Fire from the Rock Page 6

  Donna Jean sat next to her, eyes large, hoping, Sylvia knew, that she wouldn’t get sent out of the room during this juicy grown-up talk.

  “We teachers have been asked to submit names of qualified students to help implement the integration,” Miss Washington continued.

  “You don’t think Gary’s name should go on the list?” Sylvia’s mother asked, a look of concern and amazement on her face.

  “No, not Gary,” Miss Washington replied. Gary scowled then looked away.

  “You’re not suggesting we submit Sylvia Faye to the kind of beating Gary got this week?” Mrs. Patterson asked incredulously.

  “There is nothing to indicate that she would be in any physical harm. The school board is grudgingly trying to implement the law of the land.” Miss Washington shifted in her seat.

  “This is no job for a girl,” Sylvia’s father said forcefully, “especially my little girl!” Sylvia didn’t agree with him about the little girl part, but she was grateful that he wanted to protect her.

  “Those women ...” Sylvia’s mother began.

  “Are just that. Women with too much time on their hands,” Miss Washington said emphatically.

  “And malice in their hearts,” Sylvia’s mother said quietly.

  “Sylvia Faye is an excellent student,” Miss Washington continued. “I am very proud of not only her academic abilities, but her poise and thoughtfulness as well. She could handle the pressure.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Washington. It’s a wonderful honor and opportunity, but it’s also potentially very dangerous. Let us think about it for a few days.” Mrs. Patterson had started nervously collecting dishes and dusting the spotless coffee table.

  “Think about it. Pray about it. Talk about it. Let me know by Monday.” Miss Washington got up, and, after thanking Mrs. Patterson for the hospitality, she put on her coat and went on her way. The house suddenly seemed smaller.

  Gary was the first to speak. “They should have picked me. I could have protected myself!” He was angry.

  “You’d mouth off to some white girl, or smack a white boy, and instead of them tossing a bruised son on my porch, they’d bring you home in a wooden box!” his father told him. Gary twisted his face to respond, but a look from his father made him change his mind.

  “What do you think, Sylvia Faye?” her mother asked her quietly. It was the first time all evening anyone had given her a chance to say what was on her mind.

  “I like my school,” she replied, speaking slowly. “I feel comfortable there. I know everyone, and we all understand each other. It just feels right.” Her mother nodded in understanding. “But when I look at Central High School and I see how big and wonderful it is, how much they have and we don’t, I don’t think it’s fair that some law says white kids get to go there, but I can’t.”

  “The only law they understand is fists!” Gary mumbled from his chair.

  “Which is why you could never be chosen to do this job,” his mother told him gently. “This is a time for tolerance and understanding, not violence.”

  Gary twisted with frustration and glared at his father. “They’ll pay attention to violence. We have to fight for our rights.”

  “There’s got to be a better way than fighting,” his father reasoned.

  “Your way hasn’t worked very well the last two hundred years,” Gary retorted. “What are you gonna do when they beat Sylvia and she comes home bruised and bloody?” Sylvia felt suddenly chilled.

  Mrs. Patterson looked alarmed. DJ ran and buried her head in her mother’s lap. “I’m sure that won’t happen, Gary,” she said as she soothed the trembling child. “The students of Central come from good families like ours. You’re just inciting fear.”

  “What if I’m not?” he asked, his voice a flag of challenge. “Even if she’s not physically in danger, how can a flimsy, dreamy girl like her cope with racial slurs, with people hating her?” He turned to Sylvia. “You need for people to like you, don’t you, Sylvie?”

  “Well, sure. But I’m stronger than you think, Gary,” Sylvia told him.

  “No, you’re not. Remember last year when that group of girls at school decided you were too smart? They made fun of you, picked on you, and refused to invite you to their parties. You came home in tears more than once.”

  “That was different,” Sylvia insisted. But she looked at the floor instead of Gary.

  “What if these people make you cry, Sylvie?” Gary said in a gentle voice. “I hate to see you cry.”

  Sylvia walked over to her brother and gave him a hug. “Thanks, Gary Berry,” she whispered into his shoulder, using the nickname she’d given him when she was four.

  “I won’t allow you to be threatened or hurt, Sylvia Faye,” her father said with feeling. He stood up and stretched, but his face was lined with tension. “I refuse to risk your safety.”

  “We don’t have to decide anything now, Daddy,” Sylvia found herself saying, even though she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to do this. “Even if my name goes on the list, that doesn’t mean I’ll be chosen. We have lots of time to think about it and decide later.”

  “Miss Ethel doesn’t give recommendations like that lightly,” her mother said.

  “And she doesn’t usually make house calls, either!” Her father chuckled.

  “So is Sylvia Faye going to go to Central High in the fall?” Donna Jean piped up.

  “Maybe,” their mother replied slowly. “Maybe.”

  Her father, as he placed his large hand on Sylvia’s shoulder, said to her then, “I’m really proud of you, Sylvie. You’re a gift to us all.” Sylvia glanced at her brother, but he had turned to tickle DJ.

  Her mother blinked back tears. Sylvia wasn’t sure if it was pride or fear she saw in her mother’s eyes.

  Wednesday, January 9, 1957

  I just got finished looking at myself closely—at least as much of me as I can see in our tiny bathroom mirror.

  The mirror is a little warped, but it showed me a brown-skinned girl with puffy black hair, a nose that’s too large for her face, and full, possibly kissable lips, assuming I could find somebody who wanted to kiss them. Reggie’s lips would be a nice starting point!

  I have ridiculously bushy eyebrows and short, stubby eyelashes. Okay, I’ll never be a movie star. My skin is too oily, so my face always looks shiny—I hate that—and I have tiny little pimples that dot my forehead and cheeks. Goodness! I’ll never get married at this rate!

  Looking at myself on the inside is even harder. I’m not talking about hearts and lungs and stuff like that, but whether I’m brave like Miss Washington said, or noble, or admirable, or any of those adjectives they only use at somebody’s funeral. I know I’m just as intelligent as any white student, and just as worthy of a good education as anybody else in this country. Why should the color of my skin make a difference? I don’t get it.

  When I was about six, I went with Mama the only time she ever did housecleaning for Mrs. Crandall. Mama didn’t like doing day work, but we needed the extra money. I remember she hesitated before going into the Crandalls’ house. Mama moved stiffly and kept her jaws tight as Mrs. Crandall, dressed in pearls and a tailored dress, like a lady in a Life magazine ad, demanded that Mama clean the dusty corners of her house, which was not nearly as nice as ours. Callie Crandall, the same age as me, followed her mother around, tossing her long blond hair as she stuck her tongue out at me.

  When Callie sat down on the sofa next to me, I reached out and touched her hair, out of curiosity. It felt a little like curly silk. Then she reached over and touched my hair. She said it felt nasty like monkey hair. I got up from the couch and stayed close to my mother. We never went back to that house.

  Is that what it would be like if I went to Central? Will it be full of kids who think the darkness of my skin will run off and dirty them? The thought makes me feel sick. But I’m sure there would be nice kids there, too, like Rachel. Everything is so complicated.

  My parents watch my eve
ry move and try to control my thoughts as well. How am I supposed to learn how to be an adult if I don’t even get the chance to figure out stuff by myself? I think it’s time I do something!

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 13, 1957

  Hallelujah, Church!” Pastor Patterson intoned from the pulpit. “I’ve got a special message for you today, my brothers and sisters. But first, join me in a chorus or two of 'Shelter in the Time of Storm.’” In his rich tenor voice Sylvia’s father began, and the church joined him as he sang:

  “My Lord is a rock in a weary land, weary land, weary land

  My Lord is a rock in a weary land

  Shelter in the time of the storm ...”

  Sylvia loved old hymns like this one. The minor key and the sadness behind the words made her shiver. It was cool to know that same song had given strength to people a long time ago.

  As the last notes of the hymn filtered up to the highest ceiling of the church, perhaps even to Heaven, the room was stilled, waiting, strangely expectant. The small auditorium carried the faint fragrance of the roses in Miss Lillie’s bouquets, mixed with the usual comforting Sunday smells of floor wax and burning candles and Old Spice cologne.

  Though she would never want her father to know, this was the time in the service Sylvia usually spent daydreaming. His sermons weren’t exactly exciting. She wondered mildly what today’s “special message” would be. She noticed that Reggie, sitting just one pew over, also seemed more attentive than usual.

  Pastor Patterson raised his arms in the air, as if he was reaching out to Heaven, and began to speak. “You know, my daddy used to tell me, ‘Son, times are a-changin’. You better get on that train to glory, because I can see the handwriting on the wall!’ Of course, his statement didn’t make much sense to me as a child. Old folks are famous for mixing metaphors—forgive him.”

  The congregation chuckled.

  “But my daddy had a vision of the future that I couldn’t see at the time. I lost my father when I was a very young man—he was killed because of hatred and bigotry, and I lost his vision when I lost him.”

  He paused and wiped his brow.

  “Yes, my terrible loss made me close my eyes to reality. I’ve been afraid to face the future, afraid to offer my children—Gary, Sylvia Faye, and Donna Jean—any hope of getting on that train.” The rows of people shifted like water as everyone turned to look at them.

  Sylvia blushed deeply. Her father never talked about family. He believed some things ought to be private, and Sylvia had always appreciated that.

  Donna Jean, sitting next to Sylvia, wore patent-leather shoes, lacy socks, and a starched yellow dress. She leaned over and whispered with pride, “He’s talking about us!”

  “Sh-sh-sh,” their mother admonished.

  Pastor Patterson’s voice rose. “Our rock, Little Rock, truly is a rock in a weary land, friends. Let me hear you say ‘Amen’ if you’re weary!”

  “Amen!” the congregation cried out with feeling.

  “Let me hear you say ‘Amen’ if you feel like you need a rock in a weary land!”

  “Amen!” they called out.

  “Let me hear you say ‘Amen!’ if you need shelter in the time of the storm!”

  For a third time they all repeated, “Amen! Amen!”

  When the church had quieted, Pastor Patterson continued. “They’re talking about integrating the schools of Little Rock. It’s been a rumor for years, but this year it looks as though it will really happen. They want to take your children and my children and let these young people do what we can’t—change the world.”

  “Here it comes,” Sylvia leaned over and whispered to DJ. “He’s gonna stomp all over the idea.” Their mother shushed them both with a touch of her gloved hand.

  Pastor Patterson paused. “I think we ought to let them try.”

  While murmurs broke out all around her, Sylvia sat stunned.

  “My son is an angry young man, as I once was,” the pastor continued. The murmurs stopped suddenly, as if everyone had suddenly inhaled.

  “He wants to change the world this very instant, and he’s been physically attacked as a result.” Sylvia turned to observe Gary, who was sitting on the very back pew. He was staring at his father with astonishment.

  “Of my two daughters, my baby girl, Donna Jean, is already a victim of hatred at age eight, and my older daughter, Sylvia, often looks at me with eyes of disappointment and despair. Unless she needs lunch money,” he added. The church needed the levity.

  I didn’t think he knew how I felt, Sylvia thought with amazement. Her father always seemed so distant. He’d tell her what to do, but he never really talked with her.

  Sylvia glanced over to where Reggie was sitting. Dressed in a black suit that was a little too small and a skinny red tie, he grinned at her, then turned his attention back to her father. She noticed that he wore shiny black shoes instead of his favorite tennis shoes.

  “They’ve asked me to let Sylvia Faye be on the list of students who might be considered to integrate Central High School,” her father told the church. “I know that some of you have been approached as well. I can’t think of anything more terrifying than sending my little girl into danger, but I’m inclined to let her try.”

  Sylvia gasped. Her mother reached over and squeezed Sylvia’s hand. Even through the thickness of her mother’s white gloves, the tingle of her touch made Sylvia squeeze back. Just when you think you’ve got your parents all figured out, they turn around and act like humans.

  Pastor Patterson opened the huge Bible in front of him. “If you look in the book of Judges, you’ll find the story of Gideon—a brave young man, but not the strongest kid in the neighborhood. He tells the Lord that he comes from the weakest tribe and that he’s the feeblest of them all. Like the Lord didn’t already know that!”

  The congregation chuckled while they searched for the passage.

  “But the Lord told Gideon, ‘I’m gonna be with you, son. Don’t be afraid. You ain’t gonna die—at least not today.’” He wiped his brow.

  “Friends, I’ve been afraid all my life. Maybe it’s time for me to step out on faith.”

  Sylvia gazed at her father with wonder. Surely someone had taken her father away and replaced him with this man who looked just like him.

  “You know, we humans tend to need proof, even when it’s the Lord who is making the promises. We’re pretty weak when it comes to faith. To prove to Gideon that he had no need to be afraid, the Lord made fire explode from a rock—it burned up everything that had been on the stone. Can you just picture it?”

  Sylvia glanced over at Reggie again. He mouthed the word “Whoosh!” and acted like he was using a fire hose. His mother smacked him on the back of his head and told him to be still. He just rolled his eyes and smiled at Sylvia once more.

  “What I’m trying to say, Church, is maybe we need to look around and make some hard decisions. I guess all that fire made Gideon a believer. Because you know what? In the battle the next day, the Lord gave him the victory!”

  Pastor Patterson kept preaching for another few minutes, but Sylvia didn’t hear much of it. She was too overwhelmed with her father’s sudden turnaround and the now very real prospect of her name going on the list.

  After church, lots of people came up to Sylvia, giving her words of encouragement or suggestions. Sister Hortense, the oldest member, hobbled over to her, leaning heavily on her cane. She used that cane as a weapon sometimes, bopping children on the head when they talked too much during service. Kids learned early to keep out of her way. She said, “Chile, you been chosen for a very special task. The Lord will bless you for it.” Sylvia thanked her, glad she was in a good mood.

  Not everyone, however, was so supportive. One woman, whose rolls of fat under her tight white suit made her look like yeast bread in the bowl, waddled over to Sylvia and said, “Stick with your own kind, girl. Mixing the races will only get you hurt. They don’t want you there. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sylv
ia replied politely.

  Another lady, Sister Simpson, wearing very high heels, tiptoed over to Sylvia and whispered in her ear, “The colored schools were good enough for me, and good enough for your parents as well. Don’t try to get uppity, little girl.”

  Again Sylvia knew nothing else to say but “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lillie Cobbs, however, who was dressed in a pale green wool suit, pushed the other woman aside and told Sylvia, “Don’t pay her no mind, child. She don’t know nothin’ about progress. If you feel like you can do this, the Lord will protect you from small-minded people from both races!” Sylvia could smell gardenias in her reassuring hug.

  Sylvia noticed Reggie standing near the edge of a group of teenaged boys. All too cool to wear winter coats, Sylvia could tell they were trying not to shiver in their crisp white shirts. They all laughed a little too loudly as Calvin purposely slipped on a piece of ice, showing off for the teenaged girls who stood in another small group, their full skirts billowing under their woolen coats. The girls, hair tightly curled and slick with pomade, giggled together, and whispered about the boys. None of them, as far as Sylvia knew, had been selected to go on the list. Already she was starting to feel left out.

  Sylvia stood alone near the front steps. The two groups of teens broke up as parents called their children to load into their cars, but instead of heading to the parking lot, Reggie walked right up to Sylvia. She held her breath and pretended to act casual.

  “Hey, Big Shot,” he teased.

  “Hi, Reggie.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “A little.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “White folks.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll stick out like a raisin in a bowl of rice.”

  Sylvia smiled at the thought, then looked down at her shoes. “I know,” she said with a sigh.

  “You got guts, Sylvia Faye. And you got class. But I don’t know if you’ve got good sense.”