“Why are you so quiet?” I ask Paris.
“It feels like a dream to be here,” he says.
“Of course it feels like a stupid dream,” Vel says. “That’s how this whole stupid thing started.”
We look at her. “Have I told you that Vel is always grouchy in the mornings, Paris?”
“I’m not grouchy,” Vel says, sounding even grouchier.
“Are you ready to do this?” I say to Paris.
“I guess so,” Paris says. “We’re doing it for them as much as for me.” He looks out over the farmer’s market.
At that moment, I realize that Nana Trueluck and Vel and I are the only white people here. I wonder if all the colored farmers are also the descendants of slaves. Seeing that flag flying on top of a building that’s supposed to represent everybody in the state must be like having a bunch of white folks scream right to your face that you don’t belong here.
Paris is quiet, and I wonder if he is also thinking about how impossible this is.
“What if we get in big trouble, Trudy? What if my Uncle Freddie gets in trouble, too? And your Nana Trueluck? What if we all get arrested?”
For the first time since I have known him, Paris looks genuinely scared. In the seconds that follow, I catch his fear like a summer cold.
In the distance, the rebel flag waves in the wind like it is waving goodbye and telling us to have a nice trip back to Charleston. Its presence is a constant reminder of a war that nobody can seem to get over. A war that has defeated us again. Within minutes of arriving, we are about to raise our white flag of surrender.
Chapter Seventeen
Ida
The children stand around like lumps in search of a log. Their mood has shifted since we first arrived. Doubts are written on the brows of their young faces. Their eyes find me as though I hold the answers to their unspoken questions. Since I am the oldest by far, I guess that makes sense. But I don’t have any answers, either.
Uncle Freddie puts a sign at the back of his truck that reads: WATERMELONS 25 CENTS. Paris agrees to be back at the farmer’s market by one o’clock so Freddie can head home to Charleston. I like Freddie, and I like that he trusts me with his nephew.
With the hem of my dress I clean my glasses, a habit I often do when thinking hard about something. I am not sure why I dressed up, except that acting on our constitutional rights seemed as sacred an occasion as attending church. It is not every day one tries to overthrow bigotry.
As a lifelong follower, I wait for Trudy to step forward and lead her friends. Ever since we arrived, she has been unusually quiet. I remember how Ted Junior went quiet for weeks before he began his novel. And Ted Senior got quiet before he announced we were going to travel and see the world. Hopefully Trudy will snap out of it before it matters, but for now I have to lead the charge. We say goodbye to Freddie and walk to the corner.
“I suppose the first thing we need to do is get ourselves to the State House,” I begin, putting an arm around Trudy. “Then once we get inside we can see what we’re up against.”
Their postures relax, and Trudy offers a brief smile.
She just needs to get her bearings, I say to myself. Then she’ll be fine.
Meanwhile, Paris shoots me a smile as though thankful to have a grownup around, even if I am as white as a loaf of Sunbeam Bread.
I am reminded of how special he is. Like Trudy, he is intent on doing the right thing and has a sense of honor about him. He seems much older than he looks. Vel has possibilities, as well, but it is too soon to tell with her. She is a reluctant soldier in the cause, but at least she is here.
Grandmothers have a code of honor, too, and watch out for each other’s grandchildren. Everyone in downtown Charleston knows Miss Josie. I imagine her sitting on the corner of King and Broad, straight and proud. Does she have any idea what her grandson is up to today?
Ted Senior was the one who made plans, not me. I wish he were here to help us figure out how to get that flag down. It may be that we get to the State House and turn around and go home. I can’t imagine we will actually find a way to get to the top of the dome.
As the four of us walk up the street toward the State House, my hose swish the entire way. The closer we get, the more I sweat. I wish now that I’d worn my comfortable shoes and one of my cotton skirts and tops instead of this newfangled polyester dress that doesn’t allow a person to sweat properly. So much for sacred.
Columbia is different than Charleston. For one thing it isn’t nearly as pretty. For another thing, it is stifling hot but without the ocean breeze. At eight-fifteen in the morning, the sidewalk is already hot enough to cook two eggs over easy with a side of bacon.
The four of us walk, three children and a reluctant grandmother. I wish Trudy would stop being so quiet.
“My goodness, we’re an unlikely band of rebels,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood.
The mood doesn’t lighten.
I find a folded up church bulletin from Easter in the pocket of my dress and fan myself in hopes of resurrection.
“Let’s rest under these trees for a moment,” I say, guiding the children to shade. They look as wilted as I feel, and the excitement has drained from their faces. As for Trudy, I can only hope that at some point her enthusiasm revives. I am not sure how long I can keep this up.
The troops are weary. We need a boost of morale, I tell myself, sounding like Ted Senior. He used to say this when Ted Junior was little and we were on one of our many long road trips to SEE ROCK CITY. Or SEE RUBY FALLS, as the billboards always read.
“Perhaps now’s a good time to tell you the story about my great-grandmother,” I say to them.
They remain unenthused, but I forge ahead anyway.
I wonder why I have told so few people this story. Perhaps it is too strong a reminder that I haven’t taken a stand for any-thing in my life. But it appears that has changed. At least for now. At this moment, I am in downtown Columbia only blocks away from the State House where I will take a stand for Paris and Miss Josie and Freddie and all the colored people in this great state of ours. My throat tightens, and I haven’t even said anything.
Who am I fooling? I say to myself.
Then Trudy looks at me like she is a thirsty plant waiting for rain. I clear my throat. The Easter bulletin goes limp, and I put it back in my dress pocket.
“My great-grandmother was an abolitionist,” I begin. “Someone who was against slavery.” I think of the trunk in the attic filled with her things and wish I had them to show.
Vel closes her book, and Paris waits as though hanging onto my every word. I wonder if this is what it is like to sing in front of a live audience, something I have never done but often dream of doing.
“She published articles in a Quaker newspaper in Pennsylvania under a man’s name,” I continue. “She wrote about what the conditions were here in the South for the slaves. It wasn’t until years later that people found out that she was the one who had written the articles.”
My audience appears unenthused. We leave the shade and continue walking. I won’t tell the children the part about how my great-grandmother was disowned by her family and forced out of Charleston because she was seen as a traitor instead of a hero. Even today it is dangerous to voice your views, especially as a woman.
We stop at the entrance to the State House. A mountain of steps leads to the front doors. It is hard not to feel small. Our eyes lift. In the distance the rebel flag lies limp against the flagpole at the top of the dome. It looks harmless and almost beautiful. I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat. How can a piece of fabric hold so much meaning?
“Do you think Dr. King ever gets scared?” Paris asks.
I pause and forget my reluctance. “He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t,” I say. “He puts his life in great danger every time he speaks out about what he believes.”
Indeed, it is Dr. King and many like him who are the brave ones, as is Paris to attempt something so symbolic with these new frie
nds. White friends, no less.
While we stare up at the flag, I put my arm around Paris. We stand for several seconds in silence, perhaps realizing the boldness needed to proceed.
“What do we do now?” Vel asks, putting a voice to everyone’s question.
I resist saying I have no idea and imagine what my ancestor might remark in this situation.
“We must carry on in the name of freedom,” I hear myself say. Perhaps I have some of my great-grandmother in me after all.
“What happens if we get caught?” Vel asks, always the practical one.
“Let’s not talk about that because it’s not going to happen,” Trudy says.
“Trudy Trueluck, are you scared?” Vel asks. “I’ve never known you to be scared a day in your life.”
Trudy denies the feeling, but there is no denying that she has acted strange ever since we got here. Almost petrified. I imagine we are all intimated by the bigness of this place—not to mention the bigness of the task. Perhaps Trudy is having second thoughts, as well as third and fourth ones. Even Paris looks back toward the Farmer’s market as if contemplating running back to his Uncle Freddie’s truck.
For the second time today I wish Ted Senior were here to lead the charge. Actually, I would settle for Ted Junior. It occurs to me that maybe the smartest course is to retreat. But what message would that send to the children? Quit before you even try? Quit before you do something significant?
“You know, Nancy Drew would love this kind of adventure,” I say to Vel, easily the hardest to convince.
“Nancy Drew would never break the law.” Vel clutches her book to her chest like it is a bible that contains the gospel according to Nancy Drew.
“We’re not breaking the law,” I say. “We’re exercising our rights as citizens.”
They look at me as though I am Nana Pinocchio and my nose has grown six inches. It is true our rights probably don’t extend to taking down a rebel flag, but we do have a right to protest in this country.
“We can go home if you want,” I say to them. “Or we can stay here. But I can’t do any of this alone.”
For several seconds we sit in silence. Paris rests his head in his hands, and Vel has her nose in her book again. It is Trudy who has surprised me most. Where is that fire she had in her eyes earlier in the week?
Nearby, an old man rakes leaves on the State House grounds. Stooped over, he reminds me of the people of color who pass me on the streets of Charleston sometimes. They aren’t proud like Paris’ grandmother, Miss Josie, but broken down. Their own value hidden from themselves.
“He has to look at that flag every day,” Paris says.
The four of us turn toward the man. I think of how strong Paris’ ancestors must have been and the misery they have put up with at the hands of white people. But Paris’ story doesn’t have to be the same as the people who came before them. Neither does ours.
“We’ve come all this way,” Trudy says. “We should at least try.” Her voice grows stronger with each word.
Paris sits straighter, and Vel puts away her book. Low tide has ended, and a new tide is coming in. Growing waves of possibility wash ashore.
“We’ve at least got to try,” Trudy says again. She glares at the flag as though looking into the eyes of a bully. The spark inside her has ignited again, and we can all feel it.
We stand. For the first time that day, we feel united.
“Come on, everyone,” Trudy says. “Let’s go make history.”
Paris stands tall, and Vel sticks a hand down her shirt and pulls out a nickel to call home. Trudy makes Vel put the nickel back. This is the granddaughter I know and love.
As for me, I have waited my entire life to do something to make my great-grandmother proud. What is the point of having ancestors if you don’t honor them? However, nothing this important is simple. The mammoth building looms ahead of us, the flag perched on the top like a cherry on a sundae.
Facing the building again, we take a step back.
“You can’t bail now,” Trudy says to us. “We’re going to take down that rebel flag. You know why?” she asks, not giving us time to answer. “Because we are here to start a rebellion. We see something wrong, and we are willing to go against the old guard to make it right. We are the best kind of rebels. We are the new rebels.”
Arm in arm—with the exception of Vel, who Trudy practically drags—we march up the sidewalk full of our cause to the big front doors of the State House. Given the honor of opening the heavy doors, I tug, but nothing happens. They are locked. Trudy glances at her Barbie watch. It is only 8:30 A.M. The building is not open yet. We give a collective sigh. Our history making will have to wait.
Chapter Eighteen
Trudy
“Why don’t we go get a soda?” Nana Trueluck says. “I saw a Woolworths on the next street over.” Her momentary disappointment seems to evaporate. It never occurred to me that she might be thinking of her great-grandmother—my great-great-grandmother—while helping us. At least she is not thinking about Grandpa Trueluck and making herself sad.
We walk along the tree-lined streets to the Woolworths. Paris is wearing a red shirt, white socks, and dark blue shorts, an outfit that would make our founders proud. I wonder if he planned this. When we walk inside the store every single person at the soda fountain turns to look. Paris lowers his head and appears to shrink in size. In the next few seconds, I realize no one knows me here. I am not the mayor’s daughter. Nor is Nana Trueluck the mayor’s mother. In Columbia, no one knows the Truelucks, and at that moment I feel like a nobody.
Faking my bravery, I lead the way to four stools at the end of the counter. Paris sits between me and Nana Trueluck, with Vel at the end of the counter. People aim their hatred at us, like it is deer season and we are the deer. Nana Trueluck hands us menus to hide behind.
I wish I had a picket sign to hold up that says: I GET TO BE FRIENDS WITH ANYONE I WANT!
In the meantime, Vel reads Nancy Drew like the book is a life raft in the middle of a stormy sea. I probably couldn’t pry it away from her if I had to.
The waitress pretends to be busy, wiping already clean counters and refilling coffee cups. I think she wants to make us wait. Nana Trueluck clears her throat several times to get her attention, but the woman just smiles and winks at the other customers like they are all in on the joke. A fake magnolia blossom is glued onto her name tag that reads Faye. According to Barbie, ten minutes and eight seconds pass before she comes over to us.
Faye’s tiny dark eyes are lined with black eyeliner. Red circles of rouge dot her pale, wrinkled cheeks, and her lipstick matches her cheeks. Lipstick has bled onto her teeth and makes it look like she ate raw meat for breakfast. Faye looks about Nana Trueluck’s age, but her hair is dyed blond, and she is so skinny her nylon hose droop around her ankles.
Finally, Faye grabs her order pad and saunters over to us. “What can I get y’all?” She looks at everybody except Paris.
Paris stares at his silverware, and I seriously question if this trip to Columbia was such a good idea. I don’t like seeing him this way, so I kick his leg.
“Ouch!” He gives me a look that has some fire in it.
I nod my approval. I want him to get mad. Mad at me and mad at anybody who thinks he has no right to be here. But Paris probably knows much better than me how dangerous that can be. I remember what he told me about his second cousin and wonder if he has given up. But then I see his eyes twinkle and realize that he is acting. He is playing the part of the old man on the State House grounds, the one who doesn’t look up.
“We’ll all have sodas,” Nana Trueluck says to the waitress. “All four of us.”
Faye pops her gum, which smells like Juicy Fruit mixed with cigarettes, and then tosses her order pad behind the counter without writing our order down. The ice in our sodas has already melted by the time she finally brings them to us.
Nana Trueluck must be acting, too, because she doesn’t get riled and even thanks Fa
ye like she delivered our order in record time. I, however, am about to grab Faye’s bleached blond hair and pull it out by the roots. The door jingles its bell, and Paris’ eyes widen. The front door is blocked by a rotund man wearing a sheriff’s badge. Fat bulges over the officer’s belt and strains the buttons on his white shirt.
“They must eat grits by the truckload here in Columbia,” I say.
Nana Trueluck shushes me. Something she rarely does.
Faye delivers a plate of breakfast to the man next to us. One half is piled high with scrambled eggs and bacon, the other is filled with grits, confirming my theory.
Grits taste like cardboard to me. But in the South they are as American as apple pie. Regardless, I’d eat them every day if it meant that Paris was treated with respect.
The sheriff walks over and stands right behind us. Paris’ chin touches his chest like he is reciting the Lord’s Prayer in case he dies in the next few seconds. Either that or he is going for the performance that will earn him the Academy Award.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” Nana Trueluck asks.
She swivels on the round stool with the red cushion and then stands. Compared to her, the sheriff looks massive, her head coming up to about his shoulder.
“Is your husband in the store?” he asks her.
“My dear husband died last year,” she says.
“I figured that might be the case,” he tells her. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here in the Woolworths with a little colored boy.” He says this like Nana should know better. I am surprised he doesn’t pat her on the head.
Nana Trueluck narrows her eyes like she is about to offer a few well-chosen words.
“You kids about finished?” the sheriff says to me and Vel, ignoring Paris. “We have a lot of people waiting for seats.”
Trueluck Summer Page 11
