Four Spirits (56 page)

Aunt Pratt put her finger across her bright red lips. “Shhhh. You didn't kill anybody. Don't say that.”

Then Lee knew she was looking into the face of goodness. She was a cracked-up old china doll, but Aunt Pratt was the goddess of goodness. Bobby was alive! Here was her second chance. Lee tried hard to calm herself. Realizing that she still had the tall glass in her hand, she gulped down the raw egg. The unbroken yolk was just a soft little ball traveling down to her stomach. Aunt Pratt was looking at her through her rose-tinted bifocals. “I believe I do remember you,” she said.

“Are you my real aunt?”

“You can call me that if you want to. Just like Nancy. I've always been Aunt Pratt to Nancy, but I hardly get to see her since she moved over the mountain. Did you play with Stella when you were little?”

Lee just shook her head. The newscaster was saying
A neighbor saw Mrs. Jones hurrying down the street to collect a prize, but Mrs. Jones's mother fears that her daughter, Lee Jones, might still be in the house
—Lee began to sob again. Oh, how she hated to worry her mother like that.

“Well, turn it off,” Aunt Pratt said. “It's all too upsetting. You need to call a cab and go home.”

“I don't have the money,” Lee said. She stood up to go.

“Wait, darling.” Aunt Pratt reached past the starched handkerchief gathered up into a bow. It looked like a big butterfly sitting all across her chest. The thin handkerchief was printed with red roses.

“I always keep a little mad money tucked in my brassiere,” Aunt Pratt said. And out came a five-dollar bill, caught between the two red pinchers of fingertips. “Go back to the telephone and call the Yellow Cab. It's in that little hall, off the kitchen. The number is stuck to the telephone stand with Scotch tape. You'll see it.”

On her way to the kitchen this time, Lee was elated. She noticed the nice dining room furniture. The china cabinet had glass doors, and she could look
right in at the stacks of dinner plates, fruit bowls, soup bowls, cups and saucers, all dainty and matching, decorated with a pale green border and a cluster of pink and blue flowers, and the clear, cut-glass goblets. But the kitchen furniture was old and beat up. The metal-top cook table was a lot like hers, covered with little scratches. People had tables like that all over Birmingham.

It was a pleasure to dial a taxi. Once more Ryder's sleeping face appeared like a picture in a frame in her mind. The picture even had glass over it. And then, strangely satisfying, Bobby framed in the TV screen, screaming for her, just for her. When she glanced around with the telephone receiver clamped to her ear, the whole world seemed to have glass between her and it. As though to touch the hard, clear barrier, she lifted her fingers. Lee said the house number right off to the dispatcher, as though she lived here. Good thing she knew 3621 by heart because the old auntie hadn't thought to tell it to her.

Lee wished she could come live here. She walked back toward Aunt Pratt, but she paused before the china cabinet. She saw her own reflection like a ghost hovering over the pretty plates. She admired the reflection of the deep lace on her shawl. Pratt had mentioned a Stella—probably a stuck-up snob—but surely somebody else lived here, too. Wasn't any man, Lee could tell that. This place seemed like old ladies, all hushed and dull.

She'd just have to rent a new place. But how would she pay for it with Ryder dead? Yes, he was really dead. Surely the TV was right about that. Lee glanced at the blank TV in the living room.

Waiting for Lee's return, Old Aunt Pratt was just sitting in the living room, with her brace leg sticking out, staring at the blank TV screen. When Aunt Pratt didn't know Lee was watching, her face was daydream still and vacant. Lee imagined Pratt did a lot of staring in space and waiting for people. For a moment, Lee felt depressed and sorry for Pratt—next to helpless, all fussed up in red. But Lee was excited. It was a strange and wonderful thing to see the house you lived in go up in flames in black and white on the TV. She imagined it again; the TV even had had the lapping sound and roar of the fire. She wondered if LeRoy had arrived yet.

LeRoy! Yes, he
ought
to take care of her and the children. That was the least he could do for his dead brother. She loved her mama, and that would be all right for a while for Lee and the children to live with her. Mama would bake her cherry pie for whenever LeRoy came over, and her apple one, too. He would come to call in his blue police uniform.

Lee wondered if LeRoy ever would get rough with her. She knew all men got a little rough from time to time. She'd just have to take it, if he did. That would be her job. As long as he didn't go too far. Suddenly there was a thrill in her body.

The image of Bobby and his voice crying out for her wrung her heart. But she knew she was safe, and she'd be home soon. Thanks to Aunt Pratt. Yes, she could have a nice home like this someday, with a china cabinet and chairs with silk burgundy seats. A policeman like LeRoy made lots more than a filling station attendant.

“You sure been good to me,” Lee said to Aunt Pratt.

Lee took off her shawl, shook it out, and refolded it into a square with the layers of lace on top. It was like a square, shallow cake frosted with handmade lace. She placed it in Aunt Pratt's lap.

“Sweetheart,” Pratt quavered, “you don't have to give me anything.”

AS SOON AS CHRISTINE RECOGNIZED HIM—HIS FORM
reflected in the store window—Lionel Parrish saw a shy, proud smile spread over her face. But Christine looked concerned, too. Lionel loved that expression. It felt good to have a smart woman wrinkle up her face in all kinds of different ways because she cared more about you than herself. And it was all captured in the murky reflective glass—two ghosts, him moving toward her, then the way she turned toward him. The two of them almost making a wavering movie.

Pleased as punch, perhaps a little embarrassed about how she'd loved on him last night, she said, “What you doing down here?” She glanced around at the tall buildings.

“I came for the sit-in, naturally.” He could hardly suppress the little swagger that ran across his shoulders.

Her face all frowned up, she said, “You ain't supposed to be studying no sitin. How you know about this?”

“Stella called me. At school. Cat told Stella, Stella told me.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Gloria's going to bring Cat down here for this. Did you know that?”

“I'm gonna get that Gloria.” Did Christine disapprove or was she pleased? Lionel couldn't tell. With his mother, too, it had been hard to tell the difference. Christine queried, “Stella coming?”

“Just Cat. Stella said she was going to work at the switchboard.”

“And what she mean calling you
at school
? How can she be so dumb? Agnes been saying it. That phone bugged. It bugged. Police know everything now.”

Lionel refused to give up his relaxed state. It was just too becoming. “That's what I figured, too.”

“You know Bull know and still you come?”

Lionel could tell she was touched. She'd let go of her peeve. “My best students and teachers are here.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “My best woman is here.” He drew back to watch her smile. “Might as well make myself useful,” he said.

She reached out her hand for a quick squeeze. That was all right to do, Lionel thought. While the traffic moved past on Twentieth Street, they could have their little sidewalk drama. Christine had serious issues, social issues on her mind, and he respected that. Matilda just lived her own life, gloriously, happily, but Matilda wouldn't be putting her body on the line. And Jenny was a homebody; she was made to be a housewife. But this woman, with all her angles and abruptness, she was a mover and shaker. In more ways than one. Like she was starved.

“If you'd consulted me,” Lionel said fondly, “I would have said there's only two things that move this community to change.”

He watched Christine's face go soft again, pleased to be talking with him, confident suddenly that they were intimates. “What's that?” she asked.

“Prayer and money. Like May a year ago. It wasn't the marching, it was the boycotting brought Birmingham to its knees. Over in Mississippi, folks go and pray on the white folks' church steps Sunday mornings. We ought to do that. It shames them.”

“You may be right.” She shrugged. “But I got
this
going. What'd you say to Stella?”

“Oh, I tried to throw them off. I said Christine's way too smart to sit in at the
Tutwiler
Hotel Drugstore. She called it all off.”

Christine looked troubled. “Agnes told me they do got dogs over at the Tutwiler.”

“Was I right?”

“ 'Bout what?”

“You way too smart to go ahead with any sit-in today.”

He saw her eyes narrow, knew that he had underestimated her.

“You don't have to be in this,” she said. She spoke in a new key, one that was full of softness and hard as iron. “I didn't ask you to come down here and try to tell me what to think and do. You my love now, but I thought you
believed in Martin Luther King. I thought you knew what nonviolent protest was all about.” Then she licked her lips and added the barb, “Ain't you ever heard of Mahatma Gandhi or Martin Luther King Jr.?”

“Oh, is that who you are?” He returned the sting. “I hadn't noticed. You're not Martin Luther King, you're not him, Christine.”

“Move aside. Out of my way, Mr.
H-O-P-E
. These ain't your buildings. You made me leave the classroom, and I was ashamed afterward. You stand in the White Palace door like George Wallace if you want to, but I'm walking right over you. Like we did him. I'm gonna order a big juicy hamburger.”

Suddenly Lionel laughed. It was the only thing to do; his saving grace was humor. “Well, if you not Martin Luther King, I sure 'nuff ain't George Wallace.”

JUST GETTING INSIDE THE WHITE PALACE, CAT THOUGHT,
would be a partial victory. “Hold the door open, please, Charles, so Gloria and I can get in,” Cat said.

She wanted to be first. This time she wouldn't hang back. She'd lead the way. She and Gloria would get settled before the others came in.

Cat wondered if Gloria knew anything about maneuvering a wheelchair. Well, Gloria had gotten her down the steps at school, once Cat told her to revolve the chair.

“We be in there with you soon,” Christine reassured. “You all get settled. Folks still gathering. We be there in five minutes.”

Cat was in no rush. No rush at all. Stella's words still burned in her ear.
I won't do this, Cat. I'm going to work. Remember, Cat, I'm the survivor. I know what not to do. I'm begging you. Please don't go
. And Cat had simply replied that she'd call Gloria to come get her. She understood. She'd stalled, too, after the threat—the bullhorn voice in the dark.

So that her knuckles wouldn't scrape the sides of the doors, Cat drew her hands in and put them in her lap. There ought to be laws about the width of doors into public places, Cat thought, to make them more easily accessible to people propelling their own wheelchairs. It always made her feel helpless to fold her hands passively over each other, to look down and see them nested in her lap.

Gloria had trouble pushing the chair over the threshold, though it wasn't really any obstacle. The front wheels just tried to turn aside instead of
bumping over. Gloria lacked confidence about managing the chair. Two bored countergirls watched them enter. At the end of the counter, a big man sat with a newspaper opened up wide. Usually men jumped up to help her with the slightest problem, but this man was absorbed in his reading. A gray satchel full of papers slumped on the floor beside the post for his counter stool.

Cat noticed the white hexagonals of the floor tile looked grimy. Judging the height of the counter stools, Cat knew she was going to have trouble getting up there. Even if she stood, the stool would be higher than her hip.

She could just see the headline: “Wheelchair Sit-In Sits in Wheelchair.” But that was too long for anybody's headline. To Gloria, Cat remarked, “It's obvious this place wasn't set up for people in wheelchairs.”

“Looks like they'd have a table or two, doesn't it?” Gloria replied. She sounded relaxed and friendly, almost like Arcola. Cat half listened for the crack of gum, but that really was Arcola's trademark.

The pretty countergirl blurted out, “Hey, don't I know you from somewheres?”

Cat said she didn't know. “I don't think so.”

The girl was unfamiliar, with brown hair done in a flip, like Stella's. She wore a little white cap that was crenellated across the top to suggest a castle wall. The other countergirl was tall and looked strong; she looked like a country girl come into the city to work. Cat spoke to her. “You're not from around Gadsden, are you?”

“Sylacauga,” the girl answered. She smiled, and a little gap showed between her front teeth. Cat had one just like it. She smiled back, showing her front teeth.

The other girl, the one with the flip hairstyle, said, “I know you. I know you from school.”

“Which school?” Cat asked. The girl seemed pushy. Cat really didn't want to get in a conversation with her.

“P-H-S. Phillips High School. Only you was on crutches then.”

“I guess I stood out.”

“We all thought you was the smartest thing alive,” Miss Flip said.

Cat rolled up beside the high end-stool and set her brakes. “Gloria, would you come around to the front? Take my hands and pull?” Gloria tried, but she wasn't firm enough, and Cat sank back into her chair. Humiliated, she glanced at them. The countergirls were staring. The man with the newspaper had lowered it a little so that just his eyes were peeking over the top.

“I can help you,” the bigger countergirl said. Her face was round and pleasant as a pie. “I used to help my old granny what was in a chair.”

Before Cat could decide how to respond, the big girl had her hands up under Cat's armpits and lifted her up on the stool. “Steady now,” the strong girl said. Then she pinched Cat's cheek. “Just want to be like everybody else sometimes, don't you, hon.”

Awave of fury swept over Cat, but it was followed by a bigger wave of gratitude. She put her hands flat on the counter to help her with her balance.

“Gloria, you can fold up the chair and put it against the wall,” she said. “Stand up the cushion, grab the seat sling, and pull up.”

With her hands on her hips, the big girl watched Gloria struggle, then she said, “I know how.” She brushed Gloria aside, released the slide on the cross braces, grabbed the seat in the middle, and jerked up. The big wheels moved closer together. She stood the cushion up on one end, between the wheels. “ 'Bout time for a change on that cushion cover,” the girl said. While Cat felt her cheeks blush with shame, the girl dusted her hands together.

Her old classmate Miss Flip said, “I still remember your name—Kittycat Cartwright.”

“It's just Cat, now. This is Gloria Callahan.”

Because they assumed she was Cat's maid, neither of the girls acknowledged Gloria, nor did they offer their own names. Cat didn't think it was intentional rudeness. They each just assumed that Gloria knew enough: they were the white countergirls.

“Did you go to college?” Miss Flip asked.

“Yes. I work at Miles College now.”

“That's the colored college.” She looked puzzled.

“Yes, it is,” Cat said, and she was pleased with herself. Just that simple, it was just that simple to let people know where you stood. But she could tell her heart was speeding up. She felt a little dizzy. Suppose she fell off the high stool? If she did, she hoped ruefully that it was just a leg that she broke.

Her classmate was shaking her head. “I wouldn't like that,” she said. “Couldn't you get a job at a regular school?”

“No.”

Cat wondered if Gloria had known that she was a reject, not simply an activist. She glanced at Gloria, but she was looking down, effacing herself in the familiar way of Negroes who felt out of place.
How many minutes? How many
minutes had passed since they came in?
Both Cat and Gloria glanced out the window. Standing with her back to them, Christine was speaking to a small group. Cat felt disappointed that the group was so small. Turning her body had unbalanced her, and she grasped the metal rim of her stool.

“Could we have two Palace-patties?” she asked.

“Two to go,” the girls sang out in unison.

“No, we'll have 'em here.” Cat looked at Gloria. Cat hated to ask her to do it, but she said gently, “Don't you want to sit down, Gloria?”

Quick as a wink, Gloria was on the stool. She flashed her green eyes just once at Cat. Gloria was pleased that Cat had helped her to do it; her eyes said
thank you
.

“I can't serve her,” Miss Flip said. “You smart enough to know that, Kittycat.”

The country girl said, “We can make it, and she can take it outside to eat.”

Cat said sternly, “White Palace Grill sells to black folks but won't seat them.”

They both just stared at her.

“Suppose she sat in my chair and ate a burger-to-go.”

“No,” her classmate said. “They can't eat in here.”

The big girl had hastily put two patties on a waxed sheet and was about to wrap them. Cat could tell the country girl was scared. This was the sort of thing people had warned her might happen if she were foolish enough to go to the city to work.

“Do you like onion?” Cat quickly asked Gloria.

“Yes, please,” Gloria said, and she looked up.

Nervously, the country girl strewed diced onions over the meat and mashed the bread lids down. Her hands flew noisily over the waxed paper, folding it shut. She crammed the oval burgers into a white to-go bag and placed them on the counter in front of Cat.

“She can stand up in here,” the pretty classmate said, “but she can't sit down anywhere.” She was trying to be nice, matter-of-fact.

“Of course the wheelchair is my property,” Cat said. “It doesn't belong to White Palace.” She wished Christine would come in now.

The big girl babbled, “That chair is on White Palace floor.”

Gloria mumbled, “My feet are tired. I want to sit down.”

“What does she mean?” the country girl asked, almost hysterical. Her pleasant pie face was a mask of anxiety, and Cat felt guilty.

The newspaper reader had lowered his paper all the way to his chin. He was staring at her with avid interest. She felt like saying,
What's the matter, buster? Haven't you ever seen a handicapped person stand up for herself?

Through the plate glass, Cat saw that Christine was moving toward the door. And there was Mr. Parrish. Now her heart began to race with joy.

“She means,” Cat said as evenly as she could, “we're going on with our sit-in.”