* * *
Greg returned to the school around one o’clock and began slipping papers from his desk into his briefcase. I was back on the first floor and I walked over to his desk and spoke quietly, not really wanting Jocelyn to hear me.
“I’m sorry, Greg,” I said. “I don’t know if the cross happened because—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He interrupted me. “You’re an asset, Ellie, and as long as we can keep you safe, I’m glad you’re here.” He pulled his mail from his cubbyhole and put it in his briefcase. “I’m still looking for a home for you,” he said. “A few possibilities, but for tonight, at least, you’ll stay here at the school.”
“That’s fine,” I said. Tonight I could have a real shower and real toilet tissue instead of the hay and dried corn cobs in the Daweses’ wretched outhouse. It would be bliss.
“As for me,” he said, closing the clasp on his briefcase, “I’m headed home for some family time and to tend my flock in the morning.” He smiled at me, then looked over at Jocelyn to include her in our conversation. “Y’all and the boys have a safe night, now.”
Once Greg had left, Jocelyn pulled a few sheets of paper from the typewriter and separated them from the carbon paper. “He’s so nice,” she said, nodding toward the door through which Greg had disappeared.
“He is,” I agreed, and I told her how I’d practically begged him to let me work with SCOPE.
“See what I mean about admiring you?” Jocelyn said. “You really fought to be here.”
I felt embarrassed, undeserving of her admiration, and I was glad when Paul and Chip showed up carrying several sheets of plywood.
“Look what we found,” Chip said. He and Paul rested the wood they were carrying against the wall, and Chip pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pants pocket. “Stole it from a telephone pole.” He unfolded the paper and held it out for Jocelyn and me to see.
In big black letters on a tan background, it read United Klans of America and below that, Come hear the truth from the Grand Dragon of North Carolina. Below that, OPEN TO THE WHITE PUBLIC ONLY! Then came the date and a Round Hill address.
“Round Hill’s where I live!” I pointed to the address. “I know where they’re talking about. It’s a big old cow pasture just outside the town. Nobody uses it anymore.” I hated that the Klan was meeting so close to my home. Was this the first time or had I been ignorant of all the other times a gang of racists had gathered practically in my backyard?
“It’s tonight.” Jocelyn pointed to the poster.
“And we’re the white public,” Chip said. “I think we should go. I want to see what they do at these rallies. What we’re up against.” He glanced at Paul, who gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Could be educational,” he said.
“Are y’all crazy?” I asked. “They’re a bunch of hateful bigots. That’s all you need to know. And they’ll kill us if they figure out who we are. They just burned a cross outside my bedroom window.”
“It’s not like we’ll stand out,” Chip said. “Those rallies are packed, aren’t they? We’ll just look like four more racist white assholes. Aren’t you curious?”
Jocelyn looked at me. “Do women go?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “Even kids, from what I’ve been told.”
“Then let’s do it,” Jocelyn said, her eyes on me.
Greg would be disgusted with us. Probably furious, too, for putting ourselves at unnecessary risk. I thought of the cross outside my bedroom window with the Dawes children sleeping next to me. Danger so close. But Paul was right. No one would know we were any different from anyone else. And the fact that it was so close to where I lived made me curious.
“All right.” I removed the black and white SCOPE pin from my collar so I didn’t forget to do it later. “We can go for a little while,” I said. “Just to see what it’s like.”
Chapter 25
We left the school a little before eight in Paul’s car. It was still light out, and I sat up front to give directions once we neared Round Hill. It felt so strange to drive past my old high school, and Painter Lane—Reed’s street—and the turnoff that would take us to Hockley Street and my house. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking Paul to take a quick jog down Hockley. I’d only been gone a couple of weeks and driving through Round Hill already made me a little homesick. I felt like I’d been away for a lifetime.
But soon we were out in the country on the other side of Round Hill. We came to a bend in the road and I knew the old cow pasture would come into view soon. I caught my breath when it did. The huge empty field had turned into a sea of cars. They were arranged in neat lines in the middle of the field, but helter-skelter around the border, as though tossed by a tornado. In the distance I could see the throng of people. There had to be a thousand of them. Maybe two thousand.
“Well, that’s damn depressing,” Chip said. He leaned forward from the back seat and tapped my shoulder. “Your town is full of haters,” he said, and I felt a lump form in my throat.
“Who knows where all these people came from?” I felt defensive. “Don’t blame it all on Round Hill.” I knew the truth, though. I knew there were plenty of haters in my hometown. Plenty who complained about letting Black students into my old high school. Plenty of shops and restaurants where they weren’t welcome. I just avoided the haters. They weren’t part of my circle. They weren’t part of my parents’ circle either. Some people hadn’t been happy when my father opened his pharmacy doors to Black customers, but he stood his ground and I’d been proud of him. I hoped that, deep down inside, he was proud of me now for being in SCOPE, and that the only reason he hadn’t supported my decision was because he was worried about me.
We had to park a good distance from the rally itself, Paul jostling the car into a muddy spot between a couple of other Plymouths. We could barely squeeze out of the car doors, but we managed, and soon we were walking on the old country road toward the rally.
“It just looks like a big fair or something,” Jocelyn said.
It did. It reminded me of our annual Derby County Fair. There was even a Ferris wheel on the far side of the field. The crowd was thick, people packed in tightly, the men in white shirts and dark trousers and the women in their everyday dresses. The air smelled of hot dogs and the people stood around talking and laughing, paper cups in their hands. Children ran between them, chasing each other, waving miniature Confederate flags. There was a stage at one end of the field where a man spoke into a microphone, his voice echoing from huge speakers set up along the edges of the field. We headed toward the stage and it wasn’t until we’d gotten closer that I saw what made this gathering different from a county fair. In front of the long stage stood a line of a hundred—at least a hundred—people in white satin robes and pointed hoods. They applauded whatever the man on the stage was saying. His robe and hood were green, shimmering in the waning sunlight. We jostled closer to one of the enormous speakers so we’d be able to hear him.