Night on Fire

by Ronald Kidd

  Beneath the bell was a square opening going all the way down to the first floor. Two thick ropes hung from the bell, brushing the railing three stories below.

  “Would you like to hear it?” asked Gus.

  The idea startled me. “The bell? Is that allowed?”

  “We ring it Sunday morning and on special occasions. I’d say this is a special occasion, wouldn’t you?”

  I nodded eagerly.

  “Why are there two ropes?” asked Jarmaine.

  Gus reached over the railing and touched one of them. “When you pull the first rope, there’s a single toll. That’s for funerals, sending a soul to heaven. The second one’s for Sunday morning. It rings the bell over and over again—you know, like a celebration.”

  Gus handed the second rope to Jarmaine. “Go ahead. Pull.”

  Jarmaine’s eyes opened wide. The rope lay in her palms like a prize. The daughter of a daughter of a daughter of slaves, she gripped the rope and gazed at the bell. She pulled, hard, as if trying to break their chains.

  The tower erupted. If the organ music had been a river, this was the ocean, wide and deep. It started as a low moan, then shook the tower like an earthquake. I could feel myself vibrate. The sound was inside my chest. The bell was ringing me.

  Watching it, I was surprised. “I thought the clapper would swing, but it doesn’t move.”

  Gus smiled. “The clapper is still, and the bell swings around it.”

  I liked that. Maybe I could ring too, if I just stood still enough. Then the people and the world and the sky and stars could swing around me.

  When the ringing died out, Jarmaine handed the rope back to Gus. I walked to one of the windows, and Jarmaine followed. The opening, one of eight around the room, started at our shoes and ended a foot over our heads, with an arch on top. I stretched out my arms and barely touched the sides. Up close, I realized the opening was actually covered with wire mesh so no one would fall.

  We were looking down on Ripley Street, at the front of the church. Diagonally across the intersection of Ripley and Columbus was a grassy, parklike area with graves.

  “That’s old Oakwood Cemetery,” said Gus, who had come up behind us. “It started out in the early 1800s as Scott’s Free Burying Ground, because it was free to everyone, even Negroes, and in Montgomery that was unusual. Behind the original section there’s a newer part called the annex, which includes graves for members of England’s Royal Air Force, who trained here during World War II, and the country music singer Hank Williams.”

  I said, “Hank Williams? He’s one of my daddy’s favorites. He sang ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.’”

  Gus looked out over the rows of graves. “I guess some of the slaves would have agreed with that.”

  Directly across Ripley Street was another grassy area with trees and benches.

  “That’s our park,” said Gus.

  “The church owns it?” I asked.

  She and Jarmaine exchanged looks.

  Gus said, “Not the church—the people. It’s the only park in Montgomery where Negroes are allowed.”

  I thought of the parks we had ridden by in the bus and had walked by on our way across town. Apparently they were for whites only.

  “Really?” I said.

  “You’re learning a lot on this trip,” said Jarmaine.

  I pointed to the park. “Then what are those white people doing?”

  A group of about twenty men milled around, talking and smoking. A line of cars and pickup trucks was parked nearby.

  Gus’s eyes narrowed, and she grew thoughtful.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “It can’t be good,” said Jarmaine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gus found blankets for us, then left us there to nap. I stretched out and tried to sleep but couldn’t. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the bell and hear it ringing.

  After a few minutes, I opened my eyes. Jarmaine had been lying next to me, but she had gotten up and was sitting by the window, hugging her knees to her chest. Her face reflected the afternoon sun. I’d seen before that she was proud and determined. Now I saw that she was pretty. The sun made her skin the color of coffee mixed with cream. She had long lashes and deep brown eyes.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “I was thinking. I miss my mother. I feel bad about sneaking off. I didn’t want her to worry, but now she will.”

  I pictured Lavender and tried to imagine what she was doing. It occurred to me that Lavender often looked worried, but I hadn’t noticed. There were lots of things about her that I hadn’t noticed or had taken for granted—her soft touch, her gentle voice, the way she brushed my hair.

  “When I was little,” said Jarmaine, “sometimes I had trouble sleeping. She would sit on the bed and sing a lullaby—‘Hush, Little Baby.’ It made me feel safe. Then I could fall asleep. But she would still be worried. You raise up your children and protect them, then you have to let them go. They make mistakes and get hurt and run off without telling you.”

  “We’re doing what’s right,” I said.

  “It’s right for us. Hard for our parents.”

  “Our mothers still love us. They have to.”

  Jarmaine shook her head. “They don’t have to do anything.”

  “Yes, they do,” I said. “They have to love us. It sounds selfish, but it’s true.”

  Jarmaine grunted. I could tell she was thinking about it.

  “Fathers too,” I said.

  She looked up at me, and I remembered she had never met her father.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “What’s it like?” asked Jarmaine.

  “Having a father?”

  It was something else I hadn’t thought of. It just was.

  “I like it, I guess. He’s not like Mama. He’s loud. He tells stories. We play football. People like him and want to be around him. I don’t know—he’s just Daddy.”

  I thought of the disagreements he sometimes had with Lavender. “What does your mom say about him?” I asked.

  “You want a nice story or the truth?”

  I swallowed hard. “The truth.”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “She doesn’t like him,” said Jarmaine.

  She watched me for a reaction. I tried not to show it, but it hurt.

  “She doesn’t like many white people,” Jarmaine added quickly.

  “I thought she was, you know, part of our family,” I said.

  “My mother has a family,” said Jarmaine. “There are two people in it.”

  Maybe Jarmaine was trying to make me feel bad. She had succeeded.

  “If we’re not her family, what are we?” I asked.

  Jarmaine studied my face. “You ever see a water moccasin?”

  “The snake?”

  She nodded. “They live in marshes and streams. They’re poison. Step on them, and you die.”

  “You think we’re like that?” I asked.

  “White people are dangerous. That’s what my mother told me.”

  Lavender swept our floor and set our table and made apple cobbler, all the while believing we were dangerous. The thought was alien, like we had landed on the planet Mars.

  Jarmaine gazed out the window and shook her head. “You and I are different. I told you that before.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said.

  “Oh really?”

  “Look at us. We’re doing this together, right?”

  “You think that makes us alike?”

  “Maybe we want the same things,” I said.

  “Look, Billie, you mean well, but let’s face it. White people want to keep us down. It’s always been that way.”

  “Not all of them,” I said. “What about Mr. McCall? What about Grant?”

  She shrugged. “They’re not like the others.”

  “So, there’s hope for me?”

  Jarmaine chuckled. “You d
on’t give up, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. And you know who taught me that? My father, the man Lavender doesn’t like. The man who watched the bus burn. What do you think of that?”

  She got to her feet and stretched. “I think I’m tired.”

  “Me too. Come lie down. There’s still time to sleep.”

  Jarmaine settled onto the floor next to me. I pulled the blanket over her, and she curled up like I’d seen Royal do. She closed her eyes, and I began to sing.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird …”

  Lavender had sung it to me too, years ago when she had put me down for a nap. I wondered why she sang a lullaby about a father. I wondered what it would be like to have a baby and see her grow up. I remembered the disease Lavender had told me about, the one that made us dangerous, the one that rocked the bus and set it on fire, the one that could hurt people just by watching. I wondered if I still had it and if I would pass it on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I dreamed I was walking with Daddy. He held my hand and spoke to me. I couldn’t understand his words, but the sound of his voice made me feel good. A pickup truck was parked ahead of us. We got in, and a crowd formed. They rocked the truck and beat on it with their fists. A man picked up a rock and smashed the window. In the distance, over the crowd, I heard a bell.

  When I woke up, the bell hung above me. The gray surface was tinged with orange. I checked my watch and saw that it was six o’clock. We had been sleeping for nearly two hours. I climbed to my feet and hurried to a window, where the orange light streamed in. To the west, the sun was dipping toward the hills. As I watched, it went behind a cloud, and bright rays spread across the sky. Suddenly I thought of Grant and wished he were there to see it.

  I moved away from the window and shook Jarmaine’s shoulder. “Jarmaine, get up.”

  She looked at me, confused, then saw the brick walls and remembered where she was. Together we moved to the east windows, looked out over Ripley Street, and realized that things had changed. People were flooding into the church from all directions, on foot and by car. There were hundreds of them, maybe more. The men wore coats and ties, the women hats and colorful dresses. The children, excited, skipped along behind, showing their Sunday best.

  Across the street, the small group of white men had grown too. Now it was a big crowd, filling the park and spilling out into the streets. Some of the men gripped pipes and chains as they watched the worshipers. A few tried to block their path, but the worshipers pushed on through.

  “I don’t like the looks of that,” said Jarmaine.

  Sounds billowed up from below. There were happy voices, snatches of conversation, a bottle breaking. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

  I noticed a station wagon inching up Ripley, through the crowd and toward the church. Other cars had parked, but this driver seemed determined to reach the front door, and I wondered why.

  Slowly, agonizingly, the car drew closer. Finally, at a curb by the corner, it stopped and two Negroes got out. The driver was a teenager. The passenger, wearing a beautiful black suit and a hat that was tipped to hide his face, was a man with broad shoulders and a dignified way of carrying himself.

  “Oh my God,” said Jarmaine.

  “What?”

  “That’s Dr. King,” she said.

  “Martin Luther King?”

  “They said he was flying in from Atlanta. He must have come from the airport.”

  Jarmaine started to call out but caught herself, pressing her hand over her mouth as if to bottle up a dangerous secret. On the street below, the driver got a suitcase from the back of the car and pushed his way through the crowd, with Dr. King following behind, his face still hidden. Even so, there was something about him that made you sit up and take notice.

  The worshipers were the first to recognize him. Some of them kept quiet, but others, thrilled, reached out to touch him. A child shouted his name. The men in the park heard it. You could see the word passing like a flame. It spread, and they surged toward him.

  Next to me, Jarmaine shouted, “Watch out!”

  Dr. King checked behind him. The driver yelled something to the worshipers. As if they had planned it, the people edged toward Dr. King, forming a barrier around him.

  “There he is!” shouted the men. “Get him!”

  Fists swung. A pipe caught the afternoon sun. People stumbled, but the group kept moving, and so did Dr. King. Rocks flew. Dr. King ducked. Someone held up a Bible.

  Finally the group arrived at the front door, directly below us. Dr. King took off his hat and gazed up at the church. He saw us in the tower and smiled.

  I waved. “Hello!”

  “Be careful,” called Jarmaine.

  Brown hands reached out. Gently but firmly, they pulled Dr. King through the door. The white men backed off, grumbling. The worshipers buzzed with excitement. Over it all, like the soundtrack of a movie, we heard organ music—“Babylon’s Falling,” “I’ll Fly Away,” and other hymns I didn’t recognize.

  Gus was at her post, and I wanted to join her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We hurried down the ladder, through the attic, past the balcony, and into the narthex. It was crammed with people moving slowly but steadily into the sanctuary, where they were seated by ushers who had carnations in their lapels.

  Jarmaine asked one of the ushers, “Where’s Dr. King?”

  “Downstairs. He’ll be back when the meeting starts.”

  We slipped into the sanctuary and made our way across the rear, then along the wall beneath the big stained-glass window. I don’t know why, but suddenly I was aware that the room was filled with Negroes. They had always been there at the edges of my town and my life, off to the side, but now I was the one at the edge, an outsider, someone who looked different and didn’t fit in. This was their place. Other white faces dotted the crowd, but there were just a few of us.

  Jarmaine eyed me. “How does it feel? You know, being a minority.”

  “Do they want me here?” I asked.

  “Some do, some don’t. A lot of them don’t even see you. You’re invisible. You don’t exist.”

  There was pain in her eyes.

  “Like you?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “It feels strange,” I said. “It makes me nervous.”

  “Scared?” said Jarmaine.

  “Maybe a little bit.”

  She searched my face. “Why did you come?”

  I shrugged. “I thought you could use a friend.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “We could be,” I said.

  “Black and white?”

  I had to smile. Sometimes on summer afternoons, Mama made hot fudge sundaes. She called them black and whites.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m the ice cream. You’re the fudge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I told her about the sundaes. “Maybe I’ll make one for you sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Billie!” called a voice.

  Apparently someone in the crowd did know me. Surprised, I looked around. In the sea of dark faces I spotted Noah, gigantic, his hand raised in greeting and his friends spread out around him. Noah grinned, and I waved back.

  In front, directly ahead of us, was the organ console where Gus, tiny but fierce, was in her glory. Instead of a single keyboard, the organ had three—two stacked like ledges in front of her, and a giant one below for her feet. When she played, her whole body was involved, moving, swiveling, dancing. I wondered how organists could ever go back to playing the piano.

  Instead of waiting for the preachers, the people had started without them. They stood and sang, waving their arms in the air. Every few seconds someone would call out: “That’s right!” “Lord Jesus!” “Yes, indeed!” I had heard about churches like this but had never been inside one. The closest I’d come had been late at night, listening to the rad
io, tuning in stations from Memphis and Atlanta, when the music had poured out like syrup.

  There were three arches across the front of the sanctuary, echoing the arch of the stained-glass window. Behind the pulpit, the center arch was the biggest, with steps leading to an altar that was lined with beautiful dark wood and crimson carpet. Beyond the altar, towering over the room, was the bank of organ pipes, and beneath that were chairs like thrones for the pastor and other church officials.

  The smaller arches on either side had a low, wood-paneled railing across the front, and behind the railing was the choir loft. Some choir members were already there—standing, singing, clapping, their blue robes flowing as they moved. Beside them were some other people who weren’t wearing robes.

  Jarmaine and I made our way to the front. I noticed a place behind the organ bench where we could sit and lean against the wall, just below the choir loft. That’s when I noticed how hot it was. The day had been warm, and the heat had settled in the sanctuary. The crowd, stuffed into the room like sardines, must have numbered well over a thousand. I saw the flash of paper fans as people tried to stay cool, but it wasn’t working.

  Gus looked back and winked at us. She played the final notes of “A City Called Heaven.” Then, instead of stopping, she played chords with her left hand while thumbing through the hymnal with her right.

  The congregation might have paused, but Gus didn’t. She found a hymn she liked and flattened the page with her hand. Before she played again, she rocked back on the bench in our direction. She nodded toward the choir members right above us.

  “That’s them, you know.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Who else?” she said. “The Freedom Riders.”

  I jumped to my feet and whirled around. The choir loft was above us, at shoulder height, so that even when standing, I had to crane my neck to see over the railing. There were flashes of color when the choir moved. Then I took a step back, and the people beside them came into view, wearing suits and dresses but no robes.

  The Freedom Riders loomed over us, like actors in a movie when you sit in the front row. I looked more closely and saw that they didn’t seem like movie stars at all but regular people—smiling, some bruised and swollen, a few I dimly recognized from news photos.