“Ever since I’ve known him. This is a critical case he’s trying, Rhoda. He’ll probably lose it here, but we hope it will go to the Supreme Court. The courts are our only real hope. The people can rise up and they can march but only the courts can create justice. We can’t win justice on the streets.”

“He’s coming back over tomorrow night.”

“I know. I’m glad. I want to give you this book to read when you get in bed.” She reached behind herself to a shelf of books and took down a very small gray book and handed it to me. “It was written by a young white girl who helped with the boycott. She died in an automobile accident shortly after that was over. We published this as a memento. I think you’ll like it.” I took the book and held it in my hand. I Play Flute, the title said. I opened it and read.

I am yellow crocus

In the morning fog

I am ball and socket

Of your shoulder bone

I am breath and if you kiss me

I am universe

and water

All flowering springs

This intense cool fragrance

“So complete is happiness.”

“What a strange beautiful poem. You knew her, the girl who wrote it?”

“There are fourteen poems. We printed a hundred copies. Well, I’d better get to bed. It’s wonderful to have you here, Rhoda. I hope you’ll want to come again.”

“I want to live here. I told you that.” I settled back against the pillows, the book in my hand. “I meant it. I’ll just move in.”

“I think you have enough parents,” Derry said. She stood in the doorway looking down at me. I think now how much it must have pained her to watch me suffer and be dumb, to know how very far I had to go to even begin to understand. She came back into the room and kissed me on the head and said goodnight. After she left I settled down to read the book, which made me sick with jealousy. I could write these poems, I was thinking. There’s nothing to this. I could do this anytime I wanted to. I could write poems a thousand times better than these.

Chapter

25

I woke at dawn and went into the kitchen and sat at the table and began to write. “Alabama is not a place you’re from,” I wrote,

Not a shadow you roll up in a drawer

It will follow you to Boston on the train

You are my brother whether you want to be or not

Gandhi said. Sometimes I think I am underneath

A song, looking up.

Derry appeared at the door. “What are you writing?” she asked.

“An answer to the book you gave me.”

“Let me see.” I handed her my poem.

“Oh, Rhoda, that’s lovely. Very lovely.”