Nearer Still: A Secret Affinity Story

by Melissa MacVicar

  NEARER STILL

  A Secret Affinity Story

  Melissa MacVicar

  DEDICATION

  For all those who sat in

  When it was safer to stay home

  Daddy slapped the folded newspaper down on the kitchen table. Momma, Livvy, and I flinched.

  “Stanley Irving. Front-page news.”

  Alarm ran through my body like electricity. “What?” I asked reflexively.

  Daddy took his seat at the head of the table. Sunday mornings before church we always sat together and ate Momma’s biscuits with sausage gravy.

  Daddy took his time spreading his napkin in his lap before continuing. “Don’t know why he’s bothering to go to college if he’s just gonna get himself arrested like that.”

  I tentatively took the newspaper and uncurled it so I could see the headline.

  The Baltimore Sun~Sunday, April 28, 1960.

  Ten Arrested in Sit-in at Woolworths in Arlington.

  And there, seated at the counter between a white girl and another black man, was my Stanley.

  “It’s those professors at that college. And that new preacher at Union. They don’t give a lick about his future. They just want what they want. A big scene.”

  Livvy reached over and squeezed my hand as my shock turned to anger. I wanted Daddy to stop talking. I needed time to think. Could I call Stanley at home? Was he still in jail?

  “I suppose he’s taken up with white women now too—”

  I shoved my chair back and sprung to my feet, glaring at my father. “Don’t!” I shouted.

  Momma gasped and Daddy’s eyes widened. I wanted to say more, so much more, but I didn’t dare. I was too old for a whipping, but I still couldn’t yell at my father. After a few moments, I threw down my napkin and dashed through the living room to the stairs. My shoes pattered on the hardwood as I went, and nobody called after me. If they had, I don’t think I would have stopped. In my room, I flopped on my bed, tears brimming in my eyes. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup, so I just let them fall. I may have been eighteen, but I could still cry like a little girl when it came to my daddy and Stanley Irving.

  All sorts of thoughts ran through my head. Part of me was terrified. Stanley might be in jail being beaten and abused. I imagined the white policemen in crisp, starched uniforms who didn’t care if he lived or died. After that image, my anger came. Stanley should have never gone along for that protest! Was he secretly in love with that white woman? He should have thought about our future. It was a future he’d promised to share with me, but now it might never happen.

  After about five minutes, the tears subsided and my mind moved on to more pressing problems, the first being that I had to go to church with my family. I had to get myself together. Livvy or Momma would be coming to get me any minute. Daddy wouldn’t stand for anyone missing church. You had to be lying on your death bed, inches from the Lord taking you to be by his side in the kingdom of heaven in order to miss church. Your boyfriend getting arrested in a protest at Woolworth’s was definitely not a satisfactory reason to skip worship.

  But I wanted to stay home in case Stanley tried to call or come over. He usually came over on Sunday afternoons. We would sit together in my living room, or if we were lucky enough to have nice weather, we’d go out back and sit on the swing in the yard next to the cherry tree. Yes, Stanley would know better than to come this morning, since we were both still required to attend our separate churches with our families. That is, if he wasn’t still in jail or a hospital from being beaten.

  Church was another endless bone of contention that Daddy picked with my boyfriend. The Irvings attended Union Baptist, and we, the Fergusons, worshipped at Bethel African Methodist Episcopal. You would think being Baptist made the Irvings Jewish or something, for how important it was to Daddy. Daddy and the Baptists had a long-standing feud—the origins of which were never clear to me—but I couldn’t help but marvel at the sincere dislike he harbored for our friends and neighbors just because of their choice of church. My daddy was definitely not what you would call an easy man. Nothing like my Stanley.

  Someone tapped on my door. “Winnie?” Livvy called, her voice soft. My little sister knew how terrible this was for me, how I suffered inside because of Daddy’s feelings about Stanley.

  “Come in,” I called to her. Even though we shared this room, Livvy was always respectful about barging in.

  She entered, her eyes wide, her face full of questions. I smiled to try to ease her concern. Livvy was the more sensitive one of us, and I dreaded what would happen when she eventually brought a beau home for Daddy’s approval.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. She came and sat on the edge of my bed, her shoulders hunched.

  “Why? You didn’t do anything.”

  “I know, but I just feel so bad for you. Having to deal with Daddy, and Stanley being arrested. Doesn’t Daddy know how upsetting this is to you?”

  “I think he does, but he’s probably hoping we break up because of it. Daddy would rather I be an old maid than marry a Baptist. Especially a Union Baptist.”

  “Yes, but why does he have to be so hateful?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but you better only be interested in boys from Bethel. That will make your life so much easier.”

  “I am not much interested in any boys right now.”

  And this was true. Despite being sixteen, Livvy had not dated anyone. This wasn’t because boys didn’t like her, though. Livvy had the attention of several boys from our church, including Adam Crawford. Adam would be graduating with me in June and had dated all the prettiest and most popular girls. He was tall and rugged with medium-brown skin. His hazel eyes were just like Livvy’s. I always envied her those eyes because they made her so unique. We had almost the exact same light-brown skin, but I just had average old brown eyes. Yes, my little sister Livvy was special, but she didn’t seem to want to use what she was given to attract boys. She only wanted to learn about ghosting from Aunt Charlotte. Ghosting was her passion.

  Both Livvy and I had inherited the ability to see ghosts from our mother, but Livvy was an especially gifted medium. Being a medium was just part of who we were, like attending Bethel on Sunday and living in a brick row house. Ghosting was all we’d ever known, even though Daddy didn’t approve of us doing it the same way Momma did. Usually, we kept Daddy in the dark about our exploits with Aunt Charlotte. Mostly, our work involved freeing spirits trapped in the human realm. We performed ceremonies to help them reach the spirit world, and Livvy was better at it than anyone else, despite her age. The spirits listened to her. They respected her.

  Livvy’s first ghost was my third. At first, I was terrified of the spirits. I didn’t know how Momma and Charlotte could be so calm about something so unnatural, but Livvy wasn’t like me. She couldn’t wait to go to her first ghost. Charlotte had a good one for her, too, an old man who’d been rattling around a tenement up in Walbrook for a few decades. I still remember the look on Livvy’s face when he appeared, his disgusting body covered in brown decay, a screeching howl emanating from his gaping mouth. Livvy didn’t even flinch. In fact, she smiled.

  “Well hello Mr. Dubois,” she said to him.

  And from that day on, Livvy was the shining star of the Orpin sister’s ghost clearing business.

  “We better go down before he has to call for us,” Livvy said. She reached up and touched her skeleton-key charm—the one Aunt Charlotte had given her when she turned fifteen. A family heirloom, it had been designated for Livvy because of how strong her ghost gift was.

  We went to our vanity to put on our hats. For church, we always wore small, flat hats in various styles tha
t we pinned on. Momma dressed the hats up with netting and flowers that matched our dresses, and Daddy liked how we weren’t drawing too much attention to ourselves with big, grandiose styles like some of the ladies at church.

  As we got ready that morning, Livvy carefully attached mine to my coiffed hair and then I did hers. Our appearance needed to be neat and fresh for church. We always washed and set our hair in rollers on Saturday night. Livvy kept hers shorter than mine because she didn’t like to have to bother as much, but I liked the way mine fell around my shoulders and framed my face. Before we went down, I went to the bathroom and dabbed at my eyes with a cold washcloth.

  Daddy said nothing else about Stanley as we walked to church, but I knew everyone there would be talking about him being on the front page of the Baltimore Sun. That morning, it seemed as if the whole neighborhood was outside and headed for their respective churches at the same time. The clear, early spring air was as fresh as the ocean, and the occasional flowering cherry tree hung with perfumed blossoms. The rows upon rows of brick homes seemed to shine in the sun like a Utopian world. My family, however, didn’t live in Utopia. This was the Upton neighborhood, home to working-class black families like ours.

  “Do you think Stanley will be able to come this afternoon?” Livvy asked softly, her arm hitched through mine as we walked in step behind Momma and Daddy.

  “I really hope so,” I murmured. “I really hope.”

  Livvy squeezed my arm. We wore matching shirt dresses with full skirts that fell to our knees. Mine was royal blue and Livvy’s was yellow and white pinstripes. Momma made our dresses in those days, and we got to pick out the fabric. Now that we’d stopped growing, Momma made us new dresses for church twice a year, along with matching hats.

  “Momma’s taking us to Charlotte’s later. Daddy thinks we’re going to tie off Cinny’s quilt, but really we going over to Madison Park to see about a spirit.”

  “What time?” I asked. I didn’t want to miss seeing Stanley at visiting.

  “After dinner and visiting, I suppose. Daddy will probably go down to the Whitaker’s and watch Bonanza.”

  We ate our big meal promptly at one thirty on Sunday afternoons, and then everyone went visiting until suppertime. Supper was leftovers, and this was often the time when Momma would take us to her sister Charlotte’s to visit.

  At the intersection, we ran into the Sampsons, fellow Bethel parishioners, on their way to service. Daddy liked Mr. Sampson, so they began walking together. Unfortunately, Livvy and I didn’t like the Sampson children, three boys ranging in age from fourteen to ten.

  Arnold, the oldest, grinned at me with his crooked teeth. “I saw Stanley in the paper.”

  I scowled at him.

  “Hush, Arnold,” Mrs. Sampson said. She eyed me and then looked to Momma.

  “It’s all right. We saw him too,” Momma replied. “Stanley’s just standing up for what he believes in, just like Jesus teaches us.”

  Daddy stopped and glared back at her before continuing our steady march toward Bethel. My heart swelled with joy because Momma had spoken up for Stanley. I always knew she was on my side, but it was hard for her to go against Daddy in anything. When she was willing to risk his displeasure, especially in front of our friends, her support meant even more.

  The huge stone bell tower loomed several blocks ahead, beckoning us along Druid Hill Avenue. Livvy and I were quiet because the Sampson boys ran and cavorted around us. And when we reached the steps, ascending inside with all our friends and neighbors, I knew my first prayer would be for Stanley—that he was unharmed and that I would see his smiling face at my door at three p.m. sharp.

  ~~OO~~

  I met Stanley Irving at the very first dance I ever attended. It was a church dance, of course, and I was seventeen years old. All the churches in our neighborhood hosted youth dances, and everyone was welcome to come. Unlike Daddy, the church leaders thought it was a fine idea to bring all the Christian children of the neighborhood together for socializing.

  My best friend (besides Livvy, who was really my best friend) was Melinda Kerr. She and I rode in her Daddy’s Thunderbird to the basement of Union Baptist around seven. We could have walked just as easy, but both our daddies were against us walking alone at night. We were being picked up at ten sharp by my daddy on the corner of Druid Hill and West Lanvale.

  Excitement built in my chest as we got closer to the church. I wore one of Momma’s dresses—a plain shift style but made from a creamy-gold brocade fabric. Livvy and I had spent hours on my hair. I was so grateful to be with Melinda because she had been to these dances before. Unlike me, she had been allowed to go when she was sixteen.

  “Now don’t y’all be late for Mr. Ferguson,” Mr. Kerr told us as he pulled up to the curb in front of the church. “And no leaving the premises, you hear, Melinda?”

  “I promise, Daddy. Thanks for driving us.” Melinda leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  Other teens stood in clusters on the sidewalk, smoking and talking. Melinda and I didn’t stop to see if we knew any of them. In the foyer, it looked to me like there was an over-abundance of girls. We all eyed each other as Melinda and I headed down the stairs to the basement. The music seemed overly loud, and the lights were dim. This dance was like a forbidden world of sin, and the fact that a church of all places would be encouraging us to attend such a function seemed odd to me.

  Since we were right on time, not many people were dancing yet. In fact, the only ones out on the dance floor were the Union Baptist youth minister and his wife, along with their young children. That was very disappointing. Once we reached the basement level, we began walking along the edge of the room where more young people congregated. Again, they stood in friend clusters, and this time there were groups of boys. They all had close-cropped Afros and button-down shirts with slacks. It was hard to see any variation in the colors of their shirts in the dim light, and I didn’t want to be staring. Boys and girls alike, however, eyed us as we went around, and I began to recognize some of them from school and Bethel. Melinda stopped when she found some of our friends.

  Margaret-Ann said, “I can’t believe you are finally here, Winnie.”

  “I know, and to a Union one at that!” Josie added.

  I just smiled because it was all in good fun. They knew how strict my father was and felt bad for me that I had to wait until I was seventeen, instead of sixteen like most of them.

  “There’re older boys here tonight too. Some that graduated last year from Douglass,” Margaret-Ann said. Of course, older boys were more exciting than the usual ones we saw everyday at Frederick Douglass High School.

  More boys and girls streamed in, crowding down the stairs and spreading out across the room. When Lloyd Price started singing “Stagger Lee,” boys began asking girls to dance. I had no idea how they were picking. It all seemed so random to me. Did everyone already have a sweetheart? Watching girls get asked, including Josie and Melinda, made it worse. A creeping wave of self-consciousness began to overtake me. It felt like everyone in the room thought I was undesirable. They all knew I had never danced with a boy before and were therefore avoiding me, I thought.

  “Come on. Let’s get a Coke,” Margaret-Ann said.

  I gladly followed her to the refreshments area. I had no admirers that I knew of, no one from school that had a crush on me. I, like most girls, had crushes on boys like Adam Crawford, but I seemed to go utterly unnoticed by the boys in my everyday life.

  After getting my Coke, I turned with Margaret-Ann to watch the song change. Chubby Checker began singing “The Twist,” and my heart leapt. I so badly wanted to dance to this song. Livvy and I danced to it in our room all the time. I looked on as all the girls with dance partners start to move their bodies to the song. While I was observing, a boy approached us. Both Margaret-Ann and I watched as he came, sure in his stride. I remained convinced he was going to veer off any second, and then I thought he was going to ask Margaret-Ann. But neither of those thin
gs happened. Instead, he stopped directly in front of me. I recognized him too. He went to Bethel with me. His name was Phillip Wilson.

  “Winnie Ferguson, right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I managed to utter in response.

  Phillip was one of the older boys Margaret-Ann was talking about, and he was one of the ones who went to college at Baltimore City now. Not a working boy. A college boy. This was a big deal in my neighborhood back then.

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

  I couldn’t seem to speak my answer, so I just nodded and turned to set my drink down. When I caught Margaret’s eyes, I felt bad that I was leaving her alone. But what could I do? I did come to dance, after all.

  I followed Phillip Wilson through the crowd of dancers until he found a spot for us. He turned back toward me, and I thought my knees were going to start knocking together. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. I somehow knew what to do when Phillip took my hands. We started twisting and shimmying to the music. It was just like dancing with Livvy in our room but so much better. Phillip smelled good, and he knew just how and when to touch me during the dance to make it so we were actually dancing together. I didn’t think I wanted the song to ever end but when it did, a slow song started—“Put Your Head on my Shoulder.” Phillip didn’t hesitate or ask again if I wanted to dance. Instead, he took me in his arms. I kept my eyes down on his shoulder because I was too nervous to look directly at him. Slow dancing with a boy was way different than doing the Twist.

  “You graduating this year or next?” he asked.

  “Next,” I answered softly. “Are you still in college?”

  I glanced up and then away.

  “Yes. Finishing my first year.”

  Another couple came close. “Hey, Phillip,” the boy said.

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  The girl was pretty, but she was frowning. I could tell by the way they held each other that there was a strain between them.

  “Okay. Who’s this?” the boy asked.