One Known Drop by Gary Earl Ross

It was early Thursday afternoon on Halloween. The sound of an email alert on the other side of his studio apartment made Wally Ray Tucker sit up beside the pale redhead drifting off in his bed. Their extended nooner had given them enough time for a double play, but there would be no hat trick. A lifelong friend who recently added with benefits to their relationship, CC had to get back to her office in Rockville. He nudged her, slid out of bed, and went to his desktop computer. As she washed and dressed in the bathroom, he checked his email and printed out an attachment. Then he read it. And felt his throat constrict.

He’d sent his spit to Backstory Mine on a beer-fueled dare from two of his crew. Both Mars and Duke had bragged about their DNA results. Duke was 98.3% white European, Mars 99.2, the former with just over one percent Middle Eastern, the latter with less than a percent Native American. “Ninety-seven and above is about as pure as you can get these days,” Mars explained when Wally Ray asked why they weren’t a hundred percent. “Somewhere back in the day, an A-rab climbed Duke’s family tree,” Mars said. “And a squaw crawled inside my family tent, but we’re just as white as you.”

“The way they tagged easy pickings back then, I’d say anything over ninety percent is good to go.” Duke laughed “A cup of black coffee disappears in ten gallons of milk.”

Wally Ray was tall and blond, with blue eyes and near translucent skin, confirmation of the genes from Sweden and Norway.  His gravelly voice might have come from his high percentage of German ancestry. Having traced his American roots back before those who’d worn the gray in 1861, he was as proud of his whiteness as any man. The added backstory would have delighted him, if not for the sum total of his European whiteness—86.8%. He had a smattering of this and that from Italy, Turkey, and American Indians, but what bugged him beyond where his ancestors planted their poles was the percentage of Sub-Saharan African he carried inside him. He was part of Liberty Storm, for Christ’s sake. Hell, he had founded the group. Mars, Duke, and Brick would pick him up later so they could drive down to Fairfax and deal with a jig reporter from the Washington Post investigating them. Neither Duke nor Mars would ever look white as Wally Ray. Both had ruddy skin and dark hair, though Duke was almost bald. How could Wally Ray be the one who was 11.3% black?

How could he lead the people he was supposed to lead, if he wasn’t who he was supposed to be?

The question rose to its full height in his mind and stood over him like an attentive gargoyle. Mars and Duke would expect to hear, if not see, his DNA summary. They wouldn’t tease him about his level of impurity. They knew of his temper, and it was unlikely either forgot what happened to the non-com who got him tossed out of the Marines. If that body had never been found, theirs could disappear too. But his DNA would sit in their minds. If word reached the others, some of them might drift away, from him and the cause, leaving him hollow enough to put his gun between his teeth.

After all, didn’t the law used to say one known drop of black blood made you black? If they didn’t say it, his men would certainly think it.

Just then CC stepped out of the bathroom, rust-colored skirt suit clinging to her and wavy hair framing her face. She hoisted her designer briefcase onto her shoulder as she crossed the room. Green eyes glittering at his lean nakedness, she said, “If I didn’t have so much left to do today…”

“I know we’re just hanging out, having fun, like when we were kids.” He handed her the multipage printout. “But maybe you’ll change your mind about me as a playmate.”

“How we play now is nothing like when we were five splashing in my wading pool.” She flipped through the pages, her face registering concern. “When did you do this?”

“A while back.” He shrugged. “Read the summary at the bottom. Not even ninety percent pure. I got a B in being white. Imagine that!”

She scanned a few lines, lips pressed tight. “Gotta be a lab mistake. Maybe even a lie. They recognized your name. They’re messing with your head, to neutralize you.”

He turned to the nearest mirror. “How the hell am I—me!—eleven percent like them?”

“Nobody needs to know about this, least of all your Stormers. Especially not tonight. So somewhere between your great-grandparents and great-greats, somebody got busy with the help. So what? That changes nothing, about you or us or what we must do.” CC slid the pages into her briefcase. “I’ll whip up another report, with all the right numbers. You’ll have it by tomorrow.” Then she stepped between him and the mirror, fingered the confederate flag beneath his left clavicle, then the swastika beneath his right. “You are the whitest man I know.” Finally, she kissed him, her tongue’s electricity zigzagging through him. “If we take this far enough, your actions will wash away that stain. All right?”

“All right.”

“You still good with tonight? No second thoughts?”

“None now. Tomorrow they’ll know Liberty Storm.”

“Remember to paint your faces like skulls for Halloween. Wear gloves. Remember to be fast and merciless. You can purge any blackness inside you by spilling the blood of the fake newsman who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Once you’re done with Gibbons and his wife, burn their house to the ground.”

Closing the door behind her, Wally Ray Tucker took a deep breath and said a prayer of thanks for his oldest friend. Without CC, he would be nothing.

Gary Earl Ross

Image: Pixabay.com – DNA double helix on a grey background