Freshwater Road (24 page)

Up and down the street, cars parked bumper to bumper, porch lights
on, nothing moving. Monday nights were quiet in Detroit. Dinners eaten early, television, and off to bed so you could be up to face the job the next
morning, if you had one. Too many didn't have one. Shuck was an escapee,
a free-flying bird. The numbers racket had saved him from daily confrontations with white folks, especially white men. He was as free as a Negro man
could be in 1964. Now, Celeste had bound her fate to Mississippi, taking
his precious freedom with her.

The narrow stairwell led up to a spacious well-lighted hallway with a window through which he could see his car. He didn't like parking overnight
on this street. Out of habit, he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat. The
climb had taken Shuck's breath, paused him outside her door to regroup
before putting the key in the lock. She'd awaken as soon as she heard the
lock turn, meet him somewhere between the living room and the kitchen.
He waited in the dim light for his heart to slow, his breathing to ease. She'd
chastise him for smoking too much, staying up too late. He used to ice skate
on the Detroit River, ran track in high school, but now a walk up one flight
of stairs jumbled his heartbeat. Mississippi.

He tipped into the living room. A small tabletop spotlight was aimed
at a huge dark-leaved plant standing in the corner near the front windows.
The primeval plant took on eerie qualities in the uneven light, a dark green
centurion guarding Alma's jungle. She had plants everywhere, and polished
their leaves with minute dabs of mayonnaise and a cotton cloth until they
reflected like glass. She also had plastic covers on all of her living room
furniture. The covers made him feel the furniture fabric was more important than anyone's comfort, crunching and whooshing when he sat down,
sweating under his seat in summer, sticking to his skin. He hated those
covers. On the walls, she'd hung colorful paintings by local artists, giving
the living room a tropical look but for those plastic covers.

She jokingly told him if he moved in with her and stopped smoking,
she'd take the plastic off the furniture. He said it would be like going backward to move to that neighborhood. But he couldn't tell in all the laughing
if she was waiting for an invitation to move to Outer Drive.

Alma came out of the bedroom hallway tying her robe at the waist,
looking good, he thought, even in the middle of the night. Smooth light
brown skin, dark hair brushed back and looped behind her ears. A frown
across her face. He knew she was comfortable with his late arrivals, but this
was a work night.

"You hungry?" It was what women always asked when they sensed
something was wrong. The solace of food. Shuck wasn't sure if they intended it to ease the disharmony of life, or if they had become skittish
about so many things that they just wanted the food to fill their mouths
rather than the words.

"If you cooked." Shuck followed her into the kitchen, passing through
the dining room. More plants. The dining table lived under a covering of
homework assignments, textbooks, newspapers, bills, her purse and keys.
She insisted on teaching summer school.

He washed his hands before sitting at the small kitchen table, ducking
so he wouldn't hit his head on the big fern hanging from a ceiling hook.
She even had plants on tall stands in the bathroom. Every time he went
in there, he was afraid he'd knock them over. Shuck peeked back into the
front of the apartment. It was a jungle all right. Maybe she needed the quiet
of the plants after teaching those wild teenagers all day. He wondered if
she talked to the plants, and how much time it must take to water them
all, polish all those leaves. There was a mayonnaisy smell in the apartment
sometimes when the windows hadn't been opened. It made his stomach
turn. He bought her an air conditioner for the bedroom, more for himself
than for her. It was powerful enough to cool the whole back of the apartment including her second bedroom, which she used as a television den.
She needed a bigger place.

Alma foraged around in the refrigerator, the light showing the silhouette of her curvy body under her summer robe. Shuck figured Alma to be
about forty-two or -three though they'd never discussed it. She'd graduated
from Lakeview High School three years after he and Posey took to the
streets. She knew about Wilamena, but Shuck led her to believe it was all
in the past. Alma pulled out a waxed-paper-wrapped loaf on a plate and a
bottle of milk.

Shuck eyed her behind as she brought a glass out of the cupboard.

"Meatloaf okay?" She unwrapped the loaf and put a sandwich together,
going back to the refrigerator for lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise. Shuck
loved watching her standing in the refrigerator light. He didn't have to
answer. She knew it was better than okay. He watched her working quietly,
feeling guilty that he'd gotten her out of bed in the middle of the night
when he knew she had to teach in the morning. Alma was committed to teaching kids who acted like getting an education was an imposition.
Celeste could work out her need to help Negro people right there, too.
He understood that part of it. Mississippi was what he didn't get. Of all
places on the earth, why Mississippi? She'd have been better off going to
Africa in the Peace Corps. Contracting malaria was better than going to
Mississippi.

Alma put the food in front of him, smiling, and poured the milk then
sat down. Shuck drank in one long chugalug, leaving milk residue lining
his upper lip.

"I got to get up in a minute and face those kids." Alma just said it,
straight out and blunt. Just like when she'd asked him if he was still running
numbers, back when they bumped into each other at the Lakeview High
School Class of 1939 twentieth reunion. Shuck and Posey had stopped
by dressed like Wall Street bankers, smelling of ease. Shuck had his chest
out when he told Alma he owned his own bar, but that he still played the
numbers on occasion and probably always would. He'd noticed that she kept
glancing over to him even though she was the date of one of his classmates
that night. When he and Posey left the reunion, Posey said Alma Weaver
had a reputation for being an upright, straight arrow, knees-locked kind of
woman. Shuck didn't have any problem with that.

Shuck wiped his mouth on a paper napkin he took from the plastic
holder on the table. "Celeste's in Mississippi."

Alma stopped drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Her mouth
dropped open a bit and she sat back in her chair. "Well, I never thought
she'd do anything like that."

Shuck wrapped his hand around the empty milk-coated glass. He'd
known for weeks that Celeste was in Mississippi but hadn't told Alma. He
didn't know why not. Alma refilled his glass. "Is she all right?"

All summer long, people had been asking Shuck the same question. She
all right? "Her all right and my all right are two different things." There was
an unintended edge in his voice.

Alma rubbed the front of her head like she was trying to remove a layer
of skin. "You have to be proud of her courage." Her hands dropped to her
lap and she tilted her head a little to the side. She seemed to be straining,
crinkling her forehead, squinting her eyes. "Shuck Tyree, I know you're not
thinking about going down there."

"If she gets arrested, I'm going. They still haven't found those three boys.
You know they're dead by now." Shuck hunched over the table, his hands
loosely clasped. If he tightened them the least bit, they'd be in prayer.

Alma folded her arms so that the fabric of her nightgown and robe
pulled tight around her breasts, making her nipples show through. "Anybody in their right mind knew someone was going to die down there this
summer. There's so much attention on the place now with the television,
they're not going to hurt anybody else. I don't think."

"Nobody knows what those crazy people will do." Alma might know
the history, but she'd never had a child. That changed everything.

"Well, I'd sure like to be a fly on the wall when those white folks look
up and see you pulling in front of the courthouse in that Cadillac with
that diamond ring sparkling in the sunshine." Alma put her hands over his
hands and spoke to him in a coaxing voice. "I know you'll keep worrying,
but she's going to be all right."

Shuck nodded, barely. "They had a lynching in that town where she's
working. In Pineyville. You remember Leroy Boyd James? Not that long ago."

"I guess that says it all about Pineyville. But, truth be told, they've had
lynchings some of everywhere. Thank God I'm here." Alma sighed.

"You sound like Rodney at the bar." Shuck smiled at her.

"The truth is the truth, Shuck." She had sleepiness in her eyes.

"You're right." He looked down at the sandwich knowing he couldn't
eat a bite and felt bad that she'd gone to all the trouble.

"Don't worry about it." She put the glass in the sink and slid a piece of
wax paper over the sandwich.

"Go on to bed." His eyes felt wet and tired. "I'ma sit here for a while."

She kissed his forehead and went back to her bedroom.

He raised the kitchen window. On the counter Alma had a bread box
and ceramic canisters with the words Flour, Sugar, Rice, Coffee. Momma
Bessie had the same things only they were in the pantry. When you sat at
the table, you couldn't see them. This apartment-sized kitchen was tight.

Shuck walked to the living room, the plants hovering like dreams in the
low light. She needed room for her jungle of plants to spread. The emptiness
of his house had begun to give him hollow answers. Some nights, he didn't
even like going home to Outer Drive. But he didn't like staying here either.
Things he'd been doing like clockwork over more years than he could re member now seemed caught and blown around in gusty winds. He knew
for sure he'd never allow those plastic furniture covers.

He tried to sweep an ache from his mind, a whisper that perhaps the
good days had passed. They'd begun to mark the corners of his mind like
some nearly forgotten expensive shoes in a mildewed corner of the attic.
You never took the time to check, though you had a suspicion that the roof
leaked. You just didn't want to come to the conclusion. Shuck wondered if
his mother, Momma Bessie, was about the same age as that Mrs. Geneva
Owens down in Pineyville, and what on earth could a woman that age
be counted on to do to protect anybody. He stood at the window looking
down on his car, everything quiet on the street. Alma was probably asleep
by now. If he smoked, she'd smell it in the morning. If he crawled into
bed beside her, he'd disturb her rest. If he tipped out and went on home to
Outer Drive, and she awakened on her own, she'd worry that something
was wrong. Something was.

Shuck turned out the kitchen light and eased out the front door, turning
the key in the double lock quiet as a thief.

Gunfire cracked, high-pitched and fast, through the quiet country night.
A crash of broken glass. Celeste sat upright in her bed out of a deep dreamforgotten sleep. No dogs barking. Bits of gravel-rock flew from under the
wheels of a moving car or truck. Silence. The skinny mutts knew when
to hide. She rolled off the bed onto the floor as Margo had taught her to
do, tried to get herself under the bed, pushing her suitcase out of the way
with her feet, her heart leaping in her chest like a ball being batted furiously against a concrete wall. Everything quiet. "Please, God, don't let Mrs.
Owens be dead. Don't let them kill us." She reached around for a viable
bargain to make with God. "Dear Lord, I promise I'll go to New Mexico
to see my mother. I'll stay as long as you think I should. I'll do better, Lord.
Please, Lord."

The second round of bullets flew right through the house as if God had
said, "Not good enough." She heard the ripping sound of lead shattering
wood. Bullets exploding through this fragile place not even built strong
enough for winter weather. The abrasive smell of burning metal trailed into
the open windows. Gun powder. An engine revving. The sliding scream of
rubber tires on solid road. Someone's turned onto the two-lane. She wanted
to scoot from under the bed to see. Stay put. Engine gunning harder. Burning rubber smells perfuming the night. No need to run from us. We don't even
have a gun. It wouldn't take much to end this terror. Shoot back. Defend
yourself. You may die, but you die with dignity, with muscle in your jaw, no
staring down at the ground. No more turn the other cheek. Matt had run out of cheeks to turn. That beating on the side of the road sealed it. That's
why he went to Bogalusa to meet with the Deacons for Defense and Justice.
Defend yourself. Celeste could hear her own heart pounding.

"You all right in there, child?" Mrs. Owens called out coming down
the short hall.

Celeste scooted from under the bed, giddy with relief that the woman
walked and talked, wasn't splayed out on the kitchen floor with blood
oozing from her body and not a doctor anywhere who'd touch her. They
met at the splintered front door, Celeste's mouth dry and eyes so wide open
they hurt. "I guess so."