Night on Fire (18 page)

About that time their leader, a man in a coat and tie, came running and shouting orders to them. “Disperse the crowd! Disperse the crowd!”

The marshals looked at each other, and a few of them pulled out objects that looked like beer cans.

I gaped. “They're going to drink?”

“That's not beer,” said Jarmaine. “It's tear gas.”

The marshals flipped something on the cans, then threw or rolled them into the crowd. It would have been a great idea, except for one thing—the wind.

Yellow-green gas billowed out of the cans, like smoke from a dragon. Instead of floating toward the crowd, it blew backward, carried by a breeze. The marshals coughed and sputtered, flapping their arms and trying desperately to wave away the gas.

“I can't see!” one of them screamed.

Panic set in. They stumbled, bumped into each other, and tried to grope their way back toward the trucks.

The marshals had been ordered to disperse the crowd. Wrong crowd.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The clouds of gas kept moving—past Ripley Street, past the marshals, and toward the church.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The clouds settled around the front of the church, like an evil fog in a science-fiction movie.

Jarmaine said, “Do you smell it?”

I sniffed. “Not yet. Maybe we're above it.”

The sanctuary wasn't. Its doors and windows were shut tight, but some of the gas must have seeped in, because a few moments later we heard a little boy's voice far below.

“Daddy, my eyes burn.”

Other children cried, and people began to shout. Through it all, Gus played—first more hymns, then a song that caused people to stop and sing along. Their voices rose over the noise and confusion: “We shall overcome …”

A series of explosions rocked the building. Instinctively I ducked, but Jarmaine pulled me back up and pointed out the window.

“Look!”

A small group of teenagers had gathered in a corner of the park and was setting off firecrackers. They laughed. One of them grabbed a sparkler and ran through the crowd, waving it like a flag.

Jarmaine stared. “They think it's a party.”

A marshal retreated past the boys, coughing, and I saw that he wasn't the only one. All the marshals were on the run. I wondered what Robert Kennedy would think.

The mob surged toward the church again, whooping and yelling. In the street, a man lit another rag in a bottle and tossed it up in our direction. We watched helplessly as it hit the roof below us and exploded, then slid off like an orange waterfall.

Just then I noticed someone else in the crowd, moving from group to group, observing and taking notes on a pad. It was Mr. McCall.

Next to him something flashed. I squinted in the darkness and made out a tall figure holding a camera.

“Grant!” I shouted. “Grant, I'm here!”

He had made it after all. Through the noise, though, he couldn't hear me.

I watched Grant and his father thread their way through the crowd, snapping pictures and taking notes. They passed a group of men who were sawing up planks and handing them out. Free weapon. Come and get it.

Standing near the group was someone I knew. He played horseshoes and listened to Alabama football games on the radio. He loved cornbread and black-eyed peas and was a good old boy. He liked to tell jokes and stories. I'd heard most of them, on fishing trips or when he tucked me in bed at night.

“Oh no,” I moaned.

“What?” asked Jarmaine.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her. I watched as Daddy strode along the sidewalk, close enough to see but living in another world where white and black people didn't mix.

I had tried to leave home, but home had followed me.

I was white and always would be. I had never thought much about it until I'd met Jarmaine. She thought about the color of her skin every day. It made her who she was. Maybe my skin made me who I was, and I couldn't change it.

I studied Jarmaine's face. It was beautiful, not for its color or features, but because of who she was. You could read it in her eyes and see it in the firm line of her mouth. She was strong. I wanted to be strong too.

I watched Daddy, and my heart sank. My throat tightened. He stepped off the curb and spoke to someone. It was Mama, who held the baby in her arms.

Daddy lowered his head to hear her over the crowd. He nodded, and the two of them glanced around, scanning the scene. I noticed that he looked scared. So did she.

That's when it hit me. Daddy hadn't come to take part or even to watch. He had come for me.

I turned to Jarmaine, suddenly breathless. “It's my parents.” I jumped and waved. “Mama! Daddy! Up here!”

Mama's head jerked upward, and she stared. She grabbed Daddy's arm and pointed to the tower.

Jarmaine, standing next to me, cried out. “Mother! It's my mother!”

Sure enough, Lavender stood next to my parents. I noticed that Daddy stayed close to her, protecting her from the mob.

I watched Lavender and saw that this time her face wasn't blank. It was twisted with fear as she searched for her daughter. Mama touched her shoulder and said something. Looking up, Lavender saw Jarmaine calling to her. Lavender stretched out her arms and beamed. If I had ever wondered who she loved more, there was my answer.

Next to me, Jarmaine purred like a kitten.

I grabbed Jarmaine's arm and pulled her toward the ladder. I had to reach my parents and let them know I was fine.

“Come on!” I said.

Jarmaine followed me out of the tower and through the attic. We pounded down the stairs, past the door to the balcony, and on toward the first floor. I noticed a faint odor and my eyes stung, but we kept going.

At the bottom of the stairs, we found Reverend Abernathy talking urgently with Dr. King, James Farmer, and Diane Nash. They had cleared out the narthex, and I could see why. Fists pounded the outside of the big front doors, causing them to jump and shake. Below the doors, gas seeped in.

Jarmaine tried to hold me back, but I shook free and went running up to tell them about my parents. As I began to speak, Dr. King shot me a look. His eyes flashed. It was like seeing the face of God.

My words died in my throat. I huddled with Jarmaine as Dr. King turned back to the others.

He said, “It's bad out there. The marshals didn't help.”

Reverend Abernathy nodded grimly. “The crowd wants blood.”

Dr. King was thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe we should give it to them.”

“How?” asked Farmer.

“We're the ones they want,” said Dr. King. “If we surrender to the crowd, we might save the people.”

His gaze was like steel. The others met it and didn't look away.

I tried to picture what the crowd would do if Dr. King and the others stepped outside. It was too terrible to imagine.

Reverend Abernathy shook his head. “No one's going out there,” he said softly. “And we won't surrender—we'll negotiate. We'll go to my office, call Washington, and tell them what we need.”

Farmer eyed Dr. King. King looked at Diane Nash, the student who had made out her will just a few days before. She nodded, and so did he.

Reverend Abernathy got several big, burly men to guard the doors. Then he headed downstairs, followed by Diane Nash, James Farmer, and Dr. King.

I watched the men at the door, then turned to Jarmaine. “Now what do we do?”

“I guess we wait,” she said.

We wouldn't be the only ones waiting. Our parents, certain now that we were in the church, would be eager to see us.

We climbed back to the tower. I shut the trapdoor behind us, then went to a window and gazed out. Jarmaine came and stood next to me. We spotted our parents again and waved. If there was trouble, I was hoping they would be all right.

After a while, Jarmaine said, “You asked what we'll do next. What about after tonight? What are you planning to do?”

Jarmaine was my friend. Considering what we'd been through together, I owed her the truth. But what was the truth? My parents were prejudiced, and so was I. We loved each other and didn't always love others. We felt uncomfortable around people who were different. Sometimes we hurt them, even if it was just by watching.

What was I planning to do?

Get on the bus. Change. Stop watching and do something. Through it all, keep dreaming.

In my travels with Jarmaine, I had learned something about dreams. They aren't misty, sparkly things. They're roads to the future, like the road we had traveled in the Greyhound bus. There are twists and turns. You can't always see what comes next.

I shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“You're helping,” said Jarmaine.

I thought of the way Dr. King and the others downstairs had looked at me.

“Am I?” I asked. “Maybe I don't belong here.”

“You belong,” said Jarmaine. “You're my friend.”

I don't know why, but I thought of a contest at our church picnic. Couples would stand next to each other, tie their legs together, and try to run. It was called a three-legged race. I had entered once with Daddy, and when we took off across the grass, we went laughing and tumbling to the ground.

Jarmaine and I barely knew each other, but somehow we were bound together. Black and white, we were in a three-legged race next to the Freedom Riders. We were lurching along, all of us, trying not to fall.

There was a noise in the attic below us. We heard footsteps, and they grew louder by the moment. People were charging up the steps. Maybe the mob had broken down the door. Maybe they were coming to get us. I shrank back, looking for a place to hide. The trapdoor flew open, and men came bursting through.

They weren't white. They were black, and there were five of them. They had coats and ties, and something else: guns.

When the first man saw us, he stopped short and the others bumped into him, tipping like bowling pins. If we had been anywhere else it might have been funny.

Jarmaine stepped forward. “What are you doing?” she asked.

The leader glanced around, as if looking for help. The man behind him pointed outside, where flames burst and flickered. With his other hand he waved a pistol. It glinted in the dim light.

“We're fighting back.”

I gaped at him. “You're going to shoot at them?”

A third man nodded. “Let's see how they like it.”

“This is a church!” said Jarmaine. “You brought guns to church?”

“We thought there might be trouble,” said the leader. “We were right.”

He moved to a window and looked out. “This is the perfect spot,” he said.

Jarmaine pleaded, “Don't fight violence with violence.”

“They started it,” the leader replied.

He lifted his foot and kicked the wire mesh, tearing it loose from the window. The others spread out around the tower and did the same.

I'd been watching, frozen. Our parents were out there. So were Grant and Mr. McCall. What if the men shot them?

I tried to imagine what the mob would do if anyone got hurt or killed. I pictured them charging the church doors, splintering them and pouring inside where people were huddled.

The men raised their weapons.

“Don't do it!” cried Jarmaine. “Do you want to be like them?”

She threw herself at one of the men, knocking him sideways, but the others didn't even pause. Maybe I could stop one, but it wouldn't be enough. Five against two, and the five were armed.

In that instant I thought of what I had learned from Jarmaine. I recalled the courage of Dr. King. I thought of Gus and the power of music.

I remembered the bell.

Diving toward the center of the tower, I reached past the railing for the rope. I felt its rough fibers in my hands. I gripped it hard and pulled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The bell swung, and the tower came alive.

I had heard the sound before, but this was different. Now, like the people at First Baptist Church, I needed it.

The sound was beautiful. It was strong. It was big and round, like a globe, like the earth. It shook the tower, and it shook me.

The men hesitated. They stared at the bell, their faces full of shock and wonder.

I rang the bell for all the people who had worked to bring it there and had cared for it faithfully. I rang it for Jarmaine and Lavender and Diane Nash. I rang it for Grant and Mr. McCall, for Mama and Daddy and all the other people who had been wrong and could change, if only they would try. I rang it for me.

I pulled the rope over and over again, filling the tower. The leader watched, then turned back toward the window. So did the others. When they did, they saw a row of flashing lights.

Jarmaine climbed to her feet. The two of us moved up beside the men and looked outside.

“Soldiers!” exclaimed Jarmaine.

Later we learned what had happened. Dr. King had called Washington and told Robert Kennedy that the marshals hadn't helped. When Kennedy considered using federal troops, Governor Patterson decided to act first, sending in the Alabama National Guard. They were escorted by the Montgomery police, whose flashing lights had appeared as if summoned by the bell.

I turned to the men in the windows. “You don't need your guns.”

They looked at each other, then lowered their weapons and put them away.

Jarmaine grinned and shouted, “Thank you, Dr. King!”

The bell was silent, but inside me it kept on ringing.

We climbed from the tower and raced down the stairs, just behind the men who had burst in on us a few minutes before. The men seemed excited, but now it was a good excitement, and there was no sign of guns.

When we passed the big front doors, I saw the guards standing there. I hurried up to one of them, who was wearing a suit and drenched in sweat.

“Can I go outside?” I asked.

He gave me a funny look.

“It's okay,” I added quickly. “I have friends there.”