“It’s true,” I said. “You can ask Liz.”
“If you’re lying, I’m sure the colored girl will too.”
“My daughter does not lie,” said Daddy.
“You’re saying it was Red Dalton, the football star, right?” the police officer asked.
I nodded.
The policeman shook his head. “No way he’d pull a stupid stunt like this.”
“But—”
“What I’d like to know,” he said, “is why you are at this colored family’s house.”
“What does that have to do with—” Daddy started.
Mother put a hand on his arm. “We were just dropping off some flyers. There’s an election tomorrow.”
“Was it some sort of integrationist meeting?”
Mother shook her head.
“And what if it was?” snapped Daddy. “Aren’t you supposed to protect all of us?”
“All citizens of Little Rock,” he agreed. “But if it was some commie meeting—”
“My wife and thirteen-year-old daughter are not communists,” said Daddy. “Where is Sergeant Pike?”
“Out of town,” said the older officer, coming out of the house. “You were lucky. If anyone had been sitting by the window . . .”
No one wanted to finish that sentence. Numbers flowed through my head, prime numbers, times tables, pi to as many digits as I knew. But it didn’t help. The police didn’t believe me. They weren’t going to do anything. They were acting like Betty Jean should be grateful to only have a broken window and a burnt-up couch.
53
THE ELECTION
It was late when we finally got home—way past dinnertime—but none of us were hungry. Mother and Daddy said good night and headed off to their bedroom.
“Aren’t you going to punish me?” I asked.
Daddy crossed his arms. “Doesn’t seem to do much good.”
“I’m sorry I . . .”
Mother held up her hand. “No, Marlee. I’m too tired for this. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s the election.”
“Then Tuesday,” said Mother. And they closed their door.
I slept badly that night, dreaming of bricks crashing through our front window, dynamite exploding, and Mother and Betty Jean and Liz walking through our house with makeup on their faces and diamond tiaras. I wondered when my dream had turned into Cinderella’s ball, but then I realized it was broken glass in their hair, and it wasn’t rouge on their cheeks, it was blood.
I called Liz first thing the next morning. “Who is this?” Liz’s mother asked.
“Marlee Nisbett,” I admitted.
“Marlee,” she said softly. “All I ever wanted was for Elizabeth to have the best education possible. But associating with you nearly got my daughter killed. She won’t be talking to you again.”
“But I—”
Mrs. Fullerton hung up the phone.
It was hard to concentrate in school. JT wasn’t there, and despite myself, I was kind of worried about him. Mr. Harding seemed distracted too. He was teaching the class percentages, but he kept getting the problems wrong. Three-fourths was 75 percent, not 34 percent. I corrected him the first time, but he looked so embarrassed, I didn’t dare correct him again. Besides, no one else in the class was paying attention.
I kept waiting for someone to mention what had happened at Betty Jean’s, but no one did. Sally had a new haircut and dress and talked nonstop about how she was going to get her picture in the paper at the CROSS victory party. Because, of course, she was sure her side would win.
When I arrived home, there was a postcard from Judy in the mail.
Good luck! Win the election and bring me home.
Love, Judy
PS. I need new laces for my saddle shoes. Black please, extra long.
Shoelaces. Such a normal concern.
“You voted?” Betty Jean asked as I walked into the kitchen.
“Betty Jean,” I said, “I’m only thirteen.”
“I’m asking everyone,” she said without looking at me. She sniffed the air, then turned to the oven. As soon as she opened it, a puff of smoke drifted out. “Oh, Lord,” she sighed, “this is the second batch I’ve burned this afternoon.”
“Betty Jean?” I asked.
“What?”
I wasn’t sure what to say first. Betty Jean had kept my secret about going to the Gem, and I’d repaid her by almost getting her killed. “Are we going to talk about what happened yesterday?”
“No.” Betty Jean was scraping what appeared to be burnt cookies into the garbage.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you told me to stay away from Liz, but—”
“Marlee,” interrupted Betty Jean.
“What?”
“I need this job. We’re still paying back the money from when Curtis was arrested, and now we need a new living room too. You know the best way to lose your job?”
I didn’t answer.
“Yelling at the daughter of your employer. I don’t want to do that, so I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly be quiet and leave me alone.”
But that wouldn’t help anyone—not me, not Liz and certainly not Betty Jean. I tried to imagine what Liz would do.
“You know,” I said finally, “I think my parents would appreciate it if you’d yell at me. They haven’t gotten around to it themselves, and I know I deserve it, so it’d save them the trouble.”
Betty Jean snorted and kept her eyes on her cookies, but I could tell she was trying hard not to smile. “You’re a strange girl, Marlee.”
“I’m so sorry, Betty Jean.”
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
Mother, Daddy and I listened to the results come in on KLRA radio station throughout dinner, and afterwards. I did my homework, Daddy graded papers, Mother did the dishes and none of us said a word. The STOP candidates were ahead all evening, but when KLRA went off the air at twelve thirty A.M., it was still too close to call.
I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep, but I put my head on my pillow, just to rest, and the next thing I knew, I heard the front door open as Daddy went out to get the paper. I washed my face and got dressed, anxious to know what had happened, at the same time dreading it.
As soon as I walked into the kitchen, Daddy held up the paper:
STOP Wins Recall Victory: Purgers Thrown Off Board
Mother grinned at me.
Daddy said, “We did it!”
I burst into tears.
“Marlee, we won,” said Mother.
But I couldn’t stop crying.
I’d thought winning the election would solve everything. But now that the big day was here, I realized it wasn’t the end after all. It wasn’t even close! New board members needed to be appointed by the Pulaski County Board of Education. There were legal challenges to integration in the courts. Even if the high schools did open, Liz and I still wouldn’t be at the same school.
“What is it?” asked Daddy.
“Tears of joy,” I lied, and my parents seemed to believe me.
I called Liz again before I went to school, but this time no one answered.
All morning, I couldn’t wait for lunch to come so Mr. Harding and I could do some math and forget about everything except algebra. But when I pulled out my book and tried to do the first problem, I couldn’t copy it down correctly because my eyes kept filling with tears.
“What’s wrong, Marlee?” Mr. Harding asked gently.
“Have you ever looked forward to something for a long time, and then when you finally got what you wanted, it wasn’t what you expected?”
Mr. Harding nodded.
“I’m happy we won,” I said. “So how come I don’t feel better?”
<
br /> He looked thoughtful and said nothing for a long moment, then pulled out a pencil and started to write on the blank piece of paper I had before me. “I think what’s happened, Marlee, is that you’ve realized the world isn’t an addition problem.”
He wrote 3 + 4 = 7 down on the paper. “We tell kids that sometimes. We pretend the world is straightforward, simple, easy. You do this, you get that. You’re a good person and try your best, and nothing bad will happen.
“But the truth is, the world is much more like an algebraic equation. With variables and changes, complicated and messy. Sometimes there’s more than one answer, and sometimes there is none. Sometimes we don’t even know how to solve the problem.”
He wrote x2 + 4x - 21 = 0.
“But usually, if we take things step by step, we can figure things out. You just have to remember to factor the equation, break it down into smaller parts.”
I stared at x2 + 4x - 21 = 0. Pictured it factored into (x - 3) (x + 7) = 0. Imagined the solutions, x = 3 and x = -7, and felt a little better.
“You’re right, Marlee. Winning this election isn’t the solution. But it’s a start.”
“Mr. Harding,” I said.
“Yes?”
“At the beginning of the year, I was helping JT cheat on his homework.”
“I know.”
I looked at him, surprised.
“I grade your homework every day. I recognize your handwriting.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
Mr. Harding shrugged. “I thought it would be better if you told me yourself.”
I nodded. “Are you going to punish me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to make you do extra math during your lunchtime.”
I smiled.
“Now, come on.” He pushed the algebra book toward me. “Let’s start solving the world’s problems. One step at a time.”
I was in the kitchen doing my homework when Liz called me that afternoon. “I can only talk for a second,” she said.
She sounded awful. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not going to be allowed to see you anymore. Ever. Not even by accident. If we happen to end up in the same place, I have to turn around and leave. And if I don’t . . .” Liz couldn’t finish.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“No,” said Liz.
But she was.
“Marlee, we were almost killed!” said Liz. “And not just us, but Curtis and Betty Jean and the Pastor and your mother too. There’s nowhere left for us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We need to find other friends. People we can actually do things with.”
“What?”
“Marlee, I don’t want you to be lonely. I want you to have friends you can talk and laugh with and—”
“There’s no one I like at school!” I wailed.
“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” said Liz. “I’m not always a cup of warm milk with a dash of cinnamon. And Little Jimmy is more than just apple juice!”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Marlee. This is just how it has to be. As long as there are people like Red in town, we just can’t . . . I’m sorry.”
“Are you telling me good-bye?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Liz. “I am. Good-bye, Marlee.” And she hung up.
I sat there for a full minute, staring at the receiver. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. I went to my room and sat on my bed and thought. Looked at the problem from all angles, added things up from all sides. I could come to only one conclusion. Liz was right. Summing people up as a cola or a coffee wasn’t really fair. Most people were a whole refrigerator full of different drinks. Trying to force them into one cup or one glass meant I never really got to know them.
But Liz was wrong too. As long as there were people like Red in town, it was more important than ever for us to be friends, to show all the others who were too afraid that it was possible. I needed her to point out when I was wrong and teach me new things, and I was pretty sure that she needed me too. There had to be a way.
Mr. Harding said when you were stuck, you should factor the equation. Liz was too afraid to be friends with me anymore. There had to be a part of that problem I could solve. Some way to give her back the courage she’d given me. Some way to . . . Red. He was only one part of the equation, but he was a large part. If I could deal with him, maybe it would help, at least a little.
I thought and thought and thought, and by the time my parents came home that evening, I had a plan.
54
SPEAKING UP
I explained my plan to Mother and Daddy over dinner. I didn’t think they would like it much, but at least they listened. “She’s right about one thing,” said Daddy when I was done. “Something does need to be done about Red.”
“Mrs. Dalton isn’t a bad woman,” Mother agreed. “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her.”
“Maybe we should call the police again,” suggested Daddy.
Mother shook her head. “I had Miss Winthrop check our files. Of the police officers who live in our district, twenty-three signed CROSS’s petition. Only six signed STOP’s. But if we all went to talk to the Daltons together . . .”
Daddy nodded. “It’s worth a try.”
So twenty minutes later, my parents and I were knocking on JT’s front door. A colored man wearing a butler’s uniform answered the door. “We were hoping to pay a call on Mr. and Mrs. Dalton,” said Mother. “Are they at home?”
The man nodded and ushered us inside. I still had the black feather. It was bent and crumpled, and now that Liz wasn’t talking to me, I wasn’t sure it had any magic anymore. But it made me feel better as the man led us down the hall and out onto the back porch.
Mr. Dalton was holding a drink and reading the paper. JT and Red were on the lawn, tossing a football back and forth. Mrs. Dalton sat in the corner, sipping an iced tea and reading a book. JT dropped the football when he saw us.
“Mr. Nisbett,” Mr. Dalton said, “what did we do to gain the pleasure of this visit?” His voice made it clear it was anything but a pleasure.
“Mr. Dalton,” said Daddy, “I’m not sure you were aware of recent events involving your son, Raymond Edward Dalton.”
I’d always wondered where Red got his nickname, since he didn’t have red hair. It was silly when parents gave their kids names that had initials that spelled words, like Daisy Ursula Montgomery or Peter Ivan Galveston or . . . No. I wouldn’t drift off. I was going to listen. Listen to every word, until it was time to do my part. And then I would talk.
“The police were already here this morning,” said Mr. Dalton. “Again.”
We all turned to look at Red, but he stood still, as calm as can be. It was JT who looked afraid. I wondered, for the first time, what it would be like to have an older brother like Red. Someone you loved, because they were your own flesh and blood, but someone who was nasty too. Sometimes even horrible to you.
And I remembered how, when JT was in the third grade, he fell out of his tree house and broke his leg. At least that’s what they said. But I remember being surprised, because it was a nice tree house, with walls all around the top. If you were clumsy, maybe you could fall out, but JT wasn’t clumsy. If your brother was mad at you, though, it’d be really easy to push you out.
JT had been in the hospital a long time. Mother even took Sally and me to see him. I was nervous, because even then, JT was something of a golden boy, the alpha lion of the pack. Sally chattered a blue streak. I put a vase of daffodils from our garden in the window.
Everyone said the doctor did a fabulous job and that his leg healed perfectly, but that wasn’t true. After a long day of school, sometimes, maybe if it was about to rain, JT had a sligh
t limp. Once last year, coming off the football field, I saw him rubbing his hip when he thought no one was watching. Everyone assumed he wanted to be just like his brother, but what if he didn’t? What if he’d rather be someone else?
“The police came to talk to my son,” repeated Mr. Dalton, pulling me out of my own thoughts again. “And they accused him of throwing a bomb through a poor Negro’s front window. Now, I assured them my son would never waste his time on such a prank, and seeing as how there was no evidence anyway, the good officer agreed and apologized for wasting our time.
“So what I’m wondering is, why are you all here to bring this up again?”
The father would be no help.
“Our daughter was trapped in the trunk of your son’s car, while she was removing the dynamite Red had stored there.” Mother’s voice was calm and clear, but her hands were shaking.
“My son never stored dynamite in the truck of his car,” said Mr. Dalton. “Though he did recently have the lock broken off. Had to get a new one installed. I don’t suppose your daughter would know anything about that?”
I counted 2, 3, 5, and said, “Yes, I do.”
For the first time, Mr. Dalton looked surprised.
“I broke it off with a letter opener,” I continued. “I’ll pay for the lock, but I’d like the opener back.”
Mrs. Dalton looked up from her book. JT almost smiled. Red had absolutely no reaction at all.
“Thought you were mute,” said Mr. Dalton.
“No, sir,” I said. “But as I said, I left the opener in the trunk, and I’d like it back.”
“Well, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Get out of here. All of you! And if I ever hear one word about this again, I’ll have you arrested for slander.”
Mrs. Dalton stirred her tall iced tea. I thought of the time we’d spent together stuffing envelopes. I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.
The butler held the door open for my father. “Out!” Mr. Dalton barked again. I began to see why Red had turned out the way he had.
The Lions of Little Rock Page 22