“You had a question about that flag?” he asks.
I pause, knowing how farfetched our idea might sound. “Paris and I were wondering how a person would go about getting it down,” I say.
Mr. Chambers chuckles at first. Then he sees I am serious.
“You want to take that flag down?”
Paris and I nod.
“I’ve never heard of anyone ever trying,” he says. Then he rubs his chin like he is wondering why he didn’t think to do it himself. “I can tell you for a fact that petitions won’t work,” he continues. “You can’t get the number of signatures you need.” He goes to thinking again, petting his mustache into an even bigger smile.
“Couldn’t somebody just go up to the top of the building and take it down?” I say.
He chuckles again. “I’d love it if somebody did that, but I’m not sure how they’d get away with it,” he says. “As an attorney, I’ve been in that building many times. A guard stands right inside the door, and he makes it his business to know everybody’s business. Plus, there is the old guard, too,” he adds.
“An old guard?” I imagine someone even older than Mr. Chambers standing by the door with a cane.
“The old guard isn’t an actual person, but an old way of thinking. I don’t know how anyone would get past that old guard.” He pauses and smiles at me. “You certainly ask good questions, Trudy Trueluck. You also have a most interesting imagination.”
He pets his mustache once more and says his goodbyes.
“He seems nice,” Paris says, still speaking from the other side of the cannon.
I agree but then pause, thinking about what Mr. Chambers said. “We need to figure out how to get past that old guard,” I say.
“I didn’t even know there was such a thing,” he says.
“Me neither,” I say. “But it kind of makes sense.”
Just being Paris’ friend has changed how I look at things. A big line divides our country that I never noticed before.
Sometimes I’d like to take an eraser to the pictures in my head, like that cross burning in our yard. Or the pictures on television of John F. Kennedy getting shot in Dallas. I wish I could forget all of that. I also wish I didn’t know what a lynching was.
“People who burn crosses must be part of the old guard, too,” I say. “Not to mention people who spit at other people and wave flags in their faces to make them afraid.”
“At least now we know what we’re up against,” Paris says. “Martin Luther King Junior says that now’s the time to do something about it. He has a dream that all of us will get free someday.”
“Kind of like your dream of taking down that flag,” I say.
Paris smiles, but there is also sadness in his eyes.
“My fourth grade teacher told our class once that when things get too bad, people will rebel in order to make things change,” I say.
“It’s way too hot for a rebellion,” Paris says.
“Maybe not,” I say. Then I smile with a breakthrough idea.
“What is it?” Paris asks.
“What if we say we’re starting a school newspaper, and the first story we want to report on is the flag over the State House? We can interview people about whether or not they think it’s a good idea.”
“That will give you and Vel an excuse to be there, but what about me?” Paris asks.
“We can say our two schools are doing it together,” I say.
“You think they’ll believe us?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” But I’m not so sure they’ll believe us, either. “It’s worth a try,” I add.
Three seagulls land on the rail of the seawall and then fly over next to us like they may have some answers, but it will cost us bread crumbs. Bread crumbs we don’t have. They squawk their dissatisfaction.
In the next instant a loud rumble of thunder shakes the ground underneath us, and the gulls scatter. I turn to see a dark gray sky behind us. Paris and I stand and exchange surprised looks. Neither of us expected a storm to come up so quickly. We get on our bikes and pedal as fast as we can down East Bay Street. At the crossroads he gets off Teddy’s bike to give it back to me, but I tell him to keep it. He can bring it back to my house later. The we turn to go in opposite directions to our houses. As the wind picks up I think about what Mr. Chambers said about the old guard and wonder if Nana Trueluck knows about them, too. If she does, maybe she can help us get past them. But for now this storm seems to have other ideas.
Chapter Fifteen
Ida
The thunderstorm passes and the air is dripping with humidity. Having lived in Charleston my entire life, I have seen quite a few storms batter the coastline, including tropical storms and hurricanes. When you live at sea level, things can get a little wild. Storms at high tide flood low lying streets. Barricades go up until the water recedes. Thankfully, this is simply one of the frequent afternoon thunderstorms that accompany summertime.
Trudy arrives home soaked and exhilarated. After she changes into dry clothes she joins me on the front porch. Water drips from the trees, making it sound like it is still raining.
“Were you with your new friend?” I ask.
Trudy looks to make sure nobody is around. “Yes,” she whispers. “We went to the Battery. We ran into Mr. Chambers. He asked about you.”
I surprise myself with a smile.
“Any new developments?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced going to Columbia is too risky. Not to mention the fireworks that will ensue if Abigail and Ted Junior find out the reason we are going.
“Paris’ Uncle Freddie is willing to take him to Columbia,” Trudy says. “Now we’ve got to come up with a story to convince Vel’s parents and Mama and Daddy to let us go.”
“Vel’s parents are coming by after supper tonight for pie and pinochle,” I say, relaying something Abigail said earlier.
“Perfect,” Trudy says.
I find myself hoping that Ted Junior and Abigail nix the idea, or perhaps Oscar and Penelope Ogilvie—Vel’s parents. Without Vel, Trudy and Paris may lose interest. Yet Trudy’s commitment to the idea shows no sign of waning.
Later that evening, Ted Junior comes out of the attic, a sure sign that it is a special occasion. He has put on a shirt to go with his worn out Bermuda shorts. On the front porch, Abigail slices one of her peach pies usually reserved for Callie’s Diner. Trudy pulls Vel aside, and I overhear her tell Vel to go along with whatever I say. What I say? Since when am I the one doing the persuading? I am not convinced it is a good idea myself.
The house across the street has all its lights out, and I am certain Widow Wilson is up to her usual spying. If not for the Trueluck family, I can’t imagine what she’d do for entertainment. Of course, she would be welcome for pie, too, but I think she prefers her clandestine practices to real socializing.
A few minutes later a police car drives down our street really slowly like they did the night before. Ted Junior waves at the officer, who lifts his index finger in response.
“You would think the mayor of Charleston would deserve more than a finger,” I say under my breath. At least it wasn’t a different finger, but still.
“Don’t worry about it, Mother,” Ted Junior says. “Every- thing’s fine.” I wonder when my son took up lying. Nothing is fine, not in the current social environment. Plus, the smell of gasoline lingers in the front yard.
Greetings go around and Oscar and Penelope Ogilvie join us on the shady porch. Iced tea is served with plenty of ice that melts as quickly as our greetings in the Charleston heat. The evening progresses. Teddy does a few stunts that make us laugh as well as fear for his safety. Meanwhile, Trudy is silent, her leg shaking her jitters. With all that energy she could run to Columbia.
Surely she knows that getting parental permission is a long shot. Columbia is a hundred miles away, and we are without a purpose for going. Not one that I know of anyway. Ted Junior and Abigail typically err on the side of
caution when it comes to parenting styles. And as someone who lives here as a result of their grace, I can hardly question that. But what about Trudy? Is my responsibility to encourage her passion or to keep her safe? My answer shifts like a weathervane on a wind current.
After pie, pinochle is suggested and I wonder how to bring up Columbia. Before I get a chance to pull together a story, Trudy stands.
“I have something important to ask you,” she says to her parents.
She visibly swallows before jumping into her lost cause with both feet. I have to say I admire this burst of bravado to act on something she believes in. As for me, any fleeting boldness I possess was washed away by Abigail’s tears earlier today. I have meddled enough.
Trudy begins to talk about a school newspaper project in a way that sounds believable and even admirable, including a part about interviewing people on their opinions about the flag. I have to admit, it is a good idea.
“Can Vel and I go with Nana Trueluck to Columbia on Saturday?” she asks.
“Trudy needs me to take notes,” Vel says to her parents. She whips a pen and pad from her purse with the precision of someone who actually wants to go.
Vel is a follower. Being friends with Trudy almost requires it. But she is also someone who thinks about things. Someone who might do something with her life someday. Something more than getting married and raising children, though it is practically a sacrilege to even think this. In my day, to have only one child was looked down upon. Not that Ted Senior and I didn’t try to have more.
“You have to be careful when you question people’s views,” Ted Junior says. “A lot of them see nothing wrong with that flag.”
Vel’s parents appear unmoved.
“Of course, I’ll be there the whole time,” I say, “to make sure they ask their questions in a way that doesn’t challenge anyone.”
The weathervane has shifted again, and I surprise myself with my intent on helping with Trudy’s mission. She has never asked much of me as a grandmother. The least I can do is help her and her friends get to Columbia. I doubt they can get any-where near that old flag anyway. To conjure up the courage to make the attempt is not without its merits, either.
“I’ve been meaning to go to Columbia to see my cousin for months now,” I begin again. “We can perhaps even meet her at the State House so I can keep an eye on the children.”
I do have a second cousin on my father’s side who lives in Columbia—that part is true. However, my cousin is not someone whom I care to visit. Unfortunately, a stained sofa on the side of the road holds more luster than she does and is more inviting.
“I love how the girls have taken an interest in our state’s history,” I am quick to add. “Think of how this will widen their experience, as well as get them extra credit.”
Oscar and Penelope look skeptical at first, but both girls offer persuasion, and they finally agree. Ted Junior and Abigail agree next, and Trudy and Vel exchange victory glances. It is decided. Next Saturday morning, I will drive the girls to the State House in Columbia where they will meet Paris and begin their secret mission.
Chapter Sixteen
Trudy
Friday night, Vel sleeps over and we set two Baby Ben alarm clocks to wake us up at four-thirty in the morning so we can be ready to go by five o’clock. Nana Trueluck says if we leave then we will arrive in Columbia by seven-thirty to meet Paris and his Uncle Freddie at the Farmer’s market.
Vel is snoring when the first alarm goes off, and I have to shake her hard to wake her up. Vel can be a royal grouch in the mornings, and this morning is no exception. Her right leg flares out from under the sheet and nails me in the thigh. Not one to be nailed, I grab her foot and pull her halfway off the bed until she screams and gives me a look that reminds me of Hoot Macklehaney.
Eyes half closed, Vel’s Toni curls spring to life much sooner than she does. She takes off her pink pajamas and puts on her other pink clothes for the day. Since Vel wears so much pink, I refuse to wear any, except for my Barbie watch.
By the time we get to the kitchen, Mama is up, too, making us eggs and toast. She puts coffee in Daddy’s thermos for Nana Trueluck. She also wraps up three apple turnovers she baked the day before.
As Vel and I eat breakfast, Mama tells us a litany of things we should be careful of. The list includes: strangers, crooks, dirty bathrooms, and rabid dogs. New to her list is rabid dogs, added after seeing To Kill a Mockingbird at the movie theater last year.
“Here’s a nickel for the pay phones just in case you get lost.” She hands a buffalo nickel to me and Vel.
Vel puts it in her training bra, but it falls straight through. Her face turns a color that matches her outfit. I put my nickel in my pocket. Vel tries her training bra again. I am not sure what she did differently, but this time it stays.
“If you get lost, find a pay telephone and call me collect,” Mama says.
Mama is an expert at thinking up every possible thing that could go wrong in every situation. While Vel and I wait at the kitchen table, I imagine a stranger who is also a crook hiding from a rabid dog in a dirty bathroom.
Life is full of danger, I say to myself and then smile.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Vel whispers. The outline of the buffalo nickel shows through her light pink shirt.
“It’s too late to have second thoughts,” I whisper back. “Nana Trueluck will be downstairs any minute.”
Vel tugs at her curls as though trying to milk courage out of them.
“We may get there and not do a thing except turn around and come home,” I whisper again.
She relaxes her grip on Nancy Drew.
At five o’clock exactly, Nana Trueluck comes downstairs looking like an aging canary. Instead of her usual wild skirt and high-top sneakers, she wears a yellow dress with a matching yellow hat and the low black heels she always wears to church. When she walks her legs swish from wearing hose.
Nana Trueluck takes a few sips of black coffee as if to fortify her commitment.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Ida?” Mama asks.
It is always strange to hear Nana Trueluck’s first name. I forget she used to be Ida before she was Nana Trueluck.
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” she says to Mama, looking over at me and Vel. Her smile isn’t convincing.
Vel grips Nancy Drew again, as though needing her own fortification.
“I’m not sure why in the world you need to leave so early,” Mama says.
“Traffic going into Columbia on a Saturday will probably be heavy,” Nana Trueluck replies.
And taking down that flag may take a while, I want to add.
Meanwhile, Vel’s hair looks like a mop that needs to be rung out. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to her perm.
When we leave the house it is still dark. The porch light reaches into the yard, the shadow of the cross burned into it, reminding me of our mission. When I latch the gate of our white picket fence behind us, it feels like from this moment on there is no turning back.
Nana Trueluck’s 1940 Chrysler Plymouth has been moved from the garage by the house to the street. Daddy has the hood up in the dark and is checking the oil with a flashlight. Nana hasn’t driven since she moved here, and I catch myself hoping she remembers how.
We pile into the front seat, Vel by the window, me in the middle, and the thermos and the food Mama packed in between me and Nana Trueluck. Over a year later the car still smells a little like Grandpa Trueluck’s pipe tobacco.
Daddy closes the hood.
“I added air to your tires.” He shines the flashlight into the car.
She thanks him and pats his hand.
“Stick to the main roads,” he says, sounding protective.
“Ted Junior, I remember how to get to Columbia. Highway 176.”
Nana Trueluck turns on the car, and the engine rumbles as though remembering how to do its job. She pulls away from the curb driving really slowly down Quee
n Street. So slowly it occurs to me that at this rate we won’t reach Columbia until sometime tomorrow. Something sharp pokes into my thigh, and I realize it is Nancy Drew. Vel apologizes.
We are past Summerville before it even hints at daylight. But the minute the sun appears on the horizon we can tell the day will be a scorcher. Thankfully, Nana has sped up to five miles below the speed limit. We don’t talk because the windows are wide open, and the wind flaps through the car like loose sails. We couldn’t hear each other if we wanted to.
About thirty minutes in, Vel falls asleep, her head against the door of the Chrysler. Drool seeps from the corner of her mouth, and I time it with my Barbie watch, measuring how long the drool takes to reach her chin. Vel’s snore blends in with the sound of the engine until it crescendos into a snort. Nana Trueluck and I exchange looks, and I cover my mouth to stifle the wild laughter that wants to escape.
The land between Charleston and Columbia is flat and dense with pine trees. Nana points to a deer on the side of the road and honks her horn to make it run back into the pines. When she honks, Vel startles awake and wipes away 11 minutes and 15 seconds worth of drool. A red crease crosses her cheek from leaning against the door. It looks like war paint.
“What are you looking at?” Vel yells over the flapping sails.
I smile and shrug while Nana Trueluck pretends she wasn’t in on it.
We pull up at the farmer’s market in Columbia right at eight o’clock. On the way we glimpse the enemy flag flying high above the State House. It waves in the slight breeze as if intent on spending the next hundred years there, maybe longer. My shoulders drop. All of a sudden it feels like we came all this way for nothing. Taking down that flag is an impossible task. We were crazy to even consider it. A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach when I think about Paris’ dream dying so fast—except what I realize is that now it feels like my dream, too.
Nana parks the Chrysler nearby, and we find Paris and his Uncle Freddie next to a truck full of melons. It feels good not to be in the car anymore. I introduce Nana to Paris, and Paris introduces her to his Uncle Freddie. They talk for a while, and we find out that Freddie has a college degree and teaches at the colored elementary school. He only runs melons on Saturdays to help out his dad who owns a farm in Beaufort. Freddie gets busy with the melons, and Nana Trueluck greets a woman at a nearby vegetable stand.
Trueluck Summer Page 10
