One Blood

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

29 Years Earlier

1973

Lake City, LA

“I’m coming!” Juanita Simmons said, hurrying toward the front door.

As she rushed through the opulent home she and Walter built after they won the election, she kept one hand between the heat of her thick dark hair and the nape of her neck. She hadn’t thought to tie it back while undertaking the momentous project of organizing her husband’s study, and now she was a sweaty mess, totally unprepared for company. Thankfully the cool hardwood floors beneath her petite bare feet provided brief relief from the heat.

Theirs was the largest residence in North Lake City. She and Walter had many spirited discussions over the location of their new home. He longed to infiltrate the exclusively white neighborhood of Oak Park.

“We have to break down these racial barriers, baby. If the first black mayor in the state of Louisiana can’t live where he wants, then who can?” 

It was a fair point. Juanita countered by reminding him racial tensions were higher than ever in the aftermath of the contentious election between he and the hometown favorite, Randy Lafitte. Had Walter forgotten that a mere five years had passed since MLK’s assassination? Change came slow in the South. Yes, his victory symbolized progress. But society still had a long way to go.

Truth be told, Juanita was not too keen on moving into a white neighborhood. While she was all for integrating the school system, when she walked around her neighborhood, she wanted to see her own people. It provided something Juanita had been searching for her whole life, the feeling of true security.

However, the tall dark-skinned man standing on her porch was an unfortunate reminder that Juanita had bigger things to worry about than the race of her neighbors.

Malcolm Wright, chief of Walter’s security team, grimaced at her through the peephole. This, in and of itself, did not alarm her. Malcolm, a childhood friend, only possessed two expressions—anger, for intimidation, and dismay, for all other situations. Malcolm actually had a pleasant enough face, although she could never get used to the pirate-esque eye patch covering his missing left eye.

Though they dated briefly in High School, Juanita no longer trusted his wiry six-foot-four frame. He always seemed to be holding his coiled muscle back from some random act of violence. He was a living embodiment of the unfortunate misperception that the darker a person’s skin, the darker their heart.

Juanita met Malcolm’s grim countenance with a scowl of her own. These days she associated Malcolm’s impromptu visits with agonizing pain. Opening the door, she silently prayed this wouldn’t be a repeat of six weeks prior, when Malcolm had shown up at the house with an envelope containing pictures of Walter in a compromising situation with his white secretary.

* * * * *

Even with the evidence splayed out on the coffee table before her, Juanita refused to believe what she was seeing. Her anxiety multiplied as Malcolm explained that Randy Lafitte was trying to blackmail Walter with the information, but Malcolm intercepted the package before it got to Walter.

“So Walter doesn’t know that I know?” she asked.

“No, but…”

“Good,” she snapped. Before rationality could prevail, Juanita collected the envelope and its stinking entrails and bolted through the house until she reached the back deck. Standing upon solid wooden planks, she lit up a cigarette, ignoring her trembling hands, and set the envelope and its life-shattering contents ablaze.