Mom took me by the hand, pulled the screen door open, and led me into the hallway where the old lady waited, smiling her welcome: “Hello again, Mrs. Milley. This must be David?” She extended her hand. Gravely, as Mom had taught me—recently, my mother had been teaching me a lot about manners—I reached out and shook the old lady's hand. It was dry and soft and white, like a newly washed hankie.
“David, this is Mrs. Jenkins. She'll be taking care of you while Dad and I are at work.” I looked closely at the old lady's face. She nodded assent.
“Reverend is in his office—I'm sure he'd like to meet you.” Mrs. Jenkins put her hand on my back and guided me forward, as she and Mom went down the hallway together. At the back, I could see a kitchen straight ahead, but we turned left into a little room with light blue walls.
A very fat man sat at a big desk there. He swiveled his chair from behind his desk to regard me over his hands folded atop his enormous belly. Mom put her hand between my shoulders and nudged me forward. “David, this is Reverend Thomas.”
The fat man chuckled and shook my hand. “So, David, how are you doing?”
Remembering my manners again, I said, “Very well, sir.” Mom looked relieved.
“We'll take good care of David for you, Mrs. Milley. Don't you worry.”
Mom smiled, “Thank you.” We left the old man to his work and headed back to a big room at the front of the hallway. Mom shook Mrs. Jenkins' hand, said to me, “Now, be sure you listen to Mrs. Jenkins and the other ladies until I come get you this afternoon.” She leaned down and gave me a kiss on my cheek and a quick hug. I watched Mom go out the front door, across the porch, down the walk and into the car. Mom drove off to her new job.

❋

That spring before my sixth birthday, in 1960, my family moved from West Haven in Connecticut to Orangeburg, from the rectory on the town square opposite Dad's big Congregational church to a tiny ranch house on a sandy lot in Jim Crow South Carolina.
It wasn't my parents' first move. After leaving Newfoundland to preach, Dad swept my Mom away from her life teaching in New Brunswick. They traveled together from Canada to Kansas to New England, tearing from parish to parish, while Dad worked his way through divinity school—and through the patience of several congregations.
Never one to back down from a fight, Dad had just lost another parish by defying the unspoken rules—his second time in five years—this time, by telling a parishioner who came to his office where she could find a doctor to provide her with birth control. She already had several children. She begged Dad not to tell her husband, so he didn't. Scandal ensued. Dad did not apologize.
No matter that he was in the right, Dad's stiff-necked righteousness had pushed him out of yet another job and into an ulcer. Mom, married to Dad more than a dozen years by then, finally put her foot down: he must make a living doing something else.
Dad came through. He found teaching jobs for both of them, at Claflin College, in Orangeburg, South Carolina: for Dad, teaching philosophy and religion; for Mom, teaching psychology. In those days, Claflin was still a little Methodist-affiliated Black college, sharing a campus with the much larger South Carolina State University, which also offered higher education to African-American students from all over the south. In their new positions, Dad and Mom would even have an office together. Mom would finally get to go back to her first love—teaching—and finally use the degrees she'd earned at nights, hanging onto her sanity during all those days she spent as a minister's wife.
Both parents working at the college, though, meant they had to do something with their kids. John Ross and Jane were both already in junior high school. They were old enough to fend for themselves. I wasn't in school yet—my sixth birthday in November was just past their cutoff—so Dad found the preschool run by the local Lutheran Church to keep me in hand until I was ready for first grade.

❋

I loved preschool, and the old ladies who ran it seemed to like me, too. I was almost a year older than the next oldest kids, and a couple of children really were still infants. I never saw Reverend Thomas again after that first day, but Mrs. Jenkins was thrilled to find out that I was a sponge for new things. She had someone she could teach things to. She ran me backwards and forwards through my ABCs, showed me how to add and subtract numbers. At her urging, and Mom's, Dad taught me how to read and I took right to it.
Religious instruction was part of the package, too. Mrs. Jenkins read Bible verses to us as part of her daily lesson. At last, she had a student who could pay attention. One or another of the ladies always said grace when we had our lunch and our milk and cookies.
The big challenge for the kids was reciting “The Lord's Prayer.” Mrs. Jenkins led the children in reciting it every morning but, honestly, our attempts to keep up hurt my ears.
Mrs. Jenkins told me one day that if I could recite the prayer by myself, completely and without making any mistakes, she would give me a reward—a white plastic cross as big as my hand that glowed blue when she cupped it inside hers. I went home and badgered Dad to let me practice the prayer for him. Glad to encourage what seemed to be an interest in religion, he agreed. After dinner, Dad listened to my recitation and kept correcting me until I got it right.
Next day, that little cross was mine. I brought my prize home and set it atop my big brother John Ross' drop-leaf desk in the room we shared in that little house.

❋

Driving along U.S.1 in Florida, five decades after we escaped Orangeburg for Daytona Beach, I pull into the parking lot at Blackbeard's Restaurant and glance over at Mom. “Well, we're here again,” I announce. Mom looks back at me and smiles. Mom always smiles whenever we mark another of our little rituals.
All my life, Mom made a point of creating what she called “special times.” When we moved to Daytona when I was eleven, she saved the Welcome Wagon coupons until one week, when Dad was called away to a seminar, Mom and I went to every fast-food place and attraction that had provided a coupon. One night every summer when I was in junior high, Mom and I attended the symphony together on their complementary tickets from the college—Dad never cared for concerts. At intermission, she let me roam the lobby alone, feeling like a grown-up, as I walked around in my best Sunday suit, snagging petits fours from the trays of passing waiters.
Even decades later, in the years after Dad died, every time I visit Mom, twice every year, we make new rituals together. We linger over our morning coffee to talk, travel the same roads around Daytona on our daily drive, pick a favorite restaurant to return to, time after time.
Mom created rituals for all three of her children. She worked hard to make sure each of us felt safe and special in a world so often hostile. In her later years, I've come to understand that Mom had always needed these rituals as much as we did, seeking normalcy and acceptance and forgiveness in the love we shared.
This time, we've driven down to Blackbeard's Inn in New Smyrna, our latest favorite eatery. I bound around to the passenger-side door and open it for Mom—showing that I still remember my manners from childhood is part of our ritual—and hold it open for her while she unwedges herself from her seat. At Mom's now slow pace, we flee the blinding Florida sun for the dimmer light of the dining room. The other customers smile as we come in, recalling, I suppose, visits from their own grown children. The hostess finds us a table. As always, we order coffee and stock up on soup and cold cuts and greens at the salad bar. The waitress brings us coffee right away. Mom thanks her, then tips a little cream from the tiny white plastic tub into her cup.
I look over the table at her while she stirs. “I was thinking about that year before I started school in Orangeburg.” Mom looks up and nods. “Do you remember that preschool you and Dad found for me? The one where I got the little crosses that glowed in the dark?”
“Yes, sweetie, I remember.”
“Do you remember that I got three of them, one for each time I recited the Lord's Prayer for the ladies there?”
“Oh, I didn't know they were a prize!”
“Sure. Only they stopped me after the third time—the old lady in charge told me that I mustn't be greedy, to leave some for the other children. That was the first time I can remember a teacher snapping at me.”
Mom shakes her head, remembering those days: “That would have been Mrs. Jenkins. She was having a hard time then. Sometimes, I wonder what happened to the people we knew in Orangeburg. I'm sure they've all passed away by now, but we never saw any of them afterward. The old guy who ran the place, Reverend Thomas. He was a retired minister. Did you know he was fired for letting you in?”
“What?”
“The Lutheran Church near our house owned the preschool. Their elders who'd hired him didn't like the old guy going behind their backs, letting one of our children go there, when they wouldn't let us attend their church. That's why we attended the Methodist church downtown when we lived in Orangeburg.” Mom takes a sip from her shiny white cup.
I pick up my own cup. “I remember that church. The minister there had such boring sermons and everyone was so stiff.”
Mom chides gently, “Reverend Jones was always good to us. He took an awful chance letting us in. The Klan threatened to kill him for it, you know.”
“I know.” Mom has told me before about Reverend Jones. “Sunday School there was okay, I guess. I just got more out of Wednesday vespers at the college. They had a good choir. I feel bad for the old guy from the pre-school, though.”
Mom looks into the empty air for a moment. “We were just lucky to get out of there alive.”

❋

In Orangeburg, my family lived near my elementary school. On weekdays, Mom and Dad would drop me off at the preschool on their way over to Edisto Drive and the college where they taught. On weekends, I would join them there, reading books in Mom's office while she graded papers and met with her students.
In the fall of the following year, I began first grade, reading from books I'd already read, learning numbers I already knew.
Mrs. King was fat and red-faced and loved her charges, and she always took time to find me something to do when I finished a lesson early. One day, early in the spring, she told me to stay a few minutes after school. The school principal came into her classroom and, with just the three of us there, I read aloud to him all the reading lessons for the second half of the year, and then I ran to catch my bus home.
One day the next week, the school nurse met me when I got off the bus and took me to an office at the front of the school, where a young woman in a white dress sat at a little table. The nurse left, and the young woman asked me to sit. She asked if it would be okay if she gave me a test; I liked showing off on tests. “Yes, ma'am!” I said. I asked her if I could play with the model of a traffic light standing in the corner of the room, but she told me that was for children who couldn't read yet. Instead, she handed me a big pencil and a plain blue booklet.
For the next hour or so, she showed me pictures and asked me questions about them. She read sentences to me and had me complete them; she asked me what things were like other things. Sometimes, she told me to write something down, or draw a picture. She was friendly and smiled reassurance. As she asked her questions and I answered, she became more animated, even excited. When we finished, before I left, she wrote something down on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope addressed to my Mom and Dad. Arm on my shoulder, as if she were afraid I might disappear, the young woman took me up to the principal's office, and he walked me over to Mrs. King's class.
The next day, Mrs. King took me next door to Mrs. Rogers' second-grade class and told me that I'd be going there from now on. She hugged me, brushed back my hair with her hand, and left.
Where Mrs. King had been soft and red and motherly, Mrs. Rogers was blond, elegant and kind. She welcomed me, smiling, and assigned me to an empty desk near the back of the room. As I walked to my new desk, my new classmates looked at me and whispered. They all knew who I was, and who my parents were, and where they taught.
Eight years old, Jerry Anderson was a year older than me, already tall, towheaded and handsome. Jerry's father owned a car dealership down on Edisto Drive, the main road through the white section of Orangeburg. Smart and athletic, he was the star among my new second-grade classmates.
Jerry took a dislike to me from my first day in Mrs. Rogers' class. I couldn't go to the chalkboard or sharpen my pencils without getting a sharp comment or a poke as I walked past him. “You think you're so smart! You think you're better than us, telling us how to live! Go home, Yankee!” Other kids nearby snickered. Mrs. Rogers would call him out when she caught him, but I learned to walk around the outside rows of the class to stay away from Jerry.
Recess was worse. Sheridan Elementary had a big field out back, fenced in so we couldn't stray off, but big enough that the teachers could organize the children's play, then go sit at picnic tables under trees at the far end and smoke and talk. Largely unsupervised, the other kids in my class, led by Jerry, could gull and mock me, and pinch and slap me, without the teachers ever seeing it.
In the blinding sun one chilly spring day, I stood at home plate, pale, clumsy, and near-sighted, far end of the bat resting on the ground, my numb fingers clutching the handle. Bright red mittens dangled from my wrists, where I had bunched up the too-long sleeves on my sweater. The baseball bat was heavy, and I never could get the hang of swinging it in time to meet the ball.
I peered to my right, out to where Jerry stood on the little patch of red dirt that was meant to be the pitcher's mound. The kids on the other team had all come in close, chattering taunts. Knowing I would miss the pitch, they weren't holding back. I picked up the bat, and put it on my left—No!—I switched it to my right shoulder, and as I shuffled around to the left side of home plate, Jerry overhanded the softball directly into my ribs.
I stood there, shocked, wind knocked out of me, and stared at him. He laughed. Then, Jerry and the other kids on his team walked closer to me, calling me names: “Baby!” “Damn Yankee!” Then they called me that name, the one that started with that word I'd never heard before we'd come to Jim Crow Orangeburg, the one word that Dad and Mom had told me, somberly, together, that I must never, ever, ever say.
Right then, I knew I could never tell anyone about this. The other team drew closer and the kids on my own team joined in. They screamed at me over and over and over again. Those four syllables became their chant. A dozen howling, screaming red-faced children all advanced on me at once. One girl picked up a rock. Jerry raised his fists.
Closing my eyes, I twirled like a ballerina, swinging the bat out as I went, not even stopping when I felt a thump. And then I was swinging out at the empty air.
Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and I opened my eyes as the fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Dannelly, pulled the bat from my hands. Mrs. Rogers was leading Jerry away, holding something to his head. “Look what you did!” Mrs. Dannelly demanded. Jerry looked back at me and I saw a big bump on his forehead, the size of a jawbreaker and getting bigger, and all red and purple. I tucked my face into Mrs. Dannelly's waist and wept.
Mrs. Dannelly led me back to my class, where Mrs. Rogers had already brought the other kids. Jerry's seat was empty. I sat down. Nobody looked at me and I did my best not to be seen.
Before the day ended, Mrs. Dannelly came back and spoke a moment with Mrs. Rogers, and left again. Mrs. Rogers told me that the principal wanted to see me. I trudged to his office, feeling eyes staring at me from the windows of every classroom I passed. I sat down in the little chair by the door, expecting—I don't know what—something bad. When he came out from his office in the back, he scolded me gently, “You're lucky Jerry wasn't seriously hurt. You could have done some real damage. But Mrs. Dannelly saw what happened, and Jerry confessed, so you're not in trouble. This time.”
He called back to his office, and the nurse came out with Jerry, her hand resting on Jerry's shoulder. He had a big bandage taped to his forehead. He had a lump. He looked embarrassed.
“Say you're sorry,” the principal told me. “I'm sorry,” I said, although I wasn't. “Jerry?” said the nurse. “I'm sorry, too,” Jerry answered, and he smiled a little bit—embarrassment? Respect? Contempt? Collaboration?
“Now shake hands,” and the principal propelled me in Jerry's direction. We shook hands, and Jerry smiled that odd smile again. The nurse took us both back to Mrs. Rogers' class. The school never told my parents.
The taunts in the classroom and on the playground stopped for the rest of the year. The other kids in my class mostly pretended I didn't exist. I stayed away from the end of the playground with the softball field. Jerry stayed away from me. The next year, he was in a different class, and I had new bullies to avoid. After third grade, I never saw Jerry again.

❋

Decades afterward, sitting at our table in Blackbeard's Inn, when I tell Mom about that day, she purses her lips and shakes her head. The stories Mom and I tell each other about those five years in South Carolina often shock both of us. In Orangeburg, everyone in our family kept secrets, trying to spare each other, protecting one another from the fog of hatred that shrouded us.
From the safety of our restaurant table so many years later, Mom agrees that the school was wise not to have brought Dad into it. His wrath would not have stopped at the school; he would have brought the fury of the entire town down upon us. Mom shakes her head: “But I feel terrible that I didn't know. I should have known.” I reach over the table and take her hand in mine.

❋

Early that long-ago night, I lay alone in the tiny room I shared with my older brother, waiting to fall asleep before he came to bed. I looked at the three little crosses I still kept on top of John Ross' desk. Daylight was just starting to fade, so the crosses were pale, pale blue, like the walls of the old reverend's office in my preschool.
Lying in bed, I could hear Mom and Dad whispering urgently in the kitchen, like they did so many nights during those endless years. As my room grew dark, the plastic crosses shone brightly, a cold, bitter flame. My mind dwelt on what had happened that day. I knew my parents already had too many things to worry about. I could not add to their load. I knew that I could not tell them about the gang of children who tried to beat me up on the playground. I couldn't say anything about how I'd lashed out. I lay in my bed and wept. I made sure my family in the front room of our tiny house didn't hear me.
I did not pray. There would be no answer. As my room grew dark, I stared at the tiny Golgotha atop my brother's drop-leaf desk, ghosts of crosses burning in the night. Until I closed my eyes, I watched their blue light fade.