Coach cleared his throat. “Oh, Gracious Lord. Shine your goodness on our boys. Light the way so that they may play with vigor. Together we say . . . ‘Go, Crusaders!’ ”
The band struck up “The Flight of the Bumble Bee,” which I recognized from excruciating piano recitals of the past, both my own and Sara’s.
Davis shifted his weight, and his shoulder grazed mine. “Fun so far, Babe Ruth?” I felt his words slide down my eardrum. I nodded. I was somebody’s Babe Ruth.
He reached inside his jacket and extracted a bottle of beer from a hidden pocket. I wondered how he felt about being up here instead of down on the field. With a quick thwack on the bleacher, he popped the bottle’s top and tipped the beer my way. I took a sip, and he knocked back the rest. He reached into a second pocket and pulled out a second bottle. This time, he popped the top and handed it to Claudia, even steven.
Claudia handed the bottle back without imbibing. “Mr. Jefferson, you are late to the party. Jimmy fixed up some manhattans.” From farther down the row, Jimmy, who was cute in a big-guy-goofy-grin way, wagged a shot glass. “He didn’t even know we have a Manhattanite in our midst,” Claudia said.
Davis pointed to Claudia’s glass and asked me, “What the heck’s in a manhattan?”
I spotted a maraschino cherry of the most garish color. “Cherries,” I said.
The sun hung low, casting shadows that made everyone on the field look eighteen feet tall. From the grass, T-Ann picked up a red Covenant flag—a giant C surrounded by small crosses—and swished it overhead. The brass segued into a rendition of “Oh! Susanna.” Thurston-Ann waved the flag, faster and faster until, whoosh, she took off down the field. The team followed behind. Buck appeared last, clapping his hands up to the bleachers, inviting everyone to return his applause.
Gracie was on her feet, clapping loudest of all.
After the coin toss, which we lost, the people in front of us sat down and we did, too. Ansley Academy didn’t score on the first drive. Once we had the ball back, Buck threw a long pass. “That’s my beau, my Buck,” Gracie announced. “He’s mine!”
From behind, someone yelled, “We know!” The tone was kind, though, because who didn’t love Gracie?
But then Buck threw an interception, and the crowd let out a collective groan. I parked my pom under the seat.
“Know what happens when we score, right?” Davis asked.
“I know. Seven points. Well—six points plus the kick.” Over the years, Dad had drilled me on the basics. We’d listened to Sunday games in the kitchen, our heads bowed to the transistor, rooting on the New York Giants and their MVP, the fearless Frank Gifford.
Davis shook his head, and his hair flopped forward. “Nah, Score Squeeze. It’s a tradition. You hug the person sitting next to you. Can’t turn your back on tradition, right?”
Unless you’re my mother, I thought.
I shrugged and Davis chugged, but inside I wondered about the squeeze: When the time came, would he squeeze Claudia or me? And if me, should my hands stay by my side or go around his back?
“I need the ladies’,” Claudia announced. “Gracie?”
“I’m staying put,” Gracie said.
“Davis?” Claudia asked. “Would you be a gentleman and walk me over?”
Davis got up and held Claudia’s elbow, all chivalrous, down the bleachers.
Gracie pulled me into a whisper. A few stray strands of blond had worked free of her ponytail. I ran my fingers over my own increasingly crazed curls. “If you were to ask me about Claudia and Davis,” Gracie said, “I’d tell you that just because she’s sweet on him doesn’t mean he’s sweet on her. Sweet isn’t always a two-way street.”
“Oh, good. I was—”
“But she has claws, our Claudia. Keep an eye out.” Gracie reached into her bag and swiveled up her lipstick. “You want to refresh?”
I swiped on a little.
A few minutes later, Davis was back. “You have a little red on your chin.” He brushed his pinky finger below my bottom lip, right in front of Claudia. Claw-dia.
That little touch unbuttoned me—unbuttoned the worry, anyway. That place in my chest that felt shruggy two minutes ago moved over to make room for a boy with floppy hair and soft lips. Well, I imagined they were soft.
On the field, Buck circled his arm around in big loosening-up hoops. He completed a few passes, and we were in field-goal range.
Soon the ref raised his arms and yelled, “The kick is gooooooood.”
I got ready for a squeeze—sanctioned by southern football, even.
Davis didn’t move one inch in my direction. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, hoping a slight jostle might remind him he had a certain tradition to keep alive, but Davis kept his eyes locked on the game while guzzling down a third beer.
Ansley Academy marched down toward the end zone, but—rah!—we sacked the quarterback.
Claudia stood up and screamed, “Go, Crusaders—charge!” with such vigor it looked like she might have a stroke.
The wind picked up. All those pennants held by all those boosters in the first row fluttered, the Covenant C flapping, a sudden impromptu parade.
The power of cheer worked. Buck spiraled the ball, and number 83 on our side nabbed it as it whizzed by. Davis jumped up, and I did, too. I looked over at Gracie, but she was staring at the field, hands folded in prayer.
On third down, Buck dropped back, cocked his arm, and released the ball into a soaring arc.
Boom.
Davis threw an arm around my shoulder. “Remember, touchdown equals this,” he said into my hair as he squeezed me.
“Touchdown? Oh! That’s why you didn’t—”
“What?” He leaned closer. “It’s hard to hear you.”
“Nothing,” I said.
His hand slid off my shoulder to my back, just above my bra strap. After the cheering died down, he ran his fingers down my arm.
I shivered in my head, if not in factuality.
“Told you it’d be fun,” Davis said. His eyes crinkled into a smile, and I noticed he had the faintest freckles sprinkled across his nose and eyelids.
Claudia gave me her best glower, but I didn’t much care.
“Team was better before,” a guy in front yelled. He stood up and faced the stands. “Hit harder, played smarter.” The guy had on a yellow cap, like the man next to him, two sunny dots in a sea of Covenant red.
Davis flicked a bottle cap at the guy, and he saluted back with a raised middle finger.
Davis and I squeezed in three more Score Squeezes, each more shivery than the last, on the way to winning the game in a blowout.
We all waited by the field house for Buck to come out: Davis, Claudia, Gracie, and me, plus Jimmy and the two yellow-caps—the younger one was super handsome, and the older was skinny-skinny and wearing an untucked shirt.
T-Ann and her majorette friends waited too, holding bouquets of red balloons. Davis pinched one from the center of the pile and yanked it free.
“Davis E. Jefferson!” T-Ann yelled. “That is not your rightful property.”
“Yeah, but I have an immediate need for a corsage.” Davis tied the thin ribbon around my wrist.
“Davis!” Claudia protested. “Are you not taking me to the mixer? Any corsage you have a need for would be headed this way.”
“Claud,” Davis said, his eyes fixed on me. “You are taking me to the mixer.”
The younger yellow-cap spoke up. “Zap-zap. The brother is a magnet.” He reached deep into his pocket and took out a lighter. He flicked it and held it against one, then another of T-Ann’s balloons until they burst with a loud pop, pop. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Davis.
Davis closed his eyes for a half second. When he opened them, he said, “Ruth, meet Oren Jefferson. My football-star brother. O, this is Ruth.”
&n
bsp; “And me,” the older man said, stepping forward. I saw then that he was forty or fifty—definitely not football age.
“And Cranford Parnell,” Davis said without enthusiasm. “My uncle.”
Buck banged out of the locker room, hair wet, smile huge. He whirled Gracie around with the confidence of a winner. “Oren! Cranford!” Buck said, slapping Davis’s uncle on the back. “Thanks for coming.”
“Good, good win,” Oren said to Buck. “Full-speed, all-out end-zone playing.”
T-Ann stuffed the balloon carcasses in the trash without missing a beat, then led the group toward the parking lot.
Oren fell in next to me. He snapped a twig off a maple—or maybe it was an oak—as we passed by. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Not exactly.” I held tight to my balloon.
“She’s a New Yorrrrker,” Claudia said like she was doing vocal exercises. “And Ruth, Oren is a football legend.”
Oren was gorgeous—maybe even more gorgeous than Davis. Everything about him—flecky blue eyes, wavy hair, immaculate white shirt, muscle-y arms—was a little bigger, bolder, more intense. Even his dimple was grander—he had two, double the charm.
“Legend where?” I asked.
“Georgia Tech. We have a bye this week,” Oren said, with a tip of his cap, which I now saw was embroidered with a gt.
“Oren has a bye for the season, it turns out,” Davis added.
In the parking lot, we stopped at a truck that belonged to Cranford. He lowered the tailgate, and even though it was dusty and we were dressy, people started climbing into the bed. I couldn’t figure out how to manage it gracefully, so I waited until last and then heave-hoed myself up.
Gracie spread her quilt over the hump where the wheel poked up, and she opened her pocketbook. “Knew you’d be starving.” She handed Buck a sandwich in waxed paper. “Chicken salad, no almonds.”
“It’s wrong to have a picnic in the dark,” Cranford said. He picked up a few stalks of hay from the truck and snapped his lighter. The thin bundle crackled, then flared orange.
“Not here.” Davis grabbed the hay bouquet and jumped from the truck. “Won’t be able to see stars through your stupid smoke.” He stomped the sparks out with his loafer.
Oren whispered to me, “As I am to football, Davis is to stars—a genius. That boy knows his sky. Here’s a tip.” Oren flashed a not entirely winning grin. “If he ever asks you—”
“I can hear you, O. Shut up.” Davis kept grinding his sole into the pavement even though the hay was now a billion flecks of dust. I slipped down from the truck, careful not to let my dress ride up, and stood next to him.
Jimmy took T-Ann’s hand, and they hopped off the back and headed toward the woods.
Oren inched over to Claudia, and they got to talking, leaning against the back of the truck’s cab. “Davis,” Claudia announced, her arm linked through Oren’s, “I am reminded you are not the only Jefferson with charm.”
“When you’re right, you’re right, Claud,” Davis said. He batted my balloon. I batted back.
The air was still warm, but drier, friendlier. “So, you’re some kind of astronomer?” I said.
“Amateur.” Davis kicked the dirt. “Oren and Cranford and booze—they can be bad friends.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Boom.”
A shiver shot through me, lips to hips.
He cracked open a beer from one of his mystery pockets—he must’ve stashed a whole six-pack in there—and I had a sip, then two. At some point, I glanced Claw-dia’s way. She was throwing her head back in laughter, possibly fake, while Oren leaned into her, smile wide enough to light the night.
“I have to go,” I said to Davis. “My grandfather is picking me up at ten.” I’d briefly considered some kind of lie about who was fetching me, but I wasn’t quick enough to create one on the spot.
Davis walked me back to the bleachers and waited with me.
Unlike Mother, Mr. Hank was right on time. He had a glass on the dashboard, a whiskey for the road.
The news blared on the car radio—a murder in Cobb County, an integration protest in Decatur—but none of the names were familiar, none of the news touched my Score Squeeze night.
When we pulled into the motor court of the main house, I got out of the car, the unpopped balloon tied to my wrist, and floated through the front door.
7
Shalom, Y’all
The balloon was wilted by morning, but I tied it back on my wrist anyway. It was the first corsage I’d been given, improvisational or otherwise, and I was in the mood to show it off.
“How was the game?” Mother said, when I joined her in the kitchen. She had a knife in hand, ready to scalpel a cantaloupe.
“Good—for us.” For me.
“I tried to wait up,” she said, “but Mr. Hank had me writing up the police blotter last night, and it wrung me out.”
Nattie shook cornflakes into a bowl. “What’s that old balloon on your arm?”
“This?” I asked, aware my voice jumped. “It’s from a boy named Davis.”
Mother ate her melon over the sink, careful not to drip on her blouse. She sighed her sigh. “Services start at ten. We’ll drop Fontaine off at the Club first. You might want to change.” Nattie was in her bathing suit, and I was in pedal pushers and a tie-up blouse.
“Oh,” I said. “Services.” I’d somehow—temporarily—forgotten.
“Let’s both wear green. Minty green,” Nattie said. The thought of us matching, which we hadn’t done in centuries, seemed to cheer her.
“All right then,” I said, even though mint might be my least favorite hue in the hueniverse.
We rolled all the windows down, but the air in the Savoy didn’t move—not out or up or around. Fontaine, in a dress with buttons on the diagonal, occupied my usual front seat. Nattie and I were back-seat buddies.
The traffic took a cue from the air. It didn’t budge. Mother flicked her pearl lighter open, shut, open, shut, then lit her cigarette.
“We’ll be late,” Nattie said, drumming her fingers on the seat between us.
“Life will go on,” Mother said.
“Y’all could spend Saturday swimming at the Club,” Fontaine said. I imagined that was how Gracie and T-Ann and Davis might spend the next few hours. “You’re always welcome.”
“Are we? Are we always welcome?” Mother said. “Will you be telling your Club friends that your daughter and granddaughters are spending the morning at temple?”
Fontaine twisted around to the back seat. “I’ve been there—to temple. Once with Pastor Douglas and the ladies of Wesley Methodist. The place is splendid.”
“We’re not talking about you being welcomed in a synagogue,” Mother said. “We’re talking about Ruth—all of us—being welcomed into a restricted club. And until then, we’ll be going forward, not backward.” Mother punched the accelerator just as the traffic broke.
“Don’t you make me or the city of Atlanta out as narrow-minded,” Fontaine said, still facing us. “Covenant has Jews.”
“It does?” Nattie asked. “Where?”
“But,” I said, “I thought you said people don’t drift—”
“There’s a quota, I believe, and the Jewish girls are perhaps not—” Fontaine stopped and readjusted her smile. “The girls who’re going to the Magnolia and such, those are not the Jewish girls. Of that, I’m one thousand percent sure.”
“On that, we agree,” Mother said, grinding out her cigarette.
My legs felt glued to the Savoy’s upholstery.
“It’s the five-o’clock shadow—and I’m not referring to facial grooming,” Fontaine went on. “Jews are well accepted at the banks or the law offices or the hospital or whatnot. But after dinner? After five o’clock, people like to socialize with their kind. I’m not saying it’s right, min
d you. But if you’re—let’s take a for-instance—socializing with Gracie Eleet, and you were to tell her your religious preference—”
“Not preference,” Mother clarified. “Religion.”
“You’ve changed religions once—why not change again?” Fontaine twisted herself back around to the front. “Because the moment ‘Jewish’ leaves your lips, people’ll adjust their reactions. Until that second, maybe they think you’re Italian . . . or some Russian aristocrat—isn’t that what Miss Natalie Wood is? But once they hear you’re Jewish, it’s the headline—the only thing people will remember about you.”
“Enough,” Mother said sharply. She whipped up the long drive to the Club, which Fontaine called “the capital-C Club.” We lurched past the lawn mowed in a perfect crisscross pattern, past the Negro valets in red blazers and white gloves, barely slowing to let Fontaine hop out, then lurched back to Peachtree Street (as opposed to Peachtree Park or Peachtree Battle or Peachtree Memorial or Peachtree Valley). Mother pointed us toward Midtown with nary a word.
The temple rose above its neighbors at the top of a hill, a kind of Jewish Tara with whizzy traffic at its feet. A discreet sign with gold lettering announced: temple shir shalom. We walked up the steep driveway, leaning forward so we didn’t lean back.
“We’re definitely late,” Nattie said, ticking off the minutes on her watch. “Eleven minutes. The pink booklet says—”
“Nattie, by now you know I’m always fashionably late,” Mother whispered as we approached the triple front doors painted lipstick red. She opened the right side with the quiet of a thief.
It was like going into a theater after the movie started; we had to let our eyes adjust. We stood in an entryway behind another set of doors. Part of me hoped it would be too late to go in at all, so I could sit poolside with the pastel posse at the no-sense-telling-them-I’m-Jewish Club, or wherever they might be.
A man with a frown-shaped mustache appeared from a side room. “Shalom, y’all,” he said softly, opening the inner doors for us.
In the Neighborhood of True Page 6