“Nothing,” I’d always answer. I never told him the reason because I really had no idea where the sadness and depression came from.
My drinking increased during our two years in Orlando. Jerome knew I had a small glass of wine on occasion. But he had no idea the immense volume of alcohol I consumed on a daily basis. During the days, after Jerome left for work, I drank vodka—mostly because Jerome couldn’t smell it on my breath when he came home. I had big bottles of vodka and gin hidden all over the house. I could easily drink half a bottle a day. I hid the liquor inside my shoes in the bedroom closet, in the bathroom dirty clothes hamper, in the laundry room, and in other secret places.
The more I drank, the colder I became to Jerome. I treated him with indifference, and I stayed aloof and emotionally distant. I was afraid to share my feelings with him—I didn’t really understand these bleak emotions myself. I guess I just thought this was life—that some people are born happy and some aren’t. I didn’t know how to get past it. But Jerome quietly accepted my isolating behavior.
As a youth, I had loved people and parties. But now my life seemed so uncertain. I was frightened. I got scared when Jerome traveled out of town and I had to stay by myself. So many unanswered questions were spinning around in my mind. What was happening to me? Why had I changed so much?
Loud noises also terrified me. I flew into a panic every time a truck backfired or a balloon popped at a child’s birthday party. And, as hard as I tried, I still couldn’t sleep well at night.
Even now, I had not connected the Sixteenth Street Church bombing and my friends’ deaths with my depression. All I knew was that I was miserable. I hated life, and I had no idea why.
One day in 1973, Jerome came home from work with news. “Carolyn, Sears wants to transfer me to Atlanta, Georgia.”
We packed our belongings and moved. But things proved no better for me in Atlanta than they’d been in Orlando. I stayed home during the long days and cared for my daughters. I continued to drink vodka and gin, hiding the bottles in secret places all over the house. I grew even more despondent. I didn’t want to live anymore. I thought about death a lot, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t think there was anything unusual about a constant preoccupation with death. My life was like an open, bleeding wound that had festered and would not heal.
I felt totally alone. I have no one to help me, I thought. Maybe I should just die and be done with all this.
When Jerome left for work one morning, I fed and dressed my children and then poured myself an orange juice with vodka. One drink followed another.
As the girls played outside, I watched television and nursed my drinks. During the commercial break, the station gave a number for the suicide hotline.
“Are you confused about life? Don’t know which way to turn? Need someone to talk to?” the ad asked. Then the narrator added, “Call this number. Counselors are waiting to take your call.” A phone number flashed across the TV screen.
We had been in Atlanta about a year, and I had not made any friends. I wanted to talk to someone besides my children. I was sad and lonely, but I still hadn’t thought through what was causing it. Even as I dialed the number on the screen, I’m not sure I realized how down I was—I just wanted someone to talk to.
A counselor answered, and I gave my first name only. I explained that I was new to Atlanta and that I was feeling sad and lonely and a bit overwhelmed. And that I just needed to talk. It had been ten years since the bombing, but I still thought about that awful day or the girls—usually Cynthia—daily. I had been back to Birmingham many times since then, but I’d never visited the church.
The counselor talked about their services and asked questions about my daily routine. During that conversation, at about ten thirty in the morning, Jerome unexpectedly showed up at home. This was really unusual—he typically didn’t get off work until five thirty in the evening—but he had to get some papers for work he’d forgotten at home. I believe God is in everything that happens, and maybe he allowed Jerome to forget those papers so he would be there right when I needed him.
“Who are you talking to?” he asked.
“Just the people at the suicide hotline center,” I responded. “I was lonely and told them I was new in town. I wanted someone to talk to.”
“The suicide hotline?” Then he noticed the drink in my hand. “It’s really early to be drinking, Carolyn,” Jerome said.
I said nothing in reply.
At that moment, I believe Jerome understood that a tremendous struggle was going on inside me. He may not have known what it was, but he instinctively knew it was there. And he knew I needed a doctor.
Jerome said, “Carolyn, if you don’t want to talk with me about the problem, then would you please speak with your doctor? Tell him about your recurring hand rashes, your depression, and whatever you wanted to share with the suicide hotline folks.”
I reluctantly agreed. But I really saw no need. I felt it would be a waste of time and money. But I made the appointment because I’d promised Jerome I would.
The doctor examined me and wasted no time telling me his diagnosis: “Well, you can keep going like you are going, and you might live another five years. Or you can accept the life that God has laid out before you and get on with living it.”
Additional conversations with my doctor helped me understand that my behavior had become harmful to me. Little by little, I was self-destructing. I would have to decide that the life God had given me was worth living and that it was, in fact, his plan for me—no matter that the voices in my head tried to convince me otherwise. I believed in my heart it was true—that I could let God redeem my past. But could I live with that decision? Could I live without it?
Chapter 19
Turning Points
* * *
I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.
Psalm 37:25, KJV
We must seek, above all, a world of peace; a world in which people dwell together in mutual respect and work together in mutual regard.
John F. Kennedy
I thought a lot about my grandfather during the years we lived in Atlanta. Granddaddy had joined Mama Lessie in heaven in 1971. He suffered a stroke while alone at his home in Clanton, Alabama, managing to drag himself to the telephone, grab the cord, and pull the receiver off its cradle. In those days, an operator came on the line automatically whenever a phone came off the hook. The operator identified Granddaddy’s number and called Tom Dickerson, a man who lived across the street. Tom just happened to be the neighbor Granddaddy had given his only extra front-door key, in case he ever locked himself out of the house.
Tom found my grandfather lying on the floor and got him to a small hospital in Clanton. My mother then transferred Granddaddy to Princeton Hospital, where my grandmother had died fourteen years earlier. By 1971 Princeton Hospital had integrated, so doctors allowed Granddaddy a room on the hospital’s patient floor.
While in the hospital, Granddaddy’s health seemed to be getting better. He looked forward to going back home. People in the churches he pastored and in his neighborhood needed him.
My grandfather joked with the nurses and talked with people all over the hospital. When I came to visit, he’d tell the nurses, “See, I told you I had a pretty granddaughter!”
But like Mama Lessie, Granddaddy never left Princeton Hospital. At the end of two weeks, he suffered another stroke and died.
I lost a good friend when my grandfather passed. I missed him and Mama Lessie so much. With their wisdom and patience and steady belief in God, they were a source of stability in my turbulent life. I don’t know where I’d be now without their strong sense of family and their constant prayers for each of us. Granddaddy, one of fourteen children, always talked about how God had taken care of his family. He was proud that not one of them had ever been arrested and that six of them had become preachers.
I often heard my grandfather quote Psalm 37:25 when h
e spoke of his family: “I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.” I wished I could get Granddaddy’s encouragement and advice now. We had enough food on our table, but emotionally and spiritually speaking, I felt like I was desperate, begging for sustenance. I was looking for a reason to live.
* * *
I got up one morning as usual and fed and dressed Leigh, who was five, and Joya, who had just turned a year old. Granddaddy had been gone for more than two years now, and I needed him more than ever. I thought about his deep faith in God and how he had taken every opportunity to teach me life’s lessons.
“Carolyn,” my grandfather used to tell me, “your name means ‘strong one.’” Oh Granddaddy, I miss you, but I’m glad you can’t see me now. I’m not strong anymore. You’d be so disappointed in me.
I took a deep breath and tried to put those thoughts behind me.
“Leigh, Joya,” I called to my daughters, giving each a kiss. “You can go outside and play. But stay on the deck. Don’t go in the yard or near the street.”
A high-traffic road ran behind our house. I had taught both children never to go near it. I sat down in a kitchen chair and poured myself a large orange juice and vodka. As I sat there in the quiet, thoughts of Cynthia Wesley filled my mind. You’d be twenty-five years old, too, Cynthia, if you had lived. Would you be married now and have little girls of your own? I wondered. How I miss you, Cynthia. We could’ve grown up together; we’d have been best friends for a lifetime.
It was as if Cynthia came into the room and sat down beside me.
Perhaps soon you’ll be joining me, Carolyn, she said. Remember what your doctor told you? Five years! Five years!
I drained the glass, trying to silence the inner voice. Then I filled the glass up again with more juice and vodka.
Five years. That’s not nearly enough time to raise my two daughters.
I glanced out the kitchen window and looked at my girls. They were playing together happily on the deck. My thoughts took me back to my grandfather.
I wish I could be more like you, Granddaddy. You and Mama Lessie. You gave your life to everyone around you.
I remembered my grandfather’s compassionate heart for the poor—how he reached out to them and in Christ’s name met their needs—both spiritual and financial.
Granddaddy, I miss . . .
I was brought back to reality by an almost thunderous knocking on my kitchen door. It was my next-door neighbor. I had met her and her husband before, but I had never been in their house. She was older and seemed to prefer keeping to herself.
“Your daughter was almost run over by the bus!” she shouted. “The bus driver had to stop in the middle of the street to avoid hitting her! You should keep your children inside unless you come out with them!”
She turned away from the door and headed back home. Immediately I felt angry and frightened at the same time—angry that my neighbor had rushed to judgment and scolded me, but also because I knew she was right. I should have been with the girls, watching them. Instead, I was inside drinking, trying to make myself feel better.
Both Joya and Leigh could have been injured—or killed! I cried inside. If anything happened to my daughters, I would really be at a point of no return!
I made a commitment to myself that day: Carolyn, this is it! Today everything changes. I have reached the turning point in my drinking!
Then I prayed, Lord, you will have to help me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t do anything at all if you don’t help me.
As I stood in the basement ironing, with the girls sound asleep upstairs, I continued to pray. Lord, remind me that you love me. Help me to appreciate the good husband you sent me and to take care of my two beautiful daughters. You have given me a good life. Thank you! Now, Lord, I repent. I want to be like you.
And then I asked my heavenly Father, Please take away my taste for alcohol. Can you make it like I have never tasted alcohol before? Can you touch my body and heal anything harmful I have done to myself through my drinking? And can you fix me so that I don’t hurt so much when I wake up each morning? Amen.
The next two weeks turned out to be the most critical weeks of my life. I didn’t know it then, however. I came to see God’s power only much later, as I looked back on the difficult journey.
I knew I needed to stop drinking, but I didn’t know what that would entail. I thought I would just stop. I thought I could just stop. I had no idea that, in those years of trying to rid myself of sadness and depression through drinking, I had created a dependency in my body and my mind. Once I stopped drinking, reality was terrifying.
The first three days were fairly uneventful. I looked after the girls, and I took care of my responsibilities at home. On days four and five I began to think about drinking a lot. By day six, I could no longer sleep at night. On days seven through eleven, I perspired a lot. And I paced relentlessly. My best time of the day was when everyone was quiet or asleep. Even better was when Jerome worked late. He still didn’t realize the full extent of my problem. I couldn’t stand for anyone to touch me—my whole body felt as if it were on fire, screaming.
But somehow God allowed me to get through it—alone with him. I cried. I slept. I paced. And I yelled at anyone who came too near me. By the end of day twelve, I breathed in deeply, and I exhaled. Days thirteen and fourteen were filled with prayer and resolve to never go through this again. And somehow, at that point I knew it was over. God had helped me to win, to overcome. The demon had fled. I have not looked back since.
I am ever grateful that God allowed me to live, that he took care of me when I couldn’t (and didn’t know how to) take care of myself. I am grateful that he touched me before I self-destructed.
Chapter 20
The First Arrest
* * *
Their lives were taken by unknown parties on Sept. 15, 1963, when the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was bombed. May men learn to replace bitterness and violence with love and understanding.
Memorial plaque for the four slain girls, engraved on Sixteenth Street Baptist Church
He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it.
Martin Luther King Jr.
We had lived in Atlanta for several years when Sears decided to transfer Jerome to Warner Robins, Georgia.
Not another move! I cried, as I thought about another change. This will mean finding another place to live, another church to join, new community clubs to keep me busy. I just don’t think I can . . .
The telephone interrupted my thoughts.
“Caroline,” my father said. “I’m glad I reached you.”
“What’s up, Daddy?” I asked, knowing he was excited about something. Whenever he called me Caroline, it meant he was feeling good about life in general or he was in the mood to talk. Well, at least he’s not calling me girl-child! I thought.
“Robert Chambliss is finally going to trial for Denise McNair’s murder,” he told me.
“No! I can’t believe it, Daddy! It’s been fourteen years since Denise’s death.”
“Bill Baxley, Alabama’s attorney general, reopened the case, and Chambliss’s own niece is testifying against him. He’s the first of the bombers to come to trial.”
“When is the trial?”
“September. Police arrested Chambliss at his home here in North Birmingham. Finally, girl-child, maybe we’ll see some justice done.”
I hung up the phone and said a silent prayer: Thank you, God, that I don’t live in Birmingham. I couldn’t bear hearing or reading about the bombing details and Denise’s horrible death once again. I was trying so hard to put that tragedy far behind me.
When the trial began, my father kept me informed about unfolding events at the Jefferson County Courthouse.
“I heard they called Reverend Cross as a witness,” he told me. “They also called Addie
’s sister, Sarah, to testify.”
Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry you had to hear all the gruesome details again. How could you sit in that witness chair and look in the face of the man who killed your sister?
I imagined scared little Sarah in front of the courtroom, having to look at Robert Chambliss and reliving all the horrors of September 15, 1963.
I could never do that! I thought. Never.
“Poor Sarah,” I told my father. “She’s been through so much already.”
“Yes, she has, bless her heart. Caroline, I also heard that Chambliss’s niece Elizabeth Cobbs came forward in court and told her story to the judge and jury.”
“Is she the woman who became a Methodist minister in Alabama?”
“Yes. She worked with the FBI shortly after the church bombing,” my father said. “Apparently, before the bombing Chambliss had told her, ‘Just wait until after Sunday morning. They’ll beg us to let them segregate!’”
“What did he mean?”
“I guess he and the other Klan members planted the church bomb to explode on that Sunday as a threat to stop us from integrating the public all-white schools in Birmingham.”
“Elizabeth Cobbs overheard Chambliss say that?”
“That’s what they’re claiming. Cobbs also told the jury that after the bomb went off, she heard Chambliss say, ‘It wasn’t meant to hurt anybody—it didn’t go off when it was supposed to.’”
“Really?”
“It sounds like maybe they set the timer wrong or something. But the jury was convinced he planted the bomb that murdered Denise and the other girls.”
There’s no way to know for sure about the intentions behind the bomb, but I now believe it wasn’t meant to take human lives. The bomb was homemade, and it would have been impossible to determine exactly when it would explode. Based on Chambliss’s best guess, it should have gone off around three or four in the morning, which would have prevented our congregation from meeting for church but would not have harmed anyone. As for the phone calls, no one knows if they were simply idle bomb threats with eerie timing or if they were true warnings from someone on the inside. Either way, though, the results were the same.
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