but big blue sky and grand puffs of white clouds
sailing by. Nothing on the walls. The room was close. She needed air.
"What's your name?" The taller of the two spoke. He'd removed his hat, which left a red line imprinted across his forehead and whiter skin between
the line and his hair. His eyes were blue-gray, his hair black and shiny as a
new forty-five record.
"Celeste Tyree." She trapped his eyes then looked down quickly. "Am
I under arrest?"
"We ask the questions." No cartoon accent drawling across the air. Just
straight talk, hard. Clipped. Where was he from? Had he come south, too,
just like she had, only on the opposite side of the line?
The other officer floated to the back of the small room, put his foot up
on the seat of a chair. He looked younger; maybe he was a trainee, too.
Neither officer had on a name tag. Okay, Margo, now what? Just dark
blue uniforms with metal buttons, clanking handcuffs, billy clubs sticking
up in the back, the gun, all hard, all opaque. She looked at their shoes, black
thick-soled things with shoelaces.
"Where you from?" The questioning officer frowned into her face in a
dare. Careful, girl. Miss'sippi ain't nothing to play with.
She wanted to ask him the same question. Insolence, she knew, would
not be tolerated. Survive. Remember the porter at the train station. Take
low to keep the peace. Tap dance if you have to. "Detroit." She kept her eyes
down, the Negro look. She'd been warned about locking eyes with southern
cops. It's cause for a hit, a punch. Margo told her that. Keep your eyes down
to camouflage anger. When you look them in the eye, make sure there's no
anger, no resentment, no harshness in your eyes.
"You a communist?" He put his strong hands on the table near her. She
could see his hands. Sun-tanned. He was nearly the same color as she, but
not quite. He had the golden brown skin, like Momma Bessie's turkey at
Thanksgiving. She had already passed that.
"No, sir." In another place, she'd have laughed at the question. He was
standing so close to her she could smell his sweat and soap. Early in the
day sweat. Thick sudsy-smelling soap, mixed with salt sweat. By evening
he'd be rank.
"Your parents know you down here stirring up trouble? You could get
hurt down here." He moved back a step.
"My parents know where I am." She'd been told to say no more. If
they kept her, Margo would know when she went back to the corner to
pick her up. She wasn't supposed to leave that corner. She'd know. She'd
come to the police station to get her. They hadn't said she was under arrest. In truth, they didn't have to. They could keep her and tell the world they
never picked her up or that they released her and all the while she could be
rotting in a cell or worse, released into the hands of the Klan in the middle
of the night.
The two officers left her sitting in the little room. She blessed her sweating body-at least she wouldn't have to go to the bathroom. The officers
came back, directed her up and out the door, back into the elevator. Down
they went into the garage, into the car, and back to the same corner. The
older officer opened the car door for her, careful not to touch her, and told
her to have a nice day. Her imagination had scurried to outrun reality. The
officers rode away. The box of flyers was gone. Celeste waited for Margo
in the brilliant sun. She'd survived her first encounter with the police in
Mississippi. Not even a hit. Lucky she was, just like Shuck. She felt proud,
standing under the awning of the shoestore waiting for Margo, praying
she'd be on time.
That afternoon, Margo took Celeste and Ramona around Jackson like
they were junior high school children on a field trip, showing them the city
itself, pointing out the churches that were pro-movement and those that
were not. They were the sideshow at a circus as they slow cruised around
the city. Celeste, her confidence brimming over, told the story of her trip
to the
sailing by. Nothing on the walls. The room was close. She needed air.
"What's your name?" The taller of the two spoke. He'd removed his hat, which left a red line imprinted across his forehead and whiter skin between
the line and his hair. His eyes were blue-gray, his hair black and shiny as a
new forty-five record.
"Celeste Tyree." She trapped his eyes then looked down quickly. "Am
I under arrest?"
"We ask the questions." No cartoon accent drawling across the air. Just
straight talk, hard. Clipped. Where was he from? Had he come south, too,
just like she had, only on the opposite side of the line?
The other officer floated to the back of the small room, put his foot up
on the seat of a chair. He looked younger; maybe he was a trainee, too.
Neither officer had on a name tag. Okay, Margo, now what? Just dark
blue uniforms with metal buttons, clanking handcuffs, billy clubs sticking
up in the back, the gun, all hard, all opaque. She looked at their shoes, black
thick-soled things with shoelaces.
"Where you from?" The questioning officer frowned into her face in a
dare. Careful, girl. Miss'sippi ain't nothing to play with.
She wanted to ask him the same question. Insolence, she knew, would
not be tolerated. Survive. Remember the porter at the train station. Take
low to keep the peace. Tap dance if you have to. "Detroit." She kept her eyes
down, the Negro look. She'd been warned about locking eyes with southern
cops. It's cause for a hit, a punch. Margo told her that. Keep your eyes down
to camouflage anger. When you look them in the eye, make sure there's no
anger, no resentment, no harshness in your eyes.
"You a communist?" He put his strong hands on the table near her. She
could see his hands. Sun-tanned. He was nearly the same color as she, but
not quite. He had the golden brown skin, like Momma Bessie's turkey at
Thanksgiving. She had already passed that.
"No, sir." In another place, she'd have laughed at the question. He was
standing so close to her she could smell his sweat and soap. Early in the
day sweat. Thick sudsy-smelling soap, mixed with salt sweat. By evening
he'd be rank.
"Your parents know you down here stirring up trouble? You could get
hurt down here." He moved back a step.
"My parents know where I am." She'd been told to say no more. If
they kept her, Margo would know when she went back to the corner to
pick her up. She wasn't supposed to leave that corner. She'd know. She'd
come to the police station to get her. They hadn't said she was under arrest. In truth, they didn't have to. They could keep her and tell the world they
never picked her up or that they released her and all the while she could be
rotting in a cell or worse, released into the hands of the Klan in the middle
of the night.
The two officers left her sitting in the little room. She blessed her sweating body-at least she wouldn't have to go to the bathroom. The officers
came back, directed her up and out the door, back into the elevator. Down
they went into the garage, into the car, and back to the same corner. The
older officer opened the car door for her, careful not to touch her, and told
her to have a nice day. Her imagination had scurried to outrun reality. The
officers rode away. The box of flyers was gone. Celeste waited for Margo
in the brilliant sun. She'd survived her first encounter with the police in
Mississippi. Not even a hit. Lucky she was, just like Shuck. She felt proud,
standing under the awning of the shoestore waiting for Margo, praying
she'd be on time.
That afternoon, Margo took Celeste and Ramona around Jackson like
they were junior high school children on a field trip, showing them the city
itself, pointing out the churches that were pro-movement and those that
were not. They were the sideshow at a circus as they slow cruised around
the city. Celeste, her confidence brimming over, told the story of her trip
to the
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