WHILE LIONEL WATCHED THE FLICKERING CANDLELIGHT from inside the H.O.P.E. classroom from a safe distance, he cursed himself. He had left the crippled girl in there, but she had pulled a gun on him. If the place blew up, he couldn’t say that she pulled a gun. The school was pledged to nonviolence. That was what the grant proposal to Washington had said: “In the tradition of Martin Luther King Jr. H.O.P.E. offers the opportunity to earn equality in the nonviolent quiet of the classroom.”
Lionel Parrish couldn’t believe somebody as helpless as Cat Cartwright would pack a gun. He’d seen how her hands wavered. She’d blow her own head off before she’d defend herself.
At his ear, Christine said, “It could go any second.” She grasped his hand.
“Yes.” He squeezed back. He didn’t want Christine running off to die. Gloria, that mouse. And Mrs. LaFayt, the meekest of the meek!
They stared across the campus. The low one-room brick building hunkered close to the earth. The columned portico looked stately to Lionel, as though it were quietly proud of itself. The students had stopped singing; the dim light still flickered from inside their classroom. A profound silence settled on the gathered group. He began to count his sheep. All the students stared at the building.
Impulsively, Lionel held up his hand and closed his eyes. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he said. “We pray for their lives. We pray for this campus and all the students, and for the buildings. We pray for peace and justice in Birmingham, and all of Alabama, and the world over, dear Lord. Give us courage. Give us wisdom. Help us to trust in Thee. Not our will, but Thine be done. In the name of Him who taught us to pray, ‘Our Father, Who art in Heaven….’ ” The group joined in the prayer. When Lionel opened his eyes the building was still there. He felt better.
At Lionel’s ear, Charlie Powers spoke. “Who’s that left inside? We ought to tell ’em to come on out.” His tone was manly—one man speaking to another.
“I tried,” Lionel said. “They insist on being where they are. They think the bomb call is a bluff.”
“We ought to do something,” Charlie insisted. “Tell ’em to come on out now.”
“I tried,” Lionel said again.
Stella said, “It’s just five minutes till school will be out for the night. They’ll come out then. That’s their point. Nothing is going to cut out school.” Every few moments, she flicked up her wrist to read her watch; the figures on it glowed a faint green.
Lionel wouldn’t let himself ask how much longer? The group fell silent and waited. As the minutes ticked by, he became increasingly angry. The person who telephoned was a white, a redneck woman. He hated to admit it, but she had sounded concerned for them. He had believed they were really in danger. And now these women still in the building, one of them with a gun, of all things. All over the South, women were trying to take over the leadership roles. But he didn’t want the school to close down in fear. Look what education was doing for Charlie Powers already.
Christine said, “Once they safe, everybody come over to my house. Let’s talk about what we can do. In Birmingham.”
“I can’t do that,” Lionel said. “As the director, I can’t be involved in any sort of planning of protests.” He dropped her hand.
“That’s okay, Mr. Parrish,” Christine said. “We understand.” When she touched his bare arm, her fingertips almost burned his flesh.
“I think it’s best just to continue what we’re doing,” he said. “Getting ready to take the GED.”
“If you want to, you can come over later,” Christine said.
Lionel reached over and lightly touched her. “Thank you. I’d like that. Cup of tea?”
Then Cat wheeled herself out onto the porch slab. The students clapped and hollered. Mrs. LaFayt emerged and stood beside her, clasping her purse to her stomach. All around Lionel, the students raised the volume of their approval. Gloria stood behind the chair, but nobody seemed to notice her. When Gloria tried to push Cat’s chair toward the step, Cat looked back at her, made a circling motion—“turn me around”—with her hand. Lionel saw nothing of the gun.
After Cat’s instructions to Gloria, Gloria turned the chair to take it down the one step backward, big wheels first.
“That’s right,” Stella murmured, as though she were there with them. “Backward.”
Lionel said, “You did the right thing, Stella, to obey me when I said evacuate. Don’t go making them into some kind of heroes.”
“Look,” Stella said, “that’s Jonathan Green.”
While the four figures moved off the porch, Lionel thought, It could blow yet. The white man was taking his sweet time. Cat’s group had no sense of urgency. A monstrous fire could billow orange through the door and onto the porch and steps. Engulfed by a huge impatience, Lionel shouted, “Hurry up! Hurry up!”
“We’re coming,” Mrs. LaFayt’s sweet voice called back to him through the hot night air. “We be there in a minute, Mr. Parrish.”
He led the group out to meet the brave ones, but now his relief was bigger than his shame.
THE WHOLE SCHOOL walked with Cat and Stella to their car. After the women were seated inside, and the wheelchair had been folded and hoisted into the trunk, the white man leaned his head into the car and spoke to Stella. Lionel leaned his head in on the passenger side and said to Cat, “You bring that thing to school again and you’re fired. No letter of recommendation, either.”
Cat smiled at him. “I won’t,” she said. And he could see she was sincere, way too pleased with herself, but sincere.
Then Lionel looked across the seat and introduced himself to the white man.
“Jonathan Green, voter registration,” he answered and thrust his arm past Stella to shake hands.
A New York Yankee, Lionel thought; he had a firm, warm hand. No sweat.
While they all watched the battered-up old car creep off the campus, Christine renewed her invitation to the students for a gathering at her place. Mrs. LaFayt said she needed to go home, and Lionel escorted her to her car.
When he stood alone at the circuit box with his hand on the big switch, he thought how just a half hour before, a white man had stood there. Evil leaves a presence, Lionel thought. He could almost smell the man—somebody stupid and poor. The tool of the rich white bosses. Somebody who didn’t even know he had been created to fight their battles for them. Somebody stood here ignorant of the industrialists’ fear of the unions, of their need for cheap bodies in dangerous places, of their need for replaceable black men in the steel mills. A man with no more mind than a robot had stood here and pulled switches. He had put his hand on the big switch not long before Lionel himself.
Lionel pulled the lever, but he wondered whose tool was he? A hum came over the campus, lights jumped on. Just a simple, functional metal handle made the change. Let there be light. Cool to the touch, the handle felt like a bony hand holding out a finger at him, pointing at him. Mr. Bones. Let there be bright light, the disembodied voice mocked sarcastically.
In the restored light, the hall stood barren. The cool handle of the lever still chilled Lionel’s hand. He made himself let go.
Survived again? Now tell me, what do you want most out of this dark night?
“Christine.”