Chapter Twenty

Trudy

 

The elevator door closes. My shoulders drop. Do all adults fall short of what kids need them to be?

“What do we do now?” Paris whispers. “How are we going to get that flag down by ourselves?” The look on his face mirrors how I feel.

Meanwhile Vel stares at the elevator like she wishes she had gone with Nana Trueluck.

“We’ve got to try,” I whisper back to Paris. “Then we can go home knowing we did the best we could.” But the best we could doesn’t feel nearly good enough.

Wally, the guard, waits for us in front of the main stairway. Is he part of the old guard we have been warned about? He turns to ask our names.

I pause and swallow hard. Has our luck run out? The last thing we need is for Les Lester or Wally Whatever to know our real names and be able to trace us back to Charleston. Paris and Vel shoot panicked looks in my direction.

“I’m, uh, Ida,” I say. I am not sure why I chose Nana Trueluck’s name, except I wish she were here.

All eyes turn to Vel, who for a wide-eyed moment appears speechless.

“I’m Nancy,” she says finally. “Nancy An-drew.” She flashes a huge smile, and then tucks her pencil behind her ear and shakes Wally’s hand like Nancy Drew might do.

“Pleased to meet you, Nancy,” he says. “And you?” Wally asks Paris.

“Martin King,” Paris answers in his best southern accent.

To my surprise, Paris’ color hasn’t seemed to bother Les Lester or Wally Whatever. Maybe they don’t want to answer to Nana Trueluck.

We walk up dozens of steps, and I am glad Nana Trueluck is in the lobby. The higher we go in the State House building the hotter it gets, like the world is backward and we are ascending into hell instead of heaven. Sweat pours down my back and into my sneakers at world record pace.

Vel, who I have never seen sweat, is covered in it, as is Paris. We are all starting to smell like the marsh on a hot day. Vel and I look like goopy globs of white paste. Her Toni perm is the only thing that hasn’t wilted. In contrast, the sweat on Paris’ skin practically glistens.

Wally’s face is red, and his whole shirt is covered in sweat. He takes a wet handkerchief from his wet shirt pocket to mop his wet, bald forehead. With each step, my guilt grows. He is making all this effort for three kids, with an absent grandmother as an accomplice, who want to take down a flag.

We stop at a metal door. From his pocket Wally takes out a set of keys that are big enough to choke a gator. They jingle their importance. He pulls a key from about halfway and unlocks it. Inside the door is another set of steps. Vel and I exchange eye rolls, and then she throws in a glare to voice her displeasure.

The stairway of the building is narrow now, and we have to walk in single file. It is musty and reminds me of our attic at home. Add to that the body odor of three almost-teens and one grown man on what may be the hottest day of the year.

We come to a final door. Wally uses three different keys to open the three different locks. When he finally opens the door, it creaks like in a horror movie. I imagine ghosts of Confederate soldiers rushing out to protect their flag. Except it is a hundred years later, and they don’t realize what their flag now represents.

The three of us look up the narrow ladder that ascends to the dome. Wally explains that this is as far as we get to go. Evidently only authorized personnel get to use the ladder and only when absolutely necessary. I can’t imagine Wally fitting on that ladder and climbing the steep steps anyway.

Paris and Vel and I lean into the stairwell. At the top of the ladder, at least twenty feet away, is the glass dome with the flag flying on top. For some reason I thought we could walk right up to it and take it down. No such luck. Butterflies bump into each other in my stomach.

We exchange looks and then gaze into the dome again. The American flag flies at the top, and below it is the Confederate flag. There is no way we can get to it, much less take it down—especially if we have to somehow overpower Wally to get there. That would be like three kids bringing down a walrus. The truth is, we are probably as close to the flag as we will ever get.

Paris sighs, and it stops me cold. Who runs a marathon and quits the race twenty feet from the finish line? Paris and Vel look at me to see what to do, but I am empty of answers. It was crazy of us to think that we could do this in the first place. We are just kids, after all. Although I can’t imagine Nana Trueluck would know what to do, either.

My leftover hope drips to the floor with my sweat. It doesn’t seem fair to come all this distance to simply turn and walk away. I guess rebellions are harder than people realize or there would be more of them. We’ve come to the end of our adventure, and we all know it.

In the meantime, Wally jiggles his keys as he talks on and on about the history of the dome. None of which reveals how to get up there.

“Mr. Wally?” I interrupt.

“Yes, Ida?” he says.

I look around for Nana Trueluck and then remember that Ida is me.

“Mr. Wally, I think there’s a hole in the bottom of that flag.” I point to the top of the stairs.

He turns and strains his eyes toward the dome.

“What a shame,” I say. “And such a beautiful flag, too.”

“What a shame,” Paris echoes.

“I bet you get fired since you didn’t notice it was damaged.” Vel can be counted on to point out ways people can get in trouble.

To my surprise, it appears to work. Wally’s forehead now has deep creases for his sweat to cross over. He looks at his hips and then at the ladder as though taking a measurement.

“You know, I’ve actually never had to climb up to the dome,” he says with a nervous laugh.

A look passes from Paris to Vel to me.

“I can do it for you, Mr. Wally.” I swallow. What am I saying? I am not so fond of heights myself.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Ida,” he says. “But I could get in big trouble if I let you go up there. It’s dangerous.”

“It would be easy for her,” Paris says. “Have you heard of the Flying Wallenda trapeze act? Ida’s been climbing tall things her entire life.”

Paris sounds so convincing, he almost has me persuaded, too.

“Is this true, Ida?” Wally asks.

My nod isn’t convincing, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Then I guess that would be okay,” he says, “but you have to promise you won’t tell my boss.”

I wonder if the old guard answers to a guard that’s even older.

We do a pinkie swear for Wally’s benefit. Then I say my final goodbyes to Vel and Paris.

“Remember your heritage,” Paris says.

I wonder if he means the made-up Wallendas or my great-great-grandmother.

Vel holds Nancy Drew close to her heart as though prayer is required.

I remember Nana Trueluck’s words: You can do this. At the same time, I realize she would never go along with this plan. It is too risky. If something happens to me, my parents will never forgive her. I pause long enough to wonder why I am doing this. Then I remember the guys in the pickup truck on the Marsh road, the Macklehaneys and the cross burning in our yard, and the stupid sheriff in the Woolworths. Then I think of Nana Trueluck waiting downstairs, and my great-great-grandmother and her abolitionism. I am simply the latest person in our family to take up the cause.

My knees shake, trying to convince me to give up this foolishness. They are right. This is foolish, and not only foolish, but dangerous. Then I remember the Sunbeam Bread truck swerving in my direction. My life might already be over if not for Paris Moses, who hopes to become Paris France someday so everyone will remember his name. Maybe I was saved so I could do this one thing for Paris.

Pretending I am one of the Flying Wallendas, I begin to climb the ladder. But didn’t one of the Wallendas recently fall to their death during their high wire act? I saw it on the news while watching Walter Cronkite. I cross my fingers for good luck and quickly realize that you can’t climb a ladder with crossed fingers.

As I ascend, I count the rungs, keeping my eyes focused on my hands and refusing to look down. At thirteen, I stop counting and think my luck has finally run out. I touch the top of the ladder and take a deep breath. Then I climb seven more rungs and unlatch a small window. A blast of fresh hot air hits me in the face. It reminds me of the heat in our attic at home, and I wish Daddy were here. I pause and close my eyes and wonder what to do next. I hear Daddy tell me to be part of the solution, not the problem. Isn’t taking down this flag part of the solution? Then I hear Nana Trueluck tell me I can do it and that she believes in me. And after that a voice from somewhere deep in the past tells me she is proud of me. In the one hundred degree heat, I get chills. It must be my great-great-grandmother. Perhaps I am imagining it, but it feels absolutely real. My ancestors are like the rungs of this ladder, all of them supporting me on this journey.

When I open my eyes, the rooftops of downtown Columbia stretch before me. I have a bird’s-eye view of the entire city. If I weren’t so terrified, this would be truly cool.

Wally yells instructions up the ladder to pull the cables that attach the flag to the pole. I do as I am told. The flag doesn’t move at first, and I wonder if I am even strong enough to do it. Then the cable finally gives, and I pull the flag toward me. It smells like stale laundry off a clothesline. It is bigger than I am and much heavier than I anticipate. I release several hooks and then stagger on the step with the weight of the flag. Gasps come from below.

“I’m coming up!” Paris yells.

Wally stops him. If one dead kid doesn’t get him fired, two most definitely will. I steady myself and then drop the flag into Wally’s waiting arms. Then I slowly begin my descent and breathe again.

Vel and Paris applaud when I reach the landing. I take a slow bow as Wally searches the flag for holes.

“Well, Ida, this flag looks fine to me,” Wally says finally. Sweat pools on top of his bushy eyebrows. He takes out a white handkerchief to mop up his moist forehead again, as if our adventure has worn him out.

“I guess it was the sun’s reflection,” I say, trying to sound innocent.

Wally frowns, the flag in his arms. “I’ll get somebody else to put it back,” he says, sounding irritated. “You wait here and hold this. Don’t let it touch the floor.” He drops the flag into our arms. Then he walks away.

Paris, Vel, and I exchange long looks. Disbelieving looks. Holding the flag, we glance at the door, as if we are all thinking the same thing. Can we make a run for it?

But my feet feel nailed to the floor.

“What should we do?” I say, just above a whisper.

“It seems kind of obvious, doesn’t it?” Vel says, her voice as loud as we normally talk.

Paris flashes a smile like a cartoon character who has a lightbulb materialize over his head.

“Since I got us into this, I’ll take it from here,” he says.

We carefully drape the flag over Paris’ shoulders like a huge Superman cape.

“Wish me luck,” he says.

We wish him luck.

“This is for Dr. King,” he says.

“This is for all of us,” I say.

Then Paris begins to run. Within seconds, he is down the narrow hallway and out of sight. Vel and I follow, running, too. Two floors down, Wally rests on the steps. Paris runs past him. When he realizes what is going on, he yells for Paris to stop. Then when Vel and I pass, he looks at us like we are co-conspirators, which is exactly what we are. Wally follows us faster than I thought possible for a sweat-soaked, apple-shaped man. A man whose deodorant wore off hours ago.

We follow Paris into the main corridor. Fortunately Wally tires fast and falls behind. In the distance, Paris flies down the marble steps, two at a time. The Confederate flag flows behind him like he is a caped crusader charged with saving the world from ignorance. In sporadic gasps, he whistles “Dixie.” Vel and I join in. We sound like canaries finally free from their cages.

As Paris sails by, people in the State House stop and stare. Nobody seems to know what to do. Many of the tourists think it is some kind of staged performance and clap and smile as Paris flies by. Others stand with their mouths gaping like they never expected in their lifetimes to see a skinny colored kid run though the State House with a Confederate flag flying behind him. It occurs to me that this scene has probably never played out in the whole history of the world. I sprint after Paris feeling proud to be an American. Proud to be a daughter of the South, and proud to be Paris’ friend.

He sails down another flight of steps onto the main floor. A hundred more steps and Paris will be out the door. He is like a football player who catches the opening kickoff and sprints the entire length of the field to claim a winning touchdown. Three guards play defense and are at Paris’ heels. But Paris outruns them. Vel and I aren’t far behind. We slow to go around a corner. I smile at Vel, whose Toni-permed hair runs faster than all of us.

In the distance Nana Trueluck waits. A look of stunned surprise is followed by a huge smile. She crosses the rotunda to protect her team member. I have never seen her move so fast.

The four of us never talked about what to do with the flag once we got it. I guess we never thought it would actually happen. Paris is only steps away from the front entrance. Once he gets outside, no one will be able to catch him. Tears come to my eyes and blur the scene. History is taking place right in front of us. I make a wish that Paris’ great-great-grandmother is watching from heaven and holding hands with my great-great-grandmother the abolitionist. Both of them have waited over a century for this moment. A moment where their descendants pick up the banner of freedom.

Les Lester waits at the front doors, a defensive guard about to sack the other team’s quarterback. When Paris realizes what is happening, he jags right and runs around the rotunda like a track star sprinting a victory lap before leaving the stadium. He is a blur of red, white, and blue. But how will he leave? There is no way he can get away. Vel and I stop, and Wally clamps a moist arm around each of us. Guards are everywhere and tourists watch from the sidelines. Everyone waits to see what will happen next.

Nana Trueluck waves her arm from the center of the rotunda like a wide receiver ready to receive a Hail Mary pass in the last seconds of the game. Her yellow hat and dress make her hard to miss. Paris runs toward her as the guards close in. Then Nana Trueluck takes the handoff at the same time Les Lester jumps to make the tackle.

When Les Lester hits the ground, his hair flies in one direction and his glass eye in another. Everyone gasps. Paris’ sneakers shriek as he dodges the twirling glass eye. He trips and lands with a thud at Les Lester’s feet. Inches away, the blue glass eye stares up at us.

The crowd gasps again as Les Lester scoops up his eye and returns it to its socket. Then he returns his Frankenstein hair to his shiny bald head. Paris stands, his arms up in victory. The crowd applauds as if the curtain has come down at the end of a hit play on Broadway, and Paris has given the performance of a lifetime. But the game isn’t over yet. My seventy-year-old grandmother circles the rotunda wearing the rebel flag like a southern shawl, singing as loud as she can her favorite Doris Day song:

Que sera, sera,

Whatever will be will be.

The future’s not ours to see.

Que sera, sera.