He grinned deviously. “No, but use dis one. It’s the sheriff’s personal bathroom. He don’t let nobody use it ’sep him.” He stood and opened a door. “But hurry up ’fore he gits back, and leave it the way you found it.”
It was neat and clean with soap at the sink and towels. In the waiting area, the deputy gave Daniel two aspirin and some water.
A short while later, we saw Veronica’s red car pull up in front of the sheriff’s office. The top was down. The cop was driving it and smiling like it was his already. He got out of the car and spoke to a man passing by. They admired the car together before the sheriff came inside.
He sat on the edge of a desk and looked at us. He said our names again. “I don’t have to tell y’all that y’alls coloreds are in a world of trouble. Speeding, half drunk, fighting, resisting arrest, acting all wild like y’all ain’t got no couth. Now, I’ll try and git y’all a break ’n’ go easy.” He pulled our IDs from his shirt pocket along with Veronica’s driver’s registration and a notebook. The deputy grabbed a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes off the desk and handed them to him while he took our stuff out of the sheriff’s hand, examining our identification.
The sheriff lit a cigarette and continued talking about how we were breaking the law and the judge we would have to stand before in the morning. “Y’all got other peoples coming down yere, friends, family, or such?”
“No, sir, we’re just driving to school,” Daniel said.
“Yeah, to some fancy colored colleges.” He took the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to the deputy. “Y’all sure y’all ain’t come down yere like dem voter registration people come down yere a while back fittin’ ta stir up trouble?”
“No, sir. We’re not.”
“’Cause we ain’t ’bout no trouble with our coloreds down yere. Dey some good quiet folks. And we gonna keeps it dat way. Y’all understand me? ’N’ dey can cook too.” He smiled and laughed with a raspy cough. “See, I ain’t prejudice. I know some of dem colored folks. Ain’t that right, Jimmy?”
“Sure is right.”
“Now, you coloreds mind your manners and y’all be out of yere real soon. There’s a bus leaving town in ’bout half hour.”
“A bus?” Daniel said.
“Dat’s right. See, I gotta keep dat dere car outside to do a thorough check on it. Make sure it ain’t got no fines and warrants and such. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of it, like it’s my very own.” He paused and looked at us hard. “Now, y’all ain’t got no problem wit dat, do you?”
“No, sir,” we said all together.
The sheriff faked a smile. “All right den.” He looked at the deputy and nodded. “You call dis in and make sure dat car ain’t stolen. I don’t want no trouble wit dat car, ya hear me?”
“Will do,” the deputy said. “Sheriff, I’m fixing to get me a Coca-Cola from Mr. Barker’s place. You want a chicken dinner?”
“Yeah, dat’d be real good. ’N’ a large ginger ale. My guts are killing me,” he said, rubbing his stomach.
“Yes, sir. Think I’ll pick a platter up for me too. I’ll be right back. I’ll lock the front door. Dey ain’t going nowhere, are you?” the deputy asked gruffly.
“No, sir,” we said.
“Good.” The sheriff walked to the bathroom. “I gotta pee like a racehorse. Hope y’alls coloreds ain’t gotta pee or nothin’ ’cause y’all is shit out a luck.” He motioned to the bathroom we had just used and smiled smugly. “That dere’s mine, a white man’s bathroom. Don’t nobody be using it ’sep me, but we got us a tree out back if you gotta go.”
The deputy was laughing at the sheriff’s joke like it was the funniest thing in the world. We looked at each other ’cause we wanted to laugh too.
As soon as the sheriff closed the bathroom door, the deputy turned his attention to us. “Drive down the street to the gas station, den make a right and keep going until y’all see a big red silo. Make a left after the silo. A mile from dere, y’all see a sign to head on back to I-95.”
“Thank you,” we whispered.
“Y’all want a slice of apple pie, Sheriff?” he called out loudly.
“Yeah,” the sheriff grunted noisily.
The deputy pushed the IDs and car keys close to us. “When I leave, go.”
We kept an eye on the bathroom door. As soon as the deputy left and closed the front door we stood up. Daphne didn’t. “What are you doing? Get up,” I whispered.
She shook her head, panicked. “We can’t. What if he’s lying? Trying to trick us?”
“What if he’s not?”
“We’re gonna get caught,” Daphne said fearfully.
Veronica tiptoed to the front door and peeked out. “Daphne, stop it. Come on,” she said in loud whisper.
Daniel moved to the closed bathroom door. “You all go. I’ll stop him from following you.”
“What if he comes out and shoots you?” I asked.
“Then at least you’ll be safe. Now go. I’ll hold him back,” Daniel said, looking right at me. “Go.”
“No,” Veronica and I whispered. We looked at Daphne.
“We all go together,” I said.
Then we heard water running in the sink. Daphne jumped up. We hurried out the door. Outside, there were people walking around on the sidewalks. We got in the car and Veronica started the engine.
“Drive like nothing’s wrong,” I whispered to her.
She nodded with trepidation as we followed the directions the deputy had given us. Once I saw the I-95 sign, I felt relief. The sun faded as we put the sundown town in our rearview mirror.
“I hope the deputy is gonna be okay,” Daphne said. “I know that sheriff is going to be mad as hell when he sees us and the car gone.”
“Well, too bad for that stupid, flatulent-ass sheriff. This is my car.”
I repeatedly turned around, and Veronica kept glancing in the rearview mirror. My heart was still beating hard as we turned onto the highway. Cars sped by us.
“Hey, slow down, why don’t ya.” Daniel chuckled.
Veronica, already driving slowly, took him seriously and slightly lifted her foot off the pedal. She pointed to the dashboard. “Looks like the sheriff put gas in his new car.”
I smirked.
13
ONCE IN NORTH CAROLINA, WE STAYED ON THE MAIN highway as long as we could. Eventually, we had to get off Interstate 95 to cross over to Interstate 85, the road that would take us directly into Atlanta, by way of Raleigh and Charlotte.
The summer sky was dimming and the beautiful sunset had hurried its pace into the darkness of twilight. The trees on the horizon stood against a backdrop ablaze with stunning reds, yellows, and purples. Individual trees began to turn into stoic columns en masse.
“Hey, we’re almost there,” Daphne said with optimism as she turned to look at me. She put on a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know if I can take any more craziness.”
“Me either,” I said, then looked at Daniel. He had his head back, and his eyes were closed. There was a bruised lump on the side of his head, and his eye and cheek were swollen.
Veronica didn’t say anything. She drove slowly with deliberate ease. A driver in a car behind us blew his horn, swerved around us, then yelled at us to get off the road. Unaffected, Veronica continued to drive at her same slow pace. She yawned and sat up closer to the steering wheel. She was staring intently at the road ahead as if she would miss something at any minute.
“Veronica, are you okay?” I asked.
“Oh wow, would you look at that sky,” Daphne interrupted. “Isn’t it just glorious?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said but focused on Veronica. “Veronica, are you okay?” I asked once more.
Veronica shook her head. “No. My heart is racing and I feel nervous. I don’t know what’s wrong.” She began to pant and put her hand to her chest.
“We’re okay,” Daphne said. “There’s no one behind us.”
“No. That’s
not it. It’s getting dark out here, and I’ve never driven at night before. I can barely see the road right now.”
“I have money,” Daphne said. “We can stop at a motel.”
“No,” Veronica said. “I don’t want to stop anymore. I just want to be at Spelman.”
“Look, there’s a rest stop. Let’s just take a break.”
We pulled over at the rest stop. The small parking lot was half full with a couple of travel trailers, a truck, and a few other cars. We went to the anyone-can-go bathroom. We refreshed ourselves with four Coca-Colas from a vending machine. As we sauntered back to the car, we saw other drivers asleep in their vehicles. When we got back to ours, we put the top up, munched on some Bugles, and rested.
A loud knock on the window startled us out of our slumber. A blinding bright light flashed in our eyes.
“Roll the window down,” said the state trooper. With apprehension Veronica did as told.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked. We stared blankly. “This is a rest stop, not a motel. You need to get moving or I’ll take you in for vagrancy.”
Barely awake, we hurriedly got ourselves together as the trooper stood there and waited for us to drive off. Driving out of the lot, we could see others in their cars still asleep. Needless to say, none of them were black.
It was the early morning hours and pitch-black outside. No moon, no stars, just complete blackness.
Even with her glasses on, Daphne, now behind the wheel, had trouble staying in her lane. “Have you ever driven at night before?” I asked.
“No. Have you?”
“Yes, I drove my aunt from Washington to Philadelphia last year. Her mother was rushed to the hospital and we had to get there fast. Uncle Arthur was out of town and she was too nervous to drive, so I drove us.”
“You drove to Philadelphia from DC at night,” Daphne said.
“Yes. On the way, she told me that before she met my uncle she loved to drive at night. Her father would drive to Howard and pick her up, and she’d drive them back home to Philadelphia. Then one night some men drove them off the road and left them pinned beneath the flipped car. They were trapped for hours. She watched her father die that night. She never drove at night again.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I drove us to Philadelphia and got us there safely. So why don’t I drive and you take over in a few hours, okay?”
“No, let me,” Daniel said. “I’ll drive.”
“What about your swollen eye?” I asked.
“I can see fine. Let me drive.”
We pulled over and switched seats. “Do you want the top down?” he asked.
“Nah, leave it be,” I said, picking up Soul on Ice, the book Daniel had brought.
“The memoirs of Eldridge Cleaver. You know it was written while he was in Folsom State Prison. Have you read it?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think of it?” he asked.
“I thought it was profound and troubling.”
“I get profound, but troubling, how so?”
“The confessions of serial rape bothered me.”
“Ah, but he is repentant,” he defended.
“Yes, but that doesn’t change the scar those women feel every day. Just saying, ‘Oops, I was wrong, I’m sorry,’ doesn’t change the fact that it happened, and the women have to deal with it over and over again every day of their lives,” I said, thinking about Daphne and her pain. We went silent for a few moments. “What did you think of it?” I asked.
“It’s a compelling observation on the vibe and struggle of black Americans today. I get what you’re saying, but understand that this is also a confession of redemption. I think the essays will serve a purpose in future years.”
“As a cautionary reminder?” I asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Do you think change will ever come?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s easier for people to close their eyes and ignore what’s going on right in front of them than to deal with injustice. That’s the simple truth.”
“Change is coming, slowly, microscopically slowly, but it is coming. It has to.”
“I envy you,” he said softly.
“Me? Why?” I asked him.
“You know your future. I used to know mine too. I always wanted to be an engineer, to create and build things. Now I just don’t know anymore.”
“I saw the military ID card in your wallet.”
“I keep it to remember the day.”
“What day?”
“My best friend, Calvin, and I enlisted together. He planned to become an engineer like me. We were going to open a business together. He was killed over there.”
“I’m sorry. He sounds like Veronica’s cousin, Anthony. He was killed in Vietnam, too.”
“We’d been friends all our lives. I watched him get blown to pieces and I couldn’t save him.”
“That war is not our war. We don’t know those people over there. Why should we want to kill them? Because some men in Washington told us to, even when their sons are exempt from ever going? It’s wrong and it’s unfair,” I said.
“My father once told me that integrity matters. He was an army officer, and he was over there. He was the most courageous man I know.”
“What’s it like over there?” I asked.
“Raw. Dirty. Loud. Bloody. Horrifying. I watched friends die all around me—blown up or shredded by bullets. One minute we’d be joking around, the next they’d be lying at my feet with no limbs, moaning, crying, or just mangled beyond recognition. It’s nine thousand miles away, but it’s still a nightmare that I relive every day of my life. Calvin was killed right in front of me. I’ll never get that out of my head.”
We fell silent. There were very few cars on the road. The darkness of trees and sky were interrupted sporadically by the occasional billboard and town signage, declaring its prominence and avowing “the best of the best” of whatever the town grew. But mostly we passed large crop fields that smelled of manure and rural areas with open expanses of darkened farmland.
“Are you asleep?”
“No,” I said, “I’m awake.”
“I’m glad we have this time together.”
“Me too.”
“It’s kind of peaceful and unnerving at the same time.” I shivered.
Daniel moved his arm around my shoulder and hugged me close. I laid my head on his chest. This was a closeness I hadn’t felt in a long time. I liked it. And the realization that I liked him was even more comforting.
Near Greenville I saw a billboard for South Carolina State University. I remembered the name. Aunt Dorothy had told me about the tragedy that happened there. It was called the Orangeburg Massacre. In February, just a few months ago, at a campus bowling alley three college protesters were killed by state troopers. That had terrified me and still did.
We had less than thirty miles before we would reach the Georgia state border when I noticed some smoke coming from under the hood of the car.
“The car’s smoking,” I said.
Veronica woke up. “What? What happened?” she said anxiously. “Look at the signpost. We’re almost there.”
“Smells like it’s overheated,” Daniel said and pulled over beside a lit billboard.
We all got out and Daniel popped the hood. As soon as he did, steam came pouring from the radiator.
“What’s that awful odor?” Daphne asked.
“The radiator fluid is leaking and it’s burning.”
“Can you fix it?” I asked.
“Yes, but the engine is too hot right now and I don’t have the tools.”
“Can we make it to Georgia?” Daphne asked.
“I think so,” Daniel said.
“Can we make it to Atlanta?” Veronica asked.
Daniel shook his head. “I doubt it. Get in.”
“We’re never going to make it to Atlanta with the car smoking like this.”
“Where’s the Green Book?
”
Veronica quickly found Mr. Sam’s Auto Garage just a few miles into Georgia.
“Can we make it there?”
Daniel nodded. “Yeah, but we’ll need to keep the engine cooled down along the way.”
I looked at the dark road ahead. We were so close and still so far.
14
IT TOOK SOME TIME, BUT WE HAD FINALLY ARRIVED IN Georgia. As soon as we got out of the car, a black man in his mid-thirties, tall, thin as a rail, and with a head full of overprocessed hair and nappy roots strolled over to us. He smiled, showing two gold teeth. “Morning, all,” he said pleasantly, his beady eyes shifting between staring at Daphne and admiring the car. Back and forth, back and forth. “Nice car. Fill her up?”
“No, there’s something wrong under the hood.”
He looked at the car again and nodded. “Don’t worry. We can help y’all out. Hey, Gunner, call Mr. Sam,” he yelled. “My name’s Winston,” he said, smiling at Daphne.
An older black man with the same slicked-back hair, but in black and gray, came out. He was heavy and stout and ambled like it was a chore for him to cross the small lot. He was wearing blue overalls and a dirty white cap. He smiled, oddly displaying perfect white teeth. “Morning, folks. The name’s Mr. Sam,” he greeted us. He looked at us good. “You okay?” he asked. We nodded. “You okay, son?”
“We ran into some trouble a ways back, but we’re fine now, sir. Can I trouble you for an aspirin?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah, sure. Gunner,” he called out over his shoulder. He nodded, looking at the car. “Wee-oo, whatcha got yere? That’s a mighty fine car.” He wiped his hands on a rag, then stuffed it in his back pocket. “Looks like a 1966 Ford Fairlane.”
“It’s a ’68 Fairlane,” Veronica corrected him.
“Yep, that’s what I said. Guess she giving you trouble?”
He reached under and popped the hood up. Thick white smoke bellowed out with a foul burning odor of antifreeze fluid loss. “Yep, smells like she’s overheated.” He shook his head. “You gotta take care of this lady. Treat her right. She won’t ask for much. But you gots ta give her what she needs. Else she’ll kick you to the curb quick, and in a hurry.”
One Night in Georgia Page 12
