Retreating behind her home’s heavy oak door always made Evelyn feel safe. But not tonight. She was upset. Upset that her friend’s picture was on the front page of the newspaper. Upset that she had become emotional in front of Colleen as she’d told the story. What had she been thinking?
That Colleen. How could a white teacher know how to teach these youngsters? A white woman with no history in this part of the world, who’d never been to church with her students, who didn’t know their brothers, sisters, parents. Who’d be gone soon enough, most likely.
Evelyn sat heavily at her kitchen table, with its one place mat, and waited for the water to boil for tea. She’d lived alone since her parents had passed.
The newspaper was still open to the photo, just as she’d left it. Mildred’s face was in the center of the picture. She looked determined and strong, her eyes fixed on the camera, and Evelyn felt a surge of admiration for her dear friend. By contrast, the Negro woman standing behind Mildred was looking down, fear creeping into the turn of her mouth.
The federal marshals who’d escorted the Negro teachers to their cars were in the picture too. Their heads and eyes were averted from the camera, as if they were embarrassed to be there. Evelyn read the article beneath the picture and raised her hand to cover her mouth. It included strong resistance in a comment credited to a middle-class white man: “No court order will ever end segregation down here. The government doesn’t understand.”
She had to agree with him.
Mildred had told Evelyn about being rushed to a police car and driven away from the angry crowd. The next day, the black teachers were allowed into the school but spent the day in a room under police guard. As if that would accomplish anything. As if that were any way to keep Mildred and the other Negro teachers safe.
The whistling of the kettle made Evelyn jump.