Some of the regulars squeeze into the already packed back rows, while others begin walking.
A traveling salesman in the third row shifts his bulk, causing the streetcar to bounce. “Well, the coloreds in Atlanta are sure fresher than the ones out in the country,” he says, his voice high and amused. He cracks a sunflower seed with his teeth and spits the shell onto the sidewalk.
I wait for Old Gin to decide where we should sit, but he hasn’t budged from the sidewalk, and his face has become pinched in the center.
Sully stands up in his seat and glares at Old Gin, his conductor’s cap looking like a squashed fist. “For the love of leeches, Old Gin. Bend your perpendiculars so we can go home.”
“There is a problem,” says Old Gin. “Rules do not cover Chinese.” I stare at him in shock. Old Gin has never spoken up like that before, but there he stands, steady as a lighthouse in a rough sea. “I am brown like a potato, but Jo is white as you, though easier on the eyes, hm?” A few chuckle. “Bad rules create chaos.”
Sully looks more red than white right now. “You ain’t colored. Hitch your saddle up here, old man.”
The moment feels heavy with held breaths and tight with discomfiture. Most people avoid our eyes, but they are all watching with their ears.
Old Gin surveys the roomy first five rows, and then the last, packed close as cigars. He moves up to the third row, empty of all save the traveling salesman and his bag of sunflower seeds.
The salesman stretches a thick hand along the back of his seat. “You ain’t colored, but you ain’t white neither.”
Folks in the first rows have turned around, their faces rigid, some with impatience as they stare at Old Gin and me standing behind him. The crabby gardener who chastised Maud Gray sweeps a leathery hand at us, his eyes jumpy like fleas. “Dogs have no need for streetcars. Git.”
The traveling salesman’s head draws back. With a sudden jerk, he whuffs out another seed.
Old Gin’s hand flies to his face. His thin shoulders cave.
The salesman wheezes out a laugh. “Got him right in the eye, that’s how!”
“Why, you grotesque lump of flesh—” I begin to sputter, but Old Gin puts a hand on my arm, leading us back to the sidewalk.
Old Gin lifts his gaze to meet Sully’s. I’m reminded of the time Sully’s mule started walking crooked, and Old Gin found an abscess in the animal’s hoof. The men are not friends, but surely seeing the same person every day for twenty years fixes them in your life in some way.
“This streetcar is not for us,” announces Old Gin.
Sully’s usually hard face loses its fight. He turns his shoulder, and it is like the closing of a heavy book.
With a clang and a giddap! the streetcar bumps along and out of our lives.
Anger sparks around inside me, but pride, too. By opting not to take the streetcar, Old Gin has chosen not to play in a rigged game. The river’s path will be harder this way. We will need to wake earlier and arrive home later. Then again, perhaps the path is easiest when the heart is light.
Old Gin walks smoothly beside me, the only sign of agitation the twitching of his pupils, reflecting the thoughts inside. I’m reminded of that day that we tried to get Coca-Colas. While I struggled to hold in my tears, Old Gin led us out of Jacob’s Pharmacy with the same quiet dignity of kings of old. His head was not bent low, or held too high, but he moved with a bearing that knew its course, no matter what the world hurled at us.
There’s a lit quality to the dusky sky that makes all the angry bits inside me line up. Something powerful surges through me, a feeling that has nothing to do with ambition, and everything to do with principle. “I would like to join Noemi at a suffrage meeting tonight at Grace Baptist,” I hear myself say. I watch Old Gin out of the corner of my eye, bracing for disapproval.
“It does not surprise me that Miss Sweetie is a suffragist.”
I stop walking. A protest bubbles up, but then fizzes away. Many lies have rolled off my tongue lately, and I can’t help wondering how many I can hatch before they start pecking my eyes out. “How long have you known?”
He shrugs. “Jed Crycks is a devoted reader.”
I picture the tough, tobacco-chewing cowboy reading my column and nearly choke.
A smile alights on Old Gin’s face. “Parent always recognizes child’s voice.”
Twenty-Nine
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My sisters and I wonder, why must women suffer a few days each month?
Sincerely,
Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty
Dear Bloated, Crampy, and Spotty,
Because the alternative is worse, although they do get to vote.
Sincerely,
Miss Sweetie
* * *
—
The three-story white brick of Grace Baptist Church does not feature a cross or a bell or any of the standard-issue church symbols. However, a bronze plate on the door tells you that if you are seeking God, you can find Him here. As long as you can read.
A white woman with a knit cap stretched over her bread-loaf bun puts a hand over her heart when she sees me.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
“May I help you?” She speaks painfully slow, as if she is not sure I can understand.
“Yes, I’m here for the suffrage meeting.”
“You? I’m sorry, but they’ve already started. We don’t admit latecomers.” A fingernail of a smile digs at her face. “Too distracting.”
The buzz of voices behind her indicates a crowd, but she moves her stout frame from side to side as if to block my view. I can’t help thinking that the least distracting part of me is the late part. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here.”
“Who?”
“Noemi Withers.”
“Never heard of her. I am sorry.”
“But—”
“Jo? Is that you?” warbles a familiar voice.
Mrs. Bread Loaf steps aside, revealing Mrs. English, all five feet of her, looking formidable in a slate-gray suit with silver buttons. On her head sits another of the Miss Sweetie hats, this one in mauve with a pink-and-black rooster tail, and an eternity knot tied better than Lizzie’s. I can’t help admiring not just the color combination—she has always been a fashion maven—but also her business sense. What better way to advertise her product than to wear it at an event filled with her target audience?
“You know this girl?” asks Mrs. Bread Loaf.