Chapter 29
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 both The Defender and The 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 in Browder 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, and we 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.”
We continued volunteering our time and money to the Civil Rights Movement, culminating in the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. We lived through it all, and Montgomery was just one of the sparks of the massive changes that swept through the country.
We left the South soon after that, renting a two-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles and making our lives there as she pursued her dreams. She got small parts at first until making her big break in The Last Dance at Midnight in 1971.
While Gabby pursued her acting dreams, I earned a role of my own, one I’d never thought possible—the role of mom.
I never thought I’d have the chance again, and Winston made every bit of it pure joy.
I was his “Aunt Jimi,” and he was my best bud.
An active boy, Winston was all knobby knees, taller than us both, and his growth reminded me of how much I stayed the same.
He never questioned it, though, and together we navigated middle school, high school, and college, him choosing Savannah State.
Living with them made it easy to find evidence for Death.
I would file stories, still writing as Jimi, mainly about travels as the three of us journeyed according to the postcards.
I wrote about our trips and the seemingly unending changes that continued to sweep across the world, one of the biggest in our life being the rise of Gabby’s career.
By 1978, Gabby had regular guest spots on everything from The Jeffersons to Good Times.
She became increasingly recognized, and we were swept into the fashionable set.
It was like my time in 1920s Harlem as she mingled in parties with the stars of the time—Ruby Dee and Ossie Davis, whom we’d met at the March on Washington, plus Alice Walker, Sidney Poitier, and Billy Dee Williams, whom she’d played opposite in their last film.
I slipped into the background, happy to let her shine.
But I won’t lie—there were moments when being seen felt suffocating.
We were at an industry party that October, celebrating the film release of The Wiz, when a woman shrieked near me.
I turned, clutching my chest, imagining some danger, to find a brunette with thick winged eyeliner and tight bell-bottoms jumping and down. She shouted over the pulsing disco music, “Oh my God! It’s her! The Gabby Reynolds! How do you know her?”
“I’m her assistant.” The lie cut me the way it always did. I was more than that, but the role gave people a place for me in her life, explaining my presence and protectiveness.
The woman’s eyes filled with interest. I could see she thought this was her chance. For what, I wasn’t sure. But the ’70s had taught me everyone wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. “Maybe I’ll give you a headshot?”
“Maybe,” I said, rattling my empty glass. “Going to get another drink.”
“I can get it for you,” she said, but I’d already slipped off, snaking between the sweaty bodies, the packed space stifling.
I searched for Gabby and found her at the center of a cluster, enthralling them, her allure magnetic. I didn’t need or want the spotlight. Our life worked.
I got a refill and calculated how long we needed to stay for her to schmooze.
We had no time constraints, as Winston was fully grown and living in Atlanta by now, working in finance and doing the books for Gabby and me.
After the party, it’d be a quiet evening of reading books or any upcoming scripts from her agent.
I’d just taken the first sip when my skin hummed, alert. A shadowy energy filled the room. I swallowed the harsh bite of the martini and readied myself. I gripped the lip of the bar for support.
Death stood at my side, dressed in all black, his vest opened to almost his navel. In his regular form, with his brown skin glistening under the flashing party lights, we blended into the crowd, the music pulsing, bodies swaying around us. The noise of the room dissipated.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, harsher than I’d intended.
“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing my face. “Not an official visit. Just in the neighborhood.”
“You just happened to be in this nightclub on a Saturday night?”
He shrugged elegantly. “It’s a nightclub on Saturday night. Someone in a bathroom downstairs is going to realize that ingesting large amounts of liquor and cocaine is a very bad idea. He motioned for a beer, scanning the crowd. “Fear not, Nella. Your Gabby will be here for many years to come.”
“How long will that even be?”
“How long is long enough?”
It took everything I had not to run from the bar, dragging her with me.
Death took no notice as his drink arrived. He brought the glass to his lips, murmured something I couldn’t hear, then drained it in one long swallow.
Over the last few visits, Death had been drinking more. It brought back painful memories of René slipping to a place I could not reach him. That couldn’t happen to Death, could it? “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You’re not acting like yourself.”
“You’re an expert on Death.” The statement caught me off guard. “Tell me, Nella, what do you see when you look at me?”