WHILE AGNES DROVE HOME, SHE FEARED A CARLOAD OF white men might be following her. At one corner, she took an unexpected turn. When they went straight, she was relieved, but a few blocks later, they were behind her again. She tried not to think about it. Just don’t go down any dark alleys, she told herself. You be all right. She knew sometimes a Negro was followed and nothing happened. It was their way of keeping people off balance.
It wasn’t usual to see a car full of white men in the Miles neighborhood. Surely they didn’t object to a harmless middle-aged woman trying to get a GED. Maybe they didn’t see it that way. Maybe they were part of the bullhorn gang.
Well, her car was cooled off enough, she could roll up the window.
Wrong about that! Within two blocks, the car was an oven without any fresh air. At the next stop sign, she reached her hand down in her shopping bag to pull out a Jesus fan. It was the Good Shepherd, her favorite. She drove with one hand and fanned with the other. Occasionally she glanced in the rearview mirror.
Still there, but farther back. Or maybe that was a different car. It was dropping on back, thank the Lord.
She wished she could have books to take home to study on. She missed the science class, and she hoped Miss Cat was all right. Those words for the bones were hard to remember, except the upper arm bone, the humerus. The funny bone, Miss Cat had said. She was a good teacher. But it was Miss Stella who was the fanatic. She just went over and over the lesson. Not, he “don’t.” Instead, he “doesn’t.” Miss Stella said, “I know it doesn’t sound right to you. But if we say it over and over, it will start to sound right. You’ve just got to memorize it for now, and trust me.”
Just young girls but they were trying to help out. Agnes decided to step on the gas a little more. I’ll just widen the gap. But she couldn’t restrain her toe, how it wanted to press down, press down. The tree trunks on the sides of the street were zipping by in a blur.
Suddenly their brights were bouncing into the mirror and into her eyes. She heard them gun the engine, gather speed. They might try to make her run into a tree.
“Lord Jesus,” she said aloud. “Into thy hands.” And she gripped the steering wheel. She put on the brake, as though it could stop this from happening.
Noise big as a freight train, horn blaring they bore down on her.
And swerved safely around.
Her car shuddered to a dead halt. Their red taillights were disappearing down the dark street. They were putting on the gas. Speeding away. She hadn’t been shot. No eggs or nothing thrown on the car. They were just gone.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
But she was shaking. Both feet were on the brake pedal. She’d killed the motor. As fast as she could, she pressed in the clutch, turned the key, gave a little gas. Not to flood, Lord, not to flood. And she was slowly letting out the clutch, and she was moving forward. As she drove, she cautiously swept her head from side to side. Sweep clean, sweep clean. They done gone. Swing low, sweet chariot.
In ten minutes, she would be home. TJ would be at work, but she’d call her neighbor to come over and sit with her till her nerves quieted. Maggie would read the Bible and pray with her. Then they’d get to talking about church or sewing circle. They’d drink ice tea and stir it round with the long-handled teaspoons. Her hands were sweating so bad, the steering wheel was slippery. Maggie and she would have a nice evening till bedtime. She’d go right to sleep; she always did, and she’d wake up to TJ making a pot of coffee.
Honestly, she didn’t care if the world changed or not. The white people she had always known were good enough. They spoke softly, cherished politeness. But now these strange, mean ones coming out of the woodwork. She just wanted to get her education and then a new job. She rolled her window down to get a breath of night air. God would make society change in his own good time. In the meantime, it was getting a good job that mattered. She would better herself. Let other folks better themselves, if they had the gumption. She rolled the window down six inches. Some kind of job for her to add to TJ’s and they’d work and save maybe twenty more years, retire, and then they’d be done. She didn’t want to cause trouble.
“You-all barking up the wrong tree,” she said out loud to the empty street before her.
WHEN SHE GOT HOME, TJ opened the door before she could get out her key.
His face was troubled. Sad.
She put her arms around him. But what was wrong? Then he took her hand and led her to the sofa.
“Are you all right, darling?” he asked her.
“Just fine.”
“Two things happened this afternoon,” he said. He held up two fingers in a V, as though she couldn’t count. She reached out and caught his hand in hers. She brought his two knuckles to her lips and kissed them.
“One was that I tried to register to vote this afternoon. I went down with the redheaded white man who spoke at church. Mr. Green.”
“Did you make it?” She felt a rush of pride and hope.
“No. I failed to put a comma between the day and the year. I can try again in a month.”
“That’s not so bad,” she said. And then it just blurted out of her, “Did you get to the part to put down our address?”
“Yes,” he said. His voice was solid and polished. It reminded her of hickory wood—strong and smooth. Just what it was, nothing fancy. She loved him almost to idolatry.
“Let’s go on to bed, then,” she said. “I got mixed up and thought you’d be at work tonight. I’m tired out.” She glanced at him to see if she might tell now. “I had a little scare,” she added.
“Wait,” he said. “There was two things I gots to tell you. Number two is this evening I lost my job.”
“TJ!”
He didn’t speak. While he just looked into her eyes, she found an answering awareness rising in her. He was the steadiest man in the world. It had never crossed her mind to worry that he might lose his job. And then the two pieces of news ticked like a clock in her brain: vote, job. Tried to vote; lost his job.
“ ’Cause you tried to register?” she said.
“I believe so.”
“That fast?”
“Let’s sit on the sofa,” he said. Still holding her hand, he took her to the couch. “They all connected, these white people. I put down where I worked. I had to.”
“Bankhead Hotel—why’d they say you let go?” She was relieved to be off her feet.
“They say…” He paused to gather the story in his mind. He always took his time, Agnes thought. Got things straight, told it true. He licked his lips and spoke quietly, staring at the floor. “First, Mr. Armstrong say, ‘We want a younger man.’ And I say, ‘I’m a veteran. I done fought two wars.’ And then Mr. Armstrong say, ‘That’s what I told Mr. McCormick.’ And I say, ‘You question him?’ ‘Yes, I did,’ he says. I just look at him and he look at me, and the whole thing start to dawn on me. Then I say, ‘I’d like to speak to Mr. McCormick. He in?’ And Mr. Armstrong say, ‘I phone upstairs and tell him. I don’t know, but I’ll tell him.’ Meanwhile I straighten my tie, shine my shoes just like I’m going on the job. Then Mr. McCormick himself come busting through the door, talking ’fore I can say anything. He say, ‘I know you fought, TJ, and got honorable discharge, but I can’t have any nigras what want to stir up trouble. Now if you want to take a week off to think, and then come back, you might get your job back.’ ”
Agnes squeezed his arm, “Well, it’ll be all right then.”
“What I said to him: ‘Well, reckon this is good-bye then. After ten years and never a minute late and never a day sick.’ And I walked out.”
Agnes uncoiled like a jack-in-the-box. She threw herself on her husband and covered his face with kisses. “Oh, honey, oh, honey,” she said over and over. “I just so proud of you.” She commenced to sob. She put her head down on her knees and sobbed like the dam had broken. He rubbed her back, gently pressed into her muscles with his fingertips. Finally she looked up, her face running with tears, and said, “I married me a man. I didn’t marry no nigger.”