We Hope for Better Things Page 13

  Mary was searching for the right thing to say when George’s voice filtered up the stairs. “Excuse me.” She hurried down to the kitchen and found George talking to Bridget.

  “Did you manage any lemons?” Mary asked with a hopeful smile.

  “It’s this you’ll be most interested in seeing.”

  He pointed at the newspaper on the table in front of Bridget, who was as white as cream. The horror leapt out in cold black letters. Tens of thousands killed. Whole regiments lost. Carnage unimaginable.

  Gettysburg.

  nineteen

  Lapeer County, September

  I’d shaken the habit of going to church back in college. It wasn’t that I was mad at God exactly. He’d just slipped a bit in my estimation. I found him less dependable, so I got less dependable too.

  Still, I wanted to make a good impression on Nora. By nine o’clock Sunday I was bedecked in Dana’s red dress—the only dress I owned—my hair was curled, and I even put on a little makeup. I tugged the dress’s neckline up a few times, then added a black cardigan, which did nothing to help the problem but seemed to me to indicate that I had at least made an effort to be modest.

  I went down to the kitchen expecting to see Nora dressed similarly—albeit with a higher neckline—so I was surprised to see her still in her robe and slippers, nursing a cup of coffee.

  “You’re awfully dressed up,” she said.

  “I figured we’d be going to church.”

  She stroked Matthew’s fur. “Not this morning.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I just don’t think I’ll go today. But since you’re all dressed up, you could.”

  “Without you?”

  “Sure. Don’t let me stop you.”

  Before I stopped going, Sunday church had been part of my weekly routine from my earliest days. Yet the thought of showing up alone at a new church did not appeal to me in the least.

  “I wouldn’t know where to go.”

  “There’s a phone book in the drawer under the toaster. I’m sure they’re all listed.”

  I hesitated. “How about I make us breakfast this morning and we stay home?”

  “Breakfast would be nice.”

  I pulled out the pancake mix we had bought the day before and whipped up a batch, all the while wondering why Nora didn’t want to go to church if she wasn’t sick. All old ladies went to church. That was part of the old lady deal.

  “Tell me about your parents, Elizabeth. I’ve lost track of my nieces and nephews over the years.”

  “They’re medical missionaries in Brazil. They work with people who still get their living from the Amazon River. Raise pigs and farm in the dry season. Then when the river floods their land in the rainy season, they do a lot of fishing. And that’s when Mom and Dad get visitors from all along the river. They paddle in to the clinic to get help with medical issues.”

  Nora had a faraway look in her eyes. “Have you ever been there?”

  “I’ve never been anywhere.”

  “Me neither. We moved not long after we got married, and I haven’t really left since.”

  Marriage. I was in. But I had to be careful.

  “When was that?”

  “1963.”

  I nodded and waited for her to say more. But she didn’t.

  “Were you married in Lapeer?” I prodded.

  “No, Detroit. Like Mary and Nathaniel were. Then they moved out here to build where there was lots of land.”

  And just like that, we were talking about Mary again, Nora’s favorite subject. But I needed to keep this train on the tracks.

  “Tell me about your husband,” I said.

  Nora looked at her empty coffee cup. A minute dragged by, but I didn’t speak to fill the silence. One of my journalism professors had told us to just wait in these situations. “No one can stand empty space in a conversation for very long. Your interview subject will speak eventually if you give them time.”

  Finally Nora stood up. “I’ve got a terrible headache. I’m sorry. I’m going to go back to bed.”

  So much for that.

  It was only ten o’clock by the time I got breakfast cleaned up. Tyrese wasn’t due until noon. Two empty hours stretched out before me, so I kicked off my sandals and headed barefoot to the garden. A flock of noisy blackbirds rose as one from the field as I approached the trays of discounted plants from Perkins just outside the gate. I positioned the pots here and there, consulting a drawing I had sketched the night before. I tried to imagine them all at their full height and spread. How did anyone know what a garden would look like in the future?

  Then I noticed some dandelion leaves poking up near a fence post. Then some more. Then some more. Crouching in the dirt in Dana’s red dress, I started digging. The leaves continued several inches down into the soil, having sprung from some small portion of root I’d failed to remove. I dug deep, gripped the offending root, and pulled, but the soil was still wet and my fingers slipped. I dug deeper, grasped more firmly, and tugged. The root snapped off in my hand. I tried again. Another little bit broke off. On the other side of the fence, Matthew smirked at my futile efforts.

  After this irritating scenario repeated itself with every bit of dandelion root I found, I gave up in exasperation, back aching and knees sore from squatting. I pulled my cardigan off and used it to mop the sweat from my forehead and the back of my neck. With one blackened bare foot, I pushed the soil back over the last bit of root, vowing to forget about it and telling myself that I’d done enough. Surely it wouldn’t grow back again. It was time for a shower.

  Matthew took off in an orange streak, and I spied Tyrese walking toward me.

  “A little overdressed for yardwork, aren’t you?”

  I gave a little laugh to cover my embarrassment. I must look ridiculous. “Yeah, I wasn’t planning on doing all this when I came out here. It kind of got away from me.”

  “Looks like you’ve made a lot of progress.” He motioned to the wet, rotting piles of weeds and vines I’d pulled earlier that I still hadn’t burned.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing all week. And they’re already coming back.”

  “Weeds do that. Gotta keep on top of them.” He put his hands on the fence and surveyed the battlefield. “So what are your plans?”

  I picked up my sketch and brushed the dirt from it. “This is what I was thinking, though I’m having a hard time seeing what it would all look like in real life.”

  He examined the paper, mouth twisted in thought. I pulled at the neckline of Dana’s dress, leaving an obvious smudge of black dirt on my chest.

  “Can I suggest a few revisions?”

  “Suggest away. I’ll take all the advice I can get.”

  For the next few minutes he explained why what I had planned wouldn’t work. By the time he was done, my plans lay in ruins.

  “I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He laughed. “Good thing you’ve got me, eh?”

  “Did you want to see the rosebushes?”

  At the mention of the roses, he snapped into action, looking under leaves, lifting branches, examining the little green, orange, and red balls left after the petals had dropped, which I would later learn were called hips. He even searched the ground around the plant.

  “What are you looking for down there?”

  “Just seeing if there are any dried-up petals so I can try to guess what color the flowers are.”

  “We could ask Nora. Let me run inside a minute and see if she remembers.”

  I rinsed my feet off in the cold stream of water from the pump and dried them with my defeated cardigan, then took a detour through the main floor bathroom to survey the damage. My hair hung in limp clumps, my cheeks were flushed, and a streak of dirt ran across my forehead like tire tracks. I washed my hands and rinsed the dirt from my face. I ran a brush through my hair, but it only seemed to make things worse.

  I knocked on Nora’s bedroom door and opened it a cra
ck when she didn’t answer. She was still in her nightgown, lying in bed beneath the crazy quilt. In a moment of panic, I put my face near hers. Not dead. Just asleep. She must be coming down with something after all.

  I crept back out of the room and shut the door. Matthew was sitting in the hall, staring daggers at me. I left him there, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and went back out to the garden.

  “She’s taking a nap.”

  “That’s okay. I think I’ve got a few clues to go on here. But I’ll want to take some cuttings with me if you don’t mind. Just to be sure.”

  “No problem. I have some shears. Let me go grab them.”

  “Not just yet. I’ll make the cuttings right before I leave, and we’ll put them in some wet paper towels so they’ll keep until I can get them in water.”

  “Okay.” I was pleased beyond reason that he was not leaving right away. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Sure. Why don’t we sit down and see if we can draw up some revised plans?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Am I going to get charged some sort of consulting fee for this?”

  He laughed. “No, ma’am. Just helping out a friend.”

  “My friends don’t call me ma’am.”

  He kept smiling. “No, I guess they probably don’t.”

  My own smile faltered, though. Did I even have any real friends? My job had kept me so busy, I’d hardly taken time for anyone the past several years. I had Desiree, I guess. But I doubted we would stay in touch without the Free Press to bind us together.

  Inside, we sat at the kitchen table, sipping lemonade and talking herbs. Tyrese drew out two garden plans, one formal and symmetrical, the other with a winding path and haphazard—or so it seemed to me—placement of plants.

  “See, we’ve got the same plants in each of these, but a totally different look and feel. Which one speaks to you?”

  “I like the geometrical one.”

  “It’s a little formal for this type of house and setting, but I have to say I’m a fan of that one too. It would take more upkeep.”

  “Then maybe that’s not the best idea. I don’t think Nora’s up to that.”

  He frowned. “I thought this was your garden.”

  “That’s what she says, but I don’t really live here. I’m just visiting.”

  Tyrese swirled the ice in his glass. “That’s too bad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “You may not have noticed this, but there’s not a lot of people our age in Lapeer. I kind of liked the idea of hanging out a little with someone over eighteen and under forty, you know?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, I’m here for now. So let me know if you ever want to hang out.”

  “I sure will.”

  twenty

  Detroit, June 1963

  Nora slid past nine sets of knees, gripping the backs of the chairs in the row ahead to keep her balance. She could sense William’s hand at the small of her back, ready to steady her, but not touching. Haunted by the warning she had felt in that man Derek’s voice, Nora had suggested that they maintain a platonic facade in public. William had agreed, so that while they might kiss tenderly behind curtained windows, they avoided eye contact in certain parts of town. It kept things simpler, even if it didn’t stop the sometimes quizzical and often disgusted looks they got from strangers when they walked down the street or sat in a movie theater together.

  Now as they found their seats by Bianca and J.J. in the packed auditorium of Cobo Hall, Nora felt eyes upon her. It was an odd sensation to be the minority—one she still wasn’t used to. There were other white people there, but they were outnumbered more than ten to one, and in an auditorium that seated twenty-five thousand people, that ratio was on full display.

  It had taken William some time to convince Nora to attend the speech, let alone to take part in the freedom march down Woodward. It was one thing to break with convention in the privacy of her own apartment or William’s house. It was quite another to make a public spectacle of herself.

  “It’s just walking down a street,” he’d said through playful kisses.

  “It isn’t and you know it.”

  “I know you got legs.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you can do it.”

  “No,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see myself marching—for anything. It’s not this cause—you know it’s not. It’s any cause.”

  William sighed. “No one’s asking you to hold a sign or chant a slogan or do anything but walk.”

  “Balsams don’t march. We mind our own business. We don’t protest. We don’t make a fuss.”

  “That’s because you’ve got nothing to make a fuss about.”

  Some variation of this conversation had occurred three evenings in a row. Most nights now, when William got out of work, Nora would put together a simple meal of sandwiches or soup and salad. They’d eat, drink, listen to records, and share their most intimate thoughts, digging themselves ever deeper into a love from which they were helpless to escape. But when news of the march and the rally filtered through William’s community, it brought with it cold reality, unwelcome and unavoidable.

  She finally broke down the night before at the Rich house when William said, “Listen, this is your business because I’m asking you to do it for me, not for everyone else or the cause. For me. If I’m going to photograph this event, I need you to be another set of eyes and hands. Gonna be all sorts of stuff going on and I don’t want to miss a good shot. I’ve got a good chance of selling some photos of this event. Will you help me?”

  And so she had reluctantly submerged herself in the river of souls flowing down Woodward from the headwaters at Adelaide to the restless, eddying pool at Cobo Hall. She settled into the seat next to Bianca and leaned toward her rather than William. Few in Detroit would look askance at a white woman and a black woman who were casual friends. And she had to believe that this crowd would be as sympathetic as they came. The hubbub continued as people found their seats, then the lights dimmed, twenty-five thousand voices hushed, and a kind-eyed, impeccably dressed man strode on stage to vigorous applause.

  “That’s Reverend Franklin from New Bethel Baptist Church,” Bianca said over the clapping.

  Nora nodded blankly.

  “Aretha Franklin’s father,” Bianca clarified.

  That name Nora could identify. The new singer was making some waves in Detroit, and her powerful voice could often be heard coming from the Riches’ record player. But Rev. Franklin wasn’t who they had come to see, and he seemed to know that, wasting little time introducing the man of the hour.

  “And now, my friends, let the trumpets sound, let the bells ring, let the drums roll. Lay out the red carpet. Here he comes: America’s beloved freedom fighter, Martin Luther King!”

  The crowd erupted. Nora fixed her eyes upon the man. He seemed to fill the hall with a quiet dignity that was larger than he was. His voice had a leisurely, plodding cadence only acquired in the South. It was difficult for him to say much more than a sentence or two without interruption from the jubilant audience. Nora tried to settle into the steady exchange of carefully chosen words and rapturous applause. From all directions, the powerful thrum of clapping resonated, so different in quality than the measured applause at the symphony. Voices called out “All right” and “Uh-huh” and “Mm-hmm.” To her right, William leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the stage. To her left, Bianca nodded rhythmically in affirmation. Beside his mother, J.J. slumped back in his chair, hands dangling off the armrests.

  And as King’s words rolled over her, Nora found herself nodding in her heart, if not her head.

  “We’ve got to come to see,” he said, “that the problem of racial injustice is a national problem. No community in this country can boast of clean hands in the area of brotherhood. Now in the North it’s different in that it doesn’t have the legal sanction that it has in the
South. But it has its subtle and hidden forms and it exists in three areas: in the area of employment discrimination, in the area of housing discrimination, and in the area of de facto segregation in the public schools. And we must come to see that de facto segregation in the North is just as injurious as the actual segregation in the South.”

  Nora was still trying to process these words when pounding waves of applause engulfed her.

  “That’s right,” William said.

  “All right,” Bianca said.

  Even J.J. sat up straight and shouted, “Yeah!”

  “And so,” King went on, “if you want to help us in Alabama and Mississippi and all over the South, do all that you can to get rid of the problem here.”

  He went on to speak of marching on Washington; of sacrifice, imprisonment, and death; and of dreams and dignity. On all sides, bodies shifted in their seats, hands clapped, and heads nodded until the entire mass of people seemed to vibrate in anticipation of something big. Each wave of clapping and shouting pushed the words deeper into Nora’s heart.

  As King came to the end of his speech and quoted a song she had never sung in her reserved Presbyterian church, Nora felt that someone had turned on a light. She understood the run-down houses in William’s neighborhood, the cautious kindness his mother had shown to her during the past six weeks, the way J.J. looked at her when she parked her Corvette in front of their house. She knew why that Derek fellow had been so opposed to her presence in William’s arms. She knew without a doubt that she would not have said yes if William had asked her on a date. She knew that the reason she had not told her parents she was seeing him was more than that he was a particular man who had angered her father. She had been afraid of the judgments they would make about her intelligence, morals, and common sense. She knew she was a coward.

  And she knew she had to make it right.

  Late that night, when she and William lounged on the couch listening to Chico Hamilton on the hi-fi, Nora gathered her courage.