WHEN FRED SHUTTLESWORTH ARRIVED, KING AND ABERNATHY weren’t at the Gaston Motel, and Shuttlesworth had to admit to himself how exhausted he was. His sedated body could barely walk. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but he had to climb into the Gaston Motel bed for a moment, rest a bit. He hardly had the strength to draw up his legs onto the bed, and as soon as he lay down, Andy Young was saying they wanted him to go over to John Drew’s house.
They ought to come to him.
But King was the magnet, pulling him off the bed.
TRAVELING IN THE CAR wore him out more. When Shuttlesworth arrived, he had to lean on his wife to get into the room. They looked at him as though he was a ghost rose from the dead.
(Why hadn’t they come to the hospital to visit him? Jesus had said, “I was sick and ye visited me.” Even Jesus knew how humans longed for human comfort. Not to be all alone.)
There was Burke Marshall, white man sent down from Washington. Assistant attorney general, next in power to RFK.
From the time when he, Shuttlesworth, first invited King to come to Birmingham, Fred Shuttlesworth had known what King wanted—to regain his leadership after Albany, Georgia. Too few folks willing to protest in Albany. Too reasonable a police chief. No Bull Connor in Albany foaming at the mouth like a mad dog.
Surely it was farther away than just across the room that Fred saw his friends now. Felt like he was only creeping toward them, way over there ’cross the room. Felt like his bones were trying to explain it all to them, but really he was just concentrating to make his bones move. Focusing on covering the distance. There was King, looking defeated.
Maybe King was finally realizing, now when it was too late, that Albany couldn’t have worked for him. Trial and error. Wasn’t any blueprint to tell how to do what they were trying to do in the South. For the South. You had to learn what made the time ripe for victory. For the country. In Albany, Georgia, nobody had done the groundwork good enough, as he, Shuttlesworth, had done in Birmingham, so that enough people would join in the protests.
Yes, now King had got Washington’s attention, through Birmingham. King was standing on the ground Shuttlesworth had prepared for him. When Shuttlesworth made it across the room, he would tell him, quietly:No need to be dejected.
No need because your John the Baptist has prepared the way. Alabama is tilled soil. Seed been dropped and watered. Take the harvest! Take the harvest, man!
King might be national now, but while Shuttlesworth was walking slowly toward him, holding on to Ruby, King was staring out past the well-to-do antique silk curtains as though he, King, didn’t want to look the local working-class leader in the eye.
King ought to work on that, Shuttlesworth thought, look any man white or black, anytime, square in the eye. And so what was it about King that was so compelling?
I got to make it to the chair ’fore I collapse.
One foot in front of the other. Oh, he knew. One foot in front…He might grumble about King’s style, pick at him, but Fred Shuttlesworth knew there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t forgive the man. He loved the man—that was what he needed to tell him. Needed to give him love.
King was speaking to him, but what was Shuttlesworth hearing? What was King saying to him: “Fred, we got to call off the demonstrations.”
No, Fred thought, I must have heard wrong. He felt woozy in the head, his ribs hurt, the medicine confused him. But Martin couldn’t have said what he thought he heard.
“Say that again, Martin?”
And King said it again, that the white merchants couldn’t negotiate in the middle of demonstrations. The leadership in the black community had to call off the demonstrations.
Now Shuttlesworth’s heart leapt in him. Now fury rose like a volcano. “You can’t call them off because you ain’t called nothing on.”
He wanted to sound more reasonable, but King was going to throw it all away, throw away all Shuttlesworth’s years of work and pain. Shuttlesworth tried to slow down, just remind King who was the invited party here, but the words boiled out: “And you and I promised that we would not stop demonstrating until we had the victory.” (But he knew King was the Man of the Hour. The way Burke Marshall looked at Martin Luther King Jr. was enough to say that.)
Bitter, Shuttlesworth tried to get up from his chair. Yes, now he was sitting in a chair. “If you want to go against our promise, Martin, you go ahead and do it.” Now he’d got his control back in his voice. “But I will not call it off. And if you do call it off”—his battered, sedated, weary body pleaded with him, but he ignored it—“I’m gonna lead the last demonstration with what little last ounce of strength I got.”
But Fred Shuttlesworth couldn’t get up. He fell back in his chair. Here was Abernathy. Here was his old friend Ralph Abernathy, kneeling down to talk to him, voice so soothing. “Fred, we went to school together. We can talk. Can’t I talk with you, Fred?”
“Ralph, get up off your damn knees.”
But somebody was talking about a press conference, an imminent press conference, and that couldn’t be right either: “Oh, you’ve called a press conference, did you?” Shuttlesworth accused, collapsed as he was in his chair. They’d have to say this about him: Shuttlesworth was plainspoken; he’d said all of it right to King’s downcast face. History would say that.
But Martin was suffering.
Shuttlesworth could see the strain in Martin: Martin wanted to lead, still he also wanted to cooperate, be part of a democratic group. But leadership was more important than fellowship or cooperation, finally.
He, Shuttlesworth, had to corner King. The truth had to be said: “I thought we were always going to make joint statements.” His voice was firm, penetrant as ever, accusing (they would have to remember that, Abernathy, Burke, Drew, Young, wife Ruby—but he couldn’t even lift a finger to point. The arm of the expensive chair would have to remember that; a chair belonging to John Drew would have to remember how the exhausted hand had lain on the upholstery, the finger outstretched to accuse, but unlifted.)
King’s face went stoic. He had to endure what had to be said.
“You go ahead with your press conference,” Shuttlesworth said. “Go ahead, Mr. Big. I’m going home, get in bed.”
While he strove to get his feet under him, to push out of the chair, there was sudden telephone talk with Washington. They must have had a hot line, these national ones. They were telling Washington, “We hit a snag…. The frail one is hanging things up.”
Frail? You can’t be frail with the power of truth, bitter as gall, red-hot as molten iron, rolling through your body.
“Burke,” King pleaded, “we just got to have unity.” King said it because he knew it was true.
(Oh, King’s voice, the tremor in it: no angel could speak more sincere. Not angry. King was accepting the pain. Knowing his flaws, but seeing the light. Leading the way. No doubt King was the most chosen of God, was given the soul and special moral character that made his voice vibrant with humility, made you revere his leadership, even if you thought he was buckling under. A great soul was in that voice.)
Burke Marshall, down from Washington, D.C., took the cue. He said, “Don’t worry, Fred, they’re going to agree to what you say.”
Uh! Shuttlesworth struggled upright, walked through that nice house.
Ruby was beside him, helping him to the car. His own children, his wife, would stand with him. He knew national coverage wasn’t enough. Might be enough for King, but not enough for him, or those who’d endured with him for seven years through beatings, arrests, bombings. His church bombed three times. He’d talk to the youth; he’d talk to the hard-core activists. Maybe he’d telephone that white girl, Marti Turnipseed. Minister’s daughter. She wouldn’t back down.