Page 85 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
She frowned. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
I intertwined my hands with hers, marveling at the ease and the rightness of us touching. “The ending of my last relationship was rough, to say the least, and I didn’t want to start something again, only to end in tragedy.”
Gabby had this way of smiling that would chase away any dark cloud. “All endings are tragic when you think about it. But the beginnings are pretty damn worth it, don’t you think?”
“Do you care what others think or say?” I asked her.
“Doesn’t everyone?” She worried her lip. “Life would be much better if people could live their truth. But the way things are, it’s easier to lie and not be fodder for the gossip mill, or worse.”
We stayed like that for a bit, holding hands in her car. A relationship like ours would have its challenges anywhere, but especially in Alabama in 1955. It could also be dangerous, but I didn’t say this aloud. She knew what I knew. Now that I had tasted her, I didn’t think I could go back to the way it was. And this love already felt different. I’d dived headfirst into love before, and this was no exception.
What would it be like to live here, to share her life? Slow Sunday mornings, reading our respective books or enjoying a meal we’d made together, and discussing our work and the day. Playing with her son, Winston, at the park and helping him get ready for bedtime. Experiencing again what it might be like to be in a child’s life. I thought of Nathan Jr. from time to time, wondering how old he might be now when the years blend. All that talk of dreams and love felt like the most faraway wish. It was so easy to believe that maybe, for once, my deepest desires could come true.
But then reality set in. Beyond the discrimination we’d face, there were the constraints of my deal with Death. Loving her would mean losing her as I’d lost the others. And yet, despite every visit with my oldest friend—though he’d likely hate being referred to as such—I couldn’t imagine my long life without the people who had touched my heart. Perhaps that was why, despite everything I’d come to know, I always made the foolish choice. The hopelessly romantic choice.
I knew what this would mean—what I was opening myself up for. But I didn’t care. She helped me remember how to dream in that moment.
Gabby looked at me. “What happens now?”
I kissed her. “Whatever we like.”
Twenty-Nine
And we did what we liked, as much as possible, during those times.
I learned that one benefit of being two women in a relationship in a world that considered such things unnatural was that we could use the trappings of femininity to our advantage and avoid much scrutiny. I moved into her house discreetly, as Gabby’s “roommate,” building the life I had dreamed of. Each night, we found the softest parts of each other. I felt a yearning for her touch that I’d never experienced before. My whole body hummed as we’d collapse into sleep, bodies sweaty, curled around each other.
Each day, I watched Winston while she was at school, and we continued our work as the boycotts dragged on. I wrote about it all, writing articles for bothThe DefenderandThe Montgomery Advertiser, depicting the developments with the boycotts, the failed negotiations among the city board with the mayor and the police commissioner, and the fundraising efforts to pay for gas, new station wagons to add to the car pool, and legal fees and fines.
I was there moments after the bomb exploded at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s house. Glass glittered in the street, the porch of his house destroyed; his wife Coretta, his daughter Yolanda, and a neighbor were in the house at the time. If not for his calm and caution that night in the aftermath, the crowd would have turned into a mob, setting the city alight.
I covered the growth of the White Citizens’ Councils, the news stories, and the pushback we faced on all sides. As the months stretched on, the violence increased, young men attacking people or throwing objects at us from their cars.
One night in February 1956, I experienced it firsthand. While I walked home, a car whipped by, the occupants pounding on the roof, hooting at me, their shrill voices tearing through the night air. I bolted, green glass bottles exploding by my feet, leaving streaks of urine across the pavement. If their aim had been better, one of those bottles would have met my head. I ran the narrow way between two houses and managed to escape.
The harassment only picked up from there.
I was there to make bail when Gabby was arrested in April for being part of the movement.
Despite all the fear and intimidation, we persisted, strengthening the car pool network and commitment despite the threat of arrest. My work and that of other journalists continued to bring attention to our cause and to our need for more funds and resources.
Finally, word came in late December 1956, nearly thirteen months after the start of the boycott, as we all sat in the church basement. Jo Ann took the call, shushing us all. The entire room froze as the shock washed over her face.
“We did it!” Tears streaked down her face. “They ruled in our favor. It’s over. It’s all over.” She jumped up, hands lifted in praise, and we joined her, exuberant. The feeling of indescribable cheer and joy poured out of each of us from the fact that it had been worth it. While we had been making our case in the streets, the case had also been continuing through the courts inBrowder v. Gayle. In June 1956, a district court had found in our favor, deeming segregating buses unconstitutional since the practice violated the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. The state and city had appealed to the Supreme Court, which affirmed the ruling and the decision; the official notice was delivered to Mayor Gayle on December 20, 1956.
We all rode the yellow bus the next day, each paying our dime and climbing aboard. I sat next to Gabby, near the front, two rows from the driver, my heart beating fast as we watched Montgomery roll by. I pressed my hand into the seat, her pinkie finger looped with mine, out of sight. We rode around town without a particular destination, relishing the fact that we’d achieved our goal.
I turned to her as she watched out the window, her thinking expression in place as the bus rumbled on. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“Life,” she said, turning back to me. “A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this—riding on this bus ... you. It just makes me think of what’s possible in the future. What can be true for Winston? He’s a little boy now, but think of the world he can grow up in.”
“So, what do we fight for next?”
She sneaked her hand into mine. “We do the work,andwe fight for our dreams.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
She nodded. “We only have this life, as you said. We might as well get busy living it.”
