Shocked silence reigned in the summer house. Then Leigh squealed, “Grandma, we can go together! This is so cool!” She leaped to her feet and ran to hug Chloe.
“ Mother”Bette opened her mouth and babbled, “have you lost your mind?”
“Bette, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you.” Chloe let Leigh hug her and then pushed her to go back to her seat. “But your stepfather and I discussed it, and we’ve decided to go and show our support for civil rights. You know we’ve been hoping and praying for the end of Jim Crow since before you were born.”
“But to actually attend a march, Mother.”Bette stared at her, her mouth still open.
“You can’t stop me from going now,” Leigh declared. “Not if Grandma and Grandpa are going.”
Bette’s gaze went from her mother to her daughter’s, and then sharpened. “You are still my daughter,” she stated firmly. “And you will not—”
The sound of a car horn blaring from the drive interrupted the conversation.
Chloe stood up, joy flashing over her face. “They’re here!” She hurried out of the summer house, nearly running toward the front of the house, calling, “Minnie! Minnie!”
With open arms, an older Negro woman met Chloe in the drive. They crashed together—hugging, laughing, weeping. Leigh stood back, wondering who this woman was and why she was so special to her grandmother. And did any of this have anything to do with Wednesday’s march?
Leigh couldn’t take it all in. That evening, the white-linen-covered dining room table at Ivy Manor was crowded with family—her own, including her stepfather (who’d arrived just as they sat down), her grandparents, and three strangers. At least strangers Leigh had heard of but never met. These were Mrs. Minnie Dawson (whose stage name was Mimi Carlyle), her husband, Frank Dawson, and their grandson, Frank Dawson III, who had been away in college. In her late eighties, Minnie’s frail mother, Jerusha—who’d still been the housekeeper at Ivy Manor when Leigh was a little girl—had also joined them.
Minnie was very attractive for her age—she had a nice figure and was well-dressed, with only a touch of gray in her hair. Her husband matched her in good looks and fashionable clothing, as did their grandson.
While this wasn’t the first time Leigh had seen Negroes sit at her grandmother’s table, Leigh sensed these strangers were different… special. Chloe and Minnie kept touching hands, grinning at each other and wiping away tears with embroidered hankies. From their conversation, Leigh understood this wasn’t a reunion of two friends long separated. Her grandmother and Minnie talked of visits over the years. But the visits had apparently been in New York City rather than at Ivy Manor. The tears, the auspicious quality of the moment, came from Minnie’s long-awaited homecoming—after having spent nearly fifty years away.
Leigh listened with avid interest to Chloe’s explanation that Minnie and she had grown up together at Ivy Manor and had gone off to New York City in 1917. Minnie had ended up as an actress there. It sounded like a story from a book, but the truth was sitting here right in front of her.
Delighting in the history lesson, Leigh asked several questions. After a while, though, she noticed Minnie’s grandson, whom they called “Frank Three,” glancing her way a few times, looking amused. Something about his looks made her feel very young and even gawky. Embarrassed, she curtailed her comments, answering just yes and no to questions sent her way. This was not like herself at all, especially here at Ivy Manor.
After a dinner that passed with laughter and much banter (some of which Leigh didn’t fully understand), she was sent upstairs to put Dory to bed. She kept the door to the hallway open as she tucked her sister into the trundle bed for the night. Snatches of conversation floated up to her.
“I’ll never forget the first time we saw you on the stage.” That from her grandfather Roarke, she assumed, to Minnie.
“Oh Bette, I loved picking out your prom dress.” That from Minnie. Why did Minnie pick my mother’s prom dress?
“I can’t believe I’m really here.” That from Minnie, repeated one more time. “And sitting at the dining room table.” She chuckled. “Chloe, what would your parents say if they could see us now?”
Leigh heard her grandmother laugh amid the sounds of everyone rising to go sit out in the summer house. But she missed the rest of Chloe’s response because Dory interrupted Leigh’s eavesdropping, reminding her primly she hadn’t said her prayers. Leigh performed the nightly ritual, concluded with hugs and kisses, and then left her sister. She knew the younger girl would get right up and sit at the window watching and listening to the night sounds and the conversation below. She didn’t blame her. The day had turned out so much differently than Leigh could have predicted.
She walked down the front hallway stairs. With everyone outside, the house felt empty and silent. Leigh decided to use the front door and strolled outside, somehow hesitant to join the adults. Although she’d enjoyed the dinner conversation, hearing facts she’d never known about her grandmother’s life and from strangers had struck her as… odd. It pressed her to change how she’d thought of her grandmother, as a woman without a past. Why hadn’t I ever thought of Grandma Chloe as young?
Outside, twilight had taken over the sky in blazing pink and bronze layers and a watermelon-red sun hung suspended just behind the silhouetted tree tops. As she walked down the side of the house, she glimpsed Frank Three standing near the line of poplars along the drive. His skin was the color of coffee with cream; he was tall, lean, and good-looking. He’d shed his sports coat, and his starched white shirt glowed in the dusky light. Her own casual shorts and blouse made her feel at a disadvantage. Wishing she were wearing something more elegant, like his grandmother’s white Chanel sheath, she halted, uncertain of approaching him, uncertain of her welcome.
With a nod, he acknowledged her. In fact, he appeared to have been waiting for her and now he motioned her to come to him.
She sucked in a breath. Anywhere but here at Ivy Manor, a conversation between Frank and her would be dangerous, especially to him. But here he was, the grandson of her grand mother’s oldest friend, a welcomed guest. Leigh considered this, gathering her courage. Then she tossed her head, shaking off her fears. This wasn’t 1917. Her hands clasped behind her, through the growing shadows, she sauntered toward him and onto shaky ground. “Hi,” she murmured with what she hoped was the right amount of friendliness.
“Hi.” He grinned. Then he nodded toward the summer house, where conversation and light laughter continued. “I don’t feel up to any more ‘do-you-remembers.’ Why don’t we take a walk? There’s a river near here, isn’t there?”
Leigh tingled with uneasiness. In spite of the twin protections here of privacy and family, speaking to Frank challenged her to cross more than one line. He was older than she, and she’d never talked to a Negro boy before and certainly never alone. But then, attending an all-girls school meant that she rarely spoke to white boys either, and also never alone. It was his color, though, that heightened her reaction to him, to the situation. She felt awkward and yet she also felt daring. Speaking to a Negro boy carried many possible consequences. Or was she just prejudiced?
This thought struck her then with blinding force. She’d wanted to go to Dr. King’s march on Wednesday, but she realized now she’d intended to go only as an observer, not a participant. Until this moment, civil rights had been abstract to her. It hadn’t been to her grandmother. She and Minnie had grown up here together; they’d helped each other break away from Ivy Manor. And now they were planning to march together on Wednesday as they had back in 1917.
What did this Negro college boy think of the reunion between their grandmothers? Why was he daring her to step out of her place and his?
“Meeting you, your family… This is really weird,” he murmured. “Isn’t it?” He glanced in the direction of the voices. “Maybe we should just go to the summer house?”
His uncertainty matching hers made the difference. She felt the tension inside her loosen. She straightened. “You got that right,” she whispered and gave him a smile. “The creek’s this way.” She led him down the rutted dirt lane toward the nearby wide creek that fed the Patuxent River farther downstream. As they walked, she realized that until that moment she’d thought of him as just a boy. But he wasn’t like the other boys she met. For the first time, she realized, she was alone in the company of a young man.This was unusual enough without anything else added. Waves of reaction to his alien masculinity flowed through her. She hoped she wouldn’t do or say anything stupid and embarrass herself.
“I had planned to attend King’s civil rights march with a couple of college buddies,” Frank spoke casually as if they weren’t really strangers, “but then my grandmother said no, to come with them. And then one buddy got drafted and the other got a job.”
Frank’s easy conversation helped Leigh get a feel for him, helped her relax more. “You’re in college?” she asked.
“Just graduated. I completed a B.S. in mechanical engineering from NYU.”
Frank was even older than she’d thought. “Congratulations,” she said automatically.
“Where are you drudging away?” Frank kicked a stone with the polished toe of his brown shoe.
Leigh hated to admit to still being in high school, but he’d know she was younger than he. “I’m a junior at St. Agnes, a girl’s school in the D.C. area.”
“Really? I thought you’d be starting college by now.”
Leigh flushed with pleasure.
“So you want to go to the march, but your parents, especially your mother, don’t want you to?” he asked lightly.
“How did you guess that?” Leigh stared up at him as they passed under the tall, tangled oaks, stretching over the lane. The argument over the march had not been referred to at the dinner table.
“Your mother has a very expressive face.” He chuckled. “Every time the march was mentioned she frowned—usually at you.”
“Oh.” Leigh didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. “Mother isn’t against civil rights. She just doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t want her daughter in a march,” Frank cut in. “My father was the same way when I decided to go south and join a sit-in at a lunch counter in South Carolina.”
Leigh took in her next breath sharply. Stark black-and-white newspaper photographs of the incidents flooded her. “You did that?” How did you have the courage?
“Yeah, two summers ago, right after my sophomore year. My father, Frank Two, was afraid I’d get arrested and have that blot on my record to dog me the rest of my life.”
As they neared the creek, she picked her way over the ruts, patches of grass, and tree roots with care and chose her words the same way. “Did you get arrested?”
“Yes, twice.” He shrugged. “But it was just a misdemeanor charge, like a parking ticket. No big deal.”
He must think the controversy over whether I can go to the march is lame.Although she was impressed by his courage, Leigh didn’t think she should remark about it. His casual attitude had set up the way he expected her to react. “You’re lucky,” she said. “You’re older and male. You can get away with… going against your parents. I’m afraid I’m going to miss the march.”
With one hand, Frank batted a floating swarm of gnats away from his face. “Maybe your grandparents can persuade your mother to let you go with them.”
“Maybe,” she replied without conviction.
They arrived at the stream, which was edged by weeping willows, maples, and brush. Frogs bellowed back and forth. The stream rippled in the twilight, reflecting the gold, pink, and red sinking sun behind them.
Frank took one of the weeping-willow whips in his hand, running it through his palm. “My grandmother has never been back here since she left in 1917. I’ve heard about Ivy Manor all my life, but I never thought I’d be here.” He glanced over his shoulder at the distant lights from the house.
“Really? I love it.” Leigh mimicked Frank and tugged at a willow whip, feeling the long slender leaves and smooth bark rasp across her palm. “Grandma Chloe and my other grandmother, who lives nearby, always have us—Dory and me—stay for most of the summer. And we visit often.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Frank asked, releasing the willow branch, which snapped back into place. He turned to face her. The low light illuminated his face, making his large black eyes glimmer. She nearly took a step backward.
“Know what?”
“Know that Minnie was your grandmother’s maid?”
“Well, I suppose that makes sense.” She tickled the underside of her chin with the end of the willow, wondering why he’d brought this up. “I mean, it was the World War I era, wasn’t it?”
“And did you know that my great-great-grandmother was your grandmother’s mammy?”He said the final word with a disdainful twist, like a taunt.
Leigh tried to follow the connection through what she knew of Ivy Manor and her grandmother. Was he trying to make her uncomfortable? “You mean Aunt Jerusha’s mother?”
“Yes.” He gave a sudden twitch and batted away a mosquito.
She looked down at her open-toed sandals, at the white pearl Maybelline nail polish her mom hated. What was he trying to get from her? She challenged him with a grin. “When I was a little girl, Aunt Jerusha made the best sticky buns.”
Allowing the moment to lighten, Frank laughed. “She did. She made them for us when she came up to New York to visit us. But it’s interesting you called her Aunt Jerusha. That form of address goes back to slavery, too, you know.”
Finally, Leigh processed the other part of his original statement. She cocked her head toward him. “A mammy? You mean like in Gone with the Wind?”She’d seen this 1939 film classic in 1960 when it had re-released in theaters.
“Well, I hate to give any credibility to a movie that portrayed Negroes as preferring slavery to freedom, but yes. Haven’t you ever realized that the Carlyle family, your mother’s family, owned slaves? In fact, owned my ancestors?”
Leigh felt her mouth open but no words came. The willow whip slid from her fingers, bouncing away from her. Finally, she said, “But Grandmother’s not like that.” I’m not like that.
“Well, I’m not talking about your grandmother. I’m talking about your ancestors. Maryland wasn’t in the Confederacy, but it was a slave state.” Frank’s tone was merely conversational. He wasn’t giving her any hint of what he might think about this.
“I know that.” I just never thought of my family as slaveholders. “Are you sure?” For something to do with her hands, she tightened her ponytail by pulling on its ends.
“Both my grandmother’s family name and your grand mother’s family name was Carlyle. That tells the story.” He took a few steps and leaned a shoulder against a venerable wide oak. “Slaves usually took the name of their masters at the time of emancipation. It also means that we’re probably related by blood, too.”
Leigh couldn’t believe that this young Negro man was standing here telling her these things as if it were common knowledge. Did everyone else know these things about her family history? Was she the only ignorant one? What else don’t I know?
“Have I shocked you?” he teased, grinning.
“I think you wanted to shock me.” The words came out without forethought. “I’ve never had a conversation like this before.”
He chuckled. “You’re not a kid. Though I think you have a mother who overprotects you. The next time you’re alone with your grandmother, ask her. I’m sure she’ll tell you the truth.”
His affirmation that she wasn’t a kid and could be trusted to hear such things heartened her. But was he telling her the truth? “Why didn’t Aunt Jerusha ever say anything to me?”
“Probably for the reason you gave earlier—you’re a young white girl and must be protected from the harsh realities of life and history.” Turning, he rested his head against the trunk, facing her fully.
The same irritation that she’d felt on the way there that day flushed hot in her stomach. “I don’t want to be protected.”
“Ah, you may say that—” He lifted one eyebrow in the lowering light. “—but I’ve been unprotected, and it’s not fun.”
When had he been unprotected? She thought over his words and he gave her time, just watching her. “You mean when you were sitting-in?” she asked finally, hesitantly.
“I do indeed. You see, I hadn’t realized how much I’d always been hedged in by money, my professional-level family, and living up north where discrimination is more subtle. But two minutes sitting at an all-white lunch counter in South Carolina stripped all that away from me.” His voice firmed, hardened. “People bumped me, struck me from behind, cursed me, aimed catsup down my collar. And then I was dragged, and I do mean dragged,off to jail. If that doesn’t humble you, nothing in this world will.”
Leigh felt as well as heard the passion seeping into and through his words. Before they’d just been talking about history. Now this young man was revealing himself to her. It was almost as if he were warning her. But of what? “But you went back?”
“Yes, I went back the next day and the next.” His voice had a fierce edge now. “It both humbled me and gave me a hint of what my ancestors had endured for centuries—what I’d been shielded from—and that made me angry. That made me determined. I’m going to live life on my terms or not at all.”
Leigh felt his last words burn through her, searing her deep inside. “That’s what I want,” she murmured.
He chuckled gruffly. “Well, don’t we all?”
Why was he telling her all this? Was there a secret or hidden message, or was he just telling her things he wouldn’t reveal to someone in his everyday life? She’d experienced that before, often when riding the bus in Washington, when strangers, often tourists, had for some unknown reason told her their life stories. Was this a case of that? “I want the same thing. I want to live life on my own terms.”
“You come by it honest.” He moved to stand in front of her. “Your grandmother ran away with my grandmother to the big bad city. If you think you’re overprotected, just think how your grandmother lived.”
She sensed his nearness in two ways. Physically, she tingled with awareness of him. In her heart, she thought he might be wondering why’d he talked so much, why he’d opened himself to her, too. But Leigh didn’t put any of this into words. Again, he’d set the tone. They were two adults speaking. So she skimmed over everything and made the expected reply. “You’re right. And if she can do it, I can, too.”
“And remember, you’re not alone. I don’t do what my parents want, either.” He grinned suddenly. “They all think they know what’s best for us. My parents are upset that I haven’t enrolled in law school or graduate school yet. They’re afraid I’ll get drafted if I’m not a full-time student. But I don’t want to get my masters’ degree now or even a law degree. I haven’t decided—”
“Leigh!” her stepfather called through the falling night. “Leigh, are you with young Frank? Your Uncle Thompson and his family are here.”
“Yes,” Frank answered for them, “we’re coming.” Frank leaned close. “Let’s go back. We should have remembered,” he taunted, “that even here at Ivy Manor we’d need a chaper-one.
She made a sound of irritation. Maybe that’s what had really nudged her into sharing this private time. She didn’t doubt that her mother had sent her stepfather to find her, to keep her within her mother’s bounds.
He leaned close to her ear. “I’ll do what I can to see that you get to the march.”
Leigh didn’t have a chance to respond because suddenly her stepfather was there, holding out his hand to her. She and Frank obediently joined their families in the summer house. But Leigh barely paid attention to what was being said. Frank’s conversation kept going around and around in her mind. What did he mean about helping her? What could he do to get her to Washington on Wednesday?
It was barely morning, and Leigh couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. On Sunday evening, her parents had driven home to jobs in northern Virginia. Leigh and Dory had been moved—with Chloe’s apologies—from Ivy Manor to their Grandmother Sinclair’s home… for safekeeping. Chloe would not go against Bette, so Grandma Sinclair would take them for the week. Last night, Leigh had nearly burst into tears with frustration. How could she get away from Grandma Sinclair’s home? It was impossible.
Then today’s dawn had seeped in through the sheer yellow curtains and Leigh had heard something at her second-story window—pebbles hitting the glass. She looked down to see Frank, who was motioning her to come. She leaned over the sill and heard his murmur, “Get dressed, write a note so you don’t worry everyone, and come on. We have to get going.”
It hit her then. Frank was keeping his promise. He was going to take her to D.C. Equal amounts of guilt and excitement overwhelmed her momentarily. Then she nodded vigorously and pulled back inside. Within minutes, thinking of the heat but also of the possibility of sunburn, she dressed in blue pedal pushers and a blue-and-white sailor blouse. She scratched a hasty note to Grandmother Sinclair, slipped her small white pocketbook into her pocket, and tiptoed down the stairs.
Outside the day was bright and pleasant, but with a heavy feeling, promising to be another sweltering day. Her heart did flip-flops in her chest. Immediately, she glimpsed Frank’s grandparents’ silver Buick up the road, partially concealed by a knot of pines. She ran down the drive straight to the car.
Standing by the car, Frank put out a cigarette, mashing it underfoot. He was wearing a summer-weight suit of tan. He smiled at her and opened the car door. “Ready?”
“You’re taking me? You mean it?” Delicious freedom swelled inside her.
“Get in.” He ushered her into the passenger seat, then started the car and drove off, quiet and slow.
“How did you manage it?” Leigh asked, irresistible excitement bubbling up inside her.
“I told my grandparents that I wanted to go ahead. I had a friend I’d promised to pick up. They’re all taking the train in. But you and I are going to drive to the outskirts of D.C., park, and take the bus or subway to the Lincoln Memorial.”
“Cool. This is so cool.” Leigh almost bounced on the seat.
Frank laughed out loud. “This day is all about freedom, and I decided you shouldn’t be cheated out of yours. Besides, this year is the centennial of the Emancipation Proclamation, and I decided that our attending the march together is too symbolic to miss.”
“You mean because my family owned your family in 1863?” These words still made her feel strange. It was hard to say them aloud.
“Exactly. Our grandmothers made their escape from Ivy Manor forty-six years ago, and it changed their lives. Maybe our running away together today will have a similar effect on our own lives.”
Leigh turned and studied him. He was treating her like an equal—like she wasn’t just a sixteen-year-old girl. She thought suddenly about Mr. Pitney—Lanee—and compared the two men. The contrast was easy to detect. Frank had a confidence that seemed limitless, but he didn’t preen or call attention to himself like Lance did, always running his fingers through his bangs. She wanted to tell Frank this, but thought it might sound too silly and was too involved to explain.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“I think you’re wonderful,” she blurted out and then blushed hot crimson.
Frank roared with laughter. “You’re easily impressed. And I like that.” He grinned at her. “How about some music?” he switched on the radio and Bobby Vinton crooned, “Bluuue vel—vet.” “I don’t think so. Let’s have some rhythm and blues.” He punched another station in and The Chiffons sang out, “One fine daaaaay.”
Leigh let the lilting music flow through her, lifting her spirits and making her even more aware of Frank sitting so close, driving them to the march so effortlessly. He’d helped her find a way; he’d done the impossible, and this was her “One Fine Day.”
But the Chiffons singing about how someday he’d want her for his girl left her suddenly tongue tied. This wasn’t a date in any way, but it felt odd being alone with Frank. It’s just because I never talk to guys. That’s why I feel funny.
Determined to keep any evidence of this immaturity undercover, she settled back and watched the green fields, houses, and lush trees pass by.
“You’re uncomfortable with me, aren’t you?”
How did he always know what she was thinking? “No,” she said quickly, too quickly. Then, more slowly, “Yes.”
He nodded. “I had to make myself come and get you today.”
“You did?” She wondered if he would tell her why. But why bring it up if he wasn’t going to?
“Yes. I know your grandparents won’t be shocked at your going with me, but I don’t think your mother would like you to spend the day with me.” He went on before she could comment on this, “And I didn’t like telling my grandparents a half truth. I mean, I consider you a friend, but—”
“Me, too,” she interrupted him. “I just never had a friend who was a guy.” She blushed.
“Or one that wasn’t white?” Again he went on, not letting her speak. “I’m glad you noticed I wasn’t wearing a skirt.” He smiled again. “What I mean is when I told them I was meeting a friend, they had no inkling that you were the friend. That’s why I feel guilty.”
She was relieved that he hadn’t pressed her on whether she’d ever had a friend who wasn’t white. Because, of course, she hadn’t. But again she followed his lead and responded to his concern over deceiving their parents. “I understand. My parents will be unhappy with me—”
“Right. I wondered if I should encourage, actually enable, you to defy your parents. But I finally decided that this day is history-in-the-making and that you shouldn’t be shut out. And if there is any violence, I’ll make sure you get out safely”
“I don’t think there’s going to be any violence,” she said, trying to match his confidence. She sat up straighten
He gave her a sidelong glance. “And your basis for that statement is what, Miss Sinclair?”
She chewed her lip, thinking. The radio began playing, “Blueberry Hill.” Frank didn’t hurry her; he just drove on one-handed, humming to the melody. “I think it’s the numbers,” she said at last. “And the fact that it’s taking place in Washington, D.C., and there will be TV stations covering it. Does that make sense?”
“I’m impressed. Very perceptive. Leigh Sinclair, you’re nobody’s fool.”
Leigh sizzled from head to toe with pleasure and a touch of embarrassment. “Well, I gave the KKK a lot of thought. But I don’t think the Klan will do anything today. They always operate at night and with their members masked. They don’t want the light of day and the light of a television camera to expose their… hatred and evil. They try to make it sound and look like segregation is good for the south.”
“Did you know that the Klan once burned a cross on your grandmother’s lawn?” Frank turned onto the highway to D.C. and merged into heavy traffic.
“What?” Why did no one tell her the good stuff about her own family? “When?”
“It happened before World War II.”
“Why?” Even as she asked, she tried to come up with a reason.
“Your grandparents took in a German immigrant girl who was Jewish—”
“You mean Aunt Gretel?”
Frank chuckled again. “You have an interesting variety of relatives. Aunt Jerusha and Aunt Gretel?” He swung into the passing lane and sped around a smelly, groaning eighteen-wheeler.
Leigh hadn’t considered this before. “Aunt Gretel sends me gifts from time to time, and I know she and Mother still correspond regularly. Aunt Gretel wants my parents to visit her in Israel.”
“Well, it was because of your Aunt Gretel that the cross was burned on their lawn.”
“Why?” She edged forward, turning toward him on the seat.
“Because the KKK hates Jews and Roman Catholics almost as much as they hate Negroes.”
“That’s right.” Leigh folded one leg under the other, wondering about her mother. “Do you think that’s why Mom’s so afraid of my attending the march?”
He nodded. “But I think your assessment of the chances of the KKK or violence is more accurate.” He muttered under his breath as a red Corvette cut in front of him. “But like I said, I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”
His words gave her a wonderful, breathless feeling. Frank wants to protect me.
Finally, in spite of several traffic jams, they reached the outskirts of Washington. Frank parked the car in an already crowded public parking lot and led her to the nearby subway station. She noticed that the crowd was unusual—the dark faces overwhelmingly outnumbered the white ones. For the first time, she felt like the minority, an uneasy sensation.
Soon they reached the gathering point for the marchers. It was still early, though the yellow sun was high now and beginning to blaze down. But the march wasn’t to begin until noon.
Pulling a red triangular kerchief from her pocket to shield her from the sun, she tied the ends under her ponytail. Frank picked up signs for them to carry and they smiled and greeted other marchers. Leigh’s sign read: “We Demand Equal Rights Now” and Frank’s announced: “We March for Jobs for All Now.” Leigh tried to become a human camera, recording the sights and sounds to be written down later in her report of this day. She hadn’t felt that bringing along a notepad fit the occasion somehow, so her memory would have to suffice.
Then Leigh heard a woman’s voice calling, “Frank! Frank!”
For just a second, Leigh’s heart sank. Were they going to be joined by a girlfriend Frank hadn’t mentioned? Then she chastised herself silently. What, are you crazy, Leigh? He’s a college boy and a Negro. This is all about the march. Not about you and him. He’s off limits, and you know it. Plus he’d never be interested in you in a million years.
Frank turned toward the voice and waved his arm in a wide arc as an attractive redheaded white woman in a pale blue linen dress and jacket hurried toward them. She was far too old to be Frank’s girlfriend, and Leigh tried not to have a reaction to this. You’re letting yourself get carried away. Frank’s just a nice guy who doesn’t treat you like a baby.
The redhead threw her arms around Frank, and they hugged. Then Frank turned to Leigh. “I’d like you to meet my mother.”