Part 51 (2/2)

Another roar, like a giant wave: ”Yes!”

”Yes. Fine!” Adam Cramer raised his hands, and the people were quiet. ”Well, I'm willing to work with you. Maybe you want to know why. After all, I'm not a Southerner. I wasn't born in Caxton.

But I am an American, friends, and I love my country--and I am ready to give up my life, if that be necessary, to see that my country stays free, white and American!”

Phillip Dongen, who has seldom been moved to such emotional heights, led off the applause. It was a frantic drum roll.

”Friends, listen to me for a minute.” The young man's voice was soft again. It rose and fell, the words were soothing, or sharp as gunfire. ”Please. Mr. Wolfe, over there, has mentioned something about keeping the attack legal. As far as I'm concerned, something is legal or illegal depending on whether it's right or wrong. If nine old crows in black robes tell me that breathing is against the law, I'm not going to feel like a criminal every time I take a breath. The way I see it, the _people_ make the laws, hear? _The people!_”The car, bearing an out-of-county license plate, swung slowly onto George Street from the highway. It was a 1939 Ford, caked with dust and rusty, loud with groans of dry metal. It had come a long way. The five people within were limp with the heat, silent and incurious. Only a small part of their minds, like icebergs, were above the conscious level of thought.

Ginger Beauchamp did not move the gear lever from high as they commenced the hill, nor was he concerned with the misfires and rattles that followed. His foot was numb on the accelerator pedal. He could think only of getting through the seventy miles that remained, of falling, exhausted, onto the cot.

There was no d.a.m.n sense to visiting his mother. She didn't appreciate it. If she was so anxious to see him, why didn't she ever try to be a little nice? he thought. Well, she's old.

I say I ain't going to make this drive no more, but I am. And Harriet will want to come along and bring Willie and s.h.i.+rley and Pete.

Now, d.a.m.n. If I could go just myself, then maybe it wouldn't be so d.a.m.n bad. But I can't. She just don't want to see me, she wants to see the kids, And--.

Ginger Beauchamp saw the people gathered on the lawn in front of the courthouse and slowed down.

”What is it?” Harriet said. She opened her eyes, but did not move.

”Nothin'. Go back to sleep, get you plenty of sleep.”

He glared at his wife and swore that next week he would make her learn to drive. That would take some of the strain off. Then he could sleep a little, too.

”What is it, Ginger?”

”Nothin', I said.”

The car moved slowly, still coughing and gasping with its heavy load. The overhead traffic light turned red. Ginger pumped the brakes three times and put the gear lever in neutral.

Sure a lot of people.

He started to close his eyes, briefly, when out of the engine noise and murmur of the crowd, he heard a sharp, high voice.

”Hey-a, look!”

Then another voice, also high-pitched: ”Git 'em, now. Come on!”

Ginger looked around and saw a group of young boys sprinting across the street toward his car.

They were white boys.

What the h.e.l.l, now, he thought.

”Ginger, it's green, Ginger.”

He hesitated only a moment; then, when he saw the running people and heard what they were yelling, he put his foot down, hard, on the accelerator.

But he had forgotten to take the car out of gear. The engine roared, ineffectively.

”You n.i.g.g.e.rs, hey. Wait a second, don't you run off, don't do that!”

Suddenly, the street in front of him was blocked with people. They surrounded the car in a cautious circle, only the young ones coming close.

”What's the trouble?” Ginger asked.

”No trouble,” a boy in a T-s.h.i.+rt and levis answered. ”You looking for trouble?”

”No, I ain't looking for no trouble,” Ginger said. The exhaustion had left him. Harriet was staring, getting ready to cry. The children were asleep. ”We just goin' on to Hollister.”

”Oh, you jes' a-goin' on to Hollister? How do we know that?”

One of the boys put his hands on the window frame and began rocking the car.

”Don't do that now,” Ginger said. He was a thin man; his bones poked into his dark black skin like te.ntpoles. But the muscles in his arms were hard; years of lifting heavy boxes had made them that way.

”Sweet Jesus,” Harriet Beauchamp said. She had begun to tremble.

”Hush,” Ginger said.Another boy leaped on the opposite running board, and the rocking got worse.

”Cut it out, now, come on, you kids,” Ginger said. ”I don't want to spoil n.o.body's fun, but we got to get home.”

”Who says you got to?”

The circle of people moved in, watching. Some of the men peeled away and approached the car.

Their throats were knotted. Their hands were clenched into fists.

A small white man with a crushed felt hat said, ”n.o.body gave you no permission to drive through Caxton, n.i.g.g.e.rs. They's a highway to Hollister.”

”Well, sure,” Ginger said. ”I know that. But--”

”But nothin'. How come you in our street, gettin' it all messed up?”

The two boys were rocking the car violently now. Pete Beauchamp, aged seven, woke up and began to cry.

Ginger looked at the small man in the crushed hat. ”What's the matter with you folks?” he said.

”We ain't done nothin'. We ain't done a thing.”

”You got our street all dirty,” the small man said.

Ginger felt his heart beating faster. Harriet was staring with wide eyes, shuddering.

”Awright,” Ginger said. ”We sorry. We won't come this way no more.”

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