One Night in Georgia

by Celeste O. Norfleet

  The men shook my uncle’s hand. They thanked my aunt, and my uncle walked them out.

  My aunt was still complaining about the guns on her lace tablecloth and the cigarette smoke in her living room while she made us bologna and cheese sandwiches.

  “Since when did Uncle Arthur start working with the Black Panther Party?” I asked.

  “He’s helping them with the legal aspects of their breakfast programs, health clinics, and other issues. He represented a few of the members last week, and a few others stopped by for more advice. They know having the Livingston name means something in the city.”

  My uncle returned, and I hugged him. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly about the bandage on his head.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it looks worse than it is. And the optics work in our favor for the newspaper articles.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was beat by the damn police,” my aunt responded. “They accused him of inciting a riot and tried to arrest him. People came out and went wild. The police blamed your uncle and hauled him off to jail. Apparently he was beat while resisting arrest and damn near shot when trying to escape, which of course never happened. But that didn’t matter.”

  “My God,” Daphne muttered.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” Arthur said.

  “Are you okay?” Veronica asked my aunt Dorothy.

  “Yes, just stressed, and I know my blood pressure is through the roof. But never mind all that. You all sit down and eat.”

  Obediently, Daphne, Veronica, Daniel, and I sat down and started eating the sandwiches. We weren’t hungry, but we didn’t want to go against my aunt right now.

  “When did you get hurt?” I asked.

  “Friday,” Arthur said. “I announced my candidacy and—”

  “You did! That’s wonderful, Uncle Arthur. I’m so proud of you,” I exclaimed, hugging him. Then I turned. “Ladies and Daniel, I’d like to introduce the future Washington, DC, councilman Arthur Livingston.” Everybody applauded and cheered.

  “Don’t forget your mother called,” Dorothy said to me. “She wants you to call her back. She said you left Friday. What took you so long to get here?”

  “That’s my fault, Mrs. Livingston,” Veronica said quickly. “We stopped at the beach to visit my family.”

  Dorothy nodded. “Just call your mother back.”

  “I’m really not—”

  “No sass. Call her. Use the phone in the living room.”

  My aunt Dorothy had a way of commanding a room. She was not a very large woman, but when she spoke everyone listened. She was smart, loving, and generous. She’d do anything for anybody, but getting on her bad side was never a good idea.

  I got up begrudgingly and headed to the living room.

  “Zelda,” my aunt called out, following me into the living room. I saw that Veronica, Daphne, and Daniel had stayed in the kitchen with my uncle Arthur. I looked at Aunt Dorothy and tears began to flow.

  “She didn’t remember Friday.” I spoke in French, knowing no one else would understand us even if they overhead. “It’s like he never existed.”

  “Don’t fault your mother,” Dorothy replied, also in French.

  “Why not? It’s her fault, all of it,” I yelled. “If they hadn’t argued that night, we would have all stayed in the house and never gone to the movies. She was always arguing with him. I don’t understand.”

  Dorothy sighed. “That’s because you don’t want to,” she said. “You never did.”

  “What?”

  “Take him down from that pedestal, Zelda. It’s time.”

  I looked her directly in the eyes.

  “Your father was no saint, and that’s what you’ve made him out to be. He was a man—fascinating, yes, brilliant, yes, but at times imperfect. He had affairs, a lot of them.”

  “No. That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is,” she insisted. “When have I ever lied to you?” Our eyes held. She waited expectantly.

  “Never.”

  “So fault your mother for being possessive with the man she truly loved and for being selfish and wanting him all for herself. But it’s time you know that she went through her trials with your father. He had a wandering eye, and women loved him. They loved him too damn much.”

  “No. I can’t believe this.”

  “A white woman accused him of being the father of her child. That’s what they argued about. The woman said she was going to make it public. He decided to give her money to disappear.”

  “No, that didn’t happen.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “No. Not my father. He was a good man. He was—”

  “Zelda, stop it. Grow up. Life isn’t black and white. It just isn’t. Yes, your father was a good man, but he was also flawed. He was human. We all are flawed, one no better and no worse than the other. Call her. Make this right. Do it now.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait. Is that what got him killed?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Was there a baby?”

  “No, the woman lied. She just wanted money.”

  “Mom knew and she didn’t tell me?”

  “She was trying to protect his memory and you. Call her.”

  She walked away. I turned and looked down at the phone. I picked up the receiver and dialed my home in New York. My mother answered on the second ring. “Hi, it’s me,” I said, gathering my composure as I reverted back to speaking English.

  “Zelda, Lawd chile, I was worried sick. Are you okay? I’ve been calling your aunt and uncle since Friday. Where have you been?”

  “I’m fine,” I said but was a little upset.

  She exhaled. “Zelda,” she began. I could hear the tremble in her voice. “You shouldn’t have left like that.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We should never speak like that to one another. You’re all I’ve got left.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Zelda, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you.”

  “You’re my daughter. From the second you were conceived and every day after. I love you. Don’t you know that?”

  “No, Mom, I don’t know that,” I said truthfully.

  “Well, don’t ever believe otherwise. This is your home. Do you want me to take the train and meet you in DC?”

  “No. We’ll be fine. I’m fine.”

  I turned toward the back of the house. Everyone was in the kitchen, but Daniel had come into the dining room. He sat at the table with the newspaper in his hands, but I knew he wasn’t reading it. He looked at me. His eyes were intense, and his expression was uneasy. I turned away. “Mom, this is long distance. I have to go.”

  “Wait,” she said softly. “Did Darnell’s friend’s son meet up with you ladies?”

  “Yeah, he’s here,” I said softly, smiling to myself.

  “Good. I’ll try not to worry then. He’ll take good care of you. He’s a good man, an honest man. Call me when you can.”

  “I will.”

  I pressed the button on the phone to end the call, but I held on to the receiver. When I released the button, I stood there and listened to the whining buzz of the disconnected line. I realized that I had wanted to tell my mother that I loved her, too, but I had never said that to her before and she had never said it to me before this moment. It seemed like there was no room for those words in our families. It would mean that we cared, and it was tough to do that when from the very beginning of our time here in America, people of color could be stolen and sold out of our lives on a slave master’s whim. I finally hung up.

  “She’s your biggest supporter.”

  I turned, finding Daniel standing behind me.

  “How would you know?” I asked.

  “Because you’re all she ever talks about. She’d go on and on about how smart you are, and your accomplishments, and how proud she is of you. Funny, the more she talked, the more
I wanted to hear.”

  “I don’t know what my mother said to you about me, Daniel, but you don’t know me. You may think you do, but you don’t.”

  “I know that you’re funny, smart, beautiful, and passionate about what you believe. I know that I liked you even before we met and I know that I want to get to know you better.” He stepped closer. “Zelda—”

  My name hung in the scant air between us. That’s when I first saw it there in his eyes, a spark that I can only describe as intense passion. It was raw and urgent and nearly stole my breath away. I quickly averted my gaze. I wasn’t ready to hear what I knew he wanted to say to me. “Daniel, I can’t. Not now. We should get back to the others.”

  He nodded and walked away.

  I didn’t move. I looked down and noticed a flyer on the end table beside the telephone.

  It was about the protest rally we had passed on our way to the house. It listed my uncle as a speaker. I took it to the kitchen. “Aren’t you supposed to be there, Uncle Arthur?”

  He checked his watch. “Yeah, I’d better get going.”

  “You be careful, you hear me?” Aunt Dorothy said and kissed him. I smiled. Their relationship had always been affectionate no matter who was there and what was going on. Thank God they always found time to say “I love you.”

  “Aunt Dorothy, you’re not going?”

  “No, child. My marching days are over.”

  “Can we go?” I asked, looking at Veronica and Daphne.

  They shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, can we?” they asked.

  Aunt Dorothy frowned at us, sighed, and shook her head. I just knew she was going to say no. “You all just be careful and stay close to Arthur and Daniel, you hear me?”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Aunt Dorothy turned to me. “Zelda, écoute. Ça peut devenir fou à ces rassemblements, alors fais attention et sois en sécurité.”

  “Oui, nous promettons. Nous serons en sécurité. À plus tard.”

  We all piled into my uncle’s car. Daniel, who sat up front, was a sports nut just like my uncle, and they talked about sports and Daniel’s plans to be an engineer and laughed the whole time as the three of us sat in the back. Veronica nudged me and smiled. “It’s so cool that you and your aunt speak French. What did she say?”

  “She told me that the rally could get crazy and to be safe. I told her we would.”

  It didn’t take long to get to the protest rally. We walked into a room full of people cheering and applauding my uncle the moment we entered. A few of the men dressed in black who had been at the house earlier were there too. They ushered us through the crowd, making sure to hold others back as we passed. My uncle stepped up onto the stage, and the crowd of people went crazy.

  He motioned for Daniel, Veronica, Daphne, and me to step up behind him. We seated ourselves on some folding chairs on the makeshift stage and listened to his speech. I watched as the people stood in silence, enthralled by his words. He stressed education, employment, and voter participation while asserting the immediate end to police brutality and black-on-black crime.

  There were several hundred people as far back as I could see. They were all listening in awe. I saw the woman I had argued with at the house. She was sitting off to the side, at the voter registration table. She looked at me up onstage. I nodded to her.

  “Zelda, Veronica, look.” Daphne nudged me.

  “Yeah, I see it,” Veronica said.

  There was a commotion building all the way in the back. My uncle had a concerned look on his face. Police officers were surrounding the crowd. Some of the attendees began to yell and push, and a scuffle broke out. My uncle stopped speaking and stood with his hands raised.

  Some in the crowd closer to the stage raised their hands as well. It took about a half minute for people in the crowd to notice he had stopped talking. They ceased. Soon the entire crowd held their hands up in silence.

  “This is not what we’re here to do today,” my uncle said in a firm voice. The last remnants of the ruckus subsided, and others around it were making the troublemakers stop and pay attention. He softened his tone, and the crowd grew even quieter still. “No one gets that power over us. We will not give anyone cause to beat us. We are better than this.”

  Someone yelled, “That’s right. You tell ’em.”

  “We come from better than this,” he added.

  “Amen, brother. Preach on.”

  Another person screamed, “Someone killed Dr. King.”

  “Yes, he did,” my uncle said sadly.

  “Yeah, they shot him down like a dog,” a different person shouted.

  My uncle nodded sadly as a small commotion began again.

  “Shit,” I muttered. All I could think was A riot is coming.

  “And what are we going to do?” he asked the crowd.

  “Kill the pigs!”

  “Yeah, kill the pigs!”

  “No.” He shook his head and moved the microphone away slightly. It quieted the crowd. “No. Let me tell you a story,” he began. “Five years ago my older brother, Owen Livingston, a civil rights attorney in New York City, was pulled from his car right in front of his house. Four police officers detained him as my niece at fifteen years old could only stand and watch.”

  A lump the size of the Rock of Gibraltar jammed in my throat. I sat stunned, barely breathing. Veronica and Daphne grabbed each of my hands and squeezed tight. The crowd was completely hushed as he told them how my father was handcuffed, beaten, and killed.

  “Kill the muthafuckin’ pigs!”

  Many of the cops were in ready position. And the ones stationed at the stage gripped their batons in their hands. One was even anxiously slapping his baton against the palm of his hand.

  “No!” My uncle shouted. “It’s not the pigs we need to attack. It’s the system that protects them and the systemic apathy that we perpetrate day in and day out. We need to change this broken system by stepping up and voting them out and taking responsibility for our actions and inactions. Cut the legs off their power, the corrupt judges who send us to jail disproportionately and do nothing to the real criminals, the blinded police chief who only sees blue power and greed, the muted mayor who only speaks out to put money in his own pocket, and the deafened councilmen who pretend not to hear our cries of abuse and brutality. My brothers and sisters, it’s time for something new.

  “All of you fat cats out there, you listen to me and listen good. Your time is up. Your days are numbered. It’s a new day. This is our time, the people’s time. And you can’t keep all of us down. The poor, the brutalized, the disenfranchised, we stand all in accord. It doesn’t matter, your race or your religion or whatever else you are. We’ll stand together. And we’re going to the voting box.”

  By this time the cries of exultation and endorsement were deafening. There were women shouting “Amen” like they were sitting in church. The police just stood there, as people rushed to the voter registration table, which was packed three or four rows deep. People were listening to my uncle.

  “Cut the legs off,” he continued. “Vote them out. Then we’ll take this power all the way to the White House. Go to the voting box and watch them fall. Step up. Get out and vote. Get out and vote them out!

  “Let me tell you, I have a future judge, a future teacher, a future businesswoman, and a future engineer right here with me on this stage.” He motioned for us to stand. We did. “My niece and her friends attend college. They want to change this world and make the future brighter for my children and your children. So I tell you now, keep your children in school, give them a future, and get out there and vote!”

  Cheers rang out at a blistering volume.

  “This is not the end. This is only the beginning. Are you with me?”

  As my uncle finished his speech, the crowd became ecstatic and started chanting his name. We all joined in.

  11

  WE PLANNED TO LEAVE DC EARLY MONDAY MORNING, BUT we didn’t make it out until almost two. Uncle Arthur h
ad reminded us of the notorious harassment of black motorists and speed traps on Virginia’s Interstate 85. Instead of getting on I-85 in Petersburg, we decided to take an alternate route until we got to North Carolina. Traffic on Interstate 95 south was impossible. We got stuck behind two different accidents and had to detour around them, leading us onto Route 1. It was crowded, but not too bad. I stared off at the scenic beauty.

  We were officially in the South. The blood of our ancestors had seeped into the red clay. The bones of men, women, and children long forgotten had been crushed and buried beneath the trees, the roads, and the homes.

  Living in the city, I sometimes forgot how picturesque the rural South could be. The trees, lush and full, were a mass of vibrant green, and the rolling countryside appeared to go on forever, untouched by expansion and civilization. The placid serenity of the drive was ideal.

  “Tell me about your father,” Daniel said. “Your uncle mentioned him on the podium at his rally.”

  “His name was Owen Livingston. He was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Last Friday was five years, but most times it feels like it was just yesterday. My father was a civil rights attorney in New York City. A few months before he was assassinated he won a huge police brutality civil rights case. It was a major lawsuit, what they call a career-making case. They said he would never win, but against all odds, he won. People were comparing him to Thurgood Marshall, and politicians came calling.

  “But some people, the police mostly, weren’t happy about it. The case cost the city millions of dollars, and it shined a light on police discrimination practices that had been going on for decades. The newspapers covered the case on their front pages almost every day. People on the street recognized him, and he was approached about running for public office. But he didn’t want that. He always said his calling was to work for the people, all the people.

  “The day he was killed he took me to the movies. My mother didn’t want to go. She never did. So going to the movies was our father-daughter time together. We went at least once a month ever since I can remember. I wish I had known then that time was going to be our last time together.

  “He had been working so hard on the case and on his business. We had missed the last few months of movies, but I understood. He was doing important work. So for him to take this time for us was so special to me. We laughed and sang during the movie,” I said, smiling and remembering a particular part we had liked a lot. “Then as soon as the movie was over and we went outside, the police were waiting for us.