Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd

of them.”
    â€œIs Diane Nash with them?” I asked, remembering their leader.
    â€œMr. McCall says she’s in Nashville running things. He’s been on the phone with her. But there was trouble. Bull Connor, head of the Birmingham police, wouldn’t let the students off the bus. When they finally got out, he arrested them and took them to the city jail. That’s where they are now—in jail, singing freedom songs.”
    There was pride in her voice and determination. I tried to imagine what it must be like in jail. If I had been there, I didn’t think I’d be singing.
    â€œWhat’s going to happen?” asked Grant.
    â€œThey’ll keep the Freedom Rides going,” said Jarmaine. “And this time, no one will stop them.”
    Over the next two days, Grant and I followed the new Freedom Riders. Through phone calls with Jarmaine, we learned that the riders had stayed in jail all day Thursday. Then, in the middle of the night, Bull Connor woke them up, herded them into cars, and drove them off into the darkness. No one had seen them since.
    Friday after supper, I called Jarmaine and asked, “Where do you think they are?”
    Her voice sounded choked off and distant. “Have you heard of Billie Holiday?”
    â€œBillie? Like me?”
    â€œThat’s right. She was a singer. Died a couple of years ago. They called her Lady Day. We have some of her records. She had the most amazing voice. So beautiful. So sad. She was a drug addict. People mistreated her. You could hear the pain in her songs.”
    â€œI’d like to hear them sometime,” I said.
    â€œThere’s one song called ‘Strange Fruit.’ I can’t sing it, but I know the words:
    â€œ Southern trees bear a strange fruit ,
    â€œ Blood on the leaves and blood at the root ,
    â€œ Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze ,
    â€œ Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees .”
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said.
    â€œI think you do,” said Jarmaine.
    My mind, groping for an answer, slammed up against a wall. The wall was tall and wide. I think it had always been there. On this side of the wall we smiled and prayed and helped each other. We were nice. And on the other side? I tried to imagine what was there. It was dark and mean. It was filled with shadows. People whispered about it. I didn’t dare look.
    Jarmaine said, “You’ve heard the stories. I know you have. A mother is hungry and steals something. A man speaks disrespectfully. He looks at a white woman the wrong way. Then, late at night, they disappear. Someone finds them a few days later, hanging from a tree. Strange fruit.”
    I shivered. “You mean lynching? It really happens?”
    â€œIf you grew up the way I did, you wouldn’t ask that question.”
    â€œYou think the Freedom Riders might have been lynched?”
    She said, “They disappeared in the middle of the night. This is Alabama. What do you think?”
    Alabama . To me, it meant football. The Crimson Tide. Coach Bear Bryant. It meant my town and my neighborhood, places I loved. But for Jarmaine, the word was different. It scared her, I could tell. How could two people live in the same place and see such different things?
    When I got off the phone I went to the window. The neighborhood looked calm, like it did every Friday evening. Next door, Grant and his parents sat on the porch, talking and sipping lemonade. The crickets chirped. The wind blew and the trees swayed.
    Just another night in Alabama.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    I went to my room and lay down. Closing my eyes, I saw the Freedom Riders dangling from trees. Nearby was the burned-out shell of a bus.
    I guess I fell asleep, because when I woke up, the room was cool and someone had put a blanket over me. I glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and went to the window. The McCalls’ house was dark.