“Maybe we could write each other sometime.”
Dominique didn’t look up. “I doubt it.”
“Why? Are you gonna put it all in French?”
“I don’t even write to my mother. Why should I write to you?”
“’Cause I like you better than your mother likes you?”
She still didn’t look up. “Take that back, you shithead.”
“Sorry.”
They both watched the sun playing on the water out near the dock. Tab saw it reflecting off glistening shoulders as Dominique flashed by, beating her in that first race.
“I don’t blame her. She couldn’t take it. That’s what he said—she couldn’t take it, but I can. That’s what he said. I can take it and I’ll be the stronger for it.”
“He would,” Tab said, and grimaced, expecting to be cursed or at least have some French something thrown back at her, but it didn’t happen. Only the quiet of the morning closed in around them. A breeze caught early-turning red sourwood leaves and settled them down on the water’s surface, tiny boats sailing away from the shore.
“Well, I got to go. Aunt Eugenia’s packing the car. We’re going home.”
Dominique didn’t say anything, just shook her head.
Tab got up and walked off toward the Buick, was halfway there, almost out of range, when she heard Dominique. “Wait a minute.” She had gotten up and was walking toward Tab, reaching down into her jacket pocket. “I want to show you something.” She stood there holding her hand in her pocket until they were close enough to touch shoulders. Only then did she pull it out. “I never showed it to anybody else.”
“I know what it is. Let me see it. I never got a good look.”
Dominique pulled it out of her jacket. She had pasted it back together on a piece of cardboard. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Tab took it with both hands and stared down at it. So many jagged lines crisscrossed the surface, it was hard to tell that it was a picture at all, impossible to see any details—as Dominique must have seen them in all those years of opening her diary each night and studying the picture, as she must still see them now.
“I want you to tell me.”
“What?”
“Do you see me resembling her much?”
There was such a catch in Tab’s throat, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak at all, so she pretended great concentration on the picture pieces even as she blinked back tears.
“Well?” Dominique said. “Yeah, yeah, I know—they look happy, and they were, back then, but what do you think? I think maybe our noses and our eyes and our profiles. What do you think?” She turned sideways so Tab could see her profile. “I haven’t seen her since I was five, but I’ve always thought we did.”
Tab glanced at the profile and back to the picture. “Oh yeah, sure. I see it. I thought I saw it when the policeman was holding it up in front of me the other night.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure, and your body type. You’re gonna be tall like she is.”
Dominique had her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and was still in profile so Tab could get a good look. “I think the older I get, the more I’m going to resemble her. Most people miss it because of the skin color, but”—she turned to look at Tab—“I knew you wouldn’t.”
Tab handed the picture back, and as soon as Dominique had it safely in her pocket, Tab grabbed her around the neck and hugged. “You look just like her.”
“Yeah, I always thought so, too.” Dominique held her for a moment and then backed off. “Don’t get carried away.” She patted Tab on the shoulder and then turned to go.
Tab watched as she walked back toward her suitcase. About halfway there, she turned. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll write to you, mon amie.”
Tab was still wiping eyes on her sleeve when she got back to the car. Eugenia was trying to get too many things into the trunk. Material things had also been added to their load. The hanging macramé flowerpot holder Tab had made in crafts class one day when Aunt Eugenia had been in charge of the children’s activities. A new thing out of California, she had said. Also reams of notes Eugenia had taken and a coffee mug Tab had commandeered from the dining room—no one would be using it now anyway, and she needed it to remember by.
Eugenia looked up and saw her. “I know how you feel. I had a good cry myself last night. Several of us did. The idea that in America, a thing like this could happen. It makes you want to bite nails.” She crammed the last suitcase in and slammed the trunk shut, using both hands.
Tab leaned against the fender and watched Tina walk toward them, lugging her suitcase. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. I just want to go home. I feel a great need for a Coke float at Trowbridge’s.”
“Do about what?” Tina let her suitcase drop to the ground.
Eugenia bit her lower lip and opened the trunk again. “About this whole thing—closing us down. Those troopers coming in, ransacking the place just to find some excuse.” She heaved the suitcase up and began trying to squeeze it in, hammering it with her fist when it wouldn’t fit. “The balance of power in this country has gone haywire.”
And then both Aunt Eugenia and Tab stood gawking as Tina gushed forth—a tirade completely unexpected. “I don’t care about a balance of power. I don’t care anything about this place. Why did we come here anyway, just to get to know people we’ll never see again and . . .” She took a tissue out of her pocket, “I”—she swiped at the tears, furious they were there—“I think we should have left it like it was. Why should I get to know somebody when I can’t ever see him—them—again, and if I did, it wouldn’t be allowed anyway.” She stopped to get out a fresh tissue to blow her nose. “This whole thing is stupid,” she screamed, hitting her hand against the car fender, then kicking the tires. They watched her jerk open the back car door and fall inside. “Let’s go,” before she slammed the door.
Tab looked at Aunt Eugenia, who was staring at Tina’s head through the back window. “Mama says she’s just a teenager and she has outbursts like that, and she’s glad I haven’t started it yet.”
“I should say.” Eugenia began pushing the trunk lid down again. “I know this whole thing has been . . . well, not quite what I expected, but you have learned, have experienced . . . haven’t you, Tab?”
“Sure, Aunt Eugenia.” Tab added her weight to the trunk lid and heard the lock click. “Let’s go before I get teary again.”
As they pulled away she was still sitting out by the lake, waiting.
CHAPTER 39
The Campaign
CHARLES WONDERED if he had bullied Reuben into going. Had he done that all of his life, bullied Reuben into doing things, or was it Reuben who pushed him?
Mary was waiting supper and Charles was in a hurry to eat—the meat loaf would get cold—and so he tried to end the conversation quickly, twisting the phone cord in his hand as he talked. “I know you don’t want to go, but you have to.” He held the kitchen phone and listened. Mary passed by him, carrying the meat loaf and its aroma. “Because we’re having a meeting before the rally, and the treasurer has to be there.” He waited a moment to let Reuben try to talk his way out of it with some lame excuse. “Don’t be ridiculous. Fort Payne is just as peaceful as any town around. That lynching thing happened years ago, way back in the thirties. Lynchings happened back then.” He listened for a moment more, then burst out laughing. “Nobody does that kind of thing anymore, Reuben, only the far-out elements. We’re not the far-out element, for gosh sake. Rednecks aren’t interested in candidates like Brad.” He listened a moment longer. Mary was taking hot biscuits out of the oven. “You’re just looking for excuses, Reuben. I’ll pick you up at three-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Remember, I’m taking time off from work, too.” He hung up while the meat loaf was still hot.
The next day, he was out front at 3:25, waiting. Reuben dragged himself out the front door at 3:40. He was holding his head back as he walked, spraying something in his nose, an
oversized briefcase in the other hand, a coat slung over his arm. He stuck his head in the open window on the passenger side. “I really shouldn’t go. I’m not feeling well.”
“Get in, Reuben. We’re late.” Reuben got in. Charles circled the drive, glimpsing the patch of black left in the grass. “This should be fun, riding in the campaign plane. I know you may have done this kind of thing before, but not me.”
Reuben didn’t say anything. He sprayed more nose drops.
“Well, have you—been in a private plane before?”
“No, I can’t abide small airplanes.”
“It’s the only way to get into Fort Payne and keep Brad’s schedule, what with things heating up like they are. Did you see the poll in the Birmingham News today?” He picked the paper up off the front seat and waved it in Reuben’s face. “We’re running a close third. If we can beat out Comer, we’ll be neck and neck with Big George. The paper said it was only a matter of time.” Charles almost ran a stop sign. “God, Reuben, can you imagine what a difference this could make if he wins—in education, in the integration thing, in everything? It’ll be a new day for Alabama, for the South.” Charles glanced at Reuben. “Why are you so dead set against going? After all, you’re a veteran now. You’ve had a cross burning in your yard. That’s more than I can say.”
“It’s safe where people know you.” Reuben replaced the cap on the nasal spray and slipped it in his coat pocket. “I never liked that town. I had an unpleasant experience once on a train stopover.”
“What kind of experience?”
Reuben looked out the window as they passed over the river bridge. “It was a minor uncivilized incident.”
Charles changed the subject, as he always changed the subject when Reuben began to think dark thoughts. At least that’s how Charles saw it, that Reuben had a propensity to a darker side and the best way to assuage him was to change the subject.
“Yessir, tonight should be great fun. We have none of the responsibility for the goings-on. We’ll have our meeting, go to the rally, and then hop back in the plane and be home before you know it. We should be back by midnight. Brad has to fly back down to Tuscaloosa after he lets us off.”
They drove on in silence. Reuben was not one to embrace new experiences, and Charles knew it. He would come around. The campaign seemed to be helping that along—inches at a time.
“I had an interesting theater occurrence today,” Reuben finally said.
“Don’t tell me. You integrated another movie.”
“Hardly.” Reuben didn’t bother to see Charles’s grin. Charles slowed for a stop sign and waved to another car. “Well, do you want to talk about something to take our minds off this wretched flying business or not?”
“Oh, I do, I do.” Charles had stopped at a red light and honked at a friend crossing the street. “Now Ed,” he yelled out the window, “don’t forget who you’re voting for.” He shifted into first as the light changed. “Ed Mallard from over in Courtland.” He looked at Reuben. “You know Ed, good family.”
“I know Ed.” Reuben drummed his fingers on the window frame. “Are you interested or not?”
“Oh yeah, sure, go ahead.”
Reuben brought his hands together in his lap. “Today . . .” He paused to make sure he had Charles’s full attention. “Today, I had a visit from a black preacher, a Reverend Watts. He told me he had been trying to see me for some time now and that my secretary would not let him in.” He thought a moment and said, almost to himself, “Another subject entirely. I’ll deal with it later.” He cleared his throat and began again. “He was really quite a charismatic fellow. You should have seen him. He had on his best suit—at least I assumed it was his best, because he seemed to consider our meeting important.”
“Of course he would, Reuben. You’re a very important fellow.” Charles waved to someone else he knew. “Did he want to get all his congregation in the movies for half price?” Charles grinned and waved to another friend, then, and hearing no disgruntled retort, said, “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Go ahead. Tell me what he said, this reverend.”
“Absent any further vulgar interruptions from you.”
“I won’t say another vulgar word.”
Reuben began again. “It seems he runs the Negro part of our Crossroads Drive-in. That’s up near your farm, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Crossroads Drive-in. Been there for years. Never heard of a Reverend Watts, though. A Negro man?”
“Yes. He seemed somewhat ill at ease, so I offered him a Coke and we sat and talked.”
“Just a minute.” Charles pulled into a parking place along River Street. “I want to pick up an extra copy of our paper to take to the meeting. Everybody’s seen the Birmingham News, but not the Bainbridge Daily. Did you see that editorial today?”
“Yes.” Reuben took a deep breath and again tapped fingers. “Yes, I saw it.”
“Just hold your horses there, Reuben. I’ll be back in a second.” Charles left the door open and ran into Anderson’s Newsstand. He dashed back out and pitched the paper through the window into Reuben’s lap, then got in and started backing out. “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”
“We’re late as it is.”
“Who was fifteen minutes late in the first place?”
“Be that as it may.” Reuben brought his knees together, shoes lined up parallel. “May I continue with my story now?”
“Sure. He was ill at ease, so you offered him a Coke. I was listening.”
“Yes, he didn’t want to sit down at first, but I insisted. We had a lovely chat. He said he had been ministering to that part of the county for years. Said he had been running the black concession at the drive-in for years.” Reuben turned in the seat to face Charles, seeming to forget about how miserable he felt. “Now here’s the interesting part. He said my manager out there was trying to cheat him out of his share of the business. They had said originally that he could have fifty percent of the ticket take in the Negro part, and all of the money from the black concession stand, but now they were only letting him have twenty-five percent of the tickets and they wanted fifty percent of the money he made on the concession stand. He uses the money to help his church members.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Reuben looked straight ahead—thin-lipped. “I can tell you don’t believe it, but I did.”
“Did I say I didn’t believe him?”
“You know what I told him? I said I would do better than that. I would integrate the entire thing.”
“The entire what thing?”
“Are you listening? I told him I would write our manager out there and say that it was time for us to integrate the entire drive-in, that Reverend Watts had come to me and I agreed with him that we must move forward with integration—and do you know what? And this is the strange part. It seemed to upset him no end. He got out of his chair and immediately began backing toward the door. ‘No,’ he said, all he wanted was his fair share, kept repeating it, his fair share. He said he had to have it to support his congregations.”
“And what did you say—‘you’ll assuage my conscience and take integration or nothing, Reverend?’”
“You think you’re so humorous. No, I reluctantly agreed that if that’s what he wanted, I would go along with his wishes and make sure he got his fair share, but that it seemed to me he would want equality for his people, never mind the revenue.” Reuben paused to think about it. “I hope I didn’t insult him, but that’s what it seemed to me.”
“What’s the name of the church he’s supposed to be supporting with all this largesse he’s passing around?”
“The Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church.”
“The what?” Charles burst out laughing. “Now I’ve heard it all. The Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church?” Charles was pulling into the airport parking lot. “I know the Pleasant Valley AME and Harvest Moon CME. They’re presided over by Brother Earl, but I never heard of that one.” Charles turned off the key, gra
bbed the paper out of Reuben’s lap, and opened the door. “Sounds to me like you’ve been had, Reuben. The Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church? That’s one for the books.”
Reuben opened his door and slammed it, following along behind to the airplane. “I most certainly have not. It’s located up near your farm. He said so. I most certainly have not. I wrote a letter today to my manager out there and told him in no uncertain terms that from now on he was not to take advantage of Reverend Watts.”
Charles was still laughing when he got to the plane. “Reuben, if there is a Reverend Watts, you have succeeded in putting him in harm’s way with all the good old boys at Crossroads Drive-in.” Charles stepped on the plane and shook hands with the candidate, who was sitting up with the pilot. Reuben did the same and took a seat beside Charles, searching for his seat belt. “I most certainly have not put anyone in harm’s way. I merely gave my manager a directive.”
Charles looked out the window, shaking his head at Reuben’s complete ineptitude when it came to handling people. “Do you think your manager will take kindly to getting a letter from you in which you say you believe a Negro over a white man?”
“Well, you would, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re not dealing with me. You’re dealing with a bunch of men mighty set in their ways—and that’s putting a good face on it.”
CHAPTER 40
The Reckoning
THE TRIP HAD GONE WELL—at first. The campaign-planning meeting was more like a pep rally. Everyone on the election committee had read the morning paper and the poll tallies. Various chairmen gave reports. Reuben, who seemed to be feeling better now that they were back on solid ground, reported that the coffers were in good shape and more contributions were coming in. It was the first time most of the other men had met Reuben. He reported on every contribution of any size. He handed out pages and pages of calculations, estimating their budget requirements from the present time until the election. There was a round of sedate applause when Reuben finally sat down. Charles watched several of the men glancing at each other, unable to keep from smiling. Brad La Forte ended the meeting by saying that he wanted volunteers to stand with him on the platform so he could acknowledge their fine work. Several raised their hands. Brad pointed to almost everyone there, having his secretary record the names for a press release. Reuben was the only one who did not get recognized. Of course, Reuben had not raised his hand in the first place. He told Charles that the thought of actually standing on a platform and having other people gawk at him was abhorrent.
The Summer We Got Saved Page 27
