I wandered through my garden picking rhubarb and blackberries. The berries along the fence were plentiful this time of year. They were full and ripe, and you had to pluck them just so or you’d have nothing but berry mash and stained fingertips for your effort.
Rhubarb-and-blackberry crumble sounded delicious to me. I could make a right good crumble, Granny always said.
Daddy came out of the house, over the yard. I thought he was making for the fields, but he headed straight for me. He stepped right over my rabbit fence and stood between the string bean stalks, as if tall and lanky things should stick together. He was chawing on the end of a long stalk of grass, like he did when he had things on his mind.
“Sandy,” he said. “Listen up a minute, baby girl.”
I’m sixteen now, I wanted to tell him, hating the way he still called me that. But this was one of a lot of things I wanted to say that Daddy wouldn’t want to hear. I would always be his baby girl, and I think he liked to remind me. So I hugged my berry bowl and said nothing.
“The Panthers are coming,” Daddy said. “Be here tomorrow, sometime after first light.”
My fingers fumbled. The berries bled. “The Panthers?”
“The Black Panthers,” he said. As if I didn’t know.
The whole wide world closed around me. “The Panthers,” I repeated. We’d seen them on TV, a few months ago. They stormed into the California state legislature in Sacramento, openly carrying shotguns, rifles, and other legal weapons, in protest of a bill that would strip rights from black citizens. It made the national news. Those boys are gonna get themselves killed, Daddy’d said that night. Not the kind of thing I’d forget.
“What are they coming here for?” I asked.
Daddy moved the stalk of grass from one side of his mouth to the other. “Take the cart to the store and stock up,” he said. He moved like he was going to walk away and then he didn’t. “Don’t need to say nothing to Jake about the reason for the excess.”
“How many people?” I asked.
“’Bout a dozen.”
I’d never cooked for that many. “For lunch tomorrow?”
Daddy nodded, short. “And on through the weekend.”
Saturday lunch, Saturday dinner. Sunday breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I didn’t want to say it, but I had to. “It’s going to take more than the cart,” I blurted.
Daddy shifted the grass. “You reckon?”
“Yeah, ’cause they’ll eat like you. Not like Granny.”
I was being a little impudent, maybe. But then Daddy got that sliver of a smile on his face. The one that means he’s thinking How’d I get a kid so smart? That’s according to Granny.
“Can you get enough for lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
Daddy chawed on the grass for a moment. “Write the rest on a list,” he said. “I’ll call it over. They’ll stop in town on the way and pick up what you need.”
“What are they coming here for?” I dared ask the question a second time. My heart was beating like a crazy drum.
“It’s none of your concern.” His brows darkened and gathered, like a quiet storm. “You’ll cook for them, as our guests. Otherwise you’re to have nothing to do with them. You hear?”
I could read between the lines. The Panthers would be dangerous. Exciting.
“You hear?” he said, louder.
“Yes, sir.”
Daddy strode away, hands jammed in the pockets of his overalls, grass head dancing past the side of his cheek. Hands in his pockets meant he wasn’t sure about something.
We’d had guests for dinner lots of times. I always made chicken or roast beef. Fresh vegetables from the garden. I specialized in potatoes. Not growing them — cooking them. Baked, mashed, fried, home-fried, gratin. I did a nice corn casserole too, when we could get fresh corn. We could get some this time of year.
My ribs began to ache from the ceramic lip of the berry bowl digging into my side. I relaxed my grip, though my heart still quaked in this brand-new rhythm, a fresh pulse from somewhere outside of me.
I’d need to pick a lot more blackberries.
3.
“He thinks I don’t know what he’s up to,” Granny said, smacking a wooden spoon against her palm. “I always know.”
I had my eye on the kitchen window. Watching for the telltale dust cloud to rise over the trees.
I could see on the map that we were fifty miles from Oakland. That’s where they’d have started out. But who knew when? Or how fast they would drive? Or how much traffic there might be on the blacktopped roads? Or if they’d stop for gas, or breakfast in a restaurant in another town like ours?
“I always know,” Granny muttered.
“What’s he up to?”
“Sneaking around with those friends of his,” she said. “Them wild boys.” Her eyes grew all big and she waved the spoon. “My boy, he’s too smart for the likes of them. Fools,” she insisted.
Dust blurred the sky, low in the distance. “They’re here,” I said.