The Lions of Little Rock (9 page)

17

THE NEGRO CHURCH

In the middle of the night, I woke up and went into David's room. Judy was curled up on the bed. Her suitcase was packed on the floor beside her. In the morning she'd be leaving, just like David had done, just like Liz. After a moment, she rolled over and looked at me. “You can't sleep either?”

I shook my head.

Without a word, she picked up her blanket and came back into our room, the one we had shared ever since I'd been born. She lay down on her old side of the bed.

Soon I heard her quiet, even breathing, but I still couldn't sleep, not until the sky began to lighten and I heard Pretty Boy stir under his cover.

My stomach hurt something awful the next morning. I wanted to stay home from school, but I didn't have a fever, so I knew Mother wouldn't let me. Daddy made a special breakfast, pancakes and bacon, but no one ate much. Judy's green suitcase sat by the door like a wart.

“We'll drop you off at the bus station on the way to school,” said Daddy. “I spoke to Granny last night. She'll be waiting for you in Pine Bluff.”

I stared at my plate, a half-eaten pancake wallowing in a pool of maple syrup.

“Come on, girls,” Daddy said quietly. “It's time to go.”

Mother gave Judy a hug and kissed her cheek. Daddy put Judy's suitcase in the trunk while Judy and I got into the car.

All the way to the bus station, I rehearsed heartfelt good-bye scenes in my head. I would say something like “good-bye, dearest sister of mine,” and Judy would burst into tears, and Daddy would be so touched, he'd relent and take us all home. But what actually happened when we reached the bus station was that Judy gave me a hug, I whispered “bye” and then she was gone.

I gave JT his homework as soon as I got to school. He didn't even notice that they were all wrong. After math class, I stayed in Mr. Harding's classroom again for lunch. In history, Sally was still retelling the story, though everyone at school must have heard it about a hundred times by now. It was good gossip, sure (at least I might have thought so if it hadn't been about my friend), but Sally was acting like she was a hero who'd personally saved us from a Soviet invasion. It was ridiculous. All she'd done was go by the church and . . . Gone by the church. The Baptist church on South Chester. If Sally could go there, so could I. Maybe I could find Liz. Talk to her. Maybe learning how or why or
something
would help me feel not quite so confused and alone.

I pulled a piece of paper from my math notebook and thought for a moment. It would have to be a short note, no names, but somehow she'd have to know who it was from. I had an idea and scribbled furiously.

“What are you writing?” Sally said.

I shook my head.

Nora snatched the note away before I could finish. I reached for it, but she jumped up and read it aloud. “You owe me a magic book.”

“What does that mean?” asked Sally. “Marlee, are you studying to become a magician?”

“Maybe she has an imaginary friend,” suggested Nora.

They both laughed.

The bell rang, and Miss Taylor rapped on her desk. I didn't even bother trying to get the note back from them. It was short. I could just write it again.

That afternoon, I rode my bike over to the Baptist church. I was worried about finding it, since I'd never been there before, but I'm good at reading maps, and I didn't have any trouble. It wasn't until I got there that I remembered what my father had said about staying away from Liz. I glanced around the parking lot. Was someone going to jump out and call me a race mixer, steal my bike, beat me up? But the parking lot was empty.

Finally, I left my bike in the bushes and went inside. The Baptist church looked a lot like the Methodist one we went to, pews, altar, a couple of stained glass windows. A colored man in a dark suit and tie came up to me. He had short hair, was clean-shaven and had that serious yet helpful expression on his face, just like the reverend at our church. I wondered if they practiced it in the mirror between services.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm Pastor George. What can I do for you?”

I couldn't believe my luck. Pastor George was Betty Jean's husband and Daddy's friend. If anyone could help me, it would be him. I handed over the note. I'd folded it into quarters and written “To Liz (Elizabeth)” on the front.

His smile faded when he read the name. “She doesn't go here,” he said, and handed the note back to me.

That's when I realized he knew exactly who I was looking for. Elizabeth is a real common name, and he didn't even ask me what her last name was. Not that I knew it. I mean, she was listed on the rolls at school as Elizabeth Templeton, but I was pretty sure that wasn't her last name. I wasn't even sure if Liz was her real first name. Maybe it was really Wanda or Darlene or Phyllis.

“I'm sorry I can't help you,” Pastor George said politely, though his tone made it clear that what he really wanted was for me to go home.

I unfolded the note and handed it back to him. He took it like it was the tail of a dead mouse. “You owe me a magic book. Friday after school, the usual spot.”

“She'll know what it means,” I whispered.

Pastor George gave me a funny look. “Are you Richard Nisbett's daughter?”

I nodded. Sure hoped he wouldn't tell my father what I was doing.

Pastor George still didn't smile, but his face softened a little. “Youth group is tonight. I'll ask around.”

“Thank you.” And I went home to wait.

18

WHEN PRETTY BOY DIED

The next evening at dinner was quiet, not the good quiet where you're all thinking your own thoughts and smiling at each other, but the bad quiet where you're walking on eggshells even though the mean words are still in your head. I was mad at Daddy for sending Judy away and mad at Mother for not standing up to him.

For their part, my parents seemed to have almost forgotten I was there. No one spoke, except to say “pass the salt” or “where's the butter?” I wondered if this was what dinner was going to be like, now that Judy was gone. If so, I thought I'd run away to live at Granny's too.

Halfway through dinner, I dropped my glass and spilled water all over my blouse. “Excuse me,” I said, and it sounded way too loud as I stood up and went into the kitchen.

I was just reaching for the dish towel when I heard Mother say, “There's something I need to tell you, Richard.”

“What?” asked Daddy. They were whispering, but I was only in the kitchen so I could hear every word.

“You know that private school, T. J. Raney?” Mother asked. “The one Judy wanted to go to.”

“Yes.”

“It's opening next week,” said Mother. “I've been asked to teach there.”

“Just tell them you're not interested.”

“No,” said Mother. “I signed the contract this afternoon.”

Daddy started coughing.

“It'd mainly be the same students I would have been teaching at Hall High.”

“No.”

“And if I could help get the school started, then maybe Judy could come home,” explained Mother.

I crept over to the doorway. I didn't want to hear them argue, but like a moth near a candle, I couldn't pull myself away, either. Daddy shook his head. “Governor Faubus is just trying to find a way to get around the integration order. It's going back on all the progress those nine students made last year.”

Mother said nothing.

“You knew I wouldn't approve,” said Daddy.

“That's why I didn't ask you first,” snapped Mother. “Sometimes I think you care about those Negroes more than your own family.”

Daddy slammed his fist down on the table. “That's not fair. Of course I'll miss Judy, but we have to do what's best for her education and—”

Mother stood up and walked out of the room. Daddy threw down his napkin like he was going to follow her, then changed his mind and sat with his head in his hands.

I wanted to sneak off and hide under my covers, but I couldn't reach my room without going through the dining room. I considered going out the back door and climbing in my bedroom window like a burglar, but it seemed simpler to wait and see if Daddy would leave too.

Finally, he looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. “Marlee,” Daddy said automatically, “we weren't . . .”

But I guess he realized there was no point in lying, because he sighed and said, “Sit down and finish your dinner.”

I didn't want to, but I didn't want to storm off like Mother either. I decided, to keep the peace, I would take the high road and go sit down. Even if I couldn't eat a bite.

“We're all feeling stressed and . . .” Daddy rubbed his eyes. “You're probably pretty angry with me.”

I didn't answer. The answer to that question was yes.

Daddy took a deep breath. “Do you remember when we thought Pretty Boy had died?”

I wasn't in the mood for a bedtime story. Pretty Boy was singing away in my room right now, so I was pretty sure he had lived through whatever misfortune had befallen him. But Daddy wasn't deterred by my lack of interest.

“You were little, maybe four or five,” he went on. “David let Pretty Boy out of his cage to fly around, but then, after a while, he couldn't find him. He searched everywhere. Finally he went up into the attic. There was Pretty Boy, lying on the rafters in front of the attic fan.

“Pretty Boy was lying awful still, not moving. David picked him up and gently stroked his feathers. Nothing. There wasn't any injury he could see, but Pretty Boy didn't move. David brought him back downstairs and put him in his cage. When I came home from work, that was where I found you all, gathered around Pretty Boy's cage, crying.”

I vaguely remembered that. Not that I was interested in Daddy's story, but . . . “You were already planning his funeral, but I wasn't sure he was dead. I'd seen birds like that before, stunned, but if you left them alone long enough, they'd shake it off and be as good as new. So we put the cover on his cage and went to bed. And in the morning, when we took off the cover, there was Pretty Boy sitting on his perch, singing. Singing just as pretty as he ever had.

“What I'm trying to say is . . . our family is like Pretty Boy. Things might seem awful bad right now, with your new friend gone and your sister at Granny's and Mother so angry with me, but we'll get through this. You'll see.” He patted my hand.

It was a nice story. But I wasn't totally sure he believed it himself.

There was a knock at the front door, and Mother went to answer it. We could hear a man's voice, low and gruff, but we couldn't make out the words.

“Who is it?” Daddy called out.

“A policeman,” said Mother, and she sounded afraid.

All sorts of horrible ideas went through my head as Daddy and I ran for the front door. Maybe David had been in a car accident. Maybe Judy had run away. Or maybe the policeman was here to arrest me for trying to contact Liz. Daddy had warned me to leave her alone, and I hadn't listened.

“Actually,” said the man, “I'm a federal marshal.”

Sure enough, he had an armband that read
U.S. MARSHAL
and held up a badge with an eagle on it for all of us to see.

“Does Mrs. Lillian Maurine Nisbett live here?”

“Yes,” said Mother. “That's me.”

He handed her an envelope with a golden seal. “This is a restraining order forbidding you from working at T. J. Raney High School.”

“I don't understand,” stammered Mother.

“There is a current contract on file placing you at Hall High School. You need to honor that contract.”

Mother took the envelope, but didn't move to open it. “Oh.”

“Do you understand, ma'am?” the man asked. “You are not to teach at T. J. Raney. This is an order from the federal government, which supersedes any state laws. You need to remain at your old school. Even if there aren't any students.”

“I understand.” But Mother didn't look at him.

The marshal tipped his hat. “Good night, then. Sorry to bother you.” He turned and left our front porch.

Mother stood perfectly still in the hallway. Daddy opened his mouth, then closed it again. I went back to the dining room.

The silence was horrible, and I found myself wishing for the yelling. Thoughts were bouncing around my head like the balls in a pinball machine, and I didn't want to hear any of them.
Was Mother going to get arrested? Were my parents going to keep fighting? When was Judy going to come home? Would Liz show up tomorrow afternoon?
I scraped all the leftovers into the trash and focused on doing the dishes, scrubbing each plate in clockwise circles. The area of each plate was pi times the radius squared. If I thought about that hard enough, I wouldn't have to worry about anything else.

In the middle of the night, I woke up hungry. I decided to go into the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cereal and milk. But when I got halfway down the hall, I heard crying. I peeked into the kitchen.

It was Mother sitting at the table, holding a cup of tea.

Parents were not supposed to cry. They weren't supposed to fight, either. And sisters weren't supposed to be sent away. And if your friend was white, she should stay white, and not suddenly turn out to be a Negro.

I wanted to comfort Mother, but I didn't know what to say. For a long while, I just stood in the hall and listened to her crying and thought, what if Pretty Boy hadn't woken up? What if flying into the fan had killed him? Daddy had said sometimes birds shook off a collision and sometimes they didn't. Which one would it be for us?

I crept back to my room and picked up the drape over the birdcage. Pretty Boy was sitting on his perch, his tiny chest moving up and down. I whispered, “Please don't die.” Then I let down the drape and went back to bed.