Fire from the Rock Page 14

  “And if Reggie hadn’t called me to tell us about it, we woulda missed it,” Sylvia reminded DJ. “American Bandstand— what a cool show! A dance show for teenagers. I tell ya—this modern world is amazing.” Sighing with satisfaction, Sylvia flopped on her mother’s sofa.

  “Daddy’s gonna say it’s leading to sin and destruction for sure,” DJ said.

  “Daddy thinks everything that’s cool is gonna send you to the devil.”

  DJ laughed. “It will be coming on every day after school, and Daddy doesn’t usually get home until later, so we’re set for a while.”

  Sylvia hummed a little of the song that had been featured, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter.” Then she sat up and said to her sister, “I guess you noticed there were no colored teenagers on the show.”

  “Of course not. The world is not that modern,” DJ said, a tone of resignation in her voice.

  “But almost half of the Top Ten songs were by colored singers,” Sylvia reasoned. “The Coasters, Nat King Cole, LaVern Baker—if white kids can dance to the music of the Negro singers, why can’t colored kids dance as well?”

  “Now you’re sounding like Gary,” DJ said. She got up and clicked off the television. “Can you believe summer vacation is almost over?” Donna Jean asked.

  “I have a feeling this school year is gonna be really different from any other we’ve ever known,” Sylvia replied thoughtfully.

  “For you, maybe. But I still get to go to school with my friends.”

  “I’ll make new friends,” Sylvia said, but without much confidence in her voice.

  “Fat chance! You’ll be lucky if Rachel has time for you. With your luck, you’ll end up with Johnny Crandall sitting next to you in every class!”

  “I sure hope not. Don’t be so negative, DJ.” Sylvia picked at the plastic on the sofa.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia.” DJ flopped down on the plastic. “You know, it’s still not too late to change your mind. How many kids are still on that list?”

  “Twelve or thirteen, last I checked. The group keeps getting smaller and smaller. But the ones on the list are such cool people. It makes me feel good just to hang with them.”

  “You got another meeting at Miss Daisy Bates’s house?”

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “What do you talk about when you’re there?”

  “Nonviolent techniques. How to accept negativity with a positive spirit. How not to fight back. Stuff like that. And we eat. Miss Daisy makes great brownies.”

  “Gary would have lasted maybe ten seconds in a group like that,” DJ said with a laugh.

  “He knows that—even admits it. Where is he, anyway?” Sylvia asked.

  “Either with his girlfriend—they seemed to be joined at the hip—or at one of those protest meetings again. I have a feeling they don’t talk about smiling when somebody calls you a name. I heard Gary whispering something about explosives when he was on the phone last night,” DJ said, her tone serious.

  “Really? Maybe we should tell Daddy and Mama.”

  “I doubt if it would make a difference,” Donna Jean replied, her voice sounding way too adult for her eight years, Sylvia thought sadly.

  “He’s going to end up in jail,” Sylvia said fearfully. “He can see nobody’s viewpoint except his own.”

  “That’s the problem with everybody in Little Rock,” DJ said. “Everybody’s right. Everybody’s angry. Everybody’s scared. I’m moving to Alaska!” She got up and stretched.

  Sylvia laughed. “Too cold for me. But you’re right. White folks are scared of us. Today in the newspaper some guy ran a huge ad, trying to stir up trouble.”

  “You mean more mess than we already got?”

  “Listen to this.” Sylvia picked the newspaper up from the coffee table and read the ad to her sister. “‘At social functions would black males and white females dance together, would black students join clubs and travel with whites, would black and white students use the same restrooms, would black males and white females enact ‘tender love scenes’ in school dramas?’”

  “Give me a break!” DJ said, rolling her eyes.

  Life seemed so simple on television, Sylvia thought. But in real life, in Little Rock, folks seemed to be acting like they were about to go to school with Martians.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 1957

  It had been hot and rainy in Little Rock for several days, and everything seemed to be covered with thick, red Arkansas mud. But Sylvia didn’t let the rain upset her, because she had bought Nat King Cole’s new album, and had spent the day listening to “When I Fall in Love” and “Love Is the Thing.” She played it so many times that her mother finally peeked her head in Sylvia’s room.

  “What’s got you in such a romantic mood?” she asked with a smile.

  “Nothing,” Sylvia told her. “I just love this album.”

  “You sure it’s the album you’re in love with?” her mother asked, her voice teasing.

  Sylvia grinned. “I’m in love with the whole world today!”

  “It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mama. It is.”

  Sylvia thought for a moment she would say more, tell her more about what she was feeling, let her ask the questions she’d been afraid to ask, but her mother just said, “Be careful, Sylvia Faye. True love is friendship set on fire.”

  Sylvia had long ago given up trying to decipher those quotes. So she just nodded and said, “I understand, Mama. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Can you run down to Zucker’s store for me, Sylvie?” her mother asked then. “I need some flour, some sugar, and a big bottle of vanilla extract. I guess a couple of lemons and a dozen eggs as well. I’m going to make a couple of cakes tomorrow for the bake sale at church, and one for Sunday dinner. Get an extra large bag of sugar. I know how you like my cakes super sweet.”

  “Sure, Mama,” Sylvia replied. She hadn’t seen Rachel in a couple of weeks. “You need something from Miss Lillie’s, too?”

  “No, just give her my best.”

  Her mother gave her a few dollars, then said with great seriousness, “Hurry now, Sylvia. Zucker’s closes early on Friday, and I want you back well before dark.”

  “It’s just a couple of blocks away, Mama,” Sylvia said as she grabbed a sweater and tossed it over the shoulders of her favorite yellow dress. But she had to admit—she was a little scared.

  Donna Jean looked concerned. “Are you sure it’s safe, Sylvie?” she whispered as Sylvia got ready. “You remember what happened that day at the library?”

  “I’ll be fine, DJ,” Sylvia told her as she headed for the door. “I promise I’ll be careful.” Sylvia gave her sister a hug. “If I have an extra ten cents left over, I’ll get you the latest Archie and Jughead comic book, okay?”

  Donna Jean nodded, but frowned. Sylvia headed out in the dim late afternoon sunlight that had managed to peek through the leftover rain clouds.

  As she got to the corner of the next block, Sylvia paused and inhaled with fear. Cruising slowly down the street, rock-and-roll music blasting loudly from the radio, was Johnny Crandall’s black ‘56 Ford. It’s a free country, Sylvia thought. Well, it is for white boys like Johnny. She started to go back home, then she got angry. Almost at the store, she pulled her sweater closer to her body and trod purposefully down the sidewalk. She figured if she ignored him, he’d get bored and go away.

  But Johnny didn’t want to be ignored. “Hey, little girl in yellow. Where you goin’?”

  Sylvia walked faster and said nothing. She thought of Lavern Baker’s new song, “Jim Dandy to the Rescue.” No such luck for her—no hope that boy named Jim would swoop in and save her this time. “I’m talkin’ to you, girl. You want a ride?” He drove very close to the curb, his car windows open. He had turned the music down.

  “Go away,” she cried out. She was one block from the store—a five-minute walk.

  “You owe me a new pair of shoes, girl. You messed
up my shoes. You think I forgot because it was a couple of months ago, but I ain’t never gonna forget that.” His voice was taunting, threatening. “And you better not show up at my school!”

  “Leave me alone. Please.” Sylvia’s heart thudded.

  He laughed harshly. “I’m warning you, girl. I’m gonna catch up with you one day when you least expect it, and I’m going to beat you like I did your brother. Your ugly little sister, too. It’s just a matter of time.” He sped off then with a screech of tires. She heard the music blasting once more as the car turned the corner.

  Tears burned in Sylvia’s eyes as she reached Mr. Zucker’s store. Johnny had parked his car in front of his father’s barbershop by that time. The radio was silent, the motor was off, and Johnny was nowhere to be seen. Sylvia felt a little safer, knowing she was surrounded by friends like the Zuckers and Miss Lillie—people who would protect her—but she still planned to call home and ask her mother to come pick her up.

  She waved quickly at Miss Lillie, who was working on a new display in her window, and hurried inside the Zuckers’ store. Rachel met her at the newly painted front door, grabbed Sylvia’s hand, and squeezed it warmly. Sitting by the cash register was a fresh bouquet of roses—pink this time.

  “You’re shaking, Sylvia. What’s wrong?” Rachel asked with concern.

  “Nothing, really. I just had a run-in with Johnny Crandall. He scares me.”

  “I know how you feel. Papa is sure that he and his juvenile delinquent friends have something to do with the Nazi signs on our door, but there’s no way to prove it. I just try to stay out of his way.”

  “He makes me feel dirty—like I need to take a bath after I talk to him. And I want to use your phone if I could before I leave. I don’t want to walk home by myself.”

  “Good idea. Now, let’s not spoil our conversation with talk of disgusting boys like Johnny. How’s your family?”

  Sylvia relaxed a little. “Gary’s as hardheaded as ever, Donna Jean has discovered Archie comics, and parents don’t change, do they?”

  “Mine sure don’t. How’s Reggie?” Rachel asked.

  Sylvia sighed. “He’s hard to figure out. Sometimes he’s like a cuddly little teddy bear, and I just want to squeeze him. But other times he’s like an ugly old spiny toad, acting more like Gary and ready to fight all the time. That worries me.”

  “Maybe he’s not good enough for you, Sylvie,” Rachel said. “Maybe he’s just practice for the right one.”

  “Hmm. I never thought about it that way. A practice boyfriend—like training wheels on your bike!” Sylvia made a funny face. “But I really have no complaints—he’s never been sweeter to me. He’s even kissed me a couple of times,” she announced triumphantly.

  “Did you see fireworks, like the actresses do in the movies?” Rachel asked with a giggle.

  “It happened so fast I never even noticed!” Both girls laughed heartily and chattered as they walked slowly down the store aisles looking for the items Sylvia’s mother had requested. It felt good to be there with Rachel, Sylvia thought, relaxing a bit.

  “Did you see American Bandstand yesterday?” Rachel asked.

  “I never miss it! Even Donna Jean watches it like a teeny teenager. She knows the names of all the regular dancers and is learning the words to every single song on the hit parade!”

  Rachel laughed. “My favorite song, at least this week, is ’Whispering Bells’ by the Del Vikings. I’m waiting to be kissed like you so I can hear those bells, too!”

  “Did you know that group has both colored and white singers?” Sylvia asked. “Nobody seems to have a problem with it, and they’re really popular.”

  “Yeah, I have their album. They make it look, and sound, so easy to mix it up like that.” She started to say something else, but her mother headed toward them. “Here comes Mother with a plate of cookies and one of those suffocating hugs!”

  Sylvia endured the hug, thanked Mrs. Zucker for the cookies, then turned to her friend. “You excited about high school?” she asked as she nibbled on a butter cookie.

  “Oh, yeah. I am so ready! You’re way ahead of me in the boyfriend department.” Both girls avoided the obvious subject at hand for the moment.

  Sylvia and Rachel walked leisurely around the store, picking up a couple of lemons, and searching in vain for the vanilla extract.

  “Between my alphabetical filing system and Daddy’s mad-man method of stocking the shelves,” Rachel said with a smile, “nothing is ever in the right place.”

  They found the eggs and flour, a friendly silence sitting comfortably between the two girls. They walked back leisurely toward the front of the store with Sylvia’s purchases in their arms.

  I have to ask her this! What are we friends for if I can’t ask her the hard questions? Sylvia stopped, put her hand on Rachel’s arm, and asked finally, “Rachel, what do most of the your friends—the white kids—say about all this integration stuff? I mean, I know how Johnny and his bunch think. And I ran into a white boy a couple of months ago who didn’t seem to care if I was purple or green. He went out of his way to be nice to me. So what’s the real deal?”

  Rachel looked directly at Sylvia. “Believe it or not, most of the kids I know don’t care one way or the other whether the school is integrated or not”

  “For real?” This wasn’t the answer Sylvia expected.

  “What I mean is, it’s like that singing group. Nobody really makes a big deal of the fact they’re a mixed-race group.”

  “I see your point. But this is Little Rock, not some big city like Philadelphia or New York.”

  “True, but most of the kids from my school that are going to Central really don’t want to get involved with political problems. They’re teenagers—they care about dates to the school dance and whether they have pimples—at least that’s what I get from the kids I talk to. I think most of the opposition is coming from a small number of loud, hateful folks who can’t stand blacks or Jews, either, like the Crandall family.”

  Sylvia was about to tell her exactly what she thought of the Crandalls when the world went crazy. She heard a crash, followed immediately by the crackling and breaking of glass, and then a thud, like the sound of a bowling ball being dropped. It all happened faster than she could process.

  The explosions that surrounded her the next moment caused her to drop the eggs in her hand as she was tossed to the floor. Her head connected with the floorboards before the rest of her body. A shelf full of groceries fell over onto Sylvia. As if she were outside of herself watching the horrible scene, she knew she was screaming, knew she was falling.

  The noise of the toppling shelves and dry goods frightened her more than the feeling of crumpled wood on her legs. Most of it fell around her rather than upon her. Even so, sheer terror overwhelmed her. Her screams became clogged as debris filled her mouth, and she was finding it hard to breathe.

  Stunned for a moment, Sylvia at first could see nothing. Gradually she dimly became aware of eggshells and gooey egg yolk in her hair and on her clothes. Something wet and drippy snaked down her back. Her mouth was full of a thick and powdery substance. She couldn’t move her legs. Her head throbbed. Rachel seemed to have disappeared.

  Sylvia’s thoughts were as jumbled as the broken bits of the store that lay around her. Could an earthquake have hit Little Rock? Maybe it was a bomb? Are we at war? All she knew for sure was that she was afraid it was blood that was dripping from her body, and she yearned for her mother, who would know what to do.

  Sylvia heard footsteps. She twisted her body toward the sound, tried to open her mouth to speak, but all she could do was cough a little. She saw a broken bag of white powder next to her face and figured it must be flour, not dirt in her mouth. But that didn’t make it any easier. No words, no sounds, escaped her lips.

  A second thud make the floor tremble, and the explosion that followed was louder than the first. Sylvia put her hands over her head and ears and trembled in the pepper and paprika. She had
always wondered how she would feel at the moment of her death. Now she knew. She could hear more shelves collapsing, more pieces of the world falling in on itself. The floor smelled of fresh floor wax.

  When the noise and movement stopped, Sylvia found her legs were covered with broken bottles and boards. She kicked at them angrily. She knew that Rachel’s parents had to be searching frantically for them. As Sylvia managed to twist herself to the side, she had a clear view of the rubble-covered floor from the front of the store to the back. She saw two sets of feet fleeing from the store. Neither pair belonged to Rachel’s parents.

  Near the front door was a pair of highly polished, chestnut-brown, double-laced oxford shoes. Sylvia inhaled sharply. The shoes crunched over broken glass and spilled powders, then rushed outside. Sylvia could still hear the sound of the taps on those shoes, however, as they clicked on the wooden floor. Running to the back door was a pair of dirty blue tennis shoes.

  A spilled box of pepper by her nose made Sylvia sneeze. The small room was filling with smoke. She knew she had to get out of there immediately. Sylvia twisted her body once more and found she could wriggle out from under the shelf. She pulled her legs free of the wood, relieved to see that her knees still bent and her ankles still flexed normally. As she slid her body out, she was glad she hadn’t been standing next to a shelf full of large cans of candied yams or green beans.

  Sylvia sat up carefully and tried to catch her breath, but she coughed once more as a sharp, acrid odor filled the small room. The smell reminded her of the barbecues her father prepared on holidays—how her mother always fussed at him because he used too much kerosene to start the fire. Fire. It was then the odor of burning wood and oil assaulted her. Oh, my God! The store’s on fire!

  Scrambling to her feet, Sylvia looked around frantically. Dark smoke, like a greedy ghost, gobbled the air. Eyes stinging, Sylvia could see flames two aisles over, eagerly destroying the dry goods on the shelves. Sylvia looked behind her and there lay Rachel, a jagged cut on her forehead. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t move.