Pull, strain, tug every nerve did Natalie, and a little headway was made. Now her strength seemed gone, and it looked as if she must succumb and let the boat drift and be dashed into pieces on the shore. But onward she forged, her strong hand bending as she plunged the boat through a stubborn swell.
“Oh, Marie, mere de Dieu,” prayed Natalie, “dans cette heure de travail, pitie-moi; donnez-moi ton secours.”
For a weary hour she fought with blistered hands and failing heart against the surging swells and driving wind until near the sides of the steamer, when a lasso-like rope came whizzing to the dory. Mrs. Spiers, white and trembling made it fast to the seats, and in another instant, they were all on deck, surrounded by the wondering crew, safe, but exhausted, and sobbing, every one of them.
“And after mama being so mean to her too,” cried Olivia in the first flush of excitement.
Mrs. Spiers and Olivia went to New Orleans, while the captain sent one of his strongest men to row Natalie home. That night, the Torrés house crumbled to the ground, its old foundation undermined by the water.
But was Natalie ever forgotten? Go to Mandeville to-day and you’ll find her there yet, though this happened eight years ago. But see the comforts around Mme. Leblanc—the books and music and pleasant little luxuries. And when Natalie goes to New Orleans for the Carnival week, Mr. Spiers introduces her to everyone as the “plucky little girl who rowed my wife and daughter out of a death-trap, by Jove!”
ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ
[1880–1958]
POET AND PLAYWRIGHT ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ WAS BORN to a white mother and a black father, who raised their only daughter in the progressive, upper-class society of old Boston. Her father, Archibald Grimké, was a former slave and a nephew of the famous white abolitionist and women’s rights activist Angelina Grimké Weld, for whom the author was named. He was also a noted intellectual who served as president of the influential American Negro Academy and executive director of the NACP. His moderate platform (shared by many African American leaders of the period) dissuaded his only daughter from militant politics. Instead, young Angelina was taught to aspire to the “talented tenth” throughout her privileged upbringing.
Grimké’s most famous work, Rachel, a play portraying the devastating effects of lynching on a middle-class African American family, proved a powerful plea for racial justice when it was first performed under the auspices of the NACP in 1916. In fact, the play is believed to be the first instance of African American “uplift” propaganda ever staged, as well as the first successful drama by a black American writer. Rachel—originally given the titles The Pervert and the equally curious Blessed Are the Barren—is told from the perspective of a refined young black woman who, like Grimké herself, vows that she will never marry or have children. Racism rather than gender nonconformism, however, informs this decision—when Rachel’s father and brother are lynched, and her adopted black son is called a “nigger,” she swears she will not bring another child into the world to be subjected to such treatment. In spite of the success of the play, Rachel was Grimké’s only book-length work published during her lifetime.
Grimké’s poetry—her most prolific genre—contains explicit references to lesbianism. Her two most widely published romantic poems, “A Mona Lisa” and “As the Green Lies Over the Earth,” are addressed to women. Furthermore, Grimké’s correspondence with women friends displays unambiguously intimate affections. Despite the ostracism she presumably experienced as a biracial lesbian or the bisexual author of explicitly lesbian verse, she avoided openly identifying her work as “homosexual.” Readers could assume that the speaker in her romantic poetry was a man writing to a woman. Consequently, Grimké’s poems are featured prominently in prestigious collections of the time, including Countee Cullen’s Caroling Dusk and Charles S. Johnson’s Ebony and Topaz. Nevertheless, Grimké’s repute as a poet, not to mention her commitment to writing, diminished suddenly in 1930 with her retirement from teaching and the death of her father, to whom she had committed much of her adult life. Depressed and living in self-imposed exile from friends, Grimké, for all purposes, ended her career long before her death in 1958.
Among Grimké’s most memorable short fiction is “The Closing Door.” Written specifically for Margaret Sanger’s Birth Control Review and published in the magazine’s September–October 1919 issue, the story deals with lynching and matricide. Although lesbianism is only very broadly hinted at in the opening lines, this unconventionally tragic depiction of motherhood speaks from the perspective of an especially anguished outsider.
The Closing Door
[1919]
It was the mother heart of Agnes that had yearned over me, had pity upon me, loved me and brought me to live in the only home I have ever known. I have cared for people. I care for Jim; but Agnes Milton is the only person I have ever really loved. I love her still. And before it was too late, I used to pray that in some way I might change places with her and go into that darkness where though, still living, one forgets sun and moon and stars and flowers and winds—and love itself, and existence means dark, foul-smelling cages, hollow clanging doors, hollow monotonous days. But a month ago when Jim and I went to see her, she had changed—she had receded even from us. She seemed—how can I express it?—blank, empty, a grey automaton, a mere shell. No soul looked out at us through her vacant eyes.
We did not utter a word during our long journey homeward. Jim had unlocked the door before I spoke.
“Jim,” I said, “they may still have the poor husk of her cooped up there but her soul, thank God, at least for that, is free at last!”
And Jim, I cannot tell of his face, said never a word but turned away and went heavily down the stairs. And I, I went into Agnes Milton’s flat and closed the door. You would never have dreamed it was the same place. For a long time I stood amid all the brightness and mockery of her sun-drenched rooms. And I prayed. Night and day I have prayed since, the same prayer—that God, if he knows any pity at all may soon, soon release the poor spent body of hers.
I wish I might show you Agnes Milton of those far off happy days. She wasn’t tall and she wasn’t short; she wasn’t stout and she wasn’t thin. Her back was straight and her head high. She was rather graceful, I thought. In coloring she was Spanish or Italian. Her hair was not very long but it was soft and silky and black. Her features were not too sharp, her eyes clear and dark, a warm leaf brown in fact. Her mouth was really beautiful. This doesn’t give her I find. It was the shining beauty and gayety of her soul that lighted up her whole body and somehow made her her. And she was generally smiling or chuckling. Her eyes almost closed when she did so and there were the most delightful crinkles all about them. Under her left eye there was a small scar, a reminder of some childhood escapade, that became, when she smiled, the most adorable of dimples….
It was a Tuesday morning about four months, maybe, after my first experience with the closing door. The bell rang three times, the postman’s signal when he had left a letter. Agnes came to her feet, her eyes sparkling:
“My letter from Bob,” she said and made for the door.
She came back slowly, I noticed, and her face was a little pale and worried. She had an opened and an unopened letter in her hand.
“Well, what does Bob say?” I asked.
“This—this isn’t from Bob,” she said slowly. “It’s only a bill.”
“Well, go ahead and open his letter,” I said.
“There—there wasn’t any, Lucy.”
“What!” I exclaimed. I was surprised.
“No. I don’t know what it means.”
“It will come probably in the second mail,” I said. “It has sometimes.” “Yes,” she said, I thought rather listlessly.
It didn’t come in the second mail nor in the third.
“Agnes,” I said. “There’s some good explanation. It’s not like Bob to fail you.”
“No.”
“He’s busy or got a girl maybe.”
She was a little
jealous of him and I hoped this last would rouse her, but it didn’t.
“Yes, maybe that’s it,” she said without any life.
“Well, I hope you’re not going to let this interfere with your walk,” I said.
“I had thought—” she began, but I cut her off.
“You promised Jim you’d go out every single day,” I reminded her. “All right, Agnes Milton’s conscience,” she said smiling a little. “I’ll go then.”
She hadn’t been gone fifteen minutes when the electric bell began shrilling continuously throughout the flat.
Somehow I knew it meant trouble. My mind immediately flew to Agnes. It took me a second or so to get myself together and then I went to the tube.
“Well,” I called. My voice sounded strange and high.
A boy’s voice answered:
“Lady here named Mrs. James Milton?”
“Yes.” I managed to say.
“Telegram fo’ you’se.”
It wasn’t Agnes, after all. I drew a deep breath. Nothing else seemed to matter for a minute.
“Say!” the voice called up from below. “Wot’s de mattah wid you’se up dere?”
“Bring it up,” I said at last. “Third floor, front.”
I opened the door and waited.
The boy was taking his time and whistling as he came. “Here!” I called out as he reached our floor.
It was inside his cap and he had to take it off to give it to me.
I saw him eyeing me rather curiously.
“You Mrs. Milton?” he asked.
“No, but this is her flat. I’ll sign for it. She’s out. Where do I sign? There? Have you a pencil?”
With the door shut behind me again, I began to think out what I had better do. Jim was not to be home until late that night. Within five minutes I had decided. I tore open the envelope and read the message. It ran: “Bob died suddenly. Under no circumstances come. Father.” The rest of that day was a nightmare to me. I concealed the telegram in my waist. Agnes came home finally and was so alarmed at my appearance, I pleaded a frightful sick headache and went to bed. When Jim came home late that night Agnes was asleep. I caught him in the hall and gave him the telegram. She had to be told, we decided, because a letter from Mississippi might come at any time. He broke it to her the next morning. We were all hard hit, but Agnes from that time on was a changed woman.
Day after day dragged by and the letter of explanation did not come. It was strange, to say the least.
The Sunday afternoon following, we were all sitting, after dinner, in the little parlor. None of us had been saying much.
Suddenly Agnes said:
“Jim!”
“Yes!”
“Wasn’t it strange that father never said how or when Bob died?” “Would have made the telegram too long and expensive, perhaps,” Jim replied.
We were all thinking, in the pause that followed, the same thing, I dare say. Agnes’ father was not poor and it did seem he might have done that much.
“And why, do you suppose I was not to come under any circumstances? And why don’t they write?”
Just then the bell rang and there was no chance for a reply.
Jim got up in his leisurely way and went to the tube.
Agnes and I both listened—a little tensely, I remember.
“Yes!” we heard Jim say, and then with spaces in between:
“Joe?—Joe who?—I think you must have made a mistake. No, I can’t say that I do know anyone called Joe. What? Milton? Yes, that’s my name! What? Oh! Brooks. Joe Brooks?—”
But Agnes waited for no more. She rushed by me into the hall.
“Jim! Jim! It’s my brother Joe.”
“Look here! Are you Agnes’ brother, Joe?” Jim called quickly for him. “Great Jehoshaphat! Man! Come up! What a mess I’ve made of this.”
For the first time I saw Jim move quickly. Within a second he was out of the flat and running down the stairs. Agnes followed to the stairhead and waited there. I went back into the little parlor, for I had followed her into the hall, and sat down and waited.
They all came in presently. Joe was older than Agnes but looked very much like her. He was thin, his face really haggard and his hair quite grey. I found out afterward that he was in his early thirties but he appeared much older. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. They were strange aloof eyes. They rested on you and yet seemed to see something beyond. You felt as though they had looked upon something that could never be forgotten. When he was not smiling his face was grim, the chin firm and set. He was a man of very few words, I found.
Agnes and Jim were both talking at once and he answered them now and then in monosyllables. Agnes introduced us. He shook hands, I thought in rather a perfunctory way, without saying anything, and we all sat down.
We steered clear quite deliberately from the thoughts uppermost in our minds. We spoke of his journey, when he left Mississippi, the length of time it had taken him to come up and the weather. Suddenly Agnes jumped up:
“Joe, aren’t you famished?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind a little something, Agnes,” he answered, and then he added: “I’m not as starved as I was traveling in the South, but I have kind of a hollow feeling.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Jim-Crow cars,” he answered laconically.
“I’d forgotten,” she said. “I’ve been away so long.”
He made no reply.
“Aren’t conditions any better at all?” she asked after a little.
“No, I can’t say as they are.”
None of us said anything. She stood there a minute or so pulling away at the frill on her apron. She stopped suddenly, drew a long breath, and said:
“I wish you all could move away, Joe, and come North.”
For one second before he lowered his eyes I saw a strange gleam in them. He seemed to be examining his shoes carefully from all angles. His jaw looked grimmer than ever and I saw a flickering of the muscles in his cheeks.
“That would be nice,” he said at last and then added, “but we can’t, Agnes. I like my coffee strong, please.”
“Joe,” she said, going to the door. “I’m sorry, I was forgetting.”
I rose at that.
“Agnes, let me go. You stay here.”
She hesitated, but Joe spoke up:
“No, Agnes, you go. I know your cooking.”
You could have heard a pin drop for a minute. Jim looked queer and so did Agnes for a second and then she tried to laugh it off.
“Don’t mind Joe. He doesn’t mean anything like that.”
And then she left us.
Well, I was hurt. Joe made no attempt to apologize or anything. He even seemed to have forgotten me. Jim looked at me and smiled his nice smile, but I was really hurt. I came to understand, however, later. Presently Joe said:
“About Agnes! We hadn’t been told anything!”
“Didn’t she write about it?”
“No.”
“Wanted to surprise you, I guess.”
“How long?” Joe asked after a little.
“Before?”
“Yes.”
“Four months, I should say.”
“That complicates matters some.”
I got up to leave. I was so evidently in the way.
Joe looked up quietly and said:
“Oh! don’t go! It isn’t necessary.”
I sat down again.
“No, Lucy, stay.” Jim added. “What do you mean ‘complicates?’”
Joe examined his shoes for several moments and then looked up suddenly.
“Just where is Agnes?”
“In the kitchen, I guess.” Jim looked a trifle surprised.
“Where is that?”
“The other end of the flat near the door.”
“She can’t possibly hear anything, then?”
“No.”
“Well, then, listen Jim, and you, what’s your name? Lucy?
Well, Lucy, then. Listen carefully, you two, to every single word I am going to say.” He frowned a few moments at his shoes and then went on: “Bob went out fishing in the woods near his shack, spent the night there, slept in wet clothes, it had been raining all day, came home, contracted double pneumonia and died in two days time. Have you that?”
We both nodded. “That’s the story we are to tell Agnes.”
Jim had his mouth open to ask something, when Agnes came in. She had very evidently not heard anything, however, for there was a little color in her face and it was just a little happy again.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Joe,” she said. “What on earth are you getting so grey for?”
“Grey!” he exclaimed. “Am I grey?” There was no doubt about it, his surprise was genuine.
“Didn’t you know it?” She chuckled a little. It was the first time in days.
“No, I didn’t.”
She made him get up, at that, and drew him to the oval glass over the mantel.
“Don’t you ever look at yourself, Joe?”
“Not much, that’s the truth.” I could see his face in the mirror from where I sat. His eyes widened a trifle, I saw, and then he turned away abruptly and sat down again. He made no comment. Agnes broke the rather little silence that followed.
“Joe!”
“Yes!”
“You haven’t been sick or anything, have you?”
“No, why?”
“You seem so much thinner. When I last saw you you were almost stout.” “That’s some years ago, Agnes.”
“Yes, but one ought to get stouter not thinner with age.”
Again I caught that strange gleam in his eyes before he lowered them. For a moment he sat perfectly still without answering.
“You can put it down to hard work, if you like, Agnes. Isn’t that my coffee I smell boiling over?”
“Yes, I believe it is. I just ran in to tell you I’ll be ready for you in about ten minutes.”
She went out hastily but took time to pull the portiere across the door. I thought it strange at the time and looked at Jim. He didn’t seem to notice it, however, but waited, I saw, until he had heard Agnes’ heel taps going into the kitchen.
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