12
Landon knocked on the door and then took his hat off as he waited for it to be opened. Harvey Peterson, one of his parishioners, opened the door and invited him in. “Thank you, Harvey. I appreciate you and Helen making time for me this evening,” Landon said as he walked in.
“Not at all. Helen and I are honored that you would come to our home.”
“Don’t just leave Pastor standing in the doorway. Bring him on in here so he can have a seat,” Helen called from the living room.
“You heard the lady. Let’s go sit down,” Harvey said as he walked into the living room.
As Landon sat down, Helen asked, “Would you like a cold glass of water?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Helen. That’s mighty nice of you.”
Harvey sat down across from Landon and slapped his leg. “So, what’s this important business you want to discuss with us?”
Helen walked back in the room, handed Landon the glass of water, and then set a coaster on the coffee table in front of him before sitting down next to her husband.
Landon took a sip from his glass and then set it down on the coaster. He clasped his hands together as he turned toward his hosts. “You all know that I’ve been working with several people in the community to do something about our housing situation.”
“And we thank you for what you’ve been doing, Pastor. Not many people seem to care about the conditions we’re forced to live in,” Harvey said.
“I hate going outside because with the trash collection constantly backed up, it just stinks so bad out there,” Helen said.
“Mr. Taylor is working on a housing project that will help low-income families. But I think the best answer for some of our gainfully employed residents is homeownership.”
Harvey shook his head. “I wouldn’t buy this house if the landlord offered me money for it. The roof is leaking, the furnace is broke, and there are a host of other things wrong that the landlord refuses to fix.”
“I’m not talking about buying these houses. The depression has hit the white folks just as hard as it’s hit us. A lot of them have lost their homes and the bank has them up for sale.”
Helen lifted a hand. “Now wait a minute, Pastor. You didn’t live in Chicago when the Irish attacked the coloreds because they thought we was muscling in on their turf, but I did. And I never want to see bloodshed like we saw that summer . . . colored and white men dead in the streets for nothing. No siree, I don’t want to relive that.”
Holding up a hand, Landon reminded her, “That happened the summer of 1919. Things are different now. More of our people are holding public office, and I’m working with the NAACP on this.” Landon didn’t mention that he needed to find ten cases of housing discrimination before he’d actually have the full force of the NAACP on his side.
“Well, what do you want from us?” Harvey asked. “We don’t have the money to buy one of them bank-owned homes.”
“But you do have jobs. Harvey, you’ve been trimming my hair down at that barbershop of yours for three years. Even with the depression, folks still come in for a shape up.” Landon turned to Helen and added, “And your beauty salon is getting more business than any other salon on State Street.”
“What difference does that make? With the high rents we pay for this house and our shops, we’re always just as broke as a homeless man begging for spare change,” Harvey said.
“But if you were able to purchase a home at a reasonable price, you’d be able to save some money, right?”
“Of course, but the bank and nobody else is going to let us have one of those houses,” Helen said with conviction. “I’ve tried that several times and I’ve got the permanent scars to prove it.”
“But we have to give it a try, Sister Helen. We owe it to our children and grandchildren.”
Helen didn’t respond.
Harvey said, “So, what’s your plan?”
Landon knew that he had no choice. He would have to tell them the entire plan if he had any hope of getting them on board. “You’re right,” Landon said. “I don’t believe that the bank is going to let us buy those homes without a fight. So right now I’m looking for at least ten people who have every qualification the bank needs for homeownership. We are then going to attempt to purchase those homes I told you about. But when the bank or the homeowner says no, that’s when we’ll get the NAACP involved.”
“And just how are they going to get involved?” Helen asked with skepticism in her voice.
“We’ll go to court and sue for discrimination.”
“And you think the courts don’t already know that we’re being discriminated against?” Harvey asked.
“It’s not about them knowing. It’s about providing them with so much evidence that the situation can no longer be ignored.”
Harvey stood up. He walked to the window in his living room and looked outside. His eyes filled with anger at the sight before him. When he turned back around, he told Landon. “I think our children would enjoy living in one of them nice homes.”
The blood drained from Helen’s face as she stood. “This is just going to cause trouble, Harvey. We don’t need to get involved. We have a good life. Just leave it at that.”
Harvey rushed to his wife’s side and pulled her into his arms. “This isn’t going to be like 1919, Helen. It’s been almost twenty years since all that violence occurred. You and our children deserve better than what we’ve got here.” He stepped out of their embrace, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “I couldn’t rightly call myself a man if I didn’t at least try to get my family a piece of this American dream.”
Landon didn’t think he would ever forget the intensity in Harvey’s voice as he declared the dream he had for his family. Landon believed they could go all the way. He stood up and put out his hand. Harvey shook it. “You won’t be sorry, Harvey. We’re doing something that’s going to matter, not just for us, but for generations to come.” With that, Landon left the Peterson’s house. With their help, he now had two case studies . . . just eight more to go.
As he stepped outside, Landon glanced down the street at John and Marlene Gracey’s house. He thought back to the day that he’d stood outside their home and begged Shar to stay with him. He could really use her help right now. He missed Shar in the worst way. Some nights he lay awake remembering how beautiful she looked in that shimmering white dress. He still thought she should have won that contest. But winner or not, she was still Miss Bronze America in his book.
He hadn’t heard from Shar in weeks, so he wasn’t privy to her upcoming schedule. Landon decided to stop by her parents’ house to see if they knew where she would be next. He had spent weeks trying to come up with more case studies with no results. He felt good about getting the Peterson’s on board. But he’d feel even better if he could see Shar’s smiling face.
He knocked on the door, and Marlene answered. She was holding a cloth to her mouth as she said, “Well, hello there, Reverend.”
“How’ve you been doing, Mrs. Marlene?”
“I’ve been better, that’s for sure,” she said as she closed her front door and stepped out onto the porch. “I would invite you in, but I don’t want to spread this tuberculosis.” She coughed.
“Are you taking your medicine?”
“I am, but it don’t seem to be getting rid of this cough none.”
In Landon’s haste to find out about Shar, he’d forgotten about Marlene’s diagnosis. Knowing the Graceys as he did, he knew they would feel awful if Marlene spread TB throughout the community. “I don’t want to keep you. I just stopped by to find out if you’ve heard from Shar. I want to go see her, but I don’t know what city she’s going to be in next.”
Marlene’s brows furrowed as she asked, “She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“She’s been in town for three days. The choir is singing at Pilgrim Baptist Church for the National Convention of Gospel Choirs that Mr. Dorsey puts on every year.”
Shar was in town and hadn’t come to see him. The news hit him hard . . . left him breathless.
“Are you okay, Reverend?”
“Thanks for telling me, Mrs. Marlene. I hope you feel better soon.” He walked off the porch without saying another word.
The Pilgrim Baptist Church was located on the South Side, in an area that James J. Gentry, a local theater editor dubbed Bronzeville. The area had been so named because of the brown skin of the residents. The church was on Indian Avenue, and as Landon made his way to the church he kept wondering why Shar had stopped writing to him and why she hadn’t informed him that she would be in Chicago. He’d been writing to her twice a month for over a year, but she hadn’t written him in over a month. So, he had no idea where to send a letter. Had Shar been gone so long that she’d forgotten about him? Landon prayed that wasn’t the case. He just didn’t know what he’d do if Shar wasn’t a part of his life.
The church was filled to capacity by the time he arrived. Landon took a seat in the back and waited while one choir after another sang. Mahalia Jackson sang “Precious Lord, Take my Hand.” Rosetta Tharpe sang “Search Me Lord.” Landon was enjoying himself as one singer after the next gave praise to the Lord. Then Shar grabbed the microphone. She began singing, “I’m Going to Live the Life I Sing About in My Song.” And just like every other time that Landon heard her voice, he was swept away.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sweet sound of her voice. He could spend a lifetime listening to Shar sing praises to God. Landon imagined heaven’s angels standing around Shar, helping her harmonize and singing background for her. As Shar finished her song, he opened his eyes and for the briefest moment thought he noticed Shar and the guitar player staring at each other.
When the service ended, Landon went in search of Shar. She was in the fellowship hall selling Thomas Dorsey’s sheet music. He walked up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder, and as she turned around said, “Hello, stranger.”
“Landon . . . ” She dropped the sheet music and then bent down to pick them up. Landon bent down to help her. As they stood back up, she said, “I didn’t think you’d come tonight.”
“Your mother told me you were in town. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything in the world. It still takes my breath away to hear you sing to the glory of God.”
“But you stopped writing. I thought you were too busy to worry about some silly concert.”
Landon was confused by that comment. He’d been writing to Shar ever since she left town. “I didn’t stop writing. You’re the one who stopped writing to me. I’ve been wondering why I hadn’t heard from you.”
“This just doesn’t make any sense, Landon. I have sent you one letter after another, but I never received a response to them.” She lowered her head and then continued, “I just assumed that you had lost interest in me.”
They were standing in the middle of the fellowship hall, people all around them, but Landon’s eyes were fixed on Shar. “How could you think I’d lost interest in you, Shar? I love you. Don’t you know that?”
Shar lifted her hands to her ears. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”
“What’s wrong?” Landon pulled her hands away from her ears as he asked, “Why don’t you want to hear how I feel about you?”
Shar looked around. Uncomfortable with all the people in the fellowship hall, she grabbed Landon’s arm and walked him outside. They stood at the bottom of the steps, and then she told him, “I don’t deserve your love.”
“Why would you say that?”
Shar kept her head down. She didn’t answer him.
The front door of the church opened and a man stepped out with two plates of food in his hand. He said, “Hey, babe, they’re feeding us tonight. I got you a plate.”
Shar was still standing there with her head down. She didn’t respond to the man who had just called her “babe.” So, Landon turned to him and said, “Hello, I’m Pastor Landon Norstrom.”
The man walked down the stairs, handed one of the plates to Shar, and then stuck his hand out to Landon. They shook as the man said, “I’m Nicoli James, Shar’s fiancé.”