Win turned out to be an amazing teacher. I was awed by the way he switched his way of talking—his whole personality, really—as soon as we were greeted at the door. The way he picked up everyone’s language and their accents and the cadence in their sentences, from the first words out of their mouths. Some people were nervous, their eyes darting past us as if they were looking for their landlords who’d be angry to find them talking to us. Others invited us right into the house. Sat us down and gave us welcome lemonade or sweet tea to drink. I watched how Win connected to them. There was no way I could imitate him, but I found that if I asked questions about what problems they were dealing with without judgment or putting words in their mouths, people opened up. I knew it was only because I had Win at my side that they trusted me. His smile was genuine and it was clear that every woman we saw sort of melted when he spoke to them. That didn’t mean they agreed to register. Not at all. But by the time we stopped to eat—me, a fried chicken leg and hunk of corn bread Mrs. Dawes packed for me, and Win, a peanut butter sandwich—we had three yeses on our canvass sheet and a whole lot of maybes that Win told me meant no.
We sat in the shade of an old shed, batting away the gnats as we ate.
“They’re afraid of losing their jobs if their employers find out,” I said, parroting what I’d learned during orientation. I was anxious to show Win that I knew something.
“Exactly,” he said. “But a good many said they’d come to the protest, so that’s positive.”
My legs were stretched out in front of me and my feet were appallingly filthy. I knew that I was beginning to get a blister on my heel, but I would say nothing. Tomorrow, though, I’d wear my sneakers.
* * *
Our second day together found us surrounded by children—little ones who wanted to hold my hand as we walked and older kids who were drawn to Win’s transistor radio and the music on the Negro station. “My Girl” and “Shotgun,” and “I Can’t Help Myself.” The children turned out to be a real boon to our canvassing. They told us who lived where, how many kids in each family, what type of work the parents did, and often, what sort of problems were dragging them down.
By the time Win and I sat down in the shade of a tobacco barn to eat our lunch, we already had eight commitments to register on our canvass sheet.
“So how’s it going at the Daweses’ house?” Win asked as he freed his tomato sandwich from its wax paper wrapping.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I could say “fine,” but I opted for the truth. “It’s hard to get used to,” I said. “The outhouse. No electric light at night. I’m sleeping in a bed with two little girls climbing all over me.” I had to admit that I’d slept incredibly well the night before, though, kids or no kids, after covering so much of Flint by foot.
“It’s the same at the house I’m in.” He took a long drink from the thermos he wore attached to his belt.
“It hurts me to see it,” I said.
“Me too,” he agreed. “Though none of it’s a surprise to me.” Suddenly, he jumped up and grabbed my arm. “Back here!” he said, tugging me to my feet and pulling me behind the barn.
“What?” He’d nearly yanked my arm out of my shoulder.
He pointed to our left and I saw what had caught his attention: a beat-up white pickup truck, a white man at the wheel.
“I don’t think he saw us,” Win said, “but did you notice the empty gun rack?”
“No.” I was trembling. After having “watch out for white men in trucks” drummed into me fifty times, I still hadn’t thought to react when I spotted the truck in the distance.
“Generally means he’s got the gun on the seat with him,” Win said. “And he’d probably be happy to find a reason to use it.”
“Yikes.” I thought of the gun-shot windows at our headquarters. “Our second day and we almost got ourselves killed.”
He actually smiled. “We did pretty well, almost getting killed only once,” he said.
I thought it was the first time he’d directed his smile to me, and I felt a little of what those housewives must be feeling when they couldn’t seem to take their eyes off him. I looked away from him, shaken.
“Well, we’re on our feet now,” I said. “I guess we should get back to work.”
Chapter 21
KAYLA
2010
Once Rainie is asleep the night after the fire at the Hockleys’ house, I stand in the doorway of the room that was to be Jackson’s office. It’s stacked nearly wall to wall with boxes, some of which I’m sure contain bills or other important papers. I dread the disorganization I’ll find once I open the boxes, though. Jackson was a stickler for detail as an architect, but he was a scattered mess when it came to his office, papers on the floor as well as every other flat surface. He promised me he’d change his sloppy ways in the new house. I wish he’d had a chance to prove to me that he could do it.