Watching over Wilbur: A Novel

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Henderson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-5578-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-5580-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-5579-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/20/09

Contents

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

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28

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30

EPILOGUE

To my wife, Karen,

for her support, her encouragement,

her faith in me, and most of all,

for her love

Acknowledgments

A young African American soldier was brought into the 24th Evacuation Hospital sometime during the Tet Offensive in February of 1968. He was my inspiration for the protagonist, Wilbur Washington. I hope I prayed for him then, but if not, I pray for him now. I would like to acknowledge my wife, Karen Kujawa, for being the first reader and copy editor, and my stepdaughter, Britni Rhinehart, for her kindness with her red pen. Also, many thanks to my test readers, Rita Endres, Tom Smyth, and Joel Blakeslee; all your feedback gave me confidence. Although it took thirty years to start writing this book after my talk with him, I would like to acknowledge Dr. John-Roger Hinkins for being who he is and for all the inspiration he gives so lovingly.

There never was a good war or a bad peace

Benjamin Franklin

It is well that war is so terrible--we shouldn't grow too fond of it

Robert E. Lee

1

Wilbur heard tires rolling over crushed stone, and he quickened his pace. He walked on the main road, passing the abandoned tannery building, in the direction of the dirt lane that led to where the coloreds lived. Darkness surrounded him; the moon had not climbed above the flat horizon. Turning his head, he saw the outline of a car, lights off, pulling out from behind the building. The car crept onto the road and followed fifty yards behind him. He picked up his speed a notch and contemplated running.

A knot developed in his stomach, and tension rose in his chest, tightening the muscles across his back and shoulders. Who would follow him? He stopped. He turned to look, and a powerful spotlight shot out of the darkness. He threw his arms over his face and froze. An explosion ripped through the darkness, and Wilbur felt a bullet zing past his body. He partially lost his bladder. Terror seized him. Run, run, run, he thought. In one stride, he was headed at full speed for the loading dock door in the center of the building. Tires squealed as the car pursued him.

He had two things going for him: his speed and knowing the building like the back of his hand. As a little kid, he had explored the rambling five-story building hundreds of times, playing hide-and-seek and other games.

He vaulted the four feet up onto the loading dock and paused for a second, glancing behind him at the oncoming car. The spotlight hit him in the eyes. The car screeched to a halt. Wilbur bolted through the open cargo door and into the blackness. The last time he’d entered the tannery building was during junior high school, four or five years ago. His recollection surfaced quickly. He was in a large room. Sprinting to his right, his legs struck an object, and he hurtled forward through space. Searing pain slashed across both shins and up into his testicles as he smacked the concrete floor. He broke the fall with his hands as he skidded on his face. He stifled a cry of pain and lifted himself back to a sitting position. Rubbing his shins, he checked for blood.

A beam of light shone through the cargo door, bouncing off the empty walls and old storage bins, causing some of the darkness to disappear. He saw what had tackled him: an old forklift, with its blades lifted off the floor, sat ten feet behind him. Remembering the stairway at the back of the room, he started crawling. The pain in his shins wracked his body. As he stumbled to his feet, the beam of light exposed him.

Hey, nigger, you’re fuckin’ dead, a voice called out.

Reaching deep through his pain and fright, he tapped into a reserve and dashed the last few yards into the stairwell. As he paused for a moment to decide which stairs to take—up or down—a second shot was fired. The explosion echoed through the room, as if it were riding a merry-go-round, and drove him to his knees. He trembled. What to do?

I ain’t done nothing, Lord, to nobody, I swear, he said. Who’s doing this to me? Weeping, he huddled on the hard concrete floor, trying to control himself when there was absolutely no control left in him. Someone’s trying to kill me. Lord, please help me, please. A surge of energy lifted him up, and the pain in his legs became a memory. Racing up the stairs two and three at a time, he reached the top in an instant. He knew there was a fire escape leading from the fifth floor down the back of the building to a cluster of run-down sheds. Creeping on his hands and knees through the darkness, he picked his way across the room.

He huddled on the floor in the dark, next to the door that led out to the fire escape. His breathing was uneven and the sound of it too loud. He told himself to breathe deeply, and after a few minutes, his breathing slowed. But it seemed to heighten the sound, as if a strong wind were leaving his lungs and ricocheting off the walls. He was afraid they would hear him, and he was afraid he would be stuck in this darkness forever. Softly, he cried again. He wasn’t ashamed. He had cried often in his life.

One voice, that’s all he heard. Maybe it was one guy, a drunk who got bored and went to find some action elsewhere. He could beat one guy, maybe, but he had never been a fighter, never been in a fight. Plus, this person had a gun. Maybe it was a bunch of them and they were surrounding the place. Ku Klux Klan? Then what? Was this his time? He felt like throwing up.

Wilbur Washington was always big for his age. At five years old, he looked ten; at ten years old, he looked fifteen; now, at eighteen, he was six feet three and weighed 228 pounds. The coaches had weighed and measured him before football practice that morning. They said, Oh, he’s a big one. He’ll do some damage if he can run.

They ran sprints: twenty yards, forty yards, one hundred yards. Oh, this boy can run too, the coach said. He beat everyone on the team without even kicking it into high gear.

Wilbur opened the door gently and poked his head out, thinking, this is it, do or die. He thought if he stepped out onto the platform, he would be hanging out like a bedsheet on a laundry line. They’ll shine a spotlight up on me and … good-bye, Wilbur, he said.

He began to get his faculties back; his head wasn’t as crowded with debris. Don’t make a mistake, he thought. His grandma had drilled it into his head: A colored makes a mistake and pays for it tenfold.

In the quiet, he lay on the floor, rubbing his shins. Two lumps the size of small eggs had appeared, tender to touch. Occasionally, he poked his head out and peered down the fire escape at the darkness. No sign of anyone. Was it over? If he retreated down the stairs, they may be waiting for him. If he took the fire escape, he could be exposed. Are they a couple of cowboys getting their kicks on a hot August night in West Texas? he wondered. Why so quiet? He tried to think like them. What are they up to? What are they doing now?

It seemed like an hour passed … and no sign of who had shot at him. He knew he had to get out of the building, and he needed an alternative to the stairway and the fire escape. He recalled an old hand-operated freight elevator that ran up the center of the building. Lifting himself off the floor, he walked cautiously, groping around through the dust and cobwebs.

Reaching out, he felt a wooden partition. He continued to explore, reasoning that it was the structure that surrounded the shaft. On his hands and knees, he moved around the structure, searching for the opening carefully; he didn’t want to plunge five stories down.

The tension built, taking its toll. He was exhausted, shaking, and starting to get dizzy. He propped himself up against the partition and tried taking extra deep breaths. Maybe they boarded up the opening, he thought, to keep kids from falling through. As he sat, he wondered about his choices. He only had two: the fire escape or the stairs.

So far, the stairway was the best choice. He was on the first floor and headed to the basement. He paused at the landing, contemplating making a run for it out the cargo door. His instincts led him down the stairs. They could be parked at the loading dock, just waiting to plug him. Suicide, he thought.

He knew the bulkhead in the basement led up to the back lot. He’d hidden there many times as a kid. That would be his way out.

He closed the door from the stairwell to the basement. He stood paralyzed, his eyes unable to adjust to the ink-like blackness. He waited for five minutes but saw nothing, not even his hands in front of his face. Stepping forward like a blind man, he closed his eyes and discovered an inner bearing guiding him through the dark.

Moving forward with care, his head felt as if it were expanding, and then he heard a popping from inside, followed by the sound similar to steam releasing from a radiator. He floated. The darkness receded, and a soft light allowed him to see his body a few feet below. The area in the room around his body was also illuminated, and he was able to glide over his body and guide it around obstacles.

He focused on this phenomenon and sensation, and the sound of a vacuum sucked him back into his body with a jolt. He was lost again in darkness. Was that real? he asked himself silently. Am I getting disoriented? He wasn’t sure of anything.

Turning to his left, he sensed the stairs. Then he lifted his right foot onto the first step. It was the stairway that led up to the bulkhead. A heavy steel door at the top of the stairs separated him from the back lot, this dark dungeon, and hopefully freedom. He pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. Exploring the surface of the door, he found a handle, turned it, and pushed. Nothing moved.

Now he was in a veritable quandary: if he pounded on the door, it might open—so he pounded, but quietly and, of course, it didn’t budge. If he pounded harder, surely it would break free, but if that gave away his location … He sat on the top step and pondered his situation. What if it was locked? Who would lock a door in an old abandoned building? Why wouldn’t they? Oh, Lord, he thought, stuck here for the rest of my life? His fear came back full force; he was petrified. He thought of the worst scenario right down to the best. His grandma had told him to hope for the best, expect the worse, and shoot down the middle.

He stood, reared back, and slammed his shoulder into the door, twisting the handle. No movement. Panic set in. He sat down, thinking what his grandma would say, and hearing her as if she were there. Breath deep, son, very deep. Let your breath out long and slow, then inhale all the way down to your toes. That will cleanse you good, son, real good. He exhaled hard, as if he were blowing a trumpet. Rhythmically breathing, he started to feel powerful.

Standing, he positioned himself to assault the door. He thrust and turned the handle with a strength he didn’t know he had. A loud metal-on-metal sound screeched as the door moved a fraction of an inch. Years of rust had built up in the door casing, sealing it shut. Again, he reared back and slammed into the door, and again there was a loud screeching. His heart pounded as he anticipated the door opening … and what would he find outside.

He stopped for a moment to rest and, leaning against the door, felt himself falling backward as the door sprung open. He tumbled onto his back, looking up at the stars and bright moonshine. Scrambling to his feet, he moved carefully through the maze of old buildings and headed for a gully lined with scrub bushes that ran behind the old building, moving quickly toward the dirt lane that led home. There was no sign of his attackers, but he kept a wary eye and a low profile, clinging to the bushes and staying off the road.

Nearing his grandmother’s house, Wilbur found a large rock in the gully, and he sat on it to gain his composure and rub his shins. Football practice was definitely out for tomorrow, his legs in this condition. He wondered if his encounter had had anything to do with playing football for the high school football team. Taking his chances, such a risk, the first colored to play for the Rebels. Maybe he would drop out of football; it wasn’t even his idea. The spiked shoes and helmet and all the pads felt bulky and too hot. When he threw the football around on the lane in front of Grandma’s house with the kids in the area that was fun—not doing it with coaches and white kids.

His uncle LeRoy had pushed him into playing, telling everybody that Wilbur was going to be the best they’d ever seen. Uncle LeRoy told him he might get a scholarship to college, which would keep him out of the draft and Vietnam, and that was the best reason to play football with the white kids. And Grandma agreed: Stay out of the draft, she said. Play football.

Getting up, his legs dragging, he moved up out of the gully and onto the dirt lane. Maybe Hattie was home. He hoped so. He felt better just thinking about her. He passed several tattered wood-frame houses. Down the steps of one of them ran two small boys who had spotted him while sitting on the front porch.

You gonna show those white folks how to play, Wilbur? the first boy said, dancing and bouncing around in front of Wilbur.

Y’all gonna be the star, ain’t ya, Wilbur? the other little boy said.

Oh, I don’t know, boys. I ain’t played like this before. I don’t want to disappoint you, Wilbur replied, an easy smile breaking across his face.

The little boy with light chocolate skin grabbed hold of Wilbur’s arm and started to swing on it playfully.

Easy now, Wilbur said. I’m hurting a little. He gently brushed the boy off his arm.

The boy with acorn brown skin began shooting Wilbur with rapid-fire questions. You limpin’. What happened? Are those white boys mean to ya?

Hey, whoa, hold on now. Y’all gotta give me time to answer. Slow down a little. Wilbur wasn’t going to explain his near-death encounter to these little boys. No reason to let this get all over the neighborhood and throw gasoline on the fire.

Those boys play rough, but they play fair. I just got whacked across the shins, but I’ll be fine.

Y’all are gonna whup on ’em, aren’t ya? the acorn brown boy asked. My grandpa said you gonna be the next big star, like Mr. Jim Brown. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

This football, little man, not no boxing match, Wilbur said, chuckling to himself at the young boy’s enthusiasm.

We want ya to show those white boys how good ya be—ya know, like Cassius Clay, chimed in the light chocolate boy.

I ain’t trying to beat those boys; they’re my teammates.

The two boys spun in front of Wilbur, dashing back and forth down the lane like two small tornadoes.

We’ll be looking for ya at the first game, said the acorn brown boy.

My daddy says you’ll plow ’em down like a tractor plowing down old cotton, said the light chocolate boy.

Wilbur playfully smacked each boy on the rump as he turned to enter the long drive leading to his grandma’s house. The boys squealed in delight as they scampered back down the lane, clearly impressed with being friends with someone who was going to be as famous as Wilbur Washington.

Will! Hey, Will, a voice called as Wilbur walked down the drive. He turned and saw a figure from the house across the street hustling after him. Wait up for me, Will.

It was Uncle LeRoy. He knew by the rasp of his voice and the weave in his walk. Reluctantly, he waited. Hey, Uncle.

Will, glad I saw you, Uncle LeRoy said. I was working outside the house when ya walked by. He carried a half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, and a cigarette dangled from his lower lip. Wilbur knew the only work Uncle LeRoy ever did outside the house was lift his elbow and suck on a bottle. If he was really ambitious, when the sun forced him to, he’d move from one rocking chair on the porch to another. I noticed you was limpin.’ Those boys beat on ya first day of practice?

No, nothing like that, Uncle LeRoy; just got whipped across the shins. I’ll be all right. Wilbur didn’t want to stop too long to talk, knowing his uncle was three sheets to the wind. He wanted to get home and put ice on his legs. He hoped Hattie would be home from work early so they could talk. She’d moved in two weeks earlier, temporarily, while she looked for her own place. A few years older than Wilbur, she worked at Miss Myra Kimble’s Guest Ranch with his grandma. She was a small girl with a cute smile, and he found he had a big crush on her right off the bat.

Well, tell me all ’bout it, Uncle LeRoy said. Did ya show ’em your stuff? Ya know—your moves—so they see what a player you’re gonna be?

It wasn’t like that. We did exercises and ran through drills. I don’t even know if I like it; it might not be for me. I’m thinking I’ll give it a week and see.

Oh, you need to stick with it. ’Member what I told ya about college and staying outta the draft? This here important. It could save your life. Uncle LeRoy was swaying on his heels, his cigarette hanging from his lip, growing ash, long and gray.

I gotta go, Uncle LeRoy, Wilbur said, turning down the drive. We’ll talk about it some other time. Thanks for saying hey.

Hang tough. Don’t forget. Know what I mean? Uncle LeRoy called after him.

Wilbur waved without turning back, continuing toward the house, wanting to see Hattie rather than get a lecture from Uncle LeRoy. The house was dark, and there were no cars parked next to it. He felt lonely climbing the back porch stairs.

Wilbur stuck his head into the huddle to hear the play call. After a week of practice, they had competition, a scrimmage against Beeville High School. After seven plays, Wilbur hadn’t touched the ball. If he’d worn a shirt and tie, they wouldn’t have been mussed.

Thirty-seven roll-up, on three, on three, said Bobby Goff, the senior quarterback. You know what you’re doing, boy? He was looking in Wilbur’s direction.

I got it, I do, Wilbur answered. He was struggling to learn the plays. All the players had played since they were little kids, the plays coming second nature to them. For Wilbur, his playbook had been to run down to the bush, stop, and wait for the pass.

You better get it, said Bobby. Our buddy is sitting on the bench because of you. Trust me—he knows the plays better than y’all ever will.

They broke the huddle and took their positions, Wilbur lining up at left halfback. The ball was snapped, and Wilbur flared left for a fake toss; the fullback ran it off right tackle. The play gained next to nothing. The team huddled up, and then the coach blew the whistle.

The coach stood about twenty yards back of the line of scrimmage, talking to his assistants. He said something to the other team’s coach and then ambled up to the huddle. He was a mountain of a man, wide and tall, with very little hair, and he was seldom seen with a smile on his face. Stepping into the huddle, he stopped and stared at Bobby Goff.

Mr. Quarterback, can you hear me? Coach asked.

Yes, Coach.

Do you think I went through the shit I went through to get this colored boy to play football on my team, only to watch you give the ball to everyone except him? Do you?

Uh …

Coach cut him off before he could utter another sound, raising his voice. Listen real close, Mr. Quarterback, you hear?

Bobby shrunk and nodded.

The coach lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, stepping farther into the huddle. Now, boys, if you hadn’t noticed, let me remind you Washington here stands six-three and weighs two thirty. He can run backward faster than most all of you can run goddamn frontward. He ain’t just strong; he most likely stronger than the rest of you sumbitches put together. Coach took a long, slow breath and exhaled. This is how I want the plays called. Listen up now. Next play nigger right. After that, nigger left, and then nigger up the middle. Got it? Coach turned on his heel and started to leave the huddle. He paused and leaned into Wilbur, whispering, No offense, boy; just getting their attention.

Wilbur listened to the silence in the huddle. He wondered if a person might hear cow shit drop and hit the ground a mile away, it was so quiet. Bobby Goff tried to call the play, but it appeared he had lost his voice. Must have a lump in his throat … big as a nigger, Wilbur thought, chuckling to himself.

Forty-six sweep, on two, on two, the quarterback finally squeaked.

Wilbur lined up. He knew the play. The ball was snapped, and he took two steps to his left. The pitchout came low, and he caught it and stumbled. Falling to the ground, he thrust his hand down and pushed himself back up, regaining balance. He moved left, but by that time, the defenders were on top of him.

Another gift Wilbur had was a unique sense of vision; at times, he saw the full field. Pivoting, he circled backward, away from the line of scrimmage. A defender appeared to have the perfect angle, coming full speed at his back. Wilbur stopped on a dime and, with his power, straight-armed the defender to the ground. Now the entire defensive team was bearing down on him. He sidestepped to the right side of the field and dipped his shoulder to draw two defenders close. Reversing his direction with a little hop-step, he lost half his pursuers. Dipping and bobbing, weaving and accelerating, he moved through the maze of bodies and broke free, except for a speedy defensive back who was angling him to the sideline. He was cornered and headed out of bounds.

Returning to the huddle, Wilbur saw awe on the faces of the players, and he was a little surprised himself at how nifty it had all worked out.

Y’all got lucky on that play, Bobby Goff said. Let’s see what you can do up the middle. Forty-two trap, on one, on one.

Wilbur lined up seven yards behind the quarterback. Bobby looked back at him, waving at him to move closer.

Git up here! Bobby yelled with contempt. Dumb … nigger.

The ball was snapped. Wilbur took the handoff deep in the backfield and headed directly up the middle. He saw no hole, not an inch to squeeze through, just a wall of players stacked up high. Red jerseys with blue stripes and white jerseys with green stripes tangled together. With no hesitation, he pushed off with his left foot and became airborne. Gaining height, he soared over the mass of bodies. He landed on his feet and took off at full speed. There was nothing but open field as he cruised across the goal line untouched. A smile broke across his face, and several teammates greeted him as he ran into the end zone, slapping him on his shoulder pads, all talking at once about how they’d never seen anything like it. He felt good. Maybe this would work.

On defense, Coach had him lined up at middle linebacker, and he came over to talk to him before play resumed. Now, boy, what I just seen was pretty good, but listen: on that play, when you was running for the sideline and that skinny defender was cuttin’ you off … remember?

Yes, sir.

Well, next time you get in that situation you got to blast that man. I mean knock the shit outta that guy. Understand me, boy?

Yes, sir, Wilbur answered. He wasn’t feeling quite as proud suddenly. Coach didn’t seem mad, but he had called him out and held up play and, in a sense, he was dressing him down. It embarrassed Wilbur.

Hit somebody out here, anybody, when you get a chance. That’s what this game is all about. It’s hitting the guy before he hits you. Look around at this other team for a minute. See there’s a couple of their players almost as big as you, but look at them. They’re fat guys, and slow, so hit ’em, knock ’em on their asses. Got it, boy? Coach got really close and looked through his face mask. Go get ’em, hit ’em, knock the shit outta ’em. He slapped Wilbur on the side of the helmet, which started a ringing in his ears and made him dizzy for a minute.

Defense confused him. The first few plays he was faked, running the wrong way and tripping over his own players, landing face-first in the dirt. He heard Coach behind the scrimmage line, yelling at him to hit someone, and his confidence fell