A Call to Courage
M. K. Eddleman
in collaboration with
Sheryl J. Williams
Brighton Publishing LLC
435 N. Harris Drive
Mesa, AZ 85203
www.BrightonPublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-62183-556-1
Copyright © 2019
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.
M. K. Eddleman
in collaboration with
Sheryl J. Williams
Brighton Publishing LLC
435 N. Harris Drive
Mesa, AZ 85203
www.BrightonPublishing.com
ISBN: 978-1-62183-556-1
Copyright © 2019
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.
A call to courage
Prologue
What’s that smell? Smoke. Not the warm, woody smell from burning logs in a fireplace. More an acrid smell from something not meant to burn. The terrifying whoosh of air being sucked out of the room issued a final warning. For a moment, I stood paralyzed, unable to comprehend what was happening. Suddenly, a terrifying realization dawned on me as I watched wispy tendrils of smoke circle up from around the door. Someone had set fire to our home. Fear, hidden deep in my brain, tumbled out, overriding any good sense I might have had. Think. What did they say to do? Oh, Lord, why can’t I remember?
Flames licked at the door scorching the white paint until it bubbled and hissed. I tried to calm myself by breathing deeply, but the heat seared my lungs. Where was Dessie? I have to save Dessie. Instinctively, I reached for the brass doorknob. Like a hot iron, it scorched my hand adding the smell of burning flesh to the sickening stench of danger. I had to think of a different way to save my daughter.
Stumbling through the blinding smoke, I held my breath, reaching out to find the end, then side of the bed. Using it to guide my way, I made it to the window. Pushing the sill upward, I gasped for air. That’s when I saw him. Wrapped in the white garb of the Klan, a figure raced across the lawn, whooping in the joy of his fiery success, until the billowy drape of his gown ensnared his legs, throwing him to the ground. He kicked and squirmed like a fish flopping on the bank of a river, swearing at his mistake. Untangling himself, he staggered to his feet. In a final gesture of loathing, he swore words of condemnation at my daughter, and then dove into the safety of a waiting pickup truck. As he and his gang sped off into the veil of darkness, I could hear their shrill laughter pierce the night air. “Cowards,” I hissed.
Chapter 1
To say it had been a busy week at the mortuary was an understatement. Shirley, the wife of a popular barkeep in our community, had died suddenly when she slipped and fell, hitting her head on the corner of a table as she went down. The folks who witnessed her death were traumatized. She was a kind woman who made everybody feel at home in her bar no matter how much money they might have had. Her death was a terrible loss to the community.
The expectation was my husband Marvin and I would put on a fitting send-off for a woman who had been so dearly loved. We did just that. At one o’clock on a humid Saturday afternoon, we turned our humble mortuary into a sanctuary for mourners from all walks of life to come pay their respects. Marvin made sure Shirley looked peaceful and beautiful. Not muddy like some morticians made black folks look. And I made sure the service was a true celebration of her life. More than two hundred people showed up to sing praises to her memory.
You would have thought with all those folks being occupied at a funeral, there would have been nobody left in town. But, right in the middle of the service, Dessie, our sixteen-year-old daughter, quietly approached her father and whispered in his ear that old Mr. Williams had had a heart attack in the parking lot outside of the local grocery store. He died right there on the spot. None of the white folks in town wanted anything to do with him. They insisted Marvin come right away. So, he left in the middle of Shirley’s service leaving Dessie and me to take over handling the rest of the funeral.
By Sunday, all we wanted to do was go to church in the morning, then come home and relax. Maybe watch a little TV, catch up on napping and eat leftovers. We had even let Dessie spend the night with her best friend, Josey, so we could take a break from any routine or demands. I was so excited to do nothing, I almost forgot it was Mother’s Day.
While we were fixing to go to the First Primitive Baptist Church that Sunday morning, Marvin said, “After service, I’m gonna come home, get in my relaxin’ clothes and watch the Braves kick the Pirates out of their own park. They’re on the move—only one game ahead in their division, but they’re on the move. Hank Aaron’s gonna have another great year. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Who’s Hank Aaron?” I teased as I poked my best dangly pearl earring through my left ear lobe and pushed on the back. Marvin rolled his eyes, but I saw him smiling.
Marvin was good to me. I liked him the first time I saw him in mortician school. Marvin had inherited his Papa’s business. His family had been the morticians for black folks for over fifty years. Through the years they’d built a beautiful mortuary with a big old house right next door. Marvin said by the time he was ten years old, he knew how to comfort a family in mourning, drain the blood from a deceased, and fill out a death certificate. But I’m rambling. The point was, what we wanted to happen and what did happen were two different things.
***
If Pastor Turner had gone on for any longer, I think I would have melted right down to a puddle on the floor. It was only May and already so hot I started thinking about going to that Hell Pastor warned us about just to cool off. Being Mother’s Day, the ladies were decked out in their special outfits, looking crisp and clean at the start but, about halfway into the choir’s second hymn, they were looking limp and damp. Far more fans were waving in the air than hands praising the Lord. Even the flowers on the lectern started to droop.
During hot weather, Pastor Turner really should have paid more attention to his sweltering flock. In the cool weather, his sermons were inspirational persuasions. Not so much in hot weather, more like robust ramblings. I will admit, I got cranky in the heat. I knew that was why Marvin forked out the money to buy air conditioning units for the mortuary and our home. I was so blessed. Not everyone in this congregation got to go home to a cool house. Maybe that was a consideration when Pastor Turner stopped us as we exchanged pleasantries in the vestibule.
“How would you like Helen and me to come to your house for dinner tonight? I got somethin’ I want to talk to you about,” Pastor Turner asked, placing one hand on Marvin’s shoulder and shaking his hand with the other. He held Marvin like that until he got an answer.
Marvin hesitated, but what could he say? He blurted out, “We’d love it. We eat at half past four.” Then he added, “Say, why don’t you come watch the baseball game with me?”
I almost jabbed him in the ribs. What was he thinking?
“I was hopin’ you’d ask,” Pastor Turner said. “What can we bring?”
“Just yourselves. We’re honored havin’ you,” Marvin answered.
He could have said, “Bring a dessert.” No, he should have said, “Bring a dessert.” Instead, I only had two hours to rush home, straighten up the house and cook a proper Sunday supper. So much for a relaxing day.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked as we climbed in our big old, dark grey 1964 Ford Econoline we used to carry bodies to the mortuary. It was not the prettiest or the easiest vehicle to drive around, but we would have been lost without it.
“Do what?” Marvin asked.
“Humph.” Do what? Men didn’t have a clue about what women had to do to get a supper ready. There weren’t any stores open on Sundays. Only ingredients I had were those in my cupboard and garden. When I finally answered, only thing I said was, “Pull on over to that payphone right there. I got to call Dessie, let her know we’re coming for her. I need her help.” The rest of the way we drove in silence, me planning all I had to do. I came to look back on this day as easy.
***
My spirits picked up when I saw Dessie was waiting for us on the porch outside of Josey’s house. Pulling up to the curb, I hardly recognized the child I had given birth to sixteen years earlier. Dessie was taller than I was, which was saying a lot because I was five foot six. But the big change was her emerging womanly body. She had lost the baby fat around her middle and had found it in all the right places. She was beautiful. And, her lovely rose brown skin simply glowed. It was like her daddy’s, except, by forty-three years old, his had become a little tarnished. Truth be known, over the years, Marvin and I had put on a few pounds we could have afforded to shed. We were not fat, nothing like that. You might say we were of generous proportions.
“Mama, you promised I could stay ‘til supper. We were makin’ ice cream for dessert. They were countin’ on me to help,” Dessie complained as she climbed into the back seat of the van. “This car is ugly,” she grumbled, “It’s embarrassing drivin’ around in somethin’ meant for haulin’ dead bodies.”
Lately, my daughter had been testing my patience. Along with her womanly body, she had gained an attitude.
Already in a mood from having to change my plans, my temper was running thin.
“Don’t start. This isn’t the way I wanted to spend my Mother’s Day either,” I warned, hoping to make her feel a little guilty for forgetting what day it was.
When I was Dessie’s age, I went back to living with my mother after spending my entire childhood growing up with Big Mama and Big Buddy. My mama had me when she was fourteen. No way could she take care of me, so her mama and papa took me in. As far as I was concerned, they were my real parents. I especially loved Big Buddy. I loved his big calloused hands that had known so much misery and so little joy. Sometimes when his strong hands picked me up and set me on his lap, he made me feel like nothing could ever hurt me. Big Buddy was the one who got me interested in being a mortician.
One Memorial Day, when I was six, he took me to the black cemetery in town. He knelt down before a grave, said a prayer of thanks, and then showed me how to plant little flags next to the simple grave markers.
As he picked weeds from around a grave, he said, “Millie, child, always remember the black folks who gave their lives for you. Memorial Day was actually started by former slaves to honor dead Union soldiers who had been buried in a mass grave in a Confederate prison camp way back in 1865. The ex-slaves dug ‘em up and gave ‘em a proper burial in gratitude for fightin’ for their freedom. Same thing happened during the Great War. I lost so many friends. That’s why I come here every year—to remember and to honor.”
I couldn’t get my head around there being dead people under all those crosses until we came upon a hole some critter had dug…went real deep. I peered down into that hole and saw what looked like a hand or something.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Those are bones,” Big Buddy said. “They belong to a person buried down there.”
“There’s a person down there?” I asked, fascinated but confused. “That person don’t have no skin.”
“He used to,” Big Buddy said. “He probably wasn’t embalmed right.”
“Embalmed? What’s that?”
“It’s what special people do to help the dead look good,” Buddy explained.
“That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna make sure you always look good, Big Buddy. Your hands are always gonna have skin on ‘em,” I said with the assurance and innocence only a child could have.
But I meant it. From then on, even though I went back to live with a mama who resented me from the day I was born, especially around her new husband, I knew I was going to be a mortician. And when Big Buddy died, I kept my promise. I took good care of him. He went to heaven looking mighty fine. Everyone said so. I bet his hands will look good as new a hundred years from now.
Thinking about Big Buddy calmed me down. By the time the three of us drove up to the house, I was ready to start cooking.
“You go out and pick two onions and enough collards for five people,” I told Dessie as the van came to a halt in the driveway. She stormed out of the vehicle, slamming the sliding door shut with a bang.
“That’s enough, Dessie,” Marvin called out the window in his sternest fatherly voice.
“She’ll be fine,” I said with a reassuring pat to his knee.
Marvin was absolutely right. Normally, I would not tolerate her storming and slamming, but I had too much to do. I got out of the van and headed up the stairs to the porch. Stepping inside to the coolness of the hall, I took off my hat and hung it on the antique mirrored hat rack that had welcomed family and guests for decades. Something about the tall ceilings and highly polished wood floors of the house calmed my nerves and settled my spirit. I was home.
Walking into the kitchen, I donned my apron and got to work deciding how to make a meal from whatever ingredients I could muster up. Smothered chicken turned out to be my only choice. I made a roux from bacon grease, flour and broth. I kept adding liquid until it was bubbling nice and thick, finally seasoning it with salt and pepper. Once it was the perfect consistency, I tossed in pulled chicken pieces until they were evenly coated with the savory sauce.
I looked through the kitchen window and saw Dessie out in the garden working on the collard greens just as I had taught her. She picked leaves from the bottom of the stalks, leaving smaller ones towards the top of the plant to grow for another day. She laid them on screens perched on cinder blocks. The screens made for easier cleaning. She went through each one picking off bugs and getting rid of as much dirt as she could. Collard greens were a messy business, but done right, mmm-mmm, they were good.
She walked in from the garden loaded with the collards ready for round two of the cleaning process. Young as she was, she knew what to do.
“Ooh wee, it’s hot out there,” she said as she plopped the collards in the sink, half-filled with cold water, and wiped her forehead with the hem of her shirt.
Actually, she was a good cook. And like all good cooks, she quieted down as soon as she started the final wash to get rid of any remaining dirt. Satisfied the greens were clean, she pulled off the stems and tossed the leaves into the simmering cauldron.
“Don’t forget the grease,” I said, nodding my head to the jar filled with bacon drippings perched on the edge of the stove.
“I won’t,” she said, annoyed with my interference. Squinting her eyes at me, she spooned two heaping tablespoons into the already boiling pot with a deliberate splat that sprayed enough water onto the hot stove to hiss and sputter. The smile on her face showed she took pleasure in the sound of her rebellion.
Not wanting to engage in that particular battle, I shifted my focus to my famous gingerbread cake. I knew the recipe so well, I didn’t have to measure. Same with the cornbread. Just came natural over the years. They were mixed and ready for the oven in no time.
I almost upset my calmness when I realized I had forgotten to make the strawberry jello. A proper jello needed time to sit before it bloomed into a colorful, sweet delicacy. Serving a runny dessert was unacceptable, so I quickly chopped the strawberries, added some sugar and put them on the stove to boil over a medium heat. While that cooked, I prepared the gelatin then let it stand to absorb all the water just like Big Mama had taught me to do. Once done, I mixed the gelatin with the puree I made from the strawberries, spooned it into a mold and put it in the fridge to set.
As the food was cooking, we set the table with my best and only linen tablecloth and napkins. We finished right on time. I liked that it looked like we hadn’t been sweating bullets to get everything done. I also knew the house smelled inviting—a combination of spice, onion, and bacon.
In the living room, Marvin had just finished adjusting the rabbit ear antenna on our tabletop Motorola TV, so the game would come in loud and clear. At two o’clock on the dot, when the doorbell rang, we were ready. Pastor Turner and Sister Helen were still in their Sunday clothes, but we insisted they get comfortable. Pastor took off his jacket and loosened his tie. A little overweight, he suffered terribly in the heat. Beads of sweat collected on the trim grey beard framing his umber toned face. After Pastor pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow, he almost had to wring it out.
Helen was the opposite. Café-au-lait skin, chiseled face and beanpole thin, she appeared cool as a cucumber. But I could tell she was relieved to be in an air-conditioned house because once she took off her hat and jacket, she pinched the damp blouse away from her body and proceeded to refresh herself by waving it in a fanning motion.
“It’s so nice to be in your lovely home. We’ve been socializin’ all morning, what with Mother’s Day and all. Takes a lot of energy,” Pastor Turner confessed.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Sister Helen added. “My girls being grown and gone, I was feelin’ a little down today. They did call, but it’s not the same as being around family. And, as you know, we consider you family.”
I glowed at the compliment. Maybe it wasn’t totally true, but I liked hearing it anyway. What she was saying was they were hankering for a few hours of downtime. So that’s what we gave them. The men watched the Pirates beat the Braves five to two. They coached from their comfortable chairs, groaning when players struck out, cheering when they scored. They talked a little about the growing unrest over the escalating war in Vietnam. At the end of the game, they were momentarily disappointed with the loss but reassured each other the Braves would win tomorrow. All the while, Helen and I quietly exchanged tips on cooking, clothes and hats, careful not to disturb the men’s enjoyment of the game and each other.
By four o’clock, it was time to make sure the cornbread was ready to come out of the oven piping hot. Everything else was heated to perfection. We were ready to sit down to eat. For my final touch, I poured iced sweet tea into chilled glasses, adding a sprig of mint and slice of lemon to each. I admit I wanted to impress.
Standing at the table, holding hands as Pastor Turner said a lovely grace, making sure to thank mothers for their daily work to keep families together, all my effort seemed worthwhile. I smiled at Dessie and mouthed, “Thank you.” She tucked her head in silent acknowledgment.
In no time at all, we devoured the chicken, collards, and cornbread. The gingerbread cake and jello disappeared just as fast. With the last bite, Pastor Turner leaned back in his seat, patted his stomach, and thanked me and Dessie for a spectacular supper. Then he started talking in his sermon voice. Something big was on his mind.
***
I nodded to Dessie, indicating she could leave the table, but Pastor Turner leaned back, putting his arm out to block her exit.
“No Dessie,” Pastor said. “You need to hear what I’m going to say. It’s going to affect you as much as anyone else in the family. Please sit back down.”
He gestured to the seat she had just left. She looked over at me questioningly, but I shrugged in confusion. I tilted my head towards her chair letting her know it was okay for her to stay. She slid back down in her spot, keeping her eyes lowered.
“Dessie,” Pastor Turner started, “How much do you know about all the civil rights activities going on over the past five years?” He stopped and looked directly at her.
I knew silence made her uncomfortable, but what she did next took me completely by surprise.
Dessie looked up and suddenly, with total confidence, said, “I know I go to an integrated school because of the Supreme Court case Brown versus the Board of Education. I know Rosa Parks started the civil rights movement by refusing to give up her seat on a bus. I know President Johnson passed a Civil Rights Act making everyone equal, declared a war on poverty to help the poor and signed a Voting Rights Act giving black folks the right to finally have a say. I know three civil rights workers were killed by the Klan just up the road. I know there was a big march in Selma led by Dr. King where people got beaten by state troopers, attacked by dogs and sprayed with fire hoses. I know there’s been trouble with the Ku Klux Klan. And I know Steve Conrad has been eyeing me in a nasty way.”
That last statement was like a punch to my stomach. I shot a look to Marvin who was staring directly at Dessie. The muscles in his jaw were so tight I could see them bulge on the side of his face. Even the Pastor sat up straight as a rod.
“You mean Steve Conrad of the Conrad family who owns the grocery store in town? Steve Conrad where our friend Mayola cooks and takes care of the family? That Steve Conrad?” Marvin asked.
“Yes sir,” Dessie said, her chin set in defiance. “But he doesn’t scare me.”
“Dessie,” Pastor Turner interrupted. “This is exactly why I wanted you to stay…”
I tuned out what Pastor Turner was saying. I was in such shock. I had no idea Dessie might have been a victim to some entitled white boy. Lord, this was not good. I could have spit nails at that family. They thought they were so high and mighty. Suddenly, I was worried about how I was going to protect her. I felt myself start to panic. I took a few deep breaths to calm my heart down. Then I thought of Mayola, and I knew where I would start. I would ask her about what was going on with that boy.
“Right?... Millie?... Millie?” Pastor Turner said, leaning forward to touch my arm and bring me back to the conversation.
“Sorry, Pastor. What’d you say?” I asked, suddenly aware I hadn’t been listening.
“I was saying Dessie is an amazing young lady. I think she’ll be fine with what I want to present to you.” The Pastor sat up straighter in his chair looked at each one of us before he continued. “As part of Johnson’s war on poverty he wants communities like ours to open preschools for disadvantaged children. Some of the poorest children across this country have never seen a crayon, much less words in a book. Johnson knows these children need various forms of enrichment to help them catch up to students who come from more privileged backgrounds. He even wants dental and health care for the children. He’s calling his campaign Operation Head Start. And I can’t think of anyone better than you, Millie, to be the director of our community program.”
Tuning out again, I tried to get my head around what the good Pastor was saying. Did he just offer me a job? I got a job. Why would I want to give up what I loved? What I had been trained to do? For heaven’s sake, I had a family to take care of.
Right when I was thinking I didn’t know anything at all about teaching, I heard Pastor Turner say, “I have several teachers lined up. Millie, what I need you from you are your organizational skills. If it weren’t for you, nobody in this town would have a proper funeral. You take care of everything. And you even have some medical knowledge. At least, I assume you had to take biology and anatomy to learn how to embalm. Am I wrong?”
“No, you aren’t wrong Pastor, but I have a job. And …I can think of a hundred reasons why I am not the right person for your …”
“It’s not for me, Millie. It’s for the children,” Pastor Turner interrupted.
Oh, he was good. Knew how to butter me right up. But me running a school was completely out of the question.
“Sorry, Pastor. Not two minutes ago I heard my daughter say some white boy was acting ugly towards her. And now you’re asking me to head up a program the Klan is sure to hate? Thank you for your faith in me, but you need to find someone else. I do not want my family to be the Klan’s number one target in town.” I looked at Marvin and Dessie to back me up, but they didn’t even glance my way.
“Yes, Millie, unfortunately you are correct. The Klan will not like these schools,” Pastor Turner admitted. “They hate anything that helps black folks. But please think about it. Talk it over with your family. Take some quiet time to pray about it. I don’t need an answer today. We have some time before the doors open.”
“Pastor, I don’t know a thing about running a school.” I felt panic welling in the pit of my stomach. This was all too much for me to handle.
“Millie, don’t you worry about running this on your own. We’ve got a board made up of myself, Father Bob from St. Michael’s Catholic parish, Reverend Larson from St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church and Rabbi Harvey Silberman from Beth Immanuel. We’ll help you every step of the way.”
Pastor Turner sure did his best to calm my nerves and persuade me to join him. But if that weren’t bad enough, Sister Helen piped up, putting her two cents into the pile of confusion building inside my head.
“Now Millie, before you make up your mind, I’d like you to come to one of our voter registration meetings at the parish hall. We meet every Tuesday and Thursday night. This Tuesday, Buddy Murray is comin’ to talk to us. He’s friends with James Meredith. They were together at the Ole Miss riots. His stories will make the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up. If his words don’t inspire you to accept this callin’, nothin’ will,” Sister said.
Looking at me, then looking at her husband, she added, “I think it’s time we were on our way. The Howards have been more than generous with their Sunday afternoon, and Millie’s got a lot to think about.” She knew I was agitated.
She was right. I was reeling. First, Pastor Turner talked about the Head Start program then Sister Helen talked about voter registration. Did they expect me to do both? I didn’t want to do either. I enjoyed working full-time at the mortuary with Marvin. And what about my sixteen-year-old daughter? Lord help me, I needed time to process. More than anything, I wanted them to leave before they came up with more jobs for me to do.
The Turners finally said their good-byes, leaving the three of us standing on the inside of our closed front door looking at each other, not saying a word. I wasn’t ready to talk. I needed to ponder some, so I started cleaning up. Something about cleaning helped clear my brain. I gathered the plates left on the dining room table and headed into the kitchen. A little slice of cake, the only food left from our supper, was perched atop the stack of plates in my hands. Martin snatched that cake right off the plate as he headed into the living room to turn on the TV. He nearly toppled the entire stack by removing that one tiny piece. Same as life. Change one tiny piece and the whole thing could come toppling down.
The familiar sound of, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Live from New York City. The Ed Sullivan Show,” stirred me from my thoughts. The sound traveled through the hallways of our peaceful home and for an instant, I felt normal. Then, Dessie said, “I wanna go to that meeting on Tuesday night.”
***
“Marvin. Turn off that TV and come in here,” I called out.
Dessie saw she had fired me up. Avoiding eye contact, she put her head down and busied herself by washing the dishes in the sink… without being asked. Very unlike her.
“Can’t it wait?” Marvin called back, knowing from my tone I was riled. When I didn’t respond, he tried to guilt me. “The Turtles are going to be on the TV singing ‘Happy Together.’”
“Turtles? Who are the Turtles?” I wasn’t having any of his excuses. “I don’t care if Aretha Franklin herself is singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T right here in our living room. We need a family meeting,” I insisted. “Dessie, put those dishes down and come on over here and sit at the table.”
Marvin huffed, pushing himself out of his chair. I noticed he didn’t turn off the TV. Not only that, he took a position at the table where he could look past me to see it. I shot a warning look at him, but he ignored me. Dessie dried her hands on a dish towel as a slight smile crossed her lips with her father’s resistance to my summons. For the first time in years, I felt alone.
“What is going on here?” I asked. “Marvin, your daughter wants to go to that meeting on Tuesday. Tell her that’s no place for a sixteen-year-old girl who has some white boy acting ugly towards her. He finds out she’s going to that meeting, he’ll really get horrible. Are you willing to let your daughter walk into a dangerous situation?” I was satisfied I managed to squeeze in every bit of ammunition to make my point.
“Sorry Millie, I think she should go,” Marvin said, taking my hands in his and holding me with a direct stare. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dessie sit back, crossing her arms over her middle. A self-satisfied smile lit up her face as she delighted in her father’s unexpected support.
“But Marvin,” I sputtered, close to tears.
“No, Millie, this time you’re wrong,” Marvin interrupted. “Did you listen to your daughter tonight? Did you hear how much she knows about this world? She’s the future. She needs to be at that meeting. I think we should go together. You. Me. And her.”
I couldn’t help myself. Tears welled up in my eyes and overflowed down my face. I was ready to explode with all sorts of reasons why we shouldn’t go when the phone rang. I flinched. A phone call at eight o’clock on a Sunday night was never good news.
What’s that smell? Smoke. Not the warm, woody smell from burning logs in a fireplace. More an acrid smell from something not meant to burn. The terrifying whoosh of air being sucked out of the room issued a final warning. For a moment, I stood paralyzed, unable to comprehend what was happening. Suddenly, a terrifying realization dawned on me as I watched wispy tendrils of smoke circle up from around the door. Someone had set fire to our home. Fear, hidden deep in my brain, tumbled out, overriding any good sense I might have had. Think. What did they say to do? Oh, Lord, why can’t I remember?
Flames licked at the door scorching the white paint until it bubbled and hissed. I tried to calm myself by breathing deeply, but the heat seared my lungs. Where was Dessie? I have to save Dessie. Instinctively, I reached for the brass doorknob. Like a hot iron, it scorched my hand adding the smell of burning flesh to the sickening stench of danger. I had to think of a different way to save my daughter.
Stumbling through the blinding smoke, I held my breath, reaching out to find the end, then side of the bed. Using it to guide my way, I made it to the window. Pushing the sill upward, I gasped for air. That’s when I saw him. Wrapped in the white garb of the Klan, a figure raced across the lawn, whooping in the joy of his fiery success, until the billowy drape of his gown ensnared his legs, throwing him to the ground. He kicked and squirmed like a fish flopping on the bank of a river, swearing at his mistake. Untangling himself, he staggered to his feet. In a final gesture of loathing, he swore words of condemnation at my daughter, and then dove into the safety of a waiting pickup truck. As he and his gang sped off into the veil of darkness, I could hear their shrill laughter pierce the night air. “Cowards,” I hissed.
Chapter 1
To say it had been a busy week at the mortuary was an understatement. Shirley, the wife of a popular barkeep in our community, had died suddenly when she slipped and fell, hitting her head on the corner of a table as she went down. The folks who witnessed her death were traumatized. She was a kind woman who made everybody feel at home in her bar no matter how much money they might have had. Her death was a terrible loss to the community.
The expectation was my husband Marvin and I would put on a fitting send-off for a woman who had been so dearly loved. We did just that. At one o’clock on a humid Saturday afternoon, we turned our humble mortuary into a sanctuary for mourners from all walks of life to come pay their respects. Marvin made sure Shirley looked peaceful and beautiful. Not muddy like some morticians made black folks look. And I made sure the service was a true celebration of her life. More than two hundred people showed up to sing praises to her memory.
You would have thought with all those folks being occupied at a funeral, there would have been nobody left in town. But, right in the middle of the service, Dessie, our sixteen-year-old daughter, quietly approached her father and whispered in his ear that old Mr. Williams had had a heart attack in the parking lot outside of the local grocery store. He died right there on the spot. None of the white folks in town wanted anything to do with him. They insisted Marvin come right away. So, he left in the middle of Shirley’s service leaving Dessie and me to take over handling the rest of the funeral.
By Sunday, all we wanted to do was go to church in the morning, then come home and relax. Maybe watch a little TV, catch up on napping and eat leftovers. We had even let Dessie spend the night with her best friend, Josey, so we could take a break from any routine or demands. I was so excited to do nothing, I almost forgot it was Mother’s Day.
While we were fixing to go to the First Primitive Baptist Church that Sunday morning, Marvin said, “After service, I’m gonna come home, get in my relaxin’ clothes and watch the Braves kick the Pirates out of their own park. They’re on the move—only one game ahead in their division, but they’re on the move. Hank Aaron’s gonna have another great year. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Who’s Hank Aaron?” I teased as I poked my best dangly pearl earring through my left ear lobe and pushed on the back. Marvin rolled his eyes, but I saw him smiling.
Marvin was good to me. I liked him the first time I saw him in mortician school. Marvin had inherited his Papa’s business. His family had been the morticians for black folks for over fifty years. Through the years they’d built a beautiful mortuary with a big old house right next door. Marvin said by the time he was ten years old, he knew how to comfort a family in mourning, drain the blood from a deceased, and fill out a death certificate. But I’m rambling. The point was, what we wanted to happen and what did happen were two different things.
***
If Pastor Turner had gone on for any longer, I think I would have melted right down to a puddle on the floor. It was only May and already so hot I started thinking about going to that Hell Pastor warned us about just to cool off. Being Mother’s Day, the ladies were decked out in their special outfits, looking crisp and clean at the start but, about halfway into the choir’s second hymn, they were looking limp and damp. Far more fans were waving in the air than hands praising the Lord. Even the flowers on the lectern started to droop.
During hot weather, Pastor Turner really should have paid more attention to his sweltering flock. In the cool weather, his sermons were inspirational persuasions. Not so much in hot weather, more like robust ramblings. I will admit, I got cranky in the heat. I knew that was why Marvin forked out the money to buy air conditioning units for the mortuary and our home. I was so blessed. Not everyone in this congregation got to go home to a cool house. Maybe that was a consideration when Pastor Turner stopped us as we exchanged pleasantries in the vestibule.
“How would you like Helen and me to come to your house for dinner tonight? I got somethin’ I want to talk to you about,” Pastor Turner asked, placing one hand on Marvin’s shoulder and shaking his hand with the other. He held Marvin like that until he got an answer.
Marvin hesitated, but what could he say? He blurted out, “We’d love it. We eat at half past four.” Then he added, “Say, why don’t you come watch the baseball game with me?”
I almost jabbed him in the ribs. What was he thinking?
“I was hopin’ you’d ask,” Pastor Turner said. “What can we bring?”
“Just yourselves. We’re honored havin’ you,” Marvin answered.
He could have said, “Bring a dessert.” No, he should have said, “Bring a dessert.” Instead, I only had two hours to rush home, straighten up the house and cook a proper Sunday supper. So much for a relaxing day.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked as we climbed in our big old, dark grey 1964 Ford Econoline we used to carry bodies to the mortuary. It was not the prettiest or the easiest vehicle to drive around, but we would have been lost without it.
“Do what?” Marvin asked.
“Humph.” Do what? Men didn’t have a clue about what women had to do to get a supper ready. There weren’t any stores open on Sundays. Only ingredients I had were those in my cupboard and garden. When I finally answered, only thing I said was, “Pull on over to that payphone right there. I got to call Dessie, let her know we’re coming for her. I need her help.” The rest of the way we drove in silence, me planning all I had to do. I came to look back on this day as easy.
***
My spirits picked up when I saw Dessie was waiting for us on the porch outside of Josey’s house. Pulling up to the curb, I hardly recognized the child I had given birth to sixteen years earlier. Dessie was taller than I was, which was saying a lot because I was five foot six. But the big change was her emerging womanly body. She had lost the baby fat around her middle and had found it in all the right places. She was beautiful. And, her lovely rose brown skin simply glowed. It was like her daddy’s, except, by forty-three years old, his had become a little tarnished. Truth be known, over the years, Marvin and I had put on a few pounds we could have afforded to shed. We were not fat, nothing like that. You might say we were of generous proportions.
“Mama, you promised I could stay ‘til supper. We were makin’ ice cream for dessert. They were countin’ on me to help,” Dessie complained as she climbed into the back seat of the van. “This car is ugly,” she grumbled, “It’s embarrassing drivin’ around in somethin’ meant for haulin’ dead bodies.”
Lately, my daughter had been testing my patience. Along with her womanly body, she had gained an attitude.
Already in a mood from having to change my plans, my temper was running thin.
“Don’t start. This isn’t the way I wanted to spend my Mother’s Day either,” I warned, hoping to make her feel a little guilty for forgetting what day it was.
When I was Dessie’s age, I went back to living with my mother after spending my entire childhood growing up with Big Mama and Big Buddy. My mama had me when she was fourteen. No way could she take care of me, so her mama and papa took me in. As far as I was concerned, they were my real parents. I especially loved Big Buddy. I loved his big calloused hands that had known so much misery and so little joy. Sometimes when his strong hands picked me up and set me on his lap, he made me feel like nothing could ever hurt me. Big Buddy was the one who got me interested in being a mortician.
One Memorial Day, when I was six, he took me to the black cemetery in town. He knelt down before a grave, said a prayer of thanks, and then showed me how to plant little flags next to the simple grave markers.
As he picked weeds from around a grave, he said, “Millie, child, always remember the black folks who gave their lives for you. Memorial Day was actually started by former slaves to honor dead Union soldiers who had been buried in a mass grave in a Confederate prison camp way back in 1865. The ex-slaves dug ‘em up and gave ‘em a proper burial in gratitude for fightin’ for their freedom. Same thing happened during the Great War. I lost so many friends. That’s why I come here every year—to remember and to honor.”
I couldn’t get my head around there being dead people under all those crosses until we came upon a hole some critter had dug…went real deep. I peered down into that hole and saw what looked like a hand or something.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Those are bones,” Big Buddy said. “They belong to a person buried down there.”
“There’s a person down there?” I asked, fascinated but confused. “That person don’t have no skin.”
“He used to,” Big Buddy said. “He probably wasn’t embalmed right.”
“Embalmed? What’s that?”
“It’s what special people do to help the dead look good,” Buddy explained.
“That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna make sure you always look good, Big Buddy. Your hands are always gonna have skin on ‘em,” I said with the assurance and innocence only a child could have.
But I meant it. From then on, even though I went back to live with a mama who resented me from the day I was born, especially around her new husband, I knew I was going to be a mortician. And when Big Buddy died, I kept my promise. I took good care of him. He went to heaven looking mighty fine. Everyone said so. I bet his hands will look good as new a hundred years from now.
Thinking about Big Buddy calmed me down. By the time the three of us drove up to the house, I was ready to start cooking.
“You go out and pick two onions and enough collards for five people,” I told Dessie as the van came to a halt in the driveway. She stormed out of the vehicle, slamming the sliding door shut with a bang.
“That’s enough, Dessie,” Marvin called out the window in his sternest fatherly voice.
“She’ll be fine,” I said with a reassuring pat to his knee.
Marvin was absolutely right. Normally, I would not tolerate her storming and slamming, but I had too much to do. I got out of the van and headed up the stairs to the porch. Stepping inside to the coolness of the hall, I took off my hat and hung it on the antique mirrored hat rack that had welcomed family and guests for decades. Something about the tall ceilings and highly polished wood floors of the house calmed my nerves and settled my spirit. I was home.
Walking into the kitchen, I donned my apron and got to work deciding how to make a meal from whatever ingredients I could muster up. Smothered chicken turned out to be my only choice. I made a roux from bacon grease, flour and broth. I kept adding liquid until it was bubbling nice and thick, finally seasoning it with salt and pepper. Once it was the perfect consistency, I tossed in pulled chicken pieces until they were evenly coated with the savory sauce.
I looked through the kitchen window and saw Dessie out in the garden working on the collard greens just as I had taught her. She picked leaves from the bottom of the stalks, leaving smaller ones towards the top of the plant to grow for another day. She laid them on screens perched on cinder blocks. The screens made for easier cleaning. She went through each one picking off bugs and getting rid of as much dirt as she could. Collard greens were a messy business, but done right, mmm-mmm, they were good.
She walked in from the garden loaded with the collards ready for round two of the cleaning process. Young as she was, she knew what to do.
“Ooh wee, it’s hot out there,” she said as she plopped the collards in the sink, half-filled with cold water, and wiped her forehead with the hem of her shirt.
Actually, she was a good cook. And like all good cooks, she quieted down as soon as she started the final wash to get rid of any remaining dirt. Satisfied the greens were clean, she pulled off the stems and tossed the leaves into the simmering cauldron.
“Don’t forget the grease,” I said, nodding my head to the jar filled with bacon drippings perched on the edge of the stove.
“I won’t,” she said, annoyed with my interference. Squinting her eyes at me, she spooned two heaping tablespoons into the already boiling pot with a deliberate splat that sprayed enough water onto the hot stove to hiss and sputter. The smile on her face showed she took pleasure in the sound of her rebellion.
Not wanting to engage in that particular battle, I shifted my focus to my famous gingerbread cake. I knew the recipe so well, I didn’t have to measure. Same with the cornbread. Just came natural over the years. They were mixed and ready for the oven in no time.
I almost upset my calmness when I realized I had forgotten to make the strawberry jello. A proper jello needed time to sit before it bloomed into a colorful, sweet delicacy. Serving a runny dessert was unacceptable, so I quickly chopped the strawberries, added some sugar and put them on the stove to boil over a medium heat. While that cooked, I prepared the gelatin then let it stand to absorb all the water just like Big Mama had taught me to do. Once done, I mixed the gelatin with the puree I made from the strawberries, spooned it into a mold and put it in the fridge to set.
As the food was cooking, we set the table with my best and only linen tablecloth and napkins. We finished right on time. I liked that it looked like we hadn’t been sweating bullets to get everything done. I also knew the house smelled inviting—a combination of spice, onion, and bacon.
In the living room, Marvin had just finished adjusting the rabbit ear antenna on our tabletop Motorola TV, so the game would come in loud and clear. At two o’clock on the dot, when the doorbell rang, we were ready. Pastor Turner and Sister Helen were still in their Sunday clothes, but we insisted they get comfortable. Pastor took off his jacket and loosened his tie. A little overweight, he suffered terribly in the heat. Beads of sweat collected on the trim grey beard framing his umber toned face. After Pastor pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow, he almost had to wring it out.
Helen was the opposite. Café-au-lait skin, chiseled face and beanpole thin, she appeared cool as a cucumber. But I could tell she was relieved to be in an air-conditioned house because once she took off her hat and jacket, she pinched the damp blouse away from her body and proceeded to refresh herself by waving it in a fanning motion.
“It’s so nice to be in your lovely home. We’ve been socializin’ all morning, what with Mother’s Day and all. Takes a lot of energy,” Pastor Turner confessed.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Sister Helen added. “My girls being grown and gone, I was feelin’ a little down today. They did call, but it’s not the same as being around family. And, as you know, we consider you family.”
I glowed at the compliment. Maybe it wasn’t totally true, but I liked hearing it anyway. What she was saying was they were hankering for a few hours of downtime. So that’s what we gave them. The men watched the Pirates beat the Braves five to two. They coached from their comfortable chairs, groaning when players struck out, cheering when they scored. They talked a little about the growing unrest over the escalating war in Vietnam. At the end of the game, they were momentarily disappointed with the loss but reassured each other the Braves would win tomorrow. All the while, Helen and I quietly exchanged tips on cooking, clothes and hats, careful not to disturb the men’s enjoyment of the game and each other.
By four o’clock, it was time to make sure the cornbread was ready to come out of the oven piping hot. Everything else was heated to perfection. We were ready to sit down to eat. For my final touch, I poured iced sweet tea into chilled glasses, adding a sprig of mint and slice of lemon to each. I admit I wanted to impress.
Standing at the table, holding hands as Pastor Turner said a lovely grace, making sure to thank mothers for their daily work to keep families together, all my effort seemed worthwhile. I smiled at Dessie and mouthed, “Thank you.” She tucked her head in silent acknowledgment.
In no time at all, we devoured the chicken, collards, and cornbread. The gingerbread cake and jello disappeared just as fast. With the last bite, Pastor Turner leaned back in his seat, patted his stomach, and thanked me and Dessie for a spectacular supper. Then he started talking in his sermon voice. Something big was on his mind.
***
I nodded to Dessie, indicating she could leave the table, but Pastor Turner leaned back, putting his arm out to block her exit.
“No Dessie,” Pastor said. “You need to hear what I’m going to say. It’s going to affect you as much as anyone else in the family. Please sit back down.”
He gestured to the seat she had just left. She looked over at me questioningly, but I shrugged in confusion. I tilted my head towards her chair letting her know it was okay for her to stay. She slid back down in her spot, keeping her eyes lowered.
“Dessie,” Pastor Turner started, “How much do you know about all the civil rights activities going on over the past five years?” He stopped and looked directly at her.
I knew silence made her uncomfortable, but what she did next took me completely by surprise.
Dessie looked up and suddenly, with total confidence, said, “I know I go to an integrated school because of the Supreme Court case Brown versus the Board of Education. I know Rosa Parks started the civil rights movement by refusing to give up her seat on a bus. I know President Johnson passed a Civil Rights Act making everyone equal, declared a war on poverty to help the poor and signed a Voting Rights Act giving black folks the right to finally have a say. I know three civil rights workers were killed by the Klan just up the road. I know there was a big march in Selma led by Dr. King where people got beaten by state troopers, attacked by dogs and sprayed with fire hoses. I know there’s been trouble with the Ku Klux Klan. And I know Steve Conrad has been eyeing me in a nasty way.”
That last statement was like a punch to my stomach. I shot a look to Marvin who was staring directly at Dessie. The muscles in his jaw were so tight I could see them bulge on the side of his face. Even the Pastor sat up straight as a rod.
“You mean Steve Conrad of the Conrad family who owns the grocery store in town? Steve Conrad where our friend Mayola cooks and takes care of the family? That Steve Conrad?” Marvin asked.
“Yes sir,” Dessie said, her chin set in defiance. “But he doesn’t scare me.”
“Dessie,” Pastor Turner interrupted. “This is exactly why I wanted you to stay…”
I tuned out what Pastor Turner was saying. I was in such shock. I had no idea Dessie might have been a victim to some entitled white boy. Lord, this was not good. I could have spit nails at that family. They thought they were so high and mighty. Suddenly, I was worried about how I was going to protect her. I felt myself start to panic. I took a few deep breaths to calm my heart down. Then I thought of Mayola, and I knew where I would start. I would ask her about what was going on with that boy.
“Right?... Millie?... Millie?” Pastor Turner said, leaning forward to touch my arm and bring me back to the conversation.
“Sorry, Pastor. What’d you say?” I asked, suddenly aware I hadn’t been listening.
“I was saying Dessie is an amazing young lady. I think she’ll be fine with what I want to present to you.” The Pastor sat up straighter in his chair looked at each one of us before he continued. “As part of Johnson’s war on poverty he wants communities like ours to open preschools for disadvantaged children. Some of the poorest children across this country have never seen a crayon, much less words in a book. Johnson knows these children need various forms of enrichment to help them catch up to students who come from more privileged backgrounds. He even wants dental and health care for the children. He’s calling his campaign Operation Head Start. And I can’t think of anyone better than you, Millie, to be the director of our community program.”
Tuning out again, I tried to get my head around what the good Pastor was saying. Did he just offer me a job? I got a job. Why would I want to give up what I loved? What I had been trained to do? For heaven’s sake, I had a family to take care of.
Right when I was thinking I didn’t know anything at all about teaching, I heard Pastor Turner say, “I have several teachers lined up. Millie, what I need you from you are your organizational skills. If it weren’t for you, nobody in this town would have a proper funeral. You take care of everything. And you even have some medical knowledge. At least, I assume you had to take biology and anatomy to learn how to embalm. Am I wrong?”
“No, you aren’t wrong Pastor, but I have a job. And …I can think of a hundred reasons why I am not the right person for your …”
“It’s not for me, Millie. It’s for the children,” Pastor Turner interrupted.
Oh, he was good. Knew how to butter me right up. But me running a school was completely out of the question.
“Sorry, Pastor. Not two minutes ago I heard my daughter say some white boy was acting ugly towards her. And now you’re asking me to head up a program the Klan is sure to hate? Thank you for your faith in me, but you need to find someone else. I do not want my family to be the Klan’s number one target in town.” I looked at Marvin and Dessie to back me up, but they didn’t even glance my way.
“Yes, Millie, unfortunately you are correct. The Klan will not like these schools,” Pastor Turner admitted. “They hate anything that helps black folks. But please think about it. Talk it over with your family. Take some quiet time to pray about it. I don’t need an answer today. We have some time before the doors open.”
“Pastor, I don’t know a thing about running a school.” I felt panic welling in the pit of my stomach. This was all too much for me to handle.
“Millie, don’t you worry about running this on your own. We’ve got a board made up of myself, Father Bob from St. Michael’s Catholic parish, Reverend Larson from St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church and Rabbi Harvey Silberman from Beth Immanuel. We’ll help you every step of the way.”
Pastor Turner sure did his best to calm my nerves and persuade me to join him. But if that weren’t bad enough, Sister Helen piped up, putting her two cents into the pile of confusion building inside my head.
“Now Millie, before you make up your mind, I’d like you to come to one of our voter registration meetings at the parish hall. We meet every Tuesday and Thursday night. This Tuesday, Buddy Murray is comin’ to talk to us. He’s friends with James Meredith. They were together at the Ole Miss riots. His stories will make the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up. If his words don’t inspire you to accept this callin’, nothin’ will,” Sister said.
Looking at me, then looking at her husband, she added, “I think it’s time we were on our way. The Howards have been more than generous with their Sunday afternoon, and Millie’s got a lot to think about.” She knew I was agitated.
She was right. I was reeling. First, Pastor Turner talked about the Head Start program then Sister Helen talked about voter registration. Did they expect me to do both? I didn’t want to do either. I enjoyed working full-time at the mortuary with Marvin. And what about my sixteen-year-old daughter? Lord help me, I needed time to process. More than anything, I wanted them to leave before they came up with more jobs for me to do.
The Turners finally said their good-byes, leaving the three of us standing on the inside of our closed front door looking at each other, not saying a word. I wasn’t ready to talk. I needed to ponder some, so I started cleaning up. Something about cleaning helped clear my brain. I gathered the plates left on the dining room table and headed into the kitchen. A little slice of cake, the only food left from our supper, was perched atop the stack of plates in my hands. Martin snatched that cake right off the plate as he headed into the living room to turn on the TV. He nearly toppled the entire stack by removing that one tiny piece. Same as life. Change one tiny piece and the whole thing could come toppling down.
The familiar sound of, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Live from New York City. The Ed Sullivan Show,” stirred me from my thoughts. The sound traveled through the hallways of our peaceful home and for an instant, I felt normal. Then, Dessie said, “I wanna go to that meeting on Tuesday night.”
***
“Marvin. Turn off that TV and come in here,” I called out.
Dessie saw she had fired me up. Avoiding eye contact, she put her head down and busied herself by washing the dishes in the sink… without being asked. Very unlike her.
“Can’t it wait?” Marvin called back, knowing from my tone I was riled. When I didn’t respond, he tried to guilt me. “The Turtles are going to be on the TV singing ‘Happy Together.’”
“Turtles? Who are the Turtles?” I wasn’t having any of his excuses. “I don’t care if Aretha Franklin herself is singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T right here in our living room. We need a family meeting,” I insisted. “Dessie, put those dishes down and come on over here and sit at the table.”
Marvin huffed, pushing himself out of his chair. I noticed he didn’t turn off the TV. Not only that, he took a position at the table where he could look past me to see it. I shot a warning look at him, but he ignored me. Dessie dried her hands on a dish towel as a slight smile crossed her lips with her father’s resistance to my summons. For the first time in years, I felt alone.
“What is going on here?” I asked. “Marvin, your daughter wants to go to that meeting on Tuesday. Tell her that’s no place for a sixteen-year-old girl who has some white boy acting ugly towards her. He finds out she’s going to that meeting, he’ll really get horrible. Are you willing to let your daughter walk into a dangerous situation?” I was satisfied I managed to squeeze in every bit of ammunition to make my point.
“Sorry Millie, I think she should go,” Marvin said, taking my hands in his and holding me with a direct stare. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dessie sit back, crossing her arms over her middle. A self-satisfied smile lit up her face as she delighted in her father’s unexpected support.
“But Marvin,” I sputtered, close to tears.
“No, Millie, this time you’re wrong,” Marvin interrupted. “Did you listen to your daughter tonight? Did you hear how much she knows about this world? She’s the future. She needs to be at that meeting. I think we should go together. You. Me. And her.”
I couldn’t help myself. Tears welled up in my eyes and overflowed down my face. I was ready to explode with all sorts of reasons why we shouldn’t go when the phone rang. I flinched. A phone call at eight o’clock on a Sunday night was never good news.