The Last House on the Street(53)

“I don’t think so,” Curry said, lighting a cigarette. “You’re the only girl stayin’ in the community, and the only Southerner. Might be the reason.”

“Or maybe just coincidence,” Win said.

I wondered which of them was right.



* * *



The cross burning at the Daweses’ had not been the only trouble the night before. That was obvious as soon as Curry pulled the van into the small parking lot at the school. Every window we could see either bore bullet holes or had been completely shot out.

“Oh no.” I gathered my things from the back seat, hoping Greg, Paul, Chip, and Jocelyn, all of whom spent their nights at the school, were okay.

“We’re fine,” Greg said when we walked into the building. “Nothing serious. We just have a few windows to repair.”

Jocelyn looked up at me from the desk where she was using the typewriter. “I just locked myself in the art room,” she said. “It’s like a bunker in there.” Jocelyn always looked a little pale, a little fragile, but this morning she was positively ghostly.

I took Greg aside and told him what had happened at the Daweses’ house in the middle of the night. He’d made light of the mayhem outside the school building, but I could tell he was truly upset by my news. We’d put an innocent family at risk.

The other SCOPE workers gradually filled the room, all of us automatically taking the same seats we’d been in at our first meeting the week before. One week! It was hard to believe we’d only been in Flint that long. It felt like at least a month.

Greg led us in a short prayer, then sat on the edge of the metal desk, folding his hands on his thigh.

“Last night, some folks with nothing better to do decided to shoot up the school,” he said. “I called the police department and they said they’d send someone right over, but no one ever arrived, so now we know we can’t count on the police for help. It’s my belief the mayhem is the result of just a few local fellows with too much beer in their bellies and time on their hands. They’d like us to leave Flint, but we’re not going to do that.”

I looked at Win. He wore that expression I hadn’t seen on his face in several days. Eyes straight forward. Jaw tight. Chin set.

“Of more concern to me is what happened at the home where Ellie’s been staying,” Greg continued. “A cross was burned in the front yard last night. It could easily have taken that house down and the family with it. That feels like Klan activity and we have to take it seriously.” Everyone turned to look at me as though I’d passed some sort of test, one no one else wanted to take. “Ellie, I’ll find another home for you,” Greg said, “but we’ll need to move you every couple of nights. The fewer people who know where you are, the better.”

When the meeting broke up and most of the “freedom fighters” headed out into the community to canvass, I stayed at the school helping Jocelyn with paperwork. Greg left to visit some of the other ministers in the area, trying to find a new home for me. Chip and Paul took off for the hardware store to get wood to board up the windows.

After a week of spending every day with Win, it felt strange not to be with him. I knew Rosemary was canvassing with him in my place, and as I mimeographed song sheets, it took me a little while to recognize my discomfort as jealousy. I wasn’t interested in Win as anything other than my canvassing partner, I told myself, but we’d worked well together this week and it just felt wrong that Rosemary was with him now.

What does it matter? I scolded myself. Developing a relationship—especially an interracial relationship—was completely against the rules, even if I were interested in him that way.

I was almost done with the mimeograph machine when Jocelyn looked up at me from the desk where she was typing something.

“I just want to say that I admire you, Ellie,” she said, breaking into my thoughts.

“You do?” I asked, surprised.

“I do. I feel like such a coward.” She wrinkled her nose. “I came into this … into SCOPE, totally expecting to, you know, stay in the community and canvass, like you’re doing, but…” Her voice trailed off.

I sat down in the chair next to her desk. “But…?” I prompted.

“It was the bullet holes in the doors that first night. They scared the daylights out of me.”

“I know. They scared me, too.”

“Yes, but you went ahead with what you said you’d do. Work in the community.”

“Someone needs to do the office work, Jocelyn. It’s not like you’re doing nothing.”

“I know. I guess I’m just disappointed in myself. And anyway”—she laughed—“here I am, staying in the one place that’s getting shot up.”

“Must have been scary last night.”

“Not as scary as that burning cross,” she said.

“I was mostly afraid for the children in the house,” I said. “I felt like I would be responsible for any of them getting hurt.” I got to my feet. “Do you have some more work for me to do?”

She handed me a stack of mail. “You can put these in the cubbyholes,” she said.

I sorted through the pile of mail, most of it for Greg. Then I put the few letters into the appropriate cubbyholes for the SCOPE workers. The very last letter in the stack was for me from Brenda. I sat on one of the small wooden chairs to read it.