Free Till You Hear From Me: A Novel by Pearl Cleage Page A

she had ever heard it. The Rev was a big jazz fan so I had learned a lot just by osmosis.
    Lu grinned up at me, returning the Coltrane to its proper place and continuing her search. “Are you named after Ida B. Wells Barnett?”
    “Yep.” I grinned back. “Fannie Lou Hamer and Patrice Lumumba, right?”
    She nodded, pleased I had recognized the name of the martyred Congolese leader. “You’re good! Some people get the Fannie Lou part, but nobody knows anything about Patrice Lumumba. He was my dad’s favorite revolutionary so when he decided Jones was a slave name, Lumumba was a natural.”
    “We’re a walking history lesson,” I said as she pulled out Anita Baker’s
Rapture
. Every woman I know who’s my mom and Miss Iona’s age has this album in their collection, but Mr. Charles had his own copy. Men who like women learn to like women’s music. Mr. Charles loved women, especially the lady of the house, so I wasn’t surprised.
    “You’re Reverend Dunbar’s daughter?”
    “Do you know my dad?”
    She lifted the needle on Muddy Waters, replaced him with Anita’s masterpiece, and adjusted the volume to accommodate our conversation. “I interviewed him once for a history project,” she said. “He told me all these stories about the Movement and about working with Dr. King. He made it seem so real.”
    I wish they had put her interview on YouTube instead of the one they’re running
, I thought.
    “It is real,” I said, but I knew what she meant. Their courage and commitment were bigger than ordinary life. That’s why they were able to change the world.
    “My dad told me your father is one of his heroes.”
    “Mine, too,” I said, and it was true. Which didn’t mean I wasn’t getting more nervous the closer it got to the time for him to lay eyes on me. I had missed him a lot, and more than anything, I wanted him to be glad to see me here among his friends and neighbors.
    “What was it like to—” Before Lu could finish her question, the doorbell rang. My heart started pounding immediately, wondering if this was the Rev; hoping it was, hoping it wasn’t.
    “’Scuse me,” Lu said. “Gotta play hostess.”
    To my great relief, she opened the door to a smiling young woman and a little girl of about five or six who was dressed in what looked like a Halloween costume under her coat, complete with a small tiara.
    “Hey, now!” said the woman, kissing Lu’s cheek. “Sorry we’re late. I couldn’t find Princess Joyce Ann’s crown.”
    “I’m Cinderella, Mommy,” said the little girl. “There isn’t any princess named Joyce Ann.”
    “Well, there should be,” her mother said, spotting me as Lu helped the girl with her coat. “Hi! I’m Aretha.”
    “Ida Dunbar,” I said.
    “And this,” Lu straightened the girl’s tiara and turned her toward me, “this is Princess Joyce Ann Hargrove.”
    “Cinderella
, Lulu!”
    “Princess Cinderella,” Lu said.
    I remembered a brief attempt on the Rev’s part to call me his
little princess
, and my mom’s outraged reaction that turned a sweet nothing into a slave name. I guessed the woman to be about thirty with close-cropped hair and three small gold hoops in each ear. She was wearing a long black dress with a high collar that accentuated her graceful neck, and a pair of Doc Martens on her feet that gave her outfit a funky, boho look that seemed just right. I can never pull that off, but I always admire a sister who can. Under her left arm, she was carrying a large black portfolio. I wondered if she was an artist. She looked like one.
    “Good afternoon,” I said to the princess. “I love your dress.”
    “Thank you,” she said, with the confidence that royalty must confer. “My daddy got it at Target.”
    Lu smiled and took the child’s hand. “Let’s go show Miss Iona.”
    “And Mr. Charles?”
    “He’s out there, too,” Lu said, guiding the princess past her mother. “How’d the pictures come out?”
    “Amazing, if I do say