Grant is watching Delia, too, clearly envious of how easy she makes it seem. When he catches me looking at him, he squares his shoulders, walks over to two of the men, and says something. One of the guys, who looks a few years older than Grant, glances at his watch, so I guess he’s telling Grant the time. After that, Grant just hangs out on the periphery, listening but not joining in.
Every minute or so, a car approaches from the north and the conversation halts momentarily, picking back up as soon as everyone sees it’s a truck or some other vehicle that’s clearly not presidential.
“Do you know if he even stops?” I ask Kiernan in a low voice.
He shrugs and leans back against the fence post. “He’s been known to in the past, and it’s an election year. Not a presidential election, but FDR is headed to a speech right now where he’s going to ask people to vote against their incumbent senator in the primary, a fellow Democrat Roosevelt thinks is too conservative. So I think he’ll stop, if only for a few seconds. The real question is how close he stops to the intersection.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he nods toward the group of white men. “Democrats in Georgia have a whites-only primary. Almost all registered voters are Democrats, so the primary is the real election—whoever wins there will win overall. I doubt any of the blacks will successfully cast a ballot. Roosevelt probably wishes that wasn’t the case, because he’s more popular with them than with the white guys.”
I glance over at the other side of the street. A few other men and one woman are chatting with Abel. Looking around, I realize that she is the only woman on that side of the street, and there are no children running around beneath the trees. I can’t help but wonder whether simply showing up at a gathering like this is an act of rebellion and maybe considered a bit dangerous for women and children of color.
“You said white guys. But these women can vote, right? For nearly two decades now.”
“They can vote,” he says, “but most of them will vote as their men say. Owens makes out a list for his wife to take to the polls to be sure she doesn’t kill his vote.”
I wrinkle my nose, not entirely happy with Kiernan’s choice for Martha’s foster dad. “How does he know Mrs. Owens doesn’t go into the ballot box and vote against everyone on that list?”
Kiernan laughs. “She might. That’s probably why some men go into the ballot box with their wives.”
“Is that even legal?”
“Don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “But it doesn’t matter whether it’s legal if no one challen—”
Kiernan stops and looks toward the highway. A large black convertible is slowing down. Even though I know this is a very different situation, I can’t help but feel a shiver of dread, thinking about my recent jump to Dallas—another convertible, another president.
FDR is seated in the back. He waves to the group of men as the car passes, and the driver keeps rolling about ten yards, pulling to a halt in front of the women.
Kiernan chuckles softly. “Nicely played. Both sides of the street can hear him, and he looks like he’s being a gentleman by stopping near the women.”
The men drift closer to the car. One of them, a young guy with a suit jacket slung over his arm, moves a little faster than the others, trying to get in close so that he can snap some pictures. Grant follows, staying a few steps behind the guy with the camera. Delia has shifted a little closer to the car as well. The group that Abel was talking to remains on the other side of the street, but they’ve walked out of the trees, standing at the edge of the intersection to get a better view.
Roosevelt isn’t wearing the trademark glasses I’m used to seeing in pictures, but the same wide smile is on his face. He tips his hat to the ladies, nods to both groups of men, and then begins speaking in the booming voice I remember from the “Day of Infamy” speech in history class, without the crackly static.
“Friends, my driver tells me we’re a bit behind schedule, as we’re due in Barnesville at two o’clock, but I just wanted to stop and share a bit of good news. Most of you know I’ve considered Georgia my second home for some time now, but today I can finally tell you that I am officially a Georgia Bulldog.”
During the last sentence, he grabs a different hat, a mortarboard, from the seat next to him and slaps it on his head, waving a rolled piece of paper in the air. There are a few polite chuckles and some scattered applause.
Once the applause ends, he takes the hat off and continues in a more serious tone. “I’d also be remiss in an election year if I did not remind all of you that even though our nation has come a long way in the past few years, much remains to be done. You have a perfect right to choose any candidate you wish, but because Georgia has been good enough to call me her adopted son and because for many years I have regarded Georgia as my ‘other state,’ I feel no hesitation in telling you what I would do if I could vote in the senatorial primary next month. I hope you’ll join me in supporting United States Attorney Lawrence Camp.”
There’s some scattered grumbling, and several men start asking questions, but Roosevelt waves them away. “Senator George is a good friend of mine, but there are issues on which we disagree. I did not come to this lightly. I’ll discuss it in more detail at Barnesville, and I’m sure it will be in your papers. All I ask is that you consider my recommendation and keep the welfare of the nation in the forefront as you decide. And now, we must go, or we’ll keep the good people in Barnesville waiting. I hope to see you all again soon!”
With that, the convertible pulls away and continues down the highway.
I expect the women near us to start gathering up the kids for a quick departure, given that the day is hot and it’s lunchtime. But Roosevelt apparently dropped something of a bombshell, because the chatter closer to the road is getting heated. The women are quiet and seem a little on edge.
All I pick up are snippets—one guy says FDR is a “damn fool Yankee,” and someone else says, “He don’t know doodley-squat about Georgia.”
The man with the camera says something I can’t hear to the guy next to him, the beefy middle-aged guy who just made the “doodley-squat” comment. Doodley-Squat takes offense and jabs a forefinger into Camera Guy’s shoulder. Camera Guy shoves him back, a lot harder than I would have guessed, given his slight build, and Doodley-Squat stumbles a few feet backward into Grant and another younger guy. The shoulder of the road is a bit higher than the ground where the rest of us stand, and both Doodley-Squat and Grant lose their balance, crashing into several of the women, including the one holding the fussy toddler.
None of the women are hurt, but the toddler starts crying again.
Delia tries to help Grant up, but before he can grab her hand, she’s shoved to the side by Doodley-Squat, who, for no apparent reason, seems to have decided Grant was to blame for his fall. Or maybe he’s just lashing out at the nearest unfamiliar face. He grabs Grant by the collar and jerks him to his feet.
Grant’s eyes widen, and the blood drains from his face until it’s only a shade darker than the white of his shirt.
“Boy, you need to watch where you’re goin’, don’tcha?”
Grant opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
The girl holding the baby—which is, amazingly, still asleep—says, “We’re okay, Daddy. He didn’t mean no harm.”
That remark earns the girl a foul look. She bites her lip and takes a few steps back toward the fence, hugging the baby closer to her chest.
Several of the men move closer, joking and elbowing each other, which makes me suspect that Doodley-Squat’s short temper is a local source of amusement. Camera Guy says, “Put him down, Willis. Ain’t his fault you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. You’re the one who pushed him into them girls in the first place, so maybe you oughta do the apologizing.”