The Last House on the Street(38)

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Our destination was a small special education school that was closed for the summer. The school was in Flint, a Derby County town I’d never even heard of, although it was no more than twenty miles from Round Hill. We got lost, but finally saw the beige SCOPE van in a small parking lot, and Win, who was driving at that time, pulled in next to it. Exhausted from very little sleep, we dragged ourselves and our meager belongings toward the building. I felt desperate for a shower.

I was just a few feet from the school’s double doors when I saw the bullet hole, unmistakable for anything else, in one of the door’s windows. The window of the second door had been completely blown out. We all stopped short, staring.

“Damn!” Paul said, the first blasphemy I’d heard from any of us. I had to agree with him.

“Welcome to Derby County,” Win said, almost under his breath.

Inside the building, though, the atmosphere was almost partylike—or as partylike as it could be with a bunch of young people who’d had very little sleep in the past twenty-four hours. The other students assigned to Derby County had arrived less than an hour before and they applauded when we walked in. We found ourselves in a large room with a couple of tattered sofas, a bunch of wooden chairs, and several small desks—the kind with attached seats. Two large metal desks topped with typewriters and stacks of paper were at one end of the room. Near the door was a table with an ancient-looking mimeograph machine next to platters of baked goods, a huge urn of coffee, and pitchers of orange juice and water. The beige cinder-block walls were covered with children’s drawings.

We helped ourselves to a late breakfast and Reverend Filburn walked into the room as I sat down on one of the wooden chairs to eat.

“Ah.” He smiled at us, taking a seat on the corner of one of the metal desks. “Looks like all of our freedom fighters are here now and accounted for.” The chatter in the room ceased. “I’m Greg Filburn, your SCOPE field director here in Derby County.” He had the same deep voice, the same horn-rimmed glasses, but he seemed different from the distrustful minister I’d met in the AME church. He was relaxed now, dressed in casual slacks and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Let’s have some introductions,” he said.

We went around the room, introducing ourselves. There were twelve of us, ten from the Atlanta orientation and two local residents who would canvass with us. I recognized one of them—Rosemary—but couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. She was the only one among us who looked well-rested, since she hadn’t just made the overnight trip from Atlanta. I was glad to have another girl in the group with all that testosterone floating around. Rosemary had an engaging smile and it took me all of two seconds to see that she was aiming it at Win, who didn’t seem to notice.

The other local person was Curry. He looked older than the rest of us, late twenties at least, and Greg said he’d be our primary driver. Curry looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He gave us a wave and a smile, and he chain-smoked cigarettes throughout the meeting.

When I introduced myself, Reverend Filburn—Greg—said, “Glad to see you, Eleanor,” and I was relieved to feel his acceptance, even though I knew he probably still had reservations about my participation.

“This school will be our headquarters,” Greg told us as we sipped our coffee. “Since it’s Sunday, we don’t want to disturb the folks you’ll be staying with, so you’ll spend tonight here and tomorrow you’ll move in with your families. Do you all have sleeping bags?”

I nodded. A few of the guys groaned, but we all had them.

“Good.” Greg’s expression sobered. “Tonight, you men will sleep in this room. Rosemary and Curry will be staying with their own families here in Flint. Jocelyn and Eleanor—we’ll put you in an interior room.” He glanced at the double doors, then looked back at us. “You probably noticed the bullet holes when you came in,” he said. “That happened last night. Our welcoming committee. I’m sure they were disappointed to realize that no one was here yet, so don’t be surprised if we have a repeat performance tonight. I’m going to ask some of you fellas to board up the broken windows.”

“Was that the Klan?” one of the guys asked. I’d already forgotten his name.

“Most likely just a few disgruntled Flint residents,” Greg said. “They’re known more for intimidation than actual physical violence, but it’s happened, so be careful. More dangerous are the lone white men who want to take matters into their own hands,” he said, repeating the warning we’d heard all week. “Be aware of your surroundings at all times. Stay out of white neighborhoods. You see a car or truck with a white driver, you hide. There’s nothing cowardly about saving your life. And don’t get caught white and Negro acting like equals by any white folk. That’s how James Chaney and the other two men got themselves killed last summer. Especially be careful, male and female together.” He looked at me, then Jocelyn, then Rosemary, who nodded in a way that said she understood what he meant. Understood it better than Jocelyn or I ever could.

“You might’ve been led to believe the Klan is farther south,” Greg said, “but the United Klan of America has a stronghold here in North Carolina. Nearly twelve thousand members in two hundred Klaverns led by Bob Jones, their racist, bigoted, dangerous so-called Grand Dragon. He holds rallies just about every night. It’s like a county fair for these people. Thousands of them. Mothers, fathers, children. Food and fun for all.” Greg had a rhythm going. He reminded me of Dr. King in that moment. “They listen to speeches designed to fuel hatred. And for a finale, they burn a massive cross to symbolize their unity against people who aren’t just like them. People like us.”