The Last House on the Street(65)

“Byron saw you at a Klan rally,” he said. “What the hell were you doing there, Ellie? What does that have to do with getting people to vote? He said everyone there knew you were with this”—he waved his hand in the vague direction of the cafeteria—“radical group. Do you know what could have happened to you?”

“We were fine, Daddy. And doesn’t it bother you that Uncle Byron was with a bunch of racists?”

“Byron is a sheriff. He was exactly where he should have been, keeping law and order. You, on the other hand, were not thinking.” His voice was getting louder. He looked around the small room as if seeing our surroundings for the first time. The old gym mats. Puckered footballs. “Look,” he said firmly. “You need to just get your things. Then we can talk about this on the way—”

“I have a commitment here,” I interrupted him. “I need to honor it. I’m working hard and we’re making progress.”

“Progress at what? When Johnson signs the damn bill, people can register. There’s nothing you can do before then.”

“Yes, there is actually,” I argued. “We’re educating people. Getting them to commit to registering. I’d be letting everyone down if I left.”

“You’re letting your mother and me down if you stay.”

That hurt to hear and I bit my lip to keep from crying. “You don’t understand,” I said.

“Where are you sleeping?” he asked, catching me off guard. “Brenda said you’re staying in a Negro home.”

“I’m staying with a family on their farm,” I said. It sounded idyllic, coming out of my mouth like that.

“A colored family?”

“What does it matter? What are you so afraid of, Daddy?”

I saw his nostrils flare. He moved toward me abruptly, scaring me, and for the first time in my life, I thought he might hit me. But he kept his hands at his sides, even if they were knotted in fists.

“I’m quite serious when I tell you this, Eleanor,” he said. “I’m not going to physically drag you out of here, humiliating both of us, but if you don’t come home with me now, willingly, don’t bother coming home at all.”

“You don’t mean that,” I said.

“Get your things.”

I swallowed. Stiffened my spine. “Tell Mama I love her,” I said. “And I love you, too.” Then I walked past him, intending to return to the cafeteria, but instead I went to the little room I’d shared with Jocelyn, shut the door behind me, and stood there shaking, tears running down my cheeks. And I stayed there until I was sure my father was gone.





Chapter 30





On Friday night, Curry and Paul picked up people from the countryside and brought them to the courthouse green, and families with their own trucks and cars drove themselves. It had to be intimidating, I thought, driving into the lily-white county seat of Carlisle, but they did it. Word had gotten out, and soon we had a group of about fifty people that swelled slowly to a hundred, maybe more, and my excitement grew along with the crowd. I felt so proud of them all for coming, and so proud of us for making it happen.

Rosemary, Jocelyn, and I gave out the protest signs, but many of the people brought their own handmade signs and they seemed to know exactly what to do. We all walked in a huge circle on the courthouse green, chanting, “Open the doors; give us the vote!” Greg held a microphone attached to a finicky speaker to talk about equality and nonviolence and with every other sentence, more people joined the line of protesters.

I’d spent the afternoon canvassing with Win, but I’d spent the morning crying at Miss Georgia’s kitchen table. I was still stinging from my father’s visit. Miss Georgia said she saw the look in his eyes before I left the cafeteria with him and she knew he was going to try to take me home.

“You got to think what this is costin’ you, honey,” she said. “It’s somethin’ my people learned early on. We learned to weigh and measure the cost of everything. You got to decide what’s worth fightin’ for. When your daddy left alone, I knew you’d made your choice. I was proud of you. But it’s a decision you’ll have to make over and over again, not just once, and nobody’s gonna blame you if you change your mind.”

I thought about her words now as I marched around the courthouse green, snapping pictures with my camera and shouting for voting rights. What I was fighting for had changed in a few weeks’ time. I’d joined SCOPE to honor Aunt Carol’s memory as well as to ease my guilt over what happened with Mattie. Now my reasons were a whole lot bigger than just myself, and as I watched so many determined people walking around the courthouse green—some of the folks familiar from my canvassing, some of them strangers to me—my heart felt full.

A few people shouted ugly things from cars as they passed by, and a couple of hecklers paced on the sidewalk without saying a word. I found their behavior even more disturbing, but did my best to tune them out.

Greg talked about the importance of SCOPE being in Derby County and how we’d let everyone know the second the voting rights bill was signed. We’d pick them up and drive them to the courthouse, and we’d stand in line with them in solidarity, and we’d celebrate with them when they were handed their registration card. I felt happy and excited and anticipatory.