Authors: Rita Williams-Garcia

Gone Crazy in Alabama (20 page)

Keeps on Ticking

I believe Mrs. truly hurt the Wildcat's feelings. Once Pa parked the car on Herkimer Street, he couldn't get the car to growl, let alone purr. She sat there, dusty from nine hundred miles of driving, and refused to move another inch.

We were so used to her growling and rumbling, announcing our father's comings and goings. I couldn't remember not having her. We had been warmed and comforted by the rumbling of the Wildcat as we drove off to wherever Pa was taking us. We made up car-riding games for extra-long trips. We'd sung along with any group or singer who joined us through speakers as the bass boomed low and the treble pined high. We had some good times
in the Wildcat. It was hard to see her go.

Pa was determined to save his precious car. His old girl. It didn't matter how many hours he spent with the hood up and his hands scarred up and blackened with oil. The Wildcat refused to turn over.

Vonetta, Fern, and I sat on the stoop and watched the tow truck come and take Papa's Wildcat away.

“At least we made it back to Brooklyn,” I said.

Vonetta nodded. “She could have conked out on the road in the middle of the night.”

“And we'd have to hitchhike all the way home.”

For a second, I thought Vonetta would burst out into a chorus of “Hitch Hike,” and we'd be her Marvin Gaye backup singers doing the “Hitch Hike” dance. But since Vonetta didn't sing a note or make a move, I let it go.

We agreed it was best they took the car away while Pa was at work. I didn't think he'd want to see it being hooked up to the big monster truck and dragged away. It was hard enough to watch it ourselves.

We were home for a few days and already bored. It wasn't as if we'd had a lot to do down in Alabama, but being down there was nothing like being in Brooklyn. We missed our chickens, and cows, our dog, and endless pecans. We missed hiking through the pines and wading in the shallow end of the creek. We sulked long enough about good times in Papa's car. But we missed Uncle D and Big Ma. And JT and the Trotter sisters. We missed
the fun and the fussing. And when we really got bored we compared our bug bites and scars, probably just to remember we had been down in Alabama.

When there seemed to be nothing else to say, Vonetta asked Fern, “What time is it?”

I looked down at my Timex. “It'sâ”

“Not you, Delphine.” She turned to Fern. “What time is it?”

I wanted to pop Vonetta in the head. She was still wearing the braids Cecile made and they were beginning to unravel, but she wouldn't let anyone touch her head. That didn't stop Mrs. from commenting about Vonetta's strands sticking out. Vonetta only pretended she didn't hear her.

I kept thinking about my mother and what she wrote to me. If Cecile could keep her craziness inside of her and walk into a place where she wasn't welcomed by everyone, and see Pa with the woman he married and their baby on the way, then I could keep a lid on it where Vonetta was concerned. I could try a little harder. But honestly, Vonetta didn't make it easy.

Fern looped the watch around her arm so the face sat on her wrist instead of dangling downward, like usual. It was a wonder she managed to keep that watch on her puny wrist. But she did.

“It's ten minutes past two o'clock.”

“That's not how you say it,” Vonetta snapped. “When you get to third grade, say, âIt's two ten.' Then everyone
will know you've been telling time for a while.”

I hadn't expected that from Vonetta. She'd said something useful to Fern. Something to make the third grade easier. Like a big sister would.

“I'll show you other time-telling tricks. Like the âby fives' and âthe tos.' You'll need to know those.”

“By fives and twos?”

“Yeah. Five
to
three. Get it? Five minutes to three. There's so many ways to tell the time but you don't want to do it the baby way. Go ahead. Ask me what time it is.”

“But you don't have a watch.”

Vonetta huffed and puffed and I wanted to say something but I kept my mouth shut and tried to walk through the storm.

“Just ask me what time it is.”

“What time is it, Vonetta?” we both asked.

I expected Vonetta to snap, “Not you, Delphine,” but she didn't. She said, “It's time to get my watch back o'clock.”

Fern and I cheered! We cheered and Vonetta said, “Let's not make a federal case out of it.” Then she paused. “Just come with me.”

“You know where she lives?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Vonetta said. “Let's go. But
I
knock on the door, Delphine. Not you.”

I shrugged to not make a big deal of it and then let Vonetta lead the way. I was supposed to tell her something useful, like a big sister would, like, “If you could make it
through a tornado, you can make it through anything.” She already seemed to know that. And sometimes it was better to just hush. This was one of those times.

What a sight we made. Vonetta's limp wasn't so bad, but she still had her cast in a sling. Fern skipped some and walked some and kept saying the words to the Timex commercial but in her own rhythm: “It takes a licking and it keeps on ticking.”

I did what my sister asked. I let her go to the door while I stayed back. But I was there. That was all my sisters needed to know. I'd be there. Always.

Author's Note

I couldn't think of a better way to say good-bye to the Gaither family than to tell their family history, especially when it seems the family is falling apart. Like most African-Americans, the Gaithers' African roots are entwined with European ethnicity. While it is common for some African-Americans to claim Native American ancestry with little to substantiate their claims, it is also true that African-Americans and Native Americans from the southeastern and northeastern parts of the US have a complex and shared history. Who better to tell both sides of this story than the elder Trotter sisters, both having one-quarter Creek blood and being descendants of Creek freedmen?

As described in the story from one elder's account,
some southeastern Native American nations participated in the sale and ownership of slaves. It is also true that some African-American freedmenâformer slavesâlived separately as freedmen among the “Five Civilized Tribes” (the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole Nations), while some also married within the nations and had blood descendants. Many freedmen and native-owned slaves marched west with their host Native American tribe in the early 1830s, when Native Americans from the southeastern states were forced to remove themselves from their land in the inhumane journey known as the Trail of Tears. In the Treaty of 1866, the freedmen were granted full tribal status and rights, although their status and benefits continues to be challenged today. For more information, I recommend
Black Indians: A Hidden Heritage
by William Loren Katz and
Africans in America: America's Journey through Slavery
by Charles Johnson, Patricia Smith, and the WGBH Series Research Team.

With so much happening in 1969, I turned to my diaries to remember what was important to me as a tween back then. On July 20 I wrote, “The astronauts landed and set foot on the moon,” and months later on October 18 I wrote “Jackson Five!” after watching them for the first time on
The Hollywood Palace
, a variety show that aired on ABC. To tell the story of the Gaither sisters, particularly with Vonetta's coming to terms with her uncle, I exercised literary license by moving the date that the sisters would have known about the Jackson Five. Vonetta's pain, however, is
real. To learn more about the Apollo moon missions, I recommend
Team Moon
by Catherine Thimmesh and
Mission Control, This Is Apollo
by Andrew Chaikin and astronaut Alan Bean. I also recommend YouTube to see videos of the Apollo 11 launch and moon landing, as well as the debut of the Jackson Five on
The Hollywood Palace
.

If Delphine and her family seem real to you, it is because the
idea
of them is real. The Trotters, Charleses, Gaithers, and Johnsons tell an American story in their crossings, struggles, and strides, and in their witnessing of and taking part in history. We need not look further than our own families to find unique histories that touch upon and comprise American history. It was an honor and my pleasure to tell their family story to you.

I thank my HarperCollins family for supporting my need to tell stories that include known and little-known histories. I couldn't have had a truer advocate for these stories and a fiercer caretaker of this family than my editor, Rosemary Brosnan. I also thank my colleague and dear friend Leda Schubert, who has great instincts. Thank you to my Facebook friends, who responded eagerly and creatively to my query for Big Ma's name, especially to Stephen Bramucci, Janet Fox, Jim Hill, Sheryl Scarborough, and Nicole Valentine, who got it right. I thank those who've shared their accounts of their mixed ancestry, both documented and undocumented. Most of all, I thank my readers, who've come to know and love Delphine, Vonetta, and Fernâand every Gaither, Charles, Trotter, and Johnson.

Augustus Trotter Descendants

Back Ad

About the Author

Photo by Jason Berger

RITA WILLIAMS-GARCIA
's Newbery Honorâwinning novel,
One Crazy Summer
, was a winner of the Coretta Scott King Author Award, a National Book Award finalist, the recipient of the Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction, and a
New York Times
bestseller. The sequel,
P.S. Be Eleven
, was also a Coretta Scott King Author Award winner and an ALA Notable Children's Book for Middle Readers. She is also the author of six distinguished novels for young adults:
Jumped
, a National Book Award finalist;
No Laughter Here, Every Time a Rainbow Dies
(a
Publishers Weekly
Best Children's Book),
Fast Talk on a Slow Track
(all ALA Best Books for Young Adults);
Blue Tights
; and
Like Sisters on the Homefront
, a Coretta Scott King Honor Book. Rita Williams-Garcia lives in Jamaica, New York, is on the faculty at the Vermont College of Fine Arts in the Writing for Children & Young Adults Program, and has two adult daughters, Stephanie and Michelle, and a son-in-law, Adam. You can visit her online at
www.ritawg.com
.