The Swan House (57 page)

But all I really wanted was to have Carl standing beside me, serving spaghetti.

Instead, Cassandra was taking a turn at it while her mother watched Jessie. A white lady named Mrs. Byers, from a Baptist church in Buckhead, was helping too. Little Jessie was crawling all over the place in the fellowship hall, with Cassandra's mom following close behind. I felt a funny little quiver in my heart just watching her on all fours. She rocked back on her legs and plunked herself on her bottom, looking for her mother. Catching sight of Cassandra behind the long table, she began to wail. In an instant, Cassandra's mom had plucked her off the floor and carried her away, cooing to her as she went.

“I thought you might like to know that I became a Christian last week,” I confided to Cassandra a few minutes later.

“Ya don't say. Good for you, Mary Swan! Best thing you'll eva' do. I guarantee it.”

“Well, I hope so . . .”

I stopped in midsentence because Mr. Murphy, mean, bull-faced Mr. Murphy, was standing across the table from me. I almost dropped the plate I had just filled with sauce. I expected to see hatred in his eyes, but he didn't even seem to recognize me. He just muttered, “Thank ya.”

Lined up behind him were the three children. George's eyes grew wide when he saw me. “Hi there, Mary Swan,” he belted out. His sisters were huddled together and giggling into their hands, waiting expectantly for me to say something.

“Hi, George and Lissa and Angeline. Good to see you.” It came out in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Murphy turned around then and looked me over good. “You's the one who came with Miss Abigail last week.”

My knees almost buckled under me, and the fear rushed back, as if Mr. Murphy were flashing that carving knife at me again instead of simply holding a plate of steaming spaghetti. I licked my lips and tried to say something.

“Thank ya kindly for he'pin' with the chil'un. We's been havin' a mighty hard time of it eva' since their mama died. But with the good Lawd's he'p, thing's gonna git betta.”

My mind went blank, and all I could force out of my mouth was a stuttered “Th-that's great.”

When they found a seat at one of the tables, Cassandra whispered, “He done the same thing as you, Mary Swan.”

“Huh?” I was still watching the big, burly man with his three kids, surprised that compassion had suddenly replaced my feelings of anger and fear.

“Yeah. Got hisself straightened out with the Lawd too.”

This time I heard her, and I was so surprised that I dropped the ladle. “What did you say?”

“I said he done did the same thing as you. He got hisself straightened out with the Lawd.”

For an instant I bristled, humiliated to be compared with Mr. Murphy. But in the same second, I could hear Carl saying,
“The ground is
all even at the foot of the cross. Ain't no rich or poor, just a lot of needy
folks. Folks needin' the grace of the Lord Jesus.”

I fell into a chair in Miss Abigail's office. “You're not going to believe what Cassandra told me.” I didn't give her time to answer. “She said Mr. Murphy's become a Christian. Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can believe it. God was working powerfully in his heart during those three nights he spent in jail. By the end of the week, he'd confessed his sins and asked forgiveness. Now he wants to give up drinking and live for the Lord.”

“That's really . . . weird. Weird and good. I almost wet my pants when I saw him in line. I was sure he'd reach over and slap me or something worse. But he was . . . he was nice. He didn't recognize me at first, and then when it registered, well, he told me thanks.”

“A change of heart, Mary Swan. Which brings us to you. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I told Cassandra I'd become a Christian and she said Mr. Murphy and I were alike. And that bugged me for a second because I didn't want to be compared with him. But then I remembered what you told Carl—that the ground is even at the foot of the cross, that we all need a Savior. So I guess I should be the one thanking Mr. Murphy. If he hadn't scared me clear out of my wits, well, I don't know if I would have ever admitted that I didn't have faith and that I wanted it.” Then I recounted once again the story of my conversion in the sanctuary last Saturday.

Miss Abigail was simply smiling. “I think the Lord understood exactly what you did.”

“Then I did it right?”

“Yes, Mary Swan. Just right.”

“But I haven't told Daddy. He wouldn't understand.”

“Why not?”

“He'd say that I was already a Christian.”

“God will show you when to talk and when to keep your mouth shut.” She smiled. “Sometimes it's hardest to tell our story to the ones we love the most—to our families. We're afraid. Give it time, Mary Swan.” Then she sat up straight and announced, “I met your father at the hospital the other day.”

“You did?”

“Yes. A fine man. He's making sure that Ella Mae has everything she needs. He's a good man, Mary Swan.”

“Did you tell him who you were?”

“He was already aware of that, Mary Swan.”

“He was?”

“Your father cares an awful lot about you, Mary Swan. He worries too. He knows the inner city can be hard on sensitive hearts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your mother used to come down here—not to Mt. Carmel, but to another church. I believe she gave art classes. Ella Mae brought her down, just as she did you. Your father felt it was too hard on your mom.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Word got around.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything to me?”

“What was there to say?”

I took in the new information. “Daddy doesn't want me coming down here because he's prejudiced. He's afraid I'll start talking and acting like a Negro.”

“He's concerned for your safety first, Mary Swan. But yes, I'm sure prejudice has something to do with it too. Many otherwise strong, God-serving, Bible-believing Christians are steeped in prejudice. Only they don't see it as prejudice—prejudice that has existed for generations. They simply say ‘it's the way I was raised.' Hard, Mary Swan. Very hard to admit that the way one was raised is wrong. Hard to admit that prejudice is a sin that needs to be confessed so that change can begin. So very hard.”

“Do you think things will ever change between blacks and whites? The prejudice—will the chain ever be broken?”

“With God, nothing is impossible. Just remember that. He's the one who changes hearts, one at a time. Like for you.” She patted my hand. “Then, once His Holy Spirit lives in our hearts, He'll show other things that need to change, little by little. Things like prejudice and pride and selfishness and jealousy. He'll start changing us from the inside out.”

“So what do I do?”

She reached up to the shelf above her desk, which was crammed with books, and retrieved a thin paperback titled
Now That You Believe
. “This is a little booklet I often use with new believers. It explains very simply what happens at salvation and how to grow as a Christian—how to read the Bible and pray. Look it over, talk to me and to others about your questions. Most importantly, give God permission to change you. And He will. Live what you believe, care and share what you've learned. And then open those beautiful hands of yours, with those long, slim fingers, and let Jesus do the part that only He can do.”

My eyes were stinging with tears, but I couldn't resist asking her a question. “Miss Abigail, why do you put up with me? Why do you take the time to talk to me? Who am I? You've got a lot of other stuff that is so much more important.”

She got that twinkle in her eye and said, “Many times after Jesus had been teaching, He said, ‘He who has ears to hear, let him hear.' And, Mary Swan, I knew right away that you had ears to hear. I knew right away that God had His hand on you.”

“You did?” I was dumbfounded. “How?”

“I saw in you a heart to care and eyes to see and a teachable spirit.”

“Wow. You saw all that?”

She nodded. “Let me pray for you, Mary Swan. Remember, God will show you what to do next.”

“I've got good news, kids,” Daddy said over our dinner of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was actually quite tasty, but I sure missed Ella Mae's cooking. “They'll be moving Ella Mae to a private room on Monday. The doctor says that he'll have her home before the end of the month.” Daddy's voice belied a tension that made the good news questionable to me.

“Can we go see her?” Jimmy asked, taking a big bite out of the chicken leg and then letting out an obnoxious burp.

“You're gross,” I said.

“Give her a little more time.”

“That's what you say every day, Daddy,” Jimmy complained.

Daddy didn't comment on that. “Stocks up three points today. Market's doing well. Where would you kids like to go on vacation this year?” That was Daddy's way of changing the subject.

But later in the evening, with the news blaring on the TV and Jimmy working on a project with electricity that I was sure would get him electrocuted, I commented, “Miss Abigail said she met you at the hospital.”

“Sure did. Nice lady. A little eccentric, maybe. She certainly has a tough job.”

“You know she's the one I go to help.”

“Yes. I was glad to meet her. She spoke very highly of you. Seems to greatly appreciate your help.”

“She liked you too. And she told me that Mama used to help out at a church in the inner city.”

“Yes, that's right. She did.”

“Daddy, how often did Mama go down to help Ella Mae out?”

“Not too often. She needed all her energy just to get herself well. But occasionally, after she came back from Resthaven and was having a good spell, she'd give art classes to some of the poor kids down there. She loved it. She absolutely loved it.”

“And she gave money too?”

“Sometimes.”

“But she didn't want anyone to know?”

“Exactly.”

“Mama was a good person, wasn't she, Daddy?”

“A wonderful woman. Complicated, fragile, talented as all get out. And she loved you and Jimmy more than the world itself.”

Little by little, I was getting a better image of my mother, like paint strokes that gradually reveal a portrait. Yes, these months were giving me a portrait of Mama. Deeply wounded as a child, fragile and prone to despondency, talented and elegant, and generous with what she had. I wondered if I was as complex as Mama had been. Maybe we all were that complicated.

“I had an interesting meeting today, Mary Swan,” Daddy was saying. “Met with the mayor and several of the business leaders in Atlanta.” He handed me several stapled sheets of paper.

“What's this?”

“The most recent statistics on blacks and whites in Atlanta.”

I started to read out loud, “‘Negro families have less than half the income of white families in the city. The average Negro income before taxes in 1961 was $3,307, while the average white family's income before taxes was $6,984. Fifty-seven percent of the white families owned their own homes, but only 19 percent of the Negro families were homeowners. Automobiles were owned by 78 percent of the white families but by only 31 percent of the Negro families. After taxes, the black family used all except one dollar of their income on current consumption.'” I looked up from the paper. “That's awful, Daddy!”

“It is troubling, Swannee, but there are, of course, other reasons besides simple discrimination. Many of the Negroes are coming into Atlanta from rural areas where education was not encouraged. Whereas the whites had an average of eleven years of education in 1960, the blacks had an average of six years.

“On the positive side in this racial issue, in early November of last year, barely two months ago, the H. J. Russell Plastering Company became a member of the 3,000-member organization of the Chamber of Commerce. This made Herman J. Russell the first black man to be admitted to the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Well, that is good news, Daddy. That sounds like progress.”

Daddy had a wry grin on his face. “Albeit that the invitation to be a member was accidentally sent to Mr. Russell. No one knew he was black.”

“By accident?”

“Right. He was invited to join by accident.” Daddy chuckled. “Anyway, we all know what Mayor Allen's stand is on these black-white relations. This is his second year in office. During his first year, he got to know many of the black leaders in the city, and as a result he respects their desire for equal treatment under the law for their people. The mayor was most impressed with the black leaders' willingness to let the white community work out the problems slowly, if need be. Mayor Allen insists, and I quote, ‘that Atlanta will never become one of the great cities in this nation and of the world so long as black men, women, and their children are held in a state of economic, political, and educational subservience.'”

“And did you agree with the mayor, Daddy? Did you agree with what he said?”

“Let's just say I wasn't quite as adamantly opposed as some of the men. One of my friends, whose name I won't mention, said, ‘It'll never happen. You aren't gonna catch my kids going to school with a Negro! Over my dead body! Before ya know it, they'll be wanting membership in the club.' And then another friend turned to me and said, ‘I agree totally. JJ, you mean to tell me that you want your daughter sitting by a Negro on the bus or eating in a restaurant with a black, going to the Fox Theatre together?'”

Daddy got this big smile on his face and said, “Swan, I had to bite my tongue not to say, ‘Fred, I'm not one bit afraid of that happening. And you know why? Because it already has!'”

“Daddy!” I was delighted. “You would never say that!”