New York - The Novel

in prison by now, like my cousin Juan. Illegal activities are natural in some communities.” Maggie frowned—the lawyer in her didn’t like that—but he pressed on. “Look, the problems of Harlem and the South Bronx are the same as those of other American cities. New York, Chicago, wherever: it’s the same thing. You have poor populations who’ve suffered years of massive neglect, who have few if any chances of getting out of the mean streets where they live, and who believe, often rightly, that no one cares about them. When Puerto Ricans in El Barrio called themselves the Young Lords and organized free breakfasts and health clinics, that wasn’t such a bad idea. They were demanding help for their people. So, in theirway, were the Black Panthers in Chicago. When Puerto Ricans talked about self-determination, that wasn’t so unreasonable either. Nobody else seemed to care about them.
    “Some of them, in their rage, advocated violent demonstrations. I’m against that. And it’s perfectly true there was an accompanying political philosophy. They claimed to be socialists or even communists—whatever that actually meant. Hoover and his FBI made a big deal of the communist thing. I’m certainly not a socialist, but I find their feelings understandable. When a society turns its back on one community, then people in that community may quite reasonably believe that life might be better under another system—it’s human nature. So I try to alleviate the causes of that mistaken belief. Some people have worked hard to discredit the Young Lords and the Black Panthers, and they have largely succeeded, but the underlying problems that caused these groups to protest remain unsolved. If Harlem is still seething, it’s for a reason, I promise you.”
    Juan realized he’d become a little heated, but he couldn’t help it. He watched the redhead to see her reaction. He’d thought she might make a nice date for Gorham, but if she reacted badly to what he’d said, maybe he’d made the wrong choice.
    “Interesting,” she said.
    Gorham laughed. “Typical lawyer,” he said.
    The conversation turned to people’s childhoods after that. Janet had been brought up in Queens. “Black Catholic. My mom was very strict.” Gorham described visits to his grandmother. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by great crashes of thunder and lightning as the storm moved from south to north up Manhattan. Gorham learned that Maggie’s grandfather had been brought up in a big house on lower Fifth Avenue. “Old Sean O’Donnell had money. He made it in the last century.” She smiled. “We don’t have it now.”
    “Lost in the crash and the Depression?” Gorham asked.
    “Maybe some of it was. But I think we were just a big Irish family. Lots of children, for another three generations. It soon gets watered down. My father’s worked all his life, and he still has a mortgage. What can I say?”
    Once or twice toward the end of the meal, Maggie had discreetly glanced at her watch, obviously thinking about getting back to work. But the rain was falling so heavily that the chances of finding a taxi didn’t look good. As they were having dessert, however, the storm withdrew to thenorth. The thunder could still be heard rolling up the Hudson, but the rain had slackened off. It was nearly nine thirty.
    “Well,” said Maggie, “this has been really nice, but I’ll have to be getting back to work soon.” A huge flash of lightning in the distance seemed to confirm the urgency of her mission.
    “Won’t you have coffee first?” said Gorham. “It’ll help you work.”
    “Good idea,” said Maggie.
    And then all the lights went out.
    It wasn’t just in the little restaurant. The entire area abruptly went dark. There was a silence, followed by laughter. There were candles in little glass jars lighting the tables; after a few moments, the owner appeared from the kitchen and started lighting more. The coffee was already made, she told them, so they could have that, anyway.
    “I expect it’ll be over in a little while,” said Gorham. “Con Ed has massive backup capacity.”
    “Or maybe it’ll be like ’65 again,” said Juan. “A population explosion.” It was a statistical fact that, nine months after the last big blackout, back in 1965, there had been a short, sharp increase in the local birth rate. Gorham turned to Maggie.
    “I’m afraid you may have difficulty getting to work now.”
    “I’ll find a taxi.