of my skin color. I hadn’t known this was possible—to reject people for being white. A hot wave passed through my body.
‘Righteous indignation’ is what Brother Gerald called it. Jesus had righteous indignation when he turned over the tables in the temple and drove out the thieving moneychangers. I wanted to march up there, flip a couple of tables over, and say, Excuse me, June Boatwright, but you don’t even know met.
‘Let’s see if we can help her,’ August said as June disappeared from my line of sight.
‘We owe her that.’
‘I don’t see that we owe her anything,’ June said. A door slammed. August flipped off the light and let out a sigh that floated into the darkness. I walked back toward the honey house, feeling ashamed that August had seen through my hoax but relieved, too, that she wasn’t planning on calling the police or sending me back—yet. Yet, she’d said. Mostly I felt resentment at June’s attitude. As I squatted on the grass at the edge of the woods, the pee felt hot between my legs. I watched it puddle in the dirt, the smell of it rising into the night. There was no difference between my piss and June’s. That’s what I thought when I looked at the dark circle on the ground. Piss was piss. Every evening after supper we sat in their tiny den around the television set with the ceramic bee planter on top. You could hardly see the screen for the philodendron vines that dangled around the news pictures. I liked the way Walter Cronkite looked, with his black glasses and his voice that knew everything worth knowing. Here was a man who was not against books, that was plain. Take everything T. Ray was not, shape it into a person, and you would get Walter Cronkite. He filled us in on an integration parade in St. Augustine that got attacked by a mob of white people, about white vigilante groups, fire hoses, and teargas. We got all the totals. Three civil rights workers killed. Two bomb blasts. Three Negro students chased with ax handles. Since Mr. Johnson signed that law, it was like somebody had ripped the side seams out of American life. We watched the lineup of governors coming on the TV screen asking for ‘calm and reason.’
August said she was afraid it was only a matter of time before we saw things like that happen right here in Tiburon. I felt white and self-conscious sitting there, especially with June in the room. Self-conscious and ashamed. Usually May didn’t watch, but one night she joined us, and midway through she started to hum ‘Oh! Susanna.’
She was upset over a Negro man named Mr. Raines, who was killed by a shotgun from a passing car in Georgia. They showed a picture of his widow, holding her children, and suddenly May started to sob. Of course everybody jumped up like she was an unpinned grenade and tried to quiet her, but it was too late. May rocked back and forth, slapping her arms and scratching at her face. She tore open her blouse so the pale yellow buttons went flying like popped corn. I had never seen her like this, and it frightened me. August and June each took one of May’s elbows and guided her through the door in a movement so smooth it was plain they’d done it before. A few moments later I heard water filling the claw footed tub where twice I’d bathed in honey water. One of the sisters had put a pair of red socks on two of the tub’s feet—who knows why. I supposed it was May, who didn’t need a reason. Rosaleen and I crept to the door of the bathroom. It was cracked open enough for us to see May sitting in the tub in a little cloud of steam, hugging her knees. June scooped up handfuls of water and drizzled them slowly across May’s back. Her crying had eased off now into sniffling. August’s voice came from behind the door.
‘That’s right, May. Let all that misery slide right off you. Just let it go.’
Each night after the news, we all knelt down on the rug in the parlor before black Mary and said prayers to her, or rather the three
‘Righteous indignation’ is what Brother Gerald called it. Jesus had righteous indignation when he turned over the tables in the temple and drove out the thieving moneychangers. I wanted to march up there, flip a couple of tables over, and say, Excuse me, June Boatwright, but you don’t even know met.
‘Let’s see if we can help her,’ August said as June disappeared from my line of sight.
‘We owe her that.’
‘I don’t see that we owe her anything,’ June said. A door slammed. August flipped off the light and let out a sigh that floated into the darkness. I walked back toward the honey house, feeling ashamed that August had seen through my hoax but relieved, too, that she wasn’t planning on calling the police or sending me back—yet. Yet, she’d said. Mostly I felt resentment at June’s attitude. As I squatted on the grass at the edge of the woods, the pee felt hot between my legs. I watched it puddle in the dirt, the smell of it rising into the night. There was no difference between my piss and June’s. That’s what I thought when I looked at the dark circle on the ground. Piss was piss. Every evening after supper we sat in their tiny den around the television set with the ceramic bee planter on top. You could hardly see the screen for the philodendron vines that dangled around the news pictures. I liked the way Walter Cronkite looked, with his black glasses and his voice that knew everything worth knowing. Here was a man who was not against books, that was plain. Take everything T. Ray was not, shape it into a person, and you would get Walter Cronkite. He filled us in on an integration parade in St. Augustine that got attacked by a mob of white people, about white vigilante groups, fire hoses, and teargas. We got all the totals. Three civil rights workers killed. Two bomb blasts. Three Negro students chased with ax handles. Since Mr. Johnson signed that law, it was like somebody had ripped the side seams out of American life. We watched the lineup of governors coming on the TV screen asking for ‘calm and reason.’
August said she was afraid it was only a matter of time before we saw things like that happen right here in Tiburon. I felt white and self-conscious sitting there, especially with June in the room. Self-conscious and ashamed. Usually May didn’t watch, but one night she joined us, and midway through she started to hum ‘Oh! Susanna.’
She was upset over a Negro man named Mr. Raines, who was killed by a shotgun from a passing car in Georgia. They showed a picture of his widow, holding her children, and suddenly May started to sob. Of course everybody jumped up like she was an unpinned grenade and tried to quiet her, but it was too late. May rocked back and forth, slapping her arms and scratching at her face. She tore open her blouse so the pale yellow buttons went flying like popped corn. I had never seen her like this, and it frightened me. August and June each took one of May’s elbows and guided her through the door in a movement so smooth it was plain they’d done it before. A few moments later I heard water filling the claw footed tub where twice I’d bathed in honey water. One of the sisters had put a pair of red socks on two of the tub’s feet—who knows why. I supposed it was May, who didn’t need a reason. Rosaleen and I crept to the door of the bathroom. It was cracked open enough for us to see May sitting in the tub in a little cloud of steam, hugging her knees. June scooped up handfuls of water and drizzled them slowly across May’s back. Her crying had eased off now into sniffling. August’s voice came from behind the door.
‘That’s right, May. Let all that misery slide right off you. Just let it go.’
Each night after the news, we all knelt down on the rug in the parlor before black Mary and said prayers to her, or rather the three
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