The Summer We Got Saved

by Pat Cunningham Devoto

  They lay there in the darkness, listening to Eloise’s deep breathing, the tree frogs, and a screech owl’s intermittent call, feeling the warmth of their bodies next to each other. After awhile, Dominique’s breathing seemed to ease. She sat up in the bed and blew her nose again, then lay back down, finding Tab’s hand with her bandaged one. Tab pulled Dominique’s hand up to her chest and held it there. “What I was thinking was, maybe you could come live with me for the rest of the summer—you know, while he goes down to Mississippi.”

  What she had said—the absolute absurdity of it—was slow in coming to them. For that moment, the outside noises covered them, until Dominique began shaking—the whole bunk bed creaking. She put her hand over her mouth, trying to suppress it. “You people,” she tried to whisper, but she couldn’t and burst out laughing. “You people are so, so—”

  “Okay, I just thought—”

  “Are you a complete idiot?” She held the crumpled toilet tissue over her mouth trying to hush. “Oh God, why does he bring me to these places, introduce me to people like you? Completely useless people like you, and I must stay in this place and stay in this place . . . and no way out.” She took deep breaths, trying to even out her breathing. “I might just go stark raving crazy. That’s what I might do, go stark raving crazy.”

  Tab grinned up at the dark ceiling and fingered the bandaged hand she was still holding. “I could take you to get a hot dog at the Woolworth’s in Bainbridge. They got lots of catsup.” They both had to sit up now—in hysterics. Tab used the sheet to wipe the tears that were running down her cheeks.

  Dominique was trying to blow her nose in between trying to catch her breath. “Have I not taught you one single solitary thing this summer?” She flopped back down on the bed, bending her knees and kicking them up in the air. “I can’t believe you said that,” she almost screamed. “You are such an idiot.”

  “I know,” Tab said, trying to conjure up the ultimate, “We could go swimming at the Crystal Plunge.”

  Dominique jammed the pillow down over her face; her whole body rolled from side to side.

  “Hey, Dominique, what you doing up there? You waking me up.”

  She held the pillow up long enough to say, “Go back to sleep, Eloise. I’ll be quiet.” Then she dropped the pillow back over her face.

  After a time, they calmed down. Dominique put the pillow back under her head. The sounds from outside came in around them again. The moonlight had moved up the wall now and was slowly disappearing out the window.

  “I meant it, though,” she whispered, and Dominique turned on her side and pulled Tab in close.

  “I know you did.” And now she was crying again, not crying as ordinary people cry—she was long past that. Tears were there and she was breathing in an erratic way. It was as close as she could come to giving in. She inhaled and wiped tears away before she let out a long breath. “I know you did.”

  The moonlight was completely gone out of the room now. The darkness encased them as if they were suspended in fathomless water—and then she asked, just this once, “If you want to, you can tell me—what it would be like, what we would do.”

  And Tab told her, deep into the night, everything she could remember of her old life—of Coke floats at Trowbridge’s, of nights on the front porch at her grandmother’s house, of listening to the old stories, of sitting in the middle of the family pew at the First Methodist Church of Bainbridge, looking to either side and seeing it lined with parents and siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, and, in the rows in front and back, neighbors and friends.

  A life defined by its narrow, unblinking vision, a life bound by an irrational moral code that had gone unquestioned for generations, a life made secure by a love that accepted her—unequivocally, lovingly accepted her—and made rock-hard her sense of place in the world. Any attempt to dissect the whole might bring into question some of its parts, parts she might not be able to live without, and so why bother—save for this girl lying beside her, crying in the night.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Raid

  RETRIBUTION WAS SWIFT IN COMING. It arrived in a cloud of dust, four cars in all, winding down the road and through the entrance to Highlander just as the sun was setting over the mountains. They must have known the leader was off traveling, that there was a woman in charge while he was gone. They must have thought they could intimidate her.

  A few people were sitting out on the lawn, some in rockers on the porch. Most of the others were in the dining room, watching a movie, the evening’s entertainment. Dominique and Tab were in their bunk room, changing bedsheets.

  “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to France and live with my mother. I think she’s a schoolteacher. That’s what she used to be.”

  “Don’t you know? Doesn’t she write to you?”

  Dominique flipped one side of a sheet over to Tab. “She didn’t leave me, if that’s what you mean. She left him, and when I’m old enough, I’m going to live with her.”

  There was yelling in the hall. Someone ran by, stopping just long enough to tell them, “The police are here, stay in your room,” and then ran on and, of course, the girls didn’t stay in their room. They dropped the sheets and ran up the hall. Doors were slamming. Blinking red lights were reflecting off the porch windows. Brown uniforms were getting out of the cars. One of them from the lead car walked up the front steps, where Eugenia was chatting with several other women. He stood over her. “You in charge here?” The girls were watching through the front screen door. The officer had some papers in his hand and was about to give them to Eugenia. She pointed to the other chair. “Officer, I’m not in charge. This lady is.”

  “I am.” The black woman, Septima Clark, sitting next to Eugenia was rocking and fanning herself with a folded newspaper. “I’m in charge,” she said, and never stopped rocking.

  “I mighta known.” He walked over to her and handed her the papers. “We have a warrant to search the place. Had some complaints y’all might be selling whiskey on the premises.”

  She put down her fan to accept the papers from the officer. “Whiskey, you say. That’s a new one.”

  “Officer,” Eugenia was rising out of her chair. “You can’t come here and push your way in—”

  “It’s a violation of Tennessee law, selling alcohol at a private residence.” He looked around at the others watching him. “Probably some other violations going on here, too, if I was to look.” He turned back to the rocker. “But that’s what that there paper is for, selling whiskey.” Three other men joined him on the porch. “You ain’t gonna give me no trouble, are you?” he said to the black woman.

  “Of course we’re going to give you trouble.” Eugenia came to stand behind Septima’s rocker. “We are citizens of the United States. We have every right to be here. You have no right to—”

  “No, we’re not going to give you any trouble.” The black woman was folding up the papers. “These are in order. Do your searching, and then leave.”

  “We’ll leave when we’re good and ready.” He turned to the others standing by the cars and dispersed them to different buildings and locations on the grounds. “And make it out-and-out thorough, like I told you.”

  One of the policemen started toward the door. Tab and Dominique backed away as he whipped it open. He shook his head at their two colors together. “Get to where you belong.” They backed down the hall to their room and sat on Tab’s bunk, listening to chairs being overturned, glasses rattling in the kitchen, and voices coming from the projector in the dining room. Those that were watching the movie had remained riveted to their places, staring at the screen.

  By the time the officer got to their room, he was tired and Dominique was ready for him, a bad combination. “I’m sure,” she said, halfway standing as he entered, “that you will find a case of beer underneath this very bunk.” Tab tried to pull her hand to sit her back down, but she jerked it away and walked across to her bunk. “This is mine. You won’t
find anything but vintage Dom Pérignon, I think—’39, a very good year.”

  “She’s just kidding.”

  “I mighta known y’all would all be sleeping together.” He pushed Tab aside and pulled the mattress off her bed, pitching it in the middle of the room. He did the same with Tina’s, tearing apart her small canvas makeup bag.

  “My, doesn’t he have strong muscles. Probably his mother coupled with one of the local bulls.”

  “Dominique, will you shut up,” Tab whispered.

  “What’s the nigger saying?”

  “She didn’t say anything.”

  He turned and pulled Eloise’s mattress off and then grabbed Dominique’s. She stepped toward him, but not in time. “What’s this we got here?” He reached up on the exposed slats and pulled down a small leather-bound book with lock strap and a small keyhole. “Will you lookie here. Somebody’s keeping herself a diary.”

  “Give me that.”

  “Why don’t you give me the key? Oh, you don’t have the key? Well, I might have to open it up myself.”

  She had stepped away now, trying a new tack. “You’re supposed to be searching for whiskey.”

  “I might find a clue in here.” He waved it in front of her. “Let’s us just see.” He took a finger and ripped back the leather strap. A photograph fluttered to the ground. He stepped on it as she reached to retrieve it. “We’ll just leave that lay while I look at this here other first.” He began to leaf through the pages. “Hell, this is some kind of foreign language. Are you some kind of Communist? The chief is gonna be interested in this.” He began turning the pages slowly. “ Lookie here, it ain’t all foreign.”

  She grabbed for the book, but he turned aside and her cheek caught his elbow, knocking her back again. “Now let’s see here. It’s to somebody named Roman. Got a boyfriend, do you?” He began reading. “‘We rejoice in our sufferings’—hell, girl, that’s a good one for you—‘knowing that suffering produces endurance’—you gotta have lots of that if you wanta stay ahead of the Tennessee police—‘and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us because . . .’ His voice trailed off. He snapped the diary shut and pitched it across the room. “Not much there. No wonder you writing in a foreign tongue.” She made no attempt to retrieve it. Her attention was intermittently on his foot and his eyes.

  There was a loud crashing sound from the kitchen area. Someone had let pots and pans slip, or be thrown, to the floor. Shouts came from the dining room, where the movie was being shown. The noise from the projector had stopped and now there was a deadly quiet. The officer watched them as he reached down to retrieve what was under his shoe.

  Dominique was standing rigid by her bunk, hands gripping its frame, the same look on her face that Tab had seen that afternoon on the bus coming from Nashville.

  Until that very moment, it had not dawned on Tab what might be in the picture. In her world, a world defined by absolutes, the thought of options, the possibility of options, had never entered her mind. She had no idea that something could be menacing and precious at the same time. “It’s my picture.” She stepped forward. “Give it to me.”

  “This your picture, is it?” He was studying the photograph, closely taking in every image on it. He looked up at Tab. “Oh yeah, what’s in here, then?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a picture of a white woman, my mother.” She held her hand out.

  “What else?”

  “Other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Just other things, background things.”

  He held the snapshot out in front of her, dangling it from side to side. She could see a black man in uniform; the Eiffel Tower was in the background. The black man had his arm around a white woman and there were crowds milling about, a band parading down the street, everyone smiling and happy. “After she took up with a colored man, she left out for Texas. They all go to Texas when they get in trouble, you know.” Tab tried to smile at him.

  “This ain’t no more yours than fly me to the moon.”

  “It’s got the Eiffel Tower in the background, see? I’m gonna go see it someday. That’s how come I keep it.”

  “No more you don’t.” He began to rip it in two.

  “Don’t.” Dominique rushed at him, trying to grab the picture out of his hand, but he pushed her away.

  “Thought you didn’t claim it, nigger girl.”

  “It’s not hers. It’s mine.” Tab grabbed at his arm. He pushed her down on the mattresses piled on the floor and went back to the picture, putting the two pieces together and tearing again. She was up and took a flying leap, trying to grab him around the waist, hitting her nose on his gun belt.

  Dominique rushed for the hand that had the picture pieces. “It’s my only one, you redneck jerk.” He grabbed her bandaged hand and slung her into the bottom bunk and smiled as he proceeded to tear the picture into bits.

  “I knew it was yours all along, half-breed. I could take one look at you and see that. Klan ever find out your daddy been humping a white woman, that’ll be all she wrote.”

  Tab got up off the floor, yelling at him. “You’re disgusting, you people. You’re disgusting!” She charged him again, even as she heard herself saying it. She lowered her head and butted into his stomach, bouncing off hard muscle. He grabbed her arm and twisted it, pushing her into the bunk on top of Dominique.

  “That’s the problem with you lily-white do-gooders. Hell, you don’t know what the real world is.”

  By this time, Tab was raging at everything she had been made to learn in this place, against everything she had been forced to betray—against love that doesn’t have a history. The nearest thing to grab was an orange crate filled with clothes. It might have been Tina’s or Eloise’s. Tab wheeled around and picked up the crate, clothes and all, and flung it toward him. His back was turned. He was looking toward the closet. When the orange crate hit him, it was an automatic reflex to grab for the gun and swirl.

  They stood facing each other—her nose trickling blood, his eyes riveted on her, the barrel of the revolver catching the light from the overhead bulb. She had heard the hammer cock back as he turned. She looked straight into the black hole of the barrel and waited for the bullet to come out and tear into her.

  “Joey?” a voice called from down the hall. “Joey, where you at?” It came closer. Joey stood frozen, gun in hand. “We ain’t got all day. Where are you, son?” Joey pulled up from his crouched position and let the hammer ease back into place. “I’m in here.” He holstered and snapped the leather safety strap as easily as he had removed it.

  A face appeared in the door frame, a face like Joey’s, young, perhaps not twenty years in this world. “Come on, we found what we was looking for—beer, a can or two in a bucket. They been selling beer. It’s against the law. Since the head man ain’t here, we gonna arrest the colored woman.” He looked around. “What’s going on?”

  Joey glanced around and turned to go, pitching what was left of the picture up into the air, “Nothing,” he said.

  Tiny pieces of the Eiffel Tower, of the black serviceman and the white Frenchwoman floated down though space, landing gently on the floor. The rap of nightsticks and leather holsters against thighs could be heard down the hall.

  Dominique was off the bed and on her knees shepherding in stray picture pieces. She corralled the lot into a heap beside the mattresses and began picking up each piece and positioning it in the palm of her good hand, trying to fit back together what had been so long gone. “It was the only picture I had—the only one.” She brushed tears away so as not to let any moisture come in contact with the black-and-white shine of bits and pieces. “How will I remember her?”

  Tab sank down on the box springs, her body involuntarily shaking. “Joey—it’s such a baby name.” She looked down at her trembling hands. “Dominique . . . he was gonna shoot, and he had such a baby name.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The Leaving
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  IT HAD BEEN A PLACE of slamming screen doors, of the scent of simmering meals floating through the morning air, of laughing and shouting, down by the lake, up in the dining room. The conversation had spilled from the house onto the front porch, out into the yard. Great hopeful talks of what was now, of what might be tomorrow.

  Just as suddenly, it was a place of memories. The lake glassed over, and the buildings stilled, a shell echoing the night singings, the rowdy square dancing. The sheriff came again, this time to close down Highlander Folk School forever.

  “It’s absurd anyway, to think you can close down an idea. I don’t care about the buildings; the time has come for the idea.” Eugenia was paraphrasing what the leader had said as he stood by and watched the sheriff padlock the main house. She had said it, too, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it, not the way the leader did. He had actually smiled at the sheriff as he put on the padlock.

  Not so for Tab. She came of stock that held dear the solid physical foundations of land and family and place. It made no sense to her that the idea would not be imbedded in the thing—the thing in the idea.

  Now Eugenia was repeating her thoughts to those she stopped to talk with on the way to her car, lugging suitcases and clothes on hangers abruptly gathered up in the rush. The others weren’t thinking so much about the idea as they were about where they were going to sleep that night. They had been given only enough time to pack their clothes and get out.

  Eugenia had the trunk of the Buick open and was arranging suitcases. Tina had gone off to be with the lifeguards and say good-bye.

  Dominique was sitting on her suitcase out by the Ping-Pong table, waiting for her father to finish talking to some of the others. Her elbows rested on her knees, chin in palms. She was looking out at the floating dock when Tab walked over. “Remember that day out there, when you said your parents were divorced and I acted like such a ninny?”

  Dominique’s eyebrows rose slightly.