Hard Revolution

“You and me, we weren’t brought up that way.”

Dennis pulled his arm free. “Dinner’s ready, I expect.”

“You’re better than you know.”

“I’m tired, man.” Dennis lowered his eyes. “Do me a favor, Derek. Let me be.”

FOURTEEN

THERE GOES JULIA,” said Dennis Strange, pointing to the screen of the family’s color TV.

“Diahann Carroll,” said Derek Strange. “That’s a fine-looking woman right there.”

“Reminds me of your mother,” said Darius Strange.

“Talks like a white girl, though,” said Dennis.

“Ain’t no crime in it,” said Darius.

“She be datin’ white men, too,” said Dennis. “I seen her in this magazine, on the arm of some British cat, one who does those interviews on channel five.”

“She’s still fine,” said Derek.

“Got your mother’s eyes,” said Darius Strange.

Darius sat in his green lounger, the sports page of the Washington Post open in his lap. His facial features had begun to sag, and his weight had shifted down toward his middle.

His sons sat on hard chairs beside him. Alethea Strange had cleared the dinner table and was back in the kitchen putting the dishes in a sink full of warm water.

The apartment was as it had always been. The furniture was the same furniture Dennis and Derek had roughhoused on all their lives. Their father’s hi-fi was used infrequently these days and now served mainly as a stand for Alethea’s herbs and African violets. Darius had not bought a record for many years. First Ray Charles went country, and then Sam Cooke had been shot dead by that woman back in ’64. He had just lost interest after that. And anyway, he was well into his fifties now. The new soul sound was for the young. He had given his records to Derek, who had become a deep rhythm and blues fan, the same way Darius had been years ago.

The men were watching The Hollywood Palace variety show on ABC. Bonanza had come and gone, and there was little else of interest on the other channels. They were waiting to hear the president, scheduled to speak at any moment. It was rumored that he would be making some sort of major announcement concerning the war in Vietnam.

Diahann Carroll finished her number, a tune from Camelot. The show’s host, Don Adams, came back onstage and began to introduce the next guest.

“Sorry about that, Chief,” said Dennis in a nasal voice. “Yeah, you sorry all right. You and your tired-ass shit.”

“Man used to have a comedy act in D.C.,” said Darius.

“Was he funny then? ’Cause he ain’t never made me laugh once. They want me to watch this show, they better bring out Agent Ninety-nine.”

“And now, please welcome Diana Quarry and her brother, boxer Jerry Quarry, who are going to perform a very special song tonight.”

“He’s gonna sing now?” said Derek.

“Gotta do somethin’,” said Dennis. “’Cause you know he can’t fight.”

“He decisioned Floyd Patterson,” said Darius.

“An old Floyd,” said Dennis.

“Government gives Ali his gloves back,” said Derek, “he gonna take that man apart.”

As the heavyweight and his sibling attempted a rock-and-roll duet, Darius Strange read from the newspaper. “Elgin Baylor had thirty-seven for the Lakers, can you believe it? Now L.A. gonna go on in the west. Man eliminated the Bulls all by hisself.”

“Baylor?” said Derek, grinning at his brother. “Who’s that?”

“Local boy, right?” said Dennis, winking at Derek.

“Came out of Spingarn,” said Derek.

“You lyin’?” said Dennis. “Thought it was Dunbar.”

Dennis and Derek reached behind their father, chuckled, and touched hands.

“Quit playin’,” said Darius, stifling a grin, not looking up from his newspaper.

Alethea came into the room rubbing her hands dry on a dish towel. She wore a flower-patterned housedress with a cloth rose, similar to those that were printed on the dress, pinned in her graying hair. Except for the gray, the bursts of lines around her eyes, and her wrinkled hands, which had been damaged by the cleaning fluid she’d used through the years, she was a fit fifty-one. Her legs and back gave her problems from time to time, the cost of her domestic work, which she had recently cut to five days a week. But aside from those minor pains, she felt fine.

“Satisfaction?” she said, looking with affection at her men grouped around the Sylvania in the living room.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Derek. “That chicken was right. Greens weren’t too shabby, either.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Could’ve used a nice bottle of wine with it, somethin’,” said Dennis, smiling at his mother, not meaning anything by the remark.

“You want us to buy that for you, too?” said Darius.

“Darius,” said Alethea.

“We pay his way for everything else around here, don’t we?”

“He’s just havin’ a little fun with me,” said Alethea.

“I can move out, Pop,” said Dennis, “you want me to.”

“What I want is for you to work,” said Darius. “That’s what a man does. Your brother’s out there breaking a sweat. He’s got a car, his own apartment. That’s what you need to be moving toward, too.”

Derek couldn’t look at Dennis. He had ridden him hard outside the house because he believed in him and thought he could improve his life. But he never came down on Dennis in front of their parents. He wished he wasn’t here to witness this now.

The silence that had fallen on the room ended as an announcer broke into the show to inform viewers that the president was about to speak. Derek got up and let his mother take his seat. He found another chair and dragged it close to the set.

“Man looks like one of his beagles,” said Dennis.

“Hush,” said Darius.

President Johnson began by talking about the war in Southeast Asia. He said that he would immediately order a cessation of air and naval attacks on North Vietnam, except in the area north of the twentieth parallel. He went into an explanation of what this meant in terms of the conflict’s history and its progression. Then he indicated that he wanted to speak on something else. His face was somber but somewhat more relaxed than most Americans had seen it for some time.

“I will not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party…”

“Damn,” said Dennis.

“Can’t believe it,” said Alethea.

“Man’s giving up,” said Derek. “You can see it on his face, though. He’s had