Black Water Rising

Jay pulls gently on her toe. “I want you home, B, I do.” It’s a humble proposal. More so than even his first. He sits at her feet, not even a bunch of flowers in his hand. His greatest promise, to keep her safe, an empty one at best. Bernie scoots herself to the edge of the swing, the wood creak­

ing beneath her. Jay helps her to her feet. She kisses the tip of his chin, the place she can reach. He holds the screen door open for her, letting flies in the house. As she passes the threshold, she whispers in his ear, “Kwame’s here.” Time he steps in the house, Evelyn wants to know about the girl.

To her, the whole thing is like something off an old episode of Barnaby Jones. She wants to hear about the detectives and what they wanted with Jay. She gets all this out before they’re even seated at the dining room table, before grace has been said. Jay looks to his wife for some guidance. But she is no help. She gives him no more than a light shrug, a suggestion that she will neither restrict nor sanction his storytelling. He can talk his way out of this one himself.

Luckily for Jay, no one else at the table is even listening. They’re hardly paying attention to Evelyn or Jay. The strike is the real guest of honor this evening. It has been invited to a place at the table along with everybody else, seated somewhere between the Reverend and Kwame Mackalvy to his right.

Soon as grace is complete and the meal officially commenced, Kwame and the Rev start in on the dockworkers’ plight and the fate of the strike, outlining, between bites of roast chicken and greens, which strategies have worked for the men and which ones haven’t. Kwame is still hot on his idea for a citywide march. He traces the route plan on top of the linen tablecloth, using his silverware and place setting to lay out a mock-up of Main Street downtown. Jay is sitting way on the other side of the table, near his wife, Rolly’s refrain running just under his breath: This don’t have a thing to do with you.

Bernie asks the men about the march, how they think it’ll help.

Kwame wipes at his mouth with his napkin, dismantling part of Main Street. “The port commission is holding an open meet­ ing on Tuesday. They’re getting all the parties together, see if they can’t push a resolution on this thing.”

“Unions, stevedores, oil folks,” the Rev jumps in. “They’re all going to be there. That’s the plan, at least,” he says. Adding, “The press and the mayor’s office, business leaders . . . they’re going to have the place full that night.”

“And that’s the day we walk,” Kwame says, sucking down a belch. “We start downtown,” he says, placing his napkin back on the table, somewhere between the old Rice Hotel and the back side of Market Square Park, as far as Jay can tell by the crude map. “We start to the south, by Foley’s Department Store, at eleven, so that we end up here,” he says, pointing to Mrs. Boykins’s crys­ tal salt shaker. “At twelve noon, we want to be at city hall. We want as many eyeballs on us as possible. We want the city to stop and take notice.”

“This is do or die for these boys,” the Rev says, his voice a husky whisper. He peels his black-rimmed glasses off the bridge of his nose, and for the first time, Jay notices the puffy halfmoons under his father-in-law’s eyes, the strain this is taking. “I’m just worried they won’t hold on. A lot of these young ones, they don’t remember what it is to fight.” The Rev looks up, nod­ ding at Kwame and Jay, as if they are the sons he never had. “I’m talking about even before your time, boys. My time, you understand.” His voice cracks under the weight of it, the mem­ ory of harder times. “It was a fight, day in, day out. It wasn’t no choice.”

The whole table has come to a standstill, all eyes on Reverend Boykins.

“You okay, Daddy?” Bernie asks softly.

The Rev manages a smile. “I’m all right, Bernadine.”

“The plan is to take this fight all the way,” Kwame says, continuing his rant. “From downtown to the port commission meeting.”

“You’re going to walk from downtown to the port?” Evelyn asks, sounding exhausted by just the thought of walking any­ where in August.

“The Rev and I are working with some local churches, to get busses downtown, something to carry everybody the rest of the way.”

“You got a permit for the demonstration?” Jay asks. “They’ll nail you on that if you don’t. They’ll shut you down before you make it a block or two.”

How quickly it all comes back.

“ I put in the application this morning,” Kwame says tersely. “I have done this before, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jay says, nodding.

He folds and refolds the napkin in his lap.

Kwame doesn’t want his help anymore.

This, after all, doesn’t have a thing to do with Jay.

Mrs. Boykins stands to collect their plates, carrying them into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returns with a peach cob­ bler and a fresh pot of coffee. Kwame turns to Reverend Boykins. “You talk to Darren Hayworth about getting together before the port commission meeting?”

Reverend Boykins nods. “We’re asking the president of ILA to arrange a sit-down with OCAW, to get this whole Carlisle Minty thing sorted out for good.”

“What happened with the kid?” Jay asks.

Kwame and Reverend Boykins, their voices stopping short, lips drawn tight, like heavy drapes, turn to look at Jay. His ques­ tion, his very presence at the table, is treated with polite suspi­ cion. Neither man answers right away.

“Darren . . . the boy in the sling,” Jay says, thinking he needs to clarify.

“What about him?” Kwame asks.

“What’s going on with that? You moving forward on some­ thing?”

He looks back and forth between the two men, trying to fol­ low what’s not being said. But from his chosen place at the table, at such a distance, most of it is lost on him. “Is the kid okay?”

“Darren’s fine,” Reverend Boykins says, laying his napkin across his dessert plate. “He’s handled all this pretty well, if you ask me.”