Unexpected Gifts (24 page)

“What do you mean about Hick?”

“Hick is a love, but frankly, she's not as attuned to the Negro issue in this country as you and I are.”

I started to shake my head.

“Adriana, you know it as well as I do. You've seen her in these situations.”

“What do you want me to do?”

She drew a deep breath. “I want you to go down to Alabama with an associate of my good friend, Mary McLeod Bethune.”

“Who is this Mary Bethune?”

“She's the founder of the National Association of Colored Women. Franklin's made her a member of his Black Cabinet, investigating problems for minority affairs.”

“And what am I to do with her?”

“Not with her, with her associate, Tom Johnson.”

“Johnson. He wouldn't be a colored man, would he?”

“Yes, Adriana, he's a Negro. Don't tell me you have a problem with that?”

“Not in general, but we are going down to the Deep South. A white woman and a Negro. That I do worry about.”

“I'm sending a bodyguard with you and Tom. Besides, you'll be staying in different places.”

“Is the bodyguard for me or for him?”

“Whoever needs it at the time.” Her tone read inscrutable.

She proceeded to give me explicit instructions on what to look for, where to send my daily notes, what time to call and jotting it all down, I managed to keep a stoic face; this job hinged on Eleanor's confidence in me. Just outside the door, however, was altogether different. My hands wouldn't stop shaking and my stomach tightened like a twisted rag.

Alabama. The land of the Yellowhammer bird. The Heart of Dixie state with the Camellia as its precious flower. The home of gentility, lazy afternoons, and lynching's.

We arrived in Mobile, the oldest city in the state, founded by French colonists. Driving past Bienville Square, the magnificent balconies dripping with lace-like ornamental iron, the streets paved in stone, the gardens skirted by Spanish Moss and Hydrangeas the likes of which I had never seen, the word Paradise kept entering my mind.

On the southeast corner of Government and Michigan, a two story stucco building with a wide angular porch, tile roof, fluted columns, and two tall windows spanning from floor to ceiling was to be my home for the next few days. Thoughtlessly, I clapped my hands.

“Oh, my, this is simply gorgeous!” I cried. Then I saw Tom Johnson's clenched cheek.

“For you it is,” he muttered as two white bellhops charged over, their faces braided with fury.

“Hey, boy! Where do you think you're goin'?”

He had been forewarned. “Nowhere. I'm on my way.”

I nodded towards Jim Chaffey, our bodyguard. “Quick, go with him. He needs you more than I.”

“I don't know. Mrs. Roosevelt made it clear you were to be protected.”

“Never mind that. Go with Tom. Get him settled and then come back to me. I'll have your room ready.”

Suddenly, Mobile's grandeur didn't seem quite so appealing.

Jim returned by nightfall looking glum. “What is it?” I asked him in the hotel dining room.

“You don't want to know…” he started.

“Of course I do. That's why we're here, right?”

“Well, Tom is staying in one of the worst areas I have ever seen. And I've seen some pretty rough places in Chicago and Washington, D.C.”

I gulped. “Do you think he's safe?”

“There he is, but I don't know about anywhere else that's White, that's for sure.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Can we order a drink first?” spilled out faster than a drug addict reaching for his fix. After two large swigs, he continued. “On our way to the hovel they call a boarding house, we passed by a group of men riding in a four door sedan, shotguns sticking out of every window, a Confederate flag tossed across the hood, and Johnny Reb hollers every two seconds. Frankly, I didn't like the odds. Well, they took one look at Tom in the front seat with me and started to follow us, yelling, ‘We're comin' after you, boy! Just you wait…’

“But we were lucky. Just as they were gaining on us, I mean a foot from our rear bumper, a truck full of cotton pickers pulled out in front of them, nearly causing an accident. They were spittin' blood they were so mad, but they didn't bother following us any further. I could tell Tom was scared. If I was, he surely must have been.”

I drew a deep breath. “Well, we're here to find out about the Negro condition, so tomorrow we'll go to Tom's neck of the woods as planned.”

The next day, I realized just how accurate Jim was. All the tenements I had witnessed in New York, the bad places I had seen in Detroit couldn't begin to compare to this squalor. Shacks composed of rippled tins were salvaged together like a young child's project—crude, makeshift, uninhabitable, as people shuffled along on sidewalks, dirt roads, or mud-stained streets stooped over, their dulled eyes aimed downward or straight ahead.

When Tom appeared, his eyes were hooded.

“You come slumin' today?”

“Tom. That's not fair. After all, that's why Eleanor sent us down here, isn't it? To stop this insanity.”

He straightened up. “You're right. Sorry. Guess I got caught up in this madness.”

I turned towards the street. “Let's go interview the first family on the list, shall we?”

He nodded, leading us across the street and into a battered house. Entering the front door, his massive hand on my upper back, he gently guided me into the main room.

A wooden table with wobbly chairs around it and a dwindling fire flickering under a steaming black-iron pot serviced a family of eight, busily eating their meal. It was several seconds before they even looked up at the strangers standing in their home and when they did, their faces registered alarm.

Tom commenced. “We're not here to hurt you, I promise. The President of the United States and the First Lady has sent us down to find out from you folks exactly what's been going on ‘round here.”

An old woman with a leather face cleared her throat. “Wha’ things you talkin' ‘bout?”

Tom paused. “Well…”

I butted in. “Have you had any problems with the Klan?”

I thought Tom was going to slap me. “Now,” he interjected, “you don't have to answer that right away.”

The old woman drew herself up. “Yes ma'am, we have.”

The scraping of bowls stopped.

“Was ‘bout a year ago. My brother, he…”

“Yes?” I said, kneeling down in front of her.

“Ma'am, he ain't done nothing wrong, I swear it. One night dey just come fer him. Maybe he looked at one of dem too long, or maybe he didn't say ‘Yessir’ fast enough. I jest don't know.” Everyone was nodding his or her head.

“I want you to know the First Lady really cares about what goes on down here and she is trying her hardest to stop the lynching's. Do you believe that?”

The old woman shrugged. “If you say so.”

It wasn't until Jim and I returned to the hotel lobby that I realized how quiet Tom had been the rest of the day, and I was just about to make a comment about that to my bodyguard when I was handed a message by the concierge. It was from a Miss Ethel Berry.

“Miz Berry wants you to come to tea at her mansion.” The concierge was obviously impressed.

“No phone number?”

He laughed. “Why, ma'am, you just show up at the appointed time tomorra.”

Miss Berry's mansion was breath-taking. Four columns on the wide porch beckoned visitors to stroll past the octopus-limbed Magnolia tree in the front yard before continuing up the weathered brick pathway and the magnificent antebellum entrance.

Inside, a Negro servant motioned for me to follow him into the library for tea.

“Tea, Miss Balakov?” a slightly older woman in a billowy, chiffon dress, sitting in an enormous armchair asked.

We chatted about the southern weather, the plight of the country, the state of Mobile, which was why she had an antique shop on her ground floor, to augment the income left her by her husband. It was quite pleasant and I admit I was feeling pretty relaxed in such gracious surroundings. Suddenly, a grandfather clock chimed five p.m.

She leaned forward. “Now, Miss Balakov, we are both women of the world, are we not?”

I nodded.

“Then I would like to give you a word of advice. I wouldn't stay here too long dear. There are some people who might not appreciate it.”

I stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Are you threatening me?”

She carefully placed her teacup back on her saucer with barely a clink and stood up. “Just heed my words, there's a dear. I believe you know the way out.” No longer smiling, her eyes had turned to stone.

We started packing that night. Jim left word with someone he claimed he could trust, to let Tom know we were coming for him by ten thirty, so be ready to get out of town.

By nine thirty it was quite dark, and speeding off, I looked behind us at the Spanish Moss swaying in the sultry summer breeze, the porch lights on, the fireflies sparking, the cicadas sawing their song, and the memory of Miss Berry's double-edged gentility. We both breathed huge sighs of relief and agreed how we could now fully commiserate with Tom along with the rest of the Negroes in our country, not only in the South.

BANG!
My body lurched forward, my head hitting the windshield. I could hear Jim swearing.

“Dammit! They're comin' after us!”

I was too stunned to ask who they were.
BANG!
The car behind us meant business. Suddenly, a vehicle coming from the opposite direction seemed to head straight towards us. As Jim slammed on the brakes, I could tell from the massive screeching, their car had stopped as well. Instantly, our car was flooded with their headlights, and all I could hear was Jim. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Miss Balakov, I swear to God…” he growled as I waited to die.

Car doors clicked open then slammed shut and before I could think, rough hands had grabbed me from my side and pulled me out from the front seat. Jim valiantly scrambled out of his side of the car and started to charge over to me, but there were just too many of them. In an instant, they had him on the ground, kicked into submission.

The twine they had tied over my wrists cut into my skin, the rough blindfold scratched my eyes, and from the different voice timbers, I surmised there must have been close to eight or ten men gathered around us. We were led over some pretty jagged terrain, and each time I stumbled I was lifted up by my armpits and pushed forward.

My breath was coming in short, jerky waves and suddenly, I thought of Tom, safe in his run-down quarters, patiently waiting for his protectors to take him out of harm's way and how, if by some miracle, I survived this, I would make everything right for Tony.

We were soon on more even ground, with lots of voices chanting. Our captors yanked off our masks, and when I saw the multitude of white sheets, I started to pee in my underwear. I could sense Jim a few feet away, puffing from anger and fear, but I couldn't utter a sound.

“What the hell do you want from us?” Jim croaked.

“You've been traveling with that nigger, haven't you, you Nigger Lover Yankees!” The leader snarled.

I found my voice. “We've been sent down by the President and First Lady!”

“Eleanor Roosevelt? That interfering bitch?” Several of them started snorting.

“What are you going to do to us?” barked Jim.

“Jist wait n' see, that's what we're gonna do. It seems you both need a little lesson in Southern hospitality!” More snickers.

From out of the pack, a man stepped forward holding a huge rope and my stomach wrenched. Flinging the thick coil up over a tree limb, he pulled the noose side towards him as two others grabbed Jim and dragged him, struggling, over to the tree.

I let out a wail. “Oh, God no!” gushed out before I closed my eyes and for the first time in a very long time, I said a whispered prayer.

Suddenly, explosive guffaws broke out and opening my eyes, I saw the noose had been removed and his hands untied. Someone untied mine as well.

“Just tell your Mrs. Roosevelt, you are not welcome. And take that nigger with you!” the leader gloated.

Back in D.C., I started to tell Eleanor my report would be succinct, that the lynching laws have got to be removed, but I never got the chance. Never looking directly at me, she informed me that FDR had decided, in order to be re-elected, he would do nothing about the South.

Letting myself into the Manhattan apartment, I expected to hear Rose's childlike snores, but was surprised not to see her anywhere. I undressed, brushed my teeth, and started to settle into my makeshift bed when I heard Tony gag then cough several times in the next room. Any second now I would hear Daria's impatient voice, but it never came. What was going on?

I found out the next day. “She's left me!” a bleary-eyed Tony moaned. “My wife left me for that damn Indian!”

“Joe? That sweet man who came here for Sunday dinners?”

“Yeah! Real sweet. He took my wife and daughter with him.”

“Where is she? Let me talk some sense into her.”

“I don't know. I don't know. Try Brooklyn. He once told me where he lived. I have the address written down somewhere around here. Got a letter from that goddamn wife of mine with a Brooklyn postmark on the envelope.”