Chapter Twelve

Trudy

 

When I come downstairs the next morning, my parents and Nana Trueluck are huddled in the kitchen. I hear Teddy playing in the backyard and wonder if I will be banished, too. They stop talking when I come in.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I say, grabbing a cereal bowl from the cabinet.

“Do what?” Mama asks.

“Stop talking when I come into a room,” I say. “I was here last night, too, you know. It’s not like you can hide what happened from me.”

A long silence follows.

“Last night frightened us,” Mama says.

Should I admit it scared me, too?

“When you came in, we were trying to decide what to do,” Daddy says.

“It’s not our battle,” Mama says. “We need to stay out of it.”

Daddy looks over at her, a hint of disappointment in his face. “Things are riled up all over the South,” he says. “Innocent people are getting hurt in Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee. All over.”

Nana Trueluck is quiet. Yet the determination in her blue eyes has not wavered since last night. Our secret sits between us, as tangible as the sugar bowl and creamer on the kitchen table.

“Why do you think it happened?” I ask.

“We’re guessing it was the article in the newspaper,” Daddy says.

Mama gets up and pours me a glass of orange juice. Nana Trueluck and I exchange a look that confirms the need to move forward with our plan.

After breakfast, I get dressed and go outside. The cross is down. The wood is out by the street for the trash men to pick up. A black outline is seared into our front lawn, a not-so subtle reminder of the warning we received. If the people who burned it were wanting to make me stop being friends with Paris, they have failed.

In the light of morning, the night before feels like a dream. I walk to Vel’s house. It is Saturday morning, and her parents sit at a white wicker table on the porch to have their coffee.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Vel’s mother says. She looks like an older version of Vel but with makeup and minus the book.

Nobody talks about the cross burning we witnessed last night. Unpleasant things are never talked about in the South, at least not openly. It is one of those unspoken rules Nana Trueluck always talks about. Rules we need to start breaking, although I am not about to start with Vel’s mother.

When I go inside I find Rosemary, the Ogilvies’ maid, polishing the coffee table in the living room. Vel sits nearby on the light green sofa painting her toenails.

“Hi, Rosemary,” I say, realizing how many times I have come in this house and not even noticed her.

“Hello, Miss Trudy,” she says, kind of surprised.

I wonder if she has heard about the cross burning. How could she not?

When I get close, Vel’s hair startles me again. Luckily she doesn’t notice me take a step back. Leaning over, she puts a streak of hot pink nail polish on her big toenail. To Vel, painting toenails requires the same precision as brain surgery.

Rosemary lifts Vel’s foot off the coffee table to clean underneath. Vel acts like Rosemary is totally invisible. When the kitchen timer goes off, Rosemary leaves to pull something out of the oven.

“Let’s go visit Paris today,” I say, wanting to send the cross-burning folks a message.

“In the colored section? Are you crazy?” Vel paints another toenail and then another, pursing her lips as though this somehow helps her be precise.

“What’s the big deal?” I ask. But we both know what the big deal is.

Vel frowns for several seconds, giving my request serious thought. I drop to my knees and resort to dramatic begging, which always makes Vel laugh. Then I tell her that Paris will probably love her hair and that she could show it off on the way over.

“We can go as soon as they dry,” she says, wiggling her toes at me.

She finishes one foot and starts on the other. With a huff, I collapse into the green wingback chair in the living room and resort to counting the freckles on my arms to see if I have any more than I did last summer. By the time Vel finally finishes, I have counted arm freckles and leg freckles for a total of 213 overall freckles. According to Barbie, completing the freckle-count takes exactly seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

After blowing on her toenails one last time, she touches them to make sure they are dry, making motions like she is touching a hot stove. She grabs a new Nancy Drew from the coffee table and tucks it in her waistband before sliding her feet into her pink flip-flops. Finally, she announces she is ready to go.

My 213 freckles jump up to join her.

“Do you know where he lives?” Vel poofs her hair.

“Across from the fire station, close to Calhoun.”

We ride our bikes sixteen blocks to get to an address I memorized from the telephone book. On the way, we cross the dividing line into the colored neighborhood. Once we cross the line, there are a lot more people out on their porches and in their yards. They only wave if we raise our hands first. A few must realize I am the mayor’s daughter because they actually smile. But most of them pretend we don’t exist—something they probably learned from white people.

In our white neighborhood all the houses look alike, but here every house is painted a different color. Some need repairs. We lean our bikes against a green picket fence with Paris’ house number on it and enter a yard full of flowers, some of them as tall as me and Vel. We find Paris lying on his grandmother’s porch swing with his legs sticking up, reading a Seventeen magazine.

“What are you two doing here?” Paris is so surprised to see us he forgets to use his southern accent.

“That’s a girl’s magazine,” Vel says, ignoring his question. “What are you doing reading a girl’s magazine?”

When Paris sees Vel’s hair, he doesn’t even blink.

“When do you think you’ll start plucking your eyebrows?” Paris sits up, and his southern accent has returned, dead-on perfect.

“I’m not allowed until I’m sixteen,” Vel offers, as though counting the days. It is the first time Paris and Vel appear to have something in common.

“I find the whole idea of tweezing facial hair barbaric,” I say.

“Someday you won’t,” Paris says with a wink of wisdom.

“Want to bet?” I say.

Paris turns to Vel. “There’s a great article in here about how to do it.” He pulls up his brow with two fingers and turns his head to imitate the photo in the magazine.

“Can I read it when you’re done?” Vel asks.

“Of course,” Paris says. He turns down the page corner and closes the magazine.

Since when did you two become so idiotic? I want to ask. Who cares about eyebrow plucking when idiots are burning crosses in people’s yards? “Did you hear about what happened last night?” I ask instead.

When he says he hasn’t, I tell Paris the story from beginning to end. By the time I finish he is sitting up ready to walk to Columbia this very minute.

Seconds later, a white-haired black woman comes onto the front porch with three lemonades with lemon slices floating on top. She is large and round and beautiful. Her white hair is thick and clipped short. I wonder if there is a magazine called Seventy that is like Seventeen and gives old ladies fashion tips. Nana Trueluck and Miss Josie could be models.

“Welcome to our home,” Miss Josie says, her dark eyes sparkling. “Any friends of my Paris are friends of mine.”

Her smile relaxes me instantly. She compliments Vel on her toenails before handing us the lemonades, my favorite drink of all time. Since I have just ridden 16 blocks on a hot day, I take several gulps.

“This is the sweetest, most delicious lemonade I have ever tasted in my life,” I say, and Miss Josie smiles again.

Nana Trueluck always says you can attract more friends with honey than with vinegar, or with niceness instead of being rude. All of a sudden I understand what she means. Miss Josie is sweet, the same color as honey, and I could stay here forever drinking her lemonade and being her friend.

When she pulls a paper fan out of her apron, I stand close enough to get the tail winds of her efforts and lean in to catch more of the breeze. When she notices what I am doing she gives me a few swift waves of her fan that feel as sweet as the lemonade.

Evidently, the unspoken rule about not having friends of a different color does not apply in this household.

We sit in the shade of the porch, Paris in the swing, and Vel and me and Miss Josie in rockers. Miss Josie’s house is the prettiest shade of yellow I have ever seen. Come to think of it, it is the same shade as the lemonade. The front door is painted green to match the shutters and the picket fence. I marvel at how colorful Paris’ house is compared to the houses on our street, which are all a dull white.

“What are you girls going to do this summer?” Miss Josie asks.

I shoot Paris a look to discourage him from telling our secret plans to someone even as sweet as his grandmother.

“Paris and Vel and I haven’t decided yet,” I say to her. Then I turn up my glass and let the last of the sugar flow into my mouth to sweeten up the lie I just told.

When I include Paris in our summer plans, Miss Josie’s face reminds me of Nana Trueluck’s. She fans herself again and offers me an uneasy smile.

When we finish our lemonade, I ask her permission for Paris to come to my house for lunch.

The uneasy smile leaves Miss Josie’s face and is replaced with something bordering on a frown. “Are you sure it’s okay with your father?” she asks.

“I’m sure,” I tell her, not the least bit sure since I didn’t think to ask him or Mama. If that cross hadn’t burned in our yard last night, I may not have even thought to invite Paris at all. But rebellions call for action.

“Is this outfit all right?” Paris asks. He obviously has never seen my daddy in his lucky writing shorts.

“You look fine, Paris,” I say.

“Grandson, I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” Miss Josie says.

Paris assures her that everything will be fine and promises to telephone her if he needs her. Before she can say anything else, I give Paris my bike and straddle the back of Vel’s. Her bike is pink—no surprise—and has white plastic tassels coming out the ends of the handle bars.

On the way back I talk more about the cross burning from the night before. He agrees that it was probably the Macklehaneys and then gives me a worried look that suggests that lunch at my house might be a bad idea after all.

“Trudy’s mother makes great grilled cheeses,” Vel says from in front of me.

“Do you like grilled cheese, Paris?” I ask.

He says he does.

We cross the dividing line, and I keep looking over my shoulder to see if the cross burners are watching. I don’t like to think that people might be out to get us, and for the first time I realize this must be what it is like to be Paris and Miss Josie.

Meanwhile, an old white couple stops their morning walk and looks at us as though we are breaking every law on the law books. Curtains open and close in some of the houses. This makes me want to suggest Paris move in with us to force them to get used to it. But I don’t think Paris would want to give up Miss Josie or her lemonade.

We lean our bikes on the fence and step inside my front gate. I pause in front of the burned grass in our yard. A faint smell of gasoline rises from the ground. We bow our heads as if holding a memorial. But I think the only thing that died last night was my innocent way of thinking. Now I know how hateful people can be.

Vel squeezes my hand like she remembers how we held on tight the night before, thinking the world was ending. At that second I remember why Velvet Ogilvie is my best friend—after Nana Trueluck.

Mama comes out onto the porch, her dishtowel slung over one shoulder. Surprise registers in her eyes when she sees Paris. The look she gives me is not of surprise but more a promise that we will talk about this later.

“It’s so wonderful to have you here,” she says to Paris. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for saving my daughter’s life.”

Mama says this louder than her usual speaking voice, all the while looking across the street. Widow Wilson’s house has a ghost of a figure behind her curtains. I can almost hear our neighbor cluck before picking up the telephone to dial her friends on the party line.

Widow Wilson has spied on us for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I wave at her when I come out of the house to let her know that I am onto her. She is getting an eyeful now, just like she must have gotten an eyeful last night, but I don’t even care.

“I wish you’d told me such an important guest was coming over for lunch, Trudy.” Mama swats me lightly with her dishtowel.

“Sorry,” I say, “it kind of came up unexpected.”

Mama asks if we’d like grilled cheese sandwiches, and when we say yes she goes inside to make them. Grilled cheese is what she always fixes when I have friends over. Otherwise, lunch would be a plain old peanut butter and banana sandwich. The three of us walk around the side of the house and sit at the picnic table in the shade of the big maple.

A few minutes later, Nana Trueluck comes out the back door, her head held high and wearing one of her church hats like it is Easter. Nana shakes Paris’ hand and welcomes him to our home as though he is Jesus and has resurrected on the spot. Then she pats me on the back like I have more gumption than she realized.

While Vel admires her toenails again, Nana Trueluck asks Paris about his family. He tells her how he stays with his grandmother, Miss Josie.

“I know your grandmother,” she says. “She makes those beautiful sweetgrass baskets on the corner of King and Meeting. Not to mention those lovely flowers of hers.”

Nana Trueluck smiles, and I imagine Mama having conniptions in the kitchen worrying about what the neighbors will think while also on the telephone to Daddy asking him what she should do.

“Trudy told me you had a dream,” Nana Trueluck says to Paris. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

He repeats what he told me and Vel the day before, about how in the dream he took down that rebel flag and the next thing he knew he was shaking hands with Dr. Martin Luther King Junior.

Nana nods, her eyes widening at times to take it all in. Then she looks at me as though the trip to Columbia will happen come hell or high water, to use one of her favorite phrases. Since we live in the Lowcountry, high water is always a possibility.

Mama steps outside with a tray in her hands, no sign of any conniptions. The grilled cheese sandwiches are on paper plates, with Fritos on the side. Paper cups are full of cherry Kool-Aid. The ice cubes in the cups run a race to see which can melt fastest. I have to resist timing them.

“Can you help me in the kitchen?” Mama says to Nana Trueluck.

Nana excuses herself and tosses me a glance. We both know what’s coming. Meanwhile, Paris and Vel and I eat and drink until we are full and then have a contest to see who can make the best cherry mustache.

“Hey, y’all, let’s go downtown,” I suggest once our drink cups are empty.

“Why on earth would we do that?” Vel asks. “Haven’t we gotten into enough trouble already?” The cherry Kool-Aid on her lips accents her pink clothes.

“We need to show whoever burned that cross that they didn’t scare us,” I say.

Vel looks at me as though I have pulled a pin from a live grenade. “Are you nuts?”

“Quite possibly,” I say. “But you should know how I am, Vel. As soon as somebody tells me I can’t do something, that’s when I want to do it the most. To me, that cross last night was the same thing as a double-dog-dare.”

“I’ll do it, if you do it,” Paris says to Vel.

Vel hesitates long enough for the Civil War to be fought and lost right here in the backyard. But then she finally agrees.

We hop on bikes to go to Battery Park by Charleston Harbor. Paris rides Teddy’s bike this time so I can ride mine. Teddy’s bike is banged all to creation from Teddy’s stunts, but it still rides fine. At the end of our street we take a right onto East Bay, which runs along the harbor. Riding bikes in the summer is like catching a breeze from Miss Josie’s fan. But it is a hot breeze, as always.

Paris hangs back so maybe people won’t realize we are together, and I keep slowing down so he can’t help but catch up. I lead the way down one of the cobblestone streets Charleston still has. The bumps make us laugh, our voices hiccupping over every stone. When Paris starts to sing it sounds more like a yodel. Nana Trueluck says the cobblestones are a reminder of what came before. A reminder of history. All of a sudden I wish she were here. She would enjoy singing a Doris Day song while bumping across the cobblestones.

“This is shaking the fillings right out of my head,” Vel says, her curls bouncing.

The three of us laugh until we can’t stay upright any longer and fall over on the sidewalk in hysterics. Paris is a few feet away on the other side of the street pretending he doesn’t know us, even though the three of us are laughing at the same joke.

An old lady stops and stares at us, her lips puckered in the message that we should be ashamed for having such a good time. I realize it is Miss Myrtle Page, whose white poodle, Chester, was lunch to that hungry alligator.

“Well, hello, Miss Page.” I go from laughter to being dead serious in less than two seconds. “I want to offer my condolences about poor Chester,” I add.

Her sour face sweetens a little.

“Don’t you children know that it isn’t proper to lounge around on the sidewalks like vagrants?” she says.

Paris and Vel look at me like being vagrants is nothing compared to trying to be friends with people who are a different color.

“We’re sorry to bother you, Miss Page,” I say. “We didn’t realize you were still in mourning.”

She scowls and walks off, but then I realize it wasn’t the fact that Paris was a different color that made her angry but that we were having fun. Considering what happened last night, this feels like progress.

“Let’s pinkie swear that when we get old we will never, ever, make kids feel bad for laughing,” I say.

I hold up my pinkie, as does Paris, but Vel hesitates as though Paris hasn’t washed his hands in a year. I look at her like I have X-ray vision and burn my disappointment into her skull. Finally she holds up her pinkie, too, and our three pinkies wrap around each other, two white and one brown.

We hop back on our bikes and take East Bay Street again going toward the Battery. Two old men turn and look at us as we pass. Then a woman about Mama’s age drops her jaw like we are some circus freak show. If Paris is scared, he doesn’t let on.

Vel drops back behind Paris and calls ahead for us to stop. We pull our bikes into the shade in an alleyway. “I need to go home. I think I hear my mom calling me,” Vel says.

“We’re blocks from your house,” I say. “There’s no way you could hear your mom.”

Vel lowers her eyes.

“Leave her alone, Trudy.” Paris’ voice sounds sweet, like he understands.

“Come on, Paris,” I say, turning my back on Vel. “Rebellions require bravery and not giving up.”

We leave Vel reading in the shade and circle back and turn onto Broad, one of the main streets in town. As we come around the corner, Daddy comes out of Callie’s Diner with my brother, Teddy.

When he sees Paris on his bike, Teddy barrels toward us like a locomotive that’s jumped the tracks. He lets out a Tarzan yell. Whenever I see my brother coming, I usually brace, duck and get ready for a crash. I warn Paris to watch out. Then Teddy slides in front of our bikes, a runner sliding into home plate. Seconds later, swatches of pink and red rise on both his knees.

“Uh, oh,” he says as though the bike is now forgotten.

Daddy’s eyes widen, and I wonder if it is from seeing me with Paris or Teddy’s latest injuries. He greets us and shakes Paris’ hand before pulling out the antiseptic from his pants pocket and spraying Teddy’s knees. Teddy grimaces. Then Daddy dabs the corners of the wound with his handkerchief and pulls two new Band-Aids from his wallet to add to the collection on Teddy’s knees.

Despite the fact that Daddy dreams of being the next Hemingway, he is also very practical. He never goes anywhere without first-aid supplies. If I weren’t afraid of getting in trouble, he’d be the perfect person to ask how to get that flag down from the top of the State House.

“Trudy, can I speak to you for a moment?” He smiles at Paris, who is a few feet away. I put down my bike, and we step into the shade of a crepe myrtle tree. I know from the tone of his voice that a lecture is coming, but he doesn’t look mad.

“I understand what you’re trying to do here, honey, but I also think you need to think of Paris. He could get in big trouble.”

I wonder if he has been talking with Nana Trueluck because that’s almost exactly what she said, too.

Daddy puts the spare Band-Aids back into his wallet. “You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He says a quick goodbye before chasing after Teddy, who is already hanging onto the limb of a large live oak tree behind City Hall.

When I turn around, Paris has disappeared again like that first day we met. He is the Invisible Man when he wants to be.

“Paris, where are you?” I say.

“Over here.” His voice comes from a cluster of bushes near a park bench.

“Sorry about this,” I say, sitting on the bench. “Daddy’s afraid I’ll get you in trouble.”

“It’s okay, Trudy,” Paris says from the bushes.

“It’s just the way the world is set up, I guess. Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

“I know,” he says.

It is one thing to hide how you’re feeling, like when you’re scared or thinking something mean. But it is not like you can hide the color of your skin. It is out in the open where everybody can judge you. And it is not like you can hide in the bushes your whole life, either.

“Paris, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says.

“Where are your parents?”

He pauses, and I wonder if I have asked something I shouldn’t have.

His voice comes out soft. “My dad died in Vietnam.”

A warm breeze trembles in the live oaks. “Oh, Paris, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice matching his softness.

I have never known anyone who died in Vietnam. Nana Trueluck watches the news and gets upset about the war all the time, but I don’t even know why we are over there.

“My dad saved a bunch of his buddies in a battle,” Paris continues. “His sergeant told us that he was a hero.”

I get up and walk over to the bushes. This is not something to discuss from a park bench while your friend hides in the underbrush.

“You’re a hero just like your dad, Paris. You saved my life, too.”

In the middle of the bushes, I find Paris sitting on the ground cross-legged. I stand nearby.

“So where’s your mom, Paris?”

I am almost afraid of the answer. What if she is dead, too?

“She’s still in Detroit,” he says. “She works twelve-hour shifts as a nurse’s assistant. I live with Miss Josie because she didn’t like me spending so much time alone. As soon as she gets enough money saved she’s going to move here, too.”

I am relieved he still has a mother.

A family walks by—parents with two boys who look like their father. I wonder if Paris looks like his father, too. The boys wear Confederate hats, the kind bought in tourist shops. They look at me like a girl who talks to bushes might be dangerous.

“Do you miss your mom?” I ask after they leave.

“All the time,” he says from the bushes, “and I miss my dad, too.”

I wish Vel could hear this and get to know Paris better. We are so lucky to have parents living with us, and I am extra lucky to have Nana Trueluck down the hall from me. I will have to tell her about Paris’ dad. She will be sad, too.

Paris motions toward the entrance to the park.

Hoot Macklehaney walks in, hands in his pockets, as though simply moseying around. But I have a feeling it isn’t by accident that he has found me. I return to the park bench, leaving Paris in his hiding place.

“Look what the cat drug in,” Hoot says to me.

I think of my cat, Hazel, who is an expert hunter and sometimes leaves gifts on the front porch. Every chipmunk in South Carolina must be on the lookout for Hazel. In fact, if chipmunks had tiny post offices, I imagine her picture would be taped to the wall as America’s Most Wanted.

Meanwhile, Hoot Macklehaney slinks toward the bench like I am a chipmunk and he is a cat. I want to believe he is harmless, but evidence to the contrary is burned onto our front yard. Another war is going on right here in Charleston, and Paris and I are on the front lines. Nobody talks about it, and it stays mostly hidden, but it is there. Right now we need to make sure that we don’t become casualties.