Free Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd Page B

stranger.
    Another fuel tank exploded, sending flames to the sky and driving the last of the passengers from the bus. A moment later, it was a mass of red and black, burning like a bonfire. I could feel the heat all the way across the parking lot.
    I heard the crack of a gunshot, then another. Fearing the worst, I whirled around. The highway patrol officers were standing nearby, pistols pointed to the sky.
    â€œThat’s enough,” one of them yelled.
    Enough? What did the word mean? Grant had enough baseball cards. I had enough records. Was there enough blood? Enough pain?
    The people in the crowd looked at each other. They eyed the passengers, who were scattered across the lot weeping, staring, stunned. Maybe they noticed Grant and realized he was taking photos. Whatever the reason, they moved off one by one, somehow no longer a mob. They went to their cars, got inside, and drove off. They left in an orderly way, as if they’d just finished up at the grocery store.
    The officers watched the cars go. They didn’t write down names or license plate numbers. They didn’t arrest anyone. One of them pulled a microphone from inside his patrol car and ordered an ambulance.
    That seemed to break the spell. The second crowd, those who had been watching, began to move. Some left. A few approached the bus passengers and, along with Janie, did what they could to comfort the passengers until the ambulance arrived.
    Daddy watched them go, the way he had watched the beatings and the flames. Finally he walked over to me. I thought of how, in an earlier life, he and I had made breakfast, then taken it in to Mama and celebrated Mother’s Day.
    I said in a low voice, “I guess now we know what your errand was.”
    â€œClyde told me about it at the barber shop on Saturday,” said Daddy. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
    â€œThat was terrible,” I said.
    â€œIt was dangerous. You shouldn’t have come.”
    â€œWhy did they do it?” I asked.
    This time, “they” didn’t mean Negroes. It meant the people of Anniston. It meant us.
    â€œIt wasn’t supposed to be like this,” said Daddy. “It got out of hand.”
    â€œBut why? The Freedom Riders were on a bus, that’s all.”
    Daddy explained in that soft, gentle voice of his, the one he used to reassure me. “Sweetheart, you know why. It was black and white together.”
    â€œMama said black and white should be separated.”
    â€œShe’s right. It’s better that way. Maybe this proves it.” It’s what I had been taught in a thousand little ways—separate entrances, separate drinking fountains, separate ways of talking to people and looking at them. It had been passed to me, and I had taken it. But today, seeing what had happened in my town, I thought of Lavender’s question: Would I pass it on?
    At supper that night, Mama served roast beef. Afterward she brought out some apple pie. I took a bite, then pushed my plate away.
    â€œI’m not hungry.”
    Mama studied me with a pinched, worried expression. After Daddy and I had gotten home, I’d gone to my room and a few minutes later had heard the two of them arguing. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could tell Mama was angry. Happy Mother’s Day.
    Mama glanced at Daddy, then back at me. “Your father told me what happened. Do you want to talk about it?”
    What was there to say? My town was different from the way I’d thought it was. Maybe my father was too.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I said.
    I could see her struggle to find words. “Bo Blanchard and those other people … what they did was wrong. It was vicious and mean. But the Negroes—”
    â€œFreedom Riders,” I said. “They weren’t all Negroes.”
    â€œMaybe they were a little bit wrong too.”
    â€œThey just wanted to ride the bus.”
    â€œSweetheart,” said Mama,