The Last House on the Street(73)

After the meeting, Greg packed up to go home to Turner’s Bend. Before he left, he reminded us we were representatives of SCOPE and suggested we spend the evening reading from our books about racial justice. A few of the SCOPE workers left as well, heading to the store for cigarettes and snacks, but many of us stayed, wanting each other’s company. We talked about how the week had been, how we were being received in our neighborhoods, that sort of thing. Finally, around nine o’clock when people who were staying in the neighborhoods stood up and stretched, ready to figure out how to get home, Curry got to his feet.

“Y’all wanna have some fun tonight?” he asked, an impish expression on his face.

The next thing I knew, six of us had piled into the van and Curry was driving us who-knew-where. It took about half an hour and we drove through pouring rain, the night black outside the van windows. It was hard to believe that only the night before, the moon had lit up the earth like daylight.

Curry pulled into a tiny lot in front of a small brick building we could barely see because of the rain, but in spite of the pounding on the van’s roof, I could hear music. A couple was necking under the building’s awning. We darted from the van and ran for the front door and by the time we got inside we were soaking wet and laughing. All of us. Even Win. Seeing him laugh was such a rarity. I wished he would do it more often.

My wet hair dripped down my face and I brushed it back with my hands, catching the surprised look of a girl standing near the jukebox. That’s when it hit me: This was a Black club. Jocelyn, Paul, Chip, and myself were the only white people in the place. I felt momentarily uneasy, but I knew Curry wouldn’t have brought us here if it wasn’t okay. We were also probably the youngest people. This felt like a very adult club. It smelled of beer and sweat. The music was loud. At that moment, a song I’d heard a couple of times on Win’s transistor—“Shotgun”—was playing on the jukebox. Couples danced to the driving beat, grinding against each other in a way that seemed shocking, a little dangerous. I wanted to stare at them. My whole body felt hot, watching them. I wanted to feel what they were feeling.

Before I’d even caught my breath from running inside, two men asked me to dance. Both times, Win stopped them with “They’re with me,” encompassing both Jocelyn and myself and clearly meaning Hands off. I was grateful. I really didn’t know how to behave in a club like this, white or Black. I rarely went to the bars in Chapel Hill. I had no interest in the frat parties. All I did at school was study or hang out with Brenda, looking forward to our time with Reed and Garner.

Curry had disappeared but he soon returned with bottles of beer for Jocelyn and me. The air in the club was steaming hot and the chill of the beer felt good in my throat. It was better than any beer I’d tasted before. I felt as though, somehow, this club was heightening all my senses.

Paul started dancing with a girl, and while I drank the last of my beer, Jocelyn tugged Chip onto the cramped dance floor. Curry disappeared with a woman he obviously knew. Win gave me his usual serious look and nodded toward the dance floor as the Four Tops started singing “I Can’t Help Myself.” He took off his glasses and slipped them in his shirt pocket as I set my bottle on a windowsill and followed him onto the floor. We danced without touching. I kept my eyes on his face and danced the way we did at Carolina—the jerk, the mashed potato, the twist. I could already feel the beer loosening me up. Win had his own style. He never once looked at me. More at the floor, the windows, the ceiling. Never looked into my eyes. The song stopped, but another started right away and we kept on dancing. Then a slow one, very familiar to me, Dionne Warwick’s haunting “Walk On By.” I didn’t have the chance to wonder if he was going to lead me off the dance floor so he wouldn’t have to touch me. I remembered what he said the night before about interracial relationships, how it was wrong for him. But he reached for my hand, drew me against him. Held me close, closer than he had to, his chin against my temple. He sang a few lines of the song and I felt his lips move against my skin. I remembered the night before, sitting outside the house where he was staying, feeling that closeness. Needing it. I needed it now, and I tightened my own arm around his back to let him know. He drew his head away, but not his body. Looking down at me, finally really looking at me, I thought he had a question in his eyes. I didn’t know what he was asking but it almost didn’t matter. I knew my answer was yes.

We didn’t let go of each other all evening. I was in love, yes, but I wasn’t a fool. I was a virgin with no intention of ruining my life with a pregnancy. But there were other ways I could ruin my life. I had to keep reminding myself that the man I had my arms around would not be welcome anywhere in my world. Not anywhere.

We didn’t talk. Sometimes words weren’t needed, though I still craved them. I drank another beer as we danced. What was going through his head? Did he feel what I felt—the connection that had built between us the last couple of weeks, the intensifying of it last night on the Hunts’ porch? And now this physical connection. This sensuous connection. He touched me even during the fast songs now. His hand slipping around my waist, over my hip, over my belly. And I touched him back, feeling brazen, ignoring everyone else in the club. If people were watching us, I didn’t know or care. Sweat poured down my neck and slipped between my breasts. For the first time in my life, I felt more animal than woman and I relished the feeling.