One Night in Georgia

by Celeste O. Norfleet

  “Cheeeese.” We smiled and laughed as I pushed the red button. There was a flash, and after a minute Veronica peeled away the negative to reveal the print of us smiling.

  “Perfect.”

  “Cool. Now let’s get on the road,” Veronica said as she handed me the camera and glanced over her shoulder, then merged back into traffic.

  Daphne relaxed back. “This is going to be so boss.”

  “So you have any idea how to get there?” I asked.

  “To Georgia, no, not a clue,” Veronica said.

  “Well, we know we have to go south, which means taking the New Jersey Turnpike. We can stop at a service station on the way and get a map,” Daphne added.

  I opened the glove compartment and fished inside and found a half pack of cigarettes, two sticks of Beech-Nut peppermint gum, and a map of Connecticut and Massachusetts. “Nothing we can use.” I tossed everything back inside.

  Veronica sighed heavily. “I know exactly where we’re going,” she assured us again. “And getting to Georgia is a snap. We just go south and follow the road signs.”

  “But—” I began.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Zelda, would you please relax and let her drive in peace?” Daphne said. “We’ll be fine.”

  I looked at Daphne, surprised by her tone. It was completely out of character. Apparently her new look wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Still, I was no fool. I was not reckless. I didn’t walk down a dark alley and hope no one was there with a billy club or a straight razor. I’d heard about too many heinous goings-on when people drove down south. Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner were three names I’d never forget. They’d volunteered to register black voters. With no protection from the police, they were arrested, held, ambushed, abducted, and murdered. Unimaginably bad things happened all the time. Having no map and no plan, we were asking for trouble.

  Daphne was relaxed and calm. She had replaced her wide-brimmed straw hat with a silk scarf and had put on her dark shades. She stretched out on the back seat with a smile on her face and her chin tilted up to the brilliant sun. I guessed I was the only one feeling anxious.

  “If I get raped and murdered and my body is dismembered and scattered up and down the East Coast, I’m gonna haunt you both for the rest of your natural lives.”

  “What else is new? You do that now,” Veronica said wryly as she reached over and turned on the radio. James Brown’s “Say It Loud” blasted free.

  4

  IN NEWARK, THE RADIO STATION AUDIO WENT STATIC. Veronica turned the radio off, and we rode in silence. The continuous flow of ordinary people in regular cars gave traveling the New Jersey Turnpike a false sense of America’s civility. Almost every driver we passed crawled close beside us and stared curiously at the three of us in the flashy convertible. They gawked at us as if we were zoo specimens. Curiosity, grimaces, scowls, and loathsome frowns seemed to be the most popular reactions. I was amused by their expressions.

  A simple drive down a highway by three black women should not cause this much uproar. One day maybe it would be different, just as Dr. King had said in his March on Washington speech. A time when we wouldn’t be stared at or stopped and harassed for the color of our skin.

  “It feels like we’ve been sitting in this traffic for hours. What’s going on? Is there an accident up there?” Daphne asked, scooting forward and poking her head over the seat.

  I shrugged. Veronica removed her dark shades and leaned over the steering wheel. She cupped her hand above her brow and squinted against the brightness of the sun. “I don’t see anything.”

  I’d been down the turnpike often enough to know that it was taking much longer than it usually did. By the time we’d gotten to New Brunswick, traffic was at a complete standstill. Stalled, overheated cars had been parked to the side of the road, littering the highway nearly every half mile.

  I looked back at the slow, desperate exodus with traffic snarled in every direction. “I’ve never seen it this backed up before,” I said.

  “Me either.” Veronica turned the steering wheel, then eased over into the next lane. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re getting off at this exit.” A few minutes later, we proceeded to take Exit 8 for Hightstown and Trenton.

  “Why are we getting off here?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  I sighed and relaxed back against the seat. I closed my eyes and reclined my head toward the sun. The soothing warmth on my face and the untroubling breeze felt comforting.

  After we got off the turnpike, we drove down a narrow road through a heavily wooded area dotted with pastures, fields, and farmhouses spaced far from each other.

  Out of the blue, Veronica started laughing. “Hey, we forgot to tell you, your best buddy Darnell said he was going to send somebody to look after us.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I asked, alarmed. “In Atlanta?”

  “No. While you were in the house, he was acting concerned about our safety. We told him we were stopping in Cape May first and he said a son of a friend of his would meet us at Veronica’s family’s place,” Daphne explained, leaning over the front seat.

  “When did we decide to stop in Cape May and what do you mean Darnell’s sending someone to Veronica’s family’s place?” I asked.

  “It was a surprise for you, but then Darnell wanted to know where we were going.”

  “And you told him? And he’s sending someone to meet us? Are you two crazy?” I asked them, feeling myself getting more and more angry. I couldn’t believe this.

  “Girl, now you know that man ain’t got friend the first,” Daphne stated, barely managing her screaming laughter.

  “Yeah, I made him feel big and all by playing along and giving him the address. Sistas got to respect the man. You can’t bring a brotha down. You know, unite, black power, and all that other stuff you say, Zelda.”

  I gave her a look that let her know now was not the time. “I don’t want anything to do with that man or anybody he knows. And I don’t want anybody he knows near me. That’s all I got to say about it.”

  “Here,” Daphne said, handing me a Pepsi cola and a big half-eaten bag of Bugles.

  “Thanks.” I had skipped breakfast earlier and was getting hungry. I sipped the soda and munched on a few cornucopia-shaped snacks. It wasn’t a stack of flapjacks with butter and syrup and sausage links, but it hit the spot.

  After a while I looked around in earnest. “Are we almost there?”

  “Relax,” Veronica said, smiling. “I haven’t been here in ages. I thought it would be nice to hang out at the shore for a while.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Daphne said happily. “I’ve never been to Cape May.”

  “Me either,” I said, feeling bothered for no particular reason. Daphne was right. Darnell didn’t have any friends as far as I knew. He was just boasting again.

  “You’re gonna love it. I used to spend almost all my summers down here when I was younger. It’s quiet and peaceful, and the beach is amazing. It’ll be a blast.”

  I shrugged indifferently. I wasn’t much of a beach person. I could swim. My aunt had taught me years ago, but messing up my hair with salt water and sand wasn’t what I considered having a blast. Unlike Veronica, who had a lye straightener in her hair, and Daphne, who had good hair, I had hair that was thick and corkscrew curly. I’d worn an Afro for years, ever since my father showed me a picture of Nina Simone. He said her Afro was her crown and made her look strong and determined. I admired her and wanted to be just like her.

  Driving through Cape May, Veronica slowed as we came to an area that was dilapidated. A huge vacant lot was across the street, and beside it were long-neglected homes. Two old men with short gray hair stood looking at the site. I watched as they pointed and shook their heads. “What happened here?” I asked Veronica as she stopped at a traffic light.

  “They’re tearing it all down.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s called urban development,” she said. “
They’re building new homes and businesses and making way for progress.”

  “I’m guessing this was a black neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, it was,” she said, driving on when the light changed.

  “What happened to all the people who used to live there?” Daphne asked.

  “I’m sure they kicked them out,” I said.

  “No. They got compensated and moved someplace else. This area is prime beach-front real estate, and the houses were a disgrace.”

  “So they just chuck everybody out and call it progress.”

  “Don’t start, Zelda. It’s none of our business,” Daphne said.

  I turned to face her. “What are you talking about? This is everybody’s business. This is how they’re shutting us up, erasing us from history. They take everything from the poor, and that’s usually black people. Do you really think black folks are going to be able to afford to move back to this area when they’re finished building those fancy new houses? No. What happens if they want your father’s house next?”

  “They can have it.” Daphne smirked.

  “Why do you always want to make it a war? Life isn’t always black versus white,” Veronica exclaimed.

  “That’s exactly how it is, black versus white. They mean us no good. They’re all alike. They’re the status quo, the good ol’ boys who want everything back to how it used to be. It’s a hatred as old as the republic itself.”

  “Not all white people are like that,” Veronica corrected.

  “Can we please change the subject?” Daphne complained. “I’m tired of hearing about this.”

  “I can’t believe you two. What happened to concern and care for your fellow human being?” I said, astonished by their lack of empathy.

  “Zelda, come on. We’re here to have fun.”

  “Are we going to be doing this the whole time?” Daphne asked.

  “Doing what?” I asked. “Not caring?”

  “Oh good Lord, somebody get her a placard and let her go picket. It’s done, Zelda, there’s nothing anybody can do about it. The people took the money and moved on. Case closed. You don’t know what this place looked like before. It was horrible. Because of crime, you couldn’t come around here after sunset. At least now it will be different. And the black people you’re talking about can start over someplace else, someplace better.”

  “But don’t you see? These were once their homes.”

  “You know, in the 1920s about thirty percent of Cape May was black folks and about sixty percent of the businesses were black owned. From Jefferson to Lafayette to Broad was all black.”

  “So they just congregated here—why?” Daphne asked.

  “There was good-paying work with the railroad, and then they stayed. I even heard that this was a meeting point on the Underground Railroad.”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. History. Our history. Pretty soon it’ll be even less and less.”

  “She’s got a point,” Daphne said.

  I nodded. “See?”

  “My aunt volunteers on the community archives committee,” Veronica said. “They document local black history like the Smith House. Stephen Smith was famous for being one of the richest black men in America. He had a summer house right over there.” She pointed to a small two-story building with floor-to-ceiling windows and a second-floor balcony. “That’s the Stephen Smith House. President Johnson saved it, so it can’t be torn down.”

  “We’ve got to do for ourselves,” I stated.

  “There’s not a whole lot we can do. We sat at lunch counters, picketed, boycotted, and then what? Nothing really changed,” Daphne said.

  “I wouldn’t call the Civil Rights Act of 1964 nothing,” Veronica said.

  “Yes, but that was then. It’s our turn now and we have to do it better. Yes, we sat and picketed and boycotted, but now we have to be more vocal, more out there.”

  “You mean like the protests and riots?” Daphne asked.

  “Protests, yes, and riots, maybe, if we have to,” I said.

  “Things will change. It’ll just take time,” said Veronica.

  “Time.” I shook my head. “I’m sure that’s exactly what the first slaves said when they got off the Jesus of Lübeck in 1562. It’ll just take time and we’ll be free.”

  “Oh brother, here we go, another history lesson,” Daphne complained.

  “I’m just trying to educate you,” I said. “Change only comes when we make it.”

  “Can we just drop it now? Please,” Daphne said.

  I didn’t say anything after that. None of us did. But I kept thinking about what Veronica had said and what she told us about places like Oak Bluffs, Idlewild, Sag Harbor, and Cape May years ago. Places where elite and affluent blacks could summer in peace without the need to constantly prove worthy.

  I looked around sadly, seeing the lost splendor of yesteryear. Churches, dance halls, restaurants, banks, hotels, all black-owned, were gone or on the verge of vanishing. Some decimated by the ravages of time, others stolen by greedy men for profit, determined to wipe away our history and forever change the demographic.

  I knew this place would soon be the end of an era, destined to fade into nothing, and nobody was going to do a damn thing to stop it.

  We drove a few more miles. The heaviness of the conversation had brought down our mood, and we all three retreated into our thoughts. Of course Veronica interrupted the peace.

  “Oh, I love this song,” she said.

  “Me too. Turn it up. Turn it up,” Daphne instructed.

  I reached over and turned the knob. The impeccably harmonic voices of the Fifth Dimension flowed from the car speakers. “Stoned Soul Picnic”—it was perfect in promoting a lighthearted and carefree spirit throughout the car. We immediately bobbed her heads, sang, and swayed along with the lively ballad.

  “Yes. A picnic!” Daphne shouted. Veronica glanced up in the rearview mirror and I turned around. “That’s what we should do. We should have a picnic.” Daphne excitedly sat up on the edge of the seat and started looking around. “We’re close to the beach, right? We can stop and grab some sandwiches, then have a picnic on the beach. Oh, that’s perfect.”

  “A stoned soul picnic on the beach,” I said, still singing along with the radio.

  “I know the perfect spot,” Veronica said as she turned the music up even louder. Daphne and I raised our hands and continued to sway with the music.

  The song faded and a commercial came on, advertising a brand-new cigarette, Virginia Slims. I turned the radio down as we stopped at a traffic light. Next to us, sitting there at the light, was a sunburned man in an old beat-up truck with more rust than paint. The driver-side door panel was a different color than the rest of the truck, and the side mirror was barely hanging on. His round face was as red as the insides of a ripe watermelon. His blond hair, matted and greasy, crept out from beneath a dirty straw porkpie hat. The rest of it crawled down the sides of his face and ended in a scruffy, scraggy beard at his chin. His mouth was the barest slit, with his lips almost invisible. His eyes were dark and intently focused on us, and our shiny car.

  I saw in his back seat a little girl with eyes bluer than the sky and blond hair as white as the clouds. I thought about an angel, or better yet a cherub, as soon as I saw her. Rosy cheeks, and little sausage fingers gripped an apple nearly the size of her face. She bit into it and chewed happily. Then she turned to me and stuck out her tongue.

  I looked at the man again. He was still staring. I didn’t know if Veronica or Daphne noticed him. They were talking about the new cigarette from the commercial. I turned and looked straight ahead. I was done with the stares.

  “We’re almost there,” Veronica said excitedly.

  Daphne leaned over the front seat. A few blocks later Veronica rounded another corner and immediately pulled into a long, narrow driveway right beside a small house surrounded by a mass of bright red rose bushes. She continued driving along the side of the house toward the rear, where I
realized the enormity of the house. White with evergreen shutters, a host of windows, and a spacious wraparound porch on the ground level, it was the most beautiful house I’d seen.

  “We’re here,” Veronica announced. “This is my family’s house. My great-grandparents bought the land and then my grandparents built the house. Now it belongs to my father and my uncle Harold. That means it belongs to me too.”

  I knew they had a summerhouse in Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard. Although I had never been there, I had seen pictures of Veronica on Inkwell beach. Looking at this house, I had to say I was impressed.

  Veronica opened the car door and got out, stretching. She looked up at the house, smiling proudly. “Yep. I’m the next generation. The only one to carry on the family legacy.”

  “Hello! Hello! Yoo-hoo.”

  Two older women, both around seventy or so, hurried across the street and walked toward us. One was a light-skinned black woman wearing a floral apron and the other was a white woman with garden clippers, wearing a straw hat and cat-eye sunglasses.

  “Veronica Cook, is that you?” one of the women shouted.

  “See, Betsy, I told you that was her. I knew it. She looks just like her grandmother, don’t she though?”

  “She sure does, Sadie. Just like her.”

  Veronica groaned just loudly enough for us to hear. “Oh, great. I was hoping to avoid them. They’re the biggest two busybodies on the planet.” Then she smiled and waved happily. “Hi, Miss Betsy. Hi, Miss Sadie. Yes, it’s me.”

  The two older women walked up and grabbed Veronica, then swallowed her in a huge hug. They laughed and hugged her again. “Look at you. You are the spitting image of your grandmother, God rest her soul,” one of the women said as she quickly glanced over to Daphne and me.

  “How’s everything in the neighborhood?” Veronica asked.

  “Fine. Fine. Quiet for the most part. Although we’ve got a couple of strange ones renting the Petersons’ house on the corner,” the black woman said. “I think they’re musicians and hippies,” she mouthed, barely audible. “British hippies.”