”

Here Stagg was faced with a dilemma. So far, his only lie had been to answer to his name. Even owning up to having written the damn novel was honest enough. “They say I killed a man with the leather awl of a Swiss army knife.” The qualifier they say was a stroke and Stagg smiled to himself, a move that served to underscore the quality of his crime.

Morgenstein stiffened briefly, then seemed relieved. “Here I was about to think you weren’t the real thing.” He laughed with Cynthia, who was now eyeing Stagg quite differently. She seemed to crawl behind the fat man, but at the same time smiled coyly at Stagg, her gaze focused on, no doubt, her reflection in his dark lenses.

“I’m the real thing,” Stagg repeated. “Cynthia knows I’m the real thing. Don’t you, Cindy.”

Cynthia squirmed.

“Yeah,” Morgenstein laughed nervously.

The salads and Stagg’s soup came. Stagg took two tastes of the soup and pushed the bowl aside.

“Don’t you like it?” Morgenstein asked.

“Yes, it’s quite good. It’s exactly what I wanted.” Stagg smiled again at Cynthia, then to Morgenstein, “I’m afraid I have to run now. I have to pay a visit to a convalescence home.”

“Community service? I had to do that once. What a pain in the fucking ass. Little brats.”

“It was a pleasure.” Stagg reached across the table and shook the man’s fat paw, nodded to Cynthia.

“Hey, do you have a number here in town where I can reach you?” Morgenstein asked.

Stagg looked at the man for a couple of seconds, then laughed a cool laugh before walking away.

Behold the invisible!

Stagg found that the world changed for him during the elevator ride down to the lobby and in the lobby he was confronted with a huge poster, a colorful confusion of shapes which asked the question:

Did Julian Schnabel Really Exist?

He wandered to a next sign:

What does the Avante Garde?

To another:

One Man’s Graffiti is Another Man’s Writing on the Wall

Stagg was confused, angry. Outside, he scratched the dark glasses from his face and disappeared.

The afternoon turned cool and a gentle rain fell. I watched people make their way into the building while I sat by Mother’s bed. She was asleep. We listened to a Brahm’s symphony, number 2 or 3. She always liked it more than I.

I thanked my parents on more than one occasion for not raising me Catholic. I was thirteen the final time and they finally responded to me by saying, “We’re not Catholic, dear.” The dear was supplied by Mother.

“Oh, I know that,” I said. I stopped at the door and turned back. “That was a different thank you from my thank you for not raising me as a Christian.”

“Oh, we know that,” Father said.

“Why do you thank us for that?” Mother asked.

“Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point,” Father said.

“I know my reasons,” I said.

“Good boy,” Father said.

“Vive le roi,” I said.

Father laughed. Mother had already turned back to her book.