Uncle Tom had settled in his lawn chair next to Helen and Mary, critiquing each float as it lumbered by. It was a tradition for the onlookers to clap for those floats that were considered particularly well made-up, and to amuse the ladies, Tom would give a loud cat whistle to those he thought were tacky. Fingers in each corner of his mouth were almost as loud as the siren.
Far up the line, Tab saw Hills Grocery Store’s float and swung down off her place on the cannon. It always came toward the end and threw out hard candy for all the children. She wanted to be near the street and ready, but in a nonchalant way, as if she just happened to be there as the candy was thrown. She was too old now to pretend real interest in candy. Besides, the band from the black high school was coming, and seeing the majorettes up close was not to be missed. Whereas the white majorettes marched in a sedate line, twirling batons in unison, the black majorettes seemed to each have their own agenda, twirling, prancing, or dancing, depending upon their talent or mood—free of standard.
Tab was walking away, opening a piece of peppermint, when she heard her uncle say, “What the hell is that supposed to be?” It was third from the last. After it came a float from Jimmy’s Battery Shop, then a patrol car bringing up the rear. It had been made on top of a beat-up old Ford with a flatbed loose on its frame. The motor kept dying. One of the black men in the cab would jump out and lift the hood, jiggling something to make it start again. It was lagging behind the rest of the parade, opening a gap in the line. Most people didn’t really pay much attention, gathering up lawn chairs and calling in children, preparing to leave.
Charles was folding a quilt when he glanced up. “By that cross on the front, it’s a church float of some kind.”
“No church around here.” Tom squinted to see. “They wouldn’t put out something looking that crummy. Thing looks like it’s on its last leg.” The motor died again. One of the men in the cab got out and raised the hood.
Her father bent over to see if he could look in the cab. “That’s old Calvin from down at the foundry sitting in shotgun.”
“Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church—that’s what it says on the sign,” Tab said.
Her father stopped what he was doing, putting the quilt on one of the lawn chairs. “What? Where does it say that?” He took up his cane and began walking out toward the street, Tom following. “Well, I’ll be damned . . . Reuben. There really is . . . a Word of Truth . . .” Her father never cussed in front of the ladies or the children, so they all turned and watched the float from the Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church as it got started again and came toward them—those few who were left, those few who hadn’t already packed up their chairs and blankets and headed home or on down to the river.
And Uncle Tom, taking her father’s words all wrong, was just in the process of letting out one of his whistles when her father said to him, very quietly, as if he was having a hard time getting the words out, “Don’t do that, Tom.”
“The hell you say.” Tom turned to smile at the ladies, put two fingers in his mouth, and took a deep breath.
It was the first time Tab had ever seen anything like this from her father. Suddenly, his cane was raised in the air, and if Tom hadn’t stepped back, he might have been hit. “I said, You make one more sound and I’ll—” Her father stopped, and brought the cane to the ground. Tom shrank back, raising his eyebrows at Helen.
Tab watched her father’s face turn ashen. “Family or no, I’m so tired . . . tired of that, Tom.” He was leaning more heavily on his cane, although still managing to turn and move toward the street.
“What’s got you so teed off? Look at that thing. Why the hell can’t I whistle? That float’s a disgrace. Doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Labor Day, and look”—he pointed—“everybody behind is having to wait.”
Charles was breathing hard now. “I might know that float . . . those people.” He caught the side of the VFW cannon barrel with his free hand.
“Pop, you all right?” Tab turned around, searching for her mother. “Mama,” she called over to her mother, who was talking to a neighbor. Mary walked over toward them, bringing a lawn chair as she came.
“Charles, I told you you’ve been doing too much lately, not giving yourself enough time.” She unfolded the chair into the back of his legs, “Sit down, sweetheart.” And then she got a good look at his graying face. “Charles? Are you all right?”
He slumped down in the chair, feeling the desperate breathing coming on in front of all these people and powerless to do anything about it. The wind from the explosion of the starboard wing blew by him. Rain dripped off his face and onto Reuben’s coat. “I’m fine,” he said, but he could feel a new sensation, had felt it the minute he recognized the sign on the side of the float—pain in his chest and shoulder.
“Look at that thing.” Tom was still jeering. “Not a flag on it. Typical coloreds, always the ones to think up the queerest thing around.”
“For heaven’s sake, Tom. Never mind that. Come here.” Helen had followed Mary over to Charles. They were looking down at him. He brushed the rain out of his eyes, trying to get a clear picture of them.
“Go get the car, Tom,” Helen ordered. “Mary’s right. You’ve just overdone it, Charles.”
“Pop, are you okay? Pop?” Tab was searching back and forth between his face and her mother’s.
“I’m fine, just fine. Go tell me what you see on that float.” Tab was gripping his arm. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Do that for me. Tell me what you see.”
Mary was trying to stay calm. “Your father’s right. Go look at the float and tell us what it’s like. We’ll be here when you get back. Go on. It’s all right.” The float was almost on them now. It had managed to start again and was tottering forward.
“And clap,” he said. “You might clap when it passes by.”
Her mother nodded her head. “Go.”
Tab backed away from him, taking comfort in pleasing him. She turned and ran to the edge of the street.
The women, Mary and Helen, stood there waiting for Tom to come with the car, hoping to divert Charles by trying to guess what it was supposed to be.
It was, after all, a strange-looking thing. The wooden frame set up against the back cab of the truck might be a drive-in movie screen. The long crepe-paper streamers attached to the sides were waving in the breeze. Somebody had written “Three minutes till the movie starts” up on boards that had been nailed together in a square and whitewashed. Next to that was a tall black man, standing behind what could be a ticket taker’s booth. There were what looked like toy cars made out of cardboard boxes probably taken from some Dumpster back of Crossroads General Store and painted bright colors, still drying in the afternoon sun. Black people were sitting in all the cars, facing the screen. Three older women sat in the first cars next to the screen, one of them with a big bag of popcorn she was passing to the other two. Behind them were two young women seated in their toy cars, bright and tight dresses almost, but not quite, obscured by long crepe-paper streamers tied to their wrists, continually swirling about in the air as they blew kisses to the crowd. There was a boy, sitting somberly, drinking a Coca-Cola. From time to time, he would spring out of his car to walk forward and grab a handful of popcorn.
There were others, grown men, barely able to squeeze into the little spaces that were the car seats. Beside each car was a wooden post with a shoe box on top, painted black to resemble a speaker. The cars and speakers filled the back of the flatbed. Nailed down the sides of the truck were Burma Shave-type signs: 50 CENTS PER PERSON, and TURN OFF LIGHTS AFTER ENTERING, and NO ALCOHOL ALLOWED. On the tail end of the flatbed, as if discarded to make way for new things, were pieces of old split-rail fencing.
There was something about it Tab thought she recognized, the disheveled old truck, the long ribbons of crepe paper floating up in the breeze. She took the postcard out of her pocket and waved it to get Tina’s attention away from the boys who were talking to her. “Hey.” Tina lo
oked up and Tab pointed to the float. “Was that what we saw?” Tina started toward her, all the while studying the float. “Was that the thing in the churchyard that night? Didn’t it look like that?”
Tina was standing next to her now, watching it, hand raised to shield her eyes.
“You think?”
“Maybe,” Tina said. “Kinda scruffy-looking, and I don’t see the preacher anywhere on it.”
“I think we should clap,” Tab said, and she stuck the postcard from Dominique back in her pocket and they stood there clapping. Perhaps one of the older women on the float seemed to acknowledge this, dipping her head slightly as it passed.
“Come on, Tina,” Tab said. “We need to see about Pop.” Before she turned to go, Tab stepped off the curb to get one last look.
The float from the Word of Truth Missionary Baptist Church lumbered its way forward, down the road toward the river—all on board knowing for certain they had created a thing of unparalleled beauty. Not to be vain about it, but it would be impossible for anyone watching to miss the majesty of it, all decked out in bright, swirling colors, glistening in the afternoon sun, the culmination of days and nights of continuous toiling, the first of its kind, really. The voting school—indeed, all of the members of Word of Truth—would not rest until they got it just like they thought she would have wanted. Was she watching them now? Could she see the white girl standing there in the road, enthralled by the beauty of it?
Tab ran to catch up with Tina. “I think that’s it, the thing we saw in the backyard of the church, that night we got saved.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For the purposes of the story, I have compressed civil rights-era events that took place in a larger time frame. Actually:
• The Highlander Folk School was raided, padlocked, and later auctioned off by the state of Tennessee in the early 1960s.
• The race for governor of Alabama between George Wallace and a man much like the character Brad La Forte took place in the mid 1960s. Many believed Ryan deGraffenried would be the first New South governor for Alabama. He died in a plane crash while campaigning.
The KKK plaque remains in Pulaski, Tennessee—its face turned to the wall to discourage photographs and vandals.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks for the interviews granted to me by Dr. John F. Hume, MD, retired director of the Tuskegee Polio Unit and Edith Campbell, MPA, a childhood survivor of polio who still resides and teaches at Tuskegee University and who, along with Dr. Hume, wrote the very helpful monograph on the Tuskegee Polio Unit. A special thanks to Dr. Scott Bates, longtime member of the Highlander Center board of directors and professor emeritus at the University of The South. He took the time to show me where the old Highlander Folk School was located and to relate myriad facts about the school and its founder, Myles Horton.
And to the staff of the Giles County Library; they were kind enough to direct me to points of interest in Pulaski.
I am indebted to my aunt Beth Kennedy, longtime supporter of Highlander Folk School. In her ninety-fourth year, she and her husband, Van, still reside in Berkeley, California. And thanks, as always, to my sisters Joanne, Sally, and Helen, who are always kind enough to take the time to read and comment on early drafts.
Thanks to all the folks at Warner Books, especially my wonderful editor Maureen Egen. I so appreciate Harvey-Jane Kowal guiding me through the maze of editing and Carol Edwards and Michele Bidelspach. To my agent, Molly Friedrich and to Frances Jalet-Miller and all the folks at Aaron Priest—thanks to all.
The Summer We Got Saved Page 34