A Heart Divided (10 page)

“Well, then you have excellent taste in friends. Back in those days, Lucas Roberts was a student at Fisk. He and nine other students walked right through the front door of Jimmy Mack’s. The boys wore jackets and ties. The girls wore lovely dresses. They took seats at two tables and waited. All the white people were served. But these ten young people were ignored. So they sat there all day, in silence.”

I stopped her, checked my tape to be sure it was recording properly, and then restarted it. “Go on, please,” I urged her. “What happened?”

“Well, when Jimmy Mack III closed at the end of the day, these young students came outside to find white folks
lined up on the sidewalk cursing them and waving the Confederate battle flag.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yes. It is. But in the long run, the black students won.”

I dreaded asking the question I was about to pose because I liked her so much. But I had to ask anyway. “Mrs. Augustus, were you there that day?”

“Yes, I was.”

“What did you do?”

“It’s right that you should ask me that.” She sipped the last of her tea until the straw gurgled in the chips of ice. “Those white folks—they were my friends and neighbors. I tried to get them to stop. So did Birdie’s mother. But they wouldn’t listen.”

“The two of you tried, Mrs. Augustus. That’s the important thing.”

She shook her head. “The truth is, until that sit-in, I hadn’t done anything. I lived in a world where my black neighbors were used and abused, and I didn’t see it because I did not want to see it. I shall feel ashamed of that for the rest of my life.”

She stirred her ice with her straw, and I could see that her thoughts were far away. “I know this will be difficult for you to understand, Kate. I still love that flag. I used to fly that flag from my front porch with great pride. It was the banner of the soldiers, not the Confederacy. My grandfather died in battle under that flag; so did Birdie’s ancestor— the one who freed his own slave. But after that day at Jimmy Mack’s, I brought it inside. I haven’t flown it since.”

I mused on that for a moment. “Jack says you’re the smartest person he knows. Now I know why.”

She smiled. “Well, I’m certain he’s wrong, but it was a very kind thing for him to say. He’s a special boy, you know.”

I nodded. Words couldn’t begin to explain everything I felt for Jack.

She leaned forward. “Yes. I see in your eyes that you know how special he is. His family owned many slaves. You know that.”

I nodded again.

“The sins of the father are not visited upon the son, my dear. But Jack’s people come from that world; they’re still a part of it, in a certain way.”

“He’s not, though,” I protested.

“Yes, Kate. He is.” She wrapped her elegant fingers around her glass and looked into the melting ice slivers as if she were reading tea leaves. “It’s much more complicated than you think. Or than he thinks, I expect. My advice—not that you should take love advice from an old lady—is to go slowly. Fools rush in, my dear. Only fools rush in.”

In my head the words formed: It’s already too late for that. Much too late.

gether, we didn’t spend much of it with his friends. I told myself I liked it better that way, that we didn’t need anyone else. But on a Saturday in early October when he finally asked me to join him and his buds at Jimmy Mack’s, I was more than happy. To me it represented a kind of acceptance and belonging that could only bring Jack and me even closer. However skeptical his friends were about his relationship with me, I was sure I could win them over.

Before we went to Jimmy Mack’s, though, there was a Strikers game on the battered schoolyard at Warren Elementary. I stood on the sidelines and cheered as they took
on the Cougars from Johnson Elementary. Most of the game was a scoreless tie. Then, with thirty seconds to go, Cooper Wilson booted home the winning goal. The Strikers went wild. I think I screamed louder than anyone.

We took the team out for pizza afterward, then waited for some straggler parents to pick up their kids. When Cooper’s mom didn’t show—which happened fairly often—we drove him home. Jack had bestowed on him the Most Committed Player award, which came with a gift certificate to the local bookstore, and Cooper was so excited that he practically vibrated out of his seat belt. He ran into his mobile home, bursting to tell someone about it. His sister, dressed for work at Hooters, was making out with her boyfriend in the living room. She barely looked up as Cooper tried to tell her about the game and the award. Finally, his mom pulled up in her bomber of a car, full of apologies. Only then did we depart.

Jack had already introduced me to a few of Redford’s traditions, like Friday home football games under the lights. On the way to Jimmy Mack’s, he introduced me to another one, “Flipping the Dip.” Teens in Redford made fun of Flipping the Dip, but they still did it—driving the length of Main Street, circling the monument, and then doing a U-turn at Mr. Derry’s Shell station. Jack said that scores of Redford romances had been kindled while Flipping the Dip, and we did a two-lap homage before heading to Jimmy Mack’s to meet up with his friends.

Jimmy Mack’s was another Redford tradition. The foot-ball
team ate there every Friday before home games— joined by half the town—in a ritual called Puttin’ on the Feed: fried chicken, sides, biscuits, gravy, all the sweet tea you could drink. Of course, as Mrs. Augustus had explained to me, in the not-so-good old days, you could only partake if you were white. Now, allegedly, people of every race, creed, and stripe were welcome. But just as kids at Redford High self-segregated in the bleachers and the cafeteria, black kids almost never set foot in Jimmy Mack’s. They hung out around the corner at Taco Bell.

The entryway to Jimmy Mack’s is adorned with photos of Redford High’s football team, dating back to World War II. Behind the cash register, there’s an array of flags: American, Tennessee… and Confederate. So you can imagine how odd it seemed when we were hit with a wall of hip-hop music as soon as we walked in. A group of black kids spilled out of a back booth, music blasting from a portable CD player.

From the other direction: “Yo, Redford!”

It was Chaz, waving to us from a table near the front window. He had one beefy arm slung casually around the shoulders of his girlfriend, Crystal Chambers. Crystal was Sara’s best friend, and I realized that she was the one who’d been with Sara during the sorority hazing I’d witnessed on the football field my first day at Redford High. With Chaz and Crystal were Terry Collins and Tisha White, two other seniors. Tisha was in my American history class. I liked her. I was relieved to see that Sara wasn’t part of the group.

Jack and I squeezed into a couple of empty seats as a new groove erupted from the boom box. Crystal covered her ears. “That music is driving me nuts!”

Chaz shrugged. “I already complained to the waitress, baby.”

“Well, complain to someone else, then.”

“Where’s Big Jimmy?” Jack asked. Big Jimmy was Jimmy Mack IV, who owned the place.

“Sliced a finger on the meat cutter, went for stitches,” Crystal told Jack. Evidently eye contact with me would have been disloyal to Sara, so she rendered me invisible. But Tisha noticed and came to my rescue.

“Cute shirt, Kate,” she said supportively

I smiled, grateful that she was being nice. “Thanks.”

A harried, elderly waitress with dishes balanced on her arms stepped up to our booth. “Blue-cheese burger?”

“Right here, ma’am,” Chaz said as loud laughter erupted from the rear booth. A tall guy I didn’t recognize was standing in the aisle, rapping along to the music. “Ma’am, if there’s no one here can handle those people back there, I’m fixing to do it myself.”

“Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She distributed the rest of the food, took Jack’s and my orders, and hustled off to the kitchen.

“You and what army?” Jack teased.

Chaz pointed at him. “If push comes to shove, I know you got my back, Redford.”

Jack nodded. “Always.”

Thankfully, the music dropped a few decibels. Crystal pushed back a lock of dark hair and finally glanced in my direction. “So, Kate. How’s it going?”

“Okay.”

“I’m sure it’s hard to be new and not fit in,” she said sweetly, stirring a pool of catsup with a French fry.

“Meow,” Tisha whined at Crystal’s dis.

“What?” Crystal asked. As if she didn’t know.

“I think she’s fitting in just fine,” Jack said.

The conversation turned to football, Redford’s unofficial religion. Chaz had just been named starting tight end. Everyone was excited this year about the Rebels’ chances of winning the league championship. It hadn’t happened in a decade.

Crystal giggled. “Remember last year, Jackson, after the South Columbia game? We got wasted, and Sara dared us to go skinny dipping in the river?”

“′bout froze my ass off!” Chaz hooted. Everyone laughed. Anxiety fizzed up in me like an Alka-Seltzer. Jack was a part of them in a way I never could be.

The waitress came back to the table with our Cokes. The football discussion continued, and I continued to have nothing much to say until an odd-looking man entered the restaurant. Rail thin with a long beard, he wore ancient gray woolen trousers with a long jacket and cap and carried a canteen, a shoulder bag, and a vintage rifle.

“What’s up with that?” I asked, nudging my chin in his direction.

“Bo Alford, curator of the Battle of Redford Museum,” Terry said, sipping his Coke. “On Saturday afternoons, he plays dress-up and leads tours. The beard’s fake, but all the clothes are a hundred and forty years old. So’s the gun.”

I made a mental note to try to interview Mr. Alford for my play. Not that this play actually existed. The week before, I’d talked to Nikki’s father, as well as Malik El Baz, a black activist lawyer in Nashville. Reverend Lucas had been thoughtful; El Baz, fiery. I’d been trying to get an interview with a local white separatist leader named Ron Bingham who’d been profiled in the
Tennessean.
He lived forty miles south of Redford in the small town of Pulaski. But though I’d sent e-mails and left phone messages, the closest I’d come to actual contact was when his wife hung up on me.

After each new interview I’d sit down at my computer, hands poised over the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. Evidently, inspiration was busy striking some other lucky writer, because everything I wrote seemed worse than the previous effort. I’d end up deleting it all, sending it—with all the other attempts—to the cosmic trash bin where really bad writing goes.

Tisha rolled her eyes. “That reenactment stuff is
so
hokey”.

Terry nudged her playfully. “Hey, where’s your Southern pride, girl?”

“Up my ass,” Tisha deadpanned.

I laughed. The problem was, no one laughed with me.

Though Jack gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, my cheeks burned.

“Hey, I’m with Kate,” Tisha said. “You can’t take that crap seriously.”

Chaz wagged a finger at her. “You don’t mess with tradition.”

“That is such a load of bull,” Tisha insisted. “The thing is—”

We lost the rest of Tisha’s sentence as the hip-hop was cranked back up to earsplitting volume.

“That’s it.” Chaz half stood and twisted around, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Hey, could y’all turn it down a little?”

One of the black kids leaned into the aisle. It was Nikki’s brother, Luke.

“Yo, I said, turn it down!” Chaz repeated.

Instantly, Luke and another guy were sauntering toward us, coiled rage beneath ebony skin. “You talking to me?” Luke asked when they got within spitting distance.

Chaz stood to meet his challenge. “I’m just asking for y’all to turn down your music, bro.”

Luke edged closer. “Do I look like your bro?”

Chaz held his palms up. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything. But if you start it, I’ll finish it.”

“Why don’t you get your cracker buddy to lend you one of his sheets,
bro.”
Luke jutted his chin toward Mr. Alford.

“Jeez, man, you got a chip on your shoul—”

The front door swung open. A huge man who had to be Big Jimmy followed his massive stomach into the restaurant. “What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on?” he bellowed, gesturing toward the offending CD player. With a heavily bandaged middle finger, he looked as if he was flipping everyone the bird.

“I already asked them to turn it down, Big Jimmy,” Chaz said.

Big Jimmy waddled toward Luke. “I
said
, turn that crap off!” he thundered.

Luke nodded toward his friends. The hip-hop went silent.

“You people are welcome in my establishment just like anyone else,” Big Jimmy told Luke. “But you play my jukebox or you play nothing.”

Luke feigned incomprehension and cupped his ear. “Could you repeat that, suh? Cuz you knows we people is kinda slow.”

Big Jimmy glowered. “Don’t give me that bull, Luke Roberts. Do I need to call your daddy?”

I couldn’t imagine Luke Roberts backing off because someone threatened to call his daddy. But to my surprise, after a brief staredown, he turned away, pulling his friends in his wake. They threw some money at the cash register and dodged around a skinny white couple in matching NASCAR T-shirts. The male half of the couple did an exaggerated double take as Luke and his friends stormed out the door.