Meridian Read Online Free

a willing know-nothing, a woman of ignorance and—in her ignorance—of cruelty, she loved her more than anything. But she respected even more her father’s intelligence, though it seemed he sang, beautifully, only of death.
    She struggled to retain her mother’s hand, covering it with her own, and attempted to bring it to her lips. But her mother moved away, tears of anger and sadness coursing down her face. Her mother’s love was gone, withdrawn, and there were conditions to be met before it would be returned. Conditions Meridian was never able to meet.
    “Fallen asleep, have you?” It was a voice from the revolutionary group, calling her from a decidedly unrevolutionary past. They made her ashamed of that past, and yet all of them had shared it. The church, the music, the tolerance shown to different beliefs outside the community, the tolerance shown to strangers. She felt she loved them. But love was not what they wanted, it was not what they needed.
    They needed her to kill. To say she would kill. She thought perhaps she could do it. Perhaps.
    “I don’t know if I can kill anyone ...”
    There was a relaxing of everyone. “Ah ...”
    “If I had to do it, perhaps I could. I would defend myself ...”
    “Sure you would ...” sighed Anne-Marion, reining in the hatred about to run wild against her friend.
    “Maybe I could sort of grow into the idea of killing other human beings ...”
    “Enemies ...”
    “Pigs ...”
    “But I’m not sure .. .”
    “Oh, what a drag this girl is ...”
    “I know I want what is best for black people ...”
    “That’s what we all want!”
    “I know there must be a revolution ...”
    “Damn straight!”
    “I know violence is as American as cherry pie!”
    “Rap on!”
    “I know nonviolence has failed ...”
    “Then you will kill for the Revolution, not just die for it?” Anne-Marion’s once lovely voice, beloved voice. “Like a fool!” the voice added, bitterly and hard.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Shee-it...!”
    “But can you say you probably will? That you will.”
    “No.”
    Everyone turned away.
    “What will you do? Where will you go?” Only Anne-Marion still cared enough to ask, though her true eyes—with their bright twinkle—had been replaced with black marbles.
    “I’ll go back to the people, live among them, like Civil Rights workers used to do.”
    “You’re not serious?”
    “Yes,” she had said, “I am serious.”
    And so she had left the North and come back South, moving from one small town to another, finding jobs—some better or worse than others—to support herself; remaining close to the people—to see them, to be with them, to understand them and herself, the people who now fed her and tolerated her and also, in a fashion, cared about her.
    Each time Truman visited Meridian he found her with less and less furniture, fewer and fewer pieces of clothing, less of a social position in the community—wherever it was— where she lived. From being a teacher who published small broadsides of poems, she had hired herself out as a gardener, as a waitress at middle-class black parties, and had occasionally worked as a dishwasher and cook.
    “And now you’re here,” said Truman, indicating the bareness of the room.
    “Vraiment,” said Meridian, and smiled at the startled look on Truman’s face. “Why, you’ve forgotten your French!” she said. And then, soberly, “We really must let each other go, you know.”
    “You mean I really must let you go,” said Truman. “You cut me loose a long time ago.”
    “And how is Lynne?”
    “I haven’t seen her in a long time. I’ve only seen her a few times since Camara died.”
    “I liked your daughter.”
    “She was beautiful.” And then, because he did not want to talk about his daughter or his wife, he said, “I’ve never understood your illness, the paralysis, the breaking down ... the way you can face a tank with absolute calm one minute and the next be unable to move. I always