Stella by Starlight (13 page)

And her warm breathing close to my head.”

Then he called out to Rudie to get along now, and Stella kept her eyes on the trees standing sentinel as they passed. She was wise enough to say nothing.

22

As they got closer to town, the trees became more spread out, the birdsong stopped, and the road got busier with wagons and even a couple of automobiles.

Stella broke the pleasant silence between them. “So, Papa,
why
are you going to register today? The pastor talked about being scared. Aren't you?”

Her father looked up at the sky—clouds were rolling in from the west. “Of course I'm a little scared. But I'm doing this for my family, for you and your brother. I gotta show that I am somebody—no one else is gonna do that for me.”

Stella reached over and placed her small hand on top of Papa's gnarled fingers. She'd never felt so proud.

He nodded his head slightly, then clicked at the mule to move along.

It was startling to Stella how busy a small city could be—the cars, the buildings, the people acting like they had important things to do. She wondered what it would be like to live in such a bustling place.

They pulled up in front of a building with a large window in front.
BOARD OF ELECTIONS
was neatly painted on the glass in white lettering. Under that Stella read,
REGISTER TO VOTE HERE
.

Pastor Patton and Mr. Spencer were already there, wagons cleaned, waiting. Mr. Spencer wore a pair of stiffly starched and ironed overalls—probably pretty uncomfortable. The preacher was dressed in a fresh white dress shirt and Sunday slacks. He even wore a tie. “I don't know that anyone else from the congregation is going to join us, men,” the pastor said in a low voice. He looked at Mr. Spencer. “Are your children taken care of, Hobart?”

“Yes, sir. My wife is what the Cherokee call Earth Mother. The children are fine. We sent all but the little ones to school today.”

“And you, Jonah? Is your family behind you on this?”

Stella's father hesitated. “Georgia supports me, but she was a mite trembly this morning. I brought Stella, though.” He squeezed her shoulders affectionately. “I don't want to just tell her about bravery—I want to show her what it looks like.”

“Then let us pray,” Pastor Patton said firmly. Stella noticed a few townspeople slowing down as they passed by; none of the faces looked pleasant. She closed her eyes. “Dear Lord,” said the pastor, “we bow down before you as we stand up for dignity. Be with us and protect us both morning, noon, and night. Amen.”

Papa tucked in his shirt and brushed a speck off his shoes. Stella was all the more aware of her bare feet, but she walked in with as much dignity as she could when the pastor opened the door to that office.

“What y'all boys want?” a burly, bearded man asked as they approached his desk. The man's shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat under the arms, and Stella could see bits of the egg he must have had for breakfast in his beard. A metal name plate sat on his desk in front of a large pile of papers, both typed and handwritten—
AMHERST PINEVILLE, REGISTRAR
.

Stella's father stiffened at the word “boys,” his face
going hard, but Pastor Patton told the man calmly, “We have come to register to vote in the presidential election to be held on November eighth.”

“Too late,” Mr. Pineville said with a shrug. “Registration done closed a month ago.”

Pointing to a sign above the man's head, the pastor said patiently, “That there poster says today is the last day of registration, and we are here to register.”

Mr. Pineville sighed. “Do
all
of y'all know how to read?”

“Yes, sir. We read that poster, didn't we?” Mr. Spencer replied, his voice tinged with anger.

“Watch it, boy,” Mr. Pineville warned. “Does Sheriff Sizemore know y'all are here in town causin' trouble?”

“We are not causing trouble, and I'm sure the sheriff has more important things to do than worry about where we are spending our day,” Stella's father replied.

Another sigh. “Can y'all write?”

“Yes, sir—all of us,” Pastor Patton said evenly.

“You gotta pay a fee,” the registrar warned.

“We are prepared to pay.” Papa's reply was as even as the pastor's.

“And you gotta pass a test—about the Constitution of the United States.”

“We teach our children about the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence in our schools,” Stella's father said. “That's how we know about our rights.”

Mr. Pineville tapped his pencil against his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Y'all ain't deservin' of no rights.”

“This is my eleven-year-old daughter, Stella,” her father said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Stella, can you recite for Mr. Pineville here what you learned in school last week?”

“You mean that section of the Declaration of Independence that Mrs. Grayson had us memorize?”

“Yes, child. Show the man.”

Recitation was a huge part of the lessons at her school. Even the little ones could rattle off long passages from the Bible, the Declaration, and the Constitution. Stella took a deep breath and spoke without hesitation.

“ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among
men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.' ”

Her father beamed. Stella tried not to show how satisfied she felt.

“So what?” Mr. Pineville smirked, seemingly unimpressed. “I've seen a trained monkey that can count to three!”

“My daughter is not an animal, sir,” her father said sharply.

“You watch your tone, boy, or I'll throw all of y'all out of here,” Mr. Pineville warned. He pulled three sheets of paper from the pile in front of him. “Answer these questions. You got fifteen minutes. And don't be gettin' any answers from your pet monkey!” He leaned back and laughed.

Stella swallowed hard. She'd never been called an animal before. She certainly wasn't going to let that man make her cry, however, so she focused on her father's
bushy eyebrows, so like her own. She bit her lip and stared at those eyebrows, and those brown eyes beneath them that looked at her with such love and assurance.
I am a stone. I am a stone,
she thought fiercely.

The heat had risen on her father's face as well, but Pastor Patton firmly guided him to a counter on the far wall before he could respond. There was nothing to write with at the counter.

Mr. Spencer dug into his pants pocket and pulled out three pencils. “I come prepared,” he said with a shrug.

Stella leaned over and read some of the questions as her father went through the test.

1. Name the attorney general of the United States.

2. What is a tribunal?

3. What is a treaty?

4. What officer is designated by the Constitution to be president of the Senate of the United States?

5. Write the preamble of the Constitution of the United States.

While the three men wrote their answers, two others, white men, sauntered into the office. “Hey,
Amherst,” the tall, skinny one said. Stella recognized him. He was one of those fellows who was always sitting on the benches outside the general store in Bumblebee, playing checkers or sleeping. He liked to yell at her and her classmates as they left the candy store, sometimes calling them names.

“Well, if it ain't Johnny Ray Johnson! What y'all up to?”

“Me and Maxwell Smitherman here come to sign up to vote.”

Stella tried not to stare. Mr. Smitherman! He was a foreman at the mill. She took in his patent-leather shoes and his gold pinkie ring. So this was the man her father's friends complained about—his unfairness and downright meanness. Why, he was the one who made Mr. Winston, who had showed up one minute late to work one day, take a load of logs out of a wagon and carry them on his back instead. It had taken him long past midnight to finish. None of the other men had been allowed to help.

“That's my job,” Mr. Pineville was saying amiably. “Just sign your name on this here form, and you're all set!”

“That's it?” asked the man called Maxwell.

“That's it. Just sign on this here line, and I'll see you on Election Day.”

Stella's father instantly shot an angry look in Mr. Pineville's direction. The pastor frowned at him, and he returned to the test reluctantly.

But the man named Johnny Ray was now staring at
them
. “What you got goin' here this morning—coon school?” he asked.

Mr. Pineville and Mr. Smitherman laughed. “Naw, they think they gonna vote next month. They takin' the test.”

“You ever have one of 'em pass it?” Mr. Johnson asked.

Mr. Pineville guffawed. “Most of the time they too stupid to write their names.”

Maxwell Smitherman strolled over and poked Mr. Spencer in the side. “Ain't you s'posed to be over at the mill sweepin' up, boy?”

Mr. Spencer raised his chin. “I took the morning without pay, sir,” he managed to say. “I aim to work overtime tonight to make up for it.”

Smitherman snarled, “Don't plan for any pay for the rest of the week, boy! You don't choose your hours—I do!”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Spencer choked out. Stella could tell
he was about to explode, but Pastor Patton placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

Smitherman must have tired of harassing them, because he abruptly turned and headed for the door. “Keep up the good work, Amherst!” he called out.

But just before he and Johnny Ray left, Stella saw Mr. Johnson lean over Mr. Pineville's desk, glance back at the small group at the counter, and say just loud enough for Stella to hear, “See you at the triple K meetin' tonight.” Then they went out the door, talking loudly about a planned fishing trip.

Sudden goose bumps covered Stella's arms. She glanced at her father. She knew they all had heard exactly what she had. But they continued to concentrate on the test, the scratching of their pencils failing to drown out the pounding of her heart.
The Ku Klux Klan. The Ku Klux Klan.

Another minute of scratching, and all three completed the examination. They gave their pencils to Mr. Spencer and handed the papers back to Mr. Pineville, who tossed them carelessly on his desk.

“That'll be two dollars. Each.”

Stella gulped.
Two dollars? Each?
Two dollars could
buy enough cornmeal and flour and sugar to keep her family going for a couple of weeks! Then a thought struck her. Those white men! Why, they hadn't been asked to pay a dime!

Mr. Spencer had a house full of children. He'd surely get less this week at his job at the mill, assuming he still
had
a job when Mr. Smitherman returned to work, she thought furiously. And Pastor Patton's salary came from the collection basket, which usually only gathered a few coins each Sunday, supplemented by the goodness of others who occasionally brought him fresh chickens or eggs or bread.

Her father and Pastor Patton gave two wrinkled dollars apiece to Mr. Pineville without blinking.

Mr. Spencer handed the man a two-dollar bill. “I want a receipt for my money,” he said quietly.

Mr. Pineville looked surprised. “Why?”

“I got thirteen children to take care of,” he told Mr. Pineville. “I aim to show them the power of a two-dollar bill.”

“You don't need to be voting! You are wasting your money, boy! Next thing I know you'll be asking for charity to feed those children.”