The Crossing by Gerald W. Darnell Page A

me, “Nickie ordered, as she put her arm through mine and started walking briskly toward the front door.
    She walked me out front, and then turned to look me directly in the face. “Carson, I have a message from a woman, and I’m pretty sure, this isn’t the kind of woman you normally get messages from.”
    “Huh?” Was all I could manage.
    “Nora Whitmore called you about an hour ago.   She said if you arrived BEFORE 6:00, to have you call her.   And if it was after 6:00, you were not to call her under any circumstances.   According to my watch, it is 5:55 P.M., so get over there on that phone and call this woman. She seemed desperate. ”
    Nickie handed me a sheet from her green order pad with a note and number scribbled across the page. It read:
    ‘ Nora Whitmore   SU4-8497   Do NOT call after 6PM’ .  
    I didn’t respond to Nickie, but instead went directly to the phone and placed the call.   A very weak female voice answered after the first ring. “Hello,” is all she said.
    “Mrs. Whitmore, this is Carson Reno.   I have a message to call you.   How may I help?”
    “Thank you for returning my call,” she said in a slightly stronger voice. “Thomas gets home at six and I don’t want him to know we have talked.   Can you possibly meet me somewhere in the next thirty minutes?” she asked.
    “Absolutely, would you like to come here?   I’m at Chiefs.” I suggested.
    “Oh no, no, that would never work.   Too many people would see me.   Do you know where Bessie’s Café is located?   It’s on Burrow Street.”
    “I do,” I answered. “Would you like to meet there?”
    “Yes, please.   I’ll meet you there at 6:30, and I won’t have but about 15 minutes.   I’ll tell Thomas I’m going to the market.   Will that be okay?” she asked.
    “I’ll see you there,” I replied as I hung up the phone.
    ~
    B essie’s Cafe was near, but not in the area known as the Crossing.   Bessie’s is a favorite place to eat for the locals offering fantastic home cooked meals with cold ice tea, but no alcohol.   I wasn’t eating, so I ordered coffee and took a seat next to the front window.
    At exactly 6:30 a blue and white 1959 Chevrolet Apache Truck pulled up and parked next to my car.   The woman driving seemed almost too small to see over the steering wheel and even smaller when she opened the door and stepped out.   She was wearing a black Sunday hat with a veil she had pulled back over the top. Underneath, I could see short-cropped hair that had not had much attention recently, and she was wearing a dark skirt and a white blouse with a dark sweater covering most of the blouse.   Using both hands, she was clutching a black ladies handbag, and holding it tightly against her chest.   This was Mrs. Nora Whitmore, Tammy’s mother.
    Although meek in appearance, Mrs. Whitmore was deliberate in her movements.   She entered Bessie’s Café and walked directly to my booth and sat down.
    “Mr. Reno, I am Nora Whitmore, Tammy’s mother.   I don’t have much time, but I need to talk to you.”
    “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Whitmore.   Please tell me how I can help,” I said gently.
    “My husband, Thomas, is a good man.   He’s hard, he’s tough and sometimes he doesn’t understand things he can’t control.   But, he loved our daughter, Tammy, and he has taken her death very hard.   What I am going to tell you is something I’ve known for a while, but would never have told Thomas.   I’m sure it will eventually come out, but somehow I think your knowing about it might make it easier once it does.” Nora had a shaky but deliberate tone.
    “Thank you for your confidence; I promise to use my best judgment and discretion.   What do you want to tell me?” I asked.
    “Thomas is not a bigot.   He works with colored folks everyday at the grocery and we have many colored friends, but I don’t think he could tolerate his daughter going out with one.”
    “Huh?” I was surprised and