Windy City Blues

by Renée Rosen

  “All right, then. Get your ass back to Chicago and start writing some songs.”

  Leonard hung up with Chuck and rifled through his drawers until he found another pack of Lucky Strikes and went into Phil’s office. He stood in the doorway waiting for his brother to acknowledge him. Phil had his eyeglasses propped up on his forehead while he reviewed some contracts. He didn’t look up the whole time Leonard was talking, recapping his conversation with Chuck.

  With his eyes still on the paperwork, Phil said, “Have Chuck stay with us out in Highland Park.” He looked up at Leonard and added, “He likes Sheva’s cooking and at least we can give him some peace and quiet to write before you try and kill him in the studio.” Phil pushed away from his desk and stood up.

  “I’m doing this for him,” said Leonard.

  Phil walked over to Leonard and cracked a crooked smile. “No, you’re not.”

  The two never made up after their argument. But they were brothers. They didn’t need to.

  Three weeks later, Leonard got Chuck into the studio and in two days they laid down eleven tracks. The lawyers were all there, sitting in the back of the studio, briefcases on their laps. In between songs they pulled Chuck aside and prepped him for his trial. Chuck was a goddamn mess. He couldn’t sit still, his leg bouncing up and down, fingers raking back through his hair. He couldn’t afford to lose any weight and yet he had. His chiseled face was gaunt, the outline of every bone visible along his jaw and forehead.

  Everyone hated Leonard for doing this—Leeba told him he was heartless. Phil wasn’t that kind. But Leonard knew what he was doing and, whether anyone else got it or not, he was doing this to protect Chuck. Leonard was doing more than just paying the legal fees; he was going to keep Chuck’s music alive. Chuck got it—why didn’t anyone else?

  Less than a week after they wrapped the session Chuck’s trial began. Two weeks was all it took. Guilty of screwing around with an underage white girl. They slapped him with a ten-thousand-dollar fine and a three-year prison sentence.

  FIFTY-ONE

  • • •

  “A Change Is Gonna Come”

  LEEBA

  It had rained earlier, a spring rain, but now the sun was out and the sidewalk was peppered with earthworms looking for salvation. Leeba and Red were on their way to a CORE meeting at the University of Chicago.

  When they arrived they found that a large group had turned out that night. Word had gotten out that CORE’s director, James Farmer, was going to introduce a new initiative and everyone was curious. All the seats were already taken so Leeba and Red stood in the back. Latecomers crowded into the doorway.

  Farmer was at the front of the room, addressing the group. “We’re looking for volunteers—Negroes and whites—to attempt something that’s never been done before.” He paused to emphasize his point. “We’re going to challenge the Jim Crow laws of the Deep South. And you might ask, ‘How are we going to do that?’ We’re going to travel by bus. We’ll start in D.C. and head south, stopping in as many towns as we can until we reach New Orleans. And in every town we’re going to get off those buses and demand that we be served at their lunch counters, be allowed to use their washrooms, drink from their water fountains.”

  The room swelled with encouragement. Leeba and Red joined the cheers and applause.

  “We’re calling this a Freedom Ride. We’re going to penetrate the Deep South and stand up to the segregationists.”

  More applause. More hope. Leeba looked at Red, her heart racing. This was the boldest move she’d heard of yet that could bring about change.

  “But”—Farmer raised his voice—“we will do it by means of peaceful protest. Our goal is to make it to New Orleans by May seventeenth, in time to commemorate the anniversary of Brown versus the Board of Education. And by then we will have broken the Deep South.”

  Everyone was clapping, yelping. Red raised his fist in the air. Leeba had tears in her eyes. They were united. No one felt alone in this fight anymore.

  “But before anyone volunteers,” said Farmer, “you should know what we’re asking of you. We’ll be on the road for two weeks—that means you’ll have to take time off from your classes, your jobs, it will be time away from your families, too. We’ll provide training in the technique of peaceful disobedience and we’ll prepare you as best we can; but it won’t be easy. You can and should expect resistance.” Farmer steepled his fingers, resting them on his chin, his eyes cast down toward the floor. “I wish I could tell you what lies ahead. The hardest part about all this is that I can’t promise you’ll be safe. Some of you could be arrested. There could be violence along the way.” He paused and lifted his gaze, his voice tight. “I hate to be so blunt, but before you volunteer you need to ask yourself if you’re willing to die for this cause.”

  When the meeting broke up, Leeba pulled Red into a stairwell, the echo of footsteps heard all around as they huddled together. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” She squeezed his hand, her conviction strong.

  “You want to do it,” he said. “You want to volunteer.”

  “Don’t you?”

  He reached over and brushed the curls from her eyes. “You heard what he said. This is dangerous.”

  “It’s no more dangerous than having thugs come after you with a knife. It’s not more dangerous than having rocks thrown through our windows. We have to do this, Red. We just have to.”

  Before they left that night, they signed up to be Freedom Riders.

  The next day Leeba went into Chess and talked to Leonard and Phil about taking time off. They were in Leonard’s office. Phil was sacked out on the couch, his fedora riding low on his brow, shielding his eyes. Leonard was at his desk, sitting behind a mound of folders, records and tapes. The room smelled of tobacco and burned coffee. Leeba was still standing in the doorway, telling them what she was planning to do.

  “I know I’ve already used most of my vacation days,” she said, “but they need me to go down to Washington for training and then I’ll be gone for two weeks after that. I’m not expecting to be paid while I’m gone.”

  Phil sat up and adjusted his hat. Leeba watched the brothers exchanging glances and, as well as she knew them, this time she couldn’t read their expressions.

  “Yeah, well,” Phil said, rolling his cigar between his fingers, “I don’t think that’s gonna work, do you, Len?”

  “Nah, I agree,” said Leonard. “That’s not gonna work at all.”

  “Oh, c’mon, guys. You have to let me go. You have no idea how important this is to Red and to me. This is something I have to do. You have to let me go.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Leonard, “but I’m not going to let you take time off without pay.” He got up from his desk, smiled and pulled her in for a hug. “Go. Do what you have to do. Take as much time as you need. We’ll keep you on salary. Just be careful.”

  • • •

  At the end of April Leeba and Red met with their fellow Freedom Riders in D.C. for training. They were placed in a stark room furnished with little more than a few chairs and a long table, a first-aid poster on the wall: “Emergency Care for Choking.” It was hot and stuffy, even with the windows thrown open. They spent hours acting out seemingly every foreseeable confrontation. They role-played being denied service at a lunch counter, access to a bathroom; being yelled at, pushed, slapped and spit on.

  During one exercise the trainer, a white man in his early forties, got up in Leeba’s face. He was so close she could see the pores along his cheeks, could smell the last cigarette on his breath. “You nigger lover,” he said, shoving her so hard she nearly lost her balance. She’d heard it before from strangers, even from her own sister. And while she knew it was just for practice, it still hurt, still stung. She was offended, but she took it.

  Red didn’t fight back, either, when another trainer knocked him out of a chair while prete
nding to be at a “Whites Only” waiting room. Red hit the floor, his chair overturned. He stood up and she saw the rage in his eyes, but he didn’t retaliate. It was drilled into them that no matter what, they would conduct themselves with dignity. Leeba wasn’t afraid. She was ready to take on the Deep South.

  In the first week of May, Leeba, Red and eleven other Freedom Riders—altogether, six of them white, seven colored—began their mission in D.C. Half of them boarded a Trailways bus while the other half, including Leeba and Red, boarded a Greyhound. As Leeba climbed on board she felt lighter with each step. She was proud, defiant and determined. So was Red; so were the others except for the regular passengers on board who had no idea that anything out of the ordinary was under way.

  Leeba watched the miles pass outside her window. They were headed into Virginia with all its lush greenness and made their first stop at a bus station to drop off some passengers, pick up others. The Freedom Riders got off to stretch their legs, use the washrooms, get something to eat. It was a warm mild day and the fresh air and sunshine felt good on Leeba’s face as she stepped down off the Greyhound. She and Red walked into the station, where they saw the signs that said “Coloreds Waiting Room” and “Whites Only Waiting Room.” Seeing that, she recoiled, just as she had the first time she’d gone down South with Aileen and Leonard.

  “Ready?” asked Red.

  “Ready.” She gave a tight smile and nodded as they entered the “Whites Only” room. There were a handful of passengers on long wooden benches, waiting for their buses. Leeba’s heart pounded. She wanted to reach for Red’s hand, but she knew that would be pushing things. A man reading a newspaper glanced up, pursed his lips and moved to the far end of the room, raising his paper so as not to have to look at Red. A woman stopped her knitting, her mouth agape. Another man in a suit and tie kept his eye on Red, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move. Similar reactions happened when James Farmer and the others used the “Whites Only” restrooms or went to the counter for a Coca-Cola. Sneers, harsh looks, shock. That was it.

  Soon they were back on the bus, each of them puffed up even higher than before. We showed them, thought Leeba. They were really doing it. They were integrating the races. She could feel the excitement in the air. It was pure jubilation as they headed for North Carolina.

  But when they arrived they got their first taste of what was to come. Leeba and Red were among the group of Freedom Riders who went into the bus station and entered the “Whites Only” waiting room.

  An older man with Einstein-like hair and bow tie set his newspaper down and crossed the room. “What do y’all niggers think you’re doin’ in here? Y’all ain’t allowed in here.”

  “We’re waiting for our bus to depart,” said Red.

  “Well, y’all niggers sure as hell ain’t gonna wait in here.” He kicked Red so hard it nearly knocked him from his chair.

  That was all it took. Other white men, even the men who worked at the station, were on Red, James and the others. They threw punches, they kicked, they shoved. Leeba winced. It killed her to watch. Not one of the Freedom Riders struck back. They did exactly as they’d been trained to do. They would not meet violence with violence. By the time they got back on the bus the first-aid kit was out and Leeba and the others were sopping up blood, bandaging gashes, grateful that none of them needed stitches.

  The next few stops were more peaceful and their sense of confidence returned. Each time they got off the bus and got back on, Leeba needed a few minutes to adjust to the closed-in feeling, the overpowering smells of feet and body odor, stale cigarette smoke and all that comes with living on a bus. Even sleeping on the bus when they couldn’t find any hotels or motels that would let them stay. But once on board she got used to it, and all that mattered was that they were closer and closer to New Orleans. They saw passengers come and go; they passed the time reading newspapers, singing freedom songs, sleeping on one another’s shoulders until the sun came up and it was time to watch more scenery go by. Leeba wondered how such beautiful country could harbor such ugliness.

  The following day they arrived in Atlanta, where Reverend King and members of the movement greeted them. When Leeba shook Reverend King’s hand her eyes welled up with tears. There was something in his touch that confirmed her purpose for being there. She had never believed in anything as much as she did this. The pride was overwhelming.

  That night Reverend King hosted a dinner in honor of the Freedom Riders. It was held in the back of a church with card tables full of chitterlings and ribs, fried chicken and bowls of collard greens, black-eyed peas, platters heaped with corn bread. Leeba balanced her plate on her knees while Reverend King tucked a napkin down in his collar and informally addressed them all.

  “You’ve taken on a noble mission,” he said. “But now is the time to ask if it’s wise to continue.”

  Leeba dropped her fork to her plate and looked first at Red, then at the others. They had all stopped eating, stopped chewing, waiting to hear more.

  “I’ve gotten word that the Alabama Klan knows you’re coming.” Reverend King pulled the napkin from his collar, wiped his hands clean. “What you experienced in North Carolina is nothing compared to what’s ahead. You’re about to enter the Deep South and I’m frightened for you. I was told that the police are giving the Klan a fifteen-minute pass to do what they want to you before they’ll step in to stop it. You realize what an angry mob can do to you in fifteen minutes? You could all be killed. There’s no shame in turning back.”

  But the Freedom Riders didn’t even discuss it. There was no turning back. To do nothing was to condone the Jim Crow laws and the hatred. The next day they were back on the bus. It was Mother’s Day and Leeba was melancholy, thinking about her own mother and what she would have thought of Leeba being a Freedom Rider. She thought about the baby she’d lost and she thought about James, her last chance for motherhood. That, too, had been denied her.

  “You okay?” Red asked after they got situated in their seats.

  She blinked back the heat building up behind her eyes. “It’s just another day. I’ll be fine.”

  The others were jovial, anxious to get that much closer to New Orleans, and soon their enthusiasm seeped into her, lifting her spirits, reminding her of what she was doing and why she was there. She eased down in her seat and watched the green fields rushing by outside her window. They were one mile, two miles, three miles closer to New Orleans. They cheered when they passed the Welcome to Alabama sign. They were entering the Deep South.

  They traveled through many small towns and as they pulled into Anniston they passed a store, Forsythe & Son Grocers. They had a sign out front for S&H Green Stamps and another for Mello ice cream. The bus station was just up the road and Leeba thought she and Red could walk back and get some ice cream while they waited for the bus to load up the new passengers.

  But when they pulled up to the station Leeba looked out the window and swallowed hard. She reached for Red’s hand. There must have been two hundred men and women waiting for them, shouting, “Die, you niggers. We’s gonna kill you and your nigger lovers, too.” Leeba looked at Red and at the others. It was the first time since they’d left Washington that she saw genuine fear on their faces. And that fueled her own fear. She realized she was digging her nails into Red’s hand. She saw one of the men pull out a switchblade and she knew he was going for the tires. Others were pounding on the windows, throwing rocks, trying to break the glass. Leeba felt them rocking the bus from side to side. At one point she was sure they would tip over.

  Their driver blasted the horn and began to creep the bus through the hordes of people until at last they were back on their way. Leeba was still squeezing Red’s hand, her heart palpitating. Less than a quarter mile from the bus station the ride got bumpy like they were traveling over a road of potholes and she realized it wasn’t the road. It was their tires. They’d been slashed and had now gone flat. Wh
en they couldn’t go any farther, the driver got out to inspect the damage. Leeba watched him through the window as the angry crowd from the station came over the hill, heading toward them. In horror she saw the driver take off his cap and run as fast as he could to get away. He was leaving them. They were on their own, trapped inside a bus with four flat tires and hundreds of angry Southern whites coming after them, wanting to kill them.

  Leeba held on to Red and another woman who was just a regular passenger on her way to see relatives in Birmingham. She wasn’t even a Freedom Rider. It was terror. This is it. We’re going to die. That was Leeba’s thought as a crowbar smashed in the back window. Shards of glass came flying inside and Leeba heard them chanting, “Watch ’em sizzle. Torch ’em niggers. Burn that white trash alive.”

  Then came the firebomb. Leeba saw it coming through a broken window and everything inside her went still, silent. She wanted to scream but her voice wouldn’t come. The flames soared past her as the back of the bus ignited in a burst of white heat and black smoke. The angry crowd was still shouting, “Kill ’em. Watch ’em burn.” Another violent explosion blew out the windows. Leeba couldn’t see in front of her. She was on the floor, gasping for air, when someone grabbed her and dragged her off the bus.

  She clawed at the earth, gagging, her throat as dry as brittle wood. Blades of grass brushed against her cheek, fluttering against her eyelashes. The other passengers were off the bus now, too, clamoring for air, crying that they couldn’t breathe. Black smoke was pouring from the bus and she could hear that crackling fire, the bus’s metal frame buckling from the heat. She was vaguely aware of the townspeople standing there, some gawking, others looking horrified. Leeba watched helplessly as one of her fellow Freedom Riders got beaten with an iron pipe. She heard the thwack as he was struck over and over again.

  She searched and searched through the smoke and the crowd, finally spotting Red doubled over, coughing violently. A man was coming at him with a pitchfork. He was going to kill him. She knew it. Leeba strained, calling to Red, when she heard the sound of gunshots. Everyone froze.