Night on Fire (3 page)

A few nights before, when Mama and Daddy thought I was asleep, I had heard them talking about Lavender.

“Can we afford to keep her?” Mama had asked.

“We're not poor,” Daddy had replied.

“I think she's worried about her job,” Mama had said finally.

“I'm working as hard as I can.”

“I know, Charles. We both are.”

I'd pictured Mama taking his hand and squeezing it the way you'd put pressure on a wound. He was quiet after that.

I lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. They were talking about Lavender as if she was an employee. I knew better. She was family.

Mama kissed Royal's chubby cheek, then handed him to Lavender and headed for the bedroom to change. She came out a few minutes later wearing a sundress and sandals.

“Billie, did you finish your homework?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am. Math and Latin, my two favorite subjects.”

“Don't be a smart aleck, dear.”

I heard a car pull up and hurried outside. Daddy drove a beat-up DeSoto that he'd bought from one of the neighbors. He was just climbing out, lugging his big briefcase. I wondered what he carried in there. Books? Bricks? A bowling ball?

I threw my arms around him, and he gave me a hug.

“How's my girl?” he asked.

“Tired of smelling diapers.”

He chuckled. “Get used to it, sweetie.”

I pulled back and looked at him. “You seem tired.”

“I drove two hundred miles today. Insurance is a tough game.”

Walking across the lawn, he shared his latest jokes with me. It was a little ritual we went through when he got home from work.

“What did one wall say to the other wall?” he asked me.

“I don't know.”

“Let's meet in the corner. Why do cows wear bells?”

I shrugged. He grinned.

“Because their horns don't work.”

Daddy got jokes by the dozen at Clyde's Hair Heaven, the barbershop where he went on Saturdays for his weekly trim. Most of the jokes weren't very good, but he said they helped to break the ice with customers. Besides, he enjoyed telling them. Daddy loved making people laugh.

“Make 'em laugh; then sign 'em up,” he always said.

He spotted a football on the grass. Setting down his briefcase, he picked up the ball.

“Go long,” he said.

I took off across the lawn, running as fast I could. He lifted a spiral high into the air. I ran under it, and the ball dropped into my hands. I turned and lofted it back toward him. He snagged it, then flipped it back and forth from one hand to the other.

“I thought you were tired,” I said.

“I'm insurance tired, not football tired.”

Daddy had his quirks and faults. I guess we all do. But there was something that made most people like him. They gathered around, the way you would at a campfire on a chilly night. They sought him out, shared a joke, asked about the family, and left feeling better about themselves. Mama said it was a gift. Whatever it was, I was glad to be his daughter.

He set down the ball and picked up his briefcase. I came up beside him, and he put his hand on my shoulder. We walked across the lawn toward the house.

“So, Billie, are you helping your mama?”

“Sir?”

“She has a job now,” he said. “She could use your help around the house.”

“We have Lavender, don't we?”

“Lavender has plenty to do. Will you help out, Billie?”

“Yes, sir. I guess so.”

As we crossed the porch, he stopped for a minute. Glancing at the door, he whispered, “Oh, and have you thought about Mother's Day?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It's a week from Sunday. You're a big girl now. You should do your own shopping. Buy something for your mama.”

He opened his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Next week sometime, go into town and pick out a present from you and Royal. While you're at it, get a card for me.”

He pressed the bill into my hand, then planted an awkward kiss on my forehead. “There's my girl.”

The minute we walked through the front door, Daddy made a beeline for the baby. He took Royal from Lavender and held him up like a prize pig.

“Will you look at this little guy?” asked Daddy.

Royal waved his arms and demonstrated what he did best—slobber. I swear, if you took him to the army depot, that kid could lubricate a tank.

Mama wiped the baby's mouth with a handkerchief.

“How was your day?” she asked.

Lavender smiled, and I saw a glimpse of the face she saved for Mama and me.

“His day was like most days,” said Lavender. “Eat and poop.”

Mama giggled. “I meant Mr. Sims.”

“Me too,” said Daddy. “Eat and poop. That pretty much says it all.”

He gave the baby to Lavender, then set down his briefcase and eased into the La-Z-Boy recliner. Cranking the lever, he leaned back.

“Insurance is brutal,” he said to no one in particular.

Mama came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders. I brought him the paper.

“Colavito hit a home run,” I told him. “The Tigers won.”

Besides Alabama football, Daddy and I followed the Birmingham Barons and their major league team, the Detroit Tigers. The Tigers had finished sixth the year before, but this season, led by their slugger Rocky Colavito, they were challenging the Yankees.

I knelt next to the La-Z-Boy, propped my elbow on the arm of the chair, and glanced through the paper with Daddy. The
Anniston Star
was published in the afternoons and on Sunday morning. Today it had stories about trouble in a place called Laos and about Alan Shepard, who was scheduled to be the first American in space if the weather in Florida would cooperate.

The first thing I always looked for, though, was the local articles. Sure enough, there was one about Anniston teachers holding a meeting downtown. I wasn't interested in the article as much as the name at the top: Tom McCall, Grant's dad, the reporter who covered most of the local stories. Seeing his name there made me feel good, like I knew someone important.

Lavender gave the baby a hug, set him on her hip, and headed for the kitchen.

Daddy asked her, “What's for supper?”

“Fried chicken,” she said.

“Again?”

I said, “It's good. I love it.”

“How about a steak?” he called after her. “You know what that is?”

He grinned at me and winked. I looked away. I didn't like it when he teased Lavender.

She called over her shoulder, “You give me a steak, I'll cook it.”

Before she turned away, an expression flickered across her face. Whatever it was, I realized it was the same thing I'd seen in the eyes of the young man at the grocery—something dark and mysterious, like anger pushed down and covered up.

Daddy must have seen it too. He lowered the paper. “Lavender, is there something you want to say?”

She shook her head. “Don't mind me, Mr. Sims. I'm just talking.”

Daddy studied her for a minute, then looked over at Mama.

“You know what?” he said. “Steak sounds good.

Taking his wallet from his back pocket, he counted out a few dollars and waved them at Lavender.

“Here's some money,” he told her. “Go down to Forsyth's and buy the best steak in the place.”

Mama said, “Charles, really—”

“Then bring it back here and cook it. How does that sound?”

Sometimes Daddy's teasing turned into something else, something hard and mean. It made me mad, but I didn't know what to do about it.

Mama came up behind Daddy and touched his shoulder. “She made some fried chicken. Let's have that.”

Lavender reached out with her free hand and took the money.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Sims,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

Royal, who for once had been forgotten, started to cry. Mama took him off Lavender's hip and gave him a kiss. Daddy watched as Lavender whipped off her apron, picked up her purse, and headed for the door.

Daddy looked at Mama. Mama looked back. Royal screamed.

I said, “I'm going with Lavender.”

CHAPTER FOUR

It would have been a long walk down the hill and an even longer walk back, so we took Lavender's car, a green Studebaker that wasn't much older than our DeSoto. The difference was that Daddy parked in the driveway, and Lavender parked on the street in front. I saw her pull into the driveway once, but Daddy, like a traffic cop, had motioned her back.

Lavender crossed the lawn, got into her car, and pulled the door shut. I climbed in the other side. Lavender gripped the steering wheel, closed her eyes, and sighed.

“That man,” she said.

“You don't like steak?” I asked.

“It's not about steak. It's about who's boss.”

“It is?”

“Who gives the orders and who takes them. He can't be the boss at work, so he wants to be at home. He's showing me who's in charge.”

“You make it sound like a job,” I said.

“Oh, it's a job. It surely is.”

Hearing her say that made me sad. “What about family?”

“I love your family, Billie. But it's yours, not mine.”

I tried to picture Lavender's family. The frame was empty, like Grant's frames before he put photos in them.

“I really do like your fried chicken,” I said.

Lavender pulled her keys from her purse, then glanced over at me. “You're a nice girl, Billie. You always have been.”

She started the car and headed down the hill. The car smelled like Lavender—a special combination of soap, starch, and something else I couldn't identify. We were in her world now, and she seemed more relaxed.

“Mama's nice,” I said. “So is Daddy. We're all nice.”

Lavender nodded wearily. “That's what they say.”

She reached into her purse and popped a cherry Life Saver into her mouth. Maybe that was the other smell I'd noticed. She sucked on the Life Saver while she drove, as if she was considering something.

“You know what prejudice is?” she asked.

“Prejudice? Is it liking one thing over another?”

“Not just things—people. Rich over poor. White over black. Happens all the time. Some of the nicest people do it.”

I had to think about that one. “Then those people aren't nice, are they?”

Lavender looked at me, then back at the road. “My friend Corea, she has a theory about prejudice. She says it's a disease like mumps or whooping cough. You catch it from your parents and friends. Most people never recover.”

“Do I have it?” I asked.

A shadow flickered across her face. “Yes, sweetheart, I'm afraid you do. The question is, will you pass it on?”

How do you pass on prejudice? Do you eat from the same dishes, drink from the same glass? I thought of the separate drinking fountains around town for white and colored. We were afraid of catching something, that was for sure. Maybe that fear was prejudice. Maybe the disease was being afraid.

As we pulled into the parking lot at Forsyth's, a Greyhound bus swept down the hill past us, kicking up dust.

I checked my watch. “That's the five thirty-two,” I said. “Last bus of the day—to Birmingham, then Tupelo.”

Lavender snorted. “I swear, your head is full of schedules.”

She eyed me thoughtfully, then seemed to make a decision. If the young man in the grocery was an open book, she was a closed one. There was a story inside, but it was hard to read. Then, every once in a while, something would pop out and surprise you.

She said, “You like buses so much? I got some bus news for you.”

“Bus news?”

“Negroes sit in the back, right?”

I shrugged. “That's the way it's always been.”

“Well, it's about to change. There's a group that won't sit in the back. They're called Freedom Riders, and they're coming on Greyhound. They'll sit with the white folks—in the waiting room, on the bus, at the lunch counter.”

“Isn't that against the law?”

“In Alabama, yes. But these folks are coming from Washington, DC, black and white together. They'll cross state lines. You know what that means?”

“Not really.”

“Once they cross state lines, the U.S. government makes the laws.” There was something about the way she said the words that made them glitter in the air—
U.S. government
, like when my Sunday school teacher said
Jesus
. “And the U.S. government says no one has to sit in back.”

I thought of my dad and his friends down at Clyde's Hair Heaven. “That wouldn't go over too well around here.”

“We'll find out, won't we?” said Lavender.

“What do you mean?”

“The Freedom Riders are coming to Anniston,” she said. “They'll be at the Greyhound station next Sunday, on Mother's Day.”

Besides being a grocery store, Forsyth's was home to the Tall Tales Club. It was a group of older men who got together late in the day, drank coffee, and told stories. Most of the stories weren't true, of course, and that was the point. Along the way, they also talked about what was going on in Anniston and whatever else was on their minds.

That afternoon, I walked into the store and saw them sitting in their usual spot, a rickety table by the produce section. The club president was Uncle Harvey Caldwell, who wasn't my uncle or anybody else's as far as I knew, but that's what we called him.

“Hey, Billie,” said Uncle Harvey when he saw me. “We were just talking about the Crimson Tide. Any predictions?”

I grinned. “They'll win it all.”

That started a hubbub among the other club members. There were five of them that day—five and a half if you counted Jokester, a six-year-old neighborhood boy who liked to hide under the table—and Alabama football was one subject they all had opinions on.