Night on Fire (7 page)

“Okay, okay.”

The picture seemed important, not just because of what it showed but who took it. I was there. Grant was there. The bus was there. They were all pieces of my future, if I could just figure out how to put them together.

“Take it,” I said.

He shrugged, took the camera from over his shoulder, and peered through the lens. “Say cheese.”

“That's stupid,” I said. “I've got a better word.”

He lined up the shot.

“Freedom,” I said.

Click
. And it was done.

The bus station was just a block from Noble Avenue, where people in Anniston went to shop. It reminded me of something.

“You go on home,” I told Grant as he carefully wiped the lens and put a cap over it. “There's something I need to do.”

We said our good-byes, and I walked back toward the shopping district with one question on my mind.

What should I get Mama for Mother's Day?

I'd been thinking about it since Daddy had slipped me the money on Friday. I had scanned ads in the paper, but nothing seemed right.

Reaching Noble Avenue, I passed Havertys Furniture, Goold's Hat Shop, Clark's Credit Clothiers, and finally came to Wikle's Rexall Drugs, where they had a little bit of everything. I looked over the products but couldn't make up my mind. I almost bought some perfume but decided not to. Mama liked things that worked, things that had a function.

Next I tried Charlie's Lucky Shopping Center, then Mason's Self-Service Department Store. Finally, in a corner of Mason's, I found it. They had a big display of straw handbags, and I spotted one with a picture of a duck on the side. I was pretty sure Mama loved ducks, or was it peacocks? Anyway, this was something useful. It could be a present from Royal and me.

I grabbed the bag, then picked out Mother's Day cards from Royal, Daddy, and me. I went to the counter, where I took Daddy's five-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to Mrs. Jutson, who had sold me my first Easter bonnet.

“It's for Mother's Day,” I told her.

Mrs. Jutson nodded, smiling. “I'm sure your mama will be very happy. Please tell her hello for me.”

“Yes'm, I will.”

I left Mason's proud of myself, glancing at the bag and imagining what Mama would say. As I did, I bumped into someone.

“Oops! Excuse me,” I said, looking up.

It was Jarmaine, carrying her schoolbooks.

“That's all right,” she said. “I wasn't paying attention either. I was just going home.”

“Finished for the day?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I have to do some homework.”

I thought of the times Lavender had helped me do my homework, while Jarmaine had been at home doing her own. It didn't seem right.

I said, “Hey, Mother's Day is coming up, right?”

Jarmaine nodded.

“I could help you pick out a present for Lavender.”

“That's nice of you, Billie, but I already have one.”

“Well, then, here's an idea. Maybe I could get her a present myself. After all, she takes care of me too. She's kind of like my mother.”

I thought Jarmaine might smile. Instead she winced as if I had hit her.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I'm fine,” she said.

I wondered how often Negroes in my town had said those words when they weren't fine at all. I wanted it to be different with Jarmaine and me.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Jarmaine studied me. “You don't know, do you?”

“What? Tell me.”

“She's not your mother. Hearing you call her that makes me feel bad.”

I stepped back, surprised. Talking with Jarmaine was like walking on ice—you never knew when you might fall through and come up shivering.

“I'm sorry,” I mumbled.

Reaching into my pocket, I felt the two dollars in change that Mrs. Jutson had handed me and thought I might be able to use it as a peace offering.

“You want a milk shake?” I asked. “We could get one at Wikle's.”

She looked at me and shook her head. “Wake up, Billie. Look around. This is your street, not mine. I'm a Negro. I don't shop around here—look what happened to my friend Bradley. And Wikle's? If I sat at the lunch counter, they'd arrest me.”

“For having a milk shake?”

“Welcome to Alabama.”

Jarmaine lowered her gaze and started up the sidewalk.

I called after her, “It shouldn't be like that.”

She hugged the schoolbooks to her chest and kept going.

CHAPTER TEN

Darkness is your friend
.

Daddy used to tell me that when I was little. I was afraid of the dark, like a lot of kids. So when Daddy came to my room to kiss me good night, I always begged him to stay. He would sit for a few minutes on the edge of the bed, holding my hand. When he got up to leave, he would say those words in a kind, gentle voice.

I began to believe him. I guess I still do. Darkness is mysterious. It's promising. You can wrap it around you like a shawl.

Grant had a room full of it, a darkroom.

I was thinking about it later that week when Grant and I rode to his house after school. Mrs. McCall must have seen us coming, because she pushed open the screen door and came out carrying two glasses of lemonade. She was tall like Grant, with a handsome face, pretty eyes, and a quiet manner.

She handed us each a glass of lemonade, then went back inside. The glasses were sweating. It reminded me of what Mama always said: “Horses sweat, men perspire, women glow.” After bicycling home on a warm day, I was glowing like mad.

I took a gulp of the cold, delicious lemonade. It was the McCall family's favorite drink. Grant's mom bought lemons by the bushel basket from old Mr. Bell, who had a fruit stand down the street. You could smell the lemons whenever you were around the McCalls—clean, fresh, a family with zest.

A bicycle rider coasted down the hill, with a heavy bag hanging from his handlebars. It was Arthur the Arm, a neighborhood kid earning a few bucks as a paperboy before moving on to his true calling, star pitcher for the Detroit Tigers. He reached into the bag, grabbed a rolled-up newspaper, and sent it spinning toward the porch, where it landed with a plop in front of Grant.

“Nice shot,” called Grant, and Arthur nodded.

Grant opened the paper and scanned the front page. He looked off into the distance, then down at his camera, which he was carrying with him as usual.

“I'm going to be a news photographer,” he said.

“When did you decide this?” I asked.

“I guess I've always known. I'll tell stories with pictures, the way my father does with words. I'll show what's good and what's hurtful. I'll fight for justice. I'll make people think.”

I imagined Grant at City Hall, snapping photos of the mayor, with his sleeves rolled up and a hat pushed back on his head. In the hat was a card that said
Press
. I had to admit, he looked good.

“Speaking of pictures,” I said, “what about that other one?”

“Which one?”

“You know, me at the bus station. Could you develop it?”

“I suppose so. I need to do some work in the darkroom.”

“Could I come with you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

It was a little room at the back of the house where Grant developed and printed his photos. Grant's dad had helped him cover the window and any cracks around the door so no light would enter. When we went in, Grant switched on a lamp and showed me some equipment. On a table there were trays that he called baths and a large metal device attached to a pole, which was an enlarger.

Closing the door behind us, Grant turned off the lamp and flipped a switch, and the room turned red. He explained that you can use red light when developing black-and-white photos because it helps you see but doesn't hurt the pictures. I watched while he developed and printed some shots he had taken at school. The photographic paper was blank, but then pictures appeared like magic.

There was the school band. There was the principal, Mr. Stephens. There was Phil Carruthers, the student body president, and crouched behind him, giggling, was Lisa “Big Baby” Barnes, the class clown. The pictures were everyday scenes, but something about them was thrilling. I was seeing the world through Grant's eyes.

“What about the bus station?” I asked.

“That's different,” said Grant. “I was shooting color.”

“So?”

“I have to change the chemicals. And we can't use the red light—that's only for black and white. It would ruin color photos.”

He spent a few minutes setting things up. Then he turned to me. “Ready?”

“I guess.”

He turned off the light, and the room went away. It wasn't red. It wasn't any color at all. It was what you see when you close your eyes at night.

Darkness. Deep, deep darkness.

“This is how you develop color photos,” he said.

How odd
, I thought.
Red for black and white, black for color
.

I heard Grant rustling around next to me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Working.”

“How am I supposed to watch? I can't see.”

Grant's hands touched mine and guided them around the table. “Here's a tray. Here's the enlarger. Here's the paper I'll print on.”

His hands were warm. They seemed strong and sure. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought they lingered a moment longer than they had to.

I wanted to ask,
What are you thinking? When you look into the darkness, what do you see?

I heard rustling sounds again. Grant was doing what he loved. It was so much a part of him that he could do it blind. I wondered what it was like to be so sure of yourself.

A few minutes later he turned on the light.

“I made two of them,” he said, “in case you want an extra.”

On the table were twin pictures of me. My skin was pink. My hair was red. My eyes sparkled, and my grin flashed. Behind me, the Greyhound bus glinted silver and blue, ready to take me on a journey.

Grant picked up the photos and handed them to me. “These are yours.”

I took them, then thought about it and handed one back.

“You keep this one,” I said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We always tried to make Mother's Day special.

Daddy and I woke up early that Sunday and tiptoed into the kitchen, where we made sausage and hockey pucks—I mean, pancakes. We were out of syrup, but there was an old jar of strawberry jam left in the back of the fridge, and we pulled that out. I picked some buttercups from the yard and put them in a pickle jar. Daddy woke up Royal and brought him into the kitchen. Then I set everything on a tray and led the way to Mama's room.

In the hallway I turned to Daddy and whispered, “Isn't there a song?”

“Huh?”

“For Mother's Day. You know, like ‘Deck the Halls' for Christmas, or ‘Auld Lang Syne' for New Year's.”

Daddy thought about it. “Not that I know of.”

He held open the bedroom door, and I walked through, singing “Happy Mother's Day to you …”

Okay, it was weak. But Mama beamed anyway, like she was at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in New York City, where
Life
magazine said Miss Harper Lee liked to eat. I was just happy to see Mama smile.

Daddy got the Sunday paper, and after breakfast I sat next to Mama on the bed and read it with her while Daddy played with Royal on the floor. Mama and I went through the comics, of course, including my favorites,
Flash Gordon
and
Peanuts
. There was a cartoon saying “Every day is Mother's Day”—Mama liked that—and a sappy poem in the ad for Long's Funeral Home.

The sun shone on the bed. I rested my head on Mama's shoulder. Daddy ruffled Royal's hair. It was just the four of us in our own little world. Daddy winked at me. Royal laughed. Mama glowed. Sometimes I think it was the last good moment.

When we finished the comics, I slipped into the other room and brought back the straw handbag, which I'd wrapped in tissue paper the night before.

“Ducks!” said Mama when she tore it open. “I love ducks!”

“I thought you loved peacocks,” said Daddy.

Mama hugged Royal and me; then Daddy presented his card and gift. The gift was so big he couldn't get it onto the bed. Mama had to open it on the floor. She ripped through several miles of ribbon and wrapping paper, and underneath found a giant cardboard box, which Daddy helped her open with his pocket knife.

“A vacuum cleaner!” said Mama finally. “How romantic.”

Personally, I didn't think it was that romantic. Maybe Mama didn't either.

Daddy shrugged. “You've been talking about keeping the house clean. I thought this would help.”

Mama flashed a stiff little smile. “Lavender will be thrilled.”

Down the other side of our hill, toward town, was the Wayside Baptist Church, where we went on Sundays. It was a little brick building with a sign out front.

God couldn't be everywhere, so he made mothers
.

It was another one of Pastor Bob's gems. There was a different message each week. Daddy said the guy spent more time on the sign than he did on his sermons.

That morning, Mama carried her Bible in the straw handbag. We took Royal to the nursery, then sat in our usual spot on the aisle five rows from the front, which I liked because you could see out the window. I watched Jimmy McReedy work on his motorcycle next door, revving the engine every so often and drowning out Pastor Bob. It was just as well, because the sermon was about Mary, the mother of Jesus. The problem was, I think Pastor Bob got her mixed up with another Mary. I have to say, though, I couldn't blame him. Let's face it—there are too many Marys in the Bible.

I lost track of the sermon and glanced at the people around me. I'd grown up with them. They seemed almost like family. There was Clyde of Clyde's Hair Heaven. A few rows behind him sat Mrs. Jutson, the clerk at Mason's. On the other side of the church I spotted Mr. Tolbert, the band director and my homeroom teacher. He caught my eye and smiled. Maybe his mind was wandering too.