Difficult Days

About the Author

Robert Ramsey resides in New Orleans. He attended the University of Memphis, where he obtained BBA, MBA, and Juris Doctor degrees. He practiced law until an accident caused him to sell his practice and retire to New Orleans, where he began to study writing. His first novel was While the Devil Dances about an abused housewife. He received an award from Legal Services Corporation for his pro bono service to abused women and children.

Dedication

I want to dedicate the book to ‘James Barbee, M.D. and wife Kathleen Trapolin, with gratitude’.

Copyright Information ©

Robert Ramsey 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Ramsey, Robert

Difficult Days

ISBN 9781649791818 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649791825 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781649791832 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904699

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

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New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

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Acknowledgment

Mac and Charlotte Blair for their continued support.

Chapter One

Rosemary Renee McComb sat in the fourth-row pew of her Garden District Church on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans in July, 1964, and filed her fingernails. She paused to count the members of the choir, which she did each Sunday.

Sometimes there were as many as twenty-five and sometimes as few as ten. She slowly counted left to right and stopped when she got to Scott Bradley, her boyfriend since eighth grade. He was smart, tall, and handsome and had been a star athlete in high school. She waited to see if he was gazing back at her and to her displeasure, he wasn’t. Her usual frustration set in. She didn’t particularly like church to start with but attended out of respect for her parents, who never missed.

Scott never looks at me, she once complained to Liz Thomas, her best friend since age five. They had gone to school together in elite Garden District schools for twelve years and had graduated the previous June. They would be roommates at Loyola University in New Orleans that fall. They had been debutantes together the same year, and in royal courts for Mardi Gras.

Men don’t look at you in situations like that, Liz said. Don’t ask me why. They just don’t. Maybe Scott is concentrating on the next song, maybe a new rifle for hunting, maybe a new car. Who knows with men? He could be thinking about anything. It’s like talking. We talk all the time and they’re thinking. About what? Who knows? It’s anybody’s guess.

Rosemary stopped counting when the tenor of the pastor’s voice changed. He sounded angry. Rosemary looked up at him. His face was red and she thought he was sweating. It is the responsibility of every Christian to seek justice and mercy. We all know that in our hearts. God is an equal opportunity, and he expects us to respect one another, to love one another. But you don’t have to go very far in New Orleans to find unfairness and a lack of justice and mercy and love for our fellowmen. Racial injustice is a very part of our ingrained being. The abuses go on and on. We have to change. We need to change. We need to submit to God’s will and treat all men equally.

That comment would certainly make many members of the congregation angry and many more uncomfortable, Rosemary knew. It would enrage her father, who sat next to her mother, who was seated next to Rosemary. The church elders, for their part, were trying to keep peace. They had met with the pastor twice already, to no avail. The pastor refused to drop the issue of racial equality. He was an activist pastor and nothing was going to change him. He participated in marches and sit-ins. He was a speaker at some rallies. Some members of the congregation had already left the church because of his activities.

Rosemary looked at Scott, but he simply stared at his hymnal. There was no reaction. She wondered what he thought of the pastor’s comments. Scott was a fine young man she loved, and he was a firm segregationist, as was her father. He was probably furious right now, just like her father, but he would never show his displeasure.

Rosemary looked at her fingernails’ shade and shape once more. Scott was eating Sunday dinner with her family and she wanted them to be just right. She used the file for a second longer and put it in her purse, satisfied that her nails were perfect. It was always her goal to have everything perfect when Scott was around. He was, she hoped, her future husband.

Her mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably. But then, she was seated next to her father. That would make anyone shift uncomfortably.

She looked around her shoulder to see the expression on Liz’s face after the pastor had, as her father would put it, ‘gone on a rampage,’ but she couldn’t see her. She was protective of Liz. Liz had been molested sexually by her father as a small girl. When her mother discovered it, she immediately had him arrested and filed for divorce. Subsequently, in later years of therapy, Liz had been diagnosed as manic-depressive. Rosemary did not understand the intricacies of being man-depressive, but she knew that it involved highs and lows. She had learned through the years that Liz’s high points were frequently followed by spells of depression. She tried to help keep things on an even keel. She hoped the pastor’s comments had not upset Liz, who was sensitive.

The pastor ended his sermon and the choir was finishing, which meant services were ending. Rosemary put down her hymnal and picked up her purse to leave. She looked briefly for Scott’s parents but didn’t see them, a missed opportunity to talk to them, her future in-laws. Maybe she’d see them on the way out of the church. She hoped so.

Sunday dinner was served by Agnes, the black maid who had worked for the McCombs for as long as Rosemary had been alive. Agnes’s nephew, Jeremiah, did the yard work and miscellaneous odd jobs around the house. Sitting around the table was Mr. McComb at the head, Rosemary’s fourteen-year-old brother, David, Liz, Mrs. McComb, Rosemary, and Scott. Agnes was serving fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner, Mr. McComb’s favorite. Mr. McComb had enjoyed kidding Agnes about how her fried chicken was the best in New Orleans.

It’s unusually hot, said Mrs. McComb. This humidity makes a mess out of my hair.

Mine, too, said Liz. I don’t remember it being this humid last year.

Wait until August, said Mr. McComb, and you’ll wish it was July again.

Mr. McComb turned to Scott, who sat to his right.

How are things going, Scott? he asked.

Well, said Scott, our Youth for Goldwater group is doing great. There is a lot of enthusiasm and hard work. I think Goldwater will carry Louisiana easily.

I think you’re right and I’m very proud of your efforts. How often do you meet?

Once a week in the youth building of the Baptist Church. Sometimes we have a speaker from the local Republican Party. We hand out flyers and put them in people’s doors. It’s a lot of work but worth it.

Mr. McComb turned to his son. David, that’s a group you need to look into joining. Your mother or I can carry you to meetings. You’d learn a lot about the political process. It would be good for you. You’d make some useful contacts and meet some nice people. And do some good work for Goldwater.

Agnes came by Rosemary and patted her on the shoulder.

How is your family, Agnes? asked Rosemary. "Everybody okay? Kids?

Grandkids?"

Yes ma’am, said Agnes. My oldest grandson graduates high school year after next. Can’t believe it. Time passes so quickly.

Her father cleared his throat. Certainly, an interesting sermon today, he said. Rosemary knew what was coming next. Every time that preacher of ours starts his bleeding-heart sermons, I want to just go up there and hit him, said Mr. McComb. I think he needs to be fired, and the sooner, the better. If he isn’t, there is going to be a split in the church. I’m not hanging around much longer to listen to his whining. And the sit-ins and marches he participates in. It’s scandalous. And now, he’s starting, I hear, to participate in antiwar rallies. I heard he spoke at some and now he’s demanding we pull out our troops and come home. He wants us to lose the war. Imagine, us losing a war for the first time in history. That’s the man we’re paying a high salary to be our minister.

But remember he’s been a pastor for twenty years and he does have a lot of support, Harold, said Mrs. McComb. And your family has been members of that congregation for four generations. I can’t imagine you anywhere else.

I’m just telling you, he said, I’m not putting up with it much longer. By the way, Scott, our White Citizens Council is getting new members all the time. Every time Lyndon Johnson makes one of his bleeding-heart speeches, we get new members. Come to a meeting sometime. You know, your dad is a member. You could come with him. We need new blood. Young people like you to carry on after we’re too old to fight.

The Council, as they called it, was formed by white persons to counter the efforts of the civil rights movement. They had meetings, some marches on a small scale, and speakers. Membership was steady but no longer growing.

Mind you, we have nothing against people of color, said her father. The Bible says to love thy neighbor. But separate but equal is the law of the land and has been for a long, long time. That’s all we advocate. Separate but equal, and love thy neighbor.

It was not the law of the land, but that didn’t stop Mr. McComb from advocating it.

Rosemary always listened to her father and Scott, mainly her father, and wondered what Agnes thought of such talk. After all, she was black. But she was part of the family, and Rosemary assumed she had no interest in marches nor sit-ins or the White Council. Neither would Jeremiah. Still, she wished her father would tone things down around Agnes at the dinner table. It might be hurting her feelings and no one would even know it.

Have some more fried chicken, Rosemary said to Scott as she handed him the plate. You’ve barely eaten any.

But the person at the table who had barely eaten was Liz, and Rosemary wondered if it was a bad day for her. She’d barely said two words during the whole meal. Usually, she was much more talkative. That might be a sign, thought Rosemary, that she is depressed. But she had not noticed Liz on a ‘high’ lately that usually led to depression, so it was confusing. After dinner, Rosemary escorted Scott and Liz out to the patio to talk.

Liz didn’t look too well to Rosemary and she decided to do something, even if it was wrong.

Liz, she said, let’s, you and I, go to a movie tonight. Girls’ night out. What do you say?

Sounds good, said Liz. I have no idea what is showing or where.

We’ll check the newspaper later. Maybe something good is on.

Scott, can I get you some iced tea? asked Rosemary. She was always careful to give Scott plenty of attention and wait on him. That’s what good wives did, after all.

No, thanks, he said. Actually, I need to be running along. Special meeting of Youth for Goldwater. I’ll talk to you tonight or tomorrow?

Sure. Be careful.

Rosemary turned to Liz. Let’s get the newspaper and check out movies.

The idea of going to a movie seemed to put Liz in better spirits and Rosemary was glad they were going. Depression, she thought, must be a terrible thing to live with.

Chapter Two

November 3, 1964, Rosemary sat at her table in her dorm room in front of a mirror and brushed her shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair. Her parents were having an election party for a large group of Goldwater supporters in their Garden District home and Scott and his parents would be in attendance. She wanted to look her very best, especially for Mrs. Bradley.

She took another look at her dress that was lying across her bed. Perfect. She was going to look marvelous. She could barely wait. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley were going to just love her. Surely, they’d be able to see her as a future daughter-in-law. What more could they want? She was beautiful and doted on their son.

Across the room, Liz had also laid out her dress and Rosemary wondered where she was. Classes had been out for hours and they were due at her parents’ in two hours. The girls would be riding with Scott, a student at Tulane University.

Tulane and Loyola were located adjacent to one another on St. Charles Avenue across from Audubon Park. Rosemary’s first pick for college had been LSU in Baton Rouge, ninety minutes away. But that meant being ninety minutes away from Scott and that was ninety minutes too many. Rosemary had every intention of marrying Scott after graduation and she didn’t intend to give any other girls an opening. She enrolled at Loyola where she could see Scott every day. And she did.

Liz arrived in time and dressed and the three of them were off to the party.

Scott was a political science major and took the election very seriously. It was just about all he talked about. His parents were avid republicans and Goldwater supporters and very proud of him and his efforts. Rosemary could see him running for office someday. And wouldn’t it be exciting to be the wife of a politician? Maybe the wife of a congressman? Or senator? The thought of it sent chills up her spine.

It’s an immensely important election, said Scott while driving to the McComb residence, speaking in a very knowledgeable manner. It’s not just a matter of these civil rights marches but Southeast Asia. President Kennedy placed military advisers in a country called South Vietnam to help them fight the communists that are trying to overthrow the government. I don’t think Johnson has the fortitude to see it through. I think he’ll withdraw them and South Vietnam will fall. Then who knows where Chinese and Russian communists will set their sights next? Maybe another fight in Korea. It’s the domino theory. Haven’t you ever heard of it? One country falls and then others follow suit.

Rosemary was not interested, but she would die before she let Scott know that. Right now, her primary goal was to get an engagement ring. Involved political discussions could come later, if at all.

That’s fascinating, she said. What makes you think Johnson will fold?

Just my gut feeling. Plus, he’s been calling Goldwater a war monger in the campaign. We know Goldwater will stand his ground. He’ll never let the commies take Vietnam. Not Goldwater. And I’ll tell you something else. Johnson caters to the black vote, so he’s going to owe them after the election if he wins. Look out for all kinds of new legislation on civil rights, which are totally unnecessary.

It seems like a big to do about a small Asian country. What does it have to do with us? asked Liz.

Scott seemed irritated.

South Vietnam is like South Korea. They are an ally. You support your allies. And didn’t you hear what I said about the domino theory? If Vietnam falls, which country is the next communist target? Korea? Thailand? Cambodia? All three?

Rosemary heard the same talk from her father and his friends all the time. It made sense. But still, Liz was right, she thought. They placed a lot of emphasis on a tiny Asian country a long way from the United States. And what would Johnson do if he won? No one really knew for sure. He might stand his ground and fight to the last man.’ Scott was just talking, as usual. He thought of himself as an expert on foreign affairs because he was majoring in political science. There was, Rosemary thought, a lot that neither Scott nor her father knew. They just thought they knew.

They were turning in to park near the McComb home and neither Liz nor Rosemary pursued the conversation any further. After all, Scott was a political science major. He must understand these things, she thought, though she read the newspaper and listened to the news and considered herself informed. There just had not really been any news much about this place called Vietnam. And where was it anyway? She’d forgotten already. Scott’s parents were going to be at the gathering. She wanted to make a good impression. She quickly checked her makeup and was ready to go inside.

There was a huge crowd and everyone was in a good mood. Agnes had found it necessary to enlist two maid friends of hers to help for the evening. Everyone was in formal attire. Rosemary’s mother looked great in a blue dress.

Mr. McComb came over and hugged Rosemary and Liz and shook hands with Scott and then took Scott around to meet some of the guests. Rosemary spied Scott’s parents and took Liz by the arm over to meet them.

You girls look wonderful tonight, said Scott’s mother. Hope you brought us good luck with the election.

Rosemary smiled and assured her they did.

You look wonderful in your red dress, said Rosemary.

Thank you, Rosemary. How is school? she asked.

Oh, fine.

And what is your major? she asked.

English, said Rosemary. I’d like to teach. That way if I ever have children, I’ll be at home when they are.

Mrs. Bradley winked. Good thinking. Smart girl.

Rosemary felt ten feet tall.

Excuse me, girls, she said. My husband is motioning for me to come over.

See you later tonight?

Oh, of course, said Rosemary.

Think she likes me? whispered Rosemary to Liz.

Oh yeahhhhhh, said Liz.

The crowd was upbeat as election returns started to come in on the television. Everyone expected a narrow Goldwater victory. But things didn’t turn out that way. The television was on in the den and the first state to report was New Hampshire, which went for Johnson. It was downhill from there for the gathered republicans. It turned into a democratic landslide. Most of the crowd had cleared out by ten thirty. Mr. McComb was devastated. Mrs. McComb tried to console him.

We’ll just have to double our efforts with the Council, he said. March, hold meetings, file lawsuits if necessary. Anything to protect our way of life. We can’t just law down and let these people run over us. Of course, I’m sure our holier than thou pastor is happy tonight. That bastard.

Now, Harold, whispered Mrs. McComb. Be careful what you say.

Rosemary lingered by the front door talking to Scott’s parents as they were departing. His father seemed as depressed as Mr. McComb. Rosemary tried to console him too, and as they left, she turned to look for Scott to comfort him.

If Rosemary had been put under oath, she knew that in reality, she didn’t much care who won the election. What was the big deal with sitting next to black people at a movie theater? But there were points to be scored with Scott and his parents and she intended to score them.

She found Liz talking to a couple who was heartbroken over the size of the landslide. Rosemary wondered if Liz would bring up the little Asian country Scott had made such a big issue of, but she didn’t mention it. The couple was Council members and very anti-civil rights movement. Liz assured them everything would turn out alright in the end, but they didn’t seem very assured.

All three had classes the next day, so Scott brought around the car about eleven o’clock and they headed back to the dorms.

Scott was quiet but finally spoke. Bad night, he said. Bad things are going to come from tonight. I mean, really bad things with Johnson still as president.

Rosemary sat next to him with her hand on his leg. Maybe not, dear. Maybe Johnson will fool everyone and protect that little country.

No one can tell the future, added Liz.

Just mark my words, he said.