Confessions in B-Flat
by Donna Hill
Copyright © 2020 by Donna Hill. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
September 1963
Jason Tanner loosened his tie as soon as he walked out of Paschal’s Restaurant, still caught in the spell of the past two hours. This was the first time he’d been invited to literally sit at the table with the major leaders of Dr. King’s nonviolent movement. The meeting at Paschal’s had been set up as a wind-down and debriefing following the success of the March on Washington the prior week.
The impact of witnessing and being part of the march for equality still pulsed in his veins. More than 200,000 protesters had descended upon Washington under the blaze of an August sun in what news outlets were calling the largest civil rights gathering in US history. Dr. King’s rousing speech about his dream for a better world, which was already being touted as one of the most powerful oratories in history, still made the hairs on his arms rise.
Flatware had clicked against china while voices rose and fell between mouths full of golden fried chicken and deep swallows of sweet tea. Dr. King—surrounded by John Lewis, the twenty-three-year-old wunderkind and rising star in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, who’d given a stirring speech during the march; Baynard Ruskin, the architect of the march; Jesse Jackson; and Andrew Young—had insisted that now was not the time to sit back. “There’s no room to turn back now. We have to keep pushing ahead while we have the momentum,” he’d said, and that had only reaffirmed the commitment in Jason’s belly.
He’d had his first up-close taste of the magnetism of Dr. King and his message of brotherhood and equality when Dr. King had come to preach at his local church, Mt. Zion, six months earlier. Jason had been enthralled as much by the message as the man. Dr. King was young, not much older than he was, yet the reverend was on a path to change the world. “Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle,” Dr. King had said that Sunday morning. It made Jason rethink the value of punching a time card as the company bookkeeper for DeKalb County’s big furniture company. A respectable job for a young Black man, his father had insisted. But after that Sunday sermon, he’d begun to question his own worth.
What would his contribution be?
Jason had worked hard at not acting as overwhelmed as he felt by the pure power that sat around the table at Paschal’s that day. The restaurant was owned by brothers James and Robert Paschal, but beyond being restaurateurs, the brothers were staunch supporters of the movement. They often posted bond for jailed protesters, served complimentary meals, and extended their hours of operation to accommodate families who needed to reconnect with their loved ones released from jail. Paschal’s served as a gathering hub for Dr. King and the supporters of his nonviolent resistance movement, who came together as much to plan next steps as to decompress from an event or just relax with good food and better friends, which was what had brought Jason to Paschal’s on a Friday afternoon.
Dr. King was certain that if they kept the pressure up, President Johnson would have no choice but to sign the civil rights bill into law. Dissenting voices around the table raised the reality of countermovements up North led by Malcolm X, who’d never hidden his skepticism about the path that Dr. King chose. Malcolm’s philosophy challenged the nonviolent pursuit of integration. His position and message to his followers was to defend themselves against “the white devils” with the mindset of “by any means necessary,” which Dr. King could never support.
The young firebrand insisted that Negroes must rise up and stop turning the other cheek. His message was spreading across the North and filtering down South, an issue that was discussed at length around the table.
“I respect Brother Malcolm’s passion,” Dr. King had intoned. “However, it is counter to our message and could very well damage any chance we have of getting the bill on the president’s desk signed.”
“The only way to make any dents in his rhetoric is to have a presence up North,” Ralph Abernathy said. “A strong presence. Fine what we are doing here in the southern states, but if we are going to succeed, we need our brothers and sisters in the North to fully embrace the cause.”
“Grassroots is the way to go. Set up a main office. Get volunteers. Organize,” Baynard said. “Same way we did here.”
They’d agreed that they must expand and strengthen their message in the North, but to do that, they needed someone to lay the groundwork, and no one from the committee could be spared.
“I could do it. I’ll go to New York and set up a headquarters,” Jason had said, the words out of his mouth and into the laps of those at the table before he could blink. His heart thudded when all eyes had turned on him.
Then the men broke into a half-hour debate on the merits of Jason Tanner starting up an office in New York. It was actually John who’d given the most impassioned words of support, reminding all the skeptics that at one point, each of them had been Jason Tanner. Ultimately, Dr. King agreed, which made Jason’s heart swell with pride, and plans would immediately get underway. The meeting had ended on a high note, touting the success of the march and Jason’s relocation to New York. They all shook his hand and clapped him heartily on the back, each intoning how important his work in New York would be. The group finally dispersed with plans to meet the following week.
Now, out from under the heavy gaze of men set on changing the world, he considered what he had just committed to do. His throat grew dry, and the nerve under his right eye began to tick. The first time he’d ever been out of the state of Georgia was for the march. He’d read about New York, seen the news, heard the stories about the “fast life,” and, up until this afternoon, it had not been a place he’d ever wanted to visit. Now he was on the cusp of packing up his life and leaving his family and everything he knew. What had he been thinking? That was just it. He hadn’t been thinking.
He’d been swayed by the collective power that surrounded him.
He took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his brow. It was barely three, but the streets of Atlanta were relatively empty. The air hung heavy with humidity. He looked upward. Gray clouds hovered in the distance. A storm was coming.
He undid the top button of his winter-white shirt, starched to within an inch of its life just the way he’d been taught since he was old enough to handle the heavy iron without dropping it on his foot. He draped his jacket over one arm and tucked the thick folder under the other.
Jason strolled down Hunter Street, trying not to think about the fifteen-minute walk in the sweltering heat, when a beautiful sky-blue Cadillac Eldorado, with chrome rims polished until they gleamed, glided by. Its owner was dressed to the nines: tan wide-brimmed hat with a suit to match. The driver stopped at the corner as the prettiest black-on-black Lincoln Continental convertible that Jason’d ever laid eyes on crossed the intersection. He licked his lips.
One of these days, I’mma be behind the wheel of one of them beauties.
A dribble of sweat slid down the length of his spine, returning him to his reality. Throwing his hat in the ring among the men at the table who understood deep in their souls the importance of their mission was one thing. But it would be a different story to announce to his family that he was leaving home to live in a city “of sin,” as his mother would say.
He knew that his folks’ negative response would be born out of fear for him and the work ahead. They’d watched the dogs, the hoses, the violent arrests in horror. But the North was different, he would argue. He had a calling, he would insist.
Everyone had to do something if change was ever going to be had for the Negro.
This was his time. This was his duty.
He turned onto Stone Road for two long blocks. The tree-lined street did little to stave off the humidity that wrapped around him like cellophane, sucking the air out of his lungs. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back.
A flash of light cut through the sky. He picked up his pace and turned onto Elderts Lane. Friday was family night at the Tanner house, and tonight they would be joined by thunder and lightning.
“Hey there, Jason!”
Jason waved at Mrs. Crawford, who had to be 150 if she was a day. She’d been his family’s neighbor since before he was born, and she was old back then.
Mrs. Crawford had been like a second mom to him when he was a kid. There were many afternoons he’d sit at her wobbly kitchen table after school with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while she quizzed him about his day, what he’d learned, and talked about her garden and her bad knee and how she expected him to be somebody special. Yes, ma’am, he’d always agree.
He wondered now if this trip to New York would fulfill that prophecy.
“How you doin’, Mrs. C.?”
“Well as can be expected. Knee acting up,” she said from her perch on the porch.
Jason hid his smile. Mrs. C.’s knees had been acting up for as far back as he could remember. The refrain fell from her lips as easily as “good morning.” She was probably the fittest seventy-year-old woman he knew. “Sorry to hear that. Storm coming. You should get inside.”
She waved her thin hand in dismissal. “Storm’s always coming.” She laughed. “Tell your mama I fixed up my peach cobbler and to come over for a piece.”
“Sure will. Save me a slice.”
“When you gonna settle down with a good woman? Handsome boy like you.”
Jason grinned. “One of these days, Mrs. C. Promise.”
She waved off his response and pouted.
Jason pushed open the white wooden gate that creaked and rocked on its hinges, announcing his arrival the same way it had when he was a teen and tried to sneak in after his curfew. He walked down the short path to the house, and just like when he was sixteen, the front door opened. But instead of his dad, Ralph, with his thick, calloused hands shoved into the pockets of his blue work pants and a scowl painted on his brick-brown face, it was his mother who greeted him.
“I thought I heard someone coming.” Mama beamed at him.
Jason jogged up the three steps. He leaned down and planted a full kiss on his mother’s smooth cheek that made her giggle like a schoolgirl. His mother was sitting squarely in her late fifties but didn’t look a day over thirty. Her full head of jet-black shoulder-length hair—which she kept pressed until it hollered and curled in the latest fashion, courtesy of Miss Hazel’s Beauty Salon every Saturday the Lord sent—was her crowning glory. His mother always said, “God ain’t seen fit to give me height or money, but I got me a head fulla beautiful hair and a brain to go with it.”
“Hey there, Clara,” she called out to Mrs. Crawford. “I’ll be by later after supper.” She slid her arm around Jason’s waist and glanced upward. “Storm’s comin’.”
“Sure is. How’s Dad?” he asked as he closed the door behind them.
“Good spirits, all things considered. Won’t see the doctor. Stubborn as a mule. He’s in the living room, watching the game.”
Jason approached the entrance to the living room and stopped in his tracks as he watched his dad slowly lower himself into his favorite chair. The strain tightened the veins in his neck while his knotted hands gripped the arms of the chair for support. The years of working the docks and driving a truck for hours and weeks on end had eventually taken a toll on Ralph Tanner. The arthritis in his knees and hips made it difficult to get around and, on bad days, more like impossible. Doctors had recommended hip surgery, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. Nobody was gonna cut him open and put metal inside, not if he had a say. A few aspirin and he’d be fine, he insisted.
Jason and his mother walked into the living room. Jason dropped his jacket and the folder on the couch and headed over to his father, who was reclining in the chair designated for his use only. A pillow was propped under his knees.
“Hey, Dad.” He bent down and hugged him.
“Good game. Knicks and Celtics. Knicks losing at the moment, but it’s close.” Dad glanced up at him. “You coulda played professional ball,” he said for the zillionth time. It didn’t matter that Jason didn’t have an athletic bone in his body. Just the fact that he was a six-foot-three Negro male was enough for his father.
Jason patted his father’s shoulder. “Mm-hmm.” He plopped down in the paisley club chair, whose fabric had seen better days, but it sure was comfortable.
“Dinner will be ready about five thirty. Patrice is on her way from work, and Mason is upstairs doing who knows what,” Mama said from the arch of the living room door. She wiped her hands on a blue-and-white hand towel.
“I’m glad everyone’ll be here,” Jason said. But now he wished he’d had more time to plan his words. His thoughts were spinning in his head so fast that his stomach knotted.
Too late to turn back. He’d up and volunteered to go to New York without really thinking. Then, to his delight and ultimate alarm, he’d gotten the membership’s blessing. The enormity of what he’d signed on for was slowly sinking in.
And the table of world changers at Paschal’s was no match for Ralph and Mae Ellen Tanner.
He ran his finger around the collar of his shirt. As a team, his mother and father always presented a united front, one that he and his siblings, friends, and family found difficult, if not impossible, to break. They were a formidable pair, and they were in unison about their support of Dr. King’s nonviolent movement, but they only cautiously tolerated Jason’s participation as long as it was confined to attending meetings.
When he’d announced that he was going to Washington, it had taken nearly two months to convince them that he would be all right. He didn’t have that kind of time now. Dr. King wanted him in New York as soon as possible.
Thunder rumbled in the background.
Dad looked over the top of his glasses at his son. “Why’s that?”
“I have some news that I want to tell everyone at once.”
hy you?” his mother asked, clearly distraught. Lines deepened around her eyes.
“Mama, I’ve been preparing for this for more than a year. I’ve organized and trained hundreds right here in Atlanta. Dr. King believes I can do good work in New York.”
“I don’t like it one damn bit,” his dad said, taking a swallow from his sweet tea and then slamming the glass on the table. “Nothing but trouble up North. Fast life.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it one bit.”
“I think it’s great,” Patrice, his baby sister, said and flashed a dimpled smile at him as she ladled mashed potatoes onto her plate. “Jason has the chance to do something really important, be part of changing the world and the way the world sees colored people. You should be proud. Dr. King is something special, and he thinks Jason is special, too. That means a lot.”
“I watched that march on TV,” Mason said. “That was something. Wish I was there. Proud of you, big brother.” He waved a leg of fried chicken at Jason.
Jason smiled and patted his brother’s back. “Thanks, Mase.”
“How long you gonna be gone?” Mama asked.
He looked his mother in the eyes, saw the love and the worry hovering there. He wished he could say that everything would be fine and there was nothing to worry about, but he’d likely be lying. Although the work they did was based on nonviolent resistance, their adversaries didn’t always feel the same way.
The chances of being beaten with billy clubs, water hosed, attacked by dogs, or simply “made to disappear” were all part of his reality—and the reality of everyone committed to the movement.
“I’m not really sure. As long as it takes.”
His mother muffled a cry.
Dad cleared his throat. “I don’t like it, not one bit,” he repeated, “but I…I understand.”
Jason blinked in surprise. His mother inhaled a gasp.
Dad slowly shook his head as he spoke. “My daddy and my mama was born slaves. All they knew was how hard life could be. By the time I came along, they were just beginning to understand what freedom meant.” He drew in a long breath, looked off into the distance. “Even though they said we was free, it didn’t mean nothing to some folks. Can’t count the times the night riders sat out in front of the house in those damn white robes.” His expression tightened into a series of hard lines, and he paused for a long moment before speaking again. “There ain’t no feeling to compare to having to cut your own daddy down from a tree and watch your mother fade away from heartbreak. I couldn’t stop none of that, but…I can now.”
The Tanner siblings sat frozen in silence. Tears glistened in Patrice’s eyes. Mason’s long fingers curled into fists. The power of the images that Ralph had shared with his family for the first time held them.
Jason’s nostrils flared as he sucked in air, his shoulders curved under the weight of his father’s words. He had known that he’d be met with resistance, resistance of the here and now, but not with a past so powerful that decades later still held them all in its grip. The terror that his father had endured was one he didn’t want visited upon his son or his family ever again. Jason understood that. But his father couldn’t protect him forever. They both knew it.
Rain slapped against the window, each pelt felt like a stab to his heart, as he knew what he must do and how his decision would affect his family.
His father’s dark eyes, which had witnessed too much, passed from one to the next at the dinner table. Mama took her husband’s hand.
Jason watched as his father painfully rose to his feet, gave him a somber look, and slowly ambled away.
He wanted both his parents’ blessings, but he would leave without them if he had to. The challenge ahead was bigger than one man’s dark and painful past or even a woman’s broken heart.
Violence was what this country was built on, but it could not be the way it survived.
He came from a legacy of men and women who had endured the unspeakable. It ran in his blood. And his father had to know that. For as much as he railed against him going North, Jason believed deep in his soul that his father saw the possibility of the Negro people embodied in his son.
It was his calling.
He had to answer.
...
More than two weeks had gone by since that Friday night dinner. He’d endured the one-word answers and painful stares until his father came to him after another Friday night dinner. He asked Jason to walk with him out on the porch.
They sat side by side on the swing, quiet, contemplative, looking out to the purple sky as the sun began to sink.
“I know what you doing is important work, son. I admire that. We not gonna stop worrying about you and we not gonna stop ya.” He placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder. “If you gotta go to try to make things better, then you gotta go,” he finally said. “For your grandmother. And for your grandfather.”
Jason clasped his father’s thigh. His throat clenched. “I will make things better. I promise.”
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