Charles grinned. “Actually, I didn’t have to take much heat. They blamed it all on you. Tom said I might as well be listening to the women.”
“Ah, Tom. He must run intellectual circles around you. How do you bear it?”
“Always, your deep affection for my family.”
“And the father? No doubt the father had a few words.”
“He didn’t say anything, which means he was furious. Tom, of course, fell back on Genesis—Negroes are all descendants of Canaan. We shouldn’t rush into anything that might go against the Bible.” He took a deep drag. “What could I say that I haven’t said a million times? They’re scared to death any talk of integration is going to trigger Armageddon.”
He sat watching Reuben realigning. They never proceeded until Reuben was satisfied that things were right. “Look, it doesn’t mean that they don’t like Negroes or care about them. There’s Will, up there on the place. My father took care of him. I’ll continue to take care of him until he dies. It just means they think they’re following the Bible.”
Reuben didn’t look up. “Certainly it does.”
“Okay, it doesn’t, but what do you want me to do, boil them in oil? They’re family. I don’t see you throwing off any traces.”
Reuben finished with his arrangement and completed it by straightening the board. “That’s because we’re both stuck in what we are.”
Charles stubbed out his cigarette. “Hell, I’m not stuck. I’m free white and twenty-one”—he grinned—“with a wife and children and a fistful of mortgaged land to prove it.”
“We can make choices—within limits.” Reuben readjusted the piece Charles had just put down. “Take me, for instance. I know what choices I’ve made, given the circumstances, and I live within them very nicely, don’t you think? I mean, given the type of person I am?” He paused to look at Charles. “Don’t you think?”
Charles lit up again, studying the board, feeling the conversation moving to an uneasy place. Then he moved, as he always did, to another subject. “Speaking of choices, our candidate called today and said I needed to appoint a finance chairman for my area. We need to raise a considerable amount of money.”
“How about James Mitchell, down at the bank? He seems competent. Not brilliant, but competent.”
“I told him I would have you do it.”
“Me?” Reuben immediately stiffened. “No one will listen to me. You need somebody with—”
“With what—more money, more time? You have an abundance of both, and you’re always implying I should take a stand. Now you take a stand—publicly.”
“Big Abe—”
“Never mind Big Abe.
The candidate had written Charles, saying that it was time for him to visit Bainbridge. It was high time they had a rally to measure their support in that part of the state. Charles had demurred as long as he could. He said he felt the time wasn’t right yet. Actually, he felt the turnout would be miserable and do more harm than good, but Brad La Forte and his lieutenants had insisted.
Within a two-week period, Charles and Reuben had spent long hours and loads of Reuben’s money in preparation—signs, posters, telephone calls. Mary had been drafted to work in a newly opened campaign office. Friends had been badgered to help out—all the while Charles feeling that it was a hopeless cause. But he had been wrong.
The night had been a success beyond anything they had imagined. With not much enthusiasm Charles had reserved the town park, had brought out the volunteers holding their obligatory signs, had asked the local Baptist minister to give the opening prayer. All along, he had imagined that there would be a small, uninterested crowd, people who either knew him and came out of friendship or just happened to be in the park anyway. The big event had been scheduled to start at 7:00 P.M. By 6:30, all the folding chairs that had been set up around the podium had been taken. By 7:00, people were standing in the grassy area behind the chairs. By 7:30, when Charles had introduced Brad La Forte as the next governor of the state of Alabama, there had been such clapping and cheering, he had stood there dazed as flashbulbs blinded him to the audience. He had momentarily forgotten to step aside and let Brad take the speaker’s podium. And Brad had seemed to be what they had come looking for. The audience was not loud or boisterous. They were quiet and attentive, as if trying to learn what he was about. He touched on the regular—money, state budgeting, education. It was when he got to the integration part that they seemed to listen—not unlike the men at Reuben’s. Several hecklers—probably from the Wallace camp—had made no headway with the audience and had quieted after a time.
They, Charles and Reuben and now Mary, had hoped a scattering of people would show up, and to their utter astonishment, hundreds had shown up. It had been the biggest political rally since ’55, when Big Jim Folsom had come to town. Nobody—not Randolph Comer, Jennings Hardman, A. W. Ladd, least of all A. W. Ladd—had ever raised such a crowd.
Charles and Mary stood at the base of the speaker’s platform, watching the children run around gathering up balloons and confetti. Reuben appeared out of the shadows just as the last of the volunteers were turning in their cardboard signs and heading to Trowbridge’s down on River Street to celebrate. Charles had waved them on and said he would join them in awhile.
“Reuben. Where were you? I haven’t seen you since this afternoon. Did you see it? Where did all those people come from—women and children, even some coloreds out around the edges of the crowd? Did you see that?”
Reuben walked up along one of the sidewalks that led to the center of the park and took a seat in one of the folding chairs. He was dressed in a way he must have felt would be appropriate to this kind of gathering: gray dress slacks and a short-sleeve white shirt with a bright blue tie that had red balls drifting down the center. He had probably been the only man there with a tie on in weather that was still ninety degrees two hours after the sun had gone down. He couldn’t suppress a grin. His long arms were adrift, first hanging at his sides, then crossing at his waist, and finally resting themselves in his lap, fingers clasping fingers. “I must say that, all and all, it seems to have been quite a successful evening.”
“Is that all you have to say, ‘all and all, a successful evening’? Reuben, you started this.” Charles put an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “Will you look at that tie? I think Reuben thought he was going partying tonight.”
Reuben’s hand went involuntarily to the tie. “I thought . . . since this was a festive occasion . . .”
“Don’t let Charles give you a hard time, Reuben. I like that party tie.” She got up and began to call the children to her.
“Reuben,” Charles harassed, “what if I had needed you to give a speech, my man? Where were you?”
Reuben rested against the chair, folding his hands in his lap, regaining his composure as quickly as he had lost it. “Quite possibly, I could have gotten up and told them what a godsend you think you are to the general population.”
From across the way, Mary called out, “You tell him, Reuben.” She had one of the twins by the hand and was chasing the other. “Can’t have him getting the big head.”
Reuben’s knees came together and he perched his clasped hands on his legs. “In all seriousness, Charles, I do believe our efforts were well rewarded tonight.”
“Are you kidding? Look at this. The place is a mess. What a crowd.”
“I think it’s his charisma,” Mary said. She had gathered up a child in each hand. “They read about him in the paper after that Birmingham speech the other night and wanted to come see for themselves.”
“And I saw people I know voted for A.W. last time, and some Comer supporters.”
“It doesn’t mean they’ll vote for Brad, Charles.” Reuben had taken a small notebook out of his breast pocket and was making notes.
“No, but they came out and listened, and several people told me later they felt like it was time for a man like Brad.”
Mary said good night and began walking home wit
h the children. The men sat watching the remaining volunteers pick up trash and stack the last of the banners. The moon rose up over the big oak trees that circled the park and a late breeze ruffled the red-white-and-blue bunting on the speaker’s platform.
It was a feeling Charles had never had before in all his years of dabbling in state politics. The thought that maybe his side had a chance of making a strong showing was startling. He got up and moved another chair around as an ottoman. “I can’t believe it. Do we have a chance?”
Paul Davis, editor of the Bainbridge Daily, walked across the lawn toward them. “I’m saying a crowd of around a thousand.”
“Sounds good to me, unless you want to say two thousand.” Charles pushed a chair in his direction. “Sit on down here, Paul, and tell us what a hell of a candidate you think we have.”
“Can’t. Got to make a deadline, but he did make a credible showing tonight.” Paul strolled off across the grass to the newspaper office, which was a block off the park.
“Old Paul may have to rethink his endorsement—heard he was all set to go with A.W.” Charles blew smoke in Paul’s direction and eased back in his chair. “One thousand? We must have had people come in from across the river and over near Huntsville.” He shook his head and tried not to grin. “A moderate on segregation, in Alabama, and he has a chance? I never thought I’d see the day.”
Lightning bugs began rising out of the grass, landing on the backs of benches, settling in the trees. Willow flies were circling the lampposts. Charles lit up another cigarette. “Reuben, if we keep this up, you might be able to abandon your mythical integration of the drive-ins and do some good in the real world.”
Reuben was carefully removing his party tie and folding it neatly. “Charles, don’t be a smart-ass.”
CHAPTER 23
The Drive-in
THAT’S A GOOD IDEA. I can go. I can go with ya to the drive-in movie.”
“You can, can you? How ’bout you, Maudie? You like to go to the drive-in? We’ll pop us some popcorn, get old Jessie here to do the driving. My birthday, and I get to say where it is we go.” Miss Laura turned the chicken wing over in her fingers, making sure she hadn’t missed a sliver. It was another Sunday dinner and they were all seated around the table, waiting for Miss Laura, always the last to finish. “Take me two hours to fix it. Ain’t gonna take me no two minutes to eat it.”
Maudie had been coming to dinner every Sunday now and on most Wednesdays. After weeks, no one, other than the card-playing ladies, had come for voting school. She had passed the time by reading and digging a little garden out back of the church. Reverend Earl had suggested a garden and had been happy to bring seeds and a hoe. Probably, she thought, he was embarrassed at the turnout and wanted to give her something to do. After some initial difficulty with managing a crutch and hoe, she had adjusted and come to enjoy her time alone in the garden. She had planted tomatoes and cucumbers, a row of lettuce and one of pole beans. There was not much else to do and no way to get out unless Reverend Earl took her. He said he was too busy this time of the summer.
JD was squirming in his seat and fiddling with his fork, anxious to get on with dessert. Jessie was looking out the window, half-listening. “Don’t know. Say they was some trouble over at the drive-in couple months back.”
“They always trouble someplace.” Miss Laura took the last piece of fried chicken off the platter and held it up for the taking. The others at the table shook their heads and she began to eat.
“One summer,” Maudie said, “when I was staying up here with my aunt Carrie, we went almost every weekend. Used to put me in the trunk so they wouldn’t have to pay for me.”
“That’s what I do,” JD said, “get on the back floor and cover up with a blanket.”
Maudie picked up a piece of biscuit left on her plate. “Course I guess it’s all changed now. Probably all integrated now. Black folks don’t have to park out back in the field, where there aren’t any speakers, so they can see but can’t hear. That right, Mr. Jessie?”
“You ain’t been since you was a child, remember? Yeah, it’s changed.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his long legs under the table. “Reverend seen to that.”
“Reverend integrated the drive-in?”
“Better than integrating. Still over in the field, but now we got our own road in and out, got our own ticket taker. Don’t have to have no business with them white boys. Old Bowie, fellow runs the place, mean as a snake. Don’t have to be studying him no more. Don’t have to stand out back at the white food stand no more. Got our own place now.”
“You got speakers in your cars now?”
“No, we ain’t got speakers in cars,” he mimicked, tapping his knife against the plate, “but Reverend working on that.” Aunt Laura smiled and ate her fried chicken, her eyes shifting from one to the other.
“Now, you pay your money and park right up at the wood fence over there back of the white food stand.”
Maudie reached for a cold biscuit. “Say you don’t have any speakers and you have your own entrance now.” She took her time buttering half of the biscuit. Jessie tapped his knife, setting up a rhythm, watching her. She took a bite and considered. “My goodness, things sure have changed, haven’t they?”
“Yeah they have.” He glared. “Course, we been waiting on a child like you to give us the blessing over it.”
She took another bite of biscuit and dropped the remainder onto her plate, slowly turning to him. “Probably still gonna be like that when JD’s a grown man.” She put her napkin on the table. “Probably by then, we’ll have our own separate drive-in altogether.”
He dropped the knife on his plate. “Suit me if we had us one for the men and the women was set off in the corner somewhere.”
“Weee Lord,” Aunt Laura. “I ain’t enjoyed a meal so much in a long time. What’s you think about that, JD?”
JD was still contemplating his sneak into the drive-in. “That’s when I pop out and commence to saying, ‘Fooled you, fooled you.’ We going, ain’t we?” He looked to Aunt Laura. “Even with them bad-mouthing ’bout it?”
“Sure we going. My birthday, ain’t it?”
On the surface, it was not much changed from her childhood days. The back of the towering screen faced the highway and displayed a gigantic neon cowboy mounted on a quarter horse, chasing a neon steer on the run. In better days, his lasso had twirled in neon light down over the steer’s head. Forward of this, pocked with chipping paint and sitting in weeds just off Highway 72, was the marquee announcing the current movies. Letters were missing, but still enough for patrons to know that there were two features currently showing: Revenge f The Creature and ld Yeller. It was the current fad to commandeer O’s for bedroom decor.
The only change was off to the side of the main entrance. There, a path led past a break in the barbed wire fencing surrounding the drive-in. It served as a separate entrance for colored cars that paid their money at a makeshift box office just beyond the barbed wire and then drove to parking places directly behind the white concession stand and behind the split-rail fence that separated blacks from whites. Leading up to the ticket booth, in Burma Shave fashion, hand-printed signs gave direction to the patrons: WELCOME TO CROSSROADS DRIVE-IN. TURN OFF LIGHTS AFTER ENTERING. 50 CENTS PER PERSON. NO ALCOHOL ALLOWED.
Black or white, this was the gathering place for everyone within twenty miles of Crossroads. For farmhands tired after a long day in the fields, driving miles into town to the indoor movie was too much time and trouble. More than convenience, the ease of familiarity was the main pull. This seemed especially true for the black families, who had found a socially acceptable gathering place other than the church.
As they pulled into the ticket line, Aunt Laura waved to cars she recognized. Maudie sat up front with Jessie. Aunt Laura sat in the back, with her feet on the blanket that covered JD. Reverend Earl was standing on the platform by the ticket booth, laughing and joking with each car as it came in.
; “Wasn’t for Reverend Earl, wouldn’t had none of this here,” Aunt Laura said. “When he come, been having all sorts of mess going on, ticket takers messing with the colored. Reverend Earl talked to Old Bowie—only one to get along with the man. He say we want a separate place and no more dealings with them cracker ticket takers. Been working good ever since Reverend Earl talked to him.”
“’Cept for once in awhile,” Jessie said.
“What you talking, ‘once in awhile’?” Aunt Laura said. “Look here at all them cars. The man ain’t gonna mess with it long as he making a heap o’ money.”
“Long as he’s getting it all,” Maudie said, and she hadn’t meant to. She had meant to leave it be, not to antagonize. She guessed it was being back at the drive-in, remembering the old days, the way she used to mouth off every time she felt like it.
Reverend Earl was standing by the ticket booth when their car pulled alongside. “I got this here one, Buddy.” He stooped down to see inside. “I’m guessing we got some peoples celebrating Miss Laura’s birthday.”
“You guessing right, Reverend,” Jessie said. “Didn’t know we was gonna have the big boss taking tickets. What’s you doing out here?”
“Just come by to check on Buddy, see how things was going.” He winked at Jessie. “But I don’t see JD. Musta took sick with a tummy ache, missing a night at the movies.”
“Oh, worse tummy ache you ever saw, Brother Earl,” Aunt Laura said. “He laying flat on his back and can’t get up for nothing. Had to leave him at home.”
“Ain’t that a shame,” Reverend Earl chuckled. “Hope he got plenty of blankets covering him up, keep him from getting the chills.”
“More like keeping him quiet for a while. How much you giving for the movie tonight, Reverend?”
The Summer We Got Saved Page 15
