Fire from the Rock Page 7

  She looked at him quizzically. “How can you compliment me and insult me in the same sentence?”

  He ignored her question. “And you’re really pretty, you know,” he said quietly.

  Sylvia felt hot despite the chilly wind. “Thanks,” she managed to say as she thought, He’s looking at me like I’m a piece of chocolate cake.

  “You know, there’s one thing you might want to consider as you figure out what to do about September,” Reggie added casually. He leaned against a tree and pulled off a brittle twig, showing no sign of nervousness at all.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I’ll be at Horace Mann with the rest of the colored kids. And you’ll be at Central.” He picked a tooth with the end of the twig.

  “Yes, so?” Sylvia’s heart thudded.

  “I’d like my girlfriend to be at the same school with me. Dances. Games. Movies. Who will I take if you’re not there?”

  Sylvia didn’t know how to act like this was no big deal. She wondered what Lou Ann would say. When she finally found her voice, Sylvia said, with as much feminine coyness as she could find, “Who says I’m your girlfriend?” She smiled tightly, trying to hold back all the fizz she felt inside.

  “I do.” He turned then and headed to his mother’s car. “I’ll call you. See you at school tomorrow.” Reggie said casually. “And don’t forget we’ve got a date next Friday!” he called back.

  “Sure,” she replied, as if this happened every day. She felt like dancing in the snow.

  Monday, January 14, 1957

  Yesterday the telephone rang constantly. Some calls were from other parents whose children are being considered as possible candidates for Central, but many were from friends and family with differing opinions. There were a couple of calls from Miss Daisy Bates, the president of the Arkansas NAACP. Everybody knows her—she lives not far from us on W. 28th Street. I think she’s pretty—and such a proud, powerful lady. Daddy says she’s pushy. That’s probably true, too. Gary thinks that Miss Daisy and her husband, L.C., who publish our local Negro newspaper, are heroes.

  Lou Ann called just before supper and told me to wear something red to the game. She said if I show up in beige or brown, she would bop me on the head with a saddle oxford! Reggie finally called just before supper. We didn’t talk long, but it seemed like every word was glowing with importance. What’s funny is I’ve known Reggie practically all my life, but all of a sudden he makes my stomach feel like mashed potatoes.

  I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that we’re together, and he asked me again what it will be like when we’re apart in the fall. I told him it may not happen and it’s so far away I’m not going to worry about it yet. But the truth is, I am worried.

  Gary is grumpy and irritable. He’s like a balloon that’s been blown up too far—all he needs is the pin that will make him pop. He wants to be on the list so bad he can taste it. I’m on the list, but I’m afraid to swallow. I wish I could trade places with him.

  Miss Washington seemed very pleased when I handed her Mama’s letter, giving permission for me to be considered. Several other students from Dunbar and Horace Mann had also been asked, including, I found out, my friend Melba Patillo.

  Since our last names both start with “P,” Melba and I usually ended up sitting near each other when she went to Dunbar last year. She liked to read as much as I do, and we often shared library books. Plus she can sew like no tomorrow. Once, when I admired a skirt she wore, she brought me the pattern the next day. She’ll be a great choice to be one of the students to integrate the school.

  Even though me and DJ cleaned up the kitchen, I can hear Mama downstairs going behind us, sweeping and wiping the places we missed, softly singing one of her “worry songs,” as she calls them. She has a lovely voice-deep and mellow-and I feel safe when I hear it. Sometimes she just hums, but every once in a while, she really belts it out. I bet she could have been a professional singer if she hadn’t married Daddy and had us.

  I’ve read about Marian Anderson, the first colored lady to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. She even sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. I wonder if the opera folks treated her like she was special, or if they made her go in the back door like Aunt Bessie had to do for Mr. Crandall’s shirts. I hope not. I’d love to hear her sing, just to compare her voice to Mama’s, but colored folks hardly ever show up on television, and if she sang on the radio, I missed it.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 15, 1957

  I need you to go to the Zuckers’ grocery, Sylvie, to pick up a few things for supper. And can you get a little bouquet from Miss Lillie’s? Just some carnations. I want the dinner table to look nice. Can you do that for me?” her mother called out.

  “Sure! I’ll be right down.” Sylvia grabbed a jacket and a scarf for her head and headed down the steps. She wondered what Rachel would say when she heard Sylvia’s big news—both school stuff and boy stuff. Actually, she knew that Rachel would be thrilled. Rachel, of course, went to the junior high for white students, but in spite of the distance that society had placed between them, they remained friends.

  The store, only a couple of blocks away from her house, was popular with neighborhood folks of both races. Parents would often wrap a few coins in a piece of paper and send their child on a hurried mission with a note to Mrs. Zucker to send a pound of sugar or a can of baking powder. She’d wrap it carefully and send the child back home with the correct change and sometimes a warm chocolate chip cookie.

  Mr. Crandall’s barbershop, two doors down from the Zuckers’ store, wasn’t as inviting. He cut the hair of white men only, although he’d refused to cut Mr. Zucker’s hair the one time he’d walked into Crandall’s shop. The two men rarely spoke. None of the colored men in town wanted Crandall to touch their hair—even if he would. They all went to Zeke’s place, where gossip and gospel music buzzed all day along with the razors.

  Miss Lillie’s tiny flower shop, which had fresh decorations in the window each day, smelled of honeysuckle today. Sylvia inhaled deeply of the rich fragrance as she entered.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lillie,” Sylvia said to the woman dressed in green work shoes and dark green smock. Miss Lillie wore a red scarf on her fuzzy hair, so from a distance she really did look like an odd flower in bloom.

  “How’s your mama?” Miss Lillie asked as she clipped petals on a bouquet in front of her.

  “She’s good. She sends you her best,” Sylvia replied politely. “She wants a small bouquet of carnations.”

  “I got some pink ones right here,” Miss Lillie said as she deftly wrapped a bow around the flowers. You celebratin’ at your house tonight?”

  “Not exactly. Mama just likes to make things special at dinner. Things have been so ugly lately, and a few flowers can go a long way to make life seem prettier.”

  Miss Lillie wiped a speck of dirt from her face. “I agree completely. You know, Sylvie, you’ve been chosen to do something special in the world. It might be this integration stuff, it might be something else. But I see something in you that I don’t see in other teenagers, not even in my own Calvin, bless his heart. He’s a good boy, but he won’t change the world. You will.” She turned her gaze back to the bouquet. Sylvia couldn’t understand what grown-ups thought they saw in her. She sure didn’t see anything special.

  “Uh, thanks,” Sylvia said uncomfortably as she paid for the flowers. She didn’t know what else to say. “Tell Calvin I’ll see him at school tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing. And can you take this bouquet to Mrs. Zucker?” Miss Lillie asked Sylvia. “She loves red roses.” Sylvia nodded, took both bouquets, and hurried out of the flower shop and into the Zuckers’ store.

  With well-polished hardwood floors and shelves from floor to ceiling, Zucker’s store carried everything from peanuts to peppercorns, from candles to batteries. The door had a little bell on it that jingled when a customer entered. Sylvia loved the smell of the store—like wax and pickles and maple syrup. And on
the days like today when Mrs. Zucker baked, it smelled like cinnamon and vanilla as well.

  Rachel was sitting in the middle of an aisle with a box of Argo starch in one hand and Clabber Girl baking powder in the other, helping her father stock the shelves.

  Like the gentleman he was, Mr. Zucker stood up stiffly and shook Sylvia’s hand. “Always a pleasure to see you, my child,” he said warmly in his thick German accent. He wore, as usual, a long-sleeved white shirt. Sylvia could tell it had been through many washings—the buttons were yellowed.

  “You look well, Mr. Zucker, and I’m glad to see you’re finally making Rachel do some work around here!” Sylvia said with a laugh.

  “Ach! Her young mind runs circles around me. Already she has begun to rearrange the shelves. Soon I won’t be able to find anything in my own store! I’ll leave you two to chat. I must see if Mrs. Z’s latest cake creation is out of the oven yet.” He chuckled and walked to the back room.

  “Papa exaggerates,” Rachel said, smiling. “He’s trying to teach me the business, but his shelving system makes no sense! How’ve you been, Sylvia Faye? It is so good to see you!” She stood up and gave Sylvia a big hug.

  “So what are you up to, besides ruining your father’s store?” Sylvia asked, plopping comfortably on the floor, setting the flowers carefully next to her.

  “Well, to be perfectly honest, Papa is really old-fashioned, so my brother Ruben will probably run the business end of the store, but I think girls ought to know how to do that kind of thing as well. Don’t you agree?” She shook her head good-naturedly.

  Sylvia thought about the women she’d seen in those magazine ads—all of them housewives, not professionals. “Absolutely,” she said. “I want to do more than what I see women doing on television, Rachel,” Sylvia admitted. “I Love Lucy is a great show, but all she does is stay home, clean house, and get in trouble with Ricky! Besides, who’s gonna take seriously a lady who’s wearing a lace apron and holding a mixing spoon in her hand?”

  Both girls laughed. “That’s why Lucy is so popular! You and I think alike, Sylvia Faye. Do you think there will ever be a television program with a policewoman or lady detective or lady doctor as the main character?”

  “Only if she’s funny and acts silly,” Sylvia replied as she helped Rachel sort the goods for the shelves. “So what else is new in your life?”

  “Oh, you know, school, boys, homework, and collecting Elvis Presley records! Can you believe they’re going to send him to the army? What a waste!” She tossed her dark hair, which she wore in a long, curled ponytail. “What about you?”

  “Well, I’m more of a Platters than a Presley fan,” Sylvia told her, “but I spend a lot of time playing with my little sister, helping my mother around the house, and doing loads and loads of homework.” Sylvia really loved her family and how they lived, but describing it to someone else made it seem boring and insignificant. “Whatever happened to that boy named Mario who called you?” she asked her friend.

  Rachel had an infectious laugh. “Oh, he was way too Italian and way too Catholic for my old-fashioned parents. Remember when we talked about that at your house? I would have dated him anyway, but it turns out he had rotten teeth and unbelievably bad breath! I had to let him go.”

  Both girls doubled over with amusement. Mrs. Zucker ambled over to where the girls sat, a plate of warm chocolate cake in each hand. “Greetings, Sylvia. What makes you girls so full of life today?”

  “Boys, Mama,” Rachel said, teasing her mother. “Horrible, wonderful boys!”

  “Ah, Sylvia,” Mrs. Zucker said, smiling and shaking her head as she gave the cake to the girls. “Can you teach my Rachel some social graces?” She touched her daughter’s hair.

  “Thanks for the yummy chocolate, Mrs. Zucker, but she’s never listened to me before. I think she’s a lost cause!” Sylvia replied with a chuckle. “Oh, and Miss Lillie asked me to give you these roses.”

  Mrs. Zucker took the flowers as if they were jewels. “Such beauty! Ah, such a sweet woman is Miss Lillie. I must take her a slice of cake.”

  “Chocolate is her favorite,” Sylvia said.

  Mrs. Zucker sniffed the roses with pleasure. “How is your mother, Sylvia?”

  “She’s fine. She said to send you her best.”

  “Before you leave, I will wrap several slices of cake for you to take. Gary and Donna Jean love my chocolate cake!”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You’re very kind.” Sylvia knew not to refuse the gift. It would be an insult.

  “Did you save an extra piece for me?” Mr. Zucker asked as he joined them. His plate was empty except for the crumbs.

  Sylvia noticed he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The numbers on his arm seemed to shout as she looked away, pretending she hadn’t noticed. How awful to be reminded every single day of something horrible that happened in your past. When she glanced back, he was rolling down and buttoning his shirtsleeves.

  “Look in the back room, love,” his wife said, covering the momentary embarrassment. “On the top shelf. Where I always hide your second piece.” She looked at the girls closely. “Those boys you two laugh about grow up to be men. Be careful how you choose. Find a man who cares about who you are inside, rather than what you look like.”

  She walked away then, still sniffing the roses, to the cash register to wait on another customer.

  “Your mother makes a lot of sense,” Sylvia said thoughtfully. “Speaking of boys, you know that Reggie Birmingham I told you about?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He calls me almost every night, he sits with me at lunch, and we’re going to a basketball game on Friday!”

  Rachel squealed with delight. “A real date! How peachy keen! How did you get your mother to agree? More important, what are you gonna wear?”

  Sylvia scratched her head. “I hadn’t really thought about it yet, but my friend Lou Ann says it should be something red. And it’s not an official date, since he’s too young to drive. I’m just meeting him at the game and we’re going to sit together.”

  “That counts as a real date in my book!” Rachel stood up, stretched, and twirled around in excitement.

  “All of a sudden I’ve gone from Sylvia the old maid to Sylvia the girlfriend. It’s kinda hard to get used to,” Sylvia admitted.

  “So you’re complaining?” Rachel asked with a giggle as she plopped back down.

  Sylvia grinned. “Not likely! He’s like taking a new subject in school—with lots of homework to figure it all out.”

  “Now that’s the kind of homework I like!” Rachel replied as she placed another can on the shelf. “A course in the anatomy and physiology of the teenage male!”

  Sylvia felt herself blush. “Girl, stop.”

  Rachel stood up and picked up both plates and forks. “I can’t wait to get out of ninth grade and go to Central in the fall! That’s where all the cute boys are!” she added enthusiastically. She was suddenly quiet then, realizing she had entered a danger zone.

  “I may go to Central, too,” Sylvia told her casually. She knew she probably shouldn’t have said anything yet, since nothing was even close to official, but she just had to tell Rachel.

  “Really? That’s neat,” Rachel said, a little too enthusiastically. Neither of them said anything for a moment. “Seriously, Sylvia Faye,” Rachel said finally. “I don’t know if I could do what you might have to do. But know this—you will always have a friend at Central High School.”

  Sylvia embraced Rachel again and thanked her. Then she quickly found the items her mother had asked her to pick up, and hurried home, carrying soup, flour, salt, a bouquet of flowers, half a cake, and the memory of a genuine hug from her friend.

  Thursday, January 17, 1957

  Miss Washington didn’t waste any time assigning our research papers for this semester, so I’m glad I didn’t bring her that last piece of Mrs. Zucker’s cake. I decided to give it to Reggie instead. He loved it, of course, and licked the waxed paper it had bee
n wrapped in. Miss Washington is big enough-she doesn’t need more baked goods!

  I don’t know why teachers make kids do homework like this—I guess she has nothing better to do than read stacks of student papers. She says the process is supposed to teach us something. Well, I’ve certainly learned something, but it wasn’t what I expected.

  Last year Daddy bought a set of World Book encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman who was a friend of Mr. Zucker. I know it’s sometimes a squeeze for Daddy to make the weekly payments on the books, but he believes that education is the key to success. Maybe it will be for me and Donna Jean. I worry about Gary though. I can’t see him sitting still long enough to get through college.

  I curled up on the sofa with the volume Non my lap. I love the smell of a new book. The maroon binding was still tight and almost squeaked as I opened it to reveal thousands of pages of small print and really neat photos. I wanted to look up information on the Negro for my research paper. I saw a picture of Napoleon, looking surprisingly baby-faced, articles on navigation and nature, and a map of Nebraska.

  Finally I came to the article entitled “Negro.” I was excited at first, but then I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! First I looked at the pictures—a frowning little brown boy, obviously on a farm, holding a basket of vegetables. Jackie Robinson—the first Negro to play major league baseball. A dentist, with a caption below that said, “A Negro dentist in a well-equipped office treats a patient of his own race.” A smiling Pullman porter in uniform, with the caption “Pullman porters are known in all parts of the United Stated for their smiling courtesy and efficient service on trains.” I felt a funny pang in my stomach.

  As I continued to read the article, I felt downright sick. Words started jumping off the page and slapping me in my face. I wrote them down so I could copy them in my diary. “Such Negroid physical traits as dark skin, kinky hair, and long arms ... and “Negroes as well as whites have generally disapproved of intermarriage of the two groups,” “and ”Social conditions for the Negroes are gradually improving, but many still live under slum conditions in overcrowded houses without bathrooms, running water, electric lights, or refrigerators.” In a million years when somebody finds this diary, they won’t believe that such mean stuff could be printed in America in 1957.