Frank put his hand into his pocket and felt the coolness of the lighter.
“Law enforcement, maybe military police?”
Sergeant Barry reached into his desk and took out a folder. “How ’bout I give you this brochure and some paperwork for you to look over? You said you’re expecting a draft notice. If you enlist before that happens, you’ll have more control over what your assignment will be because we’ll be looking at you as a possible career candidate. You can specify what MOS or training you want as long as you qualify and don’t screw up. You can also specify where you want to go before you enlist. As long as a position is open, you’ll be guaranteed a one-year assignment there. After that, you go where the army needs you.”
Frank took the folder. He’d talk it over with his mother, but he was ready to sign up. He might wind up in Vietnam, but not everyone did. Enlisting promised to give him some choices. And someday he would find a way to avenge his father’s murder.
Chapter 52
Frank
Tuesday, May 26, 1970
The conversation with his mother hadn’t gone well. Frank had explained his plan to enlist in the army, but she met it with more concern and resistance than he had expected. Without a full-time college acceptance, he was almost guaranteed to be drafted before the year was over, and of course she was worried he’d be sent to Vietnam.
Frank had argued that if he enlisted he’d have a better chance of controlling his assignment, at least for the first year, but there was no convincing his mother. Distraught, she called Miss Glover and invited her over to talk with them on Sunday afternoon. Why couldn’t his mother let him decide? He knew Miss Glover was a good friend to them both. She had guided him to get the job at the funeral home.
At exactly 1:00 p.m. on Sunday, Miss Glover had rung the bell at the front door. “Frank, go on and invite Evelyn into the parlor. I’ll be right there,” his mother said. It was a ploy. Miss Glover didn’t need an invitation, and why had she come to the front door? She usually knocked at the back, called to his mother, and came inside.
Frank knew he had been trapped, so he just sat and listened. It was Miss Glover’s idea to talk to Mr. Peterson before he signed any paperwork. Frank wasn’t happy about that. He had avoided speaking to the principal since the day he’d fixed the oil leak under his mother’s car. He had finally agreed to meet with Mr. Peterson only to stop his mother’s and Miss Glover’s questions. Those two women had been unrelenting. Frank ended the inquisition with a promise to go to Mr. Peterson’s office after school on Tuesday, since school was closed on Monday for Memorial Day.
It was 4:00 p.m. when Frank arrived at the office unannounced. The longer he delayed, the fewer people would be around. It was quiet, but Millie, the main secretary, was still there.
“Is Mr. Peterson here?” Frank asked.
Her eyebrows rose, and she faked a smile. “He’s busy. Needs to redo the entire graduation list. I’m waiting to type it. I don’t know if he has time to see you.”
Frank swallowed the words he wanted to say and asked, “Could you please tell him that Frank Woods would like to speak with him?”
Before she could rise, Mr. Peterson opened his door with a pad of paper in his hand. “Hello, Frank. Did I hear you ask to see me?” He stepped back into his office and gestured with his free hand. “Come in.” He closed the door behind them.
Frank wished his father were alive, for many reasons. As he avoided eye contact and looked down at Mr. Peterson’s polished shoes, his father’s shoe flashed behind his eyes. The memory of having found his father’s shoe ripped open the pain he had buried and brought his anger back to the surface. The small office closed in on him. He needed air. He wanted to open the door, but then that secretary would hear their conversation. He pushed down the feelings.
“Are you all right, Frank?” Mr. Peterson asked.
Frank jammed his hands into his front pockets and nodded. “My mama and Miz Glover asked me to talk to you.”
Mr. Peterson leaned back in his chair. “I know. Miz Glover filled me in. Let’s go somewhere else.” He glanced toward the secretary sitting in the main office, then picked up the pad of paper from his desk and led the way out. “Millie, here’s the completed list. I’m finished for today. Have a good evening.”
They walked around the school, toward the football field. Frank was surprised to notice that he was a bit taller than Mr. Peterson. It made him feel more equal and filled him with confidence. Small talk about end-of-year graduation plans quelled the awkwardness of the walk. Mr. Peterson had always been fair with him. Maybe this would help.
They sat down on the lower bleachers, and the principal cut to the purpose of the conversation: “You know your mama doesn’t want you to enlist in the army. Can we talk about your reasons?”
“She doesn’t understand. I expect that you do. Can’t you see that I want to control my own life? I’ve been living under the shadow of my father’s death. I need to move out from it.”
Sorrow clouded the features of the older man’s face.
“Mr. Peterson, I have a question before I answer yours. Why did you bring the FBI into our house four years ago?”
The principal’s look of sorrow changed to one of surprise, and his usual baritone softened when he said, “Because what happened to your father was not an accident, and the NAACP came to me for help to prove it.”
Frank remembered how scared he had been standing in the doorway, watching the government agents and his mother. “What did they know?”
Mr. Peterson leaned forward and answered, “They had suspicions but no proof.”
Four years earlier, Frank had felt as if he couldn’t do anything. Now he could. Now he wanted information that he had only been able to guess at from listening in on his mother’s conversations. “What suspicions did they have?” he asked.
Mr. Peterson shifted on the bleacher. He leaned in closer to look into Frank’s eyes and pursed his lips. Frank started to sweat in anticipation. Mr. Peterson finally spoke. “First, there was a pattern of injuries at Armstrong Rubber Company after the cafeteria, bathrooms, and drinking fountains were desegregated. The Natchez NAACP claimed that the plant was ‘infested with Ku Klux Klansmen.’”
Frank took in this information with a deep breath to slow his racing heart. He looked away, not sure he wanted to hear more.
A vein popped out in Mr. Peterson’s neck as he continued, “I knew some of these men from our service in the Korean War. A lot of vets had been hired, and they were involved in making some changes. We had more equal treatment in service than we did when we returned. I think I told you how hard it was to come home to a country that didn’t respect our service.”
“So, how did the FBI get involved with my father’s death?”
“Right before your father died, there was a truck explosion near the plant. A bomb blew the truck apart and killed the driver instantly. That driver was on his way home from his work shift. Your father had worked with that man before he got the job on the base. Even the governor called it murder. They asked me to help.”
“Why you?” Frank asked.
“The FBI came to me and Reverend Wilford. We know the community. We knew the men who worked with your daddy when he was at Armstrong.”
Frank pivoted on the bench, as a force exploded from deep inside him, to face the meaning of the message hanging in the air between them.
“My mama told me about that man. She was worried. You were working with the FBI? They suspected the Klan? Does my mama know that? You knew this all these years and never told me?”
Mr. Peterson held his place and let Frank’s anger spill over him.
“You put our family in danger by bringing the FBI into our house.”
No longer able to stay seated, Frank leaped up and kicked the fence so hard that the chain link sagged.
“You know how afraid we all were right after he died.”
Now Frank paced up and down the path between the field and the bleachers. “He
y, man, don’t you have anything to say to me? I trusted you; my mama trusted you. We all did. You betrayed us.” His heart thumped as hard as it did when he was running for a pass with no thought except to catch the ball.
Mr. Peterson leaned forward and gripped the plank of the bleacher he was seated on. “I never betrayed you, Frank, or your father. For four years, I’ve kept my promise to your daddy, and to my friend.”
“What promise?” Frank’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he waited for an answer.
Peterson stood to answer Frank’s question. “To protect you and to find the man who started the fire.”
Frank stopped pacing. “When did you make that promise?”
Peterson sat back on the bench and rubbed his temples, as if to pull the memory out. “The night he died, I was there. I helped carry him to the truck and took him to the army base hospital. He could hardly speak, but he managed to tell me it wasn’t an accident—it was arson.” He looked up at Frank.
Frank couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. He felt empty. He nodded in agreement and sat on the bench next to Mr. Peterson. After a moment, he asked, “Anything else?”
Mr. Peterson put a trembling hand on Frank’s shoulder as he spoke. “He had closed up shop to go home. He saw flames and someone running away. He shouted at the runner but ran back to the garage to try to put out the fire. His clothes caught. He rolled out. He knew you were coming with his supper. He wanted to know if you were okay.”
Guilt, sorrow, and memories raced around in Frank’s mind. His father had worried about him as he lay burning on the ground. “I found him. I called for help.”
“He knew.”
Frank couldn’t hold back his sobs. “How? Why?”
“Your father asked me to protect you. I tried to tell you after you got arrested. The local police said the fire in your father’s shop was an accident. That was the end of it until the FBI launched investigations into any deaths similar to the truck explosion in Natchez. They’re still investigating. They contact me every year around the anniversary of the fire, but they need proof to bring charges.”
Frank wiped off his face with his sleeve and reached into his pocket. “I have proof.” He handed the lighter to Mr. Peterson and told him how he had found it next to his father’s shoe and then hid it in his room.
Mr. Peterson took in a sharp breath of disbelief as he stared at the lighter in his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was scared. Scared for my mother and for my sisters and my little brother.”
Peterson looked at the engraving on the lighter. “I see. I know who this belongs to. This is a rogue cop. His chief has trouble with him.”
Frank said, “I heard the chief telling him to shut up when we were sitting on the grass.”
The older man continued, “I’ve been watching you. You kept your promise to me and stayed out of trouble. This is important evidence. Can I give it to the agent who has been in touch with me?”
Frank nodded in silent agreement. He breathed in the fresh air of freedom as he exhaled the secret. He realized he hadn’t trusted anyone since his football coach had left and his school had closed. But he was still afraid for his mother, he realized, pressing his lips together.
As if Mr. Peterson were reading his thoughts, he said, “You were right to be worried for your family, Frank. Don’t be so hard on yourself—you were only a boy. The FBI will be the best way to handle this.”
“I’m still worried. Can the FBI really protect my mama?” Frank said.
“Things are changing in our town. Some people, like the police chief and the school superintendent, are speaking up. It’s not just the FBI that will protect you and your family.”
Frank relaxed a bit. “Maybe. You mean, like my father’s cousin Penelope convincing them to let us graduate?”
“Yes, she sure surprised all of us. Didn’t forget her roots. Smart one, that Penelope. But it took the laws and her courage to speak up.” Mr. Peterson stood. “Let’s walk some more. Don’t we have to talk about your plan?”
After walking around the football field twice, the two men had an agreement: Mr. Peterson would take the lighter to the agent, and Frank would enlist, as he wanted to, after he told his mother the whole story.
Chapter 53
Colleen
Friday, May 29, 1970
It was the last day of the school year. The playground was filled with appropriate glee when the students spilled out of the classrooms. But all Colleen could think was, They should be moving on to third grade. She wished the parents knew that she believed in their children and had argued for them to be promoted. She was still invisible, not welcome. The Teacher Appreciation Luncheon had proven it. There was still no place for her at the lunch table. The only difference was that a couple of embarrassed PTA ladies had set up extra places when the unplanned-for teachers from the temporary trailer classrooms arrived.
Colleen was packing up her personal teaching supplies. She started to shove the thick black leather belt to the back of the desk drawer but changed her mind and tossed it into the trash bin. I should have done that my first day.
The door opened, interrupting her melancholy mood, and Evelyn came in.
“Hi,” Colleen said. “That luncheon reminded me of the first time I had lunch in this school. I couldn’t eat. My stomach was in knots. They were so surprised when we walked in. We never did get an invitation.”
“Which was exactly why we went. We belonged there.”
Colleen smiled sadly.
“Why that face?” Evelyn asked.
“Sorry. Look at Cynthia’s column.” Colleen unrolled the book incentive chart. “She learned to love books. This proves it. I should be happy about that.”
Colleen pointed to the small box lying on the desktop. “I don’t know what to do with my gift.” When they had walked in, one of the PTA mothers had left the luncheon and come back minutes later with a bag from McCory’s five-and-dime.
“Did they think we wouldn’t notice that the white classroom teachers got handheld tortoiseshell mirrors and we got pursesize metal-framed ones?” Anger flooded Colleen’s body. How could those women treat them so poorly?
Evelyn took the mirror from the box and held it up, pretending to admire herself. “Did you hear what you just said? Look in this mirror, Colleen. You’re white, remember?” She put the mirror away and handed it back to Colleen, along with a flat package wrapped in brown paper. “I’m going to keep mine forever to remember how they tried to forget about us but we didn’t let them.”
“What’s this?” Colleen asked.
“Just open it.”
Colleen took off the brown paper sleeve, and a magazine slipped out. “Instructor magazine. Thank you, Evelyn—how thoughtful. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t get a gift for you.”
“You offered me your carpet pieces. I’m here to claim them. And I didn’t know about this magazine. This month’s issue has an article that you might be able to use someday.”
“What? Where?” Colleen flipped through the pages.
“Later. Not now.” Tugging at her pearls, Evelyn looked away.
“Thank you again,” Colleen said. “And there’s something I’ve never told you. You remind me a bit of my mother.”
A bewildered look filled Evelyn’s face. “How could I remind you of your mother?”
“It was that cake you made me—my favorite lemon-flavored cake with fluffy lemon icing to match—and your pearls. Pearls were my mother’s fashion statement.”
Tears filled Evelyn’s eyes.
“What’s wrong? It was a compliment. Why are you upset?” Colleen asked.
Evelyn’s voice trembled as she said, “I’ve been transferred.”
“What are you talking about? Why?”
“I never sent the letters home to my students. Insubordination. Almost cost me my job. A transfer was their final concession. The parish school board felt it had compromised enough letting the seniors graduate.”
“We count on each other. I’d be lost without Annie Mae, Lulu, and Mavis.”
A knock on the trailer door surprised Colleen. Evelyn opened it to let a young man enter. Colleen recognized Frank immediately. His sister Rachel was one of her students.
“Frank, this is Miz Rodriguez.”
He greeted Colleen with a nod. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“I remember you, Frank. We met once before. It was the first day we came to this school. You walked your sister to my line.” Colleen looked toward Evelyn for a clue about why he was there.
“I was just telling Miz Rodriguez how much I count on my friends.” She threw her hands into the air in a welcome gesture. Turning to Colleen, she said, “You asked how I do it. This is how. Frank came to help me take my personal belongings home from my classroom. I asked him to come help me carry the carpet pieces you offered me. I can take them to my new school.”
“I was going to help you carry them to your classroom.” Colleen walked over to move them off the desk they were stacked on.
“Frank can take care of that. He’s a strong young man, graduating tonight and enlisted in the army yesterday.”
Frank easily picked up the carpet pieces that Colleen was struggling with. “Let me take them, Miz Rodriguez.” He turned to leave, balancing the stack as he opened the door.
After a bit of hesitation, Colleen added, “Please tell your mother I said hello and thank you. She helped me convince the parents to sign permission slips for the library cards.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll give my mother the message.” He nodded to Evelyn—“I’ll put these in your car”—and left.
Evelyn asked, “What will you do when you go home to New Jersey?”
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