My Mother the Cheerleader Page 8

  He stared at Morgan and smiled. “I’m watching you.”

  Royce stepped aside. Morgan wrenched the car into gear and pulled away. He never saw me or my mother, but both of us had our eyes locked on him as the Bel Air drove away down North Galvez. The retreating car was followed by hoots, whistles, and catcalls.

  “Stay da hell away!”

  “Go back to New York!”

  “Nigger lover!”

  “Watch your back, boy!”

  The noise of the crowd swelled again, and everyone seemed to tighten back into position around the school. Down the sidewalk Herman Letterman was walking toward the entrance, clutching his ten-year-old daughter, Sophia, around the shoulders. Unlike Ruby Bridges, Sophia Letterman looked scared out of her wits. Her eyes darted around at the crowd, and she clutched the edge of her father’s jacket like it was her only life-line. Mr. Letterman wore a tight frown of determination and kept his eyes on the school entrance. Some of the onlookers threw tomatoes, while others bombarded them with words.

  “Race traitors!”

  “Nigger lovers!”

  “Take your foreign whore of a wife and go back to her country!”

  A tomato struck Herman Letterman in the back of the neck, and the crowd roared with laughter. Mr. Letterman didn’t react. He hurried his daughter up the stairs. Ada Munson led another furious chorus.

  Two, four, six, eight,

  We don’t want to integrate!

  My mother wasn’t paying attention to the school anymore. She stared off into the distance, where Morgan’s car had disappeared. I ran to get my bike, hoping I’d be able to catch up with him.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mr. John Steinbeck’s visit to William Frantz Elementary School left him stunned and disgusted by what he witnessed. He questioned the very humanity of the Cheerleaders and expressed complete dismay at the complicity of the community at large. How could so many people watch an innocent child be bombarded with such violent hatred? Who was worse, the protestors attacking the child or the scores of silent witnesses who allowed it to happen?

  Segregation was something everyone in our neighborhood just took for granted. If you had asked your average Ninth Warder at the time if there should be segregated schools, it would’ve been like asking “Should the sky be blue?” In the Middle Ages everyone just assumed the world was flat—they didn’t have any good reason to think otherwise. Then Copernicus came along with this new way of looking at things. I’d bet that Copernicus’s neighbors probably thought he was a complete nut job. But it’s not as if he was going to try to push people over the edge of the world to prove he was right. It was just a theoretical idea that didn’t put any direct responsibility or pressure on ordinary people. Integration was also a theoretical idea, but it was a theoretical idea that people in the Ninth Ward were being asked to put into action. For my mother, the idea of sending a child into an integrated school was just as crazy as taking a walk off the edge of the flat Earth.

  I’d love to be able to say that deep in my thirteen-year-old heart I believed in integration and hated my mother for what she was doing. But the fact of the matter is I never really gave it a thought, except to resent the fact that my mother never took any interest in my education until the news reporters and photographers started showing up outside the front entrance of the school. Sure I felt bad for Ruby Bridges. I really did. But it never occurred to me that my mother and the others were wrong. I just felt sorry that Ruby was being manipulated by her parents, the N.A.A.C.P., and the Communists into doing something that so many people thought was bad.

  But as I pedaled my bike away from the school that day, germs of doubt and questions crept into my mind. An image of Morgan staring at Ruby and the Cheerleaders in tight-lipped outrage lingered in my head. I tried to decipher his expression at that moment. His face seemed to communicate hurt, disbelief, confusion, and defiance, all at the same time. Why did he just stand there and watch? Why did he go nose-to-nose with Royce and Clem? Was he really a Communist spy? Was he a Jew? I’d never known a Communist or a Jew. Why did Communists and Jews want to manipulate the Negroes in the first place?

  I pedaled by Rooms on Desire and did not see Morgan’s car parked anywhere nearby. It was just before nine o’clock. Charlotte would arrive at nine thirty and start on the laundry. My only official duties at that hour were to be available for new arrivals and stay on call for Mr. Landroux. I knew Charlotte could cover me at least until noon, when she’d need help with lunch.

  I didn’t want to go back to the house. I needed time to think. So I steered past Rooms on Desire and pedaled my bike to the canal, letting all the random bits of information I had about Morgan stew in my head. Even though it was still early in the morning, a heavy humidity hung over the city. I could smell the earthy odor of the mud and waste rising from the canal, comfortingly familiar. I followed several pieces of garbage floating on top of the oily water, a ragged piece of The Times-Picayune, a blue five-gallon jug, a single white baby shoe. The shoe looked surprisingly new, and I wondered how it got there and hoped there wasn’t a baby floating around somewhere in the water too. Jez claimed she saw a human hand sailing down the canal once, and I didn’t doubt her. They had pulled more than a few bodies out of that water over the years.

  I tried to unravel the mystery of Morgan in my head, but I kept coming up with more questions and no answers. So I headed toward the only other place that I suspected I might find him.

  CHAPTER 17

  I must confess that I felt a small rush of pride when I discovered Morgan’s Bel Air parked across the street from Friendly Market on St. Claude. I really would make a good spy, I thought. Just as before, Morgan sat behind the wheel of his car smoking a cigarette and staring through the window of the store. I parked my bike and found a good observation post behind a milk truck.

  I didn’t see Morgan’s brother, Michael, inside the store. A teenage boy with curly red hair stood behind the cash register reading a Green Lantern comic book. Again I made detailed notations in my Spy Log.

  9:10 A.M.—Red-haired kid finishes Green Lantern comic and begins reading a Justice League of America comic.

  9:22 A.M.—MM lights last cigarette and crumples pack.

  9:27 A.M.—Short man buys shoe polish.

  9:40 A.M.—Lady with red hair enters carrying a bag filled with rolled coins. She kisses the red-haired kid and gives him the coins, which he stores in the cash register. Lady exits.

  9:42 A.M.—Red-haired lady appears in window of apartment on second floor above market. Must be family home.

  9:50 A.M.—MM’s brother, Michael, enters from back of store. Brother talks to red-haired boy. Red-haired boy exits. Brother puts on white apron and takes inventory with clipboard along aisle filled with canned vegetables.

  Morgan watched his brother taking inventory for a few minutes. Finally he stepped out of the car. He waited for some traffic to pass before crossing St. Claude, heading straight for the front entrance of the grocery. I needed to hear what they said to each other—watching them through a window simply would not do. I quickly rode my bike across the street and through the alley between the Chinese laundry and Friendly Market. I leaned my bike against a Dumpster and carefully approached the back door of the store. I moved close and ever so slowly opened the screen door, which squeaked and groaned like a tiny siren, wailing, “Look back here!” “Here I am!” and “There’s a snoop in the store!” But once I slipped inside and gently let the door rest against its frame, I knew they hadn’t heard me. I could hear their voices from somewhere in the front of the store. I didn’t want to risk being seen, so I crouched behind a stack of cases of Dr Pepper at the end of an aisle, cocked an ear, and listened.

  “When did you get into town?” Morgan’s brother was asking.

  “Yesterday,” Morgan replied. “Morning.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Little inn on Desire and North Galvez.”

  “Big green house?”

  “Yeah.
”

  “I’ve passed it before.”

  They fell into an uncomfortable beat of silence.

  “The place looks good,” Morgan said.

  “Hasn’t changed much.”

  “How’re Edie and the kids?” Morgan asked.

  “Fine.”

  “How’re you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “You going to give me anything besides short answers?”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you, Morgan.”

  “I was going to call first, but…” His voice trailed off.

  “But?”

  “But I wasn’t sure what I would say on the phone,” Morgan said.

  “Do you have something to say now?”

  “I wanted to see you, Michael.”

  “Not much has changed, has it?”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan replied. “Things have changed for me.”

  “Well, you always liked change.”

  “I suppose I did.”

  Another awkward pause.

  The way this conversation was going, it was difficult to imagine these two sitting in the same room for very long, never mind ever playing games together.

  Morgan continued.

  “I went by William Frantz this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Pretty big mess, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “She’s a brave little girl.”

  “Who?”

  “The little Negro girl.”

  “Yeah, right,” Michael said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on, Morgan.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a puppet.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “You really think she’s got any idea what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean she’s not brave to stand up to that mob every day.”

  “That mob has got a rooted interest in what goes on at that school.”

  “Oh God, Michael.”

  “It’s easy for outsiders to come in and tell people what to do if they don’t have to live with it.”

  “Outsiders?”

  “You’ve been away a long time, Morgan.”

  “Don’t tell me you agree…?”

  “Well, I don’t disagree.”

  “How is this different from the Nazis, Michael?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “No, really.”

  “It’s very different.”

  “How?”

  “You’re being melodramatic.”

  “Am I?”

  “No one is rounding up and killing Negroes, Morgan.”

  “Some people are.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with separate schools.”

  “What about sending Jews to separate schools? That’s how it started in Germany.”

  “This isn’t Germany.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Give it a rest, Morgan.”

  “No. How is it different?”

  “I don’t want to hear one of your political speeches.”

  “Negroes are fighting for their rights as men just like the Jews did—”

  “There’s a big difference between Jews and Negroes, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t. Explain it.”

  “Is that why you came down here? To teach us backward yokels a lesson in morality?”

  Morgan let the question settle for a moment before responding.

  “No,” he finally replied.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m just here to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re still family,” Morgan said.

  “Family.” Michael repeated the word as if he didn’t comprehend its meaning or use in the sentence.

  “Yes. Family.”

  “So what does that mean exactly?”

  “It means enough time has passed,” Morgan said.

  “Passed for what?”

  “Well, for one thing, for me to forgive you.”

  “Forgive me?” Michael gasped.

  “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what,” Morgan said.

  “No. I honestly don’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Michael, can we stop playing games?”

  “I’m not playing a game. I can’t for the life of me think of what you’d need to forgive me for.”

  Morgan exhaled and then replied. “How about for giving the committee my name?”

  “I answered the questions they asked me,” Michael responded, too quickly.

  “Maybe you didn’t have to give such complete answers.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

  “But you were happy to confirm things.”

  “Look, I wasn’t happy about anything. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “We all make choices, Michael.”

  “I wasn’t gonna jeopardize my family just because you dragged me to a couple of meetings when we were barely out of high school. They had my name. I’ve got a life here. I could’ve lost everything. And I never joined anything.”

  “But you had no problem fingering your own brother.”

  “You were a Communist. Hell, you probably still are.”

  “So?”

  “So, there’s a war on.”

  “There wasn’t then,” Morgan replied. “Do you realize that if Joe McCarthy had been around in thirty-nine, I could’ve been blacklisted? Hell, I could’ve been thrown in jail.”

  “Those were bad times, Morgan.”

  “So it’s okay to throw away the Bill of Rights during bad times?”

  “Will you get off the goddamn soapbox already?”

  “I’m not on a soapbox,” Morgan said. “A lot of good people got hurt.”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “If enough people had stood up—”

  “Stood up for what? Stalin?”

  “What I’m talking about has nothing to do with Stalin.”

  “Oh no?”

  “Everyone should have the right to express their own political—”

  “Oh, will you knock it off with the rhetoric? It’s enough, Morgan. We’ve all had enough. Mama and Papa had enough. And now I’ve had enough. Okay?

  “Don’t bring them into this.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t speak for Mama and Papa.”

  “And you do?”

  “I never claimed to.”

  “Got that right.”

  “What’s that supposed mean?”

  “Don’t go there, Morgan.”

  “No. Say it.”

  “You pissed on everything they gave you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “You have no idea what they—”

  “No. You’re the one who’s got no idea.”

  “You’re crossing a line, Michael.”

  “What line?”

  “You’re crossing a line!”

  “What the hell line are you talking about? Crossing lines? You’re the one who came waltzing in here with all this bullshit about forgiving me for something you brought on yourself.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Do you really think Papa was proud of his Communist son?”

  “Enough…”

  “Poor old fool came over from the old country to give us better than he had—”

  “I said that’s enough!” Morgan snapped.

  “They believed in this country. And so do I.”

  Then Michael added, half under his breath but loud enough for me to hear, “Maybe they should’ve thrown you in jail.”

  A long beat of silence followed. I heard both men breathing. Finally Morgan spoke.

  “God, Michael, do you really hate me that much?”

  Michael exhaled. “I don’t know what I feel.”

  “We’re still brothers,” Morgan said. />
  “Why this sudden interest in reconnecting with family? Are you going to try to get us to join a protest outside of William Frantz?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you doing down here, Morgan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re about thirty years too late to help out around the store.”

  I heard Morgan move toward the front door. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Sorry I bothered.”

  I yearned for Michael to call out for him to stop, but he didn’t. Did Michael know that Morgan’s son had died in Korea? And did he know that Morgan and his wife had split? Why didn’t Morgan say that he looked up to Michael when they were kids? And that he missed having an older brother? I couldn’t understand why someone as articulate as Morgan could be so tongue-tied when it came to his own brother. Was he really going to walk away? After twenty years of silence, how could he let it end like that? I heard the front door slam open and shut, and I knew Morgan was gone. I slowly peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of Michael leaning over with one hand on the counter and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He seemed deflated.

  I didn’t want to risk losing Morgan, so I turned to rush out the back door and ran straight into the red-haired kid, who was walking in carrying a big box of toilet paper rolls. I knocked the box to the floor and fell over.

  “Hey!” the boy said.

  Toilet paper rolls spilled out of the box. I tripped over them as I scrambled to my feet and ran out the back door.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time I got back to St. Claude, Morgan’s Bel Air was already gone. My legs ached from all the heavy pedaling I’d done that morning trying to keep up with him, so I don’t know if I could’ve followed very far even if he had been within eyeshot. The sun beat down, and I reckoned it must’ve been around ten thirty by the time I started to walk my bike back home.

  When I arrived, Morgan’s car was not parked out front. Upon entering the kitchen, I found Charlotte hunched over the tub sink in the corner that we used for laundry, scrubbing a set of sheets. She glared at me over her shoulder.

  “Mr. Landroux had himself an accident.”