Although my mother had told me that the news is never all the news, only what they want to show you, I found myself riveted to the chaos on the TV screen, and I didn’t move even when they went to a commercial break. In those days, cigarette companies could still advertise on television, but lawyers couldn’t; some changes are for the better, and others are not.
Seconds after the station came back from the commercials to City College in turmoil, I saw Mr. Reginald Smaller. Most of those in the crowd were of college age, but among those who were older, our former building superintendent stood out like—not to be cruel—a gorilla among gazelles. He wore a colorful bandana that obscured his steel-wool every-which-way hair, but he was still a short man with a big middle, and he wore a tank top that revealed a dismaying amount of hirsute skin. That pelt alone conclusively identified him. Of all those in the shot, he appeared to be angriest, shouting at the police with such force that spittle sprayed, pumping one fist in the air, his face twisted and grotesque with rage.
I rose from the armchair and went to my knees directly in front of the screen, mesmerized by the spectacle and by this revelation of Mr. Smaller’s activist side, but perhaps fascinated most of all because this was the first time that I had ever seen someone I knew on television. Just then I saw a second person I knew. She wore jeans and a halter top and a cute straw hat with a ribbon that seemed out of place at that event. Unlike those around her, she didn’t shout or gesture, and she didn’t carry a sign, but instead clicked pictures with a small camera and observed everyone else as though taking copious mental notes. Maybe Miss Delvane was gathering material for a magazine article or for a novel to follow the one about the rodeo.
Right then I knew beyond doubt that if the camera shifted to the left, I would see my father with her, resplendent in his new beard. Tilton didn’t believe in much of anything except Tilton, and it made no sense that he would be risking a police baton to the face that might permanently diminish the pleasure he took in a mirror. But he was there. I could feel it. Maybe he was there only because of Miss Delvane. She was hot, and I don’t mean because it was a summer day. Although only ten, I recognized hot when I saw it.
The camera panned left, and suddenly there he was, dear old dad, wearing a black T-shirt instead of the black turtleneck that he’d been wearing more than six months ago when I’d seen him in The Royal. He still sported a well-shaped beard. His previously close-cropped hair had grown into a modest Afro. Also as in the diner, he wore a large silver medallion on a chain around his neck. Back on December 29, I hadn’t been able to discern the nature of his jewelry; on the TV, it was clearly a peace sign.
The sight of Tilton in this context was so beyond expectation that I was both astonished and amazed, both my heart and mind quite overwhelmed. Like Miss Delvane, he displayed none of the righteous fury of the demonstrators among whom he moved. He seemed even to be somewhat bemused by their passion, and there was a certain wariness about him, his gaze continuously shifting here and there.…
I surprised myself when I said aloud, “What are they up to?”
Intuitively, based on my experience of my father, I knew that neither he nor Miss Delvane, nor Mr. Smaller, for that matter, was at the City College demonstration because they thought the war was immoral and hoped to end it. Something else must be afoot.
Although I expected next to glimpse Lucas Drackman and Fiona Cassidy, the news went to Detroit to dwell lovingly on the charred and still smoking ruins left behind by the recently ended riots. When I heard car doors slam and stood up and, through a window, saw Grandpa’s Cadillac at the curb in front of the house, I shut off the television.
When he and Mom came through the front door and called out to me, I called back to them from the kitchen, where I was busy setting the dinette table for dinner.
They had stopped at the supermarket to buy fresh-ground sirloin and other items. For dinner we enjoyed a tomato-and-cucumber salad, hamburger steaks, baked beans, and potatoes that Grandpa sliced thin and fried in a big iron skillet with butter and slivers of a green pepper.
At the table, as we ate, we shared the events of the day with one another. Two and a half months after Grandma Anita’s passing, my grandfather was able to smile again and on occasion even laugh, though there remained in him a sorrow that was obvious when he thought you weren’t looking and was evident to a lesser degree when you were.
I told them about Malcolm Pomerantz, how he had to work hard to convince me that he wasn’t a murderous stranger, how we had a lot of fun playing together, even if piano and sax made an odd duet. I didn’t mention my father on television, because I knew myself well enough to realize that if I talked about him, I might chatter on and tell them about Miss Delvane. I didn’t want to hurt my mother, and even though she had given up on Tilton, she might be wounded if she learned that Miss Delvane was with him.
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