Take My Hand(72)

“I already found somebody,” he said.

“Sure enough? Who?”

“You.”

“I don’t know how, Mace. I’ve never taught anybody to read before. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I can’t even remember learning myself.”

“Forget it.”

“No, Mace, I—”

“I said forget it.”

He rose and brushed the sand from his shorts. Slowly, he took off his shirt and walked down to be with the girls. I had not seen him shirtless since that day at the cabin, and I looked away and then back at him and then away again.

Stop it, Civil. You are at the beach. That’s what men do at the beach. They remove their shirts. You’re the one sitting around with clothes over top of your swimsuit.

Mace expertly skipped a rock over the water. He tossed a second one and it bounced twice before sinking. I tried to think clearly. Mace was the one too proud to go down to the library and stumble through words with the other grown-ups who would be there. That was his problem, not mine. It wasn’t my responsibility to teach him to read. I had done enough for him and his family.

He walked out into the water with India. I could tell from the way he stepped that he was frightened. He did not know how to swim, and even the shallow tide of the ocean could make you unsteady on your feet. India pulled his hand, as if she were the one leading a child, the way I had led her and Erica out there. She was so busy pulling that she fell down and he caught her. “Girl!” I heard him shout. She hugged his legs and he leaned down to kiss her temple. India smiled up at him.

There was no lifeguard. If one of them got into trouble in the water, I would have to be the one to try and save them. And that would be nearly impossible. I had tried so many times to save them. A gargantuan task. The knowledge of that futility did not stop me, however. It could not.

I reached in my bag and took out the Coca-Cola I had brought with me. I used the opener on Mace’s key ring to remove the cap and took a long swallow.

India held her daddy’s hand and pointed. Some kind of sea animal had leaped up. It might have been a dolphin, but I couldn’t make it out from where I was sitting. I loved this family, plain and simple. I fought the urge to go join them. They were not my family. They would always belong to Constance. Still, I loved them.

I would teach him to read. I would help Lou with the case. I would get another job and move on. And that would be the end of it. It had to be.

At least, that’s what I told myself.





PART III





THIRTY-EIGHT




Montgomery

1973


The trial began in early October in the Montgomery federal courthouse that oversaw Alabama’s Middle District. It was scheduled to take place in the same courtroom where Judge Frank Johnson ruled to integrate two of the city’s prominent all-white high schools, where he ruled to end the bus boycott by integrating city buses, where he ruled that the Selma to Montgomery march could proceed. The building occupied a city block, its stately Renaissance Revival–style architecture anchoring one end of the city. There was no mistaking that the Williams case had become a national story.

As he delivered his opening statement, Lou Feldman did not appear intimidated by the moment. Standing before the judge, he grew taller. His voice deepened, brow wrinkled. It was the same transformation he had undergone in DC and, once more, I was transfixed.

While I admired his demeanor, it was still difficult for me to listen to Lou declare that Mace and his mother had been outsmarted by Mrs. Seager. Yes, it was true, neither of them could read, but his portrayal of them as simple country people whose priority was day-to-day survival fell short. These people were smarter than that. Mrs. Williams could put a piece of sweet potato pie in her mouth and know exactly how much nutmeg was used. Mace could stick his finger in the soil and tell you what would and would not grow in it, could recall the names of trees I had never even known existed. They were more than illiterate farmers, more than victims who’d been duped by the federal government. They were a family who, given other opportunities, could have accomplished much more.

On the other side of the room, Caspar Weinberger, the secretary of HEW, propped his elbows on the table. He had flown in for the trial the day before, and word had it that he was staying at the Holiday Inn. Two of the government’s lawyers flanked him on either side, but I had already gotten a good look at Weinberger out in the corridor. Dark hair curled away from a long face; eyebrows arched up; eyes sank deep into the hollows of his sockets. According to Lou, the man was deeply concerned about the case and wanted to know exactly how many children had been affected. At the other end of the table, the other defendant, Alvin Arnett, the director of the Office of Economic Opportunity, stared intently at the judge. I was struck by the deep chasm that existed between these Washington politicians and my beloved Williamses. We breathed a different air, walked a different road.

The courtroom audience was sparse. I recognized two of the men in the third row as journalists. They scribbled notes onto slim rectangular pads. A couple of young men in the back row carried packs resembling something students might use. Two women in floral-printed dresses sat together, whispering. Three or four others appeared to be nosy onlookers. I was the only colored person among them.

Listening to the drone of trial technicalities, I did not understand half of it, but it was better than sitting at home. During the recess, Lou refused my offer to take him to lunch. In the days that followed, I think he was both irritated by my presence and buoyed by it. I always sat in the same seat, and on more than one occasion I caught him looking for me when he entered the courtroom. I wore loafers and skirts and tucked my hair back so as not to stand out. During court breaks I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.