Read Warriors Don't Cry Online
Authors: Melba Pattillo Beals
Warriors Don't Cry (10 page)
“Yes, but no white person would know you there. Those places stay open late at night and are filled with our people. They’ll protect you.”
“But what about you and Grandma and Conrad? I wouldn’t wanna leave you.”
“We’ll be fine. You could send the menfolk up here to help us. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t want to frighten you, but we have to take some precautions now.” Mama had a sad look in her eyes, although she feigned a smile as she kissed me.
I stood still for a moment, listening to the pounding in my temples. Mama’s words really upset me. She must have expected someone to come after me if she was telling me to go to Ninth Street. So I decided I could either frighten myself to death by imagining what might happen to me, or I could think about Vince. I started to spin a happy daydream.
“Are you deaf, child?” Grandma India was shouting at me from the hall and beckoning me to the phone.
“Hello.”
“So, hi. It’s me.” It was really Vince this time. “Been hearing about you on the news. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I wanted to appear nonchalant.
“The radio guy said you are being hidden somewhere special to protect you from all the death threats.”
“Not me. I’m right here.”
Grandma India was hovering over me, pointing to her watch. “Are you scared? Is anyone there to protect you?”
“Not really, but we’re just fine.”
“Everybody’s talking about you’all. We’re so proud of what you’re doing.”
“Well not everybody’s proud.”
“Yeah, sure, some folks are afraid of losing their jobs. My mama says some of her creditors told her they’d shut her restaurant down if they ever caught her helping with integration.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I hoped he wouldn’t be angry with me and stop calling.
“Lots of white businesses are threatening to lay off our people, and they’re gonna squeeze us every way they can, it seems.”
“What do you want us to do about it?” I couldn’t tell what his position was.
“Nothing you can do. Mama’s church is having a secret meeting to kind of lift folks’ spirits and give a little help to those that really need it.”
“We’re not out to hurt anybody, you know that.”
“Just ignore our people who bad-mouth you. They got no thoughts about the future. They’re waiting for white folks to fix things for them.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“I understand—Miss India’s right there next to you, isn’t she? See you at the wrestling matches.”
I ignored Grandma India’s questioning eyes as we headed for the living room to join Mama and Conrad, who were watching TV. I pretended I wasn’t absolutely overjoyed that Vince cared whether I would be going to the matches with Grandma on Saturday night. It was the one thing in my life that made me feel normal and happy, the way I did before integration took me over.
I settled down into my chair and buried my face in a magazine, refusing to give myself over to television. I wanted to save all of my mind for daydreaming about Vince and me, and how we might actually become real girlfriend and boyfriend. I wanted everybody to know I had a fellow of my own. Suddenly I heard a loud popping sound, like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Then glass was breaking.
“Get down, now!” Grandma yelled.
I fell forward on my knees, looking at the broken glass. The green vase on top of the television set had shattered into a thousand pieces, spraying slivers all over the walls, the floor, and us. For an instant we were paralyzed, motionless, like people in a snapshot. Everything after that moment seemed to be happening in slow motion, frame by frame. Before we could move, there was another firecracker noise, and more glass fell to the floor.
“We gotta get the lights out,” Mama ordered. Each of us moved to shut off the lights nearest us. My hands were shaking as I crawled over to turn off the television. I heard rustling sounds like somebody moving through the bushes just outside the window. Oh, God, I thought, they’re gonna come in and shoot all of us, Grandma and Mama and Conrad and me. What if it’s those men who chased us this morning. I couldn’t help myself; I was so frightened I wet my pants.
Grandma made her way through the broken glass to peek out the window, then looked back and signaled us to lie flat. Without making a sound, she took the rifle, opened the window, and rested the gun barrel on the sill. Slowly she squeezed off a shot. The noise it made was like a big explosion.
“Bingo! I hit it!”
“Hit what?” I whispered.
“The old metal oil can—you know, the trash burner,” Grandma said happily. “That might give them something to think about.”
As she fired again, we heard people whispering and running along the side of our house, and finally the slamming of car doors.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Conyers, our next-door neighbor, called. “You’all got a problem in your backyard,” she told us. “After all that noise you’all made over there, three white men scooted out of your yard as fast as flying bullets. Mr. Conyers says they were all he could see, but just the same he’s got his double-barreled business partner loaded and he’s a-fixing to give you’all some backup. A couple of the other neighbors are gonna prowl around to see what they can find.”
But, she added, her husband advised us not to call the police. “White cops ain’t no help in these kinda situations. Besides, then they’ll know exactly where you live and hang your butts for sure.”
As I lay in bed that night, I felt so frightened, I couldn’t cry. Instead I lay silent for hours listening to noises outside, wondering if the men had really gone away and when they would come back.
“Grandma, Grandma India!” I called to her as I darted in and out of every room in the house.
“I’m here, in the living room,” she answered. “What’s the matter?” I came to a screeching halt and tried to catch my breath. There she was, perched on top of a chair, stretching her arms high above the television set, nailing a picture to the wall.
“Won’t do to have bullet holes in the wall,” she said. “Somebody will stop by and want us to explain it. We can’t make a big deal of what happened last night, you know.”
I gripped the back of the chair she stood on to steady it.
“There, you see. I always liked the sheep in that picture. Their faces are smiling out at us from a heavenly pasture.”
I held her hand as she climbed down from the chair.
“Kind of hard on a girl, getting shot at that way, huh,” she said as she touched my cheek with her forefinger and winked at me. “But you don’t seem none the worse for it. You look like you’re full of zest and vinegar this morning.”
“I’m frightened,” I whispered. I reached out to hug her, seeking the safety of her arms. She was wearing a freshly starched dress and apron, and smelled of vanilla extract. “A little vanilla behind the ear always helps a woman’s femininity,” she often said. I loved her so much. Just for an instant, I thought how awful it would have been if the gunmen had hit her.
“So, missy, you slept right through your mama and brother leaving for school.” She carried the chair back to the dining room, placing it just so. Then she paused and turned to look back at me. “Well, get dressed. I’ll make you some hot oatmeal with raisins. After I go to the store for putty, we’ll sit and talk a spell until Mr. Claxton gets here to fix the window.”
“May I go with you to the store?”
“Absolutely positively not,” she said. “You’re not going out of this house today for any reason.”
As I dressed, I fretted that if Grandma wouldn’t allow me to go anywhere today, she might not let me go with her to the wrestling matches. Surely nothing that awful could ever happen to me! I put it right out of my mind.
So there we were, Grandma and me, giggling and talking together over the breakfast table, just like always. It felt like a very normal morning. For a short while I forgot the shots and integration, but as we started cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I saw her favorite green vase now shattered in a thousand pieces in the trash can. It reminded me of the bullets and what might happen come nightfall.
Then the wretched phone calls started. Shaking hands and a pounding pulse were my responses to the ring of the phone, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. The shrill sound went on forever; Grandma had decided she wasn’t going to play phone tag with hecklers.
When the doorbell rang, I jumped, but it was only Mr. Claxton, Grandma’s friend. When I teased her about his being her boyfriend, she said I shouldn’t be getting into grown-ups’ private business. But I noticed she had put on just a touch of lipstick and a black bow in the back of her hair before he arrived.
All of sudden, I heard loud talking in the front hall. Grandma and Mr. Claxton were exchanging harsh words. I wanted to see what was going on up close, so I tiptoed past, announcing I was going out to get the newspaper. I heard him say the gunshots through our window were a clear sign that I should withdraw from Central, because I would bring the white people’s wrath down on our community. In a very loud, strong voice, Grandma said he should mind his own business.
That morning’s newspaper showed a picture of Minnijean and Jeff at the Federal Building as they filed reports about our being turned away from Central. Most of the headlines in the
Gazette
were about us and integration.
On the front page a headline stating DECISIONS OF NORTH DAKOTA JUDGE REVERBERATE THROUGH ALL OF DIXIE crowned a picture of Judge Ronald Davies. There he was—the man who had ordered the governor to move ahead with integration was pictured right there on the front page. He had the same huge, kind, all-knowing eyes as Grandma.
“Davies, from Fargo, North Dakota, who described his career as ‘humdrum,’ had landed in the middle of a racial battle that may have repercussions for the entire South,” the article said. “This man who stands 5’ 1” and ran 100 yards in 10 seconds at the University of North Dakota” had come to Little Rock two weeks earlier to clean up a backlog of cases in the eastern district of Arkansas.
Twice he had interrupted his regular duties to rule on crucial matters pertaining to integration. Two nights before, it had been Davies who heard pleas from the Little Rock School Board’s attorney asking what to do, considering that Faubus was ringing Central High with troops. “Move ahead with integration,” Davies had said.
Although mild-mannered, the paper said the fifty-two-year-old judge could sometimes be testy and speak brusquely. As I read more about Judge Davies, I didn’t think he was “humdrum” at all.
The next article actually made me laugh aloud. Under a headline that read: SITUATION AT SCHOOL IS GETTING SMELLY, it said the National Guard blockade at Central was creating a smelly situation at homes in the vicinity because the guards weren’t allowing nonwhite garbage collectors to get through their barricades.
“You can’t live your whole life in that newspaper, girl. Get busy with your day!” With my arms in soapsuds up to my elbows, I could feel pretty ordinary and forget about newspapers and headlines and integration. Washing clothes with Grandma and hanging them on the line was a meditation, she always said.
A little later, unable to take the ringing telephone any longer, I picked up the receiver. It was the NAACP asking me to go to Mrs. Daisy Bates’s house that afternoon for a news conference.
I wondered how Grandma would feel about my going. More than once, I had heard her say that giving interviews was just asking for trouble. “You don’t wanna be singled out.” Still, I was anxious to go because it meant I would get to see the others. I was going stir crazy. I decided to wait to get permission until Grandma was in her very best mood.
By the time Mr. Claxton had finished repairing the window, I noticed that Grandma’s anger toward him had cooled considerably. He cooed at her as he headed for the front door, and she smiled like a flustered schoolgirl with a crush. After she closed the door behind him, she turned to discover that I was watching, and resumed her “strictly business” manner.
“Did I tell you someone called from your church office? The Negro Interfaith Ministers’ organization is speaking out on your behalf, saying Faubus is not living up to his responsibility to all the people he represents.”
“Maybe he’ll listen,” I said.
“They say a dozen or so white ministers in Little Rock are gonna do the same.” Great, I thought to myself. Maybe now Governor Faubus will see that he has been unfair and change his ways.
Shortly after Mr. Claxton left, the church ladies arrived with baskets of food. “So’s the white people won’t catch you’all shopping and chop your heads off,” Mrs. Floyd said with an acidic smile as she brushed past me. She was Grandma’s very good friend, but she wasn’t at all in favor of the integration. “We have our place, and we do the best when we stay in it,” she said. Her words made me tense up, but I knew she meant well. She had no way of knowing about last night’s shooting and how much the things she said hurt my feelings.
The ladies included bags of store-bought things as well as homemade treats. They uncovered their bowls and heavy metal pots, releasing inviting aromas that made my mouth water.
Right away, I could tell Grandma was getting real impatient with all their talk of whether or not we ought to be stirring up the integration pot. “We’re just getting settled on the front of the bus,” one of them said.
“Why not wait a while till the white folks get used to having us around, in five years or so,” another added.
“Nonsense.” I knew I could count on Grandma’s feisty friend Mrs. Crae, who shook her finger in their faces. “White folks ain’t never given us nothing. Getting from them’s been like pulling dinosaur teeth. We gotta grab everything we can, and most times pay for it with our blood. You just move right along, girl, you hear me. You integrate, now!”