The Last House on the Street(19)

“I love you, too.” It was not the first time I’d said those words to him, and I meant them. Just not the way he did.



* * *



It wasn’t until the middle of the night when Reed was sound asleep that I turned on my reading lamp and looked through the material Reverend Filburn had sent. There was a mandatory reading list—books about all that Negroes had endured in the United States. Then there was an informative letter from Reverend Filburn, telling me that I’d have to bring a sleeping bag, skirts and dresses—girls were not allowed to wear pants or shorts—and two hundred dollars to cover expenses. Part of that money would go to the local families with whom I’d be staying and who would receive a few dollars a week for my room and board. I’d have to sell my car to get the money. That was going to be a sacrifice, especially since I wouldn’t be making any money working at the pharmacy this summer.

I could get a ride to the orientation in Atlanta with some Columbia University students who would pick me up on their way south, the letter said. There was a second letter, this one mimeographed, from Martin Luther King, Jr., himself, which I read three times. How many people had a letter from Martin Luther King? I felt a thrill of excitement course through me. I wished Aunt Carol was alive. She was the only other person who could understand how I felt.

But there were three forms that stopped me cold. One was a medical form that a doctor would need to fill out, stating I was physically fit. I hoped that would be no big deal. I could see a doctor at student health services on campus rather than our family doctor, who might have a word to say with my parents about my plan. The second form was an acknowledgment that I understood I could be injured or even killed. That was sobering, but I figured it was some legal thing that protected the SCOPE organizers. My signature on that form would need to be notarized. But the most troublesome form required my parents’ signature, giving me permission to participate because I was not yet twenty-one. I stared at that one, wishing I could change the wording on it. That form could put an end to my entire plan.



* * *



I woke up before Reed and sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for him to open his eyes. He saw me watching him and sat up. He was wearing his white undershirt, his hair tousled, his eyes expectant. I guessed it was clear to him that I had something to say that he wasn’t going to want to hear.

“I’m going to screw up everyone’s weekend, I know,” I said, “and I’m sorry, but I need to go back to Round Hill. I have to talk to my parents about SCOPE. It can’t wait till next weekend. I need to leave this morning.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re kidding,” he said. “Garner drove us here and I can tell you, there’s no way I’ll be able to drag him away from Brenda before Sunday afternoon. What am I supposed to do till then?” I’d never before seen the red blotches that formed on his neck as he spoke. I’d never before seen him really angry.

“You can ride back to Round Hill with me,” I said. “We can talk more on the drive.”

So, he rode back with me in my little red Ford, but we didn’t talk. The tension in the car pressed down on my chest for the entire two hours of our drive. He stared out the side window as if he didn’t want to catch a glimpse of me, even in his peripheral vision. I thought of asking what are you thinking? but the truth was, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to argue about my decision any longer. My mind was made up.





Chapter 9





My parents were surprised to see me, and I made up some excuse for coming home, too nervous to tell them about SCOPE right away. I was afraid they’d say no and that would be the end of my dream for the summer. At dinner Saturday night, I finally got my courage up. I waited for a lull in the conversation between Daddy and Buddy about the work Buddy was doing on a neighbor’s tractor and then, before I lost my nerve, I blurted out, “I’ve decided to do volunteer work this summer.”

For a moment, no one said anything. From across the table I felt Buddy stiffen, his eyes on his fried chicken leg. He knew where I was going with this. Then Daddy turned to me. “That’s good, Ellie,” he said. “Volunteer work will look good on your application to graduate school.”

“You still need to give your father some hours in the pharmacy, though,” Mama said. It sounded like a warning.

I licked my dry lips, but before I could figure out how to respond, Daddy spoke again. “What’s the volunteer work, sugar?” He sounded calmer than my mother. More willing to listen.

“Remember that article you read about SCOPE?” I asked. “The white students helping to register people to vote?”

The three of them were silent. I felt my parents’ eyes on me, and Buddy shot me a look across the table that I couldn’t read but imagined said, There is no way in holy hell they’re going to let you do this.

“You’re not thinking of volunteering with them, are you?” Mama asked.

I nodded. “Yes. I’ve already spoken to the minister about it. The one who was quoted in that article. I can probably work right here in Derby County.”

“This is ill advised, Eleanor,” Daddy said in the calm voice he’d used my entire life when he was laying down the law. “You’ll only be asking for trouble if you try to help out with that sort of thing. No one wants that program here. Not the white folks. Not the colored folks. They’re fine with things the way they are, so—”