Out of the Ashes

He heard a lot of “motherfuckers” and “honkies” on the CB, and a lot of what Ben called jive-talk. He also heard a lot of “nigger bastards, coons, shines, and porch monkeys.”

The hate had erupted.

Ben had no intention of driving into downtown Chicago.

There was very little actual fear behind that decision, but a great deal of common sense. Ben was not a racist, but he did not believe in giveaway programs that merely squandered money without solving any social ills. He was an advocate of forcing people to work, but only as a last resort. He had always felt that hard work, some conformity, and some bending was needed from both sides of the color line.

Of course, he thought, all that is moot, now.

He adjusted the volume of his recorder to catch all the hatred that sprang from the speaker of his CB.

He gathered that a race war was building between the blacks in the city and the whites in the suburbs. And he guessed, from listening to the chatter, that there must be fifteen or twenty thousand people alive in and around the city. So it was shaping up to be a hell of a battle.

What stupidity, Ben thought. We should all be working to build a wonderful new world from out of the ashes, all this misery. We should be putting past hates and distrust behind us, but instead, here we go again; nothing has changed.

Fools!

“The hell with you all!” Ben muttered. “Go ahead—kill each other. But you are going to regret you stayed in the city come this December, when the cold and snow hit.”

He encountered no trouble until he reached the town where his brother lived. The roads were blocked and armed white men patrolled the area. Ben had to smile at the sight. A sad smile. Back to the jungles, he thought.

“I'm trying to reach my brother, if he's still alive,” Ben told a group of men. “Carl Raines.”

“I know him. He's alive. What do you want with him?”

“Well, goddamn it!” Ben almost shouted the words. “He's my brother. What the hell do you think I want with him?”

“Relax, mister,” the man said, softening his words with a faint smile. “Sure, you can go see him, but you're not leaving once you get in.”

“What?”

“We need every gun and every white man we can get in this fight. We're gonna wipe those damned niggers out once and for all. Then we can rebuild a decent society.”

I don't believe I'm hearing this, Ben thought. He stared at the man.

“Let him go in, see his brother.” The voice spoke from behind Ben.

Ben turned to face an older, neatly dressed man. In his late fifties or early sixties, Ben guessed. “I thank you, mister,” Ben said.

“We're all a little bit tense here, I'm afraid.” The man offered an apology along with an explanation. “We're outnumbered, you see. I'll wait for you here; see you get back out. We have no right to detain you. This isn't your fight.”

Ben nodded his thanks and drove to his brother's house through what appeared to be an armed camp. His brother was waiting for him in the front yard, a walkie-talkie on his belt. He had been alerted to Ben's arrival.

It had been eight years since the brothers had seen one another; the moment was awkward after they shook hands.

Ben opened the conversation. “Get Mary and the kids, Carl ... let's get the hell out of here.”

His brother shook his head. “No. Mary's still alive—thank God. Alice, she's the oldest, you know ... she made it O.K. All the rest are dead, near as we can tell. Isn't safe to go into the city. Can't search for them. I hope they're dead. Be better than gettin’ raped by them coons.”

“I'm sorry, Carl. I saw to our brothers and sisters. Mom and Dad. All dead.”

The older man nodded. “Figured they was. Lot of others in the same boat. Terrible thing. No, I'm not leaving, Ben. I'm staying here and protecting my home against looters. The niggers are tearing up the city—rapin’ and killin'.”

“Protect your home! Hell, Carl, there must be ten million homes standing empty across this country. Take your choice—live in the governor's mansion if you like.”

“Be niggers in there, eatin’ fried chicken and smackin’ those five-pound lips. Doin’ the jumpin’ funky-humpy in the governor's office.”

Ben stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “What's changed you, Carl? You never used to feel this way. We came from conservative stock, yes, but you were not brought up to be a racist.”

His brother's look was just short of being unfriendly. “You changed into a nigger lover now, Ben? All them words you been writin’ done this?”

“I won't even dignify that with a reply, Carl.”

His brother refused to let go. “You didn't used to be a nigger lover, Ben.”

“Carl, I believe some of the things wrong with this nation—back when we had a nation, that is—could, and probably should be placed on the blacks’ doorstep; probably will be placed there by historians. Me, for one. The give-me, give-me-more programs. But you can't, in all honesty, blame the black race for this"—he waved his hand—"horror.”

“I'm not sayin’ that, Ben. I'm sayin’ now is the time to either get rid of them or put them back in their place.”