The Myth of Perpetual Summer Read online

  The rumbling gets louder, the car coming up behind me is obviously a jalopy. I keep my eyes straight ahead as they pull up alongside me.

  “Hey, sugar, how ’bout a ride?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a form hanging out the rear passenger-side window.

  “Well, shit, it’s that James bitch!”

  Grayson Collie.

  The whistles die and sounds of disgust pour from the car. It swerves to the curb, rubber squealing against the concrete. I walk faster, holding my breath, not giving them the satisfaction of glancing their way. It’s broad daylight. Even Grayson Collie wouldn’t be so nervy.

  And yet . . . there isn’t anyone out in the big front yards on either side of the street, not even a gardener.

  Downtown is only four more blocks.

  A car door slams, followed by two more.

  My heart stuffs itself up into my throat. I let loose my held breath and break into an unladylike trot.

  “Hey! Slow up. I still owe your brother something,” Grayson calls, vengeance in his voice.

  I run, thankful I’m wearing tennis shoes.

  Thundering feet pound the sidewalk behind me.

  My arms pump, my purse swinging wildly. If I waste the breath on a scream will anyone come?

  Suddenly I hear a car horn; one long, blaring note. Tires squeal on the pavement.

  Oh, God! More of them!

  I smell burnt rubber and find speed I didn’t know I had. Just as I open my mouth to scream, I hear a car hop the curb. The guys behind me all swear.

  Then a car is alongside me. “Get in! Tallulah!”

  Ross!

  I glance over my shoulder. Grayson and his toadies are scattered, a couple of them on the ground, Grayson is just getting back to his feet.

  “Tallulah!” The red Corvette convertible paces me. He’s trying to reach the passenger-door latch.

  I don’t wait for the door to swing open. I put one hand on the top of it and vault into the passenger seat.

  Ross takes off so fast that dirt clods spray up behind us, then downshifts and turns a corner. “You okay?”

  I take a moment to arrange my skirt and pat my hair, regain a little dignity, as Gran would say. “Of course.” The words stick slightly on my dry tongue.

  He looks over at me and bursts out laughing.

  “If you’re going to laugh at me, let me out!” I can’t find the door latch.

  “It’s that little round knob. You just pull it backward. But I wouldn’t.” He presses on the gas and picks up speed as we head out of town. “And I’m not laughing at you. It’s just you’re the only girl I know who could be chased down the street by hoods and then sit there as if nothing happened. How do you do it?”

  “Practice.”

  “Why were they chasing you?” There’s a hard edge to his voice, like he wants an excuse to punch someone.

  “They were just fooling around.” I really don’t want to explain Griff’s and my long-running issues with Grayson Collie.

  “The way you were running says you didn’t think they were fooling around.”

  “It’s nothing. They just like scaring people.”

  “Tallulah.” He reaches over and takes my hand. I’m glad I have on gloves so he can’t feel how sweaty my palms are. “If there’s something going on, I want to help.”

  “Really, they’re just idiots. Bored idiots. Why are you in town?” I change the subject.

  “I was headed to the hardware store.” Ross used to shop in Columbia, which is closer to the Saenger cottage than Lamoyne. But since he and Griff have started palling around, he always comes here. “But now that I’ve found you, I’m open to other suggestions. Mom went home for a couple of days. I’ve set ridiculously low expectations for progress on the painting. I was hoping to see you—although not in such a knight-in-shining-armor way.”

  There’s something in his tone that makes me blush. “Sorry. I need to get to the bus station.”

  “Where are you going?” The question is more than what Dad calls a throwaway remark, asked out of politeness. “You don’t have a bag.”

  Until this very moment, it hadn’t struck me how unprepared I am. What did I think I was going to do, ride up to Jackson, find Margo in an hour, and convince her to turn around and drive us both home? But I have to go. The blackness I felt in my chest when she told me she was going has done nothing but grow, darker and heavier and more alive with fear. The last time I ignored my gut feeling I almost drown.

  “I’m just taking something to Margo up in Jackson.” I pat my purse as if it carries something important. “She’s there working. I plan on getting the last bus back.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “To the bus station?”

  “To Jackson.”

  A spark of panic hits me. “Oh, no. I can’t ask you to do that. Just drop me at the station. I still have plenty of time before my bus.”

  “Griff would kill me if I let you take a late bus all by yourself.”

  Before I can protest further, he does a U-turn and heads toward the highway.

  The only thing worse than my fear for Margo is the idea of Ross watching me beg her to come home. But, after being chased by Grayson Collie, my worldly confidence is shaken. And those were just stupid kids. What is it going to be like if I have to face the KKKers and police dogs?

  No matter the embarrassment, I’d rather have Ross standing beside me than go it alone.

  * * *

  When we reach the sign for the Jackson city limits, Ross asks me where we’re going. I just stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s having amnesia or something. Then I realize he means where exactly.

  “The bus station.” I’m praying it’s like the sit-ins where protesters hang around the bus station all day and night, refusing to leave. Otherwise, I have no idea how I’m going to find her.

  “Is your mother meeting you there?”

  I look out the passenger side and give a vague nod.

  When we reach downtown Jackson, I try to keep my mouth closed and a ho-hum look on my face. Dad would have a hissy if he knew I was thinking in such unintellectual terms, but jeepers, my vocabulary is buried under the number of cars and people and buildings. I counted ten stories on one of the buildings we passed, and that wasn’t including the clock tower and the statues perched on the corners. Busy as they are, the streets are so peaceful I have a hard time imagining police dogs and picket signs, bloodied Negroes and shouting whites. Maybe Margo exaggerated the situation.

  The newspaper pictures of the burning bus in Anniston on Mother’s Day were real enough, though.

  When we stop at a light, three girls wearing fine dresses and carrying expensive-looking handbags cross in front of us. Here I sit in my homemade dress and secondhand straw purse, and they’re looking at me with a kind of envy. They think we’re on a date! A cute boy and a racy car must trump brand-new dresses and handbags. I feel a little perkier.

  One of the girls is wearing sunglasses. As she passes, she slides them partway down her nose and eyes Ross. Her cherry-red lips smile, showing movie-star teeth. I feel like the shabby girl that I am and steal a look at Ross. At least his eyes aren’t following those girls across the street the way I’ve seen Griff’s do when we’re on campus and a pretty group of coeds walks past.

  As the light turns green, my cheeks burn with irritation at myself for dallying in such foolish daydreams. What if Ross happened to look at me and saw what was going on inside my head? Oh, the humiliation. If life in Lamoyne has taught me anything, it’s that you can never let people see what’s on the inside. It just gives them a nice, easy target.

  “There’s a motorcycle patrolman parked at the next corner,” Ross says. “Ask him where the bus station is.”

  When Ross pulls alongside, the officer looks our way.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I say.

  He takes off his sunglasses with a polite smile. “Yes, miss.”

  “Can you tell us where the bus
station is?”

  His smile wilts, and the sun suddenly feels hotter on my head.

  “You taking a trip?” he asks, shifting his weight on the motorcycle seat and planting his feet more firmly on the ground.

  “No, I’m looking for my mother.”

  “And you think she’s at the bus station?” His brows draw together, leaving a deep crease between his eyes.

  I glance behind us, hoping to see backed-up traffic and angry drivers. But there’s plenty of room and everyone is politely rolling around us.

  Before I can put together a harmless reason my mother is at the bus station, the officer asks, “Where y’all from?” There’s now suspicion in his eyes.

  Suddenly, I can smell the black rolling smoke from that burning bus. My and Griff’s acquaintance with Chief Collie has taught me that just because a man wears a badge doesn’t mean he’s above letting his personal feelings interfere with his law enforcing.

  “Lamoyne,” I say. “And he’s from New Orleans.”

  “And why is your mother at the Jackson bus terminal?”

  Ross leans around me and says, “Excuse me, sir, but we’re holding up traffic, so if you could just tell us where the station is?”

  “You look like nice kids, so I’ll just say this once—for your benefit. There’s no good come of hanging around the bus station. Do your business and move on.”

  I get that oily feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Ross says, “Of course, sir. The station then?”

  The officer points down the street and tells us to take a left in two blocks and go to Lamar Street, then turn right. Then he narrows his eyes and says, “Y’all remember what I said.”

  Before I can say anything, Ross is pulling slowly away. I hear the motorcycle start. When I look over my shoulder, he’s pulling into traffic. Butterflies take flight around my heart.

  Ross isn’t stupid. He has to know what’s going on, the lunch-counter sit-ins, James Meredith, the Freedom Riders, and the Tougaloo Nine. I haven’t found the courage to ask him what he thinks about any of it. And I can’t tell if he notices the patrol officer following us. He certainly hasn’t given any indication that he does. But then, he’s not the one keeping a secret about why we’re here.

  It’s easy to spot the bus terminal from down the block because of the tall sign in the center with G-r-e-y-h-o-u-n-d written vertically. As we get closer, the blue two-story building reminds me a little of a movie house with windows, with rounded corners and a marquee over two sets of double doors. It’s definitely more impressive than the brick storefront in Lamoyne with a bus pull-through in the back alley.

  “You can just pull to the curb and let me out,” I say, my hand already on the round white knob. “I’ll be fine from here.”

  “The whole point in my driving you was so you don’t ride the late bus home.”

  “I might stay with Margo overnight.”

  “Okay. But I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe with her. You have no business being in this city alone.”

  “I’m not a child.” I’m kind of proud of the steel-edged offense in my voice—very adult. I pull the door lever back, even though the car is still moving.

  Ross grabs my left arm. “Hold on! Close the door. That officer is following us. Let’s not give him a reason to stop.”

  Ross goes around the corner, then finds a parking place at the curb. He gets out and comes around to open my already half-open door. My cheeks warm up a bit. Gran has drilled manners into my head for years—always wait for the gentleman to open your car door. If he doesn’t, keep waiting. If he doesn’t get the hint, he’s not worth your time. I never thought I’d actually be in a situation where it counted. Ross takes my hand and helps me from the low car, as casually as if we did this every day.

  The motorcycle patrolman putters past, slowing to nod gravely at us as he does.

  “Creepy,” Ross says behind his smile.

  “I’m really fine. No need to stay.”

  He looks down at me. “I never took you for thick-headed, so I’m assuming it’s stubbornness talking.” He offers me the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

  I feel upside down, sideways, and inside out when I settle my hand on his arm. The warmth of him sets off new and surprising things inside me. I nearly drag my feet down the sidewalk, unsure if it’s because I want to draw out the feeling, or because I’m dreading Margo won’t be there.

  The inside of the station is cool and full of smooth, curved lines, just like the outside. Also, just like the outside, it’s quiet as a tomb. There is a man attending the counter, an old woman sitting and reading a Bible, a couple of ladies with kids busy with Highlights magazines, and a janitor pushing a mop so slowly that if Gran were here she’d give him a scowl saying, Snap to it. They’re all white, certainly not “sitting in.”

  “What time is your mother expecting you?” Ross asks, his voice low and yet still echoes in the space.

  I break away from him and go to the ticket agent.

  “Can I help you, miss?” He seems kindly.

  I keep my voice almost to a whisper. “I’m looking for my mother, Margo James.”

  “Coming from where? I can give you an arrival time.” He looks down at a schedule book.

  “Um, no. She . . . she, well, she’s working with . . . for . . . ”

  Slowly his eyes come up to meet mine again. “She one of them protesters?”

  I lower my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Buncha them troublemakers showed up in here yesterday. Police asked ’em to leave.”

  “And they did?” I can’t mask my surprise.

  “You’d think a mother would be home taking care of her children, not out upsetting law-abiding folk.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe the state the world is coming to. “You just take yourself right back out that door.” His voice gets louder. “And don’t be comin’ back.”

  Trembling, I turn around and walk quickly past Ross and out the doors to the sidewalk.

  I can barely see the passing cars for my tears. I have no idea where to look. No idea how I’m going to admit my foolishness to Ross. I hear the doors open behind me but don’t turn to look at him.

  “Tallulah?”

  Then I hear the door open again and figure it’s the ticket agent coming to make sure we leave.

  Then I hear a small, sweet voice say, “Excuse me, young lady.”

  I turn to the old woman standing beside Ross, holding her care-worn Bible to her chest. “Are you looking for someone? Perhaps I can help.”

  I swipe my tears before I turn around. “I don’t see how, ma’am.”

  She steps closer and in an even smaller voice says, “I work with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.”

  “Student?”

  “Yes, well.” She smiles with a mischievous twinkle in her hazy blue eyes. “Not all the volunteers are students. I’m just keeping a quiet eye on things. Most of the Negroes here to protest are staying with families around the area. The white volunteers are out at the Moonglow Motor Court.”

  I search Ross’s face, looking for disapproval, but he’s as blank as a new sheet of paper. He asks her for directions and then thanks her. Then he silently takes me by the arm and directs me back to the car.

  We’re on the edge of the city before I find the courage to say anything.

  “If you don’t want to take me to the motel, I understand.”

  His jaw flexes a couple of times before he says, “I don’t mind taking you. But I do mind you lying to me.” He looks my way. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are! I didn’t lie, exactly. More of an omission of detail.”

  The tips of Ross’s ears turn red and his fingers tighten on the steering wheel as he shakes his head, like I’ve disappointed him. “That’s the kind of game you want to play? Really? With me?” He says it as if he and I are special, like we owe each other honesty.

  “I . . . I just—” His sharp look kills the excuse in my mo
uth. “I don’t know how much Griff has told you about our mother.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Guess that’s no surprise.”

  “What’s to tell?” he asks.

  “She’s . . . different,” I say.

  “Yeah, I noticed. So?”

  “It’s more than the way she dresses.” After all, Ross only met her once—and things on Mother’s Day certainly didn’t give opportunity for normal conversation. “After Dad’s craziness at the crawfish boil, I suppose I thought if you knew what she’s up to, it . . . it might just be too much. Things might change—friendship-wise.” Then I mutter, “It usually does.”

  I keep my eyes on the road but can feel his gaze boring into my head, feeling around inside there, looking for more than I want him to know.

  “I don’t know what kind of friends you’ve had . . .” He pauses. “I’m not against the fight for civil rights, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  I feel myself standing at a fork in the road. If I say anything less than the full truth, I’m pretty sure Ross will be finished with me.

  “Partly.” I search around for the words to explain Margo to someone who can’t possibly have any frame of reference. Griff says Ross’s mother bakes cookies. She wears pearls. I almost laugh out loud—I have no frame of reference for that kind of mother.

  “The truth is”—I lick my dry lips—“if it wasn’t civil rights, it’d be some other cause. She always has something else to do, somewhere else to be.” When I realize how pathetic and whiny I sound, I rush to add, “She’s dedicated to making the world a better place.”

  “Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I sit up a little straighter, feel a little brighter inside. It’s not anything to be ashamed of. I used to believe that. Back when she first stopped making popcorn for Saturday-night TV and started missing reading to Griff and me at bedtime. Griff pretends he doesn’t remember the time before. It’s easier to stay angry that way.

  “You’re right.” Maybe being from a big city does give Ross a different perspective. I breathe easier, happy I’m not going to have to make excuses and hide things about Margo for him to stick around.