I looked at the houses we were passing; not much more than shanties actually, with sagging porches, peeling paint and rusty tin roofs. The front yards were small, mostly packed dirt, without grass or flowers or any other type of beautification. There were a few cars, some trucks, all scabbed with rust and in various stages of disrepair. A black woman, with pendulous breasts and a turban of red cloth, waddled along the cracked sidewalk, her chocolate syrup eyes glaring at us as we passed by. “Poverty” was the first thought that struck me. The second was “hopelessness.”
“Makes you more appreciative of what you got, doesn't it, kid?”
“You can say that again.”
“Keep your eyes peeled for the address: two-four-two Rollins. These frigging houses all look the same to me.”
I looked over at Delwood Starke, my partner of only two days. He was a balding, watery-eyed man of about fifty-five, with large, freckled hands and one of those bloated bellies that bespoke of a fondness for the suds. His wrinkled white shirt had turned yellowish from too much sweat and too little washes, the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. A fedora was perched Mickey Spillane-fashion atop a head that was larger than usual, his horseshoe of hair rapidly turning gray and in bad need of a trim. He was scowling at the street ahead, his heavy jowls working as he maneuvered the stub of a cigar from one corner of his sulky mouth to the other. On his very best day, Del was hardly a poster boy for the U.S. Marshals Service.
“What'sa matter, kid; you don't like my looks?”
“I hope you don't mind me asking, but how long have you been a Deputy Marshal?”
“Way too long.”
“C'mon, that's no answer.”
His cigar stopped dead on the right side of his mouth, spouting smoke like a steel mill's chimney. “Twenty-two years. I was a cop in Newark for twelve years, before that.”
“You have any plans of retiring?”
“You keeping your eyes open for that address?”
“Yes, sir, I am. I think I see it right up ahead, the one with an old wringer washer on the front porch.”
Del pulled over to the curb and we stared at the house for a few minutes, neither of us saying a word. Compared to the others on the block, it was in pretty good shape, with decent curtains hanging in the windows and some flowers and an old gnarled tree in its front yard.
Finally, Del released a weary sigh and got out, pulling a seersucker suit coat from the rear seat and giving it a shake as though it would free it of wrinkles. Then he slipped it on to hide his shoulder holster and .38 and fastened the middle button.
“Let me do the talking, kid.”
“What, you don't trust me to open my mouth?”
“I'm the guy with the experience.”
We walked to the front door, under the watchful gaze of some passersby, and Del rapped on the door where a child's drawing had been affixed with a thumb tack. It was a rendering of the house, with the tree, a bit more magnificent, perched in the front yard, and a bright yellow sun shining down from a blue sky. In the bottom-right corner had been scrawled the name “Roxie.” Judging by the artistry, the kid was trying to make her life a bit more colorful than it was.
After a few moments, the door was opened by a large Negro woman, wearing a multi-colored dress the size of a tent, the breadth of her shoulders taking up the whole entryway. Her skin was the color of cocoa, the hair piled high atop her head as black and shiny as the feathers of a raven.
“Good morning, ma'am,” greeted Del, holding up his badge. “My name's Delwood Starke and this long-drink-of-water is my partner, Tom Hodges. We're Deputy U.S. Marshals, assigned to escort your daughter to school.”
The woman looked us over from head-to-foot, her thick lips ever so slowly curling into a smile. “Did you say 'Delwood'? My, my, my; I thought only us colored folks had such fanciful names.”
“My father's was Orpheus.”
The woman unleashed a great, bellowing laugh, her breasts bouncing with the effort. “Shoooo!” she exclaimed, giving Del a playful punch to the arm. “Any man, who could make me laugh this time of the morning, is as right as rain, by me. Come on in. My name's Loretta, but I s'pose you already know that.”
We entered a small living room, my eyes taking in the threadbare couch and chair, the discount coffee and end tables, a floral-pattered rug with frayed edges. Despite its overtone of poverty, the room was as neat as a pin, with everything neatly arranged and in its proper place. The remnants of a breakfast, eggs and bacon if my nose served me correctly, was still wafting on the musty air. A watercolor painting, depicting an African village, hung a bit lopsided over a cheap stereo unit.
“Welcome to my humble abode, gentlemen. I was just getting ready for work.” Her smile gave way to the solemn look that had first greeted us at the door. “Are you prepared to protect my daughter, in the event that things turn nasty?”
Del nodded, pursing his lips. “Yes, ma'am, we are. It's our job and we'll carry it out to the best of our abilities. If I might add, ma'am; you're a brave woman for undertaking such a ground-breaking step.”
Loretta dismissed the statement with a wave of the hand. “It's my daughter, Roxanne, who's the brave one. A feisty little thing, she is. She reminds me of her daddy, may God rest his soul.”
“He's deceased?”
“Yes. It'll be two years, next month, and under very strange circumstances.” The woman turned, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Roxanne, honey; the Marshals are here to take you to school! Two very nice gentlemen. Roxanne!”
Moments later, a little girl peered around a corner, her big, chocolate-brown eyes darting to her mother, then Del, and, finally, to me. Perhaps she didn't like what she saw, for her head vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“C'mon, Roxanne, honey. These gentlemen are waiting to take you to school.”
When the girl failed to reappear, Loretta placed her hands on her hips, her voice taking on a tone of annoyance. “Child, you get out here, right now! You've got to be there when school opens.”
I wondered, in those few seconds, whether Roxanne was a willing player or merely a pawn in her mother's quest to break the color barrier. Earlier, Loretta had referred to her as being 'brave', but she didn't seem to be living up to the definition.
“Roxanne! You had better get out here, right this instant!”
Finally, the little girl trudged into the room, her face sorrowful, her tiny shoulders bent under a burden that no one her age should have to bear. My heart felt as though it had been impaled on an icicle.
“Roxanne, honey; you shouldn't have kept these gentlemen waiting.”
I looked at Roxanne's red dress, with white lace at the collar and hem; the red ribbons affixed to each of her pigtails; her skinny, knob-kneed legs. Her skin was the color of coffee grounds, a few shades darker than that of her mother. A pair of black, patent leather shoes topped off her outfit. And it struck me, then and there: how could anyone wish this little girl any harm, or to hinder her inalienable right to a fair and equitable education? It didn't seem right! This was the United States of America!
Del cleared his throat, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “Uh ----- Missus Watkins; perhaps your daughter would be better off wearing something ----- uh ----- let's say 'not so bright'.”
“That's her very best dress and it's befitting that she wear it today.”
“Best dress or not, ma'am; she'll be attracting all the more attention to herself. That's something I would like to avoid. Maybe a darker color or -----.”
Loretta glared and I could clearly see that she was reevaluating her previous opinion of Del. “Roxanne will be wearing that dress, Mister Del-woody Starke. This is a free country, a free state – although Governor Faubus is trying his best not to make it so.”
'Okay, okay. It was only a suggestion. Concerning your daughter's safety, I might add.”
The woman's face softened. “Yes, well, I certainly appreciate that. But that dress is as much a symbol as my daughter's courage.”
I leaned in close to Del, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Courage, my ass. The poor kid's frightened out of her wits.”
Del acknowledged my opinion with a barely perceptible nod. “Well, we had better get a move on if we're going to get there in time. Missus Watkins, your daughter will be in good hands, I promise you that.”
Speaking of hands, I held out my right to the little girl and she peered up at me, blinking, as though she was trying to see the top of the Empire State Building on a hazy day. Then, with a wavering smile, she grabbed hold and gave my hand a small squeeze.
“Are you ready to go, little miss?”
Her smile finally caught hold, stretching from ear-to-ear. “Please, you can call me 'Roxie'.”
“Well 'Roxie' it will be. And you can call me 'Tom'.”
She looked to her mother, arching a brow. “May I, Momma?”
“Yes, child, you may.” Loretta offered a mischievous wink. “Maybe even 'Uncle Tom'.”
With a hearty round of laughter, excepting for Del, we made our way out to the porch, where Loretta scooped up her daughter and gave her a crushing hug. Then, with tears brimming in her eyes, she sniffled and hustled back into the house. Roxie was about to dash after her when I caught hold of her hand and gave her a small tug toward our plain black sedan.
“Momma doesn't cry very often.”
“They're tears of joy, Roxie. You're going to do a very courageous thing today and she's proud of you.”
“I'm scairt.”
“Me too.”
“Really? A big man like you?”
“Sometimes a man can never be big enough.”
My adlibbing philosophy, somewhat corny, seemed to calm Roxie down a little as I placed her in the rear seat and slid in beside her. Her right leg began to pump nervously and I had to look away to hide my smile, as I got mine doing the same.
Del jumped behind the wheel and snatched the stub of a cigar from the ashtray, firing it up with his Zippo. “Okay, this is going to be no more than a fifteen minute drive. When we get there, it should be a cakewalk, if you two do exactly as I say. And I mean 'exactly'.”
“And that is?” I asked, more than a bit miffed by his sanctimony.
“I'll let you know when we get there.”
By this time, a small crowd had formed on the opposite sidewalk. They had remained pensively quiet as we had left the house, but, now, as Del fired up the engine, they unleashed a resounding cheer, waving at Roxanne, a few giving her a double thumbs-up.
“You've got a rooting section, kiddo.”
She beamed at them, jutting her own little thumbs in the air.
We pulled away from the curb and Del made a quick U-turn, heading us toward our appointment with destiny. No one spoke for a full minute, until I smiled and patted Roxie on the knee.
“So what's your favorite subject in school?”
“History.”
“No kidding; that was mine too.” I pursed my lips and rubbed my chin, feigning deep thought. “Tell me; who was the first president of the United States?”
“Oh, c'mon. George Washington.”
“And who was the sixteenth?”
She giggled, slapping my thigh. “That is so easy, I won't even bother to answer.”
“Okay, Miss Smarty-pants; here's a tough one. Which president was the only serving bachelor in the history of our country?”
“James Buchanan.”
“Hey, that was very good! Now who was the fattest president ever to serve?”
“William Howard Taft,” she chirped, puffing out her cheeks to express fatness. “He's buried in Arlington National Cemetery.”
“Wow! What do you think about that, Del? I bet she's sharper with history than you.”
Del snorted, his cigar unleashing a great cloud of nauseating smoke. “History means diddily-squat to me, kid. I've got enough problems with the present.”
Roxie screwed up her face as though she was sucking on an extra sour lemon, secretly pointing a finger to the rear of the driver's seat. I answered with an enthusiastic nod of my head.
“Okay, you two; we're on the last leg of the trip.” Del fished into his pocket and tossed an armband over his shoulder; it was a bright yellow, with “Deputy U.S. Marshal” in bold black letters. “Put it on so they know exactly who you are.”
With the moment at hand, Roxie returned to her frightened mode, slipping lower in the seat, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. Her little hand found mine for reassurance.
“I don't know how close we can get,” said Del. “But whatever the case; we march straight on in, eyes forward, ears deaf to whatever hullabaloo might be awaiting us. I've done this before, so I know the drill. Just follow my lead.”
I looked ahead through the windshield and my heart picked up a few paces. I could see a crowd, perhaps a hundred in number, some of them waving signs. As they saw us approaching, they swirled in our direction, their faces hostile and their shouts mounting in volume.
“There's not as many as I expected,” I observed, my voice taking on a hopeful tone.
“Most of the rabble-rousers are over at Central High, where nine Negroes are trying to attend classes. We're only a sideshow, here, but you can never tell what might happen.”
“I see some local and state police. It shouldn't be too bad.”
“Shit, they're no better than the rest.”
The curb was lined with cars and trucks, so Del double-parked next to an old, battered Dodge. He hurled himself out of the car and whipped open the back door, his cigar gone and his jaws set.
“Okay, it's show time.” Del clutched Roxie's arm, struggling with a smile. “Everything's going to be just fine. Tom and I are here to make sure of that. Okay?”
Roxie managed a tiny “yes.”
As I got Roxie out of the car, an egg splattered against the windshield and
another one plopped on the sidewalk, smearing my shoe with its slimy yolk. The crowd pressed closer, screaming and chanting and hurling obscenities. They were a strangely diverse lot: housewives, city workers in uniform, elderly folks and businessmen in suits, rednecks clad in bib overalls and grimy caps. I even noticed a young woman, holding the hands of two wide-eyed toddlers. My God! How could hatred have reached such terrible heights?
Del quickly led us to where a police sergeant was leaning against a telephone pole, observing us through a pair of aviator sunglasses, his jaws masticating a wad of chewing gum. His indifference to the situation startled me.
“Good morning,” said Del, trying to mask his annoyance. “I would appreciate it if your men would move this crowd back.”
“You know; I can give you a ticket for double parking.”
“Sure, but you won't. Now how about some crowd control?”
The sergeant shrugged, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “They're good folks, mostly, a bit riled by Uncle Sam forcing segregation down their throats,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd. “That's how the Civil War started; Washington trying to take control from the southern states.”
Angered, Del moved in nose-to-nose with the sergeant. “I don't have the time to or the will to discuss history and politics. Now move this crowd back, or I'll see to it, personally, that you'll be busted to a goddamn crossing guard.”
The sergeant moved his sunglasses down the beak of his nose and peered over their top, considering Del for a few, deliberate moments. Then he turned, shouting, so he would be heard over the din. “Okay, boys; let's move these good people back! Get them off the sidewalk and onto the grass! C'mon, c'mon, hustle it up!”
With a curt “thank you”, Del led the way, eyes focused straight ahead, big hands ready in the event of trouble.
Undeterred, the crowd surged forward again, hissing and hollering and shouting the worst profanities I had ever heard. Signs waved overhead, joined by a few miniature Confederate flags. An old hag, her wizened face pinched by hatred, reached out and gave one of Roxie's pigtails a vicious yank, causing her to cry out in pain. One of the cops laid a hand on the woman's shoulder and I could hear him say, “C'mon, Ma; you've got to calm down.”
By this time, Roxie was squeezing my hand with all the strength of a weightlifter, narrow shoulders hunched, her eyes cast to the sidewalk. I couldn't even imagine what a terrible ordeal this was for her. Was it really worth it all? Finally, we turned and began to make our way to the front door of the school. Come on, come on, only a few steps more! An egg grazed my forehead, sending a tendril of yolk slithering into my eye.
And, then, just as I was beginning to think that we would make it without a major confrontation, two men stepped out to block our path. One was a geek with a bristling crew cut and a pair of thick, black-framed glasses, his feet planted firmly apart, pudgy arms folded across his chest. Next to him stood a sunken-cheeked, old man, dressed in overalls and a greasy John Deere cap, his smile reminding me of a knife slit in a piece of weathered rawhide.
“And where do you think you're going?” fatso asked Del, basking in the admiration of his fan club.
“By you, through you, or over you,” responded Del, not backing down for a second.
“You're not taking any pickaninny into that school. Not today or any other day.”
The old man began to do a crazy Irish jig, cackling like some demented chicken. “No, sireeee, no sireeee! No l'il pickaninny in dat ol' school!”
Spurred on by the confrontation, the crowd began to press forward and I could feel their hatred, snapping like an electrical charge in the air. The local and state cops made only a half-hearted attempt at holding them back, their faces gleeful over the pickle we suddenly found ourselves in. And, then, I heard fatso clear his throat and before I could realize or react to what he was about to happen, he launched a gob of spittle directly onto the front of Roxie's dress.
“You lousy bastard,” I hissed, starting forward, but Del snapped up an arm to hold me back.
Fatso readjusted his stance, soaking up the supportive shouts of the crowd, a smug smile splayed across his plump face. It took every ounce of will power that I had not to rush the bastard, snatch off his glasses and grind them to a fine powder beneath my shoe. He knew that I couldn't and his smile grew even broader.
Then the actions of a little girl changed the course and nature of the whole event. Looking down at her fouled dress, Roxie calmly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, laced handkerchief. Then, seemingly without a care in the world, she began to dab at the spittle. When she was finished, she neatly folded the hanky and returned it to her pocket. With those few moments of adult-like dignity, she managed to suck the air out of the mainsail of the entire crowd. Their shouts and curses and jeers fell to a murmur, and, if my eyes weren't deceiving me, I actually spotted a few looks of begrudging admiration. The Confederate flags which had been madly waving, now hung limp. Feet shuffled and eyes dropped to the ground. Even the sergeant's jaws stopped working his gum.
A big, broad-shouldered man took a step from the crowd and grabbed hold of fatso's arm. “That'll be enough, now. You get on home.”
“Jesus, Pa, c'mon.”
“Don't make me repeat myself, Lester. Better yet; get your butt to work an' start earning the money that's paid you. Get along! Move it!”
With lips trembling and face a bright crimson in color, fatso whirled and trudged off, his old cohort following close behind. The father turned to us, his eyes falling to Roxanne. He stared for a few moments, nodding, then tromped off to rejoin the near silent crowd. In his own crude way, I suppose it could have been taken as an apology.
I gave Roxie's hand a small squeeze. “Boy, little girl; you're sure an ace at crowd control.”
She forced a grin. “Do you think that man's spit will eat a hole through my dress?”
“You can never tell. It probably has a lot of acid in it.”
“Momma will be mad.”
“I was only kidding, Rox.”
Del had rushed forward, swinging open the door to the school. “Hey, you two, let's get a move on, before everyone has a change of heart!”
As Roxie and I hustled for the door, a cameraman from the Little Rock Gazette appeared out of nowhere and shouted “cheese!” When we turned in his direction, he squinted into his viewfinder and snapped our picture: a photo that found its way onto the front page of no less than a hundred national newspapers.
As the three of us entered the school, the door creaking closed behind us, a short, balding man hurried in our direction, the expression on his narrow face far from welcoming.
“The last thing that I needed was all that trouble out front. It sure played hell with all my students.”
Del glanced around. “What students?”
“We had them come through a side door to avoid that scene. That is, the few that bothered to show up.” He jerked his chin in Roxie's direction. “With her attending, a good many parents kept their children at home. I can't really blame them much, considering.”
Del placed one of his big paws on the principal's shoulder, squeezing until the man flinched. “You will escort Miss Roxanne Watkins to her assigned class and make sure that she's properly settled. Tom and I will be here for the day. That is, after you would be so kind as to supply us with two chairs and a couple of mugs of hot coffee.”
The man seemed to shrivel up under Delwood's fearsome expression. “Uh ----- yes ----- yes, of course. I'll see to it that you're made as comfortable as possible.”
Surprisingly, the day passed without a single mishap, for small children, as it turned out, were a great deal more tolerant and accommodating than their parents. Roxie, the free spirit that she was, managed to make friends quickly, her surprising intelligence garnering a great deal of respect from her teacher. Del and I stayed for the week, but the crowd outside continued to get smaller and smaller, until, on Friday, there were only three diehards in attendance.
Loretta invited us for supper on four nights running and I gobbled down some of the best cooking I had ever tasted in my life. After eating, Roxie challenged me to a number of games – Monopoly, checkers and Old Maid – beating me soundly and giggling when I threw up my hands in defeat.
Del and I were replaced the following Monday by two other Marshals. On that bittersweet morning, with tears welling in her eyes, Roxie took down her drawing from the front door and presented it to me, her lips trembling with emotion.
“This is for you, to remember me by. It's my very best drawing, ever.”
I accepted it, my own eyes wet with tears. “Thank you, Rox. I'll frame it and hang it in a place of honor.”
“You promise?”
I scooped her up and placed a big, wet kiss on her cheek. “You bet I do.”
Del stared down to where he was making circles with his shoe. “What am I, chopped liver?”
Roxie unfastened a yellow bow from one of her pigtails and held it out. “It's the best I could do on such short notice.” She giggled. “But you don't have any hair to tie it in.”
And, by dang, for the first time since I met him, Delwood Starke started to laugh; a great, barking laugh that seemed to echo across the whole neighborhood.
“Tom? Are you okay, Tom?” I felt a hand gently shaking my shoulder. “Mister Tom.”
My reverie broken, I blinked up into the moon-shaped face of my favorite nurse, Miss Emily Patterson. “Uh ----- yes, I'm fine. I was just lost in thought, is all.”
“It's time for your sleeping pill. Will it be water or ginger ale?”
“I'd rather have a Bud and a shot of Jack Daniels.”
She laughed, craning her neck. “What's that you're holding onto?”
I held up the picture for her to see; a house and tree, with a bright sun shining down, still so vibrantly yellow after forty-six years. “Oh, it's just a gift from a very special little girl. Say, did I ever tell you that I was once a Deputy U.S. Marshal?”
Emily chuckled, patting my shoulder. “Oh, just about every single day since you got here.”
I swallowed my sleeping pill, so I could be fresh and peppy in the morning, for another long day at Runny Mead Acres. After Emily left, I pulled out a 1997 edition of Time Magazine and opened it to page ten. There, I stared at the picture of a pretty Negro woman, dressed to the nines in a gray, handsomely tailored suit, a smile stretched from ear-to-ear. My old eyes strayed down to the middle of the page and I read what I had underlined for the thousandth time. Question: Senator Barnes, who would you name as your very first hero: someone who made a great impact on your life, either as a child, or, later on, in your teenage or college years? Answer: I would have to say, without doubt, that it was a young U.S. Marshal, by the name of Thomas Hodges. He taught me love and understanding and tolerance at a time that I would have to say, was one of the most difficult periods of my life.”
I stared at the article for a few moments longer and tucked the picture and magazine away into the drawer of the nightstand, my teary eyes already getting heavy with sleep.