by Dorothy West
Judy took advantage of Cleo’s small shame and let her lower lip quiver. Her midday meal had been a gulped glass of milk and a ham sandwich swallowed in half-chewed lumps, with Cleo urging her to haste and talking her out of her soft request for ice cream.
“I’ll telephone your father to bring home a pint of vanilla for you to eat all by yourself,” Cleo promised, though she knew that was not the same thing as spooning a vanilla sundae from a silver dish at a downtown drugstore.
Judy gave a delicate sniff which was meant to convey that she was receptive to this suggestion but not reconciled. She stood quietly while Cleo shifted her packages and dug for her doorkey. In Cleo’s packages were evening slippers and an evening dress for Thea, who was more in need of a daytime dress and street shoes. And most in need of her overdue wages. Cleo had meant to reserve some money for Serena, but the saleslady had influenced her choices, and she could not resist her flattering assumption that money was no object. As usual, she had had to count her pennies to pay her trolley fare.
As she opened the door and butted Judy inside, she heard her landlady’s “Psst!” from the parlor. Miss Johnson came toward her, feeling her way among the Victorian furniture that she had inherited, along with the house, at the death of the mistress she had served so faithfully.
It was this bizarre bequest, made in consideration of Miss Johnson’s failing sight and her forty-year familiarity with every inch of the house, that had started the exodus of well-to-do whites from this particular street. At the time of this mass removal, there was a scattering of Negro householders on neighboring streets. But they were moneyed people whose progeny went to white Sunday schools and played decorously in next-door yards while they were still young enough to come under the general heading of children. Miss Johnson was a lady’s maid, and therefore an undistinguished Negro who deserved no more special consideration than a white servant who happened to be left a house. As the tone of a street is considerably lowered when mistress and maid live side by side, the high visibility of a Negro maid, added to this, plunged its desirability to zero.
“You want to see me, Miss Johnson?” asked Cleo, meeting her midway the room. She stared with pity and revulsion at the wrinkled monkey face, the dim eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and the mottled hands that were like burnt matchsticks. Her own hand tightened on Judy’s for the young feel of it. She was frightened in the presence of old people. She did not like to face the fact that some day she must surrender the reins of power to someone whose strength was as hers was now.
“I wanted to see you on a matter of my discretion,” Miss Johnson said, in the careful manner of speaking that had been part of her since she had come by Underground to Boston with an untutored tongue which had acquired the accent and intonation of her mistress.
“Oh?” said Cleo politely, wondering what on earth this poor old sinner was talking about.
“It’s Miss Binney,” explained Miss Johnson. “She came while you were out, and seemed very anxious to wait until you returned. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I let her go up to your rooms.”
“That was all right,” said Cleo hurriedly, for now she was reminded that she had rented a house and was leaving on short notice. She might as well break the news to Miss Johnson while she had the chance to escape to a waiting visitor.
“Oh, by the way, Miss Johnson,” she began, “my husband surprised me to death last night by telling me we’re moving. He heard about a house yesterday and rushed right out to rent it before anyone else. I went to look at it this morning. It’s in Brookline, and, of course, we’re very fortunate. But I’ve spent some very pleasant years in this house, and I’m leaving reluctantly. The thing is, day before yesterday I got a letter from a sister of mine, saying she was coming to Boston to put her child in a Boston school. I told my husband, and I guess he thought it would be nice for us to be together, since she’s a widow. So yesterday he got this house. I’m sure you’re not sorry. One child walking over your head is enough.”
“I love children,” Miss Johnson said quietly. “I like the noise their little feet make. When you lose your eyes, you lean on your ears.”
Judy wriggled her hand free and went to stand before Miss Johnson, lifting her small serious face. “I’ll miss you,” she said gently, and laced the gnarled fingers in her own.
Cleo wanted to snatch her child away from this childless woman who stood among the Victorian relics of her meaningless life, and had no hope of anything but heaven. “Judy, Miss Binney’s waiting,” she said coldly. Then she was sharply aware that in all her years in this house she had never sat down in Miss Johnson’s parlor. It had never occurred to her to do so. Miss Johnson knew no one that she knew. In consequence she had never thought that Miss Johnson herself was anyone to know.
“Life moves so fast nowadays,” Cleo murmured, “it hardly gives you time to call your soul your own. When I do get a minute to myself, I’m a real bookworm.”
“That’s when Judy comes to see me,” Miss Johnson said, with a soft sly smile. “We sit together by the window, and we talk about everything that enters our minds. Children have time for old folks, and old folks have time for children.”
“When I’m big enough to ride on the trolley by myself, I’ll come back and visit you,” Judy promised fervently.
“But, of course, I’ll bring her back long before that,” Cleo said, with charming insincerity. She fixed her child with a meaningful eye. “Come, Judy.”
All the way upstairs Cleo felt surprised that Judy met on common ground with Old Lady Johnson. She could not imagine what a five-year-old could have to say that would be interesting for more than five minutes. And certainly nothing ever happened in Miss Johnson’s monotonous life that could entertain even a drooling infant. She gave a little start of horror. Surely Miss Johnson wouldn’t be fool enough to tell a little Yankee girl a lot of foolishness about way back in slavery time. Slavery was too hard a thing to tell a child.
There was time enough for Judy to know that the North and the South were not indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. Let her learn to hold her head up first. Let her learn to walk proud like the Jericho women who had died before her. Like Great-aunt Fanny who hung herself in the hay loft where her master left her running blood after he gave her her first whipping for stepping on the tail of his valuable hunting hound. She was her master’s whelp, too, but she wouldn’t take a whipping just because she was a mongrel. And Great-grandmother Patsy — the time Old Missus scolded her for burning biscuits, the only time she ever burned an old pan of bread in forty years of baking, Great-grandmother Patsy walked out of that kitchen and down to the river. When they fished her out by her long black hair, her soul had got free and she didn’t have to listen to anybody’s lip forever after.
The old-time Jericho women lived proud as long as they could. When they couldn’t live proud, they preferred to die. Not one of them was born to take anybody’s lip or anybody’s lash. When Judy was ready to know about slavery, these were the tales to tell her.
CHAPTER 9
MISS ALTHEA BINNEY sat in Cleo’s small parlor, biting her lower lip. She was doing this to keep her control. She was very close to crying. And she was unaccustomed to showing her emotions, even when there was no one to see.
Thea was Cleo’s model of perfection. She had been a day pupil at private school, and later a boarding student at a select academy, an institution which had taken her natural airs and graces and cast them in the same impeccable mold that produced the young ladies who were to take their inherited places behind the tea-tables of Boston. These young ladies were now the young wives of wealthy businessmen with old if not illustrious names. They lived on fashionable streets and were served by butlers who were, as often as not, old friends of Thea’s father.
Sometimes Thea was asked to tea on a quiet day. She generally accepted, because she did not want her hostess to feel that she was in the least offended at her exclusion from a larger function. Nor was she, knowing that she wou
ld not invite her white friends to a large affair of her own, although her reasons for not doing so would have been entirely different from theirs.
There was never any problem when Thea was passed a plate of cake by a silver-haired butler who had known her from babyhood. She saw only the servant’s garb and knew that the man inside it would resent being spoken to with the same familiarity with which she would have spoken in his house or hers.
Thea’s father had been the awe-inspiring owner of a tailoring establishment in a downtown shopping center. His rent had been several thousand dollars a year, and his income had been triple that figure. His daughter and his son at Harvard had had the best of everything. Then the readymade suit grew in favor, and a well-dressed man was not ashamed of his appearance when he wore one. Where Mr. Binney’s store had once stood, a great department store soared seven stories and sold readymades at a price that would have sent Mr. Binney spinning into bankruptcy sooner than he did.
Mr. Binney, forced to vacate his premises, had moved across the street to continue his business, against the advice of his lawyer, who was of the opinion that he should sell out while his chances of breaking even were good. But Mr. Binney couldn’t believe that a man above a laborer’s station would wear a readymade suit on Sunday. When his business failed and his creditors were appeased, his assets were a splendid servantless house in Cambridge with magnificent furnishings, a neglected property in the South End, his insurance, and his late wife’s jewels. His liabilities were a lovely daughter who was betrothed to a poor man, and a son engaged in the highly unprofitable venture of publishing a newspaper for Boston Negroes, who disliked being singled out for special attention.
All day Mr. Binney smoked Havana cigars and drank Scotch whiskey like a disillusioned gentleman in the disordered library of his Cambridge house which his helpless daughter could not keep clean. He sat sunk deep in his upholstered chair with his chin gently rubbing his diamond stickpin and plotted ways to beat the roulette wheel and regain his fortune. At night he tried out his systems with a spectacular lack of success.
Thea gave Judy lessons because it was a genteel way to keep herself in gloves and shoes while she waited for her fiancé to complete his interneship and establish a practice. Her young man was not handsome, but he did not have to be. Thea’s complexion was peaches and cream, and her chestnut hair was soft as silk. She could have married any man short of a Zulu, and still have had children who passed the test of hair and color.
“Thea!” cried Cleo, rushing into the parlor and dropping her packages into a chair. “What a nice surprise! Or did you forget you don’t come to Judy today? Let me fix you a bite. I got the house!”
“Good afternoon, Miss Binney,” said Judy.
“Good afternoon, Judith,” Thea said. “You’ve hurt your knee. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll fix her up as soon as I catch my breath,” Cleo said quickly. “Judy, don’t you want to run and play by yourself? Why don’t you go and tell your dolls what you did this afternoon?”
“I don’t talk to dolls,” said Judy with dignity. “I’m big.”
“Are you big enough to take your own bath?” asked Cleo sweetly.
“Of course,” said Judy, with a wonderful vision of herself splashing water as much as she liked.
“Then run and take it, and put on the blue dress your father likes, and I’ll tell him to take you to the drugstore after dinner. Scrub everything good. Don’t splash. And pin up your braids.”
The child trotted out. Cleo shut the door quietly and carefully, then turned to Thea. She was radiant. “I’ve got something to show you,” she said happily.
Thea gave her a tremulous smile. “Can it wait, Cleo? I must talk to you. I need your help. You’re the only friend I have who won’t be too shocked to advise me.” She drew a long, shuddering breath. “Father’s dying.”
Quickly Cleo crossed to her and took her hand. “The doctor may be wrong,” she said urgently.
Thea shook her head. “Father’s been drinking heavily for five years. Ever since his failure. He had a stroke this morning. He’s in a coma, and the doctor doesn’t expect him to rouse. It’s only a matter of hours. I’m glad. I don’t want him to talk to Simeon. He talked to me just before he collapsed. I came to you as soon as Simeon could leave the office and take my place at Father’s bedside.” Her voice shook with horror. “Father’s dying, Cleo, and everything he has, his property deeds, his insurance, and mother’s jewels, are all in the hands of a West End woman.”
Cleo drew a chair close to Thea’s. “His mistress?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” said Thea wearily. “That doesn’t matter. Last night she asked Father to marry her. He told her he wouldn’t disgrace his name. She gave him until today to change his mind. And I think it was knowing he must that caused his stroke. His mouth began to twist while he was telling me.”
“Who is this devil of a woman?” asked Cleo impatiently.
“All of the old Bostonians know her,” said Thea, with no awareness of her small snub, “but her name is never mentioned. The men who go to her gambling place call her The Duchess.”
“Oh,” said Cleo, for the pieces were beginning to fall into place. “I see now. Your father lost everything at her place, and she told him she’d give it back on condition. And your father thought he was too good for her, and preferred to die. Go to her now and tell her your father’s life depends on her. If she loves him, she’ll return everything, if that will keep him alive.”
“She hates him,” said Thea stilly.
Cleo wanted to shake her. “Thea, talk sense. How could she hate him and want to marry him?”
“To settle a very old score. And now it cannot be settled through Father. And she will take the lesser revenge of depriving Simeon and me of our inheritance. I don’t care for myself. I care for Simeon. The paper means everything to him. I don’t understand why it’s so important. I’m not sure I even approve.” She paused, and her candor forced her to add: “You must keep it out of Judith’s way. She is learning to read very well. But I believe in Simeon. And he believes in his paper. I cannot bear to see him fail.” She could not control her tears any longer.
Cleo got up and walked restlessly around the room. She looked at Thea and felt pity and impatience that Thea looked so confoundedly helpless. It would be like sending a lamb to slaughter to expect her to hold her own with a vulgar creature in a gambling dive. She didn’t care a fig about Simeon’s paper. Let him go get a job. But Thea should have her mother’s jewels. The thought of that West End woman with Thea’s jewels on her thick ugly neck filled Cleo with loathing.
She stopped her tramp around the room. “Thea,” she said sharply, “have you got any change?”
Thea said dully, “I suppose so.”
Cleo picked up the shabby purse and took out a quarter.
“Where does this Duchess live?”
“On Dover Street. I don’t know the number.”
“I’ll find it,” Cleo said briefly.
Thea lifted her wet eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“Go there,” said Cleo calmly, “and scare the bejesus out of her. I’ll threaten to call the police and expose her. I’ll make her wish she’d never been born. I’ve got a tongue that can cut like a knife when I’m mad. I won’t come away empty-handed. I’ll have her heart or your inheritance.” Her face softened. “You go home. I’ll telephone you as soon as I leave there.”
Thea rose and said brokenly, “Oh, Cleo, she has to listen for Simeon’s sake. I’ll be praying until I hear from you.”
The devil with Simeon, Cleo thought briskly. “Just don’t worry about anything,” she said gently. “And while you’re praying, pray for yourself.”
Thea left, and Cleo hid her packages so that Mr. Judson wouldn’t start asking a lot of prying questions. It hadn’t seemed quite the occasion to give Thea dancing slippers. Then she went down the hall and into the bathroom where Judy was standing on the bath mat, vigorously dryin
g herself.
“Aren’t you a big smart girl,” Cleo said admiringly.
Judy flashed her a sidelong glance. She had had her quota of fulsome praise.
“I have to run out for a while,” Cleo said companionably. “Don’t go down and bother Miss Johnson. You can amuse yourself until I get back. If you take a nice nap, I’ll take you to the pictures tomorrow. And if your father comes, tell him I went on an errand of mercy. Let me hear you say it.”
“Cleo went on an errand of mercy,” Judy repeated dutifully.
“That’s right. And don’t tell him anything else. Just tell him I had to leave you to go on an errand of mercy.”
“What’s an errand of mercy?” Judy asked shyly.
“It’s none of your business,” said Cleo.
CHAPTER 10
CLEO READ THE GUIDING SIGN above a tippler’s head and turned down the street she sought. Here were no amiable loafers. Here were the sullen and shifty-eyed, the denizens of the dark. These were the dregs, the men without women, the women without men. These were the haters who thought they were beaten because they were black. There were no children here. Sometimes a wizened, rat-faced gnome in the shape of a child hugged the shadows of a stoop, from which he would never emerge to walk in the sun. Here were the hunted, the thieves and killers, the nameless, the faceless. These were the blood brothers of all men everywhere who are born without race pride.
The men and women looked at Cleo with hate. They did not want her to walk with her head erect. For a black is a black, their thoughts ran, and as no-account as the next.
They stood silent. They stood motionless, and the sick smoldering went on inside them because here was one of their own who would disown them. The minds of the men shouted whore as she passed, because they knew she was not. The women’s thoughts hurled Miss White Lady at her because they could not bear to admit she could walk with dignity and still be colored.
