“No, Mama, I don't. Rachel Zucker has three poodle skirts, and you don't think she's fast or loose, do you?”
“Rachel doesn't live under my roof, and I don't sew her clothes,” Mrs. Patterson replied sharply.
Sylvia started to retort, but she thought better of it when she caught Gary's eye.
“Don't bring white folks into our kitchen,” he hissed at her, low enough to be out of their parents' earshot.
Sylvia gave him a dirty look, but said nothing.
Mrs. Patterson had made fresh blueberry pancakes and the family was finishing up its long, delicious Christmas holiday of the last two weeksâfilled with homemade cookies, cakes, pies, and tons of Mama-made fried chicken. Sylvia's father slurped his coffee, nibbled on the crisp, pan-fried bacon, and read a copy of the morning paper, mildly unaware of normal breakfast chatter.
Gary was unusually talkative and cheerful. No one had asked where he had gone when he stormed out of the house on Tuesday, and he had volunteered no information.
“My leg feels better,” Donna Jean said as she licked the blueberry syrup off her fingers. “Will I be going to school? I don't want to get behind in my classes.”
“How far behind can a kid get in third grade?” Gary teased. “What do you learn when you're eight, DJâhow to count on your fingers?”
Donna Jean grinned at him and tossed a spoon at his head. He caught it in midair and then balanced it on his nose, making her laugh.
“We'll see, little one,” her mother replied. “I want to make sure none of your wounds gets infected, and I suppose we just have to hope that awful dog has no disease.” Just talking about Donna Jean's injuries made her get up and start sweeping the floor, Sylvia noticed.
“Hey, Gary,” Sylvia asked her brother, “would you take me to one of Mann's basketball games this season?' Horace Mann had a terrific team, and Reggie's older brother, Greg, was their top scorer. And somehow, now that she was older, the thought of watching sweaty boys run across a shiny gym floor made Sylvia's heart beat a little faster. She covered her smile, knowing her mother would never understand.
“I wanna go, too!” Donna Jean piped up.
“You'll have time enough for such,” her mother said. “Finish your breakfast.” Donna Jean poked out her lip.
“Maybe I'll let you come,” Gary told Sylvia. “If I don't have a date. You going for the basketball, or the boys?” He grinned at her.
“Your mind stays in the gutter, boy. I'm thinking of trying out for cheerleader when I get to Mann, and I want to watch their moves. So there!” Sylvia grabbed the last piece of bacon off his plate and gobbled it.
“I'm gonna get you for that, Sylvie. Just wait until you get to school and open your lunchbox. Instead of a big fat slice of Mama's apple pie, all you'll find is a big old rock. I'll be eating your pie while I watch the cheerleaders practice!” He laughed good-naturedly. It gave the kitchen a soft, relaxed feeling.
“High school must be so much fun,” Sylvia said wistfully as she imagined hanging with kids at the corner drugstore, listening to records, and going to dances and games and parties.
“Yeah, if you like coffee-breathed, homework giving teachers who wear pearls and smell like Cashmere Bouquet dusting powder,” Gary said, breaking her reverie. He poured way too much syrup on his pancakes.
“Even the men teachers?” Donna Jean asked, laughing.
“Speaking of school,” Gary said to his parents, “you know there's been talk about integration.” His sentence hovered above the kitchen table, threatening to ruin the pleasant morning.
“Nonsense, boy,” his father mumbled. “That's going to take years to happen.” He continued to read the paper, but Sylvia could tell he was no longer concentrating.
“Maybe not,” Gary kept on. “Some folks say they might try to integrate Central High School by this September. And I think it's way past time,” he added. Gary was good at pushing his father just over the edge.
“Don't rile your father, Gary,” their mother warned. “Would you like some more eggs?”
Gary didn't look at her. His eyes were intent on his father's face. “Dad, listen. When they make a list of Negro kids who get to go to Central High, I want to be on it,” he announced. The kitchen was silent except for the bubbling of the coffee in the percolator.
Their father almost choked on his bacon. “Why would you want to do a fool thing like that?” he asked. He looked at Gary as if he had grown a second skull.
“Because I deserve to go to a big, modern school, and have new books and desks and the best education in Arkansas,” Gary retorted.
“It was good enough for me when I was your age,” his father said, his voice tight. “We had strong Negro teachers who taught us pride in our heritage, our history, and our culture. No white school will ever do that for you.”
“That was a long time ago, Dad. Things have changed.” Frustration marked Gary's face. “Is it wrong to want more?”
“Maybe not wrong, but certainly dangerous,” Mrs. Patterson told her son. Her voice was laced with fear. “âDanger lurks in the heart of the evildoer,'” she muttered.
Sylvia rolled her eyes at her mother's quote. She wasn't sure she should speak up, but she figured things couldn't get much worse. “Maybe Gary is right,” Sylvia said quietly.
Both parents jerked their heads to look at Sylvia in amazement. “You keep out of this, young lady,” her father told her.
Sylvia took a deep breath. “But, Daddy, even though Negro schools might be better, shouldn't colored kids have the right to go to a white school if they want to?”
“Why would they want to? Why ask for trouble?” her father replied. He looked exasperated.
Gary considered her with surprise. “Thanks, Sylvie. I thought you were scared of integration.”
“I am. Terrified. Crazy scared. But what you're saying might be right.” She picked at the eggs on her plate.
“Horace Mann was just built last year,” Mr. Patterson countered, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth. “It's pretty nice, isn't it?”
“Yeah, but it's not as nice as Central!” Gary retorted. “Our schools are
segregated,
Dad! They built Mann just to keep us out of Central High School and the rest of
their
high schools! Don't you get it?”
“Oh, I understand, son, more than you know. You have no idea what indignities I have had to endure in my life. I, too, was an angry young man like you. But I swallowed my anger.” His father's face looked pained.
“That can't be healthy, Dad,” Gary said.
“Segregation
is
the law,” Mrs. Patterson said then. “You must admit, son, that it would be very hard to fight against something that the majority of folks think is the way things are supposed to be.”
“Who passed that law? White folks!” Gary declared angrily. “Well, my fight is just beginning! Segregation in schools is unfair, and since 1954 it
has
been illegal!”
“There's a lot more to think about than new desks, Gary,” his father said gently. “If they decide to integrate the schools here in Little Rock, it won't be easy. There will be strong opposition, even violence. I don't want you to get hurt.”
“Folks like Mrs. Crandall and her anti-integration committee have lots of power,” Mrs. Patterson added. “They sip sweet tea over there in her kitchen, while they make plans for keeping the races apart. The latest I heard, they were telling folks that white children might catch some kind of disease if they go to school with black children.”
“They are the ones suffering from a disease,” Mr. Patterson said as he buttered his pancakes. “But what pill will get rid of the hatred they've got inside?”
“I'm not afraid of white people,” Gary said, pouting a little. “They go to the bathroom just like we do!”
“Gary!” Mrs. Patterson said sharply. “I will not have you talking nasty at the breakfast table, or anywhere else. Apologize!”
Picturing Mr. Crandall on the toilet nearly made Sylvia giggle, but she held it in.
Gary mumbled something that sounded like “sorry,” then he said, quite clearly, “I heard one of the Crandalls' dogs got into some poison last night. The word on the street is it died.”
Sylvia looked up from her plate of eggs.
He wouldn't. He couldn't. Did he?
“How do you know that, son?” his mother asked carefully.
“I was at Anita's last night. Her father told me,” Gary replied.
“Was it the dog that bit me?” Donna Jean asked, her voice almost hopeful.
“I don't know, DJ, but I hope it was,” Gary told her. He asked to be excused from the table then. The lovely breakfast mood had been destroyed.
“What's gonna happen, Daddy?” Donna Jean asked.
“Nothing, child. Nothing. The price is too high.” Her father stood and stretched, but he didn't look very relaxed.
“I don't get it, Sylvie,” Donna Jean said, leaning over. “Isn't it
better
to go to school with kids who look like you and know what you're talking about when you say you got nappy hair or ashy legs?”
Sylvia laughed. “Look at it this way, DJ,” she began, “the doors to schools like Central High are all locked up. Only the white kids get to have keys. If Gary decides that he wants to open one of those doors, he ought to have the right to do it. You see?”
“Yeah, I guess.” She folded her napkin and pushed away from the table. “Is Rachel coming over on Saturday?” she asked, changing the subject.
Sylvia nodded. “Yeah. She and I are going to paint our fingernails and toenails. Bright red.”
“That's dumb. You gotta wear shoes and socks. Who's gonna know you have pretty toes?” Donna Jean picked up a stack of plates. “Besides, Mama won't let you wear red fingernail polish. She'll say you look like a floozy.”
“Mama wouldn't know a floozy if she rang the doorbell, and you wouldn't, either,” Sylvia said with a laugh. “I'll do my nails in pale pink. She'll never see my toes!”
Donna Jean paused and looked at her sister. “Hey, Sylvie, does Rachel have one of those keys you talked about?”
“Yep! A key, a magic door opener, and an engraved initiation to enter!” Sylvia admitted with a sigh. “Now go read a book, since you're so eager to go back to school.” Donna Jean disappeared behind the swinging door. Sylvia picked up the cups and glasses and listened to her parents' worried tones.
“Gary's got the will and the spirit to fight this battle, Leola,” Mr. Patterson said quietly.
“I know, Lester. He's got the fire, but not the gentle breeze to control it. I'm afraid he'll get consumed by the blaze.” Sylvia watched her mother continue to sweep the already spotlessly clean floor.
Friday, January 4, 1957
For as long as I can remember,
Gary has been pushing the edges. In the summer, when the whole town is like a bowl of hot broth, he wants to know why he can't swim in the pool with the white children. He wants to know why gas station restrooms have toilets marked “white” and “colored.” When we were younger, Gary once used the white bathroom-on purpose-and got Daddy in lots of trouble. The policeman yelled at Daddy like he was a little boy, told him to make his children behave. Daddy kept saying, “Yes, sir,” but I could see in his eyes he was really upset. Later I heard him tell Mama that he had to pray till the rage flew away.
Gary doesn't pray. He does stuff-usually before he thinks. I'm pretty sure he killed that dog.
Gary doesn't like it when Rachel comes to visit. He slams doors and leaves, which is fine with me. She is my only white friend, and surprisingly, she and I are really pretty close considering we live in two different worlds just a few blocks away from each other. We go to different schools, of course, and I go to church every Sunday, while she goes to synagogue every Saturday. We first met when we were four or five, and we see each other at least twice a month.
Â
The Zucker family is one of just a few Jewish families in town. They own a local grocery store, which is right next door to Crandall's barbershop. On the other side of Zucker's store is Miss Lillie's flower shop. I can bet money that Mr. Crandall has never set foot in her store, even though he's only two doors down. I've never seen Miss Lillie Cobbs dressed in any color but green. She's tall and thin and looks like a flower when I squint. She does the floral arrangements for all the colored weddings and funerals, and she brings fresh flowers for the church every Sunday. She makes her son Calvin carry the heavy bouquets. It's fun to watch him because he likes to act so silly.
Mama shops at Zucker's grocery all the time because Mr. Zucker treats her with respect. He is the only white man I know who says, “Yes, ma'am,” to Mama when he speaks to her. Mrs. Zucker, who is big and cheerful and sells her fresh-baked cakes and pastries at the store, always gives me a big hug and a free cookie. It's one of those hugs that envelops your whole head and you almost can't breathe while she's doing it, but it's not a bad thing because you know her heart is in the right place.
When we were kids Rachel and I would run up and down the polished wooden aisles of the store, playing hide-and-seek among the canned goods and boxes of baking soda, laughing like little kids do, rarely thinking about our differences. She once asked me, “Why are your arms and legs brown like that? And if you wash, will the brown come off?” I wasn't sure what to say. So I just said, “I'm brown and pretty, just the way God made me. Why would I want to wash it off?” I guess she didn't know what to say after that, so we never talked about it again. It didn't really matter between us.
Â
She and I talk on the phone pretty regularly, and we still like to laugh about the same things, but as we get older, sometimes the conversation gets a little strained. I've never asked her what she thinks about integration.
I know the Jewish folk in town are mistreated sometimes, too. It's hard to understand why some white folks hate the Jews so much. Mr. Crandall, for example, refuses to cut Mr. Zucker's hair in his shop. I don't get it. It's not like Jewish folks look different from other white people, like we do.
I once saw Mr. Crandall spit in his hand just before he offered it to Mr. Zucker at his grocery store. I don't think Mr. Zucker saw him do it, because he offered his hand to Mr. Crandall with a smile.