Someone rapped on the metal door of the trailer. Colleen opened it to see Mr. Murphy, their landlord and the owner of the trailer park, standing with his hat in his hand.
“Evenin’, missus. You got a phone call today. Sounded important. It was the school board secretary looking for you. I came by, but you weren’t home, and it’s too late to call now. Come over first thing in the morning. Here’s the number.”
As he departed, he tipped his hat, leaving another smudge on the worn brim. Colleen smiled at him, every inch the southern gentleman she expected, despite his dungaree overalls and straw fedora. Colleen took the note and closed the door. It was so annoying not to have a phone. They had to use the pay phone on the base or depend on this awkward method. She needed a job. Miguel’s salary of $230 per month was hard to stretch. She sang to the radio while she finished making dinner, as she dreamed about having enough money to move to the corner trailer with the picket fence or maybe go on their honeymoon.
The next morning, Mrs. Murphy let Colleen in on the first knock. The four Murphy children giggled and let out a chorus of “Mornin’, Mrs. Rodriguez.”
Colleen’s call to the school board secretary was brief and ended with her accepting an interview appointment that afternoon. Weeks earlier, she had returned “when things calmed down” and submitted an application. This was good news; she didn’t want to work at the five-and-dime.
Inside the front door of the board office was the waiting room with the vinyl-cushioned chairs she had sat on a month before. This time, the room was empty, except for the same secretary, who greeted her with a smile.
As she ushered Colleen through the doorway to the superintendent’s office, the man seated at the desk stood to greet her. Through round, wire-framed glasses, two piercing eyes examined her. “Welcome to Kettle Creek, Mrs. Rodriguez. I’m Superintendent Watson. Please, sit here.”
The chair facing his desk was as uncomfortable as the one in the waiting room. She had to sit at the edge with her feet flat on the floor so that she wouldn’t slide off.
“I appreciate your punctuality. With school starting next week, I’m eager to fill a few unexpected teaching positions.”
Why unexpected? A few? Didn’t he make a list weeks ago?
“What brings you to Kettle Creek, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
“My husband is stationed at the army base until June.”
“I see. Is he an officer?”
“No, sir, he’s a drill sergeant.”
“So, would you be able to teach for the school year?”
Colleen smiled as she replied with a big yes, praying she didn’t look as nervous as she felt.
“After examining your credentials, the best match I have for you is a second-grade position at West Hill School. I can offer you $4,750. Is that acceptable?’
Colleen agreed quickly. It was several thousand less than she had earned the previous year, but it was more than the five-and-dime would pay. With that, the superintendent stood up and escorted Colleen back down the hall. He asked the secretary to prepare the paperwork, shook Colleen’s hand, and wished her a good year. The secretary handed Colleen a contract to sign, with her name, salary, and date of hire.
“Please press hard when you sign so I can give you the carbon copy for your records.”
The woman put the carbon copy and a W-2 form into an envelope.
“Where is the school?” Colleen asked, as she took the papers.
“Oh, didn’t he tell you? West Hill School is on Tulip Lane. Just go over the other side of the tracks after you pass through town.”
As Colleen walked to her car, she realized that they hadn’t asked for references and wondered if that was an oversight. But she didn’t dare return. No need to remind them or take a chance that they’d change their mind. She sang along to the radio as she drove home.
Jan, another army wife and a teacher, was outside tending her garden when Colleen parked her car between their trailers. As Jan jammed a fistful of weeds into a bag, she said, “Colleen, you look happier than a tornado in this trailer park.”
“I just had a job interview. It happened so fast. I start at West Hill School on Monday.”
“West Hill?” Jan fixed her gaze on Colleen. “The second-grade spot?”
“Yes, how do you know?”
“That’s the spot Mrs. Kirby refused to take. I told you that, right?”
“What?” Colleen heard her voice rise. “Who’s Mrs. Kirby?”
“Old friend of mine. Got reassigned from the white school she taught in for forty years and told to report to the Negro school, West Hill. Of course, she called the school board office to say she couldn’t accept the transfer.”
“Negro school?”
“Bless your heart.” Jan’s smile was cold. “Yes. West Hill’s a Negro school, sugar. The races are separate here. That’s how everyone likes it.” Jan shook her head as she bent to pull another weed. “Now they’re sending white teachers to the black school.” She added a bunch of reasons why Colleen shouldn’t expect much from the students, the staff, or the facility at West Hill.
“Where are you from, Jan?”
“Mississippi, born and bred.”
Colleen wondered what Jan thought of Miguel. This woman couldn’t be the friend she’d hoped for. She was just like Maggie and Beau, from Colleen’s first day in this town.
“What about the Brown decision?” Colleen scrambled to remember. The highest court in the land had finally said “separate but equal” wasn’t good enough. Schools had to integrate. “I read that your superintendent had to follow the guidelines, and that was what caused the fuss in the office a few weeks ago.”
“We follow the Freedom of Choice plan. Everyone can pick their school. It was working fine. Can’t help that no colored chose to go to the white school.”
Colleen drew a deep breath, thinking of news reports she’d seen about Negro children being escorted into their school by the National Guard. It had all seemed so far away until this minute. “I’m still going to take the job, Jan.”
“Are you one of those bus-riding Yankees?” Jan’s eyes narrowed. “Seems like you’re fixin’ to have some trouble.”
Colleen shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other. “How am I causing trouble?”
“Trouble for you, I mean. No decent southern white woman would take that job. Mrs. Kirby was told to accept or retire. Forty years of service meant nothing.”
“I’m not a southern woman.” Colleen started to walk toward her door.
“You see what happens,” Jan called out. “Then come talk to me.”
