Bailey was the only one talking. Mother and Silvie were mesmerized, apparently unaware that all the others were squirming in their seats. He cut a glance at Dooley and saw a dark rage building in his eyes. Then, suddenly, Dooley jumped up from the table so quickly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him.
“Dooley,” Mother said mildly, with barely a glance at him. “Remember your manners, please.”
“I’d like to be excused,” he grated with menace in his voice.
“All right. Run along.”
Dooley bolted for the door with George Hatfield and Jackie Rudolph close on his heels. Bogey sat glued to his seat, biting his lower lip nervously.
Con elbowed him in the ribs. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. Bogey nodded uncertainly, and Con stood up. “Excuse us, too, Mother. We’ve . . . ah, got some things to attend to.”
“Don’t you want to stay a while and talk?” she asked. “Bailey has had some fascinating experiences as an attorney, and—”
“No ma’am. Sorry. We—uh, we gotta go.”
Con hustled Bogey into the hallway. The last thing he heard before the front door closed behind them was his mother’s voice saying, “Let me tell you about my husband and my grandfather, Bailey. I think you would have liked both of them.”
Amethyst wished Conrad had stayed a little longer. The boy might benefit from some contact with a man like Bailey Blue.
What an amazing life he had lived! Howard University Law School, third in his class. After graduation, he had worked with the newly formed NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund, as assistant to a prominent black attorney named Thurgood Marshall.
“Mark my words,” Bailey went on. “It may take another twenty years, but Thurgood Marshall will be the first Negro appointed to the Supreme Court. He is a brilliant man, a man with a vision. Received his law degree at age twenty-five, and barely five years later became chief counsel for the NAACP. He’s committed to seeing this nation embrace its responsibility for providing equal justice for all.”
“And that’s why you’re here?”
Bailey nodded. “Our goal is to bring an end to discrimination against Negroes. At the moment, we’re focusing especially on job discrimination and education—specifically the ’separate but equal’ policy.” He shook his head. “There can be no equality in separation. It’s 1946, and black people still suffer in inferior jobs, with inferior housing, and their children get inferior education. We’re refused the right to vote, relegated to the back of the bus, shot to death for setting foot on a white man’s land.” He paused. “I assume you heard about the killing over in Dudley County. It’s a travesty in a land that claims to offer liberty and justice for all.”
Amethyst nodded, thinking back to her own battle to give Harper and men like him a fair chance at a job—and further back, to Grandma Pearl and Grandpa Silas’s work with the slaves before and during the War Between the States. It was the same struggle all over again—different faces, different circumstances, but the same conflict. When she had told Silvie that it was the right thing to do, taking in Bailey Blue, she had believed it, at least philosophically. Now her theory was going to be put to the test.
“I have to be honest with you, Amethyst,” he said. “Most white people in the South don’t like the NAACP very much. Local and state governments—and especially the Klan—oppose us at every turn. They’re afraid of seeing the balance of power shift, terrified of losing the control they’ve held for so long. If you want to change your mind, I’ll find another place to stay.”
Amethyst looked across at Silvie. She had loved this woman for as long as she could remember—had played with her as a child, confided in her as a young woman, depended upon her during times of heartache. For more than forty years, they had been family. Sisters. And yet a wall stood between them, a barrier that neither of them talked about. They could not share a meal at a restaurant, could not sit together on a bus, could not even worship together. It was not, Amethyst was certain, the way God intended it to be.
“It will be a risk,” she said softly, gazing into Silvie’s dark eyes. “Is it a risk we want to take?”
Silvie’s brown hand reached out and grasped Amethyst’s white one. “What would your grandma Pearl do?”
Amethyst smiled, and a phrase from Pearl’s journals surfaced in her mind: To believe is to care. To care is to do.
Years ago, those journals had set her on a journey—a quest to find her own way to faith, to discover the calling God had placed upon her life. Each time she thought she had found her direction, the one cause she was destined to embrace, the Lord set another challenge before her. Another stretching of her trust, another leap into the unknown.
“You’re in the right place,” she said to Bailey Blue. “And so are we.”
Silvie lay in bed and watched the moonlight play in the shadows of the tree outside her window. Usually she slept soundly, but tonight her mind spun with turmoil. In the apartment next to her room, just a wall away, she could hear Bailey’s soft snoring.
His words—his very presence in the house—had stirred something in her, something she had never named and couldn’t quite understand.
Part of it, she supposed, was the fact that he was outrageously attractive. From the moment she had opened the front door and laid eyes on him for the first time, she hadn’t been able to still the rushing of her pulse. His smile, his easy laugh, his wit and intelligence, the passionate intensity in his eyes when he talked about his work—everything about him captivated her.
There was no chance of a romantic relationship between them, of course. She had to put that out of her mind and not be a fool about it. She was easily fifteen years older than he was, and if she hadn’t found the right man by this time, she wasn’t likely to find him in a thirty-five-year-old lawyer. Clearly the good Lord intended her to be single, and for the most part she was satisfied with her life and didn’t constantly nag God for more.
But Bailey Blue was offering more, and despite herself, Silvie found herself longing for it.
Over the years she hadn’t given much thought to the status of Negroes in general, or herself in particular. It didn’t matter that most of the white folks in town referred to her as “Amethyst’s maid,” even though she held equal shares in Noble House. She knew different, and that was what counted. Her daddy had taught her to hold her head up, to turn a deaf ear to ignorant people, to be proud of who she was and what she had accomplished.
Bailey, however, implied that having a thick skin wasn’t enough. Not for her, not for the thousands upon thousands of black people who struggled to make a living and provide food and shelter for their families.
Equal rights. The phrase reverberated in her soul, and she knew instinctively the truth of Bailey’s words. Negroes weren’t slaves anymore, but they might as well be, for all the share they got in the kind of life white folks enjoyed. Simple liberties, like the freedom to walk down the street without the fear of being harassed. The right to vote and elect candidates who would represent their interests. The right to dignity and respect. Just the right to be seen, to be acknowledged as an individual with a personality and feelings and abilities.
Bailey had said that community leaders opposed the work of the NAACP. Why, she wondered, were white people so threatened by the idea of Negroes having equal rights? Were they afraid that coloreds would take over, the way the Pharaoh feared an uprising among the children of Israel?
Her heart latched onto the parallel. Yes, there were similarities here. Negro men in menial jobs, being browbeaten into submission by white overseers. Negro women trying to keep their families together and protect their children from abuse. An old black man in the next county shot to death. People lynched in the dark of night, their houses burned. Was there a Moses out there somewhere, preparing to face down the Pharaoh and demand, “Let my people go!”?
A cloud blew over the moon, plunging the room into darkness. A chill ran through Silvie’s veins, and she pulled the quilt
tighter about her shoulders. Amethyst was right—this was a cause worth fighting for. But there was more at stake than social acceptability. The price was likely to be higher, much higher, than a few nasty comments on the street or in the grocery store.
She closed her eyes against the blackness of the night, and an image arose in her mind—a multitude of Negroes, marching out of Egypt, singing a victory song. But the vision didn’t end there. Behind them, across the desert wilderness, an army of approaching soldiers, trapping them as the Red Sea refused to part.
Pharaoh’s armies, in white sheets and hoods, with burning crosses in their hands. . . .
Con felt his stomach twisting into knots.
Dooley stood in the middle of the small apartment, a baseball bat in his hands, slamming the bat against his open palm. “I say we go after the nigger now, tonight!”
The other three—George, Jackie, and Bogey—sat on the floor in a semicircle around Dooley. Bogey’s eyes got wider and wider, as if they might pop right out of his head. George and Jackie watched each other cagily, each assessing the other’s reaction.
“Keep your voice down!” Conrad hissed. “Do you want to wake the whole household?”
“They can’t hear me over there,” Dooley sneered in reply. “And if they do, so what? I can take two women and a nigger easy enough.”
Con fell silent. Dooley was right—about the noise, anyway. The carriage house sat away from the main house, separated by thirty feet or more. It was a chilly night, and the windows would be closed. Nobody could overhear Dooley’s plan.
“Wait a minute,” he objected when he got up his nerve. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”
“Ah, take it easy, Wainwright. I ain’t gonna hurt the old lady. It’s that uppity lawyer I’m after. And maybe it’s high time I showed that nigra gal what a real man can do for her.”
Bogey started to speak, but choked on his own spit and began coughing wildly.
“Shut up, Bogey,” Dooley commanded. “Now, who’s with me?”
Nobody said a word.
“George? Jackie? Come on, you little wimps. You gonna let some highfalutin nigra from up north come in here and take over?”
Silence.
Con studied the faces in the room. Bogey wouldn’t stand up to Dooley, but he wouldn’t do anything stupid, either. He had too big a crush on Mother to do anything that might hurt or anger her. Jackie didn’t have a brutal bone in his body—he couldn’t even be aggressive in a poker game. It was George who was the wild card. George idolized Dooley, probably because Dooley was everything George didn’t have the guts to be. As cowardly as he was, he might follow Dooley’s lead just to prove himself. And if he followed Dooley, Jackie would follow him.
Dooley was furious, determined to break some heads and shed some blood. Con had to think of a way out of this—and fast.
“Hold on,” he stammered. “Dool, we don’t have to resort to violence here.”
Dooley took two steps toward him and brandished the bat. “Aw, the mama’s boy is losing his nerve. All talk and no action, eh, Wainwright?”
Con felt his knees buckle, but he stood his ground. “We can get rid of Bailey without beating the pulp out of him—and without risking going to jail.”
Dooley gave a snort. “Ain’t you heard, Wainwright? No white man goes to jail for defending himself against a colored.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, Bailey’s a lawyer. He’s got a lot of support behind him.” Con felt himself growing bolder, and he returned Dooley’s stare. “You got a lot of nerve, Dooley, but you’re not too smart. The NAACP will be on you like white on rice if you mess with one of theirs.”
Dooley faltered—Con could see it in his eyes, see the wheels turning in his mind. He pressed his advantage. “Your daddy wouldn’t like it much if you ruined your chances for college just because you couldn’t keep a lid on that temper of yours.”
Dooley squinted at Con and let the bat fall to his side. “What you got in mind, mama’s boy?”
Conrad hesitated. He was making this up as he went along, and wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say next. But Dooley and the others were waiting. “Simple,” he said, clearing his throat until an idea came to him. “We move out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If we move out, there won’t be enough money coming in to continue to keep Noble House running. No boarders, no income. The boardinghouse closes, and Bailey Blue is out on his duff.”
“You’re gonna shut down your own mama?”
Con considered this. It was brilliant, even if he did say so himself. For years he had bemoaned the fact that he had to live in a boardinghouse with a landlady for a mother. She’d find something else to do, and he knew for a fact that she had enough money laid by for a few months at least. Besides, he wouldn’t have to worry for a while—his tuition was paid up for the year.
“Yep,” he said with a determined nod. “We’ll all go—now, tonight. We’ve got friends who’ll take us in. And when people in this town find out why we did it, we’ll be heroes.”
George and Jackie jumped at the plan. “Great, Con. Yeah, we’ll do it. Count us in.” Clearly they didn’t want to go beating up on Bailey, and they’d grab at any idea that would keep them from having to lose face with Dooley.
Bogey looked as if his world had collapsed before his very eyes. “I don’t know . . . well, all right. I guess.”
Dooley eyed Con suspiciously. “You sure this will work?”
“Why wouldn’t it? We’ll put out the word around town and at school, and nobody will come near this place.”
“All right. But if it don’t work, I still got my bat. And I’ll use it on you first.”
Con suppressed a shudder. He believed it. Every word of it.
But he couldn’t worry about that right now. He had packing to do.
38
Plan B
Amethyst caught a glimpse of someone in the mirror and did a double take. Who was that old woman?
She approached the dresser and peered into the glass more intently. When had she become the person she saw in that reflection? Dark smudges under the eyes. Crow’s-feet fanning out across the temples. Wrinkled, crepey skin draping the folds of the neck. Last time she had looked, she had seen a middle-aged woman—with a few lines here and there perhaps, but still with a spark in her eye, and with most of the wrinkles tracing the patterns of her smile.
Today, she didn’t feel much like smiling. She hadn’t slept for three nights straight, and her emotions were obviously taking a toll on her.
With both hands she pushed back the skin of her cheeks until the image in the spotted glass resembled the young woman she remembered. But the deception didn’t last. As soon as she let go, the truth reasserted itself, arranging her features into the semblance of a woman betrayed by her only son and on the verge of financial ruin.
Her stomach clenched, and Amethyst gripped the edge of the dresser until the pain subsided. She took a deep breath, pushed away, and grim-aced at her reflection.
How Conrad could have done such a thing, she could not imagine. She knew he was the instigator, even though Bailey and Silvie tried to reassure her that perhaps it wasn’t his idea at all. Maybe he had only submitted to peer pressure and gone along with the crowd.
But Amethyst knew better.
Clarence Bogart had told her so.
Poor Bogey. He had come to her under cover of darkness, weeping profusely and apologizing over and over again. At first Amethyst didn’t know what he was talking about. Only when he had calmed down enough to speak without gasping did she learn that the college boys had left—all of them, including Conrad. Moved out in the middle of the night without a word of explanation. It was Con’s idea, Clarence confessed.
In the fifteen minutes Clarence had taken to say good-bye, he had looked over his shoulder a dozen or more times. Clearly he had been intimidated by someone, although Amethyst hadn’t been sure whether it was Conrad or Doole
y Layton who was the object of his terror.
Still, amid the heaving and apologizing and fresh waterfalls of tears, Bogey had managed to get the fundamentals of the situation communicated. None of the boys would continue to board there, not as long as Bailey Blue was in the house. There had been talk of violence—once again Amethyst couldn’t be sure who the source was—and if Bogey didn’t go along with the plan, his own life would be in jeopardy. Something about a baseball bat and broken kneecaps—with all his sobbing, Clarence didn’t make the details very clear, but Amethyst comprehended the essence of the threat.
The long and short of it was that Amethyst was left with a nearly empty house, very little money, one lone boarder, and the knowledge that her only son had been, if not the driving force of the betrayal, at least a willing participant.
Amethyst pressed her fingertips to her eyes. She had to pull herself together, had to make a plan. But she couldn’t make her mind work, couldn’t get any momentum of logical reasoning started. All she could think about was Conrad standing in the midst of those college students, conspiring against his own mother.
It felt like a death.
Amethyst had faced death any number of times over the past thirty years. Harper. Uncle Enoch. Both her parents. Her father, she thought cynically, she had buried twice. Every time, it had been painful. Every time, she thought her heart would never mend. With Harper, especially, she was certain she would grieve forever.
But the grieving eventually waned, the pain diminished, and life went on. She learned to smile again, learned to laugh. Learned to get through a day without the sudden rush of tears that came with the memories.
This was worse. Her son was not dead. She couldn’t stand at his graveside and say good-bye, couldn’t weep for him in the night and then at last let him go. She would live every day with the knowledge that he was still alive, close by, but separated from her by a vast chasm of deceit. She would pass him on the street, and he would turn his head, unwilling to meet her eyes. She would hear his laugh in the square, see him from a distance walking hand in hand with some young woman in the park. . . .
The Amethyst Heart Page 30