What Words For A Nation

A historical fiction short story.

He did not feel the baseball bat as it cracked into his head. He stood on the shoulder, hands on thighs, coughing out the last of the smoke but with the taste of gasoline and burning rubber still strong in his mouth when he heard a sharp sound deep in his ears, like the snap of fingers in a small dark room. The next second, he was on his back, gazing up into the blue sky. There was silence at first. Then, very slowly, the sound faded back in, as if he was slowly turning up the volume on his transistor radio. First high-pitched whistling, then muffled voices, then crying and yelling, the crackle of flames, the shuffle of feet. No sirens.

 

The wet grass soaked his shirt and cooled his back while the sun warmed his face. He took inventory. He could not move his arms or legs. He did not yet dare to try to sit. He moved his head slightly and experienced no pain. He managed to look over his right shoulder and saw the still burning blackened shell of the bus. His neck muscles and eyelids failed him and he was immediately once again facing upward, his mind far away behind closed eyes. Dorothy and he, sitting on the sidewalk, watching the occasional car and waiting for something, a pick-up game of stickball or a competitor in a race to the corner. Dorothy pointing to a big black beetle, its lifeless hulk squatting on the sidewalk. Half of the shell of its back was gone. A swarm of little red ants was milling around the dead beetle. A steady red stream filed inside and then reemerged, carrying off unseen bits of insect flesh. He picked up the beetle and felt how delicate it was.  He shook the ants out and as he did, the beetle turned to powder between his fingers.

 

“Why do bugs die?”

 

He looked her and said, “Everything dies.”

 

“Rocks don’t die.” She looked around. “Mailboxes don’t die.”

 

“They’re not alive. You have to be alive to die.”

 

Nearby footsteps brought him back. He felt a strong kick in his side. He opened his eyes and saw a dark figure silhouetted against the glaring sun. The figure then looked away and ran off, stepping on his hand in the process. He once more considered sitting but thought better of it. Before closing his eyes again, he saw the whitewashed store through wisps of oily smoke and a sign in the window urging its customers to not forget Mothers Day. Today.

 

“I don’t know. People are just like that.” She did not look up from the cake batter she was stirring as she said it. “You still want chocolate icing?”

 

“Yes, Mama.” He knew she was trying to change the subject. “But why do you think they did it? They were so mean!” He could still see the bent wheels, the dented bicycle frame, spilled milk on the sidewalk. He could hear callous laughter echo down the street, soft sobs as she collected the broken bottles into the basket.

 

She stopped stirring and looked at him. With a slight shrug, she said, “Some people just need somebody to hate.”

 

The sound of a pistol shot snapped open his eyes. His back no longer felt wet or cool. There was no gradient in temperature between his back and front, between his body and the air, between the ground and himself. He fully expected the next bullet from the unseen pistol to find him, to pierce his skull or his chest, to end his short life. But this expectation brought no great emotion, no fear or regret. In fact, he already felt that he was a part of the earth beneath him. He felt no separation between his blood and flesh and brain and bone and the earth’s grass and soil and rock and water. The tips of his fingers, resting on the ground, extended through the crusty and rocky sphere and touched all other beings. One twitch of his pinky caused a momentary wave of sensation in the woman balancing a bucket on her head as she walked up from the river to her mud home and each of her footsteps rippled down and then up to the Londoner stepping onto a train, taking his mind away from his workday and toward inspiration.

 

The bullet did not come. His spirit withdrew back through the globe and coalesced once again in the body lying on the side of an Alabama highway. He tilted his head and saw a man in uniform reholstering his pistol after firing it into the air. He collapsed once again to a supine position with closed eyes. The crowd that had been angrily gathered around the burning bus, a swarm of yellowjackets with each little wasp waiting its turn to sting the intruders, was now dispersing. Many of the former attackers were walking down the road toward town, muttering and slapping each other on the back. Some turned to shout indecipherable epithets back at the wilting survivors. He clearly heard one man shout, “That’s what we think about that n****r preacher here in Alabama!”

 

They had been pleasantly surprised when they walked into the reception room. There was food set out on one table, pitchers of water and iced tea on another. They were fretted over by a group of older ladies, a group well accustomed to providing sustenance and care. They gave instructions and suggestions like “Get some of that potato salad” and “You don’t want to pass over that cornbread” and then, after the travelers had been seated, began a never-ending round of “Can I get you anything else?” It was only after they had eaten that Dr. King swept into the room, flanked by his neatly suited lieutenants. Dr. King was shorter than he had expected but clearly commanded the room. He gave them ce He ongratulations on a safe trip thus far and assurances that they were being prayed for.

 

But his prepared remarks left the big question unanswered. Would he go with them? When directly asked, it quickly became clear that he would not. One of his entourage spoke of “important work that requires Dr. King’s presence right here in Atlanta”. Dr. King himself looked down, seemingly a little embarrassed. Then he looked up at the circle of faces gathered around him.

 

“Listen, my young people. God has blessed you on your journey thus far and you have accomplished much.” A pause. “Perhaps you have accomplished enough.” His words hung in the air as he looked at the crestfallen faces. They now knew that not only would he not go, he was not supportive of their going. Sensing their thoughts, he continued. “My sources tell me that the Alabama Klan has some plans for you.” A shot of ice water in their hearts, rushing to their limbs. “I am afraid for your safety if you continue. Better to go back home now and let us continue the fight.”

 

He fell in their estimation. If anyone should grasp the level of their determination, shouldn’t it be him? They expressed their gratitude for the food and hospitality, made clear their intentions to proceed, and left to prepare for the next morning’s departure. This morning.

 

His orientation to place and day was slowly improving as he lay there on the side of the road. It was yesterday that he had met Dr. King. It was this morning that he had boarded the blue-trimmed shiny Greyhound bus, traveling west out of Atlanta. Dr. King’s words of warning had stayed with them but were soon repressed by the beauty of the blue-skied May morning. The green countryside rolled by. Even the passing of the Alabama state line did not quicken their collective pulse. He was sitting about two thirds of the way to the back of the bus when they entered the streets of the town. A murmur rolled back from the front seats. Craned necks revealed a frightening view. A huge crowd, at least two hundred strong, seethed around the bus station. All men, most carrying pipes or clubs. The grumbling bus driver �" “I didn’t sign up for this” �" slowly pulled up to the station. The bus was immediately surrounded. Sticks beat against aluminum skin, a barrier that protected the riders and made somewhat indistinct the voices outside. “Damn n*****s and n****r-lovers”, “Stinking communists”, “Come on and integrate Alabama, we dare you”, “Let’s just kill ‘em” �" all of these words made it through the metal, piercing through the low rumble of two hundred voices. Men huddled around the big tires of the bus and then withdrew, a flash of sunlight glinting off the knife one of them held. The driver saw this and was spurred to decision and action. He ground the long gearshift lever into reverse and slowly backed away from the station. He then eased the bus forward and headed back to the highway, trying to put as much distance as possible between the bus and the crowd before the tires went completely flat. Already, he could feel the softening tires under his feet. They would not make it much farther. He saw a small store up ahead. That’s where we’ll stop.

 

As the bus oozed to a stop on the shoulder of the road, men appeared in the doorway of the store, regarding the bus like a pack of hyenas would regard an injured wildebeest �" squinting eyes, tongues licking dry lips. The driver slid out of his seat and stepped down the stairs. He stooped to see the now entirely flat tires. He looked up to see the crowd of men now gathering in front of the store and then saw several pick-up trucks speeding from the direction of the town, club-wielding men hanging from every surface. He turned and started up the westbound road at a trot, shedding his blue uniform jacket and throwing his driver’s cap into the ditch as he went. The passengers never saw him again.

 

A man sitting in the front quickly pulled the lever beside the driver’s seat and shut the door, not knowing that he was in effect sealing a tomb. Within seconds, a throng had gathered at the door, holding it shut.  The passengers looked with wide eyes at the men at the door and the approaching crowd. Terror-tinged cries erupted as the back windows shattered and the organic stench of gasoline filled the bus. Roaring flames bloomed back there, like time-lapse images of the flora of hell, orange and yellow flowers that gave off withering heat and noxious plumes of smoke in lieu of lovely scents and pollen. In response to the screams of anguish from within the bus, shouts erupted outside. “Hold that door!” “Don’t let ‘em out!”  “Let the n*****s burn!” The men outside the door pressed their shoulders against it while the people seated near the front of the bus, having come to the realization that dying at the hands of a mob was preferable to burning alive, had begun to push from inside. The rest of the passengers began to bunch up behind them, pushing to escape the escalating inferno. Then another cry from outside. “The gas tank is going to blow! Get away!”

 

As the men withdrew, the door flew open in response to the pressure from within. A torrent gushed out of the bus and separated, thick black smoke curling upward while below a current of bodies poured onto the gravel shoulder and the grass beyond. He blindly staggered out with the middle of the pack and stood coughing and gasping in the mocking sunshine. Within seconds, the bat on his head brought an interlude of blackness and silence.

 

He felt he might be able to sit. After the state patrolman’s pistol shot, the crowd began to dwindle. He slowly sat up and looked around. Smoke still billowed. A dog peeked from under a bush. He wondered about his fellow passengers. Was anyone dead?

 

Was anyone alive?

 

As his eyes swept the scene, he saw some men pulling a few relatively intact pieces of luggage from the cargo hold of the still burning bus. They placed them in a neat row in front of the store. He saw two women bending over seated people, other survivors he now realized. He saw the women go from person to person and ask, “Are you all right?” and “What can we do?” He also saw a little girl flitting from person to person. She approached him. As she came, he saw that she carried a plastic cup with both hands, being careful to not spill the liquid within. She wore a printed cotton dress, smudged with soot and blood. She was shoeless. He felt faint.

 

“I know that bugs have to be alive to die. I’m not stupid.” As her little sister, she had endured years of teasing and taunting. She was only just now starting to give a little of what she got. She was quiet for a moment. “Does a bug know that it’s alive?”

 

He did not have an answer. Years later, the question would reappear in quiet moments, like the nagging ache of a seldom-used muscle that makes it hard to fall asleep. What does a bug know about its life? What do any of us know? Do the connections between living things, the web that links every human to every other human, that are obvious to some people remain entirely invisible to others? He had always been aware of the kinship he had with everyone he met �" classmates, teammates, teachers, strangers on the street, people in the newspaper. He did not remember being taught that everyone is your neighbor, your brother, your sister. He simply knew it.

 

The little girl was in front of him. “Mister, do you want a drink of water?” Without waiting for an answer, she put the cup to his lips. He continued to look at her, took a sip and then realized how dry his mouth and throat were.  He turned his attention to the cup, took it from her hand and tilted it up, draining every drop. “I can get more,” she said. He gave a slight shake of his head. She patted him on the head and then rubbed his shoulder. He imagined it was the same thing she would have done to one of the baby dolls in her bedroom. “It’s going to be all right now” �" words that were probably used by the little girl’s mother to ease the pain of many scraped knees and bee stings, words now being taken up by the little girl to ease others’ pain. She turned and walked back to the other end of the store, out of his sight.

 

He stood. He found that his arms and legs were now working properly. He looked down the road toward town, the route of the rising sun tracing a line parallel to the road. It was now almost to its zenith. No traffic. No more pick-up trucks. No police cars. No ambulances. He turned the other way and walked.

 

No words.