“You might’ve been led to believe the Klan is farther south,” Greg said, “but the United Klan of America has a stronghold here in North Carolina. Nearly twelve thousand members in two hundred Klaverns led by Bob Jones, their racist, bigoted, dangerous so-called Grand Dragon. He holds rallies just about every night. It’s like a county fair for these people. Thousands of them. Mothers, fathers, children. Food and fun for all.” Greg had a rhythm going. He reminded me of Dr. King in that moment. “They listen to speeches designed to fuel hatred. And for a finale, they burn a massive cross to symbolize their unity against people who aren’t just like them. People like us.”
I was perspiring in the airless room and the conversation wasn’t making it any better. I lifted my hair off the back of my neck, my fingers grazing my slick skin. Someone had passed around a sign-up sheet for the two showers in the school’s locker room. I was seventh on the list and couldn’t wait to stand under a spray of water.
“I’ll be here for you most of the time except Saturday nights when I go home to see my family, and Sunday morning, when I’m usually ministering to my AME congregation in a little town called Turner’s Bend.”
I turned at the sound of a sudden thud to see that Chip had fallen asleep and slid off his chair. He laughed. We all laughed. Except Win, who only smiled.
“Back in the chair, Chip,” Greg said, but he was laughing, too. I liked him much better than I had when I’d met him in his Turner’s Bend church. Of course, then he worried that I might plant a bomb in the pews.
“I do have a major bit of unfortunate news, though,” Greg said, as Chip got into his chair, and we all fell silent. “Looks like we aren’t going to be able to register voters in Derby County right away, folks. Probably not for a few weeks.”
I thought every one of us gasped. If we didn’t help people register, what were we going to do here?
“They closed the registrar’s office,” Greg said. “Shut it down. They’re waiting until LBJ gets around to signing the voting rights bill into law. Then they’ll have to open. So for now, we’ll still canvass, educating folks, getting their commitment to register when the time comes. And we’ll focus on political education and the other parts of our job as SCOPE workers.”
I was disappointed. I’d pictured lines of people at the courthouse, finally getting their turn to add their names to the voting rolls. But in a way, this might be better. If people tried to register now, before we had the Voting Rights Act in place, they might have to pass the trumped-up literacy test or get turned away just because the clerk got out of bed on the wrong side that morning.
When the meeting was over, Rosemary showed Jocelyn and me to the very small windowless art room where we would sleep. The room smelled of paint and library paste. We pushed the handful of desks against the wall and dumped our rolled-up sleeping bags in the middle of the wood floor.
“You look so familiar,” I said to Rosemary as I slid my camera case from my shoulder.
She nodded. “You’re Buddy Hockley’s sister,” she said.
“How do you know Buddy?” I asked, surprised.
“My cousin Ronnie works at the car shop with him. I’ve seen you there a time or two.”
“Oh, right!” I said. Ronnie’d been working at the car shop since Buddy opened it four years ago. “Buddy couldn’t run that place without Ronnie,” I added.
Rosemary smiled. “I’ll tell him to ask for a raise,” she said, and I laughed.
Rosemary left us, and Jocelyn and I rolled out our sleeping bags. It was nearly one in the afternoon. I lay down on top of my sleeping bag, trying to stay awake so I didn’t miss my turn in the shower, but the pull of sleep was too great. My turn came and went while I slept.
* * *
When we all met over blueberry muffins and coffee on Monday morning, I was wide awake, hungry, and nervous about meeting the family I’d be living with. Once we were dropped off with our families, we’d have no transportation and few of the families would have a phone. We’d really be on our own.
The boards the guys had hammered into place over the broken windows were still in place and intact.
“Nothin’ happened,” Paul said, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. I thought he looked relieved.
“We were ready for them!” Chip laughed, holding a baseball bat in the air. I bit my lip, trying to imagine a baseball bat against a shotgun. I remembered not liking Chip on our long drive from Round Hill to Atlanta, but he really seemed to be a nice guy. In retrospect, I knew my own prejudices and my own fears had influenced my feelings about him on that drive.