Gone Crazy in Alabama (2 page)

The next morning Pa gathered us around for what was usually a Pa and Delphine talk. The talk where he told me everything I needed to know to get my sisters and me safely to our destination. This time Vonetta and Fern were also under his chin as he spoke.

“I don't want to hear about you two acting up on the ride down.” Vonetta and Fern gave him cow-eyed innocence but Pa smiled, knowing better. “Delphine, I don't like putting this on you, but if anyone asks, you're thirteen.”

“But twelve rides cheaper, Pa,” I said. I only had a few months before I became an official teenager. I could wait, but I didn't want to admit that to my father.

“Can I be eleven?” Vonetta asked.

Pa said, “Ten's good enough for you.”

“And eight's great.” Fern found her spot and jumped in. She rhymed and played with her words like she played with peas, butterbeans, and mashed potatoes at the table. It was those poetry letters to and from Cecile that got her playing with words at every opportunity.

I sang, “I'll bet we'll save a few dollars if I ride as my real age.”

Mrs. picked up the tune. “Did someone say save a few dollars?” It was good to hear Mrs. joke for a change. She smiled but her skin looked dull and greenish.

“Good one, Marva,” Pa said. “But we don't need the whole world worrying about kids riding on a bus without an adult.”

Mrs. had been lying on the couch and propped herself up. “Louis, honey. Maybe we should—”

But Pa put his hand up, and to my surprise, Mrs., an out-and-out women's libber, closed her mouth and lay her head back down on the sofa pillow. Mrs. smiled, but I could see how tired she was and that her eyes were losing their sassy spark. I hated to see Mrs. change. It had taken a while, but I had gotten used to her beaming and grinning at Pa, calling him “old-fashioned” and “country.” I had gotten used to Mrs. talking her women's-lib talk. It was funny how Big Ma had always warned Pa that Mrs. would upset the household. As I watched her grow quiet, tired, and nauseous, I knew it was the other way around: Pa was
changing Mrs. before Mrs. could upset the house.

“There'll be a bunch of kids going down south to spend the summer with folks. A few parents on the bus to keep an eye on things. They'll be fine,” Pa said.

“Honey, don't you think—”

“Sweetie, you worry too much, and you know that's not good for you,” Pa said. He pointed his finger at Vonetta and Fern. “I mean what I say: I don't want to hear about you two causing a stir, having the world looking at three colored girls, wondering where their father and mother are.”

“They won't,” I said.

Then Vonetta said, “We won't,” raising her voice over mine. “We know how to act on a bus trip.”

“And we act splendidly on a plane,” Fern said. “Splendidly and perfectly.”

They both said together, “Or on a train.”

Vonetta punched Fern in the shoulder first. “Jinx!”

Pa shook his head. “That's what I mean. None of that bickering and hitting. One minute you're play-fighting. The next minute you're cats in the alley. You can't have any of that on the bus.”

“We won't,” they chimed. Chimed and lied.

“Well, I better not hear about it,” Pa said. “I better not get a call from the state police.”

“You won't, Papa.” More chiming and lying.

“I mean it. You two, mind your sister. You hear?”

“We will.” Their notes were high, sweet, and fake.

Even Pa shook his head.

Instead of driving the Buick Wildcat from Brooklyn to the Port Authority in Manhattan, Pa drove us down to Newark, New Jersey, to catch the Greyhound. He said it was to save a few dollars but I knew better. If Pa wanted to save money, I wouldn't be traveling down south as a thirteen-year-old adult. I'd pay the children's fare like my sisters, and Pa would have told one of the bus-riding mothers to keep an eye on his little girls. Pa's first thought wasn't to save money. He drove us to Newark because he wanted to spend time with us. Just us.

“Mind yourselves down there,” Pa said. Even though we'd been south visiting Big Ma and her mother, Ma Charles, when we were younger, Pa felt the need to remind us, “The South's not like Bed-Stuyvesant and you can't get more southern than Alabama.” To Vonetta, he said, “Don't go grinning at every white kid trying to make friends. Stick to your own and you won't have any problems. If they call you a name, keep your mouth shut and walk away.” Then to Fern, he said, “Don't ball up your fists at everyone who says something you don't like.”

“We can handle white kids,” I said. “We can handle racist names.”

“And racist oppressors.”

“Trying to keep the black man down.”

Pa shook his head. “That's exactly what I mean.” He looked to the sky. “Why did I send you girls to Oakland?”

“So we could be strong black girls,” I answered, although the real answer was so we could see our mother.

“Black and proud.”

“Black and loud.”

“Power to the people.”

“None of that while you're down there. Delphine, this is no joke. None of that black power stuff in Alabama. Black Panthers strut about in Brooklyn and in Oakland, but they're not so loud and proud in Alabama and Mississippi. Once you cross the line from North to South all of that black power stuff is over.”

“So we better get it all out now!” I said. My sisters and I started chanting, “Ungawa, Ungawa. Soul is black power.” Then, “Free Huey, seize the time!” and every other Black Panther slogan we learned last summer in Oakland with Cecile and the Black Panthers.

Pa let us get it all out of our systems and then he said, “You had your fun. I need you to listen. Really listen.”

“Yes, Papa,” I said, taking the silliness out of my voice.

“The South isn't like Brooklyn. You're not freedom riders going down south to kick up some dust. You girls have some mouths on you; I don't know who to blame for that—your mother, Marva, or those Panthers. I want you to stay together. Don't let one separate from the other. I'm
counting on you, Delphine. Keep your sisters in line and together.”

Pa sounded like his mother, Big Ma, worrying about white people. But Pa's voice was steady and firm and his eyebrows pinched together. He meant for us to hear his every word. Our grandmother used to fuss with us so much that all we heard was the fussing and not the words. That was when Big Ma lived with us in Brooklyn on Herkimer Street. But then Pa married Miss Marva Hendrix and Uncle Darnell left us and Big Ma got on a Greyhound and returned to her house in Alabama. Like the title of my sixth-grade teacher's favorite book, things at our house in Herkimer Street fell apart.

The bus was like Pa said it would be. More kids traveling down south than adults. Half of the travelers wore blue and white T-shirts that declared them Young Saints of Shiloh Baptist from Queens. Ours was a double-decker bus, which was exciting in itself. We had never been on a double-decker bus and we all said, “I want to go up there!” The bus driver, a man older than our father but not as old as Big Ma, stopped us. “Bunch of teenagers up there. Young ones stay where I can see you. Plenty of seats down here.”

I started to tell the driver I was thirteen and could watch my sisters, but Vonetta told him, “You can't drive the bus
and
keep an eye on us,” and then I said, “Shut
your mouth, Vonetta,” and as if Big Ma had been poking me in the back telling me what to say, I added, “Sorry, sir,” and we moved down the narrow aisle to join the Young Saints.

My sisters sat together on one side of the aisle and I sat across from them in the aisle seat, next to a boy about my age. I geared myself up for some conversation, mainly to practice talking to a real teenage boy, but he closed his eyes almost as soon as I slid into the seat next to him. That was fine with me, although some conversation would have been nice. Besides, I would get in all the practice I wanted in talking to teenage boys when we got to my great-grandmother Ma Charles's house. My cousin JimmyTrotter would do. And I hoped he felt like talking. I hoped he wasn't sad and quiet like he was when we left Alabama three years ago. But I'd understand if he was.

The plan to dole out one piece of bubble gum, one Jolly Rancher sucking candy, and a Pixy Stix for every state we entered fell apart long before we reached the middle of Virginia, but that was all right. I glanced over at my sisters. Vonetta erased and filled in her crossword puzzle. Fern read
Charlotte's Web
. I didn't know how much longer they'd remain fuss-free but I was grateful for their good behavior and plowed onward with
Things Fall Apart
.

I'd been saving my book since Christmas, waiting for a long stretch of time that didn't include bickering sisters, a heap of chores, and homework. When Pa announced our
bus trip I knew I'd have hours and hours on the road with the perfect companion if my sisters let me read in peace. I felt a surge of pride as I read my first adult book—and a book about Africa written by an African. With everyone in the neighborhood taking on African names and trying to go back to Africa, I was anxious to learn more about the place of our ancestors.

It didn't take too long for me to know I wouldn't be changing my name to some Swahili translation for “oldest, tallest daughter.” Even the cherry Jolly Rancher soured in my mouth as I read. How could this be a great African novel if the people weren't so great?

The more I read, the less I liked Okonkwo, the main character. I couldn't understand why the writer would spend an entire book on such a mean, selfish ogre, or why my sixth-grade teacher thought it was a great book. He'd read the cover ragged! I kept waiting for the story to be the fine literature that even my stepmother declared it to be. Even if Okonkwo changed or did something right or heroic, I still wouldn't like him.

I could have kicked myself for being trapped with mean, murdering Okonkwo when
The Soul Brothers and Sister Lou
and
The Outsiders
rattled around unread in the underbelly of our Greyhound. It wasn't fair to have waited for so long to read a book that was less than what I'd imagined.

There I was, without the book I'd hoped for. Stuck for hours and hours with a story I didn't want to read. Next to a boy who wouldn't let me practice boy-talking with him. I might as well have been stuck between Vonetta and Fern, kicking, punching, and yowling like cats.

At least my sisters weren't miserable.

I glanced over at Fern and envied the way she raised her eyebrows, a sure sign that she was loving her story and couldn't wait to turn the page. I could even guess which part of her story she was at. How I longed for any one of my books locked in my suitcase.

When we pulled in for our stop in Spartanburg, South Carolina, the bus driver refused to let me retrieve my other books from my suitcase, no matter how politely I asked.
You think I can haul out every piece of luggage for every passenger?
The bus driver didn't have time for that, although he did retrieve my seatmate's luggage—only because Spartanburg turned out to be the boy's stop. We didn't even bother to say any good-byes, and to boot, I'd soon be stuck with mean and unlucky Okonkwo for the rest of our trip, and we had a long, long way to go.

My sisters and I stood guard for one another in the bathrooms at every rest stop. If we stopped long enough, we'd join a few of the Young Saints from the bus for games of freeze tag and Mother May I? until it was time to reboard the bus. I didn't want to use up our money in
Spartanburg, but I had to reload our cooler with snacks and drinks for the rest of the ride.

There were only two working telephone booths. I was overdue for the call home to let Pa and Mrs. know that we were safely on our journey. I was anxious to get to the phone booth and had to wait my turn. I took my dimes and quarters and fed them into the slot, each coin clinking down one after the other. I dialed the number while Vonetta and Fern cupped their hands at the coin return just in case. I had everything well timed. The phone rang once. I prepared to hang up the receiver but I heard a sound on the other end.
A voice
. It was Mrs. She'd picked up the phone when she was supposed to let it ring. Now we'd lose our coins!

“Hullo?” Her voice was heavy with sleep.

It was too late to hang up so I answered. “Hello, Mrs.”

“Delphine!” She perked up like she missed us and was genuinely glad to hear my voice. I couldn't stop Vonetta and Fern from saying their hellos in the background, and she seemed to like it because she laughed.

“We're fine, Mrs. But you weren't supposed to pick up the phone,” I said, almost scolding her. “Pa and I had it worked out so I could call in one more time before we got to Atlanta.”

“Pure nonsense!” Mrs. declared. “Pure, utter nonsense. You call collect at every stop to let us know you and your sisters are all right. I wasn't crazy about you girls traveling
south all alone to begin with.”

“We're all right,” I said.

“We're safe,” Vonetta said. “There's lots of kids going south for the summer.”

“Surely are. Like birds flying south in the winter.”

Then Vonetta made fun of what Fern said and I had to push them away from the phone.

“We're all right,” I said again. The last thing I wanted was for Mrs. and Pa to fight over us traveling by ourselves.

“Delphine, you call collect every chance you get,” Mrs. said.

“Pa won't like it,” I said.

She laughed. “Don't you worry about that.”

“Mrs. . . . ?” I asked slowly, even though I was eating up the coins and minutes.

“Yes, Delphine?”

“Is everything with you and Pa—”

She cut me off as if she knew what was on my mind. “Everything is fine, Delphine.”

The last fight they had was because Mrs. was sick. Pa said, “I never knew a woman could get so sick,” and Mrs. yelled at him, “Stop comparing me to Cecile!” and she took some things and left for a few days. Then she came back.

“And are you—”

“Delphine, I'm fine.” I could almost see her smile. “Now stop worrying, and have some fun. It's summertime.”

But I couldn't help it. I added, “See you when we get back home,” just to hear what she'd say.

“We'll be here,” she sang.

She almost sounded like the old Mrs., or like Miss Marva Hendrix. Sure of herself and speaking her mind. It had taken me a while to like her, and I knew I really liked her when I began to miss hearing her speak her mind.

“Fifty cents, please,” the operator interrupted. “Please deposit another fifty cents for the next three minutes.”

Vonetta and Fern yelped their good-byes and we lost the connection.