If Meriwether getting that Chevy to run had surprised me, Daddy was practically in a state of disbelief.
“I’m plum flabbergasted, Meriwether. I swear you’re some kinda magician.” He turned to Abigail and asked, “Did you actually see your daddy fix it or did he wave a magic wand and say ‘presto chango’?”
“Yessir, I saw him with my very own eyes. And all he was usin’ were his tools. Plus, he doesn’t even have a magic wand.”
Daddy, Meriwether, and I cracked up.
Abigail squinted her eyes at my daddy. “You’re just funnin’ with me, huh?”
“I’ll get the certificate of title transferred to your name soon as I can.” Daddy motioned to the pile of papers on his desk. “It might take a little time, though, because as you can see, I’m swamped,” he explained. “For now, I’ll write a note in case of anything unforeseen.” Daddy scribbled something on paper and handed it to Meriwether. “That should do for now.”
“No hurry . . . and sir, all the backed-up cars are fixed, so seein’ as Matthew’s off sick, I’ll spend the rest of my time helpin’ Gabriel out front at the pump. Unless you got somethin’ else that needs doin’.”
“That’d be helpful to me, Meriwether”—Daddy glanced at his papers again—“and allow me to finish up here.”
And so, Abigail, book in hand, happily skipped off to the garage to read while Meriwether and I worked.
Cheerfully, he greeted each customer, humming now and then. “Havin’ a hard time believin’ it. That I actually own me an automobile.” He let out a joyful hoot.
“Told ya you would,” I reminded him.
A smile parted his lips as he recalled the conversation we’d had. “That you did, didn’t you? That you did.”
After a spell, probably because the clouds had decided to give us a sprinkling of rain, the flow of customers came to a halt, so we found shelter and sat.
“I’ve been meanin’ to ask you some questions,” I told him.
He chuckled. “You mean start one of your interrogations?”
Most other times, a funny accusation like that would have made me grin, but because my thoughts were serious, I didn’t. “It’s just I was wonderin’ about somethin’ Abigail told me today—”
Meriwether interrupted me. “Abigail already confessed she told you why we try to keep quiet ’bout me havin’ been in the army.”
“Yessir . . . and also ’bout the man over in Batesburg who had his eyes poked out.”
“That’s a horrendous tale . . . Not sure it should be told to someone your age.”
“But Abigail knows, and she’s only ten.”
His eyes lost their light. “Abigail’s a southern colored girl . . . Some things havta be known by colored children for their safety. Mosta our young ones lose their innocence long before mosta y’all do.”
“Still, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to know.”
“Got a thirst for knowledge . . . that it?”
“Yessir, spoze. I’m twelve now. Plus, I wanna know the truth.”
“Sometimes the truth ain’t pretty, Gabriel . . . Sometimes it’s ugly.”
“I’d like to know it just the same.”
Meriwether stared off into the beyond and started talking. “Ever since we got back from overseas, me and my army buddies have been hearin’ tales about colored soldiers who’d survived the war only to come home to the South and be murdered because of it. Wearin’ a uniform made ’em sittin’ ducks, and displayin’ medals was much the same as wearin’ a bull’s-eye. Seems some white folks had trouble acceptin’ that we colored soldiers not only had done our part but are as American as they are.”
“And the man over in Batesburg?” I asked.
“Sergeant Isaac Woodard is his name. Happened back in February . . . Was still wearin’ his uniform when he was pulled off the bus by the police. He was beaten and thrown in jail, had his eyes gouged out, and was denied appropriate medical attention.”
“But why?”
“From what Pastor told us, the only crimes he committed were askin’ to use the restroom, bein’ a colored man, and bein’ in a military uniform.”
“But those aren’t crimes,” I said.
“Got one set of laws for us and another set for y’all,” Meriwether said. “I can give you more truth if you’re ready to swallow it. Most white folks in the South ain’t, but you seem like you might be ready . . . You ready?”
“Think so.”
“Half free ain’t free. Bein’ overseas gave us a taste of real freedom. And once we returned, havin’ experienced that liberty made it hard to stomach not havin’ it here . . . in the country we’d fought for, the country a lot of colored men gave their lives for. I realize that where we made our mistake was thinkin’ it’d be better when we got home to places here in the South. Instead, in some ways it felt worse. It was as if the cruelty of Jim Crow had been multiplied. Can’t do this . . . not allowed here. Bein’ called a boy when what I am is a man. And look at the school my Abigail has to attend. How different is it from yours?”
Having already noticed this when I’d peered through the window into the colored school that day, I hung my head and said, “I know.”
“Don’t you be ashamed, son . . . Not like it’s your doin’.”
“Ain’t right.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gabriel . . . Be nice if the truth always tasted good, wouldn’t it?”
“Yessir, it’d be mighty nice.”
Right then, two cars pulled up at the same time.
“Suppose we have to end this serious conversation and earn our wage,” he commented.
I half smiled at him. “Spoze so.”
At closing time that evening, Daddy and I watched as Meriwether and Abigail climbed into their car. It was still raining off and on, but a full moon had appeared from behind the clouds, lighting up the night.
“Y’all will never know what this means to me. Thanks again,” Meriwether told us.
Daddy gave a slight nod of his head. “You’re welcome.”
“See ya tomorrow,” I said.
“But not me,” Abigail informed us. “My mama’ll be home tonight. Just wait ’til she sees our car. Bye-bye, Gabriel and Mr. Jake.”
As they drove off, I watched as the Chevy’s headlights made the wet street glisten and the red taillights got smaller and smaller until they finally turned the corner and were gone. But the truth I’d learned that day was whirling around like a spinning top inside my head.