Take My Hand(57)

I finished up and opened the suitcase. It was blue with a gold buckle. The girls and Mrs. Williams would share it. While I folded their dresses, Erica chatted about her new friends. She was the tallest girl in the class because she was two years older, but she had still managed to make friends.

“What do you like most about school?” I asked her.

“The morning prayer.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Miss Civil, every morning I pray to God to give me a baby one day. You know he can, Miss Civil. He can do anything.”

I didn’t respond. If the prayer was giving her comfort, I didn’t want to mess with that. My hands shook as I struggled to latch the suitcase.

“Let me help with that.” Mrs. Williams entered the room and waved me aside. I wondered if she’d heard what Erica had just said.

India sat on the bed, watching us. She had now been in school for a week. When I talked, I noticed her watching my lips. On Friday, when I’d picked her up, Sister LaTarsha had explained to me that it was entirely possible that India understood more than she let on, but she was really shy, which people could misread sometimes as incomprehension given her limited verbal ability.

“Y’all going look pretty in your dresses,” said the grandmother.

“Do it snow up there, Miss Civil?”

“I think so. But not this time of year.”

“They sell Funyuns?”

“We can take some Funyuns with us just in case.”

“I’m scared to get on an airplane. What if it fall from the sky?”

“It won’t.”

“How you know?”

“Planes are built to fly. It’s what they do.”

“Anything can fall from the sky, Miss Civil.”

Mrs. Williams turned the suitcase straight up and set it by the door. “Y’all put your toothbrush in there tomorrow morning before we leave out the door. What time Mr. Feldman picking us up?”

“He say around eight o’clock.”

“Okay, that’ll give us time to have a good breakfast.”

“You got something to put on their hair when they take their bath tonight?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ll wrap it up. Don’t worry. We are going to be ready to meet Mr. Kennedy. Yessirree. Ooh, child, I wonder if he knew Dr. King. I’ll have to tell him about that time I met the man himself.”

I walked over and kissed India on the forehead. Her skin was dry and cool. The bedroom window was open, and a breeze kicked up the curtain. In less than twenty-four hours we would board an airplane. Erica peered at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The family was excited about this trip, and I prayed it would be a good experience for them.





THIRTY





On the way to meet the senator, I walked between the aide and the girls. The entire way, I worried we would all be soaked in sweat by the time we arrived. The humidity in the air seemed to oppress more than it did in Alabama, its stickiness quickly reaching underneath my clothes. I had never seen a city like Washington. The streets were wide with freshly painted white lines, but the traffic came from all directions, and I wondered how the cars did not collide in the middle of the intersections. Men in suits rushed past us. A group of white children wearing uniforms gathered on the sidewalk. A policeman blew a whistle, and the traffic slowed as the group crossed. A woman chased after a bus that was already rumbling down the hill, until it stopped, letting forth a steaming sigh as the doors opened. I held on tightly to India and Erica as we entered the Senate office building.

The aide couldn’t stop talking. She pointed out the names of senators on the doors. Howard Baker. Barry Goldwater. Strom Thurmond. Adlai Stevenson III. When we passed the door of Senator John Sparkman, Alabama’s senator, she asked me if we wanted to take a picture. Many people like to take a picture next to their senator’s nameplate, she explained. My eyes widened in amazement. Could she really be that clueless? For years Black Alabamans had understood the limits of placing our hopes in politicians. Sparkman had been in office since before I was born, and it had come as no surprise to Black Alabamans when he’d joined the effort to stall the Civil Rights Act of 1964. As hard as we’d fought for our voting rights right there in Alabama, the blunt force of political exclusion remained. I held back from asking about Shirley Chisholm’s congressional office even though I knew Miss Pope would have wanted me to be so bold.

“No, thank you,” I said curtly, trying not to sound rude. Bless her heart.

The aide’s heels clicked on the wide hallway’s tiled floor. Mrs. Williams walked right behind me, and Mace trailed all of us, his gait slow and easy. He had lost his confidence in this environment, but none of his suspicion. I worried that people might mistake his silent ambling for hostility. All morning I had tried to keep my distance from him, but there was no denying I was drawn to the man. I wondered if he watched me.

We got off the elevator on the third floor. The senator’s office turned out to be a suite, framed by a reception area with a fireplace and a blue couch. The room was long, with a large, square window at one end. I walked to the reception area window, which overlooked the street. There were two open doors revealing small offices and a closed door on the other side that led to the senator’s private office.

“Mr. Feldman is already in there,” the woman at the desk told the aide. “They’re expecting you.”