Part 15 (1/2)
Shel opened the lid, set the device for default, and pressed the b.u.t.ton. Dave and the den faded. The den came back, without Dave. Shel shook his head, amazed at the possibilities of the device. He came out of the aura, walked into the entryway, and unlocked the gla.s.s door. Then he went back to the den and returned to his base time.
”Very good,” said Dave.
”How did you know?”
”I didn't. But I made up my mind that when we got inside, we'd use one of the converters to go back and unlock the door.”
”No more broken windows.”
”Nessuno.”
”SO where,” asked Dave, ”do we begin to look for him?” where,” asked Dave, ”do we begin to look for him?”
”He brought a book home with him.”
”What book was that?”
”I'm trying to think. Something about the wind. It was by John Lewis.” He walked over and googled Lewis's name. Walking with the Wind. Walking with the Wind.
”The civil rights era,” said Dave.
”Seems like odd reading for a physicist.”
”My dad was a lot more than a physicist.”
”He was that that. He's starting to sound like the ultimate Renaissance man.”
”Yes. But I don't know that it helps us.”
”Shel, it might be where he went.”
”Where's that?”
”John Lewis was the leader of the Selma march.”
”Selma-”
”It was the turning point in the civil rights era.”
Shel knew there'd been a demonstration of some sort in Selma. But he didn't remember any details.
”b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday,” said Dave. ”The marchers got attacked by police. Without provocation.”
They exchanged glances. ”You may be right,” said Shel.
CHAPTER 11.
I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the promised land.
-MARTIN LUTHER KING JR., APRIL 3, 1968, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS a.s.sa.s.sINATION
THEY arrived on the side of a highway as a tractor-trailer thundered past. Dave landed upright, but the sudden blast of air knocked Shel off his feet. He went down, rolled over, and came up sitting in the gra.s.s. ”Eventually,” he said, ”I should be able to get the hang of this.” arrived on the side of a highway as a tractor-trailer thundered past. Dave landed upright, but the sudden blast of air knocked Shel off his feet. He went down, rolled over, and came up sitting in the gra.s.s. ”Eventually,” he said, ”I should be able to get the hang of this.”
It was 10:00 A.M., Sunday, March 7, 1965. Shel got up and watched a car race by in the opposite direction. Tractor-trailers haven't changed much over a half century, he thought, but cars have. It was an oversized green convertible.
He took out a compa.s.s. ”Northeast is that that way.” He indicated the direction the truck had taken. ”This is probably Route Twenty-two, which goes directly through Selma, then turns north.” way.” He indicated the direction the truck had taken. ”This is probably Route Twenty-two, which goes directly through Selma, then turns north.”
The air was cool. Windy. A few clouds were scattered across the sky.
”The day that started the revolution,” said Dave. At that moment, hundreds of people, tired of discrimination, tired of not being able to vote, tired of being pushed aside because their skin was the wrong color, were gathering at the Brown Chapel in Selma.
Shel nodded. ”Maybe we should march with them.” He intended it as a joke, but Dave didn't laugh. They'd watched the video record, had seen the troopers attack. That was enough. ”Best for us,” he continued, ”is to just hang around the church for a bit. Meet some of them. Feel what it's like. And then get out of the way.”
”I guess.” Dave looked uncomfortable. But why not? They were on the cusp of one of the pivotal moments in American history, but a price was going to be paid.
”This is our chance to meet Rosa Parks,” said Shel. ”And Hosea Williams.” They started walking. Uphill along the side of the road.
Dave had his hands in his pockets. ”You know,” he said, ”we talked about going to the Colosseum to watch the gladiators. This is worse. These people don't get to defend themselves.”
Another car was approaching. One of those late-fi fties models with four headlights and a set of tailfins. They held out their thumbs, hoping for a ride. But the car swept past.
A few minutes later, a pickup stopped. A couple of kids. ”We're going into town,” the driver said. ”You can ride in back if you like. It's about five miles.” He raised a c.o.ke bottle and took a gulp. ”Where you headed?” He looked barely old enough to have a license. few minutes later, a pickup stopped. A couple of kids. ”We're going into town,” the driver said. ”You can ride in back if you like. It's about five miles.” He raised a c.o.ke bottle and took a gulp. ”Where you headed?” He looked barely old enough to have a license.
”Selma,” said Shel. ”That is is it up ahead, right?” it up ahead, right?”
”Oh, yeah. Where in Selma you goin'?”
”The Brown Chapel. It's just a few blocks off Broad Street.”
The driver made a face. ”That's not a white church, you know.”
”I know.”
”You guys part of that that crowd? Maybe you ought to get down and walk.” crowd? Maybe you ought to get down and walk.”
Shel showed him a ten. ”We'd appreciate the transportation.”
The kid thought about it. Took the money. ”Okay. Climb on.” They pulled away with a jerk. Mostly they drove past cotton fields and farms. After a few minutes, they saw occasional houses and gas stations. Street signs identified Highway 22 as West Dallas Avenue. A large well-kept golf course appeared, the Selma Country Club. And finally they were at the city limits.
Selma looked typically Southern, long streets shaded by maple trees, pleasant homes with manicured lawns, signboards urging pa.s.sersby to get right with the Lord. On this day, Confederate flags flew everywhere.
The center of town was home mostly to stores and warehouses. People on the sidewalk turned and watched as they pa.s.sed. A few waved to the kids in front.