Loving vs. Virginia

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Loving vs. Virginia Page 5

by Patricia Hruby Power


  I can’t go in.”

  I giggle

  ’cause I think he’s kidding.

  But he’s got his arm

  around my shoulder

  walking toward the door

  and he’s a whole lot stronger

  than me.

  As we step into the doorway

  a white man,

  maybe the guard,

  puts out his hand—

  bars our path.

  He looks at Richard

  and cocks his head at me—

  like

  that says it all.

  I know I’m not allowed,

  I feel embarrassed.

  HUMILIATED.

  I don’t care if I go in.

  I don’t like to rock the boat.

  “You go in, Richard,” I say,

  my voice rising.

  “You wanna dance?

  You go in.

  You wanna listen to the music?

  You go ahead.”

  I feel my lower lip jutting out.

  That’s how I know

  I’m angry.

  I train myself not to be angry.

  So I don’t always know that I am.

  Anger takes energy

  that I’d rather use

  being happy.

  But now I’m ANGRY—

  and I’m angry

  at Richard.

  I don’t want to cry,

  but I feel my lower lip

  trembling—

  my face is warning me

  that the tears could start

  spilling.

  Richard knows me well

  enough

  to know this too.

  He pulls me back

  out of that lit-up

  doorway,

  out to where it’s dark,

  away from the people.

  He puts his

  arms around me

  and he kisses my eyes

  which are salty with

  escaped tears.

  He says,

  “Bean,

  Bean, I’m sorry,

  but your Daddy is playing in there

  and Doochy and Button,

  and all of ’em, Theo,

  and I thought maybe

  they’d let us in.

  It was stupid.

  I was stupid.

  Let’s hang out here.

  It’s nicer out here,

  in the dark,

  anyhow.”

  And Richard,

  who never ever

  dances,

  just holds me

  and we rock together

  taking little steps

  and we’re

  dancing.

  The moment they said,

  No, you can’t go in,

  he saw—

  I know he really saw—

  what it is

  to be colored.

  It’s true—

  when we go to movies

  we have to sit up in the balcony.

  But this is different.

  YOU CANNOT

  COME IN

  HERE.

  We walk to where

  the car is,

  climb into

  the backseat

  with no one around.

  I tell him.

  I tell him everything.

  He’s gonna find out anyway.

  I cry while I tell him.

  His face folds up

  He steps out of the car.

  I wail.

  He’s gone what feels like

  forever

  in the dark.

  I’m in the car whimpering.

  He comes back.

  Drives me home.

  RICHARD

  Had a bad night with Millie

  last night. I just gotta think.

  Don’t know what to do.

  MILDRED

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  JANUARY 1957

  When the pains get bad

  and close together

  Mama sends Lewis over to Lovings’—

  not for Richard—

  for Mrs. Loving.

  Lola Loving comes right over.

  Mama is already boiling water.

  I’m in the downstairs bed

  on an old sheet and towels

  that have been boiled

  many times

  for many births.

  Lola says,

  “Push, Honey.

  You’re doin’ real good,”

  over and over.

  I’m crying

  and Lola is saying,

  “The baby’s coming.

  Push, Honey.

  You’re doin’ good.”

  Good?

  I’m doing good?

  What is good?

  I’m screaming.

  My mama sets behind me

  propping up my back.

  “The baby is coming.

  Push.”

  The baby is here.

  Lola puts the baby

  on my belly.

  And my mama

  lets me lie back.

  I cry.

  Everyone cries.

  Lola says,

  “You did real good,

  Millie. You’re

  the right age

  to have a baby.”

  Young.

  She trying to make me

  feel better?

  “That was an easy

  labor,”

  she says.

  He’s a wrinkled little guy—

  looks like a little old man—

  a Sidney.

  I name him

  Sidney Clay—

  he’s beautiful.

  I love him.

  RICHARD

  ONE MONTH LATER

  FEBRUARY 1957

  I drove up to Millie’s. No one was outside.

  I knocked on the door. Her mother came,

  said, Richard! surprised.

  She said, Millie’s napping, then stepped aside

  so I could see into the front bedroom.

  It was dim inside because there’s no window

  and no light on.

  Millie sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  She ran her hand through her rumpled hair.

  Richard?

  I stood in the doorway blocking the light

  so maybe she couldn’t quite see me.

  Of course she was surprised. She hadn’t seen me in weeks.

  In months.

  My eyes adjusted, we just looked at each other.

  She patted the bed. I sat next to her.

  I was about to say something—I don’t know what—

  I heard whimpering.

  Millie reached behind her, gathered a bundle

  cradled it in her arms.

  Pulled down a corner of the cover, said,

  Sidney, this is Richard.

  Richard, this is Sidney.

  She looked down at him, cooed at him,

  looked up at me still holding that look of pure love.

  She’s a beautiful mother.

  How can I not love her? How could I leave her?

  I’m sorry, Millie. I’m so sorry.

  If you want me, I’m back.

  I choked up a little.

  Millie cried, but not making no sound.

  Just tears sliding down her cheeks.

  She nodded. Nodded for a long time. She handed me Sidney.

  I hesitated a moment, but I took him.

  Cradle his head, she said. Soft and gentle.

  RICHARD

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  MAY 1957

  Millie and me turned off the hardtop to our road

  which people been calling

  Passing Road.

  You pass up north from where we are.

  Siren and lights. Oh shoot. The sheriff.

  Bean scooted out from under my arm—

  scared.

  I pulled over.

&nbs
p; Don’t be scared, Bean, we didn’t do nothin’.

  Sheriff swaggered up to the window.

  Yessir, I said.

  Can I see your license?

  I pulled out my billfold.

  He stooped to look in the car.

  And who is this? he asked,

  but I had the feeling he already knew.

  Bean didn’t say nothing, probably tongue-tied,

  so I said,

  This is Mildred Jeter, Sir.

  Can’t she talk? asked Sheriff.

  Your daddy Theoliver? Plays hillbilly music?

  I looked over at Millie. Her jaw set hard. I could see

  besides scared,

  she was angry.

  Yessir, she said, kind of like a mouse.

  My Millie isn’t usually like a mouse.

  Made me mad.

  What’s the problem, Sir? I asked—still real polite.

  Well, you didn’t have your turn indicator on.

  Nor did you have your arm out to signal.

  Now, that’s a law—

  to signal when you turn.

  I wanted to say, It’s late at night.

  There’s no one else on the road.

  Why would I signal?

  ’Course, I stopped myself

  from saying anything.

  He seemed to be having a good time.

  He leaned in my window so I had to smell his lousy breath.

  He said, This is a warning.

  I ain’t givin’ you a ticket

  this time.

  Now, you take that little Negress home

  where she belongs.

  And you don’t go breakin’ the law again.

  Hear me?

  Yessir, I said. I hated calling him Sir—

  the sonofabitch.

  I wanted to drive off so his arm would get wrenched.

  But he was quick

  in how he stopped leaning.

  I didn’t need no trouble, anyhow.

  And I didn’t

  want Millie to be in no trouble

  either.

  So I drove off gentle. I patted Millie’s knee.

  I didn’t want her to cry.

  I took a quick look over at her.

  She was staring straight ahead.

  It’s okay, Bean. We didn’t do nothin’.

  MILDRED

  ONE MONTH LATER

  JUNE 1957

  Mama says,

  “I guess you’re serious about that boy.”

  “Yeah, Mama, I am.”

  “Bring him round to dinner.”

  Richard comes

  for Sunday dinner—

  one o’clock sharp.

  Aunt Coree Johnson comes,

  most of my brothers

  are here.

  Mama boils

  chicken, collards, turnips.

  I slice bread

  we baked this morning.

  Garnet fries last year’s apples.

  And we have rice pudding

  for dessert.

  The cream is from our cow

  who I milked this morning,

  eggs laid by our chickens.

  Richard has sat here

  many times.

  But today

  we have on the checkered tablecloth

  because he is my special guest.

  The table is heaped with food,

  Sidney in a basket alongside me,

  family crowded around.

  Richard grabs my hand under the table,

  at the same time he slips the napkin off my lap,

  puts it on his.

  Still holding his one hand,

  I grab for my napkin.

  But he won’t let me have it.

  I can’t help but giggle—

  having our own conversation

  with no words

  under the table hidden by the cloth,

  while everyone else

  talks over the top

  of the table.

  RICHARD

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  DECEMBER 1957

  Over at Ray’s with him under some car

  I found an old can of paint in his mess of a shed.

  It was part solid, but there was enough liquid to whitewash

  the board I brought.

  I told him, Decide what you want on your sign.

  I’ll get the black at Blatt’s.

  Time you set up business—

  stop bein’ a bum.

  He laughed.

  Me too, I laughed.

  He said, You woulda loved seeing

  me—your friend, the bum—

  outsmarting the

  jackass sheriff this morning.

  No, I said. No, no, but I laughed.

  Are you off your rocker?

  No, listen, Ray said.

  I’m at the junkyard this morning

  looking for some copper tube.

  Up drives Sheriff, says,

  Boy, what you need with copper pipe?

  I don’t wait to answer.

  I’m off and running,

  ducking between trashed cars.

  What?

  He’s going to arrest me for some copper tube?

  They know I’m good to pay for my piece of tube.

  But not now.

  I dip into the woods and I’m home free.

  I dodge blackberries

  knowing he’s gonna plow through,

  get his ass raked by thorns.

  He’s never gonna find my still.

  It’s a wild goose chase and ’course

  I win.

  I said, Ray, you lost your marbles?

  Lookin’ for trouble?

  Man, you are gonna find it.

  Don’t go messin’

  with Sheriff.

  MILDRED

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  APRIL 1958

  I know how it feels

  from last time.

  No mistake.

  I haven’t told

  Garnet.

  She’ll tell me how

  stupid I am.

  She’ll say,

  Why didn’t you—

  Why didn’t I—what?

  What could I do?

  Richard’s a man.

  He needs to do the thing.

  And I wanted to do it too.

  But I’m the one in trouble.

  WHAT am I going to do?

  What will Richard think?

  Lord, help me.

  RICHARD

  I asked, Are you sure?

  Yes. Yes. It’s been three months, Richard.

  Could there be a mistake?

  It was just a question.

  But she went nuts.

  I seen her upset before,

  but never like that.

  MILDRED

  How could he ask that?

  “Richard, what are you thinking?

  Do you want to get rid

  of this baby?

  Of me?”

  He pauses.

  In that moment,

  I don’t breathe.

  I look him in the eye.

  All this time we’ve

  been doing it,

  doesn’t he know

  what could

  happen?

  What could he be

  thinking?

  That I’d walk away

  and do this

  alone?

  Again?

  I’m about to look away.

  When he says,

  “No.

  No, Millie.

  No.”

  He takes hold of my two shoulders,

  pulls me to his chest.

  “I want to do the right thing.”

  He kisses my forehead.

  He says, “Do we need to talk

  to my mother?

  Find out when you’re

  going to have this baby?

  And make plans.”

  Oh, Richard.

  Thank you.
>
  Thank you.

  Thank you.

  RICHARD

  A MONTH LATER

  MAY 1958

  Ray said, You can’t marry a colored girl. Not in Virginia.

  You’re white, Man. Did you forget that?

  I told him, We’ll do the marrying in D.C.

  He said, For godsakes, Man, live next door to her,

  if you have to be big about it.

  Look at Farmer.

  In our section

  white man named Farmer

  set up his colored woman in a little house

  and he lived next door.

  They have a mess of kids.

  Everyone knows, but no one says.

  All his kids take her name and when they grow up, they

  leave—

  pass as white people.

  Somewhere.

  Away from here.

  Farmer didn’t want to rock the boat.

  Millie deserves better.

  I called Ray a pig. I called him worse than that.

  I’m just trying to look after you, Man, he said.

  I said, You wanna help? Ray?

  What you can do is steer clear of Sheriff.

  He knows we’re friends. Keep yourself outta trouble.

  That’s how you can look after me.

  He said, You’re crazy, Man.

  I said,

  You got your moonshine.

  I got Bean.

  Ray said, You think Sheriff gonna let it go?

  He might.

  Ray can’t stop. You know it ain’t legal—race mixing.

  And Sheriff, he’s mean through and through.

  I didn’t say nothin’.

  But, yeah, I knew.

  Ray said, You are dreamin’. You been rockin’ Sheriff’s

  racial hatred

  a long time—

  pretending all y’all ain’t no different,

  everyone the same.

  Race mixing?

  That ain’t gonna slide in Caroline County.

  MILDRED

  ONE MONTH LATER

  JUNE 1958

  Missed enough school

  doin’ chores and stuff,

  I’m still a junior.

  Doesn’t matter anyway.

  I’m five months pregnant,

  beginning to show.

  I quit school.

  Don’t say anything to anyone.

  Just stop going.

  MILDRED

  RICHARD

  Baby due in October.

  That’s what my mother says—

  My midwife,

  Lola Loving,

  Lola Loving,

  she says,

  she says,

  “You seem to be very happy.

  We are—

 

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