Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (9 page)

Chapter 15

In the middle of July, at the peak of our summer season, here’s what should have happened:

At six o’clock, Daddy, having placed the big “Closed For The Day” signs out front, should’ve joined the rest of us at the already bustling party in the back.

Our friends Sal and Sophia Tomasini, having closed their own store an hour earlier, should’ve been holding court over the stove’s steaming, boiling, baking pots, bubbling Italian, brimming laughter. Armetta should’ve been basking in our communal admiration for her heavenly cloud cake—three light-as-air layers floating in creamy coconut—the very one Marvin calls her “Ain’t-None-Betta Cake.” Luther and Marvin should’ve been corralling the boys to take their turns cranking the homemade strawberry ice cream. My parents should’ve looked and felt young again when, after our dinner, we laughed until we cried at the stories of that other summer thirteen years ago:

They remember the swim in the lake followed by polio’s headaches, high fever and paralysis. But it’s Armetta who tells the one about Doto best. “Miz Doto was a wildcat. You shoulda seen ol’ Doc Johnny go bug-eyed when she tol’ him, ‘What kinda doctor
are
you? I want those splints off Warren’s arm and leg this
minute
! Moist heat and massage is what he needs, you old
fool
!’ She was right, too!”

Old Sal should’ve told the one about the big day itself: the men tending Daddy’s muscle spasms in one room; the women helping Mother with her contractions in the next while, downstairs, Doto railed at the doctor on the phone, “They’re coming
too close
! We’ll never make it to Orange Hospital in Orlando,
get
in your damn car and get over here
now
!” It was serene Sophia who held Mother while Armetta “caught” me on my birth day. Doto was downstairs at the door, hauling in poor Doc Johnny, who luckily arrived in time for cleanup. “It’s a wonder he’s even speaking to us,” Mother should’ve said.

After dinner and the stories, Marvin should’ve turned on the radio and coaxed us all out to dance, something lively and fun like Teresa Brewer and the Dixieland All-Stars “Choo’n Gum.” This very minute, we should’ve been howling at Marvin trying to teach a shuffling Sal the latest fancy dance step.

Truth is, all of this
should’ve
happened and
would’ve
happened—as it always had on this particular day—if only Marvin hadn’t been murdered, and the Klan stayed out of everybody’s business in Miami.

Instead of loud music, the radio plays low, everyone half listening for the latest news update. Instead of funny stories, my parents, Sal and Sophia, and Luther and Armetta sit softly discussing the latest fearful developments. Last month’s massive bombing of Carver Village was only the beginning. On the Fourth of July, dynamite bundles were hurled at the steps of the Miami Jewish Center and, just today, a blast blew up the doors of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church.

“First da Negroes, den da Jews, now Catholics.” Sal’s eyes behind thick glasses sink into the shadows of his bushy gray brows. Next to him, Sophia, his wife, bows her silver-streaked head.

“It’s the Klan’s holy trinity of hate. Nobody else is so obviously ecumenical,” Daddy says.

I wonder if it occurs to him how nearly our little group resembles that triangle. Luther and Armetta are Negroes; the Tomasinis, Catholic transplants from New York; and we’ve been called Jews by the very man who murdered Marvin!

Except for Daddy who’s angry, we’re an anxious, apprehensive group. As Ren and Mitchell quit us to search outside for fireflies, it’s Luther who lays out the night’s most troublesome question.

“How long ’fore the Opalakee Klan stirs things up ’round here again?” he asks quietly.

“Hard to say, isn’t it?” Daddy says. “Since nobody’s doing anything to stop the Miami crowd, this business could easily get out of hand. It’s not surprising their police are looking the other way—they’re probably half Klanners themselves. We know Thurgood and Harry are doing all they can. But you’d
think
the big hotel owners would be screaming their heads off. It won’t be long, it
can’t
be long before the wealthy tourists start making other plans. Once the cancellations start rolling in, the Miami bigwigs will be howling for the governor,
some
body, to do
some
thing. Nothing like an endangered pocketbook to help a businessman find his conscience.”

“In the meantime . . . ?” Mother’s eyes are dark with worry.

“In the meantime, what are
we
supposed to do?” Daddy wonders, his stare challenging the table, his jaw hardened in frustration. “What choice do we have but to sit tight and keep our heads down?” he asks in a tone that tells me that’s the
last
thing he wants to do.

I was Mitchell’s age when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I have no memory of President Roosevelt saying the day will live in infamy, but I know he said it. I was Ren’s age when we dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima. These were Acts of War. Everybody knew it. What with Europe, Japan and Korea, my country’s been at war with somebody, somewhere, practically my entire life. But it was today, July 14, 1951, that the Klan bombed St. Stephen’s Catholic Church and declared war on the people of this state. It was a lousy gift in the worst year I’ve ever known. It ruined my thirteenth birthday, which, by all rights,
should’ve
been a happy day.

The one and only bit of good news this month comes from Ren: the Brooklyn Dodgers, who captured first place in their league in April, and held on to it throughout May and June, win ten games in a row in July. At midseason’s All-Star break, they’re still way ahead of everybody else—which, Ren says, “is a sure sign they’ll win the pennant and make it into the Series!” Ren, old Sal, and the fans from The Quarters go crazy when a record seven Brooklyn Dodgers make it onto the National League’s All-Star team, including Negroes Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella and Don Newcombe. These days, what Marvin called “baseball’s Heaven on Earth” offers the only hopeful respite from our real lives in central Florida.

Chapter 16

The high, humid heat of August presses on us with an unkind hand. This is, officially, the hottest Florida summer on record. Everything, from traffic on the Trail to Buddy’s tail-wagging, has slowed to a crawl.

In Miami, denied protection by local police (“We will not make night watchmen out of our officers,” the chief says), Jewish war veterans patrol their communities to protect their families from further bombings. In the Negro neighborhood surrounding Carver Village, leaders request but are denied the same privilege.

The F.B.I., citing “no apparent violation of any federally guaranteed civil rights,” remains elsewhere. The bombings continue.

This week’s explosion is at the Coral Gables Jewish Center, seven miles south-west of Miami. As usual, the police report no suspects. No official actions are taken.

Inside the showroom, the air hangs as limp and damp as a washrag. Daddy brings out the three big pedestal fans, normally in the back, and places them in opposite corners to create a cooling air flow. The fans are noisy. Ren and Mitchell, playing darts in the office, yell to us, “Hey, sounds like there was a wedding in Wellwood!”

The familiar sounds of a squealing lead car followed by a flock of honking well-wishers pull Mother, Daddy and me outside and onto the walkway, peering north.

What we
expect
to see is a pair of newlyweds, their car decorated with ribbons, cans, signs and all, followed by loudly celebrating family and friends.

What appears
instead
stuns us.

In the lead, a sleek black Chrysler New Yorker, speeding wildly, weaves in and out of the slow-moving traffic. No decorations, no signs, four Negro occupants, two in front, two in back,
obviously
in flight. The Hertz logo on the car’s front plate tells me it’s a rental, probably from the airport. The lockjawed concentration of the driver and the flat-out frantic movements of the others inside makes it clear—
this
is no party game. The four people flying past us in the Chrysler are terrified. When you see what’s behind them, you can’t blame them.

The first of the three chase vehicles roaring down the Trail is a big black Ford pickup, oversize bumpers polished to blinding brightness. Two men inside wear the ghostly white of the Ku Klux Klan. Out one window, the rider brandishes a double-barreled shotgun. Out the other, the driver waves a high-powered rifle, using his inside forearm to press against the truck horn. Both men are hooded, but there’s no mistaking those bumpers and Confederate flag plate. Passing in front of us, pursuing the Chrysler, is J. D. Bowman, the man of my nightmares.

Behind him, about a hundred yards, a red Dodge truck tears toward us. Three riders lean forward in the front. Two more stand in the back, clutching the cab and waving weapons. The sleeves of their robes flap in the wind, the crests of their hoods blow back, flat against their heads. One lets out an eerie, high-pitched cry, the unnerving howl of the Rebel Yell.

In the last truck, a shiny blue Chevy, the white robes of three men glow against its dark interior. These figures brandish no weapons, honk no horns, make no battle cries. These men sit calmly, the driver coolly maneuvering in and around the traffic, the riders patient like observers or judges or law enforcement officials. A large Confederate flag draped and taped to the driver’s side covers the logo we all know is there: the golden script of Emmett Casselton’s Casbah Groves.

As this terrible parade flies past us, Mother and Daddy look at each other in disbelief. The fearful faces of those in the front car, the hateful menace of their white-robed pursuers leaves me numb. I
know
the Klan is a group of white men capable of doing horrible things; what they did to Marvin is etched in my mind till I die. But to tell you the truth, I’d somehow imagined that adults dressed in sheets might look like a grown-up Halloween party. The sight of them in full pursuit, in broad daylight, sickens me.

Mother pulls me close. Daddy, behind us, grips us both. Mercifully, the boys have remained inside, choosing dart play over the supposed “wedding party.” My parents and I stand stiffly together, listening to the horns race out of town. Then two carloads of customers pull into our driveway. We follow them, dazed, into the showroom.

“You see that Big Chase?”

“What was it all about?”

“Was that the Ku Klux Klan?”

“Where were the cops?”

“Who was in the Chrysler?” the tourists want to know, peppering us with the very questions we have for each other. For the next few hours, we collect details like puzzle pieces.

“That car flew past us, doing at least ninety outside Wellwood, nearly scared my wife and kids to death!”

“I don’t know where it started. We stopped to get gas in Tangerine and that Chrysler nearly crashed into us when we were pulling out of the station. We stopped, tried to pull out again, and here come the trucks. My wife made me wait fifteen minutes, just to be sure it was safe to get back on the road.”

“That black pickup ran the car ahead of us off the road outside Lockhart!”

On Sunday, at church, the congregation is buzzing.

“Did you see—?”

“Where were you when those trucks went through?”

“I recognized that big black truck, didn’t you? Blue one, too.”

“Any idee who was in the car?”

“Had to be folks from up north. Rented from the airport. Wonder what they did?”

After Sunday’s midday dinner, we drive to Opalakee for ice cream. Mother and Daddy buy an Orlando paper and search it for clues. We listen to the car radio. We ask a few Opalakee people (not many out in this heat) what they know.

“Oh, it went right past
here
, smack-dab through the middle of town! Chief of Police was parked over there, front of the bank building. Leaned against his car and watched it with the rest of us. Didn’t do a thing.”

Of course not, but who were they? Are they okay?

It’s not until Luther stops by, after that night’s supper, that the pieces tumble into place. He comes in carrying a bulging brown paper sack.

“Evenin’, y’all!” he beams. “Mah cousin Sylbie was visitin’ from Valdosta this weekend, brought us a case of sweet Georgia peaches. They won’t last the week in this heat, thought y’all might take some off our hands.”

“Luther, there’s nothing in the world better than a ripe Georgia peach,” Mother says, brightening. “Thank you! You kids want one?”

Ren, Mitchell and I sit at the table smacking through our peaches, catching the sweet juice running down our chins with pink paper napkins, when Daddy asks Luther, “You hear anything about the Big Chase?”

“Well, actually, Ah did.” Luther leans back in his chair, his gold dog tooth glinting in a grin.

Daddy leans forward, hanging on his every word.

“Y’see, Mistuh Thurgood Marshall was s’posed to be in Tavares yesterday, filin’ for the hearin’ on the big
re
-trial. The Opalakee Klan got wind of it, thought they might kidnap Mistuh Marshall, or at least give ’im a scare on his way to the
a
’port. They was waitin’ for him to cross the county line. Chased his car all the way down the Trail to O’landah. Lost ’im in the a’port traffic.”

“Luther, how in the
world
do you know this?”

“Mist’Warren, half mah choir works in the homes of the Klanners ’round here,
have
since most of these young bucks were chil’ren. Those folks so use to havin’ they colored women in the kitchen or workin’ ’round the house, they forgit to watch what they say.”

“You mean to tell me, you heard all this from your
sopranos
?” Daddy’s flabbergasted.

“Well,
some
of ’em are altos,” Luther says, “but, yes, Ah did.”

“Why, Luther, you’re head of a spy ring,” Daddy says, impressed.

“Ah s’pose Ah am,” Luther nods.

“You know . . .” The corner of Daddy’s mouth twitches.

“You could call it the Choir Intelligence Agency, your own private C.I.A.”

“Oh, that’s good, that’s real good!” Luther’s booming laugh bounces off the kitchen walls. Then he turns serious. “Ah’ll tell you somethin’ else . . .”

“What?” I ask.

“What those Klanners don’t know is that Mistuh Thurgood Marshall wudn’t even in that car.”

“What do you mean?” Mother asks. “Mistuh Marshall had to cancel and send his assistants. The people in that car were his staff, plus a couple Yankee reporters hitchin’ a ride to the O’landah airport!”

“You’re kiddin’ me!” “Really?” “Can you believe it!” we exclaim as the implications of this news race around the table.

“But wait a minute . . .” Daddy’s tone cuts off our delight. “Luther, if the Klan lost the car in the airport traffic, how do
you
know who was in that car?”

“You a quick one, Mist’Warren.” Luther narrows his eyes at Daddy, dropping his voice. “Ah got
that
information from Mistuh Harry T. Moore, who sends y’all his regards, by the way. Mistuh Moore says those redneck Klanners have no idee how much they helped the cause of the Florida Negro yesterday.”

In the wake of Luther’s revelations, I’m relieved that the people in the black car got safely away. Maybe the involvement of two Northern reporters will call attention to a bad situation that’s clearly grown worse. “Evil is contagious,” Doto told me once. Like some Biblical plague, the Klan’s particular kind of evil has taken over Miami and headed north, back up the Trail, parading past our very doorstep.

That night, as my parents enter their bedroom across the hall from mine, I hear Mother echo my worry.

“I thought Marvin’s murder was a mistake, the show-off act of a madman,” she tells Daddy, “but
this
was
organized,
Warren! If the Klan’s grown brazen enough to attempt a kidnapping in broad daylight, what’s next?”

I can’t hear, I can only imagine my father’s stone-faced reply.

What will the local Klan do next?
I wonder, curled tight in my sheets. There aren’t any Negro housing projects or Jewish synagogues around Mayflower. They wouldn’t dare dynamite The Quarters or Opalakee’s Colored Town, would they? But if they tried, who’d stop them? Not the local law, of course. We learned that last March. Then who? And I find myself praying for the first time in months.
Oh, God, if You’re up
there, could You arrange a little help down here?