Night on Fire

by Ronald Kidd

  As we pulled into the parking lot at Forsyth’s, a Greyhound bus swept down the hill past us, kicking up dust.

  I checked my watch. “That’s the five thirty-two,” I said. “Last bus of the day—to Birmingham, then Tupelo.”

  Lavender snorted. “I swear, your head is full of schedules.”

  She eyed me thoughtfully, then seemed to make a decision. If the young man in the grocery was an open book, she was a closed one. There was a story inside, but it was hard to read. Then, every once in a while, something would pop out and surprise you.

  She said, “You like buses so much? I got some bus news for you.”

  “Bus news?”

  “Negroes sit in the back, right?”

  I shrugged. “That’s the way it’s always been.”

  “Well, it’s about to change. There’s a group that won’t sit in the back. They’re called Freedom Riders, and they’re coming on Greyhound. They’ll sit with the white folks—in the waiting room, on the bus, at the lunch counter.”

  “Isn’t that against the law?”

  “In Alabama, yes. But these folks are coming from Washington, DC, black and white together. They’ll cross state lines. You know what that means?”

  “Not really.”

  “Once they cross state lines, the U.S. government makes the laws.” There was something about the way she said the words that made them glitter in the air—U.S. government, like when my Sunday school teacher said Jesus. “And the U.S. government says no one has to sit in back.”

  I thought of my dad and his friends down at Clyde’s Hair Heaven. “That wouldn’t go over too well around here.”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” said Lavender.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Freedom Riders are coming to Anniston,” she said. “They’ll be at the Greyhound station next Sunday, on Mother’s Day.”

  Besides being a grocery store, Forsyth’s was home to the Tall Tales Club. It was a group of older men who got together late in the day, drank coffee, and told stories. Most of the stories weren’t true, of course, and that was the point. Along the way, they also talked about what was going on in Anniston and whatever else was on their minds.

  That afternoon, I walked into the store and saw them sitting in their usual spot, a rickety table by the produce section. The club president was Uncle Harvey Caldwell, who wasn’t my uncle or anybody else’s as far as I knew, but that’s what we called him.

  “Hey, Billie,” said Uncle Harvey when he saw me. “We were just talking about the Crimson Tide. Any predictions?”

  I grinned. “They’ll win it all.”

  That started a hubbub among the other club members. There were five of them that day—five and a half if you counted Jokester, a six-year-old neighborhood boy who liked to hide under the table—and Alabama football was one subject they all had opinions on.

  The hubbub stopped when Lavender followed me in. She didn’t come to Forsyth’s very often, since Mama usually did our grocery shopping on the way home from work. The Tall Tales Club watched as Lavender approached the meat counter, where Mr. Forsyth was putting out some hamburger. He eyed her nervously, aware that some of his best customers were watching.

  “I need the best steak you got, please, sir,” Lavender told him.

  “Is that so?”

  She pulled the money from her purse and set it on the counter. “It’s for Mr. Sims.”

  Mr. Forsyth glanced at Uncle Harvey, then back at Lavender. “So why did he send you?”

  The men around the table chuckled. They seemed to be laughing at Lavender, and I didn’t understand why. Lavender closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

  “One steak, please,” she said.

  Mr. Forsyth watched her, then said, “Coming right up.” He bent over the counter and sorted through the steaks.

  As he did, Uncle Harvey wandered over and leaned up against the meat counter. He spoke to Mr. Forsyth but gazed at Lavender. “So, Richard, I hear you had a little altercation at the store today.”

  “Wasn’t nothing,” Mr. Forsyth said.

  “Nothing? A Negro boy sasses you and destroys some goods?”

  I waited for Lavender to answer, but she just stared straight ahead.

  I wanted to say, “That’s not true! It was an accident.” Somehow, though, I couldn’t form the words.

  Uncle Harvey asked Lavender, “What do you think? Were you there?”

  “No, sir,” she said, still staring.

  “Just as well,” he said. “You got your place; we got ours. Right?”

  Lavender blinked a couple of times real fast but didn’t say anything.

  “Right?” said Uncle Harvey.

  The store was dead quiet. I heard Uncle Harvey’s rough breathing. He had asthma, and everybody in town knew it.

  “Except for the Freedom Riders,” I said.

  Uncle Harvey swung his gaze in my direction. The others looked at me too.

  “Freedom Riders?” he said.

  Lavender shot me a look. Suddenly I was unsure of myself, but I managed to keep going.

  “They’re coming to Anniston next Sunday,” I stammered. “They’ll be at the Greyhound station. They’ll sit in the front of the bus, black and white together. It’s interstate commerce. That’s a different kind of law.”

  Uncle Harvey stared at me. So did the other men. Lavender gazed at the floor, shaking her head.

  “Here’s your steak,” Mr. Forsyth said to Lavender. His face looked whiter than when we ’d walked in. Hers looked darker.

  She paid him, then headed for the door. “Come on, child,” she told me.

  Uncle Harvey and his friends watched as we left the store. Nobody said a word.

  In the car, I turned to Lavender. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

  Lavender sighed. “They would have found out. Anyway, it shouldn’t be a secret. The Freedom Riders would thank you. They want everyone to know. They even put it in the newspaper.”

  That made me feel better, but I was still uneasy. By telling Uncle Harvey and the others, I’d given them information, and in the wrong hands, information could be a weapon.

  When we got home, Lavender cooked up the steak for Daddy and put it on a plate. He sat down to dinner and enjoyed every bite of it. Mama and I had fried chicken.

  Lavender wasn’t feeling well, so I told her I would wash the dishes, and she left. I stood at the sink, thinking about my town. It was home, and I loved it. I could sit down and talk all day long with people like Uncle Harvey Caldwell and the Tall Tales Club. We would laugh and tell stories and poke fun at each other. We shared a history and a way of looking at things. But today, in Lavender’s eyes, I had seen a different place. It could be thoughtless and mean. It could be dangerous.

  In just a few days, a group of people would get on a bus and come riding through Anniston. Lavender said they were clearing a path, sweeping the road clean. But there were people in town who felt differently, and I had helped them.

  I tried to imagine the Freedom Riders—brave, strong, sure of their dream. Maybe they would change my town. Maybe they would change my family. Maybe they would change me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lavender called the next morning, saying she felt sick and wouldn’t be coming to our house. I remembered the look on her face in Forsyth’s, when Uncle Harvey was talking to her. Maybe that’s when she had started to feel bad.

  Thinking back on it, I realized this had happened before. When there were disagreements or cross words, Lavender wouldn’t say anything. She would set her mouth in a firm line and her eyes would go dead, and the next day she would stay home. It was like she was holding her thoughts inside, and the thoughts made her sick. I wondered what kind of thoughts would do that to you.

  Mama hung up the phone and headed back to the breakfast table, shaking her head. “What about the baby? I can’t take him to work.”

  I was putting jam on my toast, and Daddy, in a tie and shirtsleeves, was finis
hing the last of his coffee. Royal sat in a high chair, where Mama had been feeding him. He let out a cry, and Daddy smiled.

  “Smart kid. He knows. No Lavender today.”

  “I wonder if Grace would help,” said Mama. Grace was Mrs. McCall, who was home during the day.

  Mama checked and learned that Mrs. McCall could watch Royal, but only until three o’clock, when she’d be taking Grant to the dentist. Mama said that luckily it was a light day at work and she could leave early. As she told us, Daddy shot me a meaningful look. I didn’t understand for a minute; then I remembered our conversation in the front yard.

  “Oh yeah. I guess I could help,” I said. “I’ll be home from school.”

  “That would be nice, dear,” said Mama.

  And that’s how, later that day, I ended up wiping Royal’s face and other body parts. When Mama got home, we had gone to the McCalls’ and picked up the baby. We had played with him for a few minutes and then, when Grant and his mom had left for the dentist, we took Royal home.

  Somehow I got the job of feeding him. Basically, the idea was to try and get more into his mouth than came out. I sat in front of his high chair, spooning mushed-up peaches from a little jar, and he did everything he could think of but eat. He cooed and clapped and grabbed my nose. When he got it, he squeezed.

  “Ow!” I said.

  Mama, whose workday hadn’t been as light as she’d hoped, had brought home some papers and was shuffling them at the breakfast table. She smiled at Royal. “You little goober.”

  I might have picked a different word, but I didn’t say it. I’d been thinking about something else. “Mama, are we prejudiced?”

  She looked at me. “What kind of question is that? Of course not.”

  “I heard it’s like the mumps. You catch it and pass it on.”

  “It’s a choice,” she said. “In our family we choose to treat people with kindness and respect.”

  “People like Lavender?”

  “That’s right,” said Mama.

  “She’s part of the family, isn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  That made me feel better. I wondered how Lavender was feeling. I pictured her bundled up in front of her TV watching soap operas, which she called “the stories.” We used to watch them together when I was little. She said the stories helped her escape to another place. I was hoping to do the same thing someday, only I would use a bus.

  “When Lavender gets on the bus,” I said, “why does she have to sit in back?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Mama studied me, then asked, “What do you think?”

  “It’s the law,” I said. “Also, it’s tradition.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “And there’s something else. I think people are more comfortable when they’re separated. They like being with their own kind.”

  I’d heard that before. I’d said it myself a few times. But now, thinking about the Freedom Riders, I wondered if it was true. We said all kinds of things about Negroes—what they liked, what they thought, what they believed. If we really wanted to know, why didn’t we ask them?

  Royal squirmed in his high chair, and I realized the little jar of baby food was empty. The question was, were there more peaches inside his body or on the outside? I dampened a washcloth and used it to clean him up, while he lunged for my nose.

  “I’m not very good at this,” I said.

  “You’re fine, dear,” said Mama. “And while you’re at it, could you please change his diaper?”

  I sighed and took Royal into his room, where I wrestled him on the changing table. I think he won. Afterward, he looked up at me, burped, and fell asleep. I laid him gently in his crib and returned to the kitchen.

  “Did you lose something?” asked Mama, seeing that I wasn’t holding Royal.

  “He’s taking a nap. I wish I could fall asleep that fast.”

  I went to the fridge and got two bottles of RC Cola. I opened them and put one in front of Mama, then took a gulp from the other one and plopped down at the table.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” said Mama. Gathering up her papers, she put them in her briefcase and took a sip of the RC.

  “The McCalls don’t have a maid,” I said.

  “Mrs. McCall doesn’t work.”

  “Grant told me they don’t believe in maids.”

  Mama chuckled. “That’s like saying they don’t believe in cornbread or black-eyed peas.”

  “He says maids work too hard and don’t get paid enough.”

  “Sweetheart, the McCalls are new to town. They’ll learn.”

  “I’m not so sure. You know how Mr. McCall is.”

  “He’s a fine person. So is Grant. Speaking of Grant, how’s he doing these days?”

  “Grant? He can’t see what’s right in front of him, unless it’s in his viewfinder.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  “What?” I said. “Oh, please.”

  I remembered the way Grant had shown me how to use the camera, with his cheek next to mine and lemonade on his breath.

  Mama said, “You’re changing, Billie. You’re a lovely young lady.”

  I took another swig of RC. I didn’t feel lovely. I felt hot and awkward and confused. I liked Grant but he drove me nuts. I loved my town but wanted to get out. I wanted to grow up but didn’t know how.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We lived on the Birmingham Highway, but the funny thing was, we almost never went to Birmingham. Mama said it was too big, and besides, we had everything we needed right there in Anniston. And Daddy? He was tired. He was always tired.

  All of that changed on Saturday. If you lived in our neighborhood, Birmingham was the place to be, because that was the location of the state spelling bee. It was held in the gym at the YWCA, a big, old brick building downtown that had an arched doorway with pillars above it.

  The gym was on the second floor, and when we walked inside, we were hit by a wave of sound—kids chattering, families visiting, chairs scraping on the wooden floor. It was a big, high-ceilinged room with dark wood halfway up the walls. Someone had set up a stage at the front, with chairs for the spellers and a microphone.

  The spellers were milling around in front of the stage, and I spotted Janie Forsyth off to one side, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She was a shy girl, but then it occurred to me that all the spellers must be shy—a whole group of kids who were more comfortable with words than with people.

  Nearby, Mr. McCall was on the job. He was short and pudgy, but that didn’t mean he was weak. According to Grant, some local crooks and a few politicians had found that out the hard way. Mr. McCall wandered among the spellers, asking questions and writing the answers in a little notebook. Grant followed along behind, taking pictures.

  Today one of those spellers would become state champion, winning a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, a $250 radio, and an engraved writing pen. Best of all, the winner would get a trip to the national spelling bee, to be held the following month in Washington, DC. I tried to imagine going there, or maybe traveling to New York to visit Miss Harper Lee. Cities stretched in front of me, the way they’d been spread out below Alan Shepard the day before, when he became the first American in space. The world was bigger than Anniston or even Birmingham. Now we knew it was bigger than Earth too.

  There was a long table at the back of the room where people served cookies and punch. The rest of the place was filled with folding chairs lined up in rows. I saw Mrs. McCall sitting near the stage with the Forsyth family, and we headed in their direction. I took a seat next to Mrs. McCall, who greeted me with a hug. Daddy filed in behind me, and Mama, with the baby, took a place next to him.

  As we settled in, I was surprised to see a group of Negro students sitting near the back of the room. Mama noticed where I was looking and leaned over toward me.

  “They’re from Cobb Avenue High,” she said. “I heard about them a
t work. They came to watch, hoping to be part of the bee someday. You know, because of the court decision.”

  The court decision was Brown versus the Board of Education. The teachers at school hadn’t mentioned the decision, but Mr. McCall had explained it to me. In 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court had ruled that segregated schools were illegal—that having separate schools wasn’t allowed, even if they were equal. The schools would have to integrate.

  “Then how come we’re still segregated?” I had asked him.

  Mr. McCall had gazed at me, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I’ve been asking the school board that same question. They haven’t given me a good answer.”

  “Do you really think black and white kids could go to school together?”

  “They’ll have to,” he had said, “eventually.”

  “That would be fine with me,” I had told him. “I just wonder about other people. Some of them might not like it.”

  As I remembered the words, Mr. Forsyth’s comment echoed in my head. I don’t mind them coming here, but they might bother some of my customers.

  If integration was okay with Mr. Forsyth and okay with me, who were all those other people?

  I thought back to that day in the store and realized something. In spite of what he had said, Mr. Forsyth didn’t feel comfortable with Negroes in his store. He just didn’t want to admit it, so he blamed his customers.

  Maybe I was doing the same thing. I wondered what it would be like to have Negroes at my school. The thought made me uneasy, but I wasn’t sure why. It was just a feeling I had, and thoughts bubbled up after it. They had their schools, and we had ours. Why did we have to mix? I was ashamed to admit it, but somewhere deep down inside, it was how I felt. I had blamed other people for segregation, but maybe I was one of them.

  I glanced uneasily at the group of Negro students and saw a familiar face. It was the young man from the store. Like the others, he was nicely dressed, wearing a coat and tie. I thought of him at Forsyth’s, and I imagined him at my school. Somehow it bothered me.