Waiting for Westmoreland - Prologue (continuation) (chapter 2) by John Maberry

I had first met Juanita at a Buddhist meeting in the spring of 1977. Four years of college and three years of law school were soon ending. Now what would I do? Paralyzed by indecision about my future, I was still grasping at straws as graduation approached. If Buddhism would enable me to move, I would try it. What I wasn’t interested in was getting intimately involved with someone right then. At age 30, I had already been twice married, with the second marriage well on its way to the same end as the first—a divorce. Marriage had been a refuge I sought, a safe harbor to which I could retreat, protection from whatever storms or stress might trouble my existence. In the end, my twice-mistaken monogamy brought me misery, not security.


So, instead of looking for lasting love, beginning the summer of 1977 I went looking for the social life I had never had. Over a 15-month span, I went out with more people than I had in the previous 15 years. I wasn't out for casual sex, just for social interaction. Juanita was not among those I went out with at first, but near the end of that period, following a Halloween party in 1978, we began dating. She had the same powerful life force I found typical among women who practiced Buddhism. But she had something more as well. She shared my passions for science fiction, waterfalls in the woods and more. When we got serious a year later, I figured I had defeated my relationship demons. I no longer needed someone else to make me happy. Instead of an escape into dependence, marriage would be a place to share happiness from within. Despite my confidence in this new perspective on marriage, I knew I was risking being a three-time loser. George Harrison upped the risk to being a dead one.


It was my call to him, just two days before Juanita’s report that prompted the threat. I hadn’t spoken to her father since our only meeting in January, earlier that year. The conversation didn’t go as I had hoped.
“Mr. Harrison, this is John Maberry.”

“Who?” His deep voice boomed back.

“John Maberry. The one with the green telephone van.” I instantly regretted my words.

“Oh yeah, I remember you! Why are you calling here? I got nothing to talk about with you.” He spat out, sounding ready to hang up.

“Well, I know we met under awkward circumstances, but I want to put that behind us. I was calling to let you know that your daughter Juanita and I are planning to get married next year.” The silence was deafening for a few moments, before the explosion came.

“Married? You say you gonna marry my daughter! Don’t you think I got something to say about that?”

“Well…sure, that’s why I was calling you. But she is 30 years old. I was calling as a courtesy, out of respect to you as her father.”

“Respect! You don’t respect me. You don’t know nothing about respect!” He snorted.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” I stammered, unsure how to respond.

“You’re sorry all right! You stay away from my daughter and don’t you be calling back here again,” he said, hanging up the phone. At the time, I was surprised by his anger but unconcerned. An unpleasant conversation to be sure, I thought, but of no lasting consequence. I was mistaken, of course. By the time he threatened to kill us, he had undoubtedly given this call much thought.

What could Juanita and I do? Should we just forget about our marriage plans, give up our relationship and start over with somebody else? Maybe we could run away to a proverbial Timbuktu where her father couldn’t find us. Could I get him before he got us? I had nothing against him, even if he did want to kill me. But if it were he or I to live or die, then I either would have to strike first or be prepared to fight back. Not a pleasant thought to contemplate. Or should we try to change his mind? A very difficult undertaking and potentially fatal if we failed to convince him.

Why was this happening to me? Of all the women in the world I could get involved with, why did I choose one whose father wanted to kill me? I had no strong feelings one way or the other toward George Harrison, having met him only once. Yet he felt strongly enough about me to contemplate my death. When Juanita and I got to the point of discussing marriage, I considered that George Harrison might not warmly welcome me into the family. Some opposition I could understand, but killing us both seemed a little excessive. I knew he had a couple reasons to be upset, the first of which was my skin color.

Her father didn’t care much for white folks. He had endured plenty as a black man in a white world. Juanita told me of his military experience during WW II, in a segregated unit, and what happened after his discharge. He had fought in the South Pacific, becoming a platoon sergeant. Although they all fought as Americans on foreign soil, U.S. military policy prohibited black soldiers from fighting alongside the whites. As a returning Army sergeant, the local bus company was more than happy to offer him a driver’s job sight unseen. Upon showing up in person however, they said he must have misunderstood. The only openings were for janitors. I couldn’t blame him for how he felt about white people. Why should he view me as being any different from the rest?

My complexion wasn’t the only problem. There was that unexpected encounter, our only face-to-face meeting, the previous winter.</br>