One Night in Georgia

by Celeste O. Norfleet

  9

  SATURDAY WAS CALM AND RELAXING AND THE FIRST TIME I felt truly at ease all summer. In the afternoon, we went back to the beach. Kimo went with us. He and Daphne played at the water’s edge. Veronica and I stayed on the blanket playing cards, and Daniel sat with us reading his book.

  After a while we had chicken and waffles at a small black-owned restaurant near the bungalow and then later Kimo drove us to Wildwood. We strolled the boardwalk, played some of the amusement-park games, and went on a few rides. It was obvious that he and Daphne were getting along well. It was early evening when we got back to Cape May. Veronica’s aunt, uncle, and Kimo went to a meeting at the hospital, and the four of us stayed in.

  Sunday morning we dressed in traveling clothes and prepared to leave. Daniel was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, which accentuated his strong build. He had broad shoulders and long, slightly bowed legs. His skin was like sweet caramel, rich, soft, and smooth. I couldn’t deny that he was attractive—if you liked that type.

  He had black hair cut real close, not a perm or the Afro most guys sported. His face was strong with sharp angles, and his lips were full and thick. But it was his soul-piercing eyes that cut into me like a switchblade.

  “Good morning, Motown,” he whispered, his voice deep and raspy as his eyes focused solely on me. I stood there numb and breathless.

  Harold took Daniel’s suitcase and fit it perfectly into the trunk, leaving plenty of space in the back seat. Daniel got in. I hesitated a split second, then got in and sat beside him.

  Trudy gave Veronica a small green book and told her to be careful and pay attention and to use the book if she needed. “We will,” she promised.

  “Okay, Daniel, rule number one,” Veronica said as she glanced in the rearview mirror, “I’m driving and we’re in charge of the radio.” She turned it on for emphasis.

  “Fine with me,” he said. “I don’t mind sitting in the back seat with Miss Motown. I prefer jazz.”

  “Who do you like?” Veronica asked.

  “Miles Davis, Hugh Masekela, Ramsey Lewis, Nina Simone, Sergio Mendes, Young-Holt Unlimited, and a few more.”

  Veronica smiled. “I love Miles and Ramsey, and ‘Soulful Strut’ is one of my favorites,” Veronica readily agreed. “And Nina Simone is simply boss.”

  I liked them all as well, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Okay, so what’s rule number two?” Daniel asked.

  “We’ll let you know,” I said.

  Daniel chuckled, then pulled out a transistor radio and put a crystal earpiece into his ear. He winked at me, then closed his eyes and laid his head back. A sly smile pulled at his lips.

  “Soooo,” Veronica said, smiling over at Daphne.

  Daphne looked puzzled. She turned and looked at me and then at Veronica. “Soooo what?” she asked, faking innocence.

  “You know what. Kimo,” I said from the rear.

  “So what happened between you two the other night?”

  Daphne shrugged. “Nothing happened. We talked and walked on the beach.”

  “Did you kiss him?” Veronica asked.

  Daphne looked back at Daniel. His eyes were still closed and his head was still tilted back. She grinned and nodded her head excitedly, then squealed. “He’s so wonderful.” She sighed. “Our conversations were therapeutic. I told him stuff I have only told the two of you. He listened to me.”

  “Oooooo,” Veronica and I said.

  “Shhh,” Daphne said, glancing at Daniel again.

  “So do you like him?” Veronica asked. Daphne didn’t reply. “Come on. Tell us. Do you like him?”

  “Yeah, I do. He’s nice and kind and thoughtful.”

  “And he’s a doctor,” I said.

  “He wants me to visit him in Cape May this Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, isn’t that a good thing? Don’t you want to?”

  “Yes, but I don’t deserve someone like him.”

  “Don’t ever say that about yourself. You are a strong woman. Keep your faith in God, and don’t lose your faith in yourself now,” Veronica said.

  “It’s just that it feels like I’ve been holding my breath all my life waiting for something good to happen.”

  “I feel that way too.”

  “Me too.”

  “Well, maybe this road trip is that something good we’ve all been waiting for.”

  “Now, wouldn’t that be wonderful,” Daphne said.

  I smiled and glanced over at Daniel. He hadn’t moved or said a word, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. I wondered if he was waiting for something good too.

  The rest of the drive I stared out at cars passing by and highway signs pointing to places I had no interest in ever going. I noticed that Daniel had a book with him. It was a copy of Eldridge Cleaver’s book Soul on Ice. It looked like mine, worn and well read.

  Traffic was light so travel was quick and easy. I saw more black faces on the road this time. When we got to Baltimore we turned on WSID, and when we neared Washington, DC, we listened to Petey Greene, a disc jockey on WOL.

  “I met him once,” Daniel said. “Nice guy.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Veronica said.

  “You’ve met everybody. I still can’t believe you met Dr. King. What was he like?”

  I saw Veronica smiling in profile. “Calm,” she said, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s the word I’d use for him. He was serene and at peace. I was fifteen, and my parents took me to the March on Washington. With all the craziness around him, he was so amazingly focused. His gaze was intense and purposeful, and his voice was strong and comforting. I remember I thought at the time that you could believe what he was saying, even if he had just read the telephone book.”

  “To be there, that must have been an incredible moment,” Daphne said.

  “It was. The people, the crowds, the speakers, everybody seemed united in one voice. It wasn’t just black people there, but it felt like it. And the power of being in the presence of all my people, all the same pain, all the same struggle. A shared spirit. It was overwhelming.”

  “I was there too,” I said. “My uncle and aunt took me. We were far away from the stage, but his words reached us with force. I hoped that one day we would all live in his new world, where everyone was equal and there was peace. It felt like it could truly happen.

  “My uncle told me that 1963 was going to be a pivotal year that rocked the world and shaped a generation. And that Dr. King’s speech was going to be a historically defining moment, and in years to come I would tell my children and grandchildren that I was there and I witnessed that amazing message.

  “My father was supposed to stand with him on that stage at Lincoln’s feet. But hearing Dr. King made me hopeful, and that’s when I decided to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a civil rights attorney.”

  “I watched on television,” Daphne began. “I was staying at my grandmother’s house, my mother’s mom. She didn’t want me there. I was too much of a reminder. You see, my grandmother worked as a domestic, and her employer, a white man, had raped her. My mother was the living proof, and so was I.

  “But sitting and watching Dr. King on that tiny black-and-white television set with my grandmother seemed to bring us together. I remember she reached out and hugged me. She told me that I was not my mother and that I had to make different choices and to always remember who I was and where I came from. And no matter what happened in the past and what will happen in the future, I was always a child of God and that he would never leave or forsake me. All I had to do was believe. That made me feel so good.”

  “What about you?” I asked Daniel as the car went silent again for a few moments. “Where were you in 1963?”

  “Germany. My dad was in the military, an officer. We moved around a lot. My father had a ham radio and we all listened in to the speeches. Some of the other officers warned my father not to, but we did, and some others came to listen as well. I was young, but I knew it was special. I could see it on th
e faces of the men and women sitting there. I remember hearing Mahalia Jackson singing ‘How We Got Over,’ and then listening to Dr. King’s words. He was inspiring. I’ll never forget that moment.”

  “I don’t think anyone will. Everybody will remember exactly where they were on Wednesday, August 28th, 1963.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “I know. Me either.”

  “Even when we were standing in Sisters Chapel on Spelman campus and looking down at his body a few months ago, it just didn’t seem real that he was lying there.”

  “I remember standing in that long line outside and everybody was so quiet. No one talked.”

  “I think everybody was in shock.”

  I reached over and grabbed the book Trudy had given Veronica, The Negro Motorist Green Book. They had stopped publishing these two years ago, and this was an older copy. I flipped through the book, reading listings on a few of the pages. “Wow, this is really wild.”

  “What is?” Daphne asked.

  “The listings in this book. It’s like black people couldn’t go anywhere in this country and be safe.”

  “It’s better nowadays,” Daphne interjected. “Segregation is over. There are laws to protect us.”

  “You know laws don’t mean anything,” Veronica chimed in unexpectedly. “It’s just a false sense of security.”

  “So what’s in the book?” Daphne asked, turning to me.

  “There are listings for hotels, service stations, and restaurants, but also surprisingly for taxicabs, barbershops, beauty parlors, and nightclubs.” I started reading off some the places I found in the book.

  “Well, I guess it’s comforting to see there are so many safe places for black people to travel,” Daphne said.

  “Yeah, but it’s disheartening to know a book like this is needed to ensure our safety.”

  “One day everything will be different,” Daphne said.

  “You really believe that?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I do,” she said as Veronica exited the highway and drove through the streets of Washington, DC. Some of the streets were blocked off, so we detoured.

  “I wonder what’s going on,” Daphne said.

  “It looks like another protest march,” I said.

  It was Sunday afternoon, another hot day, and a lot of people were out in the streets trying to get relief from the sweltering heat. We detoured again and had to find our way back, driving through Northwest neighborhoods that seemed to have been demolished by a bomb. We drove down Fourteenth, then U Street to Seventh Street. “Geez, look at this. What the hell happened?” Veronica asked.

  “The riots in April after Dr. King was killed,” I said. “A lot of the city’s neighborhoods still haven’t recovered.”

  At the side of the road there were shells of cars burnt and overturned. Street after street of vacant buildings had been gutted by fire, interiors caved in and floors covered with charred beams and twisted metal. Broken glass and debris littered the pavement. “It looks like a war happened here.”

  “It was a war,” I said, “and we all lost.”

  “All this is going to change things, isn’t it?” Daphne said.

  “Yeah, it will change. But I don’t think it will be for the better. At least not for us,” Daniel said. I nodded. “We destroyed our own neighborhoods. This didn’t honor Dr. King’s memory.”

  We found our way back to where we needed to go. My aunt and uncle lived midway between Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. They had a large three-story house similar to my family’s house in Harlem. There was even a small park that reminded me of Mount Morris Park. We got to their house and parked in the first spot we found, halfway down the street.

  Veronica shut off the engine. “Remind me to get some gas before we leave DC, okay? We’re almost on empty.”

  “Okay,” Daphne and I said.

  We got out of the car and started walking. A few houses away I saw a man dressed in all black with black shades leaving my uncle’s house.

  “Who’s that?” Veronica asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Come on.” We got to the front door. It was already slightly ajar. “Why’s the door open?” I muttered as I pushed it open.

  “Wait, me first,” Daniel said, quickly pushing past me. I was going to say something, but he was too fast. We followed until we got inside, then I pushed around him.

  10

  “HELLO?” I CALLED OUT.

  There was no response. I called out again as we walked through the foyer to the living room. A young woman I didn’t know approached. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” she asked.

  For a long moment I was too stunned to answer. I looked around behind her, seeing the television on with no sound and two men, both dressed in black, sitting on the sofa. They were looking up at us with agitated expressions, as if we had walked in and interrupted something incredibly important.

  I looked in the dining room. There was a display of guns and bullets on the table along with a newspaper. As I walked over, the woman blocked my way.

  “Hey, I asked you a question,” she said. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  The two men in the living room stood up.

  Suddenly I could feel the closeness of Daniel behind me.

  “Who are you and why are you in this house?” I asked.

  “Who wants to know?” she asked.

  I pushed around her and quickly read the newspaper article headline: “Local Attorney, Beaten, Accuses Police of Brutality.” I didn’t have to read the rest of the article. My heart lurched. I straightaway knew it was my uncle. He was in the newspapers a lot, defending against police brutality, unfair housing, and unfair employment practices. Arthur Livingston, a brilliant attorney, was my father’s younger brother. He had taken me in when I couldn’t stand to be with my mother and her new husband anymore.

  “Uncle Arthur,” I muttered.

  I started to panic, looking around for my aunt and uncle. The door to my uncle’s office was closed, so I headed to the kitchen to find my aunt.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m looking for Arthur Livingston or Dorothy, his wife.”

  “Who?” she said.

  “She means Art,” a man called out from the living room.

  “What do you want him for?” the woman asked.

  I looked at her like she had lost her mind. “Why are you in his house? What’s going on?”

  “You and your friends get lost sightseeing?” she said, looking us up and down again. “Y’all need to get the fuck out of here. You don’t belong in this scene. So get out!”

  “Who the hell are you cussing at?” Veronica said, stepping forward. Daniel took her arm to hold her back.

  “You don’t understand. I need to find my—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said. “I told you to get out.” She stepped up to me real close.

  “You need to back up,” Daniel told her roughly.

  A man stepped up to Daniel and they started arguing.

  “All right, all right, that’s enough,” one of the two men said, stepping between Daniel and the other guy. “We don’t need to be fighting among ourselves. What do y’all want with Art?”

  I looked at him and refused to speak. The room was deathly silent. Everybody was staring at us.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you. What do you want here?”

  “Back up,” Daniel shouted, stepping up again.

  “Look at them. They ain’t down with the program. They probably with them fascist pigs,” the woman said. “Probably squealers here to spy on us. Get out before we put your asses out.”

  “You shut up,” Veronica shouted.

  “Enough! What do you want?” the big man said again.

  The door to my uncle’s office opened. “What’s all this yelling out here?” He looked around and then saw me. “Zelda?”

  “Zelda?” Aunt Dorothy pushed around him. “Zelda, Tu es ici en
fin. Ta mère a appelé tout le week-end.” She hurried over and wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tight. She greeted Veronica and Daphne, and I introduced her to Daniel.

  “What’s going on out here?” Arthur asked.

  “I didn’t know who she was, so I told her to leave, but she wouldn’t.”

  My aunt turned to the young woman. “Who the hell are you to put anybody out of my house?” No one said a word to defend her. “You think ’cause you wear all this black and you down with the cause that you belong here? Let me tell you something, honey child, my niece has sacrificed more for this cause than your ignorant ass will ever know. And let me tell you something else . . .”

  My aunt went off, using cuss words combined in ways I had never heard before. Then she ended in a righteous blaze of fury, sounding like a minister in a pulpit, scripture references and all. “You know what? You get out! All of you, get the hell out of this damn house now!”

  “But what about the protest? We’re supposed to—”

  “Did you not hear what I just said to you? Get out!” Her voice was ferocious, like a lioness protecting her cubs. I had never seen this side of her.

  Some of the men looked to my uncle Arthur. He pointed to the door. “I’ll be there directly.” As they were leaving, the woman glared and rolled her eyes.

  “And get the shit off my dining room table. What’s wrong with you? You got no manners?” One of the men quickly gathered the guns and ammo and shoved them in a black cloth sack. “And if you want to blame somebody for getting your asses kicked out, blame this chick. You come to my house next time, you better be respectful and act like you got some sense.”

  We went into the kitchen and found a couple of men sitting at the table. They looked up as we entered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Livingston,” one of the men said. “They’re just upset about everything that happened last night.”

  “Upset my ass. You tell that woman I said, ‘Don’t ever darken my doorstep again.’”

  “Yes, ma’am. Again, we’re sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not what we’re about. Respect. We don’t need to tear each other down.”

  “You damn right,” she said.