Color: Special Edition

49. Birmingham

Oh, supper had started out fine. As soon as Albert wandered back into the house, Henry gave those yellow roses to Sarah, and she thanked him more than once, a huge smile beaming like a bright crescent moon against cocoa-brown cheeks. She filled an empty milk bottle with water, dropped in the bouquet, and placed the makeshift vase at the center of the kitchen table.

Then Sarah proceeded to whip up a fine meal, filling the house with the aroma of chicken, garlic, and onions sizzling in a greased cast iron pan. All the while, she chatted up a storm, mostly about cars and how being a mechanic was interesting work ... most of the time. She also pointed out that Albert used to play baseball in Birmingham, but he retired suddenly for reasons she didn't really know, and that piqued Henry's interest.

Henry enjoyed listening to her stories as he helped, trying not to get in the way too much. He laid a blue-and-white checkered tablecloth over the kitchen table before setting it with a hodgepodge assortment of forks, knives, and ceramic mugs. Then he set down plates of fried chicken, sautéed collard greens, baked potatoes, and fresh brown bread.

As soon as they settled down to eat, things started to go south with Albert giving Henry the third degree about his lack of ambition – "You're not planning to play baseball forever, are you?" – then questioning his reasoning after the Rooks folded – "Why didn't you find another Negro team?" – and finally taking aim at him for joining the Pioneers – "You think it's okay to play on a white team?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, stabbing a fork into a chunk of potato and sliding it around her plate. "Uncle Albert, that's a silly question. Of course it's okay."

Uncle Albert furrowed his brow and held up a hand. "The boy can answer for himself."

Henry leaned back in his chair. He had withstood Albert's interrogation, never once lashing back. It didn't take a doctor to see the man was in some kind of hurt. Not the physical kind. But the kind that festers on the inside after someone loses something important.

Henry had learned a good bit about Albert from his questions. He was a pitcher. Henry didn't need Sarah to tell him that. You could tell from the way he stared at you. Henry had seen that glare over the mound a million times. Those intense eyes. Shooting fire at you like you were going down swinging no matter what.

Albert was pitching questions like fastballs. Truth is, he wasn't on the attack. The man was building up a wall, hoping Henry would retreat. But why?

For now, Henry would play along. "After the Rooks shut down, I didn't think I had much of a career in the Negro leagues. Black teams were folding up like chairs at a picnic after the food's gone. I don't make as much as the white players, but my pay is decent. It's more than I would make working at the steel mill or at the diner. To answer your question, I'm fine playing on a white team."

Albert gave a dubious look. "Yeah, well some things are worth more than money." He took a sip of water from his mug, on it the picture of a 1913 Chevrolet.

"I really don't think Henry's doing it for the money." Sarah sent Henry a shaky smile.

Henry smiled back at her. "Sarah's right." Then he met Albert's frown. "It's not about the money. So why do you think it's wrong for me to play on a white team?"

"Simple," Albert said. "Blacks and whites don't belong together."

Henry felt a jolt as recollection set in. In their first meeting, he'd told Dale that blacks and whites don't mix. With the constant verbal and physical abuses from the white players, Henry had floated the idea of leaving the Pioneers and finding a Negro team. But the notion of quitting on Mr. Bell and Coach Taylor, well, that just didn't sit right with him. "Maybe blacks and whites need to learn to work together."

Albert scoffed. "Really? Have you ever had good relations with a white person?"

Henry thought of Dale and he opened his mouth to speak, but Albert waved a hand, as if to wave away Henry's words before he could even produce them.

"Oh sure. Maybe you've had a nice chat with a white fella from time to time. But overall, what's it like when you're around white people? I bet they don't give you a lick of respect."

"There are nice white folk out there," Sarah said, the image of Linda Bell coming to mind.

Albert huffed. "Don't fool yourself."

A tinge of anger flared up Henry's neck. The way Albert was treating him was bad enough. But he didn't have to be so short with Sarah all the time.

Albert crossed his arms over his chest. "White folks are pretty upset you joined the Pioneers. But that's only the half of it. They don't want to see a black man playing among their kind. Why?" Albert's eyes lit up like he'd played these words in his head a thousand times. "Because whites believe they got all the power. What do you think those white folks are going to do if you try to take that power away from them? I've seen it before, they're going to see you as a threat. And they're going to come after you with all their rage to destroy that threat. And they won't stop. You will be the enemy. And they will keep coming after you until the enemy is either gone ... or dead."

Sarah dropped her fork and it clanked off her plate. He jaw fell open. She looked across the table. "Henry, I'm sorry about all of this."

"It's okay." Henry took the cloth napkin, folded it twice, and set it down next to his plate. He swung his gaze to Albert. "I understand white folks are upset, I'll give you that. But they were upset when Negro teams started forming. And they were upset when Negro teams began competing with white teams. People are always going to be upset. The dust will settle sooner or later, and everyone will get over me being a Pioneer. Heck, maybe they'll even let other black men join the team."

Albert shook his head. "You're dreaming, boy, and I hope you wake up soon. Especially if you've got an interest in my niece. She could get hurt hanging around a dreamer without a future ahead of him."

Henry released a slow sigh. He really wasn't in any mood to defend himself. Maybe it just wasn't possible to impress this man. Maybe all he could do was try to win Sarah over. Then Henry felt a sly smile curling up the corners of his mouth. Up until now, Albert had been popping questions at him like fastballs buzzing past his head. Maybe it was time to buzz a few back.

"I hear you played some ball down in Birmingham. Is that right?"

Albert cocked his head, and that hard look softened just a little. "That's none of your business!" A slight crackle in his voice.

"I know someone in Birmingham," Henry said, the picture of Big Willy popping into his head. "What team did you play for?"

"I'm not going to tell you again. It's none of your business!"

"I hear you stopped playing kind of early. What? Did you get hurt?"

Silence.

Albert's face turned red as tomato paste. He yanked the napkin, the corner tucked inside his shirt collar, and threw it down on his plate. Without a word, he pushed his chair back, wooden legs scraping over a wooden floor. Then he settled into his recliner in the living room and picked up the newspaper from the side table. Lifting it high to cover his face, he started reading it, upside down. After a couple seconds, he flipped it around.

Sarah slid a nervous look across the table. And perhaps the hint of a smile.

Henry wondered if he had gone too far though, because it wasn't anger that he had seen smoldering in Albert's eyes when he brought up "Birmingham." It wasn't resentment. Or pride. It wasn't any of those feelings.

Henry shuddered.

No, it was fear!