My Mother the Cheerleader (12 page)

C
harlotte Dupree lived with her elderly mother in a tiny square redbrick house in a Negro section of the ward just a few minutes' bike ride from Rooms on Desire. I had seen the interior of Charlotte's house only once before. It was back in the summer of 1958, when her father passed away after suffering a severe stroke at the lunch counter of a Negro po'boy shack called Ragin' Ray's. My mother and I did not attend the funeral. When I asked her why not, she simply said, “It wouldn't be proper.” But later that day my mother sent me over to the house to deliver a small bouquet of flowers
and a homemade pot of gumbo.

It was one of the rare instances I remember my mother preparing anything in the kitchen aside from her daily dose of lime juleps. I watched her cook in true astonishment, not so much because it was such a rarity, but because of the ease with which she threw everything together. She chopped the green onions and okra with the precision of an expert. And she didn't even use a measuring spoon to add in the spices. She just tossed them in like a pro who could measure amounts by how the ingredients felt in her hands. Hell, she didn't even consult a recipe book once. Sometime in her past my mother had been a cook, and a good one.

The death of Charlotte's father also provided one of the only times I remember my mother saying something that I thought to be truly insightful. After she finished preparing the gumbo, she gave me the pot to deliver.

“What do I say to her?” I asked.

“Just tell her that we're very sorry about the loss of her daddy.”

“Is that it?” I asked. It didn't seem like enough.

“A full stomach is one of the only things that can truly lessen sorrow,” she said. “That's why you see so many fat people around here.”

When I delivered the gumbo to the house, Charlotte's big cat eyes were so bloodshot, it looked as though they were wrapped in tiny red fishnets. Yet she nodded and gave a small smile when I gave her the pot, almost as if she had been expecting it.

“She made it herself,” I said.

“I know,” she replied. “Where do you think I got my recipe?”

I honestly wasn't sure if what she said was true, but the moment revealed a deeper connection between the two women that came out only in the rarest of circumstances.

“You tell your mother that my family and I thank her for her kindness,” she continued. “She's a woman of God, no matter how hard she tries to deny it.”

These words echoed in my mind as I waited in the damp darkness for Charlotte to answer her door.
I heard shuffling from inside and then Charlotte appeared, pulling on her robe and rubbing her bleary eyes. She clicked on a small exterior bulb above the door that shot a shaft of light onto me like I was standing in a G-man's interrogation room. Behind her I could see she had just risen from the couch she slept on in the main room (she let her mother have the house's sole bedroom). Besides a few simple pieces of furniture, the only decoration in the main room consisted of framed portraits of two men. The first was the standard-issue print of Jesus Christ where he's posed kind of staring off to one side, looking all tan and healthy in his white robe. The second was an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of a handsome Negro man with neatly cropped hair and a thin mustache, who was wearing a sharp dark suit. At first I assumed it was a portrait of her late father as a young man. I later realized it was probably a photograph of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“Louise?” she said.

“I n-need your help,” I stammered.

Her eyes nervously shifted around and behind me, as if she were looking for the trouble that might have followed me there.

“Come inside.”

She ushered me inside and closed and locked the door. I was still sweating and breathing heavily from the trip over.

“You've gotta help me.”

“Help you…?”

“Royce is at the house….”

“Royce?”

“He's with Clem and they're both…you know…”

“They're both…?”

“Going after her.”

“Louise, I told you not to get involved with your mama and her men—”

“This is different. They're hurting her.”

“She'll be all right, honey.”

“No.”

“Sometimes things can get a little rough, but your mama knows what she's doing.”

“No. It's different. They're drunk.”

“They're always drunk.”

“But that's not all. They're gonna lynch him.”

“Who's gonna lynch who?”

“Royce Burke and the Klan boys. They're gonna lynch Morgan.”

“Morgan…?”

“The man.”

“Louise, you're not making any sense.”

“The man who was staying at our place. They're gonna lynch him!”

“Why?”

“I don't know. They think he's an agitator.”

“What kind of agitator?”

“You know, one of those who's trying to get the schools desegregated. He was at the school this morning. But he was just watching. He didn't do anything. And there was a fight. And then Royce Burke came looking for him with Clem Deneen. And when they found out he wasn't there, they went after her. But we've gotta find him. They're looking for him. All of them. They know his car. You've got to help him.”

“I've gotta help him?” she said, incredulous.

“Yes. You've got to.”

“Louise, honey, for such a smart girl, you can be as dumb as they come about some things.”

Charlotte had never insulted me so directly. I could tell she really meant what she said, and the words stung.

“What do you mean?”

“Look at me, Louise. I mean really look.”

She waited until my eyes locked on hers before continuing.

“I'm an old colored woman. You know what that means?”

“No,” I said, not at all sure where she was going with this.

“That means I'm just one step above a stray dog to the law around here. Did you ever think of that? And what in the name of sweet Jesus do you think I could do to defend a white man from the Klan in the first place? They'd be more than happy to string an old piece of brown meat like me up in some tree, knowing that the law wouldn't even cut me down if
they did. Did you ever think about that?”

“I'm trying to save him.”

“There're plenty of people that need saving who parade right in front of your eyes every day, Louise. You ever think about those folks? I've known plenty of boys who've been lynched. You ever give them a thought? Ever think what it's like to be that little girl who's going to your school every day and having grown men throw bottles filled with piss at her? Have you ever really taken a look at what's going on over there at that school? That's what hell looks like, Louise. Hell right here in the Ninth Ward. Suddenly things matter to you just because you've got some puppy-love crush? Suddenly you grow a heart just because your hormones are kicking in? Maybe you and your mama aren't so different after all.”

“She's not my mother,” I whispered, too quietly for her to hear, afraid to actually let the words leak into the open air.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

My mind raced in all directions but didn't land anywhere that could help Morgan—or me, for that matter. Tears ran down my cheeks, which seemed to soften her.

“Look, I'm sorry, honey. But there's nothing I can do. Your mother will be fine. And I'm sure that man will be fine too. And besides, if he really is in trouble with the Klan boys, my black face would only bring him more harm. You understand?”

I just stared at her, feeling utterly helpless. Charlotte had been my only real hope.

“Now, it's late,” she continued. “You should be long in bed. I'll walk you back home.” She turned back to retrieve her coat and shoes.

“No,” I said. “Forget it.”

I unlocked the door, stepped back outside, and grabbed my bike.

“Louise, hold on,” Charlotte called after me. “It's too dark for you to be riding around like that.”

I ignored her and pedaled away as fast as I could.

“Louise!” I heard her call after me again.

A light rain was falling, causing my glasses to
fog, but I didn't care. I felt utterly helpless and adrift. As I rode into the darkness, I didn't really fear anything, because I thought I had nothing more to lose. If some robber or boogeyman were to jump out of the bushes, he would just be saving me from my misery. If I crashed my bike, I would be brought to the temporary security of a hospital emergency room, where I would, at least for a while, belong. Emergency room doctors and nurses would have to care for me. At that moment I felt as if I didn't belong anywhere on Earth. Anywhere would have been better than going back to Rooms on Desire.

With no other reasonable option, I headed toward the only other place I thought might be able to lead me to Morgan.

N
o lights shone from inside the apartment above Friendly Market on St. Claude. It must've been near midnight when I climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. Without hesitating, I knocked loudly on the door. No reply. I knocked again, more insistently. After a moment I heard movement from within, and then the gruff voice of Morgan's brother, Michael.

“Look, if you're here to rob the place, you'd better back off! I've got a shotgun pointed right at the door.”

“Mr. Miller?” I said.

“Who the hell…?”

“Please, I need to talk to you.”

The door, held by a chain, opened a crack, and his face peered out at me.

“What do you want?”

“I'm here about your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Morgan. Morgan Miller. He's your brother, right?”

Michael unhooked the chain and opened the door, fully revealing himself. He was wearing blue-striped cotton pajamas and was, in fact, holding a. 22-caliber rifle, not a shotgun. He held the slim weapon by his side like a cane. He looked smaller in his pajamas; his body seemed more bony and frail without the padding of his white coat; it was like seeing a turtle out of its shell.

“What about my brother?”

“He's in terrible trouble.”

“Who are you?”

“Louise Collins.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Nobody. He was staying at our inn. And they came looking for him.”

“Who came looking for him?”

“Some Klan boys.”

“The Ku Klux Klan?”

“Yes.”

“How did they know he was staying with you?”

“I don't know. That's not important. They're bad men. They mean to lynch him.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard them!”

Just then Michael's wife, Edie, the red-haired lady that I had seen in the market, approached from inside the apartment, tying on a pink terry-cloth bathrobe.

“Mickey, what's going on?” she said. She let out a funny little yelp of surprise when she saw me. “Who are you?”

“I need your help.”

“She says Morgan's in trouble with the Klan.”

“Your brother, Morgan? Did you know he was in town?” she asked her husband.

“Yes,” he replied. “He came to see me.”

“Why didn't you tell—”

“We'll talk about it later, Edie,” he interrupted.

“You're soaking wet,” she said to me. “Come inside.”

“Look, I don't have time to come inside. You've got to help me find him.”

“It's past midnight,” he said. “You should be home in bed.”

“But they have his license plate number. They're all looking for him. We've got to warn him. Please help me find him.”

“I wouldn't have any idea where to look, little girl,” he said. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“But don't you care? He's your brother. He looked up to you when you were growing up 'cause you were good at everything that he wasn't, like sports and girls. He said you were like a hero. And you played Treasure Island together. You were Long John Silver and he was Jim Hawkins. Don't you remember? And he's all alone now! He's all alone, now that his son got killed over in Korea and
he and his wife split and he just wanted some family. That's all he wanted, some family! You've got a family. And he's got none! He's got no family! Can you imagine what it's like to wake up one day and have no family at all? No family!”

At this point the words bubbled and choked in my throat and I started sobbing hysterically. My body convulsed in heavy wet gasps that had a force beyond my control. Michael just stood staring at me, shocked both by my words and my hysteria. His wife knelt down and tried to console me.

“Look, honey, it's okay.”

“It's not okay!” I sobbed.

“Just calm down,” she said. “It's gonna be all right. It's gonna be all right. Just relax and tell me who your mama is. We'll give her a call. Okay?”

“My mother is dead!” I howled. “She's dead!”

The woman tried to reach out a hand to touch me, but I spun away from her grasp and ran back down the stairs.

I twisted down the dark stairwell and back out to the street. I dragged myself onto my bike and
pedaled down St. Claude, feet pumping as hard as I could. My mind felt completely blank. I had no destination. No plan. Rain pelted my face, and my hair tangled in my mouth and glasses. Streetlights and neon whirled past my fogged vision.

Then the sudden flash of headlights.

The blare of a car horn.

Skidding tires on wet pavement.

And darkness.

M
y back felt wet but warm against the pavement. My body was steaming. My chest heaved up and down, up and down. Nothing really hurt, but nothing felt right. My entire body was numb and prickly. The rain touched my eyelids, causing them to flicker open.

I saw the twisted frame of my bike lying a few feet away, illuminated by the headlights of a red milk delivery van. The driver of the van swung down from his seat and approached me. A few other people came toward me, as if my body were a magnet pulling all the night crawlers out of the shadows—a
Negro man in workman's coveralls on his way to or from the late shift; a white hobo wearing three pairs of pants, one over the other, a blond lady of the evening with deep red blotches of rouge on her cheeks, who was squeezed into a tight blue satin dress.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Bel Air approach and pull to a stop nearby. My heart sped up as I watched Morgan get out of the car and rush to my side. He waved the others back, saying that I needed room to breathe. He asked me if I was okay and I nodded yes, now I was okay. I would always be okay. My eyes flickered and closed, and then I was in his strong arms as he lifted me up and carried me to the car. I felt his warm breath on my face. I breathed deeply, hoping to catch some of his breath within mine.

He gently placed me in the backseat of the Bel Air. He produced a towel from the trunk and carefully wiped my face and arms. Then he folded the towel and placed it under my head. He told me to relax and not worry about anything. I did exactly as
he said. He got behind the wheel and drove. I had no idea where we were going, but I knew it was going to be someplace safe and warm and that we'd be together. The radio was tuned to a Negro station, playing some sassy jazz with lots of horns. Morgan's arm rested across the top of the passenger seat and his hand tapped along to the bouncing rhythm. I smiled at the sight of his dancing hand and the back of his head nodding to the beat. I felt the tires whirring beneath us and glanced out the window at the rain and city streaking by. I turned back to Morgan. I could see one side of his face and the smiling crow's feet at the corner of his eye, which was focused on the road ahead, confidently guiding us through the storm. I closed my eyes. A moment later a bump in the road jarred me awake.