The Road to Memphis (28 page)

I glanced away from him, thinking on what he had said, then looked back. “What was it about going to jail that made you lose respect for the law?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” he said.

“About what?”

“Allowing you to ask me so many questions.”

His tone was quiet, but I wondered if I had upset him by bringing the subject of his jail time up again. “I was just trying to understand . . . .”

“I know. As I said, I like the way your mind works.” He smiled once more. “Maybe one day, if you continue in your persistence, I’ll tell you.”

I nodded, not really satisfied with that, but knowing I shouldn’t press him further about it now. Still, there were other questions I wanted him to answer, for I wanted to know everything I could about Solomon Bradley. “So how’d you get in the newspaper business?” I asked.

“You are a curious young lady, aren’t you?”

“My grandmother says I’m just nosy. You don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know.”

“It’s a bit of a story.”

“I don’t mind.”

He sat on the edge of his desk. “Well, to tell the truth, Cassie, things here in Memphis didn’t go that well for me at first. Lot of black folks didn’t much go in for settling matters in court. They figured the courts belonged to the white folks.
Some of them would rather settle disputes with the old-time solution of guns and knives and fists. Finally, though, a case came up involving a land dispute, black against white, and I got it.

“Thing was, I was so hamstrung by the racial laws that the only way I could figure to educate folks about the case was to put some handbills together to explain what we were up against. I did the handbills and a lot of public speaking too. The handbills and the speaking made quite a stir. I lost the case, but I found folks were coming to me after that, because of those handbills and all that speaking. So that’s how I got into the newspaper business. I figured if a few handbills and speaking to folks in a few churches and pool halls could get folks’ attention, then maybe a newspaper could too. I tried it and it worked.”

“Yeah, well, that makes sense. But what about all these other businesses in the building? Mag says they’re yours too.”

“That’s called enterprise,” he said with a grin. “En-ter-prise, that’s the American way, Cassie Logan.” His tone was mocking. He stood and went around the desk and sat down. “Don’t you approve of enterprise?”

I shrugged. “I just think that if you have a law degree, you ought to be practicing law. If I had a degree, I’d practice law.”

“You’ve been thinking about what I said?”

“I’ve been thinking about how white folks are always falling back on the law. Maybe if colored folks knew the law as well as they did, we could do something about it.”

He leaned back in the leather chair and studied me. “You know, of course, that the law is written in their favor.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Then, what good is it being a lawyer when you know the law’s written against you?”

“Mr. Jamison says the law is a matter of interpretation.”

“Mr. Jamison?”

“He’s a white lawyer I know. He says that the United States government law is supposed to take what he calls precedence over state law. He says that about this precedence business, it’s all about interpretation. He says if the United States Supreme Court interprets the law different from the courts in Mississippi and says the United States law is right, then the United States law has to take precedence. He says that’s how some things get changed. Thing is, though, right now folks in the rule of things—white folks—they aren’t much calling for any interpretation about laws concerning colored folks, and that’s partly why the laws stay the same. I was thinking that if I got to know the law as well as they do, then maybe I could get some different interpretation. If we know the law like they do, then we can use it like they do.”

His eyes on me were intense. He thumped a pencil against his mouth in silence, then he smiled.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Did you figure all that out yourself?”

I sat down on the sofa. “Doesn’t it make sense?”

“Could be it does,” he said, but he said no more than that. He studied me, then, looking at my knees, said, “That looks pretty ugly.”

“What?”

He got up. “Where you fell. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” He left, and I looked down at my knees. When I had sat, the skirt I wore had slipped just above them; they were ugly. They were red-raw now from the bath and the loss of the scabs.
Solomon came back carrying a small box. He crossed the room to the sofa, knelt in front of me, and opened the box. Pulling out some cotton and a bottle of iodine, he said, “Scream if you want. I would.”

Then he dabbed my knees with iodine. I jerked back. I felt as if my crazy bone had just been hit.

“Sorry,” he said with an apologetic smile. He returned to his desk with the box. “I should have told you I wasn’t much of a doctor. Afraid I never developed a real bedside manner.”

I just looked at him. Despite my awe of him, I wasn’t feeling too kindly toward him at the moment. All I could think on was the awful stinging in my knees.

“How’s your spelling?” he asked suddenly.

I glanced up from my knees. “Good. Why?”

“Got some proofing for you to do if you’re not ready to sleep.”

“I’m not. I’d like to help. But what’s proofing?”

Unexpectedly he came back to the sofa and took my hand. “Come with me.” He led me from his office through the front office and into a back room where two men were busy running a printing press. “This is where we print the paper. Before we go to press, though, we have to check all our copy. Have to check it for accuracy and for spelling. I’ll take care of the accuracy part, you take care of the spelling. Deal?”

His eyes met mine, expecting an answer. “Deal,” I replied. Still holding my hand, he took me back to the front office, picked up several sheets from a basket, and said to Mag, “These ready?”

“Ready as they’re going to be,” Mag replied.

“Good.” We returned to his office. “Here,” he said, leading me to his desk and seating me in his chair. “Read these for me. Circle any misspellings, any typos, correct them out
in the margin. Don’t worry about missing something. I’ll take a quick look at all of this for accuracy when you’re finished.” He now released my hand and started for the door. “Any questions you have, anything you need, ask Mag.”

“All right . . . but where’re you going? Won’t you be here?”

“Got business elsewhere. Don’t worry about the articles, though. Mag can take care of everything.”

He reached the door and looked back. “You all set?”

I nodded, feeling a bit let down that he was leaving, yet feeling good, too, that he was trusting me with this responsibility.

“Good. See you in a while, then.” With that said he closed the door and left.

Once he was gone, my mind lingered on him, too long in fact. All I could think about was Solomon Bradley. I left his desk and wandered about the room touching his things. Only the entrance of Mag with an armful of proofs for me to read brought me back to reality.

“You finish with any of those yet?” she asked.

“No . . . no, not yet.”

She tossed the papers she was holding on the desk. “It’s a rush,” she said. “Everything’s a rush.”

“All right.”

She went back to the door. “Your brother called. He said it would be awhile yet before he gets back. He said something about having trouble getting the gaskets so they can install the oil pan. Said, too, they’ll have to pull the transmission.”

“All right.”

“He talked to Willie.”

“Okay.”

She took hold of the door. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

She nodded, then closed the door behind her. I got to work. I don’t know how long I worked. I just knew it was through most of the night. As I neared the end of the sheets, I found myself dozing off, but I didn’t want to sleep. Solomon was depending on me and after all he was doing for us, I didn’t want to fail him. I got up and stretched, then switched on the radio to see if there was any further news, but there was only music now. My mind wandered off worrying about Moe and all that had happened. I thought about the bombing, about the war folks said we were about to enter, and worried about Stacey becoming a soldier. I thought of Clarence and wondered how he was. It was already after three. Poor Clarence. If he hadn’t gotten a bus back to Camp Shelby, he was probably going a bit crazy about now, worrying about that sergeant of his and what kind of detail he would be drawing because of this trip. But being good-natured, Clarence would probably figure the trip was worth it no matter what the cost and would no doubt happily do it again. I stared at the clock. Was it going to take all night to fix that car?

The music of Benny Goodman wafted from the radio, and I closed my eyes and began to sway to the rhythm. I put war and trouble at the back of my mind, pictured Solomon and how he made me feel, and swayed to that feeling. It was an awful time we had gone through and were now facing, yet I couldn’t think about that right now. Solomon Bradley had swept the bad times away, and at this moment, with no one near to remind me otherwise, I thought of him. I was Cinderella and he was my Memphis Prince.

“Dancing?”

I swirled around and faced Solomon. I hadn’t heard the door open. “No,” I lied. “Well, leastways not really.” Then I confessed. “Not supposed to dance on Sunday.”

“It’s Monday, Cassie. It’s way past midnight.”

“Well, it still seems like Sunday. Will be until after I sleep, I suppose.”

“Then get yourself some sleep. You can go upstairs.”

“No, I’m all right,” I said, not liking the sound of that.

He smiled, seeming to have detected my apprehension. “You can sleep upstairs, or you can sleep down here. When Stacey and Moe get back, I’m sure they’ll want to try to get some sleep before they hit the road again. You’re welcome to the apartment.”

“Well, I thank you,” I said, “but I’m not all that sleepy right now. Fact, I’m too excited to sleep. Besides, I want to help with the paper.”

“All right,” he said. Then Mort came in with some crises, and Solomon left again. I turned off the radio and waited for my heart to stop beating so fast. Settling down on the sofa, I began proofing the remaining papers. I read for some time, then pulled my legs onto the couch, put my head on the arm of the couch to rest, and was soon asleep. I woke when I felt someone leaning near. It was Solomon. I wasn’t startled by his nearness, yet my breathing grew suddenly shallow.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said in a whisper, “but I thought it best you have a cover. I don’t want you taking a chill. Stretch out.” I obeyed. He tucked a quilt around me and smiled. “Good night, sweet girl,” he said and walked away.

As he reached the doorway I suddenly remembered the pages and sat up with a start. “But I didn’t finish reading the—”

“It’s all right,” he assured me. “I have some time now. I’ll get them. Now, sleep! That’s an order!”

He flicked out the overhead light, leaving only the soft pale of the desk light burning, and went out. I fell into deep slumber.

When I awoke, it was past noon. Stacey, Little Willie, and Moe were asleep on pallets on the floor. I hadn’t even heard them come in. Everything was quiet now. I got up from the sofa, went over to Stacey, and stooped beside him. Gently, I shook him. He opened his eyes sleepily. “Is the car fixed?” I whispered.

“Man’s working on it.”

“Did you get through to Uncle Hammer?”

“About an hour ago. He’s sending money and he’ll be waiting for Moe.” Then he closed his eyes again and fell back into sleep. I let him be and went into the outer office. Most of the people from last night were gone. Mag, however, remained.

“I think I overslept,” I said.

“You were tired,” she replied. “All of you were.”

“Where’s Solomon?”

“Not here. What do you want?”

“Was wondering about my clothes.”

“Oh.” Mag rose from behind the desk. “They’re ready. You can put them on upstairs.” She went down the hall, pulled out a couple of papered hangers, and brought them to me. “There,” she said, then handed me a key. “Go on up to Solomon’s place and change. He’s not there.”

“Thank you,” I said and turned away.

“You remember the way?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I remember.”

I remembered the way exactly. Once inside the apartment, I changed my clothes, then lingered. I loved the thought of being here, where Solomon lived. A record was on the phonograph, and this time I didn’t resist the temptation to turn on the music. George Gershwin’s “Love Is Here to Stay” was the song. As the music played I swayed across the room, holding
my arms tight to my body and thinking of Solomon. The record played through but didn’t reject. While it continued to spin with the grating of the needle the only sound, I just stood there in the middle of the room, my eyes closed, still swaying, humming the song.

It was then that Solomon came in

“Does it feel like Sunday now?” he asked.

He had caught me again. Embarrassed, I rushed over to the phonograph and lifted the needle. “I’m sorry.”

“What for? I’m the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t realize you were up here. No need for you to be sorry about anything, sweet girl.” He smiled.

I managed to smile too.

He came over, picked up the needle arm, and placed it back on the record. Then he turned to me. “May I have this dance, Miss Cassie Logan?” I didn’t say anything, and he smiled that magnificent smile, slipped his right arm around my waist, took my hand in his, and as “Love Is Here to Stay” again floated from the speakers, he danced me across the room. At first he held me some distance from him, his eyes smiling into mine, then he pulled me closer, and I could feel his heart beating. I knew he could feel mine.

I swirled in a daze.

I was a princess.

And he was a prince.

The world was at war.

Moe was in trouble.

But for the moment none of that mattered. Solomon Bradley had me in his arms.

I was dizzy.

I was reeling.