Freedom's Just Another Word

by Caroline Stelllings

  Marsha looked at me suspiciously.

  “Yes, of course,” said Sister Beatrice.

  “May I come with you to Albuquerque?”

  The two of them were stunned. It was as if I’d dashed over, pulled them out of bed, and yelled, “Come on girls, put on your high heels. I’ve got a few guys waiting for us outside, and we’re all going out for martinis.”

  “Come with us?” asked Sister Beatrice.

  “To Albuquerque?” The cup of Marsha’s enthusiasm wasn’t exactly running over.

  “I will pay my share of the gas, and whatever expenses there are. And I can always service the car, should it need—”

  “You said it was a good car,” snarled Marsha.

  “It is…it is.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know….” Sister Beatrice wasn’t sure what to say.

  “And a third driver will make it easier for you—less tiring,” I added as an afterthought.

  “That’s quite true,” agreed Sister Beatrice.

  “Why do you want to come to Albuquerque with us?” asked Marsha, sounding more like a one-woman board of investigation than a postulant.

  “I have to get to Texas by the tenth because Janis Joplin is going to introduce me to some music people.” I said it matter-of-factly, but neither one of the nuns said a word. “Honestly,” I added.

  “You met her? She talked to you?” Marsha wasn’t buying it.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said. “Look, forget it. If you don’t want me to come with you, I understand.” I headed toward the door, hoping that Sister Beatrice would stop me, and she did.

  “We have several places we must visit along the way,” she warned, “at different churches and convents. That’s why we’re driving there. It’s not a pleasure trip.”

  “But you do plan on being in New Mexico by the middle of next week, right? Even with all the stops?”

  She nodded. “Wednesday.”

  “That would be okay. I’d still have time to get to Austin by Friday night.”

  “I will ask the Mother Superior,” she said, “and let you know later this evening. Can I call you at the garage?”

  “Thank you,” I said. Then I added another incentive: “Remember that it’ll be money for the church if I go.”

  Marsha, to whom misery clung, couldn’t stand the thought of anyone having anything to do with a fun-loving, free person like Janis Joplin, and made no bones about it.

  “She takes drugs, you know,” I heard her tell Sister Beatrice as I was leaving the building. “Heroin.”

  I took another look at the cross, and hoped that traveling with Marsha wouldn’t be quite that bad.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I got back to the garage and saw a police car parked in the lot, I thought nothing of it; I assumed it was there to be serviced. I hurried up the back staircase to start packing, since I figured Sister Beatrice wouldn’t let me down and would be happy to have another driver on hand. When I opened the door to the kitchen, and saw two cops standing there with stony stares, I knew something was wrong. Really wrong. Larry looked like he was going to cry. He wouldn’t, of course, because men in Porcupine Plain listened to Johnny Cash and didn’t cry; not even when there was no rain for months and the fields were so dry they cracked. But the expression on his face made me wonder if something had happened to one of his brothers, or—dare I think it—Skeeter.

  “No way, no way,” he mumbled to the unsmiling, hard-eyed cop. “Easy would never steal anything. You’re wrong.”

  Steal? Me?

  “What’s going on?” I said, slamming the door behind me. “Clarence?”

  “Someone matching your description stole a bottle of Southern Comfort from The Beehive today, Easy.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “I told these men—”

  “We’ll handle this,” said one of the cops, while the other got handcuffs ready.

  “I did take it! And I paid for it too. Ten bucks, which is more than it’s worth. It was an emergency. I left a note. It was for Janis Joplin.”

  “Janis…Joplin? The Janis Joplin?” repeated the cop, in a now-I’ve-heard-everything tone of voice.

  My heart was racing, and my breathing shallow.

  “Yes, that’s right. She needed it in a hurry. The train was leaving and…” I pulled out the address for Threadgill’s that she’d given me, but I guess it didn’t prove anything, since they read me my rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent when questioned. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now, or in the future.”

  I felt my hands being pulled behind me and the cold metal of the cuffs brushing the back of my arms. “Clarence!” I cried.

  “Stop it,” hollered Larry. “Don’t put those on her.” He tried to intervene, but the cop pushed him away.

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney.”

  “Let her go,” said Clarence. He pulled me away, just before the lock clicked, so the cuffs were still dangling in the cop’s hands. “I sent Louisiana over there and I told her to get George Penn to pay my bill, or else. He owes me a lot of money for work done on his car and hasn’t made a payment in months. I’ll put up with a lot, but I told my daughter that if he wouldn’t pay, we’d have to take matters into our own hands. Penn owes me that bottle for the interest alone. More, in fact! Let’s go over there and settle this thing right now.” He took his jacket off the back of the kitchen chair. “I’ll be one minute,” he added, throwing open the door that led down to the garage. “I want to bring the bills with me.”

  “Clarence, you can’t—”

  “Be quiet, Easy. Leave this to me.”

  “The girl will have to come with us,” said one of the cops.

  “Why?” asked Clarence. “It’s my fault. Arrest me.”

  Why is Clarence taking the blame? He doesn’t have to.

  “The girl is still under arrest,” said the other cop. “We won’t use cuffs, but she’ll have to stay with us.”

  Larry put his arm around me, like it was the wing of a mother bird. “I’m coming too,” he said. “I’ll ride with you in the police car.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said the cop.

  “I’m coming. You can’t stop me. I’ll go with Clarence then.”

  I ducked down in the back of the cruiser, for fear Mrs. Hill would see. If she spotted me—the product of Wendy Wood—in police custody, she’d assume that I hadn’t really been saving money by busking, but in fact, was operating as a fairly successful prostitute. I felt my face crumpling, and was ready to cry, but held back for fear that tears would make me look guilty. I wanted to tell the truth, but Clarence told me to do as he said, and anyway, maybe it was a crime to take something without telling the owner, even if I did pay for it. And Clarence did have a case against George Penn—he owed us for our work. We had the right to demand interest. It was printed right on the invoice.

  Larry and Clarence arrived at The Beehive before I did, and were already inside by the time the cops escorted me in. It was strange to see the two of them in a nightclub; Clarence detested public places, and Larry promised his mom he wouldn’t go near bars. I asked the cops if I could please walk in front of them, rather than have them on each side. They did as I asked, but walked so close behind me, everyone in the place must have known that I was under arrest. The Beehive wasn’t brimming with customers, but there were plenty of eyes on me, and plenty of mouths whispering about the black girl, wondering what crime I had committed, and making bets as to how I had run afoul of the law.

  �
�As far as I’m concerned George,” said Clarence, still determined to take the rap, “you owe me a lot more than one bottle of Southern Comfort.”

  “It’s against the law to have your daughter enter my business and steal from my bar,” he said calmly, like he knew that my father—a black man—didn’t have a hope in hell of getting the police on his side. “What if you owed me money? Would I go over to the garage and help myself to some cash?” He snickered and turned his back on Clarence.

  “I pay my debts,” said my father, “on time.” He slapped the invoices down on the bar.

  “Get lost,” muttered Penn. “Get back to your carburetors, Clarence.”

  My father stood strong, like Sidney Poitier in the movie In the Heat of the Night. Thelma and I had gone to see it a couple of years before; she cried when Poitier’s character, Virgil Tibbs—a detective from Philadelphia—stood up for himself against horrible discrimination in Mississippi. When we watched the movie, I knew that Thelma was comparing his strength to that of Clarence, because I was too. They put Virgil down, called him boy, then mockingly asked him what people called him up in Philadelphia. His reply, “They call me MISTER Tibbs,” has stuck in my mind ever since. Standing there, watching Clarence face George Penn’s nasty remarks, I imagined my father walking over to him, turning him around, and saying “You can call me MISTER Merritt.”

  He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Instead, he continued making his case to Penn, even though the man’s back was still turned, and told him that he had two choices: either drop the charges against his daughter, or expect to see him in small claims court, where Clarence would collect everything owed to him, plus interest, and lawyer’s fees on top of that.

  At that point, the cops intervened, and asked Penn what he wanted to do.

  I felt so bad for Clarence. He kept his gaze on the floor, never making eye contact with anyone in the bar. He rubbed his knuckles nervously. Everyone gawked. It was Vinton all over again, and I couldn’t stand it one more second. Thelma would have been horrified.

  While the cops were preoccupied with Penn and the invoices, I made my way to the far end of the bar.

  “I’ll have a…wh-whiskey sour,” said a drunk, his words slurring together worse than Janis’s. “No ice.”

  I ignored him and ducked along the bar until I came to where I’d left the money. Sure enough, right where I’d put it, I could see my note and the ten-dollar bill sticking out.

  “There it is, Mr. Penn,” I hollered. “There’s the money, and there’s the note.” I pointed to the Cointreau bottle not far from where he stood.

  The cops came behind the bar, picked up the cash and read the note.

  Penn mumbled something about being too busy to notice it.

  Then he got mad.

  “What’s all this crap about my bills then? You never told your daughter to take that bottle. You’re full of it!”

  “I’m sorry, Clarence,” I said, “I just couldn’t let them treat you like this.” I grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  Larry said, “See. I told you she was a good girl.”

  Oh, stop calling me a girl, for heaven’s sake.

  The cops asked Penn what he wanted to do, since technically, I had taken the bottle without asking him. He had no choice but to drop everything. No way did he have the funds to pay Clarence, and by that time, he just wanted us out of his bar.

  “But I don’t want to see your—”

  I think he was going to say black ass, but held back because the officers were there. He changed it to: “You’re not welcome in my establishment anymore.” He pointed at me. “And don’t you dare ask me again about singing here, or I’ll—”

  “If you set foot on these premises,” one of the cops told me, “you will be charged with trespassing. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  The people at the nearest table twisted their necks to get a good look at me; I was humiliated. Clarence was humiliated.

  The other officer warned my father not to meddle with police investigations; he could have been charged with interference, but because he’d never been in trouble with the law before, they agreed to let him off the hook, thank God.

  Then the cop cautioned me about stealing things and leaving notes, told me I was no longer under arrest, and escorted me out. Larry and Clarence followed behind, and I hoped and prayed that nobody in Mrs. Hill’s espionage group had seen what had just transpired. I doubted that her friends would be in the club, and I trusted Larry not to say a word, but still worried nonetheless. My father wanted to get out fast, too. He kept his head down and walked quickly. Larry, on the other hand, looked from side to side, taking in the sights and sounds of the club like he was on a bus tour of Las Vegas.

  “Smoky, isn’t it?” he said with a little choke once we were outside. Then he added, “Let’s go for a soda. My treat.”

  A soda? After this?

  There was no room left in my stomach after swallowing so much pride.

  Clarence declined Larry’s invitation, and so did I. The three of us crammed into the cab of the tow truck and drove solemnly back to the garage. Nobody said a word, but Larry whistled all the way back. He started with what I thought was a medley of Johnny Cash tunes, and ended up with “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  The mention of saints got me thinking about Marsha and Sister Beatrice, and I felt guilty for having to leave with them the next morning after everything Clarence had done to protect me. I was glad he had Larry. At least with him and Gillie in the garage, he wouldn’t be lonely during the day. Still, it would be the first time since Thelma passed that I wouldn’t be there to make Clarence his breakfast.

  This is the chance of a lifetime.

  Surely Clarence wouldn’t expect me to give up a career in music just so that I could stay in Saskatoon and make his meals.

  I went over those two thoughts in my mind dozens of times, trying to iron the wrinkles out of my otherwise perfect plan. Even the whole Wendy Wood situation didn’t change my opinion of my father. Like Thelma said, he was a good man. And I was proud of the way he took the blame for me that night.

  Why did he want to take the blame? Because he loves me? Or because he doesn’t want me to face the same kind of shame he did back in Vinton?

  On the way home, I tried to figure out what Clarence was thinking. His eyes were on the road. He drove carefully and slowly and stopped at every yellow light—I guess he couldn’t stand the thought of another run-in with a police officer. He wasn’t mad at me—not too mad, anyway. And he wasn’t mad at George Penn. It was life he was angry with. Maybe even God. Angry because the color of his skin meant that he had to hold back and not say what he’d really like to. Angry because no matter how hard he worked, or how much he put into life, he knew he would always be seen as a second-rate citizen.

  The moon was full, and so bright and big that it was visible over the city lights. I bent my head down so I could see it out the windshield, and Larry followed suit.

  He stared at it for a long time, then started whistling again.

  “Larry,” I said, “Do you mind not whistling? I can’t take it.”

  “Sure.” He rolled the window all the way down and rested his elbow on the door. Then—as if he was reading my mind—he started talking about the injustice of the situation. Of course, he put his own spin on it, but I knew what he meant.

  “Everything is against you when you’re not white,” he said quietly.

  I saw Clarence’s head turn, just a little bit.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Everything is for white people—they’ve got all the power. Especially white guys. I never thought about it back in Porcupine Plain,” said Larry, “but everyone with authority seems to be a white guy. The Mayor’s a white guy, the Prime Minister’s a white guy, all the police are white guys.” He leaned out the window and look
ed up at the sky. “Even the man in the moon is a white guy.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sister Beatrice enjoyed having me come along for the trip. Marsha did not. It was clear that she was only tolerating me because she had to—as one would put up with hay fever, or a bad haircut. I felt the same way about her. Having endured hours of riding in an enclosed vehicle with Marsha, listening to her dirge-like voice blather on about the devil (she called him the Captain of Death), I kept wondering why I had volunteered for this misery. It was like pounding my head with a hammer because it felt so good when I finally stopped. Every time she fell quiet, it was such a blissful relief that if I could have bottled and sold the feeling, it would have been more addictive that Janis’s Southern Comfort.

  I was, of course, grateful for the ride, even with Marsha, because it allowed me to keep most of my cash should I be lucky enough to be invited to stay in Texas. And it was only one way; I wouldn’t have to endure a round trip. Already, our journey south would be 1,500 miles, most of it along US-85. Marsha informed me that we would be traveling a straight line through the Dakotas, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico. I had the distinct feeling that most everything in her life ran along a fairly straight line. The highway continued on as far as El Paso, but my journey (at least with the nuns) would end at Route 66, in Albuquerque.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing my instruments,” I said to Sister Beatrice. She was in the backseat, our luggage was in the back of the station wagon, and since it was my turn to drive, I was at the wheel. Marsha was up front, next to me. She didn’t appear to have much in the way of luggage, although she had brought a large paper bag full of nuts and seeds.

  “Not at all,” replied Sister Beatrice, leaning her head back to take a rest. “This car is quite roomy, if nothing else.” By that time, we were over the border, and passing through Fortuna, North Dakota. And also by that time, I had heard several of Marsha’s sermons. She gave a long, garbled lecture on the Evil One, and how seduction is all around us. I think she was trying to tell me that my going to Austin to meet Janis at Threadgill’s was something akin to what happened to Eve in the Garden.