Why had Mrs. Woods changed her mind without notice? She had been the one parent Colleen thought she could count on and the first to sign for the library cards. The others had followed. And Cynthia’s granddaddy didn’t seem especially pleased. Because she had knocked stones back into his garden, or was it something else?
During the drive, Cynthia chattered away, commenting on everything in view.
“Miz Rodriguez, look at that there park. I never saw it before.”
Linkston broke his silence to say, “Can we go? Can we go there too?”
“Yeah. There are swings and a big slide, and no one is using it,” Cynthia added.
“I think the park is locked, children. We won’t be able to play there. You want to spend time inside the library, don’t you?”
Colleen knew the town had closed the park, put a lock on the gate so it wouldn’t have to be integrated. Evelyn told her that had happened sometime the prior year. Deny everyone so you don’t have to share, Colleen thought.
She parked in the lot next to the library. She knew from experience that there would be stares, whispers, and finger pointing at the sight of a white woman holding hands with some black kids. But Eleanor Roosevelt’s words echoed in her mind.
The head librarian, Mrs. Meriwether, sat at the main desk. The children didn’t notice the eyes piercing the air as they walked in. One glance was all Colleen needed to see that the beehive was in place, pulling back any wrinkle that dared to appear on the librarian’s face.
Colleen led Cynthia and Linkston to the Children’s Room. The young librarian with the dark brown pageboy read to a group of children seated at a table. There were some open seats, and the three of them sat down to listen to the story. One of the girls wiggled her fingers in a greeting to Cynthia and smiled at her. Another child moved her chair away from the table and made a face at the friendly girl.
When the librarian finished the book, she suggested that the children look for more by the same author on the shelf behind her. Cynthia jumped up to see. Colleen quickly followed, dragging Linkston along.
“Hi,” the young librarian said to Colleen. “I remember you. Is there something I can help your children with?”
Colleen smiled back at the woman’s twinkle-eyed face. Maybe this could work out. She explained that Cynthia loved books about dogs and Linkston preferred anything about outer space.
When the young librarian checked out the books Cynthia and Linkston had chosen, she said, “Children, please return the books in one month, either here or to your school.”
“To their school?” Colleen asked.
“They go to Kettle Creek School now, don’t they? We have a pickup directly from the school library. Just be sure to place the books in our bin. Your school librarian will help you.”
Colleen smiled. A chink in the wall.
As she drove the children home, Colleen thought about how well the trip had gone. It had been the best trip to the library that she had taken yet. Miguel had been worried for nothing.
The children flipped happily through the piles of books they held on their laps. Colleen drove them to Cynthia’s house, and Mr. Everett acknowledged their return with a smile and a wave as he started walking toward the grove of trees that separated the highway from the road.
Just as Colleen left the gravel road and entered the highway, a police car flashed its lights behind her. She couldn’t pull over to let it pass because of the ditch, but she was able to move onto a narrow shoulder a little farther down. Instead of passing her, the patrol car pulled up and parked behind her. The officer climbed out of the car and approached. His trousers were pegged, and he had on knee-high leather boots. The state troopers in New Jersey dressed like that.
Colleen frowned, uncertain what she’d done wrong.
“Morning, ma’am. License and registration, please.”
Colleen’s hands shook as she reached over to the glove box for the registration. Her purse was on the floor, and she couldn’t reach it without taking off her seat belt. As she leaned over, she felt her skirt slide up.
I can’t believe this.
Handing over her documents, she noticed that the officer’s forearm was scarred. Then she read his nameplate: Beau Harper. She saw him look at her legs as she wiggled to fix her skirt. Beau? Wasn’t that the name of the so-called best mechanic in Kettle Creek?
“So, you get around in this fancy car. Are you lost?”
“No, Officer, I’m not lost.”
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing way out here?”
Dark green aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, and she couldn’t work out his expression.
“I’m a teacher—”
He didn’t let her finish. “A teacher, now? Is that right? Last time I saw this car, you needed a hose replaced.”
So it was the mechanic. But he was a cop too?
“Officer, did I do something wrong?”
“Well, now, that depends. Why would a white woman be out driving in these parts?”
“I took some of my students to the library, and then I drove them home.”
He palmed her cards and walked to look at the front of the car.
“New Jersey—you’re far from home.” His tone challenged her. “There’s no library out here.”
Colleen felt her throat constrict. She needed air. Breathe.
“I took them to the library in Kettle Creek.”
Scrutinizing her identification, he rested his hand on his hip above his holster. She heard a creak as the leather strained across the pistol.
“No teacher of mine ever took me to the library. Are you collecting signatures or something?”
“Signatures? What for?”
He handed Colleen her license and registration.
“Little lady, you’re far from home and don’t belong down these roads. We’ve had some nonsense with some of the church ladies coming out this way with their northern people, signing up the coloreds to vote. Don’t come this way again, you hear? Or else you’ll find this is a heap of trouble you know nothing about.”
Chapter 22
Frank
Sunday, November 23, 1969
It had been a long time since Frank had been in the storage shed at the back of the yard, but it wasn’t far enough from the house. He could still hear his mama shouting, “Franklin Delano Woods, don’t you be sassing me. You get on, now—get yourself busy.”
Sissy shouldn’t have told Mama anything.
He had to go find the things he needed to fix his mama’s car.
Where is that creeper?
The shelves were still organized as they had been when his father had died. As he looked around, he saw tightly sealed, partially used cans of paint, a jug of turpentine evaporating from the heat, a tin of car wax, and his father’s favorite chamois, the one he had used for the car’s final shine. Frank picked up the polishing cloth and inhaled the wax left on it. He could feel his father’s presence. Damn, this place smells like him.
The back of the shed had an old motor, stacked tires, two rusty bikes, and a wheelbarrow, all waiting for someone to use or repair them. His father liked to fix things. Frank didn’t.
This is just a bunch of junk. Where’s that creeper?
Frank spotted the flat wooden top with the padded leather headrest behind the wheelbarrow. It was long enough for him to lie on and maneuver with his feet dangling off one end. It stood on its end, so he could read the black-lettered inscription as clearly as the first time he’d seen it: SMASH-PROOF AUTO CREEPER.
Just what I need—smash-proof.
He couldn’t believe Sissy had told his mother that he’d been caught slamming the locker doors left open in the locker room. Head Coach Welborn had wanted to know why he was so angry.
What is he, an idiot?
The old ’53 Ford Victoria was leaking oil badly. His parents had bought the car when it was ten years old from Auntie Penelope, who rarely drove it. But his mother used it every day, and she had been after Frank to see
about it, especially since he had time after school now.
Frank was surprised at how heavy the creeper was. It was old, and the solid top looked like oak. The sides were bolted to two-by-twos every nine inches to reinforce the bottom. Its six wheels rolled as if they had just been oiled. He hated being under the car, but at least he wouldn’t be on the ground. As he lay down and pushed himself underneath, he wondered how safe he was.
Maybe I should get under this smash-proof thing.
Frank heard footsteps on the gravel. The feet stopped, and Frank looked over to see polished oxfords peeking out from creased dress pants right next to the rear tire.
“Frank Woods! Is that you under that car?”
As soon as Frank saw the shoes, he knew it was Mr. Peterson; he didn’t need the voice to confirm it. He would rather stay where he was.
“Yes, sir. Do you need me or my mother?”
“You, young man.”
Frank didn’t like the sound of that. He closed his eyes and squared his jaw. He didn’t move.
“I’ve got to fix this oil leak, Mr. Peterson. My mama’s inside, if you want to wait there. I’ll come right in when I’m done.”
“No, I’m not here for your mother. We already spoke.”
Frank knew if Mr. Peterson had already spoken to his mother, then maybe he also knew about the bloody shirt and about the lockers.
Just then, a drop of oil leaked onto Frank’s head and he remembered that he should be wearing those old goggles he had seen on the shelf. He turned his head so quickly that he slammed the wrench against the underbody, and it went flying. As he tried to catch it with his other hand, he smashed his thumb.
“Hey, Mr. Peterson, can you get that for me?”
Frank rolled over to the side of the car and stuck his hand out for the wrench.
“I guess you didn’t take me seriously. I’m not here to help you fix a car.”
As slowly as possible, Frank rolled himself out and sat up on the creeper.
“Frank, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were hiding under there.”
As he looked up at Mr. Peterson, he noticed how firmly he stood his ground—shoulders back, chest out, ready for action, despite his jacket and tie.
Why is he here? Can’t everyone just leave me alone? But Frank knew he couldn’t avoid this conversation any longer. He had ignored repeated opportunities to talk at school. The other day, when he had seen Mr. Peterson walking toward him in the hallway, he had ducked into the biology lab and gone through the storage room to get out the other side.
“Frank, I’m on my way to a meeting with Reverend Wilford and some others about some of the problems we’ve been seeing and hearing about. I haven’t seen you at football practice. Why aren’t you going?”
’Cause I can’t play, so why practice? “Second string—why should I go?”
“Because you belong there, Frank. Are you going to let them push you out? You’re making it too easy on them.”
“I’m making it too easy on them? They’re pushing and shoving too hard. It doesn’t matter what I do. All the coaches want us to do is give them white boys a team to play against at practice.”
Frank remembered the last tackle he had made. The coach didn’t hear, “Get off me, nigger—I’ll take care of you later.”
Mr. Peterson just looked at him.
What do you know, standing there in your suit? Talk don’t do no good. “We’re as good as them, but they get to play on Saturdays.”
“Boy, there is more to life than football.”
For you, maybe. For my daddy, maybe. But not for me. I want out of this town. “Football and a scholarship are my way out of this place. Now it’s not going to happen. I was counting on that scout coming to the Thanksgiving game to see me play. They won’t let me play. I’ve been robbed.”
Frank grabbed the wrench, lay back down, and rolled himself slowly back under the car. After a few minutes of silence, Mr. Peterson walked away. Frank drew in a deep breath and stayed on the creeper for a long time while he wished this man could help him.
Chapter 23
Evelyn
Wednesday, November 26, 1969
Evelyn had never had a white woman as a friend, and she wasn’t sure she wanted one. She sure didn’t need this one. Tensions had run high since the closing of the black schools three weeks earlier, and Evelyn was in no mood to attract trouble.
Sure, Colleen seemed nice enough. She cared about her students and about Lulu, and she never gossiped or complained. But at times Evelyn found her unbelievably naive, and it kept falling on her shoulders to explain to this white woman how things worked down here.
As she walked toward the classroom trailer, Evelyn glanced around to ensure no one saw her. It was late, and Colleen’s car sat alone in the side parking lot.
Colleen opened the trailer door just as Evelyn reached the steps. “Goodness, you startled me.” Colleen pressed a hand to her chest. “I wish this door had a window. Did you need something? It’s late and I was just leaving. Don’t you need to get ready for Thanksgiving too?”
Evelyn gestured toward the inside of the trailer. She’d come to Colleen with a specific purpose in mind, and it was no conversation to have outside.
“Yes, but I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. Come in.” Colleen backed up and dropped her schoolbag.
Evelyn took a deep breath and sighed. “How was the library trip on Saturday?”
Colleen mumbled, “Fine, I guess. Two of the children weren’t home when I went to get them.”
Evelyn perched on the edge of a student’s desk. “Yes, I know. Some folks are worried about you picking up the children. They’re not used to white teachers coming to the house.”
“But nobody had any reservations about the first two trips, and I checked with the families to remind them in advance. Why is there a problem this time? What changed?”
What changed? Our school closed.
Evelyn sighed. “I heard that a police officer stopped you at the top of the road. Is that so?”
“How do you know that?” Colleen asked slowly.
Evelyn nodded and waited for more.
“He asked if I was lost.”
“Did he ask anything else?”
Colleen’s pale cheeks flushed. “Well, he asked why a white woman would be driving down that road.”
Evelyn felt her face tighten. So it’s true what Ole Man Everett heard.
“Evelyn, what’s wrong?”
Evelyn let out a bitter laugh, regretting that she’d promised Annie Mae she would have this conversation.
“Didn’t you meet Cynthia’s grandfather? Why do you think he watches those grandkids of his like a hawk? Haven’t you heard of the Klan?”
Understanding seemed to dawn in Colleen’s expression, but she didn’t say anything. Finally, she shook her head. “What does that have to do with me?”
“There’s a rumor spreading,” Evelyn said. “Ole Man Everett saw your car get stopped by the police car that always patrols his neighborhood. He followed you on foot through the woods because the patrol car left just before you brought the children back. He was close enough to hear. Voices carry through those trees. Rumors are that you’re registering black folks to vote.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Colleen shook her head.
“Colleen, it doesn’t have to make sense. White people down here can be nasty and mean. It’s just the way it is.”
Evelyn paused, looking at Colleen’s confused face. “Miz Woods asked me to tell you what’s being said about you.”
“Is that why she didn’t send Rachel on Saturday?”
“Yes. The rumors started before you got pulled over. He’s been looking out for you, that officer, Beau Harper.” Evelyn leaned hard on the word officer.
“How would he know that I was taking my students to the library?”
“His wife is Rita Harper. She told him you were getting signatures.”
“Rita? You mean t
hat teacher with the perfect makeup? The one who pretends I don’t exist? Yes, I’m getting signatures. For library cards.” Colleen’s hands balled into fists. “I’m touched that you and Miz Woods are concerned, Evelyn. But I can take care of myself.”
Evelyn wanted nothing more than to be finished with this conversation, but somehow she had to make Colleen understand. “I think you don’t know how things are around here. Miz Annie Mae realizes you only want to be kind to the children in your class. But kindness sets up some terrible things for us black folks.”
“To be kind? All I’m trying to do is a good job.”
Evelyn realized she had no choice but to be blunt. “You’re putting our children in danger by taking them to the library.” She spoke low, so her voice wouldn’t travel beyond the trailer walls.
“Is that what you think?” Colleen replied, with a worried look.
“I have to go. I’ve already said too much, and I can’t let anyone see me talking to you.”
Evelyn left the trailer, treading lightly on the stairs so they wouldn’t squeak.
Chapter 24
Colleen
Wednesday, November 26, 1969
The news shook Colleen to her core. She stared at the door for a long time after it closed gently.
Evelyn was right. She didn’t know how things worked around here. It wasn’t at all like The Little Rascals. She’d grown up watching the TV show, featuring Farina, Stymie, Buckwheat, and Alfalfa, poor black and white neighborhood friends whose adventures would have made any adult pull their own hair. No candles for the birthday cake? Use a firecracker. They had the He-Man Woman Haters Club and the Cluck Cluck Klams Club. That last one required meeting while wearing long white robes.
But the KKK wasn’t a TV show, or a game, or a club. Colleen had never realized that the hatred ran so deep. It was more than signs like WHITES ONLY. Everyone else seemed to know the unwritten rules. She had tried to put on a brave front so Evelyn wouldn’t think she was afraid. It had crossed her mind that she might be making herself a target, especially after the police officer had stopped her. Of course it had scared her, but she hadn’t considered that she might be putting children in danger.
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