The Liberators of Willow Run

by Marianne K. Martin

  Mrs. Stranton’s voice rose a pitch. “She’s not there. And she’s not in the hallway anywhere, or in the bathroom. Where is she?”

  “Let me find the orderly,” Lillian replied.

  Joseph tried his theory once more. “Would she have been taken back to her room if she wasn’t feeling well?”

  “She would have been taken to the ER temporarily to have a doctor check her. I’ll run down to the ER first.”

  “I’m not waiting here another minute,” Mrs. Stranton said. “I’m coming with you.”

  She walked, brisk and determined, alongside Lillian until they reached the ER, and waited outside the swinging doors while Lillian looked for Amelia. No long wait this time as Lillian returned quickly with her next move.

  “No, she wasn’t brought here,” she reported. “But the orderly is on his way down to meet us.”

  Mrs. Stranton’s voice took on a biting edge. “How do you just misplace a patient?”

  “I can tell you,” Lillian said, “that it has never happened in the time that I have been here. And there may be a simple explanation. Let’s not worry just yet.”

  Not yet, not until the young man running down the hall toward them nervously answered the all-important question. “Daniel,” Lillian began, “the young girl I left you with in the back hallway, do you know where she is?”

  He smiled as though his answer was about to ease the obvious tension facing him. “Oh, yes,” he said, “the car came just as you said it would and I watched to be sure that she got in safely.”

  “A car,” Mrs. Stranton almost shouted. “What car?”

  “The black Ford,” he said, his eyes wide, “parked near the building where you showed me, Mrs. Barton.”

  “She’s gone?” Mrs. Stranton’s face was flushed a bright red, her cheeks quivered. “She got into someone else’s car and she’s gone?”

  Lillian held her silence and calculated the time in her head. If all was going well, they should be about halfway to their destination.

  “Call the police, Joseph,” Mrs. Stranton demanded.

  Lillian watched an uncomfortable Mrs. Stranton describe Amelia to the police sergeant. Her hands shook as she used them to indicate Amelia’s height and size. Her cheeks quivered as she spoke. This was obviously not something she had anticipated, nor had she prepared to deal with it.

  The orderly gave his description of the car—thankfully no standout from Mr. Ford’s manufacturing back yard—and an estimate of when everything occurred, with a give or take of fifteen minutes. Just the amount of time the Home’s car would have comfortably taken for the trip to the hospital after the phone call. Lillian counted on Mrs. Stranton finding no issue with the timing.

  She watched the older woman—no indication yet, only a level of discomfort that made Lillian wish that she hadn’t needed to put her through this. As much as she disagreed with the woman’s philosophies and methods, Mrs. Stranton was not in a position to do anything except follow the law. It was painful to watch. And Lillian was guiltily grateful that she wasn’t the one having to break the news to Amelia’s family.

  “We’ll be dispatching cars to canvas the immediate area and a distance in all directions that they may be traveling,” the sergeant informed them. “And we’ll get the description out to the precincts beyond that.” He sent another officer out to the patrol car to radio the information, and directed his question once again to Mrs. Stranton. “Now, is there a possibility that the girl’s family came to pick her up?”

  “No,” she replied. “I never notify the families until we have the girls back at the Home.”

  He directed his next question to Lillian. “Well, then, did she make any phone calls from the hospital?”

  “No, only hospital personnel have phone access.”

  “And did she have any visitors?”

  “No, no one.”

  “Any friends visit her at the Home?” he asked Mrs. Stranton.

  “No one is allowed to visit, not even family,” she replied.

  “Any friends that she may have been in contact with, letters, phone calls?”

  Lillian knew what he suspected. The timing of a car showing up before the Home car pointed to Amelia running away, not to a kidnapping. The letters were safely hidden, but was there any other way that they could prove Ruth’s involvement?

  Mrs. Stranton’s first response was “No.” But then she added, “There were two girls she was close with while they were at the Home.”

  “I’ll need their names,” he said. “She may have said something to them that will help.”

  Or they might be accomplices. Lillian offered a silent prayer that the girls were far enough away, close enough to their destination to be safe. For now it was all she could do—pray and wait for Robert’s phone call.

  “Have you met them,” Amelia asked. “The people who want me to live with them?”

  “No. We know as much as Nurse Lillian told you. We will be meeting them together, and we’ll have some time to talk with them. You can ask any questions you want.”

  The sound of their voices behind her, encouraging, loving tones, lifted away Audrey’s angst and worry. She breathed in the hope and promise of Ruth’s words and smiled at the gentle emergence of freedom. Amelia was almost free. And something surging through Audrey made her want to shout it to the world, to pound the steering wheel in defiance, to run and twirl and fling her arms wide, and celebrate. She wanted to take Velma’s face in her hands and whisper, “For you.”

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, could take this from her. This happiness, this sense of fulfillment, this—redemption. It was so real now. Not a wish pleaded skyward with no hope of deliverance. It was here, right now, lifting the weight of years. She basked in the feeling, letting it carry her until a red flashing glow in the rearview mirror sent an electric bolt through it.

  “Quick,” her voice jumped with alarm, “get down on the floor. Now.”

  With a quick glance out the back window it was clear why. Ruth grabbed Amelia and they dropped to the floor. They could hear a siren now in the distance, gradually growing louder.

  Audrey heard Ruth’s voice, low from behind. “Were you going too fast?” There didn’t seem enough breath to answer. “No,” Audrey managed, “Thirty-two.”

  “Stay as flat as you can,” Ruth directed at Amelia, placing the big black hat on the flat of the girl’s back. “And keep your head down.” Her own hope for concealment was the dark shoulder wrap she had chosen to mimic Mrs. Stanton’s.

  “No, no,” Audrey’s whisper was barely audible above her own heartbeat. “Don’t let this happen. Please, don’t let this happen.”

  The scream of the siren grew louder and the flashes of red gained ground, closing the distance quickly. Her heartbeat hammering in her throat, Audrey slowed the car to a crawl and pulled to the side of the road. “Stay down,” she said sharply. “And pray.”

  The car rolled to a stop. Audrey gripped the wheel tightly and looked straight ahead. She closed her eyes and tried to force her fear into calm. How do I answer? Where am I going? Whose car is this? What if he sees them? “Breathe,” she whispered, and drew in air, shakily.

  Audrey opened her eyes and chanced a look into the mirror. The interior of the car illuminated red and the siren screamed its crescendo. The police car raced past them. She stared in disbelief as she watched the car speed away, then dropped her head to the steering wheel with a long, audible exhale in relief. She leaned her head back against the seat and drew a deep, full breath that lifted her, light as air, above her fear.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. Then louder, “It’s okay. It’s all clear. You can get up now.”

  Ruth poked her head cautiously above the back of the driver’s seat. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Audrey replied with a turn of her head. “Only that it’s not us. Are you both okay?”

  Ruth looked at Amelia, settling again next to her on the seat. “Except for a bit of a scare,” she said. />
  Amelia’s voice was distinctively light. “What if they had stopped us, Audrey? What would you have said?”

  Audrey lowered her voice to a husky tone reminiscent of a barely legal young man. “John Tower, sir, driving the car back to my big brother.”

  “Maybe,” Ruth said, “with the suit and hat. But Jack’s little brother? What if he wanted to follow you to Jack’s?”

  “Pray he doesn’t see you two, and that Jack’s not home.”

  “We ducked one,” Ruth replied with a sigh of relief.

  Amelia’s light, timid voice took on an unusual energy. “We’re really on the run, aren’t we?”

  As she pulled the car back onto the road, Audrey smiled and replied. “We are indeed.”

  Audrey stopped the car near the edge of the parking lot of the State Side Diner. Quickly she shed the suit and fedora, struggled out of the trousers, and wiggled into a skirt. A transformation suitable for meeting Amelia’s new family. Ruth handed her a yellow daisy and they both wound the flowers into their hair.

  “Come on,” Ruth said. She smiled and took Amelia’s hand as they exited the car. “This is the good part.”

  The diner was a bustle of activity. Waitresses glided between tables and booths, and the air was filled with friendly chatter and tempting aromas. As they promised, Mr. and Mrs. Samuels had claimed an early booth and were waiting for Amelia’s arrival.

  “There they are,” Ruth said, still holding Amelia’s hand. “Tan floppy hat with a daisy.”

  It was the first thing they noticed, of course, the identifying marker, but the second thing Audrey noticed was more important. She saw joy, pure and untethered, in the eyes and the smile of Mrs. Samuels. The woman seemed to twinkle with joy. Throughout the introductions and the initial conversation, Audrey watched, gathering the unspoken and waiting for anything that would counter what their words were saying. But there was nothing, from either of them. Audrey watched Mr. Samuels closely for obvious reasons. In his soft blue eyes she saw the glimmer of pride whenever his wife spoke. He leaned forward, listening intently when others spoke, and asked the questions of Amelia that Audrey hoped any parent would ask. How do you like school? What is your favorite subject? What is one of your favorite things to do? Audrey was convinced: The Samuels’ home was the right place for Amelia.

  “Our daughter, Betsy, is so excited to meet you, Amelia,” Mrs. Samuels was saying. “She’s been working for a dentist in town. She started out keeping his books, but she’s been learning everything she can and now he wants her to go to school so that he will be able to hire her as his assistant. She made us promise to bring you to the office so that she can show you around. And she’ll be so proud to show you her own room above the office. You are all she has talked about for the past week.”

  “Does she make her own money? Is it hers to keep?” Amelia asked.

  “It’s hers, she earned it,” Mr. Samuels said. “She’s a very responsible girl, pays her bills first, puts money away in savings—”

  “And spends too much money on presents for her parents,” Mrs. Samuels added with a wink. “But that is all I can fault her for.”

  “Can I meet her tomorrow?” asked Amelia.

  “If you have the energy, that’s the first place we will go.”

  Amelia turned to Ruth, her brow forming a vee above her nose. “Will I ever get to see you again?”

  Before the glisten in Amelia’s eyes could form into tears, Ruth said, “Of course you will. Remember I have a car now, and Audrey is patiently teaching me to be a good driver. Coming to see you will be my first real road trip.” Amelia’s face burst into a wide smile. “And meantime, you write me letters as often as you can and tell me about all the wonderful new things in your life. I put Audrey’s address in your suitcase, so send them there just in case they come looking for you at my place.”

  “I will,” Amelia promised. “I’ll write you every day.” She wrapped her arms around Ruth’s waist, hugged her tightly, and said softly, “I love you, Ruth.”

  “I love you, too. And I am over-the-moon happy for you.”

  Chapter 29

  The goodbyes were teary, poignant, but not the worrisome sadness Audrey had anticipated. It made the trip home a happy prelude to an evening of celebration. And it was only fitting that their celebration include Nona.

  They kept their enthusiasm in check so that they wouldn’t frighten Mrs. Bailey, and knocked on the side door. Moments later the center of the drape covering the window in the door parted just enough for someone to peer out.

  “It’s Audrey, Mrs. Bailey, and Ruth.”

  The door opened to Mrs. Bailey’s less than convincing chastising. “Oh, now look what time a night it is, and not a Friday night, either.”

  “I’m sorry,” Audrey replied as the old woman closed the door behind them. “But I have exciting news and I can’t wait to tell Nona.”

  “Come on, then,” she said. “Nona’s reading her books in the dining room.”

  The disruption brought Nona to the kitchen, and as soon as Audrey saw her she exclaimed, “We did it, Nona. We did it!”

  “I never doubted that you would. Not once,” she said.

  Audrey wrapped her arms around Nona and twirled her around and around and around. “We did it! We did it! We did it!”

  Ruth caught Nona’s eyes as the last twirl came to a dizzying stop. “Thank you,” Ruth said.

  “No,” Nona replied. “You two did all the work and took all the risk.”

  “Well, I suppose,” Mrs. Bailey muttered, and moved toward the icebox, “whatever it is you girls did, you’ll be wantin’ some ice tea. Go on now, get yourselves settled.”

  Audrey moved quickly to her side. “I’ll help you.” It hadn’t taken long for her to love this old woman—her understated sense of humor, her subtle scrutiny, and ultimately, her acceptance of a slightly out-of-bounds white girl. The love, Audrey suspected, was mutual.

  They delivered the tray of refreshments to the midst of the enthusiastic conversation at the dining table. Mrs. Bailey took her opportunity at the first lull. “Now, who’s gonna tell me what you did before the police come knockin’ on my door?”

  A bit closer to the truth than she could know, Audrey thought, as all eyes centered on Nona. She would have to decide what was appropriate.

  “We,” Nona began, making eye contact all around, “saved a young girl from a dangerous situation.” A silence followed. No one seemed willing to add anything further.

  Mrs. Bailey looked from one to another, then settled on Nona and broke the silence. “You are a terrible storyteller.” No one even tried to contain their laughter. Even Nona, the target at the end of the barb, laughed at the obvious. “Anyone gonna tell me the story,” Mrs. Bailey tried again, “or am I supposed to wait and read it in the newspaper?”

  This time everyone’s attention shifted to Ruth. “Nona doesn’t want to get us in trouble,” she began. “A young girl that I know was violated by a family member and was sent to the Crittenton Home. Her family thinks that she lied about how it happened and threatened to institutionalize her if she continued her accusation. She would have been sent back into a situation where she no doubt would have been violated again. So we made sure that wouldn’t happen.”

  Mrs. Bailey was captivated, as if she were visualizing the story of a favorite radio program. “How did you do it?”

  “We picked her up from the hospital and took her to a family who will take her in and keep her safe.”

  “Just you two,” Mrs. Bailey said, “driving a car yourself.”

  “It’s parked in front of your house right now.”

  “Mmm, mm,” she said, “and you were worried about tellin’ this old girl. You were, weren’t you?”

  “We could go to jail for this,” Ruth offered. “We have to be careful.”

  Mrs. Bailey squared up rounded shoulders and pressed back hard against the chair back. “Humph,” she said, indignation pushing her chin down to her neck and lowe
ring her focus to something short of the table. “Well,” her focus raised and narrowed on Nona, “let me ask you: Forty years ago, if he’d been caught, what would have happened to a young Negro boy who regularly snuck behind the barn to kiss the daughter of his white employer?”

  Nona’s eyes widened. “He would have been lynched.”

  “As fast as they could get a rope over the closest tree branch,” Mrs. Bailey said with a nod. “And if there was a young Negro girl working there, too, who diverted the mother’s attention so that she wouldn’t know her daughter was out of the house—what would have happened to her?”

  Nona stared into the old woman’s eyes. “She was a conspirator.”

  Mrs. Bailey nodded. “Lynched, right alongside that boy.” She nodded again. “Right alongside.”

  Nona’s eyes never left Mrs. Bailey’s. “It was you.”

  Of course it was, Audrey thought. Born and raised in a time ripe with risk. And we question her understanding of it? A depth of understanding that we can only hope to fathom. Did I have any real idea of risk and consequence at that age? Would I have had the same courage then? “Who was he?” she asked.

  “A silly boy who was crazy in love,” she replied. “No sense in that boy’s head at all. One word from that white girl, one slip from me . . .”

  “But why did you help him?” Ruth asked.

  Her eyes, dark liquid, seemed to scan time. Maybe searching for a way to explain the unexplainable. But she tried. “You know, that wasn’t a question that ever got asked. There was always enough holding us back, enough noes and taboos.” She looked directly at Nona. “So when you see a chance, something that’s not supposed to be there, you don’t ask why.” She finished with a quick nod of her head.

  Nona smiled and nodded in return.

  “So,” Mrs. Bailey added, and turned her attention to Audrey and Ruth. “This old girl knows a little about risk. She’ll keep your secret.”