Take the Long Way Home, page 23
“How many have you registered?”
“Not enough. Some folks refuse to open their doors when I tell them I’d like to register them to vote in the upcoming election, and those who do let me in say they’re too frightened to show up at the polling place because they fear reprisals.”
“Reprisals from who?”
“The Klan, Robert. I’m certain you’ve heard of them,” she said facetiously.
“Of course I have. Have you heard of them intimidating our people around here?”
With wide eyes, Claudia stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Intimidating? Is that a nice way of saying threatening? When you wake up in the middle of the night to find a burning cross on your property, you know it’s not a Halloween bonfire.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Claudia. Are you aware of Klan activity around here?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, but something tells me that it’s inevitable. The more folks talk about being registered and the closer it gets to election day, it’s going to bring out those cowardly hood-wearing snakes who will try and keep Black people from going to the polls.”
“I want you to be careful, Claudia.”
“How careful can any Black person be when they are gunned down in front of their homes?”
Robert smothered an expletive. “I don’t want to argue with you, Claudia.”
“Then don’t!” she retorted. “You have the responsibility of providing legal counsel for civil rights workers while I’ve volunteered to register voters. Both of us are warriors in this war, and we must stay the course.”
Robert was reluctant to tell Claudia that despite working for an organization advocating nonviolence, he had switched his alliance from Dr. Martin Luther King’s philosophy of civil disobedience to accept Malcolm X’s right to self-defense. Whenever he visited his clients in crowded jails and witnessed the result of them being beaten and maimed and would carry both physical and emotional scars all their lives, he’d experienced a rage that bordered on insanity. That’s when he’d wanted to plant bombs and blow up places where Whites lived and/or gathered. The rage lingered, and it was only during his drive home that he was able to let it go. Unlocking the door and walking into the house he shared with Claudia was akin to coming out of the dark and into the light.
“Go back to sleep, babe. Even though it’s early I must make a few phone calls.”
She snuggled against his body. “I doubt if I can go back to sleep, but I’ll try.”
* * *
The news of the murder of Medgar Evers spread across news wires like a lighted fuse attached to a stick of dynamite. It was if the eyes of the nation and the world were focused on Mississippi. How was it possible that a distinguished World War II veteran hadn’t lost his life fighting overseas to end fascism and totalitarianism, yet had lost it organizing protests and voter registration in his own country?
These thoughts plagued Claudia all day as she drove to Hackersville to register voters. She’d left the bank, went directly home to prepare dinner, then told Robert she was going out to see if she could register one or maybe even two voters. She’d smiled when he cautioned her to be careful. She maneuvered into the driveway to an elderly couple’s rental. Claudia knocked lightly on the door of the one-story house that was sorely in need of a new coat of paint. The door opened and she introduced herself to an elderly woman with two long snow-white plaits falling over her narrow chest, and announced why she’d come to see her and her husband.
“Do you mind if I come in, Mrs. Turner?”
“Sure, sweetie. Come and sit a spell. I’ll go and get my husband.”
She glanced around the parlor filled with mismatched chairs and sofas. A dimly lit bulb hung from the ceiling. She’d checked the census and discovered the couple were in their mid-eighties and voting records indicated they had never registered or voted.
Mrs. Turner came back with her husband. Claudia smiled when she saw them holding hands. Her smile grew wider when Bernard Turner held his wife’s elbow, assisting her to sit before folding his body down beside her. Mr. Turner had lost all his hair, while his barely lined nut-brown face belied his eight decades of living.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” Lucille said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Claudia shook her head. “No, thank you, ma’am. But thanks for asking. I don’t plan to take up a lot of your time, but I’d like to know if you plan to vote in the upcoming election.”
Bernard shared a look with his wife. “I’m not certain about that, because we don’t want no trouble. The man that owns this house came around a couple of weeks ago warning us that if we vote, then he was going to put us out. My Lucille and I are too old to pick up and move someplace else.”
“I understand your reluctance, Mr. Turner, but if we don’t register enough Black voters, when they find the man who shot Medgar Evers, there is no doubt he will go free because an all-White jury will not convict a White man charged with killing a Black one.”
Lucille Turner squinted as she looked at the window. “I think something’s on fire, Bernard. Best you get up and see.”
“I’ll check it out,” Claudia volunteered when Mr. Turner slowly pushed off the sofa. She went to the door and opened it, her heart stopping when she saw the burning cross on the patch of grass doubling as a lawn. She held on to the door when she saw a half dozen men on horseback with hoods covering their faces. Her heart started up again, and she couldn’t believe that she recognized the unhooded man astride a black horse less than ten feet away from her.
There was just enough daylight left to see the eyes she would remember all the days of her life. As a boy he had predicted he would make history. That he’d wanted his name to go down in history books like those she had read to him when she was a twelve-year-old girl. Claudia had read enough about the White supremacist group to recognize the symbol on the robe of the man staring at her. He was a grand dragon—the highest-ranking Klansman in Mississippi. She couldn’t fathom how he, only in his mid-twenties, had earned that rank.
“Denny Clark.” His name was barely a whisper, but her voice carried where the other men had exchanged glances.
Denny nodded. “Claudia Patterson.” He raised his right hand. “Let’s go, men.” There was hesitation and seemingly confusion among the others. “I said let’s get the hell outta here and leave these folk alone.” He reached for the sawed-off shotgun tucked into his waistband. “If anyone disobeys me, I’ll blow his fuckin’ brains out right here. Now git!”
It wasn’t until they rode off and the fire from the cross sputtered out that Claudia’s knees nearly gave out as she sagged against the door for support. Seeing Denny again was as if her past had returned to the future. And Claudia knew the only thing that had saved the Turners from potential harm and/or intimidation was her presence.
She closed the door and sat down again, her eyes meeting the Turners’. “I don’t think they will bother you again.”
“Why would you say that?” Bernard asked. “Because this isn’t the first time they’ve come around saying if we vote then they are going to kill us.”
“They are not going to kill you, Mr. Turner, because I’m not going to register you.” She stood up. “Hopefully we’ll meet again under less hostile circumstances.”
Claudia returned to her car and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She’d witnessed firsthand the threatening and intimidating tactics used by racists to suppress the vote. But she never could have imagined the boy whose life she’d saved was now a Klan leader.
Claudia managed to start up her car and head home. Seeing the Klansmen up close was enough for her to curtail her voter registration for a few days. However, she had no plan to give up volunteering. She did not know why, but she’d written down many of Malcolm X’s quotes, and the one that resonated with her was: It’ll be the ballot, or it’ll be the bullet. It’ll be liberty or it’ll be death. And if you’re not ready to pay that price don’t use the word freedom in your vocabulary. She had chosen the ballot and not the bullet, because she did not want her son or daughter to be treated as a second-class citizen.
Chapter 21
Be bold in what you want to stand for and careful what you fall for.
—Ruth Boorstin in The Wall Street Journal
“You’re back early.”
Claudia walked into the living room, flopped down on the sofa, and stared at the flickering images on the television screen. “That’s because I encountered some interference.”
Robert moved from his favorite chair to the sofa, his arm going around Claudia’s shoulders. “What happened?”
Her voice was a monotone when she told him everything from meeting the Turners to seeing Denny Clark again—this time as a Klansman; and her promise to the elderly couple that she would not put their lives in jeopardy by registering them to vote.
Robert glared at her. “Are you telling me nothing happened to them because this motherfucker from your past decided not to harm them because he’s still obsessed with you?”
Claudia couldn’t pull her eyes away from the throbbing vein in Robert’s forehead. “That’s not what I’m saying, Robert.”
“Then what the hell are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know why he did what he did, Robert. I’m just glad I was there at the time they burned a cross in front of their house.”
“Word must have gotten back to those jackals that there was voter registration activity around here, because this is the first occurrence I’ve heard about a cross-burning. Tonight will be the last time you will go out and register folks.”
Claudia panicked. She wasn’t going to stop signing up people to vote because of a staged stunt from the Klan. “No, it’s not! If you think I’m going to let a bunch of hood-wearing cretins stop me from doing what I signed up for, then you really don’t know me, Robert Moore.”
Taking off his glasses, he ran a hand over his face. “I forbid you to leave this house other than to go to work or visit your parents.”
Claudia was hard-pressed not to spew curses she knew would no doubt put the future of their marriage at risk. “Do you know who you are talking to?”
“Yes, you, Claudia.”
“No, you don’t, Robert. You can ask me to consider not doing something, but not forbid. I’m not your child or your chattel.”
Robert’s shoulders slumped as he put back on his glasses. “I really didn’t mean it that way,” he apologized.
“I know we’re still newlyweds, Robert, and it’s going to take time for us to get to know everything about each other. Firstly, you will not make demands and expect me to follow them without questioning you. And secondly, if there is something bothering you then I want you to trust me enough to tell me what it is. We’re a team, Robert. Partners in life that will have each other’s backs in the good and not-so-good times. What I will do is take a week off, but then I’m going back out there again.
“There’s no way I intend to let Medgar Evers’s death be in vain without continuing the fight for voter registration. It’s the same with Fannie Lou Hamer. They’ve beaten and jailed her yet she refuses to give up fighting for voting and women’s rights.” Claudia paused to take a deep breath. “And I’ve gone too far to give up now.”
Moving closer on the sofa, Robert took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know I overreacted, but I love you too much to lose you—”
“You’re not going to lose me, Robert,” she said, interrupting him. “I promise to take some time off, then I’m going back out there again.”
“Are you finished with your soliloquy, babe?” Robert whispered.
Claudia smiled. “I am for now,” she said, as she brushed a light kiss over his mouth, then deepened it when his lips parted as their tongues dueled for dominance. She moaned softly when he eased her back onto the sofa and lay between her legs; she felt his erection through the fabric of her pedal pushers. Passion had replaced her former annoyance once she realized how long it had been since she and Robert had last made love.
Robert rained tender kisses on Claudia’s throat. He missed spending time together and making love to her. They were married, living under the same roof, sharing the same bed, yet they were living separate lives.
He moved his hips against her groin. “Will you forgive me for being a horse’s ass?”
Claudia moaned again. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“How long will that be?”
“Just a few seconds. But first I must think about it. Okay. You’re forgiven.”
Robert moved off her body and pulled her up with him. “Let’s go to bed.”
She stared up at him. “Don’t you have to study?”
“Dammit, woman! Don’t you know that making love to my wife takes precedence over studying?”
Robert knew he had been remiss as a husband, partner, and a lover. He’d promised himself that Claudia would come first in his life, yet he had neglected her. He knew if she’d complained he would’ve attempted to adjust his schedule to spend more time with her. However, she appeared content to go to work, come home to cook and clean, and volunteer to register voters, so he hadn’t bothered to ask if she was happy.
Twenty minutes later, he kissed the bridge of her nose before pulling out of her warm body. “You have no idea how much I love you.”
“I think I do.”
“No, you don’t, babe. I love you enough to give up my life for you.”
Claudia placed her finger over his mouth. “Please don’t talk about death and dying. There’s enough of that in the news to make me regret turning on the television or reading the newspaper.”
Robert pantomimed zipping his lips. “Done. I want you to know that I’ve signed on to attend the March on Washington in August.” He felt Claudia go stiff. “It’s planned as a peace march, babe.”
“All marches begin peaceful, Robert, before the police decide it isn’t.”
“This one is going to be different. There’s going to be over five hundred cameramen, technicians, and news correspondents from all the major television networks covering the event, so the entire world will be watching. A. Philip Randolph has planned for the involvement of major civil rights organizations, and the more progressive wing of labor unions and other liberal organizations. I’ve heard rumors that there will also be a number Hollywood celebrities in attendance.”
“How many have they predicted will attend?”
“We don’t know currently, but I’ve heard that bus companies are gearing up to bring folks into Washington from all over the country.”
“I doubt if I’ll be able to take off to attend,” Claudia said, “but I’m definitely going to watch it on the evening news.”
Robert smiled. “There are going to be a lot of speakers and speeches.”
“It sounds as if it’s going to become quite an historic event.”
“I’m almost certain it will be,” Robert said, hoping he sounded confident enough to convince Claudia of what had been predicted to become a monumental event. Some of the organizers were concerned that only a few thousand people would participate in the march, but Robert was optimistic there would be a lot more.
He and the others in the Hattiesburg SNCC office received weekly reports about the potential participants who had pledged to attend the march. There were updated bulletins about meetings with President Kennedy, who’d tried to persuade the civil rights leaders to call off the gathering with the argument that violence was likely to occur, and he didn’t want the country’s capital to become a focus of civil unrest. When Randolph and Ruskin refused to cancel the event, Kennedy reluctantly endorsed it when told the themes were unity and racial harmony.
People were informed of the peaceful August demonstration through local churches and civil rights groups, and those traveling from across the country were planning to take what were called freedom buses and freedom trains to Washington, D.C. It would be the first time Robert would become a participant in a public demonstration, and although he doubted whether they would be attacked by police dogs and water hoses, he had drawn up a will leaving everything to his wife.
Reaching for his underwear, he stepped into them. Leaning over, he kissed Claudia’s shoulder. “I’m going downstairs to lock up and turn off the lights.”
“Are you coming back?” Claudia asked.
“Yes.” Not only was he coming back, but he’d planned to spend the rest of the night in bed with his wife. He could always study another day.
* * *
Denny slouched lower in the chair on the screened-in porch as the blades of a ceiling fan worked overtime to dispel the lingering daytime heat and humidity. It had been a while since he’d felt so uneasy, and he knew it had to do with coming face-to-face with Claudia Patterson after so many years. It hadn’t taken him long to discover she wasn’t Claudia Patterson, but Moore, and that she had married a civil rights attorney.
Seeing her again had been like a punch to his gut and for several seconds he’d believed he’d conjured her up. It had taken years before he was able to forget the pretty young Black girl who had saved his life. And although he’d married his employer’s housekeeper, whenever he had sex with his wife he’d fantasize that Alice Scott Clark was Claudia Patterson. He was sleeping with his wife and also with a fair-complected woman he suspected was passing for White, who lived in Pass Christian. When he’d questioned her about her race, she’d denied having Black blood, but did admit her grandmother had been half-Natchez.
He detected movement behind him and glanced over his shoulder to find Alice holding a glass of sweet tea. During the eight years he and Alice had been married, she’d miscarried four times, and the doctor had cautioned her about getting pregnant again. However, she had ignored his warning and was now pregnant for the fifth time. Luck was on her side because she had just begun her eighth month of confinement, half on bedrest, which had forced Denny to hire a woman to cook and clean the house.
