The Last House on the Street(46)

“They’re afraid of losing their jobs if their employers find out,” I said, parroting what I’d learned during orientation. I was anxious to show Win that I knew something.

“Exactly,” he said. “But a good many said they’d come to the protest, so that’s positive.”

My legs were stretched out in front of me and my feet were appallingly filthy. I knew that I was beginning to get a blister on my heel, but I would say nothing. Tomorrow, though, I’d wear my sneakers.



* * *



Our second day together found us surrounded by children—little ones who wanted to hold my hand as we walked and older kids who were drawn to Win’s transistor radio and the music on the Negro station. “My Girl” and “Shotgun,” and “I Can’t Help Myself.” The children turned out to be a real boon to our canvassing. They told us who lived where, how many kids in each family, what type of work the parents did, and often, what sort of problems were dragging them down.

By the time Win and I sat down in the shade of a tobacco barn to eat our lunch, we already had eight commitments to register on our canvass sheet.

“So how’s it going at the Daweses’ house?” Win asked as he freed his tomato sandwich from its wax paper wrapping.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I could say “fine,” but I opted for the truth. “It’s hard to get used to,” I said. “The outhouse. No electric light at night. I’m sleeping in a bed with two little girls climbing all over me.” I had to admit that I’d slept incredibly well the night before, though, kids or no kids, after covering so much of Flint by foot.

“It’s the same at the house I’m in.” He took a long drink from the thermos he wore attached to his belt.

“It hurts me to see it,” I said.

“Me too,” he agreed. “Though none of it’s a surprise to me.” Suddenly, he jumped up and grabbed my arm. “Back here!” he said, tugging me to my feet and pulling me behind the barn.

“What?” He’d nearly yanked my arm out of my shoulder.

He pointed to our left and I saw what had caught his attention: a beat-up white pickup truck, a white man at the wheel.

“I don’t think he saw us,” Win said, “but did you notice the empty gun rack?”

“No.” I was trembling. After having “watch out for white men in trucks” drummed into me fifty times, I still hadn’t thought to react when I spotted the truck in the distance.

“Generally means he’s got the gun on the seat with him,” Win said. “And he’d probably be happy to find a reason to use it.”

“Yikes.” I thought of the gun-shot windows at our headquarters. “Our second day and we almost got ourselves killed.”

He actually smiled. “We did pretty well, almost getting killed only once,” he said.

I thought it was the first time he’d directed his smile to me, and I felt a little of what those housewives must be feeling when they couldn’t seem to take their eyes off him. I looked away from him, shaken.

“Well, we’re on our feet now,” I said. “I guess we should get back to work.”





Chapter 21



KAYLA


2010

Once Rainie is asleep the night after the fire at the Hockleys’ house, I stand in the doorway of the room that was to be Jackson’s office. It’s stacked nearly wall to wall with boxes, some of which I’m sure contain bills or other important papers. I dread the disorganization I’ll find once I open the boxes, though. Jackson was a stickler for detail as an architect, but he was a scattered mess when it came to his office, papers on the floor as well as every other flat surface. He promised me he’d change his sloppy ways in the new house. I wish he’d had a chance to prove to me that he could do it.

Daddy had taken care of getting rid of Jackson’s clothing for me in our old house, but he hadn’t touched his office, and it had been one of the last things on my mind. I remember standing in the doorway of Jackson’s office in the old house, Daddy’s arm around me, as we stared, glassy eyed, at the sea of papers on the floor and desk and pouring out of open file cabinet drawers. “Let’s just throw it all in boxes,” Daddy said. “You’ll just have to go through everything when you have time at the new house.”

I’d been all too eager to agree. I’ll do one box a night, I tell myself now. That should be manageable.

I get a trash bag for recycling, planning to get rid of absolutely everything I can. The evening is cool and remarkably dry for June and I open the windows, surprised when the scent of the Hockleys’ fire drifts into the room even though my house and theirs are at opposite ends of the street. I think of that burn on Buddy Hockley’s arm and hope he’s not in too much pain.

I clear the top of the desk so I have plenty of space to work. Opening one of the boxes, I pull out a handful of old bills and other paperwork. I make a “keep” pile on the desk and begin sorting through the papers. I’m halfway through the box, having trashed nearly all of it, when I’m stunned to find a typewritten letter from my father.

Dear Jackson,

I’ve watched as you and Kayla plan your new home. I’m proud of how the two of you have made names for yourselves as architects and how you can now afford to build the beautiful home you’ve dreamed of. It’s a real honor to be your father-in-law, Jackson.