Freshwater Road (53 page)

"I did go to jail. So did Reverend Singleton, Sister Mobley, Dolly Johnson, Mrs. Owens, and Mr. Landau. We all went to jail."

"I Like It Like That" blasted out from Mrs. Owens's porch, sounding
so funky her body shimmied a little step to the music right in front of
the Tucker house. She hadn't heard a note of music except church music
and freedom songs since she was in New Orleans with Ed. Dolly must've
cranked the volume up even more. Mrs. Owens wasn't going to have that
for very long.

"Oh. Why all y'all go to jail?" Darby spoke up.

"I hope your mother will tell you."

Celeste figured she'd better back off as Zenia Tucker came all the way
out into the light, frail, her whole body sinking in on itself, clothes lopsided,
hair half-combed, the hot-iron scar on her face healed but ugly. She gave
Celeste a large piece of paper. "She'd a wanted you to have this, I'm sure."

Celeste stepped onto their path to reach for the paper, took it, and backed
away again just as Mr. Tucker appeared behind Zenia. Zenia Tucker's face
stayed as blank as a sheet on a clothesline. Mr. Tucker stepped out onto the
porch but said not a word, just stared at Celeste with enough hatred in his
eyes to stall an army. Celeste froze where she stood. She turned the paper
over slowly, trying to encourage her legs to move away, to go. Sissy had drawn Frederick Douglass with wings in the night sky and the north star
up in the corner. The drawing vibrated with color. Douglass's dark skin and
beard and huge crinkled hair flowed back in a draft of flight. It was the same
picture that had illustrated the front of the Frederick Douglass book. His
big brown eyes were bright and full of intent. Sissy must've drawn it at home
because she'd never taken a seat in freedom school. Celeste stepped back to
the road. "Thank you, Mrs. Tucker." She didn't look again at Mr. Tucker,
kept her eyes down. "Well, you welcome to come on over. Mrs. Owens
cooked a whole lot of food." No one moved. "Bye, then. Bye Henry, bye
Darby. Mrs. Tucker." They said "goodbye" in whispers. Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Mr. Tucker disappear inside his house.

The sun geared west as Celeste walked back toward Mrs. Owens's house,
staring at the drawing, tears welling in her eyes, falling down her face.
Sissy's self-portrait as Frederick Douglass reminded her that if she hadn't
come to Pineyville talking about freedom, north stars, and better places,
Sissy would still be alive. She stepped over Labyrinth and Georgie on the
front stairs and kept her face away from Dolly, who sat in Mrs. Owens's
rocker. She took the drawing into her room, propped it up on her dresser,
and stood there crying in silence. In a while, she collected herself and joined
Dolly and the children.

When the Chantels whorled "Maybe" through the late-August air, Mr.
Landau turned in off the two-lane, parked on the side of the road, and
swung his long legs out of that truck dressed in slacks, a brightly colored
short-sleeved shirt showing off his muscular arms. He went straight to the
kitchen, shaking the little house with his heavy-footed stride. Dolly and
Celeste followed him in like big-city pigeons. Sure enough, he had a bottle
of gin in one pocket and six bottles of tonic water distributed among all his
other pockets, along with two weevily lemons. All from Louisiana. Celeste
blessed Louisiana under her breath, then made gin and tonics for Mr. Landau, Dolly, and herself. Reverend and Etta Singleton arrived with more
food and all the Mobleys and soon, there was enough to feed the town.

After eating the celebration meal, the never-used parlor became the
grown-ups' sit-down place. Dolly and the children stayed on the front porch
or bopped to the music on the dirt path. Celeste was glad they danced on
the dirt path, because if they kept jumping and bopping around on that
porch, it might just fall to the ground. Dolly put on "Duke of Earl" and did
her imitation of Gene Chandler with his cape pretending to leave the stage and coming back over and over. With her cracked tooth making her feel
like a bucket-of-blood patron, Celeste dropped her jaw at Dolly's smooth
antics. The children hollered and clapped for Dolly as the sun dropped
to the level of the horizon, the sky slashed with pale orange streaks that
matched the color of the earth. The voices of Reverend Singleton, Sister
Mobley, Mr. Landau, and Mrs. Owens carried out on the evening air,
pulled her inside.

Etta Singleton was down the short hall in the lonely light of the kitchen
scraping and stacking dirty dishes. A feast for the bony dogs of Freshwater
Road. Across the tiny parlor room, Geneva Owens beckoned to Celeste to
come take her seat, then went to the kitchen, too.

Mr. Landau sipped his gin and tonic, large hands engulfing the kitchen
glass, as he leaned against the wall near the entrance. "This time, I don't
care what y'all say, I'm bringing the Deacons for Defense and Justice
over to guard the rebuilding. Ain't no sense in going through this again."
Mr. Landau sounded like a man unaccustomed to taking charge with his
words; he had his head down so that some of it went into his chest, but the
meaning was clear.

"Well, now, Landau, you know we can't put ourselves in a position
for a gunfight. We wouldn't win it anyway." Reverend Singleton stood
straddle-legged near the front window. Celeste felt his eyes follow her to
the parlor chair.

"Won't be no gunfight. All's has to happen is seeing those Negroes with
shotguns. Ain't nobody gon do nothin'." Landau swigged his drink. "You
don't need to do a thing 'sides raise the money to rebuild."

"Lord, have Mercy." Sister Mobley dabbed at her heart with rapid little
pats, sitting near Celeste in the only other chair.

"I sure want to be here to see that." Celeste heard her voice, scanned
their faces in the dimming light, uneasy that she'd intruded in something
that the locals were deciding amongst themselves. She reached under the
yellowy shade of the one lamp and turned it on, feeling as disenfranchised
as they'd been all their lives. Outside.

"We have a small insurance policy. Won't cover much, but every bit
helps."

He paused and Celeste wondered if he'd mention going to Sophie
Lewis for help in rebuilding the church. He didn't mention her, but caught
Celeste's eyes, which surely had questions about why he didn't. Now she was afraid to say the woman's name. Celeste thought over the day they'd
visited Sophie and remembered a closeness between them but more importantly, a kind of big pride they had in each other. They were like-minded,
only she was free and he wasn't. Clear now. She was the reason he could stay
there. He had an exquisite place to run off to, to hide in, to revive himself
in, to touch some part of a life he'd left in Chicago, a life of theatre, opera,
books, and conversations with people from all walks of life.

The Jackson office of One Man, One Vote would kick in money, too,
since they were fund-raising all over the country for the movement. And,
the dirt-poor Negro people of Pearl River County would ante up again,
constantly repairing and rebuilding; they'd put money up for the church
when they needed that money for other things, had already put money up
for the church. There ought to be a way to sue the people who burned down
that church, make them pay to rebuild it and then some.

Reverend Singleton nodded to her. "We need that freedom school, too.
These children getting nothing from that public school. That's what they
should've burned down."

Celeste cleared her throat. "I'm thinking I might stay on for a while."
She sought agreement, going from one to the other. She wondered if Mrs.
Owens and Etta Singleton could hear this conversation out in the kitchen.
Mr. Landau nodded, eyes going off somewhere else. Hard to read him.
He'd been like that all summer except when it came to self-defense. "If I
stay, I'm thinking about maybe setting up a freedom school library in the
new church. Even have it so the children can check out books. They can't
touch the books in the other library." She curled her lips in, praying they'd
condone her staying.

Sister Mobley stared at the white lace curtain then looked up to Reverend Singleton, face placid. "That's true. I don't let my Tony go nowheres
near it." She looked sideways at Celeste, rail-thin body nearly swallowed up
by the one upholstered chair.

Reverend Singleton's eyes shone in his brown face like the idea of a
library was the finest thing he'd ever heard. "I like that." He seemed to see
the new church with the freedom school and the library. "I'll need to think
some more on that, but right off, it's a fine idea."

Landau grunted. "That would put the salt in the white folks' wound.
Not only are we voting, we got our own liberty."

Sister Mobley fidgeted. "Don't want to rile them up too much now."

"Sure you're right." Celeste tried to sound like a local and contain her
fledgling joy. Mr. Landau didn't give a damn about riling up the white
folks, and with the Deacons for Defense and Justice on board, things
would go more smoothly. She saw herself hammering nails into the church
beams, the liquid blue sky smiling through slats of newly milled cypress,
trucks of Negro men with shotguns parked on the church road night and
day. Boxes of books arriving from cities around the country for the children. She had her own business to take care of, too, but just hadn't come
up with a way to do it. On the screened porch, Dolly and the children had
grown quiet, the music turned off now. In the pale light, the grown-ups
huddled in the parlor.

"We better be getting on home. Don't want to be on these roads too
late at night." Reverend Singleton gathered himself to leave. "Some folks
probably mad enough at us for getting a few registered."

Celeste rose to be the hostess, to walk him to the front porch. The
children spoke their goodbyes, their high soft voices subdued by the night.
Celeste stared into the dark, the voices still coming from inside the house
like an alto chorus.

"I want you to know that how I feel about Mr. Tucker is pretty much the
way you do." He spoke quietly and glanced toward the kitchen. They were
at the screen door. "But if I'd operated from that belief, the church would've
split right down the middle. They don't want to believe Mr. Tucker did
anything wrong, so they don't believe he did. You understand?" Reverend
Singleton's brow furrowed intently.

"I'm trying to accept it, Reverend Singleton." She felt relieved at learning what he believed, relieved that he confided in her. "It helps that you told
me this. I didn't want to feel like I was crazy."

"You're a long way from crazy, young lady." Reverend Singleton took
her hands and held them both in his. He called to his wife, and after her
goodbyes they drove away.

Mr. Landau finished his drink, took his glass to the kitchen, and came
back to the front door, where he lingered as Mrs. Owens said her goodnights,
Celeste standing beside her feeling for a feather of a moment like her dutiful
daughter. She helped Dolly gather the 45s and unplug the little record player,
walked them all to Dolly's old car. Dolly gave Sister Mobley, Tony, and the
two girls a ride to their house down Freshwater Road.

Inside, Celeste's mind raced with prospects and excitement. Already, she made lists of things she'd get for the new freedom school and library. She
couldn't wait to discuss the possibility of staying on for a while with Mrs.
Owens. After finishing the kitchen cleaning, they fell into the hard chairs at
the small table, exhausted, enjoying the teasing breezes that trailed in then
died too quickly. The country night sank heavily around them, vanquishing
any memory traces of music, of talking, laughing people who an hour ago
filled the house to its seams.

Mrs. Owens sat with her hands folded on the tabletop. "Horation was in
this house tonight. He so enjoyed a gathering." She paused a moment, the
night sounds swelling. Cicadas interrupted by the barks of roaming dogs
and the creak and groan of trees. A car or truck moving steadily along the
two-lane. Pine, rust, thin streaks of sourness and mold scuffled on the air.
The shrimp shells would have to be buried.

Deep fatigue and an airy exhilaration mixed inside Celeste. "Want to
show you something." She stepped to her room, grabbed Sissy's picture, and
laid it before Mrs. Owens.

"Oh, my Lord." Geneva Owens picked it up and held it closer to the
light above. "It's beautiful." She rested it on the tabletop.

"Sissy drew it." Celeste said, pride spilling through her words. "Isn't that
something? Mrs. Tucker gave it to me. It's Frederick Douglass. Sissy never
even sat down in freedom school. She understood everything." She paused,
undecided as to whether she should go on, then took the plunge. "I think
I need to stay here and keep working with the children. That's what I'd
like to do." She stopped, let the words spread out in the kitchen, thought
of all that needed to be faced at home, then revved up again. "Reverend
Singleton invited me to stay on, wants me to continue the freedom school.
My daddy has a friend who teaches in Detroit. I'm sure she'd help me collect
books and ship them down here. I can set up a library along with the new
freedom school and the children would have their own place, wouldn't
have to worry about going to that other library where nobody wants them
touching anything. I can just see it." Her words tumbled out, eyes pressed
forward, heart beating fast, fingers splayed on the table. "Wouldn't take
more than a year to set it up, then I'd go back to school." She lied, feeling
like she'd more likely wander the earth like a gypsy. "Lot of people do it.
Take a year off like that."

Mrs. Owens watched Celeste, seemed to be reading her like the crinkly
pages of her bible. "Well, you were my child, I'd have you finish your school ing. When you go to Jackson, you'll see what the other summer people are
deciding to do. But, whatever they do, you need to go on and finish your
schooling. No delaying." Mrs. Owens tapped her fingers on the table, a
background drumming nearly indiscernible, shoulders sinking a bit, submitting to the tiredness they must surely feel after the day of cooking and
cleaning.