Out of the Ashes

Ben. “I didn’t like it when I read it—I thought you surely had to be a racist. Then I reread it and changed my opinion of you. You’re a complex man, Mr. Raines, but I think you mean well… for those who, in your view, deserve the well-meaning.”

“Thank you.” Ben acknowledged the decidedly left-handed compliment.

The minister said, “The party seems to have grown in strength over the months. So far it is still mostly centered in the Chicago and central Illinois area, but it is fanning out. And”—the man tapped his finger on the table—“it is not comprised only of filth like that dogfighting Pitrie and his ilk. From what we can gather by listening to the broadcasts, some rather… at one time anyway… level-headed men and women are joining. That’s the… ones I don’t understand.”

“I do,” Ben said. “And I can tell you who they are: businessmen and -women who lost their businesses through boycott or riots; men who had wives or daughters mugged or assaulted or raped by Latins or blacks and then had to watch while our courts turned them loose—if they ever even came to trial—because of the pleadings of some liberal bastard lawyer whining about past wrongs, that had absolutely nothing to do with the crime; store owners who were repeatedly robbed and were unable to do anything about it or who watched criminals turned loose because of some legal technicalities; people who lost their jobs because of hiring practices. It’s a long list, with right and wrong on both sides. But the hate finally exploded into violence—the hate directed toward the minorities. Many of us, of all colors, wrote of its coming. No one paid any attention to us. Well… now it’s here.”

“That’s the part of your book I didn’t like,” the black woman said.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” Ben defended what he had written, so many years before. “But don’t misunderstand me. I am totally, irrevocably opposed to what is happening in Chicago. I just saw it coming, that’s all.”

“Be careful on the road, Mr. Raines,” the minister cautioned him. “I’m afraid it’s going to get much worse before it starts to get better.”

The black lady looked at Ben. “I believe you wrote that, too, didn’t you, Mr. Raines?”

“Ben, it’s stupid going into Atlanta!” April told him. “The same thing might be going on there as happened in Chicago.”

“We won’t go into the city proper,” he assured her. “But I want to get close enough to hear what’s going on.”

They were on Interstate 75, heading for Atlanta. An hour out of Moultrie.

A few miles further, Ben saw his first manned roadblock on an interstate.

“Oh, hell, Ben!” April said, her fingers digging into his leg.

“Relax.” Ben patted her hand. “Let’s just see what’s happening. Hold the wheel for a minute.” He took a grenade from the pouch at his feet on the floorboards and pulled the pin, holding the spoon down with his left hand, just as he had back at the station with the so-called Georgia Militia.

Ben rolled up and stopped, lowering his window, his left hand out of sight. “Howdy, boys—what’s the problem?”

“We just like to see who is comin’ and goin’ out of Cordele, mister. No real problem.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben said.

“I can see your right hand, buddy. But I can’t see your left hand. You wouldn’t have a gun pointed at me, would you? One word from me and that bunch over yonder,” he jerked his head, “would shoot this truck full of holes.”

“You like to shoot strangers who have done you no harm?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s kind of a dumb question, mister.”

“Humor me,” Ben said, but there was no humor in his voice.

The man spat a brown stream of chewing-tobacco juice on the highway. “You ‘bout half smart-ass, ain’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe I just don’t like to be stopped for no reason. Ever think about that?”

“Not often. Git outta the damned truck. Both of you.”

Ben smiled and lifted his left hand. The man almost swallowed his chewing tobacco. “No. You get on the running board. My fingers are getting tired. I might just decide to drop this out the window.”

“Man, you are nuts! That thing ain’t got no pin in it! Jesus Christ!” he hollered. “Don’t nobody shoot, or nuttin’. This crazy son of a bitch is holding a live grenade.”

“Fragmentation type. Get it right.”

“It’s a frag type. Lordy, Lordy!”

When Ben spoke, his voice was loud enough for all to hear. “Now all you men listen to me. It is not my intention to bother a soul—unless that person first bothers me. And you people are bothering me. Now you get on the running board and tell your buddies to open that goddamned roadblock.”

“I ain’t botherin’ you, mister. Lord, no—I ain’t botherin’ you. TEAR DOWN THAT FUCKIN’ ROADBLOCK!” he screamed.

The blockade came down. The man stepped up on the running board. That put his face level with Juno’s muzzle and bared teeth. “Oh, Lord!” the man hollered.

Ben stepped on the gas and drove up the interstate, out of rifle range, stopping in the middle of the highway. “Get off,” he told the man.

The man did so, gladly. “Mister,” he said to Ben, “you jist ain’t pullin’ a full load.”

“Yeah? I heard that the first time I ate a snake during survival training.”

The man paled.

“Now you listen to me,” Ben told him. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you people have had with thugs and punks, and you definitely have a right to keep those types of people out of your town. But you do not have a right to keep people from traveling on this interstate.”

The man bobbed his head in agreement, watching with great relief as Ben inserted the pin back into the grenade. “Yes, sir.”

“If I were you, I’d dismantle that blockade. Somebody’s liable to come along and really take offense at being stopped and questioned.”

“More than you did?”

“Hell, friend.” Ben smiled at him. “I’m a saint compared to some folks roaming around out here.” He put the truck in gear and rolled on, leaving the man standing in the middle of the interstate, shaking his head and mumbling.

“Ben?” April asked. “Why did that roadblock make you so angry?”

“I really don’t know,” he confessed. “I think maybe the arrogance of the people behind them—some of them—has always irritated me. And the structure itself somewhat. But the reasons have always been the real irritant with me: checking for a driver’s license, to make certain it’s the proper license for the state you’re living in. What earthly difference does it make? If you can drive in California you can certainly drive in Utah. Or if you can drive in Hartford you can drive in Dallas. Country should have had one national driver’s license and to hell with it.” He smiled. “That’s one of my very few pet gripes, April.”

“The others?”

Ben grinned. “Those people who take it upon themselves to tell others what to read, what to watch on TV, or see in the movies. Or out of a township of one hundred people, fifty-one don’t drink liquor, so they tell the remaining forty-nine they can’t drink in their homes, or purchase a six-pack or a bottle in that township. What a person does in his or her own home is nobody else’s business. But I’m death on drunk drivers, April. I have always believed that if a drunk driver kills someone, the charge should be murder—not manslaughter. And”—he grinned —“nobody on the face of this earth loves a drink of whiskey any more than yours truly. But I don’t drive when I’m drunk, or even drinking very much for that matter. I used to, though. Until one night I almost ran over a kid on a bike. That was about ten years ago. That put a stop to it—for me. Don’t get me started, April. My beliefs are intense.”

“You’re a complex man, Ben Raines.”

“Maybe. And maybe I’m just a man who doesn’t want to get too far away from the basic concepts of living.”

“What if a drunk driver ran over and killed a loved one of yours, Ben—what would you do?”