Boats Against the Current

By John Logue

Set in the tumultuous sixties, and published by Little, Brown in the eighties, this novel of a people's governor and a Southern newspaperman still resonates with the moral choices that only strong people face. John Logue's compelling fiction is available again, in a new digital edition.

"John Logue's Boats Against the Current is a powerful, intriguing tale of the South in its recent time of troubles. Master storyteller that he is, Mr. Logue weaves a narrative of newspapering, politics, and violence that crackles with suspense, yet remains strongly insightful and true."
--Willie Morris

"This is the way novels ought to be written--plenty of plot, plenty of character development, plenty of action. I am not much on these deep psychological things. I want a helluva good story, and that's what you have here."
--James J. Kilpatrick

From Library Journal:
The governor is on his deathbed; a black woman tries to have her son, a Vietnam War casualty, buried in a white cemetery; a prominent doctor is found dead, an apparent suicide. It is January 1967, and Jack Harris has returned to Alabama, after a seven-year absence, to be editor of the Montgomery Courant. As he struggles with the news, trying to reconcile his principles with the segregationist policies of the newspaper and its publisher, Harris begins the process of reassimilation into the culture and good-ole-boy network of Southern politics. With cold precision, the author exposes Harris's compromises in selecting and writing the news, as well as the poverty, prejudice, and political corruption about which he writes. Nevertheless, there is a personal warmth to the characters which allows the reader to understand the individual while abhorring his actions. Recommended.
--Thomas L. Kilpatrick, Southern Illinois Univ. Lib., Carbondale
Copyright 1986 Reed Business Information, Inc.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quid Pro, LLC
• Release date: Apr 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781610272353

John Logue

JOHN LOGUE is the author of numerous books of mystery, life in the south, and sports. He has been a feature writer and executive editor of Southern Living magazine, a wire service reporter and sportswriter, and chronicler of golf at its highest level. He lives with his wife Helen in Birmingham, Alabama.

Book preview

Chapter One

IPULLED ON THE HEADLIGHTS; THERE WAS NOTHING FOR THEM to penetrate; the dark had barely gathered the first gray beginnings of itself. Dead, tall grass, uncut since summer and long gone to seed, stood in ice up to the naked ditches on each side of the highway. The scrub pines were bent, fixed, as if in permanent submission to the cold. There was a thin drift of sleet, but it was not sticking to the road. I cut my speed ten miles an hour just in case. It occurred to me the radio was not on; it didn’t matter; after this many miles it was the same; turning the music on or off didn’t help; I should have taken two nights to drive from D.C. Clothes and sliding stacks of books and my old typewriter were only darker forms in the closing gloom of the automobile. Houses were still separated by long distances, most of them out of sight of each other over the round hills. They were small, frame houses like poor boxes, all of them too close to the highway, with faint lights visible in the windows. There was no position I could shift into and feel comfortable; I was deadweight in the shoulders; my right foot was numb; the accelerator hung from the top in the Pontiac and never seemed to give enough resistance for an easy, steady pace. I remembered the long, bending rise in the highway, but the city of Montgomery seemed to recede into the growing darkness.

Goddamn Jesse. What if I didn’t get the job? Worse, what if I did? And what exactly was the job? The phone was ringing, it seemed, years ago, not two days ago; I couldn’t remember when I’d had a night’s sleep; there was no mistaking his voice, even corrupted with influenza: You gonna spend the rest of your life on the rewrite desk, unfuckin’ what some third-rate reporter has fucked up? No name. No nothing. He sounded terrible, like he was strangling on his own voice. All I could do was laugh over the dying mass of press releases on my desk.

You’re about to get a call. Old man Hollman.

I’ve got nothing to say to him. I found myself patting my shirt pocket for cigarettes I hadn’t carried in years.

Jack. As far as I know, it’s an honest job. Nobody could say the word honest like Jesse, even when he was hustling you. I looked out over the faces in the United Press newsroom, dredging through ten thousand posthumous words with their eyes.

Jesse held to his country-boy-honest tone of voice: Don’t be tryin’ out how many ways you can tell him to kiss your ass. When he calls, come talk to him.

You sound terrible. I could picture him sitting up in the governor’s godforsaken mansion, pulling on one of those cigars bigger than he was.

I feel worse. The goddamn flu. Only disease that gets in every cell of your body. Your grandaddy told me that. A hundred years ago when I was ten. You weren’t born yet to be sittin’ out in his old Chevrolet, waitin’ for him, freezin’. I wish he was alive to cure me. Jesse broke into a deep cough. But he was wrong, your grandaddy . . . a politician’s greed to get elected . . . that eats up every cell, worse than the flu. Jesse tried to laugh and coughed instead. You listen to Hollman. Come talk to him. Come talk to me. It’s a job needs doin’.

I’m not promising anything. How’s Mary?

Tired of nursin’ an old man. She’d be glad to see you. Even serve you a drink of whiskey.

I laughed at the old story between us, at the first and only party he ever gave without whiskey. While I got you on the phone. What’s happening with the black kid they’re trying to bury in Pine Hill Cemetery?

All they got to do is dig a hole and put him in it. Fuckin’ government gets him killed ten thousand miles from home, and wants to blame me for not buryin’ him. Well, they can bury him in the front yard of this god . . . Jesse broke into another terrible cough. . . . damn mansion. I’ll help dig the hole. His voice softened, God help the kid and his mama. Jesse cleared his throat, and I could hear him spitting. I’m hangin’ up. You listen when old man Hollman calls. It’s a good job. He’s old enough to die hisself and make it a better one. He tried to laugh again.

Thanks for . . . Jesse had hung up.

An hour later I got a call from Arthur Samuel Hollman. He said, I can see you Tuesday. At two P.M. And the line was dead.

The sleet was really sticking now on the road, and I cut my speed another ten miles an hour. My headlights had grown stronger in the dark and splashed over an aging road sign tilted on its iron post. I was fifty miles from Montgomery. Just to the west was the interstate, but I kept carefully to the old, original road of my youth, pleased to see they had taken down the one traffic light in the last small town before the drab, ill-lit outskirts of the city.

I could barely stand on my cramped legs. I needed the rain and sleet in my face to know I was awake. The parking lot was almost empty. I opened the door and stood in the warmth of the big room, looking. Eddie was having a beer. He sat in the big chair he kept for himself, just off the bar, and watched the rain being driven against the window. He liked to see it do that. But he would have a beer to watch it. I knew the rain reminded him of Florida in the spring. It would rain there, sometime before dark, almost every afternoon, usually not enough to stop spring training. Some days it would rain like hell. Eddie quit talking about it years ago; most of his old customers were long since gone; now he had class food, and they came to eat. I knew the rain made him remember Florida and the shit baseball towns in the minor leagues. Eddie used to say, They never seen a drive like I hit in Brewton, Alabama. The center fielder never turned around; he was an old ass and wasn’t wasting anything. Four years Eddie hit .300, and he could catch. Jesse Stuart said he was the best young catcher he ever saw or played with; nobody had a better eye for ball players than Jesse; the war took his own best years, but Jesse was still plenty ball player; he could have managed in the major leagues; I never doubted that. Now Eddie was up out of his chair, prowling down the long window in front of the rain. I hadn’t moved, and he hadn’t seen me. I could hear him talking in the old days when this restaurant was still a joint, Jesus, Rube Walker played up there eleven years and that last spring, before I broke my back, they never let him take batting practice until I hit. It was true. The hell of it for Eddie Martin was, it was true. None of the old customers ever really believed him, but they liked to buy him a beer and get him telling about it. I knew he was watching the rain and sleet, his mind skipping back, not distinguishing between those days in Florida and the old times talking about it. He had learned not to do it. Now Eddie saw me, wet, standing in the door. He knew me before I took off my raincoat.

Jack Harris. Eddie still moved like an athlete, on the balls of his feet. Jay, he called, get the man’s coat. And get him a bourbon and water. Get him two. Eddie was shaking my hand, gripping my arm. Jay, the bartender, a pale, thin man with thin hair, moved around the bar with surprising quickness and took my coat, smiling, as if it were extra good luck to get it. Eddie could always pick ’em.

Goddamn, Jack, it’s good to see you. What brings you back here on a night like this?

Looking for work. A man’s got to be able to drink. You’re looking good. He did. His hair was going, but there was enough to frame his face, so that he still had the look of an athlete. He was fighting to hold his weight; the good suit helped, but he was fine, really. Eddie led me to a chair and watched while I knocked back the first drink. Jay brought Eddie another beer without being asked.

I was all in, but with the drink, not unpleasantly so. I would have to finish the second one before exhaustion really hit me. My eyes were puffy with lack of sleep, and I knew there were dark slashes under them. The flesh over my cheekbones felt as if it would crack. I held my face in my hands to be sure it was still in one piece; it was tight with fatigue; I ran my hand through my damp hair, thick and dark and gray, as if it were turning in a season of my life; it wasn’t long in the latest style, but with neglect; slumped in the chair I felt older and younger than thirty-nine.

Jesus, you look great yourself, said Eddie, as if to reassure me. "I’ll swap hairlines; one thing you can’t keep, even with pushups. What kind of work, Jack? You goin’ back to the Courant?"

I don’t know. Jesse called me. Set me up with an interview with the old man, Hollman.

Jesus. I’d rather go three rounds with Rocky Graziano. He’s the nastiest customer we have. Why dudn’t that old man die? Aren’t you still with United Press, in D.C.?

I was. I quit two days ago while I still had a choice. If you ever cross the president of the United States, Eddie, be careful not to do it in Washington, especially if you’re the tenth man in the UP bureau.

"You mean the story you wrote about the fuckin’ president’s sharecroppers? I read it. On the front page of the Courant. That’s the way it is with those liberal bastards. The president of the whole country treats his own shines like dirt. Not twenty miles from this table. I’ve shot birds on his plantation. Used his dogs. I know the whole sharecropper family, all of ’em working. You were dead right, Jack, the goddamned porch was fallin’ in; the roof was rotted out. After your story, the president — it was his wife; it was her goddamned land — sent a contractor in and built a house like no white sharecroppers live in in this county. That was before our president was asshole deep in Vietnam and had no doubt he could get reelected. That’s the way it is with those bastards. Treat their own shines like dirt. Then want everybody else to be buried with one. Do you know this dead shine they’re tryin’ to bury here?"

It was not a southern word, shine. It was a baseball word. I couldn’t remember when I first heard it; baseball players have words for everything and everybody. I was amazed Eddie remembered the only major story I had broken in Washington, when I still worked as the third man on the White House beat. Broken was the word, I thought, for what it did to me. A mad president can run you all the way to the rewrite desk; suddenly you’re the last reporter in D.C. to know if he drops a bomb on Salt Lake City. I knew that it wasn’t true; not really; I was already finished in Washington before I wrote the story; probably it kept me on the White House beat for another month. God, that seemed a long time ago, a lifetime of rewrites; the only thing I felt about it was tired. Funny thing, Eddie, I don’t know the dead kid. Just his name, Jackson. But the Atlanta papers quoted his preacher. He’s a black Episcopal priest. Named Boone, James Boone. I knew him when he was a boy. So did you.

Me? Eddie looked as if he had been charged with some heresy. I don’t know any priest. I never heard of a black Episcopal priest. I didn’t know they had ’em.

You knew this one. When he was about twelve. He was the clubhouse boy for the Rebels, the last club you caught for; Jesse played second base. You and I and Jake Bryant used to sneak a beer with Jesse. Mary wouldn’t let him drink; God, I haven’t seen Mary . . . But the kid Boone was always hanging around. I only remember his name because he studied at Georgetown; he stopped by the UP office once to see me. I’m sure it’s the same James Boone.

Yeah, Eddie remembered, chunky kid. Jesse always spoiling him with old balls and broken bats; couldn’t keep his own shoes tied, but not a bad kid. Jesse’s sick, said Eddie. Hadn’t been able to come eat; he did send over for ten steaks three or four weeks ago; some big shot in town. So Jesse called you? Didn’t know him and Hollman was that tight anymore. But I ain’t surprised he called you. Jesse don’t forget the old times; he sends business over; last time he was in ... a month ago, maybe . . . he was askin’ about you. You go by the mansion. He’ll be glad to see you. Jesse’s a stand-up guy. But to tell you honest, Jack, he ain’t done much as governor. All that talk about jobs, we ain’t got ’em in this state. I don’t know about schools; I never gave a shit for schools when I wadn’t playin’ baseball. Jack, seems like Jesse just disappeared; he had a few bills up and then . . . nothin’. I don’t know. Jesse always talked changin’ things. How many times we stayed up all night in the old diner? Jesus, you remember Mary callin’, wantin’ to know where he was. But what the fuck can a governor do, anyway? As for shines, me, I say live and let live, said Eddie. You know how Campanella was helpin’ me, and me after his job. He was an okay guy. The big pitcher was a shit. Plenty of ’em hated Robinson but not me; he never came over me. He had his chances in spring training, and he never came over me.

I was still pumped up with the drink, with getting here. I could see Eddie was really excited. Maybe he didn’t have any guys who would listen now; and it was raining and sleeting and weather always stirred Eddie’s soul.

Hey, I almost forgot. You know who came in one Saturday, about a month ago? Eddie sat forward in his chair.

I shook my head.

Your ex, Terry. Came in with her mother and a kid, a cute kid; he wanted to take his knife and fork home with him. You got a real boy there.

He’s not mine, Eddie. You know Terry remarried.

Yeah, but I didn’t . . . Hey, I’m sorry. Look, have one more drink. I’ll have one with you . . . Jay.

I had a sudden impulse to reach out and grab Eddie by the shoulder; I could show him what the old Dodger farm director Fresco Thompson had once said about him; it would give Eddie another fifteen years of something to talk about; I leaned forward, but didn’t have anything left to say it with; I was sick tired. I had done eight hundred miles in the rain and ice. I sat back in the chair. Eddie looked at me closely. He could see now how beat I was.

You drive all the way through?

A day and a night. It was like listening to myself speak.

Have a quick one and get home before it leaves you.

I could see the word home bothered Eddie after he said it.

You got a place to stay?

Yeah, I said. I didn’t want to go into it about the hotel; it was too late. The bartender was bringing a shooter and a glass of water. It hit me and got me started again. I stood up, feeling for my billfold. Eddie never let my hand get to my coat pocket. Jay was bringing my raincoat. They got me to the door; the rain and cold and drink hit me, and they all helped.

You okay? said Eddie.

I nodded my head; I had it back; hell, I could drive to the hotel easy.

Eddie watched Harris pull out. He made the turn okay onto the street. Whew, thought Eddie, imagine him coming by that bushed. He felt good about it. That’s the way it was with us guys, he thought. Once again he was not distinguishing between those times in the old diner and those days in spring training. I wonder what Jesse needs? he said aloud to himself. Politicians always need something, even Jesse. He sat back and finished the beer, like it was a bonus, something he had earned; it wasn’t so bad now; he could sit and watch the rain and sleet hitting against the window.

Eddie turned to see two men at a far table, a tall, wiry man with black hair growing down his neck, and a short man with a huge stomach. It wasn’t like him to have missed seeing them come into the restaurant. Eddie knew them all right — Blackie Kincaid and Fats Hutto. They worked for Jesse. Nobody ever called Hutto Fats to his face. Eddie stood and walked toward their table. They were busy with their knives and forks, leaving only bare outlines of two large steaks.

Boys, said Eddie, how’s your meat?

Kincaid looked up but did not stop chewing.

Hutto swallowed and took a drink of coffee. Good, Eddie, good. Your nigger cooks the best steaks in town. Tell me, was that the newspaperman Jack Harris? Who was just in here?

Yeah. He may be comin’ back to stay. From D.C. You know Jack?

Sure, said Hutto, looking at Kincaid.

How’s Jesse? I hear he still has the flu?

Yeah, said Blackie.

Remind him to bring y’all around when he’s well. And Mary, too. Dinner’ll be on me, said Eddie.

You say Jack Harris is coming back for good? Hutto forked a large slice of steak into his mouth.

"He’s interviewing for a job, back at the Courant. Jesse called him about it. I hope he gets it. Then we’ll have one writer in this goddamned town who’ll know what’s goin’ on."

Yeah, said Hutto.

Kincaid stared him into silence and ate the last of his steak.

Chapter Two

IWOKE WITH MY CLOTHES TWISTED AROUND ME. THE RIGHT side of my face stung from my having slept in one position. It was 10:00 A.M. I felt good, knowing I had slept so hard. I did not remember dreaming; that was strange. I always dreamed now, exact things and places, complicated dreams. I could no longer distinguish between when I was thinking and when I was dreaming.

It was Tuesday. My appointment was for 2:00 P.M. That gave me plenty of time. Not that I would use it to arrange what I would say. Or to imagine what job I might be offered, if any. I reached over and picked up the telephone. By 10:00 A.M., even the ill governor of an impoverished state ought to be awake. Jesse could tell me what was up. The longer I held the receiver, the less it seemed like a good idea. If Jesse could have told me more, he would have done so three days ago. I hung up the phone and lay very still with my clothes twisted around me under the blanket. I could not remember when time had seemed that peaceful. Perhaps it was an omen. Perhaps my luck had changed.

I stood in the damp cold outside the oldest restaurant in Montgomery. Of course they called it a cafe. The Delight Cafe. It was down the street from my hotel. Taped in the cafe window were old menus from post-World War II, braving the weight of years and offering lunch for twenty-five cents. It was a good, sad feeling to read them. Maybe they reminded me of the first time I saw Jesse Stuart, or maybe it was the damp, cold wind off the street. I remembered it was ten degrees in the Tennsaw River swamp above Mobile. I was eighteen, on my once-a-year deer stand, the doctor’s grandson visiting Bay St. Joe for Christmas, my father on the next stand — quiet, still, lethal with his double-barreled shotgun, comfortable in the dark swamp woods as a county agent knowing many woods