JUST GETTING INSIDE THE WHITE PALACE, CAT THOUGHT, would be a partial victory. “Hold the door open, please, Charles, so Gloria and I can get in,” Cat said.
She wanted to be first. This time she wouldn’t hang back. She’d lead the way. She and Gloria would get settled before the others came in.
Cat wondered if Gloria knew anything about maneuvering a wheelchair. Well, Gloria had gotten her down the steps at school, once Cat told her to revolve the chair.
“We be in there with you soon,” Christine reassured. “You all get settled. Folks still gathering. We be there in five minutes.”
Cat was in no rush. No rush at all. Stella’s words still burned in her ear. I won’t do this, Cat. I’m going to work. Remember, Cat, I’m the survivor. I know what not to do. I’m begging you. Please don’t go. And Cat had simply replied that she’d call Gloria to come get her. She understood. She’d stalled, too, after the threat—the bullhorn voice in the dark.
So that her knuckles wouldn’t scrape the sides of the doors, Cat drew her hands in and put them in her lap. There ought to be laws about the width of doors into public places, Cat thought, to make them more easily accessible to people propelling their own wheelchairs. It always made her feel helpless to fold her hands passively over each other, to look down and see them nested in her lap.
Gloria had trouble pushing the chair over the threshold, though it wasn’t really any obstacle. The front wheels just tried to turn aside instead of bumping over. Gloria lacked confidence about managing the chair. Two bored countergirls watched them enter. At the end of the counter, a big man sat with a newspaper opened up wide. Usually men jumped up to help her with the slightest problem, but this man was absorbed in his reading. A gray satchel full of papers slumped on the floor beside the post for his counter stool.
Cat noticed the white hexagonals of the floor tile looked grimy. Judging the height of the counter stools, Cat knew she was going to have trouble getting up there. Even if she stood, the stool would be higher than her hip.
She could just see the headline: “Wheelchair Sit-In Sits in Wheelchair.” But that was too long for anybody’s headline. To Gloria, Cat remarked, “It’s obvious this place wasn’t set up for people in wheelchairs.”
“Looks like they’d have a table or two, doesn’t it?” Gloria replied. She sounded relaxed and friendly, almost like Arcola. Cat half listened for the crack of gum, but that really was Arcola’s trademark.
The pretty countergirl blurted out, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewheres?”
Cat said she didn’t know. “I don’t think so.”
The girl was unfamiliar, with brown hair done in a flip, like Stella’s. She wore a little white cap that was crenellated across the top to suggest a castle wall. The other countergirl was tall and looked strong; she looked like a country girl come into the city to work. Cat spoke to her. “You’re not from around Gadsden, are you?”
“Sylacauga,” the girl answered. She smiled, and a little gap showed between her front teeth. Cat had one just like it. She smiled back, showing her front teeth.
The other girl, the one with the flip hairstyle, said, “I know you. I know you from school.”
“Which school?” Cat asked. The girl seemed pushy. Cat really didn’t want to get in a conversation with her.
“P-H-S. Phillips High School. Only you was on crutches then.”
“I guess I stood out.”
“We all thought you was the smartest thing alive,” Miss Flip said.
Cat rolled up beside the high end-stool and set her brakes. “Gloria, would you come around to the front? Take my hands and pull?” Gloria tried, but she wasn’t firm enough, and Cat sank back into her chair. Humiliated, she glanced at them. The countergirls were staring. The man with the newspaper had lowered it a little so that just his eyes were peeking over the top.
“I can help you,” the bigger countergirl said. Her face was round and pleasant as a pie. “I used to help my old granny what was in a chair.”
Before Cat could decide how to respond, the big girl had her hands up under Cat’s armpits and lifted her up on the stool. “Steady now,” the strong girl said. Then she pinched Cat’s cheek. “Just want to be like everybody else sometimes, don’t you, hon.”
Awave of fury swept over Cat, but it was followed by a bigger wave of gratitude. She put her hands flat on the counter to help her with her balance.
“Gloria, you can fold up the chair and put it against the wall,” she said. “Stand up the cushion, grab the seat sling, and pull up.”
With her hands on her hips, the big girl watched Gloria struggle, then she said, “I know how.” She brushed Gloria aside, released the slide on the cross braces, grabbed the seat in the middle, and jerked up. The big wheels moved closer together. She stood the cushion up on one end, between the wheels. “ ’Bout time for a change on that cushion cover,” the girl said. While Cat felt her cheeks blush with shame, the girl dusted her hands together.
Her old classmate Miss Flip said, “I still remember your name—Kittycat Cartwright.”
“It’s just Cat, now. This is Gloria Callahan.”
Because they assumed she was Cat’s maid, neither of the girls acknowledged Gloria, nor did they offer their own names. Cat didn’t think it was intentional rudeness. They each just assumed that Gloria knew enough: they were the white countergirls.
“Did you go to college?” Miss Flip asked.
“Yes. I work at Miles College now.”
“That’s the colored college.” She looked puzzled.
“Yes, it is,” Cat said, and she was pleased with herself. Just that simple, it was just that simple to let people know where you stood. But she could tell her heart was speeding up. She felt a little dizzy. Suppose she fell off the high stool? If she did, she hoped ruefully that it was just a leg that she broke.
Her classmate was shaking her head. “I wouldn’t like that,” she said. “Couldn’t you get a job at a regular school?”
“No.”
Cat wondered if Gloria had known that she was a reject, not simply an activist. She glanced at Gloria, but she was looking down, effacing herself in the familiar way of Negroes who felt out of place. How many minutes? How many minutes had passed since they came in? Both Cat and Gloria glanced out the window. Standing with her back to them, Christine was speaking to a small group. Cat felt disappointed that the group was so small. Turning her body had unbalanced her, and she grasped the metal rim of her stool.
“Could we have two Palace-patties?” she asked.
“Two to go,” the girls sang out in unison.
“No, we’ll have ’em here.” Cat looked at Gloria. Cat hated to ask her to do it, but she said gently, “Don’t you want to sit down, Gloria?”
Quick as a wink, Gloria was on the stool. She flashed her green eyes just once at Cat. Gloria was pleased that Cat had helped her to do it; her eyes said thank you.
“I can’t serve her,” Miss Flip said. “You smart enough to know that, Kittycat.”
The country girl said, “We can make it, and she can take it outside to eat.”
Cat said sternly, “White Palace Grill sells to black folks but won’t seat them.”
They both just stared at her.
“Suppose she sat in my chair and ate a burger-to-go.”
“No,” her classmate said. “They can’t eat in here.”
The big girl had hastily put two patties on a waxed sheet and was about to wrap them. Cat could tell the country girl was scared. This was the sort of thing people had warned her might happen if she were foolish enough to go to the city to work.
“Do you like onion?” Cat quickly asked Gloria.
“Yes, please,” Gloria said, and she looked up.
Nervously, the country girl strewed diced onions over the meat and mashed the bread lids down. Her hands flew noisily over the waxed paper, folding it shut. She crammed the oval burgers into a white to-go bag and placed them on the counter in front of Cat.
“She can stand up in here,” the pretty classmate said, “but she can’t sit down anywhere.” She was trying to be nice, matter-of-fact.
“Of course the wheelchair is my property,” Cat said. “It doesn’t belong to White Palace.” She wished Christine would come in now.
The big girl babbled, “That chair is on White Palace floor.”
Gloria mumbled, “My feet are tired. I want to sit down.”
“What does she mean?” the country girl asked, almost hysterical. Her pleasant pie face was a mask of anxiety, and Cat felt guilty.
The newspaper reader had lowered his paper all the way to his chin. He was staring at her with avid interest. She felt like saying, What’s the matter, buster? Haven’t you ever seen a handicapped person stand up for herself?
Through the plate glass, Cat saw that Christine was moving toward the door. And there was Mr. Parrish. Now her heart began to race with joy.
“She means,” Cat said as evenly as she could, “we’re going on with our sit-in.”