Free Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy Page B

Mother’s patient tutelage, we’ve worked our way up from Go Fish and Old Maid through Crazy Eights, Rummy, Hearts, and Canasta, to Pinochle, her prerequisite for instruction in Bridge.
    Daddy, with a sleepy Mitchell slung over his good shoulder, ribs Mother, “You know, you’re probably this town’s only serious card-playing Baptist.”
    “Don’t forget Lillian!” she mock-protests.
    “Twice a year does not a card shark make,” Daddy calls on his way upstairs. “Besides, you taught her everything she knows.”
    Mother grins, cuts and deals.
    All of a sudden, Buddy, our live alarm system, scrambles up and runs to the back door. Nose to the crack, his tail ticktocks welcome while, at the same time, a small warning growl rolls around his mouth.
    Luther’s knock follows and, opening the door, I see the source of his mixed reception. Behind him, just outside the circle of porchlight, stand two white shirtfronts split by dark ties, men dressed for business.
    “Evenin’, Roo. Y’all finished supper?” Luther asks quietly.
    “Yessir, we have.”
    “Ah brought a couple people to see your daddy.”
    “Please come in,” I say, pulling the screen door wide.
    Mother and Doto look up and hastily collapse their card hands.
    “Evening, MizLizbeth. Ah’d like you to meet Mistuh Thurgood Marshall and Mistuh Harry T. Moore.”
    “Gentlemen, welcome,” Mother says, rising from her chair and extending her hand. “Please meet my mother-in-law, Mrs. Dorothy McMahon.”
    “How do you do?” Doto stands, offering her hand in that queenly way she uses whenever she meets anybody.
    “And this,” Mother continues, “is Marie Louise.” Although they seem to be about the same age, the two strangers are quite different. Mr. Marshall’s a great golden bear of a man. His hand swallows mine in a firm, hearty shake. Mr. Moore hangs back, slim, dark, dignified. He meets me with his eyes before offering his grip.
    “Also known as Roo, I hear,” Mr. Moore says. His smile is warm and kindly. N-double A-C-P, I remember, from Daddy and Luther’s talk.
    “Pleased to meet you,” I say.
    “And our son, Warren, Jr., who we call Ren,” Mother says. Ren does Daddy proud, shaking hands firmly, level-eyed.
    “It’s a pleasure meeting all of you,” Mr. Marshall says, openly surveying the kitchen. Unlike Luther and Mr. Moore, his hair is straight and brown. He sports a handsome, close-clipped mustache and a taffy-colored tweed jacket, an unusual fabric for Florida, but of course he’s the lawyer from New York.
    “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Marshall,” Doto says.
    “I’ve had business at the Lake County courthouse all week,” Mr. Marshall explains in a voice that seems to rumble around the room. “Spent today with Harry registering voters. Heading home tonight.”
    “Looky here!” Luther says, grinning gold. He pulls a small white card out of his shirt pocket. “Says
here
Ah’m a duly registered Democrat in the County of Orange, State of Florida. Come next spring, Ah get to vote in the primary elections. After that, Ah’ll help pick the President of the United States.”
    “Haven’t you voted before, Luther?” Ren asks.
    “Nope,” Luther says.
    Mr. Moore explains smoothly, “Orange County’s been a little slow in giving us the vote, but thanks to Mr. Marshall here, we’re back in the registration business.”
    “Good Lord, that amendment passed, what? Twenty years ago?” Doto asks Mr. Marshall.
    “Thirty, actually!” Mr. Marshall’s laugh is hollow. “But,” he tells Doto, “I doubt you need me to tell you the pace down here is a bit behind the rest of the country.”
    Doto shakes her head in weary agreement.
    “How’s the voter registration coming?” Mother asks Mr. Moore.
    “Pretty good, so far.” A shy grin widens his narrow, thoughtful face.
    “Harry’s being modest,” Mr. Marshall booms. “Before he got involved, less than four, four and a half percent of the Negroes in this state were