Out of the Ashes

“Don't forget the Klan,” a woman said, bitterness in her voice. “My brother is part of that mess in Chicago. Went up there when he heard what they were doing. Couldn't wait to get right in the middle of it.”

“So is my brother,” Ben said quietly.

The clicking of knives and forks ceased; conversation was momentarily halted.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Raines. Yes,"—the man shook his head—"a Raines was mentioned in one broadcast we monitored. A Carl Raines is one of the leaders.”

“The damned fool!” Ben muttered.

“I said the same thing, Mr. Raines,” a black woman said. “My first cousin was on the other side of what took place up there.”

Ben looked at her. “What did take place?”

“There was spotty violence all winter. The whites controlled the suburbs, the blacks controlled the city. The whites cordoned off the city, wouldn't let the blacks out. And last winter was a particularly brutal one. Many died from exposure. Expressways were blocked and guarded, same with bridges and avenues. The white group raided national guard and reserve armories, got mortars and cannons, began shelling the city. It was a regular war. Then, a couple of months ago, a full-scale military invasion took place. Not the regular military, but the whites. There were no prisoners taken ... on either side. From what we've heard, it was senseless and brutal.”

“Who won?” Ben asked, a sour taste in his mouth. He thought of Cecil and Lila. And of Salina.

“Well,” a local minister said, “if it can be called a victory, the whites did. Then they turned on the Jews, the Latins, the Orientals. Everyone not ... what's the old term? WASP?”

“Yes,” Ben said. “It had to come. Sooner or later. I wrote it was coming.”

“I read that book of yours, Mr. Raines,” a black woman in her mid-thirties said. She sat across the table from 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.