“Why do niggers never get charged with hate crimes?” Francis Mitchum asked, a rhetorical question. “Why are they being given a free pass? They would not even be domesticated, if not for the help of Whites. Look at where they came from, in Africa. There’s no civilized government. They’re all murdering each other in the Sudan. The Hutus are killing the Tutsis. And they’re doing it in our country too. The gangs in our cities—that’s just tribal warfare among niggers. And now, they’re coming after Anglos.Because they know they can get away with it.” His voice rose as he looked out at the crowd. “Killing a nigger is equal to killing a deer.” Then he paused. “Actually, I take that back. At least you caneatvenison.”
Many years later, I realized that the first time I went to Invisible Empire camp—the first time I heard Francis Mitchum speak—Brit must have been there, too, traveling with her father. I liked to think that maybe she was standing on the other side of that stage, listening to him hypnotize the crowd. That maybe we had bumped into each other at the cotton candy stand, or stood side by side when sparks from the cross lighting shot into the night sky.
That we were meant to be.
—
FOR AN HOUR,Brit and I toss out names like baseball pitches: Robert, Ajax, Will. Garth, Erik, Odin. Every time I think I’ve come up with something strong and Aryan, Brit remembers a kid in her class with that name who ate paste or who threw up in his tuba. Every time she suggests a name she likes, it reminds me of some asshole I’ve crossed paths with.
When it finally comes to me, with the subtlety of a lightning strike, I look down into my son’s sleeping face and whisper it: Davis. The last name of the president of the Confederacy.
Brit turns the word over in her mouth. “It’s different.”
“Different is good.”
“Davis, but not Jefferson,” she clarifies.
“No, because then he’ll be Jeff.”
“And Jeff’s a guy who smokes dope and lives in his mother’s basement,” Brit adds.
“But Davis,” I say, “well, Davis is the kid other kids look up to.”
“Not Dave. Or Davy or David.”
“He’ll beat up anyone who calls him that by mistake,” I promise.
I touch the edge of the baby’s blanket, because I don’t want to wake him. “Davis,” I say, testing it. His tiny hands flare, like he already knows his name.
“We should celebrate,” Brit whispers.
I smile down at her. “You think they sell champagne in the cafeteria?”
“You know what Ireallywant? A chocolate milkshake.”
“I thought the cravings were supposed to happenbeforethe birth…”
She laughs. “I’m pretty sure I get to play the hormone card for at least another three months…”
I get to my feet, wondering if the cafeteria is even open at 4:00A.M. But I don’t really want to leave. I mean, Davis justgothere. “What if I miss something?” I ask. “You know, like a milestone.”
“It’s not like he’s going to get up and walk or say his first word,” Brit answers. “If you miss anything it’s going to be his first poop, and actually, that’s something youwantto avoid.” She looks up at me with those blue eyes that are sometimes as dark as the sea, and sometimes as pale as glass, and that always can get me to do anything. “It’s just five minutes,” she says.
“Five minutes.” I look at the baby one more time, feeling like my boots are stuck in pitch. I want to stay here and count his fingers again, and those impossibly tiny nails. I want to watch his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes. I want to see his lips purse up, like he’s kissing someone in his dreams. It’s crazy to look at him, flesh and blood, and know that Brit and I were able to build something real and solid out of a material as blurry and intangible as love.
“Whipped cream and a cherry,” Brit adds, breaking my reverie. “If they’ve got it.”
Reluctantly I slip into the hallway, past the nurses’ station, down an elevator. The cafeteria is open, staffed by a woman in a hairnet who is doing a word-search puzzle. “Do you sell milkshakes?” I ask.
She glances up. “Nope.”
“How about ice cream?”
“Yeah, but we’re out. Delivery truck comes in the morning.”
She doesn’t seem inclined to help me, and focuses her attention on her puzzle again. “I just had a baby,” I blurt out.
“Wow,” she says flatly. “A medical miracle, in my very own checkout line.”
