THELMA GORDY AND FLORA LEE HODGES HAD MET EARLY IN the war. Flora Lee, a rail-thin white woman with a hill country accent, passed out from sheer hunger one day in the standing-room-only crowd riding the Davis Avenue bus. One sympathetic colored woman had given her a seat, in violation of local segregation statutes, while Thelma, who was returning from the grocery store, had given her a box of Cheez-Its from her bag, in violation of simple common sense.
But what else could she have done? What other Christian, moral option was available? She had asked herself this question many times over the years. She had never found an answer.
Not that Thelma had intended friendship. She had simply fed Flora Lee as she would have fed anybody, and, when the white woman mentioned that she had come to the city looking for work, pointed her toward the shipyards over on Pinto Island, where the demands of war had created an insatiable need for workers, even if they were female.
Then the bus had reached Flora Lee’s stop, where her husband—a bantam man with a crippled gait and a ridiculous pompadour—was waiting for her. Through the open window of the sweltering bus, Thelma had borne witness to what happened next.
First, he berated her for riding in “the nigger section” of the bus. Then he saw the box of Cheez-Its and his eyes pinwheeled in their sockets.
“Where’d that come from?”
Flora Lee had lowered her eyes like a naughty child. “One of them women give it to me,” she said, “on account I was hungry.”
“Uh huh. So I guess you sayin’ I don’t provide well enough for you. You got to go beggin’ niggers now. Is that what you sayin’ Flora Lee?”
She didn’t get a chance to answer. He hit her in the mouth before she could. When the bus pulled off, Thelma had been grateful to leave the pitiful woman and her hateful husband behind.
Except, she hadn’t really left them behind at all.
She met Flora Lee again when she herself sought work out at Pinto Island. Thelma had tried to discourage the woman from talking to her, but Flora Lee, garrulous and guileless in equal measure, had not taken the hint and began following her around like a stray puppy. And her husband, working as a janitor at the shipyard, continued to abuse her, once knocking her to the ground in full view of the entire day shift.
That was the day Flora Lee accepted a foolish offer from Thelma to come stay with her and Gramp in their little shotgun house on Mosby Street until she could find a place of her own. This, too, was in violation of segregation statutes and simple common sense. But here again, even all these years later, Thelma didn’t know what else she could have done.
So maybe everything that followed was preordained, a destiny she could have no more escaped than gravity itself: Earl Ray Hodges catching her alone in the belly of an unfinished ship, slamming her face into a bulkhead, knocking her senseless, and raping her in retaliation for the loss of his wife. “Shouldn’t have mixed in white folks’ business, nigger,” he had taunted.
When she found out about it, Flora Lee had returned that very night to the trailer she shared with Earl Ray. She shot her husband in the neck, then waited calmly for police to come arrest her. Two months later, Thelma, pregnant with the rapist’s son, had visited her in jail to say they could no longer see each other. It was simply too dangerous. Amazingly, instead of being angry at Thelma’s abandonment, Flora Lee had been empathetic. “It’s okay,” she said.
“Why you got to be so goddamn understanding?” Thelma had snapped, angry for reasons she couldn’t even define.
But her friend had only smiled. “It’s all right,” she repeated. “You gon’ be all right. Both of us, we gon’ be all right.” Like she knew something Thelma did not.
That was the summer of 1943. It was the last time they ever spoke.
Now, Thelma stepped down from a bus, checked the address she had written on the scrap of paper in her hand, and began walking. She had almost changed her mind about coming here. Following Luther’s sheepish call from jail, she had endured a sleepless night, taunted by fears of all that could happen to her brother at the hands of white justice, which was no justice at all where Negroes were concerned. How many times had she preached to Adam that he must never give the police any excuse to even notice him? She would never have thought she’d have to give the same lecture to Luther.
Drinking again? After all these years? And then, of all the cars to hit, he had chosen a police cruiser? Luther, she thought, would be lucky to escape with his life.
But in the end, the arraignment had turned out to be a pro forma affair. The court seemed more amused than outraged over Luther’s extravagantly bad judgment—“You hit a police car, son?” asked the judge incredulously, looking up from the charging documents while the bailiff stifled a laugh—and he had walked out of court on bail with the trial to be set within the next two to three weeks.
Thelma had been relieved but also infuriated, and she started in on Luther the moment they stepped out onto the street. What was he thinking? What was wrong with him? Had he lost his damn mind?
Luther had borne her anger stoically. “You right,” he kept saying. “You right, sister.”
After a few minutes, George had gently reminded her that it was still early, and she had not seen Flora Lee in twenty-two years. Given the way she felt about Alabama, she would probably never have another chance. Wouldn’t a visit with her old friend be a better way to spend the afternoon?
Thelma had not been fooled. She knew her husband was more concerned with getting his brother-in-law off the hook than with whether she spent time with an old friend. Still, she could not deny his logic. She could chew out Luther any time. She might never have another opportunity to make things right with Flora Lee.
“Fine,” she said, eyes hard on Luther. “I’ll go. But”—and here, she leveled a finger at her brother—“we’re not done with this.”
So now Thelma walked, occasionally consulting the scrap of paper, comparing what was written there to the addresses that passed her by. Half a block from the bus stop, she came to one that matched. But she knew it couldn’t be right because she found herself standing not in front of a house or apartment building, but beneath the hand-painted sign of a bookstore. It showed two identical women—both waiflike and blonde—reaching toward one another in a rough homage to Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “Twin Sisters Books,” it said.
The books in the display window included The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir, The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan, and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. They also included The Source by James Michener, The Man by Irving Wallace, Why We Can’t Wait by Martin Luther King, and Herzog by Saul Bellow.
“Something for everybody,” muttered Thelma.
She was confused. She had searched the white pages for Flora Lee Gadsen—Flora Lee’s maiden name—and had found this address. But that made no sense. Surely, Flora Lee didn’t live in a bookstore.
Hesitantly, Thelma pushed open the door. A little bell mounted above tinkled to announce her arrival. The lighting inside was soft and the shelves created narrow aisles just wide enough for a single customer. They were labeled according to subject: history, travel, literature, biography. There was one large section called “Women’s Liberation.”
The store was pleasantly cluttered. What little space was not crowded by books was crowded by tchotchkes—buttons, figurines, pins, and whole families of crocheted dolls watching the room from atop the shelves. This was a space designed to be browsed and lingered in, a room of discoveries waiting to be made. An orange tabby lay on a countertop, watching with imperious uninterest as Thelma looked around. There were no other customers.
“Help you?”
The voice startled her and she realized she was being watched, not just by a cat, but by a large white woman of probably sixty years who sat on a stool behind the counter, her thumb holding her place in a copy of Armageddon by Leon Uris. She wore overalls over a blue flannel shirt, her steel-colored hair was chopped short, and a pair of spectacles sat on the tip of her nose.
“I must have the wrong place,” said Thelma. “I’m looking for someone, an old friend I used to know. According to the phone book, this is where she lives.”
The other woman’s face opened in a sudden smile and she laid the novel aside. “I’ll just bet you’re Thelma,” she said, pointing. “I’ll just bet.”
Thelma was surprised to hear her name from this stranger’s mouth, but the other woman gave her no time to respond, plucking the receiver from a telephone on the counter and dialing seven digits. After a moment, she spoke into it. “You have a visitor down here,” she said, a note of mischief in her voice.
The woman listened for a moment and then said, “No, I didn’t get the name.” A conspiratorial wink at Thelma. “Why don’t you hurry on down?”
She lowered the receiver and came around the counter, still smiling, her hand extended. “I’m Joan Berglund,” she said. “Joanie to my friends.”
Thelma was still confused. “So, this is the right address?” she said, as her hand was swallowed in the bigger woman’s beefy grasp. “Flora Lee Gadsen lives here?”
Joanie nodded. “We have our apartment upstairs.”
She seemed unable to stop grinning. “So, you’re Thelma,” she said. “I swear, I feel like I know you already. I told Flora you’d show up here. She didn’t believe me, but I told her you would.”
This was even more confusing. “How did you know I would—”
She was cut off by the sound of her own name, spoken from behind her in a tone of disbelief. “Thelma?”
Thelma turned and saw her standing at the bottom of a spiral staircase that descended from the ceiling into the center of the room, her mouth agape as if she could not believe what she was being told by her own eyes.
It had been twenty-two years, but Thelma would have known Flora Lee anywhere. Still the same thin, small woman with no lips and a little too much nose. All that had changed was that the haunted look had gone from her eyes and she stood straighter than had been her habit, no longer carrying herself as if in perpetual apology for taking up space and consuming air.
These were the only observations Thelma had time to make. Then, the two women were in one another’s arms, crying and laughing. Flora Lee held her so tightly that Thelma thought she might never let go. Her own embrace was just as fierce.
Joanie Berglund stepped quietly past them and went to the door. She turned the latch, and then flipped over the sign hanging in the window. The invitation to “Come in, we’re OPEN” became an apology instead: “Sorry, we’re CLOSED.”
In the center of the room, Thelma and Flora Lee were still clinging to one another. “Why don’t we go upstairs and have some tea?” Joanie suggested. “Seems like the two of you have a lot to talk about.”
Moments later, as a kettle steeped on a hot plate in the kitchenette, Thelma sat in an armchair facing the couch where Flora Lee and Joanie had settled themselves. Up here in this efficiency apartment, as downstairs in the store itself, books were stacked everywhere. And what surfaces weren’t covered by books were covered by more of those crocheted dolls in all skin tones and national outfits from around the world. “You did these?” asked Thelma, examining a dark-skinned doll with button eyes and a kente cloth dress.
Flora Lee nodded happily. “We sell ’em in the store. Folk can’t get enough of ’em.”
“This is where you live?” Thelma’s eyes fell upon the single, rumpled bed in the corner.
Another happy nod. “Joanie is my very special friend,” she said.
Thelma was not shocked. Living in New York all these years, she had encountered many women—and men, too, for that matter—who preferred the company of their own sex. And surely, being married to Earl Ray Hodges would be more than enough to make any woman swear off men for good.
“You look happy,” she told Flora Lee. “I’m glad.”
“Thank you, Thelma. I am happy. First time in my life, really.”
The kettle began to whistle and as Joanie got up to attend to it, Thelma said, “That takes a load off my mind. I’ve always felt bad about the last time I saw you. I mean, when I said we couldn’t be friends anymore.”
Flora Lee’s face softened. “Thelma,” she said, “I don’t know why you worry about that. I told you then and I’ll tell you again: I don’t blame you for that. I don’t think I’d want to be friends either with somebody who brought Mr. Earl Ray Hodges into my life. May he rest in damnation.”
“Amen,” said Thelma. “I mean, I’m a preacher’s wife, so I probably shouldn’t feel that way. But amen.”
“Preacher’s wife?” Flora Lee drew her legs up beneath her as if in anticipation of a good story.
“Uh uh,” said Thelma. “You first. What have you been doing? How did you two meet?”
At that question, Flora Lee shot a sidelong glance at Joanie, who was returning with a tray on which rested a porcelain tea kettle, matching cups, and a selection of tea cakes. Joanie laughed as Flora Lee began clearing books from the coffee table. “We met in prison,” she said as she lowered the tray.
“Prison?” Thelma didn’t think to hide her surprise.
Joanie nodded as she began filling the teacups. “I killed my husband, too,” she said as she handed one to Thelma.
Thelma stammered, “I … um … okay,” and then fell silent, because she had no idea what else to say.
Joanie laughed. “It’s all right,” she said, pouring her own cup and snatching up one of the tea cakes. “I promise you, I’m not a crazed serial murderess. But neither am I ashamed of what I did. I killed Woodrow Chapelle because I couldn’t abide that man hitting me one more day.”
“He beat you?”
“Beat me?” Joanie laughed again. “Honey, Woody used me as his personal speed bag for seventeen years. Split lip, black eyes, lost teeth, bruised spleen, broken orbital bone, you name it, I’ve had it. Folks at the emergency room must have thought I was the clumsiest woman in the world, all the times I told them I fell down the steps or walked into the door. Of course, they had to know what was really going on. They’d have been crazy not to. They just didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
“And then, one day, sitting there with my nose bleeding all down my dress, I decided I’d had enough. Just like that: I’ve had enough. I wasn’t as bold as our friend here, though,” she added with a fond glance toward Flora Lee. “I didn’t shoot the bastard in the neck. A little rat poison in his sloppy joe did the trick. Kind of wish I had shot him, though,” she mused. “It would have been a kindness. I didn’t particularly like seeing him suffer the way he did, much as he deserved it.”
Flora Lee said, “When we got to comparin’ notes, it was like we had lived the same life. Neither one of us was the prettiest gal in town, neither one of us sufferin’ from an overabundance of confidence, both of us easy prey for the first smooth talker who come around with flattery and flowers.”
“And then we marry ’em and they treat us more like sparring partners than wives,” added Joanie.
“Same life,” repeated Flora Lee. “That’s why in prison we started calling ourselves twin sisters.”
Thelma remembered the sign. “The bookstore … ”
Flora Lee nodded. “We tell people we’re fraternal twins—you know, twins that don’t look alike. And that way, they don’t mind that we’re livin’ up here together, ’cause they don’t realize we’re actually just two horny old broads sharing the same bed. At least, most of ’em don’t. I’m sure some of ’em—the women especially—are too smart to be fooled. They just don’t say nothin’.”
“I can’t imagine that would go over too well,” said Thelma.
Flora Lee’s eyebrows went up. “In Alabama? Hell, no.”
“I saw you looking in the display window,” said Joanie, “so you know that we sell all kinds of books. But the truth is, that’s just to pay the bills and give us cover. Our true purpose is to sell books that help women like the ones we used to be, help them discover themselves and figure out how to be a whole human being without necessarily needing—or wanting—to be defined by a man.”
“You mean that section of books I saw downstairs,” said Thelma. “‘Women’s Liberation.’”
“Exactly,” said Joanie. “You should see the way some of these poor little housewives sneak in here and whisper that they want a copy of Betty Friedan’s book. All the while looking over their shoulder to see who might be listening. You’d think we were selling pornography. But I’ll tell you what we’re really selling. We’re selling change.”
Flora Lee nodded. “First time in my life,” she said, “I feel like I’m doing something important. Something that matters. I ain’t never felt that before.”
“I’m so happy for you,” said Thelma. “You’ve certainly come a long way.”
“Thank you,” said Flora Lee, with a little mock bow. “But that’s enough about me. It’s your turn. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Thelma obliged, sketching out the broad contours of her life since leaving Alabama. She told the two women about George’s impulsive Christmas Eve proposal and her equally impulsive acceptance, about moving up to New York City, about the lean years when he was studying for the ministry while she was working her way through college. About Adam, who should be graduating from City University this spring, except that he had taken the semester off to work on the voting rights campaign over in Selma.
“He was on that bridge,” she said, “and the state troopers knocked him senseless. My brother had to go get him out of the hospital.”
“He’s a handsome boy,” said Joanie. “You should be proud.”
It stopped Thelma cold. “You’ve met Adam?”
Joanie looked surprised. “You didn’t know? We thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” asked Thelma.
Joanie’s expression turned uncertain. “He came by here”—she turned to Flora Lee—“when was that, honey?”
“Friday,” said Flora Lee. “Three days ago. He looked me up, same as you did. Came by, introduced himself, asked me if I would tell him about his father. You know, his real father, Earl. I ain’t thought too much about it. I figured he was just naturally curious and, you know, who else can he ask? So I answered all his questions. I was real honest with him. Told how he could be the most charmin’ fellow you ever met one minute, turn into a demon the next. Told how he hated colored people.”
“What else?” asked Thelma. Her skin felt tight.
“We thought you knew,” said Flora Lee. A helpless look toward Joanie.
“That’s why I told Flora Lee you’d be comin’ to visit her soon,” said Joanie. “I figured, if your son was in town, you wouldn’t be far behind.”
Thelma repeated the question. “Did he ask you anything else?”
“Well, he wanted to know ’bout how Earl … you know … raped you, and I told him about that, least as much as I knew.”
“Is that all?”
“Pretty much. He asked where Earl was from and I told him how we both grew up in Payton County in the north part of the state, where they do the coal mining. You know, Earl’s whole family is still up there, last I heard. One reason I’m down here, as far south as I can go without swimmin’.”
Flora Lee stopped all at once, a troubled expression seeping into her eyes. “Thelma, did I do wrong?”
The question surprised Thelma. It seemed to come from the old Flora Lee, the shy and hesitant one who always seemed to be asking permission just to be. Thelma reached across the table and covered her friend’s hand with her own. “No, honey,” she said, “of course not. Get that out your mind right now. He wanted some information about his biological father and who else could he ask?”
Flora Lee’s expression had turned dubious. “I just feel like there’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me,” she said.
Thelma wished she had a cigarette. She sighed. “He didn’t know about the rape,” she said. “I never told him. I never knew how. He’s grown up thinking George is his natural father.”
“But he knew about it when he came here. He’s the one brought it up.”
“George’s brother, Nick,” said Thelma. “He never liked George marrying a colored woman. In fact, they haven’t spoken in twenty years. He saw Adam at the rest home where they were visiting Johan. You remember him. He was your lawyer?”
Flora Lee nodded. “I remember.”
“Well, Nick and George got into it and Adam jumped in, told Nick to leave his father alone. And Nick, that bastard, he told my son”—Thelma paused, eyes stinging, lips pursed angrily—“‘Little nigger, I never even met your father.’”
Flora Lee’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord. That poor boy.”
Thelma nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I probably should have told him myself at some point, but I didn’t know how. Like you say, it’s not easy for me to talk about. But now, he’s learned it in the worst way possible. He sneaked out of my brother’s house Friday. He went to Nick’s house, but thankfully, he couldn’t get in and then, I guess, he came here. Nobody’s seen him in three days. That’s why I flew down here in the first place. I need to talk to him. I need to explain.”
“Thelma, I’m so sorry. If I’d known, I would never have opened my big mouth.”
Thelma shook her head. “It’s not your fault. If it’s anybody’s it’s mine.”
“Or this guy Nick,” said Joanie. “He sounds like a real piece of work.”
“I’ve never met him,” said Thelma. “For his sake, I hope I never do.”
“So, what are you going to do now?” asked Flora Lee.
“Well, Adam called Saturday. He told my brother that he’s going back to Selma. You know, they’re planning another voting rights march.”
“Good for them,” said Joanie. “It’s terrible how they treated those people on that bridge.”
“I’m going up there,” said Thelma. “I just need to see my son, you know? I just need to talk to him.”
“He’ll be all right,” said Flora.
“I hope,” said Thelma.
“No, really,” said Flora Lee, and now she was the one who took Thelma’s hand. Her eyes locked Thelma’s. “You remember what I told you last time I saw you?”
Thelma nodded. “I was just thinking about it this morning,” she said. “You told me I was going to be all right. You said we were both going to be all right.”
“I believe that,” said Flora. “Especially for you. You’re a good person, Thelma Mae. I don’t think you even realize how rare that is. I might not even be here if it wasn’t for you. You gave me a place to go when I needed to get away from Earl and you did it even when you knew it was dangerous, even when your friends told you not to. I never forgot that. I never will. I can never thank you enough.”
“Flora Lee, that’s very kind,” began Thelma, beginning to draw back her hand.
But Flora Lee wouldn’t let it go. “No,” she said. “I need you to listen to me. I’ve thought about this for years, I’ve practiced what I’d say if I ever saw you again and now you’re here, I’m going to say it. I know what you been through, Thelma. I hate that you went through it for me. I didn’t deserve it; I’ve always known that. But you, doin’ what you did for me, it made me want to be better, it made me want to do better. If that’s the effect you’ve had on my life, I can only imagine the effect you’ve had on that boy of yours.”
Thelma felt speared by her gaze. Flora Lee said, “I believe God’s got his special people, Thelma, his people that make everything around them better. And I believe you’re one of them. That’s why I told you twenty years ago you were going to be all right. And I was going to be all right, too, just from knowing you. And I was right, wasn’t I? Look at you: got your law degree, livin’ with your husband up there in New York. Me and Joanie, runnin’ our bookstore down here in Mobile, sellin’ Betty Friedan books to these poor housewives. We all came out all right, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” said Thelma. She felt a trickle from her eye, wiped at it with her free hand. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay then,” said Flora Lee, “if I knew what I was talkin’ about way back in 1943, then I know it now. So you hear me when I tell you, Thelma. Your son? He’s going to be just fine. Everything with you and him is going to be just fine. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Thelma.
“Okay,” said Flora Lee. She finally released Thelma’s hand and sat back. “Okay,” she said again.
“Well, all right,” said Joanie.
They sat another forty-five minutes, talking, remembering, laughing. For Thelma, it felt as if a boil had been lanced, as if something poisonous had leeched out of her. When Joanie turned the closed sign back around, and she gave Flora Lee a last hug and walked back out onto the street, Thelma felt a sense of lightness—even hope—that she had not known since she got the call from George telling her about the run-in with his brother. Indeed, she had not known this feeling since before Adam first snuck off to this cradle of her nightmares. She breathed and it felt like the first time in forever.
And then she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stood stock-still.
Thelma would never know how she made the leap she did in that moment. She would never be able to explain how the knowledge came to her. There was no thread of logic that led her to it, no sudden revelation that made her say, “Aha!” No, the truth was, one moment, it wasn’t there and the next, it was, obvious as neon. And suddenly, she knew.
It was a lie. Adam had not gone to Selma.
That boy, that foolish boy, had gone up to Payton County in search of Earl Ray. Or at least, of Earl Ray’s family. And that left her no choice. She would have to go there, too.