FIFTEEN

ON MONDAY, DOWN in Memphis, the body of sixteen-year-old Larry Payne, shot and killed by a white policeman, lay in state at Clayborn Temple African Methodist Episcopal Church, the starting point for the previous week’s march led by the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Hundreds of blacks came to the church to pay their respects under the gaze of National Guard troops. King would return the following day to Memphis, where he was scheduled to lead another march on Friday.

On Monday, around the country, politicians commented publicly on LBJ’s withdrawal from the race and his new, relatively dovish stance on the war in Vietnam. Former Vice President Richard Nixon, the leading Republican candidate, said that “a bombing halt in itself would not be a step toward peace.” California governor Ronald Reagan stated that “de-escalation has usually resulted in the death of more Americans” and added that he “would favor a step-up of the war.” Robert Kennedy, Eugene McCarthy, and Vice President Hubert Humphrey publicly expressed support for the president’s decisions while scrambling behind the scenes to capitalize on this unexpected opportunity and position themselves more favorably for the upcoming race. Johnson himself, in an unusually candid and relaxed speech to the National Association of Broadcasters, said that there were “some things that a president cannot do to buy popularity” and admitted to his “shortcomings as a communicator.”

On Monday, in D.C., working-class people went about their day-to-day. Derek Strange and Troy Peters patrolled their district. Buzz Stewart followed Walter Hess to a garage in Hyattsville, Maryland, where Hess dropped off his Galaxie to be repaired. Then Stewart drove Hess to his job at the machine shop and went on to his own shift at the Esso station, where Dominic Martini was already on the clock, pumping gas. Inside the Three-Star on Kennedy Street, Darius Strange stood over a hot grill, trying not to think of the pain in his back, while Mike Georgelakos patrolled the diner, operating the register and making small talk with the customers. Ella Lockheart served food around him. Kenneth Willis cleaned an elementary school off Kansas Avenue in Northwest. Alethea Strange cleaned a house on Caddington Avenue in Silver Spring. Her older son, Dennis, rode down 7th Street in a D.C. Transit bus.

Dennis Strange, carrying a book he had been reading, got off the bus between Florida and Rhode Island and walked east into the low-number streets of LeDroit Park. He found the market with the green-and-gold sign over the door and went inside.

The old Jew, Mr. Ludvig, sat behind the counter, the Post spread out before him. The market’s black-and-white set was on channel 5, playing the local interview show, Panorama, had that young dude, the son of the sportswriter Shirley Povich, as the host.

Mr. Ludvig raised his head as Dennis entered the shop. Negative recognition came to his watery eyes. Then he forced himself to smile. “You’re my pack of Kools. Am I right?”

“That was me,” said Dennis, “but not today. I’m lookin’ for that man works here, goes by John.”

“Mr. Thomas is in the stockroom.”

“I speak to him?”

Ludvig looked Dennis over, then got off his stool slowly, grunted, and walked into the stockroom. Dennis heard muffled voices, and in short order Ludvig returned.

“Walk around to the alley. John’s getting ready to have a smoke break. He’ll be out back.”

The alley bordered two residential blocks, all row houses, with the market the only commercial property on the strip. Street cats and kittens scattered as Dennis walked the cracked concrete. Up ahead, a boy was throwing a tennis ball against a wall of bricks. The boy studied Dennis, then held the ball to let him pass.

“Little brother,” said Dennis, and the boy lifted up his chin by way of greeting. “No school today?”

“Told my mother I was sick.”

“Can’t be too sick, you out here playin’.”

“Yeah, well, you know.”

“Knowledge is power,” said Dennis, holding up the book he carried. “You need to be goin’ to class.”

“What my moms said,” said the boy. “But she at work.”

“You take care of yourself, now, hear?”

Dennis went on. John Thomas was beside the market stoop, sitting on an overturned milk crate, having a cigarette. His eyes tracked Dennis as he approached. Though the day was cool, there was a film of sweat on Thomas’s face. He was older than he had looked in the artificial light of the market the night before. Natural light brought out the lines, in startling relief, that hard work and time had put on his face.

“Young man,” said Thomas.

“How you doin’?”

“Doin’ good.” Thomas’s eyes went to the book under Dennis’s arm. “You enjoying that?”

Dennis glanced at the cover of the just-published Soul on Ice as if he had forgotten he was carrying it. Young people of different colors and classes were talking about it citywide. It outraged some and energized others. It tended to get a reaction out of all who read it. Dennis was reading it for the second time.

“Eldridge Cleaver speaks the truth.”

“On some things he does,” said Thomas. “I will give you that. Never had it all explained to me before the way he does, even though I’ve been livin’ it my whole life. My son, young man about your age, passed it on to me. Hard for me to get with all of it, understand. Harder still to get with the man himself.”

“What you don’t like about him?”

“He’s a rapist, for one. That right there, I mean, it goes against my Christian upbringing to follow a man like him.”

“He did his time.”

“As he should have. But that kind of violence against another human being… don’t see how anyone can look past that. Now, you take a man like King, well, that’s a leader right there. The reverend’s coming from a place of peace. Course, you bein’ your age and all, you probably too impatient for all that.”

“I respect the man. Ain’t no question he’s good. But some young black men and women feel like that passive resistance thing ain’t gonna get it no more.”

“What you think works, then? Fire? You seen what happened in Watts. You young black men and women burn this society we got, what you got ready to take its place? This market here goes to ashes, black people like me gonna lose our jobs. This market here goes to ashes, black people in this neighborhood got no place to buy their groceries to feed their kids. You see what I’m sayin’? You got to have somethin’ built before you start tearin’ down.”

“I hear you. And I know you might not like it. It might not even make sense to you. But it’s coming just the same.”

“I don’t need to be readin’ that book to learn about the problem,” said Thomas. “What we all need now is some kind of solution that’s not gonna hurt our own people.”

“People always gonna get hurt in a revolution. Ain’t never been no easy one, right?”

Ludvig appeared in the doorway to the stockroom and cleared his throat. “Everything okay out here?”

“Yes, Mr. Ludvig,” said Thomas.

Ludvig looked from Thomas to Dennis, then disappeared back into the store.

Thomas set his eyes on Dennis. “Say what you came to say. It’s obvious you’re here to get somethin’ off your chest.”

“Does it show?”

“It did last night. Looked like you had something you wanted to tell me then.” Thomas hit his cigarette, tapped ash to the concrete. “Might as well do it now.”

Dennis nodded slowly. “Couple of dudes I know, they fixin’ to knock this place over.”

“The ones was sittin’ in that green Monterey, waitin’ on you to come out.”

Dennis cocked his head. “Yeah.”

“Don’t look so surprised. I knew you was wrong the minute you walked into the market. Y’all should’ve left out of there right away, ’stead of sittin’ on the street debating or whatever it was you was doin’. Parked under a street lamp, too. I watched you people from the plate-glass window. My eyes haven’t failed me yet. Got a good look at the driver, dark-skinned dude with funny teeth, and the other fella, with his hat. Even gave me time to take down the license plate number. Stupid. But then, anybody low enough to try something like that ain’t gonna be all that smart.”