Ten Miles Past Normal

Chapter Twenty-two


The Jailhouse Blues





“So tell me again what this person named Monster was doing pushing Sarah into the window of an old abandoned house?”

My mom and I are sitting in the office of one Sergeant Wendell Treadway, and I’m trying to explain exactly how I ended up in the pokey.

“Sarah needed to get inside to take pictures,” I say slowly. This is the third time I’ve told my mom the story, and she’s still not getting it. I think the shock of seeing me in a jail cell has temporarily scrambled her brains. “The house might get torn down at any minute, so she had to work fast.”

“Did it occur to anyone that you could have called me or your dad? We could have helped you find out how to contact Mr. Pritchard’s family to discuss the matter with them. Did that occur to you?”

I take this moment to examine the wanted poster on the wall behind my mom’s head. “No, not exactly,” I tell her, eying a shady-looking character named Bob Stockfish, wanted for armed robbery in fourteen states. Fourteen states? Was this guy good or what? “I guess we were just kind of caught up in the moment.”

“So you decide to break into the house, but because no one can climb up on the roof, you call this Monster person—”

“Monster’s his name, Mom,” I interrupt. “You’re saying ‘Monster’ like it’s an adjective.”

“So you call Monster,” my mom revises. “And he comes and boosts Sarah up so she can climb through the window and get into the house.”

“To take pictures,” I remind her. “She wasn’t planning on stealing anything.”

My mom sighs. “And then Sarah unlocks the door from the inside, and you all go in.”

“Right, and we look around, and it’s so cool, because Mrs. Brown found some old record books stuffed away in a closet that listed people’s names and what skills they needed to learn. Emma wants to do an oral history project, contact people who were students, the ones who are still alive, anyway—”

My mom holds up her hand. “Slow down. So tell me what happened when the police arrived.”

Hmmmm. That’s when things got complicated, and it’s hard to sort it all out. We were in the house, going through the notebooks, and Emma started talking to Mrs. Brown about her oral history project idea, and Sarah was running from room to room with her phone, taking pictures, and I was trying to explain everything to Monster, when there was a sudden knock on the door, and a big, loud voice yelled out, “Police!”

“Don’t let them in!” Sarah yelled from upstairs. “I’m not done yet! Bar the door! Board up the windows!”

Mrs. Brown opened the door. “Hello, officers. How can I help you?”

A short, stocky policeman stood on the porch with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Behind him, also in a crisp blue uniform, was the apparent winner of an Ichabod Crane look-alike contest. “You’re trespassing, ma’am,” the short officer told Mrs. Brown. “We just got a call from the grounds crew, saying a group of hooligans were partying out here.”

Mrs. Brown raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like a hooligan to you, sir?”

“No, ma’am,” the officer replied. “You don’t. But you are nonetheless trespassing on private property.”

“I am Mrs. Septima Brown.” She pulled herself to her full height, which must have been close to six feet tall. “This is my school, young man. I’m no trespasser.”

The policeman turned to the officer behind him. “Radio Joe at City and see who this house belongs to.”

I think everything would have been fine if Sarah hadn’t suddenly rushed out on the porch, pulled Mrs. Brown into the house, slammed the front door shut, and locked it.

“We’ll come out when we’re finished what we’re doing!” she yelled through the closed door. “And not one second before!”

When my mom hears this, she shakes her head in disbelief. “Sarah? Sarah slammed the door on the police?”

“Well, Mrs. Brown made her open it back up. But the officer was so mad, he arrested us.”

“And put you in jail? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“He said we were resisting arrest.”

“Were you?”

I shake my head. “But he was pretty mad at that point. As you might imagine.”

Sergeant Treadway taps on the open door to let us know he’s back. “You ladies doing okay in here?”

We both nod, but my mom shoots me a fast look that says, We aren’t done yet, missy.

“Well, I believe your friend, Mr. Monroe, has gotten the story all straightened out for us, and Officer Rose admits that he may have overreacted after having the door slammed in his face. No charges will be pressed, and you ladies are free to go. That leaves us with just one problem.”

“What’s that, Sergeant?” my mom asks in her polite but tough former journalist voice.

“Well, Mrs. Brown seems disinclined to leave her jail cell. Says it’s about time she did her time.”

My mom stands and picks up her purse from the sergeant’s desk. “Would you like us to talk to her, Sergeant Treadway?”

Sergeant Treadway looks relieved. “Would you mind? There’s a concert at the university tonight, some big rock show at the Dome, which means the drunks are going to be piling up. We’re really going to need that cell space come around eleven p.m.”

Mrs. Brown is sitting on the bed in her cell, her purse in her lap. She is smiling. “Oh, good, I was hoping you might stop by! I wanted to let you know that I’m spending the night and you’re not to bail me out. Please don’t even consider it.”

“But Mrs. Brown,” I protest, “you’re not under arrest. You’re free to go.”

“If I refuse to go, they’ll have to arrest me for that,” she says. “One way or another I’m staying. In honor of Harlan. And Martin and Medgar and Fannie Lou Hamer.” She looks at me. “Do you know who Fannie Lou Hamer was?”

I shake my head. But my mom says, “Mrs. Hamer testified in front of Congress in 1963 about how she was treated in jail in Mississippi. She was a leader of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and was a hero of the civil rights movement.”

I stare at her.

Mrs. Brown laughs and claps her hands. “Exactly right! Now, why doesn’t everybody know that?” She leans toward us and whispers, “I’m thinking about starting another school.”

“To teach literacy?” I ask.

“No, to teach children who Fannie Lou Hamer was. That’s what I shall think about tonight as I sit here in my cell.”

“May we bail you out in the morning?” my mother asks.

“Certainly, my dear.” Mrs. Brown smiles. “I would appreciate it.”

She begins to hum, and the strains of “Go Down, Moses” follow us down the hallway.

Emma and Sarah are standing with their parents outside the police station. Monster is over by the curb, talking on his cell phone. He waves when he sees me and my mom walking down the front steps.

“So this is the famous Monster,” my mom whispers. “He’s cute, in a gigantic sort of way.”

Then she turns to the Lymans. “Henry, Ella, fancy meeting you here!”

Mr. and Mrs. Lyman dissolve into a puddle of apologies. “We don’t know how—You know Emma, she’s always been—I have no idea what came over Sarah—We just couldn’t be more—”

My mom waves off their ditherings. “I think it’s wonderful, the girls’ interest in the Freedom School. Maybe they got a little carried away, sure, but I love that they’re passionate about something important.”

Sarah beams at my mom. Emma winks at me. Mr. and Mrs. Lyman continue to look uncomfortable as they hustle their daughters to their car, which is parked on the corner.

“Do you think they’re grounded?” my mom asks.

“For life, at least,” I tell her. “Maybe longer.”

Monster comes over to where we’re standing. “I hate to bother y’all, but do you think you could give me a ride back to my truck? I called Granny to come get me, but she’s got a hot game of Hearts going at the senior center.”

My mom smiles. “We’d be happy to.” She checks her watch, widens her eyes in alarm. “Boy, I had no idea it was so late. Why don’t you come over for dinner, uh, Monster? You guys have had a long afternoon. You must be starving.”

“I could eat,” Monster admits.

My mom turns to me and wiggles her eyebrows. I shrug and raise up my hands, as if to say, What? What’s all the eyebrow wiggling about? My mom smiles as if to say, You know exactly what all the eyebrow wiggling is about. I shake my head vehemently to imply, No, no, I don’t know what all the eyebrow wiggling is about, and furthermore I don’t want to know what all the eyebrow wiggling is about.

Monster looks confused. “Is there something y’all need to tell me?”

“No!” I exclaim in a much too loud voice. I turn down the volume several notches. “I mean, not really.”

“Oh, I’m just being silly,” my mom tells him. “It’s not every day I get to bail my firstborn out of jail.”

“It’s a landmark occasion,” Monster agrees.

“Come on, guys, let’s go eat,” my mom says, and begins walking toward the car. “Monster, how do you feel about chopping off the head of a chicken?”

“Uh—” Monster suddenly looks a little green.

“Just kidding.” My mom laughs. “I was actually thinking we’d have pesto.”

Monster looks at me. “And I thought my people were strange.”

“At least they don’t blog,” I tell him.