Freedom Train

“The angels in heaven gon’ sign your name if you book your ticket for the Freedom Train. HALLELUJAH.”

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I heard Grandma Lottie singing in the other room. I knew what day it was. When I heard those eerie, raspy words, strung together sounding like moaning, I always knew exactly what day it was. But I asked anyway as I walked into the room. 

“What are you singing, Grandma Lottie?” I asked. “For Eric, baby. I’m singin’ for Eric,” she responded, with the smallest hint of nostalgia in her voice. 

 Eric died this day 52 years ago. Grandma Lottie always sang on the anniversary of his death; the anniversary of his murder.

     “Can you tell me about him again?” I asked her. 

I knew it would pain her, I did. But I had to hear it again. I pulled out the mahogany chair from under the dinner table for Grandma Lottie to sit in. I studied the chair’s cushion, noting all of the embroidered cherries scattered across the canary yellow fabric. I sat down and we began enjoying our supper. The sweet smell of cornbread mixed with the cheesy, buttery scent of mac n’ cheese filled the air of Grandma Lottie’s apartment. The pungent, sulfuric, tangy scent of collard greens plead with my nostrils to be let in. I had overcooked the greens.  

“Sure baby. But could you hand me some o’ them collard greens first?”

 I picked up the bowl of greens and extended my arm in her direction. Her old, umber-brown hand shook as she took the bowl and placed it on the table next to her plate. 

Grandma Lottie was a teenager during the civil rights movement of the 60s. She had witnessed and heard and experienced more hate than any 15-year-old should know was possible. She had stories—hell, entire novels! One incident, in particular, had always stuck with her: the day her best friend, Eric, died. Was murdered. Shot. 

“We was walking home from school in the middle of March. Me and Eric liked cuttin’ through the playground on the corner to get home. We was laughin’ about last week’s Sunday school. Eric had snuck me an extra cookie after mass when Pastor Lowry wasn’t lookin’. I told him he was an idiot for goin’ behind Pastor’s back so he ate it instead. I had always had a lil’ crush on Eric; such a charmin’ boy.” 

The smile in her voice disappeared as she continued. 

“Once we got past the swings, we heard yellin’ coming from a few blocks down. Wasn’t never no peace in Birmingham in the 60s,” she said solemnly.

I leaned in as she spoke. She told the story just how I remembered hearing it the first time.

 “The screams and shouts got louder as we got closer. CRASH. We heard a window shatter and even more screams. Once we got to the corner, we saw a mob. ‘Bout thirty negroes all screamin’ and shoutin’ over each other like they all thought they was right. The only non-negroes we saw was cops. Five of ‘em. Doin’ what they do: beatin’ up on little black boys knowin’ good and well they ain’t gon’ get crap for it.”

Grandma Lottie usually paused at this part of the story. She always took a breath or two before describing how she and Eric got so close to the mob that they became part of it. Someone there explained to them that there had been a robbery at the corner store. Even though witnesses swore they watched a middle-aged white man do it, the police insisted it was the little black boy. He had been across the street when it happened. But the police said it was him. Just another black boy blamed for a white man’s crime. “That was the 60s,” Grandma Lottie would always say. 

“I wanna go,” said Eric. “C’mon Lottie, you know what them cops do to kids like us.”

From what Grandma Lottie told me, Eric seemed like a sweet boy. He wore a conk hairstyle and browline glasses. He attended Sunday mass with his family and his contagious laugh could be heard from across the classroom. He always made people laugh, especially Grandma Lottie. That day at school, he had gotten a ketchup stain on his white polo. His mother would’ve been furious to see it if he had made it back home that afternoon. 

“We pushed and squeezed and shimmied our way through the crowd to try and get to the other side. But we ain’t get very far ‘fore one of ‘em white cops grabbed Eric by the shoulder.” 

Grandma Lottie stopped and sniffled. I gently passed my thumb over the top of her wrinkly hand, silently encouraging her to go on. 

“Where ya think you’re going, son?” snarled one of the cops. 

“Just trying to get home, sir,” Eric said, his voice shaky. 

“C’mon Arnie, leave that one alone. We already got one,” said another cop, jerking his head in the direction of the little black boy now handcuffed, his bloody nose surely dripping on the cushions of the back seat of the cop car. 

“What’s stoppin’ the rest of ‘em from doing it too?” replied the cop, his fingers still digging into Eric’s shoulder.

A piece of cornbread fell on the floor and Murphy, Grandma Lottie’s St. Bernard puppy, trotted to the side of the table to lap it up from the floor. 

“Eric tried to explain to em’ that he hadn’t even been there when the robbery happened, but they weren’t interested. They just needed the satisfaction of shoving someone’s head down under the brim of that cop car knowing well he’s innocent. The more Eric tried to explain his innocence, the tighter the cop’s fingers dug into his shoulder, and eventually, his wrists. The cop started screamin’ at him. Eric’s eyes couldn’t hold back the tears no more. He started sniffling. 

‘Quit cryin’,’ spat the cop. ‘Negroes like you ain’t supposed to cry.’ This only made Eric cry even more.

‘Listen son, you either gon’ shut the hell up or get in that car.’

‘But I ain’t do nothi-’ SMACK. 

The cop hit Eric across the face. He ain’t even yelp or scream. Just stood there, cold. I ain’t even recognize him no more.”

I winced. Grandma Lottie brought a spoonful of my overcooked collard greens up to her mouth. A tear rolled down her face, its wet trail coating her pores and finally settling at the tip of her chin. The bead of tears became too heavy so it dripped onto the tablecloth.

“Get on the ground, son!” the cop demanded. 

“Why?” Eric replied. 

“‘Get on the ground, boy!’ the cop screamed.

I imagined the scene play out in my head and Grandma Lottie continued. I envisioned the cop’s finger teasing the trigger of the gun strapped to his waist. Eric saw it: his life at the mercy of the cop’s finger. Eric kneeled and let his arms bend until his chest lie on the hard concrete, surrendering his humanity to the cop who now looked down upon him. The cop wrestled with Eric’s wrists which had nail marks indented in them. I wanted to cry but I also wanted Grandma Lottie to keep going.

“I heard the clink of the handcuffs and began to weep. Eric looked up at me, and I looked at him, tears streamin’ down our faces. Our tears spoke to each other’s. I told my tears to tell Eric’s that I was sorry. Then I couldn’t look at him no more.”

“What did Eric’s tears say?” I asked her. 

“I don’t know,” she replied. “My tears never heard what Eric’s said because the bullet silenced them. His white polo turned red. Deep red. But not red like the ketchup stain. There was more. His momma would’ve been pissed. No amount of washin’ could get that shirt white again. She’d be scrubbin’ like a slave for years.”

I felt my face heat up like a tea kettle just before a tear left the corner of my eye. I pictured Eric lying on the ground, trembling. With each small quiver left a breath from his body, edging closer and closer to the last one.

“those cops,” she said. 

“Then what happened?” I asked her. 

She told me how the mob silenced. Their eyes darted to the wound in Eric’s back and followed the trail of blood spreading over the street. 

“I couldn’t save him,” she said. “Couldn’t make him smile. Couldn’t make him laugh like he made me laugh. I screamed. Some nice lady snuck me around the corner and drove me home. I left him there, not that there was much of him left. Just a body goin’ cold on the concrete.” Her tone was chalky and dry. 

Grandma Lottie had finished her supper and was ready for bed. I helped her walk to her bedroom, get under the diamond-patterned African quilt, and put her glasses on the bedside table. Her lavender walls looked dull-brown in the dim light. The overhead fan hummed as it circulated the smell of the cornbread throughout the room. Grandma Lottie laid in her bed, comfortable, though her brow furrowed with sadness and memory. Murphy whimpered as he sat in the doorway, almost as if he remembered Eric too.

“Why’d they shoot him?” I asked as I knelt down next to her bed. “Because baby, that’s what they do. Now listen here. Don’t you ever trust no cop. The moment you give ‘em your trust is the moment you give ‘em that heart beatin’ inside of ya. When you see one, you run like all hell. Keep runnin’ and runnin’ ‘til you get to the Freedom Train. I been had my ticket.” 

“The what?” I asked her. I had never heard this part of the story before.

“The Freedom Train, of course,” she said as a smile crept across her face. She closed her eyes and began to sing.

“The angels in heaven gon’ sign your name if you book your ticket for the Freedom Train. HALLELUJAH.” 

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Silence. I looked over at her. Her furrowed brow had relaxed. I could see her dream. I could hear her bare feet slap on the cold, hard floor of the train. The cushion let out a little blip of air as she took her seat. Eric was sitting to the right. His wound had healed. His polo shirt was white again, except for the little ketchup stain. The conductor blew his whistle. CHOO CHOO. The gears started turning. CHUG. The train screeched as it began to move. CHUG. I heard the conductor’s whistle until the train was so far down the track I heard nothing at all.