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This is to certify that the

thesis entitled
THE INHERITANCE
presented by
SANDRA C. SEATON
has been accepted towards fulfillment

of the requirements for

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~b73458

THE INHERITANCE

By

Sandra Cecelia Seaton

A THESIS
Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of
MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1989

ABSTRACT

THE INHERITANCE

BY

Sandra Cecelia Seaton

Using a variety of literary forms, The Inheritance

 

explores the life of African-Americans between World War II
and the present. The title of the thesis, "The Inheritance,"
is also the title of the longest story, a novella which
deals with the conflicts of family life. "The Inheritance"
and five short stories," "A Kitchen Tale," "The Cleanup
Hitter," "The Checker," "Wars," and "Until The Real Thing
Comes Along," as well as two vignettes, "Mainbocher" and
"Rothstein," are set in the urban North. Fictional portraits
of small-town Southern life include the vignette "By the
Moon When the Moon Was Up" as well as a longer story, "Night
Song." A one-act play, "The Bridge Party," evokes the
atmosphere of a women's social club in the black community
of a Southern town in the forties. This thesis attempts to
affirm the diverse heritage of African-American life; the
author feels privileged to be one of the heirs of this

inheritance.

Copyright by
SANDRA CECELIA SEATON
1989

To James

iv

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Professor Linda Wagner-Martin, my
thesis adviser, for her constant vigilance and
encouragement. She possesses a rare combination of
sensitivity, intelligence, and editorial skill. She has
served as a role model intellectually and personally, yet
has encouraged me to follow my own insights. As a thesis
adviser, she has been exacting but never doctrinaire. My
thanks also go to Professor Robert Martin; the depth of his
knowledge of drama and his ability to translate its
traditional principles into the current idiom was invaluable
to me in writing The Bridge Party. My appreciation goes as
well to Gary Gildner, who guided me through two fiction
writing seminars and encouraged me to continue as a writer.
I would also like to thank Professor Victor Paananen for
giving me advice and counsel at critical junctures in my
graduate work. Finally, I would like to thank my husband and

my children for their love and patience during this time.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Inheritance

A Kitchen Tale

Glossary of Hair Culture
Mainbocher

Nightsong

Rothstein

The Cleanup Hitter

The Checker

By The Moon When The Moon Was Up
Wars

Until The Real Thing Comes Along

The Bridge Party

vi

55
75
82
85
103
10“
123
135
138
160
166

The Inheritance

She never knew him very well. After her plane arrived
she wasn't sure who to look for, whether there'd be anybody
there at all. Her fingers began to close, then went limp. He
was so hard to remember. Like a dream when you wake up
suddenly and try to think back. She imagined someone just
like she was, tall, slender, with light brown skin. There
had been a man at the family church in Columbia with the
same last name as her father's. She went to Columbia, where
she was born and where he was born and where the man lived,
every summer after grade school was out. Whenever she saw
the man, he was tall, slender, light brown-skinned; she
would look him up and down and try to look through him,
inside, where people hide things, hoping that something was
buried there and that this time, this summer, he would come
up to her, finally, and say "Hi, Flora. I was wondering when
you'd get here."

She imagined because dreams satisfied her craving to
travel beyond the world she already knew, a world bound by
fences there before she even existed. Sometimes they were so

high they were impossible to climb over. She had been named

for one of her grandmother's children, one of a set of
twins, girls, Flora and Dora. They were born in 1910, four
years before Flora's mother, in the South. Nobody teased her
about her name, ever. At that time (a phrase Flora had heard

so many times--at that time you couldn't or at that time you

 

weren't allowed to) at that time there were no hospitals

 

that you could use.

Soon after the twins were delivered, months early, so
small you could rest one of them in the palm of your hand,
they were laid a few inches from the bedroom stove, in the
hopes of creating a crude incubator. They lived a few weeks,
fighting hard the whole time, struggling to cry, to make
known their desire to be held and nourished. Especially
Flora, she hung on for dear life, days after they had
expected her to go. The fences were just there. It didn't
have much to do with individual courage. Not like the great
dream, some TV show where the superhero rises up against all
Vodds. Oh, there was courage, but it could only take you so
far. The fences were just there. Flora was a fighter; she
crashed them down whenever she could. Sometimes they flew
right back up in her face. And that wasn't a dream. Or a
nightmare. Just hard reality. She never expected anything to
be handed to her. But wasn't everybody entitled to both
parents, a mother and a father?

When she begged, her mother would tell her about one or
two incidents, the same ones over and over. Leona would tell

her how the two of them drove to Tuskegee to get married and

returned to Columbia the same night for their teaching jobs
the next day--no wedding pictures to show, no snapshots of a
screwball honeymoon trip. As Leona combed Flora's hair into
small braids she would tell her about the day when Flora was
a baby, nine months old, that her father, a Kappa, had come
by in a car filled with frat brothers (screaming and roaring
out one of their latest stomps, whirling up the steep road
in a cloud of dust, ten men thrusting up and down, the car
so full that it literally shook the ground) to demand the
wedding ring he had placed on her finger. Once Flora stopped
her, "I thought you all were finished with college?" Leona
shook her head. "He was a Kappa. That's something they never
give up. That's something for life." Then Flora asked her
that time and the five or six other times she told the
story, "Did you keep it?"

Her mother would stare coldly, snatching the comb
sharply through her hair, another time straightening the
blue netting underneath the skirt of her prom dress, another
time leaning over her bed covers, and say, "No, I didn't
want that ring. That ring meant nothing to me."

Flowered pillows puffed up, an old chenille spread
pulled around her, her head resting quietly, she could
easily sink into a dream. This time, nothing would stop her.
He would come up to her, finally, and say "Hi, Flora. I was

wondering when you'd get here."

As she tried to adjust her clothes and hair, a luggage
cart wheeled by. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't
keep her balance. A brooch, an old snapshot, a letter from
Mike, everything in her purse fell to the floor. The brooch
was bordered in gold. The furrows in the engraving were dark
with age. 0n the inside, red and green flecks, shaped into
flowers and leaves, adorned a black enamel center. She tried
to regain her balance. The trip to Cincinnati had been
unsettling. The plane had inched along through turbulence,
then circled the airport, arriving an hour after the
scheduled time. Now the piano music from the speaker
overhead, Eddie Heywood's "Canadian Sunset," was competing
with announcements of arrivals and departures. Her fist
closed tight around the brooch. When her teacher had given
it to her after her last piano lesson she had held it that
way, tightly. She stared at the clock; the thing was taking
her whole lifetime. She was tired, exhausted. A faint ring
continued in an empty phone booth across the way. The crowd
had thinned out. The sounds died till there was only the
barely perceptible wail of a crying, whining baby.

Whenever she was unsure of herself her mind would
wander. Her thoughts would drift back, to another time, when
she had the same feelings. That's when things would double
up. All the fear would go to one place. She would stop and
think about the other time, one time would pile on another,
one face, one voice, like another voice, until she was

exhausted, smothered, hardly able to breathe. For the second

time in three months she was starting something new. The
first time was the Sunday she stood at the door to Mrs.
Hessler's rooming house. It was fall semester at the
University of Illinois, 196“. She was not immediately shown
to her room. They were lined up at the door: Mrs. Hessler, a
frail, white-haired woman; Sister Mary Katherine, a Catholic
nun studying anthropology, dressed in the traditional black,
pressed and starched so often that the cloth had taken on a
grey cast; and Sue, a Taiwanese student who chose not to
speak. Flora, tired, rested her suitcases against the half-
opened door, and stared at the bottom of the nun's habit;
she was getting impatient. The three women took up most of
the room in the hallway, so much that it was impossible to
start up the stairs.

Mrs. H., a 90 year old woman, moved toward Flora,
leaning close enough to read her like a newspaper, running
her eyes back and forth across Flora's features. "What are
you?" She studied the color on Flora's face. "Are you
Indian?"

"No."

"Are you Puerto Rican?"

"No." Flora shook her head again.

"Are you foreign Spanish?" The landlady raised one
finger.

Flora didn't smile, "No, I'm Negro."

The old woman started to tremble. Flora could feel the

tension, the old woman's body giving way.

A pale hand darted out from the folds of the robe and
gave support, as Mrs. H. started to speak, "I don't know. I
just don't know...We've always been a family here...our own
little family." Flora stopped for a minute. It was as if she
was relieving the woman of her tension by taking it up
herself. It was as if she was starting to fall apart. Flora
thought she heard something drop to the floor. Her fingers
darted to her neck, closing, then opening . She was still
kneeling when she pinned the brooch to her coat. On her feet
again, she moved closer to the old woman in the housedress:
"You advertised at the dean's office." She raised her voice.
"They told me 'there's a room. Better get over there.‘ They
told me to come over. You'll have to call them. You'll have
to..."

When she raised her voice again, Sister Mary reached
down for a suitcase and announced in a firm tone, "Let's
help Flora upstairs with her bags, Mrs. Hessler." The sister
gave a bag to Sue and started up the stairs. Mrs. Hessler,
who had a daughter in Sister Mary's order, respected the
church. She complied with the sister's wishes.

After that first day there were never any
confrontations with Mrs. H. She told Flora that she could
have the room for the whole year. Of course, it had taken
Flora three weeks to find the place at Mrs. Hessler's. When
she answered one ad, for a room over a funeral parlor, the
owner took one look at her, then ran up the stairs and out

of sight. Mrs. Hessler finally decided that Flora went to "a

colored university" and that all her teachers were
"colored." At the end of the first semester when a white
friend came over to give her a ride home to Chicago, Mrs.
Hessler wondered, out loud, whether it was the mailman.
Sometimes, after a few days, when Mrs. H. had decided it had
been weeks, maybe months, since she'd seen Flora, she would
grin shyly and give her a big hug; she would call her "our

little girl."

Flora watched as the last of the crowd hurried out of
the airport. She heard the phone ring again behind the empty
counter. A few summers ago she had flown to New York to see
Mike. She had been sure he would be waiting for her. As she
entered the terminal he appeared at the gate, holding a
large bouquet, tied loosely with a long white ribbon that
fell to the floor when he reached for her. This time,
tonight, she wondered whether her father would be there to
meet her. That's when it always started. When she wasn't
sure. That's when things started moving too fast. When there
were too many unknowns. If she could get out of that circle
it would be all right, she could gather herself, bring her
feelings down. If she couldn't, the rush of feeling would
start, becoming more powerful as it swept up everything in
its path. It would keep going, flying directly at the first

person to see her. With the first words she spoke, that big

ball of fear would go flying out.

Flora waited standing next to her suitcases, trying to
ignore the music playing overhead. She didn't want to leave
and go for a drink or food. She fingered the brooch, the
raised surface, the places where the grooves were heavy and
old. The slender fastener easily moved back and forth. The
phone across the way was ringing again. She remembered the
long distance call a month ago.

"Flora," Mrs. Hessler called up, "Flora, long
distance." She had imagined that call, their first contact,
almost from the first story her mother had told her as she
combed and braided her hair. Flora had worked hard to build
that story. Some kids like to pretend they are really
adopted. They create a play world with made-up parents who
eventually, after a long search, will come, finally meet
their lost child and go away, forever united. For her, his
being the real father she'd never seen was good. Even better
were the games she played with him in her mind: the trips
they took together, always in summer when the sun was hot
overhead; the rivers he rescued her from; the fights he had
with every boyfriend who played her along--better than any
life that you could actually have.

"Flora, this is your father calling." The words
startled her. She didn't answer right away. "We've done a
lot of research on you, really checked you out." She
wondered if he had married again. He talked for awhile.

Asked her how she wanted to make the trip--plane, bus,

train. And he ended "You are our sole heir. Our sole heir."

Had he forgotten? She could hear Leona's voice high and
strong. "He was mad...He said you were Wallace Mitchell's
child." Flora felt the weight of one of the suitcases. "You
were light when you were born, real light, almost white. You
had that sandy hair and those limp little curls. I still
remember the time he came to see you. You weren't a week
old. He took one look, said 'That child's too light, that's
not my child.‘ That's the only time he ever saw you."

"But I'm not that light now. I'm a light brown, not as
light as those peOple who used to pass."

Her mother lowered her eyes and raised her hands, as if
to pray. "His mother told him that. She told him you had to
be Wallace Mitchell's child. Wallace was real light, had a
nice grade of hair. She said that about me and Wallace, even
though she knew it was a lie." Leona pulled Flora's braid
tighter till the child's hair covered her lap. "Columbia's a
small place. She knew me and Wallace courted back in
college, at A and I. That's why she picked him out of the
bunch. It was a lie and she knew it." The story excited
Flora, no matter how often she heard it. Since she'd never
seen her father, all she had was the drama, the mystery; it
seemed to be about someone else. Each time, like a part she
was rehearsing, she wanted to hear the story again. Her
mother repeated it over and over, like an echo bouncing,
then coming back. "He was all she had. Her only child. She

hated him going off, getting married, leaving. It was her

10

way of getting him back. He'd already gone back home, to his
mother's and father's, by the time you were born."

All the stuff with her father started out as fantasy,
the way every kid dreams. But she wanted to know more. Her
mother had never tried to contact him, to ask him to come
and see her. She still remembered a picture of her mother,
Leona, wearing a softly draped silk dinner dress, black
suede heels, her hand resting on a love-seat. There were
flowers in her hair! The picture's edge was jagged. Some of
it must have been missing. "Was he in the other half?" When
she asked--she would have given anything to know--her mother
only shrugged. One day at school after a month at Mrs.
Hessler's, she looked up his address in a Cincinnati
directory. It was on that day that she realized she didn't
need permission. Not from her mother, not from anybody. She
had to take the step herself. After she found the number,
she ran out of the library and down the quad laughing, a
strong, high laugh. She could have done it any time. Still,
she was surprised when he answered her letter. But why? It
was her own doing. Her mother didn't even know about it. She
hadn't helped her. This time Flora had made it happen.

She stood in the lobby of the airport until most of the
passsengers had met friends and left. There was a man
standing near the coffee machine, wearing an old wool
chesterfield, a scarf, a hat that had been worked over and
molded into an easy shape. When she tried to read his

expression she could only make out what seemed to be a half-

11

smile or, maybe, a smirk. She clutched the brooch tighter
until the color drained from her hand. He didn't move
towards her. He kept looking down, the way some people do
when they're not sure they want to be recognized. He didn't
move until she came close enough to call him by his name.
"Father?"

"Father?" she said the words again. "Father." He
stepped towards her and slid his arm around her waist. For a
minute, she imagined she was at her first prom, dressed in
a strapless formal, with three bouffant petticoats all of
blue net, one hers, two her best friends'. Slowly, they
proceeded out of the lobby and into his car.

On the way home he talked. Fast, clipped, not pausing,
outlining the plans for her visit. Tomorrow night, the night
before Thanksgiving, they would gather in the formal dining
room-~a full dress rehearsal for the holiday dinner. That
first night, before Flora even unpacked her suitcases, he
showed her the room.

"I've got four of these." He opened a polished mahogany
cabinet and revealed a set of sterling silver flatware. "I
keep one set out. I've got three more I keep locked in the
basement." Carefully returning each piece to its case, he
tried to ignore the sounds in the next room, a cough, then a
scraping noise, a chair being pushed across the floor. "This
set's Victorian." He held a knife up to the light and turned
it slowly. "A lotta niggers would give anything to get in

here and get to this stuff. Someday I'm gonna catalog it.

12

Sell it to a dealer."

"They're so delicate, like something alive." Flora
reached for a small spoon. "If I touched them..." She
cringed. Everything was moving so fast. She would never let
him sell them. His things should always stay there, in that
room. In a place that would never change--that would keep it
all untouched.

"This light..." He ran his hand down a sterling floor
lamp with a small bell-shaped top and a thin delicate stem
that swelled at the floor. "I took it to a dealer, this
antique dealer--wanted an appraisal. He couldn't even put a
price on it, said he'd never seen a thing like it."

The noises in the next room had stopped. The thin ivory
panels that stretched around the dining room looked as if
they had been recently pressed and starched. Someone had
gone over the room and arranged it in a methodical,
particular way. A fragrance, sweet, heavy, hung in the air.

"You haven't seen the worst yet. Wait'll you see the
downstairs...we call it Jack Benny's basement." Flora turned
to find Marion, her father's wife, standing behind her,
holding a dustcloth. "Everybody calls it that. Al's got all
that junk piled up. You could lose a big child down there."
She stopped to smooth her dark, gray-flecked hair into the
chignon at the back of her neck. She was light-skinned,
almost Italian-looking, with narrow eyes. She looked a lot
like Flora's mother. "I bet Al has five mah-jong sets down

there, all that old luggage and stuff."

13

He cut in. "Old luggage. That's all over near the
furnace. That's nothing. My problem is backlog. Pieces that
need to go out. You should see all the stuff that needs
refinishing. My God..." He wiped his forehead with a folded
handkerchief, then turned away from Marion to the mahogany
cabinet on the side of the room. "Now, Russell Wright. I
collect his everyday dishes. You won't see these, never use
them for holidays." He yawned and pulled a gray plate out of
another cabinet. "This is Russell Wright." He picked up a
large gray bowl. "This is Russell Wright." He picked up a
cup and balanced it on t0p of the bowl and the plate. "And
this one, this is Russell Wright. I've got four or five sets
of this stuff."

Marion shook her head. "Better to spend time worrying
about the Thanksgiving menu than about what we're going to
serve it on. Flora, do you have any favorites?"

"I never think much about that stuff...whatever Mother
fixes..." Flora shrugged and busied herself examining a
large soup bowl.

Marion turned away abruptly and began arranging the
chairs. She paused for a minute, as if thinking something
over, then left the room.

Before Flora went to bed her father took her down to
the basement and showed her a Louis XIV console, some
English watercolors and a lot of old mahogany clocks. She
asked him about an old photograph on the wall, about three

feet square, that seemed almost painted. He pointed to an

1”

old man in the picture. "That's your great-
grandfather...Baptist minister...over there, that's my
father, your grandfather. He was principal of Macedonia High
School. The others--all of them..." He waved his hand across
the picture. There were four men and three women. They
stared back, stern, deadly serious. Their jaws were stiff
and pronounced. "...my father's brothers and sisters. You've
seen her. Your great-aunt. She taught you piano."

"Laura?"

He nodded.

Flora felt the small brooch at her neck.

"Laura wore that brooch when I was a little boy." He
raised his hand as if to touch it. "I remember that."

Every Saturday, starting on her fifth birthday, her
mother walked silently with her to the woman's house. Flora
stared at the wall. The woman was young, her face slim, her
features chiseled, delicate---like the brooch. Her skin
smooth, black, all one tone. Flora looked for traces of the
old woman she had known, the smile, the curve of the
hairline. Her hair must have been unbraided, then brushed
and brushed until it formed the sweep at the top of her
head. She wasn't smiling. The row of tiny buttons that
stopped at her neck held her face so still that she couldn't
have moved. Flora remembered the old woman in the faded
housedress with short hair and sweat dripping from her
edges. When the piano lesson was over, she had unfastened

the small brooch from her housedress and placed it in

15

Flora's hand.

Her mother never told her much about the old woman, but
she always said Miss Laura was the only colored piano
teacher in town that was conservatory trained. He looked at
her, his voice more serious than it had been before, "They
used to ride around Columbia in a wagon, taking pictures."
He was thinking about the old times. "Someday, I've got to
fix that frame."

While they were in the basement he pulled Flora over to
a wicker sofa. He studied her features carefully. "You know
Marion's been cleaning this place from top to bottom,
planning a big Thanksgiving dinner. All for you. She's
really been anxious. I tried to get her to hire somebody--
she wouldn't do it. Marion's funny. She won't let just
anybody in here. She's really giving you the red carpet."

Flora's mind wandered back to that sweet, heavy
fragrance. No, she couldn't think about his wife now. She
was too fascinated by antiques, old things. To her all this
talk wasn't bragging. The stuff from the 60's was OK, but it
didn't have the romance of the other times. At school a lot
of her Saturday afternoons were spent at Junior League
thrift shops and Salvation Army stores looking for old
things--jewelry, pictures, small objects that you could use
to imagine how it must have been--the 20's, the 30's, the
old movie sets. Why was he like that too? She looked at him
admiringly. "This is all the stuff I love. How did you

know?"

16

He ignored her question and kept on. "A lot of niggers
would give anyfithigg to get in here. First I'm gonna have
everything catalogued. Then I'm gonna build a high wall
around this place and sit on the front porch with two
Dobermans and a rifle." He nudged her and threw his head
back again, laughing. Then he stopped suddenly, leaned over,
her words finally registering. He examined her features,
especially her jaw when it slipped a little. "You do? You
love it too?" His features softened. He didn't seem that old
anymore. She nodded yes,

Marion was tired of traditional Thanksgiving dinners.
Instead of turkey, she made baked chicken and served it with
buttermilk dumplings, rolled as thin as they would go, then
boiled in the broth from the gizzards and served with gravy.
They ate cornbread dressing, turnip greens, fresh okra,
candied sweet potatoes and hot water bread. When Marion
served the greens, she brought out trays filled with a
pickle relish called chow-chow, chopped onions, finely
minced boiled eggs and pickled beets. For dessert they ate
Al's favorite, banana pudding, a baked custard filled with
wafers and sliced bananas, then topped with meringue.

The Friday after Thanksgiving the two of them got in
his car and hit every thrift store in town. Her mother and
her aunt made fun of her for going to "junk stores" (that's
what they called them). To find an adult who liked to go
thrifting--he even liked to buy old clothes. He joked about

his business partner, a prominent doctor, screwing up his

17

face to show mock scorn. "Barnes, why don't you get yourself
some decent clothes?" He whispered in Flora's ear. "You know
Walters wears all those Brooks Brothers clothes." He
chuckled to himself.

The ease with which he admitted wearing old clothes was
a little unsettling at first. Her mother had always told her
to be careful about what she wore, that someday she might be
rushed to the hospital with no time to change. This fear was
a small example of the philosophy of a whole class of a
people that had been raised with the idea that you had to
look as good or better than "they" did, that you had to
spend your ready cash on immediate needs, even though those
needs represented a body of things that grew and grew,
larger all the time like a monster that ate as it went. Even
if you had to go into deep debt and suffer from it, it was
worth it, if you could have lovely, elegant things, things
that weren't just clean but spotless, things that were new
at the beginning of each season, things that looked new
always.

Her father was different. He liked things. But they
were his own special things that other people wouldn't
necessarily value. Oh, there was money in them. His things
would sell for a lot, no doubt about that, but there was
more. The two of them, she had it all figured out--her
father, Al, and Flora herself--they cared about the same
things. Sometimes at school, when she should have been

studying, she would daydream about searching through bins of

18

old clothes from the thirties and forties, for jersey pilot
blouses, Sidney Heller silk crepe suit blouses and old,
double-breasted ladies' chesterfields. In her dream she
would discover a Sidney Heller blouse in mint condition, a
shade of blue-green so rare that it could only have been
silk. The silk Heller blouses with the tuck pleats down the
front cost about forty dollars back in 19H3. You couldn't
even touch that kind of fabric today. Flora was convinced
that everything now was being made out of lingerie silk. It
wasn't just the crime of cheaper material; she prided
herself on knowing the difference. That was important. Once
she found a pair of brown shoes engraved "Berluti, Paris,"
probably from the twenties. High thick heels, clunky and
round-teed, the most beautiful fine-grained calfskin. She
had shown them to her best friends, the two Pats, and the
three of them had wailed and sobbed and held their hands up
to the ceiling in a plea to have their feet shrink and be
blessed with three identical pairs of shoes. Flora's twelve-
year-old sister was the only person who could wear them and
she thought they were strange.

While they were driving he played with the dial until
he found the classical station.

"You won't believe what happened at this concert at
school. This musician, well, sort of a composer, this guy
named John Cage."

"A guy in a cage." He smirked and glanced at her

suspiciously.

19

"I saw him! He took this Kleenex and he blew his nose
right into the microphone... with a Kleenex! In front of
four hundred people...On Sunday afternoon, too. I couldn't
believe it."

"Whatever happened to Tschaikovsky?"

"Oh, Pops, this is 'new music.' That stuff is old."

He arched his eyebrows. "Hah hah, aren't we
SOphisticated."

He didn't say anything else until he stopped the car in
front of his partner's office, concentrating on the music, a
piece for unaccompanied piano. Before he got out of the car,
he reached in his pocket and pulled out a package of M and
M's and pressed them in her hand. "You stay here." Then he
motioned to the real estate magazine on the dashboard. She
suppressed a smile-~candy for his little girl. From the
little her mother had told her, she already knew that her
father was a real estate dealer. He had a degree in
chemistry and half of one in physics. In the forties, he had
tried to get jobs in New York, working in labs, but at that
‘timg_they didn't let blacks in the sciences, so he started
selling real estate. He and Walters, a local black M. D.,
were in business together with a Jewish friend. The business
was called Rothstein, Walters and Barnes. He had confessed
to Flora, that first night when they were in the basement
looking at his collection of things, that he wished it all
could have been a different way:

"I should have made a lot more than I did. I used to

20

have the biggest real estate firm in Cincinnati--52 desks,
my own company. But I squandered it all. Hopping the plane
back to Frisco to pick up a sports coat. All that kind of
stuff. Crazy stuff. I didn't have nobody to work for. " He
gazed into her eyes. "I didn't have no reason. Who was I
going to leave it to? Who would have cared? Now I'm the
third man: Rothstein, Walters and Barnes." She sat up
abruptly. Her father was rapping on the window, grinning and
laughing. Before he got in the car, he turned and waved to a
man standing at an office window.

His mood had changed; he was upbeat, jovial. He nudged
her gently. "Let's do some serious thrifting." The two of
them, Flora and her father, were the last ones to leave the
Salvation Army that day. She walked out hugging a blue
porcelain water pitcher, the kind they used to sell with
Westinghouse refrigerators. The wind blew hard against her,
so she had to hold on tighter. It was as if something was
trying to take all this away from her. She held on even
tighter. The pitcher was like the one at her grandmother's
house. When her grandmother really felt good about somebody
she would say, "Seems like I been knowing her all my life."
The thought would reach way down, inside. It would say
everything about the way a person was, about the way a
person dreamed, about the person's feelings, about the
person's whole body, the words would pull everything out,
everything. That's how Flora felt; the circle was complete.

On the way home Al was yelling out the car window,

21

calling into the cold air. "I don't know when I've felt like
this. You shoulda seen the expression on Walters' face when
I pointed to you from the window." He glanced at his own
face in the mirror and laughed. "You're mine, you know
that?" Flora nodded. "I've been thinking for one. People--
giving me $600 deposits on houses...as soon as they change
their mind, I let them have it, I let the money go. Right
out the window. I'm telling you. That's over. I've found
somebody to work for, dammit. I've got a reason." He stuck
his head out the window again, "I'm through giving back
deposits!"

When they were almost to the house, he stopped the car
and pulled over to the side of the road. He told her that
he'd noticed things on this trip, trees, a roadside stand,
that he'd never noticed before. When he reached over to
start the car, he whispered. "I just want to know if you
hold it against me...Everything that happened. I know you
blame me." He clenched his teeth.

"Blame you? I could never...I've always wanted to see
you."

"Always?" he tried to think about the word. "You have?"

"I dreamed about it."

"You thought about me?"

"All the time...Now that I'm here I don't care about
any of that other stuff."

"Not even me never coming to see you...?"

"Not about any of it. It's like a dream. You, you're my

22

father, I never thought it would be like this...so easy. I
mean, we know each other so well."

"Not even me not coming when you were a baby?"

"Mother said you came by...right after I was born
and..."

He sat up quickly and turned the ignition. "We were
young." His mood changed again; he was quiet the rest of the
trip.

Later that night, he laughed and recounted one of their
stops, pretending to be his partner, Walters. "...he left a
patient on the table. Said, 'Barnes, I gotta see this...' So
he put on his glasses and looked out the window at the car.
Must of looked for five minutes. Then he took them off and
stared straight at me, just like this and said, 'That's your
daughter, Barnes.‘ "

Marion shook her head. "You know he couldn't see that
far."

Her father laughed and led Flora to the small bathroom
off the kitchen. He stood beside the sink and posed in front
of the mirror, holding his face next to hers. He moved his
jaw to one side, pointed to hers, then announced quickly,
"The Barnes jaw. You're my daughter all right." Flora's
voice was filled with excitement. "When we look in the
mirror, it's like seeing the same thing twice."

Marion shook her head. "You two sure look silly." She
shrugged her shoulders. "You don't look the least bit alike

to me."

 

23

Flora and her father kept taking turns grinning in the
mirror. They didn't hear Marion when she left the room.

The next day before they went thrifting Flora wanted to
show off one of her "finds" from the Salvation Army, a red
and blue robe with chevrons on the sleeves, a buy from the
Champaign Junior League. She wore it proudly to breakfast
and waited for his comment.

"Superman, huh?" He went back to reading the newspaper.

She looked down. It was an old wool robe from the
forties. She knew about capes, Halloween costumes, but she'd
never connected the robe with Superman. He had a point.
Maybe some kid had ordered it from the back of a magazine so
he could be a superhero rising up against all odds. She
could do that herself. Later that afternoon when they were
ready to go to the Salvation Army again, she wore a black
sheath dress, one piece of jewelry at her neck, and black
shoes. For a touch of drama, she threw an old coat from the
forties over her shoulders, applied green eyeliner and two
or three coats of mascara.

When her father saw her, he reached for the folded
handkerchief in his pocket and motioned to her eyes. She
grinned, leaned against him and pulled a pair of dark
glasses from her pocket. "It's OK, Pops. It's cool."

He stared straight at her, then took a long, slow look
starting at her black shoes and stockings and working up to
her face. "Florodora girl, huh?"

She didn't smile back.

2”

"I've got a cigar box full of jewelry, the kind of
stuff you like to wear. It belonged to your grandmother, my
mother. You can have it, if I ever find it. I'll give it to
you." He picked up the newspaper on the way out the front
door, then looked up at her. "You're my daughter, all
right."

Hadn't he noticed? She collected all of it: opera
beads, Victorian beads, colored glass in pale pinks,
yellows, greens, and gun metal; onyx and amber beads with
tiny gold roses for connectors; all kinds of jewelry with
gold rose connectors-~earrings, bracelets, a pink glass
bracelet, a twisted rope held together with roses; crystal
beads set off by black jet; pharoah pins, Art Deco-~mazes of
squares and triangles. But the only piece of jewelry she
wore now was the brooch.

She made a tight fist inside the pocket of her coat. In
1910, when her grandmother had the twins, the minister at
the AME church warned her that people would call the twins
the "Florodora girls" after the Broadway show. She
remembered travelling back and forth, biking to the Legler
Branch every Saturday afternoon. She liked the librarian
right away when she led her to the geography section and
annnounced, "Florodora is a Philippine island famous for its
perfume." On her grandmother's orders, she had never let
anyone tease her about her name. She started to smile. Her
name was Flora, never anything more. He didn't have the

right to call her that, tease her that way without asking.

She could never tell with him, whether he was making fun of
her or just commenting, the way he did about his things, the
china, the silverware. Still, she smiled and reached for his
hand. She didn't hear the soft steps behind her.

"You two going somewhere?"

"We're going to Sallie's, Marion." Flora swung her arm
around her father's waist. "The Salvation Army to you,
right, Pops?"

"Try 'Father,' " he corrected her with a little laugh,
slightly embarassed, " 'Pops' is a little too..."He turned
to his wife. "We're going to the Salvation Army."

"That place again." Marion smoothed her hair back until
it was tight against her face. "Fine." She left it at that.

That night a friend of her fathers, a fraternity
brother named Charlie Henderson, came over and the two of
them, her father and Charlie, played old Billie Holiday 78's
and reminisced about being at a hotel together.

"Charlie, you remember, after they got through playin'
downstairs you went up to your room? It was when I was
trying to get one of those jobs in New York." He glanced
quickly at Charlie, then lowered his head. "Billie Holiday
was stayin' there, had a room right over yours, remember?"

Charlie roared. "They must've been up all night."

"You know that guy that was playin' the piano, medium-
brown skin fellow, what was his name? He kept waitin' for
her to start singin'. Played the introduction three times.

Every time he'd stop and stare right at her. Finally she

26

looked over at him, said 'Just keep goin' baby, I'll get
there.'"

"She really liked to sing behind the beat. Nobody could
sing behind the beat like Billie could."

Her father started to pat his foot to the music. He
would dig his shoe into the carpet and then stomp down hard.
The two men, Charlie and her Dad, were drinking Cutty Sark
highballs. Charlie was wearing a red silk tie with a small
white Greek monogram. They stomped their feet harder each
time they hummed part of the tune, back and forth, hunching
down further in their seats, answering each other. After a
while Charlie loosened his tie.

Then "Barnes"--that's what Charlie had shouted when he
opened the front door--stood up abruptly, straightened his
sport coat and spoke out as if reciting a part at school:
"And she would stand up like this and straighten her dress.
'Cause you know it was fittin' so tight against her. Like
she had to get more breathin' room before she started to
sing. Then she would throw those shoulders back like a queen
at a coronation and stride right up like this. Watch what I
do with the mike." He switched up to the silver lamp in the
dining room and held it to one side, mouthing the words to
"These Foolish Things."

Charlie held his drink in a toast. "You really needed
to have a good time that night, didn't you, Al?"

Flora's father turned to her and winked. "We're giving

you a little music lesson-~on the house." She grinned and

27

hummed along, thinking to herself that if she'd been in New
York with Mike she could have had a drink too.

"Your Dad's a walking history book, kid." Charlie was
reverent. "You really had a rough trip, didn't you, Al?"

"I pounded the pavement all day. I must've gone to
fifteen or twenty labs." He held his glasses off to one
side. "What was that one man's name? I still remember what
he said: 'Barnes, how could we be sure, I mean, how would we
know, if we did take you in, that you could do the work on
your own?‘ Charlie, remember how you stayed in the room,
typing up all those sheets and letters to leave at the labs?
Pressing my extra suit while I was out looking...that was in
the daytime, of course." Al laughed. "Sometimes you were
trying to have too good a time....Remember...what was her
name?

"Ah, Al, don't start that."

"Each of 'em met you in a different corner of the train
station."

"Come on, Al." Charlie was trying not to laugh.

"And one time you got their numbers mixed up." They
broke into laughter. Then her father stopped short, pointing
to the small white monogram on Charlie's tie. "We're talking
about loyalty. That's what it's all about. Do for me when
nobody else will." He patted Charlie hard on the back.
"That's what it's all about, Flora. Charlie used to press my
suits and look where it got him. Now he owns enough units to

press every suit in New York."

She knew her father had had a life before her. But when
she heard the two of them, her dad and Charlie...she felt
like a little kid next to them. She didn't understand the
stuff about the fraternity, but when they started talking
about the shows, the music...they had actually been there.

"I was reading a book the other day, Billie Holiday's
autobiography, Lady Sings the Blues. I really didn't think
the level of writing matched her contribution as a singer.
For a great artist like Billie Holiday." Flora reached for a
cigarette.

Her father gave a little smirk. "She's a sophomore."

Flora didn't hear him. Her face was perspiring. "I was
shocked...such a weak effort considering her importance as a
singer."

When Charlie left to go to the bathroom, her father
grabbed her by the arm and pulled her off to a corner. "Take
that cigarette out of your mouth. You're not in college." He
cut a glance sideways. "This isn't a lecture." He turned
away and then back. "You're just like a baby to me." He
pulled her closer. "Come on, act like people. You're mine.
Don't you know that?"

He stopped talking when he heard Charlie yelling from
down the hall, "Brother Barnes, you going to have a canopy
when Flora gets married? Walters had a tent for his
daughter's wedding...a big tent out in the back yard."
Charlie brushes past the two of them on the sofa. He reaches

for a silver bucket and drops a few ice cubes in his drink.

29

"I don't know where mine's gonna get married."

Barnes doesn't smile. "Your daughter giving you trouble
again, Charlie?" He turns and looks at Flora, "I wouldn't
stand it...not for a minute."

Charlie pours a little more Scotch in his glass.

Barnes jumps up. The two of them start boxing at each
other. "Listen, nigger, I thought I told you I was cuttin'
back. You think I'm runnin' a free bar around here?" They
keep laughing and boxing at each other. "See now, look how
you got me talking in front of my daughter. We're not out
with the boys, you know." They keep laughing. Barnes turns
around to make sure Flora is listening. "Me and Charlie..me
and Charlie go way back, Flora. Charlie's a Kappa." Barnes
went back to talking about the night at the hotel. He felt
sure that Flora didn't understand. About that trip to New
York, all he kept talking about was Billie Holiday. He tried
to explain.

"After her gig, you know, she went to her room, over me
and Charlie's, sang and showed out all night, had the whole
band up there." Flora could tell from the way they were
laughing and matching eyes that they were holding something
back, there was something they wouldn't say in front of her.
They just kept laughing and nudging each other till they
couldn't stand it any more.

The next night her father took her to a Chinese
restaurant. Flora wore a silk crepe pilot blouse. She

ordered Moo Goo Gai Pan. He ordered tomato shrimp. The

 

30

restaurant was owned by a friend of her father's, and the
tomato shrimp was hot and spicy the way black-Chinese
restaurants make it. To soothe the peppery taste, they ate
plain rice, and washed it all down with large cokes and ice
water, then ate vanilla ice cream in glass dishes.

She talked about her college major, English. He talked
about his plans for the future. "Some day when I get sick of
all that stuff back at the house, I'm gonna sell it and buy
some Miles van der Rohe stuff. I'm gonna buy two Barcelona
chairs. Move into an apartment and that'll be that."

She looked at him nervously. "Miles van der Rohe?"

"Yeh, sometimes all that old junk gets on my nerves..by
the way, we'll have to look into that major...English." He
spit out the word.

All Flora could think about was the name he'd just
mentioned. "Miles van der Rohe?"

He looked at her and pointed a finger straight up in
the air. "Miles...see, I used to be in the army with a guy."
He leaned over and whispered "He was white trash and didn't
know it." Her father settled back. "He used to say [123
probably wouldn't know anything about this, Barnes.' He was
always saying stuff like 'you probably never heard of Louis
Sullivan or Miles Van Der Rohe,' and 'yougpeople this' and
'you people that.‘ " He grimaced and closed his fist around
the table knife. "You know what they think, they think we're
born a blank and we stay a blank, that's what they think.

Anyway, this guy was always calling him Miles. I never said

31

anything, just listened. Always called him Miles."

Flora held her fingers in front of her face and played
a tune. "Miles and Louis."

Her father didn't laugh. "He used to cut his spaghetti
with a fork. Thought he knew everything." He stopped eating
and watched her for a minute. He dropped his napkin, "You
sure looked worried."

Flora was relieved and at the same time a little
ashamed. A part of her had been afraid he would stumble,
afraid it was really a dream--too good to be true. When the
whole family watched the first black newscaster on the
Chicago station, you could hear a pin drop. When he
finished, no one said a word, but they all looked relieved;
he hadn't made any mistakes. She knew her father knew
better, knew it all, and she wasn't surprised when they were
so much alike. She expected it. She should have known he
wouldn't embarass her. She had read stories about twins
living apart for years, then meeting and having children
with the same names or both being doctors or marrying women
who looked just alike. It was as if the two of them were
like that.

She finally had something. She tried to imagine all the
treasures she had just found out off to her forever. The
dream--then, in a second, everything gone.

A few hours before she left she showed him a stack of
old 78's that she'd found in one of his cabinets. There were

hundreds of them. Duke Ellington, Jimmy Lunceford, Andy

32

Kirk, Pha Terrell-all the singers, musicians, everybody.
Flora had a collection herself, about twenty records. Her
friends thought it was odd that someone her age knew about
the old stuff. At school there was a joke that went around.
When Rome was burning everybody was trying to get out of
town, but Flora was playing her old 78's, just like Nero,
playing and playing away. When she saw the records in the
cabinet, she wanted them so much, she ached. She needed them
but didn't know how to ask him. She just wanted some of his
past. The records--they were a way of finding it. They were
the closest thing she had to that part of him that was
distant.

He stopped her with his hand and pushed the records
away. "Don't take them. They're all I got. Maybe the next

time you come."

When she got back to the rooming house that Tuesday,
there were two letters on the table near the door. One was
from the Dean of Women saying that Mrs. Hessler had decided
to have only two roomers next semester. Flora would have to
move her things to another place. Her mother had given her
advice about having a positive attitude, grace under
pressure. The day of her high school graduation, she had
forgotten the brooch, but her mother had handed it to her on

her way to the stage. Now, fingering its ridges and valleys,

33

she tried to calm herself. She called the Railway Express
about shipping some suitcases to her mother's house in
Chicago.

The second letter was from her father, telling her how
much he had liked having her there. He had a friend in the
sociology department at the city university. He said she
could go to grad school there and that it was OK for her to
be a lawyer, doctor, or judge.

After she read the sentence, she held up three fingers
and counted each choice, mouthing the words, "lawyer,
doctor, judge...the sole heir." Her father didn't care about
some things, whether he shopped at Brooks or the Salvation
Army, but he liked credentials. He was impressed by people
who did the right thing at the right time, made a pile and
got away clean. He thought you ought to have your name
mentioned in all the right places.

He closed the letter with a reference to the New York
112.32:

By the way, Rothstein died. Remember, we went

to visit him at the hospital. I've got 600

properties to settle. You know the New York Times,

in his obituary, they mentioned our company,

Rothstein, Walters, and Barnes. Rothstein's part

goes to his son. Nothing's changed. I'm enclosing

the copy from the Times, Gotta go.

Love,

Father

3H

Listen, talk to somebody about changing
your major. English. That's crazy. Who's going to
pay to you to do that? Be sure to write Marion.

And learn to cook something besides rice.

When her mother called from Chicago, she reminded Flora
to send a thank-you note right away. Flora told her not to
worry, that she'd taken care of everything. At Thanksgiving
she had promised to write her father every day. On December
15, just before she left Champaign-Urbana, she wrote him for

the first time:

Hi Everybody,

Just finished my last final! I'm not sure
about my plans for Xmas. I'll let you know (when I
figure them out myself). Smiles!!!

Love,

Flora

He had told her to be sure to write Marion a separate
letter. She hadn't. She finally made plans by phone to see
her father over Christmas break after leaving messages with
his answering service for two days. She spent the week
before Christmas and Christmas day in New York with Mike.
She was trying some new things, testing the waters. All she
had to do now was keep all the parts moving along. It was

easier than she had thought it would be--at least so far.

35

She wanted to be with her father. She wanted to get to know
Marion better, but she wanted to try other things, too. She
was young. When she thought of herself, she could make out
parts that were like her mother, not just features, ways,
but there were other parts that Flora couldn't trace.
Something had always been missing.

December 26, as she boarded the plane to Cincinnati,
she thought about her father. Before her place was with the
old people in Columbia, her family on the West Side of
Chicago, now she would be with Mike in New York and with her
father too, with them all. She wanted everything to be
there, in the same way, when she saw her father again.
That's what she expected when she took the cab from the
airport in Cincinnati to his house.

She left the suitcases on the steps and ran in without
knocking. None of the lights were on at the front of the
house. She could feel the cold air coming from the open door
behind her. She stumbled over a small desk. There was no
welcoming party, no one making it hard to hurry in and
resume things. At least there didn't seem to be. The door
had opened so easily that she didn't have to force it. When
her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, she saw him
waiting there by the stairs. She held out her hand.

"We were expecting you for Christmas Day...where were
you?"

She didn't answer. The trip had left her exhausted.

"You sure took your time letting us know. You should've

36

seen Marion--two weeks--running around, making lists. She
bought out the store." He held his glasses off to one side.
His voice was stiff. "I asked you where you were?"

She watched the glasses move in his hand. "I have this
friend in New York I had to go out and see. I hate Marion
going to all that trouble. I should have called
sooner...wrote or something. I'm awful about dates...stuff
like that." She turned around to look for her suitcases.
"You know what a lousy letter writer I am...I always mean
to."

"A lousy letter writer, huh?" He put on his glasses
again, never changing his expression, as if the case were
closed, as if the whole notion was too trivial for comment.

"I guess I'd better go up and unpack." She thought of
Sister Mary helping her upstairs, her robe starched so often
that the cloth had taken on a grey cast, two perfectly
polished shoes, two tiny tips that presented themselves and
didn't reflect up--Sister Mary who only left her room for
the library or mass. She turned around and walked outside
for her suitcases. Her father went with her. She ought to
call Mike to let him know the trip went all right, that she
was 0. K. Her mother had told her to be careful about phone
calls. If she called Mike, she had better call collect.

When she got up the next morning she threw on a robe
and ran downstairs. She tried to have fun by peeking around
the corner, but he glared and shook his head. "I've been up

cleaning since eight o'clock. I've got some business to do

37

tonight. Might have some of these things appraised." He
circled the room, holding a dustpan in the air and sweeping
at everything. "Watch out." He shoved a cleaning cart out of
the way.

Flora backed up and looked around. The silver in the
cabinet was freshly polished. The reflection of the metal
against the glass was so strong that it hurt her eyes. She
turned away.

"I missed Marion last night. Thought I'd say hi."

"If you're looking for her you won't find her. Marion's
out grocery shopping. Been up for hours. Friday's her early
night." He looked at her over his shoulder. "You'd better
shape up, kid."

She yawned and headed toward the kitchen door. Her hair
was wrapped tightly with a long, finely patterned scarf. An
unbleached cotton kimono trimmed with red and green bands
hung loosely at her sides.

"This is Saturday, girl. We've got the whole house to
clean."

"Just let me get a little quick energy...some juice."

"Wait a minute." He reached out for her hand and gave
her the broom. "We pay our way around here. You know someday
you're gonna be taking care of a whole house...you know what
I'm talking about?"

Flora turned toward the door and shook her head. "We'll
be 50-50."

He laughed. "50-50?"

38

"Sure." She was too embarassed to look up.

"50-50?"

"You know, sharing everything."

"50—50 with who?"

"You know, the way you and Marion share."

"That's different." He wasn't laughing anymore. "What I
do is up to me. It's not your place to comment on adults."

Flora turned toward the door. "Not in there. The
kitchen's last. Start in the living room." He was full of
energy. "When I was your age, I was out teaching, earning a
living...paying my way. You know right now I'm working
overtime. I'm not complaining. I'm thinking about your
future. You know what I'm trying to say? It's attitude. Cut
out that bull you learned at school. Nobody's gonna fall for
that. You gotta act like people. You hear me? Like people."

"When I'm at school, it doesn't matter when I get up.
If I miss class, I make it up later. I'm always like this
after exams. I mean just exhausted."

"Well, it's different here. This is not school."

"I know, I know. But sometimes you have to stay up all
night and then take an exam."

"So you think that's something to be tired about. Well,
you haven't seen 'tired.‘ Wait'll you have a house full of
kids."

"Anybody can do that. The stuff I have to do is hard.
The pressure, I mean."

"You haven't seen 'hard.' " He grimaced.

 

39

Sometimes at mother's I sleep the first three days of
break."

"Well, this isn't mother's. Look, all you got to do is
take care of yourself. Keep yourself neat and clean. No job
to worry about. No husband to please. Just get your grades.
That's all you got to do."

"You don't know...you can't know...I've had a lot to
think about lately."

"You think so, huh? You haven't started the pressure."

"I have too. I know all about that stuff."

"You do?"

"Four exams in one week. That's work. Other stuff too."

"You don't know the meaning of the word 'tired.' "

"Oh, I know about it all right."

"You think you know. You don't know a thing."

Flora shrugged and looked away. She knew better than to
give an adult "word for word." She learned that from her
mother and her grandmother. She still remembered the time
she had given her mother "word for word," argued back and
forth. She had had time to realize the full consequences of
her behavior, sitting in the dark for what had seemed to be
the whole afternoon.

"I was going crazy thinking about you being here for
Christmas. I never had a chance like that before. Thinkin'
about it day and night. About how I was gonna have things
for you. About your future...here. You know someday I'm

going to dress you in the finest gown money can buy. Satin,

#0

French lace, hand-sewn, long imported veil, nothing but the
best. Half the town'll be there. We'll be drinking champagne
out of buckets. I'll fly it all in. Lobster, you name it.
But you gotta pull with me. You gotta act like people...Come
on, we got the whole house to clean."

Flora looked back at him. She should have dropped the
broom right then and cried, the way her mother always cried
when she watched the Miss America contest or read a news
story to Flora about some movie star dying "after a long
battle with illness." Her mother would start crying right
away, even if she'd never seen one of the star's movies.
Maybe it was easy for her mother to cry. All she had to do
was think about the day he took the ring back. Remembering,
that's the way the movie stars produced their tears. Flora
wondered if he ever remembered the time the frat brothers
came by, screaming and roaring out one of their fraternity
stomps, stirring up the dust like kids late for a party.

As she walked away, she held the broom at her side as
if it was her partner going down the aisle. "Flora, you know
what they tell me? Charlie--the boys--they say, 'Barnes,
you're stubborn, pig-headed, obstinate.' But I just want you
to know, no child of mine's gonna give me any trouble. Not
like Charlie's kids do. Charlie's too nice."

Flora was afraid to look back again. She walked over to
the front of the record cabinet, the one with the 78's.
Taking the broom from her side, she started to sweep,

working her way across the room, counting to herself each

“1

time the broom left the floor. Still not satisfied, she
turned around and swept the other way again, stopping in
front of the record cabinet, then looking over at her
father. She imagined she was whirling up a steep road into a
cloud of dust, the broom hitting the floor so hard that she
could hear the records rattling in the cabinets.

"I'm gonna catalog all those, sell them to a dealer."
He watched her face as he talked. "Remember what I told you
that day in the car? I said, 'Now, I got a reason.‘ I never
had a reason before. I got plans. But it's up to you how
they go. Rothstein's part, it all goes to his son. It's all
his now."

Flora swept around the cabinet, dusted the top a little
with her hand and continued to sweep her way past the
furniture. She came from a family of sweepers, women who
enjoyed sweeping hard and well. It was an art. Her mother
always swept in the morning, then later during the day and
always at night before bedtime. A good sweeper never left
anything. You couldn't go back and find a thing.

"When I die I want the ball to keep on rolling. I want
everything to be the same. I want things to keep going just
like clockwork. That's why you got to act like people."

She wondered which "people" he meant. What people,
where? He always knew what he meant, what he wanted. She
kept sweeping until she reached an old glass bookcase. Flora
and her father, they both loved books. His were old, the

Harvard Classics-~they were popular in the South. A lot of

N2

people in their home town, Columbia, had them, her
godmother, her grandmother; she was used to them. She picked
up a book that was almost falling apart.

"A lot of people from Macedonia High used to come over
to your grandfather's house to use these books. They'd sit
at that very same desk. The one over there in the corner.
That was your grandfather's desk. They'd come at night and
read by a little kerosene lamp." He laughed and patted her
on the head. "Rabelais...you're not ready for that one.
You'll have to wait awhile."

Flora wondered why everything had to be his way. She
continued to sweep until she was practically out of the
room. Harder and harder as she moved along. Harder and
harder until the cloud of dust that she had imagined became
real. When she finished sweeping, everything was in a little
pile near the door.

That night a man wearing a brown suit and thick owlish
glasses came to the door carrying a briefcase and a stack of
manila folders. Her father and Marion quckly ushered the man
into the office and closed the door. About two hours later,
her father brought the guest into the living room and
introduced him to Flora. "I'd like you to met Mr. Gordon."
The man took her hand, held it for awhile and then smiled
knowingly. Later her father walked her up to her room,
whispering "You're just my little girl." In her room he
pleaded, "Can't you see how I feel? We were expecting you

for the whole Christmas vacation. Where were you?" She

143

didn't answer right away. He held her close. She could smell
the brandy. "You know you're just like a little baby to me.
That's the way I feel. It's just like you're six years old.
You know every night I check under your bed just to make
sure no robbers are around. I don't care if you're an old
woman with gray hair, you'll always be a baby to me. Listen,
just give me a little time. Don't get married right away.
Just give me one or two years. That's all I'm asking. Then'
we'll really check them out, do a lot of research. When we
find the right one, I'll give you the biggest wedding
Cincinnati's ever seen. That's all I want. After that I'll
be used to it. Just don't leave me...not right now."

Flora felt exhausted, but it was more than just needing
sleep. That was one thing they all had in common, her
mother, her grandmother, her aunts, her father. You never
really grew up. They made it crystal clear that no matter
how old you were, you were always a baby to them. You were
always a part of them, an extension, and it was
overwhelming. You were property that they had staked out,
claimed, not an individual.

"Just don't leave me...not right away."

She pulled the bedspread around her. "You've got Marion
here. She'll take care of you."

He smiled a little. "Marion...Marion's grown. She does
what she feels like doing. Why, sometimes I find her
paychecks in the wastebasket. She even throws away

silverware. I have to take it out and wash it."

111!

Her father kept talking for awhile. Flora was half-
asleep, dreaming about a vacation to Columbia. A few summers
ago, the lady down the street had met her on the way to the
store. It was only six in the evening, but Miss Corinne had
stopped her, warned her to be back before dark and to
straighten her belt. When Flora reminded her that she was in
college, Miss Corinne grew angry. "I know how old you are."
Then before Flora could get away, the old lady pointed a
finger as if casting a spell, "I know how old you are. I was
there the day you were born." And then, as if decreeing that
Flora would never change, Miss Corinne warned "You'll always
be a baby to me."

When he noticed that Flora had gone to sleep, he tucked
the covers around her, looked under the bed and in the
closet, then left.

On the first trip to Cincinnati they were always going
places. This time they hadn't been out of the house together
at all. Flora spent the next morning reading at the desk in
his office. Just before lunch, he walked in and slammed a
long sheet of paper down on the desk. "You're the
beneficiary." He folded his hands and waited.

Flora didn't move. "It's too depressing."

He grabbed the paper and held it in front of her face.
"Depressing? I have a life insurance policy right here in my
hand for one hundred thousand dollars. What do you think I
was doing in here last night? We met for over two

hours...Marion and that man from Mutual, we set right in

A5

this room. You're the beneficiary and you call that
depressing? I'm trying to make something, do something for
you. Can't you understand that? All you had to do was keep
your mouth shut." He thought about explaining how important
it was. But he didn't.

Flora wanted nice things. But she didn't want to be
bothered with thinking about where they came from. It tied
her down too much. "I know you're just trying to help, but
do I have to think about that stuff now?" Right now she
couldn't imagine a time when she wouldn't be right where she
was. Her mother told her to be careful, not to think that
just because she was young that she was invincible.

" 'Thanks, old man, for thinking about me.' Ever hear
those words?" He threw the paper down again."You want
everything to be fun, buddy-buddy. As long as everything's
fun, you're OK. Everything can't be like that. I have to
work night and day, just to stay where I am. I got the part
with Rothstein and Walters. I got my own buildings on the
side. It takes all I got just to keep up." He grabbed his
chest hard. "Sometimes it's four in the morning, I catch a
nap and keep going. This office--it's my world."

"Just like me at school."

"School, bullshit, I'm talking about the real world. My
father wanted me to go to Harvard, Yale, get somewhere. Do
you think I listened? I got all my degrees down South, so I
could party, have fun." He looked at her. He wanted to make

her understand. "You think it's been easy for me?"

116

She shook her head no.

"You don't see me smile much, do you? Do you?"

She shook her head again.

"You don't know how bad my life is. They walk up and
down the street over by the hospital, in nurses' uniforms.
The other night one asked me 'What do you want?' I just
looked at her, said, 'You know what I want.‘ "He clenched
his fist. "It's been so long since I've had any. I'm a
lonely man."

Flora felt small, younger than she was. It was
overwhelming. As she looked around, she could feel her body
growing smaller and smaller. She didn't know what to do with
all the emotion, it was frightening, hard to control. She
felt the circle at her neck, the furrows on the engraving.
She couldn't take care of him. She drew away. She wanted to
close herself up until she was hidden, out of sight. She
wanted to fold herself up like the bud in the window box,
clinging to something like a pin that stayed fastened.

He held her arm. "You thinking... don't think. See that
sofa? You could lay on that sofa with me all day and I
wouldn't touch you."

Flora felt ashamed. She could feel the cold air coming
in along the cracks. The window was filled with wax
begonias, red blooms and bright green leaves. December. She
never thought of flowers at that time of year. She touched a
bud that was about to open and watched the snow fall past

her. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She would explain. "I

 

U7

don't know how to take care of anybody. I never had to take
care of a soul."

She stood up and placed her hands on her father's head.
His scalp was shaved so close that when she ran her palms
against the coarse ridges, the raised surfaces were hard
against the softness of her palms. "I never had to take care
of anybody."

He wasn't listening. "Why didn't you come to Cincinnati
for Christmas?" His gaze was steady, fixed, his voice cold
and deliberate. "You see all that stuff up in your room? The
hi-fi. The radio. A brand-new desk...just waiting for you."

"I went to New York." She was testing the waters. "I
have a friend...." After all, he'd told her about the things
he did when he was young. She remembered the story about New
York. The one about the trip with Charlie Henderson. He'd
understand. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he'd guessed
earlier. "We're close."

He stared dead at her. He twisted his mouth and hurled
the word back at her. "What do you mean, close?"

She held her fingers up to the light and showed him a
small ring. "You know...we stayed together." She was eager
to tell him everything. "Christmas day and the week before
Christmas too."

He jumped up and walked over to the mirror. If she had
really looked at him, she would have seen the anger, the
kind of stare, hard and unyielding, that stops people in

their tracks, but she didn't really look. The sounds in the

A8

next room--at first a cough, then a scraping noise, a chair
being pushed across the floor--a sudden halt, then nothing.
She didn't see him the rest of the day. Later, she

found a note pinned to the refigerator:

Flora, Fix something for dinner. Hamburg in the

frig. Set the table. Father

She made a meatloaf with eggs and condensed soup, left
the rice on high heat and watched it boil over onto the
surface of the stove.

When he came back, Flora was digging the rice out of
the pan. "So it's 50-50, huh?"

"I meant sharing, that's all."

He laughed. "Who do you think's gonna fall for that
line?"

"That's how everybody does things now."

"Everybody." He eyed her grimly. "Everybody's 50-50,
huh? That stuff you learned at school again, the flora and
the fauna." He repeated it with no change in his voice,
deadpan: "The flora and the fauna, huh?"

Flora kept digging the burnt rice out, scraping as hard
as she could. Her eyes were full. When she reached the
bottom of the pan, she threw the knife into the sink. "What
do you want from me anyway? No matter what I do...it's never
enough. Nothing could ever please you." She banged the pan

on the side of the wastebasket, then dumped it in the sink.

A9

"What do you want from me, anyway?"

"You seem to be trying to please everybody. Why bother
to pay attention to me? I'll just wait in line." He grabbed
her by the shoulders. "Is this all the thanks I get for
helping you? Look, all you had to do was go to school, get
your grades, keep yourself neat, clean. That's all you had
to do."

"But what about having fun? Did I ever tell you about
this place...?" She laughed and cried at the same time.

"I don't want to hear about that mess. Go see what
Marion wants." He stood there watching her as she ran out of
the room.

"Flora," Marion was standing near the cabinet of old
78's, "Flora, pick up the phone in the kitchen. It's long
distance. It's your mother." I

Her mother hadn't helped her find him, hadn't had
anything to say about the trip to Cincinnati, but now she
was calling her, butting in.

"Flora? I don't like the way you sound."

"Mother, is that all you called me for?" She was
irritated with her prying, her asking. Why should she care?
She had never wanted them to get together, anyway. She never
helps, then, all of a sudden, when everything's already
going wrong, then she calls. What was it to her if they
didn't get along? "Don't worry about it. Don't worry about
it, OK?"

Her father was standing behind her. "You were on the

 

50

phone for ten minutes."

"Mother thinks something's wrong."

"You're mother's a nice girl. A nice, sweet girl." He
laughed, looking at Flora as he emphasized the "nice girl"
part. "Tell her I said to go out and drink a Pepsi. Tell her
to go out and have one on me." He laughed again.

That evening she looked for her father. A small light
was on in his office. She looked around the room. He did
seem to be living there...an electric coffee pot, a large
sofa with blankets thrown over the side, file cabinets,
sheets of paper scattered everywhere.

A voice from the kitchen. For a minute she thought it
was her mother, but it couldn't be. Her mother was in
Chicago. She'd never noticed before, but their voices, her
mother's and Marion's, were alike. Marion was laughing,
talking so loud that Flora could hear every word.

"You should've heard them...Uh huh, girl. She told him
everything...You should have seen the expression on his
face." Marion lowered her voice and kept talking for a
while. "Just like a bull that somebody cornered...0h, girl.
You oughta be shot...Stop it...Girl, you're making my
stomach hurt...A hundred thousand...Poor little thing, she
didn't know what she was saying...They say a hard head makes
a sore behind...0h girl, you oughta be shot...I'll talk to
you later. Gotta go."

Marion was sitting at the kitchen table with her hands

folded neatly. Flora knew Marion had been laughing at her,

51

but she still wanted things to work. "Where's Al, Marion?"

Marion shook her head no. Her hair was drawn so tight
that it made her skin seem smooth, ageless.

"I wonder if he'll be back soon. Maybe he's out with
some friends."

Marion yawned. "You know him, he's out. He's gone
somewhere with Charlie and the boys."

While Flora talked, Marion stirred a bowl of soup.
Flora recognized the large soup tureen on the table. Her
father had brought it out her first night there. "That's
Russell Wright, isn't it?"

Marion pushed the tureen to her side of the table.

Flora was determined. "I wish I could make Al happy,
Marion. Everything I do lately. Nothing seems to please
him."

Marion listened without answering.

"I wonder what I can do to smooth things over. You know
what he likes to eat. I'll fix something or maybe buy a
present. That's it." Flora thought for a second, then shook
her head. "Al has everything, doesn't he?"

Marion stood up and looked out the window. "Flora, did
you see the news truck drive up this morning? I haven't seen
the paper all day."

Her father got back late that night. She heard him
talking to Marion about his friend Charlie and some night
club downtown. When Flora found him in the kitchen, she

grabbed him and hugged him tight.

 

52

He didn't respond. Instead, he stepped back and held on
to her with his arms stretched between them. "As long as you
live, I don't want to ever hear about you calling me 'Al.' I
don't care how old you are. Do you hear me? Don't you ever
call me by my first name." His voice shock as he talked. She
thought of the old minister at her grandmother's church and
the yellowed photograph of her father's family--his father,
his grandfather--and their hard, stern expressions. "As long
as you live...if I ever," his voice rang out, "if I ever
hear of you calling me that, I don't care where you are,
I'll find you."

When she tried to speak, her voice was weak, barely
audible. "I might have to go back." He pushed her against
the table. The kitchen was small. You couldn't escape, no
matter which way you turned. "I might have to go back..." He
was so sure of everything he wanted. She knew that if she
looked straight at him that he'd have the advantage.
"...sooner that I thought."

He didn't answer.

She tried to explain. "I've got classes."

"Soon, huh? Tomorrow, next week? This evening?" His
voice was soft, soothing.

"You know. Classes. I have to get back to school."

He jumped back against the stove. Like a lawyer, he had
laid a trap. "You told me your classes didn't start till the
middle of January."

She looked down. "I'm just not sure. Sometimes you have

53

to leave early."

"You told me late January."

"I might have to leave sooner." She looked down again.
"We'll see."

"So I'm just too mean to live with, huh? Too
depressing, huh?" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Look at
me. I said look at me. I used to give back deposits!"

Flora tried to explain. "I was tired of playing games.
That was worse, wasn't it?"

He eyed her carefully. "How'd that dress get so
wrinkled?" His eyes moved to one spot. "What you been doing
in it, huh?" She didn't really know him at all. She just
thought she did.

"I showed this to you." She held up her hand. "You know
what it means when you give somebody a ring. I wanted you to
be the first one to know. I mean, I thought we were so
close. I wanted everything closer. No secrets. No nothing.
If I'd kept it a secret, it would have been between us. If
I'd kept it to myself, thing's wouldn't have stayed the
same. I mean I thought we were so close. He doesn't want to
get married right away. At least not until after
graduation."

He still didn't answer.

"Why can't you understand?" She held the rest back. She
was afraid to let go. Afraid that if she did, if she said
everything, it would only make things worse.

She reached for a cigar box on the top shelf. "When I

5A

was in the basement this afternoon, I found the box with
your mother's jewelry. Remember, you said I could keep it."

He grabbed the box and slammed it down on the table.
"All that stays here. And you think this boy's going to want
you now? You think he's going to want to marry you now?" He
tried to pull the brooch from her dress. "That's not yours.
My father's sister would rise up in her grave." He reached
for it again, but she moved away.

"Why would he need to marry you? He already knows he
doesn't have to marry you. He knew that a long time ago. Why
change now?" He glared at the brooch and drove his empty
fist into the pocket of his sports coat. "Fool, fool." He
said the words till they didn't make any sense. "You're a
little fool, a little fool."

When she looked up at the clock, she realized that
she'd been sitting there for hours; it was the middle of the
night. The kitchen was small. It was the kind people cooked
in and left, not the kind people lingered in. She could
still feel the heat from the stove. No matter where you sat
in the tiny room you could feel the heat; it was

overpowering.

55

A Kitchen Tale

I have been messed with by a lot of hairdressers in my
life. I have been controlled, bullied and ruled. It's the
truth. I'm not going to get too specific here, but I want
you to be aware that my father is a high school principal;
I'm from a very important family. For that and other reasons
that's all I'd better say right now. Hairdressing--
straightening hair--that's something people usually don't
talk about. That's why I'm not giving my name. But come hell
or high water I've got to get this stuff off my chest.

Miss Estelle, my grandmother's best friend, was the
first one. One warm southern day after the rain had come and
gone and the fragrance of wet dirt was in the air...or was
it the smell of the grass? No, it was the wet dirt--I'll
never forget that sweetness. Anyway, that day my grandmother
decided to take me down the hill to have Miss Estelle wash
my hair. You're probably wondering why a grown woman with
all her strength and faculties would take a small child to a
friend's to have her hair washed when she was perfectly

capable of doing it herself. Miss Estelle was not only my

56

grandmother's best friend but also a source of power; she
had connections. Her brother, Mead, was the biggest
bootlegger in town. Because of Miss Estelle's influence in
the community, it was only right that my grandmother should
bring her first grandchild to this source of strength for a
good washing.

The trouble began at Miss Estelle's. When she saw us
coming, she ran around back and got this big, chipped enamel
dishpan that I'd seen her use for washing turnip greens. She
stood me up on the back porch, not saying a word, just
working away quiet as a grave digger, soaping up and more
soaping, two or three times. Then she filled the big pan
full of water and poured the whole thing over my head, over
my whole body, not just rinsing my hair, but everything on
me. I was soaking wet. My grandmother didn't say a thing.
Miss Estelle didn't either, but I screamed and screamed.

Years later, when I took my first-born to my
grandmother's house, I asked her if she remembered that day
down at Miss Estelle's. She nodded yes.

"Why do you think she did that?" I never had
understood. She said she didn't know either.

Yink was the next one. Her real name was Mattie Emma,
Mattie Emma Stone. All I know about her was that she was
Punk's sister and that her husband had died in a lot of
pain. Yink was a beautiful looking woman with long black
hair that had probably never been straightened. (Some people

thought if a woman was mixed, like Yink, she had a little

57

haughty side to her, maybe that's why Yink liked to torture
so much.)

The beauty shop was in her basement, all bright and
lit-up with a small metal oven for hot combs. When my mother
put me up on the stool, the light was too close, it blinded
my eyes. I turned away. When Yink combed my hair and it hurt
I turned back again into the light. They held me down. I
turned again; my head hurt and my eyes watered. I twisted
and turned for a whole hour. (I once heard about this
hairdresser that used nothing but milk and oil to soften the
hair but nobody had ever seen her.)

Yink went to the funeral home to do all the bodies; she
combed and pressed and curled. When people got together
after the funeral to eat chicken, greens, cakes and pies
somebody would always praise Yink for her perfect product.
She would always reply that it hurt to do a friend. Since
this was a small town it hurt her a lot.

From the time I was about six years old until I was
about thirteen my mother did my hair. And when I asked her
how I looked she'd always say, "If your hair and your feet
look good, the rest will fall into place."

When I was about thirteen, about the time we moved up
North, I started going to the hairdresser again. Chicago,
1955--all along 16th Street hairdressers were packed in next
to barbecue shops. When it was time to go to the
hairdresser, my mother gave me enough money to buy a small

end of barbecued ribs and some white bread to sop it up; the

58

beauticians could send for an order to go. You could get
french fries in a brown paper sack with ketchup. You could
balance an Ebggy_magazine and a plate of ribs on your lap
and get your hair done at the same time. Sometimes when I go
to a hairdresser at the mall and there's no smell in the
place except those herbal sprays, I long for the aroma of my
home street, of ribs and fries.

One day I was sent down to 16th Street and told to find
this big tall woman named Miss Delphine. She wore Indian
Brown face color and red-orange rouge by Poro and drew her
eyebrows in thick black lines. Her shop was called
Delphine's House of Beauty. She told me she was trained in
1920 at the Poro Beauty College in Harlem and all about how
her shop had been mentioned in Sepia and.ggg. Some
hairdressers tried to style; some got their reputation for
producing clean heads; some were noted for a powerful press,
strong enough to make any head of hair shine; some for the
advice they gave. Delphine staked her reputation on telling
the truth. She looked straight at me:

"Somebody's been burnin' your hair." Miss Delphine bent
over me and slammed her hands on her hips, "Somebody's
burnin' your hair, girl." She held on to me to keep me from
slumping down in the chair.

"When you have a lot of hair like you got they burn it
on purpose. Here's the thing." She leaned even closer. "It
takes too long to straighten it." She grabbed my hair and

pushed it towards my face. "They can't make no money on a

59

head like yours. They burn it on purpose so you won't come
back." She stopped to catch a breath. "Why, it takes all day
to straighten your hair."

I did have a lot of hair, thick, long hair. She was
telling the truth...it was going to be a problem. Some of
this stuff I expected. I'd already had my period. At school
they passed out this book about it with a picture of a girl
combing her hair and putting on lipstick. I had that page
memorized. There was this one line about "those special
days" and about how you were supposed to be all fixed up.
But this hair stuff...I hadn't realized until then how rough
things were going to be.

You know by now that I've been bossed a lot by
hairdressers. I would do anything they said. That's just the
way I was raised. If you want to understand anything about
black people you have to understand that we have certain
loyalties. When I was a little girl down South there was
Rev. Green, the minister; and, let's see, the undertaker and
his wife; and after the preacher and the funeral director
and the doctor, I almost forgot the doctor, would come the
hairdressers.

One of my earliest memories is of this hairdresser
telling me "Once a little girl went to sleep in the chair
and the hot comb slid right down her back." I already told
you that Yink did the bodies at the funeral home.
Hairdressers had a say on your hair from your beginning to

your end.

60

Around the spring before my high school graduation, I
started to play around a little with my hair. That's when
things started to get complicated. Before that my hair was
reddish brown, a lovely reddish brown, but for my high
school graduation I dyed it jet black. My mother reacted
strongly:

"You're carrying this to an extreme. First A or 5 hours
a day--combing your hair; putting on glop, ruining your
natural beauty; now this--you're carrying the whole thing
too far, Miss."

I come from a very well-educated family, aristocrats
you might say, and the idea of their child with dyed hair
was quite a shock. To make matters worse I was mistress of
ceremonies at my graduation; they had to stare at it all
night.

After that things got a lot worse. I had to depend on
hairdressers. They said I needed rinses, conditioners, every
time I went it was something else. I was getting in deep.
Hairdressers were giving me all this trouble, and I'd never
even had a perm. They were starting to lecture me when I was
too jittery. One even put my hands in my lap and told me to
keep them still and not turn pages while she pressed. They
were using all kinds of secret products and formulas and
refusing to give any information about the caution labels.
To put it bluntly, I was fed up, sick of all the shit.
That's when my friend, Bunny, told me about Freddie.

Freddie Stover was the most beautiful thing I have ever

61

seen. With the exception of two gold teeth, he was that
perfect kind of creature that needed no retouching. Whatever
he did to set off that perfection was just that, an extra
touch. He had piles and piles of hair that he wore puffed on
top. He permed it first, did a roller set and comb out. As I
have said, he was flawless, but to add to that flawlessness,
he wore just a touch of custom-made make-up. If you think
this made him look artificial or clown-like, you're all
wrong. His skin was naturally cocoa-fudge brown and smooth
like those ads for candy bars with the big bowl of chocolate
fudge next to an undipped bar. Freddie had just dipped his
twice. He looked twice as wonderful.

He usually wore a clean white shirt and dark pants. I
can still hear him saying "I am the artist and my face is
the canvas. I don't want to detract from it by cluttering
the rest of my look."

A small waist accentuated by tight continental pants,
all slenderness; he was five feet ten inches in his stocking
feet, but he couldn't find any men's shoes his size. That's
why he wore I. Miller women's loafers. At one hundred
dollars a pair his feet looked better than mine.Don't think
I didn't take Freddie seriously; he was definitely in a
class by himself.

On the first trip to Freddie's I went with my friend
Bunny. I was home from college; summer vacation had just
started. Everybody was out, enjoying the weather, showing

off their new clothes. Bunny had connections all over the

62

West Side. She was famous for doing a long interpretive
dance in a black leotard to "Ponciana" by Ahmad Jamal with
her own soul cha-cha steps added to the jazz beat. And she
loved men: rich men, college men, working men but always the
young ones. She considered herself to be very gorgeous right
down to the fine hair on the nape of her neck, which she
liked to stroke and call "baby-fine." Freddie was her
hairdresser.

To get to Freddie's shop you had to go around the
gangway and downstairs into this dark basement. I'd never
seen anything like it. Five or six dryers lined up against
each wall and, instead of women, men under them--rows and
rows of pants, grey pants, green pants. The smell of fried
chicken on a plate over in the corner. A man turns up the
light. There's a big jukebox rolling out a sound, now it's
Cannonball, then a woman's voice, now it's Dinah Washington,
a thin laugh then low talking rolls along with the music and
stops and starts when a new face comes or goes--a sharp high
scream. I look--a man is wiggling up and down like he's
gotta go and all the time staying in one spot. Then he calms
down and looks my way. It must be Freddie.

My entrance into the room--a crisp clean look, my best
linen A-line dress, sleeveless with a small pin at the neck,
little skimmer shoes, a blunt hair cut that hangs to one
side; I was affecting the mysterious European look, tres

avant-garde, picked up somewhere between Last Year at

 

Marienbad and Monica Vitti. To really perfect this look you

63

had to take quick tiny little steps, holding your head to
one side, hoping that your hair would fall in your eyes so
you could brush it back again. The nervous action of the
constant walking and pushing your hair to one side created
an energy that was sleek and cat-like.

When I wasn't rolling my hair or getting it done, I
spent hours in front of the mirror, getting dressed,
coordinating scarves, pins, stockings, just to go window
shopping on Michigan Avenue. On one trip to Saks a woman in
the elevator looked me over and mumbled to a friend, "Must
be from out of town," then after reflecting for a minute,
"Probably Hawaiian." I was elated. Nobody in our
neighborhood had my sense of style.

I set down next to this man reading a copy of Bronze
Thrills. I looked again. It was a woman. She had very short
hair and was dressed in a man's old suit from the forties.
I'd never seen a bulldyke before (that's what we called them
in the sixties-—a woman who had gone completely over to
looking like a man). She was totally out of the mainstream
as far as a look was concerned. And she looked like she'd
cut you in a minute. I didn't say a word to her. She just
sat there and smoldered. She didn't even look at me.

Freddie stood at attention, working up a pimp, his arms
stiffened, his fingers pointed out from his sides like he
was ready to take off: "The white lady," he jerked an elbow
in my direction, "Jackie 0." He threw his shoulders back,

laughing, shaking his head, as if it was too fantastic to

6'!

believe.

I was smiling, beaming at everybody in sight. A girl
over in the corner wearing a "Clovers" jacket looked me up
and down. I moved closer, figuring she was impressed by my
style. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called to a
friend, "She think she cute." I turned away quickly.

When it was my turn I sat down in the chair. Freddie
rubbed his hands together like somebody getting ready to eat
a big dinner. He laughed again and started to go through my
hair with a comb. We talked. He kept calling me Jackie 0. It
must have been my style-~the crisp, clean look. I relaxed
and motioned to the picture on the wall: "Billie Holiday?"

Freddie squealed, "That picture? I had it
commissioned." He pointed with the comb. "One of my home
boys told me about this brother out north, somebody named
Romar. Anyway, I told the dude I want this special portrait
for the wall at my shop, you know, something classy, none of
that jive..." Freddie is holding back. "So the dude shows up
with this picture...the thing had three or four heads. I
almost killed the sucker. Told him if he didn't fix my
picture, I was gone call my home boy and get him to break
his legs. Anyway, he showed up with that," he pointed to the
wall. "Cost me two hundred dollars. When I saw it I nearly
broke down and cried, beautiful! I could feel myself
churnin'. I told this artist, I said, 'Romar, I live an'
breathe for Billie. She's my lady and I have to have her all

the time...‘ So he did it...two hundred dollars."

65

Lady's picture was perfect over the lit-up juke box
with its big city taillights, red, yellow, blue, shooting up
the wall, lighting up Lady's face, classic, like those
photographs that people touch up with a set of oils and turn
into something superreal.

While he was putting the vaseline base on my scalp he
yelled to this guy, "Lady's 'What a Little Moonlight Can
Do'--play it...In your honor, Jackie O."

I guess he liked my style, the look I'd memorized from

going through so many French magazines, Elle, Jardin des

 

.Mgggg. I settled down in the chair. Freddie was giving me my
first perm. My mother had been going to hairdressers all her
life, and she'd never had a perm. Of course, she went to a
lady from church. This was different; I'd never been to a
man before. It was exciting--exciting like a blind date, but
I was scared. This was really taking a chance. He worked the
cream into my hair. Cold at first, then warmer, until it
started to burn like hell. It burned until my eyes watered
and I yelled "Hurry up. Wash it out."

Freddie wet his lips and shrieked with delight. He
liked my frenzy. "Don't worry, you're gonna love it. It's
gonna be so nice and it's only five dollars. Everything
here's five dollars. The conk's five, the perm's five, the
cut's five, the set's five."

While he was rolling my hair, he told me all about his
line of custom make-up. He bought all these colors from a

company in St. Louis and mixed them up. He made his own

66

shades.

After he'd adjusted my cape and tied a net over the
rollers, he rubbed his hands together and led me to his back
room.

"I make my own perm." He pointed to a big tub that
smelled like lye. "This one over here is the perm. The other
one's the conk."

His special beauty was shining now.

"I'm Mr. Fred, the Mr. Fred. A big company bought me
out. They bought the rights to my formula. I got an ad every

month in Jet, Sepia, every last one."

 

He did a twist and a turn. "But I can still make it
myself--for my customers." He grabbed the top of my hair.
"This would cost you fifty dollars over in Lake Meadows.
Girl, this is a deal."

I settled down under the dryer with the latest issue of
.133. Suddenly Freddie goes up to this guy wearing a
carefully tied do-rag. Freddie unties the knot at the top of
the guy's forehead and throws the do—rag on the floor. He
wets the guy's hair. Pointing, Freddie screams and does a
little pirouette, going:

"Queen Anne, Queen Anne."

The guy, now known as Queen Anne, wearing his hair
soaped into a point, eating fried chicken, a talking, eating
head. He offers Freddie some chicken--more music, moving
enthusiastic legs that start, stomp and stop. A little make-

up, a little eye-liner, drawn in so as not to show, plastic

67

capes side by side like big wide skirts thrown over heads,
guys playing, kids playing till everything was just so. A
woman dropping off an order of ribs stands in front of the
juke-box, presses the button, looks around and runs off up
the stairs, muttering. Laughing, shrieking, squealing.
What's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this,
wearing a plastic cape with a picture of a poodle painted on
the front?

While he combed me out he screamed to the same guy
again: "Queen Anne, you lookin' good."

The Queen glares at Freddie, solemn, mumbling
something. Freddie continues to bait. While he puts the
finishing touches on my style I hear about his other career:
"I write for Johnny Chance; the words, just the words to his
music: I got copyrights on my songs." He starts to give a
sample and gets drowned out by a customer screaming for a
towel.

Over the next few months Freddie did my hair over and
over again. He rolled, combed and sprayed. I filled him in
on the latest fashions from Marie Claire and Elegance. The
typical man was only interested in one thing. Our
relationship had that spiritual quality so often missing in
the run of the mill things that were going on then. I felt
cared for and protected. Bunnie's mother didn't share my.
attitude. She was suspicious:

"Girl, you got a gorgeous head of hair. Don't you let

that fool put that conk on your hair. Look at Bunnie's hair.

68

You can't catch it between two fingers. You'll be bald if
you keep goin' to Freddie's. I been tellin' you and Bunny,
but you just won't listen. Your heads are hard."

Whenever I went to Freddie's shop we talked a lot; he
had opinions on every subject imaginable. One evening after
he had finished my set, he invited me up to his place for
pizza. We left the shop and cruised around for awhile in his
brand new second-owner red 1963 custom Cadillac convertible
personalized with white fur upholstery. I was bursting with
contradictory feelings. I'd never been to a man's apartment
before. My mother had always made it pretty clear that
someone from my background, in my position, had to be
careful. It was all so new. On the one hand I wanted to be
seen by somebody, anybody. On the other hand, being a high
school principal's daughter, I hoped to God that I wouldn't
be. Frankly at that point I didn't care. Our colors,
Freddie's white shirt and my black silk top, complemented
the upholstery. Top down, we drove over to his place, our
hair blowing in the wind.

Freddie's apartment was over his mother's restaurant,
Gladys' Ribs. His only ambition in life was to please Mom,
make her proud. There was something about a line of
succession. He was her oldest boy. Besides, he didn't want
to lose his status as favored son; he liked being close to
Mom. A tiny dog, a Chihuahua or poodle or something, met us
at the door yipping his head off. Freddie was training him,

so there was wall-to-wall newspaper all over the apartment.

 

69

Actually it was pretty hard to see the walls. Every inch of
the place was crammed with white and gold French provincial
furniture, the kind they paint white with a little gold
trim, that fleur-de-lys stuff. I immediately started talking
to Freddie about real French furniture, the kind in_§llg.
Not that Freddie needed any ideas from magazines. He had
lots of ideas. He was probably way ahead of his time. And he
really liked culture. It was just hard to know where
Freddie's culture fit in.

We moved into the den. I'd say that Freddie's hi-fi
equipment was at least 6 feet tall. I mean I was looking at
the biggest, most mammoth collection of high-f1 equipment I
have ever seen-~woofers, tweeters, bangers, bammers. The
look was tremendous and the sound...He had a bar in the room
too. The whole room, the furniture, the bar, the hi-fi
equipment looked as if it had been covered with walnut grain
contac paper, no--not really covered with contac paper. It
just had that contac paper look.

Yeeieaeeah--Freddie shrieked and tip-toed up and down.
I didn't understand it then but screaming was a way of life
for him. Ahyeeieaeeah. Freddie's screams--startling the way
a fire engine sounds when it comes zooming down the street.
I didn't know whether to stay and watch or head for cover. I
tried to talk about real French furniture; he wasn't
listening.

Before I knew what had happened Freddie was standing

there in nothing but his undershirt with his back to me. He

70

jumped around and there it was. Cocoa fudge and, more than
that, long, lean and pointing straight at me. It was the
longest one I've ever seen. I never expected Freddie to have
anything like that. I was sure this couldn't be happening to
me. A high school counselor and friend of the family, who
was an expert on family life education, had convinced our
whole class that fairies (at least that's what he called
them) never had sex with women. That was all I knew about
sex. I didn't have anything else to go on. I thought about
monks, about priests. He moved closer and closer; he was

still pointing.

About two weeks later I got a call from Bunny:

"Girl, you really get deep fast."

I moved the phone away from my ear and checked to see
if my mother was still in the room. The coast was clear:

"Hi, Bunny, what's up?" I tried to sound cheerful.

"Girl, I just came from Freddie's and he's talking
about you."

I swallowed hard. That night at Freddie's...you never
would have guessed he had anything like that in mind. He had
told me all about his plans for decorating his apartment. We
ate a little pizza. I saw him as a delicate, gentle
creature. One minute he was kissing me on the cheek--that
was OK, what they call light petting--but before I knew it

Freddie had me down on the sofa. His grasp was like steel.

71

He had a wild look in his eyes, mumbling "My princess, my
princess, mother, my mother." I tried every trick in the
book to get from under him.

"Freddie..." My pleas were ignored. "You don't know
this but I've got VD."

He laughed sarcastically. "A nice girl like you?" He
was sure of himself. "I got your number. I know all about
you, baby." He pushed me down again. "Nice girls like you
don't get that stuff."

I had thought Freddie was a gentleman, a continental
type, that he understood the special needs of someone with
my sense of style. First the night at the apartment. Now
this.

Bunny's voice was shrill with excitement. She could
hardly control herself. "He said he wanted to see you. That
if you didn't get over to the shop right away he was gonna
come and get you. He said you had what he wanted...what he
loved."

Bunny was a socialite, but I had always been the star
academically. I was on a pedestal as far as the teachers
were concerned. This was her chance to take me down a few
notches.

"There was this guy over there that went to our high
school. He says he graduated with you. Girl, the guy kept
saying your name over and over. He just couldn't believe
it."

"Bunny, I haven't the slightest idea what you're

72

talkin' about." She must of been grinning her head off.

"Girl, you'd better go over to Freddie's and take care
of business before he heads to your house."

Bunny's cousin drove us over to Freddie's. They waited
in the car while I went around the back. When I was almost
to the door, I turned around and ran back to the car. I
couldn't go in. What if the guy from my high school was
still down there, yukkin' it up, listening to Freddie scream
about his love? I'd better settle this over the phone.

"Hello, Jackie 0." Freddie was mad and baiting.

"Freddie Stover! Please! Stay away from my house!"

"You'd better come over right now or I'm going to tell
your mother about her good girl, about all the stuff her
good girl did. You know you don't want..."

I had to think fast. "Listen, Freddie, let's think this
over. Let's not rush..."

"I ain't rushin', my motha showed me this ring an' she
said I can have it when I git married. And we gittin'
married." When I put the phone down you couldn't hear a
thing. Silence had never been like that.

I don't know what Freddie's mother told him when he
asked her for the ring. Maybe his mother was so glad he'd
changed that she jumped up and down and screamed for joy.
She probably started talking about that succession stuff,
about all the little Freddies. But Freddie knew it wasn't
really like that. Anyway, he didn't come over that day. But

the rest of that summer I was on pins and needles. I was

73

afraid to leave the house. I really expected to see Freddie,
dressed in a white fur-trimmed tuxedo and a purple do-rag,
with at least four or five groomsmen, standing right outside
my front door. And why shouldn't I have thought so? The look
in his eyes that night...the way he mumbled "princess,
princess," and that other stuff, over and over. But he never
showed. And after a while I stopped worrying.

I didn't see him again until I was on Thanksgiving
break; I needed to place an order for some conditioner. He
was still serious:

"Here she come. Here come the white lady." He laughed
high. "I made my decision. We gonna get married. Freddie and
Jackie 0! But you got to get two degrees first. One degree
ain't enough. I want people to say there go Freddie, he
makin' one hundred thousand dollars, and there go Freddie's
wife, she makin' fifty thousand." He turned to a woman
waiting to get her hair done. "She tuff, ain't she? The
white lady baaaad."

When I came back to pick up the conditioner Freddie was
in a great mood. He wanted us to go to Stouffer's together
at Christmas so he could wear his man's mink, a full-length
coat of perfect skins with a matching hat. Those guys like
Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta, Yves St. Laurent and
Givenchy--they didn't have a thing on Freddie. Nevertheless,
I was obviously in way over my head. That's when I decided
to take Freddie's advice, stay in school as long as I could,

finsh my bachelor's, then get two or three extra degrees.

 

711

After that I got an afro--you know, a natural--you get

ight perm and roll it at night. It's just great.

 

75

Glossary of Hair Culture

Conk--Cheap perm, usually for men, homemade with pure lye.

Anything for five dollars has to be conk. (See "Process.")

Croquignole curls—-Lavish curls, popular in the thirties and
forties. You wave your hair by starting the curling iron at

the end and working toward the scalp.

Curling iron-~A metal iron that opens up like a pair of
pliers. The old-fashioned way to curl hair. When you put the
curls in right they'll last about two weeks. You set it in a
little stove instead of plugging it in. If you're at home,
you can test it on a piece of newspaper or a ball of hair.
If the paper catches fire or the ball smokes, you know it's

too hot.

Do-rag--A scarf that a man ties around his perm to keep his
hair in shape for special occasions. Nowadays a lot of men
are starting to get perms; black men have been getting them

for years. (See "Process.")

76

Edges--The edges of your hair line. Rougher textured because
they always "go back" first. (See "Revert.") Hair dressers
have to be careful; the edges are hard to hold onto. When
they start to straighten the edges, the good ones will

announce "Hold still. I'm going to get your edges."

Electric curling irons--Plug-in things that take hours to
heat and give you curls that last overnight. Hair stylists

use these. (See "Hair stylists.")

"Fuck me" hairstyle--Term I ran across in Ms; (see Ms;
November, 1986, p. 68). Preferred by some white women, turns
men on. In the past known as the "brazen hussy" look. I
think you ask the hair stylist to give you this. You're
supposed to smolder or something. It's for hair that can go
wild and crazy, do that wind-blown stuff. Of course you have
.to spray it to make it stay. I don't know anybody with one,

but I've seen them at the mall.

Grades of hair--Usage dates from the time black hair was
rated on a scale of bad to good, the worst being the

coarsest, the best being the straightest.

"Good hair"--needs no straightening. All you have to do is

wash it and roll it.

77

"Mixed"--Some women have two grades of hair, e. g. "coarse"

in the back and "good" on the top.

"Baby fine"--needs almost no heat.

"Coarse"--Takes a lot of heat but gives a good press, holds

a curl a long time. (See "Kinks.")

Hairdressers--Hairdressers don't worry about getting a comb
too hot. They know how to give a "hard" press. They are
usually women, but a few are men. Often they have a little
shop located off the back of their house. In big cities
hairdressers work out of storefronts but keep things pretty

laid back. If you're hungry, you can order out.

Hair stylists--women or men who always work out of a
licensed shep. They have recent pictures from hairstyling
magazines on the wall. You go to a hairdresser, but you
"have an appointment" with a hair stylist. Hair stylists use
plug-in curling irons that take about two hours to get hot.
A friend of mine knew from the time she was nine years old
that she wanted to be a hair stylist--not a hairdresser. Way
back then she swore she would never allow chicken, ribs, any

kind of dinners in her shOp.

Hard Press--A look you get when they really straighten your

hair. Hard to get nowadays because none of the new peOple

 

 

78

coming out of the beauty schools know how to give a good
press. Most hair stylists today are afraid to use a real hot
comb. They're afraid they'll get it too hot. Real
hairdressers enjoy their power; they don't worry about using

hot combs.

Hold--Keep a press. Antonyms: go back, sweat. (See

"Revert.")

Hot comb-~Heavy iron combs with wooden handles that can take
a lot of heat. Used for straightening hair, not curling. You
set a real "hot comb" in a little stove, the same kind they
use for curling irons. Experienced hair dressers know how to
use just enough grease on the hair and a terry towel to rub

the comb clean while they're pressing.

Kinks--Little balls, aka naps, soft to hard depending on the
"grade" of hair. (See "Grades of hair.") At one time
considered undesirable but now many appreciate their erotic

quality. Adjective "kinky."

Kitchen--When your hair reverts or goes back to its natural
state, the little "kinks" that line up along the base of
your neck. So called because it gets hot in the kitchen, so
you sweat. The section of your hair that sweats the most,
that's your "kitchen." You can comb your hair down over it,

but it's still there. The concept of the "kitchen" is

79

considered by some to be the basis of the black aesthetic.

Love-letter--A letter that a customer writes to a hair
stylist when they've had an argument and the customer is
afraid of retribution (getting scorched, fried). See

Appendix.

Natural--If you wash short hair, it will ball up into a
soft-looking 'fro or afro. If you wash long hair, you have
to braid it or get a light perm, then pick it out to get the
"natural" look. Women who like straightened hair have to
look out for rain or any precipitation, since getting the
hair wet causes it to "go back." (See "Revert.") The natural
look, on the other hand, signifies a lack of fear of the
elements, the rain, the wind, as in "she romped with
nature." At its extreme, this attitude can lead to a desire
for the wind-blown look. (See "'Fuck-me' hairstyle.")

Synonyms: 'fro, afro.

Perm--Chemical preparation for the hair. The "perm" is for
women, the "process" for men. Instead of putting in curls,
you do the reverse and take them out with a chemical
straightener. Perms can cause a burning sensation; you have
to use a timer, then wash them out in a hurry. Softer
looking than a press. (Say the word "perm"--notice the soft,

purring sound.) With a perm you use a cream hair dressing,

 

80

with a press you use grease. Many refined people today don't

care for the greasy look.

Process--Chemical straightener used on men. A few women have

been known to have a "process." (See "Conk.")

Revert--Happens when your hair sweats or gets rained on and

loses its straightness. Antonym: "hold."

Scalp-scratching--You use the tip of the comb to loosen your
scalp and flake out the dandruff. A special thing done by a
spouse, girl friend, boy friend, mother, father, sister or
brother. You never ask a hairdresser to scratch your scalp;
it takes too long. You only ask somebody you really love,

usually on the weekend.

Stocking cap--A night cap worn by men, made by cutting a
stocking in half, knotting the end, then pulling it down
over the head. A sophisticated "do-rag" suitable for holding
a wave or process. Men in the forties wore stocking caps
with silk or rayon dressing gowns and calf-high socks held

up with suspenders. Get the picture?

Wait, The--Usually 3 or A hours. The amount of time you have

to wait for some hair dressers or hair stylists.

Walker, Madame C. J.--The greatest name in hairdressing. She

81

founded a school of hair care in Harlem. Her daughter gave
big parties that attracted a lot of the famous artists and

writers of the twenties.

Appendix

An example of a "love-letter" I had to write:

Dear

I am writing to you to express my pleasure
with the service that one of your employees,
Ms. , has given to me. I have been
highly impressed with the personalized and
thorough way that Ms. treats each
customer. She makes each customer feel that the
health of their hair is of the utmost importance.
She does this by making a special effort to
analyze and treat hair problems. One never feels
that she has an "assembly-line" approach. She
takes a pride in working with the customer's hair
that goes beyond what is expected of her. As a
customer, I feel she cares about giving the best

results possible.

Sincerely,

 

 

 

 

82

Mainbocher

On the plane, Flora sat next to a woman from New York,
an assistant for a dress designer named Teale. They struck
up a conversation. It was a chance to talk about fashion
design, clothes.

The woman, a middle-aged brunette, wore a black dress,
big gold hoops, three or four long chains looped around her
neck--costume jewelry. While they were waiting for drinks ,
she fingered a chain and eyed Flora from underneath the brim
of a gold corduroy dressmaker's hat. "And who's your
favorite designer?"

"Oh, I like a lot of them...Saks, Bonwits, those little
shops over on the East Side."

"Of course, dear, we all do, but I asked about
designers."

She didn't understand why the woman wanted to wear a
gold corduroy hat with gold jewelry, no contrast at all. The
black dress was OK. She'd be the last one to disagree with
that, but the gold jewelry was all wrong. Earlier, when

Teale's assistant had adjusted her hat, Flora had noticed a

83

thick crease of make-up that ran into her hairline. The
woman was relaxed, not on her guard; she never expected to
be judged. For Flora, clothes were an easy way of detecting
a weakness, an error in taste. It was a kind of war; maybe
it wasn't worth all the energy. But whenever she thought
they were watching or judging her, she sharpened herself
until she was like a little dagger ready to strike. If she
could show them up or make them look ridiculous, all the
better. After all, didn't they deserve it? Flora smiled
regally, "Mainbocher."

"Mainbocher!" The woman grabbed one of her chains,
protecting what was rightfully hers. "Mainbocher! Why, you
couldn't touch him." She nervously examined Flora's black
wool skimmer, the small brooch at her neck, and her khaki
men's wear blazer. Flora wondered about the rating she was
getting. The assistant was looking at her, eying her from
underneath her hat, probably thinking to herself--what could
this one possibly know about any of our things? The woman
kept talking. "Where are you from?" She had to put Flora in
a particular place, straighten the whole thing out.

Flora almost yelled. "The West Side of Chicago."

The woman relaxed, adjusted the brim on her hat and
smirked, a half smile.

Flora caught the expression. She laughed, "So is
Mainbocher, lady. He's from the West Side of Chicago too."

Sometimes she wondered if making everything a fight was

worth it--the need to defend herself, to prove that she was

 

81!

extremely clean, that she had perfect taste. Sometimes the
need would express itself so strongly it would drive them
away. But it was a world that she wasn't really a part of
anyway, so what did she have to lose? If she insulted them
or offended them--they didn't really want her anyway. And it
wasn't "them," or "him" or "her," or any one person. It was
the idea of "them" that had grown into a thing so large that

she had to fight back, always.

 

85

Night Song

"John's younger than me by four years. As a youngster
he was always getting into trouble. He and my baby brother
Charles liked to fight the girls while Mother was gone." She
turned away embarassed, hiding a shy smile. Odd, I'd never
seen her this way before. She was almost a little girl, the
one caught telling a secret; her tone was private,
revealing.

"What do you mean, fight the girls?" I wanted more.

"You know, fight," she balled up her fist and punched
at her face. "Like this...put a knot on his own sister."

From that moment I was back there with her. Going home
could do that—~bring the old days to life.

"He liked to throw rocks and accidentally hit us, or
he'd have a stick playin' and hit us in the head--anything.
He was always gettin into somethin'. When Mother'd get home
we'd tell on him and then he'd get a whippin' and we'd cry.
After we told on him-~you know we didn't want him to get a
whippin'--we'd cry harder than he did."

I could just make out my mother's features. It had

86

cooled off and everything was still except for our voices
and the dull, steady sounds of night--it was a sweet time.
The dark was full of everything that had been there earlier
but now all had settled down as if waiting for her voice and
my hopefulness. We'd gone home together that summer, my
mother and me, and she was about to leave to go back up
North. Since I was a little kid, I had followed my aunts and
my mother around trying to get them to talk about the old
days. Usually they didn't take the time.

My mother's voice trailed off. I knew I was pushing
her. Since early that morning I'd been asking her about her
life--when she was young, her college days--about the whole
family. She wanted to got to bed; I couldn't blame her, but
I wanted to stay on the front porch and hear it all. She was
seventy years old; I might not get another chance.

The rest of the family still lived in town, except for
my uncle; he was coming in from Detroit the next day. My
mother had to leave soon; her church tea was coming up, but
she wanted to see her brother first. Usually the family
didn't include me when it came to Uncle John. I was a grown
woman, thirty-five years old with a child of my own, but
when I asked about him my mother moved away, changed the
subject. To her I was still a kid, but I knew more about him
than she thought. I could remember way back; the presents he
sent were tucked away to be opened "when there was time."
When I was a little older, around holidays, I watched the

mail. On my eighth birthday I was lucky. I played by the

87

door most of the morning. When the mailman came, I grabbed
the package; I knew it was for me. I still remember my
mother rushing into the room, frightened by all the noise. I
was screaming, jumping up and down--it was the most
beautiful coat I had ever seen--dark brown wool, straight,
long with a little circle of pale mink around the collar--in
my size. My mother looked at the coat, frowning, shaking her
head: "All that money." I wondered what she meant, but I
didn't care. I was only in the third grade, but I was going
to be glamorous. That day all I could think about was my
luck. Only Johnny, my Uncle John, could find such a
wonderful coat. I closed my eyes. I could see him standing
there--the blue serge suit, the silk shirt, the gold cuff
links, his fingernails perfectly manicured. His hands were
soft to the touch as he held on to me, talking softly,
"Sugar, anything you want from Johnny." He was my hero. And
now a new coat with a real fur collar. I kissed the air. I
kissed myself . I kissed the coat. It was too good to be
true. I asked my mother how it looked. She held the coat for
a minute then walked away. "That John, always trying to be
somethin' he's not, putting on airs."

Nothing wrong with pretending to be something you
aren't. At eight I wasn't much to look at. Most of the time,
my mother dressed me in cotton Cinderella frocks. 0n gym
days, I wore plaid jumpers. The green in my plaid picked up
the green of the sleeves of my cotton gym suit. I wore my

hair in pigtails, two braids crossed at the front, glasses,

 

88

a toothy grin with a big gap in the middle, and thin, short
anklets. They were the only things that would stay up on my
legs, thin, long legs that seemed to go on and on.

Back in those days I was an awkward looking kid that
was always being chased home; I would've paid any price,
worked day and night, to be like everybody else. I was sure
that Uncle John had always had it together, even as a child.
For me everything was hard work; I figured life was easy for
him, like sipping water.

My mother relaxed a little. I guess she'd forgotten
about the time. Sitting on the front porch at night was all
we did down South. Sometimes an unexpected visitor would
stop by, join the group, and sink into the rhythm. Like
sitting around a campfire and telling ghost stories, at home
children and adults could be the same, put on a mask or
reveal something unexpected, be themselves or something
altogether different. The stories could go on, trail off,
and never end. Tonight it was more urgent. It was just my
mother and me. I leaned forward and listened.

"John always did love rocks. I remember that his only
weapon in those days was rocks. When he was older, he'd come
back from a date you could hear the rocks hittin' the
ground-—he always had a pocket full of rocks."

"He would go on dates?" I think my mother had
forgotten; they didn't even say "date" back then. I tried to
imagine Uncle John dressed up with rocks in his pocket. My

earliest memories were of smoothness, no wallet showing,

 

89

never any bulges. His white handkerchief was always
perfectly folded and in its place.

"Yes, and come back with rocks in his pockets. You know
he could throw a rock as good as anybody could shoot a gun.
When he got in the house, he would empty his pockets full of
rocks. It was just before he went to college; he was about
seventeen years old."

"Why did he like rocks so much? 'Cause he was just good
at throwin' em?"

She didn't answer. She balled up a fist and punched at
the air, then pretended to punch at me. I grabbed at her
fist and yanked it away, laughing. "Yes, and good at aimin',
too. He didn't have no knife or anything. They didn't carry
knives around in those days." She balled up her fist again.
I thought I felt a little breeze. "That was his weapon. Like
some boys now carry sticks and bats around. In Chicago, you
never see a kid 'less he's got a bat or a stick to protect
himself with. Rocks was John's protection." She was still
critical, but she had softened a little.

"John was always a little different. Papa, you know he
was a fisherman and a hunter, an expert with a gun. John
never liked to fish, didn't hunt either. Charles did. Papa'd
always fuss about John. Said he didn't have any sense."

"Why do you think he was so restless?"

"Just didn't like the same things that Papa thought he
would. Charles did. Charles fell right in." Her voice was

weary.

90

"Why do you think he was so restless? Why do you think
he did all that stuff?"

It was never enough for me to accept things, take them
at face value. Sometimes I made things too hard, harder than
they needed to be. I wanted to analyze everything.

"Just bad, you mean throwin' rocks and all that? He was
always breakin' somebody's window out with rocks. He just
liked to throw rocks." She grabbed at the air and aimed at a
tree in the yard; she must of been good herself. "He used to
pitch at home with the local team. They said he coulda made
the major leagues if he'd kept at it, but John didn't keep
at anything."

I guess she'd forgotten that blacks didn't play in the
major leagues back then. She never gave Uncle John a chance.
None of them understood him the way I did.

I thought about the summer I spent in Columbia. I was
in the dining room, cutting out the dress for my senior
prom. My grandmother had just laundered one of Uncle John's
shirts. "You never launder a man's shirts," he shouted at
her. "A man's shirt is always dry cleaned, especially if
it's silk. I'm sick of this one-horse town. You're ruining
my clothes." I knew I could calm him down. "I know how you
feel, Uncle John, I'd feel the same way..." My mother
snatched me back, as if to say "You stay out of this, little
girl." Everybody else could say their piece, but it didn't
work for me. They just didn't take me seriously. Anyway,

Johnny and I were still as tight as you could get. I was

91

always the first person he looked for whenever he came to
our house in Chicago.

I had turned away from my mother. I was watching the
bushes on the side of the house. Uncle John must have hid
outside that window to keep from getting whipped. One of
those bushes could have been a man hunched over, moving a
little. For a minute, I was back there motioning to Uncle
John, warning him to lay low. I was startled when my mother
started to talk.

"Then he went to college, to Tennessee A. & I. First
the oldest daughter, Pauline, she had two years in college,
then she came out with an elementary certificate, and she
taught and helped me to go to school. Then after I got two
years I started workin' and I helped John. " She held out
one hand and then the other like she was transferring piece
work, then stopped short. "Course John never came out to
help anybody. He went three years of college and all he
wanted to do was make the first team on the football and
make the Kappa fraternity. That was his ambition. He made
grade C average just to get by, maybe a B- every once in a
while." She paused for a minute, straining to remember, then
shook her head. "I don't know what he even majored in. Three
years, he had three years."

"But that was a lot of education for a black man to
have back then."

She clasped her hands and rubbed them together in a

circle. She was hard on Uncle John, expecting too much and

92

then being disappointed. She was like the rest of our
family; churchgoing people, they didn't smoke or drink.
Good-hearted, always ready to lend a hand whether they were
teaching school or going to a meeting over to the church;
they just couldn't understand somebody like Uncle John.

A car sped by and kicked up the dust. The kids raced up
and down our hill half the night. It was 10:30; it seemed
much later, I guess because most folks went to bed so early
at home. We had left the bedroom window open next to the
porch. When the phone rang, my mother went inside. She
talked for awhile, then came out and sat down.

"That was John on the phone. Said he wasn't feelin' too
hot, probably the f1u...a bad summer cold. This fellow, one
of John's runnin' buddies, he's over there. Says he'll take
John by the hospital.....the two of them were playin'
checkers, John and his buddy."

I moved closer to my mother. We were sitting together
in a pale yellow aluminum swing, the stationary kind. It
stretched under the front windows of the house and spanned
half the porch. A long time ago an old wooden swing had hung
from the ceiling, but it had rotted so bad that Grandpa had
to cut it up and use it for kindling.

"He'll be here before you can say Jack Robinson, you
know Uncle John."

"I wonder if he's runnin a fever." My mother rubbed her
hands together in a circle. "They say those summer colds can

work on you...get real bad."

93

I shook my head and laughed. "All those new drugs they
have these days. I wouldn't be surprised if he was up and
around in no time. He'll be OK. You know Uncle John."

She nodded.

Our house was still on East End Hill; this was the same
porch that Uncle John had dropped rocks on before he went
inside. Sometimes when it gets late your mind starts to
race. You can surprise yourself by coming up with things you
thought you'd forgotten. I remembered something myself:
"Uncle John told me about how one time he sassed this white
man. He went to a store downtown to buy a hat. I don't know
whether he didn't take his hat off or what but he sassed the
owner. See the owner called him boy and Uncle John got mad;
said 'Don't call me boy. I'm not your son.‘ So I guess the
man got real upset and Grandpa Will had to talk to him. I
guess the man said, 'It was a good thing he was your son,
Will.‘ Uncle John always said about that time 'I left
Columbia and I didn't come back to the place till my
father's funeral.‘ I know he's so quick-tempered that he
couldn't be around that place where he had to--

She cut me off: "Be less than a man."

I nodded. "Was there any resentment because Uncle John
didn't help out the others...you know, after he finished
school?" I felt foolish even asking. It seemed so easy for
her. I had to work at all this stuff. And everybody knew I
did, too. She always bragged about raising me by the book; I

was "proper." I think that's why I felt different. I'm not

914

saying I wasn't accepted. They all loved me. They could take
people for what they were.

"Resentment? Of course not, he was one of us. They just
figured that was John. I'm the one that paid for John's
fraternity and all that stuff."

"When he first went to school, it was funny..." She
started to get excited. I knew the good part was coming.
"Just because he was from a small town, they thought he was
country, didn't know anything. So he would get in card games
with the boys on the campus, you know, pretend he didn't
know nothing, wear old torn clothes, and then when he sit
down he'd beat 'em all and they start to callin' him Slick
Evans. That was his name all through college, Slick Evans."

"All through life," I added proudly.

When he beat those guys, it wasn't luck either. Just
like his name said, he was slick. Being slick means you've
got style, the sense to know what to do in a particular
situation, and skill, just a natural ability at a certain
thing. Maybe it was hard work too. When he was a little boy,
he told me once he made a little pool table out of an old
wooden box and used tree branches for pool cues. I worked
hard at things too but it always showed. Part of Uncle
John's magic was that he never showed his hand. I mean you
never saw him trying hard at anything. He kept all the work
in the background. What you saw was just smooth, like the
polish on a dealer's manicure.

My mother was sitting there, her eyes closed, her hands

95

folded in her lap. I thought she had fallen asleep but then
she started to talk again. "After he got out of the Air
Force he went to Detroit. I went up there to see him. He
carried me to this place called The Peacock, my first bar
and cocktail lounge."

I jumped in yelling. "He did? What street was it on?"

She put her fingers to her lips. I couldn't help it. I
should have been the one he carried out.

"I don't remember--first one I ever went to. Before I
went to Detroit I got a book with all the different names of
cocktails so I could appear knowledgeable, you know." Her
voice was filled with pride. The Peacock was probably her
only bar and cocktail lounge--my mother drinking. "So I sat
down at the bar and started to callin' all the names." She
closed her eyes and held her head back the way people do
when they're chanting a prayer. "Gin Rickey, Rum Cola, Tom
Collins." John would say, 'What you want Sis?' I'd call for
it. He gave me every one I called for."

I grinned until my gums showed. I'd always wanted to
know her secrets, anything private, forbidden. "Every one?
You must of been really drunk."

"I was, I called for three. When I got off the stool I
couldn't hardly walk. The next morning I got up an' drank
some water and got high all over again. John said 'Sis,
never drink water after you been high, 'cause it'll bring it
right back.' " She was whispering out of respect; there

wasn't much Uncle John didn't know.

96

"So the next two nights before I left he carried me to
a cocktail lounge where you sit at tables, not like The
Peacock, and the waiter brought my drink. And every time
he'd bring one I'd drink it right down like you drinkin'
pop. John said, 'You don't do that at these places.' Say,
'You just sip it.' Say, "Every time they see it empty they
gone fill it up.' Say, 'You break me doing things like
that.‘ So I learned to sip."

My mother had been a school teacher and a housewife
most of her life. I was surprised when she told me she'd had
that much to drink. When she came over in Chicago I couldn't
get her to have a glass of wine. She didn't even play cards
on Sunday. Nobody was the same around Uncle John. I was
never left out when Johnny came. He didn't want me to call
him Uncle John and I wasn't that skinny little girl. I was
the lady on his arm. "Shall we meet later for cocktails? I
know a little after-hours spot, Madame." Someday, I'd
planned to go to all those places with him. I envied my
mother.

"When did Uncle John do all that stuff with you? How
old were you?"

"That was back in my third year of teachin'. I was
about twenty-three."

Just like those cars going up and down the hill, my
mind was racing and I couldn't make it stop. I jumped in
screeching; I had forgotten everybody else was asleep.

"Remember they used to say he was the best lookin' man in

97

Detroit?"

She nodded, "That was his reputation. We didn't say
that... they said that in Detroit..one of the best lookin'
men in Detroit."

"He was gorgeous..." We whispered it together.

The phone rang again. This time I went in and picked it
up. When I came out to the porch, my mother was leaning over
the side of the swing, her hands covering her face. I poured
her a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. "Uncle
John's friend called from the hospital. He's been admitted.
Said he's resting quietly."

"I'll take a plane out tomorrow night." She sipped
slowly. "I've got to go see about him."

People have a soft way of talking at hospitals or when
somebody's sick and the family's sitting around, waiting for
news. "Remember when he used to come to Chicago, when I was
a little girl, I'd get him to talk about all the people he
knew." The cool night gathered around us like a piece of
cloth, flying, then settling in. "He knew Billie Holiday and
Billy Eckstine. He knew all the entertainers that came
through town. I remember asking 'Come on, tell me, Uncle
John. How well did you know Billie Holiday? Come on, You
know you did.' He'd say, 'I knew her just like I know you.'
He said that whenever he'd walk into the room, she'd stop
whatever she was singing and start to sing 'My Man.' " I
gathered my mother in with me.

She sang the first line, " 'Oh my man, I love him so.

98

He'll never know'...that's how they used to sing it. He was
working at a night club. He gambled a lot. He always played
pool. Of course, he always won--said there was no such thing
as luck. When he went home, you know, to visit, he'd go down
and beat everybody in the pool room. He'd always win--could
throw a ball. He was a good pitcher--excellent pitcher. He
was great-~pool, checkers, poker, everything. I remember one
night he was visiting from Detroit. You were little then. He
got a call to go out to the South Side. Somethin' about this
man beatin' everybody he played. He left in a cab wearin' an
old overcoat. You should have seen him, it was a beat-up old
thing." She laughed. "He didn't come back till the next
day."

"He wanted to be his own boss. That's why he lived like
he did."

My mother pressed her hands together. "His own man."

"By the time I was in college...you know what he told
me?"

She shook her head.

"He said he'd lost all respect for the street. Said his
gamblin' days were over."

"In his time that was one of the only ways to make it.
That's how they did it...doctors, lawyers, that's how they
made their way through school."

"He said the street now...the way it is these
days...nothin' but dog eat dog."

"John never did carry a gun, didn't swear, no drugs. He

99

was clean. Only time he ever got arrested was for bein' at
an after-hours place. A fraternity brother of his, a judge,
got him out right away."

"Once, he talked about writing a book. He used to say,
'If I wrote everything I knew about Detroit there'd be a
contract out on me tomorrow.' "

A gambler, but not the kind that depended on luck,
Johnnie always seemed to know what the other guy was
thinking. But there was more to him than that. My mother
held her hands open, palms up, side by side. "He could
recite poetry. He learned poems, long poems...'It Can Be
Done,' 'Grey's Elegy,' Emerson. He memorized the Bible...I
remember one time when you came home; John was here too.
Y'all argued for two hours on some quote, and the quote's
right in the Bible. We had to break you up. For two hours.
You and John." She shook her head.

"We've always been good buddies." I held up two fingers
side by side.

"He wouldn't give in and you wouldn't give in."

The whole trip had been sunny, but the next morning it
started to storm like it was never going to stop. My mother
had finished packing. We were sitting in the living room
trying to plan the program for her church tea in Chicago.
The day before we had bought this white linen tablecloth and
a big package of paper napkins in rainbow colors. Each woman
in the club had to fix up her own table; every year my

mother raised the most money and won the prize for the best

100

looking decorations. You invited people--neighborhood
friends, family. They would stop by your table and have a
taste of whatever you were serving--thin slices of baked
ham, a piece of fried chicken, some potato salad, iced tea
or fruit punch. After they had a few sips of this or that,
they would leave a small donation. That afternoon we were
trying to make this centerpiece from a craft book, a peacock
with a folded paper tail in pinks, blues, yellows and
greens, rainbow colors. It had a fancy trim, fluted crepe
paper, everything, but it was hard to make without the glue
and tape showing. Besides, when it's damp outside, nothing
holds anyway. My mother was fussing with one of the corners
when the phone rang. Her plane was leaving that night;
friends had been calling all afternoon. When she came back,
she was holding the centerpiece by the corner, but the part
she had been trying to glue was dangling off to one side.
She walked by me and slumped down in the chair. "John just
passed...it was his heart-~same thing killed Papa."

He hadn't even been sick. I don't think he ever went to
the doctor. I was angry, mad that I let him slip by me.

The rest of the family stayed in Columbia. My mother
and her sisters had to plan the service; our funerals were
always at home. I volunteered to fly to Detroit to bring the
body back and clear the things out of his senior citizen's
apartment. Maybe it was my way of making up for all the
times I had meant to get together with him and didn't. Now,

this was the best I could do. I couldn't help thinking that

101

it was my last chance to see him, even though I knew he was

gone.

I looked around the room. It was all there. His books,
his records, all kinds of playing cards, twenty-five decks
in all, an old pool cue, pieces of paper--long ones, short
ones, all about checkers matches. He used the cards and the
pool cue for business, checkers was his hobby; but books,
they were his first love. Leafing through I found notes he'd
written. Thoughts, sayings, little poems. And there were his
clothes--suits, shirts, sweaters, hats, and, of course,
beautiful, beautiful coats.

I shipped most of the stuff off to the Salvation Army.
A lot of the clothes were new, but I didn't know what to do
with them. I kept a few things, some wool tams, a scarf for
my child and, for myself, two of his coats--a checked wool
garbardine, the other, a soft black cashmere topper, at
least forty years old.

When somebody's dead you don't have to care about how
they were at the end. You can see at them at their height,
their best. You can get them to stand still, so you can look
them over. My mother helped me to do that when we talked. To
me, he wasn't an old man living alone in a senior citizen's
home getting by on monthly government checks. He was Johnny,
his white handkerchief always folded and in its place. All
the work was in the background. What you saw was smooth,

effortless. He never showed his hand. And when he walked

102

into the room, Lady would stop whatever she was doing and
start to sing their song.

When I left Uncle John's apartment, I had to balance a
coat and a pool cue in one hand and lock the door with the
other. As I turned to look back I could hear Johnnie saying,
"Come on Sugar. Turn around. Turn around in that coat. Let
them see it on you." Then I would smile, open the coat to
show the lining and twirl and twirl.

When the elevator opened on the ground floor, a
janitor, a young guy in torn overalls, was trying to push a
wooden cleaning cart out the door. The boxes from Uncle
John's apartment were lined up against the wall, and a few
of them were blocking the way. He mumbled under his breath,
then ran toward me shouting, "Johnnie's pool cue. I'll give
you twenty dollars for that. It's gotta be lucky."

Johnnie would have laughed at that. He always said he

didn't have any use for luck.

103

Rothstein

He could settle everything in a sentence. When you were
with him, you always knew where you were going.

On her first visit to Cincinnati, one day, out of the
clear blue sky, he announced that they were going to
Rothstein's hospital room for an important conference. On
the way over, he bragged about his partner: "The man's
always on the job. Everything--under control. The man's
working overtime." Rothstein was pale, ill-looking. His bed
was competely covered with sheets of paper. All white.
That's what she remembered. The yellow-white of the hospital
linen, the grey-white of his skin. Her father huddled over
the bed for almost an hour, while she watched the old man
peer through thick glasses and grope for the sheets of

paper.

10A

The Cleanup Hitter

When he heard the noise outside his office door an
image flashed; he was back in the second grade, jumping out
of bed to the William Tell Overture. This time he
straightened his tie, threw all the stuff in the attache
case and ran for the door. Pausing, he flipped the lights on
and off, tapping and whistling the first few bars and
clicking the switch to the beat. Pleased with his cadence,
he doubled back, swiveled a chair, then bolted into the
corridor, weaving in and out of the five p. m. traffic.

On Friday afternoon between five o'clock and five
minutes after five the corridor on the top floor of the
agency was a sea of navy blue, dots of floral swimming in
paisley print; account execs, secretaries, creative types,
all uniformed, running for the elevator at the end of the
hall. By 5:30, half the office would be at Butch McGuire's.
Jay, the guy who always landed the big soap account, would
lead the procession. Atsuko would probably balk and go out
for Szechewan, Thai or something. A vision in linen Armani,

she ran by waving a dining guide in front of Jack's face.

105

Ready for the occasion, he passed her a copy of Chicago
magazine turned to the ad for Butch's. Marcus, known as the
"Ebony Molloy" for the dash of originality he added to his
up-scale dressing style, pulled him aside, revealing at the
same time two fashion touches, a pair of black suspenders
that carefully leaned out of his sport coat and a strikingly
conservative pink silk pocket square. Molloy, as wrinkle-
free as if he'd just arrived at work, tipped over and
whispered, "The brothers are going out South, man."

"At this point in time..." Jack started, then broke off
laughing, with a slap to Molloy's butt; he couldn't commit
himself right now. Lately he was starting to clamp down,
watch what he said. He had overheard his boss and another
guy making these inflammatory remarks. Not that he cared
what they said, as long as they didn't involve him; nothing
was going to keep him from landing that contract, scoring
the big win. In an urge to be political, he pressed the
flesh, patting, clasping hands and nudging his way on to the
elevator and out to the parking ramp. The flourescents were
going strong. Light paved the way, changing on the color-
coded ramp. A small truck swooshed by with enormous brushes,
vacuuming the pavement and spattering his new Italian
loafers. Strong pink light. Heaven.

Everybody at work thought that Jack was a self-made
man, probably the first in his family to go to college, awed
by having his own office, complete with a secretary shared

by no more than five other account execs at any one time--

106

but the personal history was for him to know and the guys at
work to find out. Jackson Parker, aka Jack, was used to
privacy; he came from a family that kept secrets. Out of a
whole city of aunts, uncles, and cousins, only two or three
listed their phone numbers. A woman had called him a few
years ago trying to get in touch with his aunt, claimed she
was a sorority sister, an AKA. He bragged about not giving
out the phone number. Besides nobody in the family ever told
him much.

Secrets, privacy--it was more than that. It was all a
question of apprOpriateness, office decorum. He was holding
on harder than ever, just to maintain an image. Before he
could be relaxed, non-threatening. Talk, straddle a chair
with a cup of coffee, shoot the bull and still never give
anything away. At least till recently.

With his stepped-up effort to watch the office chit-
chat, he was leaving work irritable and tense. After
watching every word and going all day at that incredible
pace, he needed a little bit of heaven, some comfort. Any
detour that would relieve the pressure was worth the extra
time. He drove about a block from the office and parked at a
small brick building, still in the upscale business area.

The sign hung above the door like a big pastel cloud.
All-weather material in a luxuriant pastel pink had been
quilted and framed. A fan in back of the frame sucked air in
and out automatically so that the sign not only moved in the

wind but seemed to be reacting discreetly to some gentle,

107

much-desired pressure. When he looked up and saw it swinging
in the breeze, he felt downright celestial as if he had been
transported from work to some soothing afterlife. The Satin
Connection: Private Massage Quarters for Executives and
Professional Men--he liked the private part. He didn't know
about the place until Jay had engine trouble outside work
and hitched a ride over one day. When Jack dropped Jay off
at The Satin Connection, Jack realized then that he had to
revise his opinion. He'd always figured places like The
Connection were for losers, guys that had to buy what they
wanted. After seeing Jay go in, he came to look on massage
parlors, the exclusive ones naturally, as professional
therapy, not as evidence of weakness. Jay was obviously
going places, a winner, the guy was smart, he had the
contract with Soap Products Associated.

She was wearing a white turtleneck and leotard skinny
pants with an over-sized pale peach cotton jersey slung over
her shoulders, her hair styled in a free, moussed-up look.
Smooth dusk rose blushed-up skin. His favorite masseuse, a
white girl named Minsky, was packing up to go home.

Minsky's father had been the manager of a big burlesque
house at the end of State Street. She was born the year the
place closed. According to Minsky her father had got down on
his hands and knees and begged his wife to name her Minsky,
after the famous but ill-fated house of intimate apparel
reviews and comedy.

She always sported the newest looks; now it was the

108

pastel, dusky southwestern shades that were computer-coded
so that a city girl could feel Navajo and then plain again.
Jack convinced her to stay a few minutes. He could turn
beaming and elf-like, a Sammy D. routine, then get more
nervous like Jerry L. to plead his case, ending with his
legs together like he had to go. The routine always worked.
All he had to do was jump in the air, show optimism and grin
as hard as he could. Jackson was about 6 feet one, 190 lbs.,
a muscular guy--no fat. That's why it was easy for him to
jump so high. Although he'd been an all-conference guard on
his college basketball team, he didn't go on in sports. If
you weren't good enough to make it into the pros, the next
best thing was a job in sales or PR, so you could capitalize
on your popularity. Besides some local recognition he was
left with a bad back. He wanted to be the best, number one
on the squad, but he always swore up and down that if he
ever had a son he'd never play college sports.

She let out a resigned sigh and leaned against the
wall, posing directly over the ornately framed sign that
explained the house rules at The Satin Connection. The first
few minutes of his visit, Jack would brief Minsky about his
plans for landing a big soap contract, the kind Jay had.
After Jack's dance routine, Minsky would in turn become
maternal and caring, just to help him ease down after all
the excitement. The women in her family had always been
sympathetic.

Minsky grabbed the bamboo screen that was about to

109

topple and reveal the presence of the night crew sniffing
burritos and unwrapping sandwiches on the other side of the
partition. The shifts were about to change. Good smells were
everywhere. Starved, but making an effort to ignore the
noise of the smacking and chewing, she reached in a drawer
and pulled out a wrinkled nurse's cap. Revving up, she
cocked the white cap to one side and began to gyrate,
falling first into a slow rhythm, then churning until she
began to run clockwise like a big engine, blowing tiny O's
through finely pursed lips. It was a routine they had
perfected one day when the humidity was bad and Jack was
feeling low.

"I'm a nurse," she chirped. "I wash my hands this way."
She made a cheerleading motion. Jack had taught her to think
"soap." "I wash my hands that way."

Minsky clasped her hands together almost in
desperation. Her hair freed, she began to swing from side to
side until it stood up in peaks all over her head. Her hands
made big circles in the opposite direction and then back
again.

"I wash my hands this way because it's more germ-free."
She did a practiced little step and speed-chewed the gum in
between verses, stepping back to avoid scraping a polished
toenail and at the same time adjusting a stirrup over her
foot. She ended triumphantly summing up the slogan for the
day. "Germ-free like this. Germ-free like that." All said,

she threw up her jersey and fell on Jackson, massaging his

110

back with great sweeping motions, grunting and moaning till
her skinny pants were drawn up over her knees.

Jackson, lulled by the odor of the room's scents,
drifted off. Minsky pummeled and mauled. Jack yawned and
purred. After a long day at work, he needed to settle down,
"now more than ever." As Minsky kneaded, Jack drifted in and
out. Weightlessness--no matter how hard he fought-~instead
of going into limbo, he drifted back and forth. All of a
sudden he wasn't at The Satin Connection. He could see the
top floor of his office building. Then he was back in
college playing guard. Drifting again, he was back at work,
explaining the game to one of the guys on his floor--the
toughest game, the one his team won in the last three
seconds of play.

At the office he liked talking sports. He could be
easy-going and non-competitive. Sports was the only way to
disagree. Not exactly disagree. It was more like friendly
tugging, topped off with an occasional power hand shake;
since he was one of the few brothers in the place, the
handshake was his way of giving entry into a club, of
sharing a private secret, for members only. At least till
recently. Then a few things had happened. Some joker had
said the wrong thing in a TV interview, something about the
absence of black management. People were backing off from
easy talk and it irritated the hell out of Jack.

One day at work, while he was sitting on the john, he

heard Ed talking to Jay, the guy with a major soap account.

111

He'd never forget that day. He was sure it was Jay; he could
recognize the voice. Ed did most of the talking. He started
with a disclaimer. "I've never said this before and I don't
want the word to get around." The water at the sink came to
a screeching halt. Jack didn't move.

Ed proceeded, "The black people at the baseball games--
it's less than one per cent. And I have tried ad campaigns
and I have said now come on out. Be a part of this city. Be
part of this game. Let's get some things going here. But for
some reason and I don't know why and I can't figure it out--
nobody's been able to explain it to me--in a city of 50%
black there's the attendance at the baseball games of less
than 1%. I can't understand that. To me, that bothers me as
much as the lack of black management in sports because you
go to the ball game..." Jack could hear towels ripping,
hands patting. "...it's a happy place to be. It's a good
circumstance, a chance to share loyalties. It's a chance to
share feelings. It's a chance to get involved. And something
in it is really quite good. Not all nights in the ball park
are good. The fans get out of hand, but baseball is largely
a happy circumstance." Jackson tore up little pieces of
paper and dropped them in the toilet. "You're looking for a
win. You go with pride, you go with feeling, and I would
like to see the black people be more a part of this because
I think it could help bring things together. And it just
doesn't happen. And I don't see it happening."

Jack knew then, as sure as if he'd pencilled it in on

112

the calendar, that this was the end of the easy office talk.
Now sports would be controversial. They'd expect him to act
as a spokesman, to be Open but still not make waves, to talk
enthusiastically but in the right cliches. All the heavy
stuff. It would blow his cover. Jack vacated the stall as
rapidly as possible. Ed and Jay were both startled at his
sudden appearance. "Jack..." their voices rang out in
unison.

"Take care, guys," Jack saluted as he pushed through
the double doors.

"Super," yelled Jay, the guy with the major account.

Jack wanted to get out of the office, to drift back.
Minsky tried to help but she could feel Jack's rigidity, the
knots of tension in his shoulder blades; he was worrying
again. Jack was still troubled. Even The Satin Connection
couldn't ease the blow from what he knew to be a threat to
his very existence. Abruptly, about a half-hour after he had
entered the padded door of The Satin Connection, he pulled
the sports section out of the attache, yelled "oh no," and
ran for his clothes.

By 5:37 he was out the door and on his way. Jackson
Parker, aka "Jack," lived in one of the sleek new steel and
glass high rises that had cropped up all over the Near North
Side of Chicago. Because of the strong demand for luxury
housing, his building had been constructed a little faster
than usual. The style was derivative--a little Mies Van der

Rohe here, a little Richard Meier there. The steel sheeting

113

looked slightly discolored in the sun and some of the
materials rattled when the wind blew too hard.

Rumbling and shaking welcomed him. Home at last. Inside
they were still putting on the finishing touches, or so they
said. A company was supposed to come in to do the recessed
lighting in the lobby for a sweeping display of Chuck Close
paintings. Jack held his hand near his face and moved it
back and forth in front of the blank lobby wall, as if
trying to practice the right attitude for viewing. If his
boss Ed or one of the other tenants walked by, he wanted
them to see, right away, that he was an art enthusiast,
maybe strike up a conversation. They'd all have something to
talk about--an ice breaker, a sophisticated version of the
weather. "That Jack...what a brain." The possibilities were
enormous.

Jack had a private joke; even though his apartment
wasn't as big or expensive, it was on the floor above the
boss's, not the top floor, but one over Ed's, nevertheless;
Jack was up in a cloud. The odor of new plaster was still in
the air and the film that covered the walls had drifted down
to the carpeting, giving the hallway an ethereal, floating
quality. Although the heating ducts at the top of the
landing were in place, the covers hadn't been ordered. The
molding around his door was separating slightly, but anybody
could see his floor was almost finished. That's what Jack
told his mother whenever she came over.

The remote control was in its usual place, a silver-

11H

plated dish on the coffee table. Jack picked it up and
pointed to the TV set. Then, happily, he slipped out of his
navy suit and into the shower, thinking about the day he'd
be in first place. He caressed the side of his Euro-style
shower massager and turned around as if taking in admiring
glances. When he had walked in on his mother's bridge club,
she had introduced him as the only member of the family who
had one. Spa (Soap Products Associated), the big soap
company that everybody was after, shipped some liquid soap
samples to the agency for those dispensers on shower walls;
Jack got more than his share, just one of the perks that
went with his steady climb.

Ed, the company's founder, a guy with a steady eye on
the dollar, liked to pat him on the back about all the
perks. "I know they're proud of you, Jack." Ed had started
with nothing and built a small fortune by never turning down
a job. Ed, his wife Barbara Jean, and his wife's mother
lived in the largest apartment at 751 On The Drive, Jack's
building too. Everybody at 751 had a massager.

With Ed, Jack had all the bases covered. He made a
point of honoring Boss' Day, a card, an expensive cigar.
According to the experts, the important thing about
relationships was to convince people, bosses, co-workers,
that you really liked them, that given a world of people you
would have gladly chosen only them. That's why he was known
as the fastest man on the twelfth floor with a cigarette

lighter. One of the brothers at work had sworn that as a

115

child Ed had been scared by a black dog. Jack wouldn't have
gone that far, but it was a documented fact that he and a
few other guys were given only certain accounts, big
companies with black clienteles. He wouldn't say he hated
Ed; hate was too strong a word. Sometimes after work he did
get some satisfaction out of taking a whole roll of toilet
paper, tearing it up into little pieces and watching as he
flushed it down the drain. He enjoyed imagining that it was
Ed he was flushing down. Two or three rolls of paper later,
he could relax for the evening without any problems.

He turned up the shower, pumped on the dispenser and
lathered himself over and over, dipping around muscles and
under curves until the soap suds stood in peaks, going all
the way up to the top of his head, shaping his hair into a
sharp point. Spa--to work with them you had to be the best
hitter on the team, the guy who comes on with the bases
loaded and hits a home run, not necessarily the guy with the
highest average but the power guy. He fashioned his rag into
a sloppy oval and watched the water drain.

Sudsing up again, he mouthed the tiny print on the
dispenser: Soap Products Associated. The shower was a
fortress, the command center for planning his attack. He
didn't need the highest average, but he had to drive in the
most runs. About an hour later in a rut, the diapenser
empty, he shivered as the pores on his skin started to stand
like little buds. He settled in for the night, but didn't

sleep; he couldn't stop thinking about landing a deal. After

116

a couple of hours his forehead started to tighten. He went
to the john for the third or fourth time, swallowed a couple
of Xanax, then went back to bed and sucked in the cold air
from the duct. Poised in the position for push-ups he fell
on the floor and checked under the bed. He did this again
and again, until he had achieved animal tautness.
Maintaining the same grace, he jogged around the room
checking the doors and windows, making a circle and checking
them again. Still agitated, he went back to bed, turned up
the radio.

Every night, from 8 p. m. to midnight, Jack listened to
Dr. Emile Franck, the phone show psychiatrist, a sincere,
experienced man who blasted away at out-moded treatments
and listened to callers as if they were paying customers.
Jack was amazed at how many folks out there are calling in
and talking about washing their hands a little more than
they need to. Dr. Franck, a German emigre and descendant of
the late composer, recommended Xanax for the problems of the
over-worked upwardly mobile set.

He stared at the ceiling; the texturized paint was a
last-minute decision. Actually, the contractors had planned
to put on a finish layer of plaster, but the occupancy date
was coming up fast, so they opted for the swirl effect as a
cover. One of the guys from work had laughed when he saw it.
Called it a botch job.

Out of bed again, he jogged around the room, smiling,

thinking about the big win. He stopped; he could hear a

117

knocking sound. He looked down, way down. He could hear it
under the bed. He wrapped a towel around his waist, ran over
to check the door, then back to grab the phone. At three in
the morning, it had to be important.

"Hey, Jack, what's the hell's going on? I just got home
and my living room ceiling is dripping like crazy. You been
runnin' that shower all night again?" It was Ed, his boss.

Jack blew O's into the phone. "I'm looking at the
ceiling."

"Not your ceiling, my ceiling...Jack."

Jackson was known to anybody who knew him even slightly
as a reliable point man. He was the kind of guy you called
in a sticky situation. He could be relied on to find the
problem, establish a game plan and pursue the approach until
the task was accomplished. That's what was so damned
irritating; his boss calling him on a play.

Ed was practically screaming into the phone: "Jack,
what we're looking for at this outfit--team players--on the
job or off--team players, Jack--a guy that only looks out
for number one, a guy that uses up all the water, leaves the
shower curtain out, then sleeps on it--goes to sleep, that
is." Jack--" Ed's voice was earnest. "Jack--that guy's not
sharing." Then, deliberately slow: "He's just not on the
team. I guess what I'm trying to say...we're looking for
team players...You know I guess it all boils down to one
thing. Competence, Jack, competence." Ed yelled the words,

as if saying it louder would make the meaning clearer.

118

Jack used the extra cord on the telephone and walked
over for the toilet paper.
Ed continued," A guy's gotta go with the team. And he's

got to have the a-bil-it-y to know how to go."

 

The toilet paper rolled to the floor. Jack stomped on
it with his foot and tore off a piece. He remembered that
day he was sitting on the john listening to Ed and Jay, Jay
of Spa fame; he could still hear them talking.

"Jack, you still there? Let me tell you something.
Jack, you're one of the cleanest guys I ever met. Honest to
God--I've never had anybody work for me as clean as
you...those suits you wear--I never even see a piece of
lint--not one thing. It's downright amazing. I'll give you
credit for that. You're damned clean Jack, damned clean." Ed
proceeded with caution. "I've never said this before and I
don't want the word to get around..."

Jack stopped cold.

"Jack, I'm looking for a win and this is the truth--I
don't know how to say this but I would like to see you
people be a part of that win. You know what I mean? Just a
second, I'm coming up there...Barbara Jean's watching the
tube...and Jack, one thing, turn off that goddamn water. You
got that?"

The pounding started again. This time it was the door.
Al was there in a matter of seconds. He ran past Jack and
collapsed in the leather recliner. "Barbara Jean's up

watching TV." He was out of breath.

119

"Super, Ed, that's super." Jack stood in one spot,
smiling and jogging a little.

"God, I wish that woman would go to bed."

"Super, super--energetic lady." Jack smiled again.
"Full of life...vitality."

"No, Jack--neurotic."

Jack stopped short. He'd agreed to the wrong thing. He
switched bases, echoing the boss: "I know what you mean.
Neurotic..neurotic."

"That's right--neurotic." Ed was cynical. "Energetic,
that's one thing--neurotic, that's something else. It's like
sleeping with an alarm clock."

"Ed, you don't quit." Jack broke out laughing, shaking
his head. "What a guy."

"Jack, I wanna let you in on something." Ed's tone was
soft, confidential. "Jack, you know where I was tonight?"

"Let me have it, Ed. Where were you?"

"I'm gonna let you in on something...

"Right on."

"I was at the game."

"That's super, Ed, just super."

"And do you know what, Jack?" Ed counted his fingers.
"I bet you I didn't see three black faces in the whole
place."

Jack froze. The stakes were high. He'd have to be
careful here. A slip-up would be costly. "I guess I'd like

to say I have the answers, Al."

120

"I've tried ad campaigns, personally invited people."

"My problem, Ed," Jack shakes his head and tries to
look presidential." I know where you're coming from...I can
see both sides...but in this business, Ed, we have to play
it straight down the middle."

Ed isn't listening. "I've said, Come out...be a part of
this game."

"My problem..I just think too much."

"And for some reason...I don't understand it. In a city
of 50% there's less than 1% coming to the games."

"I hear you, Ed. I hear you. That's why I'm always in
the middle. Smack dab in the middle."

Ed jumped up abruptly, screaming, dancing around.
"Where in the hell are these people? What are they doing at
night?"

"I know what you're saying, Ed, and it irritates the
hell out of me..."

"I wanna know what they're doing?"

Jack remembers the sound of the toilet flushing.

"I'm just plain bummed out, Jack." Ed shook his head
and stared at the floor. "And this water comes dripping down
on my ceiling. What's the world coming to. I mean, shit.
What the hell is going on around here?"

I'd like to say I have the answer, Ed, but the truth is
there isn't one."

Ed nods. "Jack, I've given this a lot of thought. And I

see a way you can help this agency--maybe the whole country.

121

I'm talking about major stuff here, son."

Jack starts humming to himself: "I'm number one. I'm
number one."

"I know you've been waiting for this, Jack."

"I've been wanting that account for a long time, Ed.

"There comes a time in each and every man's life."

"Spa...that's my baby..."

"When he gives birth to a new idea, when the germ is
there right in front of him..."

"...a power hitter, that's what you're looking for, a
guy that comes on with the bases loaded and slams one out of
the park. Right, Ed?"

"That's right, Jack...the most dangerous hitter on the
team." Ed waved a hand at the wall. "Look at it, Jack.
Imagine this..." Ed motioned him over. "Get down here with
me, Jack." Ed slapped his thigh and pulled Jack down on his
knees beside him. The two of them kneeled together and
stared up at the blank wall. "Imagine it...a video
presentation." Ed waved his hands, gesturing wildly. "A
public service campaign. Of course you'll do it pro bono.
Pro bono--that's the heart and soul of this agency. Look at
it, Jack. I can see it now. 'Bring 'em back alive!' You
bring your people out to the park, Jack. I'm going to give
you all the ammunition. I want you to mount the strongest
campaign this agency's ever seen. I want billboards, TV
spots...Mom, the flag. ..look at the 'board." Ed's hands

moved slowly across the air. "Uncle Sam wants you at the

122

park...what an idea...you can turn this country around,

Jack...it's a grand-slam, a real winner."

123

The Checker

Most stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
That's part of the slogging, the donkeywork. This story only
has a beginning. I know what you're thinking, but please
stay with me.

Pleasure, desire--this is what I'm after. In the sixth
grade I listened to my gym teacher, Miss Steele, tell Mrs.
Taylor's sub, (Mrs. Taylor was the school secretary) that
you couldn't really tell by looking at a man or a woman
whether they were good at it, that sometimes the ugliest
peoople made the best sex. It had nothing to do with looks,
she said. It was something like magic, kind of a mysterious
thing that some people just had.

I didn't have it, and furthermore I didn't understand
people who did. For a kid on the outside, all this was hard
to grasp, out of reach. Even though Wavolene and Florence,
two girls in my class, had pointed out that the gym teacher
had a shape like a coca-cola bottle (a dead giveeaway for
experience), the stuff I heard Miss Steele tell the sub was

pretty strange coming from a gym teacher. Earlier that year

12a

in the p. e. class, they had taken anybody who had raised
their hand into the gym office just to explain why nice
girls didn't listen to blues on the radio. I didn't raise my
hand. I knew how the other kids worked; they wanted
something shocking--like that movie The Moon is Blue--stuff
to talk about on the playground; I was too shy. Not like
Wavolene and Florence, they were bragging to the teachers
about hearing "Work With Me Annie" on Al Benson's blues
show. I listened to Al Benson too (when my mother was at the
store), but I'd never tell. I'm a big observer of juicy
situations as long as I can watch from the sidelines.
Gratification, spontaneity--I have been told that these
things are necessary. I should be able to let it happen--
have the experience-~and not worry about whether it's
perfect. I'm not a kid anymore. These days I want to be
surprised when I come-~freely and energetically.

Like I said, I've been told that spontaneity is the
key, but for my mother, preparation was all important, more
important than whatever followed. My mother's warning--her
general instructions: "Before you do anything, always go to
the bathroom!" On my mother's knee the bathroom became the
most important room in my life. The castle--the throne room-
-the splendid place where all my dreams were put on hold.
The golden foyer--the warm loving repository, home of a
million good starts, all since stashed; they never
materialized. You see, after the sitting and the straining,

there wasn't any joy left.

125

On my mother's knee, I learned the value of labor.
Toil, sweat--my livelihood, my occupation. For some women,
the earliest picture, the one they sketch over and over
again to show the great care and loving that was given to
them, is the one about the perfect white organdy dress, or
the pink linen with fine European embroidery, or the
sheerest summer sun-dress with slips of satin woven along
the top. Mine was organdy. And you remember you didn't climb
trees. You sat there in that dress watching everybody else
play and as soon as she (I mean Mom) saw a spot on it, (and
I don't mean this to be anti-mother. I'd do the same thing
if I had little ones) she whisked it off and put you in
another picture perfect number. But before you changed, you
assembled the tools of your trade; you washed your hands
with soap.

In the South I always felt clean. As a small child the
smell of lime and disinfectant blessed the outhouse. The
slop jar was rimless, sharp and cold, and thus perfect. Then
Grandpa's indoor plumbing arrived, the awareness of a seat,
the invitation to do more than come and go; the bathroom
became a sanctuary for contemplating, thinking about the
world.

Segregation came with a manual: never leave the house
without "trying" first. It was part of the preparation, a
precaution, insurance in case you couldn't find a place to

go.

When I was in grammar school, we moved up North; indoor

126

toilets were everywhere, black people and white people all
using the same ones. The second part of my mother's warning
was the truth about what you can catch from toilet seats.
Her adage: "Always put paper down on the seat." A young
boss, a woman that I believe to be a whore, in the
traditional sense, told me once, emphatically, that you
could never catch anything from a toilet seat. I knew then
what she was, and I imagined her spreading with great
abandon her large pink drooping cheeks onto the toilet seat
with a great deal of that national treasure hanging over the
sides. I took pride in the number of times I had carefully
placed toilet paper all around the rim, like a princess
about to position myself on a throne. In my dreams I can see
myself patiently rimming the seat, weaving it all around
until every spot is shielded.

Let me just say that I'm a single working woman living
at home, with some very definite thoughts about the world of
the flesh, even though I haven't had much actual
experience. During infancy and childhood I was pampered,
protected--no chance to whimper, even the smallest cry was
answered. As a young woman, although I've waged political
wars, sounded the battle cry more than once, I've never come
face to face with sex or pleasure. In spite of this
handicap, my thirst to know has led to truth; my intuition
has flowered. I've been right more than once about "the good
life." I predict that in years to come elegantly coiffed

hostesses will be proud to accept packets of disposable

127

toilet seat liners as house gifts from thoughtful weekend
guests.

Weekend get-aways--I've tried countless times to plan
one...I know about preparation first hand. Call it a grind,
in my profession you can't put an hour limit on being tidy.
Preparation, ritual, it's my art. I'd broadcast it, tell
anybody I know: I've been late for things all my life. These
days I stand over the bathroom sink, the organdy dress
packed away, wearing a pair of faded men's pajama bottoms
and a top that doesn't match, but I wash my hands over and
over again. If I check a calendar, I can actually point out
dates, times, years. That June I planned to leave on time to
march with Martin Luther King. On Tuesday the fifth of one
year I would have had my first date with Harvey W., a
doctor's scion. Mr. Flowers, an elderly gentleman and my
first boss, promised to give me a promotion if I was there
by seven-thirty a. m. on a certain Friday with my own work
apron. Oh yes, when I was voted by the teachers as "class
smartest," I missed a chance to go downtown to meet a
Newberry Award winner.

You say "Try a new line of work, break the cycle--she's
always starting, never getting places." If I could quit,
stop all the planning, just let go...I thought about a way
of getting high, of having a good time without getting ready
first, of gliding into everything, without the ritual,
straight to the dance. I knew a way I could perform as

smoothly as a soloist. A little coke-- and I'd be on this

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stage like John Bubbles, you know, from Cabin in the Sky,
tapping and so on, slim, sophisticated John 8., taking you
and me, easy here, easy there, on a cloud. Just a second,
let's stop this shit right now. I didn't do drugs, they're
just another start--that's all, just another start.

Not that I haven't had a fantasy life. I'm not bragging
when I say that I've had some pleasant dreams. Louie H., a
boy in my high school Spanish class, was an expert with his
hands, a real craftsman (I don't mean Hambone, either). He
wore an old pair of gardening gloves in the winter and one
year, just before Christmas break, he removed his glove,
raised his third finger in a triumphant wiggle and screamed,
"I wear this glove for protection. This is the finger I
use."

For the next few months I imagined myself on Roosevelt
Road in the back of the Gold Theatre with Louie H. In my
dream, Louie had gone there on Tuesday morning and broken
the partitions between all the seats in the back row of the
Gold, so that we could be comfortable and away from the
crowd. He even issued an order in front of a high school
assembly that those were our seats. Louie, who was later
shot during a scrimmage between the Chaplains and the
Vicelords; Mr. Flowers, my boss at the drugstore; and a
teacher, Mr. Plachota--I tried to pick the most unlikely
people for my fantasies. The more unlikely--the more passion
they aroused; the homelier--the better; the more

authoritarian, the stricter the disciplinarian--the more my

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secret needs were aroused.

It started with this stuff about sensuality. When my
gym teacher, Miss Steele, told the school secretary (the
sub) that sometimes the ugliest people made the best sex,
that it had nothing to do with looks, I didn't understand
till years later what she meant. But if I really stick to
the stopping and starting, I have to pick the most unlikely
people for my fantasies--my profession demands it. Just
another start, that's all I really want. Because I care so
much, sometimes maybe too much, I have made a real effort to
cultivate sensuality, the clean scent of an expensive
fragrance--studied, tested, laboratory-proven, yet
intoxicating and carefree; a week's salary, but I can write
it off as a job-related expense. Spurred on by a love affair
with the clean and the pure, a simple occupation has risen
to the level of art; I now give the same care I always gave
to my hands to everything, checking as I go along to make
sure that everything is in order. This doctor I used to work
for up at Columbia, you know, around Morningside Heights,
was a cynic about the whole thing. Dr. M.--a guy who wore
windowpane checked sports coats, red, white and blue (school
colors, no doubt) straight brown hair, close-cropped and
slicked back, and spit-shined brogans, said "Show me a pair
of clean hands and I'll show you a cure for cancer."

I want you to know that I work like a detective, an
unrelenting master. My dilemma--am I looking for a sense of

order or is all this a strategy to get to the broken down

130

seats in the back row of the Gold? I am a smart dick, not
just an ordinary working Jane. I have a rhythm, a bump and
grind, that begins, rises, reaches a plateau and stays there
until I go off tired, weak until the next challenge.
Sometimes my mother yells: "Come away from there, you know
the door's locked." But the hard work has got me dulled: I
can't be sure. Although she used to be the last word on
everything, these days I have a scientific thirst for
knowledge that keeps me working on the truth about ordinary
events. If I really don't know, how can anyone know for me?

The other day at the doctor's office, I ripped out a
questionnaire from a woman's professional magazine, checking
first to make sure that the coast was clear. I might get a
job any day now as a higher-up. A few of the questions keep
going around and around in my mind; lately I've had to do a
lot of soul-searching. One question: "How do you feel about
race?"

I could have been a Jew; after all, race, all that kind
of stuff, it's just an accident of birth; the main thing,
when you track people down, they have to take precautions.
They start looking behind their shoulder to see who's there.
They'll look behind the same door over and over, checking
just to make sure. I could have been a camp survivor. The
cesspool that ran past the barracks, like in Shgah, years
later I could have looked outside my apartment door about
the same time every night to see if it was still running

there. I would, of course, look and look again until my eyes

131

ached and my vision blurred, hoping to see what was really
there. Starting again and again but never getting any
farther. I could have been a Jew, an Armenian, an Italian.
But I'm not.

I'm black. Hey, don't tune me out! This stuff could
happen to anybody. In the 60's I was a Panther. I was there.
After the raid on the apartment (blood was everywhere; they
counted ninety-seven bullet holes in the front door)--every
night for the next year I lay huddled on my mother's sofa,
like an actress before the first curtain; I thought they
were still after me. The first call: my grand performance,
jumping up, running to the window to check for unmarked cop
cars; about every ten minutes until I was so tired I could
only sit by the phone, waiting for a friend to call, so I
could listen for the phone tap. I knew the bullet went
through my leg. I knew that the twisted skin that stretched
over my hand like a piece of cellophane was permanent. The
rest was like a dream that began again and again, then
stepped short, leaving me confused and waiting. (Like I
said, race, all that kind of stuff, it's just an accident,
but there's something I'm going to get off my chest. What
happened to them--it's always some kind of universal
tragedy. And we're just runnin' around like a bunch of
natives, dropping babies, birthing at will. So that's not
thinky enough for you, huh? All right, so we didn't come up
with the theory of relativity. Score one. "Well, I don't

know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies." I don't give a damn

132

about some guy's id or his ego.)

The next question: "Do you have friends at work?" My
old boss, a black man, became an instant friend when he said
to me one day, as we were leaving the office: "Try that door
for me. I'm not sure I locked it!" Then he went from door to
door all around the suite of offices, turning every knob. My
feelings soared like the rush of joy on the first day of
spring.

Contact was made another time when an even older boss,
a Jewish fellow, was standing at the end of the hall. As I
closed the door to my office I looked down the hall and saw
him closing his. We slammed the doors shut, an automatic
locking system, then checked simultaneously four or five
times, starting a rhythm together.

A crucial question: "Does anyone respect my skill?" A
few poeple on the job have noticed my concern with minutia.
For a few minutes before I go home for the day, I want to be
alone, so I can take care of intimate details, fix and refix
until I feel good enough to leave. Sometimes after I make
sure all is well and I turn to say a last goodbye, I notice
a funny grin from a co-worker. I counter by playing their
game, covering myself by reciting seemingly casual phrases:
"Have a nice day" I cry--knowing that I have a day of work
ahead of me.

"Enjoy your evening" I follow up. My evening--what evening?
Or my conversation breaker--"Isn't this a beautiful day?"

Sometimes I'm almost down the stairs and I go back for one

133

brief glimpse, hiding my passion with a final and triumphant
"Have a nice afternoon."

Another question: "Are you organized in your personal
life?" Although I'm tidy at work, at home I live in a state
of chaos--papers piled high, sacks of posters from Al Benson
blues shows, yesterday's lunch, even a pair of old garden
gloves. In spite of a proper middle-class upbringing, my
appearance is always a little unkempt: sagging panty hose
with long runs up the sides, torn nails that don't get
smoothed. You could say I have a game plan, but the steady
business of checking everything out doesn't leave much time
for ordinary things. To say I am a procrastinator is to
belittle my sense of purpose. You drag me down to the level
of a snivelling little hobbyist. I have great plans that
will emerge someday.

My profession: I'm a checker--nothing but the best. No,
I don't mean I work at a grocery store. I have an office
job, but that's not my profession. Caution is what I'm known
for in the trade. Caution or better.p§gcaution. Before I
leave the scene, before I go to bed at night, I check things
carefully, like an understudy waiting for a chance to
perform. I memorize positions. I try to recall whole
pictures of things. Ordinary things-~you see, I am a student
of the mundane. Inside or outside. Public or private. I'm a
checker.

What was the position of the lock? Did I bolt the door

before I got into bed? Were all the knobs on the stove

13M

pointing to OFF? I looked so many times. I should be able to
remember. If I turn out the light and stand there in the
dark, would a red light tell me if it was ON? Would I even
know, if I saw it?

I'll be standing in a public john, a place I hate but
can't bear to leave. In front of me a large mirror, covering
the whole wall. I look straight at it. I turn to go away.
What did I write? Nothing. I look again. Did I take a tube
of bright red lipstick out of my purse and write on the
mirror--FUCK YOUUUUUUUUU........ (YOU KNOW WHO I MEAN)? No.
I've been brought up not to make a scene. I never have taken
that final step. I never will. Once I almost took my fist
and rammed it hard on that whistle-clean surface. Don't ask
me whether I ever will. That's not the point, but I started
to. I have reached the heights of precision. I can tell you
how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I have
checked and re-checked so many times that you'd get dizzy
watching. If you don't believe me, follow me and see how far

you get. You'll be very surprised.

135

By The Moon When The Moon Was Up

"Of course when John got a little older, he still was
bad, but he wasn't as brave as he thought. One night he went
somewhere--I don't know whether to see a girl or not--but he
had to pass through a cornfield. In those days we didn't
have lights on the streets, so it was dark. The only light
we had was by the moon when the moon was up. So in this
place near by there was a man that had a farm, and he had a
mule that was blind. Of course John didn't know that. So
when he cut through the cornfield the blind mule couldn't
see him and he couldn't see the mule. So he thought it was
someone attackin' him. So he picked up a stick or somethin
and started to beatin' the mule, but the mule kept on comin'
toward him. So the next mornin', someone said that somebody
had injured the man's mule and, come to find out, it was
John's doing, what he thought was somebody after him
wodden't nothin but the blind mule."

Uncle John was used to going out. I couldn't imagine
him caught by surprise, not at night. "So what happened? Did

he get in any trouble or anything.?" I was waiting for more.

136

"Mother didn't bother the boys too much. It was the
girls she used to be so strict on. In those days they didn't
think the boys could get in trouble. They didn't watch the
boys at all then like they do the boys now."

"So the next day was everybody talkin' about it?"

"No, nobody knew but us, that he was the one who did
it."

"But how did you find out?"

"Well, someone said it..."

"You mean they came by and told you?"

"No, someone said it, you know...in a small town
everybody knows what goes on."

"He came home and told you though?" I was still trying
to get it straight.

"No, he didn't tell us a thing." Her voice went high.
"Listen...the next morning we heard that somebody had hurt
this man's old mule." It made sense to her. "Right over
there where Uncle Leon used to live. Called it Putty Hill."

"What do they say now?"

"Crestview, they call it Crestview. They've built it
up. Over there as you go straight down Seventh Street--
straight down East End Street. All the way out there. It
wasn't built up then."

I looked over that way. I could tell that was all I was
going to get. How did they know in the first place? I'd
heard lots of these family stories. Whenever I asked for

more, they'd give me the runaround. For her it was easy,

137

something you understood if you had been brought up in a
small town. There were things that went on at night when
nobody seemed to be around that everybody knew about anyway.

It made me feel different, cut-off.

138

Wars

The snow seemed to stretch for miles around. Grey snow
from city dirt. It was snow you didn't want to touch. When
she moved into the neighborhood, the streets were tree-
lined. But when houses were abandoned or torn down, the
trees didn't make any sense. The quiet around her, the sound
of the wind, the snow and the sameness of building after
building made everything grey and dull. Two stray dogs ran
past and into a burned-out building up ahead. Eager, she ran
after them, pulling a metal shopping cart behind her, a
heavy book and an empty milk bottle, sliding back and forth,
rattling around together in the cart. A year ago a fire had
gutted the place, but the icy glaze on the wood and the
stone made things seem vibrant and alive. She could ignore
the snow and sameness; instead of the wind she heard the
whispers of family life, men, women and children, rehearsing
their stories behind the walls. Out of breath, she walked up
to the building, past black wood, crinkled like pieces from
the evening gown her doll wore. Like a collector searching,

she wanted to examine the wood, but her mother had been

139

adamant; she worked hard to keep her clean: "Cross over to
the other side. Stay away. Anything could fall from that
house."

Last Thursday when she was standing in front of the
building trying to look inside, her mother's landlady was
watching her from across the street. Mrs. Henderson guarded
the neighborhood; it was her territory. When she got home,
her mother already knew she'd been at the building.

At least two or three times a week she went that way to
the store; today she was already loaded down. After she
passed the old building, she buried herself in a thick,
heavy book that she'd been trying to finish for weeks.
Pulling the shopping cart behind her, she tried to hold the
book and turn the pages with the same hand. Sometimes she
couldn't read at home. He said she had too much free time:
"What's that you got there?"

A quiet chamber, cave-like, the heavy snow could soften
things, drown out noise. At first she didn't hear the
footsteps behind her. The voice startled her. It was sudden,
shrill. "You going the wrong way to the store." She kept
reading. The snow fell into the spine of the book, making a
small valley. When she got home he'd have chores, dishes for
her to do, cleaning, dusting. Her eyes flew back and forth
across the page.

"Go on. Turn around." The voice was strong: "Go on back
to the store before somebody comes looking for you." A lady

that she recognized from the church choir was whispering in

1&0

her ear.

Freezing for a second, then starting up again, she
threw the book in the cart and hurried back to Stan and
Bill's.

It was a small neighborhood store, sandwiched between
rows of houses. No one would have ever expected it to be
there. Almost all the other stores were churches by now--
Seventh Day Adventist, Jehovah's Witness, Sanctified.
According to her mother, no A. M. E. church would ever meet
in a storefront. Sanctified wasn't even respectable. They
used saxophones and drums in the house of the Lord and
encouraged young people to shake and go wild.

She was christened Almyra for her mother's mother, and
as far as she was concerned that was her name. Still,
everybody called her Myra except for her relatives down
South and a few old people in the neighborhood. On the cold
Northern day, she walked up to the store, pulling the cart,
stepping military style, past a solitary tree, not bothering
to notice the ice near the door. She slipped a little, then
caught herself. She had walked all the way pulling the cart
with one hand and holding the open book with the other.
Still in a trance, she pushed the door open to Stan and
Bill's. On tiptoes she could barely make out the top of
Stan's white grocer's cap; a big man wearing a heavy winter
coat took up the whole counter.

"Thank you and come again." Stan always had a word or

two for his customers. As Myra passed the counter, he

141

reached for her arm, squeezing it hard. "Who goes there?" he
thundered, blank-faced. "Friend or foe?"

Myra started to salute. "Crossing the border, sir."
Stan leaned down and pretended to examine the book
carefully. "Now girlie, did you check the Pope's list? Hope
it's not one of those books...did he say it was okay? The
Pope I mean." She tried to catch herself but she couldn't
hold it any longer; her face swooshed into a big grin.

"Better watch out. They banned Confidential." He was

 

still pretending to be serious.

Giggling, she tucked the book under her arm and tried
to lean against the counter, her eyes moving quickly around
the room. "Milk, a loaf of bread," her eyes still moving.
When the heavy copy of Gone With the Wind fell to the floor,
Stan covered his mouth and stared up at the ceiling.
Whistling and moving his feet, he turned away.

She had watched "The 68,000 Dollar Question" and could
spell every word. The spelling champ was twelve too.
Furthermore, he had announced, to the amazement of Hal March
and the entire audience, that he had read all of Gone With

the Wind three times. That night she'd sat there spelling

 

every word that came up until Daddy Boyd turned to her and
shouted, "Shut up. I'm tryna hear the contestants."

Stan would be more interested. "School goin' OK.?" He
wiped his fingers hard on the apron, then made his eyes go
thin, detective style.

"School?" she was still looking around to see who else

1142

was there. "I'm editor of The Pennygram," she declared

proudly. "The Pennygram of William Penn Penitentiary."

 

"That's what we called it too...editor? Not bad. Not
bad at all. My boy used to do that." He stopped short,
adjusting his white apron. "Before we moved to the North
Side, that is. 30, little lady, what's it gonna be?"

She chanted her list and raced to the back of the store
to look for the butcher and his wife. Bill was in charge of
the meat. His wife, Vi, kept the books and made sure all the
best customers were pleased. Bill was all right; he was
careful about your order--even if you only wanted enough
pork to salt up some dried beans.

"Guess what, Bill? We're duckwalking."

"Duckwalking?" Bill leaned against the side of the meat
counter. He cocked his head and shrewdly examined the pair
of skinny legs. "Who's 'we?'"

"Me...me and my baby sister. We're doing it for Ike. I
taught her. We get down on the floor every night and go 'I
like Ike, I like Ike.' We do this duckwalk. I know Ike's
gonna win. That Stevenson's an egghead." The Ike thing was a
bombshell, a chance to be the center of attention.

Bill nudged his wife and pointed to the thick book on
the floor. "Now we won't talk about that, will we?" Myra
turned and grinned. She liked being around adults. Sometimes
the kids at school made fun of her when she stood up to
recite. With adults she had a chance to brag about things,

show her knowledge.

1M3

Bill mumbled to Vi, pointing to Myra's legs. "Ike,
Schmike." He grabbed Myra by the shoulder and put his head
down right next to hers: "You know we charge Republicans
extra tax."

Vi's hands flew up in the air. She patted them wildly,
stopped for a minute, then, reflecting, placed them to one
side of her face. "Look at her, Bill." She tugged hard on
her husband's sleeve. "They keep her so clean, don't they?"
She pointed to the girl's clothes. "They really keep her
up."

Bill nodded, "A fine colored family."

Myra looked at her clothes--starched white blouse,
buttons and tiny rows of trim, red/yellow plaid jumper
tucked into snow pants. Her brown wool coat hung open at her
sides, beat down, smoothed out by the strong wind. Her
coarse, heavy hair had been carefully parted into four
sections, two long braids at the back, one at the top,
jutting out stiffly to one side of her face, and a part
straight across her forehead, for bangs, turned under in one
big curl. Her mother gave her orders every day about staying
out of things. Cleaned, pressed, just like always--she
shrugged. What was the big deal?

Trying to play magician, Bill pulled an egg from under
the counter. "Me, Bill, says my egg's the winner." He
reached for Myra's hand and set the egg on her palm. All
three, Bill, Vi and Myra, laughed at the same time. Once

last summer Bill had stuck a quarter in her shirt pocket for

1AA

straight A's.

The aisle was narrow. After Myra wrapped her change in
the receipt, she tried to hold onto it and maneuver the cart
past a display and out the door. Going to Stan and Bill's
and announcing her political knowledge was the thing to do
even if they didn't always agree with her. It was a small
store, one large room with food stacked everywhere. Big
walls of food and slabs of meat, fresh and red and dull.
Boxed in. But the people there always listened.

Those old guys were just about the only white
shopowners left from the crowd that was there when they
moved into the neighborhood. In a gangway one afternoon, a
Jewish friend, Nedra, told her the truth about "the
colored." "My mother," said Nedra, "told me that when they
move in you have to leave or your house won't be worth
much."

On the way back she passed the old building again. If
she looked through a crack, she could see shadows at first,
then men with long flowing beards wearing black hats, women
in loose-fitting overcoats, shivering, huddled together in a
corner, as if waiting for some warmth, small children,
sleeping next to piles of trash. Once Myra was sure she saw
a bride, cool and gauzed, in a long white gown of pieces
sewn like falling ice. She seemed to step out of nowhere,
dresden-like, confused for a moment, then, cautiously
turning to find a man, the groom, the two of them walking

grimly towards a charred door. When Myra looked through the

195

crack she felt guilty, a feeling, something inside her that
she resisted. To stOp the feeling, she pressed her legs
together.

When she wasn't too caught up in her own world, too
eager to look inside, she checked first to make sure Mrs.
Henderson wasn't watching. Today she was much bolder. She
looked through the big crack in the wood right away. She
couldn't see the shadows, nothing that made a snowbank seem
to move. She watched a bird dart back and forth, tracing the
air. She listened to whirring sounds. She could see the
stray dogs sniff the ground and cough into the cold air. She
put her lips to the hole and yelled. No one answered.

Sometimes she hated looking around in the winter. She
didn't mind the snow; it was just all the garbage thrown in
it. She kept stepping where stray dogs had been. The snow
oozed with everything; it was full. Nobody seemed to care in
the winter.

After Myra crossed the street, she looked to the right.
Mrs. Henderson was walking towards her, carrying her maid's
uniform in an old shopping bag. She worked for a lady in
Skokie, who hid the mOp so Mrs. Henderson would have to get
down on her hands and knees to scrub the floor. They thought
you cleaned it better that way.

After the landlady had found Myra there three times
last week, she had told her "I better not catch you over by
that old building...you and your investigating...somethin'll

jump out of there and bite you...and you know, Miss Almyra,

1A6

if you think you can go runnin', 'Help, police!‘ don't think
it. This ain't no TV show, honey." She tugged her braid
gently. "You won't see the law round here. Leastways when
you want them."

Myra raised her hand in the landlady's direction, then
lowered it quickly. The snow could be an adversary. It hid
things --not necessarily when you wanted it to. It was
unbending. You couldn't control it. Nothing grew out of it--
no fragrant herbs, no dandelions. It was its own thing. She
didn't hear the coins when they fell in the snow.

When her Aunt Nell, her mother's sister, came up from
the South, she brought fresh herbs from her garden and
potted them up for the windows. On cold days Myra liked to
sit near the herbs and watch her breath on the cold glass.
Her aunt called one herb "asifidity," and when she was in a
determined mood, she would tie it up in a bag and put it
around Myra's neck to keep away colds. Mrs. Henderson, her
mother, her stepfather--they were all from the same town.
She thought of Mrs. Henderson taking an old spoon, digging
around the roots, giving them air, and of Nell breaking off
bits along the stem. Her niece liked the strong odor; it was
a reminder that growing things--like people--could survive.

Nell always had something to say about Daddy Boyd. Out
of the whole neighborhood, black and Jewish, Lester Boyd and
Myra's mother Aline were the only Republicans, black
Republicans at that. Her aunt, Nell, who had never been very

fond of Daddy Boyd, said she knew from the day she found out

1U7

he was a Republican that Daddy Boyd was nothing but trouble.
Conversations about him started with mumbling. The last time
Nell came Myra heard her say. "...that ol' round-headed
bastard." That fact of anatomy and a few other things, like
his refusal to go to church one Sunday with Nell and Mrs.
Henderson, made Lester Boyd intolerable to her aunt.

She lifted the large glass bottle of milk and put it in
the refrigerator. Then, walking sideways, she edged her way
into the living room, and carefully shoved her book into the
corner behind the chair. Daddy Boyd was home.

Daddy Boyd was a short, stocky man, who needed to pace
and talk. Always restless, tonight he was more agitated than
usual. He was standing next to her mother Aline: "This
oughta teach you not to buy that junk--The Daily News-—look,
they got a picture of Stevenson right on the front page. You
oughta know by know the Tribune is the only decent paper in
town; they put guys like that on the back where they
belong."

Daddy B. expected the worst; any Democrat was under
suspicion. Although he had strong opinions on just about
everything, he had few hobbies. One of his favorite pastimes
was reflecting on politics and historical theories, long
winter nights in his favorite chair explaining the causes of
World War II or revealing Roosevelt's hidden agenda with
"the Reds."

Myra was relieved. When Daddy B. talked, you had to

listen. Daddy B. was Aline's political mentor; she listened

1118

quietly to his ideas and accepted his choice for candidate.
Maybe in all the commotion her mother had forgotten Mrs.
Henderson's news. After all, this time she had hurried home
from the store. A victory. She was off the hook.

Some people in the neighborhood thought Daddy B. had a
grudge against the government; that he was waging some kind
of battle, a private crusade. She heard Mrs. H. explaining
to the lady next door that a lot of Daddy Boyd's frustration
was tied to the problem at the post office. Mrs. Henderson,
who liked to make creole gumbo and sometimes, if you begged,
big skillets of pepper steak, was always willing to talk. If
there was a little pepper steak left, she would invite Myra
to stay awhile in the dining room crowded with pots and pots
of mothers-in-law tongues and philodendrums to talk and eat.
Mrs. Henderson, who fixed white cakes from scratch and
colored the frosting light green, had thought a lot about
Daddy Boyd. One afternoon when Myra was sitting upstairs,
finishing a plate of pepper steak, the landlady confided "A
man can't study and study and try and try and never get
anywhere. It's got to work on him some way." She explained
to Myra that every year, if you worked at the p. 0., you had
to be tested to see if you knew the towns in your district.
You practiced and practiced, hoping that if you scored high
enough on the test you wouldn't have to take it again. She
told Myra that Daddy B. had taken the test for fifteen years
and, although he wasn't at the bottom, he had never scored

high enough. Mrs. Henderson understood his job; her husband

189

worked at the post office too.

Myra knew that Daddy B. kept a big box divided into 96
sections at the back of the house. He had made up a postal
sorting system, just like the one downtown. All winter he
practiced for the test, throwing the cards into the slots.
Mother always said, "Don't bother Daddy B. when he's
throwing the mail."

Walking sideways again, Myra edged over to the chair
and handed Daddy B. the receipt and the change. He examined
them. Slowly, without turning around, he crumpled the
receipt in his hand. "You're short," he said, "...you're
short."

She moved nearer to the chair.

"Fifteen cents." He held out his hand. "You're fifteen
cents short." When he came in at night he looked for
trouble--anything out of place.

"I must've dropped it."

"Dropped it?" He could smell weakness.

"That's right, I remember now. I was over there by
that..." She could feel her mother moving behind her.

He grabbed her arm. "Those damn Jews. I knew they were
gonna try this sooner or later. They ain't gonna pull this
shit on me."

"Just a second. I know I had it. I..." She searched her
pockets. "Maybe it's in here...Stan and Bill--they
always..."

He jumped in. "Don't give me any lip." He struck her

150

with the back of his hand. "They cheated you, you little
dummy."

Her mother was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"That's enough, Lester."

She felt her mouth and wiped the blood away. "I'll go
back. I know it was a mistake. I'llll..." He pushed her down
again. She should have counted the change.

The thing with Jews was always going on between her and
Daddy Boyd. It was after their first "talk" about them that
the rules started. She headed for her room remembering the
rules:

1. No slamming doors.

2. Bedroom door open at all times unless getting
dressed.

3. All reading and other non-essential activity can
take place only in the TV room with the rest of the family.
Lights off in bedroom unless getting dressed. (Or maybe that
was really rule 2.)

A. A week's advance notice to leave the house, unless
going to school, even for choir practice at church.

For Myra to accept that Daddy Boyd was mean to her out of
spite or out of sickness was too hard. It meant that she was
part of a nightmare. But she wasn't screaming. So it wasn't
a nightmare. But there had to be a reason and since he was
in charge, she was the reason. It didn't mean she was brave,
either. To be brave you have to choose. She was just there.

There wasn't any other place for her to be.

151

She remembered the night she had stayed up to watch

Danny Thomas. Television shows, specifically Gunsmoke and

 

old war movies, (John Wayne, if he happened to be on) or
baseball--the Chicago White Sox--were the only things that
got Daddy Boyd off the subject of Jews. It was a half hour
past her bedtime. Danny Thomas makes an entrance and the
music starts. Daddy B. comes in. "I told you I don't want to
see no kikes on TV." Mother, quietly, "It's only a show."
Myra: "He's not a Jew--he '3 Lebanese." Daddy B. slams the
doors shut on the TV. "They're all the same," he says.
Mother, quietly: I"m watching it too, Daddy B." The TV
stayed off the rest of that evening.

In the summer when Myra went down South to visit, she
listened for hours in the next room while her mother's older
sister, Nell, and Nell's friends talked about her mother and
Daddy B. According to her Aunt Nell, Aline was a good girl;
she had always been a good girl. She and Daddy B. had been
brought up in the same town. Aline's family was respected by
just about everybody. Long after Aline and Nell's father had
died, people in the town talked about his honesty, his
courage. Whenever anyone mentioned his name, it was in
hushed tones, with a respect only given to a fallen
dignitary. Daddy B.'s family, on the other hand, was known
for being a little odd, not quite right. Only one or two
families in the town were given that title. In a small
Southern town, they were the ones that didn't say hello when

they saw you on the street unless they knew you. Nell would

152

never say much about them, just shake her head and look
down. Once Myra had heard them all whispering about Daddy
B.'s father and his "particular" ways, about how he would
sweep the dirt outside his own front door the way some
people clean the steps and the walkway.

Nell didn't finish high school; she was proud that her
sister had gone to college to be a school teacher. After
Aline divorced her first husband, she knew that to keep her
job she had to live a proper life. In her time divorced,
single women were not allowed to teach. That's when she got
to know Daddy B. better. When Nell said Aline was good, what
she really meant was that she had never been around anybody
really bad. If she happened to meet anybody really bad, she
wouldn't know what to do with them.

After Aline and Daddy B. had been married for awhile,
she found out about his sudden fits of temper, but she felt
that she still had to stay with him; she needed a man in her
life. Aline's sister wondered why Aline didn't stand up to
Daddy B. the way she would have. After all, Aline had only
one child; she could have left. But Aline just couldn't see
having two divorces.

As Nell said, her sister was good; when Myra was young,
Aline enjoyed the fairy tales she read at night as much as
Myra. It was easier to pretend that everything was just
fine. Nell called her "nice-nasty." That meant she got
really upset about things like the right fork or a wrinkle

in a dress, but she could have really bad things happen and

153

not bat an eye.

Myra enjoyed the trips down South. In the evening when
it was almost dark, she would sneak out of the house and run
down the hill to the tent meeting at the Sanctified Church.
If she lifted a flap in the tent, she could watch a man
called Big Sam play the sax0phone. When she listened to Sam
play, she could feel something warm and irresistible. She
wasn't sure if it was right. Nell had told her not to go
down the hill to hear the Sanctified.

Nell had told her once, "Almyra--girl, you were born
old." When she thought about it, she had to agree. Myra
lived in a play world sometimes, but she had studied the
real world. She knew it word for word. She could never
remember playing with other kids, people her own age. Nell
had names for everybody she met--Miss Princess, Miss Proper,
Little Busybody--they were all Nell's names for her.
Sometimes when she sat upstairs in Mrs. Henderson's living
room, with everything painted green, light green, sometimes
called bathroom green, sometimes called Mrs. Henderson
green, Mrs. Henderson would tell her how especially lucky
she was that Daddy B. had put a roof over her head,
emphasizing the "especially" because, of course, he wasn't
really her father. "Not many men would do that," she would
always add.

They hadn't talked about Jews for weeks. Then she
listened to a teacher at school talk to the class about

being a prisoner in a death camp. The teacher raised her

15M

sleeve and showed some numbers tattooed on her arm. Myra was
sure now; she was going to show Daddy B. that it really had
happened, that concentration camps did exist. She stayed at
the library looking for facts. Of course Daddy B. had his
own facts. His family had always been rovers, travelers for
one reason or another. His mother, Billie, was the first to
bring him news of overseas. As a little boy he had listened
intently to her stories. Billie left the South after a few
years of college and found a job in a migrant camp near
Hollywood picking grapes. Later, when World War I broke out,
about the time Daddy B. was five years old, she went to
Italy with the YMCA people and stayed there long enough to
see Mussolini march to Rome in 1922. The people in town
always complained that Billie wasn't around nearly enough
when he was growing up, always traveling. Daddy B. was
raised by his aunts.

His war library was at the back of the house--a set of
books with 11 Duce's picture on each cover sent by Billie
when she was abroad, a khaki green scrapbook of World War II
porno, with wacs and waves in all kinds of positions, and a
bunch of little books in plain covers. The first time Myra
saw him tuck the big book into the bottom of a dresser
drawer she waited until he'd left the house to dig it out.
When she opened it she found a big blond woman smiling
fiercely, wearing no clothes. The woman, who appeared in a
series of photos, was completely flat. Myra stared for a

long time trying to figure out what had happened to the

155

woman's behind. She didn't like the little books in the
plain covers, eight-pagers, mini-features about famous
people like Dagwood, about Dagwood's long hose-like penis, a
mean penis that would go all the way through Blondie and
come out the other end with Blondie still smiling; the rest
of his scrapbook she'd seen on the bathroom walls at school.
She found a poem at the end that was the best part. It went:
"So sit on the sand and do it by hand/ and buy bonds with
the money you save."

When she looked at the war book the next time, she felt
something in her body that she didn't like. A slightly warm
feeling, the same feeling she had when she looked in the old
burned-out building, or peeked through the flap to watch Sam
play his saxophone, the same one that she had to fight the
first time she went to the library and looked at the
pictures from the camps. It made her feel guilty; fighting,
she closed herself up to that feeling.

Their next confrontation began with his confiding "You
know Hitler had a black army. Not too many people know
that." When he left to go to the bathroom, she stood up and
announced, "If he did, they were on their way to the camps
with everybody else." When he came back, she showed him the
library books on the table. "Look, Daddy B....It's
horrible. Pictures from the camps. People piled up like dead
animals. Look at that big ditch over there." She paused, and
then added triumphantly, "The army took these."

He sighed, then repeated mechanically. Was it even

156

necessary to say it? "How many times do I have to tell you
there was no such thing as the camps?" His eyes opened wide.
No matter how long she stared at them, she couldn't see
anything there, just emptiness.

"Books lie. All that garbage you read. Nothing but
dreamin', dreamin' lies. Don't you know that? Don't you know
they can do anything to pictures? Pictures don't mean
nothin'." His voice tightened. "There was no such thing as
concentration camps." The words came out like big rocks
striking the air.

Mother, softly, "He was fine until he came back from
the war."

Another time he'd been more charitable, admitting that
there had been a problem, adding that it was 0. K. what "the
people over there" did to the Jews; they were messing up the
economy.

Daddy Boyd was actually a very clean man. He carefully
scrubbed his washrag after each use, making the practice of
changing the washrag once a week totally unnecessary.
Furthermore, he worked weekends at the race track and
brought home a stack of small white towels, neatly folded.

If he liked, he could make any rule. The guy in charge
never gives the accused reason to think otherwise. The guy
in charge shows no weakness--no guilt. If he does, then both
of them would have known--they would have been in it
together. The guy in charge would have lost his power. It

was like a bad grade at school. The last thing you think

157

about is the teacher making a mistake. If she does, it
doesn't matter. And if you got mad and you had to leave
school and sit in an alley somewhere, nobody would care
anyway. You'd just end up getting hurt later.

More rules:

1. All food--everything must be finished. Once she had
stuffed so much food in her mouth that she threw up before
she could get to the toilet.

2. No lotion anywhere on your body; it grows hair.

3. Don't run when you're touched.

In the spring, Daddy B. decided he needed help once a
week with the laundry. When it was time, they went, as he
had ordered, down in the dark, in the basement. He set up
the tubs for the rinsing, one for the first rinse, the one
next to it for the bluing. Daddy B. had been a staff
sergeant in the Army Air Corps; he had an exact way of doing
things; he expected perfection.

He pushed her nearer the tub. "Hold the clothes down
close." He tried to soften his voice. "Or you'll spill it
over the side."

Myra stiffened her shoulders and pushed her hands down
in the water. He moved over quickly, standing close so that
his body almost touched hers. His voice was casual. "Relax,
I won't bite." Except for the sound of his hard breathing,
everything was still.

She dropped a white shirt into the bluing; it floated

off cool and free.

158

He tried again, touching her shoulder lightly. Her
fright had made her stiff, kept her away. "Relax, relax" he
laughed, as if he had just heard a funny joke, one nobody
else knew.

Myra took a long breath and felt the water again. She
never said a word. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she
saw him pick it up from the windowsill and put it down
again. He flipped the pages, pretending surprise, as if he
was looking at something new.

They stayed down there for about an hour. She
transferred the clothes from the rinse water to the bluing,
then handed them to him for hanging on the line. Out of the
corner of one eye she had watched him move the eight-pager
from windowsill to the table and back, maybe ten times,
hoping she'd pick it up. The whole time she was down there,
she didn't say a word. Battle-ready, she never moved from
her station. It was the one about Dagwood; she had
recognized the cover right away.

Her aunt always said cleverness wasn't Daddy B.'s
strong suit. Every night before she went to bed Mother
always reminded her if she forgot: "Kiss Daddy Boyd good
night."

"Good night, Daddy Boyd," she would chant.

Sometimes when her mother wasn't looking he would grab
her and try to hold her tight. Once she told her mother,
"Daddy B. tried to kiss me when his pants were unzipped."

Her mother's gaze was fixed: "Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean

159

anything by that."

One Thursday when it was very hot, Daddy Boyd started
choking her. After Mother ran down the street screaming,
Myra locked herself in the bathroom, pounding on the walls,
yelling, "I hate you, I hate you," as loud as she could.
When she came out, the landlady, Mrs. H., and her husband
were standing in the doorway, talking quietly to her
stepfather. After they left, Daddy Boyd told Myra not to
ever get smart with him again.

Later that same afternoon, after it had cooled off,
Myra left the neighborhood and went to a new store, Mrs.
Pincus's, to use the pay phone. The number for the police
was taped to the receiver. She talked a long time. When she
was almost finished, she said "My stepfather tried to kill
me. He's mentally ill."

A pause. The voice on the other end seemed far away.

"How do I know you're not the one?"

Maybe he didn't believe her. She'd watched the TV
shows. They always needed evidence. She talked again.

Again, the officer replied, "How do I know it's not
you?"

"OK," she yelled.

Myra slammed the phone down on the receiver and ran all
the way home. While she was running, she made her plan. She
wouldn't let Daddy Boyd kiss her goodnight. And she would
never go to Stan and Bill's on his day off. The war had just

started.

160

Until The Real Thing Comes Along

I'd work for you, I'd slave for you,
I'd be a beggar or a knave for you,
If that ain't love,--It'll have to do,

Until the real thing comes along.

It was five-thirty p. m. His Aunt Mag cleaned offices
at the building next door. In fifteen minutes, like
clockwork, she would leave out a side door, wearing cuffed
anklets with open-toe wedgies, noticeable on the near North
Side because she wasn't one of the new wave of college girls
into the "forties look." She was sixty-five and she had
started wearing wedgies and the rest on her first job at an
army munitions plant. The rest was a waitress-blue utility
blouse, pants and a rat tail. Back at the munitions plant
Mag was awestruck by the boss's wife, a tall slender woman
who wore upsweeps and chignons, fashioned with the aid of a
long stuffed tail, then decorated at the side with a floral
spray. In the forties before they started making polyester

the boss's wife had shown Mag how to stuff a narrow piece of

161

hair net with shredded cotton, pieces of men's suits,
anything she could find. Mag's hair was combed over the
slightly concealed rat tail, but the short pieces always
snapped out.

Usually Jack was out of the office by five-fifteen. He
had time to catch the happy hour at Butch McGuire's, or pick
up his laundry and still not run into her. Tonight was
different. Most of his floor was working late. At ten to
six, when he was trying to polish the report for his
presentation the next day, Aunt Mag waltzed in. She glanced
at the stack of papers on Jack's desk, shrugged and ambled
into the adjoining office. With her nephew close behind, she
checked out an empty office and a new machine in the copy
center, then parked herself in the war room underneath the
picture of Jack's favorite account. She propped up her feet
on a footstool and yawned. "I'm thirsty."

Jack swung his arm up and fired a glance at his watch.
"Yep, dinner time. Got to be checking out."

Mag adjusted the headrest on the back of the recliner.
"I didn't say a thing about eating, did I?"

"You know, you're right, you didn't." Jack clipped and
unclipped the sections of his report, trying to look busy.

She yawned again. "Where's the canteen?"

"The what?" He had to get this over as soon as
possible.

"The canteen...Lord y'all don't know nothin' around

here, do you? Where you been, boy? Ain't you never heard of

162

a canteen?"

Jack shook his head and pretended to read the report.

"Well, never mind your smartness, get me a bottle of
soda pop...on the double."

Jack dropped the papers and ran over to a refrigerator
stocked with test market samples of four or five flavors of
pop.

Mag chuckled as she opened the bottle. "Who woulda
thought it?" She closed her eyes and sipped slowly. "Jack in
his own place...the boss." When she opened her eyes she did
a double take, jumped up and pointed to a glossy of a male
model holding a bottle of cream soda. "Look at that splib!"
She laughed hard, slumping over, till her whole body shook.
"He's as black as Pha Terrell." She looked up again, took
another drink, this time choking and coughing until Jack had
to fan her with a piece of paper.

Pha Terrell was a black singer from the thirties who
shortened his first name, Pharoah, to Pha and pronounced it
with a short "a" so fans wouldn't pronounce it "Fay" or "O-
Fay." Jackson had been hearing Mag's "Pha Terrell" stories
since he was fourteen; he would never be a fan.

While Mag was coughing, a secretary in a delicately
patterned crepe de chine ran in to offer help. After the
secretary left, Mag propped her feet up again. "See--there
was this woman used to be down at Miami Beach. Always
stayin' at that hotel, you know the one?" When Jack shook

his head, Mag waved him away. "Anyway, she'd go out with

163

this guy, kinda looked like Herb Jeffries, she kinda went
for the light ones, you know what I mean? Anyway after
they'd go back to his place and he was all full, she'd start
cuttin' on him." Mag laughed and slapped her knees. "Then
she'd go out with this guy, kinda looked like Billy Daniels,
another light one, they'd do the same thing, she'd start
cuttin' on him too...Well, let me tell you, she didn't mess
with Pha Terrell." When Mag laughed her head fell against
the back of the chair; the rat tail popped out and slipped
to the floor.

Jackson didn't notice. He was holding the report over
his face and mumbling quietly. A few minutes later the
secretary came in again, arranged some mail in a tray, then
stood there for a minute, straightening papers and glancing
sideways. Jackson peeked from behind the paper; he watched
her as she moved, the silk material of her dress floating as
she glided from tray to tray. She stepped carefully, almost
tripping, then bending over to pick up a long, dark piece of
something resembling a sausage wrapped in a tattered hair
net. She held the dark thing by one corner and laid it on
the desk.

Jack should have been horrified but he was past that
point. Aunt Mag leaned against the desk, cleared her throat
and went on. According to Mag, she was at a "Buy Bonds"
rally in 19N3. When Pha Terrell walked up to the microphone,
the place went crazy. In 1937, his big hit "Until the Real

Thing Comes Long" sold a million, but seven years later

16A

everybody was still screaming for it. When she talked about
that night, she shook her head: "He was with it. He was with
it." Instead of lagging behind the beat, and trying to hold
back the way some singers did, Pha Terrell got right in
there. He didn't go in for a lot of mystery, he bared his
soul right away. The way Mag told it, she was sitting close
to the stage, writhing around in her seat, swinging back and
forth with the rest of the crowd. At the end of his number
when he went real high with the falsetto, his first bit of
espionage, everybody was ready. When he sang the last line,
"Until the real thing comes along," Mag went wild. Friends
tried to hold her back but she was out of control. She
jumped up on the stage, grabbed Pha Terrell by the arm and
tore the sleeve off his suitcoat.

At this point Mag usually stopped talking and started
singing the rest of the song. Jack grabbed his attache case
and pretended to gather his papers, hoping she would take
the hint and leave. But Mag was having too much fun. When
she reached for the tail and threw it at Jack, he took a
piece of paper and pushed the tail over to a corner of the
desk. Mag laughed even louder. She stood on the toe of one
wedgie until she could reach the rat tail. "You know what's
in this thing, don't you?" She was still laughing. "It's the
sleeve. I been wearing it all this time."

Mag dangled the tail in Jack's face, but he was
watching the bit of silk floating around the corner; she'd

been listening all the time, the secretary and lord knows

165

who else. He should have told Mag long ago that he didn't
want anything to do with her or her Pha Terrell stories. She
had a lot of nerve showing up at his war room. Before he
felt guilty avoiding her but not any more. He was his own
man. He had come up the hard way without anybody else's
help. His destiny, his future, that was up to him. Nobody,

including Mag, was going to slow him down.

166

The Bridge Party

Setting: The play takes place in a small town in middle
Tennessee. Because the black peOple of the town must provide
their own entertainment, the bridge club is the center of
social life. Most of the women in the club are school
teachers. Two are doctors' wives. Two others are morticians
who have continued the family business after the death of
their husbands.

The play opens in the sitting room of the Edwards home
on East End Street. The house, built by the parents of Emma
Webster Edwards in the 1880's, sits at the top of East Hill
on a large plot of land deeded to the family by the local
plantation owner, Emma's mother's father. It is a typical
middle-class Southern black home of the time: well-kept,
immaculate, with handed-down furnishings and mementos. The
furniture style is mostly Victorian and quite heavy; two
settees and a chair, all of well-worn, faded velvet. There
is a tiled fireplace, handmade by the father, Will; two
straight-back oak chairs; a low table in front of the settee

with a Bible and two small fans; a phone on the wall. A

167

victrola sits on an old table covered with a fringed
commemorative armed forces scarf. Beside the victrola is a
stack of records. Off to one side of the living room stands
a player piano stacked high with boxes of piano rolls. Since
the purchase of the piano by Willie C., the oldest daughter,
with the pay from her first teaching job, the home has
become a popular place with young people. On many evenings a
crowd can be found gathered around the piano.

Three tables are set up for a bridge party. On an open

door leading off the stage hangs a silk crepe dinner dress.

Time: July, 19u2. World War II is in progress. The family

consists of the mother, Emma, the father Will, who works as

a fishing and hunting guide, four sisters--Leona, Marietta,

Theodora, and Willie C. (the oldest daughter, she is living

in California)--and two brothers--Leon and Morris-- both

overseas in the service.

Characters

LEONA, 29 years old

MARIETTA, 27

THEODORA, 22

EMMA EDWARDS, Mother of Leona, Marietta and Theodora

168

MARY JANE BARNES, Albert's mother

PETT MAE, doctor's wife

RUTH, mortician

EVA ZOE, guest

SAMUELLA, guest

MRS. HAWTHORNE, guest

ANGELINA, guest

OLDER SHERIFF'S DEPUTY, White, middle-aged. From out of

town.

YOUNGER SHERIFF'S DEPUTY, 25, white. Knows the Edwards

family.

Description of characters

Leona is a pretty young woman of 29, light brown skin,

quick-tempered, can be high-strung at times. She is the only

169

one of the sisters who has to straighten her hair. After
graduating from college, she returned to Columbia to teach,
first in the country at Theda and Morning Star, then in town
at Macedonia Hill school. Leona likes to reminisce about the
past. When she becomes too bothered, she solves things by
walking away. Her comments often reflect what one should say
rather than what she really feels. She exemplifies what
DuBois called "this double—consciousness, this sense of
always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of
measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in
amused contempt and pity." Leona, however, is so anxious for
social acceptance that she is scarcely aware of this
division. In her mind the line between her own feelings and
the feelings of others has become so blurred that she has no
awareness of any conflict. The only evidence that the line
remains is a sense of unexplained tension.

Marietta is soft-spoken, gentle, and bears everything
well; she is deeply religious. She has dark brown skin, the
darkest of all the four sisters, and straight black hair
from the mother's Indian heritage. As a child she was known
for telling outrageous stories. She is the only one of the
sisters who didn't go to college. When she becomes too
bothered, she resolves things by accepting them as
inevitable. She is able to accept what happens as somehow
God's will, but does not expect others to share her beliefs
or follow her example. She is never self-righteous.

All the sisters are considered attractive, but Theodora

170

is thought to be the most beautiful. Although she tries hard
to give an image of coolness and restraint, she is nervous
and jittery underneath. Theodora resents people who discuss
unpleasant things or argue, and likes to talk in
pleasantries. She prefers the current and the new; she
doesn't want to dwell on the past.

The sisters are basically selfless when it comes to the
family unit. Because of their strong sense of family, they
accept shortcomings in each other. They poke fun at each
other for physical attributes, as was customary at the time,
but are never demeaning or critical to one another. It is
their natural style to have heated conversations, but they
will do anything for each other.

Emma has medium brown skin and black, heavy straight
hair that she wears pulled back. All the daughters except
Leona have hair like the mother's. Like many other black
people of her generation, Emma is a mixture of African,
Indian and white. She is strong, outspoken, generous,
religious. Her upbringing was strict but she likes to
entertain herself by singing and playing ragtime piano.
Occasionally she wears dramatic clothing in the evening or
when an old man comes by in a wagon to take photographs.

Emma is a polestar; the women of the town look to her
for guidance. For those who have experienced the loss of a
loved one or who have suffered in some way Emma fills a gap.
She is quick to forgive and slow to condemn. Emma has never

favored light-skinned people of color over those who are

171

dark-skinned.

Mary Jane is stern, serious, wears plain dark clothes
with high collars; she is suspicious of other people,
expects other people to abide by her standards, not

tolerant.

The play attempts to recreate the speech and atmosphere
of a black middle-class home of the 19AO's. Today the
language might seem mannered and slightly artificial. The

pace is slower, creating an effect of formality.

Leona is arching her back away from the spine of the
chair. She appears to be uncomfortable. She wears a dress, a
small floral print with lace at the bodice. Her hair has
been freshly done in croquignole curls, a style popular with
black women of her generation. She has never worn this
particular dress when she is teaching. Three tables are set
up in the living room for the weekly meeting of the
"Bridgettes" social club. Leona, Theodora, and six guests,
all club members, are playing bridge.The guests are Pett
Mae, Eva Zoe, Mrs. Hawthorne, Samuella, Angelina and Ruth.

Two tables are filled. Leona, Theodora, Pett Mae and Ruth

172

are seated at the table positioned center stage. Eva Zoe
sits with her back to Ruth at the second table. The other
guests respond, sometimes with laughter, to the conversation
of the players at the front table. The third table is set

off a little from the others and is empty.

LEONA
Where's Marietta and those sandwiches? I told her
[She stops to catch her breath, looks at the door.]
shrimp salad sandwiches and spiced tea. Shrimp salad and
tea.
[She plays out the words with her hands, then pushes a
curl

off her forehead.]

PETT MAE

[Fumbles with the cards, organizing them in her hand.]
Be sweet now, Leona. You look real cool and pretty. Real
sweet. Anybody'd think you carried on this way all the time.

[Pett Mae is a large woman, no years old, with very
light

skin and short, bobbed hair. She wears a floral large-
print

dress, strongly colored with pinks, reds, and oranges.
Pett

Mae is the wife of the more prominent of the two local

173

black
doctors. Her husband has delivered all ten of Emma's
children. She laughs to herself often and hums
constantly as
she plays cards. Pett Mae has a high lilting voice; she

likes to trill her words.]

RUTH
Now Pett, she can't help it.
[Ruth is a tall, sturdily built woman with dark brown
skin.
She sits with one leg pulled up and walks with a limp.
She

is serious, plain-spoken.)

PETT MAE
[After thought.]

Just be sweet, real sweet.

RUTH

Right now she just can't.

[Pett Mae starts to hum softly.]

LEONA

You know those little tea sandwiches...you take a sharp

knife right across the edge, takes the crust right off. You

17%

hold them like little diamonds, then you cut them down the
middle into half diamonds.

[She gently twines the gold chain at her neck.]

THEODORA

Leona--
[Fidgeting with her hand, slightly exasperated.]

Marietta's been making shrimp salad sandwiches for years.
[Looks over at the empty table.]

Wonder when the rest of the bunch is gonna get here?
[Light-skinned. Has the looks of a movie star of the

forties. Tall, statuesque, long slender limbs.]

RUTH
[Points a finger at Theodora.]
Theodora, you're just like one of those thoroughbred race
horses. I swear you Edwards all race around.
[Looks at floor.)
The cleanest house I've ever seen.
[Shakes her head.]

You all must sweep and clean all day.

PETT MAE
Look at this hand.

[Rearranges cards, shakes her head.]

LEONA

175

Theodora's been up since five this morning sweeping and

washing.

RUTH

That Theodora. She's a fast one.

THEODORA
[Feels forehead, as if trying to hold back some
mounting
pain.]

Getting ready for my trip.

LEONA
Theodora gets up sweepin'. I used to sweep all the time

myself...couldn't stand to see anything on the floor.

EVA ZOE
[Leaning over from the second table.]

That's a pretty dress, Leona.

LEONA
[Ignores Eva Zoe.]
I used to sweep all the time...just don't feel like it

lately.

EVA ZOE

[More emphasis.]

176

Your dress, Leona, it sure is nice.

LEONA
[Turns sharply to Eva Zoe.]
Willie C. gave it to me. Said they wouldn't let her wear it
to teach. Said they wouldn't let me teach in it either. She
told me to keep it, wear it to club meeting. Willie C.

always did have beautiful clothes.

EVA ZOE

Well, it sure looks pretty on you.

LEONA
[Looks down, smiles faintly and tries to place the
chain
properly at her bodice, then smooths out the lace.]
Pretty or not, Professor Samson Barnes don't 'low no dresses

with lace at his school.

RUTH
[To the air.)

Yes, Professor Barnes.

PETT MAE
[Holds up both sides of her collar.]
Well, we're bidding this afternoon, ladies, not teaching.

Better leave the professor out of the game.

177

[The women laugh.]

LEONA
[Looks at door.]
Leave him out? If he saw me teaching in this, he'd leave
school, march right home and tell it. It's a good thing my
mother-in-law can't see me. She'd be carryin' on right now.

[Pulls at her necklace.]

PETT MAE
Little bird,
[Pauses.]
you married Samson and Mary Jane's son, not the whole

family.

LEONA

Married. That's right, married. If that's what they call...

THEODORA
Pett...
[Fumbling with her cards too.]
...shoot, pass me that box of talcum powder. I'm gonna

sprinkle these cards. Get 'em to shuffle a little.

RUTH
[To Theodora.]

You're as jittery as a little bug.

178

PETT MAE
[Teasing.]

I bet Randy's late with his letter.

LEONA
Theodora sweeps and sweeps. You can tell when Theodora's

mad...

PETT MAE
[Still teasing.)

She tries to look real cool, but we all know better.

LEONA

You can tell by how hard she sweeps.

RUTH

Don't tell Theodora that.

PETT MAE
I'm an old bird, can't fool me.
[Theodora sticks out her tongue at Pett Mae.]
Give Theodora the powder. Doctor's first wife
[Raises her voice.]

used to put powder on a handkerchief...

RUTH

179

What'd she do that for?

PETT MAE
She'd put it on the handkerchief and slide it down her

girdle.

THEODORA
[Unbelievingly.]

Her girdle? I'd never wear one of those.

PETT MAE
That's right--she sure did...
[Pauses.)
in her girdle, so she wouldn't stick to herself when she

played whist.

[Theodora laughs.]

RUTH

[Pulls at her dress, adjusts herself in her seat.)

The heat'll do that.

[All the women laugh.)

LEONA

I wish Marietta would come on.

[Looks around.)

180

You know I have to keep her straight...

PETT MAE

Don't fret now, Leona.

LEONA
...The last time she made those little sandwiches she used

tongue.

PETT MAE
[Titters to herself.)

Oh ho.

RUTH

Used to be that's all people fixed.

LEONA
Chopped it so fine you couldn't tell.

[Straightens necklace again.)

THEODORA

You didn't know the difference, Leona.

LEONA

That's not the point.

RUTH

181

Marietta can fix anything. Bet she coulda used my old shoe.

THEODORA
[Laughing.]

And Leona can eat anything.

LEONA
Should've been shamed of herself, said "Oh you're gonna love

this, Leona. It'll melt in your mouth."

RUTH

I bet it tasted like your Papa's catfish.

LEONA
Well, if that's the kind of fish he catches, Papa can keep

it.

THEODORA
Leona, Shh!
[Looks around.)
Papa's gone, taking Mr. Cordell Hull and the white sportsmen
fishing,
[Exaggerated manner.)

just to help put food on the table.

LEONA

Well, he can. Ate that stuff Marietta fixed like a little

182

baby eating pablum...every bit. Then she tips in and says
"Oh, by the way, Leona, it's tongue."
[Leona draws her shoulders in and shivers.)

I could have died.

[Theodora and Ruth laugh.)

LEONA

Papa spoils us, brings us whatever we want. No man will ever

be like him.

THEODORA

I'll miss him when I leave.

LEONA
Don't say that, Theodora.
[Pauses.]
Not now.
RUTH

You all are grown. Not many can outdo the Edwards...Theodora

and Leona teaching. Marietta and Emma working too.

PETT MAE
All living under the same roof.
[Eyes Theodora cautiously.)

That's a fortune.

183

EVA ZOE
[From second table.]
No wonder Leona bought that beaver coat last Christmas.

[Chuckles.)

LEONA
Eva Zoe, you bought one too....all the gang did, just like
follow the leader.
[Pauses.]

Theodora...you looked like a starlet in yours.

EVA ZOE
Like one of those Dandridge sisters. What's her name?

[Stops to think.)

RUTH
Just like I said, Leona, we're grown women, taking care of

ourselves.

LEONA
[Stops suddenly. Startled expression, as if she is
thinking
of the idea for the first time.)
I'm by myself.

[Women all stop talking. Total silence.)

18A

PETT MAE

You'll get by, little bird.

LEONA
Not when it's like this...it's hard...
[Serious. Looks at empty table.)
Poor Agnes, she's by herself too...
[Concerned.)

Ever since Joe passed...I guess that's why she's not here.

PETT MAE

Doctor did all he could.

RUTH

Don't tell anybody--I paid for Joe's suit myself.

PETT MAE
[Turns to Ruth, takes her hand.)

Ruth did too.

LEONA
I know you had to work hard on the body, Ruth. You and Jim,

you used to work on the bodies together.

PETT MAE

He's gone, Leona.

185

LEONA
[Not listening to Pett, turns to Ruth.)
Now your husband's gone. You have to do all the business

yourself...take care of it, call on the families...

THEODORA
Ruth always did dress the bodies, Leona.
[The discussion brings out the importance of the
funeral as ritual. The women are unselfconsciously keeping

alive bits of the culture of their old world.)

PETT MAE
And washed and pressed the hair. She styles it the same way
they always wore it, even picks their favorite color, makeup

and all.

LEONA
But you don't have him there when you need him.
[Women from second table turn and nod.)

I wish Marietta would come on.

RUTH
[Soothingly to Leona.)

We had all those years together, Leona...a long life.

LEONA

I guess mine's a short one then.

186

[Corrects herself; then speaks loudly.)

I guess mine was a short one.

[Women look at Leona with concern.)

RUTH
There's been a lot passing through lately. A lot of bodies

to do. Can't argue that.

LEONA
Jim's gone. V.K., Mary's husband, he's gone too. Two funeral
parlors in town and both run by women--And me and Albert...
[Throws down her hand.]

married a year and already separated.

PETT MAE

[Feels the cards lovingly.)
These cards are playing real nice, Leona. You better pick up
your hand so we can whip these"n's"...

[She touches her mouth coquettishly with a lace

handkerchief, mumbles something under her breath and
leans

back tittering.)

Real nice.

RUTH

[Looking at Leona.)

187
She'll be all right. She tires out these days.

PETT MAE
Just stay real cool and pretty.
[Pauses, touches her face.)
In the pink.

[Winks.)
[The women laugh, even Leona.)

RUTH

That gold necklace sure looks lovely with your dress, Leona.

[Leona pulls the necklace out of her dress and holds it
up

in the palm of her hand. A small diamond ring is
attached to

the chain. The two women examine the ring as Marietta

approaches the table.]

RUTH

And that's not all...land sakes, look at that ring.

PETT MAE
That's a big one, all right. If push comes to shove, you can

pawn it.

188

LEONA
[Confidently.)
It shines just like a star, a morning star, even in the

daytime.

[Marietta carries a tray of sandwiches. An aroma of
spiced

tea, oranges and cinnamon fills the air.)

PETT MAE
Here she is,
[Gestures to Marietta and speaks happily, melodiously.)

just as sweet as she can be.

EVA ZOE
[From second table.)
When you gonna learn how to play bridge, Marietta?

[Laughs.]

MARIETTA
I learned all I'm gonna learn, thank you.
[Marietta's speech is old-fashioned and reminiscent of
her
mother's. She is a bridge between Emma and the other

daughters.)

THEODORA

189

Bridge doesn't agree with Marietta's religion.

LEONA
Takes after Grandma...When Grandma was alive, we used to

have to lock ourselves in our room just to play cards.

THEODORA

We cut our teeth on cards.

LEONA
Remember the first time Willie C. came home from college? We
used to hide in her room so she could show us how to play

bridge.

PETT MAE
[Teasing.]

Marietta thinks church-going folks shouldn't play cards.

MARIETTA
I said no such thing. Suit yourself. Do what you want.
[Laughs.]

Makes me no never mind.

EVA ZOE
There's not a woman in this room that plays cards on Sunday.

[All the women nod.)

190

PETT MAE
Sometimes me and Leona, Doctor and Doctor's new helper,
Tommy, play cards till midnight on Saturday, then we lay our

hands down.

EVA ZOE

Many a slam was ruined by the strike of the clock.

[Women agree in unison, nodding heads.)

RUTH
Marietta just has those ways. She promised the Lord she

wouldn't play cards.

LEONA
It's so hot.
[To Marietta.)
Just spice the tea and pour it on the ice. That's all I
need. Please hurry, Marietta.

[Leona fans herself.)

MARIETTA
[Good-naturedly.)
As many folks as I've cooked for, I guess I know how to make

iced tea.

[A car can be heard passing by.)

191

LEONA
[Restless.)

All that noise.

MARIETTA
[Enthusiastically.)
They'll be whoopin' and hollerin' when Cordie Cheek gets to
town. 01' Saul Blanton'll be doin' plenty of

business...sellin' plenty of liquor tonight.

PETT MAE

Not just our folks, either.

MARIETTA
When the law comes back, they'll want what he's

sellin'...he'll know their business too.

THEODORA
[Seeming nonchalant.)
That had to be the boys comin' through on their way back

from Nashville.

LEONA
[Deep in thought, only half-hearing the conversation.)
I heard Cordie Cheek was coming back today. If he is...I

heard his trial was over.

192

[Nervously glances at door.]

MARIETTA
Saul Blanton'll know.
THEODORA
I bet it's the Alphas.
[Flustered.)
Randy's an Alpha.
PETT MAE
Listen to the sweetheart.
[More cars go by.)
RUTH

I didn't know the Alphas made all that commotion.

PETT MAE

Ask the fraternity sweetheart.

THEODORA
It's after the game.
[Embarassed.)
You know how everybody gets
[Pauses.]

after the game.

193

LEONA
If Cordie Cheek comes back today all the folks'll be out to
see him.
[Excitedly.)

All of Macedonia school.

[The screen door starts to Open slightly. The women
look

up.)

THEODORA
Maybe that's the rest of the bunch.
[Looks at back table.)
The game's over by now. If Mary and Punk get back from
Nashville in time, we can still get the prize for

attendance.

[Marietta sets the empty tray next to Leona and goes to
see

who's there. Mary Jane Barnes enters. She wears a plain

dress, a drab purple color with a high collar and tiny

buttons up to her neck. Her stare is stern, fixed,

singleminded. She does not conceal her hostility to the

group. When she stares disapprovingly at Leona, Leona
begins

to fan herself more rapidly. Mary Jane notices the

194

women
playing bridge and frowns. The women at the tables look
at

Mary Jane, then Leona. Mary Jane doesn't speak.)

MARIETTA
Make yourself comfortable, Miss Mary Jane. Rest a spell. How

you and Professor Barnes gettin' along?

[Mary Jane doesn't answer. She was angry when she
arrived,

but now her anger is increased by the sight of the
women

playing cards.)

MARIETTA
Every Saturday afternoon, you know, the "Bridgettes," they

meet at a different house, every Saturday.

[Mary Jane shakes her head in disbelief.)

MARIETTA
[Pointing to the empty table.)
Didn't get the crowd we usually do.
[Marietta turns to first table.)
You know Pett Mae, your doctor's wife, and Ruth, Jim passed

away. She's the mortician now herself.

195

[Gestures to Pett and Ruth proudly.)

They're always at the front table.

[Leona arches her back and pulls away from the chair.

She

clutches her necklace tightly. The women arrange their

hands. Mary Jane stands for a minute with her hand on
the

door knob, then moves toward the straight-backed chair
off

to the corner.)

MARIETTA
[With a sigh.)

Mama'll be home t'rectly, Miss Mary Jane.

[Mary Jane sits down in the chair. Leona stares
intently at

Theodora until Theodora becomes uncomfortable,
restless.

Theodora gets up, goes to a victrola and picks a record
from

a stack. She plays "Take the A-Train" by the Duke
Ellington

Orchestra.)

SAMUELLA

196

Theodora would come up with that one.
[Pleased.]
The theme for the club dance.
EVA ZOE

Remember our last dance...

SAMUELLA

Presenting the "Bridgettes" of Columbia, Tennessee...

EVA ZOE

We were dressed to kill.

[The women applaud and laugh. Mary Jane watches them

closely, twisting nervously in her seat.)

PETT MAE
Better have something cool, Mary Jane. Doctor wouldn't want
you all hot and...

[Gestures in the air with her hands.)

[Mary Jane looks over at the tables, then turns away

and

folds her hands in her lap. She is frustrated because
she

feels she is being overlooked. She is trying to control
her

anger; she pulls at her fingers nervously. The other

197

women

cast furtive glances at Mary Jane and then look away.)

PETT MAE

Theodora always did pick the latest.

RUTH: She's a thoroughbred.
[Gestures to Theodora, hums and snaps her fingers.)

"Take the A-Train"...that's Ellington's song.

EVA ZOE

Leona can sing it for our summer dance...for the Bridgettes.

RUTH

Go on over to the piano, Pett.

PETT MAE
That's a hard one...how does that go?
[Pett Mae hums to herself, but remains in her seat,

arranging her bridge hand.)

RUTH

Oh, Leona can sing anything.

EVA ZOE
And eat anything too.

[Women laugh.)

l

198

PETT MAE
Remember when Leona sang at the club dance? She was wearing
that blue crepe dress, the one with the gold hobnails across

the front...so cool looking.

EVA ZOE

It sure did fit her nice.

LEONA
Nice is right. I bet you I couldn't teach in it. What you

wanna bet?

[Mary Jane turns sharply and looks at Leona, then turns
away. She wrings her hands nervously. She is becoming
more

uncomfortable.)

MARIETTA
[Looks over at Mary Jane.)

Rheumatism flaring up, Miss Mary Jane?

[Marietta leaves room and enters again with glasses of
iced

tea. Theodora rises and helps serve the tea. The other
women

murmur approval as they drink.)

199

PETT MAE
[She motions to Theodora to give a glass to Mary
Jane.)

Doctor's orders, Mary Jane.

LEONA
[Waves hands in the air, stiffly.)
This tea sure does cool me off. Keeps my hair from going
back.
[Glances worriedly at Mary Jane.)

Always did wish I had your hair, Theodora.

[Theodora smiles. Leona mouths words silently and
fumbles

with her necklace. The necklace with its ring comes
loose

and falls to the floor. Marietta serves tea to the
second

table, then sets a tray with four glasses at the empty

table.]

MARIETTA
[Walks to the front and picks up the necklace and hands
it
to Leona.)

Mama always said you were marked.

200

[Loudly, as if to distract attention from her actions.)

THEODORA
Who was marked?

MARIETTA
Leona. Leona was.

THEODORA
Oh, Marietta.

MARIETTA

She was. Mama said when she was carrying Leona, she used to
go across the street over where Miss Cora used to live. Went
there all the time. Said Miss Cora's little girl was real

dark, had real nappy hair. Mama said the little girl marked

her.

LEONA
Marietta, you oughta be shot.
[Marietta laughs. Leona holds the necklace tightly in
her

hand.)

[Mary Jane strains to hear every word.)

MARIETTA

201

[Turns to Leona.)
When you were born, Mama said you had the nappiest hair
she'd ever seen.

[Women at all the tables giggle to themselves.)

LEONA
Everybody's heard that.
RUTH
Oh hush, Marietta.
THEODORA

Marietta always did like to tell stories.

LEONA
[Laughs in spite of herself.)
Like that one about Papa stealin a pig and hidin it up on

the old professor's roof.

MARIETTA

I wadn't but twelve.

LEONA

Don't matter. You told it.

MARIETTA

Nappy or not, the professor used to chase all us home.

202

LEONA
[Dreamily.)
Mother always did have beautiful hair. Papa has that--
[Waves her hand as if to smooth the air.)
fine soft hair. Mother never could figure out how I got this

hair.

MARIETTA

They say when you're carryin' a child and certain folks get
too near you, they mark you...

[Pauses.]
...for life.

[Raises her voice so Mary Jane will be sure to hear.)
Said when she was carrying you, used to go over to Miss
Cora's all the time. They say you have to be careful when

you're carrying a child. Don't they, Pett?

[Mary Jane stands up abruptly, and drops her glass. It

breaks. At first she starts to pick up the pieces, then

stands up abruptly and marches out of the room.
Theodora

rushes to sweep up the broken glass, then returns to
her

seat. A door can be heard slamming.)

PETT MAE

203

We sure sent that ol bird flyin.

[Titters.)

EVA ZOE
[Laughing from second table.)

Now Pett Mae, that's your husband's patient.

THEODORA
I'm bidding hearts.
[Restless.)

Her son oughta keep her home.

LEONA
[Nervously, refusing to comment about Mary Jane.)

Two diamonds.

MARIETTA
She musta wanted somethin'. Runnin' all the way over to East

End...all the way cross town.

THEODORA
Well, she didn't get what she came for.
[Fidgety.)

Whose bid is it?

RUTH

You'd think that woman would know better. Some peOple you

20”

can't tell a thing. They just start running---never look

where they're going.

THEODORA

Whose bid is it anyway? I'm in hearts.

RUTH
[To Theodora.)
All right, Miss Jitterbug.
RUTH
Leona...
[Turns to her.)
Leona, what you gonna do?
LEONA
I already bid.
RUTH
I don't mean that.
LEONA

Everybody has to run sometimes.

MARIETTA
[Comes forward.)

When I ran off with Joe Harlan I didn't have a thing in my

205

suitcase but Grandma's old hymnal book
[Pauses.]
and that nightgown from Sears, Roebuck, four sizes too big.

Grandma couldn't stand Joe, so we ran off.

LEONA
[Responds enthusiastically, eager to avoid Ruth's
question.
Looks in her hand and looks up.)

I still can't imagine Marietta running off with anybody.

MARIETTA
Papa told me to go to school, to A & I. I had to go off and
get married. Didn't last either.
[Pauses.]

I've been working as a cook and a nurse ever since.

LEONA

You never regret anything, Marietta.

MARIETTA
Well, it's done. No use talking 'bout it now. Should of
thought about it then. You make your bed hard, you lie in

it. Too late now.

LEONA

[With finality.)

206

Too late.

THEODORA

It's never too late for a Barnes to get their way.

MARIETTA

Go on back with him. Might as well. He makes a good living.

THEODORA
[Cautiously.)

Leona could leave town---go off somewhere else.

MARIETTA
He's a teacher. You'd have whatever you wanted. Might as
well stay. Some things just meant to be. Lord might want it

that way.

THEODORA
[Raises voice.)

What if they can't get along?

PETT MAE
Married to a big-shot Kappa. Look at that ring. Anything
[Covers mouth lightly with handkerchief.)

I got while I was married, I'd keep.

LEONA

207

[Clutching necklace.)

I never said a thing about giving anything up.

THEODORA
Sometimes women just have to leave anyway.

[Stares at Leona's dress.)

MARIETTA

Used to be you couldn't teach after you got married.

LEONA
The old professor, the folks over to the school, they didn't

let Mother teach after she married Papa.

THEODORA

They didn't know the kind of man she married...a saint.

MARIETTA

Only man she's ever known.

LEONA
If Mary Jane comes back here again, I'll...
[Pauses.]

She sure does wear me out.

THEODORA

She can't bother you as long as we're here.

208

LEONA
Mother won't let her.
[Pauses.]
Doctor's gonna want to see me before the end of the week.
The way I'm feeling, it might be time.

[She guards her stomach with her hands.)

THEODORA
You'll be all right.
LEONA
Mother'll be home soon.
PETT MAE

[Sprinkles more powder on the cards.)
You little birds have to be careful. Doctor wouldn't have it

any other way.

RUTH
I got the flu just before Eugene was born. They had to put
me to bed. Told me not to get up for a month. When I got out
the bed this leg didn't have any feeling. Just started to
draw up.
[Hits leg.)

I been limping ever since.

209

PETT MAE
[Touches Leona's hand.)
Always say to B. F., "Doctor, what must that one do?" He'll

always say "Care, just a little care."

THEODORA
Hear that, Leona? You have to be careful. Can't go having a
taste for everything, then acting fretful just because you
can't have it. Look at you whinin' and carryin' on...by the
time the rest of the gang gets here...you won't be worth a
dime.

[Theodora gets up and starts to tidy room.)

[Marietta adjusts chairs at empty table and walks to
the

front. Leaves room.)

End of Scene I

[Stage is dark. Theodora walks to spotlight. Fadeout on

other lights.)

THEODORA
All that old furniture in the living room...
[Shakes her head.)
every time we have club meeting, there's hardly room to put

up the card tables, there's so much furniture. Grandma's

210

folks--out at the Thatcher Plantation--when she first got
married, they sent all this old furniture out here. You know
how velvet gets when it's old and faded. Just like the
inside of a casket.

Willie C. used to teach over at Macedonia Hill. When
she got her first paycheck she went right out and put the
money down on that player piano over in the corner. She
always did know how to have a high time. Said she was tired
of all this small town stuff. Everybody out in California
has that new Spanish style, at least that's what Willie C.
says.

About Leona--Marietta's cooked for half the town, Leona
oughta know that. That's not it.

Both our brothers, Morris and Leon, they're gone,
overseas. That's part of it. People always called Leon and
Leona the twins because they look so much alike--Leon and
Leona, look-alikes, me and Morris too. Now they're both
overseas and Leona's taking it real hard.

[Fidgets, wrings her hands.)

Papa made sure they put Morris and Leon in the same colored
troop. The other day they sent us a table cover with the
Army Air Corp on it. Leona cried.

[Squeezes hands together and forces a pleasant
expression.)

When I was at A & I Papa sent me this yellow raincoat-
-the one he used to wear on his boat.

[Theodora's music, "Take the A-Train," begins.)

211

All the bands that came to Nashville signed it. Erskine
Hawkins and the 'Bama State Collegians, Jimmie Lunceford,
Count Basie. I had people signing all over the back of that
coat. I'd turn around like this.

[Turns around.)

They all had their names on it.

Me, Willie C., Leona, Pett, Ruth--half the town went to
A & I, our half the town, that is. I was the fraternity
sweetheart, too. All the Alphas said it was because I had
the deepest dimples

[Pauses, slows down for emphasis.)
and the straightest teeth they'd ever seen.

They're always saying I look like somebody. Now it's
one of the Dandridge sisters. Dorothy...that's it, Dorothy
Dandridge. The club dance is two nights before I leave. If I
can get those new records for the club dance. What's that
one? If Saul Blanton's shop gets it in time...

[Touches forehead. More resolved.)

I've never been late for anything in my life. I don't
plan to be late leaving.

[Pauses.]

I'll take of things if Mother lets me. I'll take care of
Leona.

I feel this headache coming on. I've felt it coming on
for days. I've been up since five this morning sweeping and
washing. I'm trying to get my things ready. I like

everything on time. I've never been any farther than

212

Nashville, Tennessee in my whole life, and now I'm going out
West.

I just got married last Christmas. Mother's worried
because I'm going way out to California by myself. Randy,
that's my husband, he's stationed out there in the army. I
told her, I said, "Mother, don't worry. Willie C.'s out
there." Willie C.'s my oldest sister. I'll be staying with
her

[Pauses.]
and her husband, Ray. I'll only get to see Randy on
weekends. Willie C. knows everything about the apple,

[Aside.)

that's what everybody calls the big city.

[Spotlight fades, bring up lights on bridge players.
Music

fades.)

213

Scene 2

[The women in the room are playing bridge, chatting.
Emma

comes in.)

WOMEN
Howdy, Mama Emma.
[They murmur respectfully in unison. The conversation
has
the quality of call and response used in the black
church.)
EMMA
[Laughs.]

Mary Jane's after me. I was walking up the hill when lo and
behold if Mary Jane didn't come walking right up behind me.
[Mischievous expression, as if starting to tell a

wicked
story.)
I was walking along
[Looks up, moves right hand across the air.)

kicking up the dust...

[Mary Jane enters suddenly.)

MARY JANE
[Abruptly.)

214

Just the one I was lookin' for.

EMMA
[Turns, looks at audience.)
What did I tell you?
[Eyes are knowing.)

She was right behind me.

MARY JANE

I was right behind her.

EMMA
Sure was hot out there.

[Looks at Mary Jane out of the corner of her eye.)

RUTH

Up to the white Methodist church?

EMMA
There too.
MARY JANE
I followed her every step.
EMMA

[Ignoring Mary Jane.)

So I turned and whipped around the corner. I said to myself,

215

I'm goin' to see how my Leona's doing.

MARY JANE

That's where I was going too.

LEONA

Mother does the work of ten.

THEODORA
And she gave birth to ten.

[Women murmur in approval.)

PETT MAE

And doctor delivered all ten. Six living.

EMMA
It was mighty hot
[Pauses.]
down at that kitchen.
MARY JANE
[Negatively:)
The Methodist church.
EMMA

[Ignoring Mary Jane.)

You girls know Mrs. Durham?

216

RUTH

The mayor's wife?

EMMA
Well, Mrs Durham up and starts with me: "Now Emma, this here
is a book on how to set the table. I 'spects you would enjoy

it."

LEONA
Everybody knows about women like Mrs. Durham.

[She glances at Mary Jane.)

EMMA

[Laughing.]
She told me just the other day--

[Aside.)
You know I just listened, didn't say a word--"Now Emma, if
you just come down and cook us our meal, you won't have to
wash nary a dish."

[Emma stops short. Hands on hips, theatrically:]

Biggest liar I've ever seen.

THEODORA

Now, mother.

LEONA

217

Calling Mrs. Durham a liar,
[Pauses.]

Mother.

THEODORA

Mother sure does like to perform.

LEONA

Mother always has wanted to be on the stage.

RUTH

Have some iced tea, Mama Emma.

EMMA
That's all right, darlin'.
[Pats Ruth on hand.)
Your mama'll be all right.
[Graciously.)
Have some iced tea, Mary Jane.

[Takes glass and hands it to Mary Jane.)

MARY JANE

Emma, there's a thing or two...

EMMA
[Sips tea and gradually assumes strong, fixed stare.)

Mind your glass, Mary Jane.

218

MARY JANE
There's something...
EMMA
[Motions her away.)
Something what?
MARY JANE
Something I want.
EMMA

Will's gone fishing with Mr. Hull and the sportsmen.
[Worried.]

I got Leona. Don't know what I can do for you.

[The sound of cars going by can be heard. The women all
look

towards the window.)

LEONA
Sure is a lot of commotion around here.
[Sighs and sips tea.)
When it's hot...in the summer when the screens are in...you
can hear everything in the world...
[Thoughtfully.)

It was spring the last time I saw Cordie Cheek.

219

THEODORA
It's that bunch from out of town racin' up and down the hill

again.

PETT MAE
Every time Tuskegee plays A & I they run all through the
town. Bad as poor...

[Voice trails off.)

LEONA
That's where everybody goes, over to Tuskegee to get

married.

MARY JANE

That's where you went with my son.

LEONA
The day before Easter.
MARY JANE
It was wet and cold.
LEONA

[Responds but doesn't argue with Mary Jane.)
When we went to Tuskegee, I had to wrap a coat around

myself. I wore my silk crepe dress.

220

[Looks at dress on door.)
The one Aunt Ellen sent from Detroit, a peach color, soft,

draped.

THEODORA
Sure did. You got all those clothes. The same size as that

lady Aunt Ellen works for.

MARY JANE

It's been six months since you talked to my boy.

LEONA
[Stands up indignantly.)

In front of all these people.

MARY JANE

In a small town, everybody finds out anyway.

LEONA
All right, it's been six months since he went home to your
house. I moved my things out first. We didn't live at Miss

Annie Lee's a year.

EMMA
[Wheels around, addresses women playing bridge.)

Mary Jane's doin' more talkin' than listenin'.

MARY JANE
[To Leona.)
What did you expect?

[Mary Jane treats Leona as if she is on trial.)

EMMA
It's not our place to judge, yours or mine.
[Emma is quiet, dignified. She lets Mary Jane takes the
floor. Her manner is deferring; to a stranger she might
seem

weak.)

MARY JANE
[Indignantly.)
Her not knowing how to take care of a house. Albert was used

to having everything kept up.

LEONA

I was good to your boy.

MARY JANE

Did you or didn't you bring him down here every day?

[Emma looks from Mary Jane to Leona as the mother-in-
law and

the daughter-in-law talk.)

222

LEONA

This is my house, too, Mary Jane.

MARY JANE

To your mother's house to eat his dinner?

LEONA
I was teaching out at Morning Star, out in the country. Miss

Smith drove me into town late. When I got home...

EMMA
[Steps forward.)

My daughter's not on trial.

MARY JANE

To your mother's house to eat his evening meal.

LEONA

Mother always had the dinner ready.

MARY JANE
A wife's place is at home. Not out in the country somewhere.
[Pause.]

Is this the way you brought her up?

EMMA

Go on, just keep on talking.

223

LEONA

[Roused to attention.)
A wife's place? He never complained about that. I taught out
at Theda, Morning Star...when we lived at Miss Smith's, I
paid for that...four rooms, half the house. Was that my
place? Things were fine when I was out in the country. The
little school children, they hung on my every word. I was
the moon, the sun. Every night Albert was there waiting when
I got home. Then I came back to town. People started
meddlin', talkin' behind my back...some people, that
is...I've heard things--horrible things, gossip, lies...

[Throws cards down.)
Who'll take my hand?

[Leona walks by the front table. She goes off through

the

darkened side of the stage. A record begins to play--
"Until

the Real Thing Comes Along," by Andy Kirk and the
Clouds of

Joy.)

RUTH

Lay Leona's hand down. Somebody'll bid for it.

EMMA

Now let me tell you something,

22A

[Turns to Mary Jane.)
if you want to judge, judge me. I'm proud
[Touches her chest.)

of my children.

MARY JANE

Proud that you cooked her husband's meals?

EMMA
My daughter's a teacher and I was a teacher before her. Your

son knew that before he married her.

MARY JANE
Teacher. I wish Samson could see the way she's fixed up
right now. Hair all curled up and greased, dress open at the

neck.

EMMA

The child's entertaining her club.

MARY JANE
Entertaining, all right. You brought her up to perform and

go on...I better take what I came for and leave.

EMMA
TalROOOtalk...

[Moves head around, imitating Mary Jane. Steps

225

suddenly.)
I'm a Christian, so I can't say what's on my mind.

[Looks around.)

THEODORA

She's layin' down, Mother.

[Emma nods, takes off her apron.)

MARY JANE

Emma Edwards, I want the courtesy due a mother-in-law.

EMMA
Now let me tell you something, Mary Jane. I've given you
courtesy. I've heard everything you got to say, and you

don't have a thing to tell my daughter.

MARY JANE
I want to know what you intend to do. I come to see if your

daughter's going to do the right thing.

EMMA
My daughter's not on trial.
[Steps forward.)

Mary Jane, if you got something to say, say it now.

MARY JANE

226

Emma Edwards, I got reason to wonder about how you raised

this girl.

EMMA

If you want to judge, judge me.

MARY JANE
All right, I'll say it then. I heard you singing and playing
over to the school. Playin' that ragtime piano, right at the

school dance.

EMMA
Lay low, catch a meddler.

[Puts her hands on her hips and squints at Mary Jane.)

MARY JANE

You call that Christian? I been knowin' you all my life.

EMMA

Just keep on talkin'.

MARY JANE
I remember the day you and Will Edwards was walkin' home
from school, in the ninth grade. He dared you to take your
hair loose, down over by that bridge on the way to this
house. I saw your mother come lookin' for you. She whipped

you all the way home.

— A. h

227

EMMA
Judge me, Mary Jane--
[Emma reaches up and undoes the bun in the back of her
head.
She shakes her head and her long, heavy hair falls over
her
shoulders.)

Go on.

MARY JANE
Alright. I've seen you put on dresses all done in satin and
silk, all sorts of finery, wastin' hard-earned money. I've
seen you sit out on the front porch with all your children,
your hair piled up on your head posing for pictures every
time that old man comes by in the wagon. They say you put on
fancy clothes and shawls with fringes just to sit in the

house at night. When Shuffle Along comes to town you run off

 

with them, up to that tent. Why is that?

EMMA
You know my cousin, the one born over by old Macedonia

school...wrote Shuffle Along, Brownskin Models...all those

 

shows.

MARY JANE

You call that Christian?

228

EMMA
I'll tell you Christian--go up yonder to St. Paul's A. M. E.
church up on Macedonia Hill. Look by the front of the
church. My papa's name is right on the cornerstone.
[Pauses.]

He helped build that church.

MARY JANE
A. M. E.?
[Indignantly.)
African Methodist. Well, that's about the only African thing
about you. You an' your high yellow daughters. African
Methodist. I told him, I said, marry a Baptist. You and your

high yellow...

EMMA
I never made a difference between light and dark. I never
made a thing about color. Why, my own pappy was the blackest

man you've ever seen. My mother loved him and married him.

MARY JANE
I can see who you come from.
[Smirks.)
Well, I think your daughter's too high falutin', that's her

problem. I guess she thinks she's too light.

229

EMMA
If you think my daughter's so high falutin', then why you
here askin' about her? My daughter's carryin' a child, your
son's child. Don't nobody care about whether your son's
light or dark. I got four girls. Leona, she's light brown,
Theodora, she's a little lighter. Willie C., she's medium
brown, Marietta, she's a dark brown. And they all have the
same father. I nursed them all. Raised them all. Never said,
well, this one's first, this one's lighter. You the one
goin' on about light and dark. Talkin' about high yellow

this, high yellow that.

MARY JANE
[Hears noise, turns to see Marietta entering room
carrying a
stack of hymnals. Mary Jane looks around for Leona.)

Where's your daughter?

EMMA

Which one...Leona? Didn't you see her walk out?

MARY JANE
[Watches doorway for a minute, then turns to Emma.)
The reason she's not goin' back with my boy...
EMMA

You're the reason.

230

MARY JANE
The reason she's not goin' back with my boy...I don't think

he's the father in the first place.

EMMA
You don't think?
MARY JANE
You heard me.
EMMA

[Sarcastically.)

And just who do you think the father might be, Mary Jane?

MARY JANE

You know that's Wallace Mitchell's child.

EMMA

Lord ha' mercy.

MARY JANE

Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Emma Edwards.

EMMA
I'll tell you one thing, Mary Jane, and get this straight--
one thing every one of my girls will always know--the father

of her children.

231

MARY JANE
That child'll be light enough to pass--and the whole

world'll know it--there's only one thing Albert wants.

EMMA
[Hand on her hips.)

And what's that?

MARY JANE

He wants his ring. He wants it back.

[Stage is dark. Leona walks to spotlight. Fadeout on
other

lights.)

LEONA

[Holds up the chain with the ring on it.)
He wants this back. Why should I give it to him? That day
when we ran off to get married--I wore flowers in my hair. I
was teaching school out at Morning Star. Of course, I taught
a long time before I got married. He was living down at Miss
Eva Zoe's--that's how we met. That night after we came back
from Tuskegee--we went back to Miss Eva Zoe's.

I didn't go out much at A & I. Me and Wallace Mitchell
courted. We weren't 'lowed off campus on school nights. Had

to go in groups on Saturdays. Of course I went to the formal

232

dances.

[Leona's music starts. "Until the Real Thing Comes
Along,"

by Andy Kirk's Orchestra.)

Wore beautiful clothes from Aunt Ellen. She worked for this
rich white lady in Detroit. Everybody at Hale wanted to wear
my clothes. I just wanted to get good grades, that's all. Be
invited into the honorary.

Oh yes, about Mr. Durham, the man Papa knows, the
mayor, Mama knows him too, knows his wife. I sassed him that
first summer I was home from college. He slapped me on the
face. Said "It's a good thing you're Emma and Will's child."

When I came back home from A & I after I got my
teaching diploma, I taught out at Morning Star. Taught a
long time before I got married. One of the teachers over to
the school said to me "Albert, you remember Albert Barnes,
from A & I, went to Fisk too. He's stayin' over to Miss Eva
Zoe's and teaching at Macedonia Hill. He's a Kappa. You
didn't know him at A & I, did you?" I thought and I thought.
No, I didn't know him.

I can still wear my clothes. If I go to the club dance
in Pett and Doctor's basement, I'll wear one of Aunt Ellen's
dresses. I won't even show. My mother-in-law thinks I'm
carrying Wallace Mitchell's child. It's a lie and she knows
it. One thing, I will always know the father of my children.
I know it'll be a girl. I know how she'll be, not too light

and not too dark, the same color all over. Of course as soon

233

as they find out you're expecting you have to stop teaching.
I don't know why. I don't even show. This lady uptown didn't
even notice. Am I foolish, vain? Don't I have a right to be?
It's my ring. Why should I give it back?

Theodora thinks I ought to leave the baby with Mother,
go off somewhere else. She says a teacher with a
divorce...says they'll never hire me back. She thinks I
oughta go away, leave the baby right here. Marietta says I
ought to go back to him, that a wife's place is with her
husband. No matter how bad things get. She says she learned
her lesson.

He kicked me when I was scrubbing the floor; that's why
I went home. That night--I cried and cried--went running
home to Mother. All right--I'm sorry

[Little sobs and whimpers.)
--if you're looking for a big hero--

[Raises voice.]
I never was that brave. Was I just supposed to sit there
like a dummy? If you don't whine, who'll know you're alive?
If you can't stand things, don't you have to let somebody in
this world know?

Mary Jane Barnes,

[Turns to look at women on stage.)
she sure makes me hot. It's a good thing Morris and Leon

aren't here. They'd put her out.

[Spotlight fades; bring up lights on bridge players.

23H

Music

stops.)

EMMA
My Leona never did rip and run like some girls. I sent her
to Hale Dormitory at A & I. Mae T. from home was housemother

to the girls. All my girls lived at Hale.

MARY JANE
You know there's something odd about a woman who waits till

she's 29 to marry and have a family.

EMMA
My Leona. She taught right there at Macedonia. Just like all

the rest of your husband's teachers.

MARY JANE

Being principal never meant watching every move.

EMMA

Samson Barnes does.

MARY JANE

I never in my life held a card.

EMMA

Lie low, catch meddler.

235

MARY JANE
I'm not meddlin'. You hear me--
[Raises her voice.)

my son wants his own.

EMMA
[Lowers her head, taking in the words. Then looks up
abruptly:)

Well, maybe he'd better come and get it.

MARY JANE
Either the ring goes back or she comes back.
[Turns to door where Leona exited.)
Either come back to my boy or give me that ring. If you want
to stay, I can't stop you. But the ring goes back.

[Mary Jane leaves.)

[A record begins to play "Until the Real Thing Comes
Along.")

THEODORA
Everybody oughta be back from Nashville by now. The rest of
the gang'll be tippin' in.
[To Eva Zoe.)

Leona sure does love that old record.

236

EVA ZOE
[Nods.)

Bet you're thinking about the club dance.

THEODORA
That old song.
[Shakes her head.)
Not for the club dance.
MARIETTA

They didn't bring that boy Cordie Cheek back from Nashville.

[Music stops. Women look at Marietta.)

LEONA
[Enters, walks to the center of the room and steadies
herself on a chair.)

I thought his trial was over...

MARIETTA

It was over, all right.

LEONA
When school let out, he came up and said, "Miss Leona, we're
leavin' the country, comin' to town. I'll be at Macedonia
Hill in August. You'll be my teacher...he didn't know I

wouldn't be there.

237

RUTH

School'll be starting before you know it.

THEODORA

You know how people talk. He'll be all right.

MARIETTA

They didn't bring him back, Theodora.

PETT MAE
The paper said they freed him on that charge of messing with

a white woman.

MARIETTA
I'm telling you now, they had a party on that old bridge

over there.

LEONA
[Dreamily.)
He was a little boy out in the country at Theda. That's

where I taught him.

MARIETTA

They really had a party on that bridge.

LEONA

238

I showed him how to brush his teeth, how to tie his shoes.

In a small town you teach everybody.

MARIETTA
Cordy Cheek's gone.
[With finality.)
They hung him on the way back. You know, by the Murfreesboro
Pike. A bunch of them. Got together right there, on that
old bridge that goes over the Duck River. They stopped the

car and...

PETT MAE
[Painfully.)
He was a marked man.
EMMA
A man...
[Indignant.]

that boy wadn't but fourteen years old.

MARIETTA
The same ones that took him down for the trial and were

supposed to bring him back, they stopped the car and...

EMMA
[Cynically.)

They did it right there, Mr. Durham and gang.

239

MARIETTA

Don't take long for things to get around. Saul
Blanton...he's the first to know...knows everything. What he
told me

[Confidentially.)
after they stopped the car--said the Cheek boy tried to run
off. Old Durham's gang went right after him, grabbed the
boy, held him down, with him screamin' and hollerin' the
whole time. They kept him out there two hours, wanted the
boy to write a confession--but his hands...

[Leona moans. Marietta holds her right hand up to the
light

and turns it slowly.)
they were burned so bad--he couldn't even move.

[Leona moans again.)
I heard they shot him close up, then hung him before he
died.

[Pett Mae knocks powder off cards. The cars come by
again,

but this time they stop. A car door can be heard
closing.

There are footsteps, and then a man's voice calls
through

the screen door.)

2N0

MAN'S VOICE

Anybody home?

[The door opens suddenly. A man wearing a deputy's
badge is
standing there. He looks around, scowls at the player

piano.)

DEPUTY
What you darkies doin' in here?
[Looks around again.)
Y'all tryin' to hide somethin'?
[Goes over to piano and bangs the keys.)
Where'd you get this?
[He looks at the women, their dresses.)

You been playin' poker for money?

EMMA
[Feigning respect.)
And what might we do for you this fine afternoon, sir?
[Emma says everything graciously, but with an air of

pretense--to the manner born.)

DEPUTY

I been deputized by the law. I come up from Nashville.

EMMA

2N1

[Graciously--air of pretense.)

And why would that be, sir?

DEPUTY
They got a bunch of us to come here...take care of things.

'Cause a all the trouble that boy caused.

EMMA
We wouldn't be causing any trouble.

[Smiles beatifically.)

DEPUTY
Well, we ain't lookin' for any either. We been told to go to

every colored house in town. Collect all the guns.

EMMA
[In mock disbelief.)

Why sir...

[Door opens again. Younger man comes in. Also wears
deputy's

badge. About 25 years old.)

YOUNG DEPUTY
[Matter-of-factly.)

Howdy, Emma.

2N2

EMMA
Afternoon. Why, if it isn't young Mr. Frank, Mr. Durham's
boy.

[Mock excitement.)

YOUNGER DEPUTY
Howdy,
[Turns to women, doesn't remove hat.)
Emma, I know you folks. Been knowing you since I was a

little boy.

EMMA
Yes sir.

[Bows slightly, shifts feet a little.)

YOUNGER DEPUTY

Emma, we know Will has a gun.

[Turns to other deputy.)
Will Edwards--the best shot in Middle Tennessee, white or
colored.

[Other deputy starts to pay closer attention.)
Why, I was out on the Duck River one day, I seen him fishing
with Doc Sommers. He was paddlin' a boat with one hand,
reached up, shot a duck out of the air with the other. And

you know, the water didn't even move.

[Older deputy laughs in disbelief.)

21:3

YOUNGER DEPUTY

It's the truth, I seen it.

OLDER DEPUTY
[Looking around.)
We been all up and down the hill, all over Mink Slide, all

the way to the bottom, We got every gun.

[Pett Mae and Theodora huddle around Leona, murmuring
words

of comfort. Older deputy sits down in chair at front
table.

Pett Mae starts to chatter nervously.)

OLDER DEPUTY
Shut your mouth.
[Deputy slaps his knee. Pett Mae starts to cry. Leona
stares
at Pett Mae unbelievingly, then covers face with
hands.)

Do I have to tell you again?

YOUNGER DEPUTY
[Calmly.)
Aunt Emma, we know Will's got a gun. We come for that gun.

We're going to Saul Blanton's house up the street.

2AA

[To older deputy.)

Bootlegger's bound to keep guns in the house.
[Turns to Emma.)

Emma, when we come back, we want that gun.

Exits.)

MARIETTA
Half the white folks in town buy their liquor from Saul
Blanton. 'Course he bootlegs something stronger than that.
[She stands by the door, looking out. She talks to
women
from this spot.)
Well, I 'spect they'll be comin' back down here t'rectly
[Passes sideways glance at Emma.)

--Durham and his deputy.

THEODORA

Deputy, my foot.

RUTH
Where in the world do you suppose that old deputy came from-
-showed up here with Frank Durham? Never seen hide nor hair

of him in my life.

MARIETTA
No tellin', they find 'em anywhere. Just give 'em a gun and

a badge. Reckon that's all they think they need.

THEODORA
If that old man's a deputy my little schoolchildren might as

well be.

MARIETTA
Don't matter what you think. If he puts that gun to your

head you'll be gone just the same.

End of Scene II

[Stage is dark. Emma walks to spotlight. Fadeout on
other

lights.)

[Emma addresses audience. She acts out sequence,
alternating

between mocking tone and an overly gracious tone.)

EMMA
[Mocking, imitating the deputy's surly tone.)
"What you all doin' up there playin' poker for money?"
[Answers graciously.)
"Why sir, we wouldn't be doing a thing like that."
[Pauses, seriously.)
You know I always wanted to be on the stage. Mr. Durham's

boy couldn't match that.

2N6

[Laughs.]
My mother always said "Lie low, catch a meddler."
[Loudly.)
That's "lie low, catch a meddler."
The law's known for putting its nose in other folks'
business. One night they drove right up to the house. Said
[Menacing tone, acting role.)
"What you darkies doin' up there on that porch?" I said,
[Graciously.)
"Why, sir, we're just out getting a spot of evening air."
[Loudly, angry.)
So they said to me,
[Menacing.)
"Well, you better get on in the house." And I said
[Graciously.)
"Why sir, this is just Emma Edwards up here on the porch
with her family." And he says
[Shocked.)
"Will Edwards' wife? Doggone." And I said,
[Graciously.)
"Why yes sir." And off he drove.
[Starts laughing.)
I'm a performin' woman.
[Hand on one hip.)
You know when I was comin' up you weren't allowed to sing
and go on for a living. Me and my chum Olivia used to

perform over to the old Macedonia school. I used to be the

2A7

end man for the minstrel show. Oh, I was something in my
time.

[Starts to strut across stage.)
I walked for the cake.

[Demonstrates step.)
Did the real Charleston--not the way they try to do it now.
After I was grown,

[Confidentially.)
Mama couldn't say anything then, I would get up on the stage
and do the Charleston.

[Laughs.]
I played the piano for all my girls, right over there at old
Macedonia school, for every last one of their dances.

[Sings out loud, first line of song only.)
"There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight." All the
songs didn't go fast, either. Sometimes I'd go slow

[Moves slowly gesturing with hands, sings to waltz time

first few lines of "I'm Just Wild About Harry."
Continue

instrumental of "I'm Just Wild About Harry" up and
under.)
I sang and played so one night till Will Harold came up and
got me, that's his real name, William Harold Edwards, always
called him Will, he said "Woman, come from over there--they
can hear you singin' all the way to Nashville."

Will Edwards always thought he could boss me.

[Puts both hands on hips.)

2A8

He was the one told me to take my hair down.

[Tension rises in voice.)

The day Mama whipped me all the way home...I had great long
braids, way down my back--Will said, "Emma, put your school
books down and let me see if that's real hair. The teacher
at school says you got those braids from an old Injun man.
Go on, I dare you."

[Aside.)

When I was a little girl over at old Macedonia, they used to
tease me, they'd say "Emma, who's that old Injun man ridin'
around in back of your house?" Well, when Will started
teasin' me too, I got mad as the dickens. Said, "Why that
old Injun man's my Grandpa."

[Indignantly.)

And I took down every last braid.

Theodora's running around 'bout to get one of her
headaches. Thinks she knows everything. Leona's in one of
her nice-nasty spells. I wish she'd hurry up and have that
child. Marietta won't say a word, she knows more than she'll
tell. When my girls start tryin' to tell me what to do, I
just tell them

[Soothingly, proper.)

"Darlin', why your mother's forgotten more than you'll ever
know." Theodora likes to talk about selling that piece of
land next door. Well, I'm telling you--they'd have to be
real aristocrats. Nobody except aristocrats.

[Uppity, proper.)

2A9

That land was given to me by my mother's grandpa.

[Raises voice.)
My mother was Charlie Thatcher's daughter...the son of the
biggest plantation owner in middle Tennessee. They let my
mother get married right there at the Thatcher place. She
wore a red velvet dress.

[Aside.)
A real aristocrat.

[Quietly.)
When mama was alive they used to come and get her for all
the funerals. Sent me to Fisk, too. They gave us all this
furniture. Those two settees, the chairs, everything you
see. Theodora likes to fuss about it. She says it's old. But
old things won't wear out.

I've given birth to ten children

[With emphasis.)
including a set of twins; 'course they didn't all live. Now
Willie C.'s gone to California, Theodora's plannin' to
leave...I don't want Theodora runnin' off to California by
herself. But I guess I can't change it-igthg_goin'
anyway...Willie C.'s 3N. Theodora's just 22...nothin' but a
baby. She tries to look real cool, but she's nothin' but a
baby. Morris and Leon overseas. Leona's gonna have a baby
and the father's...

There's never been an argument like that in this house
before. But I can't condemn Mary Jane. She's just trying to

do right by her son. I've been knowin her all my life. She's

250

just not an aristocrat.

Mary Jane's an honest-to-goodness talker. The way she
goes on you'd think people ought to go to jail just for
playin' cards.

[Laughs.]

She's as bad as the law. I'm only speakin' for Emma Edwards,
but I've been goin' to church on Sunday and to the meeting
of the Phyllis Wheatley Circle and to my lodge

[Hands on hips.)
longer than I care to remember. You can't fault Emma Edwards
there.

I'm used to people talkin'. I just let her talk. Just
talk herself out. Won't change my mind. Furthermore, won't
get her anywhere, either.

If I had to count the times Mary Jane and Samson have
stopped here and stayed for dinner...the two of them...and
about half of the rest of the town, too. I remember the time
I baked chicken, made those teeniny little rolls, real light
and that charlotte russe. Wish I had some teeniny little
rolls about now.

I never have closed my door to folks,

[Turns to one side, confidentially.)
specially meddlers--meddlers

[Holds her hands together as if cupping something

precious.)
they're real sly--you won't catch one

[Reaches in the air and brings hand down empty.)

251

--don't even say hello when they pass

[Looks over her shoulder quickly, then turns back.)
unless they've got a reason. I've never fought with one,
don't get mad either.

[Lifts finger in air.)
I just let them talk, then I strut around, sing a little,
smile and send them on their way--they're halfway down the
road before they figure anything's wrong.

[Laughs.]

I never have closed my door--specially to meddlers.

[Continue music to end. Music fades. Spotlight fades.
Bring

up lights on bridge players.)

 

 

252
Scene III

[It's getting dark. None of the women at the bridge
party

have left, although the club meeting has been over for
some

time. On the surface, the women are relaxed and
sociable.

An atmosphere of underlying tension, however, has been

created by the news of Cordie Cheek's lynching.)

THEODORA

Mother sure loves to perform.

[Emma eyes Theodora sheepishly. Emma sits still, not
moving;

thoughtful pose. Marietta enters, stepping lightly. She
goes

over to the phone on the wall and places a call.)

MARIETTA:
[Talks for a minute quietly.)
Yes sir, Mr. Saul. I thank you kindly.
[Hangs up phone, turns to Emma and women.)
Well, Mr. Saul says he's been entertaining Frank Durham and
his deputy.

[Women laugh nervously.)

 

 

253

PETT MAE

If anybody knows how to entertain, it's Saul Blanton.

[Leona enters room. Sits down in chair. No music.)

RUTH
How you feelin', Leona? ‘
1
LEONA i
I'll pass, I guess.
RUTH
It's the weather.
[Fans herself.)
LEONA

[Shakes her head.]
I keep thinkin' about Cordie Cheek..that child. I taught
that child one year...seems like I been knowin' him all my
life.

[Crying turns to Emma.)

Mother, I can't help myself.

EMMA
Help yourself, help yourself to bed. That's all you need to

do right now.

 

 

25“

LEONA
It's a good thing Morris and Leon aren't here. Hot as they
are, they'd have the whole lot of us up to the

courthouse...we'd all be on trial.

[Theodora looks uncomfortable. Emma shakes her head and

closes her eyes as if to cancel out Leona's words.)

RUTH

Look at Mama Emma.

PETT MAE
She's not about to let them mess with her.
[Trying to change subject.)
Didn't the boys mail you that scarf over there, Mama Emma,

the one with the gold fringe?

[Theodora is looking off into~space, not listening to
conversation. Emma is still deep in thought. Leona
looks

anxious.)

LEONA
[Points to the scarf.)
Every time I see that scarf, it makes me think about Leon

and Morris.

255

THEODORA

[Looks dejected.)

I can feel one of my headaches comin' on...she would start

all that stuff
[Pauses.]

just when I'm getting ready to go to California.

PETT MAE

Who?

THEODORA

You know who--Mary Jane Barnes.

RUTH

Mary Jane's as bad as the law.

EMMA
[Looks up as if out of a dream.)
I been knowin' her all my life. Don't talk about her. She
can't help herself.
[Wearily.)

None of us can. She can't help being how she is.

LEONA
If I'd lived that long I'd know better than to go on like

that.

 

 

EMMA

How long?

LEONA

As long as Mary Jane Barnes.

EMMA
[Turns to Leona.)

Many an old bird shat in the nest.

[Women laugh.)

EMMA
[Turns to Leona.)
Go on back to bed, Leona. Nothin' for you to do runnin'

around here.

LEONA
[Upset.)
You all won't let me do a thing. I'm older than Theodora.

You let her go off to California, and she's only...

EMMA
Theodora's not the one that's going to have a child.
[Strains voice.)

I don't have to tell you that.

257

[Emma rubs hands hard on dress, then, soothingly to
Leona.)

...Now darling...
[Moves closer.)

Leona...you know you're just a baby to me. That's all you'll

ever be to your mother.

LEONA
Mother, I've been teaching almost eight years now. I can

take care of myself.

EMMA
You think I'd let Theodora go runnin' off to California by

herself if her husband wasn't out there?

THEODORA
[Turns to Emma.)

Mother, Willie C.'ll be out there waiting.

EMMA
That's right, waiting--where's Willie C. gonna be on that
long train ride out yonder? No tellin' what's out there.
[Frowns.)
How long they say it was?

["Take the A-Train" up and under.)

PETT MAE

258

Six days.

THEODORA

I don't have to go by myself.

EMMA
You don't have to go at all.
THEODORA
Leona could go with me.
[Music stops.)
EMMA
Leona?
THEODORA
Leona--

[Thinks for a second, face brightens.)

me and Leona—~could make the trip together.

EMMA
Leona who?...Leona's having a child this month. How's Leona

going all the way out to California?

RUTH
Leona? Her insides never would take a trip like that. After

a baby it takes months to get yourself straightened out.

1:“—

259

MARIETTA

Sometimes you mess yourself up for life.

PETT MAE
Doctor wouldn't have it. A train trip could start the worst

hemorrhaging. I knew of this one girl...

 

[Titters nervously.)

she started right on the train...and it's even worse for the

 

baby.
[Pett Mae, as the doctor's wife, has the last word on
all

medical questions.)

THEODORA

She could leave the baby here, start a new life.

[Marietta listens to the conversation from the door;
she

continues to look out the door at frequent intervals.)

 

EMMA
A new life?
[Shakes her head.)
Now, let me tell you something, Theodora Edwards, and you
get this straight, no daughter of mine's gonna leave a child

and go runnin' off somewhere.

[Leona is not responding. She is watching Theodora and

Emma's faces. There is a ray of hope in her expression,
as

if perhaps a solution for her will come out of all

this.)

THEODORA

Oh mother, it's nothing like that.

LEONA

The whole town'll be talkin'.

EMMA
The whole town...the whole world...the whole town's already
talkin'.
[Looks stern.)

A whole heap of it anyway...that's all they do...talk.

LEONA

Folks say...

EMMA

What folks? Don't tell me about "folks."

LEONA

They say having a baby without a...

261
EMMA
[Hands on hips.)
Who's "they"?
EMMA

If you have to go runnin' in every direction every time this
one says that way and the other says this way...you'll be
runnin' all your life. They...

[She thinks for a second as if toying with the word.)
...who's "they?"

[Emphatically.)
...nice-nasty, that's what it is...as long as I can
remember, Leona, I've been tellin' you...if you do what
everybody says just to be doing it even if it's wrong and
then you turn your nose up when things get a little dirty
even if it's for a good reason, you'll be an old bird up in
a nest and you still won't know which way to turn--you won't
know which way is right and which way is wrong. You remember
what I called it--I said "nice-nasty."

[Sternly.]
You hold your head up, Leona Edwards, even if you're the
only one who thinks you ought to, even if the whole town's

talkin'.

LEONA

Sometimes they won't hire you back teaching after you have a

 

 

262

baby.

EMMA
My daughter wouldn't worry about that, even if she had to

wash and iron--day and night.

THEODORA
Now, Mother.
[Tries to humor her.)
Leona's a school teacher. She shouldn't...

[The rest of the sentence is inaudible.)

EMMA
[Pats her foot up and down to her own words, speaks
loudly
to drown out Theodora.)
And never see that child awake. She'd work her fingers to
the bone...
[Stops rhythm suddenly and stomps her foot

emphatically.)

LEONA

Mother, I don't know if I can do it on my own.

EMMA
You're Emma Edwards' daughter. You're not on your own--and

don't you forget it.

263

LEONA

But what about a father?

EMMA

[Slaps her hands hard on her skirt.)
No use goin' on over somethin' you can't change. Life wasn't
meant to fit just your purpose or anybody else's

[Pauses.]
for that matter.

[Narrows eyes. Looks directly at Leona)
Folks do things they never dreamed of...they do them anyway.

You'll just have to do the best you can.

LEONA
[Sheepishly.)

Maybe I can get some money from the Thatchers.

THEODORA

O Lord, there Leona goes talking about that mess again.

EMMA
[Indignantly to Theodora.)
Don't you talk about your forefathers, young lady. My Mama

was Charlie Thatcher's own daughter...

LEONA

26A

[Nods thoughtfully.)

The biggest plantation in middle Tennessee.

MARIETTA

Used to be the biggest. They're not that grand anymore.

EMMA
They used to send a car out to get me for funerals. Haven't

seen them since I finished Fisk.

THEODORA

And you won't either.

MARIETTA

Sure won't.

[Marietta is still standing by the door. In between
comments, she looks out and then turns back to the

women.)

MARIETTA

Lord have mercy. If that ain't Mary Jane comin' up the walk.

THEODORA

Mary Jane--what does she want now?

MARIETTA

265

No telling--knowing her.

[Shrugs.]
I know one thing--I sure don't have time to go round
worryin' about what shade a brown I am.

[Laughs, then looks straight ahead with a natural
smile.)

I'll tell you that right now.

PETT MAE
That bird's looking for one of Emma Edwards' high-yellow
daughters.
[Looks at Marietta with mischievous smile and touches

handkerchief to her face.)

EMMA
[Emma goes over to window.)

She's an old bird--and a scared one too.

[Mary Jane enters. Walks to center of room.)

MARY JANE

I couldn't get home--cars runnin' up and down the street.

Keeping a woman on foot from going back to her own house. I

had to walk all the way back.

EMMA

The law's out everywhere these days.

-—l

 

 

266

MARY JANE
Well, I don't want them asking me--trying to find out where
I'm going....
[Angrily.]
They'll pay for killing Cordie Cheek.
[Anger increases.)

They took that boy's life.

EMMA

Talk won't change a thing...the law knows what they did.

MARY JANE
When people take things that don't belong to them, they

ought to pay.

EMMA

Rest yourself, Mary Jane.

MARY JANE
When somebody takes something that doesn't belong to them in

the first place, you never forget.

[Emma sits on edge of straight-backed chair, silently

rocking back and forth.)

MARY JANE

267

I had to come back. I woddent a been nothin' out there by
myself...Not that I was leaving the whole thing for good. I
planned to come back to East Hill anyway.

[Looks over at Leona. Mary Jane is restless, nervous

and

embarassed that she had to come back to the house so
soon,

her strong-willed, single-minded nature is still
apparent.

She continues to press her case.)

THEODORA
[Restless, fidgety.)

Some people sure do have a lot of nerve.

MARY JANE

I'm back here because of what they did to that boy--Cordie
Cheek.

[Starts to sweat. Wipes face on sleeve.)
My feet--my whole body's 'bout to give way. My throat's dry
as that wind out there. Took all I had to come back here.

[Looks startled, as if finally realizing what has
happened.)
I was driven back...all because of what they did to that boy
on the way from Nashville. Next thing you know they'll be
saying we did it too...

[Gradually raises voice higher and higher.)

268

I circled back, turned all the way around; my mind's just a
spinnin' and spinnin'. But I want you to know I didn't

forget. I'm still gonna get it back. I still want my ring.

[Silence can be heard in the room. No one responds.

Finally
Theodora heaves a dejected sigh. Emma steps forward and

motions to Theodora. Theodora gets up and hands Mary

Jane

Barnes a glass of water.)

EMMA
[Half-humorously.)
Folks need to rest...walked all the way up East End Hill--a

glass of water for our guest.

[Women murmur in unison.)

EMMA

[Half-humorously again.)
Give this traveller, weary that she might be, a chair.

[Women murmur again. Room darkens a little.)

EMMA

Mary Jane, rest yourself.

269

[Mary Jane sits down. Laughing and talking can be heard
outside the house. Men's voices are heard. Voice calls
out

at screen door.)

VOICE

Sheriff's deputy.

[Theodora goes to the door. Ushers in deputy. Room
becomes

darker. At some point, more lights are turned on. He
is

red-faced.)

OLDER DEPUTY

[Walks up to Theodora.)
Say, ain't I seen you somewhere before--in somethin' at the
picture show?

[Scratches his head.)
You look real familiar.

[Scratches his head again. Theodora's expression
freezes.

She doesn't move. Deputy changes the subject, looks

serious.)
Where's the gun?

[Looks around. Surveys women sitting at table.)

270

EMMA

I looked, sir. I looked high and low.

[Exaggerates, looks up and down, waving hands and
feigning

bewilderment.)
I do believe Will took all his guns, sir. He's gone off
hunting with the colored doctors from Nashville

[Lowers eyes.)

...and with President Hale.

OLDER DEPUTY
[Hesitates, as if trying to make sure he's hearing
right.)

President-~what President?

EMMA
Yes sir, President Hale from A & I.
[Looks sideways.)

A & I, sir. That's the colored college up at Nashville.

OLDER DEPUTY
Don't know nothin' 'bout no A & I.

[Angrily. Still looking around.)

[Theodora smiles, covers mouth with hand. Women turn
faces

down to hide laughter.)

271

OLDER DEPUTY
What I want to know is, do you or do you not keep a gun

here?

[Marietta steps forward. Stands next to Theodora.]

EMMA

I'm doin' poorly right now.

[Confidentially.)
And my daughter,

[Gestures to Leona.)
you know, she ain't quite...well. Her Papa ain't here
either. My daughter, she ain't well, you know.

[Emma lowers her head sheepishly.)

Will wouldn't dare to leave a gun.

[Deputy stares at Emma coldly.)

OLDER DEPUTY
You know I could tear this old house apart right now--and
you wanna know somethin'? Ain't nobody in this world could

stop me.

EMMA
[Deferentially.]

Why sir, that would be your right.

272

[Bows slightly.)

And where is young Mr. Frank, sir?

OLDER DEPUTY
He's held up down there at Blanton's house.
[Stands still and sways slightly; makes a sheepish
grin. It
is clear that the deputy has been drinking.)
Damned if that Blanton don't have everything made and
put in

a bottle.

EMMA
[Glances knowingly at Marietta.)
Sir, I have looked high and low.

. OLDER DEPUTY

[Impatient.)
I heard that already.

[Leeks around angrily.)
You know if that Will Edwards is as smart as they say he is,
he'd be a damn feel to keep guns in the same house with a
bunch of women.

[Walks swiftly toward door. Steps, turns around. Gees
ever

to piano. Bangs a little.)

Been a long time since I felt so good.

273

[Looks up at stacks of boxes containing piano rolls.)

This a player piano?

[No one answers. He turns around and starts to walk
back

out.)

MARY JANE
When somebody takes something that's not theirs in the first

place, they ought to be tried...they ought to pay.

OLDER DEPUTY
[Looks shocked.)

Who's this?

[His face is angry. He approaches Mary Jane and holds

her
hard by the arm.)

Look here, Auntie.

MARY JANE
When somebody takes something that's not theirs in the first

place.

OLDER DEPUTY
[Pulls Mary Jane closer.)
What's wrong with this darkie? She crazy or somethin'?

[Mary Jane leeks frightened. She stutters. Obviously

27“

she
realizes her words have been misinterpreted. Emma
touches

Mary Jane's shoulder. Turns to deputy.)

EMMA

Don't mind her. She's worried about her son.

[Deputy eyes Mary Jane centemptueusly.)

OLDER DEPUTY
Just a bunch a cacklin' women...
[Turns around and yells at women. Staggers slightly.)
Newdon'tyeuthinkI'mleavin'forgood.SeonasIgoback
to Blanton's and see the rest of that cock fight. I'll be

back...you hear.

[Marietta fellows behind. When the deputy goes out, she

falls against the door in a gesture of relief. During
the

time the deputy has been there everything has been
silent.

New talking and strained laughter burst out. What might

seem boisterous and loud in another culture can be
taken

here as a mixture of grief and release from pain.)

275

LEONA

Mother, you ought to be ashamed.
[Women laugh.)

THEODORA
Mother, I thought you told us Papa went fishin' with Mr.

Cordell Hull.

LEONA

Mother sure does like to perform.

RUTH
Mama Emma, it sure is too bad you couldn't have been in the

colored shows.

EMMA
Mama Emma's danced and sang all she wants to, darling.
[Emma looks up beatifically.)

Your Mama Emma has lived her life.

THEODORA

Oh Mother, you'll be here after I'm dead and gone.

[Mary Jane sits in corner. She looks quietly

determined.)

276

EMMA
When Marietta called Saul Blanton on the phone, said the
law's on the way, I know Saul was waitin' when they got
there...
[Laughs.]
We've dealt with the law up here on East Hill many a day.

[Looks at Mary Jane.)

MARY JANE

You mighta dealt with the law, but you won't put 22.9ff-

EMMA
It's not puttin' eff. You're an old bird, Mary Jane. You
said all you wanted to say...that ring won't be going back
to you. Furthermore, Leona's stayin' here. You're welcome to
send your son. Anybody's welcome here, always will be. We're

not about to put anybody out.

[Emma grabs her hair and brings it forward over her

shoulder.)

LEONA
[Loudly.)
I'm stayin'. I'm going to raise the baby right here. That
ring belongs to me and I'm keeping it. When something

belongs to you, you haVe a right to keep it.

277

[Mary Jane turns away and stares at the wall.)

EMMA
[Looks at Ruth.)
I guess Cordie Cheeks' mother'll be coming to see you about

the wake. She'll be picking out the suit.

RUTH
A young boy's suit--
[Emphatically.)
I'll be going to.hgg.
[Pauses.]
I guess I'll have to wait...
[Looks at door.)

I'm sure not going out there new.

[Emma continues to arrange her hair. She reaches in her

apron pocket and takes out a few hair pins. Taking out
one

pin at a time, she slowly pins her hair up at the top
of her

head.)

PETT MAE
[High-voiced.)

Look who's gettin' fixed up.

 

278

MARIETTA

Mother's gone and found herself a party.

EVA ZOE

Where's the party, Mama Emma?

EMMA

Never you mind about a party..(
[Teasing.]
I'll party you.

[Women laugh nervously. A few of them absent-mindedly
begin

to arrange their hair and clothes. Emma takes off her
apron

and throws it on the sofa, then smoothes out her dress.
She

reaches in her pocket for another pin and puts it in
her

hair.)

SAMUELLA

Look at Mama Emma--she's dressing up.

EVA ZOE
Remember, Mama Emma, when you used to get all fixed up and

play for our high school dance?

279

THEODORA

Mother doesn't need a party to get dressed up and go out.

MARIETTA

She never did.

LEONA

She'll start gettin' ready at the drop of a hat.

RUTH

Wonder when we'll be able to leave.

[Emma walks to the door and opens it slightly--starts

out.)

RUTH:

Where you goin', Mama Emma?

EMMA
[Turns and addresses women.)
Why, I remember one night I put on everything I owned.
Shawls, everything.
[Hands on hips.)
Will said, "Lord have mercy, Emma, where you think you're
going?" I turned around just like this, said "Just going out

to look at the stars."

280

[Leona walks to door leading off the stage. She takes a
silk

crepe dinner dress hanging on the door and holds it up
to

her body. She seems to be deep in thought, then turns

towards Emma.)

EMMA
[Walks over to a chair and picks up a shawl.)
It's dark now...a beautiful night and the stars are all
out...I guess I'll go out on the porch. The stars'll be out

right about now.

[Ruth struggles, stands up and walks a few steps toward

the

door. Emma walks out the door while the women watch.)

END OF SCENE III

[Stage is dark. Spotlight on Marietta.)

MARIETTA
I don't know why things had to turn out the way they did
with Cordie Cheek. God tests your faith. Sometimes there's
no point in tryin' to blame anybody. Maybe it had to be this

way. No point in trying to talk about how things could have

281

been different. I just have to believe that.

Leona's been goin' on about havin' that baby without a
husband...about what the town'll say...lots worse things
been said about folks. If that's all anybody ever says about
you, you've done pretty well, I'd say.

I try to be real quiet, real nice and not worry folks
with a whole lot of mess. When Leona and Mother start that
talk about the Thatchers, I just let them go right on. Don't
say a word. Makes me no never mind. I wouldn't be surprised
if Leona told that same story to the baby...that baby

[Laughs.]

I'll tell you one thing...it'll be a talkin' one.

You know Leona's the one that always listened to Mama's
stories when she was comin' up. Mother likes to tell folks
that Grandma got married up to the Thatcher house in a red
velvet dress. She did no such thing.

[Slowly explaining.)

Grandma ran off and got married, same as me. When her own
Papa died they sent for Grandma in a big black car. She
wouldn't even go. Said she was mad--at the Thatchers. Why?

[Laughs.]

That's somethin' you'd have to ask Grandma. I couldn't tell
you that.

[Laughs.]

You see, Mother likes a good story. And she knew Leona would
eat up whatever she told her.

Let other folks live in peace. That's all I knew to

282

say. Leave other folks alone. I try to help when I can,
otherwise I leave them alone. Mary Jane goes on about card
playin'.

[Pause, with emphasis.)

She's performin' herself. Card playin'? If that's all
anybody ever says about you, you've done pretty well, and
that's the truth.

Like I said, I don't know why things had to turn out
the way they did with Cordie Cheek. Folks'll go on for
days...doin' a whole lot of whoopin' and hollerin'. But it
won't amount to much. Saul Blanton. They think he's just a
performer. Somebody to laugh at. They think he's a gambler,
a bootlegger, just somebody interested in money. They come
runnin' through here...all the time lookin' for this old gun
and that one. Saul Blanton can get 100 guns from Chicago,
just like that. New I don't believe in gamblin'--

[Aside.)

That's how Saul Blanton get rich, that and bootleggin'.

[Faces audience again.)
but sometimes you gotta fight evil with evil. They take us
for a bunch of feels, they think they know where all the
guns are, even Mary Jane could a gene straight to fifteen or
twenty guns.

Like I said, I don't approve of gamblin'--or guns
either--but I don't judge people. I hope it never comes to
guns--but it might have to. I'll tell you this--if it does

they'll be pullin' the white folks out of the Duck River,

 

 

283

buryin' them at night. Folks'll be layin' on the roofs down
in the Bottom, on top of Ruth and Jim's business, Saul
Blanton's barber shop, Curtis' cafeteria, the Elks' lodge,
with rifles aimed, just a waitin'. And when they come
through--

[Pauses, looks off.)

They're busy lookin' for one gun. Time may come. I ain't
sayin' it will come, but I'm tellin' you...Saul Blanton can
get guns from Chicago any time he wants.

Now I hope it never comes to that--but the Lord works
in mysterious ways. Folks may not believe this, but the
whole world's lookin' right here. If you think what we say
don't count, just watch. I'm not sayin' I'd fight, but we're
going to get justice sometime. We're gonna get it, sure as
day and night.

[Spotlight fades slowly.)

 

28H

Appendix

Although the characters in "The Bridge Party" are fictional,
the play does refer to two historical events, which,
however, in contrast to the action of the play, were widely
separated in time. In 1945, after the close of World War II,
a race riot occurred in Columbia, Tennessee. This event is
described in Langston Hughes'.§ight For Freedom: The Story
of the NAACP. About ten years earlier in Columbia, a young
boy who had been tried and acquitted on charges of molesting
a white woman was lynched; his body remained hanging from a
tree for several days until a minister was given permission

to cut down the corpse.

"Take the A-Train" was composed by Billy Strayhorn in 19A1
and recorded by the Duke Ellington Orchestra in the same
year. By the year 19u2, Strayhorn's composition had received

worldwide recognition as the theme of Ellington's orchestra.

"I'm Just Wild About Harry" was written by Eubie Blake for

the musical "Shuffle Along." Although this composition is

 

 

285

popularly remembered as a fast tempo piece, it was

originally conceived and played in waltz tempo.

"Until The Real Thing Comes Along" was a million-seller in
1936 for Andy Kirk and his Clouds of Joy with Pha Terrell as
the vocalist. In an earlier version, popular in the black
clubs of the twenties, this number was known as "The Slave

Song."