twenty
Detroit, June 1963
Nora slid past nine sets of knees, gripping the backs of the chairs in the row ahead to keep her balance. She could sense William’s hand at the small of her back, ready to steady her, but not touching. Haunted by the warning she had felt in that man Derek’s voice, Nora had suggested that they maintain a platonic facade in public. William had agreed, so that while they might kiss tenderly behind curtained windows, they avoided eye contact in certain parts of town. It kept things simpler, even if it didn’t stop the sometimes quizzical and often disgusted looks they got from strangers when they walked down the street or sat in a movie theater together.
Now as they found their seats by Bianca and J.J. in the packed auditorium of Cobo Hall, Nora felt eyes upon her. It was an odd sensation to be the minority—one she still wasn’t used to. There were other white people there, but they were outnumbered more than ten to one, and in an auditorium that seated twenty-five thousand people, that ratio was on full display.
It had taken William some time to convince Nora to attend the speech, let alone to take part in the freedom march down Woodward. It was one thing to break with convention in the privacy of her own apartment or William’s house. It was quite another to make a public spectacle of herself.
“It’s just walking down a street,” he’d said through playful kisses.
“It isn’t and you know it.”
“I know you got legs.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you can do it.”
“No,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see myself marching—for anything. It’s not this cause—you know it’s not. It’s any cause.”
William sighed. “No one’s asking you to hold a sign or chant a slogan or do anything but walk.”
“Balsams don’t march. We mind our own business. We don’t protest. We don’t make a fuss.”
“That’s because you’ve got nothing to make a fuss about.”
Some variation of this conversation had occurred three evenings in a row. Most nights now, when William got out of work, Nora would put together a simple meal of sandwiches or soup and salad. They’d eat, drink, listen to records, and share their most intimate thoughts, digging themselves ever deeper into a love from which they were helpless to escape. But when news of the march and the rally filtered through William’s community, it brought with it cold reality, unwelcome and unavoidable.
She finally broke down the night before at the Rich house when William said, “Listen, this is your business because I’m asking you to do it for me, not for everyone else or the cause. For me. If I’m going to photograph this event, I need you to be another set of eyes and hands. Gonna be all sorts of stuff going on and I don’t want to miss a good shot. I’ve got a good chance of selling some photos of this event. Will you help me?”
And so she had reluctantly submerged herself in the river of souls flowing down Woodward from the headwaters at Adelaide to the restless, eddying pool at Cobo Hall. She settled into the seat next to Bianca and leaned toward her rather than William. Few in Detroit would look askance at a white woman and a black woman who were casual friends. And she had to believe that this crowd would be as sympathetic as they came. The hubbub continued as people found their seats, then the lights dimmed, twenty-five thousand voices hushed, and a kind-eyed, impeccably dressed man strode on stage to vigorous applause.
“That’s Reverend Franklin from New Bethel Baptist Church,” Bianca said over the clapping.
Nora nodded blankly.
“Aretha Franklin’s father,” Bianca clarified.
That name Nora could identify. The new singer was making some waves in Detroit, and her powerful voice could often be heard coming from the Riches’ record player. But Rev. Franklin wasn’t who they had come to see, and he seemed to know that, wasting little time introducing the man of the hour.
“And now, my friends, let the trumpets sound, let the bells ring, let the drums roll. Lay out the red carpet. Here he comes: America’s beloved freedom fighter, Martin Luther King!”
The crowd erupted. Nora fixed her eyes upon the man. He seemed to fill the hall with a quiet dignity that was larger than he was. His voice had a leisurely, plodding cadence only acquired in the South. It was difficult for him to say much more than a sentence or two without interruption from the jubilant audience. Nora tried to settle into the steady exchange of carefully chosen words and rapturous applause. From all directions, the powerful thrum of clapping resonated, so different in quality than the measured applause at the symphony. Voices called out “All right” and “Uh-huh” and “Mm-hmm.” To her right, William leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the stage. To her left, Bianca nodded rhythmically in affirmation. Beside his mother, J.J. slumped back in his chair, hands dangling off the armrests.
And as King’s words rolled over her, Nora found herself nodding in her heart, if not her head.
“We’ve got to come to see,” he said, “that the problem of racial injustice is a national problem. No community in this country can boast of clean hands in the area of brotherhood. Now in the North it’s different in that it doesn’t have the legal sanction that it has in the South. But it has its subtle and hidden forms and it exists in three areas: in the area of employment discrimination, in the area of housing discrimination, and in the area of de facto segregation in the public schools. And we must come to see that de facto segregation in the North is just as injurious as the actual segregation in the South.”
Nora was still trying to process these words when pounding waves of applause engulfed her.
“That’s right,” William said.
“All right,” Bianca said.
Even J.J. sat up straight and shouted, “Yeah!”
“And so,” King went on, “if you want to help us in Alabama and Mississippi and all over the South, do all that you can to get rid of the problem here.”
He went on to speak of marching on Washington; of sacrifice, imprisonment, and death; and of dreams and dignity. On all sides, bodies shifted in their seats, hands clapped, and heads nodded until the entire mass of people seemed to vibrate in anticipation of something big. Each wave of clapping and shouting pushed the words deeper into Nora’s heart.
As King came to the end of his speech and quoted a song she had never sung in her reserved Presbyterian church, Nora felt that someone had turned on a light. She understood the run-down houses in William’s neighborhood, the cautious kindness his mother had shown to her during the past six weeks, the way J.J. looked at her when she parked her Corvette in front of their house. She knew why that Derek fellow had been so opposed to her presence in William’s arms. She knew without a doubt that she would not have said yes if William had asked her on a date. She knew that the reason she had not told her parents she was seeing him was more than that he was a particular man who had angered her father. She had been afraid of the judgments they would make about her intelligence, morals, and common sense. She knew she was a coward.
And she knew she had to make it right.
Late that night, when she and William lounged on the couch listening to Chico Hamilton on the hi-fi, Nora gathered her courage.
“William, where do you think this is going?”
“I think it’s going to Washington’s where I think it’s going. I think we’re finally going to see some real change.”
She sat up and turned to face him. “That’s not what I mean. I mean us.”
“Oh.” Concern settled on his face. “Well, I hope it’s going somewhere. Hope it’s not going away.”
She smiled to reassure him. “Me too.”
“Good.”
She leaned back in his arms and talked to the ceiling. “Only that speech got me thinking.”
“If it didn’t, I’d be worried about you.”
“I think we should get married.”
He sat up. “Say what?”
Nora frowned at him. “You don’t think we should?”
“Well, no. I mean, I do. I just thought maybe I’d be the one to do the asking. Eventually.”
She smiled, relieved. “When?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think you were ready for that question yet. And I sure don’t think your family’s ready for it.”
Nora shook her head. “They’ll never be ready. We can’t wait for that.”
“Fair enough.” He took her hands in his. “So what you thinking?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Tomorrow? Are you crazy?”
“No. I just don’t see a reason to wait. My parents aren’t going to pay for it no matter what. There’s no planning needed. All we need is us and a couple witnesses.”
“For real?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her sideways. “You sure you’re not just high on Martin Luther King?”
She tugged at his hands. “I want to marry you. I don’t care what my parents say. I don’t care what other people say. I just want to be with you.”
“Stop and think a minute, Nora. Think of what you’d be giving up. No wedding dress. No cake. No dancing. No gifts.”
“I know.”
“And that’s just that day. What about your parents? Are they going to be Grandma and Grandpa to our kids? They even going to talk to you anymore?”
She couldn’t let herself think about that. “They’ll come around if they’re forced to.”
“Psh. I bet they said the same thing about the Confederates when they lost the war, and those white boys down South still ain’t come around in a hundred years.”
Her confidence faltered, but just for a moment. “William, every hour I’m with you, that’s the best hour of my day.”
He pulled her into his arms. “Mine too, baby.”
They sat for a moment, lost in silent thoughts of an uncertain future.
“Okay, Nora,” William finally said. “Let’s get married.”
The next afternoon, Nora stood in a pale pink dress beside William before a justice of the peace, vowing to devote her life to a man she had known for three months. She pushed every anxious thought from her mind, but her hands were still sweating and her stomach churned. Behind them, Bianca and Diane witnessed the proceedings, both looking apprehensive and skeptical.
As they were waiting in the lobby for their turn, Diane had pulled Nora aside. “Are you out of your mind? You are committing suicide here. Social and familial suicide. Do you know what people will say about you?”
Nora fiddled with the corsage William had affixed to her dress. “Diane, I need your signature, not your opinions.”
“And if I give you that, how am I not also giving my blessing on this whole sordid affair? Your parents will hate me. My parents will hate me. You’re dragging me down with you into the gutter. Guilt by association.”
“Diane, I’m going to forgive you for that because we’ve been friends so long.”
“Don’t forgive me, just don’t do this,” Diane pleaded. “You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
Nora looked Diane in the eye. “I love him. If I don’t marry him, that’s what I would regret.” But she was talking more to herself than anyone else.
Diane had looked like she was about to respond when the clerk called out their names. They filed into the chamber, made their simple vows to one another before a sour-faced judge, and exchanged the simple gold bands they had bought that morning.
When the papers were all signed, Diane said, “Wish I could be a fly on the wall when your parents find out about this.” Then she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the hall like a fading heartbeat.
Bianca was more subtle. “I sure hope you two know what you’ve gotten yourselves into.”
William kissed her on the cheek. “We know.”
Bianca shook her head and looked at her brother the same way she looked at her impossible son. “I’m late for work.”
When it was just the two of them in that cold, empty hall, William tipped Nora’s face up to meet his. “Now then, Mrs. Rich, how about I take you back to your apartment—”
“Our apartment.”
“—our apartment, and you let me show you just how much I love you.”
Nora turned the shade of her dress and looked around to make sure no one had overheard.
“Don’t worry, baby. There’s no one here but us. It’s you and me against the world.”
Nora smiled. As long as she kept looking into those eyes, everything would work out just fine.
Wouldn’t it?