CHAPTER ELEVEN

We always tried to make Mother’s Day special.

Daddy and I woke up early that Sunday and tiptoed into the kitchen, where we made sausage and hockey pucks—I mean, pancakes. We were out of syrup, but there was an old jar of strawberry jam left in the back of the fridge, and we pulled that out. I picked some buttercups from the yard and put them in a pickle jar. Daddy woke up Royal and brought him into the kitchen. Then I set everything on a tray and led the way to Mama’s room.

In the hallway I turned to Daddy and whispered, “Isn’t there a song?”

“Huh?”

“For Mother’s Day. You know, like ‘Deck the Halls’ for Christmas, or ‘Auld Lang Syne’ for New Year’s.”

Daddy thought about it. “Not that I know of.”

He held open the bedroom door, and I walked through, singing “Happy Mother’s Day to you …”

Okay, it was weak. But Mama beamed anyway, like she was at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in New York City, where Life magazine said Miss Harper Lee liked to eat. I was just happy to see Mama smile.

Daddy got the Sunday paper, and after breakfast I sat next to Mama on the bed and read it with her while Daddy played with Royal on the floor. Mama and I went through the comics, of course, including my favorites, Flash Gordon and Peanuts. There was a cartoon saying “Every day is Mother’s Day”—Mama liked that—and a sappy poem in the ad for Long’s Funeral Home.

The sun shone on the bed. I rested my head on Mama’s shoulder. Daddy ruffled Royal’s hair. It was just the four of us in our own little world. Daddy winked at me. Royal laughed. Mama glowed. Sometimes I think it was the last good moment.

When we finished the comics, I slipped into the other room and brought back the straw handbag, which I’d wrapped in tissue paper the night before.

“Ducks!” said Mama when she tore it open. “I love ducks!”

“I thought you loved peacocks,” said Daddy.

Mama hugged Royal and me; then Daddy presented his card and gift. The gift was so big he couldn’t get it onto the bed. Mama had to open it on the floor. She ripped through several miles of ribbon and wrapping paper, and underneath found a giant cardboard box, which Daddy helped her open with his pocket knife.

“A vacuum cleaner!” said Mama finally. “How romantic.”

Personally, I didn’t think it was that romantic. Maybe Mama didn’t either.

Daddy shrugged. “You’ve been talking about keeping the house clean. I thought this would help.”

Mama flashed a stiff little smile. “Lavender will be thrilled.”

Down the other side of our hill, toward town, was the Wayside Baptist Church, where we went on Sundays. It was a little brick building with a sign out front.

God couldn’t be everywhere, so he made mothers.

It was another one of Pastor Bob’s gems. There was a different message each week. Daddy said the guy spent more time on the sign than he did on his sermons.

That morning, Mama carried her Bible in the straw handbag. We took Royal to the nursery, then sat in our usual spot on the aisle five rows from the front, which I liked because you could see out the window. I watched Jimmy McReedy work on his motorcycle next door, revving the engine every so often and drowning out Pastor Bob. It was just as well, because the sermon was about Mary, the mother of Jesus. The problem was, I think Pastor Bob got her mixed up with another Mary. I have to say, though, I couldn’t blame him. Let’s face it—there are too many Marys in the Bible.

I lost track of the sermon and glanced at the people around me. I’d grown up with them. They seemed almost like family. There was Clyde of Clyde’s Hair Heaven. A few rows behind him sat Mrs. Jutson, the clerk at Mason’s. On the other side of the church I spotted Mr. Tolbert, the band director and my homeroom teacher. He caught my eye and smiled. Maybe his mind was wandering too.

Daddy had a saying: they aren’t all good people, but they’re our people. He meant the folks in town and around it, the ones he sold insurance to, the ones I’d grown up with and gone to church with and said hello to when I passed them on the street. They were part of me, like summer days and the honeysuckle in our yard. After what happened later that day, I often wondered if it was still true.

I looked around the church and realized that all the faces had one thing in common. They were white. That started me thinking about Jarmaine. If she walked through the door of our church, what would happen? Could she sit in the sanctuary the way she and her friends did at the spelling bee? What would Pastor Bob say? Would he preach about love like he was doing this morning?

I thought about Jarmaine’s church, which probably was as black as mine was white. Were they also talking about Mary? Was their Mary white like ours? If she was black, did that mean Jesus was black?

Lavender didn’t work on Sundays, so after church Mama started for the kitchen.

I told her, “It’s Mother’s Day. Daddy and I can make dinner.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “That’s all right, Billie. I’ll take over now.”

We had ham and biscuits, then boiled custard, which was like eggnog but better. Mama kissed Royal and told us how proud she was to be our mother and Daddy’s wife.

Afterward, I washed the dishes and Daddy excused himself, saying he had an errand to run. Then I grabbed the Sunday paper, plopped down on the sofa next to Mama and Royal, and looked through the sports section.

Reading the paper reminded me of the Freedom Riders, and I remembered this was the day they were coming through Anniston. I pictured Jarmaine at the Greyhound station and thought she must be excited.

They’re making history, she had told me. Could it be true? How do you make history by riding on a bus? I’d been watching buses drive by for as long as I could remember. The people on them were going places. Were these riders different? Did they have dreams like I did? If you had a dream, could you make history?

I wanted to catch a glimpse of them and realized that I could. Jumping up from the sofa, I headed to my room, where I opened my drawer and got out the bus schedule. On Sundays, only one bus went from Atlanta to Birmingham, and according to the schedule, it had just arrived in Anniston. I allowed for some time to load passengers and figured the bus would be leaving the Greyhound station in a few minutes, which meant it would come through our neighborhood soon.

I called to Mama, “I’m going outside,” then flew through the door and ran to Grant’s house.

“Come with me,” I told him. “Bring your camera.”

We hopped on our bikes and raced down the hill to Forsyth’s Grocery, where the little dirt parking lot would give us the best view.

As we parked our bikes in front, Grant asked, “What’s this all about?”

I was going to tell him, but at that moment the bus appeared at the top of the hill.

“Just start taking pictures,” I said.