Fraser, red-eyed, began to speak. “I’m so sorry I caused a scene, and I want to apologize to my daddy and brother for embarrassing them in public. You both know how much I love you.”
“Sure thing, sugar. The whole family’s been under a lot of pressure,” her father said.
My mother pulled out of her long period of near-silence and said, “Miss Rutledge, I’ve been noticing you with great interest today at lunch. It’s my conclusion that you’re a young woman of much character.”
Fraser glanced around the table, her eyes glistening. “But I didn’t mean to ruin the lunch. I had no right to speak.”
“You had every right to speak,” Mother said. “You are a woman of parts.”
The silence of bivalves gripped the table until young Chad made a serious error by following my mother’s praise of his sister with the most untimely joke. “Yeah. Big parts. Real big parts: big shoulders, big thighs, big feet.”
“Hush up, young man,” Mother said, rising out of her seat. “Just hush your mouth.”
“Don’t you ever talk to my son like that again, Dr. King,” an enraged Worth Rutledge snarled. “Or you’re going to find yourself looking at want ads.”
“He’s enrolled in my school,” Mother flashed back. “If the superintendent doesn’t like how I’m doing my job, then he can let me know about it.”
“If you want to come back to my office after lunch, Dr. King, we’ll put in a call to your superintendent,” Rutledge said.
“The business of education at Peninsula High is conducted from my office, Mr. Rutledge,” Mother said. “You’re welcome to visit me there. Please set up an appointment with my secretary.”
If the setting had been anywhere but the Charleston Yacht Club, with the sunlight shining on bone china and silver cutlery, I think Worth Rutledge might have exploded. Social forces I was only dimly aware of had brought anarchy upon that sedate luncheon which had begun as a function of bureaucracy, courtesy, and goodwill.
Across from me, a shell-shocked Molly Huger was staring at me.
“Ever had so much fun, Molly?” I asked. To my complete surprise, the whole table laughed, except for Chad, whose face was stony at the general loosening of the ghastly atmosphere. In the privileged world of young Chadworth Rutledge, when he chose to be the comedian, boys like me were born to be the audience. When Chad chose to be serious, my role was to play the admiring fool. When Chad declared a pronouncement, I was to be a midnight rider, delivering the message to the countryside. But that would be years in the learning.
My mother took her seat and the gathering grew cordial and pragmatic again. Lunch came to a swift conclusion over coffee and pecan pie. In parting, the gentility that is both the bedrock and the quicksand of all social endeavors in Charleston brought grace and quietude to the last act of that meal. There were handshakes all around, but no love lost among any of the major participants.
My parents and I made our farewells. We walked out of the Charleston Yacht Club, and the great heat met us at the doorway. Uncharacteristically, my mother kissed me on the cheek, and the three of us walked together toward East Bay Street and our city of many mansions, away from the yacht club that we would never be invited to join.
· · ·
My meeting with Coach Anthony Jefferson awaited. I entered the gymnasium, which smelled like mildew and boy sweat and the stale air of inflated pigskins and basketballs. Through the office windows, I saw the coach studying a thick manila envelope that I knew was my file. He was obviously concentrating, and three uneven lines of wrinkles creased his forehead as he familiarized himself with the downs and then the deeper downs of my life. By my junior year, I thought I had turned myself into a reasonable model citizen of Peninsula High, but even I was aware that the bar I had set for myself was a low one.
Coach Jefferson’s face was coffee-colored; there was gray in his sideburns, but his eyes were an impenetrable mahogany. He froze me in mid-step as I entered his office. He had been a star halfback for South Carolina State in the early fifties and was one of the first inductees into that black college’s athletic hall of fame.
“I guess you’re Leo King.” His voice was softer than I expected.
“Yes, sir, I am. My mother sent me down here.”
His eyes moved back to my record. “You were arrested for having a half pound of cocaine in your possession.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“So you’re not denying it?”
“They caught me fair and square,” I admitted. “It was my first party ever at a house south of Broad.”
“But someone put it in your pocket so they wouldn’t get caught. And you refused to divulge that person’s name. Is that the story?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you think society depends on people like you—innocent people like you—cooperating with the police, Leo?” he asked. “Was this boy a friend of yours?”
“No, sir. I’d never spoken to him,” I said.
“Then why not turn him in?” the coach asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I admired him a great deal, sir.”
“Did you tell the cops that?”
“No, sir, I didn’t tell them anything about him. I didn’t even tell them it was a guy.”
“You told nobody this boy’s name? Not your mother or your father, no friend, no shrink, no priest, no social worker? Why would you take the rap for some scumbag who set you up?”
“I made a decision. Spur-of-the-moment kind. And I stuck with it,” I explained. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t look like much of a player, King.”
“It’s my glasses, sir. They make me look weak.”
“Do you wear them during games?”
“Yes, sir, or I couldn’t see any of the other team. I’m blind as a bat.”
“And you catch for the baseball team?” the coach asked. “Catchers are hard to come by.”
“My father was a catcher for The Citadel. Since I was a little kid, he’s taught me how to be in charge of a game.”
“Yet you haven’t played much baseball, have you?” he asked.
“I had some mental problems when I was younger, Coach Jefferson. They don’t have baseball teams in mental hospitals. But I played a lot of pickup games with the orderlies and the janitors, and some guards always played too. They taught me some good stuff.”
Coach Jefferson studied me as though he was trying to comprehend our go-around, taking my measure. I had never known a good coach who could not render himself unreadable. His face was blank; his rapt absorption unnerved me because he made it seem like a form of prayer.
“Leo,” he said finally, “let’s try to cut a deal between us. I think I’m going to need you this year a lot more than you need me. I’ve already had six white boys pull out of this school because they won’t be coached by a nigger. You hear that?”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted. “Some called me. They wanted me to go with them.”
“This is going to be a volatile year. We could have everything from race riots to firebombs. And I need a white kid on the team I can trust.”
“There are some nice guys already here, Coach Jefferson. It might be hard at first, but they’ll get to like you.”
He said, “I’d like for you to prove I can trust you. I need to know I can count on you through thick and thin.”
“How can I prove that?”
Rising from his chair, Coach Jefferson walked out of his office and surveyed the gym. When he was assured the gym was empty, he returned to his small office, folded his powerful hands, and leaned across the table. “I’d like you to tell me the name of the boy who put the cocaine in your sports coat, Leo.” I flinched, but his raised hand calmed me as his voice continued. “You give me that, and I give you something back.”
“What can you possibly give me for that?” I asked. “I made a promise to myself that I would never tell anyone that kid’s name.”
“I admire you for keeping that promise. It?
??s why I trust you,” Coach Jefferson said. “But I want the boy’s name and the reasons you kept quiet. Here’s what I give you back: I’ll never tell another living soul what that boy’s name is. Not one—not my wife, not my daddy, not my preacher man, not even Jesus if he appears to me on a white cloud. And I’ll never mention it to you again. It’ll be like we never had this discussion.”
“How do I know if I can trust you?”
“You don’t, Leo. You got to look at me. Study me, and come to some decision about me. Is this a man I want to charge the sniper’s nest with, or a Judas who will sell his soul for thirty pieces of silver? Or is this a Simon who will help Jesus carry the cross up to Calvary? You got to make a decision about me, Leo. And you got to do it fast.”
I watched the face of Anthony Jefferson, then said, “His name is Howard Drawdy.”
The coach whistled and I knew he would instantly recognize the name. “The best quarterback in the history of Bishop Ireland High School,” he said. “But still, he screwed you good. He got you into big-time trouble.”
“My brother, Steve, worshipped Howard Drawdy. Howard was always nice to my brother.”
“Your brother who killed himself?” the coach asked.
“Yes, sir. And Steve once told me how poor Howard was, how his father was dead, and he lived in a trailer, and he couldn’t go to Bishop Ireland without a scholarship.”
“That guy owes you the bank, Leo,” the coach said. “He’s the starting quarterback at Clemson this year. Did he ever thank you?”
“No, sir, he didn’t have to. But he’s really nice to me every time I see him.”
“So you got arrested. You get a trial. You get a police record. You go on probation, report to a probation officer. You do community service, you get kicked out of school. And the guy never thanks you?” “I don’t think he knows what to say, Coach.”
“I think he’s a perfect shit, Leo.” He paused. “Okay.” He stood up and held out a hand. “Shake on it. I’ll never tell a soul what you just told me. I’d rather die than break that promise to you.”
I stood up and we shook hands, his powerful and large.
“Now I have a problem I need help with, Leo.”
“Anything, Coach Jefferson. Anything.”
“You’re going to be one of the leaders of my team. But you’ve got to help me with something. My son, Ike, is bitter about having to change schools his senior year. I graduated from Brooks High, so did his grand-daddy; his mother, her mother.”
“What can I do?”
“Meet my son over at Johnson Hagood Stadium tomorrow at nine. Work out together. Get to know each other. I wrote up a conditioning program for him. It’ll do you some good too. Just one rule for the summer: if you ever call my son a nigger, I’ll kill you.”
“Not if my mother or father get to me first,” I told him.
“They won’t let you say that word?”
“Not even in a joke.”
“My son’s not allowed to call you ‘honky’ or ‘cracker’ or ‘white motherfucker,’ either.”
“What’s he allowed to call me?” I asked. “In football, you always get mad at the guy who’s just knocked you on your butt. Always. So you’ve got to call him something.”
“I thought of that already. If my son makes you mad enough that you want to rip his head off and call him the worst name you can think of, then call him Dr. George Washington Carver, after the great black scientist from Tuskegee University.”
“The peanut guy?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“What can he call me?”
“He’s got to call you Strom Thurmond. That’s about as big an insult as a black man can yell at a white man.”
“Sir, if I get mad at you at practice, do I call you Dr. George Washington Carver?”
“Call me Coach Jefferson. Anything else and I kick your ass. Hey, King? You think the other white boys’ll play for me?”
“Yes, sir. I know they will.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because they love the game,” I said. “And I bet they love those games on Friday night more than they do segregation.”
At nine sharp the next morning, I was standing in the south end zone of Johnson Hagood Stadium watching Ike Jefferson walking across the north end zone. We walked slowly toward each other until we met at the 50-yard line, and a strange wariness set up shop between us. Ike did not smile or shake my hand or offer any greeting. He was chewing gum and flipping a football up into the air as a way of ignoring me. He kept flipping the ball, catching it with one hand, then flipping it again.
“Did you bring your father’s workout plan with you?” I asked.
“Seem to have forgotten it, white boy.” Ike looked at me for the first time.
“Gosh, Ike, ol’ buddy, I didn’t like the way it sounded when you called me ‘white boy.’”
“I didn’t mean it to sound friendly.”
“Since you forgot to bring Coach’s instructions, you want to run some laps to warm up? Or maybe do some calisthenics?”
“You do whatever white boys like to do,” Ike said.
“I knew integration was going to be a pain in the ass, Ike,” I said. “I really did. But I thought I was going to have to worry about my redneck boys a lot more than the black kids.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, white boy.”
“Hey, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior, you keep calling me ‘white boy’ and I’m going to start calling you a name with a long tradition in the South that rhymes with Roy Rogers’s horse.”
“You got quite a temper there, Strom Thurmond,” he said.
“You’ve been screwing with me, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior.”
“Just a little bit, Strom. You’re a sensitive little soda cracker, aren’t you? You were about to fight me, weren’t you?”
“Yep. Sure was.”
“Does it bother you that I could kick your ass?”
“A little bit. But I was going to throw the first punch when you tossed that football up in the air. Before that ball came down, I was going to break your jaw.”
“Can you beat up any of those other white boys in that school of yours?”
“Not many of them,” I said. “I’m not even sure I can beat up many of the white girls.”
Ike surprised me by breaking out into an unexpected grin. He tossed me the ball. “You know something, Strom? I’m afraid I may even like you before this is over.”
“I hope not,” I said as I lateralled the ball back to him.
From his back pocket, Ike pulled out a piece of paper that revealed his father’s workout plan. I read it over and whistled. “He’s trying to kill us.”
“His players are always in better shape than the other team,” Ike said. “Let’s start with ten laps, Strom.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior.”
“I hope you enjoy watching my fat ass running ahead of you.” He began to run.
“Here’s what you and your daddy don’t know about me,” I said. “I look nerdy, but I run pretty fast.”
I took off after him, and for an hour we ran sprints, did assorted agility drills, and performed push-ups and sit-ups at twenty-minute intervals. At the end of the session, we went up in the stands. I put Ike on my back and tried to run to the top of the stadium. I went twenty steps before I collapsed in exhaustion. We returned to the bottom of the stairs, and Ike put me on his shoulders. He reached thirty-five steps before he collapsed. In our exhaustion that first day, all we could do was laugh when we staggered on the stairs in a heap of sweat and panting and grass-stained clothes.
It was Ike who first called it “carrying the cross.” That is what integration felt like for everyone after Brown v. Board of Education, when boys like me and Ike and men and women like my parents and Coach Jefferson were put to the noble task of making it work.
Panting in the shade of the lower bleachers, I said, “You are one fat-assed George Wa
shington Carver Junior. Why don’t you lose some weight?”
“Take off your glasses next time I carry your ass to the top,” Ike said. “What do those things weigh—about twenty pounds?”
“You’re just weak as water.”
“Me? Weak? If the other white boys look like you, we’re gonna get our asses whipped good this year.”
“How many guys from your team are coming to Peninsula?” I asked.
“Maybe ten. My daddy would like to get another dozen or so, but a lot of guys wanted to stick with the high school in their neighborhood. Like me. But your old lady messed up my plans by making my daddy the coach.”
“Instead of having to listen to you run your gums every day, Ike, why don’t we go down and have a fistfight on the fifty-yard line? Let’s just get it over with; then we can get on with working out.”
“We can’t have a fistfight until after lunch,” Ike said. “We’re having lunch at my house, and I can’t have you bleeding on my mother’s new rug.”
“Who said I was eating lunch at your house?”
“My daddy,” Ike said, in exasperation. “Our coach did. I ain’t ever eat with a white boy, and I’ll bet you make the food taste like shit.” “I’ll try to make it a nightmare for you.”
“You’re already a nightmare,” Ike said. “Please shut up. Here comes my daddy.”
Coach Jefferson entered by the alumni gate and walked slowly toward where we sat at the bottom of the bleachers. “You boys look like you’ve been working hard. Your clothes are soaked. You two get along okay?”
“Your son wouldn’t even shake my hand at first, Coach,” I said. “Then we did great.”
“We did okay,” Ike said, a slight echo of insolence in his voice that Coach Jefferson caught in an instant.
“No lip from you, son.” He studied Ike, then said, “Tell Leo why you didn’t shake his hand, and tell him true. I’m not asking—he needs to know.”
“I’ve been going to Brooks since kindergarten,” Ike explained. “Thought I’d graduate this year from Brooks. I’ve always been afraid of white people. They scare me to death.”