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Jim Crow Done Gone

A story from New Domangue

By Lucas Díaz-MedinaPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 35 min read
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Jim Crow Done Gone
Photo by Shauna Raduske on Unsplash

J.T. Richardson didn’t mind being instructed to wear his best suit. What did bother him, however, was going there alone. Knowing full well Mr. Belikoff had a standing order with the university to never send anyone but the president. The very idea of it left him feeling uneasy. Despite all the rumors of overzealous major gifts officers, he was going to see the old man alone. It didn’t seem right. Didn’t feel right. And of all people—him. Why him?

Not that he wasn't qualified. He was more than qualified, in his opinion. God only knew how hard he’d worked to move up to executive level, working harder than his colleagues, staying later in the office, volunteering for extra projects, doing whatever was needed, just to get the chance. That kind of work prepares a man for the next level, and when it comes, he's not surprised. But this? Well, this did surprise him. After all, the stories are legendary of arrogant fundraisers who dared approach Mr. Belikoff without the institution's consent. Each one of them meeting the same fate…fired the next day.

He wasn’t interested in losing his job. Any number of things could go wrong during the actual meeting, which could easily result in his dismissal. He had to stop this, he thought. It could go on forever, only making things worse. Besides, thinking this way wasn't useful, wasn't productive in any way. Yet, he couldn't help himself. He just couldn't get over the question. How in the hell did he get to be designated for this? He'd never met the man. In his two years with the university, he'd only had one face-to-face interaction with the president of the school, and it wasn't by accident. So to be instructed by the president to wear his best suit for a solo meeting with the school’s biggest benefactor, well, it just didn’t smack of normal.

God knows it was his hard work that got him here. Maybe it was his hard work paying dividends now. He recalled the first time the president spoke to him. J.T. was given the responsibility of coordinating one of the president's critical ten-year receptions at the residence of a wealthy donor he'd been cultivating. He organized everything, down to the food placement, catering staff positions, and even the music. J.T. was at the wine bar when the president unexpectedly walked up to him.

“Well, J.T., I'm impressed. This is quite an event you've put together here,” the president said.

“Thank you, sir,” J.T. answered, shocked, and surprised the president even knew his name, mixed in with a deep-down sense of indignation at being complimented for conducting a basic function of his duty—as if somehow J.T was exceeding expectations.

“Oh, don't call me sir when we're at these types of events,” the president answered, “makes me feel too stuffy. Please, tonight, call me Jim.”

J.T. nodded, smiling at him as a waiter walked by.

“So, I have a serious question for you while I have a minute,” the president said.

“Yessir?”

The president looked at J.T. funny, as if to say, didn't I just tell you to call me Jim?

“You're a football guy, right?”

“I bleed black and gold,” J.T. answered.

“Great! Did you catch that debacle in last Sunday's game?”

J.T. answered that he did. One play, seven seconds to go, one absolutely incredible last shot to have a chance for the playoffs. The whole city was talking about it. To get so close with one of the most unlikely plays in NFL history and end up losing because of a botched extra point, of all things. Extra points are one of the most ho-hum kicks in the entire game. They're supposed to be automatic, no question.

J.T. recalled feeling as if he and the president talked about that play forever, though they probably spent three, maybe five minutes, together. That was it. He saw the man many times after that, of course, but no more conversations ever took place.

Yet, today he found himself in a peculiar place, singled out to meet with Mr. Belikoff, one of, if not the, president's top donor relationship—and on a single day's notice, no less!

“Honestly, J.T.,” Lucy, his colleague and office confidant, responded, “you’re way over-thinking this thing.” Lucy sat in one of the two chairs that faced his desk.

Neat, but sparsely decorated, J.T.’s office boasted one framed picture—a landscape painting of a live oak tree dotted by white cranes. The same picture was hanging on the wall when J.T. was hired. On his desk, he had a picture of his mother, godmother and grandmother. The trio had raised him. On the wall behind him, several post-it notes formed an odd pattern of as-yet to be fulfilled leads and plans.

Lucy stood up and walked towards J.T.'s door as if she were going to let someone in. “I just want to make sure I don't hear any voices near. People so snooty round here.” She returned to his desk and leaned over it. “I'll tell you what you should worry about,” she almost whispered, her face stern and concentrated.

J.T. leaned closer toward her.

“I hear he's a son-of-a-bitch. Real hard-ass, know what I mean? Those stories bout people being fired are true for a reason. You think he gives a shit bout two-bit major gifts officers? Hell no! He gets them fired like they were nothing but disposable tissue. That man don’t care bout people. You better watch out.”

“Now who's worrying?” J.T. said, attempting at the same time to look relaxed as he eased back into his chair.

“I didn't say anything bout worrying. I said you think too much.”

“I have to,” J.T. answered, “and you know why.”

Age-wise, he felt, even culturally, he wasn’t the right fit for a private meeting with Mr. Belikoff, no matter what it was that the old man wanted. It worried J.T. this meeting could affect the school's opportunity for millions in donation. Such meetings could affect his future for many years, maybe even indefinitely. He would rather not be the one in the scapegoat position if, for some reason, Mr. Belikoff withdrew his pledged donations to the school. Scapegoats come a dime a dozen, he knew, and in this case he couldn't help thinking he was being set up. No, he thought, he has to shake this stuff off, put it behind him.

“Besides,” he said to Lucy, “why not send the vice president for advancement? That guy has all the charm in the world, plus he’s someone Mr. Belikoff would feel very comfortable with immediately.”

“That would have made some sense, actually,” Lucy added. “If the deal was someone from the school had to go there at short notice, like now, and the president wasn't available, then yeah, the next in line to go on behalf of the president would be the VP. He could easily do it. Clarkson is more than capable of holding his own with rich southern gentlemen.” She paused and looked at J.T. as if she were trying to tease something out of him. “But,” she said, “that isn't the deal, is it?”

J.T. ignored her. He looked at his watch. It was almost time to go.

“That would be too straightforward,” she continued. “Nope, can't do it that way, not Mr. Belikoff. Cause the president is here, after all. He's not away. He could have gone. But he's not going, you are.”

“Ok, Lucy,” J.T. stood up, “you can stop. I don't have any more information for you.”

Of course this was a lie. His superior had shared specific instructions for J.T.’s visit, which were dictated by Mr. Belikoff himself, and that this visit had nothing to do with the old man's prior philanthropic commitments, nor with any other university-related gift. Of course, this information only made everything worse. Was this some sort of sick test the president set up with Mr. Belikoff? Or was Mr. Belikoff perhaps interested in something that somehow was related to J.T.’s specific duties? For the last eighteen hours it’s all he’s thought about, with little results.

The leadership in his department was less than helpful. They seemed anxiety-ridden, and J.T. believed he could sense suspicion and contempt concealed just beneath their shabby attempts to portray themselves as supportive. In the end, no one could figure out why Mr. Belikoff had specifically asked—in his own words, for that “heavy-set, dark-skinned professional who was fundraising for the president.”

Regardless, the fact remained, J.T. was going to Mr. Belikoff's home alone, and none of it seemed to sit well with the department leadership.

Mr. Belikoff also left behind precise instructions about how the meeting was going to be conducted, from the arrival to the dismissal. He would send a driver, who would pick up J.T. precisely at 11:30AM from the main campus' front entrance. J.T. would travel alone. No other university personnel would be allowed to join J.T. The driver would be instructed to not allow a second person in the vehicle. After his arrival, they would have a lunch meeting lasting exactly one hour. J.T. would be driven back to the campus immediately after the meeting. No letters, cards or gifts would be required, or accepted. No recordings of any kind would be allowed.

“Is it time?” Lucy asked as J.T. slowly lifted his suit coat from his chair.

J.T. knew all the stories about Mr. Belikoff. How his family had made its money in rice and sugar plantations, and how they had used that family wealth to make more money in bananas and other crops in Latin America. He’d also heard a great deal about the plantation home where Mr. Belikoff spent his days, a home on the southern edge of New Domangue, lying somewhere between modern life and forgotten traditions. The house, he’d been told, impressed for the way it seemed to hold a final breath in which everything dead and gone from plantation life still lingered, despite being surrounded by a changing landscape and a changing people, which combined to slowly erode most of the vestiges of what used to be, what used to harmonize with the house, replacing everything in the vicinity with the newness of what was becoming.

His instructions from his supervisor were simple. No conversation about the president’s planned donation ask. Only listen. Mr. Belikoff requested this meeting, and no one knew why. So all he had to do was listen. Stay within the confines of whatever it was Mr. Belikoff wanted to speak about and bring any information back to the team that was relevant. That was it.

Unlike most typical planning meetings usually held about donors, the instructions from this meeting had little to offer. None of it followed any protocol he was accustomed to, and none of it alleviated his own growing anxiety. A part of him wanted to refuse on grounds that the entire arrangement was unorthodox, out of the realm of normal practice, and so on. But no, he thought, best to ignore the burning desire in his gut to say to hell with this. Besides, he thought, what’s the worst that could happen?

J.T. walked out onto the campus quadrangle and made his way to the front. Just as he arrived, a black limousine pulled up.

That must be my ride, J.T. thought, exactly three minutes before the designated pickup time. The car pulled into the circular driveway, the rear door stopping almost directly in front of him.

J.T. watched with curiosity as the driver stepped out, walked around the rear of the car towards him, paused about three feet from him, and assumed an almost militaristic position.

“Are you Mr. Richardson?” the driver asked, J.T. thought, in a way that wasn't quite professionally friendly, as if even he was shocked that J.T. was the one sent for by Mr. Belikoff.

“Yes,” J.T. answered, then watched as the driver grabbed the door handle, opened it, and gestured with his free hand for J.T. to enter the car. Again, the gesture had an odd something not quite professional, J.T. thought. He heard Lucy's admonition from earlier and let it go, probably overthinking things again. All in his head, right? Yet, he couldn't quite keep from thinking how maybe this particular brother had an issue of some kind with J.T.

As they drove out of Orleans and into Chakchiuma Parish, the sun now high, J.T.'s thoughts drifted towards his childhood. He remembered the last time he’d come this far south. He had come down this same highway with his father so many times in those days, on their way to meet up with his cousins to go fishing with them. He must have been fourteen or so. That was about twenty years ago.

Maybe, he speculated, it was time for him to reconnect with his cousins. Twenty years is a long time to stay out of touch like that, especially with first cousins that were like brothers and sisters. They used to have so much fun, he recalled. Too bad all that foolishness between his uncles and his father got in the way. He’s sure that if there had never been a fight among them, he would not have lost touch. To this day, J.T. still had no idea what the fight was all about. In those days, such things were adult matters. Children, even teenaged, almost grown children, J.T. recalled, weren't allowed to listen to grown folk talk. Those were some crazy old ways, all right. Some things, J.T. considered, do change for the better.

He wondered if they still lived in the same neighborhoods or if they were somewhere else in New Domangue. Now that he was in the area, J.T.'s nostalgia overflowed, memories emerging as if they had been held back without his knowledge. Then again, he thought, those same memories were connected to his father's subsequent misery, the sadness he carried until his death. Maybe that had something to do with the long emptiness in his own remembering, he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, J.T. thought, this was a sign. The fact that he, and not anyone else, not even the president, was being sent down to meet with Mr. Belikoff, maybe that had something to do with him. Did it signify something in his personal life? Why not? J.T. didn't believe in coincidences, after all. Maybe this meeting with Mr. Belikoff wasn’t J.T.'s real purpose for returning to Chakchiuma Parish, he thought. Maybe it was just a mechanism for getting him back here so he could experience something else taking shape he had yet to decipher.

J.T. lost himself in his speculations, following different avenues of thought randomly, vaguely, while the scenery outside changed. Suburban subdivisions, some new, which J.T. couldn't place in his memory, gave way to chemical plants, which gave way to open land and grazing cows, which in turn gave way to forested areas, thick with underbrush and filled with cypress and live oak. The car turned into one of these pockets of foliage, which caught J.T.'s attention. It seemed to him at first they were entering into an impenetrable wall of brush, but it had a single-lane opening, just wide enough for one vehicle to fit, the ground mostly gravel and dirt with grass in the space between the tire tracks.

“Where are we?” J.T. asked, feeling slightly anxious about being in a car taking him towards an unknown destination, a car which now sped down a road barely wide enough for a large, modern vehicle, engulfed in brush and tree limbs slapping and striking its side panels.

The driver either ignored J.T. or didn't hear him. J.T. wasn't sure which. He hoped he wasn't being ignored; feeling again there was something about the driver's attitude not sitting well with J.T. Not long after, the car emerged onto an expansive, circular gravel drive fronting a three-storied plantation-styled antebellum home. It was an imposing building, clad in white, with balconies wrapped around both the second and third levels. Meticulous landscaping surrounded the home, as if it were some sort of dress that fell from the eaves.

“Wow, that's quite a spread, hey bro?” J.T. said to the driver, who remained silent as he pulled up to the front door. A man in a grey suit emerged and walked up to the car. He opened the door just as the car stopped.

“Welcome to Adelaide Row. My name is Talmadge. Please follow this way,” the man said in an apparently courteous manner, but also tinged with something not quite inviting, either, very much like the driver, J.T. thought. He tried to let it go.

The experience of walking on these grounds dazed, maybe even stunned him. He had visited many ostentatious homes before, so certainly the grandeur of the place wasn't why he was feeling the sort of intense reaction he was experiencing. No, it had more to do with how the place reminded him of a time he'd only seen in documentaries and movies. A time his great-grandmother would describe often to him when he was a boy. This is what struck him. The place reminded him of her descriptions, which were more than a mere cataloguing of items. They were stories of hurt, anger, imprisonment, inhumanity, and deprivation. Those stories, tales of extreme hardship, always had a center from which all suffering was born. That center was the plantation home, and this one seemed eerily similar to the ones in her tales.

In all his life, J.T. had never visited the grounds of such homes, which dot the Louisiana landscape from the mouth of the Mississippi river to the Arkansas border. He lived with the knowledge of how his ancestors existed along the river, which was enough to keep him from ever feeling the need to see these places with his own eyes. As he walked behind Talmadge, he wondered if Talmadge's folks had worked these grounds for the last one hundred years. He wondered if the driver's ancestors drove the master's carriage in the 19th century.

Behind the home was a large, extravagantly landscaped courtyard, complete with a circular fountain in the center. J.T. couldn't help feeling a tinge of anger and sadness over the very likelihood that everything he was looking at was made possible from the sweat and tears, and even lives, of poor, maybe even enslaved, folk, folk that he belonged to, came from, with whom he proudly identified, and whom he championed whenever he could. At the same time, he had a job to do, and he knew very well that right now, this visit was about his job, not about some personal feelings and vague notions of suffering bubbling up inside him. So, he did what any self-respecting professional would do, he swallowed his emotions, whatever they may be, and continued forward.

Towards the back end of the courtyard, J.T. could see a smallish-looking man sitting beneath a white gazebo. J.T. had never seen an actual picture of Mr. Belikoff, and he certainly had never met him. In fact, he may have been at the same university events with him and not known it.

While he didn't have any preconceived images of Mr. Belikoff, he wasn’t surprised by what he saw. He felt annoyed, however, after noticing how frail the man looked, thinking he could easily knock this man unconscious with one swing.

As he neared the gazebo, Mr. Belikoff easily, and swiftly, stood up to greet him. The swiftness in the old man's movements surprised J.T., but if it registered on his face, Mr. Belikoff either missed it or chose to ignore it.

“I'm so glad you could accommodate my request, Mr. Richardson. Thank you, so much,” Mr. Belikoff said. He spoke with a very soft and quiet voice, which J.T. strained a little to capture, as it had no carrying power in the open air.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Belikoff, I assure you,” J.T. said, attempting very hard to stay in his professional role and show an outwardly relaxed man in a suit. Inside, however, was an entirely different matter. All he wanted to do, from the moment he thrust his large hands out for Mr. Belikoff to shake, was blurt out how he was having serious personal misgivings about standing on these grounds, which more than likely filled in the midnight air with slaves' ghosts from times long past.

“Well, have a seat, will you?” Mr. Belikoff asked.

The table in front of them was already organized in such a way that J.T. could only sit in one location, directly across Mr. Belikoff. Salad, iced tea and water were already in place.

“I believe in eating on a timely basis, Mr. Richardson, so I hope you are hungry enough to join me for a light meal while we meet.”

“Of course,” J.T. answered.

As he accommodated himself in the chair, J.T. sensed the energy of an assertive, powerful personality beneath the deceptively frail-looking body. He could feel the old man's eyes on him as he squeezed his large frame into the less-than-adequately sized wicker chair, only to follow that by fumbling with the monogramed cotton napkin.

“I understand how confusing this situation must be,” Mr. Belikoff continued. “After all, I haven't even shared why I requested a meeting with you.”

“It's all right,” J.T. responded. “In my profession, one has to be ready to negotiate unanticipated requests.”

“Ah,” replied Mr. Belikoff, “so you're something of a pragmatist.”

J.T. considered this for a split second before responding. He could feel his insides knotting up into tightly wrung lumps. “Actually, I'm more a man of faith, but when it comes to work, I do employ a practical, professional approach.”

Mr. Belikoff leaned back in his chair and gazed at J.T. for a couple of seconds, a slight hint of worry briefly passing across his brow before he leaned forward and picked up his fork. “Good. That's good to hear. Why don't we eat while we talk,” he said, signaling J.T. to follow.

“All right, then,” he continued, “I may as well not beat around the bush, since our time together today will be short, after all.”

J.T. nodded, indicating his acceptance more than his approval, particularly as his increasingly hyperactive and over-wrung gut gave no indication of undoing itself and calming down.

“I didn't call you over here to speak about the university. I called you here to speak with you about your father.”

“Excuse me?” J.T. guffawed.

“Apologies, this is something of a shock, it would seem.”

“Why would...?” J.T. began.

“Mr. Richardson, let me explain. Please continue eating. The main course will be out shortly. First, I must ask you to understand this conversation is strictly personal and confidential. I have informed Jim as such. Only he and I know I wanted to talk to you about personal matters in no way related to the university. This meeting will have no impact on my relationship with the school whatsoever. Jim will not ask you for any details of this meeting, and he has assured me he will instruct your immediate supervisors to do the same.”

The fact that these two powerful men met to discuss J.T.'s role in this meeting didn't sit well with him at that moment. It left him feeling as if he were less than his own man.

“Please,” Mr. Belikoff implored once more, “try the salad. It's very good.”

“Honestly, it's hard to focus on food right now,” J.T. answered, hoping that his demeanor was still calm, still professional.

Mr. Belikoff paused with his fork midway up. “I understand,” he said. “Perhaps it's better if you ask me a few questions.”

J.T. thought about this and felt that as much as he wanted to take over the conversation, he may not be in a good position to do so, given how intensely charged his entire body seemed to feel. “No,” he thought and spoke aloud, “I think it'll be best to hear what you've already prepared to say.”

“Very well, very practical, indeed,” Mr. Belikoff said and began to share a story about his late sister, who had met a man on these very grounds when she was a young woman, a man she would not be allowed to love.

As the story progressed, J.T. didn't know what to feel. His heart, however, beat harder and harder, worrying J.T. that he might at any moment become one of those newspaper casualties; thirty-something male, suddenly dead of an apparent heart attack. At some point, J.T. couldn't stand it any longer. He cut off Mr. Belikoff as the old man was beginning to say something about Jim Crow.

“You mean to say my father was that man, is that what you're trying to say?”

“Well,” Mr. Belikoff answered as he finished his last fork-full of salad, “yes, but more than that.”

“When?” J.T. asked, struggling to understand how no one ever shared this information with him. He wondered who knew. Did his mother know? Does she know now? How about his uncles? Did they know?

“This would have been the late forties, before your father married. Both were in their late teens, my sister and your father. I think maybe around seventeen, maybe eighteen. I was about twenty-one at the time.”

J.T.'s body, though not quite ready to give up on all the built up energy, did feel as if it had let go of a great mass of unwanted tension. If J.T.'s frame had been small enough to slouch in the chair, it probably would have done just that, he thought. Still, his gut continued to wrench and writhe in all sorts of uncomfortable directions.

Mr. Belikoff continued, elaborating deeper about a love affair lasting through two summers between two people who loved each other deeply but who were forced to end it once the Belikoff parents learned of it.

“It was Jim Crow in those days, you understand,” Mr. Belikoff repeated, as if to implore J.T. to take this into consideration.

A server J.T. had not noticed arrived with a small cart. J.T. leaned back as much as his body would allow while the server removed the salad plates and placed the entree in front of each man. J.T. observed this server, wondering how long he'd worked for the Belikoffs. Did his people know his father?

“So naturally, the relationship was not allowed to continue. Our parents found out and,” Mr. Belikoff paused, “well, I'll always be thankful for this, they didn't involve the police. I am sure I don't have to tell you what involving the police would entail in those days, especially in Chakchiuma Parish. At the time, of course, I didn't quite dwell on it in that way, you understand. Most twenty-one year olds aren't thinking about things like consequences. Neither are girls of seventeen years of age. She was sent away for the next three years, which was more than enough time to end the affair.”

“You knew my father?” J.T. asked, beginning to feel part of the composed version of himself returning.

“Not all that well, no. A couple of times I helped my sister, of course, and I had to plan and arrange things with him here or there, but for the most part we never really talked. No, I didn't get to know him much at all, but I did get to know him through my sister and through the correspondences they had when she was away. She saved them, you see, and when she passed, she willed them to me. I would like for you to have them.”

“Are you sure you're talking about my father?” J.T. asked. He couldn't envision his father writing love letters. As far as he knew, that man was hardly the romantic, sentimental type.

“Yes, absolutely. I've had all the records verified. Leonard Jerome Richardson, wed to Martha Mae Williams in 1959, had one child, Jerome Tiberius Richardson, born 1970.”

J.T. looked at the food he had barely touched, a salmon steak on a bed of olive oil, accompanied by coconut rice. This was too much, he thought. Much of what he had known his entire life was now open to reinterpretation. Who was his father? What did this mean?

“Please, eat. The salmon is delicious. While you eat, I have one more important piece of information to give you.”

J.T. angled his head toward his fork, his hands undergoing the motion of putting food in his mouth, his jaw doing what it was made for, almost as if on its own. While he waited for what Mr. Belikoff might have yet to say, his insides began to take on a new intensity. He thought he felt the formation of numerous bubbles.

“In her will, my sister left the letters to me because she wanted me to determine when would be a good time to give them to your father, you understand. She treasured them because she treasured what she had with your father, even though it was never meant to be. Your father never found out about the letters still existing, unfortunately. When I learned of his death, I felt terrible for never having let him know they existed. But when I saw you for the first time last year, I knew immediately from your face that you were his son. You're his spitting image. I knew I had to get these letters to you and that it wasn't meant for me to keep holding onto them the way I have all these years.”

The server who had served the meal earlier returned with a cart again. J.T. waited until his barely eaten salmon was removed and replaced with a cup of coffee and a slice of bread pudding. For some reason he felt angry toward the server for his silent and stoic face. J.T. wanted to hear something kind and understanding from one of his own.

“Truth is, I had the opportunity to give your father the letters, but for some reason, I didn't quite get around to it. It's bothered me so,” Mr. Belikoff said, his last word falling to a barely audible whisper, behind whatever energy held up that frail body of his, which for a few seconds seemed suddenly on the verge of collapsing. J.T. stared at him, curious about what to make of this, but still too preoccupied with his own confusion and developing disorientation.

“So,” Mr. Belikoff continued, shaking off whatever had come over him and returning to the spry old master of his house, “now that I've found you, I would like to be able to pass them on to you.”

Even though J.T. had not had the chance to truly get to know his father before he died, he did feel that he got a sense of the man. He wondered what these letters might do to that. What were they already doing to that image, now that he knew they existed? Was he ready to change his own understanding of who his father was before he became the man J.T. got to know? He wasn't sure what to do. Of course he wanted to know his father better, but not like this.

“I'm not sure if I want them right now or even next week. This is a lot of information to take in,” J.T. responded, mustering his professional training to sound calm, collected.

“Well, I certainly understand. I'm prepared to continue holding on to them until you decide. Nothing has to be decided this moment. Talmadge, my legal assistant, has access to them and can get them to you at any point upon your request.”

Mr. Belikoff paused and leaned forward, raised one hand into the air, and moved his index finger in rhythm with his words, “I want you to know this. I can't emphasize enough, I am not rushing you to a decision. I am simply delivering an old message to which you must eventually decide how to respond.”

Normally, J.T. would have acknowledged a gracious act when offered. A part of him could still see that there was, indeed, kindness in the simple act of delivering the letters, but for some reason he didn't feel anything but a searing anger growing within. He remained quiet while Mr. Belikoff began eating his dessert. This old man seemed, J.T. thought, to not have a care. Why were they always like this? he asked himself.

“Now, there's another matter I have to share with you,” Mr. Belikoff said, as he put down his spoon and poured sugar into his coffee. “Mmm, that's just how I like it. I hope you like chicory, cause I always drink a cup of chicory at lunch.”

J.T., whose attention had been diverted briefly to the server who was walking away with his barely eaten salmon, hardly heard Mr. Belikoff, nodding almost out of habit.

“My sister left a small estate to your father, which, unfortunately, he never claimed while he lived.”

“Excuse me, what did you just say?” J.T. reacted abruptly, almost attacking Mr. Belikoff in the same way he'd often done when he'd had enough of some irritating person.

“I can see this information has affected you strongly,” Mr. Belikoff responded, matter-of-factly.

J.T., ignoring any sense of proper etiquette and decorum his professional training taught him to maintain, put his elbow on the table and laid his forehead in his palm. “What are you telling me?” he asked, his voice low and soft, similar to Mr. Belikoff, and unexpectedly calm, as if he were talking to an old accomplice.

Mr. Belikoff seemed unaffected. His tone even, calm. “My sister bequeathed to your father a not too-insignificant portion of her inheritance.”

“No offense to you and your family, Mr. Belikoff, but why would she do that?”

“It's okay. No offense taken. Truth is, Mr. Richardson, I never talked to my sister once about her affections towards your father. She married, widowed, remained childless, and in her days before her death requested I help her rewrite her will and include your father. Her reasons were hers, Mr. Richardson. Anything I say would be pure speculation, so I hope you'll excuse me for not imagining what I do not know.”

“My father never mentioned this. My mother, who lives in New Orleans to this day, has never mentioned this.”

“That is your business, Mr. Richardson, and one in which I will not speculate, either. However, you should know that your father was invited to the reading of the will and he attended, alone. I had my sister's lawyer meet with him afterwards and he decided to leave it in the trust of the attorneys until he made up his mind what to do. He never came back. I learned your father had died only some years earlier after having waited almost twenty years for him to return. The attorney, honoring your father's wishes, continues to hold the estate in trust, but now that you have surfaced, you can legally inherit your father's estate.”

“My father's estate,” J.T. said, his words sounding like a hollow echo. He took a couple of deep breaths, his head still in his palm.

“I can understand the shock, Mr. Richardson, but if I may, I would like to conclude.”

J.T. nodded, his head still in his palm, the anger continuing to build inside, as he entertained wild thoughts about the Belikoff's history, his father's history, the relationships forged out of exploitation and subjugation, and the cold, cool manner in which all of this stuff gets done, the same way it was probably done then—coldly and cooly put people in chains, call them animals, have some tea.

Mr. Belikoff signaled to the gentleman who had greeted J.T. at the front of the grounds to join them.

“Everything has been arranged. Talmadge here will assist you in the proceedings. You can direct any questions and concerns to him and he will take care of it.”

J.T. raised his head and saw Talmadge walking towards them, resentment towards the stranger instantly returning. He took another deep breath and looked at the old man directly.

“Mr. Belikoff, this is overwhelming right now. I will need some time to think about all of this before I make any legal decisions,” J.T. said.

“I understand. As it is, I have to apologize, as I have another meeting in town and I must now excuse myself. As I said, Talmadge can assist you from here. Have a good day, Mr. Richardson.”

J.T. nodded and shook Mr. Belikoff's hands. He watched the old man as he briskly made his way towards the front of the grounds. He felt like screaming at the old man that he didn't want his sister's money, but at that same moment he heard another part of himself say it was his father's money. It took all he had, however, to maintain the outward appearance of the professional he had cultivated over the years. The matter-of-fact dispensation of business to which he was subjected, over something so personal, however, curdled his blood.

And yet, exactly what suffering did he just experience that was leaving him feeling so angry? He wasn't clear. He'd just been informed he was now wealthy because of his father's love affair as a young man. Was that reason enough to feel indignant? To feel hurt? No, of course it wasn't. It was something else. Something bigger. Something enclosing all of this information, enclosing his life, encircling the world in which he lived, a world he'd known for some time now was a problem, and in which, he knew, he had little power to do anything about as one man.

His anger, however checked it may have been when Mr. Belikoff was talking, immediately surfaced when Talmadge approached him and asked him to walk towards the front of the grounds with him. J.T. had no desire to be professional or courteous. He didn't acknowledge the man, moving forward to indicate he was ready to follow him without so much as looking at him.

While they walked, J.T. listened with one ear to Talmadge's explanations, ignoring whatever hint of disdain he thought he sensed in Talmadge's voice, and with the other ear focused on a new sensation appearing from somewhere deep inside. This feeling, which he knew had something to do with who he was and where he came from, grew strong and vibrant, joyful and alive as he walked forward. He didn't quite recognize it, not fully, but at the same time, it felt familiar, felt like home. His education in cultural studies influenced his musings, and he thought of Armstrong, Hughes, and lastly, Ellison. All his upbringing and all his learning confirmed this vague feeling in him that now was slowly comforting him.

This feeling was full of drum beats, hoofs, and the sound of whips and gun powder exploding, and a people rising with pride from something desperate, inimical, and foreboding. J.T. felt this feeling as if it were a memory belonging to him, even though it was now more than 400 years in the making, a memory that coursed through his veins, singing in his blood, bringing stories to him that gave him a sense of who he was, why he existed, and what his place could be in this life.

He wondered, as he neared Mr. Belikoff's limousine, if this is how his father felt after leaving that reading, so long ago.

The driver emerged out of the driver's seat to walk around the back of the car, as he had done earlier, the same troublesome trace of something unwelcoming on his face, same as Talmadge, who was now nearing the car. J.T. looked at the both of them and had a thought rise in his mind—Jim Crow. It's 2004 and these fools still act like they're living in Jim Crow New Domangue. Fools, he thought.

“Talmadge,” he said, cooly, but in no way courteous, “I'll call you when I'm ready to handle this. I've got your card.”

He walked past the driver, past the car, and started walking towards the road leading to the highway. The driver called out after him.

“Don't bother,” he said, “I'm taking a walk.”

As he neared the front part of the grounds, ever closer to the overgrown road, he spotted an old gardener who was crouched among some bushes. The gardener saw J.T. and stopped what he was doing. J.T. approached him.

“Mr., can I ask you a question?”

The old man took a moment to stand up. He was much shorter than J.T., his body wrinkled everywhere, nothing but skin and bones. Despite what looked like the frailty of old age the old man's body looked as if it was tough as leather and could go on working for decades.

“How can I help you, son?”

“How long you been working these grounds?”

The old man laughed, revealing a large set of missing front teeth. He scratched his brow, his hand inadvertently lifting his gardening hat to reveal think yellowish-white hair. “Well, son, look like my whole life been right here on these grounds. Whole life.”

J.T. thought this man would probably know his father, but instead of feeling a sense of hope, a sense he could finally get some answers from someone, he became angered at the thought of this old man living as he did (which to J.T. appeared as if it were none too well) through the decades in this state of abject poverty and servitude alongside such clear display of wealth.

“Your whole life? Man, it's 2004!” J.T. responded. “Don't you know Jim Crow done gone, old man? You don't have to slave for nothing like this no more.”

If the old man heard J.T. or not, J.T. couldn't tell. He merely looked at the grounds around him and then stared into J.T.'s face as if he were waiting for another question.

J.T. took a deep breath and let it out. He put his hand on the old man's shoulder and said goodbye. He walked towards the road leading to the highway and began to think about how to reach his cousins in New Domangue. Maybe one of them could pick him up. His job could wait. There was no need to return to the office today.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Lucas Díaz-Medina

I'm a Dominican immigrant living in the New Orleans area since the 70s. A father of two, I've been a service worker, war medic, ER tech, pro fundraiser, nonprofit leader, city bureaucrat, and now a PhD'd person, but always a writer.

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