Leigh

by Lyn Cote

  “Yes, I went back the next day and the next.” His voice had a fierce edge now. “It both humbled me and gave me a hint of what my ancestors had endured for centuries—what I’d been shielded from—and that made me angry. That made me determined. I’m going to live life on my terms or not at all.”

  Leigh felt his last words burn through her, searing her deep inside. “That’s what I want,” she murmured.

  He chuckled gruffly. “Well, don’t we all?”

  Why was he telling her all this? Was there a secret or hidden message, or was he just telling her things he wouldn’t reveal to someone in his everyday life? She’d experienced that before, often when riding the bus in Washington, when strangers, often tourists, had for some unknown reason told her their life stories. Was this a case of that? “I want the same thing. I want to live life on my own terms.”

  “You come by it honest.” He moved to stand in front of her. “Your grandmother ran away with my grandmother to the big bad city. If you think you’re overprotected, just think how your grandmother lived.”

  She sensed his nearness in two ways. Physically, she tingled with awareness of him. In her heart, she thought he might be wondering why’d he talked so much, why he’d opened himself to her, too. But Leigh didn’t put any of this into words. Again, he’d set the tone. They were two adults speaking. So she skimmed over everything and made the expected reply. “You’re right. And if she can do it, I can, too.”

  “And remember, you’re not alone. I don’t do what my parents want, either.” He grinned suddenly. “They all think they know what’s best for us. My parents are upset that I haven’t enrolled in law school or graduate school yet. They’re afraid I’ll get drafted if I’m not a full-time student. But I don’t want to get my masters’ degree now or even a law degree. I haven’t decided—”

  “Leigh!” her stepfather called through the falling night. “Leigh, are you with young Frank? Your Uncle Thompson and his family are here.”

  “Yes,” Frank answered for them, “we’re coming.” Frank leaned close. “Let’s go back. We should have remembered,” he taunted, “that even here at Ivy Manor we’d need a chaper-one.

  She made a sound of irritation. Maybe that’s what had really nudged her into sharing this private time. She didn’t doubt that her mother had sent her stepfather to find her, to keep her within her mother’s bounds.

  He leaned close to her ear. “I’ll do what I can to see that you get to the march.”

  Leigh didn’t have a chance to respond because suddenly her stepfather was there, holding out his hand to her. She and Frank obediently joined their families in the summer house. But Leigh barely paid attention to what was being said. Frank’s conversation kept going around and around in her mind. What did he mean about helping her? What could he do to get her to Washington on Wednesday?

  Wednesday, August 28, 1963

  It was barely morning, and Leigh couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. On Sunday evening, her parents had driven home to jobs in northern Virginia. Leigh and Dory had been moved—with Chloe’s apologies—from Ivy Manor to their Grandmother Sinclair’s home… for safekeeping. Chloe would not go against Bette, so Grandma Sinclair would take them for the week. Last night, Leigh had nearly burst into tears with frustration. How could she get away from Grandma Sinclair’s home? It was impossible.

  Then today’s dawn had seeped in through the sheer yellow curtains and Leigh had heard something at her second-story window—pebbles hitting the glass. She looked down to see Frank, who was motioning her to come. She leaned over the sill and heard his murmur, “Get dressed, write a note so you don’t worry everyone, and come on. We have to get going.”

  It hit her then. Frank was keeping his promise. He was going to take her to D.C. Equal amounts of guilt and excitement overwhelmed her momentarily. Then she nodded vigorously and pulled back inside. Within minutes, thinking of the heat but also of the possibility of sunburn, she dressed in blue pedal pushers and a blue-and-white sailor blouse. She scratched a hasty note to Grandmother Sinclair, slipped her small white pocketbook into her pocket, and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Outside the day was bright and pleasant, but with a heavy feeling, promising to be another sweltering day. Her heart did flip-flops in her chest. Immediately, she glimpsed Frank’s grandparents’ silver Buick up the road, partially concealed by a knot of pines. She ran down the drive straight to the car.

  Standing by the car, Frank put out a cigarette, mashing it underfoot. He was wearing a summer-weight suit of tan. He smiled at her and opened the car door. “Ready?”

  “You’re taking me? You mean it?” Delicious freedom swelled inside her.

  “Get in.” He ushered her into the passenger seat, then started the car and drove off, quiet and slow.

  “How did you manage it?” Leigh asked, irresistible excitement bubbling up inside her.

  “I told my grandparents that I wanted to go ahead. I had a friend I’d promised to pick up. They’re all taking the train in. But you and I are going to drive to the outskirts of D.C., park, and take the bus or subway to the Lincoln Memorial.”

  “Cool. This is so cool.” Leigh almost bounced on the seat.

  Frank laughed out loud. “This day is all about freedom, and I decided you shouldn’t be cheated out of yours. Besides, this year is the centennial of the Emancipation Proclamation, and I decided that our attending the march together is too symbolic to miss.”

  “You mean because my family owned your family in 1863?” These words still made her feel strange. It was hard to say them aloud.

  “Exactly. Our grandmothers made their escape from Ivy Manor forty-six years ago, and it changed their lives. Maybe our running away together today will have a similar effect on our own lives.”

  Leigh turned and studied him. He was treating her like an equal—like she wasn’t just a sixteen-year-old girl. She thought suddenly about Mr. Pitney—Lanee—and compared the two men. The contrast was easy to detect. Frank had a confidence that seemed limitless, but he didn’t preen or call attention to himself like Lance did, always running his fingers through his bangs. She wanted to tell Frank this, but thought it might sound too silly and was too involved to explain.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” she blurted out and then blushed hot crimson.

  Frank roared with laughter. “You’re easily impressed. And I like that.” He grinned at her. “How about some music?” he switched on the radio and Bobby Vinton crooned, “Bluuue vel—vet.” “I don’t think so. Let’s have some rhythm and blues.” He punched another station in and The Chiffons sang out, “One fine daaaaay.”

  Leigh let the lilting music flow through her, lifting her spirits and making her even more aware of Frank sitting so close, driving them to the march so effortlessly. He’d helped her find a way; he’d done the impossible, and this was her “One Fine Day.”

  But the Chiffons singing about how someday he’d want her for his girl left her suddenly tongue tied. This wasn’t a date in any way, but it felt odd being alone with Frank. It’s just because I never talk to guys. That’s why I feel funny.

  Determined to keep any evidence of this immaturity undercover, she settled back and watched the green fields, houses, and lush trees pass by.

  “You’re uncomfortable with me, aren’t you?”

  How did he always know what she was thinking? “No,” she said quickly, too quickly. Then, more slowly, “Yes.”

  He nodded. “I had to make myself come and get you today.”

  “You did?” She wondered if he would tell her why. But why bring it up if he wasn’t going to?

  “Yes. I know your grandparents won’t be shocked at your going with me, but I don’t think your mother would like you to spend the day with me.” He went on before she could comment on this, “And I didn’t like telling my grandparents a half truth. I mean, I consider you a friend, but—”

  “Me, too,” she interrupted him. “I just
never had a friend who was a guy.” She blushed.

  “Or one that wasn’t white?” Again he went on, not letting her speak. “I’m glad you noticed I wasn’t wearing a skirt.” He smiled again. “What I mean is when I told them I was meeting a friend, they had no inkling that you were the friend. That’s why I feel guilty.”

  She was relieved that he hadn’t pressed her on whether she’d ever had a friend who wasn’t white. Because, of course, she hadn’t. But again she followed his lead and responded to his concern over deceiving their parents. “I understand. My parents will be unhappy with me—”

  “Right. I wondered if I should encourage, actually enable, you to defy your parents. But I finally decided that this day is history-in-the-making and that you shouldn’t be shut out. And if there is any violence, I’ll make sure you get out safely”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be any violence,” she said, trying to match his confidence. She sat up straighten

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “And your basis for that statement is what, Miss Sinclair?”

  She chewed her lip, thinking. The radio began playing, “Blueberry Hill.” Frank didn’t hurry her; he just drove on one-handed, humming to the melody. “I think it’s the numbers,” she said at last. “And the fact that it’s taking place in Washington, D.C., and there will be TV stations covering it. Does that make sense?”

  “I’m impressed. Very perceptive. Leigh Sinclair, you’re nobody’s fool.”

  Leigh sizzled from head to toe with pleasure and a touch of embarrassment. “Well, I gave the KKK a lot of thought. But I don’t think the Klan will do anything today. They always operate at night and with their members masked. They don’t want the light of day and the light of a television camera to expose their… hatred and evil. They try to make it sound and look like segregation is good for the south.”

  “Did you know that the Klan once burned a cross on your grandmother’s lawn?” Frank turned onto the highway to D.C. and merged into heavy traffic.

  “What?” Why did no one tell her the good stuff about her own family? “When?”

  “It happened before World War II.”

  “Why?” Even as she asked, she tried to come up with a reason.

  “Your grandparents took in a German immigrant girl who was Jewish—”

  “You mean Aunt Gretel?”

  Frank chuckled again. “You have an interesting variety of relatives. Aunt Jerusha and Aunt Gretel?” He swung into the passing lane and sped around a smelly, groaning eighteen-wheeler.

  Leigh hadn’t considered this before. “Aunt Gretel sends me gifts from time to time, and I know she and Mother still correspond regularly. Aunt Gretel wants my parents to visit her in Israel.”

  “Well, it was because of your Aunt Gretel that the cross was burned on their lawn.”

  “Why?” She edged forward, turning toward him on the seat.

  “Because the KKK hates Jews and Roman Catholics almost as much as they hate Negroes.”

  “That’s right.” Leigh folded one leg under the other, wondering about her mother. “Do you think that’s why Mom’s so afraid of my attending the march?”

  He nodded. “But I think your assessment of the chances of the KKK or violence is more accurate.” He muttered under his breath as a red Corvette cut in front of him. “But like I said, I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  His words gave her a wonderful, breathless feeling. Frank wants to protect me.

  Finally, in spite of several traffic jams, they reached the outskirts of Washington. Frank parked the car in an already crowded public parking lot and led her to the nearby subway station. She noticed that the crowd was unusual—the dark faces overwhelmingly outnumbered the white ones. For the first time, she felt like the minority, an uneasy sensation.

  Soon they reached the gathering point for the marchers. It was still early, though the yellow sun was high now and beginning to blaze down. But the march wasn’t to begin until noon.

  Pulling a red triangular kerchief from her pocket to shield her from the sun, she tied the ends under her ponytail. Frank picked up signs for them to carry and they smiled and greeted other marchers. Leigh’s sign read: “We Demand Equal Rights Now” and Frank’s announced: “We March for Jobs for All Now.” Leigh tried to become a human camera, recording the sights and sounds to be written down later in her report of this day. She hadn’t felt that bringing along a notepad fit the occasion somehow, so her memory would have to suffice.

  Then Leigh heard a woman’s voice calling, “Frank! Frank!”

  For just a second, Leigh’s heart sank. Were they going to be joined by a girlfriend Frank hadn’t mentioned? Then she chastised herself silently. What, are you crazy, Leigh? He’s a college boy and a Negro. This is all about the march. Not about you and him. He’s off limits, and you know it. Plus he’d never be interested in you in a million years.

  Frank turned toward the voice and waved his arm in a wide arc as an attractive redheaded white woman in a pale blue linen dress and jacket hurried toward them. She was far too old to be Frank’s girlfriend, and Leigh tried not to have a reaction to this. You’re letting yourself get carried away. Frank’s just a nice guy who doesn’t treat you like a baby.

  The redhead threw her arms around Frank, and they hugged. Then Frank turned to Leigh. “I’d like you to meet my mother.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Staring at Frank’s mother, Leigh couldn’t speak for a few moments. But even in her shock, she managed to keep her mouth closed. And she was able to shake hands with the woman, who looked her over very thoroughly as Frank explained who she was and why they were together.

  “Wonderful, Frank,” his mother finally enthused. “I’m glad you didn’t let the girl miss this. Leigh, you’ll tell your grandchildren about today.”

  “Did you have far to come, Mrs. Dawson?” Leigh asked and then realized that she was “making polite conversation,” just like her mother would. This threw her.

  “I live in the Village, dear, and please call me Lila. I don’t go by Mrs. Dawson much anymore.”

  Leigh tried to decipher all of this. “The Village” must mean Greenwich Village, which she had seen on a trip to New York City, but what about the name thing?

  Lila turned to get herself a pre-printed sign.

  Frank whispered into Leigh’s ear, “My parents divorced when I was twelve.”

  “Oh.” Leigh couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Oh.”

  Frank grinned. “You are a sweet kid.”

  She blushed again, blood warming her cheeks and neck in response to her own naivete. She silently scolded herself, Stop acting like a kid.

  “You are very pretty,” Lila said, returning. “But then Frank has a very good eye for that kind of thing. Just like his father.”

  “Mom, we’re not a couple,” Frank said with a shake of his head.

  His mother looked more amused than convinced.

  Since Leigh couldn’t think of a thing to say, she decided a smile would have to be her response.

  Then private conversation stopped as a contingent of grim-looking, silent policemen appeared and some of the march organizers began speaking over megaphones to the marchers. Like a man-made forest, the placard signs held high blocked Leigh’s vision. The press of people grew and grew until the marchers could no longer be contained. The march began of its own accord.

  Frank drew her along with him, his free hand gripping her elbow as the marchers began their trek to the Lincoln Memorial earlier than expected. As they marched forward, policemen walked along with them at the edges of the procession, which filled the street, curb to curb.

  After some time, they arrived at the Lincoln Memorial and the marchers spread out, filling the area around the Reflecting Pool in front of the Washington Monument. That towering obelisk would begin to cast its shadow, shimmering on the pool as the sun lowered in the sky.

  “Do you think we’ll run into our grandparents?” Leigh said into Frank’s ear.
<
br />   “In this crowd?” He shook his head. “We only met my mom because I told her I’d be early at the staging area. And what if we do? They can’t make us go home, and I doubt they’d try.”

  They’d lost his mother in the crowd earlier. “Should we look for your mother?”

  “No, she can take care of herself. She isn’t your average mother.”

  She looked into his face, trying to understand what he meant.

  He grinned. “She’s not like your mother. She doesn’t worry about me, or at least she never shows that she does. She guards her freedom and leaves me to mine.”

  Again, Leigh tried to analyze his tone and his words along with his expression. He was revealing himself to her again, but indirectly, and she felt out of her depth.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m in a strange mood today.”

  She gave him a smile, and then he helped her settle onto a small spot of well-baked concrete. The golden sun was nearly at high noon now and the heat and humidity were suffocating within the mass of warm bodies. Her red scarf soaked up the heat of the sun, uncomfortably, but kept it from burning her scalp. She was fortunate to be right beside the Reflecting Pool. Dipping her fingers into the tepid water, she then sprinkled her face and Frank’s with the drops.

  “Thank you.” Frank grinned.

  The public address system started up with metallic squawking and screeching. They all rose when requested. And at the front, the famous Marian Anderson stood above them with Abraham Lincoln’s somber statue behind her and began singing the national anthem. The words, somewhat indistinct, warbled over them with sound-system distortion. However, the echo of her strong, richly textured voice hovered above their heads and touched Leigh’s emotions. She felt a welling up of pride that she lived in the “land of the free” and the “home of the brave.”

  A Negro man stepped to the bank of microphones, the first of several who would speak before Dr. King. Leigh tried to keep her focus on the faces above the microphones, but other marchers—both black and white—kept turning to look at her as she sat beside Frank. It made her uncomfortable and irritated at the same time. Finally, she lifted her eyes to look over the crowd, blocking out their curiosity and even censure. Today was history, and she wouldn’t be bothered by petty human emotions.