The Swan House (39 page)

“Now?”

“Could you, please?”

“I'm not sure I know how to get there, Mary Swan.”

“I'll show you.”

“Well, if it means that much to you, I guess we can try.” I knew then I didn't deserve a friend like Robbie Bartholomew. He pulled his little red convertible, though the top was up of course, out of the Varsity parking lot and turned away from Buckhead, straight toward the inner city.

“I told you I'd been helping out down here,” I said, indicating the road to turn off from Peachtree Street. “Now that this has happened, well, it makes everything in Buckhead seem a bit superficial. Or at Wellington. I mean, who cares where you get your dresses or what club you belong to or who you're dating or how big your car is or how much your dad makes or any of that stuff? Do you think any of that really matters?”

“On a small scale, sure. If you're talking about individuals. But if you're talking civil rights and what's really important, I don't think the superficial stuff is important.” He glanced at me. “At least I hope there's something more out there for me.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Don't get me wrong. I love Atlanta. I love Buckhead. But I don't know if I'll be able to follow in Dad's shoes. He's a pillar of society. Like your dad.”

“What would you like to do, if you could do anything in the world, Robbie Bartholomew?” Then I grabbed his shoulder. “Wait a sec, turn here. Yes, slow down! Right here.” And then, “Sorry. Okay, go on.”

He gave a mischievous smile, at least it looked mischievous for Robbie Bartholomew. “I think I'd just like to follow you around for a while. You'd find enough to keep us both busy, I'm sure.”

I stuck out my tongue. “Now take a left here on Capitol Avenue. We're almost there.”

“Where?”

“At the church.”

When we pulled up in front of Mt. Carmel, I could tell the Sunday night church service was still going. “Wait here a sec. I just want to peek in.”

“Are you nuts, Mary Swan? I'm staying with you. Grant Park isn't the same at night as it is in the day. Just let me park, will you?”

“Maybe you shouldn't leave the car, though. I have friends who tell me they know how to take a car apart in less than an hour.”

“Well, then, you better start saving money to get me a new convertible, because I'm parking this car and not letting you out of my sight.” We were parked across the street from the church by then, in front of a dark corner with a bent-in-two sign that showed these streets as Capitol Avenue and Georgia Avenue. We both stood by the curve for a moment, grinning at each other.

Then I poked him in the ribs. “You win, Robbie. Come on inside with me.”

We crossed the street and went in the front door, the one I never used, the one that led directly into the back of the sanctuary. Music and singing greeted our ears. All we could see were the backs of a lot of black people standing up. Some had their hands raised over their heads, some were swaying to and fro, and some were clapping enthusiastically. We slipped inside, for the moment unnoticed, and huddled together on the empty back pew, almost as if we expected this crowd of black people to turn on us in fury, the way the whites had done to James Meredith.

The singing went on for ten more minutes, and I particularly liked the words in one of the songs. “Jesus on my main line, tell Him what ya want, Jesus on my main line, tell Him what ya want, Jesus on my main line, tell Him what ya want. Ya call Him up, and ya tell Him what ya want.”

I could kind of understand how these people might think they saw black angels on the road or some other miracle of God Almighty. There was such a sense of sincerity and expectation and, I don't know, need. Yes, heartfelt need. These people sang like they needed Jesus and, praise God, He was only a phone call away. And in that moment, I wanted it too. I didn't have any idea how to get it—how to get eyes that sparkled like Miss Abigail's and a fresh naïveté that said with Cassandra, “Jesus done goin' ta be lookin' afta' us from now on.” More than anything, I wanted God to convince me, as He had done for Carl, that He was real. I didn't know how to get God to do that, so I just belted out, along with all the others, “Ya call Him up, and ya tell Him what ya want!”

Robbie's grin had spread clear across his face, and he looked as if he was enjoying himself every bit as much as the others. “This is great, Mary Swan!” he called over the noise. “Man, can they sing!”

Then, as if on some cue that Robbie and I missed, everyone else sat down, noisily, with a lot of bustling and “Amen!” and “Alleluia!” so that for a split second, we were the only ones standing up.

A few black heads turned to stare at us hard. I heard whispering around us, and then, from over on my left and in front of us, a very loud child's voice trying to whisper, “Hey 'dere, Mary Swan! Look, Puddin'! It's Mary Swan, and she done brought her a white boy with her.” Mike was pointing, and Miss Abigail, sitting beside him, nodded my way with those twinkling eyes. And several of the ladies who came on Saturdays caught my eye, and they gave me the warmest smiles, as though this was where I belonged.

“They all look like they know you,” Robbie whispered, while the pastor started praying.

“I
do
know them, Robbie. I see them every Saturday.” Then I grabbed his hand and begged, “Can we stay 'til the end?”

He grinned even bigger. “If my dad knew that I was sitting here with you in a black church service . . . see, Mary Swan, I was right. Life with you would always be an adventure. That's for sure.” And so we stayed.

I'd heard the ladies talk about Pastor James many times, but I'd never met him, because on Saturdays he worked in a nearby community with a boys' club. Pastor James had a head full of gray hair and bushy gray eyebrows that almost joined in the middle. He was rather short and kind of square looking, and I got the feeling that he had a lot of physical as well as spiritual power behind his words. And I knew from comments made that Pastor James was loved and revered as much as Miss Abigail.

“. . . And, dear Lawd,” he was saying in his black drawl, “we thank you, we thank you with all our hearts, O Lawd, for sparing the lives of our boys.” His voice rose in intensity and emotion as he spoke.

A host of amens followed the pastor's sentence. Relief flooded through me. Larry must be all right!

“We praise you, Lawd Jesus, for overcoming the enemy. We overcome with love, brotha's and sista's, that we do. Where the world says to hate and seek revenge, Jesus, you tell us to forgive and be at peace with all men. Precious Lawd Jesus, do let us overcome with your divine love. Amen.”

There was a collective shout of “Amen!” and then the whole congregation burst into a song that would become famous in the following years, but which neither Robbie nor I had ever heard before that night. “We shall overcome,” they sang. “We shall overcome, we shall overcome someday-ay-ay-ay-ay. Oh-oh, deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome someday.” The way they sang it stirred me way down inside. The piano was silent, no hands clapped, every head was bowed, and eyes were firmly shut, as the haunting, heartfelt spiritual exploded
a cappella
, filling every corner of the sanctuary. And filling every soul.

Robbie had the most solemn expression on his face, and he swallowed hard, and I wondered if he was fighting back tears. Then Pastor James opened his big Bible and began to preach.

“We's talking about freedom, like the Good Book says.” He leaned way over the pulpit, peering out at the congregation. “‘What does the Lawd require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God,' Amen!” Another chorus of amens followed. “And in Galatians it says, ‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Jesus Christ.'” He held his Bible up victoriously. “You hear that, brotha's and sista's? We is one in Jesus Christ!”

His message lasted at least forty-five minutes, but neither Robbie nor I noticed the time. We were riveted in place, in part by the message and in part by the brand-new culture of a black worship service. When it was over, Puddin' ran to my side, grabbed my leg, and hugged me tight. I got that pinched feeling in my chest again. She wiggled around my legs, staring up at Robbie.

“Puddin', this is my friend Robbie.”

“Pleased ta meetcha,” she said, eyes going to the floor and back up to him and back down.

Robbie squatted down to her level. “Puddin'? Good to meet you too.” He twirled one of her braids, and she smiled shyly. “Tell me, Puddin', does Mary Swan behave herself when she comes to see you?”

Fortunately, Robbie couldn't see how red my face suddenly got.

Puddin' gave a big grin and said, “Oh, shore, she's jus' fine here. She likes ta serve spaghetti with my brotha', and then sometimes she comes ta my house ta play. Sometimes she and my brotha' and Miss Rachel and the otha' boys in the band, they gets ta makin' an awful racket on their instruments, and then Aunt Neta makes 'em leave the house.” She scrunched up her nose. “But that ain't nothin' new 'cause Aunt Neta likes ta run everybody outta the house.” She lifted her shoulders shyly and glanced at me. “Mary Swan! I saw Carl today and he's betta'! He's so much betta'! I even got to write on his cast, jus' like he did on mine.”

“That's wonderful, sweetie.”

“Hello, Mary Swan.” Miss Abigail's eyes were sparkling again. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Miss Abigail, this is my friend Robbie Bartholomew. We were—” I blushed. “We were out at the Varsity, and I just had an urge to come down here, and so Robbie brought me, and the service was going on.”

“Robbie, so glad to meet you.”

Robbie stuck out his hand and shook Miss Abigail's forcefully. “Good to meet you too. Mary Swan has told me so much about you.”

Miss Abigail gave one of her dry smiles. “Don't believe everything you hear, Robbie.”

“So they're okay,” I blurted out. “Carl and Larry are okay?”

“Yes, they are, Mary Swan. Yes, they are.” Her lined face softened. “We didn't know for Larry. Touch and go all last night. But they're both gonna be fine. Jesus heard our petitions.”

“Miss Abigail done stayed on the flo' in Larry's room all night long talkin' ta Jesus,” little James volunteered proudly, the whites of his eyes big. “And Jesus done heard her prayers.” He crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.

“Shh now, James. It wasn't my prayers. He heard
our
prayers. Don't you start puffing me up. I won't have it, young man.” Miss Abigail playfully swatted at his bottom.

The children darted behind her. Robbie asked, “How long has this building been here, Miss Abigail?”

“Oh, a hundred years, I'd say. Was a white church for decades, a fine white church. But in the early fifties, well, the rich whites started leaving this area. Running away, I like to say.” She shook her head as if reprimanding the whole white race. “Running when we needed them to stay. When the Lord
wanted
them to stay. So eventually, well, eventually the Presbyterian Mission gave me the keys to this church. They said for me to take it over.” She laughed at an inner joke. “Here I was a missionary with the Southern Baptists, and the Presbyterians were giving me their church. But that's God's heart, anyway, isn't it, children? I work with blacks and whites, rich and poor, Baptists and Presbyterians and Episcopalians and Catholics. And the sweetest group of Jewish ladies you've ever known gets together in their nursing home on Peachtree and knits booties and little sweaters for the newborns.”

Robbie was studying Miss Abigail carefully. “You must really love this work to stay here.”

“As I've told Mary Swan, it's my calling. This is where God wants me, not because it's easy, but because it's His work for me. Pastor James came about nine years ago, and you can see that the congregation has certainly grown.”

“And you're right in the middle of the social reform. Well, it's been great to see firsthand what Mary Swan's been telling me about for all these months. Good night, Miss Abigail.” He shook her hand again and rubbed James's and Mike's hair.

“Good night, Robbie and Mary Swan. Take care driving home.”

The children followed us out of the church while Miss Abigail turned her attention to another woman. The little red convertible sat untouched where we had left it, but soon Mike and James and Puddin' were crowded around it with several other children.

“See, I tol' ya so. It's Mary Swan's friend's car. Mmm-hmm.”

“Mighty nice car, Mista Robbie,” little James said with admiration.

“You like it? You want to take a spin with me?”

The boy's eyes grew wide.

“I'd better check with Miss Abigail,” I said to Robbie.

I whispered to her inside the church, “Robbie wants to take some of the kids for a ride around the block in his car. Is that okay?”

“Wonderful idea. Aunt Neta's at the hospital tonight, so I'm on duty with the kids. I'll be in here for another thirty minutes. Just let me know when you're leaving and send the kids back in.”

So for the next thirty minutes Robbie drove James and then Mike and then Puddin' and then a bunch of other kids around the streets of Grant Park. He even put down the top, which made them squeal with delight. He didn't pay one bit of attention when I said, “It's November, for goodness' sake. They'll catch cold!” I think he enjoyed the rides even more than the kids.

When we left, they stood on the curb and waved while yelling, “Thank you, Mr. Robbie. Y'all come back now!”

Robbie was all adrenaline. “Cute kids. Mary Swan, that woman is extraordinary. Just in those few minutes, I could tell it. Something about her . . .”