Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [43]
Myers shook his head. “Not really. When it’s over, if we’re still standing, we get to go home. Everybody else has to go on living with it.”
After they’d moved on, Shel asked Dave if he’d recognized Myers. “Sure,” he said. He was the guy who, almost a half century later, would write the definitive history of the second Iraq war, They Never Threw the Roses.
SHEL had been glad to see whites among the demonstrators. They included a handful of nuns. A couple of ambulances pulled onto the church parking lot. There were already two in front of the building. Medics climbed out. “Where are they from?” Shel asked a man standing next to him.
“They’re volunteers,” he said. “They came in from New York yesterday. They’re setting up inside the parsonage. Just in case.”
“My name’s Shelborne.” Shel put out his hand. “You’re with the marchers?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck.” And, after an awkward moment: “This is Dave.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Shelborne.” He shook the hand. Shook Dave’s. “I’m Harry. Thanks for standing with us.”
Shel felt a charge at that. “Thanks for standing with us.” Well, in a way they were. They represented history’s judgment.
“Like hell,” said Dave. “We’re just hanging out. Pretending to be part of this.”
“Hey, why are you getting annoyed with me?”
“I’m not a hero; I just play one on TV.”
“C’mon, Dave, relax. At least we’re here.” They introduced themselves to Ralph Abernathy, and when he asked where they were from, Shel wanted to say, “The next millennium. When things will be better.”
And there was Rosa Parks, talking to a group of young girls, barely teens.
And Andrew Young. Surrounded by reporters, white and black.
“They all seem upbeat,” said Shel.
“It’s because they don’t know what’s waiting for them.”
“You think it would change anything if they did?”
“Don’t know. I can tell you it would stop me.”
“Me, too,” said Shel.
They wandered among the crowd for the better part of an hour, shaking hands and wishing everyone luck. The demonstrators responded in kind, and Shel felt good. Warm. Respected.
“We’re fakes,” Dave insisted.
“Come on, champ. Loosen up.”
“Look,” Dave said, “there’s Amelia Boynton.”
“Who’s Amelia Boynton?” Shel had never heard the name.
“In a lot of ways, Shel, she was the heart and soul of the movement. She was the lady who wouldn’t let go. Who kept pushing.”
When Shel went over to talk with her, Dave stayed where he was. Amelia smiled. Thanked him for being there. “I know it’s not easy,” she said.
Shel nodded. Wished her luck. Dave’s face was unreadable. Shel was getting a bad feeling.
A guy with a microphone announced they were ready to start. People began forming a line, two abreast. John Lewis issued a brief statement to the reporters. Then they knelt, and Andrew Young led them in prayer.
Two of the nuns passed close. Smiled at Shel. “God bless you,” one of them said.
Somebody else shook Dave’s hand. “Appreciate your being here.” The line began to move. Dave looked at them, looked at Shel. “I don’t like standing aside.”
“I know. Maybe it was a mistake, coming here. Maybe you were right, and we ought to just stay away from this kind of stuff.”
Lewis was up front. In a light trench coat. Hosea Williams walked beside him.
THE ambulances, four of them, pulled in behind the marchers, keeping pace. They walked quietly. A few people, watching as they passed, cheered, and some sang. “People get ready; there’s a train a-comin’.” But they were joined by only a few isolated voices among the marchers.
They moved along Water Street, out of the black area. Now there were whites waving Confederate flags. And sometimes wielding guns. The few voices went silent.
They turned right at Alabama Street and marched along the river. Shel and Dave followed. Shel wanted to warn them what was coming.
Dave hesitated. Closed his eyes.
“What?” said Shel.
“I can’t deal with this.”
“Okay. Let’s go back.”
Dave showed no indication he’d heard. “I can’t stand here and not do something.”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“Yeah, there is.”
“Dave—”
He lurched