Freshwater Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

tell who was in charge. Serious faces,
cigarette smoke spiraling up to the white-tiled ceiling, and music coming from a small radio in the corner, Wolfman Jack's gravel-choked voice punctuating the melodies. It had the feeling of a campus gathering, without
the food and alcohol.

    Celeste walked to the bulletin board to see the photos of rural-looking
Negro people grinning with their arms around overall-wearing studenttypes. Everyone seemed to be old and young at the same time. And, photo
after photo of burned down buildings. She went back to her folding chair.
    A ballpoint pen dangled at the end of a thin string attached to the
clipboard. A typed page and a carbon under it, the word "release" in caps
across the top.
    In the event ofyour injury or death, neither you nor your family
or heirs to your family have a legal right to sue or to otherwise seek
compensation from One Man, One Vote.
    This whole trip was going to break Shuck's heart. Beneath the fine
suits, the stingy-brimmed hats, the sleek cars, and the smooth demeanor,
Shuck was a race man. But Mississippi was a different story. He'd want to
come down here and snatch her back to sanity. She'd better call him soon.
He'd need to hear her voice to know that she was OK. Wilamena would
more than likely hiss and fume and blame it all on Shuck being a race
man, constantly talking about Negro this and Negro that, filling Billy and
Celeste's heads with all that Negro-ness. She'd have preferred to have them
less anchored in things Negro. More classical music, less jazz, more London
and Paris, less Harlem and Chicago. And for sure, less Detroit.
    A line of typed dashes stretched across the bottom of the page. Celeste's
full name was typed under the line and the dates of her stay in Mississippi.
A note at the bottom: Be sure to send one copy home to a parent or guardian
before leaving for yourproject city.
    Celeste's departure date, the end of Freedom Summer, August 21, was
two months away. She might be dead by then-or a hero, a northern agitator
hero who'd managed to register an entire town of disenfranchised Negroes.
She saw herself as a cross between Joan of Arc and Harriet Tubman, the fires
of righteousness flaming in her heart stoked by the news reports that had
been coming out of the south for the last three years. Her departure date
floated on the paper as if the ink had run out, as if there'd be no leaving
Mississippi. She signed on the line and pulled the copy from under the
carbon, then slipped it into her book bag. Shuck said your decisions were your own when you crossed from teen to adulthood. Age eighteen marked
the beginning of adulthood, but the years between eighteen and twentyone were a kind of nebulous grace period you were given if you appeared
not to have good sense. She'd be twenty in November.

    The clatter in the office scaled down as the volunteers filtered out in
groups of two and three. When Margo led her out to a 196o Ford and told
her to get into the back seat, the police started their engines, too. Had police
cars, lurking around midnight corners, followed the other volunteers when
they left? She'd seen enough squad cars on the way from the train station
to handle it. Was this the routine or was special attention given to new
arrivals? Her suitcase gave her away.
    Margo's car stank of decomposing cigarettes and sweaty armpits. Celeste added her own train-funk to the haze of odors. From the dark of the
car's backseat she watched the back of Margo's head as they rode through
the deserted streets of downtown Jackson. The two police cars followed half
a block behind them. More than likely, the police knew when she'd arrived
at the train station, knew the volunteers' every move. Already Mississippi
felt like a moldy hole, a long dark tunnel without enough fresh air, too
much moisture, and no light at the end. This interminable night ranked as
one of the longest of Celeste's life. When she checked behind them again,