And All Our Wounds Forgiven by Julius Lester

one way or the other. But, dammit, every day was different. Some days he woke up and was ready to take on the world. On days like that he brushed his teeth first. Other days he wanted to glide along the streets unnoticed, as much as a bald-headed nigger could who looked like death. Those days he washed his face first. Then there were the days he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. That was most of them. He needed two or three cans of Coke and half a pack of cigarettes just to wake up. Those used to be the days he would do something crazy. He hadn’t had one of those in a while.
    He took the bar of soap from the piece of plywood covering the bathtub. George had never accustomed himself to how seriously Card took face washing.
    “Nigger, it don’t matter how much you rub. You ain’t gon’ be white when you get through. The dirt comes off but the nigger just gets rubbed in deeper.” Card had never responded or hurried, especially back in those days.
    He soaped his hands until the lather dripped from them, then applied it slowly, working it with his fingertips around his nostrils, his ears, over and around the cheekbones, beneath his chin. Then, taking the washcloth from where it hung off the side of the plywood, he wet it, squeezed out the water, and wiped the lather from his face. He repeated the process several times before patting his face dry with paper towels.
    There was a lot of shit George never understood; waking up was one. “Black folks could be free, Card, and you still washing your goddam face.”
    “Niggers ain’t never gon’ be free, George, so I might as well be clean.”
    Card frowned. “And I’m still here, muthafucka, and you ain’t.”
    He brushed his teeth, then walked across the room and picked up his underwear, jeans and T-shirt from the floor. As he slipped them on, he was vaguely aware that they might be dirty and smelly. So what?
    He made the bed neatly. Even if it was only a mattress on the floor, it had to be impeccably made each morning. He might look like his clothes came from the Salvation Army, and sometimes they did, but women didn’t care about shit like that. However nothing turned a bitch off more than a man’s unmade bed. It got her to thinking about who might have been there the night before, and every bitch needed the illusion that she was Miss One and Only and Forever, even if she didn’t want to be.
    When he finished, he picked up the crumpled, half-filled pack of cigarettes off the floor, lit one and sat down on the mattress, the only piece of furniture in the room. He looked around as if searching for something to look at. There was nothing. The walls were painted a shade of green nature would have rejected. The green was peeling to reveal a layer of white paint beneath and who knew how many layers and what colors beneath that. His few clothes were on hangers on a nail on the back of the door. Next to the door was the sink, bathtub, a tiny refrigerator on top of which was a two-burner gas stove he never used.
    He looked as if seeing the room for the first time. He tried to remember how long he had lived there. At least two years, he thought. Maybe more. He had moved in after his last hospital stay and that had been more than two years ago. Right, he remembered. Four years ago because that was the last time he had seen or talked to Kathy until that morning.
    Card got up, went to the window, raised it and flicked the cigarette out. He turned back into the room, looked down at himself, at the wrinkled T-shirt and rumpled pants. After a moment’s hesitation, he stripped, went across the room and took the plywood board from the bathtub and turned on the faucets. While the tub was filling with a slow and tepid trickle of water, he turned on the radio in time to hear the five-thirty newscast.
    He knew there would be nothing about George on it, but a man who had been the second-best organizer in the civil rights movement wasn’t supposed to be just another dead