Rage
Dedication
To those who have the vision to lead, and to those who tell their stories. Black Lives Matter. Say their names.
Chapter 1
8 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 5, Washingtons’ house, Portsmouth neighborhood, Portland, Oregon — Cage Washington parked his car across the street from the Portsmouth Baptist Church and the old parsonage connected to it. Home.
At least, it was the house he’d grown up in. He had barely lasted through high school before he moved out. With enough scholarships and loans, he could live in residence housing at the university. He’d seen to it he had them, because he would have lived on the streets rather than stay home one day longer. Thank God he got them.
He snorted. He hadn’t believed in God since he was 14 which had made it difficult since he was the middle child of the pastor of the Portsmouth Baptist Church. His father was a Black man who stood six-foot-two and thundered from the pulpit about the love of God and His coming judgment. He had been there to help lead the Black community when it struggled for fairer treatment from police in the 1990s. Had been there fighting for better housing in the 2000s. He was the champion the Black community had needed him to be.
Cage admired his father. But he had grown to hate this place.
He loved his family, he did. But he got along a lot better with a little distance between him and the saintly preacher — he rolled his eyes — and his lovely wife — more eye-rolling. And the congregation who was so thrilled with the leadership the oldest son Gregory was showing! And the youngest boy, Corey? So creative and charming. Even when that paragon of an eldest son married his girlfriend right after she graduated from high school? The church women sighed, so romantic — marrying his childhood sweetheart like that. Blessed be the Lord.
Right. And apparently Cage was the only one who could count when John Lewis was born, seven months later. When he said something to his mother, she’d just laughed and said all first-born come early, Cage J. Washington. It took him a while to figure out what she meant by that, and he’d been a bit scandalized to realize she knew.
Not that he begrudged Gregory and Bianica their happiness. And John Lewis was one of those happy children you couldn’t resist loving. (When the couple had named him that, he’d decided maybe Gregory wasn’t just a conservative, Bible-believing hypocritical prick. Maybe.) A graduation-party-surprise baby. That still made him laugh.
But the congregation had less positive things to say about the middle son, Cage, who was sullen. Rebellious. A troublemaker. Sigh. Every family has one. He’ll be in prison or dead, that one. He’ll be the sorrow of his parents.
And he had been that one.
Strong-willed, rebellious? Cage snorted. He could stand toe-to-toe with his father and stare him down. Literally as well as figuratively. Cage looked his father in the eye the year he turned 14. Took him another seven-eight years to fill out across the shoulders, but he knew what his future body was going to look like — he was going to look like his father. And to be honest, he was OK with that. Even at 50, the Rev. Washington had been a strong, good-looking man.
Back then? Cage might have been the only person in the entire city of Portland who could do that. He could even stare down his mother. Defying her was actually the harder of the two. He’d just recently watched the university president bow his head in concession to the formidable Mrs. Washington.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to walk into that house and go at it with the old man one more time.
The Rev. Clyde Washington had died two hours ago of COVID-19.
Cage closed his eyes against the tears that formed. He should get out and go inside. His Mama needed him. Would need them all.
Gregory was still in quarantine at the Eyewitness News building. This was yet another blow to his older brother, to not be here, to not be the strong son his mother could lean on. Cage wished Gregory was here for their mother. He was a poor substitute.
In the last few weeks, he’d gained new appreciation for his older brother and those leadership skills the church had so admired. If Eyewitness News survived the COVID surge that was taking down the university — and the city — it would be because of Gregory’s abilities. Even though he’d been one of the first to test positive.
The Rev. Clyde Washington was dead.
Cage had never seen a chain of events quite so clearly. He heard Pete Seeger singing in his head: There was an old woman who swallowed a fly. I don’t know why she swallowed a fly. She swallowed a bat to catch the fly. I don’t know why….
Fine, he thought sourly. Now I’ve got that as an ear bug. Pete Seeger? Lawd.
But truly: PSU alumni insisted the basketball team continue to compete, and the president acquiesced because of the recommendation of the Vice President for Student Affairs. The team went to a Thanksgiving tournament in Boise and brought the virus home — on a crowded airplane. One player had an advertising rep for a roommate. The roommate came to work; he didn’t even know he’d been exposed. The advertising manager, a PSU senior named Gregory Washington, took his wife and son to dinner with his parents, Clyde and Martha Washington.
The player was dead. He’d not even been told he was exposed until three days later.
The advertising rep was dead. He’d started showing symptoms at the office, went to the University Health Clinic and tested positive on a Tuesday.
Gregory, and eventually his entire advertising staff, came down with COVID-19. Mild to moderate cases. But Gregory was already contagious that Monday night at dinner.
And now? The Rev. Washington was dead.
Gregory blamed himself. It wasn’t his fault. Cage had told him so. Everyone had. But it didn’t matter.
Cage had been working the COVID surge story for the last week. Seemed like he’d done little else.
Well, not quite true, he thought. But he couldn’t think about that either. There was another person on the other side of town fighting for her life at the Veterans Hospital. He couldn’t be there either. COVID victims fought it alone.
And that was breaking his heart.
And they died alone. Just like his father had died two hours ago.
He put the blame squarely on the Vice President for Student Affairs Benjamin Davis, or as his co-Editor-in-Chief Emily Andersen referred to him, that bastard Davis, who decided not to tell anyone on that tournament trip they had been exposed.
He blamed that bastard Davis for the whole mess, starting with his decision that the tournament was necessary to keep alumni financial support flowing to athletics. He blamed him for the three-day delay in testing because he didn’t notify the team they’d been exposed. He blamed him because he’d been siphoning off funds from the Health Center fees for his own office, so the Center wasn’t equipped to cope with the surge in cases on campus.
But he didn’t blame Gregory. Gregory blamed Gregory. But he didn’t.
Well, the prodigal son needed to go inside that house and comfort his mother best he could.
He opened the car door. Locked it behind him. He walked up the sidewalk, climbed the three steps to a porch that always seemed to need a coat of paint. The parsonage had seen better days — and had seen them a century ago. The church was a Portland landmark with its roots going back to practically the beginning of the Black community in Portland. It’s brick façade and the two-story cross on the front was imposing. The parsonage had the same brick face, but it wasn’t imposing. It was home.
The screen door still creaked when he opened it. The front door opened before he could knock. He had keys. Somewhere.
Bianica opened the door. Her eyes were swollen from crying. John Lewis clung to the side of her jeans. She was a sweet woman, short with hair cornrowed tightly against her head, and he loved her like a sister. She’d always been part of the family and loved his father as much as she loved her own. Considering her own father? She might actually love his father more, or at least like him better.
She hugged him. “Oh God, Cage,” she said. “Thank God you’re here.” She pulled him inside.
Cage hugged her back and picked up John Lewis when he lifted up his arms to be held. The door closed behind him. He avoided looking at the living room with the big recliner his father used to sit in while watching the elderly television set. His mother claimed the couch where she could read and do the handiwork that always seemed nearby. Read a bit, knit a bit. She was the director of We Help, a non-profit organization that served the homeless population in Portland, but she also was a preacher’s wife. And preacher’s wives, at least to Cage’s limited knowledge, were always making something for those in need.
But she wasn’t sitting there now, Cage knew without even looking. He walked toward the back of the house to the kitchen table. That was the hub of the family, that was where his mother would be.
She was sitting at the table, an oblong wooden thing that had leaves stored in a closet allowing it to stretch out big enough to accommodate the world if need be. There was always room at Mama’s table.
A cup of tea was in front of her. Cage figured Bianica had made it for her. A thoughtful thing to do, but he knew his mother didn’t even see the cup, or smell the bergamot of the Earl Grey tea, also a favorite of his housemate’s.
Don’t think about her, he admonished himself. You cannot think about Sarah now. Or Emily. Or Eyewitness News or anything else.
Think about your mother.
Martha Washington was in her late 40s, tall, slim, beautiful. It had been his best friend Ryan who had pointed out she was a beautiful woman to him the first time he’d brought him home. Said it matter-of-factly. “So that’s where you get your looks,” Ryan had said. “Both your parents. Your mother is beautiful.”
Cage had been taken aback, had to really look at his mother the next time he went home. And holy cow, Ryan was right. His mother was a beautiful woman.
Tonight, she looked 10 years older, but she was composed. No tears. No weeping and wailing. Just sitting there, staring at nothing, letting her tea get cold.
Cage set John Lewis down. He crouched beside her, his arm stretching out across her back. “I love you,” he said tenderly. “I love you, and I love Dad. And I’m so sorry he’s gone.”
And his mother turned into his arms and buried her head into his shoulder. He could feel the sobs wrack through her entire body. Panicked he looked up at Bianica. She smiled at him and nodded.
“Let her cry,” she said. “She needs to cry.”
Cage held his mother and said soothing nonsense in her ear until she’d cried herself out and rested in his arms.
“Come on, Mama,” Bianica said gently. “Let’s get you to bed. There’s nothing to be done tonight that can’t wait until morning.”
Cage stood up, lifting his mother up with him. She was tall, and he wasn’t going to even try something so undignified as to carry her. But he kept his arm wrapped around her and guided her down to the bedroom she had shared with his father. She hesitated at the door, but then she set her shoulders and went into the room. Cage let go of her, and he stood in the doorway.
She stood there bewildered, until Bianica came in and handed her a couple of pills and a glass of water. “You’ll be better if you sleep,” she said.
His mother obediently took the pills and drank the water.
“Thank you, Cage,” she said looking up at him. “Thank you for letting me cry on your shoulder.”
“No problem, Mama,” he said, as he turned away. Except he wanted to cry too. Whose shoulder could he cry on?
He read a picture book with John Lewis until Bianica came back out to the living room. He looked up, raised an eyebrow in question.
Bianica nodded. “She’s sleeping. That’s good. I didn’t know how to help her. Thank God you came.”
The back door opened. Corey stuck his head in. “Good, you’re here,” he said. His eyes were red; he’d been crying. Cage didn’t say anything about it. He wished he could find the release of tears.
“Help me carry in this stuff, will you?” Corey said.
Cage frowned in confusion. “What?”
He snorted when he saw what Corey had: the high-powered computer system from his house. “Moving in?” Cage asked.
Corey nodded, setting off the beads in his red-tipped short-braids. He’d worn his hair like that since high school. It suited him. Tonight, he was wearing black. Black pants, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. Usually there was silver bling, but he’d left that off for his trip back home.
“I thought I’d set up shop and stay here a few days,” Corey said. For all his hip-hop look, he was actually the Eyewitness News computer systems manager — Chief Geek in EWN slang — for the newsroom. Cage nodded and grabbed the big screen monitor. They’d bought this together and had just fought over who got custody of it when Corey moved out of the apartment he shared with Cage.
Cage lost the custody battle over the computer.
But he’d gained the apartment so Emily could move in. Emily and Sarah and Cage.
Except Sarah King was dying in the VA hospital, and Cage knew she wasn’t coming home. COVID would finish the work a car bomb in Kabul had started nearly two years ago in only a couple of days. He closed his eyes briefly.
That left him and Emily Andersen, and he didn’t even know whether Emily would want him without Sarah. Can’t think about all that now, he told himself.
He spent an hour helping his brother get the computer set up in his old room.
Then he paced, feeling the walls close in on him. He looked in his own room. It was tidy, waiting for him if he wanted it for the night. For as long as he wanted it. He shuddered.
“I’ve got to go,” he said softly to Bianica. He gave John Lewis another hug. “Call me if you need anything. If Mama needs anything.”
“All she needs is her son,” Bianica said, looking at him with a worried frown.
He nodded. The baby son was back, and Gregory would be able to be here soon. “I’ll check back in,” he promised.
He was practically running by the time he left the porch.
He drove aimlessly which was stupid. Portland had been poised over a precipice for months now. The Black Lives Matter protests had highlighted not only the need for police reform country wide, but for the need right here in one of the more liberal of the country’s cities, at least to hear the president tell it, that’s what Portland was. Cops here — both local and federal — had gotten more brutal as the protests continued. More emboldened as the city and state leaders scolded but did nothing to stop the brutality against the BLM protesters. And protesters were bitter, enraged, disillusioned.
He’d been down at the protests most nights since May. He had watched the anger — the rage — growing. Not just in the protesters, he admitted. It was growing in him as well.
Cops just across the border in Washington had killed another young Black man a month ago. And Rev. Washington went to comfort the family and came back grim. He’d made his sons promise to be careful, to not take risks. Driving aimlessly at night was taking risks. Too easy to get pulled over for the crime of Driving While Black. Too easy for some cop to get antsy at such a stop and shoot.
But his Dad was dead, and he couldn’t lecture him for it.
That made him want to cry, but his eyes were still dry. He headed back to downtown Portland, to Goose Hollow where Emily would be back from EWN by now. He could crawl into bed with her, and she would hold him. Let him make love to her.
He shouldn’t. All he felt was rage. You weren’t supposed to make love to a woman when you were angry.
And he was very angry.
But Emily would take him in, would hold him. Would grieve with him. And maybe he could cry. Maybe the rage he felt building inside him would ease with her arms around him.
Maybe.
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