The Swan House (52 page)

“It's fun. It's the tradition of the school.”

“If that don't beat all, Mary Swan. A float and a skit and a dare. Tradition's okay, I s'pect. And you've got talent. I know it. Isn't everybody who can write somethin' ta make people laugh. I imagine you've got insight when you write your silly poems. That's good. But one day, Mary Swan, you know what?” He pointed a ladle dripping with sauce straight at me. “You're gonna do somethin' from your heart, not jus' somethin' that shows your brains. I'm sure of it. You're gonna do somethin' that makes people cry. Somethin' that touches their soul.”

That irritated feeling crept onto my cheeks, making them hot, that feeling that Carl was a combination of a hardworking, down-to-earth boy and someone a little bit other-worldly, like one of the wise prophets from the Old Testament. But deep down inside, I hoped he was right.

“Loaves and fishes, children. Our God always provides.” Miss Abigail looked tired, but her eyes were still twinkling as she wrapped a hand-knit shawl around her head and neck so that only the end of her long, gray-streaked hair showed against her coat. “Thank you for all your help.

“I've got to get to the hospital with that baby now. I'll be riding with the mother in her car. Carl, can you please go by the house and load up those bags of canned goods that the ladies' circle brought over yesterday? The coats and blankets and shoes are already in the Ford.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And, Mary Swan, you can help Carl hand them out. They'll be waiting for you over at the Baptist church. I'll be back later, Mary Swan, and I'll take you home.”

I could hardly believe that Miss Abigail had just handed me an entire afternoon with Carl. “I'll finish in the kitchen,” I told him. “You go on and get the stuff at her house.”

“All right. See ya in a minute.”

I grinned at him. “I'll be ready.”

Thirty minutes later, as I slipped into the passenger seat beside Carl in Miss Abigail's old Ford station wagon, he motioned to the overflowing sacks of food and clothes. “She's got her an office at the church, but the truth is, Miss Abigail works out of her car.”

A line of people was already waiting for us when we arrived at the other church. Carl opened the tailgate, and I sat inside and handed him whatever it was these people were looking for. I could hardly bear to look into their cold, hungry eyes. But they smiled at us and murmured, “Thank you” as they left with clothes and cans of food. By four o'clock the car was completely empty. Carl had taken note of several men who still needed shoes. I collapsed in the front seat, anxious to start up the car and get the heat going. A few snowflakes landed daintily on the windshield.

“Carl! It's snowing!” Snow in Atlanta was rare, and the few inches we got each year inevitably caused pandemonium to break out in the city. But that day, snow seemed perfectly fitting and somehow romantic. He shut the tailgate, climbed in the driver's seat, and started the car. “Well, hallelujah! Welcome, snow!” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and started singing, “I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas . . .” and humming the rest of the verse.

“You're a little late,” I teased.

He ignored me and kept humming.

Then abruptly, interrupting his song, I asked, “Have you ever seen Willie B?”

“The gorilla? Sure. Lots of times.”

“Well, I haven't. Could we go see him?”

Willie B was a silverback gorilla who had been captured in the wild and brought to the Atlanta Zoo in 1961 as a two-year-old. He was affectionately named after the former mayor, William B. Harts-field. The big primate fascinated everyone, and rumor had it that the number of patrons of the zoo was increasing thanks to Willie B.

“Now? In the snow?”

“Sure. We're right around the corner from the zoo, aren't we?” I was thrilled with my idea. Going to the zoo while it snowed sounded romantic.

“Yeah. It's not far.”

“Oh, shucks,” I said. “I left my purse at church. I don't have any money. Never mind, then.”

“That's all right. I've got money.”

“No. No, Carl. Some other time.”

He smiled. “Are you afraid to let me pay for you, girl? I ain't broke. I can do it.”

He parked the car, and we walked to the zoo's entrance. He bought two tickets and a bag of peanuts. Invigorated by the snow whirling in the air, I asked Carl the question that had been on the tip of my tongue for several months now.

“Would you ever take a white girl on a date?” I didn't dare ask him if this
was
a date.

“Naw, Mary Swan. I couldn't do it.”

“Why not?”

“Isn't done. No way no black man is going to risk his hide right now, not with all the civil strife we're dealin' with. No way.”

“But what if you really liked her? Liked her a lot.”

He gave me a half-irritated sideways look. “You ask the craziest questions, girl. What good would it do you to know about somethin' that will never be?”

“I don't know. Just trying to understand. After all, this is kind of like a date, isn't it?”

He tossed me a peanut and gave me a big smile and shook his head. “You women are all the same,” he said. “Wantin' to understand. No, this isn't a date. Just two friends out at the zoo.” He frowned, studying my face. “What you thinkin', girl?”

“I'm thinking that you're ‘risking your hide' right now, being with me.”

“Maybe, but don't think this is a date. Not in my mind, at least.” He came up close to my face and said, almost accusingly, “You have no idea what it's like to be black.”

I swallowed hard. “Then tell me, Carl. I want to know.”

“You wanna know, huh?” We were standing in front of Willie B's glass cage by now. The gorilla sat perfectly still, nostrils flared, beady black eyes staring from under his prominent forehead, his mouth turned in a half smile as if he were enjoying our conversation. “There's always an underlying sense of guilt when I'm with you, girl. Like I'm betrayin' my people. I'm not just afraid of what whites are thinkin'. It's more what my people are thinkin'. ‘White girl don't need you, but the black girls do.' Liking a white girl is selling out to all the progress we blacks are makin'.

“I tell ya, Mary Swan, sometimes I'm afraid to be seen with you. I know as sure as my skin is black that flirtin' with a white girl will bring trouble. It's just not done. I can pretend in my mind, if I want, but I know it won't go nowhere.” He gave me a sideways glance and then said, “Ain't that right, Willie B?”

I just kept my eyes fixed on the gorilla's cage, trying to control the pounding in my heart.

“You know when you come to my house, well, it isn't easy afterward. My aunt and my friends see it as me bringin' trouble in the house. They wonder what you're doin' there.”

“So why did you agree to come here with me?”

“'Cause you're so darned stubborn when ya want somethin', girl. And I figure not many people'll be goin' to the zoo when it's snowing.” He laughed a bit wryly. “Don't make much sense, does it?”

“I think I understand what you're saying. But Miss Abigail is accepted, isn't she?” I said, a bit desperately.

“That's a whole different story, Mary Swan, and you know it. But she's paid the price a whole lotta times. You ask Miss Abigail. She knows what it feels like to be hated by whites for helping blacks and to be hated by blacks 'cause her skin is just the wrong color.”

“Are you more afraid of blacks than whites as far as I'm concerned?”

“Mary Swan, it's a hopeless situation, I tell you. Blacks feel like I'm betrayin' them, and that's bad. But the whites. Well, I've learned my lesson plenty o' times. I don't fight back 'cause like I told you before, if I do, those white boys'll come back later with more of their friends and with knives and guns. As a black, you know better than to fight back or talk back. That's just the rules of the game. The whites aren't afraid because they've got the weight of society on their side. Black wisdom teaches us to shut our mouths and take a few punches 'cause that's better than being dead.”

“So I'm just trouble for you, aren't I, Carl?”

He got a pained look on his face. “Naw, I don't mean to say that.”

“But it's true. It's what you are saying. A black boy being with a white girl means trouble.”

“Yeah, you're right about that, Mary Swan.” Then he grinned. “You liked to get me killed at that cemetery, girl. I'll never forget that. Everywhere we go, we stick out like a sore thumb.”

We'd left Willie B's cage and were walking toward the reptile building. Not a soul was in sight. I wrapped my arm around his and said, “But I like you, Carl.”

He kept on walking. “No, Mary Swan, you don't really like me. You like the
idea
of liking me. But physically there's no way a white girl like you could really be attracted to some big, ugly guy like me.”

“You're wrong! You're not big and ugly! You're handsome! You're really, really handsome. Even Rachel says it.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Not handsome to a white way of thinkin'.” He saw then how much his talk had disturbed me, because he put both of his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. “You're a great girl, Mary Swan. A bit naïve, but mighty fine. And I do consider you a friend. But don't try to be my girlfriend. You stick with Robbie. He's a good guy. Stick with him.”

That was the first time that something clicked in my head. I hated understanding it, because it took away hope, but I realized that Carl's reactions and fears were inbred and automatic. They were a black person's natural response to life and the segregation of our society. Any time a black person stepped out of place, he was uneasy.

We watched a cage full of snakes and stuffed our hands in our pockets and blew out frosty puffs of air until Carl said, “We better get back.” We rode home in silence.

Miss Abigail had just gotten home herself and looked exhausted. “Carl, will you make a cup of tea for Mary Swan? I'm just going to lie down for a sec.”

“Sure. How's the baby?”

She shook her head. “Not good. Got whooping cough. His mama stayed with him at Grady Hospital. I'll go back later in the evening.”

Carl looked lovingly at Miss Abigail. “Go on. Go lie down. I'll take care of everything. You just rest.” She gave him a grateful nod and went into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“Her life is one emergency after another, isn't it, Carl?” I whispered.

“Seems that way most of the time. But she does okay.” He had set out a teacup and said, “Mary Swan, I got to get home and help Aunt Neta. Let Miss Abigail rest a little and help yourself to the tea. Okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.” My throat felt tight. I didn't want him to go.

“Thank you for helpin'.” He stopped at the door and added, “I won't be here next Saturday, Mary Swan. A few of us are going down to Albany for a peaceful demonstration.”

Shocked, I blurted out, “Carl! Don't go! It's too dangerous.”

“I'll be careful. You don't worry about me none.”

“I do worry. I worry a lot.”

But he was already out the door.

Miss Abigail could not have been resting more than fifteen minutes when the phone rang. I ran to the den to answer it, so as not to disturb her. On the other end of the line was the voice of a hysterical child. “Miss Abigail, this here's George! Come quick—Daddy's got a knife and he's trying to kill us!”

I blinked hard, sure I'd heard wrong. “Trying to kill you?”

“Yeah! Me and my sista's!”

Recovering, I said, “George, uh, honey, this is Miss Abigail's friend. Hold on a minute. I'll get her.”

“Hurry! Please! Daddy's drunk, and he's got a knife!”

I threw down the phone and dashed into Miss Abigail's room, where she was stretched out on the bed, breathing peacefully. “I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Abigail,” I said, my voice sharp with fear. “But there's a little boy on the phone named George, and he says his daddy has a knife and is trying to kill him!”

She sat up with a start and bolted out of bed, saying, “Dear Lord Jesus!” She hurried down the hall and picked up the receiver, listening intently to the child's stricken voice. She closed her eyes, and a look of great pain crossed her face. “George, there's nothing I can do to calm your daddy down, but Jesus can do something, so let's pray.” And she started praying right there on the phone. “Lord Jesus, please hear our prayer. Please calm down Mr. Murphy. Please calm his heart so he won't hurt anyone. And give George courage and peace. In Jesus' strong name, amen. George, you take your sisters and hide under the bed. You hear me? Get all the way under the bed. I'll be right there.” She hung up the phone and pulled on a pair of shoes. “Come on, Mary Swan, I need you, honey.”

My eyes got wide and I started to protest, but she was already halfway out the door. I followed in a daze. The old Ford wagon took us quickly to George's house, and on the way, I didn't say a word. From the way her lips were moving, I could tell that Miss Abigail was keeping up a continual conversation with the Lord, and I certainly didn't want to bother her. As we parked in front of the house, Miss Abigail barked out instructions. “You go back with the children. Keep them safe, Mary Swan. Whatever you have to do.”

“Don't you think we should get Carl or some other man to come with us?”

“Oh no. Mr. Murphy doesn't need to see a strong young man at his door. Better for him to see me. He knows me, Mary Swan.” And Miss Abigail walked right inside without knocking.

A burly black man with eyes that looked as if they were on fire met us at the door. He reminded me of a bull facing a matador, as I had once seen on TV. But what I noticed most was the long carving knife in his hand.