“Uh-huh.” Daddy stared at his wineglass. Finally, he looked up and smiled at me, then Jackson. He nodded his head. “Well, you’re sure that’s the lot you want?” he asked.
I can’t remember what Jackson and I said after that. Something like, we think this is the perfect lot or we’ve made up our minds. Now I wonder if my father’d had a sixth sense about us building here. Something he couldn’t adequately express. There is no doubt in my mind that if we hadn’t chosen to build this house on this spot, Jackson would still be alive and I’d feel joy every time I walked in the front door. But there is no way my father could have predicted what happened. And the bit about the area being haunted? I’d felt it, hadn’t I? At night, when the world outside the house was dark as pitch? Or even in the daylight, when Rainie and I walked around the trail and I felt the wave of cool air that had made me shiver, despite the warmth of the day.
I wish I hadn’t found the letter. I crumple it up and put it in the recycling bag, then take it out again. Flatten it on the desk. I don’t know why, but I think I should keep it. Then I look around the room at the dozens of other boxes, and I hope there will be no more surprises.
Chapter 22
ELLIE
1965
The past four days had been some of the longest—and most educational—of my life. I finally felt like Win and I had become friends. He gave me small peeks into his life: He had a younger sister, handicapped from having polio. She took all his parents’ energy, he said. “Someday when they’re gone, she’ll be my responsibility,” he told me. I could tell that he loved his sister, that she broke his heart, and that his family was close. He missed them. I envied him for that. I did miss Buddy, but not my parents. To be honest, I was glad to be away from them. As for Reed, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him after the past couple of weeks. I hadn’t written to him. He didn’t fit very neatly into my life right now. I felt like it had been years instead of two weeks since I’d last seen him and my family. No one other than my fellow field-workers could understand what I was experiencing.
I felt safe most of the time as I canvassed with Win. No white people lived in this part of Flint and we hardly ever saw anyone on the rutted roads other than curious neighborhood children, much less white men ready to kill us. The children loved the novelty of us. We were new people to talk to and sing with and walk with. Many of them were particularly interested in me. They didn’t see white people very often, if ever, and they held my hand, swinging my arm as I taught them “I’ll Fly Away” and “I Love Everybody,” inserting the names of people they loved and—at my insistence—the people they hated, and they taught me their favorite songs and took us to see their parents, giving us exactly the introduction we needed.
We fell into a rhythm, Win and me. When an adult would answer the door Win would either begin with his “camel connection” if he thought the family would know what he was talking about, or else he’d mention Martin Luther King.
“Dr. King sent us to talk to you about your right to vote,” he’d say. He’d play up his connection to the beloved man, and except for the truly frightened folks—those who were afraid they’d lose their home or their job if caught talking to us—we’d get an invitation inside.
What happened next seemed to come more and more naturally to me. If a housewife was shucking corn, I’d sit down and start shucking with her while we talked. If she was feeding a toddler, I’d offer to take over to give her a chance to sit and chat. If there were children—and there were always children—I’d engage them in a game or a song. In every house, I found something to love—hand-stitched quilts or a child’s painting hanging unframed on a wall—and I’d ask about it. I was sincere in my questions and my compliments. It was my favorite part of canvassing, really. Getting to know people. Letting them open my eyes to their lives. I tried not to let it show that my heart ached over the poverty in front of me. My pity would help no one.
Win and I would do a back-and-forth exchange about the voting rights bill.
“A new law is coming real soon to help you vote,” he’d say.
“Have you ever tried to register before?” I’d ask.
That’s when we’d hear the horror stories. The embarrassment of failing the impossible-to-pass literacy test. The shocking beatings outside the courthouse. The threats over being kicked out of their homes.
“Once the law is passed, federal officers will protect you as you register,” Win would say.