In the driveway, Vaylie’s mother leans against her big blue Cadillac. Purse and keys in hand, it’s clear she’s ready to go. Miss Maybelle checks her watch as we enter the gate.
“Not bad, Reesa. Your mother have to remind you?” she queries, her metal-rimmed glasses glaring in the sun.
“Doto did, actually.” Vaylie grins widely. “But we had the
best
time together! Thank you for
thinking
of it, Aunt Maybelle!” she says and, with a great rush of feeling, flings her arms around our wrinkled old postmistress.
Miss Maybelle freezes inside Vaylie’s embrace, then pats her, stiff-handed, on the back, wanting to be let go.
“You’re welcome, Maryvale,” she says formally, smoothing the front of her post office uniform, almost as if wiping off Vaylie’s warmth.
“I’ll write you the very first second I can,” my new friend vows as she hugs me goodbye.
With the best of intentions—to somehow comfort an ancient heartache—Vaylie’s left Miss Maybelle plainly unsettled, a step off her usual statue-like control. As the two of us stand awkwardly by the road, watching the blue Cadillac disappear, I want to tell Miss Maybelle,
Vaylie didn’t mean to make
you uncomfortable, she’s never lost anyone so she doesn’t understand.
Grief, I think, signs you up in a separate, invisible club, members selected at death’s awful randomness. “Gone forever” is our password, lingering sorrow our secret handshake. If you haven’t lost someone important to you, you can’t begin to know the rules. Truth is, you don’t even know the club exists.
As my own grieving heart recognizes another, my lifelong view of Miss Maybelle as the angry old snapping turtle shifts. Opening the gate for her, calling a soft yet proper “good evening, ma’am,” I resolve to treat her more kindly from now on.
All of a sudden, Doto’s three big suitcases appear from under her bed, lined up, mouths open, across her window seat. I’m sorry to see her go, but she’s promised Uncle Harry she’ll leave this week, crossing the country to Montana before the Memorial Day traffic hamstrings the highways.
“I’ll be back for Christmas, though,” she promises Ren and me, “and, of course, I’ll call right away if we hear anything from Mr. Hoover.”
A few days later, Vaylie’s letter arrives, addressed in a fat loopy script that could only be hers. It’s post-marked Carrollton, Virginia and bears, in the top left corner, where the return address belongs, the heart-shaped greeting:
Hello, Great-Aunt Maybelle!!!
Miss Maybelle, who’s placed the envelope under her counter rather than in our box, points out the infraction sternly. “The U.S. Postal System frowns on any implication that one of its workers is taking familial advantage,” she lectures me.
“I’ll write Vaylie right away and explain,” I promise.
“That won’t be necessary, as I’ve already informed her mother!” Miss Maybelle snaps back.
“I’m sorry, Miss Maybelle,” I say, attempting the appropriate remorse on Vaylie’s behalf. Miss Maybelle eyes me sharply, grading my sincerity. Apparently, I pass.
“
You
didn’t do anything,” she says with that wave that means
get on about your business
.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I grin, then call, stopping her in mid-turn, “and, Miss Maybelle?” She scowls, impatient. “Thank you for introducing me to my new pen pal. I’ve never had one before.”
“You’re welcome, Reesa,” she says, creasing her face briefly, not so business-like, in my direction.
Inside the offending envelope, Vaylie writes:
Dear Reesa,
Whit and Claudette tracked us down in Winter Park, said
c’mon home, so here we are! Boy, was Daddy glad to see us! He
surprised Mamma with a new dinner ring, a big emerald the
size of a snake eye! The real thing, not the marble—I’ve seen a
rattler race and know the di ference. Mamma was as happy as
could be until I opened my present—a new Rod Laver tennis
racket.
“The child’s already got more freckles than a field hand,
why would you give her something that keeps her out in the sun,
instead of away from it?”
“ ’Cause it’s what she wanted,” Daddy said, and after that,
they had a big ugly fight that I refused to listen to and left the
room.
I did talk to Mamma about coming back to Florida next
time Daddy has a “spell,” but she said if it happens this
summer, we’re heading north out of the heat and if it’s not ’til
fall, she’ll have to take me someplace educational since I’d be
missing school. Boston maybe, or Washington, D.C.
Oh, Reesa, didn’t we have the BEST time together? I just
hate that we live so far apart. Please write me just the SECOND you get this.
Love, VAYLIE
P.S. Do you think I have too many freckles?
P.P.S. What kinds of things do your parents fight about?
Chapter 13
To tell you the truth, before Marvin’s murder, and the visit to our home by Mr. Harry T. Moore and Mr. Thurgood Marshall, I didn’t read the newspaper much, had no idea who they were. But now that we’re familiar, I notice their names often. The paper doesn’t think much of Mr. Moore’s efforts in Negro voter registration. It thinks even less of Mr. Marshall (“Mr. Civil Rights,” they always call him) for forcing the retrial of Walter Lee Irvin and Samuel Shepherd, the two young Negroes accused of raping a Groveland white woman last year.
Since we met them, both Mr. Moore and Mr. Marshall have stopped by our packinghouse almost regular. When you compare the paper’s descriptions of them as the “strident insurgent” and “pugnacious parliamentarian” to the well-mannered gentlemen we’ve come to know, you have to wonder if the reporters ever actually talked to them.
Sometimes they drop in together, sometimes separate, to exchange papers with Daddy, enjoy a cool drink and use our bathroom in the back.
“You’ve
no
idea how rare access to a clean rest room is to a man of my color in this part of the country,” Mr. Marshall says.
Mr. Harry T. Moore, the former schoolteacher, never fails to ask Ren and me about our homework. One day, he helped Ren master long division. Another time, when I was writing a report on Ancient Rome, he proved quite knowledgeable about the Caesars, Julius and Augustus.
“Although,” he told me, “I much prefer the Greeks to the Romans.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, curious.
Mr. Harry’s eyes lit up like twin headlamps. “Rome was a republic where only the rich had rights. But Greece! Greece gave us democracy—one man, one vote—the fairest form of government on earth! Greece gave us Plato, Socrates and Aristotle. Do you know Aristotle, Reesa?”
I’d never seen Mr. Harry so spirited. “Not really,” I answered.
“Aristotle was brilliant!” he declared. “Aristotle said democracy rises out of one very important notion—that those who are equal in
any
respect are equal in
all
respects. ‘Democracy,’ Aristotle said, ‘is best attained when all persons alike share in the government to the utmost.’ ” Mr. Harry stopped and raised his eyebrows in that teacher way that means
Are
you getting this?
“And that’s why registering Negro voters is so important?”
“You betcha, girl!” he beamed, and told Daddy I’d earned “an A for the day!”
Fortunately for Ren and me, this school year’s wound down to its inevitable end, the Friday before Memorial Day weekend.
“It’s wrong to live in a state that’s half water and not enjoy it!” Mother exclaims, cajoling her wary, unwilling family out the door. Nobody wanted to come on this Memorial Day Picnic, but here we are.
To Mother, a “picnic by the shore” on Memorial Day is an ironclad tradition, cast in her Midwestern childhood. To Daddy, Memorial Day, or any military holiday for that matter, is a painful reminder that his private war with polio left him unfit for the important battles against Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito. Daddy prefers a private observance, away from the marching bands, strutting veterans and cheering crowds lining Main Street Opalakee today.
The quiet cypress-rimmed cove off the St. John’s River seems no different from the last time we came, last year. But none of us are quite the same. Mitchell, for instance, can swim. He and Buddy plunge in eagerly after Ren, whose passion for baseball has been re-channeled into a daily scrutiny of the Brooklyns’ box scores. Last summer, Ren and Marvin hit no less than a hundred fly balls a day.
Mother and Daddy, having set up camp, sit in the shade of our beach umbrella. Daddy scans one of the three newspapers he’s taken to reading regularly, clipping stories with his small fruit knife. These days, he’s constantly compiling files for Mr. Harry, answering lists of questions from Mr. Marshall. I don’t know what the questions are, but I do know that every answer must be three times verified by separate, unwavering sources. What will become of the answers puzzles me, too; but their careful completion has become my father’s second occupation.
Beside him, Mother, festive in her blue polka-dot sun-dress, plays solitaire, shuffling and sorting, shifting and stacking. Now that Doto’s left us for Montana, and the awful events of the spring have given way to summer, she’s hoping, Mother says, for “some sort of normal.”
A ways from my parents, I stretch out on my beach towel watching the water. The surface of the cove shines like metal, with dark emerald sparkles between the knees of the cypress trees. These days, I find myself watching
everything
, with the clear hope of not being caught unaware. Ever since Marvin’s murder, I’ve come to despise surprises:
There in the cypress shadows, for example, a small, smooth log turns. Is it really wood? Or the slow, oily coil of a deadly water moccasin?
Beyond the splashing boys, two dark bumps surface among the sheltered water hyacinths. Another log? Or the dangerous, double-lidded eyes of an alligator?
Except for the turbulence trailing the boys, the water is a mirror, reflecting a bright blue sky, cottony clouds and the green lacework bowing the heads of the kneeling cypress. On its surface, the cove’s as peaceful as a prayer.
But nothing is
truly as it seems
, I know. Not me, not Mayflower, not the whole entire world. And especially not old Miss Maybelle two doors down the road.
I pull out Vaylie’s letter and read, again, the sorry sequel to the already sad tale:
Dear Reesa,
I just got back from a big family dinner at my
Granddaddy’s. It was fun, cousins galore, but nothing like a
rattler race which, by the way, nobody believes I really saw!
After dessert, I got the chance to ask Granddaddy the real scoop
on Great-Aunt Maybelle.
Oh, Reesa, it’s even sadder than we imagined. The battle her
fiancé was killed in was the very last one of the war. Even
though he was supposed to come home before it, he volunteered to
stay! Granddaddy says the news hit Great-Aunt Maybelle so
hard she wouldn’t leave her room for months, not even for
Christmas dinner. When she finally did come out, she told the
family she didn’t want to talk about her fiancé or what
happened—ever again! And as far as Granddaddy knows, she
never has.
Granddaddy told me the young man was Mr. and Mrs.
Swann’s only son and that his mother was so upset that she
died the next spring of a shattered heart. Isn’t this just the
saddest thing you ever heard?
I asked him if that’s the reason why Great-Aunt Maybelle
is so mean to everybody and all he’d say is “Everybody’s got
their reasons, Vaylie, whether you know ’em or not.”
Are you excited that summer’s here? Write SOON!!!
Love, VAYLIE
P.S. If what Granddaddy says is true, that we all have our
reasons, I’ve been trying to figure what mine are. Do you know
yours?
I’ve brought pen and paper with me to reply:
Dear Vaylie,
If your grandfather’s right, if everyone has their reasons,
then somebody stole my share.
These days, the reasons behind just about everything baffle
me. Like what really happened to Miss Maybelle and why?
Or, how can a bunch of men murder my friend Marvin and the
whole of Mayflower act as if it never happened?
Marvin’s mother Armetta says, “Time in the fire prepares us
for what’s ahead.” But that doesn’t make sense to me. Did God
kill Miss Maybelle’s fiancé so she could spend her life sorting
envelopes? Protecting U.S. property from my brother and me?
Did Marvin die so those of us who loved him could su fer while
his killers walk around scot-free?
What do you think, Vaylie? Do bad things happen because
God wills it so? Or is evil something else, with a mind of its
own? Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, or an alligator
at the edge of a swimming hole?
Down here, people think of alligators as “a necessary evil.”
“Take the good with bad,” they say. Do you think maybe good
and bad are stuck together, like two sides of a dime?
I’m sorry for going on about this. But every question I come
up with just seems to lead to another one. Most days, I feel like
a dog chasing its tail.
If you come up with any answers, or reasons either, please let me know. And write again soon!
Love, Reesa
Chapter 14
Summer’s heat settles on us like a mother hen. We locals know enough to stay in the shade, but the summer tourists, skin white as eggshells heading south, are blistered stiff going north and reeking of Coppertone applied too late.
Today, Mother and I are tending customers in the showroom while Daddy and Luther prune the last of the spring-bearing Valencia trees in the grove out back. The big fruit-processing equipment on the raised platform behind the showroom walls is quiet: the washer with its giant water tank and big bristle brushes; the waxer with its rubber rollers, preservative spray, drying fan and hood; and the long conveyor belts that transport the washed-and-waxed fruit to the sizing bins are all at rest between summer’s relaxed, twice-a-week runs.
Mid-morning, the big black pickup truck wheels into the parking lot, oversize tires splaying gravel, large chrome bumper and Confederate flag plate glaring in the sun.
Local, I think at my post behind the juice counter; nobody
I know
, seeing the packed metal gun rack behind the seat.
The driver gets out, skinny, on the short side, with an upright stride that’s soldier-like.
War veteran,
I guess. Although he’s a stranger to me, the two same-size boys with different clothes and identical faces with him are familiar.
The Bowman
twins
, I remember,
first graders
, and the only identical twins in the history of Opalakee Elementary. I’ve helped them find picture books in the school library.
The three of them move quickly into the shade of the front awning, get their bearings, then strut over to me.
“We’d like some of that ice-cold orange juice you’re advertisin’,” the man says, pulling a forearm across his forehead to wipe back the sweat. He has the flushed red coloring and the slow-rolling accent of people from south Georgia. “Three for a dime, right?”
“No, sir,” I say with a smile. “It’s all you can drink for a dime, limit three per customer. We say that to keep the tourists from drinking too much and getting sick to their stomachs.”
“You tellin’ me you want
thirty cents
instead of a dime?” His eyelashes are thick and orangey around pale eyes that have turned suspicious.
“Yes, sir.” I smile again. “A dime apiece. After your first glass, you can have two more each, if you want.” The boys are staring at me, trying to sort why I’m familiar. The man sees it, too.
“Y’all know this girl?” he asks them.
The boys nod and say, “Yes, from school.” “The library, right?” They have the habit of finishing each other’s sentences.
“
You
go to their school?” the man asks me, leaning forward to get a closer look.
“Yes, sir. I’ve helped your boys find their library books.”
“That’s funny,” he says without smiling. A fat drop of sweat pops out at his hairline. It swerves down the flat of his temple, the hollow of his cheek, and hangs off his jaw. “I didn’t think we had any
Jew
girls at our school.”
“Pardon me?” His tone turns my arm trembly. Without my telling them to, my hands grip the edge of the counter.
“Well, anybody that advertises three glasses for a dime then tries to charge thirty cents
must
be a
Jew
.” His glint across the counter is ugly. The drop of sweat falls off his chin and splats on the counter between us.
“
No
, sir, we’re Baptists.” My heart’s pummeling my chest with a fear I don’t understand. What if I
was
Jewish? What would be wrong with that?
His eyes sweep the showroom, taking in Mother and the customers in the shell-lamp section.
“Well, looky here, little Baptist Jew girl,” he drawls in a voice that pricks the back of my neck. “I think we’ve changed our minds about that juice. I think we’ll just head on down to Voight’s for some Coke-Cola. C’mon, you two. Git in the truck.” His words cut the space between the twins like a knife. The boys quit and run, fast, toward the truck.
The man glares at me across the counter some more, then slowly, like a dare, parts his fat pink lips into an unpleasant smile. He turns, unhurried, on his boot heel, and swaggers away, under and out from the awning. When the sun hits his back, I gasp. Mother, returning to the counter carrying a conch lamp for checkout, turns. “Reesa? What’s wrong?”
As the man’s boots crunch across the gravel toward the truck, the letters “J.D.,” tooled on the back of his black leather belt, get smaller, harder and harder to read.
“Reesa, what is it?” Mother asks, coming close to look me in the eye.
“That man, that’s J. D. Bowman, the one who shot Marvin.”
“Good Lord, Reesa, are you all right? Did he
say
something? Did he
do
anything to you?”
“He called me a Jew.”
That night, the nightmare, the horror where I’m trapped in the crowd and can’t save Marvin; that dream changes. Now, one of the men in the center of the circle stops and turns to scan the spectators. In this new nightmare, J. D. Bowman singles me out, points and yells, “Grab her, too. She’s a Jew!”
The next day, at the border between two Miami neighborhoods, all hell breaks loose.
Daddy’s family, genetically inclined toward quick thinking and fast acting, are the first to call. I answer the phone and Uncle Harry, in a voice that sounds like Daddy’s, mistakes me for Mother.
“Lizbeth, what the
hell’s
going on down there?” he wants to know.
That night, we hear from Doto and Aunt Eleanor.
“Warren, you’ve had fourteen years to whip that state into shape. What the hell’s wrong with it?” my father’s only sister demands.
“The hell” they refer to, the one
every
one’s talking about, is the bombing of the Carver Village Housing Project for Negroes in Miami. The story’s all over the news. Bombs gutted two buildings in the recently refurbished section of what used to be all-white Knights Manor. “The largest blast ever detonated in the state of Florida,” the papers say, “possibly the entire Eastern Seaboard.” The boom of it pitched people living five blocks away out of their beds, and rattled the balcony windows of the fancy hotels down at the beachfront.
One picture in the paper shows the garage owner across the street from the project pointing at the mangled cars, which leaped eight feet in the air, crashing their roofs against his ceiling.
Despite the fact that a number of people suffered cuts and bruises from flying glass, block and wood, everybody swears it’s a miracle nobody’s dead. The lucky thing is, the two eight-unit buildings were empty; their new occupants hoped to move in next month.
“My guess is that the local whites weren’t inclined to form a welcoming committee,” Daddy tells us grimly. “This thing’s got the Klan written all over it.”
When the investigators uncover the remains of two 100-pound bundles of dynamite, they find a third bundle of eighty sticks which failed to explode. One war veteran, looking things over, tells reporters it reminds him of “the block-buster bombs we used to rout the Krauts out of Bastogne and Coblenz.”
On the radio, the Miami police chief says he’s certain the Ku Klux Klan “had no involvement
whatsoever
”; in fact, he has “reason to believe that
Reds
are responsible.” One Negro has been arrested.
“Idiots!”
Doto rages on the phone (so loud the whole family can hear her) and declares she’s calling her Congressman
first thing
in the morning.
After Doto rings off, we hear from our mother’s only brother, Gordy, and our other grandmother, Nana. Like Mother, they’re the sensitive side of the family:
“We’re just a nervous
wreck
over this, Lizbeth. Aren’t
you
? Why not pack up the kids and come back to Chicago for a few weeks? We’ll have a nice visit while the police settle things
down
down there.”
Mother and Daddy hand the phone back and forth, each reassuring the other’s family, “
Every
thing’s fine, we’re all
fine
.”
As bad as the bombing appears to be, there is, in fact, the slightest flicker of a silver lining in this storm cloud. In today’s paper, the remarks of Mr. Harry T. Moore and Mr. Thurgood Marshall are startling:
“I call on Mr. J. Edgar Hoover and the Federal Bureau of Investigation to come to Miami, help us sort this thing out,” Mr. Moore, Executive Secretary of the State N.A.A.C.P., is quoted as saying.
“And when they get here, I have a list of other things to look into,” Mr. Thurgood Marshall, attorney for the National N.A.A.C.P. said, “including the mistreatment of my clients, Walter Lee Irvin and Samuel Shepherd, in Lake County’s Raiford Prison, and the murder of Marvin Cully, a fruit picker, outside Opalakee, in central Florida.”
It is the first official acknowledgment of anything to do with Marvin, who was killed three whole months ago. And, to me, it means, it surely
must
mean
something
will happen now.