“Should we include pastors themselves?”
And so inch by inch, the unbroken circle moved away from the old intransigence toward being slightly more willing to negotiate with the other half of the citizens of Birmingham.
WHEN FIELDING GOT HOME, he collapsed into his La-Z-Boy and asked his wife to please bring him some orange juice.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Her little birdlike face was screwed up. At one temple Gertrude still had crossed bobby pins. She’d been too anxious to take down all her pin curls.
“Come sit with me,” he said and drew her onto his lap. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I didn’t want it. But Birmingham will change.”
“Who was Mahatma Gandhi, Philip?”
“You remember him from the newsreels. Back in the 1940s. A tiny little brown man in a loincloth. He made the British give up India.”
At Her Desk
AIMING FOR 120 WORDS PER MINUTE, GLORIA TYPED AS fast as she could. While her fingers flew by touch alone, she kept her eyes on the Gregg manual; she loved to hear the ding of the typewriter bell at the end of the line, then her left hand flew up to the lever for the carriage return. Her ring finger felt the smooth metal curve, and—slam—the carriage rolled the paper down a line, and she was typing again, lickety-split.
It was a speed test. As soon as she got home from college, she gave herself two ten-minute speed tests every day. You had to deduct ten words from the word count for every error.
Still dressed in her pleated school skirt, she sat down at her desk as soon as she’d washed her hands. The typewriter was an old little Smith-Corona portable, Clipper model, but she felt lucky to have it. Very few of her acquaintances owned a typewriter—certainly not Christine. None had a car of her own. And what did it mean that she had these things? They made her shy, not normal. Because she was privileged, she must find a way to give back.
It was only three o’clock in the afternoon, and both her parents were at work. As tax accountants, her parents wore professional clothing, but few people saw them at their white-owned firm. They were kept out of sight, in a small special room, but they were crackerjack accountants, receiving regular raises and many expressions of appreciation from the owners. For Christmas, they were always given a frozen turkey and a plastic container of cranberry sauce, which embarrassed them, as they could easily afford their own.
They would leave work at 5:30 P.M., as would Gloria’s four aunts, who would come quietly home in their gray dresses and white aprons, almost as crisp as when they left in the morning. The aunts would meet one another at bus stops along the route home till all four were together. They would come walking up the driveway quietly in their low-heeled shoes; sometimes two of them would be holding hands. Domestics, the sociology books referred to them that way. Maids, they called themselves, and each one, when in the world, would avert her eyes and seem as quiet and reserved as Gloria.
Wednesday night the aunts went to choir practice. During the week, from the garage apartment, Gloria could hear them singing in their barbershop quartet, a capella. Gloria imagined their four heads close together. From time to time one or the other would close her eyes in the bliss of making music—“Down by the Old Mill Stream,” “Sail On, Harvest Moon, Sail On,” “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Now the house was quiet, except for the dozens of dings from the Clipper’s carriage return.
Ten minutes of breakneck typing, then a few minutes to check the speed and accuracy, a walk around the room to loosen up, and the second speed test. Seventy words a minute. A second test: sixty-five words a minute. Gloria’s pattern usually was to do better the first time—just seize the moment, all or nothing. Plunge in.
The typing was her insurance: in case she couldn’t do what she hoped and prayed to do with the cello, then she could be a super secretary, one who could type accurately at phenomenal speed. Every month her average speed reliably increased by three words per minute, but she worried that she might be reaching the limits of her typing talent.
When she finished the second speed trial, Gloria fetched her cello from its special space between the head of her bed and the wall. The cello garage. The instrument stood vertically in a hard case—almost the size of a coffin; the lid opened like a door, which she would leave standing open ready to receive the instrument again two hours later. She removed the bow from its slot inside the lid. The music stand holding the unaccompanied Bach suites was already waiting.
She loved the moment after she sat down, when she fitted the curve of the cello’s shoulder under her left breast. Now she was one with the instrument. Holding the cello between her knees, she tightened and then rosined the bow. Beginning on the open C string, she began her scales in four octaves. As always the thumb of the left hand complained when she went into thumb position for the higher two octaves, but she ignored it. She must earn the privilege of playing Bach, even in an empty house in an ambitious black neighborhood in Birmingham.
At the top of the scale, she remembered hearing rapid scales tumbling through the piano room window at Miles College. She’d never heard such assertive and fluid scale work, effortlessly running the eight octaves of the piano. It was thrilling. She’d gone to the window to peek in.
Red hair! A white man, obviously. Skinny forearms, the fingers of each hand a mere pale blur as they swept in unison up and down the keyboard. Stunned, a bit embarrassed for her spying, she turned quickly away after that snatch of a glance.
In the empty house, she paused at the top of her scale, recalling the pianist’s oceanic competence. Then she raced down the scale, spiccato; with one note to a stroke, she bounced down, emanating perfect little spheres of sound, handfuls of tiny, bouncing balls of notes, showing off to herself.
At the Gaslight
WHEN PEOPLE WENT DOWN TO MORRIS AVENUE, THEY KNEW they’d gone back—not to the trappings of an earlier time, but back in a way you can never go back. Paved with brick, Morris Avenue didn’t want any modern asphalt. It had warehouses, wholesalers, a black nightclub or two. It might have had a cathouse or two, who could say? When you came to Morris Avenue, dark in spite of the old-fashioned streetlamps, the whole street slung low, sort of under the viaduct that rumbled overhead with automobiles, you were getting past brick streets and gas streetlamps. Back to some destination. Back inside, to someplace in yourself you wanted.
THERE’S MAGIC HERE, Christine thought. Not the temporary relief of the Athens Cafe and Bar. Permanent magic—it was always there, if you just thought of the Gaslight nightclub. If you just thought of the throng of people, and you in the midst of it, a whole community ready for a good good time. And Gloria was beside Christine; Gloria trusted Christine to introduce her to the world of the nightclub.
Better than church, Christine thought. Better than preaching. Something wild here. Something that cost more money than Christine wanted to pay, but worth more than it cost. She knew the name of the magic. It was music, and her body was already singing, her feet wanting to tap, but they could only shuffle now ’cause the crowd was so large and moving slow to get in the door.
Everybody so well dressed and pleasant. Not like church. Not like Sunday clothes. Here you show a little cleavage, give out with the glitter. Wear bright and tight. Gloria’s face—bright and eager. Christine loved the excitement on the women’s faces. Giddy. And the proud glow of the men. Night out. Celebrating big.
But Christine didn’t need any man. No, not her.
But wasn’t that Lionel Parrish over there? Mr. Boss of the H.O.P.E. night school? And that woman in emerald green, rhinestone pin on the wide shawl collar. That wasn’t his wife. Never see Jenny dressed up that stylish.
Lionel jumped when he saw Christine and Gloria. Rose up off his feet from the soles of his no-doubt well-polished shoes three inches straight up in the air. Him in the air, like hair levitates itself if you see a ghost.
He hurried to them, oh soooo friendly. Left his pretty lady standing, looking like nothing
but cool and pretty in emerald green.
“Evening, girls.” Big, overpuffed smile. “Didn’t know my teachers was part of the nightclub set.”
“It’s my second time,” Christine said. My, he did smell good.
“First time, here,” Gloria said shyly. But then she looked up and her eyes darted round, reflecting the happy excitement. “I like it,” she declared.
Lifting his eyebrows, Lionel Parrish said to Gloria, “Girl, I believe this place good for you.” Pleased with her, pleased for Gloria.
“You come alone, Mr. Parrish?” Christine asked.
“Well.” He shrugged his shoulders. Nice dark-striped suit. Touched the knot of his tie, smoothed down the length of the sapphire blue tie. “My cousin Matilda in town. She said she sure would like to hear the Man play the piano.”
“He something,” Christine answered.
“But she don’t want Jenny to know we come. Jenny got no use for night-clubbing. You wouldn’t mention this to Jenny, you happen to see her.”
“I don’t ever see Jenny often,” Christine said. But she didn’t like his request; it had the power to blight her good time—pollution in her blue sky.
“Gotta run,” he said. “Thanks, girls.”
He pecked Christine on the cheek, and oh my, she did stretch out her neck, did lean to meet that kiss, whiff in that good-smelling man. She embarrassed herself.
The crowd pressed toward the entrance.
“Must be several hundred us trying to get in,” Gloria said.
“We’ll get in,” Christine reassured. “Just relax. Enjoy the crowd.”
“You see anybody else we know?”
“Just Mr. Parrish.” Christine watched him regain his lady, whisper in her ear, saw her face light up. She was extremely pretty, tall and thin, straightened hair, beautiful eyes and teeth. But mostly it was the glad expression, the flash of her.
EVEN DON FOUND IT hard to push his sister’s wheelchair over the cobblestone brick of Morris Avenue. Stella would find it impossible to manage the chair, Cat had said, and he ought to come along, therefore, to help them. Besides, he’d enjoy it. Get to hear a truly famous man. An intimate nightclub. In Birmingham. “You won’t have to go to St. Louis or New York City to hear him,” Cat had told her brother.
Won’t the audience be mostly colored? Don had asked.
That’s the point, his sister had replied. We’re integrating.
Don was surprised that Stella had jumped at the chance. Such a bookworm. But he liked her. She admired his paintings. Stella had asked for four and had hung one on each of the walls of her bedroom. He’d asked her, What do your aunts think of them? And she’d laughed to show herself risen above the opinions of others:Aunt Krit says she likes pictures of something, a scene. And Aunt Pratt hollers from her room, “I think they’re pretty,” and Aunt Krit says, “You haven’t even seen them,” and Aunt Pratt lies and says, “Yes I have. I peeked when Stella brought them home.”
It was slow work and tough going to get the chair wheels over the humped bricks.
“Got any teeth left, Sister?”
“One or two,” she answered.
“These heels are killing me,” Stella answered. “But I thought everybody’d be dressed to kill.” She grumbled about how all the weight of her body (which wasn’t much) was funneled down on her toes and how her ankles were wobbling because of the stiletto hells.
“You look nice, Stella,” Don said, in his self-conscious, semiembarrassed way. It was hard to look an overdressed woman in the eyes, even harmless Stella, and give her a compliment. Now he just glanced at her. So thin. She wore a white sheath dress with a very wide pink satin cummerbund. The dress had a few sparkly moments and some small pink, silk-covered buttons up on the left shoulder, with a companion decoration on her flank just below the cummerbund on the right side—diagonal interest. Her shoes were pink satin, dyed to match. Don hadn’t imagined Stella owned such a getup. The pink silk buttons and the silver dashes on the shoulder were set right into the fabric, probably took a grommet setter to embed the decorations into the fabric that way.
“Your dress from Fielding’s?” he asked.
“No. Pizitz.”
Women thought Pizitz’s line of clothes was more dashing than those of the other big stores, more New York, but Don thought Stella looked like the Gainsborough pink girl elongated, with accents on the diagonal, and set up in high heels.
“How do I look?” Cat asked her brother and the air in general.
“You both look awfully white,” Don answered. He made it a point to tease Cat about her feminine vanity.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have worn white,” Stella said anxiously. “I didn’t think.”
“Nobody cares,” Cat answered authoritatively.
Don saw they were ignored by the crowd for the most part. Despite the spectacle of a wheelchair bumping along a dark lamplit street in the warehouse district where it had no business trying to go, despite two young white women and a white man in a crowd of well-dressed Negroes, they were almost transparent. A few people glanced at them, inspected their faces.
Don noted one perfectly beautiful woman in emerald green had turned her head back as she and her beau passed by, had turned her head back to look Don in the eye and smile. Completely friendly and at ease. Probably visiting from the North. A rhinestone pin of a leaping fish with a ruby eye glittered on her half-turned shoulder. She moved over the bricks as though she were floating, though her shoes were just as ridiculous as the hobbling Stella’s. She swung her high hips like a dancer, as though she were in an opera—Carmen.
Don thought he’d almost never seen a beautiful woman look so happy.
“I like being here,” his sister said, glancing back at him behind her wheel chair.
Stella said nothing, and Don knew that she had come because his sister asked her to. Stella was too bookish to enjoy a club scene.
From time to time, Don took it on himself to caution Cat not to ask Stella to do too much for her. “You don’t want to drive her off,” he’d said, and Cat had answered, “But she’s my friend. She wants to.”
Just in front of the entrance, they rolled onto some smooth pavement. People were polite, gave them room to maneuver through the doors, stood back while he tilted up the chair, lowered it, reared up, down five stairs. This was the part Stella really couldn’t have managed. He wished the soles of his dress shoes weren’t slick leather. He hardly ever took Sister anyplace that required being dressed up. When he dressed up, Don claimed the outing for himself, his own time.
By himself, he visited the artificial worlds: the Birmingham Civic Ballet, Town and Gown Theatre, the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra at the lovely Temple Theatre. He’d never met any of the orchestral musicians, but he’d learned the names of some of them from the program while he waited for the crowd to flow in. The faces in the crowd, like those in the orchestra—Herbert Levinson, concertmaster;Robert Montgomery, principal cello; handsome John Davis, principal French horn, who played the most exposed passages with perfect, piercing confidence—were becoming familiar. He wanted to know the people in this world, those up there on the stage, purified by bright light.
One time when Don had looked up from studying the concert program, there in the audience was Stella’s dear friend Nancy and her friend Lallie, who was married. Nancy and Lallie had crossed the theater to come over to speak to him. Nancy was always at ease, and Lallie was like her and said, I often have tickets to things and Bob doesn’t want to go. I’ll call you sometime, and Nancy said, She invited me this time;you’d enjoy it.
After the precipice of steps, Don steered his sister’s chair to a small round table nearby in the back of the Gaslight. Their table for three had a “reserved” sign that sat up like a little paper pup tent:RESERVED—CARTWRIGHT PARTY. Two folding chairs, nothing at all fancy, snugged up to the table, and a chair had been removed so that the wheelchair could fit. Except for the polished wooden dance floor, the floor inside the club was brick. The nig
htclub was a cellar with a low ceiling, probably a warehouse above, and many ceiling supports interrupted the view of the performance area. The piano was pulled up to one side of the dance floor. No stage. Spotlights were already focused on the piano, but it was just a big upright, like a vault.
The place was full and already buzzing with joy. Don looked to see if he could locate the woman in emerald green again, but instead his eyes locked for a moment with those of an older black man, whose face was wrinkled in a scowl. Immediately, Don started his eyes moving again, and he saw two other white people. Two young men—he might have seen them on the college campus, when he picked up Sister occasionally. The college boys each had a beer and were smoking cigarettes, trying to look suave. Not dressed up enough; short-sleeved cotton shirts, one plaid, one striped. Everyday clothes that didn’t show enough respect. You respect celebration, celebrities. Don adjusted the collar of his tan sports jacket to make sure it was lying right; he touched the knot of his woven tie that almost matched the color of the coat but added a new texture.
This was a loud group at the Gaslight. Women’s voices screeched high and penetrant. Men’s voices suddenly boomed on recognizing a friend. Laughter bounced up and down the scale.
These people let go, Don thought. Not bohemian Paris, not the Village (he’d been there), but the South letting go, at its best. Unafraid. And the energy all flowed around their whiteness or went right through them, made them nonexistent.
TJ FELT HIS wife’s gentle hand covering his, her kind lips right at his ear. “What you looking all scowled up and worried bout, TJ? Relax.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “And just look over there, at the steps.”
“White girl in a wheelchair.”
“Yeah, and over there. Two white boys. Smoking like they own this place. We don’t want no trouble here.”
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