The phone rang. These days, it was always ringing. His mother answered and, after a second, called him.
“Frank, it’s for you. Don’t be long. I’m expecting a call.”
If she had seen him roll his eyes, she wouldn’t have given him the phone. He picked it up from the counter and opened the pantry door as she walked outside to gather the clothes drying on the line.
When he heard Dedra’s voice on the other end, he smiled and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to call since Saturday.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been doing, Frank. But either there was no answer or it was busy. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Can’t get near the phone. My mother has been talking to every parent, teacher, neighbor, preacher she can. She’s not telling me what they’re doing, but I know they’re going to the parish school board meeting Thursday night.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Forget about the Black Student Committee and our meetings with Mr. Palmer. He sent that letter to all of us two days after he claimed he’d consider our request to graduate from our own high school. We’re going to the school with food and blankets on Thursday night.”
His mother came back into the house. The sounds from the kitchen were quiet and soft; she must be folding the laundry on the table.
“Are you there?” Dedra asked.
He remembered the pain of the foot on his back when the police had stopped the students’ protest walk. He felt the twist of the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Yes, I hear you.”
He relived the anguish of sitting in the jail cell waiting for his mother.
“Well? Are you in this time? We’re meeting at dusk behind the building, and we’re not leaving until they let us graduate.”
His mind raced. Heat rose to his forehead as he recalled the shame of being placed on second string because of his skin color, and now being told he couldn’t graduate.
His temples throbbed; his heart pounded. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. “Yes, I’ll be there. I’ve got to go now. See you Thursday.”
He slowly opened the door from the pantry, relieved to see the kitchen empty. Folded laundry lay in neat piles on the table. He gently placed the phone on the hook and walked out.
In his bedroom, he pulled the second drawer out of his bureau, placed it on the bed, and reached into the empty space. His heartbeat steadied as his fingers grasped the small metal rectangle resting on the drawer’s support rail. The lighter was the same width as the rail, and the drawer could still close each time he took it out.
His bedroom was exactly the same now as it had been before the fire. He studied the single wall covered with the striped wallpaper his father had helped him paste up. They had never finished the job.
Memories of the fire flooded his mind. His thumb rubbed the grooved surface of the inexpensive Zippo lighter. He always woke up in a sweat from the dream. Awake, he couldn’t erase his father’s body being placed in the pickup, his shoe left behind on the ground, or the silver glint next to the shoe. His recurring dream was a reality and a memory he couldn’t reconcile.
As he clutched the lighter, he felt his father’s presence, as well as his own anger, his guilt, and his fear. He’d never told anyone he had found it. Each time he took it from its hiding spot, he asked his father what to do. The lighter had become his confessional. If he had given the lighter to the FBI, would anything have changed?
The town police never came to investigate his father’s death. But FBI agents knocked on his mother’s door a few months later, after the NAACP filed a complaint. He was fourteen and scared, watching from the hallway. He heard his mother gasp when she saw Reverend Wilford with two white men dressed in jackets and ties, with fedoras on their heads.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Woods. I asked them to come. We’re sorry to bother you. They just have a few questions.” Frank remembered seeing the short and portly reverend move forward to stand in front of the agents.
“May I offer you some tea and cake?” Frank heard the tightness in his mother’s voice. It was the first and last time she invited any white men to sit down for tea with her.
“Miz Woods, that won’t be necessary. We can sit in the parlor without any refreshments,” the reverend said.
At the same time, the man who Frank would learn was the lead agent said, “Thank you, ma’am. I hate to bother you, but I would appreciate some tea and your kind hospitality.”
As he thought back now, Frank realized that the agent’s gesture of kindness, perhaps a false extension of sympathy, had given them more time in the house.
The teacups clinked against the saucers while Frank’s mother served from the tray she was carrying. He had seen her serve tea many times with a steady hand and comfortable conversation. This time, fear rattled the cups.
As they sat in the parlor, the lead agent’s big hands were surprisingly agile as he placed the delicate cup down and nodded to his partner to take off his hat.
“We’re trying to determine the cause of the fire. Is there anything you can tell us? Was your husband having trouble with anyone?” The agent spoke in a low voice, perhaps trying to soften his questions or his presence.
Annie Mae just shook her head. She had answers, but she wouldn’t share what she knew. She was too frightened. Just having the FBI in the house put the family’s safety at risk.
“We know he was a vet and had some friends on both sides of the Mississippi. Have they been here to see you?” The lead agent took another sip of tea as he waited for her answer.
Frank wondered where this man was from. Didn’t he know that the white mechanics his father worked with wouldn’t come to the house? Ever? Even though he was a top-notch mechanic whom they sought out and hired? Maybe he had served, but that didn’t matter. He had been a civilian when he died—someone who lived on the wrong side of town, not on the army base.
“No, sir, just our friends from church and our neighbors.” Annie Mae lifted a plate of sliced cake to offer the agents. “Our community has been a great comfort. My friend Evelyn made this cake.”
The other agent balanced his hat on his knee as he reached for a slice of cake and finally spoke. “Have any of the NAACP members come to visit?”
Annie Mae looked toward the reverend for some support.
“Miz Woods just told you that only neighbors and friends from our church have been to visit. I think it’s time for us to take our leave now.”
The lead agent nodded but asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs. Woods?”
She shook her head and looked away.
He took the reverend’s advice and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Woods. Here’s my card. Please call me if you change your mind.”
The memory of his mother shaking her head made Frank recall the reason she had been so quiet. His father’s army buddy, another Korean War vet, had died in a truck explosion over in Natchez. His father had been the third Korean War vet with connections to the Natchez branch of the NAACP and Armstrong Rubber Company to die. Frank knew that the fire wasn’t an accident. The men involved in killing him would find a way to hurt Frank, his sisters, or his mother if they helped the FBI. He was sure of that.
All this time, he had hidden the lighter. Would anyone believe it had anything to do with the fire if he handed it over to the FBI four years later?
The lighter’s surface was scratched and well used, but three engraved letters were visible: BNH. Frank knew it was time to do something, even if he was afraid. Instead of putting the lighter back in the hiding place, he slid it into his pocket and went to find his mother, to tell her that he was going with Dedra on Thursday.