The oak table was the closest to the reception desk, in clear sight. I waited for Mrs. Ransom to deliver my manuscripts, and when they were set down, I dipped my head in gratitude, said, “Thank you, ma’am,” and got to work, writing on my legal pad with the fancy pencil David had given me, that long-ago summer. Once she’d mistaken it for a forbidden ballpoint pen, until I’d screwed off the top, showing her the lead inside.
I was careful with Mrs. Ransom, who hovered near my table. Who watched me. In this modern day, the collections weren’t barred from a person of my color, not like during the era of Terrence Carter Holmes, the old man’s professor at Routledge College. While researching for his dissertation at North Carolina Regents University, Mr. Holmes had been forced to sit in a separate, secluded room, far away from white female librarians, and wait for men to bring him his plantation records, lest Mr. Holmes give in to the much-feared rapist tendencies of Black men that southern white people in 1929 believed they knew all about. A natural fact, despite Mr. Holmes’s daily suit and tie; his timid, near whisper; and his ten letters of introduction from W. E. B. Du Bois, Mr. Holmes’s white professors from Yale, and other renowned white historians throughout the south, liberals of their time. It had taken six months of constant telegraphs and letters by his patrons to gain him entry to these collections.
At my oak table, I’d ignore Mrs. Ransom’s careful eye and move through plantation journals, fascinated yet horrified by the inventive punishments of enslaved African Americans. All of it recorded in elaborate, cursive writing.
One imaginative owner had written a letter to another owner, noting that it was important to provide torture that did not disable the slaves’ hands and feet: those were needed to work. But teeth were not needed, and neither were ears.
I’d get so engrossed in my readings, I’d lose track of time, until Mrs. Ransom came over to my table.
“Yes, Mrs. Ransom?”
“It’s time to leave.”
“But I just got here a little while ago. Did I do something wrong?”
“Ailey, it’s five thirty. You’ve been here five hours. We’re closing now.”
As I walked the mile across campus to the parking lot, I tried to shake off the horror that I’d read about in the journals. When I’d lived in Georgia, doing this research for Dr. Oludara had been emotional, but I’d never felt lonely in my grief. Or foolish: trying not to cry over the sufferings of folks who weren’t even alive.
But when I opened the door of my duplex, I wouldn’t wait. At the door, I’d drop my bag on the floor. I’d shower, put on my white nightgown, and kneel on the rug next to my bed. I’d stay a long time there on my knees, praying. I’d lose track of time again.
Mammies, or, How They Show Out in Harlem
In September, I saw Scooter again, out at Shug’s Soul Patrol. When I’d arrived in town, I’d driven to Shug’s on a Saturday, but it had been overrun by whites, with a line that stretched a quarter mile. I stood for an hour, tolerating openly hostile looks from white customers. When I got inside, Miss Velma, the cashier, whispered enough to let me know that weekends were for “them.” Monday through Friday, Shug’s was for “us.” The system had been worked out during segregation, when Mr. Shumate, the original “Shug,” ran things, before he turned it over to his son. His daughter-in-law owned the barber and beauty shops next door, the only places in town Black folks could get our hair styled. The other places claimed no one was trained in “Ebony textures.” Miss Velma wore black brogans with thick soles, used endearments, and asked about our days when pouring the coffee. She smiled when I never failed to say, thank you so much. I appreciate you. Sometimes when mornings were slow, Miss Velma would come and sit with me, and I’d put aside my books and papers and we’d chat.
When Scooter walked in that Monday, he was in another suit, a black pin-striped one this time. He carried a brown ostrich briefcase. He looked preposterous and sexy, but I didn’t regret not calling him. I didn’t need some married man poking a stick through the bars of my cage. When he spoke my name, I returned a dry half salute. I left it at that.
Two days later, I saw him at Shug’s again. When I went to the counter, Miss Velma told me my refills had been taken care of. I looked around and Scooter lifted his cup of coffee. He was semi-casual: the suit and shirt were a tan linen, and there was no tie. He came over to my table with his briefcase, sat down without asking, and removed his jacket. I had my papers and books spread out, and he pushed them to one side to make space. He looked amused, as he had that evening in the parking lot.
“Ailey, I’m very hurt. You promised you would call.”
I looked at him over my new horn-rimmed glasses. “I don’t remember saying that. And anyway, what was I supposed to say to your wife when she picked up?”
“Easy. Just ask for me.” He pulled out one of his cards from his breast pocket and flipped it over to the blank side. “Okay, then. Give me your number.”
“Why?”
“I thought you could come over to the house and have dinner with Rebecca and me.”
“I don’t do dinner, Scooter.”
“Everybody does dinner.”
“Not me.”
“Don’t you eat?”
“No, Scooter, I don’t. Look me up. I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records.”
I looked down at my notes, expecting him to leave, but he pulled his briefcase onto his lap. He clicked the locks and pulled out some papers. We sat there together for two hours, reading. Like Daddy and I used to, him with his patient files and me with my novel.
Whenever Scooter and I met for coffee, he paid. And even though he didn’t like down-home fare—he preferred fruit in the mornings—he’d cover the cost of my grits and sausage links, too. And by early October, he’d invited me to dinner at his house seven times. He’d say that Rebecca was grilling tuna or salmon or shrimp. I should come to dinner that weekend, and I’d told him, no thanks, I was too busy. He’d ask for my number and I’d change the subject.
Some mornings as Scooter and I got wired off coffee, Dr. Charles Whitcomb would stop by Shug’s. During the week, Black folks from the university would offer each other friendly nods. We were family, even when we didn’t know each other. But when Dr. Whitcomb came through the door, bald head shining, he’d smile and loudly call out, “Hey, brethren! Hey, sistren!” It seemed like he knew everybody in town with melanin.
Dr. Whitcomb would stroll through the tables in his pimp-cool, ’70s way, giving out soul shakes to the men and courtly bows to the women. At the counter, he held out his arms for Miss Velma. He gave a delighted noise when she came from behind the counter, squeezing him tightly. And his many different suits were impeccable. Scooter and Dr. Whitcomb dressed like twins, eternally prepared for an important job interview.
This was what I’d taken for granted in Chicasetta and at Routledge: other Black people. Their warmth, the greetings they gave each other, peacocking their bonds. Even as awkward as I was, I’d been so comfortable with my natural self. I hadn’t realized how lucky I’d been, not having to look over my shoulder for white approval.
* * *
The week before midterms, Scooter showed up at Shug’s with Rebecca. He only gave me a nod as they headed to the line. He’d flung his tie over his shoulder in preparation for a meal.
The sister at the next table tried to whisper. She wasn’t good at it.
“I drive out here on a Wednesday so I can eat in peace. And now these honkies are coming during the week, too? This is just like Harlem. They’re taking over.”
“Gayle, one white person doesn’t mean gentrification,” the other sister said.
They were about my age, graduate students. I didn’t know which program, but I recognized them from the multicultural center. Aside from Shug’s, that was the Black folks’ regular haunt.
“I will give him this: at least she’s good-looking,” Gayle said. “Usually they pick the homely white chicks, and then you’re thinking, Did that nigger need to go
outside the race for that?”
“Shh, they can hear us.”
“Yvonne, I don’t give a fuck. What’s that white girl going to do? Bring the Klan up in here? Where’ll they get their ribs, then?”
Rebecca and Scooter stood in line. I hoped they hadn’t heard the conversation, but her face was dark pink, and he turned my way, frowning. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I shrugged. I wasn’t going to lecture two Black women over a white woman who barely acknowledged my existence.
“Honey, I’d just like a salad,” Rebecca said at the register.
“All we got is potato salad and coleslaw.” Miss Velma spoke slowly, her hands folded across the front of her apron.
“That’s not real salad.” Rebecca let go of Scooter’s arm and batted her hands about: the extra-large diamond in her ring reflected sparks. “And it’s dripping with mayonnaise.”
“We got some collard greens. You might like those.”
“But you make those with pork. That’s not any better, now, is it? You know what, honey? Let me have some dry lettuce.”
“Ma’am, we don’t have none of that.”
“Are you telling me you don’t even have plain iceberg?”
Scooter had told me she was from Atlanta, but she hadn’t ever sounded southern in class. Now, though, I thought I detected the accent, but I couldn’t be sure. It might be her tones, which were muted as if she never had to raise her voice to receive plenty.
“No, ma’am, I’m so sorry. We don’t have no lettuce.”
“Why don’t you go back and check, honey? I’ll wait.” Rebecca gave a smile so broad I swore I could see her jaw teeth. Her husband rubbed her arm.
Miss Velma spoke carefully. “Ma’am? All we got is coleslaw, collard greens, crowder peas, black-eyed peas, sweet corn, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, French fries, and candied yams. Them’s all the vegetables we got. And then we got light bread, but that’s with the ribs. If you look up over my head on the wall, there go the whole menu. Ain’t nothing else in the back.”
Rebecca started to say something else, and Miss Velma held up both hands. She closed her eyes and several moments passed. As she moved her lips, I heard what sounded like Lord Jesus.
“I know just how she feels,” Gayle said. “‘Honey’? Miss Velma is old enough to be that white girl’s grandma! See what I mean? No manners. That’s just how they show out in Harlem.”
That afternoon, Rebecca showed up at Old South Collections. She was by herself, and when she waved in my direction, I swiveled and looked behind me, but there was no one there. She walked to my oak reading table and pulled up a chair. She set a stack of blank legal pads on the table. Rebecca was dressed in a female version of her husband’s uniform. A severe suit, but with a blouse in luxurious fabric. She had that self-aware manner of a very pretty woman: she knew someone was watching her and, sooner or later, coveting.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked. “I love that blouse. That salmon color is fabulous.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I got it from the thrift shop. Two dollars.”
“Gosh, it’s nice. I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Rebecca Grillier Park.”
I tilted my head: I’d sat at a seminar class table with her since August. Was she really going to pretend she didn’t know me? I stuck out my hand, giving her a strong grip so that she would know my strength.
“Good to meet you, Rebecca. I’m Ailey Garfield.”
“What do you think about the program?” Rebecca asked.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“I just love it already! People told me that graduate school was hard, but I’m having a wonderful time.”
“Great.” I picked back up my magnifying glass. I bent over my plantation records, but after a few moments, I stopped. “Oh. You’re still here, Rebecca. Hey, thanks for introducing yourself. You know, finally, after over a month of seeing me in Dr. Petersen’s class. But I’ve got to get back to work.”
She rose from the table. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next time Rebecca showed in the collections, her hands were empty. She sat without papers or reading materials, lazily pulling her blond ponytail through her fist.
“I heard that you’ve been looking at plantation records. What’re you planning to do with them?”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m friendly with Mrs. Ransom.” She waved at the head librarian, who touched the glasses that were suspended by a chain and sat on her chest. She fixed them on her nose and smiled.
“This isn’t my research, Rebecca. I’m doing this work for a colleague, so I really don’t feel comfortable sharing.” I liked the way that sounded: “colleague.”
Her brow wrinkled. She looked down at her folded hands. I knew I’d hear something from Scooter the next time I saw him.
“I can tell you where some of my own interests lie,” I said. “But why don’t you tell me what you’re working on first?”
“Okay!” She bounced in her chair. “I’m interested in doing research on mammies.”
“Mammies?”
“Yes, mammies.”
I searched for humor in her face. Or irony. Anything. There was nothing. “Um . . . great.”
“See, people talk about how there was so much animosity between masters and slaves, but I want to prove there wasn’t. I want to talk about family.”
“You mean biracial people?”
“No, I mean slaves. Slaves were family, too. Living in the house, taking care of their masters’ children like they were their own. And there were some kind slave masters, although nobody wants to talk about that. God forbid anyone would want to be politically incorrect.” A hand in the air, the diamond shining. “You know, I was raised by this wonderful Black girl, Flossie? She’s worked for my family since before I was born.”
“How old are you, Rebecca?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Wow. Miss Flossie has worked for your family over two decades? That’s a really long time for someone to remain a girl. She must use some high-end moisturizer.”
“Yes, Flossie’s very beautiful, and so loving. She fed me from her own breasts. She used to say somebody wrote the Book of Ruth just for us: ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’ Okay, I told you my research, now you’ve got to tell me yours.”
She gave me a flirtatious look, wiggling her shoulders. I told her that I was interested in slave life.
“Why slave life?” she asked.
“I guess it’s personal for me, because my family is descended from slaves.”
“Well, of course they were. You’re Black.”
“Thanks for noticing that, Rebecca. Because do you know that, dark as I am, sometimes people actually think I’m Puerto Rican?” I looked at her seriously. I willed myself not to laugh in her confused face.
“Oh. Really? Okay.”
“So anyway, Rebecca, after my family was freed, they were tenant farmers. They still are.”
“Sharecroppers, you mean.”
“No, I mean tenant farmers.”
“Which is the same thing as sharecroppers, Ailey.”
“No, Rebecca, it’s not. And nobody works for shares anymore. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“If you say so, honey.”
Rebecca pulled her shiny ponytail and looked away from me. I watched her glance around the room, blinking her eyes slowly. I hid a smile at her uppity shenanigans: this chick could stroke her hair all she wanted, but she still didn’t know the distinction between tenant farmers, who’d rented land but owned their own crops, and sharecroppers, who’d worked for shares, borrowing against their crops. Knowing her ignorance gave me a nerdy frisson.
“Ailey, I need to say something. Scooter needs a friend who’s like him. You know what I mean. And I’m so glad he has you. I really am.”
“No problem. He’s like my little brother.”
“And Scooter and I want to invite you over to dinner. He knows loads of cuties over
in the B-school. Not that you need fixing up, but I’d love us to hang out.”
“Thanks, that’s so nice of you. I’m so busy right now with my research, but when things calm down, I’ll think about it.”
* * *
“You’re going to end up cussing that woman out,” my mother said. “You might even have to fight her.”
“Mama, please stop tripping.”
It was on a Sunday, on what had become our regular phone date. She’d had a phone installed in her bedroom, so she could relax while we talked. And now she allowed me a few “girlfriend” moments.
“Ailey, she’s . . . what do you call it? Stalking you. That’s what she’s doing, because she thinks you’re going with her husband.”
“I told you, Scooter and I are only friends.”
“But hasn’t he been paying for your coffee? And your breakfast, too? I know I’m out of practice, but that shole sounds like foreplay to me.”
“Lord have mercy.”
“I’m not judging you, baby. I was young once with a hot tail.”
“Mama, please. This is so nasty.”
“And if you use condoms with the man, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? He’s married to that girl!”
“So? I’m supposed to feel sorry for Miss Anne?”
“Her name is Rebecca.”
“Her name is rude, insensitive white woman. And I still can’t get over that mammy thing. Done, Jesus.”
“Wasn’t that crazy?”
“Why you think that boy married her in the first place?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing. She is very pretty.”
“You can’t find you another Black friend in town?”
“No, I can’t. It’s real hard to make friends here. And before you say I should have gone to medical school, please don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, baby. Give your mama a little credit.”
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 62
