The Last Ballad(98)

Violet tossed the willow leaves, one by one, onto the face of the water. Hampton watched her. “What did you imagine?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” He laughed. “Banjos. Rednecks. Oak trees. Singing darkies, pickaninnies.” He smiled, looked at her, and saw that she was smiling as well. “Pretty girls.”

“You find all that?” she asked.

“I found you.”

“Shoot,” she said. “I bet you got a girl back home, don’t you?”

“You got a man down here?”

“I asked you first,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I don’t have a girl back home. I travel too much.”

Violet smiled, raised her eyebrows. “You got girls everywhere else then? Philly? Detroit? Atlanta?”

“No,” he said. “No, I never even get off the train. I never get to meet nice girls like you.”

He looked over at her just as she lifted her eyes to his. He reached for her hand again and pulled her toward him. The few willow leaves still in her hands spilled onto the water. He touched her chin, brought her lips to his, felt her mouth open.

After a moment, she pulled away and looked into his eyes. “I don’t even know you,” she said.

“I don’t know you either,” he said. He pulled her to him again, but she shook free of him. She wiped his kiss from her lips.

“You taste like you been kissing on white girls,” she said.

He frowned, stepped away from her. She was teasing him, but it still bothered him. Sophia had told him that Ella was trying to free herself of a rough character named Charlie Shope, and Hampton didn’t want any rumors circulating that would tie him and Ella to one another. He didn’t want trouble that he didn’t deserve. “I haven’t been kissing on nobody,” he said.

“You sure?” she said. “I never met a colored boy who spends so much time running around with white girls.”

“I been running around with you too,” he said. “And I thought Ella was your best friend.”

Violet stepped out of the water, reached for her shoes. “Well, I ain’t hers,” she said. She kicked the water from her feet, stepped into her shoes, and fastened them. “She’s got white friends now. Rich white friends.”

“Sophia?” he said. “Hell, Sophia ain’t rich. I can promise you that.”

“I ain’t talking about her,” Violet said. “I’m talking about some rich white lady over in McAdamville.”

Hampton followed her out of the water, stepped into his shoes, tucked his socks into his back pocket. “Come on,” he said. “You afraid somebody’s taking her away from you?”

“Yes,” Violet said. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“She’s meeting new people because she’s working for you, even if you don’t see it that way,” Hampton said.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Violet said. “I’m afraid of something happening to her.” She walked up the path away from the spring.

“She’s working to open the union to you, Violet. What was it Jesus said? ‘I’ve gone ahead to prepare a place for you’? That’s what Ella’s doing. That’s what I’m doing too.”

Violet stopped and turned to face him. “Jesus said that after he was crucified,” she said. “That don’t make me feel no better.”

“You don’t have to feel anything but hope,” he said.



But the hope of which Hampton spoke turned to frustration as he and Violet and a handful of other black workers loaded up into the back of Sophia’s truck for the trip to Gastonia and that night’s rally.

Once the tailgate was slammed shut there was just enough room to accommodate them all if they stood, and when the truck lurched forward a few of the older workers nearly lost their footing. Hampton surveyed the group of a dozen or so men and women: he and Violet were by far the youngest. Most of them worked at American Mill as spinners or openers or in some other low-skill, low-pay positions. A few of them came from other mills in the surrounding countryside. Hampton felt that none of them—himself included—quite knew what they were doing in the back of this truck helmed by two white women en route to an all-white rally. It hurt him to think of it, but he couldn’t help but picture the hundreds, maybe thousands, of train cars full of cattle he’d seen during his years with the railroad. He pictured those cows standing just as close to one another as he stood to these strangers now, the only difference between him and the cows being that the cows were always dumb about the end that awaited them, while he was all too aware of the potential fate that lie ahead.

He was the only union man among them, certainly the only member of the Communist Party, and he knew it was his duty to inspire them. He suggested they sing together, and while he tried to lead them in a couple of well-known protest songs, they stumbled over the words. The only songs they all seemed to have in common were hymns, so that’s what they sung: “Amazing Grace,” “Let Us Break Bread Together,” “Onward, Christian Soldier.”

As they barreled down the highway in the gathering dusk, Hampton pictured the sight they must be. He imagined a farmer walking along the edge of his field and looking up at the sound of a truck passing, the music of their voices lifted in song.