We Had Sneakers, They Had Guns: The Kids Who Fought for Civil Rights in Mississippi

Five. The Lindseys

40 f i v e The Lindseys at the edge of town I wheeled the Chevy under the overhang at the gas station, rolled past the tanks, and stopped in the knife edge of shade thrown by the building. I moved to the rear of the car and with a paper towel started to wipe away the scrawled freedom now! that some kid at the Freedom School had left on my dust-covered hood. Go live with teenagers, I was thinking. Jesus! That’s all I need in the Delta—a sign! Two white women stood watching from the office door. The taller was blonde and pretty. She tossed back her hair saucily and called over to me, “You don’t look like the others.” Her chin was up, and she threw the words like a dare. I finished wiping off the trunk as I watched her. She was young, late twenties, I thought, and she was very pregnant. Her companion seemed taken aback that the blonde had spoken to me. She was tiny and looked embarrassed. Her fingers fussed with her linen purse. I wiped my hands on the towel and walked slowly across the soft asphalt. I stopped directly in front of them and said, “Beg your pardon?” The blonde flushed, but stood her ground. “I said you don’t look like the rest of them!” I grinned at her. “I’m just like the rest of them. I’m twenty years older than they are, but I’m just like the rest of them!” She giggled, and the tension seemed to ease from her shoulders. The sunburned skin around her eyes crinkled, and she stole a quick look at her companion. Her face swung back to mine. “Take off your sunglasses,” she commanded. “I’ve got questions to ask you, and I want to see your eyes.” Obediently, I removed the glasses and squinted down at her in the noon glare. “What would you like to ask me?” I inquired. The Lindseys   |   41 “Well, what are you doing here in Ruleville?” “I’m spending the summer making drawings. I’m covering the kids who came down here to work. I’m an artist.” She cocked her head with interest. “Who are you bein’ an artist for?” “CBS.” Her eyes were steady now, and the playfulness had been turned off. “Would you answer me honest—would you really talk with me?” A trickle of perspiration moved down the small of my back, and I was aware for the first time in days that I was stained with sweat and dust. There was an agreeable feminine radiance about the woman, and she made you remember that you were a man. I smiled at her and nodded. “Sure. Let’s talk. What’s bothering you?” She pouted and tossed her hair back. “We can’t talk here!” I looked about the deserted station elaborately. Teasing, I said, “Why not?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she exploded. “This is a gas station!” She paused uncertainly, and took a breath. She glanced quickly at her companion , and then seemed to make a private decision. Her eyes were challenging as they moved to my face. “Would you come to my house?” Her friend’s eyes widened, but she remained silent. “Well, now. That’s the first invitation I’ve had from the white community since I arrived!” I said lightly. She flushed. “Now don’t start that!” “Before I accept your kind invitation, you ought to know that if I come, I’m liable to jeopardize your position in the community. When I drive out of the quarter,” I said, “I’m often followed.” The blonde shook her head in annoyance. “Don’t be silly. Everybody in Ruleville knows me. Just come.” “Thank you. Can I bring some of the kids I’m living with? You’d like them.” “Heavens, no!” Her eyes were so wide in horror that I burst out laughing. “When would you like me to come?” I asked. “One thirty. Emily, you come, too.” She smiled at me. “My name is Bette Lindsey. What’s yours?” 42   |   The Long, Hot Summer, 1964 Back at the Freedom House in the Sanctified Quarter, Jerry Tecklin stared at me. His thick notebook of local information lay open on his lap. “The Lindseys are important people. Bette Lindsey is married to Lake Lindsey, a family that reaches way back in Mississippi...