Ibby watched Birdelia’s skinny legs move with purpose beneath her marching uniform, the tassels on her boots flapping as she walked. She was intent on going somewhere, but it wasn’t the corner pharmacy.
“Where are you going?” Ibby asked. “Mozer’s is the other way.”
Birdelia gave her a sharp look. “You’ll see. Now come on, we don’t want to be late.”
On the way, they passed Annabelle Friedrichs’s house. It seemed unusually quiet. There were no cars in the driveway, and newspapers were stacked up on the front steps.
Birdelia cocked her head toward the house. “They gone.”
“Gone? Where?” Ibby asked as they hurried past.
“Heard my mama say that Miss Honey done took up with that neighbor fella, Mr. Jeffreys. Miss Honey’s husband found out, kicked her out. She and Miss Annabelle moved to an apartment down on Magazine Street last week.”
“Oh,” Ibby said. “I guess that’s not the kind of thing you hear about at school. Annabelle certainly didn’t mention it.”
“Bet not,” Birdelia said. “She the kind of person that pretends like her life is so perfect. She ain’t gone tell nobody that kind of thing.”
Ibby followed Birdelia up Jefferson Avenue, then up St. Charles Avenue. When they reached Audubon Park, they crossed the street toward Tulane University and walked briskly through the campus until they reached Freret Street, where hordes of students were milling about in front of the ROTC building.
“What’s going on?” Ibby asked.
“They protesting the Vietnam War,” Birdelia said. “Mama told me to stay away. She don’t want no trouble, so don’t say nothing to her. You understand?”
Ibby and Birdelia fell in with the crowd that was heading down McAlister Drive. Ibby kept looking over her shoulder.
“You looking for somebody?” Birdelia asked.
“No,” Ibby replied.
Birdelia glanced over at Ibby as they made their way toward an open field just past the student union building. “She ain’t here.”
“Who?”
“Your mama, that’s who,” Birdelia said.
“How’d you know about my mother?” Ibby asked.
“My mama told me how Mr. Rainold came by and gave you a picture. He shouldn’t have said nothing. Now you got your hopes up, and I’m telling you, she ain’t here.”
“I don’t care if she is or not,” Ibby said defensively. “Besides, how do you know she’s not here?”
Birdelia stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Because I just do. And you do care, otherwise you wouldn’t be giving every person that passes us the once-over.”
Ibby shook her head. Birdelia was getting as bossy as her grandmother.
The edge of the field was crowded with students. Near the center, dozens of students wearing “Tulane Liberation Front” T-shirts were bantering around posters scribbled with antiwar sentiments like “Hell, No, We Won’t Go,” “I Want a Better America,” and “Whose War Is It?”
Birdelia waved her hand. “Stay with me, and whatever you do, don’t talk to none of the cops. They mean.”
Out of nowhere, one of the women began shouting, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many babies have you killed today?”
Ibby glanced over at the student union building, where, on the second-floor balcony, onlookers gawked and cheered as campus security ordered the protesters to cease and desist. When they refused, kicking and spitting at the campus security, the New Orleans police charged in and began throwing them to the ground. People started running in every direction. In all the commotion, Birdelia somehow disappeared into the crowd.
“Here,” a young man said, shoving a copy of an underground newspaper into Ibby’s hand.
She was about to toss it onto the ground when a cartoon of a naked man on the front page caught her eye. She became so engrossed in the drawing that she didn’t notice a paddy wagon pull up nearby until a police whistle made her look up. She stuffed the newspaper into her back pocket and began searching for Birdelia as police handcuffed protesters and escorted them into the back of the wagon.
She finally spotted Birdelia standing on one of the metal benches that lined the perimeter of the field. The one black face in the all-white crowd, wearing a white sequined uniform, she stood out like a beacon, especially given the way she was waving her hands around. Look behind you, Birdelia mouthed to Ibby.
Ibby turned to find a woman in a scarf and sunglasses cruising down McAlister Drive in a red convertible, honking the horn and waving a “Bless Our Boys” poster. She was stealing the show from the protesters. Even the police turned to look. Birdelia was now running toward Ibby at full speed, shoving people out of the way to get to her.
“Look who it is!” Birdelia said, out of breath.
“Did you know Fannie was coming to the protest?” Ibby asked as she watched Fannie waving to the crowd.