planning something in Birmingham,’ George said grimly. ‘Apparently the FBI knows all about it but they haven’t done anything to stop it.’
‘And the local police?’
‘The police are in the damn Klan.’
‘What about those two?’ With a jerk of her head Maria indicated the seats across the aisle and a row back.
George looked over his shoulder at two burly white men sitting together. ‘What about them?’
‘Don’t you smell cop?’
He saw what she meant. ‘Do you think they’re FBI?’
‘Their clothes are too cheap for the Bureau. My guess is they’re Alabama Highway Patrol, under cover.’
George was impressed. ‘How did you get to be so smart?’
‘My mother made me eat my vegetables. And my father’s a lawyer in Chicago, the gangster capital of the US.’
‘So what do you think those two are doing?’
‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think they’re here to defend our civil rights, do you?’
George glanced out of the window and saw a sign that read: ENTERING ALABAMA . He checked his wristwatch. It was 1 p.m. The sun was shining out of a blue sky. It’s a beautiful day to die, he thought.
Maria wanted to work in politics or public service. ‘Protestors can have a big impact, but in the end it’s governments that reshape the world,’ she said. George thought about that, wondering whether he agreed. Maria had applied for a job in the White House press office, and had been called for interview, but she had not got the job. ‘They don’t hire many black lawyers in Washington,’ she had said ruefully to George. ‘I’ll probably stay in Chicago and join my father’s law firm.’
Across the aisle from George was a middle-aged white woman in a coat and hat, holding on her lap a large white plastic handbag. George smiled at her and said: ‘Lovely weather for a bus ride.’
‘I’m going to visit my daughter in Birmingham,’ she said, though he had not asked.
‘That’s nice. I’m George Jakes.’
‘Cora Jones. Mrs Jones. My daughter’s baby is due in a week.’
‘Her first?’
‘Third.’
‘Well, you seem too young to be a grandmother, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
She purred a little. ‘I’m forty-nine years old.’
‘I would never have guessed that!’
A Greyhound coming in the opposite direction flashed its lights, and the Riders’ bus slowed to a halt. A white man came to the driver’s window and George heard him say: ‘There’s a crowd gathered at the bus station in Anniston.’ The driver said something in reply that George could not hear. ‘Just be careful,’ said the man at the window.
The bus pulled away.
‘What does that mean, a crowd?’ said Maria anxiously. ‘It could be twenty people or a thousand. They could be a welcoming committee or an angry mob. Why didn’t he tell us more?’
George guessed her irritation masked fear.
He recalled his mother’s words: ‘I’m just so afraid they’ll kill you.’ Some people in the movement said they were ready to die in the cause of freedom. George was not sure he was willing to be a martyr. There were too many other things he wanted to do; like maybe sleep with Maria.
A minute later they entered Anniston, a small town like any other in the South: low buildings, streets in a grid, dusty and hot. The roadside was lined with people as if for a parade. Many were dressed up, the women in hats, the children scrubbed, no doubt having been to church. ‘What are they expecting to see, people with horns?’ George said. ‘Here we are, folks, real Northern Negroes, wearing shoes and all.’ He spoke as if addressing them, although only Maria could hear. ‘We’ve come to take away your guns and teach you Communism. Where do the white girls go swimming?’
Maria giggled. ‘If they could hear you, they wouldn’t know you were joking.’
He wasn’t really joking, it was more like whistling past the graveyard. He was trying to ignore the spasm of fear in his guts.
The bus turned into the station,
‘And the local police?’
‘The police are in the damn Klan.’
‘What about those two?’ With a jerk of her head Maria indicated the seats across the aisle and a row back.
George looked over his shoulder at two burly white men sitting together. ‘What about them?’
‘Don’t you smell cop?’
He saw what she meant. ‘Do you think they’re FBI?’
‘Their clothes are too cheap for the Bureau. My guess is they’re Alabama Highway Patrol, under cover.’
George was impressed. ‘How did you get to be so smart?’
‘My mother made me eat my vegetables. And my father’s a lawyer in Chicago, the gangster capital of the US.’
‘So what do you think those two are doing?’
‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think they’re here to defend our civil rights, do you?’
George glanced out of the window and saw a sign that read: ENTERING ALABAMA . He checked his wristwatch. It was 1 p.m. The sun was shining out of a blue sky. It’s a beautiful day to die, he thought.
Maria wanted to work in politics or public service. ‘Protestors can have a big impact, but in the end it’s governments that reshape the world,’ she said. George thought about that, wondering whether he agreed. Maria had applied for a job in the White House press office, and had been called for interview, but she had not got the job. ‘They don’t hire many black lawyers in Washington,’ she had said ruefully to George. ‘I’ll probably stay in Chicago and join my father’s law firm.’
Across the aisle from George was a middle-aged white woman in a coat and hat, holding on her lap a large white plastic handbag. George smiled at her and said: ‘Lovely weather for a bus ride.’
‘I’m going to visit my daughter in Birmingham,’ she said, though he had not asked.
‘That’s nice. I’m George Jakes.’
‘Cora Jones. Mrs Jones. My daughter’s baby is due in a week.’
‘Her first?’
‘Third.’
‘Well, you seem too young to be a grandmother, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
She purred a little. ‘I’m forty-nine years old.’
‘I would never have guessed that!’
A Greyhound coming in the opposite direction flashed its lights, and the Riders’ bus slowed to a halt. A white man came to the driver’s window and George heard him say: ‘There’s a crowd gathered at the bus station in Anniston.’ The driver said something in reply that George could not hear. ‘Just be careful,’ said the man at the window.
The bus pulled away.
‘What does that mean, a crowd?’ said Maria anxiously. ‘It could be twenty people or a thousand. They could be a welcoming committee or an angry mob. Why didn’t he tell us more?’
George guessed her irritation masked fear.
He recalled his mother’s words: ‘I’m just so afraid they’ll kill you.’ Some people in the movement said they were ready to die in the cause of freedom. George was not sure he was willing to be a martyr. There were too many other things he wanted to do; like maybe sleep with Maria.
A minute later they entered Anniston, a small town like any other in the South: low buildings, streets in a grid, dusty and hot. The roadside was lined with people as if for a parade. Many were dressed up, the women in hats, the children scrubbed, no doubt having been to church. ‘What are they expecting to see, people with horns?’ George said. ‘Here we are, folks, real Northern Negroes, wearing shoes and all.’ He spoke as if addressing them, although only Maria could hear. ‘We’ve come to take away your guns and teach you Communism. Where do the white girls go swimming?’
Maria giggled. ‘If they could hear you, they wouldn’t know you were joking.’
He wasn’t really joking, it was more like whistling past the graveyard. He was trying to ignore the spasm of fear in his guts.
The bus turned into the station,
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