All the Days Past, All the Days to Come

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “He told you that? He shouldn’t have—”

  The attorney held up his hand in defense of Stacey. “Please. All he said was one of the reasons you left was because of a legal matter that should have been resolved in your favor but wasn’t, and that you figured it could have been racial.”

  I looked at him cautiously. “That’s all he told you?”

  Lawyer Tate nodded. “If it’s extremely personal, Cassie, and you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t question you further.”

  “You can’t do anything about it.”

  “Don’t plan to. I’ve got enough cases on my desk. I just thought you might want to talk about it to another colored person who has a legal background.”

  I wasn’t clear what Mr. Tate’s interest was in my story, but I told him what had happened. “In the end, there seemed to be nothing I could do. The medical center is a private professional corporation and I’m told they can choose to treat or not treat anyone they choose.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “How do you think it made me feel?” I retorted, my anger rising again at the thought of how I had been banned. “I paid my bill. I was told I needed to see the doctor again, then they wouldn’t see me, and on top of that, they refused to give me a reason. It was just because they said so.”

  “And you’ve heard that all your life, right? From places in Mississippi, all throughout the South.”

  “All throughout these United States.”

  Lawyer Tate crossed his long legs, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes before putting the glasses on again. For several moments he seemed deep in thought. I remained quiet, waiting for him to speak. “Cassie, several years ago at that movie theater downtown I was quite impressed by the way you took a stand. It was risky and it was foolish, but you took a stand.”

  “Didn’t get me anywhere.”

  “No . . .” he agreed. “Not then. But like I told you, things are going to change. With all our boys being back from the war and more opportunities opening up, there can be big, big changes coming, some on the legal front.”

  “Like what? I mean, really, Mr. Tate, it’s nineteen fifty-one and what’s changed since Clayton and Christopher-John got back? Down south we still can’t drink from a water fountain unless it’s marked ‘colored,’ and most times those fountains are rusted and dirty and run-offs from the ‘white’ fountains. We still have to go to back doors at restaurants to get served, and we still can’t try on clothes when we go shopping in the department stores. We go to separate schools and on and on, and—well, I don’t need to tell you. You know how it is. And here in Toledo and all across this place, it’s just as bad sometimes. My brothers told me when Nat King Cole came not too long ago, it was a real mess when colored folks were still expected to sit in the balcony to hear him sing, while the white folks sat downstairs. Maybe theaters around here might be opening up some with their seating, but other places aren’t. Some hospitals right here in Toledo are even segregated. So, you tell me, what change is going to come?”

  “Changes we need to fight for, Cassie. Changes in our school system. Changes in race laws all across this land. Changes that could affect your being banned from treatment at that medical center in Colorado.”

  “So, why are we talking about all this right now? It’s not like we’re at an NAACP meeting.”

  Lawyer Tate smiled. “No, we’re not. But the reason we’re talking about it, Cassie, is because I believe you can be part of the change that’s coming. I believe you can help make that change. You’ve got a degree in education but you said you didn’t know what you wanted to do yet. How about the law?”

  “What?”

  “Certainly being a lawyer isn’t a new idea to you. You yourself told me how your white friend in Mississippi—a Mr. Jamison, as I recall—had affected your life and the lives of the people in your community. We discussed the possibility once before. You’ve got the head for it. You’ve got the fire for it, and if you want it enough, I can help you get started toward it. I know a number of well-placed people in some very excellent law schools, and I believe if you applied, you would be accepted.”

  “Really? But, Lawyer Tate, I’m twenty-seven years old. Don’t most law students start right after college?”

  “Your age, that bothers you? Listen, Cassie, I know plenty of lawyers who got their degrees later than that. Even if you haven’t made a decision about your next step in life, it won’t hurt to fill out the applications, to apply to these schools, to see what they offer and then make your decision. You have the time. You have nothing to lose. Think on it, Cassie. Doors are opening, and one of those doors could be yours.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  In the weeks that followed, I decided to take Lawyer Tate’s advice. I applied to the handful of black law schools in the country, the most prestigious and oldest being Howard University School of Law. Lawyer Tate had graduated from Howard. I also applied to northern schools that had graduated black lawyers. Mr. Tate wrote recommendations for me. Community leaders did as well, including the Roman brothers. Mr. Tate suggested I request recommendations from Dr. Skurnik and Brad Buchanan. He said it would look good on my applications to receive recommendations from outside Ohio. I did as he suggested, and both Dr. Skurnik and Brad Buchanan complied. They sent letters to the schools and copies of their letters to me. They were very complimentary.

  After all my applications were sent, I finally decided to go south, back home to Mississippi. It was high time I faced Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. With the possibility of law school looming in my future, I figured I was strong enough to keep them from worrying about me. I stayed in Toledo through Christmas. In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, my brothers drove me south. The plant, as usual, was shut down during the holidays, so it was a good time for them. They stayed several days, then left in time to be back in Toledo for New Year’s Day.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “You sure this is what you want to do?” asked Papa after the boys were gone. “Go into law?”

  I answered honestly. “No, sir, I’m not, But I’ve got to do something.”

  “You know I was hoping you’d go into teaching,” Mama said, persisting in her dream for me.

  I just shook my head and smiled.

  “Well, still . . . I know you’d be a good teacher.”

  “Child be good at anything she do,” asserted Big Ma.

  Mama didn’t dispute that. “But a lawyer . . . that’s a high undertaking. You know of any colored women lawyers?”

  “I don’t even know of any white women lawyers,” I admitted.

  “It’s a hard course,” said Mama, “for anybody.”

  “You saying I can’t do it, Mama?”

  “No, Cassie, I’m not saying that. You know Papa and I have always said you can do anything you set your mind to do. Only thing I worry about is your state of mind right now and if you’re strong enough to take on all that studying.”

  I considered Mama’s words. “Maybe that’s what I need, Mama. Something difficult to concentrate on.”

  Mama said nothing else. I glanced at Papa, who remained silent.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  During that first week of the new year, I asked Papa to take me to see Mr. Wade Jamison. We went to his office in Strawberry, and as always, Mr. Jamison seemed pleased to see us. I told Mr. Jamison about my applications to law schools and he said, “Well, I’m happy to hear that, Cassie.”

  “You asked me to let you know if I decided to become a lawyer. I want you to know you helped to inspire me to this decision. I believe that knowing the law can help change things, and there certainly are things needing to be changed.”

  Papa glanced my way, but said nothing. Mr. Jamison nodded without speaking. I knew he understood what I meant.

  I we
nt on. “I wanted you to know about my applications and ask if you would write a recommendation for me. I have several already from Colorado and Toledo, but I believe a recommendation from a lawyer in my home state could carry a lot of weight. You’ve known me since I was a child and you know so much of what people in my community have been through. You could give a character recommendation about who I am through the eyes of a Mississippi lawyer, something none of the other people writing recommendations can do. Yours would be going in later than the others, but it can still be submitted.” I paused, waiting for his reply. “Will you write one for me, Mr. Jamison?”

  Mr. Jamison looked at Papa, then again at me. “I’d be most pleased to do that, Cassie.” He smiled. “Very pleased.”

  Returning home, Papa said, “I’m right proud of you, Cassie. Always have been. I’m proud of your decision and how you’re going on with your life. But there’s something I need to know. You tell me, baby girl, how you’re really doing. Your Uncle Hammer wrote about how things were right after your husband died.”

  “I’m fine, Papa.”

  “Are you?”

  “I miss Flynn. I’m always going to miss him and what we could have had. But I’m all right, Papa. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Don’t tell me not to worry. You’ve been through a lot this past year. Now you’re talking about going off to some northern state where you’ve got no family, nobody you know, to study in a field where few black folks have gone and, yes, I am gonna worry about you. Your mama and your grandma are gonna worry too. I’m always gonna worry about you. No matter you get to be sixty years old and I’m still around, I’m gonna worry.”

  I grinned at the thought. “I know, Papa, but believe me, I’ll be fine.”

  “In time, find a good man, Cassie, marry again. You need a partner in life. Don’t go through it alone.”

  I repeated, “I promise, Papa, I’ll be all right. I’m your daughter, so take my word for it. I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Both Mama and Big Ma talked to me about the loss of my baby and the loss of Flynn. “I know your heart has to be crying,” Mama said. “My heart is crying for you, for you losing your husband, for you not going through your lives together, growing old together. When a woman loves a man, loves her husband like you loved Flynn, it’s a loss that can’t be measured. I know it’s too soon now to be thinking on it, marrying again and having children, but you’re young. Even after you graduate law school you’ll be young. Find yourself a good man. Maybe he won’t be like your Flynn, but a good man like him. Make yourself a family. Have children. It’ll take time . . . and there is time.”

  Big Ma pretty much had the same advice. “You go ahead and grieve for this man of yours. You grieve for this boy Flynn. You grieve for yo’ husband like you s’pose to. But then, child, you get on with yo’ life like God meant for you t’ do. You find yo’self another love and give yo’self to that love. Have yo’self another child. I done it, and that’s what you gotta do too.”

  They were all saying the same thing to me. Big Ma, Mama, Papa. But I wasn’t ready to hear any of it. I walked the land with them and alone, and when I was alone, that was the only time I let the tears come. I sat on one of the fallen trees by the pond and cried, screamed up to heaven, and felt unable to stop. I felt raw inside. I missed Flynn’s touch. I missed his touch in the morning, his touch at night. His loving me. I missed his laughter, his beautiful face, his beautiful body, his golden smile. I missed the safety of his arms.

  No man could ever give me that again.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Letters from the law schools arrived in early spring. I had been accepted at each school. The schools that interested me most were Howard University School of Law and Boston University School of Law. Now I had to choose. If I went to Howard—the oldest Negro law school, established only years after slavery in 1869, a law school with an impeccable reputation but an all-Negro student body—I could be comfortable in classes with other Negro students, facing the same challenges together. Or I could go to Boston University School of Law, which had graduated its first Negro student in 1877 and opened its doors to all. As when I took classes at the University of Toledo, at UCLA, and at the University of Colorado, at Boston University School of Law I would be in an interracial setting, learning side by side with white students, interacting with them on all levels, and being challenged by them.

  I stayed on with Mama, Papa, and Big Ma throughout the remainder of the spring and most of the summer. In August, when Stacey, Christopher-John, and Clayton Chester came to revival with their families, I packed my bags and returned to Toledo with them. A few days later, I was on a train headed east to Boston.

  PART

  II

  A DIFFERENT WORLD

  (1959)

  “Moe’s in trouble, Cassie. You need to come home.”

  I stared at Stacey, who had come knocking on my door in the middle of the night. He had left Toledo after work and driven straight through to Boston. I poured coffee into his cup. “What kind of trouble?”

  “They’re trying to extradite him back to Mississippi.”

  “Oh, Lord.” I placed the pot on the coffee table and, still in my housecoat and pajamas, sat on the sofa across from Stacey. “After all this time?”

  “We all figured it was bound to happen someday. Well, yesterday was the day. Police came to Moe’s house in Detroit searching for Moe with an arrest warrant on charges from Mississippi.”

  “They arrest him?”

  “He wasn’t there. But they’d found out where he worked and under what name. They went over to the Ford plant, but Myrtis managed to get word to Moe through her brother, and Moe was gone before they got there.” Myrtis was Moe’s wife. He had married her shortly after I moved to Boston.

  “Where is Moe now?”

  Stacey shook his head. “Don’t know exactly. Haven’t heard from him, but Moe and I talked about where he’d go if he thought he might be arrested. Most likely he’s in Canada.”

  I nodded, thinking that was the best place for him. Many of our people had fled to Canada seeking freedom during slavery. Now Moe might have done the same thing. It was easy enough to get into Canada. “That makes sense,” I said. “He could drive over as long as he showed a driver’s license.”

  “And he has more than one of those. Showed me.” Stacey took a gulp of his coffee. “Figured he might need a new identity if all this came up.”

  “Well, he was right about that.” I frowned. “So, what next?”

  “That’s why we want you to come home, Cassie, to help figure that out. If they catch him in Michigan, then he’ll soon be on his way to Mississippi. If you get together with Lawyer Tate, maybe you can find a way to stop the extradition.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “Extraditions are usually granted. You tell Lawyer Tate about Moe?”

  “Not yet. Wanted to talk to you first.”

  “What did they charge Moe with?”

  “Murder.”

  “Murder?” I echoed.

  Stacey set down his cup. “That’s what Myrtis said. She saw the warrant. Moe’s charged with the murder of Troy Aames.”

  “But one could argue that was aggravated assault! Not murder! At the most the charge should be manslaughter!”

  “Maybe you can argue that, but Mississippi is charging murder. They’re saying Troy died as a result of injuries inflicted by Moe.”

  I felt floored. “Murder. That could be the death penalty.” My body seemed to go numb, and I couldn’t speak.

  Stacey watched me and allowed the silence to settle before he spoke again. “Moe’s extradition, that’s not all the bad news. Got a call from Levis. Hertesene’s dead.” Hertesene was Moe’s sister. She was the eldest girl of the Turner siblings. “Got killed on the Natchez Trace. Car crash. Morris already on hi
s way down.”

  It was difficult for me to take it all in. Stacey poured himself another cup of coffee. “So, are you coming back with me?”

  “Back with you? Now?”

  “Cassie, who knows? They could already have Moe by now. If they do, we need you there to help him. We need you in Toledo to work with Lawyer Tate.”

  “I know that’s what you said, but you could have called me instead of driving all the way from Toledo to Boston. Could’ve saved time and money. You didn’t even let me know you were coming. I could have been away.”

  “Had to come because I wanted to tell you in person.” Stacey took a swallow of coffee and stared pointedly at me. “I figured maybe you wouldn’t come, not even for Moe, unless I came and got you. Question still stands. Are you coming back with me?”

  My hair was hanging long, partially covering my face. I pushed it back behind my ears, giving myself a moment to think. “I’ll be in Toledo in another three weeks. I requested a week’s vacation with my law firm for Christmas week and I don’t see how I can go before then.”

  “Moe could be in a Mississippi jail by then. Do you even care about Moe?”

  “If Moe’s in Canada, that’s not hardly likely, and of course I care. But I’ve got cases here I need to tend to.”

  “Cases more important than Moe?”

  “I didn’t say that. The truth is there’s nothing I can do for Moe—if I can do anything at all—in Toledo that I can’t do from here.”

  Stacey just looked at me. Then he said, “You’ll be in Toledo Christmas week. Will you be there the whole time Mama, Papa, and Big Ma are there?”