College
1968
RODNEY SAID THAT SOUTHERN University in Baton Rouge seemed even larger than when he had visited with his parents the previous February. Nestled on Scott’s Bluff overlooking the banks of the Mississippi River on the North side of Baton Rouge it’s buildings and fields are situated on 500 acres with pecan groves and oak-draped walking paths that ended at a wooden pier jettisoned out into the massive river, and areas of forested land a person could get lost in. The most beautiful part of the campus, to Rodney, was The John B Cade Library—154,000 square feet holding over a million volumes, nearly 2,000 journal subscriptions, 600,000 microfish films and 1,800 recordings. On the third floor was the Camille Shade African American Heritage Collection where students could learn about their heritage and trace their ancestry back generations before slavery.
Rodney was in awe.
He said his dorm was hot, with a single fan in the window and four bunk beds, two on each wall plus one desk, one chest with four drawers and one small closet. Rodney edited the clothes and other items he’d brought and sent most of them home with his Mom and Dad. He said he and his three roommates worked out the logistics and he survived with three dress shirts, three pair of slacks, one navy T-shirt, one pair of jeans and a sports coat. He kept sneakers and dress shoes, socks, white T-shirts and a few ties in his one drawer. There were washers and dryers in the basement. He said he’d make do.
The first evening at dorm orientation, the rector handed out mail. Rodney said he was one of the few called. I hadn’t put my name on top in the return-address area, but he knew. He told me later that he fingered it as if the finest calligraphy rested in his hand. He confessed that he didn’t hear much of what the rector said during the rest of the meeting. When the meeting adjourned he headed out the front door towards the library that was lit up across from the student union, looking for a place to be alone. He said he sat on a bench under a big live oak and opened the letter.
August 31, 1968
Dear Rod,
Thanks for writing. It was really great to have a letter waiting for me when I got here. As much as I needed and wanted to get away from my family I wasn’t prepared for the loneliness. This summer there were fewer students and it was more of a family atmosphere. Now, not so much.
You won’t believe this—I’ve met several girls in my dorm and they seem to like me. They actually want to be my friend. Amazing. I hope the same thing happens for Marianne if she gets to leave Jean Ville after she graduates next year. Some of us compared schedules and this girl, Becky, seemed elated to know we have the same English class. She said we can walk together. Other than Marianne, I’ve never had a girlfriend. This may take some getting used to.
So far I haven’t noticed anyone with plantation servants, yardmen, illiterate students or pet-sitters. I’m not sure about having coffee with someone of another race, but I’m checking that out. What about on your campus? Have you seen any red-haired, blue-eyed white girls walking around?
I hope you have time to write to me.
Yours Truly,
Susie
Rodney told me that he read it again, folded it and put it in his pocket and that before morning, it was dog-eared, raveled on the edges and memorized. His reply was in the mail when the post office opened at 8:00 AM.
September 3, 1968
Dear Susie,
Your letter! Yes, I got it. Thank you. You made my day, my week, my month, my year. I love you. More than ever. I will find a way to see you. I have to see you. We don’t have to touch. Just talk to me. Tell me about your life. Help me to catch up on who you are, what you’ve done, where you’ve been.
I know. I’m not making sense. I’ll figure something out and let you know where to meet me. Give me a few days to get my bearings and talk to people.
You know, they are attempting to integrate Jean Ville High School this year. Someone from the NAACP convinced my dad to send Jerry and my sisters to the white school. At the last minute Marianne decided to go, too. She and Jerry are both seniors and my sisters are in the seventh, ninth and tenth grades. Things are changing. I read where the US Supreme Court just passed a law that says anti-miscegenation laws are unconstitutional. Virginia cannot put the white man and Negro woman in jail or break them up. It’s probably not easy for them, but they are together, legally!
Please don’t freak out. I’m not suggesting marriage, but the law says I can’t go to jail for talking to you. I know what you’ll say, “But this is Louisiana. We still have the Klan.” Yes it’s risky, but I can take care of myself, and you, too, by the way. I’ll figure it out. Trust me.
I love you.
Forever, Yours,
Rod
September 4, 1968
Dear Marianne,
This campus is so big I haven’t seen half of it, yet. My classes are all over the place and it takes at least thirty-minutes to walk from my dorm to the nearest classroom building. This past summer all my classes were in one building across from my dorm, so I didn’t have to go far. Other than the student union and library, which were also close by, and church, I didn’t see three-fourths of the Campus during the summer, so I’m trying to learn my way around now.
Tootsie said that you are at Jean Ville High School for your senior year. I hope you like it. Be aware that the white kids will be cruel and try to make you so miserable that you’ll want to go back to Adams. I know you didn’t have to leave friends at your old school, but it will still be lonely for you. I wish I was there to help. Only one year and you’ll be in Baton Rouge, too, I hope.
You won’t believe college—girls here actually like me and want to be my friend. And I don’t have to pretend, or try to act like I think they want me to act. Some of them seem to fight for my attention. The same thing will happen to you when you get out of Jean Ville.
I heard from Rodney. I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to see him, but at least we can write.
Please give my love to Catfish and your mom. I miss all three of you so much.
Write me.
Your best friend,
Susie
*
My first month at LSU flew by. I was overwhelmed by the size of the campus, almost ten times larger than the town of Jean Ville, in size and population. There was a lake on campus, with ducks and swans and blooming flowers that gave off a sweet fragrance, enticing students to spread quilts and blankets on the banks to picnic, study or nap under the canopy of pear, oak and pecan trees grouped in clusters around the water. Lily pads hinted of frogs and tadpoles that croaked at night and participated in a symphony with crickets and hoot owls and raccoons and foxes and other animals that guarded the entire campus. They made me think of Catfish and how much he’d love the sounds and smells.
I loved the hundreds of moss-draped live oaks that lined every sidewalk, pathway and street on the campus. In the center of all that beauty stood the Bell Tower, in a huge grassy expanse of several acres where kids threw Frisbees, played intra-mural sports and sat on benches and in the thick St. Augustine grass to breathe in the filtered heat and warm breezes, welcomed relief from the oppressive heat.
I wished I’d had a bicycle to get around, or a good pair of sneakers. I was ill prepared for walking the 2000-acre campus with a pair of loafers, one of Keds, knee-high white boots, and my coveted three inch black patten leather heels that I persuaded Mama to buy me for the prom I never attended—no date. Anyway, she said I was too young and that Daddy would have to chaperone which took the glamour out of the whole concept, and I was stuck with high-heels instead of sneakers and no money. My weekly allowance barely covered vending machine meals I grabbed on the run between classes when I couldn’t get to the cafeteria, and on weekends when I had no meal plan. This was the first time I experienced what it was like to choose between a meal and a pen when my Bic ran out of juice.
I tried to get a job on-campus, but my dad’s income was too high. An older boy in my history class asked me if I’d like to be a model for a local department store where he worked. I was afraid it was a come-on, surely I wasn’t model material, and, anyway my dad would kill me. He wanted me to concentrate on my studies, but I needed the money, so I said I’d try.
I walked the three miles to downtown Baton Rouge after my one o’clock class on Friday and found the department store called Gouchaux, named for the owners, an old Louisiana family. I took the elevator to the mezzanine and asked for Mr. Breaux, then sat and waited in one of the two chairs near the reception desk. A handsome man with a touch of grey at the temples came into the lobby and stood in front of me.
“They didn’t tell me you had red hair,” he said. I just looked at him, puzzled, unsure how to respond. “The blue eyes are a nice touch, but these are black and white pictures. Come to think, your hair won’t show red. Come with me.” I followed the unidentified man to an office. He walked around to the back of his desk, picked up a phone and punched one number.
“Margaret. Come in here.” I was standing just inside the office door. “Sit down Miss .... Uh ...?”
“Burton,” I said. “Susanna Burton.” I took a few steps further into the office, but didn’t sit.
“We’ll have to take some preliminary photos to see how the camera likes you,” he said. He shuffled papers and didn’t look at me. I was standing behind a chair, afraid to sit and have my skirt ride up too far. It was short and I wore my white boots and a jacket that matched my plaid skirt with a green knit shirt underneath. I felt conspicuous, even though the man didn’t look at me. There was a knock on the door and a lady with mousey brown hair and cat-eye glasses entered.
“Yes, Mr. Breaux.” He looked up and seemed to stare right through the lady.
“Margaret, this is Miss ... Uh ... What did you say your name was?
“Susie. Susanna Burton.”
“Right. Take Miss Burton to the media room and call Doug to come take some prototypes.” He looked at me and did a double take, as if it was the first time he’d seen me.
“We’ll, uh, uhm, I’ll call you after we develop the film and take a look, Okay?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. I turned towards Margaret who held the door open. Mr. Breaux was still staring at me.
“Miss Burton?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Why don’t you come back in here after Doug takes the pictures?” I smiled but didn’t answer. I’d read Seventeen Magazine. I knew what he meant and I wasn’t falling for it. I followed his secretary to a dark room with lots of silver umbrellas clamped to tripods in various angles. She told me to stand on an X made with orange plastic tape on the concrete floor. She started to turn lights on behind the umbrellas. The room brightened and I stood on the X, clutching my book bag to my chest. Without saying a word, Margaret reached over and took my bag and placed it on a chair near the wall. A young guy entered, Margaret gave him curt instructions and left. He introduced himself as Doug, the photographer.
Doug had a kind face and was about twenty years old, give or take. He had sandy brown hair, green eyes and a quick smile. He was only a few inches taller than me but had wide shoulders and a small waist. He wore Levis, black and white converse tennis shoes and a brown, short sleeve collarless shirt. He asked my name.
“Susanna Burton. But everyone calls me Susie.”
“Nice to know you, Susie,” he said. His warm smile helped me relax and soon we were chatting like old friends. He asked about LSU and my classes. He wanted me to tell him about my interests, whether I had a boyfriend, what about a sorority. I was so involved in our conversation I was surprised when he said, “All done.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
“I took a whole roll,” he said.
“I didn’t know you were shooting.”
“That’s the trick,” he said and smiled. “How bout having a beer with me. I get off at five.”
“Sorry, I have homework and, really, I don’t drink.”
“You’ll never make it at LSU,” he said and laughed. “Can I have you phone number?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe after I know you better.” He tried to make a case for how I couldn’t get to know him if I wouldn’t go out with him, but I wiggled out of that conversation as we walked toward the elevators. He stood in front of the doors and stared at me when they closed. I let out a sigh of relief. When Mr. Breaux called to tell me my pictures were wonderful and they wanted to hire me, I told him I’d have to call him back. Chalk it up to immaturity, but I was too afraid to deal with the likes of him or Doug. I never returned his call, never modeled for Gouchaux’s. It was a learning experience, but it didn’t solve my money problems.
I had a few dates, but when they discovered I was only sixteen and couldn’t go to bars, they quit calling. The older boys were crude and forward, their fraternities turned into orgies with vulgar, demeaning language. It was difficult to fight them off, especially when they drank too much, which was always. Disgusting.
It should have been easy to forget about Rodney when there was so much to do, but I couldn’t. I knew there was no hope, no future, only sorrow and pain if I saw him and that the Klan was still alive and vibrant in Jean Ville and, I heard they were in Baton Rouge, too. But I was lonely and vulnerable.
October 15, 1968
Dear Beautiful,
Here’s the deal. There are several girls on campus who see white guys. I haven’t met a guy here who is seeing a white girl, but, that’s beside the point. One of the girls with a white boyfriend is named Lucy. She’s a junior and has been dating a senior at LSU for almost two years. They meet at this place off Plank Road called, Sammy’s. They say the owner is a Negro who is sympathetic to this kind of thing.
Here’s the address. I know it’s kind of far, so I’m enclosing cab fare. Just get there and I’ll get you back to the dorm. See you Friday night, after dark, about eight.
I love you,
Yours forever,
Rod
Oh God! Help me. I can’t do this. They’ll kill him.
Two dollar bills fell out of the folded white paper onto the floor. It was Tuesday when I received his letter. I looked up Sammy’s in the phone book and calculated it was about twenty-minutes away, near Southern University on the north side of town. I tried to figure out how to do it, how to pull it off. I’d never hailed a cab. The only times I’d ever been in one was with Daddy when he took me on business trips to Chicago, Dallas, Houston, and my favorite, New York City. How do you get a cab? How do you tell the driver where to go? What would I do when I get to some strange bar in a colored neighborhood? Did Rodney really expect me to walk into a Negro bar alone? The weight of the whole situation seemed too heavy. I couldn’t do it.
I sat down to write to Rodney, not sure whether he would receive it before Friday night. I didn’t want him to wait for me and feel rejected when I didn’t show up.
October 17, 1968
Dear Rod,
I can’t meet you. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to get a cab, how to tell the driver where Sammy’s is located, what to pay him or how to walk into a colored bar alone. You probably think I’m a big baby. Maybe you’re right. I’m only 16.
By the way, I’m sure they’ll notice I’m white! Maybe some other time, some other way.
Sorry,
Susie
*
Saturday morning the dorm rector, Renée, came to my dorm room to tell me I had a phone call. The pay phone in the lobby was the only place where we could make or receive calls, and it was usually occupied. I hadn’t used the phone in the two months I’d been in Connor Dorm. I almost ran to the lobby. So many thoughts went through my head—one of my brothers or sister was sick, Daddy had an accident or a heart attack, my grandmother fell. Oh, God! Please don’t make me go home.
The receiver was dangling from the coiled silver wire. I picked it up and answered before I plopped onto the shallow bench and pulled the door shut. It was stuffy and hot inside the phone booth and smelled like sweat and ink, but it was private.
“Go to the library tonight,” Rodney said. I tried to listen but I was frightened. “Just stand outside the Highland entrance at the bottom of the steps. Be there about eight, okay?” I didn’t answer him. I didn’t know what to say. I felt perspiration drip down my back to the top of my panties.
“Are you there?” he asked. “Susie, did you hear me?” I hadn’t heard his voice since August. I’d forgotten how it felt in my ear and how it gave me goose bumps all the way down my body into my crouch. I shuttered.
“Uh... I’m here. I need a second.”
“Okay, beautiful. I’ll give you all the time you need, but tell me you’ll be there tonight.”
“I don’t know. What do you want me to do outside the library?”
“Wait for me. I’ll be in a yellow cab. We’ll pull up right in front of you. All you have to do is open the back door and slide in. Can you do that?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at eight, only ten hours.”
“Rod?”
“What, Baby?” He’d never called me, Baby, before. I loved the sound of it, the way those two syllables popped softly through the telephone and made me feel like Rodney was in the booth with me. He sounded excited, but gentle and kind.
“Rod.” I didn’t know how to say it. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, Sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. You’re safe with me. I have everything worked out.” Sweetheart?
“I’m not afraid for me, Rod.” I let the words turn in my brain before I said them. “I’m afraid for you.”
“I’ll be fine, so will you. I love you. See you tonight.”
I heard the click before I could protest again. Then a dial tone. Maybe I was so accustomed to being afraid that I carried fear inside. I stepped out of the phone booth and walked to one of the overstuffed sofas against the wall, plopped down hard and put my head in my hands. I had to think.
We weren’t in Jean Ville anymore. Did I need to worry about the Klan, that they would lynch Rodney or his dad, burn their house, hurt one of the other kids in the family? Did I need to worry my dad would find out and kill me, or Rodney? Was I so accustomed to worry, that I didn’t know how not to worry any more.
I had to face it. I knew why I was afraid, terrified, in fact, and it was not about the Klan or my dad. I was afraid to be alone with him. I had learned to live without him, to move on with my life. I didn’t want to find out that I still loved him. If I did, I wasn’t sure I could pretend I didn’t. Not anymore.
*
Rodney told me later that he was afraid I wouldn’t show up, that his cab would pull up to the LSU library and I wouldn’t be there. But just as he began to consider what he would do if that happened, he saw me standing there, “Your light blue dress flapping softly in the breeze.” He said he noticed everything—white socks and white Keds, the dusty blue sweater draped over my shoulders.
I stood there nervously fingering a small clutch purse in one hand while I adjusted my sunglasses with the other. The sun was sinking behind the classroom buildings in the distance so that light filtered through the trees in fingers of gold and yellow. I tapped my foot on the concrete and hugged myself.
The cab pulled up to the curb. It took a moment for me to realize he was there. Then I snapped out of the trance I’d been in and grabbed the door handle, pulled it open only a foot or so and slid onto the back seat. As soon as I slammed the door, the cab took off down Highland Road.
Rodney sat on the other side, near the window with his body turned fully towards me, his left leg bent across the middle of the seat and his arm across the back. His long arm almost reached me and I waited for his outstretched his fingers to touch my shoulder, but they didn’t
I sat on the edge of the seat behind the cab driver, my knees almost touching the back. I turned my head to look at Rodney. He didn’t speak. He just stared at me. I was aware of every fiber of him, his amber-green eyes, the smell of Irish Spring and English Leather, his knee so close to my thigh it emitted energy that felt like a magnetic pull, his breathing, soft and rapid. It had been three years since we’d talked in the Quarters, a year since we’d kissed in the hospital—but it was as if time erased itself and we’d never been apart.
There was no barrier between us, no car door, no Daddy, no KKK—nothing but air, and he filled it so that the space was not space but a capsule with only the two of us in it. I didn’t notice the cab move or see the traffic or watch the cityscape and I don’t think he did, either. He just looked at me and I felt as if something magical had happened to put Rodney and me in the back seat of that cab, away from everyone and everything that had stood between us for three years.
We were miserable at that game of playing it cool, so we just sat and stared. I knew he wanted to pull me to him and I wanted that, too, to feel his body press against me. I remembered everything about being in his arms in the hospital—his touch, his scent, the feel of his breath on my face, his voice in my ear—safety and peace.
I wondered whether he noticed that I was older, taller, had more curves. When I thought those thoughts, I blushed.
He told me later that he was afraid to say anything or to touch me and scare me away. He said he’d waited and planned for that moment, but when it happened, he froze.
“Hi, ”I said, finally. It was a whisper and I wasn’t sure he heard me.
“Hi, yourself.”
“You look good, Rod.” I wasn’t sure why we were both whispering, but it seemed right.
“You are beautiful, stunning, gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” I was embarrassed.
“Are you okay?” he asked. A slight grin spread across his face and the corners of his eyes lifted, just a tad.
“I’m fine. How about you?” I wanted to grab him, to hug him.
“I’m great. How’s school?”
“It’s hard and LSU is so big, but I’m figuring it out.”
“I’m not worried about you figuring things out.” Rodney always thought more of me than I thought of myself—that I was smart, competent and strong. But he didn’t say any of those things, he just stared at me with a satisfied grin that drew me into him.
“You are too kind.”
“Never. No one could ever be too kind to you. Not ever.” I looked at him and felt wonder and hope.
Without thinking my hand touched his knee, which was inches away, and I patted it, as if to acknowledge I heard him but didn’t have words to respond. Before I could pull it away, he covered my hand with his. Electricity shot through me. I turned my body towards him, slightly, but enough that I could see this face fully. I squeezed his knee and he, in turn, squeezed the top of my hand. I felt senseless.
That familiar feeling of pins and needles from my neck down my spine through my stomach and into my panties took me by surprise and I felt moisture gather between my legs. It embarrassed me that I could have such visceral reaction to his hand on mine. It was as if I’d lost control of my own reflexes and my body leaned towards him without my permission. He picked up my hand and placed it on his lips where he kissed each fingertip. Then he wrapped it around the back of his neck, his hand still covering mine for a second, as if to guide it and make sure it stayed where he put it. Then his other arm fell softly from the seat back to my shoulders and gently folded around me. The feel of the back of his neck had me reeling. My sweater fell off my shoulders and his hand gripped the top of my left arm, skin to skin. His palm burned my shoulder, in a good way.
Suddenly we both realized we weren’t alone and we pulled our hands away from each other as if they were on fire. But our eyes continued the embrace. There was no hunger or fierceness in his stare, although I felt like he wanted me and I could see in his eyes that he still loved me. I wondered whether I was able to hide how I felt.
“It feels better than I remembered,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Just being with you.” He whispered and I felt his breath touch my cheek.
“Rod?”
“Yes, Baby.”
“Is there some place we can go to be alone to talk? I don’t want to go to a smoke filled bar and socialize with people I don’t know. I’ve waited a long time.” The words just spilled out on their own, as if someone inside of me had taken control of my voice.
“You’ve waited? You’ve waited?” Rodney started to laugh. His joy was contagious and I giggled. “Yeah, Baby. We can go somewhere to be alone. Make sure that’s what you want because, if I get you alone, I can’t promise I’ll let you go.”
“Oh, held captive, huh?” I laughed softly.
“Wait right here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered. He sat up and leaned over the front seat to talk to the Cabbie.
“Would you drop us at 116 State Street, please?”
“Sure. Let me turn around.” Rodney sat back and put his left arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer to him. I felt him gasp, softly, then he chuckled. It was endearing, everything he did was endearing and wonderful and sexy and ... I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn’t help myself.
I leaned into him, lay my ear on his shoulder and sighed. I could feel his heart beating hard and fast and I giggled. I put my hand on his chest and pressed it flat against the place where his heart tried to jump out of his body, as if I could hold it in. He wrapped his arm around me like he couldn’t get me close enough. I snuggled into him.
We got out of the cab and walked up a sidewalk into the courtyard of a square apartment complex. It was two story with iron stairs on the outside and doors that faced the large grassy opening like motel rooms at the Howard Johnson where my parents would take us for long weekends in the summer—our family vacation. We didn’t climb the stairs. Instead we walked under the second story walkway to the far right corner of the complex. Rodney pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked a brown door, number 21 on the center. He pushed the door open and guided me into the apartment with his hand in the small of my back. I heard the door shut and the light switch flip. It was a small but clean space with a sofa and matching chair, a small round table with four wooded chairs in front of a counter with cabinets hanging from the ceiling, an opening between the bottom of the cabinets and the counter about two feet high that gave a glimpse into a kitchen.
Rodney turned on a lamp near the sofa and flipped off the overhead switch. He told me it was his friend’s place. I didn’t ask whether he had brought other girls here, I didn’t care. I just followed him inside. We stood a few feet apart, looking at each other.
He later told me that he was petrified, afraid to touch me, afraid, well, he said he was ... afraid of me. Me? Sixteen-year-old Susie Burton. When he told me that, I almost laughed. He said he was afraid that if his hand touched my skin, he wouldn’t be able to stop there, that he’d want more. More? More what, I wondered. He said he’d thought about this moment so often, the moment when we’d finally be alone that now that that moment had arrived, he didn’t know what to do.
I looked at his hands, big, brown, strong. He rubbed his thumb along the tips of his fingers, back and forth, as if counting them, from the pinky to the index. All the time I watched him and breathed that musky scent I’d never forgotten. His thick eyelashes were at half-mast, his hands folded in front of him as he was waiting; waiting for what? I wondered. When I looked up from his hands he shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly as if to say, “What now?”
What now, indeed, I thought as he reached up and scratched his forehead near his hairline. It was a gesture I’d noticed him make often when he stood next to my car window at the Esso station, a thinking gesture.
He reached out with both hands, across the gulf of air that separated us. I unfolded my hands in a way that told him it was okay to take them, but I was afraid. Afraid I’d want him to hold me forever.
Somehow our hands met in that abyss that seemed to separate us by a mile; but when they touched, the space between us disappeared and we were one.
All of our fears were realized. Touching was so powerful that we both knew we wouldn’t be able to stop with our hands, we had to touch each other elsewhere. As innocent as I was, I knew he felt it too, because, without thinking, when my thumb began to rub the side of his hand and I lifted my eyelashes to finally let him see the tears gathering, he pulled me to him, put his hand on the back of my head and let me wipe my eyes on his chest.
*
Daddy’s trips to Baton Rouge became less regular after Governor Earl Long was out of office but he’d recently been hired to lobby for the insurance industry—and he had a number of clients whose corporate offices were in and around the state capitol. He came to Baton Rouge several times a month.
He called James and me to see if we could meet him for lunch one Thursday about mid-way through the fall semester. James was a junior in pre-law and I never saw him since the campus was massive and we had no classes that were even in the same buildings.
I had a class at noon that Thursday so I had to bow out of the lunch date. Daddy and James went alone. After lunch Daddy came to my dorm to wait for me to get back from class. I was unaware of this, but one of my friends told me later what happened.
The telephone in the booth in the lobby of Connor Hall rang and one of the girls ran to answer it. Daddy was on the sofa in the lobby and listened to the conversation as the girls called out.
“It’s for Susie,” she screamed. “Go get Susie Burton.”
“Susie’s still in class,” someone called. “She should be back in a few.”
Daddy told me I couldn’t date, that I was still too young. He grabbed the phone and stepped into the booth.
“Hello. Who’s this?” He yelled into the mouthpiece.
“Uh, uh. I’m calling for Susie Burton,” a male voice said.
“This is her father. What do you want with her?” Click. “You chicken-shit coward,” he yelled into the phone. Just then I walked through the front door and turned right towards the hallway to my room. He called out.
“Susie! Susanna!”
I turned and saw Daddy standing in the lobby one foot in the phone booth, the receiver in his hand. I was surprised, then afraid, but I tried to act if I was happy to see him.
“Daddy,” I said and walked quickly towards him. “What a great surprise.” I held my books against my chest, as if for protection, stood on tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek.
“I’m the one who’s surprised,” he said.
“Why are you surprised?”
“I just hung up the phone with your boyfriend.” He still held the receiver and pointed it at me.
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Daddy.” He hit me across the face with the phone receiver. Blood spurt from my cheekbone and my books flew in the air and scattered throughout the room. I grabbed my face as a shriek shot out my mouth. Before I understood what happened, he backhanded my other cheek and I stumbled against a sofa and slid down to the floor, my back against the base of the couch. He kicked me and screamed.
“Get up! Get off that floor.” I sat there and stared at him in disbelief and horror, clutching my bleeding cheek and folding into a ball to protect myself from his pointed boots that stabbed the side of my chest. There was blood everywhere. “I said, ‘GET UP!” He grabbed me under my arm and lifted me to me feet. But I was still bent forward, my face in my hands. He slapped me across my head and I lifted it in reaction, which exposed my face. He backhanded me across my other cheek and, this time blood spurted from my lip. I cupped my mouth with my hand and fought to get away from him, but his grip on my arm was strong and tight. I could hear screams and someone yelled, “Get Miss Druid. Get help.”
He reared back and punched me in the face with his fist. I turned my head just in time and he connected with my already bleeding cheekbone rather than my nose. I went limp and he let me fall to the floor in a ball. Blood shot out onto the tile floor from places I didn’t know existed.
He yelled. “Get up you impudent slut. I told you, ‘No boys.’”
Mrs. Druid, our house mother, came running into the lobby dressed in a navy suit and black heels. She walked right up to Daddy from the side and caught him unaware. Mrs. Druid was about forty-years-old, plain-looking, with kind, intelligent eyes. We all loved her. She positioned herself between me and Daddy as his leg was in motion,. Before he realized she was there, his foot connected with her ankle. She stumbled and yelled.
“Get out of here. Now.”
“Butt out, bitch.” he said. “This is my daughter and we are having a father-daughter conversation. This is not about you.” She didn’t move.
“I don’t care what you say your relationship is with this young lady. You need to leave.”
“You can’t kick me out. I pay her tuition. She’s my daughter.” He was screaming. A crowd of girls began to gather in the vestibule, between the lobby and the hall to the bedrooms. They were quiet now, wide-eyed.
“While she’s on this campus, she’s under the direction of the Dean, and while she’s in this building, she’s under my direction. I’m in charge of her and in charge of this dormitory. We do not allow violence on this campus and, certainly not in this building. Get out now.” Mrs. Druid, the was yelling and stood straight, unwavering inches from Daddy, daring him to hit her.
“Get out of my way!” he said. He tried to move around her and reached to pull me to my feet. Two security guards entered the front door and moved towards Daddy.
“Sir,” one of them said. “You need to leave. Now.”
“I’ll leave, but not without my daughter. She’s coming with me.”
“No, Sir. She stays here. You leave.” Daddy took a swing at one of the guards who caught Daddy’s wrist and twisted it around his back. The other guy pulled on Daddy’s other arm and, before he knew it, he was handcuffed, his wrists behind his back. I sat on the floor watching the ordeal as if it was a movie.
“You can’t do this,” he yelled. “I know the governor. I’ll have your badges before I’m done with you.” Mrs. Druid got on her knees on the floor next to me, removed her jacket and used it to apply pressure to my bleeding face. I was dizzy and confused. She put her arm around me and before I knew it several of the girls were there with towels and someone appeared with a bag of ice.
“Miss Druid,” one of the guards said. “Take pictures. Call the City Police and get this girl an ambulance.”
Mrs. Druid got up, left me in the care of the rector, Amelia Thibodeaux, and moved quickly towards a door on the side of the sofa. She came back with a camera and her assistant, Angela Alford, who carried a notepad and a pencil.
“Name’s Susie Burton, Angela. This is her dad,” Miss Druid said as she clicked pictures of Daddy in handcuffs, held on either side by uniformed men. He was screaming obscenities and the guards struggled to hold on to him. Mrs. Druid snapped pictures of everything—me, the books strewn across the room, Daddy yelling.
A few days later I stood in front of her desk, the pictures spread out like a display, and I saw things I hadn’t seen that day. Daddy’s face, a look of hatred and anger, me balled up like a coward, blood all over my clothes, the sofa, the floor; books spread out, some of them bloody, torn, stomped on, a gang of girls standing in the foyer, looks of surprise and amazement plastered across their faces, Lauren and Amelia coddling me and a couple of girls I didn’t know with towels and an ice bag.
I stood there and cried like a baby, stitches across one cheekbone and my lower lip, two black eyes, a wide ace bandage around my ribs. Mrs. Druid came from the back of her desk and put her arms around me, pulled me close to her and let me cry in her arms. The last time I’d felt this kind of love was when Tootsie held me. I missed Toot. I missed Catfish and Marianne. I missed Rodney. No, I needed Rodney.
Mrs. Druid told me she had filed charges against Daddy. I didn’t know what to make of that. She asked me to file charges, too, which, of course I would never consider. He’d kill me. She said that Daddy told the judge he was sending me to school in New York in January and that if I wanted to stay at LSU, she could get legal custody and keep him away from me. I told her I’d go to New York, that I’d probably be safer there. She tried to talk me into staying, but she just didn’t understand and I didn’t try to explain.