While I wait, I contemplate the dead girl whose grave I am sitting on. She was dead by the time she was my age. My imagination conjures up a scenario that ended her life: a runaway horse, influenza, malaria, or maybe a hurricane or an earthquake. From what I can tell from the markers in the cemetery, people didn’t live that long. It occurs to me that I could be dead, too, if Paris hadn’t saved my life.
I lay down on the flat slab of stone, cross my arms in front of me, and imagine my death. My eyes closed, I hold my breath like I do when I float underwater. I start to feel the peacefulness of it when a voice startles me. “Trudy Trueluck, what in blue blazes are you doing?”
With a lurch I sit up and gasp for the sweet air of life. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a person,” I say to Vel. At the same time, I am glad she came.
“I can sneak up on whoever I please,” she says, like she is practicing being surly.
“Whomever,” I say, sounding like Nana Trueluck.
As usual, Vel carries a book. Given it is practically dark, I am not sure how she intends to read out here.
“Paris isn’t here yet,” I tell her.
She shrugs like she could care less.
“I’m indebted to Paris for saving my life, Vel, so I want to do this thing in Columbia.”
“You don’t owe him anything, Trudy.”
In the distance, the gate at the side entrance squeaks open. We turn toward the sound to make out shapes in the darkness.
We hear Paris before we see him. “This place is downright creepy,” he drawls.
The streetlights from Meeting Street send an eerie glow through the trees, a kaleidoscope of shadow and light.
“We’re lucky we don’t have company,” I say.
“Company?” Paris joins us in the shadows.
“She means the ghosts,” Vel says. “Charleston is full of them.”
Paris’ eyes widen to where the whites can be seen. It is getting darker by the minute, and a hot breeze shakes the leaves of the giant oak that guards the back of the cemetery.
“We never had alligators or ghosts in Detroit,” Paris says.
I invite Paris to sit next to me on the grave of the unknown girl.
“This girl was our age when she died.” I pat the cool stone underneath us.
“We’re sitting on a dead girl?” He stands straight up.
I pull him back down.
“Do you know what killed her?” I ask in a low voice.
He says he doesn’t.
“A Sunbeam Bread truck hit her,” I say to be funny.
Paris moans, and Vel lets out a short laugh that sounds more like a snort.
“Actually, this girl was recovering from influenza,” I begin, making up the story as I go. “A lot of people died of influenza back then. It’s what we call the flu today, and doctors didn’t have a cure for it. But this poor girl miraculously recovered and was riding her beloved horse, Mirabelle, when the famous Charleston earthquake hit in 1886. The earthquake spooked Mirabelle, and she reared up and the girl fell off and broke her neck.”
Vel laughs full out this time, like I have a lot of nerve rewriting history. “Paris, don’t believe a word of it. Trudy’s making up that whole story to tease you.” She looks pleased to tattle on me, even if it is just to Paris.
“You’ve got to admit, it held your attention,” I say to him.
He agrees that it did. “This is good practice for when I’m an actor and play parts where I need to act scared,” he tells us. “I get plenty of practice now that I live in South Carolina.”
“But you’ve had practice at being brave, too,” I say, thinking of the day we met.
He thanks me for saying that. “By the way, Miss Josie says I need to be home by nine thirty.”
According to Nana Trueluck, Paris’ grandmother, Miss Josie, sells flowers on the corner of Meeting and Broad. She weaves sweetgrass baskets, too. Miss Josie is who Nana was buying flowers from when Paris saved my life. She told me later that she took off running so fast she had to go back and pay Miss Josie afterward.
I check my Barbie watch in one of the slivers of light from the lamppost. “It’s nine o’clock. I guess we’d better hurry.”
Paris looks relieved. Maybe he has had his fill of gators and ghosts for one day.
“So let’s talk about how to get that flag down,” I say.
“Are you serious about going to Columbia?” Vel asks, her hands on her hips. “Your idea doesn’t hold spit much less water.”
Paris and I look at each other like we are both thinking: Who invited her?
“Okay, if you two are so smart, how will we get there?” Vel asks.
Before looking at her again, we lower our heads as though prayer is called for. Nana Trueluck said she would think about it, and that’s definitely not a definite anything.
“We haven’t thought that far ahead, Vel. But there’s bound to be somebody that we know who drives to Columbia sometimes.”
Paris smiles. “My Uncle Freddie drives melons to Columbia every Saturday for the farmer’s market,” he says.
I remember how it was Paris’ Uncle Freddie who told him about the flag in the first place.
“See, Vel, it won’t be as hard as you think.”
Vel scoffs.
“Okay, Paris, tell me more about your Uncle Freddie. When does he go to Columbia?” I ask.
“Every Saturday, except in the winter. He takes produce to a farmer’s market there.”
Vel pulls out a notepad and pen from the pink purse that is permanently adhered to her shoulder.
“Can you see to write?” I ask her.
“Not really,” she says.
Now it is my turn to scoff. At the same time, I wonder what in the world she has to write about. We haven’t even started our adventure yet.
“What kind of truck does your uncle have, Paris? Is there room for us to hide in the back?” I ask.
“There’s no way I’m going to hide in the back of a colored man’s truck,” Vel says, her backbone straight. “Or any truck, for that matter,” she adds, giving her hair a poof.
“Then I guess we’ll have to go separately,” I say. “Maybe Vel and I can find someone to take us, and Paris can get a ride with his uncle.”
My thoughts return to Nana Trueluck. She didn’t seem too thrilled with our idea, but maybe she would drive me and Vel to Columbia. Of course, we might have to listen to Doris Day songs all the way. She likes to sing in the car.
Vel stops writing like she just thought of something. “Is what we’re doing illegal?” She whispers the word illegal. “Nancy Drew would never do anything illegal,” she adds, all serious.
“Of course it’s not,” I say, pretending to know what I am talking about.
Vel jots something in her notepad. Is she reminding herself to consult an attorney?
“The next thing we need to figure out is when to go,” I say. “Then after that I guess we need a plan to get that flag down from the top of the State House.”
We sit in silence as the crickets laugh at us. It is one thing to get from Charleston to Columbia. It is quite another to figure out how three kids—who aren’t even supposed to be friends—are going to: get into the State House, figure out how to get to the top of dome, and remove that flag.
“What would Martin Luther King Junior do?” Paris says thoughtfully.
An owl hoots, and Vel grabs my arm. “What was that?” she asks.
“Just an old hoot owl,” I say to her.
Someone laughs, and then Hoot Macklehaney steps out of the shadows.
“Y’all thought I was an owl.” Hoot snickers. The only thing uglier than Hoot’s face in the daylight is his face at night.
“What are you doing here?’ I look around to see if Hoot’s brother is with him, but it appears he is alone. Two Macklehaneys seem a lot more threatening than one. “Did you follow us?” I ask.
“I didn’t follow you girls. I saw the little colored boy come in here and followed him. Y’all a
ren’t supposed to hang out with his kind. Don’t you know that?” Hoot sounds almost concerned.
“Go away,” I say to Hoot, sounding braver than I feel.
“Make me,” Hoot says. The concern leaves his voice as quickly as it came.
“You do not scare me, Hoot Macklehaney,” I say, hands on my hips. A sound from behind makes me turn. Did someone sneeze?
Paris taps me on the shoulder and I jump. “Is it nine thirty yet?” he asks.
I position the pink dial of my Barbie watch in a splotch of light. “It’s nine fifteen,” I say.
“You better hope I don’t tell a soul you were here with these white girls,” Hoot says to Paris. “You could get in big trouble for that.”
Hoot’s meanness is tamer without his brother around.
Paris announces that he has to go and says a quick goodbye to me and Vel. He makes his way to the other side of the cemetery, stepping around every tombstone like the bodies are above the ground instead of below.
Vel and I follow Paris and leave Hoot throwing rocks at one of the tombstones. If we weren’t in the middle of town I would be more afraid of Hoot. But a loud scream will bring all sorts of people running. At least I hope this is the case.
We stop at the gate. “I sure hope Hoot didn’t hear our secret,” I say to Vel.
“I think he would have said something,” Vel says.
Paris steps out of the shadows again, and we both jump.
“I thought you’d gone,” Vel says, her arm reared back like she might slap him.
Paris ignores her and turns toward me. “I know I dreamed about taking down that flag, Trudy, but maybe we shouldn’t put that much stock in dreams.”
“Dreams are the most important thing you can have,” I say to Paris, wondering when I started sounding so much like Nana Trueluck.
“Ask your Uncle Freddie if he can take you to Columbia next Saturday,” I say to him. “And I’ll ask Nana Trueluck if she can give me and Vel a ride.”
Paris hesitates but then gives me a salute as though I am the captain in charge.
“Between now and then we need to come up with a good, solid plan to pull it off,” I say. “You two be thinking about it.”
Paris heads home to Miss Josie’s, the gate closing at his heels. Before Vel and I have time to leave Hoot shows up again.
“Are you trying to get that colored boy killed?” he says to me.
“Mind your own business, Hoot,” I say.
“I’ll mind it once you keep it out of my face,” he says. “Y’all have something up your sleeve.”
“No we don’t,” I say, which is the lie of the century.
The truth is we have something big up our sleeves, and we need Hoot Macklehaney to keep his pimply nose out of it.
In the distance I think I hear the little ghost girl laugh. But maybe that’s my imagination getting overexcited again.
My next thought surprises me and never would have entered my mind before that Sunbeam Bread truck swerved in my direction. Could taking down that flag actually be dangerous?
Chapter Nine
Ida
Even with my car parked the next block over from Circular Church, it is all I can do to beat Trudy home. The plan I overheard in that graveyard, or the beginnings of a plan, made me both frightened and proud. That three children would see an injustice and want to make it right gave me hope. Hope is something in short supply these days after the shocking assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy the world witnessed on November 22nd of last year. Killed by a man named Lee Harvey Oswald who hid with a high-powered rifle in a book depository.
When I enter the kitchen, Abigail is busy making pies and isn’t in a talkative mood. For this I am grateful. She slides the last apple pie into the oven to cook. She sometimes cooks her pies in the evenings so the kitchen can cool down by morning. It is hot as royal blue blazes in here. Only the tiniest of breezes comes in through the open kitchen door. A mayor’s salary isn’t much. Abigail sells pies to Callie at the diner to make extra money. Before becoming mayor Ted Junior worked at the post office like Ted Senior did before he retired.
Apple, peach, and lemon meringue pies are Abigail’s specialty, and at Christmas she makes pecan, too. She bakes pies every day, except on major holidays when Callie’s Diner is closed. On holidays, the family rarely has dessert because it is Abigail’s day off from baking. Although I knew enough that my family didn’t starve, I was never the greatest cook, and I only baked at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I settle at the kitchen table and open the newspaper to the crossword puzzle so it will look like I have been sitting here a while. Five minutes later Trudy walks in the kitchen door. In the summer she can stay out from morning till night as long as she is in the vicinity of the house by ten o’clock, which is still early for a night owl like her. Trudy and I are both night owls. Sometimes she sneaks into my bedroom after everybody else has gone to sleep and we have our best talks.
When she sits at the kitchen table, I nudge her knee to ask how her secret meeting went. She gives me a wink. I wink back. I won’t tell her that I hid in the shadows and overheard every word. Or that Paris was someone I liked instantly.
“Is Daddy here?” Trudy asks.
I motion toward the attic. Ted Junior has been writing a novel since the mid-50s. None of us have read a word of it, though he works on it every evening and weekend. It must be a thousand pages long by now, but he refuses to show it to us no matter how much we ask.
“Can Vel spend the night?” Trudy asks her mother.
Abigail swats a fly before agreeing. Trudy grabs the kitchen telephone and pulls the cord out into the hallway like she always does. I hear her muffled excitement. Maisie and I did the same thing. We could spend all day together and then have a sleepover the same night.
“Vel’s mother is giving her a Toni perm, but she’ll be over when it’s finished,” Trudy says, returning to the kitchen.
“How can that straight hair of hers even hold a curl?” Abigail asks.
“You’d be surprised what strong chemicals can do,” I say.
My own curls are captured in a bun on the top of my head. I tuck in stray pieces and reassert the bobby pins. Will Trudy and Vel still be friends after they grow up? Childhood friends are hard to keep unless something special bonds you together.
“I think I’ll wait for Vel on the porch,” Trudy says. “You want to join me?”
I nod my acceptance and excuse myself, head lowered. More than once I have picked up on Abigail’s subtle jealousy of my closeness with Trudy. Abigail’s agenda is to make Trudy into a miniature version of herself. But even at twelve, Trudy is like a tree that needs not to be planted too close to anything else. Abigail’s life is too confining for her, and as soon as Abigail realizes Trudy isn’t like her, the better their relationship will be.
But who am I to judge? I tell myself. Perhaps Abigail isn’t the only one with a chip on her shoulder.
When I go outside, Trudy is sitting on the top step, looking out over the small front yard and street. Four cats congregate on the porch and take turns rubbing their whiskers against her legs—a calico, two tabbies, and a solid gray. Ted Junior and Abigail have forbidden her to bring home any more strays.
I sit next to her. It seems like a long time since we talked, although it was only this afternoon that she asked me for my help. Moths gather around the porch light and the two tabbies leap after the moths. The night air is not much cooler than the daytime air. A trail of sweat travels from the crease in my knees down the side of my leg into my high-tops. I inch up my skirt to study it; something that Trudy has been known to do.
“Let’s time it,” Trudy says.
With her prized Timex, a present from her parents last Christmas, Trudy counts the seconds it takes the sweat to trickle down my leg. The watch has a picture of a blond, perfect Barbie on the face, the Sunbeam Bread girl all grown up.
“Do you think colored kids have watches with brown Barbie dolls o
n them?” Trudy asks. This is the kind of question I have come to expect from her.
“I don’t know,” I say. “If they don’t, they should.”
“I’ve never liked pink or Barbie dolls,” Trudy says. “But I like the second hand. I can get an accurate timing of things.”
“Timing is important,” I say.
“Seventeen seconds is my world record for sweat traveling from knee to heel,” she says, matter of fact. “But it looks like you could break that record.”
“Interesting,” I say, “I’ve never broken a world record.”
Ever since the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan last February, Trudy hums Beatles songs. I bought her their first album for her birthday last April. Whenever we have the house to ourselves, Trudy and I put the album on the phonograph and dance.
A curtain moves in the house across the street, and I give a wave to Widow Wilson. Trudy and I begin to sing “I Want to Hold Your Hand” really softly. We are all smiles, tapping our feet and singing in our loudest whisper, Oh please, say to me . . . I have been known to belt out a show tune on occasion, but that is only in front of family.
The telephone rings in the kitchen, stopping us mid chorus, and Abigail answers. Seconds later she shows up at the door, drying her hands on her dishtowel. Like a knight never without a sword, Abigail Trueluck is never without a dishtowel. She uses this same dishtowel to take pies out of the oven, chase away flies, as well as flip Trudy and Teddy on the legs if they irritate her. I half expect her to take a swipe at me one of these days.
“Someone’s on the telephone for you,” she says to Trudy.
Trudy disappears into the house. When she stretches the telephone cord around the kitchen corner and into the hallway, I can hear her clearly.
“Hoot Macklehaney, what are you doing calling my house?” she says in the same half-whisper we were singing in.
She listens for a long time and then says, “I don’t care what people like or don’t like. It’s none of their business.” Trudy sounds angry. She goes back into the kitchen and hangs up the telephone so hard it bounces out of the cradle onto the floor cracking against the linoleum. She makes a sound that’s a huff with a scream mixed in. Then Abigail asks her why she is so upset. Trudy makes up a story about someone from school selling raffle tickets.
Trueluck Summer Page 5
