Trueluck Summer

by Susan Gabriel

  “Maybe we should ask your Nana Trueluck what she thinks,” Paris says.

  “She got in trouble with Mama and Daddy for helping us last time,” I say. “We need to keep her out of this one or she might not get to live with us anymore.”

  “You can keep me out of this one, too.” Vel secures her pink purse to her shoulder as though ready to leave.

  Paris and I exchange a look.

  “She’ll come around,” I say to Paris. “She always does.”

  Vel rolls her eyes.

  We sneak out of the church cemetery. Paris walks in the direction of Miss Josie’s flower and basket stand, Vel toward home, and me toward the Esso filling station where Hoot is known to hang out. I can at least ask him if a list exists.

  As I walk to the filling station, I imagine myself marching with Dr. Martin Luther King Junior in Birmingham, like in the images on television last year. I think of my family, and how brave my father is to be mayor even though half of Charleston hates him. I think of Nana Trueluck, who carried that rebel flag out of the State House, and I think of my great-great-grandmother who was a witness to slavery and tried to do something about it. The thing I try not to think about is how nervous I am to ask Hoot Macklehaney for a favor.

  When I approach the gas station, Hoot is sitting on the curb throwing rocks into the storm drain. He winks at me like he knew I couldn’t stay away, and I have to remind myself not to vomit.

  “We need to talk,” I say. Hoot stands and follows me to the corner.

  “Do you know about last night?” I ask.

  He picks at a pimple until it bleeds, and I take this as a “yes.” Then Hoot looks back at the Esso station, a dead giveaway that he probably knows who did it, even if he wasn’t part of it.

  “If you ever want me to have anything to do with you ever again, here’s how you’re going to make it up to us, Hoot.” I pause for dramatic effect like Paris taught me. “You need to get us a list of names of people in the Ku Klux Klan.” I don’t tell him who “us” is, but I imagine he can figure it out.

  Hoot laughs, like I have just told a funny joke. “That’s like asking me to swim Charleston Harbor with barbells in my pockets,” he says. “Those names are top secret,” he adds in a whisper.

  “I promise we’ll never tell where we got them,” I say. “We’ll even do a pinkie swear.” I hold out my little finger like I am ready to swear right here.

  “But you don’t understand, Trudy. They’ll kill me.”

  “Oh come on, Hoot. You know they wouldn’t really hurt you. You’re one of them. Besides, they won’t find out.”

  The one thing I have going for me is Hoot’s crush, which appears to be waning.

  “You know it’s the right thing to do,” I tell him. “People shouldn’t get away with throwing rocks through people’s windows or burning crosses in their yards.”

  Hoot mumbles a swear word and picks another pimple. Instead of gagging, I call on my feminine wiles, which is what Daddy says Mama uses when she wants him to do something like mow the yard.

  “Will you do it or not?” I flutter my eyelashes and flip my hair. My awkward attempt appears to work. He motions for me to come with him, and we go over to a shady spot at the side of the gas station where we can’t be overheard.

  “It may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll try,” he says.

  The color drains from Hoot’s face, and he looks as though he is about to go in front of a firing squad full of guys wearing white hoods.

  “My uncle has a list of names. But he keeps it locked up in his gun cabinet.”

  “Where’s his gun cabinet?” I ask.

  “In his house. With two bulldogs inside that don’t let any-body get close,” he says. “Even if I got in, I don’t know if I could get out of there alive. Besides, the key to his house is hooked on his belt, and there’s no way I can get that away from him.”

  “Let me worry about the key,” I say. “As for the bulldogs, I bet Paris can think of something to do with them.”

  “As soon as I have the key, we’ll come by, and you can take us to your uncle’s house, okay?”

  Hoot agrees, but he doesn’t look at me.

  “Where does your uncle work, anyway?” I ask.

  “He’s a deputy with the sheriff’s department,” Hoot says.

  No wonder the police didn’t write down their reports. They were probably told not to.

  Meanwhile, I contemplate my plan. We have to go into the sheriff’s office and somehow get a key from Hoot’s uncle’s belt. Then we have to sneak into his house, past two guard dogs, and take a list of names. I have to admit it sounds impossible. But it could be worse. There could be alligators involved.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ida

  Trudy is quiet again, a sure sign that she is up to something. We pass in the hallway.

  “Would you like to go out for an ice cream?” I ask.

  Our eyes meet and she looks away, as though not wanting me to see what is hidden there.

  “I told Vel I’d come over,” she says.

  “Vel can come, too,” I say.

  She hesitates. “Maybe you could take Teddy,” she says. “He’s due some grandmother time, anyway.”

  Trudy and I have barely spoken since the article came out in the newspaper. At first I didn’t worry about it, but this latest silence feels even more serious than our trip to the State House. At least Abigail and I are talking again, and Ted Junior is back to working on his novel. But somehow it seems our summer drama is still going on.

  This morning when the children weren’t around Ted Junior told Abigail and me about receiving hate mail, letters that threaten to hurt him and us. But he says the people who write letters are not the people to worry about. It is the ones who never say a word.

  In case Trudy wants to talk, I leave my bedroom door open. At twelve, she is not like other girls. She is almost too ardent. Was I ever that passionate? With age comes caution. Although it seems I was born cautious. Compared to my granddaughter, I feel dull. Perhaps that’s how it should be. It is her turn to shine, not mine. My turn was over a long time ago. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this world has room for grandmothers and granddaughters to shine at the same time.

  After Trudy leaves, I go into the kitchen to find Abigail and tell her of my plan to take Teddy for an ice cream.

  “Don’t spoil his supper,” she says without looking up from the newspaper.

  Supper is four hours away. I couldn’t spoil it if I tried. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I agree. I certainly don’t want to fight with Abigail in the kitchen over something so trivial.

  The outbreaks that are going on all over the South over the signing of the Civil Rights Act have distracted me. The newspaper is full of stories of unrest, and the evening news adds images to go with the same stories. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. A day we celebrate our independence. But not everybody is entirely free.

  At the ice cream shop, Teddy and I run into Madison Chambers inside the entrance. He holds two scoops of strawberry ice cream stacked in a cone. A dash of pink graces his white mustache. When he greets me, he kisses the back of my hand, his mustache leaving behind a postage stamp of sticky strawberry.

  “Lovely to see you again,” he says.

  I return the greeting. “Thank you so much for clearing all that up in Columbia,” I say. “I owe you at least a hundred ice cream cones for that.”

  “I look forward to you paying me back.” He lifts his eyebrows with a strawberry smile.

  While we are in line, Teddy hangs from the counter like a baby chimpanzee until his scoop of vanilla is handed to him. To the extent that Trudy is headstrong, Teddy has energy. Sometimes just watching him makes me tired. But I suppose it’s a child’s job to have boundless energy. And as a grandmother, my job is to keep him from hurting himself. A task that is sometimes easier acknowledged than accomplished.

  After I get my scoop of chocolate we go over to a table and sit with Madiso
n. Within seconds, Teddy finishes his cone and begs to go outside to the nearby playground. I tell him to stay close. Then I tell Madison that my grandson is never to be left alone given his propensity for accidents. I also can’t afford to make Abigail angry again so soon after the Columbia incident. Not to mention the newspaper article. He agrees to help keep an eye out.

  Outside, we sit on a bench in the shade, our ice creams melting faster than we can eat them. With his napkin, he wipes a drip of chocolate from my arm. I take note of how strange it is to spend time with a man again. In a way, it makes me miss Ted Senior even more. In another way, it reminds me that I am the one who is still alive.

  Madison and I are the same age, yet he seems older. After he and Ted Senior graduated from Duke, we often invited Madison over for dinner to our one-bedroom apartment near the courthouse. Even in those early days, I was comfortable with him.

  “Has that granddaughter of yours been staying out of trouble?” he asks. “She’s got gumption, that one.”

  “I think she’s up to something she isn’t telling me about,” I say.

  “Well, everyone has secrets.” He offers a smile that could be perceived as wicked.

  I wonder what his secrets are.

  Then I wonder about my own. I suppose it is a secret that I have always had a tiny crush on Madison Chambers. Or at the very least, a bit of admiration.

  From our proximity on the bench, I smell his subtle aftershave. Not the same that Ted Senior wore, thank goodness, that would almost be too painful, but a scent that is all his own.

  “I met Trudy’s friend, Paris, the other day,” he says. “They were sitting on either side of a cannon at White Point Gardens. He impressed me.”

  “I like him, too,” I say. “Do you think children give us glimpses of who they’ll later become?”

  “Yes,” he says, “just like we give them glimpses of who we were as children.” He smiles and with a dash of playfulness, pops the remainder of his strawberry cone in his mouth.

  We sit in silence now, and I wait for it to feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It is an easy silence. Not empty at all, but full of potential. We watch the children play, and even Teddy is blending in, playing normally. This is the same playground I brought Ted Junior to when he was a boy, perhaps hundreds of times. Yet it is as though I am seeing it for the first time.

  “Have you noticed there are no children like Paris at this playground?” I say to Madison. “Where do you suppose those children play?”

  I look around, shamefully aware of how I never noticed the absence of an entire race of children. I am like a goldfish oblivious to its fish bowl.

  “There is so much work to do,” Madison says. “We mustn’t lose hope, though, Ida.” He squeezes my hand.

  Am I betraying Ted Senior by feeling so comfortable with Madison?

  Teddy is now on the tall slide.

  So much for playing normally, I say to myself.

  As soon as his feet hit the ground, he goes into a roll. I hold my breath until he stands with his arms up in the air. Some of the tumbles he takes frighten me. We will need to go home soon. Abigail likes him to have quiet time in the afternoon—something that Dr. Spock character recommended. I wish Abigail would quit reading childrearing books and just get to know her children. Of course—even with this new backbone I appear to be growing—I won’t be telling that to Abigail anytime soon.

  Madison and I watch the children play. White children. I try to imagine a world where there are children of every color and every nationality playing on the same playground. With all the unrest around the country, it seems impossible. Like Madison said, we have a lot of work to do.

  Yet I can’t help thinking the young people will save us. People like Trudy and Paris and maybe even Vel, if she stops reading long enough. The thought nags at me again that Trudy is up to something. Something she doesn’t want to tell me about. Something that may be more dangerous than one of Teddy’s stunts. On the way home I decide to ask her about it and not give up until she answers.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trudy

  Paris, Vel, and I hide behind the bushes across the street from the Charleston sheriff’s department. It is a summer of hiding in bushes. The building is small, beige, and rectangular, all on one floor. The police cars are parked to the side, and it is easy to see when anyone comes and goes.

  We spot Hoot’s uncle driving up in a patrol car. He looks like an older version of Hoot and Hank, except wearing a uniform.

  “Those Macklehaneys all look alike,” Paris says.

  “They all look like morons,” Vel says. She repositions a pink barrette in her poodle perm that matches her pink fingernail polish.

  In order for Vel to help us, I had to promise to go to the library with her later and help her carry home some books. This means she can check out twelve, which is the maximum allowed. A small price to pay if it helps us get those names.

  Hoot’s uncle gets out of his patrol car, and we duck deeper into the bushes. He lights a cigar and talks to another deputy. A set of keys sparkle on his belt in the summer sun. They remind me of Wally’s keys at the State House. Somehow we managed to outsmart Wally, so maybe we can outsmart Hoot’s uncle, too. It helps that this isn’t our first run-in with the “old guard” as Madison Chambers called them. Although it may be our last.

  While Paris and I wait in the bushes, Vel begins to execute our plan. As usual, Vel is dressed in pink from barrette to sneakers. She resembles a giant azalea blossom wearing a blond wig. With my nod, Vel poofs her Toni perm and walks up to Hoot’s uncle. Fanning herself, she tells him she is not feeling well. Then she pretends to faint on the grass next to the sidewalk. Earlier this morning, Paris showed her how to do a pratfall without hurting herself.

  With Vel on the ground, Hoot’s uncle says a cuss word, like the last thing he needs today is a fainting kid. He leans over Vel to ask if she is okay. I run to her side, pretending to be out for a stroll. With him distracted, I am to unhook his keys. What I didn’t anticipate is when he bends over, his keys totally disappear underneath a roll of flab. There is no way I am putting an arm in there to dig them out.

  I whisper to Vel that it is not going to work, and she pops up like she is the Jack in a Jack-in-a-Box and fans herself with her hand.

  “I feel better now,” she tells Hoot’s uncle. “I just got a little hot. But that cool breeze really helps.”

  The officer and I exchange a quick look. Charleston hasn’t had a cool breeze in months. If anything, the breeze feels like car exhaust without the gasoline fumes.

  “Thank you for your help,” I say to him, my smile as fake as Vel’s fainting attack. We walk away and drop into the bushes again.

  “Well, that was a disaster,” I whisper to Vel and Paris. “What do we do now?”

  We look at each other, empty of ideas.

  Just when we are about to give up and go home, Hoot walks around the corner. When he passes us in the bushes, he winks. Has he been watching the entire time?

  “If that moron rats on us, it’s your fault, Trudy Trueluck.” Vel’s whisper feels like a shout.

  Nobody moves. We wait to see what Hoot’s got up his sleeve along with his skinny arm. If he does rat on us, we will have the entire Ku Klux Klan burning crosses and aiming rocks at us.

  When Hoot arrives, his uncle slaps his shoulder in a greeting that nearly knocks Hoot over.

  “I’m glad nobody greets me that way,” Paris whispers. “I’d be in the hospital afterward.”

  Our eyes stay focused on Hoot.

  “Hank says you need your brakes looked at,” Hoot says, loud enough for us to hear. “He sent me over to get your keys so we can pick up your car later.”

  Hoot’s uncle takes a step back, probably because Hoot is talking so loudly.

  “Hank heard your brakes squealing as you drove by the filling station this morning,” Hoot continues. “You know you can’t be too careful with brakes. Especially if you’re chasing criminals all day.”<
br />
  Even from a distance, Hoot’s smile reveals his corn kernel teeth.

  It occurs to me that his uncle will never fall for something this lame. Then, to my amazement, he removes a key from his chain and tosses it to Hoot.

  “We don’t need the car key, we need the house key,” I whisper.

  “Why don’t you give me your house key, too,” Hoot says, like he heard me. “When we go to drop the car off I’ll go let your dogs out in the backyard for a little while.”

  Hoot’s uncle hesitates. Is he on to him? We hold our breath. But then the big man shrugs and tosses Hoot the house key, too. We exhale one long breath while Hoot walks away. After his uncle goes back inside, Vel and I take off after Hoot, who waits at the corner for us.

  “I thought we should have a backup plan in case yours didn’t work,” Hoot says to me.

  I resist telling him it was a brilliant idea since I don’t want him to get any more ideas about holding my hand.

  “I told my brother this morning that Uncle Ray’s brakes were squealing,” Hoot says, “and just like I thought he would, Hank told me to go get Uncle Ray’s keys.”

  He looks proud of himself, and I give him a smile for payback, like carrying Vel’s library books.

  “Well, let’s go over there and get that list,” I say.

  “But I thought you said there were bulldogs,” Vel says. “How will we get past the dogs?”

  We look back at Paris, who is still in the bushes. He motions for us to follow him.

  A few minutes later we arrive at Paris’ house and go inside. He asks Miss Josie if he can pack up several of her leftover barbequed ribs, and she agrees, wrapping them in a big piece of aluminum foil. She doesn’t seem the least bit suspicious. In the meantime, Hoot acts totally weird, like he has never been in a colored person’s house before. His shoulders are practically even with his ears, and he keeps looking around, like he can’t believe how normal the house looks.

  Before we leave, Miss Josie offers each of us one of her homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. Hoot says no at first, but then he changes his mind when he sees how much we enjoy them. By the time we leave, Hoot’s shoulders have relaxed, and he thanks Miss Josie for the cookies. He even calls her “ma’am.”