by Robert Inman
Big Deal opened the door and scrambled out, pulling his seat forward so Bright could exit. Bright picked up her purse and tucked it underneath her arm and wished for a fleeting moment that she still had her hat. A woman should be armed with both purse and hat at a time like this.
Harley and Homer piled out of the patrol car and bore down on the convertible. Homer had one hand on the butt of his pistol and Bright blanched. My Lord, I hope we don’t have any shooting here. Surely not. “Bright,” Harley huffed, “what the hell’s going on here?”
Bright and Fitz climbed out of the back seat of the convertible and Fitz stood with a protective hand at Bright’s elbow.
“I don’t know, Harley,” Bright said. “I don’t know what Flavo has in mind. But I think this could all have been avoided with a little reasonableness.”
“Hah!” Harley cried. “I’ll tell you about reasonableness! While you were off tooting around the country last night, Flavo’s folks burned down Booker T. and threw rocks at the fire truck. We’ve got lawlessness on our hands here! Marchers, for God’s sake! We’ve never had marchers, Bright. Not until now. Not until you stirred things up!”
“Now wait just a damned minute …,” Fitz started hotly.
“And you, Governor,”—he whirled on Fitz—“have taken down the barricades and left my town wide open!”
“Your town!” Bright yelped. “Who ever told you it was your town, Harley? That’s what this whole business is about. Whose town is it? Yours or mine, or everybody’s?”
Harley opened his mouth to bark back, but it was just at that moment they heard the singing. It drifted to them on the hot noontime like a puff of breeze floating across an open field, sending shivers through the grass. It stopped them all in their tracks, even Holly Hardee, who was on the run from the Live Eye 5 van, her cameraman scrambling to keep up with her. They all stopped and they looked up toward the bridge and they listened. And then Bright began to make out the tune. It was an ancient spiritual, an echo from her childhood when she had sat in the pew of the little white frame church at Hosanna’s side and heard the sound of God in the powerful ring of a hundred voices. But there were more than that now, all of them in a great swelling chorus that was pure sound and then after a moment a mass of people moving out across the bridge. My God. It must be every single person in the Quarter.
“Well, Harley,” Bright said quietly, so as not to disturb the music, “I think we’re about to get down to business here.”
Harley turned to her, mouth open. “What in the hell’s going on? What are they doing?”
“Going swimming, I imagine.”
They heard more sirens then, and in a moment two police cars flashed by the marchers on the bridge and roared down the incline into the swimming pool parking lot. They were packed with policemen. Every officer in town, apparently, all armed to the teeth. Several of them had shotguns. The two cars screeched to a halt and the men piled out. “Riot gear!” Homer Sipsey bellowed. “Get on your riot gear!”
“Good Lord, Harley. Stop this!” Bright cried. But Harley just stared at her, hands on hips, while the police officers popped open the trunks of the cars and began hauling out helmets and gas masks. Holly Hardee and her cameraman crowded up to them, getting pictures of the officers donning their battle dress.
“Sonofabitch!” Big Deal said softly. He looked truly frightened. “Fitz, we gotta get you out of here. This ain’t gonna look good on TV. Fitz …”
But Fitz ignored him. Instead, he stepped between Bright and Harley, grabbed Harley by the arm. “Harley, you’re going to have a disaster on your hands if you don’t do something!”
Harley pointed angrily at the singing black mass up on the bridge, nearing the halfway point now. “If there’s a disaster, it’s their fault! Go talk to Flavo Richardson!” he said, shaking off Fitz’s grip. Then he turned to Homer. “Chief Sipsey, I want to make damn sure that not a single person without a season ticket gets in the swimming pool. That’s an order!”
“Yes sir,” Homer said, giving Bright a long hard look. He was angry too, bone-weary and up to his eyeballs with trouble. Go home and be quiet, he had told Bright. Well, so much for being quiet.
“Harley,” Fitz said, “are you sure you want to be hard-nosed about this?”
Harley turned on him, and Bright could see a good deal of pentup resentment there—the business of the bank, possibly some other burrs under Harley’s political saddle that she had no idea of. “Governor,” he said carefully, “now that your folks have turned tail, I see this as strictly a local problem. So maybe you ought to be getting on to the luncheon. All your folks are waiting for you there.”
“Damn right,” Big Deal said. “Come on, Fitz, Miz Bright. Let’s go. Right NOW!”
But nobody budged. They all stood their ground and glared at each other, and Bright could feel it all piling in on them very quickly, getting out of hand. The great mass of Flavo’s folks making the turn now from the bridge, the surge of their voices making the air dance and the hair stand up on the nape of Bright’s neck. The police officers grimly strapping on their bulletproof vests and clamping visored helmets on their heads. And the rest of them just standing there, watching. Like knots on a log.
Bright took a deep breath. Dear Lord in heaven, give me a sign. Nothing. All right, then. If something’s going to turn up, it’ll have to be Bright Birdsong. God help us. Bright turned abruptly on her heel and headed toward the gate to the swimming pool.
“Bright …,” Harley called after her, his voice rising a bit as if somebody had tightened his underwear a notch. She could hear the scuffle of feet across the grass behind her, people following.
“Mama—“ Fitz tried to hold her up, but she didn’t look back. She went through the gate, ignoring Roger Sipsey gaping at her from his ticket booth, and never stopped. Across the concrete apron, past the curious stares of the women and teenagers under the umbrellas, and then right on down the steps into the water, holding her purse up to keep it from getting wet. “Ohhh!” she cried as the cold hit her, and she heard a woman behind her say, “Good Godawmighty!” Then an excited babble of voices, everybody yelling at once. And Homer’s police whistle tweeting shrilly. Bright kept moving and her dress began to billow up around her, and she suddenly had to choose between modesty and keeping her purse dry. She opted for modesty, mashing the dress down around her in the water. She waded on, out to where it was just above her waist, the water so icy that it took her breath and made her eyes pop. She was stunned by it, and she remembered now that it came from an underground spring. All the city did was shoot a little chlorine into it before they pumped it into the pool. The water was a shock, and so was the sudden realization of what she had done. She stood there for a moment, wondering what Dorsey Bascombe would have thought about all this business, about his daughter the piano student up to her keister in ice water and ruckus. But no use in dwelling on that. She turned around gingerly, trying to keep her balance, thinking what a fortunate thing it was that she had decided to wear one-inch heels today.
Up on the concrete apron surrounding the pool, it was pandemonium. Adults gawking, teenagers laughing and pointing, little kids screaming with surprised delight. And the men all standing there, stunned and gape-mouthed. A good-sized army of flies could have camped out in their open craws, she thought. Holly Hardee and her cameraman were going a little crazy, hopping around the edge of the pool, getting pictures of everything. And Ortho was snapping away with his Speed Graphic. Well, she thought, I have ripped it now. It’s a matter of public record. And she wished that Jimbo were here to see it all. See it, the dickens. To do it. There would have been the most delicious look of wonderment on his face, she imagined, the kind that only a ten-year-old boy could have after he had done something totally unexpected and outrageous. But Jimbo was not here. She felt very much alone out there in the middle of the swimming pool. And she felt a rush of despair. Why was she here? With all that needed seeing about, why on earth was she here? But, then, she knew th
e answer to that as surely as she knew the question. Because I am who I am, bag and baggage. I can’t escape it. To deny that makes all the past a waste, a repudiation of all that’s good and true. And that would leave only the mistakes.
Harley finally found his voice. “Bright, get out of there!”
“No, Harley. I will not.”
“This is ridiculous!” he cried.
“No, it’s not, it’s civil disobedience.” She waved her dripping purse defiantly. “I am in the swimming pool without a season ticket, Harley. Now you can either change the rules and let me swim, or you can arrest me.”
Then a small boy on a bright red inner tube paddled up from the rear and nudged against Bright. “You wanna play dibble-dabble?” he asked.
“In a moment,” she said, but as she turned to him, her foot caught on the rough concrete bottom of the pool and she lost her balance and toppled over. The cold water rushed over her and she lost her grip on her purse. She fought against the water, opened her eyes and saw the surface above her, shimmering in the noon sun as she sank toward the bottom. Then she heard a dull pounding as other bodies hit the water. Fitz was the first to reach her. He reached down and grabbed Bright under her armpits and hauled her quickly to the surface, and they stood there gawking at each other, water dripping from their hair and clothing. Fitz’s nice blue suit was a soggy ruin. The water was full of people, all splashing in her direction.
“My purse,” she managed. “I dropped my purse.” He looked down, spied her purse on the bottom of the pool, ducked under and retrieved it. He came up sputtering, then handed it to her.
“The water’s cold,” he said. “I didn’t remember. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes,” Bright said, “it has.”
“Get a shot! Close-ups!” Holly Hardee was screaming to her cameraman and then to Fitz. “Governor! Governor!”
Bright looked back beyond the crowd now and she could see the marchers bearing down on the swimming pool and, between them and the gate, the knot of policemen milling about. Riot gear. What on earth did anyone in this town need riot gear for? This wasn’t Chicago, for God’s sake. She could see Flavo at the head of the crowd, straining to get a look at what was happening beyond the swimming pool fence. The marchers had stopped singing, but the measured tramp of their feet was stirring up a dust storm in the parking lot and their voices buzzed angrily like a swarm of aroused insects.
“Well, Harley?” she demanded.
Harley stared at her, eyes bulging. She thought it would probably take Harley a good while to get over this. “Dammit!” he cried. “You Bascombes have been trying to run this town as long as I can remember!”
She shouldn’t have said it, but she did. “And most of the time we’re right, Harley. That’s the way it is with Bascombes.”
That did it. “Arrest her!” he bellowed, pointing a long arm and finger.
Homer Sipsey looked at Harley for a moment. “Now!” Harley shouted, and Homer shrugged and stepped down into the water, wincing at the cold.
“The hell you say,” Fitz cried, moving toward Homer.
But Bright grabbed his arm. “No, Fitz. It’s all right.” Fitz stopped, stared at her. “Please. Just let me handle this.” His eyebrows went up. No, of course I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m making it up as I go. She released her grip. “Stay there, Homer,” she said. “I’m coming.” She waded slowly over to Homer, hands outstretched, holding her purse in one. “Aren’t you going to put handcuffs on me?”
Homer blanched. “What for?”
“Because I broke the law.” She looked up at Harley. Beyond the chain-link fence, Flavo’s crowd of marchers was milling about, shouting now at the squad of policemen. It was beginning to sound ugly. “Harley, we’ve got a mess here.”
“We?” he snapped. “We didn’t do this, Bright, you did.”
“Maybe so, but now we’re all in it together. You and me and Flavo and everybody else. Now if you’ll just have Chief Sipsey put the handcuffs on me and take me out to where Flavo is, maybe we can defuse the situation. I think the handcuffs might help.”
“Do it,” Harley said between clenched teeth. And Homer took the pair of shiny handcuffs off his wide leather belt and snapped them around Bright’s wrists.
“What about me?” Fitz said at her back. “I don’t have a season ticket, Harley.”
“No, we’re not gonna arrest you!” Harley bawled.
“Why not?”
Harley waved his arms in frustration. “Hell, I don’t know. Diplomatic immunity. You’re the governor of the state, for God’s sake. Fitz, just get out of the water and go to the luncheon.”
“Harley’s right, Fitz,” Bright said. “Go take care of your business.”
Bright climbed out of the water then, with Homer’s firm hand at her elbow to steady her, and stood dripping on the concrete apron next to the pool. “Now if you’ll just take me out to Flavo, I’ll see what I can do,” she said quietly.
The crowd parted to let them through and they marched through the gate toward Homer’s patrol car, Homer and Harley flanking her, Fitz close behind. Flavo spotted her then and she saw his eyes go wide. There was a good deal of pushing and shoving at the front of the crowd where Flavo stood. Suddenly, one of the policemen stumbled and went down, and the officer next to him let out a bellow and swung the butt of his shotgun, narrowly missing Flavo’s head. The rest of the policemen rushed forward and an angry roar went up from the crowd. Bright’s heart caught in her throat. It was dangerously close to bloodshed here, to unhealable rift. Homer tightened his grip on Bright’s arm and tried to steer her away from the melee, but she dug in her heels and cried out, “Stop! Stop it right now! Flavo!” She broke free from Homer and plunged into the middle of the fracas, holding her purse in her manacled hands in front of her for protection. “Mama!” she heard Fitz cry out behind her. The noise and jostling bodies boiled around her, and she was shoved roughly from one side and then the other and she lost her purse. “Flavo! Stop! Don’t!” she shouted, and she thought, It’s too late!
Then all at once she was on her rump in the middle of the melee and everybody was staring at her. She looked up at the circle of faces, black and white, sweat-streaked and flushed with anger and surprise. Fitz burst through the crowd behind her, shouldering people aside. “Get outta the way!” he commanded, and they parted and let him through and he stopped, looked down at Bright, then around at the crowd. He flashed with anger. “What the hell do you mean! Get back! All of you! Get back away from my mama!”
They backed away from his fury, all but Flavo. And the two of them squared off over Bright. “Flavo, what the hell’s going on here? You trying to cause a riot?”
“No, Guv’nah,” Flavo said evenly. “Just come to see what the swimming pool looks like. See all these nice white folks at the swimming pool.”
“Would you gentlemen like to help me up?” Bright asked, looking up at them. They glared at each other for another instant, then down at her. She offered her outstretched arms and they reached down, pulled her gently to her feet. She stood for a moment, wobbling a bit and trying to catch her breath and compose herself.
Bright looked into Flavo’s eyes. There was the dust of old battles there, smoke and fire and ashes. A woman like Bright Birdsong could never truly know. But she had been present at enough of it to feel, at least a little. They were both too old for this, she thought. But that didn’t really make any difference. Sometimes only the old ones could remember back far enough to make sense of things.
She could feel all their eyes on her now, the crowd waiting. “Flavo,” she said quietly, “I have committed an act of civil disobedience. I have been swimming in the municipal pool without a season pass. Chief Sipsey has arrested me, as was his duty.”
Flavo looked at her for a long moment, then drew himself up and dusted off the sleeves of his coat. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I see. And what made you do a thing like that, Bright?”
“Making a point, I suppose.”
“So, what now?”
She thought about it, still playing it by ear. Then she looked around at Homer and Harley. “Chief Sipsey will take me to jail, and I will refuse to post bond until the town council changes the rule on season passes at the swimming pool.”
And Flavo said, “My, my.”
“So if you want to do something helpful, you might organize a vigil at the jail.” She looked at the sea of angry black faces behind Flavo. They might do his bidding, or they might not. “A very determined vigil,” she said. “But no ruckus.”
Flavo stood there for a long time looking at her and she could tell exactly what he was thinking. Now who is manipulating whom, Bright Birdsong? And she answered him with just a trace of a smile, letting it play at the corners of her mouth.
It was still very touchy here, the air thick with hostility and tension and a painful breath-holding. Then Flavo blinked. Once, very slowly. “Yes,” he said. “That will have to do, I suppose.” And there was a great sigh, a thing with a life of its own, from black and white. They all stood there looking at each other, faces still hard, but everybody knowing at the same instant that things would be all right, at least here in the short run.
Holly Hardee and her cameraman broke through the crowd at Fitz’s elbow and she thrust the microphone into his face. “Governor—“
“Hush up!” he commanded. “Just hush up a minute. We’ve got a situation here, can’t you see? Now don’t make it any worse than it is.” Holly Hardee backed away a pace or two, eyes wide.
Flavo looked Fitz up and down. “Guv’nah,” he said, “you cut a fine figure there.”
Fitz looked down at himself, the sodden blue suit now covered with a fine mat of dust. Flavo pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, handed it to Fitz, who unfolded it carefully and wiped the grime off his face. Then he handed the handkerchief back. “I’m obliged,” he said.
“I believe you got some politickin’ to do,” Flavo said, wrinkling his nose. “While we local folks take care of our bidness here.”