Take My Hand(75)

The middle of October arrived, and so did my twenty-third birthday. I didn’t think it was right for me to celebrate until the trial was over, but Ty and his family invited me and Alicia to the Magic City Classic up in Birmingham. We were just going for the day and then driving back later that night, so I relented. I woke up early to dress and pack a cooler of drinks. Daddy appeared in the doorway.

“Ooh, Daddy, you scared me. What you doing up so early?”

“I saw you the other day at the store.”

“Which store?”

“You were with that man Williams. Shopping. You using the money I give you to support that family?”

“Daddy, he get food stamps. He don’t need your money.” The bottles clinked as I nestled them against one another in the bag. Daddy thumped the side of his hand against the table. My words sounded hollow even in my own ears.

“You used to study in high school all the time right here at this kitchen table, you remember? Valedictorian. Most likely to succeed. It’s not too late, Civil.”

I had not expected Daddy to rise so early. I wanted to find a way to slip past him and avoid this conversation, but I had to wait for Ty and his parents to pick me up.

“Too late for what?”

“You can still make an impact as a doctor.”

“Daddy, please, not today.”

“You could have gone to school anywhere in the country. Spelman. Fisk. Howard. But you go right up the road. The Tuskegee Tigers. Did you think that would make me happy? Going to my alma mater?”

Oh, good Lord. He wanted to have a deep talk and I had just wiped the sleep out of my eyes. “Probably,” I answered truthfully. “But once I got there, I liked it.”

“It did make me happy, Civil. Everything you’ve ever done has made me happy.”

“Except go to the store with an illiterate country farmer.” I was sassing him, and I knew it. I didn’t know how else to react. He had caught me off guard. “Daddy, you remember what you used to tell me when I was little? Why you named me Civil?”

“Because we wanted you to be free,” he said. “The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Amendments were supposed to guarantee civil rights. But the year you were born, it was still just a hope.”

“Then let me be free.”

“I know you feel bad about what happened with those girls, baby, but what’s done is done. That man is—”

“Mace. That man’s name is Mace Williams.”

“Civil, you need to live your own life. Move on. Those people are not your family.”

“Why do you talk about the Williamses as if they’re aliens from another planet?”

“What do you see in that man, Civil? What kind of life could you have?”

Goodness gracious, Daddy thought Mace and I were courting. It had just been a kiss, nothing more. But I couldn’t open my mouth to convince him otherwise because the alternative might sound like I was being loose.

“And what about Ty?”

“Daddy.”

“He’s a good young man. Got his college degree.”

“Ty’s mama still does his laundry.”

“Ty’s mama is one of the most outstanding lawyers in this town.”

“I know, Daddy. I’m just saying—”

“Williams is a grown man. You ready for that?”

“Yes, I am.” I said it before I could stop myself, but even as the words formed I knew I had not meant to sound that way. I couldn’t look at him. The tiles on our kitchen floor were blue with streaks of yellow. Mama had bought them while in Mexico for a painting retreat. They’d been transported back to Alabama by truck. The Williamses’ kitchen floor was covered in vinyl. Why did every beautiful thing in our house have to be a reminder of their lack?

A soft knock thumped at the side door, and Ty waved at me through the glass.

Daddy spared me by remaining quiet as he got up to pour his coffee. I slung the cooler strap over my shoulder, grabbed my jacket, and mumbled good-bye.



* * *



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IT WAS EARLY in the morning, but traffic up Interstate 65 had already started to thicken. Blacks in Alabama had been traveling to the Magic City Classic for as long as I could remember. When white Alabamans talked football rivalry, they talked Alabama Tide versus Auburn Tigers. Their game, known as the Iron Bowl, was held at Legion Field in Birmingham, just like ours, but it was typically in November. When Black folks talked football, we talked Alabama A&M versus Alabama State. Our football culture had grown up alongside theirs, like sisters who didn’t speak much but wore similar hairstyles. These parallel football universes shaped our lives in more ways than you could imagine.

Daddy was a Tuskegee man, but he had met my mother while he was at Meharry Medical College and she was a student at Fisk in Nashville. None of us Townsends had the connections to the bowl that a lot of folks had. Even so, my family had made the trek up to Birmingham for the game several times over the years.

The rivalry between the Alabama State Hornets and the Alabama A&M Bulldogs was more than just a football game. A lot of fans showed up just to watch the famous Battle of the Bands. The high-stepping majorettes, the military-sharp drum line, the hornet dancing across the field. It was an annual excitement that few events in Alabama could eclipse. The Ralseys were serious about it and never missed a year. Everyone in the family was an Alabama State alum, and when I got in the car the three of them were wearing various combinations of black and gold, the school’s colors. Mrs. Ralsey wore a sweater with a gold collar.