The water cooler gulps loudly as he fills the two cups. I hope my stomach doesn’t growl, because he is so close he could hear it. Then he carries the water back into the next office. When the door opens, Paris turns his head and sees me before looking away.
Nana starts singing songs from “Annie, Get Your Gun,” one of her favorite Broadway musicals, and I wonder if this is the best choice given the situation. Her voice gets stronger with every song, like she has been waiting her entire life to give this one concert.
We have twenty-two minutes to get Paris out of here and back to the farmer’s market. I massage my temples like Daddy does when he is hoping for inspiration. Then I see it: the perfect solution. A fire alarm is mounted on the wall. I crawl across the cold tile floor toward a sign that reads: PULL ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.
If this isn’t an emergency, I tell myself, I don’t know what is.
With all my strength, I pull the fire alarm. For a few seconds nothing happens, but then the alarm shrieks to life. It is so loud I have to cover my ears. I run and duck behind the desk again. Les Lester and the FBI men look around and then at each other. Nana Trueluck’s singing has stopped. A flurry of people run for the exits.
Les Lester tells Paris to stay put. Then he and the other three men leave the office and close the door. How could they just leave Paris in there? What if this actually was a fire? Then I realize how grateful I am for their stupidity. It is the perfect moment to get Paris out of here.
When I enter the office Paris smiles the widest smile I have ever seen. We leave the room and go into the rotunda. Guards and FBI agents usher tourists out the front door telling them not to panic. Nana Trueluck swims through the crowd and joins us. Amid the chaos, Paris grabs my hand, and I lead him through the rotunda toward the side door, where there are fewer people. Nana Trueluck follows. The alarm continues to hammer out its warning. The family of redheads I saw earlier almost knocks us down as we make our way to the door.
We find Vel at the far end of the State House grounds. For once, she is about as animated as her Toni perm. She gives each of us a hug, even Paris.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Vel says to me.
My smile at Vel turns into a giggle. I pet her head like I have decided I love poodle perms.
“Stop it,” she says, but I can tell she isn’t angry.
“Trudy saved my life,” Paris tells her.
“Well, you saved mine first,” I say.
In that instant, it is like I have a crystal ball, and I know that Paris and I will be good friends for the rest of our lives.
“I couldn’t have done it if not for Nana Trueluck’s singing,” I say. “She distracted everyone and drew a crowd.”
Nana takes a bow, and we all applaud. “Ted Senior always told me I missed my calling as a lounge singer,” she says.
For the first time, she doesn’t look as sad as she usually does when she talks about Grandpa Trueluck, and I wonder if this adventure has been good for her. I glance at my watch, and Nana nods like she is thinking the same thing.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
We hide behind an oak tree and wait for the best time to flee. Two fire trucks pull up in front of the State House as the fire alarm continues to blast. More people billow out the front doors like thick smoke, followed by the three FBI agents and Les Lester. We scrunch closer to the oak to avoid being seen.
“We need to get back to Woolworths as fast as we can,” I say. “Then we’ll see if anyone has followed us before we go to the farmer’s market.”
“I can’t run in these heels,” Nana Trueluck says. “I’m not sure I can keep up.”
“Maybe we could split up and then meet there,” Vel says. This sounds just like something Nancy Drew might do.
“Are you sure you remember how to get back?” I ask.
“I remember,” Paris says.
We agree that Nana will join the crowd going in one direction, and we three kids will go in the other. We need to get Paris back to Charleston before the FBI finds him.
The chaos grows. Firemen run into the building with their hatchets and hoses drawn. Nana Trueluck’s yellow canary hat bobs among the crowd going in the direction of the farmer’s market. Meanwhile, Paris and Vel and I sprint toward Woolworths as if the flames from the imaginary fire nip at our heels. We dash one block, then two, and then have a short wait at the traffic light before we dart across the street.
After we reach the store, we bolt through the front doors and stand panting at the front windows. Large fans overhead do a poor job of cooling us. Other people are standing at the windows, too, looking toward the State House, including Faye, the waitress who treated us so badly. Her look tells Paris he doesn’t belong here.
“Where’s the old lady?” she asks us.
“She already went home,” I say.
Faye pops her gum and scoffs. “That old lady had an attitude.” She turns to look at what is going on outside.
Two more fire trucks go by and another police car with sirens and lights flashing. But no one seems to have followed us.
“Do you think it’s against the law to pull a fire alarm?” I whisper to Vel.
“Probably,” Vel whispers back.
What if Paris and I are both fugitives now? My knees shake, and my worry grows into full-fledged fear. What if I never get to finish grade school because of a jail sentence? My parents will be so disappointed.
“We need to get out of here.” Paris motions toward the people next to us. They look familiar. Then they seem to recognize us, too.
“Hey, isn’t that the kid who ran with the flag?” The father of the redheaded family points at Paris. “He ran through the State House with the Confederate flag draped around his shoulders.”
Angry faces turn toward us. The fat cop from before squeaks his way to the front of the store. I check my watch again. We have seven minutes to get to the farmer’s market and then get out of town.
We run down an aisle full of beach balls, sand buckets, and metal picnic coolers, as if the South Carolina coastline extends all the way to Columbia. The fat cop follows. On our way out the back exit, Paris turns over a basket of beach balls and they bounce in every direction. When the fat cop stumbles and falls, it reminds me of one of my brother’s stunts. Either that, or a Laurel and Hardy movie.
After busting through to the back door of the Woolworths into the alley, we pause to look around. The backs of stores look totally different from the fronts, and it is hard to decide which way to go. We run past four trashcans with smelly, sunbaked garbage inside. We hold our noses and keep running.
As we maneuver our way through the alleys, I am reminded of the coastal waterways around Charleston. Some are like a maze with dead ends that circle back to where you started or lead you deeper into the marsh. We need to find the right way, the alley that will lead us back to the farmer’s market. I look behind us. The fat cop isn’t following, but he is probably calling all his cop friends.
We take one wrong turn, then another. We pause long enough to look at each other. Panic fills Vel’s eyes. If she had known this would happen, she would never have agreed to come.
“This way,” Paris says, choosing a direction we haven’t tried yet.
We run down the alleyway until we arrive at the back side of the farmer’s market. We made it! We exchange smiles. Winded, the three of us lean against Uncle Freddie’s truck and take in big gulps of freedom. Nana Trueluck arrives soon after, fanning herself with her canary hat, a smile on her face, too. She hugs us like she hasn’t seen us in ten years, much less ten minutes. Luckily the chaos from the State House hasn’t made it this far.
Freddie looks at us and closes up the back of his truck empty of melons. “Did you all have a race or something?” Freddie asks Paris.
“Something like that,” he says.
Paris opens the door to the truck and retrieves a mason jar full of Miss Josie’s lemonade and passes it around. We each take huge sips. The drink is as
warm as the day but refreshing all the same. Then he opens a brown paper bag filled with Miss Josie’s cookies. While we eat and drink, Uncle Freddie says goodbye to some nearby farmers, and we take turns watching the street to make sure no one is coming after us.
“We did it,” Paris says. “We took down that flag.”
“If I hadn’t seen it for myself I would have never believed it,” Nana Trueluck says. “You children did the impossible. I’m very proud of you.”
But our adventure isn’t over yet. Those FBI agents are probably still looking for Paris.
Moments later, we say our goodbyes to Paris and his Uncle Freddie. Then Vel and I get back in Nana Trueluck’s Chrysler. On our way out of town a police car flies past us in the direction of the State House. Vel and I duck below the seat.
“I wonder what all this commotion is about,” Nana Trueluck says with a grin.
“Shouldn’t we pull over or hide or something?” Vel pulls herself up into the seat.
“Well, if they catch us, they catch us,” Nana Trueluck says. “Besides, I’m not sure what we’ve done wrong. We displaced a flag for a few minutes. Sang a few Doris Day hits and a few songs from Annie, Get Your Gun.”
“I pulled a fire alarm,” I say.
“Yes, well, there is that, too,” she says.
While I keep an eye on the side mirror to make sure no police cars are following us, Vel and I hold hands. For once, Vel isn’t reading. Has life become more interesting than a book?
An hour out of town my worry fades, and my relief turns to laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. Vel joins in, and then Nana Trueluck gets the giggles, too.
“Can you believe that poor man’s glass eye popped out of his head?” she asks.
We laugh more.
“I’ll never forget Paris running through the rotunda,” I say, “and that Confederate flag soaring behind him. Then just when it looked like it was curtains, Nana Trueluck takes the flag at the last moment and runs out the door singing ‘Que Sera, Sera.’”
Vel and I collapse into giggles, and Nana Trueluck has to pull off the road because she is giggling, too. The three of us laugh until tears roll down our cheeks. It is the first time I have seen Nana Trueluck truly happy since Grandpa Trueluck died.
I decide that no matter what happens next, even if I get in trouble for tripping that fire alarm, it has all been worth it. At least that flag came down for a few minutes. Paris got to act out his dream, and Nana Trueluck got to laugh again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ida
Spanish moss in the pine trees signals our approach to the coast. The air turns salty as we near the ocean. The laughter from earlier energized me for the rest of the drive. The girls are quiet now. Both are dozing. It has been a long day and a surprising day. The children’s courage has made an impression on me. Especially Paris’. He may be the bravest young man I have ever known. I want to tell Miss Josie what a wonderful grandson she has, but no one must find out what happened today. No one. But that doesn’t mean our adventure was without merit.
All of us changed today. For once I wasn’t just watching history on television, but I was a participant. And honestly, after all those images on the six o’clock news of the horrible things going on in Alabama and Mississippi, I wanted Paris to know that southern white people aren’t all like that. Some of us are compassionate folks.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon—almost twelve hours since I woke up this morning. Because of all that happened, it feels like it has been even longer. I park in front of Ted Junior’s house—my home—at least for now, given Abigail doesn’t find out what happened today.
“Is it possible the house has shrunk since we left it this morning?” Trudy asks with a yawn.
“Compared to the State House, it does look small,” I say.
“I’m sure glad they don’t know our real names,” Vel says, matching Trudy’s yawn. “Do you think they’ll come looking for us anyway?”
“I doubt it,” I say, even though I have plenty of doubts.
Vel walks toward her house with Nancy Drew stuck in the waistband of her shorts, her pink purse thrown over one shoulder.
“You don’t think she’ll tell her parents what happened, do you?” I ask Trudy.
“Not in a million years,” Trudy says.
“That’s good,” I say. “As the grownup in charge, I’d have some explaining to do.”
For several seconds we sit in the car without moving. It has been a bigger adventure than either of us anticipated.
“Paris would still be with the FBI if left up to Vel,” Trudy says.
“It’s also true that we couldn’t have done it without her,” I say. “She was great at keeping Les Lester occupied by taking all those notes.”
Trudy laughs.
Our peaceful, boring street is totally opposite of the pandemonium at the State House a few hours earlier. I roll up the car windows, get out of the car, and wave at Widow Wilson behind the curtains. As we walk up the sidewalk, I put an arm around Trudy’s shoulder.
“Good job today,” I say.
“You, too,” she says. “Do you think Paris is safe?”
“I’d be surprised if they came looking for him here,” I say. “Surely the FBI has bigger fish to fry.”
We walk into the house, and Trudy lets the screen door slam at her heels, something we both know irritates Abigail. We pause in the entryway to listen to the sound of the typewriter clicking away in the attic. We exchange smiles. Then Teddy barrels around the corner, Band-Aids flapping in the breeze. He stops inches from my feet, looks up, and smiles a goofy smile.
“Hi Nana,” he says.
“Hello, Teddy. What have you been up to today?”
“Nothin’,” he says.
“Us, too,” I say, giving Trudy a wink.
“I can’t believe I’m even glad to see my dorky brother,” Trudy says, giving him a hug.
Teddy screams and then pretends to throw up in a potted plant in the hallway. Grandsons have a special quality all their own.
“Nana and Trudy are home, and they’re acting weird!” he yells to anyone listening.
The smell of an apple pie baking makes me practically giddy. I am so glad to be home. Even if it isn’t exactly my home, it feels comforting, like a cotton nightgown just off the clothesline. Abigail comes into the hallway and asks about our trip to Columbia.
“It was good,” I say. “But I think I’ll go upstairs to take a nap before dinner.”
“A nap?” she says. “Since when do you take naps?”
“Since today,” I say with a smile.
In addition to fatigue from the trip, my throat is tender from my impromptu concert. Time alone in my room will do me good.
“You two can tell us about your trip at dinner,” Abigail says, studying me.
Trudy and I exchange a look that confirms our lips are sealed forever about what actually happened in Columbia. If our true exploits are found out, Trudy will be grounded until the space program puts a man on the moon—the moon being where I may have to live next. But even if we told them every detail, I don’t think Ted Junior and Abigail would believe us anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trudy
The next day, Paris and Vel and I meet at Hampton Park underneath a maze of azalea bushes. We are getting good at hiding our friendship. Meanwhile, for the last 24 hours, I have been waiting for the FBI to show up at my door.
The bushes shake, and a voice startles us from behind.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Hoot says, crawling into the bushes after us.
We make room for him. He has a rolled up newspaper in his hand, and I think how strange it is that Hoot Macklehaney might actually read a newspaper.
“I knew you were up to something,” he says, “and it looks like I’ve finally got proof. He unrolls the newspaper and drops it in my lap.
On the front page of the Sunday edition of The Charleston Post the headline reads: CONSPIRAC
Y AT THE STATE HOUSE. Next to the headline is a photograph of Les Lester and Wally, whose last name turns out to be Wiggins. Underneath the photograph is the story:
Authorities are searching for an elderly woman and three juvenile suspects—two females and a Negro male—responsible for defiling the Confederate flag on Saturday. They believe the elderly female, who also gave an impromptu music concert in the building, may have been the master planner of the uprising. Anyone knowing the identities of these suspects must come forward immediately. A $500 reward will be given for any information leading to their apprehension.
For a few seconds I forget to breathe and Vel spells DAM under her breath. I don’t take the time to correct her spelling. Paris looks like he is wondering whether to fight Hoot or run away. I wonder the same thing. I never expected for Hoot to put two and two together and actually get four, as in the four of us going to the State House.
“We weren’t anywhere near Columbia yesterday,” I tell Hoot, crossing my fingers behind my back.
“Liar,” Hoot says. “You two and your grandmother were gone all day yesterday.” He points at Vel who holds Nancy Drew like a brick she might pelt him with. “You must have ridden with somebody else,” he says to Paris.
All this time I have watched out for the FBI when I should have been watching out for Hoot Macklehaney.
“How dare you watch my house,” I say, but it comes out half-hearted. His spying is the least of my worries. Shutting him up is my big concern now.
“What do you want?” I ask him.
Hoot looks like a cat whose claws are sunk into three juicy mice. He aims his pimples heavenward. “I want money for starters,” he says. “The newspaper is offering five hundred dollars as a reward. That’s a lot of money.”
Vel, Paris, and I look at each other. You would think Daddy makes a lot of money as mayor, but the job actually doesn’t pay that much. Vel’s dad probably makes more at the bank. At least they can afford to have Rosemary.
Trueluck Summer Page 15
