Page 82 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“Why are you walking all this way?” I asked Tucker Mallett as he shuffled, stooped with old age, gray running through his short hair and leaning heavily on his cane.
He paused, dabbing his head with a handkerchief, thinking. “Because I’m a human. I had seven children, all of them grown. I pay my fare and should be able to sit where I please. I’ll walk in the rain, the snow, whatever I must do if I have to.”
“What do you hope will happen at the end of this?”
“That we get what we were promised: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Most of my interviews went the same way. People were excited, defiant, and determined to improve their lives.
All day long, the buses ran empty.
All day long, the phones rang, relating the news.
People had stayed off the buses, and only one arrest was made. They had done it! The joy carried with me as I made my way to the Holt Street Church that evening along with two thousand other Black people, jubilant over the day and their success. The packed sanctuary was filled almost to the rafters, and the rest of the crowd poured outside, listening to the speaker. Small clutches of police officers stood at the edges, surveilling the activities for “our safety.” Again, they weren’t needed, as people carried themselves proudly.
I was standing off to the side, scribbling notes, when someone tapped my shoulder.
“Jimi, did you see?” Gabby wrapped me up in a hug, her embrace strong and warm and lasting a second longer than was appropriate. Her perfume engulfed me. “I don’t know about you, but it’s like I can feel it working. I can feel the presence of God on our side.”
Even as the ministers came to the pulpit, reporting the success, I couldn’t stop thinking about that hug or her hands on my shoulders from the day before. I knew I shouldn’t read too much into it. It was the Deep South in 1955. A hug was just a hug and wasn’t anything more.
Except I had many reasons to believe it was. With every passing hour, I hoped that I wasn’t misinterpreting her signals; I was increasingly desperate to come right out and ask.
Instead, I focused on the events, writing them all down for the article later, the energy infectious, vibrating with the vigor of two thousand souls. When a minister asked if we should continue the boycott, the “Yes!” rolled through the building, echoing up into the atmosphere, the sound of a people united.
The one-day boycott had been a success and would continue. I got on the phone with my editor John and extended the trip. He wanted me to stay on the story for as long as it took.
We dug in from there.
In the months ahead, I would forget to be an observer, caught up in all the volunteering and organizing, often working alongside Gabby for long hours into the evening. When she wasn’t running the phone trees, other meetings took up her time. Some she brought me to, always managing to save me a seat. Her energy and commitment to helping others reminded me of Rohan, who had been gone just over forty years by then. Gabby was a helper, expressing her love for the world through service.
Gabby and I attended an ice cream social after the meeting on Monday night. We walked a little way, quietly, eating the sugary, sweet treats and enjoying the crisp evening air.
“Did you ever think it would get this far?” I asked, taking another spoonful of my rocky road.
“No, but I’d hoped so. It’s good we’re still going—not giving up the fight.”
“It is,” I said, “but it’s a shame we have to fight at all.”
“That’s true, but what else would we do? Imagine the free time,” Gabby said, laughing.
“I don’t know, have a life?” I said. “Who knows what life would be if you could thrive instead of merely survive?”
“I don’t know, Jimi. That’s a rich fantasy I can’t afford to have.”
I stopped short, the ice cream pooling in my bowl. “I’m surprised at you, Gabby. Imagination is free. Come on now, you must know what you’d want if you could have anything.”
“Anything?” Her eyes were full of a ferocious longing. It wasn’t the first time I’d wanted to share my gift. But in that moment, oh, how I wished I could.
“Anything.”
For a second we stood there, eyes locked, the fantasy of what “anything” could mean filling the space between us. She was the first to break, resuming our stroll down the block.
“I have to be practical,” she said with a little laugh that was more sound than feeling.
“Practical?” I wrinkled my nose. “What fun is that?” I didn’t know why I was pushing it so, but at that moment, it became vitally important for me to understand what she wanted. Not for her students or for the people involved in the boycott, but for herself.
She hesitated. “Okay, I’ll tell you but you can’t laugh.”
