Kingdom of No Tomorrow

by Fabienne Josaphat

Genres: African American Historical; African American Women's Fiction; Marriage & Divorce

Synopsis

It's that pivotal year, 1968, and Nettie Boileau, a young Haitian student in Oakland, gets caught up in the ongoing revolutionary fever. With her friend Clia Brown, she uses her public health skills to help operate the free health clinics created by the people she believes are "true revolutionaries," the Black Panthers. When she falls in love with Black Panther Party Defense Captain Melvin Mosley, their passionate love affair soon eclipses all else—her friendship with Clia and even her own sense of self.

Pregnant, Nettie follows Melvin to Chicago to help with a newly-launched Illinois chapter of the Panthers, but once there, she finds Chicago segregated, police surveillance brutal, and her faith in love eroding as Melvin becomes unfaithful. After a violent tussle with the police and the loss of their unborn child, both Nettie and Melvin are caught in the viciousness of J. Edgar Hoover’s covert campaigns, and Nettie is soon on the run, desperate to find power in her roots and ultimately, to save herself.

With richly imagined, relatable characters, Kingdom of No Tomorrow tells a story of Black love, self-determination, and the importance of revolution in the midst of injustice. 

Release date: December 3, 2024

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

NETTIE HAD GROWN accustomed to the kind of darkness the human eye couldn’t recognize, the kind that stared back and engulfed a person. Sometimes she could see that darkness in a house, even in broad daylight. She could see it now as Clia’s old Rambler came to a stop in front of that cul-de-sac address on Hollis Street. The house was a two-story home, commensurate with the rest of its quaint middle-class Oakland neighborhood. Yet, it was different from the other homes. It stared back at Nettie. Blank, cold, uninviting.

“Is this it?” she asked.

Clia killed the engine and gazed at the house before checking her list.

“This is it alright.” She shook her head. “This ain’t the projects, is it?”

Clia checked herself in the mirror quickly, patting down her natural. “Come on then!” She stepped out of the Rambler and started up the driveway, her heels clicking on the pavement. She was carrying a shoulder purse, her curves cinched in a black dress, her step, as always, determined. She never hesitated, never questioned herself, and sometimes Nettie envied that confidence. Her friend left behind a lingering spicy fragrance that she found pleasing, and Nettie breathed it in as she followed.

Something caught Nettie’s eye on the front lawn. Was that trash, haphazardly scattered on the grass? Odd. None of the other homes around here were like this. In these suburbs, the homes boasted pristine lawns, large windows, and flower pots, and the California weather had been generous to the hydrangeas and the palm trees stretching along the main road. It was a change from the cramped apartments of low-income housing she and Clia were used to visiting.

Clia knocked, and Nettie shook off a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe and wiped the sole of her shoe against the cement. She scrunched up her face at the smell and sight of excrement. “What on earth…”

Clia knocked again, and the sound drew the ire of a neighbor’s dog that barked furiously, as if they’d trespassed onto his own property. Nettie hoped she hadn’t ruined her platforms, and that they were clean enough to enter the house. She quickly climbed the front steps, and there, something else caught her eye: the faint outline of words that had been scribbled there on the white siding, on either side of the front door, and then erased, or scrubbed off. She looked down and noticed a bucket of soapy water, a rag floating amid the suds.

Clia saw it, too, and the two women took a step back. On the right, in large black letters, someone had washed off the word OUT. On the left, Nettie struggled to read what had been written there, at first, but she felt a prickle in her spine as she made out the remains of the word NIGGER. She saw Clia’s body recoil.

“What the hell…?”

They heard footsteps, and a woman’s voice called out behind the door, firmly.

“Who is it?”

“Mrs. Haywood? It’s Clia Brown. We’re here for the sickle cell research.”

The dog was still barking. Everything was quiet otherwise, no one in sight. On the other side of the house, there was nothing but a thicket of woods leading, if her sense of orientation was accurate enough, to the rushing traffic on MacArthur. The April air was crisp, with a faint fragrance of juniper and pinions.

“We agreed today was alright to come and see your son,” Clia added. “Michael Haywood? Dr. Johnson sent us.”

She was explaining who they were—public health students helping the doctor with his research—when finally the door opened ajar. Nettie flashed a friendly smile. She wondered what the woman would think of them standing there with their clipboards and bags, smiling back at her. Through the opening, Nettie saw darkness at first. But then two brown eyes emerged, cautiously measuring her and Clia before casting quick glances around.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Haywood,” Clia said. “Remember our conversation, over the phone?”

“Yes, I remember, but listen here…” Mrs. Haywood’s head inched out of the opening and Nettie saw more of her, a beautiful brown face with pressed, artificial curls. “I don’t know if today is the right day, Sisters. Could you come back?”

“We won’t even be in the way,” Clia said, shaking her head. “You’re last on our list today, we’ll be in and out.”

“Is Michael alright?” Nettie asked.

She knew the boy had sickle cell anemia, but now Nettie wondered if he had gotten sicker. Mrs. Haywood looked nervous. She opened the door and waved them in impatiently.

The drapes were all shut. Nettie’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and she noticed the photographs on the walls, a small piano in the corner of the room, a living area with nicely kept furniture. The sofa was upholstered in a shiny teal fabric, and on it, Nettie saw a doll, slightly smaller than a human infant. The eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, but Nettie waited for them to move behind those heavy, unrealistic lashes. She couldn’t tell if it was made of porcelain or plastic, but its brown face glimmered in the faint light of a table lamp.

“It’s not a good idea to just linger on the front porch like that,” Mrs. Haywood said.

“Why?” Clia narrowed her eyes. “Is everything alright, Mrs. Haywood?”

Mrs. Haywood was in her forties and had a Diahann Carroll beauty. As she spoke, she wiped her hands nervously on an apron that covered her checkered dress.

“I just… There’s a lot I need to deal with today.”

“This is for Michael,” Clia said, resting a hand on her arm. “It’s important, if you just let us see him. This is Antoinette, she goes to Merritt with me.”

Nettie smiled, and shook Mrs. Haywood’s hand. “It’s just to talk to Michael,” Nettie said. “Collect some data. I promise to be quick. Is he feeling up for it?”

All the other test subjects Nettie had seen were weakened by the devastating bite of sickle. Nettie still couldn’t shake the image of one of the patients from a few days ago, the eyes sunken, the skin yellow and slack. Dr. Johnson’s clinic saw dozens of afflicted patients on a weekly basis. It had been Nettie’s idea to help him with research, to understand the growth of the disease in the community. It could be helpful as Dr. Johnson petitioned again for funding; all his efforts so far had been challenged.

“There are hundreds of other diseases and conditions out there,” Dr. Johnson had mumbled, his shoulders drooping with defeat. “That’s what I keep hearing, that this isn’t a priority. We must prioritize ourselves.”

His voice dropped and he paused, thinking about something too difficult to broach. “It’s difficult to see it in the children, especially. One was too many. But two, here at my doorstep since I started practicing. Three… That’s alarming.”

Back home in Haiti, she had seen it, children with distended bellies and weakened immune systems who could not even keep their eyes open. She could write a book about it. She’d seen it when her father, a city doctor who’d retreated to the countryside, made house calls and took her along. This was how Nettie had learned about the human body, by spying on her father through door cracks when he examined patients. She’d learned about what made the body sick and what made it thrive, how to heal it not just with medicine and leaves, but also with nutrition and sunlight. Little by little, she’d move closer to the opening of the door until her father called for her. “Viens, closer. You like to watch, you might as well learn. Passe-moi le stéthoscope.” She learned to hold hands with a patient, to comfort them with hope, to show compassion like her father, and now she wanted to follow in his footsteps, make him proud, and this study would be in her curriculum vitae and her applications to medical school.

Dr. Johnson had gladly accepted Nettie’s proposal. This research was important work for him, but it meant a lot to her as well. This was practice for the future, and so Nettie asked Mrs. Haywood again about her son.

“Is he feeling ill? Has he been taking his medication?”

Nettie heard a set of footsteps, and a small silhouette emerged from the kitchen, a little girl. She watched her slip into the light and grab the doll from the sofa. She was probably seven at the most, with a lovely face and a large bow in the braid on top of her head. The other braids were pulled back into a bun, and there was another bow in the back, atop the nape of her neck. Something about her hairstyle was endearing. Something warm radiated in Nettie’s chest. A memory, perhaps? A flash of recall of herself as a small child, once wearing bows in her hair… Nettie smiled at her, but the girl stared at her with empty eyes before rejoining her mother.

“Hello!” She leaned in and honeyed her voice a little. She smiled. “I’m Antoinette. My friends call me Nettie. What’s your name?”

“This is Violet,” Mrs. Haywood said. “Go on chile, say hello.”

The little girl blinked, muttered the word. Nettie couldn’t explain why, but she felt overwhelmed by a sudden sadness, the sight of this child tugging at something buried inside her years ago. Violet ran up the stairs and disappeared.

“I’m really sorry,” Mrs. Haywood said.

She reached inside the pockets of her apron and pulled out a cigarette and lit it. She let herself fall against the wall and she rested there, visibly tired. She took a long drag as if seeking some elixir in it to calm her nerves. She exhaled and the smoke curled into clouds between them and it was as if a mask had fallen off her face.

“It’s just… hell.” She shook her head. “Ever since I moved here it’s been one thing after another. Broken windows. Trash on my lawn. At first, I thought it was just kids, you know…”

She glanced at Nettie and Clia, and laughed nervously. Nettie felt a chill.

“That’s what the police said, too. Just kids. But this…” She took another drag from her cigarette. Nettie noticed her eyes were wet, but no tears came. “Did you see what they wrote on my house?”

Nettie nodded, but she couldn’t speak. What was there to say? There was a silence in the house, one that sounded louder than words.

“You know who did this?” Clia asked.

“Does it matter?” Mrs. Haywood clenched her jaw. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care who did, I just want it to stop! They want to drive me out. They want me out of my home and I own this house fair and square. They can’t make me leave… I got a sick boy on my hands!”

Nettie clutched her clipboard. This was unexpected. She’d come for one thing and suddenly found herself in an unexpected scenario. Now that they were here, it was more than just Mrs. Haywood or the house that was in danger. She was, too, and so was Clia. Whoever vandalized her home didn’t want them here.

“Two weeks ago, they sat out there and pelted my house with rocks! Broke my window. I keep the curtains shut all the time. My kids can’t play outside. If my husband were alive today, he would die all over again of indignation. He worked so hard for this house. And now I have to deal with this.”

Nettie had heard of things like this happening in places like the South, where Dr. King was still fighting the ugliest forms of hate. This wasn’t Mississippi, though. It was California. How was this possible? Clia looked around, a grave expression on her face.

“No, Mrs. Haywood, you shouldn’t have to deal with this. Where is your telephone?”

Mrs. Haywood pointed to the kitchen. Clia turned to Nettie. There was a different layer of determination to her now, visible on her face as she squared her jaw.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and see Michael with Mrs. Haywood? I’ll make a call.”

Clia and Mrs. Haywood looked at each other, and for a moment, Nettie felt left out of an exchange between them, missing the transmission of unspoken words.

“It’s alright, go on,” Clia said. “I’m calling for help.”

MICHAEL HAYWOOD WAS in his room, sitting up in bed. He looked frail. Beyond the yellow tint in his eyes and skin, Nettie saw the glow of brown eyes, and a face that would light up any midnight sky when it wasn’t contorting in pain.

“Sometimes, I feel alright,” he muttered. “I do my chores, I go to school. But sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“Do you feel pain sometimes?” Nettie asked. “In your extremities? Fingers? Toes?”

“Yes ma’am,” the boy said. “It’s how we knew I was sick.”

Nettie sat on the edge of his bed. Mrs. Haywood stood by the door, watching. The room was dark, too, and Nettie was thankful for the table lamp that glowed enough to let her see what she was writing, checking off boxes. Michael had gotten screened with Dr. Johnson, who had immediately referred him to a hematologist. He was on medication, but lately, it wasn’t helping. Mrs. Haywood lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Michael to hear.

“Since Charles died—my husband—things just become more difficult, financially. Hematologists are expensive…” Nettie could feel her eyes on her, perhaps trying to read her notes. “Do you know what a blood transfusion goes for at the hospital? You seem so young.”

The orange glow from the table lamp illuminated Nettie’s face, and she felt her cheeks heat up. Mrs. Haywood was scrutinizing her features, judging her. Would her actual age diminish her authority here? Did this mean she couldn’t work or help in any way? She was prepared to argue for herself, she supposed. She’d had to argue this with her aunt many times. Tante Mado always pleaded that a pretty girl like her should always work her charms to get what she wanted.

“You have the bone structure of a goddess,” Tante Mado would say, holding her face up in the light to see her angles. “You look like your mother. You could pose for magazines, you know.”

No, this would not do. This, what she was doing here, tucking her pen and clipboard away, this had more meaning. If she couldn’t do this, then what point was there in even living?

“How old are you?” Mrs. Haywood asked.

Nettie looked in her eyes and smiled. “Twenty.”

“That’s too young to be a doctor.”

Nettie explained that she wasn’t yet, that this was basic practice.

Nettie and Clia visited families in housing developments, apartments, and mostly projects in the flats bearing the names of their developers in the inner arteries of Oakland. All the apartments were the more or less same in layout and in squalor. In one home, Nettie was forced to sit in a corner of the kitchen with her feet up to avoid mice from running over her. She quickly learned the price of poverty here in Oakland, and in America, by observing in each of those visits the lack of nutrition in sick patients’ diets, the water that ran rust red from the tap, the small roaches crawling up the cupboards. How could people be expected to respond to treatment or heal, even, when they didn’t have any real food in their refrigerator? It puzzled her that this was passing as acceptable in a country so rich and plentiful. It felt absurd, as if somehow the poor were not deserving. There was a lie here, a lie between the fabric of the two worlds. It didn’t sit right.

“Still, it gives me hope that you’re here. Sometimes I think about the world out there and how much it is all burning up in brimstone and fire, and sure enough, it’s always the young people like you who make me believe…”

They walked out of Michael’s room and closed the door. The hallway was quiet enough that Nettie could hear every creak of wooden planks beneath her feet. Michael needed transfusions, and it enraged her that money was what stood in the way, but she clenched her jaw. What could she do about that?

“I will talk to Dr. Johnson about it,” Nettie said. “You’re not alone, Mrs. Haywood.”

Violet was sitting on the stairs with her doll between her legs. She was pretending to brush and comb her hair. Nettie smiled as they walked past her, but again, Violet didn’t return the smile. No one in this house truly laughed, Nettie thought. It hurt to see such dreariness in children.

Clia was in the living room working on her report but put her pen down when Nettie walked in.

“How is he?” Clia asked.

“He is in pain,” Nettie said. “Medicated, but he may need a transfusion.”

Clia went to the window and stared out through the glass panes. The afternoon was drawing to an end, but the sky was still illuminated. There was no wind, and the palm trees were still, as if etched permanently against the sky.

“We can discuss later,” Clia said, cutting her off. “Someone is here.”

There was a man coming up the driveway on foot. Nettie and Mrs. Haywood had gone to the window to see who it was.

“Can I get the door, Mrs. Haywood? This is the man who came to help.”

Mrs. Haywood hesitated. “Help? How do you mean?”

“Let me introduce you to him,” Clia said. “You can decide for yourself if you want his help or not. I think you will.”

There was a knock at the door. Nettie stood next to Mrs. Haywood, her palms clammy. She cast a glance up the stairs. Violet was still sitting there, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Clia was talking to the visitor, the door open, and they could only hear his voice, a low baritone, smooth, whispering to Clia before she whispered back. “Please come in…”

Clia stepped into the living room, a tall figure trailing behind her. Nettie watched him stand there in a military stance, shoulders squared, feet planted firmly on the ground. Suddenly, everything took a more distinct shape before her eyes. She understood.

The man looked at each of them in the eye. He looked to be no older than twenty-five. And what distressed her the most was how handsome he was. It wasn’t something in the face, but it was in the way he carried himself. There was authority in his step and in his voice, and Nettie studied his clothes. They were impeccable. He was wearing slacks, and a buttoned-up shirt, and a black bomber jacket in black leather. His shoes were shiny, like his hair, which was thick and black, like a plume of smoke, and it served as the perfect perch for a magnificent black beret, cocked to the right.

“This here is my comrade, Melvin,” Clia said. “We’re in the same cadre. This is Mrs. Haywood, this is her house. And this here is my Sista Nettie.”

Sista. This was what had sparked the fire between them. The word sista had lured Nettie into the basements of the college, and the study halls, in meetings with members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the Congress for Racial Equality. That word had bonded the two over class projects, visits to each other’s homes, and soon Clia was helping Nettie obtain a job in the same clinic where she worked. Clia was a sista to her, but obviously to so many others who knew to show up when she called. When Melvin nodded toward her, Nettie understood that this was who Clia had called. One of those brothas. A militant. Someone who didn’t come here to play games. Melvin reached out and shook Mrs. Haywood’s hand.

He set something down on the sofa, a large black duffel bag Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Clia explained what Mrs. Haywood told them, and then finally Mrs. Haywood cleared her throat, and went on about everything. About moving into the house two years ago, about the harassment that ensued. They were the only Black family on the block. They weren’t wanted. The homeowner’s association left her out of meetings and correspondence, at first, but lately, things had escalated to vandalism, threats in her mailbox.

As she talked, Melvin moved around the living room. He peeked through windows, observed where the projectile had been thrown into her window. He looked out the kitchen windows, too, ascertaining their surroundings. The more she studied him, the older he seemed to her. She noticed a mustache over his upper lip and the sideburns to match, gracefully hugging his jawline. When he moved past her to go to another window, she smelled his fragrance and it was pure soap and leather.

“I already talked to the police about this,” Mrs. Haywood said, suddenly exhausted. “They said it was just kids…”

Melvin nodded. This time, he relaxed his stance and proceeded to remove what Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Gloves. It wasn’t cold out there, but she surmised he wore driving gloves, and it added a certain flair to his look.

“At first, it was always at night… It’s always people who seem to live here, some of them are on the neighborhood association board. Now they come in larger numbers, in broad daylight, in the front of the house, in the back, throwing things into the yard, yelling things at us, like…”

Mrs. Haywood stumbled, looking for words. Melvin waited for her to finish, but she suddenly looked into his eyes and they stared at each other quietly until he joined his hands behind his back.

“Got tired of calling the police after a while,” she said. “They don’t give a damn. Don’t even come when you call, and when you don’t call they come and tell you to make things easier on yourself, and just move out—”

Melvin stepped away again, and this time paused by the piano, looking at the photographs on the top board. In one large frame, a veiled Mrs. Haywood clung to the arm of a handsome man with a mustache, in a white suit and bowtie, both of them cutting into a white cake. He glanced at Mrs. Haywood over his shoulder.

“You call pigs to your home and they won’t come, because they’re too busy throwing bricks through your window.”

Mrs. Haywood froze as Melvin moved a small figurine on top of the piano, pushing it away from the edge as if to protect it from falling.

“It’s just a tactic, is what that is,” he said. “No different from the Klan.”

“You sure know a lot about tactics…” Nettie was thinking the same thing as Mrs. Haywood appraised Melvin. “Where do you come from?”

“Chicago,” Melvin said. “But I volunteered down in Jackson, Miss. Freedom rides.”

Nettie watched Mrs. Haywood breathe in and finally surrender with a sigh. She saw the woman’s eyes go to the piano and the bench, where the glass had probably shattered and her daughter probably cried, the sharp notes breaking the peace of this house.

“Well? What do you think we should do?”

“I have to report back to headquarters,” Melvin said. “Let them decide how to—”

“I already did that,” Clia said. “They sent you.”

“I dig it.” He looked at Clia directly in the eyes, visibly unpleased with the interruption. “All the same, we have rules. We’ll need backup.”

“Why can’t you just sit tight here yourself?” Clia shouted. “And why call for backup when we’re standing right here?”

Nettie leaned in to Clia, hoping to catch her attention and remind her she didn’t want to be involved. Especially if there was a potential for violence. But Clia was already balling her fists.

“I mean, you can trust a woman to handle a gun, can’t you, Brother?”

The way she emphasized “Brother” made Melvin square his shoulders, squint his eyes in annoyance.

“Are you carrying?” Melvin asked.

“If I did, I wouldn’t call you for backup,” Clia said.

Nettie had never met a woman as bold and strong as Clia.

“I don’t have time for jive.” Melvin sucked his teeth and turned to Mrs. Haywood. “Where’s your phone, Mrs. Haywood?”

“Why don’t you give me one and see how I handle myself?” Clia said, her head bobbing defiantly. “Or are you just—”

Something crashed against the window. Mrs. Haywood let out a yelp, but it was the sharp scream of a child that jolted Nettie out of her skin. Violet was still on that step upstairs, shrieking.

Glass shattered again, the sound this time coming from the back window.

“The hell?” Clia muttered, finding Nettie’s hand and squeezing it.

Mrs. Haywood ran upstairs to the children, her footsteps heavy. She was muttering something inaudible, Nettie thought a prayer. Only Melvin stood there in the shadows of the living room, unflinching. Outside, there was a revving of engines. Nettie instinctively retreated with Clia against a wall, her heart pounding. She wanted to plug her ears, make the rumble and the shouting vanish. There were voices rising now above the roar of car engines, clearly shouting intolerable obscenities.

“We told you to get out of our neighborhood! We don’t want your kind around here!”

Clia cursed under her breath, and Nettie held hers. Her eyes were fixed on Melvin, his silhouette moving in slow motion toward the window. He lifted a corner of the curtain, peeked outside.

“Watch out!” Mrs. Haywood hollered. They were throwing projectiles at the house now, screaming and shouting, and Clia’s nails dug into Nettie’s arm, pulling her closer as if to hold her, protect her. Nettie watched Melvin come away from the window with disconcerting calm. He went to the couch and unzipped the black duffel bag, reached inside. An electrical surge ran through her as he pulled out the barrel of what she recognized, in the darkness, as a shotgun, fully assembled.

Something flew in through the window and crashed against the photographs on the piano. They fell, more glass shattering, revealing Mrs. Haywood’s younger self grinning next to her husband as they sliced their wedding cake. Nettie’s blood boiled as she saw a large rock dent the shiny surface of the piano. Something inside her snapped. She reached for the rock without a thought, cupped it in her own palm as she launched it like a grenade out the window, hoping to hurt whoever threw it in the first place. Still, she didn’t throw it far out enough.

Melvin pumped the shotgun once. The click sent a chill down Nettie’s spine, but she suddenly realized the sight of the weapon made her less afraid. Something about its presence, the assurance of its effectiveness, as well as Melvin’s proximity made her hopeful. He pulled out a handgun from his jacket and walked over to them and looked at Clia, and then Nettie. Then, at Clia again.

Clia quickly took the pistol from him, inspected the chamber. It was fully loaded. She cocked it.

“You watch the back door,” Melvin said. “Any motherfucker comes busting through it, you shoot’em dead, you dig? Don’t ask questions. Just kill ’em.”

“Right on,” Clia nodded, gleeful.

Nettie hadn’t seen this look on her face before, and she wasn’t sure if Clia was happy at the thought of killing or at the idea that someone, finally, had stepped up to take care of a problem. Clia inched toward the doorway to the kitchen and stood there at attention. Nettie watched Melvin again, his hand reaching for the front door handle, without hesitation. Something in the way he moved was captivating, a lack of fear as he opened the door and slid out into the shadows. Nettie went to the door. Mrs. Haywood was shouting in the background, she could hear her. “For God’s sake, chile, close that door!” But she needed to see.

The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple and blue, sunlight just an afterthought as night drew in, and she watched Melvin’s silhouette move down the front steps as i. . .