“I know it looks rickety,” I say, “but it’s perfectly safe.”
The papers tucked in my pants start to get wet from my sweat. I need to put them someplace cool and safe.
“What about Vel?” Paris says. “She’s in on this, too, even though she didn’t stay for the bulldog part.”
He has a point. I tell him to wait in the treehouse, and I walk through the backyards to get to Vel’s house. When I go in the back door, Rosemary is ironing in the kitchen.
“Hello, Miss Trudy,” she says, smoothing a sheet with her hand.
“Hello right back, Miss Rosemary,” I say.
I have never called her “Miss” before, and the look she gives me confirms her surprise. As far as I know, Miss Josie is the only colored person I know who white people and colored alike call “Miss.” Rosemary is darker than Miss Josie and Paris, and I wonder if white people come in shades, too. In the winter I am very light, but in the summer I turn a light pink. I never tan like some of the girls in my school do. But even if I did, I don’t much see the point of baking in the sun.
“Vel around?” I ask.
“She’s up in her room reading.” Steam rises from one of Vel’s pink shirts that Rosemary is pressing into the ironing board. “That girl is going to turn into a book someday, she reads so much.”
It makes me smile to picture Vel as a pink book with blonde curly hair. I take the steps to Vel’s room two at a time and lean against the door-jamb.
“We did it,” I say.
She looks up from her book, and I show her the yellowing notebook paper under my shirt, damp with sweat.
She jumps up from her bed, and I hand her the sheets.
“Holy moly!” she says. “And you didn’t get eaten by those dogs?”
“Miss Josie’s barbecued ribs worked,” I say, not telling her how close we came to being kibble.
“What do we do now?” she asks.
I like that she is saying “we.”
“Paris is hiding in my treehouse. Can you go wait with him while I talk to Nana Trueluck and ask her what we should do with them? He can tell you all about what happened at that house.”
Vel slides on her flip-flops and the two of us walk to my house.
With Vel and Paris in the treehouse, I stand on the small side porch that leads to the kitchen. I take a deep breath and wonder how to explain to Nana Trueluck what we have just done. But we need her to tell us what to do next. Otherwise, we may have risked our lives for nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ida
Abigail and I spoon sliced apples into pie crusts. It is a rare moment when she lets me help her, and I am happy to let her be the expert at this task, even though I have baked my share of apple pies.
“Where have you been?” Abigail asks when Trudy enters the kitchen.
I have to resist showing my relief at seeing her standing there and beam a smile at her instead.
“I was with Vel,” Trudy says after a beat of silence. When she looks away, I take this as a signal that there is more to the story.
“What were you doing?” Abigail turns to face her daughter.
With her third degree, Abigail can sound like the Gestapo sometimes.
“We took a walk along the marsh road,” Trudy says.
She is not the type to fib unless other people might get in trouble, too. I wonder where Vel and Paris are. The look she gives me tells me she needs to talk. What I don’t know is how to finesse my way out of Abigail’s kitchen and risk losing her temporary good graces.
“You want a cheese sandwich?” Abigail asks Trudy.
“No, ma’am,” Trudy says.
Now I know something’s up. Trudy rarely turns down food—especially food that contains cheese.
“Abigail, can you excuse me a moment? I need to get something out of my car.”
I leave the house with a nod to Trudy to join me. Seconds later we stand under the magnolia tree in the side yard, out of view of the kitchen window.
“You look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” I say to her, but actually she looks more worried than chagrined.
Trudy’s words rush forward like the force of holding them back was almost too much. “You know that rebellion we started a few days ago?”
“Yes, of course,” I say. “It’s a miracle we didn’t get in more trouble over that one.”
She waits another beat. “You know how we thought it was over, and then the newspaper article came out, and we got a rock thrown through the window?”
I nod.
“Well, it’s not exactly over.”
“Trudy, what have you done?” I hide my alarm.
Abigail and Ted Junior made me promise to not let Trudy do anything the least bit dangerous or there would be far-reaching consequences. I am not sure exactly how to stop her from doing things she doesn’t tell me about. I am not a mind reader. Although in these last few weeks of living here, I have a sense of what makes Trudy tick. And one thing is injustice.
She motions for me to follow her to the treehouse. Paris and Vel appear in the door, guilty looks on their faces.
Ted Senior built this treehouse for Trudy when she was five. It consists of pine boards hammered together that make up four primitive walls, with two windows sawed out, as well as a door. A sturdy homemade ladder has eight steps leading to the door. Despite the storms that hit the coast from time to time, this treehouse has withstood them all.
For a moment, I wonder where I will live next and glance at the treehouse.
Trudy climbs up the ladder in record time and invites me up.
“Can’t we talk down here?” I say. As a girl, I’d have climbed up those steps in a flash. But at this moment, I feel old.
“You can do it,” Trudy says, sounding like Ted Senior.
I hesitate.
Come on, old girl, I tell myself.
I remind myself that I have been in this treehouse before. Ted Senior invited me up after he put on the finishing touches. We kissed there. One of those unexpected kisses that makes you feel young again.
As I ascend, the handmade steps creak. I hate heights, even the height of a stepladder, and I already wonder how I will get down. I sit with an oomph on the wooden floor. Paris and Vel sit opposite each other under the windows, and Trudy sits in the corner by the door where Ted Senior carved his initials. My eyes mist, and I tell myself I don’t have time to grieve right now.
“You need to tell me what you’ve done,” I say to the three of them.
Trudy tells me the details of getting a list of names of people who might not appreciate exposure.
“Lord, in heaven.” I turn the volume down on my voice as soon as it raises. “Taking down a flag in a public place is one thing,” I whisper to Trudy. “Breaking into someone’s house? That’s—”
I am not often at a loss for words.
“What were you thinking?” I ask.
“But they burned a cross in our yard and threw a rock through our window,” Trudy says. “How is that any different?”
I have to admit I see her point. “We have to let the police handle these things. That’s their job,” I say, sounding my age.
“But there are policemen on the list,” Trudy says, her eyes wide.
Words escape me again. I can’t say in seventy years of life a situation of this level of morality has ever come up. And it is probably time it did.
“We want to expose these people,” Trudy says.
Paris and Vel remain silent, and I can’t say that I blame them. It occurs to me that Vel looks different, and I realize she doesn’t have a book with her.
“Are you sure no one saw you?” I ask.
The three accomplices exchange uneasy looks.
“I don’t think so,” Trudy says.
“Where are these documents?” I ask.
Trudy hands me several yellowed pages from under her blouse. A list of over a hundred names line the pages. A few of the surnames are ones I recognize. All members of the local Klu Klux Klan
. This is like realizing that your beloved home is infested with termites. Who do you call if you know some of the exterminators are in on the infestation? Not to mention what might happen if anyone finds out Trudy has these. It could be more trouble than we ever imagined.
“We need to talk to Madison Chambers,” I say to them. “He’ll know what to do.” At least I hope he will.
They agree to my idea.
We file down the ladder one at a time, which doesn’t seem nearly as harrowing as being in possession of this list.
“Get in the car. I’ll get my keys,” I say to them.
In the kitchen Abigail cleans mixing bowls.
“What are you and Trudy up to now?”
“We need to run an errand,” I say.
“You aren’t going to Columbia again are you?” Abigail laughs another short laugh, but her eyes are serious.
“Of course not,” I say.
How could I possibly tell her that her daughter has done something potentially even more dangerous?
“We’ll be back in about an hour,” I say, sounding practically chipper instead of panicked.
I go out the back door and find Trudy and Vel in the front seat and Paris lying down in the back. Not only does he walk a block or two behind the girls, now he is hiding in the back seat. I tell him to sit up and change places with Trudy and Vel. The children do as they are told without complaint, and now Paris sits beside me in the front seat. It may be 1964 in Charleston, but every decision helps to move things along. Who knows, maybe Trudy’s list will help, too.
I drive over to Tradd Street, where Madison lives, and park in front of his house. The four of us walk up to the door. It has been years since I have been here. Ted Senior usually invited Madison to our house so he could get a home-cooked meal. I ring the buzzer and wait. My young friends stand on the front porch with me. Paris stands in the bushes, and I motion for him to join us. He has been hanging out in shrubs long enough.
The door opens, and Madison Chambers radiates a smile that makes my knees a bit wobbly.
“If it isn’t Charleston’s newest and youngest civil rights leaders,” he says.
“You have no idea,” I say with a sigh.
Madison kisses my hand again, and my companions exchange looks. Then he shakes Trudy’s hand, followed by Vel’s and Paris’. He commends the children on their strong handshakes and then invites us into his garden behind his house. The four of us sit on white, wooden benches with green and gold cushions. A vine of tiny white flowers weaves its way around the bench creating an aroma that is indeed celestial. The shade envelopes us. I am a great lover of shade. I could spend the rest of my life in this very spot. If this were purely a social visit, spending time in this lovely garden would be heavenly.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Madison asks. Even in casual around-the-house clothes he looks like a gentleman.
Everyone turns to look at me, as though I am appointed ringleader again, a position I do not relish, although I am getting used to it.
“It seems that Trudy and Paris have come across some interesting documents,” I say to him. I leave out the part about how they got them.
Madison pulls a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and Trudy hands him the list. For several seconds his eyes narrow before widening again.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asks, looking over his glasses at us.
“Yes, sir,” Trudy replies. “It’s the names of every member of the local KKK.”
Madison pets his mustache. His seriousness permits a brief smile.
“How did you come by these?” he asks.
Trudy tells him the whole story of having to be Hoot’s girlfriend and getting his uncle’s key and so on.
Madison appears impressed by the children’s audacity, but also more than a little concerned.
“When Trudy told me what they’d done, I thought we’d best talk to you,” I say. “I imagine this list might be of some use if it got into the right hands. Maybe it could even change things a little if certain people were exposed?”
“Interesting,” Madison says. He looks over his glasses again. “What do you think you want to do with these?” he says to Trudy.
“We want to stop all those rocks getting thrown through windows and crosses burnt in yards,” Trudy says.
“And lynchings,” Paris adds.
Madison and I exchange a look. It no longer seems to matter that the names were taken illegally. Doesn’t the public deserve to see a list of criminals in our midst no matter how the names were obtained?
Ted Senior liked to say that sometimes things aren’t black or white. For sure this is a gray area.
Madison looks at the papers again and then back at me. “You know how dangerous this is, don’t you?”
“That’s why we came to you,” I say. “The last thing I want is for anybody to get hurt.”
The look on Trudy’s face suggests that she never considered the consequences of her actions might involve physical violence. Who at age twelve does? That is left for people like me who have lived in the world long enough to know that people have been hurt for a lot less than this. Miss Josie can undoubtedly verify this as well.
“Are we the only five people in Charleston who know about this?” Madison asks.
“Hoot Macklehaney knows,” Trudy says. “But he’ll never tell. If he did, he would be in worse trouble than any of us.”
Madison gets quiet for a long time, his white eyebrows knitted in a conversation of their own. Finally he looks over at me, and I am struck again by the kindness in his face.
“I have an idea, but I’m not sure it will work,” he says.
“One idea is better than no ideas,” I say and wonder when I became so awkward with words. It reminds me of when I first met Ted Senior. I literally ran into him on the street like a scene in a movie. I said something flimsy then, too. Something like Come here often? My face warms in the hot day. I turn away from the past and lend my full attention to Madison.
“I have a friend at the newspaper who would be very excited to see this list,” he says. “Maybe he’ll even publish it. But nobody must ever know who or where it came from. Understand?”
We agree.
“I’ll say the list came from an anonymous, yet reliable, source,” he begins again. “Of course I must remind you that this doesn’t mean my friend will publish it. You must try to be satisfied with whatever result.”
The four of us agree again.
“I’ll telephone my friend at the newspaper and set up a time to meet with him this evening,” he concludes.
We stand, and I shake Madison’s hand to thank him for helping us. He holds on longer than I expect. We file out of the garden and say goodbye to him, leaving through a side gate. We get back in my car, which has become a pressure cooker in the heat, even with all the windows down.
When we get back to the house we sit at the picnic table far enough away from the kitchen so that Abigail won’t overhear. My companions are twelve, going on twenty, with hints of wisdom already evident. Perhaps with their help, the unrest in this country will calm down and freedom will prevail.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Three Years Later
1967
Trudy
History didn’t take much notice of our trip to Columbia three summers ago. Nothing changed. The names of the Ku Klux Klan were published in the newspaper, and there was a big hoopla about it. There were a lot of angry letters to the editor—some defended the men, others expressed outrage—but ultimately the only thing that changed, as far as I could tell, was that Daddy lost the next election in a landslide victory for the other side.
Nana Trueluck and I are sitting in the kitchen when Mr. Chambers arrives. They have become great friends. They go to movies together and take walks along the Battery in the cool of the morning. He always kisses her on the cheek when he greets her, and today is no exception. Then he joins us at the kitchen table.
“I have some big news
,” he says to us.
Given I am fully immersed into the boredom of my summer, just hearing the words excite me.
“Tell us,” Nana Trueluck says.
She always smiles whenever Mr. Chambers is around.
“I just got word that Martin Luther King Junior plans to visit Charleston tomorrow,” he says.
I instantly think of Paris. The riots last week in Detroit, where he used to live, were reported to be the worst in a hundred years. That’s a lot of rocks thrown through windows. Thankfully Paris’ mother moved back to Charleston last year, but he still has cousins there and an aunt and uncle.
“I worry about Dr. King coming here,” Nana Trueluck says. “I can’t imagine that he’s safe anywhere.”
Mr. Chambers nods his agreement, his mustache downturned.
Nana Trueluck and I continue to watch Walter Cronkite every evening. Riots are taking place all over the country: Memphis, Durham, Illinois, Newark.
“When will he arrive?” I ask.
“One-thirty at the Charleston airport,” Mr. Chambers says, turning toward me. “That’s not all. I have a surprise,” he continues. His mustache smiles again. “Dr. King wants to meet you.”
“Me?” I say and wonder if Mr. Chambers is the type to pull someone’s leg.
“Well, all of you,” he says. “Paris, Vel, and even your grandmother.” He gives Nana Trueluck a wink.
I pop up from the table so fast it makes them laugh. “Really?” I ask.
He nods again.
I telephone Paris and tell him the news and have to take the telephone away from my ear when he screams his excitement. Vel is less enthused, but gets off the telephone quickly to pick out something to wear.
The next day Paris and Vel and I pile into the backseat of Nana Trueluck’s car with Mr. Chambers sitting in the front passenger side. Her driving was already slow, but now it reminds me of turtles. Ancient turtles. My right foot presses into the floorboard to speed things up, and I long for next year when I can finally get my driver’s license.
For the outing, Nana Trueluck wears a thin scarf wrapped around her head and dark sunglasses. She looks like a much older version of Kim Novak in North by Northwest. Thankfully, we leave the house with an hour to get to North Charleston. Daddy and Mama promise to join us at the airport a little later.
Trueluck Summer Page 21
