The waiter presented a platter of cheese puffs. “Thank you, sir,” I said. Since the rabbi-and-rebel night, I’d made an inside promise to address everyone whose job it was to wait on me with “sir” or “ma’am.”
If Davis noticed, he didn’t say a thing.
An hour later, after rounds of passed appetizers and glasses of lemonade with mint and a tip of the flask—the latter courtesy of Claudia—Oren turned up and joined our table. He was as handsome as before, wearing a white oxford shirt that set off his tan.
Claudia draped her arms over Oren’s shoulders. “Finally, the original Jefferson.”
“Claud, aren’t you looking nice,” Oren said, his dimples making a simultaneous appearance. “Tell me, what color would you call that?” he asked, nodding to the strapless dress she’d been hoiking up—a dress I’d bet the ranch Mrs. Starling had not approved.
“Emerald Envy,” she laughed.
“That’s his new line,” Davis muttered. “ ‘Tell me, what color would you call that?’ ”
Claudia laughed too loud, and her straight-as-a-ruler hair swung to and fro. “They added lights to the courts, you know.” She set her glass on the lawn and spun her dress around. “Want to play?”
“Could do,” Oren said, his arm loosely around her waist.
“Do you use a continental grip?” Claudia wrapped Oren’s hand around her own.
“I’ll use any grip you want me to,” Oren said.
“Let’s see what stars we can find,” Davis said to me.
“Ruth, ask him about the Star of David,” Claudia said, over her shoulder.
“What’d she say?” Davis asked me.
I answered/not-answered with what I hoped was a kiss worthy of distraction.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the night sky as we left the tiki torches and tennis rackets behind and sat on the slope between the second and third hole of the golf course.
Davis put his arms around my waist and scooted me closer. I was half on his lap. He felt different, more substantial, without the buoyancy of the deep end.
“What if somebody comes out here?” I asked.
“They won’t, Ruth Tarbell.”
It was a beautiful night at a beautiful club—actually, it was cloudy and it wasn’t the capital-C Club, but still. I was with a boy who now knew my middle name.
Davis tipped his chin back. “You surprised me with that diving.”
“I’ve been diving at sleep-away camp since I was ten.”
“Where’s that?”
“Maine. Have you been to Maine?” And then I laughed, thinking it was Maine that had come up that first day in history when discussing the Uncivil War.
“Maybe you won’t believe this, but I’ve never been to the beach,” Davis said.
“Not even in Georgia?” I asked. “Or Florida?”
“It’s a good five, six hours from here. And then we’d have to stay in a motel.” He seemed to watch for my reaction.
“You’d love it,” I said. “As a naturalist—the tides, the mollusks, the stars at night.”
“We have a hunting lodge, and that’s it. The whole legacy,” Davis said. “Our family isn’t like the Landrys. My father’s father is basically carrying us along at the club.”
“My family isn’t like the Landrys either—my Robb family.” I was so relieved to say something unequivocally true. Sara would be almost halfway home now—Roanoke, Virginia, or close to it—and I smiled, thinking that I was doing her proud.
“I know,” he said. And I wondered how much he knew. Lots, I hoped. I sort of hoped Claudia and her golden gown and golden tongue had spilled her golden guts.
But then Davis wrapped his arms around me, and my breathing fell in line with his, like we were sharing lungs.
He ran his finger from the top of my bun, over my nose, and down, down, down my neck to, eventually, inevitably, my bra.
I unbuttoned his shirt.
He unzipped my dress, one inch, then another. I was suddenly aware of the sway of the pleats, and I liked the way they looked as they swooped and swooned around.
I stood up and shimmied the dress off, keeping my slip on. I was leading the parade, and anyway, it was more than I’d been wearing at the pool.
“This curve.” He bent down so I could only see the top of his head, and he pressed his lips against my hip, just two layers of nylon between us.
I was glad I hadn’t had much to drink. I wanted to remember every speck of this night, even the grass.
“I’m dying to be with you.” He gave me a crooked smile.
Then we did what we did so well—semi-clothed, in the semi-dark.
When we broke for a breath, my eye caught a spot of orange in the distance, beyond the club, beyond our side of the city. My first thought was the bonfire after the mixer. My second thought was worse.
“Is that fireworks? Or a fire?” I stood up, feeling exposed in my slip and yet feeling like I had to walk in the direction of the glow. Even as I asked, I had a stomach-sinking sense of the answer. Mr. Hank had been getting five-dinger alarms about crosses going up in flames nearly every day. Birmingham. Tallahassee. And Atlanta. “That’s not a cross, is it? A cross on Stone Mountain?”
“Nah.” Davis was right behind me, his front to my back, and I was so happy he was on my side—well, on my back, but on my side. “You can’t even see the mountain from here. It’s probably a burn pile of leaves or something. It’s probably nothing like a cross.”
I faced him. “Thanks for being honest.” Talking to Davis was like talking to Max but without the sanctimony—it felt good to ask a simple question and get a simple answer. I could see it in his eyes, even in the semi-opaque dark, that he was such a good guy. I thought about saying something more—thanks for being so handsome, or thanks for being someone I might fall in love with—but the question that fell out of my mouth had to do with crosses. It was the one T-Ann had asked me those months ago. “What’s your church?”
“No church,” he said, fingers twirling around some hair that had escaped my bun. “I haven’t been in a long time.”
“Me neither—I’m not religious.” My hands, on their own accord, flew up to my eyes, covering them like I was saying the Shema or lighting the Shabbos candles, not that I’d done that in recent memory. I swallowed the Hebrew thoughts and stuck my hands on my hips in what I hoped was a provocative way.
“I believe in science and the sky—what I can see,” Davis said.
“I’m not sure I believe in anything.”
“I believe in you and me.”
And just like that, I was ready to take Sara’s advice and be with him with him. Hell, I thought, I’d do it tonight.
Then—oooof—the mood was gone because Davis was saying, “It’s not just Stone Mountain, the lightings.” His voice was soft but other things tensed up—his arms, for instance, and my heart. “For some people, the hate is here. My uncle Cranford and his hunting buddies, they don’t understand. They’re so ready to hate Negroes or Jews or homosexuals—anyone who’s a little different.”
In my head, I said, Jews, Jews, Jews. Out loud, I said, “Different? Like Jews, like northerners?” I had a cold patch in my throat, and it wasn’t the air, which was still summertime-warm. I should tell him right now. Claudia already knew—it was only a matter of time before she’d blab. He’d already asked me to the Magnolia. He’d already told me that he didn’t go to church. He’d already told me his religion was the sky and us.
“Who wouldn’t like this northerner?” he said, and his sunbeam smile was back in residence.
The door was open. All I had to do was walk through it.
“There are lots of Jews in the North,” I said, for starters.
Thwack. The sound of a tennis ball—hit hard—broke the moment.
I put my dress back on, fast.
�
��Orrrrrren.” Claudia’s voice came from over the berm. “I think it sailed thisaway.”
Davis tipped my chin with his finger. “Don’t forget this moment.”
“How could I?” How could I forget the fire in the not-distant-enough distance, the chin tipping, the unzipping, the unspoken Jewness as I stood beside him on the golf course of a club that didn’t want me as a guest.
16
Driving Lessons
Mother shoveled Nattie and me into the Savoy to head off to temple. On a Sunday. In New York, Hebrew school was during the week, and Sundays were for churchgoers, but here religious school was a Sunday-only affair. It would be the fifth time I’d been at temple in two weeks.
Today, Mother had a meeting with the rabbi and a pastor from an AME church, Nattie had her usual Sunday school—and me, I was helping Max. I’d been volunteered by Mother to be his assistant.
I went for a plain-Jane (or plain-Ruth) look—a simple crewneck sweater and button-up skirt. I didn’t even bother fixing my hair, and let the curls go cuckoo. It was sort of a relief to dash out the door with Mother and Nattie. It was only Max. That was sort of a relief, too.
When I walked in, Max was discussing today’s songs—Noah’s Ark–themed—with the choral director. Before leaving, she handed us a couple of choir robes, the blindingly gold ones she said she’d special-ordered from a place in Boston for the High Holidays.
I zipped in and gave myself a static shock. “I hate polyester,” I said.
“What did polyester ever do to you?” Max put his robe on over yet another plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbow. He put one foot on the chair and tuned his guitar in a way that said: I’m at home here.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me there are more important things to hate.” I busied myself straightening a pile of construction paper.
“Hate? I’m not agitating for hate; I’m agitating for action. I’ve been helping the rabbi organize student boycotters,” he said. “We’re starting with segregated lunch counters, and then—”
The kids bounced in. Nattie and Leah, in matching hair ribbons, and a girl named Judy, in teal cat-eye glasses, circled Max, a sixth-grade fan club. He greeted all the kids by name and handed out instruments—triangle, maracas, cymbals, and such.
Max strummed, and I snipped. He sang “Rise and Shine”—The animals, they came on, they came on by twosies-twosies—and I cut out gray elephants and pink kangaroosies-roosies.
By the time we got a few verses deeper, Max’s arms were flapping like golden wings—The sun came out and dried the landy-landy; everything was fine and dandy-dandy—and the kids were clappy and happy. My head couldn’t help but bop along. There was a feeling of possibility as the real sun came through the real window.
Max transitioned to the classic “Oseh Shalom,” a prayer/song with only twelve words. I started to sing—Oseh shalom bimromav. I’d sung the words twelve jillion times on Saturday mornings at our New York synagogue, Dad by my side, loving that I’d taken to Hebrew so easily. I could conjure up his Dad-ness right there—the sweet smell of the oranges he’d squeeze every Saturday for the two of us, fresh juice for the earliest risers—even though there was no citrus in sight at this precise moment.
And just like that, I couldn’t get the rest of the Hebrew out of my mouth. The words were knotted up in my throat. They were so stuck I started coughing, loud and barky.
Max hit a wrong chord, but he finished the song and then shuffled the kids out ten minutes early. “Was I an ass about the polyester?” he asked. “Is that what’s going on? I think I was an ass.”
“The opposite—not an ass. It’s not you. It’s orange juice. It’s my father.” It was a weird thing to say, I knew, but I was thinking about the Hebrew lump in my throat.
Max balanced himself on a child-sized desk. “Was it a long time ago?”
“Five months. A hundred and fifty-four days.”
“Not long.”
I picked up a forgotten pink kangaroo, one of a few—what was a group of kangaroos called? A court? A mob? “It was a Wednesday,” I said. “His funeral. And the strangest part was, he wasn’t there. Obviously, right? But that’s what I remember—that . . . that . . . lack.” It was easy to say this thing I hadn’t said to anyone to this guy with owlish eyebrows who could be a jerk but also not a jerk.
Max took his glasses off and polished them with that soft shirt. Without a wall of lenses, he looked kind—kinder. “And you’re trying not to think of it.”
“Yes.”
“It’s okay, Ruth.” He grinned, and it was a smile that lifted up his whole face and made his eyes squish closed. It was a smile that wouldn’t look good in a photograph, but it looked good right now. It was a smile that made me not want to be a phony.
“Is it okay? Is it okay I’m lying to everyone I meet?” A burning in my nose let me know the dreaded tears might not be far behind. “I haven’t told any of my friends I come here.”
“To temple?”
A Queen Esther mobile, dangling from the ceiling, looked down on us. “That—or that I’m Jewish.”
He slid off the desk. “Not lying to me—it’s a start.”
We walked to the half-empty Social Hall to find the pastry platters picked nearly clean. I poured myself a cup of coffee with too much sugar. Max popped a left-behind cheese danish, misshapen and missing a corner, into his mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” I said with a grin, handing him a napkin.
His mouth was full, but that didn’t stop Max from saying, “You care too much what people think.”
I knew he meant the Jewish situation. “Don’t all good southern girls?”
“You, a good southern girl? Your hair looks electrified. It looks good.”
I put my hand to the floof. “Really? That would save me an hour in the morning.”
“Wild is good.” He wiped his mouth with the tail of his shirt. “I bet there’s a boyfriend.”
“A good southern boy.”
“The worst kind.” He nodded to the clock over the percolator. “Class ended fifteen minutes ago. We can take off. Where’d you park?”
“I’m waiting for my mother to finish her meeting. I don’t drive.”
“Not ever?”
“No one has a car in New York.”
“You’re not in New York anymore.”
He tossed me his jangly keychain with ten thousand keys.
I tucked a note for Mother under the windshield wiper of the Savoy. Max’s car was parked two spots away—a new gray-and-white Bel Air. “My uncle is a Chevy dealer in Chattanooga,” he said. The back seat was nearly completely covered with books.
“We’ll do a few loops up here, where we won’t bump into anyone.” Max’s glasses slipped down his nose, and part of me wanted to reach over and push them up.
“Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?”
“Nope.” Max helped me inch the seat forward and tilt the side mirror down. “Maybe.”
I looked at his profile, at his sharp chin. “I don’t want to wreck your car.”
“Then don’t.”
I turned the ignition key, and the engine thrummed to life.
Max showed me how to shift into drive—foot on brake, gearshift on D—and I drove in a straightish line, haltingly, lurchingly. Not so different from Mother or Fontaine, really. When I got to the end of the lot, I braked hard, shifted to R, and reversed.
“Not bad,” Max said, after we’d up-and-backed three times. “Want to move on to advanced-beginner lessons, or you want me to chauffeur you someplace?”
I glanced over. “I have to meet a friend for a frosty at the Steakery.”
“You can’t miss out on that.” He rolled down the window and rested his plaid arm half inside, half outside, fingers drumming a mile a minute. “Is this the boyfriend?”
“Ye
p.” I kept my foot on the brake, but I could feel the car alive under us.
“Put it in park, and we’ll switch spots.”
“I can do it,” I said with confidence just out of reach, just out the windshield.
“You don’t have a license. And how do you plan on negotiating the turns?”
“Slowly.” I shifted back into D and nosed out of the lot, registering how good it felt to punch the accelerator, to leap forward without holding back.
“All right, then. Godspeed.”
I headed north on Peachtree, inching away from Midtown toward the too-big front yards and Negro-jockey yard ornaments of Buckhead.
“Did you hear what happened last night?” I said. “My grandfather told me about a cross burning on the front lawn of a Negro doctor.” I didn’t add: This very morning, I skipped across Fontaine’s grass, forgetting that somewhere in town a family woke up to the smell of kerosene.
“Let’s hear what terrible thing happened today.” Max flicked on the radio. After a weather update—the heat streak was expected to continue—a newsman reported the arrest of thirteen Negro men who sat in the front of a bus in Birmingham.
“That’s in Birmingham,” I said. “It wouldn’t happen here.”
“Please. Are you ever going to lose that intellectual naïveté?”
“You’re being an ass again.”
“Ruth. Ruth!”
“What?” I looked at him.
He pressed his hand on my knee. “You ran a stop sign.”
Max drove the rest of the way.
After a few miles, he pulled up to the orange-and-white awning of the Steakery. Davis was out front tossing bits of bread to a circle of birds. “The bird feeder—he’s the boyfriend?” Max asked.
“He is.” I rolled down the window. “Say hey.”
Davis waved.
Max leaned—hard—on the horn, and Davis’s feathered friends took off, their iridescent chests flashing bright against the afternoon sky.
Davis chucked the rest of his roll into a trash bin and walked over. He stuck his hand in the window and reached across me to Max. “Davis Jefferson,” he said, ready with a handshake.
In the Neighborhood of True Page 15