Tootsie said when I started going to the Quarters, she could feel it in her bones—the day was not far in the future when I’d be beyond repair. She was a wise soul.
Part Two: 1964-65
Chapter Four
Rodney
1964
I MET RODNEY THIBAULT the summer before I turned thirteen. He stood next to the gas pumps at his dad’s Esso station at the Y-junction of Jefferson and Main when my dad drove up in our green Mercedes with me in the front seat.
It was hot and humid, a typical summer day in South Louisiana and I didn’t really notice the boy who filled the car with gas. I was reading, as usual, and he knew I was unaware of his presence. Invisible. That’s how he told me he felt the first time he saw me, and he was probably right. He explained that, but for my dad, he felt unnoticed around white folks, like he was nobody, but that conversation came much later.
The tall athletic boy came to my side of the car to wash the windshield and he touched the tip of his baseball cap, a gesture of respect, I thought. I looked up and smiled at him through the glass, like I would anyone who tipped his hat at me. I mean, you acknowledge that, right? My smile must have surprised him. He gulped and I noticed his Adam’s apple protrude, remain there for a second, then recede. I’m not sure why I remember that detail, but I do, like it was yesterday.
Rodney said he didn’t figure I would talk to him, but that he couldn’t help hoping. My window was down and he began to wash the side mirror near it.
“Oops,” he said. “I almost sprayed you with windshield cleaner. I didn’t know your window was down.”
“No problem,” I said. I didn’t look up from my book. He wiped and re-wiped the side mirror. He began to hum, softly. Then he just blurted something out—something like—
“That must be some good book.” I didn’t look up. “Hey, how you doing this afternoon?”
“Uhmm. Fine. You?” I still didn’t look up, I was in the middle of a paragraph.
“Good. Doin’ good. It’s just too hot to work outside.”
I let my eyes lift from my book, a little irritated, I’ll admit, but resolved. I glanced at him then turned my head and looked out the front windshield towards the gas station office. Then I looked back at him, like a double take.
He was gorgeous—I mean the most handsome boy I’d ever seen, and with three brothers who were rather cute, I had lots to compare him to. The ironic thing is that I’d never really noticed boys before. I was too busy trying to make straight A’s and survive at home and school, toe the line, follow the rules that kept changing on me.
“Yeah,” I finally said, almost in a whisper. He didn’t speak. He just stared at me. I guess I was staring at him, too. “One thing good about it being hot is we know summer’s here. No school.”
“You right about that.” He paused like he thought I might say something else, but I felt tongue-tied. Finally, after what seemed like infinity, he said, “I love summers.” His words surprised me because I was in a trance.
“Yeah? What do you do in the summers?” I asked, not really thinking about what I said.
“Oh, lots of things.” He kept wiping the mirror, like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. He’d look away for a few seconds, then I could feel his gaze on me again. After a while he leaned against the car with his forearm above my window, which put his face only a couple of feet from mine.
Where’d he come from, I wondered? I’d never seen him at school, but then I might have missed him since he looked like he was a couple years older. I spoke slowly. It was the first conversation I’d ever had with an older boy, other than James’s friends, and they didn’t count.
“My parents send me off to a few camps, then they make me go visit my aunt and her family in Houston.” I said. I watched him watch my mouth as I spoke and I felt like my lips were moving in slow motion. He leaned his forehead against his forearm, his eyes now only inches from the top of my head. I had to look up to see him and when I did, his eyes, green with amber specks, were focused directly on mine. He didn’t blink. He was so close I could smell his breath when he spoke and it rattled me. I think I was fixated on his lips, full and moist. The nipples on my developing breasts throbbed and something like pin-pricks tingled in my crotch.
“I wish I could go away in the summers,” he said. “I have to work here.” There was dead silence for a minute, then I blurted something.
“Do you get paid?”
“Sure. It’s not much but it makes sweating all day worth it.”
His arm dropped it to his side. He moved the sprayer to his right hand with the towel and put his left hand on the roof of the car. He stiffened his arm so he was further away from me, but still attached. He took a deep breath and glanced past the gas pumps at the office over the top of the car, nervous-like.
“That’s good.” I started to look back at my book, I needed to break the spell, but he stopped me.
“Yeah. A little spending money is good. I’m saving for college.”
“Oh, really? Where’re you going to college?”
“I’m not sure, yet. I’m just going into the tenth grade this fall, but I’m thinking Southern. I might want to be a lawyer. They have a good law school there.”
“Where’s Southern? I haven’t heard of it.” A cloud moved overhead and cast a shadow over the car, me and the boy.
“It’s a colored college in Baton Rouge. It has a good reputation. Or I could go to Grambling, in North Louisiana, but I’m more comfortable in the South.” I looked at him again, this time, thoroughly, searching his eyes, trying to see under his cap, watching his lips, his nose. None of his features looked anything like most of the colored people I knew, except for Marianne, but she was unusual.
“Southern College is for coloreds?” The cloud moved on and sunlight filtered through the windshield again.
“It’s Southern University,” he said. “Yes, it’s for Negroes.” I couldn’t quite put two-and-two together.
“You’re colored?”
“Of course I am. I thought you knew. Your dad and my dad are friends,” he said. Then he whispered, “And there are people in this town who don’t like it.”
I turned to look at our dads through the glass door and sidewalls that hemmed in the air-conditioned, soundless gas station office. It felt intimate, personal, that our dads were talking, were friends. The boy automatically looked in the same direction. My daddy’s back was to us, his dad was facing the gas pumps and I thought I noticed Mr. Thibault’s cheekbones lift. He squinted accusingly.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that ...” I turned back towards him. He looked into the car window and saw me staring at him. He grinned.
“I know. I get it all the time,” he spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “I could pass for white, especially when I wear a cap, like this one.” He tipped the bill of his Navy blue cap, “Cowboys,” in white letters stamped across the front. I could only see the part of his hair just above his forehead and it was cut so short the texture was undetectable.
“But I’m not,” he said. I was totally confused. He changed the subject, diverting the topic from his race to college. Smart.
“Southern and Grambling are big rivals in football!” He laughed. “Grambling is a good college, too. They beat Southern in the Bayou Classic almost every year.”
“I want to go to LSU,” I said. “It’s in Baton Rouge, too. My daddy went to college and grad school there, and my older brother says that’s where he’s going when he graduates next year.” I whispered, as if it was a big secret, just between the two of us. It felt like we shared something hidden. There was suspended silence for a minute.
“I play football,” he blurted.
“You do?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice mesmerized me. It was soft, yet firm with a hint of a Cajun accent, just enough drawl to make it interesting, even sexy, but what did I know about “sexy” at thirteen. I still played with paper dolls—when I wasn’t stu
dying or dodging bullets. “I’m Quartersback of Adams High’s football team. Well, second string last year, but our first string Quartersback graduated in May, so I’ll be first string this fall.”
“If you are such a good football player, why don’t you go to Grambling?”
“Uh. What?” He looked at me, looked at the office, then back at me and a shadow crossed his face. “What’d you say?”
“Why not Grambling? You know, the better football team and all.” He probably thought I was making fun of him, but really, I was too young and stupid about boys to do that. He started to laugh but it sounded more like a weak chuckle.
“I don’t know whether I’ll play football in college. It’s very competitive.”
I liked football. My dad took us to LSU games and we listened on the radio when they were out-of-town. And my brothers played, so the topic didn’t bore me, and this boy certainly didn’t either.
He stood still. My natural instinct was to go back to my book, but something kept me from looking away from him. His skin was as light as my dad’s, whose Cajun bloodline was strong and gave him an olive complexion. I got my coloring from my mother who was what she called, “American-Scotch-Irish.” My youngest brother, Robby, and I looked like her and had blue eyes and reddish hair and sunburned easily. James and Will looked more like Daddy, darker skin, brown hair and brown eyes. This boy’s eyes were almost green, with golden flickers that picked up the sun. Even Marianne’s eyes were not as light.
“Uh ... uh ... hey ... uh. My daddy thinks very highly of your dad,” he said. I didn’t look at him. I’m not sure why, but I felt terrified. Looking back I think the way he looked at me made me feel powerless, out of control. “I’m sure you realize how unusual it is, a white man being friends with a colored man.” He looked at our dads in the office and was quiet for a moment.
“It might be unusual for other white men, but not for my daddy.”
“How about you? Do you have any colored friends?” That surprised me. I turned towards him and looked him square in the eye. It was impulsive and I was immediately sorry I had reacted. The sun bounced off his eyes and sent rainbows of color onto his smudged white T-shirt. I wanted to touch the reflection and was tongue-tied. I swallowed hard, then tried to speak but it came out a whisper.
“My best friend is Marianne Massey.” Slowly his bottom lip bent into a half smile, as if what I said made all the sense in the world. He spoke softly and slowly.
“You don’t say? I mean ... really? Uh, Marianne, well, she’s my cousin, twice. Her aunt Jesse is married to my Uncle Bo. We’re really close. Me and Uncle Bo, dad’s brother. I go to the Quarters a lot.” I felt like I had a mouthful of wet bread, stuck to the roof. I couldn’t swallow.
“Marianne and I used to be close,” he said. He massaged his right earlobe with his thumb and forefinger. “Until, uh, well, uh, something happened to her ... but she’s a good girl.” He said the last four words rapidly, like he spit them out as an afterthought.
“I’ve never seen you there.” I said, barely above a whisper.
“You go over to the Quarters? he asked.
“Oh! I spoke out of turn.” I looked down at my book. “I shouldn’t have said that. My parents don’t know.”
“Not even your dad? He has colored friends.”
“I know, but I’m not allowed to go to the Quarters. Mama thinks it’s dangerous and Daddy, well he said he better never catch me there.”
“I won’t tell a soul, I promise,” he said. Somehow I believed him and felt better. “What made you go there in the first place?
“To the Quarters?”
“Yeah. Why’d you go?” I didn’t answer right away. I gathered my thoughts while he stared at me as if anticipating some big revelation.
“One day I went to see about Catfish, after he quit coming by our house in the afternoons. That’s when I met Marianne.” He looked confused. “What’s your name?” I asked. His head made tiny side-to-side movements as if shaking off a feeling of déjà vu.
“Huh? Uh, uhm, Rodney. Rodney Thibault,” he whispered, his voice almost non-existent I could taste the minty, orange flavor that came from his mouth each time he exhaled. It rested gently on the tip of my tongue.
“Marianne’s mentioned you.” I whispered, too.
“Really?” He didn’t seem too surprised.
“Yes, I remember your name from a conversation we had.”
“How often do you go to the Quarters?”
“Usually on Wednesday afternoons when my mama plays bridge, except every fourth Wednesday when she plays at home. It’s harder to sneak away on those days.”
“What’s your name?”
“Susanna. Everyone calls me, Susie. Susie Burton.”
“How old are you, Susie Burton.”
“I’m almost thirteen, but I’m going to ninth grade.”
“Thirteen’s young to be in high school.”
“I know. I’m a couple years ahead. Mama says I’m going to finish high school in three years, too.” I giggled. His smile was wide and broad and showed his straight, white teeth. He was downright beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I felt like I was making him uncomfortable, but darn, I liked looking at him. Thinking back I realize I was probably head over heels already, but I was too young to understand and too innocent to think it then.
Daddy returned to the car with Ray Thibault behind him. Rodney backed away from the window when he saw them coming.
The two men talked and laughed then shook hands. Rodney glanced at me, but I had my head in my book. I had seen them coming, too.
Daddy reached for his door handle and looked at Rodney over the top of the car.
“How are you, son?”
“I’m doing fine, Mr. Burton. How’re you?”
“Great, Rodney. I was just telling your dad how lucky he is to have such a hard-working son like you.”
“Why, thank you Mr. Burton. I appreciate the good word.” Daddy laughed. He got in the car and we drove off. I felt like I left something important at the Esso Station that day.
*
“Ray Thibault sure has raised a fine, young son, there,” Daddy said as he drove away from the Esso station. “He’s real smart. Makes straight A’s. I told his dad I’d hire him after he’s finished high school, but Ray says the boy is set on going to college. He’d be the first in his family to get a higher education, in all the generations since they came here.” I knew Daddy referred to the Negro race and meant since slavery. “I saw you talking to him. What’d you think?”
“Nice boy, I guess.” I knew better than to let on I liked a boy, any boy, much less a colored boy. That would really cause trouble for Daddy and his political plans. Troublemaker.
“He’s colored, you know. He might look white, but a Negro is a Negro.”
“Okay,” I said, careful to acknowledge I heard him, but not saying anything.
“You’d better not be thinking about boys, yet. I’ll decide when you can have a boyfriend and I’ll pick him out for you when the time comes.” I didn’t answer. The less said the better.
“Let me tell you something,” Daddy said. His voice rose as if he thought about something that made him angry. I cringed. “We have to draw a line with coloreds. You realize we can’t have mixed relations, don’t you?”
“Dad!”
“Well, you’ll be in high school in September and, thank God there are no coloreds at Jean Ville High.” His voice was getting louder and higher in pitch. “You’ll be younger than the other kids but there are some things you need to know.” I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
“Whites and blacks don’t date each other, don’t marry,” he said. I could see his face start to flush, blood rising from his neck upward. I began to shake. “Some can be friends, but that’s as far as it can go. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“But do you understand?” He was louder. I cowered against my car d
oor.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Interracial marriage is against the law.”
“Hummmm?” I’m non-confrontational by nature. I’ll do anything to avoid a fight or an argument, anything disagreeable. I went into defensive mode.
“Just last month in the next parish over, the Klan shot a 14-year-old boy because he whistled at a white girl. Last year, in Bogalusa, two colored men were murdered as they drove their car down the highway,” He was talking faster, louder. “They say it’s because one of them offered to carry a white lady’s groceries to her car. You need to understand these things. You might be all right, but if you talk to a colored boy, he could be hurt, even killed. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.” He continued like he didn’t hear me.
“I have colored friends, but I don’t support breaking the law. And I don’t want anything to happen to Ray Thibault’s son.” He drove a few blocks without talking. I had a burning question on my mind but needed to word it in such a way that it didn’t trigger Daddy’s anger any further.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sweetie.” Whew, he’d calmed down.
“About how old should a person be before he or she can have a colored friend?”
“Do you mean a man with a colored man friend or a woman with a colored woman friend?” His change in attitude always baffled me. He could go from a maniac to the most gentle daddy in milliseconds. I never knew which daddy I’d get.
“Either. I was just wondering.”
“Well, a man should be grown and have a family of his own before he is mature enough to know which colored men are good enough to befriend. A woman, well that’s another story. Women can’t be friends with coloreds.” I was curious as to why, but I figured I’d better not push it. I had the answer to my burning question—can I be friends with Marianne? The answer was, “No.”
“See,” he said. I was surprised when he continued. “Colored women work for white women, so they can’t be friends. You can’t be friends with someone who works for you. They’ll take advantage.”
Catfish Page 7
