“Things don’t happen right away. You know that. Supreme Court said segregatin’ any kinda transportation is unconstitutional, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Yeah. In February. Here it is July, and if you get on a crowded bus, you know who will always get the seats while the rest of us stand.”
Mama shakes her head, swallowing her bite of collard greens. “Things are changin’, George. Accept it. Told ya things would improve once Kennedy got in office.”
“Kennedy didn’t have nothin’ to do with that! Need I remind you how long it took him to send troops to Birmingham last summer? Them kids coulda all got blown up. He didn’t care till papers in other countries started callin’ us ‘the land of the free’ in quotations.”
“That’s just cuz he thought the governor—”
“Yeah and if he believed that bootlicker was gonna step in against some rabid crackers, I’m Queen Elizabeth the First. Kennedy. Please! He don’t even know how to keep white folks safe; how he sposeta be worryin’ ’bout coloreds? Soviets is in cahoots with Cuba. If he tries somethin’ else dumb as the Bay a Pigs, y’all kids gonna wind up speakin’ Russian and salutin’ Khrushchev. Course we might all just get blown off the face a the earth.” Uncle George laughs bitterly.
Mama sighs. Though her words have been focused on Uncle George and the progress of civilization (and its possible decimation), her eyes keep shifting over to me. And Clay. And me and Clay. Like she tryna catch us misbehavin’ at the daggone dinner table. I try to keep my cool, but she can be so nosy!
“Mama? Doralene’s chewin’ wif her mouf open again,” Coralene tattles.
“No I ain’t,” Doralene protests, spitting half-chewed pieces of ham all over the table.
“Y’all better act right while we got comp’ny here,” Mama says, using her stern voice. Coralene whimpers a little, since she didn’t get the response she was after, and Doralene grins at her, grease all over her mouth. These kids are just too disgusting for me. I know I never acted like that when I was their age. I hated kids that acted like that when I was their age.
“Don’t make no never mind what Kennedy say he gonna do for colored people if he don’t do it. How many of us we know still can’t vote? We are among the fortunate, Indigo, and don’t forget how they treat us when we show up at the polls,” Uncle George says, ending his tirade. This causes the table to go quiet for a second. Mama stares out the window, saddened. The threat of nuclear war is too big for us to comprehend, but being forever locked outta democracy? Shoot, we feel that every day.
Mama gets up to make some more iced tea. We don’t need no more iced tea, but she has to keep her hands busy when she gets upset. I wish Uncle George hadn’t come over today.
Then Clay does something that shocks me. I’m just sittin’ here, mindin’ my business, when I feel his warm hand on my thigh. With Mama and them not two feet away! He got more nerve than a nun in a cathouse!
“What about… the Voter Education Project?” he asks. This is the first thing Clay has said since we sat down to Sunday dinner other than “thank you, Ma’am” and “please pass the sweet potatas.” Uncle George smirks.
It could be considered a minor miracle that Clayton’s over here at all. Mama’s not too keen on guests, Uncle George bein’ the exception cuz sometimes he helps us with bills. She also wasn’t too thrilled about me seein’ the same boy so much. She likes the Alexanders, though. Alexanders have done well for themselves in this community the past few generations, she’s said.
Tryna get in good with her was all Clay’s idea. That’s why he came with us to church today like a good li’l lamb of God, and why he’s joinin’ us for Sunday dinner, and that’s a treat; it’s the one meal of the week that really matters to Mama. Most days we just have “catch what ya can” suppers, and in lean times PB&J, but Sunday is the day she goes all out. And here I am sittin’ with the most beautiful, sexy boy I’ve ever seen in my life with his hand on my thigh, and he’s pissin’ off mean ol’ Uncle George. Today is a good day.
“Yeah. I’d like to see you go down to the courthouse and remind them ’bout the VEP. Boy, they’d bash your head in,” Uncle George scoffs.
“Be worth it,” he says. Then he looks at the twins. One of Doralene’s plaits has come undone, and Coralene’s fixing it for her. It’s a sweet image if you can ignore all the food and shit she’s gettin’ in her hair. “If it means they might be able to vote when they old enough without bein’ disrespected or punished for it,” Clay finishes.
Mama brings the iced tea back to the table.
“Enough a this kinda talk. It’s a Sunday. God don’t like ugly, and neither do I,” she says. But when she thinks I don’t notice, I see the tiniest smile pass her lips, and it’s meant for Clay, even if she ain’t lookin’ at him.
Clay helps me clear the table as Mama and Uncle George get into it again. This time it’s about baseball.
“Clay? Wanna see the pitchers I colored?” Coralene asks.
“Yeah, sure. Let me just help Evvie first.”
“Clay Clay Clay! Can I show you the pitchers I drawed?”
“I just said I would after I’m done helpin’—”
“You said that to Coralene,” Doralene growls. I grab a plate from him, and he looks at both of them again like maybe they’re tryna trick him.
“You can go with them. I got it,” I tell him.
“Nope,” he says as he fills the sink. I watch in wonderment as he begins to wash dishes like he’s done this
