Trueluck Summer

by Susan Gabriel

We approach the Esso station, and he stops at the gas pumps. “Can I hold your hand for this part?” he asks.

  I grimace.

  “You agreed,” he says, his happiness disappearing. “If you don’t do this, I’ll tell my relatives what you did, and your little colored friend will regret the day he ever saved your life.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say.

  I shake off my disgust and imagine myself as Doris Day again. I even hum a few bars of “Que Sera, Sera.” Thankfully, that reminds me of why I am doing this in the first place. Nana Trueluck should never have to go to jail for something that was mine and Paris’ idea. Besides, as Nana Trueluck has told me many times, she does not look good in stripes—jailhouse or otherwise.

  Hoot holds out his hand. At first I stare at it, but then I take a deep breath and slip my palm in his. At the same time, I hope he hasn’t picked his nose lately or gotten zit juice on his fingers.

  Hoot’s palms are sweaty, and my hand slides around a little before it suctions to his. Paris would be proud. I could definitely win an Academy Award for this performance. We walk the last few steps to the Esso station. Meanwhile, I pray I don’t see anyone from school because I could never explain how I got myself into this mess.

  Both bay doors are open to the garage. Hoot leads me to a white Ford Fairlane suspended in the air. Hoot’s brother is underneath looking up at the engine and doesn’t see us walk up. Hoot’s sweaty hand begins to shake. His brother finishes tightening a bolt and then turns to look at us, grease on his face.

  “Hank, I want you to meet my new girlfriend, Trudy Trueluck.” Hoot says this with a slight stutter.

  Hank’s name is stitched onto his blue shirt. He takes an oily rag and wipes his hands, but they still look as dirty as ever. “Are you playing some kind of joke on me?” Hank says to Hoot.

  “No, I’m not,” Hoot replies.

  He doesn’t stutter this time. But Hoot’s hand gets even sweatier, and I have to hold on tightly to keep my hand from slipping off.

  “How long have you two been going out?” his brother asks, his eyes narrow.

  “Since we saw you last,” I answer. I unlock my hand from Hoot’s and take his arm and lean in a little like I have seen high school girls do with the boys they are dating. Hoot smiles at me, and his eyes send me a message about how grateful he is. Unfortunately, Hoot’s arm is sweaty, too. I will have to take at least six baths after I get home just to get his slimy sweat off me.

  “I don’t believe you,” Hank says. “No girl would go out with a reject like you.” Hank laughs.

  “What right do you have calling somebody names?” I ask. “If anyone is a reject it’s you.”

  I stand straighter with the same feeling I had at the State House when I saw that Confederate flag flying. Nobody has the right to put anybody else down. Even if the person getting put down is Hoot Macklehaney.

  Hank mutters something under his breath. Then he pauses as though remembering where he has seen me before. “Hey, aren’t you the girl who took up for that nigger?”

  The hatefulness of his words causes me to hesitate. “I take up for anyone I please, colored or white.”

  Hank throws a wrench that clangs close to my feet. I jump out of the way.

  “Oops,” he says, like it was an accident, but then he smiles.

  “You’d best be getting your little girlfriend out of here or she might get hurt,” Hank says to Hoot.

  “Let’s go,” Hoot says. He pulls me outside next to a stack of used tires. The rubber is heating up in the sun and smells sour.

  I let go of his sweaty hand and wipe the excess moisture on my dress.

  “Trudy, you shouldn’t have said those things to Hank,” he says.

  “Why not?” I ask. The last thing I need is a lecture from Hoot.

  “You should know by now that Hank’s got friends.”

  “So do I.” I think of Paris and Vel and Nana Trueluck.

  “Not like these,” Hoot says.

  We walk back to where we met up, and my anger makes me step so fast Hoot has to hurry to keep up. At the corner I stop, determined to forget this day forever.

  “Thanks for being my girlfriend,” Hoot says. “I appreciate all those nice things you said.”

  My determination melts in the summer sun. “I don’t think it did any good, Hoot. Your brother is a total dingbat.”

  “I come from a long line of dingbats,” he says.

  I take a long look at Hoot Macklehaney and appreciate his honesty. Then it occurs to me that he might not always be this disgusting, that it is something he might outgrow, just like his pimples.

  “So you’ll keep your promise?” I ask. “You won’t tell any-one about Columbia?”

  “I promise.” Hoot extends his hand for me to shake.

  This time it feels a little less slimy.

  “Watch out for Hank,” he says. “You made him mad back there.”

  “He made me mad, too,” I say.

  “Just watch out.” Hoot spits a hocker on the sidewalk, and I see the family resemblance.

  It occurs to me that our families have a lot to do with who we become. If not for my great-great-grandmother, I might never have become Paris’ friend and gone to Columbia to take down that flag. And if not for Nana Trueluck giving me and Vel a ride, I never would have gone there in the first place. My grandmother has surprised me in the last few days. But I have had enough surprises. I am ready for a normal summer again. Then I remember Hoot’s warning and realize it may be too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ida

  While Abigail delivers pies with my grandson, and Ted Junior is busy being mayor, I sit in the kitchen to work a crossword with Trudy. Thankfully, no one has recognized my posterior on the front page and things have died down. Even Ted Junior and Abigail seem to have forgiven me for my part in the Columbia fiasco.

  “What’s a seven letter word for clandestine?” Trudy asks, pencil poised.

  Before I can answer someone knocks on the front door with such force, Trudy and I jump. We are still jumpy from our adventure last week.

  We go into the living room, and I peek through the sheer curtains. For a moment, I feel like Widow Wilson and hope no one starts to call me Widow Trueluck. Widowhood is not a club anyone wants to join.

  On the front porch stand two men who could be Laurel and Hardy lookalikes. One is tall and thin, the other short and round with a mustache. The tall one knocks again.

  “They don’t look like FBI,” Trudy says. “Or policemen.”

  “I thought that adventure was behind us,” I say. “You don’t think this is about Columbia, do you?”

  We exchange an intrepid look.

  “Should we pretend we’re not at home?” Trudy asks.

  “Might as well see what they want,” I say.

  Trudy follows me to the door. The good thing about being a grandmother is that I look like one. By that I mean I look harmless. Being seventy is like traveling incognito everywhere you go. I am convinced a team of grandmothers could rob banks just by pretending to knit in the lobby beforehand. No one the wiser. A thought that first occurred to me when I realized Ted Senior hadn’t provided enough money for me to live on after he’d passed.

  “Can I help you?” I ask through the screen.

  “I’m a reporter from the Post,” the tall man says. “I’m here to ask about your role in taking down the Confederate flag in Columbia last weekend.”

  Trudy and I exchange a look. Someone has told our secret.

  A flash bulb goes off as the shorter man, a photographer, snaps a picture that must capture the surprise on our faces. He is more casual looking than the tall guy, but still wears a tie with his short-sleeved white shirt. His arms have muscles, probably from carrying his bulky camera bag all over the place. The bag hangs down past his hip, and I notice that we stand eye to eye. I wonder if he ever cuts the heads off the people in his photographs like I do.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re tal
king about,” I say. I have never been good at lying and give a nervous smile.

  “We believe you know exactly what we’re talking about,” says the tall one.

  Trudy and I exchange another look.

  “May I offer you gentlemen some iced tea?” I ask.

  As usual, it is a hot day and they accept with eagerness. I tell them to have a seat on the porch while Trudy and I go inside to get the tea.

  Trudy paces the floor and wrings her hands while I pour two glasses of iced tea. Sometimes she acts more like a grandmother than I do.

  “What are you thinking, Nana? Are you actually going to talk to them?”

  “What choice do we have?” I say. “If we don’t tell them our version, then they’ll make up their own.”

  “I thought you didn’t trust reporters except for Walter Cronkite.”

  Trudy knows I have a crush on Walter. It is a running joke of ours. Walter is the only newscaster I trust. Him and Edward R. Murrow.

  “I think we should just be honest,” I say. “Honesty is the best policy, right?” I wonder if this is true.

  “But what if they put Paris in jail?” Trudy asks.

  “He’s just a boy. They won’t put him in jail.” I bite my bottom lip. After seeing on the news the happenings in the Deep South, I wonder if there is anyone left with a lick of sense in regard to treating our colored citizens with decency.

  “Should I answer their questions, too?” she asks.

  “That’s up to you,” I say.

  I imagine my mug shot up in the downtown post office next to the photos of hardened criminals of the Most Wanted. At least a white-haired grandmother will add a little diversity.

  “That stupid Hoot Macklehaney must have told,” Trudy says. “Who else could it be?”

  “It’s always the person you least suspect,” I say. “Think of all those Alfred Hitchcock movies we’ve watched.”

  I slide two peach turnovers onto plates, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to try to influence them favorably. Meanwhile, Trudy telephones Vel and Paris and tells them that the newspaper is asking questions and to get over here quick. We go back to the front porch with turnovers and tea.

  By the time we come back outside, Vel is already on her way up the street, poofing her hair. After the men eat their turnovers, the tall reporter, Charlie, gets out his pad and a pencil.

  “So when did this idea of taking down the Confederate flag at the State House first occur to you?” he asks me.

  “It was my idea,” Trudy says. Then she tells him the entire story about Paris saving her life and about the dream he had. As she finishes, Paris gets off a bus at the corner and walks in our direction. Vel and Trudy meet him at the street.

  “So the mayor’s daughter and the boy became friends after he saved her life?” the reporter asks me. “Did the mayor not mind his daughter having a Negro friend?”

  “The mayor didn’t even know about it,” I say. “The children hid their friendship for fear of what others might think.”

  “But you knew?”

  I hesitate. This feels like a setup.

  Another flashbulb goes off as Paris approaches the porch. The reporter turns to the children, asking more questions, including their full names. Then the photographer asks the three of them to stand arm in arm next to where the cross burned in our yard.

  “That should sell a few newspapers,” the reporter says to his photographer.

  I straighten my spine and my anger crackles. Yet at the same time it appears I have been struck mute.

  “Mrs. Trueluck, aren’t you a descendent of one of Charleston’s famous abolitionists?”

  “Well, I don’t see how—”

  “Are you saying that you had nothing to do with taking down that flag?” the reporter asks.

  “This is the young man you should talk to.” I stand and put a hand on Paris’ shoulder. “He’d be happy to tell you his side of the story, including how the FBI tried to hold him against his will for questioning.”

  “How did the mayor react to you taking the children to Columbia?” the reporter asks, giving Paris only a glance.

  “Leave my grandmother alone,” Trudy says to him.

  The photographer snaps another photo, this time of Trudy pointing her finger at the reporter, a scowl on her face.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave,” I say to them.

  “Does the mayor think that white children and Negro children should be allowed to be friends? What does your son think about the Civil Rights Act that was just voted into law today?” The reporter fans himself with his note pad.

  “This interview is over,” I say.

  I usher the children into the house and close the door and lock it.

  “I may never watch a Laurel and Hardy comedy again,” I say. “Not after putting up with those two.”

  We go into the kitchen, where my crossword lay unfinished.

  “What just happened?” Trudy asks.

  The four of us sit at the kitchen table.

  “It seems they wanted the story to be more about your father, not about what happened in Columbia,” I say.

  What I don’t tell them is how much trouble I imagine I am in again. Especially with Ted Junior and Abigail. The photographs alone could be damaging to Ted Junior’s bid for a second term. The reporter mentioned the passing of that Civil Rights Act I have read about lately. It was John F. Kennedy who put it into motion, but now President Johnson has taken it up. I don’t trust Johnson. Not that he has personally done anything to hurt me. But he is not Jack Kennedy. And he has kept that war going on in Vietnam much longer than it has needed to be.

  I think of those fateful events in Dallas seven months ago. The whole family stayed glued to the television for four days watching the aftermath. It was one of the saddest times in our nation’s history as far as I am concerned. Ted Senior had died in May of last year and what grieving I hadn’t finished up for him, I lumped in with President Kennedy’s death.

  I give the children Jell-O salad from the refrigerator, Abigail’s staple dessert when there isn’t a pie around. They sit at the kitchen table, and I hand them bowls and spoons. Children are always hungry, and it gives me time to think while they are eating.

  “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” Paris says to me, as if my upset might be about him.

  “No, no, this isn’t about you, Paris. I was just remembering my dearly departed husband.”

  Paris nods, as though remembering someone he lost, too.

  “That stupid Hoot Macklehaney must have told, even after I pretended to be his girlfriend.” Trudy gets up from the kitchen table with a huff and puts her bowl in the sink.

  “Hoot didn’t do it,” Paris says. “I was the one who told.”

  Trudy’s jaw unhinges, her disbelief tangible. “It was you?” she asks.

  “I called the newspaper this morning and told them everything,” Paris says.

  “Why’d you do that?” Trudy asks, her voice raised.

  “I bet it was for the reward.” Vel scoffs, as though she knew not to trust him all this time.

  But I already know that Paris wouldn’t do something like that for the reward. He has something that few people have today, even old people my age with plenty of time to develop it. It is called integrity. Perhaps that has something to do with Miss Josie being his grandmother. Perhaps not. Sometimes children are just born with something special and you don’t know where it came from.

  “I didn’t do it for the reward,” Paris says. “It was for other reasons.”

  Trudy gives him a look like those other reasons better be good.

  “As long as what we did was a secret, it was like we were ashamed of it,” he begins. “The funny thing is, I’m not the least bit ashamed. I’m proud that we acted on what we believed. I’m sorry I didn’t ask y’all first,” he continues, “but I didn’t want you to talk me out of it. I wanted to tell the truth. Even if it meant I got in trouble.”

  I wonder how a boy of twelve
could be so eloquent as well as brave.

  “I wish you’d asked us first, Paris,” Trudy says. “But I understand what you’re saying about it being a secret. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble.” She pauses as though his honesty has challenged her. “Truth is, I didn’t want to get in trouble, either.”

  “I don’t mind getting in trouble about this,” Paris says. “Even if I have to go to jail like Dr. King, I’m proud of what we did.”

  “Now that we’ve all decided to be proud,” I say, “we’ve got some extra thinking to do. There’s no telling what will come out in that newspaper article and we need to prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?” Trudy asks.

  “The unexpected,” I say.

  Trudy doesn’t look too pleased with the prospect of preparations or the unexpected. It is then that I decide to call in reinforcements: my old friend Madison Chambers.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Trudy

  Two days later, on our nation’s Independence Day, I am the last to go downstairs for breakfast. Since nothing appeared in the newspaper yesterday, Nana Trueluck and I are hopeful that the reporter tossed the story and that we have heard the last of our trip to Columbia.

  When I enter the kitchen, my entire family is sitting at the table, the newspaper spread across most of the table. Mama is tisking, Daddy is holding his head like he has a whopper of a headache, and Nana Trueluck has her head bowed. Gracing the front page is the photograph of me and Paris and Vel standing next to where the cross burned in our front yard. A photograph of Daddy is there, too, with the headline:

  Mayor Trueluck Signs His Own Civil Rights Bill

  The first few paragraphs are about how Daddy allows his kids to play with Negro children at their home and how his mother, Ida Trueluck, took these same children to Columbia to defile the Confederate Centennial flag flying over the State House. The last line of the editorial states: Is this the kind of mayor we want for the city of Charleston?

  Nana Trueluck has not lifted her head from her personal prayer meeting, or maybe she is just too mortified to look up.

  “Are we in trouble?” I ask.