Calling Me Home: A Novel

by Julie Kibler

  I felt worse for Liz than for myself. I knew what was coming. I’d grown up there. I’d figured this deal was too good to be true. “Someone tell you Stevie wasn’t welcome at VBS tomorrow?”

  Her mouth fell open and she closed it again with an angry snap of her teeth. The pastor had come by to tell her an anonymous caller had threatened to do something horrendous if they allowed black kids at VBS again. Only they didn’t put it that nicely. The pastor said he felt bad, but his hands were tied. “Geez. Us. This is ridiculous,” Liz said. “I’m not even believing it. What is this? The Dark Ages? Makes me wish we’d rented instead of buying. I can’t get away from this place soon enough.”

  “Well, Stevie had a great time today. I’m glad you invited him. Sorry it won’t work out for the rest of the week, but don’t feel bad.”

  “Oh, Dorrie. I don’t care what they say. I want you to send Stevie anyway.”

  “Nah,” I said. “It’ll cause too much trouble for you down the line. You’ll have a reputation as ‘that woman.’ And trust me? You don’t want to be that woman around here.”

  Next thing I knew, she was sniffling, and her eyes welled up with tears. I knew she was battling between wanting desperately to do the right thing and understanding I was right, too.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I promise. Isn’t anything I haven’t seen around here before or won’t see again. I appreciate you trying.”

  She threw her hands up in frustration.

  Later, when I explained to Stevie Junior that he couldn’t go to VBS the next day, first, he cried, and then, he pestered me about it until I finally broke down and stopped making excuses. I figured at almost seven, he was old enough to know the truth if he was old enough to be the victim of it. “Son, some people still don’t think black folks are as good as white folks. They say and do ugly things that make it hard for us to get along.”

  “But Miss Liz, in our class she said Jesus loves all the little children of the world. We sang a song about it. Black and red and yellow white…” He sang all the different colors in crazy order, and I smiled through my heartbreak, remembering how I’d sung the same song as a kid. It wasn’t politically correct anymore—calling people red or yellow, or even black some days—but I figured Liz brought the song out of storage and dusted it off for Stevie’s visit. It sure as heck probably wasn’t in any new curriculum.

  “You’re right, honey, he does. But some ignorant people don’t believe it. Miss Liz does, and she’s very sorry you can’t go back tomorrow. She still wants you and Ashley to play together at the park, though.”

  Even now, in the sprawling metropolitan area of Texas where Miss Isabelle and I lived, we ran into racism. A young white girl who had rented a station from me in the shop for a while had a child who was biracial. Her little girl had come home from school crying more than once because she didn’t fit in with either the black kids or the white kids. And one time, she’d been invited on an after-school playdate, but when the other mother came to pick up the kids, she made some excuse about having an emergency and not being able to take the little girl home with her. The school secretary called Angie to have her pick her daughter up at the office, because the woman had just left her there.

  My own mother fussed at me for doing white hair. She couldn’t understand why more than half my clientele was white. I explained that in school I’d learned to work with all kinds of hair, and I’d discovered over time I was good at doing white hair. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down a customer because of the color of his or her skin. I’d always worked in shops with a mainly white clientele, and when I opened my own place, most of my clients moved along with me.

  Worse yet, when we were driving along, me thinking my own thoughts and Miss Isabelle wrapped up in her crossword puzzle book again, my own prejudices jumped right in my face.

  The one time I’d been inside Teague’s house, I’d seen photos of his kids plastered everywhere. There was one old picture of them with Teague and his ex before they split. She was white. The kids were golden. That’s the only way I could describe them. Their skin and hair practically glowed in that photo, and his little girls had eyes the color of a warm ocean.

  As progressive as I claimed to be, with my white clients, and the fact that I wasn’t freaking out over my son’s white girlfriend—not because she was white, anyway—who might be the future mother of my half-white grandbaby, I wondered how well I could mother children whose biological mother was white—if it came down to that. Even more, I wondered what she would think. Sure, she’d run off and left Teague to care for them most of the time, but how would she react if some black woman—a very black woman—started playing the role of mother in their lives?

  Stevie’s mess gave me yet another excuse to cater to these fears now. I kept ignoring Teague’s text messages, and when the phone rang again and I saw it was his number, I silenced it and turned it facedown in the console.

  19

  Isabelle, 1940

  ON A CHILLY Saturday in late January, the sun barely peeking through the clouds at midday, I left home with my book bag, giving studying at the library as an excuse. Mother had been less vigilant the last few months, too busy with the holidays to note my comings and goings. The library had become my kingdom again, when I wanted it. I retrieved a small suitcase I’d hidden under a hedge that morning before anyone else woke, then placed the tote full of library books in the empty space. I apologized silently to Miss Pearce; the books might be moldy by the time they were discovered.

  Nell had laundered and pressed my good dresses, along with other things I’d need. I’d folded my best dress carefully around a matching hat in my already-stuffed case, though I feared the hat would be squashed beyond repair. I hoped I’d have time to duck into a public restroom to change. Chances were, I’d have to make do with the outfit I wore—a nice-enough dress—when Robert and I exchanged our vows. Mother would have been immediately suspicious if she’d seen me leaving for the library in my holiday dress.

  The Monday before, Robert and I had met at the Hamilton County Courthouse, where we’d persuaded the clerk—despite her obvious misgivings—to accept our application for a marriage license. Robert and I each marked our ages as eighteen on the application, though I’d barely passed my seventeenth birthday. As the clerk studied the information we’d completed, I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to prove my age. We both claimed we were residents of Hamilton County. Robert listed his employer’s address as his residence and I gave the address of the rooming house where we planned to live. This wasn’t the clerk I’d spoken to before. This one was less horrified than worried. She studied us with curiosity, and even, I think, a touch of sympathy. I was afraid she saw right through our misinformation, but she issued the document. We told so many lies that day, I felt sick by the time I returned home. By Saturday, those lies seemed small compared with the deception it took to get me out of Shalerville and on my way to Cincy.

  After riding one streetcar into Newport, then another across the bridge and into the city, I met Robert at the entrance to a church. A workmate had told him the preacher performed last-minute weddings, but there’d been no opportunity to talk to the man in advance. We held a collective breath as Robert knocked at the side entrance, near the pastor’s study. He’d been told the pastor often worked Saturday afternoons, polishing the next day’s sermon—or maybe to supplement his paltry minister’s income with fees collected from couples who showed up unannounced.

  The man answered Robert’s second, louder series of knocks. He peered around the edge of the door, looking past Robert to me, then beyond. I knew he was looking for a third party—someone besides a young Negro man escorting a white girl.

  When he didn’t see anyone else, he barked, “Who is it? What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Reverend. We were told you perform marriage ceremonies. Do you have a moment?”

  The man gawked, first at Robert, then at me, his eyes boring into mine, questioning whether I’d come of m
y own will. I nodded, and he turned his scowl back on Robert. “Who told you that? I require an appointment, but I wouldn’t give you one anyway.”

  Robert swallowed hard and plunged ahead. “I work at the docks. A man there told me.”

  “Well, he told you wrong. I never married a white and a niggro. Never will.”

  He moved to close the door in Robert’s face, but Robert slipped a gloved hand into the gap, forcing the man to either crush his fingers or leave the door open a crack. Thank God the man chose the latter.

  “Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but can you tell me where we could be married, then?” I marveled at Robert’s temerity.

  “Why didn’t you try your own kind first?” The man sneered and rolled his eyes. His tone left no uncertainty as to what he thought of our relationship, as though it were somehow perverted. I felt my cheeks flame as he shot me a look filled with disgust. Then he seemed to reconsider. I didn’t quite trust the change. “St. Paul’s, maybe.”

  “St. Paul’s, sir?”

  “African Methodist Episcopal is what you people call it. Now, go on. I don’t have time to waste on the likes of you.” He spat on the pavement, then crashed the door closed. Fortunately, Robert removed his hand in time.

  We trudged back toward the trolley stop. Likely, St. Paul’s was in the West End, Robert figured, not far from the rooming house where we’d live. He asked a colored news vendor where to find it. The streets were crowded, even for a late Saturday afternoon, and he hung a half step behind me, as if he were an escort of last choice rather than my future spouse. I knew he didn’t want to draw attention, but I hoped one day we’d be able to walk side-by-side, freely—and not just when we were deep in the woods.

  On a quiet street lined with the dreary houses that dominated the area—stark two-story dwellings with narrow porches, covered in false-brick tar paper or dingy clapboard—St. Paul’s rose from the middle of the block, a beautifully ancient red brick Italianate structure trimmed in white stone. I gazed up, pleased—if the angry preacher’s advice held—I’d be married in a lovely setting. The other church, drab, mud-colored, had blended into the dreary January surroundings.

  A few Negro children played jacks or bounced balls on the wide sidewalk in front of St. Paul’s, and they gaped as we studied the building, unsure where to enter. One tiny girl popped her thumb into her mouth and hid behind an older girl, but she peeked out to one side, her left eye still studying me.

  “Hello, young gentleman,” Robert said to the tallest boy in the group, who ducked his head at Robert’s greeting and studied the toes of his shoes. “Can you tell me where we’d find the reverend? Is he around on Saturdays?”

  The boy looked to the older girl. She swept her jacks together and dropped them in her pocket, then stepped forward, the toddler still clinging to her skirts. “Don’t know if he’s at the church today, but he lives right there.” She pointed out a narrow house, covered with the same red brick as the church and so close to it, they practically shared a wall.

  “Thank you, young lady.” Robert bowed, which made the girl smile shyly. He indicated I should lead the way toward the front door of the humble residence.

  “What do you want him for?” another boy called, not so shy as the other one. “Getting hitched?”

  The older girl covered his mouth and shook her head furiously. “Shhh. Course they ain’t getting married. Can’t you see? That’s a white girl he’s with.” She said it low, but I heard. My stomach twisted, but I smiled nonetheless.

  “Have too seen white girls here, getting married to Negroes. And the other way around.” The boy whispered this so loudly, anyone within a half block might have heard. The girl grabbed his hand and the toddler’s and yanked them into a march down the street and away, but I caught her looking back at me, an apology on her face. I wiggled my fingers, and she snapped her head around and continued her little parade toward a narrow stoop at the end of the street. The oldest boy lagged behind, bouncing his baseball as he went.

  Robert tapped the door knocker. Soon, a woman answered. She smoothed her skirt when she saw us. Obviously, she’d been expecting kids; her glance started waist-high, then rose to our faces. She took a step back. “Oh! Pardon me. I thought it was those young’uns again. Always knocking on the door, all Saturday long, asking if they can help with anything at the church. Really, wanting to see if I’ve baked them a treat.” She beamed, though her eyes flicked in my direction more than once—sizing me up, I could tell. But she was the first adult all afternoon who hadn’t looked horrified at us together. I liked her immediately.

  “What can I do for you, then?” she asked.

  “Is the reverend home?” Robert tugged off his cap and held it nervously between his hands, as though even mentioning the man who might join us in marriage unsettled him.

  “He is. May I say who wants to see him? Maybe a word about why?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. We—” He indicated me with a flutter of his cap. “We wanted to see him about a wedding.”

  “I see,” she said. “I figured as much. Come on inside, honey.” She waved me into a tiny entryway, then gestured for Robert to follow. “I’ll get my husband.”

  I breathed easier, glancing through a doorway to a small parlor, not fancy, but neat and filled with furniture that was probably the best in the house.

  The woman returned. “He’ll be right with you. Won’t you please take a seat? I need to check on my supper, if you’ll excuse me.” She pointed us into the parlor, and Robert and I settled gingerly at the edge of an angled settee covered in dark green mohair, careful to leave a full foot of space between us.

  We dared sneak a look at each other—the first time we’d really looked all afternoon, it seemed. Robert wrinkled his brow and leaned toward me. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You sure about this?”

  “Never more sure,” I said, though inside I’d never felt more nervous or terrified. As anxious as I was to become Robert’s wife, as desperately as I wanted to be with the handsome and gentle young man I loved more each day, reality was coming into sharp focus. Everywhere we went, if we didn’t get outright verbal abuse, we were the object of funny looks and comments, even from children. The children were the tipping point against my illusion that everything would be fine.

  “How about you?” I said. “Do you want to go through with it? If they—” I didn’t finish. A tall man whose belly proved his wife’s claim about the children looking for a treat entered the room, and Robert and I both sprang up from the settee.

  “Good afternoon, madam. Sir.” He shook Robert’s hand. “Reverend Jasper Day.”

  “I’m Robert Prewitt. This is Miss Isabelle McAllister.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He made a tiny bow in my direction but didn’t reach to shake my hand. He gestured for us to return to our places on the settee, then dragged a matching chair closer. “Now. Sarah says you’re here about a wedding. That right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Robert said. Reverend Day looked at me, and I nodded. I’d yet to say a word.

  “Well. You’ve come to the right place, then. I suppose you heard I’ve married a few couples like you.” His use of the phrase “couples like you” seemed worlds apart from the other pastor’s. Less an insult—more like he didn’t know how else to frame it without being blunt. “Understand, however, that even though I will marry you if that’s your genuine wish, I’m going to try to talk you out of it first.” He smiled, but it seemed filled with something far from the joy that ought to accompany a wedding day.

  Warning.

  My heart didn’t know whether to sink low or rise into my throat.

  He took us through the arguments Robert had already made with me, though the examples of what could happen may have been more frightening even than what we’d already imagined. He described how we’d be treated every time we emerged in public as a couple—and sometimes even in the privacy of our own home by people we thought were friends, colored or white. He described how a young blac
k man had been lynched recently by a white girl’s family for attempting to marry her. The girl had been thrown out on the street, left to become what girls became when nobody else would have them. I shuddered, and Robert clenched his hands, his face unnaturally gray as the pastor described the boy’s fate.

  I finally spoke. “My family will not be happy. They’ll be shocked and disappointed, of course. Angry, no doubt. But I can’t believe they’d ever do anything like that to Robert. They love Robert—his mother practically raised me, and his sister’s like a sister to me.”

  Reverend Day nodded, but he explained that even those who claimed to be “like family” often retreated behind enemy lines when someone violated the family code. “I’m sorry, Miss McAllister. I don’t relish scaring you, but I must tell the truth. It’s not that I think you’re doing anything wrong by marrying Mr. Prewitt, but I’d do you a disservice if I didn’t ensure your awareness of what you’re getting into.”

  He studied our marriage license, asked if we’d encountered trouble at the courthouse—his countenance said we were lucky we’d made it as far as his church and parsonage without more harassment than the other pastor gave us, and he seemed surprised—and wary—that the man had given us the name of his church.

  He left us alone to make our final decision. I repeated my question to Robert. “Do you still want to do this?” His opinion was more important than mine. After all, he was the one who could suffer most at the hands of those angry about our actions and our union.

  Robert paced near the window, gazing into the street. The children had returned, and beyond him, through the shining panes of glass, I watched them bounce a larger ball between them now, chanting a song I couldn’t hear. Now and then, one would gaze toward the front of the house, craning their necks, as if they might see through the walls.

  I joined Robert at the window and fixed my eyes on the tiny girl who’d hidden behind the older one. Her skin was like Sarah Day’s—palest brown—and her eyes seemed illuminated as if from within. If Robert and I had children, they might favor this little angel. Perhaps she had a parent or grandparent who looked more like me. I suspected such things happened, even if nobody spoke of them or condoned them.