They met that same evening, Loretha and Solly, in spring 1968, with the city on red alert and about to explode once more. Loretha stood behind the sales counter again, when the bell over the door rang and he entered. She saw his pensive, serious look for the first time and likened it to the expressions she’d seen on the faces of black men all afternoon as they wandered in and out of the bookshop, enraged, threatened, and worried. “Evening,” he said. He did not smile. She, however, wanted to smile, but just nodded, then said, “How can I help you?” “I hear there’s a rap session happening here tonight, my sister, that so?” “Yes, but not for another half-hour. You can wait in the library if you like.” “I’ll browse around out here if you don’t mind.” A few minutes passed then he asked, “Do you have Frantz Fanon’s, The Wretched of the Earth?” He was standing near the counter, turning the rack of new arrivals and looking as if nothing interested him. “No, but it’s on order. We get a lot of requests for it. If you give me your phone number, I’ll call when it gets here.” Wonder what’s in that book, she thought, so many men come looking for it, men with a certain stuck-up air about them, wearing black leather jackets and carrying those big lawyer-looking briefcases. She glanced in his direction. He fit the profile with the attire. His leather was tan though, and the matching cap was really a beret but he had no briefcase. Then she was moved to tell him about King’s books. “You know,” she said, “if you’re interested, we still have a few of Dr. King’s books in stock.” She watched as he moved away from the rack and walked slowly toward the counter, eyeing other books along the isle, saying nothing until he reached her. “I’ve read them all,” he said. That’s when their eyes met. He looked at her, really, for the first time, and she sensed him trying to decide whether to soften his gaze or keep his hard look, holding on to his rage. “It seems King’s good works weren’t enough to keep him alive.” He said this as he reached the counter and leaned on it. “Name’s Solly. Solly Baines.” “Loretha. Pleased to meet you, Solly.” “You coming to the rap session tonight,” he said. “We’ll be talking about King, and where we go from here, to use his words.” His gaze had softened as he waited for her answer, with his frown easing into a hint of a smile. “Not tonight,” she said. “I can’t tonight.” She spoke truth. This was not a night to be walking after dark and as soon as Professor Howard’s son Marcus came to relieve her, she’d leave for her apartment. As the bell sounded, the door opened, announcing more visitors looking for the rap session. “Maybe next time,” Solly said, moving away in rhythm with the small crowd of people. “Maybe next time,” she said, and watched him and the crowd disappear into the next room, all the while wondering if he’d ever return to the shop, if she’d ever see him again. Loretha nodded at Professor Howard as the older woman began closing the doors to the library. She watched and listened as the professor spoke, switching her persona from academician to Earth Momma, her English from proper to down home, shepherding the crowd, invoking the code of conduct she enforced in her place of business. “All right y’all know the routine. Take off your caps, coats, jackets, and put them in the back of the room along with your briefcases. We’re not having any surprises up in here tonight.” For the second time that day Loretha’s steps became heavy as she walked westward toward her apartment with Dr. King’s book, Strength to Love tucked securely in the outer pocket of her purse. Silence hovered over the din of the boulevard just as it had earlier over the blare of the television. She sensed the silence as an interlude, a void that would soon become full with sounds of chaos and danger. The ringing phone inside her apartment urged her to hurry as she arrived at her doorstep. It was her folks, she figured, wanting to know if she was safe, because trouble had already erupted in Alabama where they were. Not long after the call ended, loud blasts began quaking through the neighborhood. Bottles stuffed with lit, gas soaked rags flew through the air, bursting into flames and lighting up the night, burning everything they touched. The boulevard became one big bonfire, leaving smoking bones in place of what had been struggling yet surviving businesses until the sun went down that April evening. New World Bookshop and Culture Center wasn’t spared. Its whole back side became a fuming skeleton of wood and melted plaster, leaving burned remnants of books in the rubble. Loretha lay sleepless in bed. She closed her eyes and imagined how the turmoil in the streets looked, and she listened to the wail of sirens and the stunted boom of pistols mixed with sounds of rapid machine-gun fire. The voice of the law bleated over loud speakers mounted atop heavily armed trucks, warning that anyone caught out before sun-up would be arrested. More amazed and curious than scared, more anxious about what it all meant than about the immediate danger, she left the bed, walked to the window and watched the smoking flames lick and stain the sky. Then she looked in the direction of New World Bookshop and Culture Center and felt her eyes moistening as the brutality of what she saw violated her vision. She swore to brave the streets and show up for work when day came, and help the Professor until forced back home by the curfew.
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