authority, the courts, law, parents, college presidents, the military, the free enterprise system, or the American flag, under which Matt and others of his generation fought and died in World War II.
As Matt Zaleski saw it, it was the young who caused the trouble, and increasingly he hated most of them: those with long hair you couldn't tell from girls (Matt still had a crew cut and wore it like a badge); student know- it-alls, choked up with book learning, spouting McLuhan, Marx, or Che Guevara; militant blacks, demanding the millennium on the spot and not content to progress slowly; and all other protestors, rioters, contemptuous of everything in sight and beating up those who dared to disagree. The whole bunch of them, in Matt's view, were callow, immature, knowing nothing of real life, contributing nothing . . . When he thought of the young his bile and blood pressure rose together.
And Barbara, while certainly no rebellious student or protestor, sympathized openly with most of what went on, which was almost as bad. For this, Matt blamed the people his daughter associated with, including Brett DeLosanto whom he continued to dislike.
In reality, Matt Zaleski - like many in his age group - was the prisoner of his long-held views. In conversations which sometimes became heated arguments, Barbara had tried to persuade him to her own conviction: that a new breadth of outlook had developed, that beliefs and ideas once held immutable had been examined and found false; that what younger people despised was not the morality of their parents' generation, but a facade of morality with duplicity behind; not old standards in themselves, but hypocrisy and self-deception which, all too often, the so-called standards shielded. In fact, it was a time of question, of exciting intellectual experiment from which mankind could only gain.
Barbara had failed in her attempts. Matt Zaleski, lacking insight, saw the changes around him merely as negative and destroying.
In such a mood, as well as being tired and having a nagging stomachache, Matt came home late to find Barbara and a guest already in the house. The guest was Rollie Knight.
Earlier that evening, through arrangements made for her by Leonard Wingate, Barbara had met Rollie downtown. Her purpose was to acquire more knowledge about the life and experiences of black people - Rollie in particular - both in the inner city and with the hard core hiring program. A spoken commentary to accompany the documentary film Auto City, now approaching its final edited form, would be based, in part, on what she learned.
To begin, she had taken Rollie to the Press Club, but the club had been unusually crowded and noisy; also, Rollie had not seemed at ease. So, on impulse, Barbara suggested driving to her home. They did.
She had mixed a whisky and water for each of them, then whipped up a simple meal of eggs and bacon which she served on trays in the living room; after that, with Rollie increasingly relaxed and helpful, they talked.
Later, Barbara brought the whisky bottle in and poured them each a second drink. Outside, the dusk - climaxing a clear, benevolent day - had turned to dark.
Rollie looked around him at the comfortable, tastefully furnished, though unpretentious room. He asked, 'How far we here from Blaine and 12th?'
About eight miles, she told him.
He shook his head and grinned. 'Eight hundred, more like.'
Blaine and 12th was where Rollie lived, and where film scenes had been shot the night Brett DeLosanto and Leonard Wingate watched.
Barbara had scribbled Rollie's thought in a few key words, thinking it might work well as an opening line, when her father walked in.
Matt Zaleski froze.
He looked incredulously at Barbara and Rollie Knight, seated on the same settee, drinks in their hands, a whisky bottle on the floor between them, the discarded dinner trays nearby. In her surprise, Barbara had let the pad on which she had been writing slip from her hand and out of sight.
Rollie Knight and Matt Zaleski, though never having spoken together at the assembly plant, recognized each other instantly. Matt's eyes went, unbelievingly, from Rollie's face to Barbara's. Rollie grinned and downed his drink, making a show of self-assurance, then seemed uncertain. His tongue moistened his lips.
'Hi, Dad!' Barbara said. 'This is'
Matt's voice cut across her words. Glaring at Rollie, he demanded, 'What the hell are you doing in my house, sitting there . . . ?'
Of necessity, through years of managing an auto plant in which a major segment of the work force was black, Matt Zaleski had acquired a patina of racial tolerance. But it was never more than a patina. Beneath the surface he still shared the views of his Polish parents and their Wyandotte neighbors who regarded any Negro as inferior. Now, seeing his own daughter entertaining a black man in Matt's own home, an unreasoning rage possessed him, to which tension and tiredness were an added spur.
He spoke and acted without thought of consequences.
'Dad,' Barbara said sharply, 'this is my friend, Mr. Knight. I invited him, and don't . . .'
'Shut up!' Matt shouted as he swung toward his daughter. 'I'll deal with you later.'
The color drained from Barbara's face. 'What do you mean - you'll deal with me?'
Matt ignored her. His eyes still boring into Rollie Knight, he pointed to the kitchen door through which he had just come in. 'Out!'
'Dad, don't you dare!'
Barbara was on her feet, moving swiftly toward her father. When she was within reach he slapped her hard across the face.
It was as if they were acting out a classic tragedy, and now it was Barbara who was unbelieving. She thought: This cannot be happening. The blow had stung and she guessed there were weal marks on her cheek, though that part was unimportant. What mattered was of the mind. It was as if a rock had been rolled aside, the rock a century of human progression and understanding, only to reveal a festering rottenness beneath - the unreason, hatred, bigotry living in Matt Zaleski's mind. And Barbara, because she was her father's daughter, at this moment shared his guilt.
Outside, a car stopped.
Rollie, as well, was standing. An instant earlier his confidence had deserted him because he was on unfamiliar ground. Now, as it came back, he told Matt, 'Piss on you, honky!'
Matt's voice trembled. 'I said get out. Now go!'
Barbara closed her eyes. Piss on you, honky! Well, why not? Wasn't that how life went, returning hate for hate?
For the second time within a few minutes the house side door opened. Brett DeLosanto came in, announcing cheerfully, 'Couldn't make anybody hear.'
He beamed at Barbara and Matt, then observed Rollie Knight. 'Hi, Rollie!
Nice surprise to see you. How's the world, good friend?'
At Brett's easy greeting to the young black man, a flicker of doubt crossed Matt Zaleski's face.
'Piss on you too,' Rollie said to Brett. He glanced contemptuously at Barbara. And left.
Brett asked the other two, 'Now what in hell was that about?'
He had driven directly across town from Metropolitan Airport when his flight from California landed less than an hour ago. Brett had wanted to see Barbara, to tell her of his personal decision and plans he had begun formulating during the journey home. His spirits had been high and were the reason for his breezy entry. Now, he realized, something serious was wrong.
Barbara shook her head, unable to speak because of tears she was choking back. Brett moved across the room. Putting his arms around her, he urged gently, 'Whatever it is, let go, relax! We can talk about it later.'
Matt said uncertainly, 'Look, maybe I was . . .'
Barbara's voice overrode him. 'I don't want to hear.'
She had control of herself, and eased away from Brett who volunteered,
'If this is a family mishmash, and you'd prefer me to leave . . .'
'I want you here,' Barbara said. 'And when you go, I'm leaving with you.' She stopped, then regarding him directly, 'You've asked me twice, Brett, to come and live with you. If you still want me to, I will.'
He answered fervently, 'You know I do.'
