Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Better. I showed her what you wrote. Read it to her. It made her real happy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I hope this’ll make a difference,” she said. “But suppose he runs away?”

  I shook my head. “This guy’s not the running kind.”

  “Well, that’s something, then, isn’t it?” She got up to go, then paused. “Oh, and I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Recommending Mabel Dean. My reverend likes her and I like her, too. I think she’s going to be a lot of help.”

  “Glad to hear it. Mabel deserves a break.”

  “We’ll take good care of her.”

  Ruth started away and turned back. “It would’ve made a difference, wouldn’t it, if you’d found something, something real, that showed what was going on between Esther and this guy?”

  “Of course. But …” I shrugged. “I didn’t find anything.”

  Ruth nodded to herself, crestfallen, and walked away. She was barely out the door when Selena sidled up and tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “Sam wants to see you.” Selena’s slanted eyes were as green as brown eyes can be. “I think you over reached yourself this time.” She pointed to Sam’s office. With a nasty jolt, I saw that the big cheese himself, Mr. Byron Canfield, was in there.

  “You’d better hop to it,” she said.

  “Selena, you know what? You can kiss my muffins.”

  Her mouth dropped open. I stifled an urge to put my fist through it and walked away.

  The two men stood as I entered. I gave them both a courteous smile, and then addressed the visitor. “Good morning, Mr. Canfield.”

  The Movement’s most senior official granted me a nod. He was a tall man of aristocratic bearing. He wore a long dark gray coat, carried his hat and gloves in one hand, his walking stick in the other. We’d spoken briefly at Movement events and I’d seen him in court while attending the McKay murder trial, but this would be the first professional meeting.

  His dedication to the Movement was unassailable. It was his life’s work and he’d do anything to defend it—partly because he viewed it as his own personal empire, but mostly because he was truly committed to improving the lives of his people. He waged his battle with pen and paper, but he was as courageous and single-minded as any soldier wielding a gun or grenade. No doubt about it, he was a brave man.

  Unfortunately, he was also a high hat. His Oxford education and extraordinary intellect had imparted an almost dogmatic belief in his own infallibility. To a degree, his intellect had curtailed his ability to feel empathy, much less show compassion. His writings were intellectually sound, but often emotionally empty. His opinions were brilliant but lacked elemental human understanding. As a result, many of people admired him but didn’t like him.

  “Mrs. Price, please take a seat,” Sam said. He did not look happy.

  “Thanks, but I prefer to stand.”

  Sam gestured toward Canfield with a pencil. His voice was carefully neutral. “He has some concerns he’d like to share with us.”

  Canfield cleared his throat. “Your article, Lanie—May I call you that?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Canfield smiled grimly, like a cat enjoying the prospect of torturing a frisky mouse. “I have a message from Sexton Whitfield. What he tells me is very upsetting.”

  “If I were him, I’d be upset, too.”

  “I think you should reconsider writing this particular column—”

  “Too late. It’s already out.”

  Canfield looked from me to Sam. Sam nodded, refusing to say more than he had to. Was he going to back me up or not? Canfield cleared his throat.

  “Whitfield's message came in late yesterday. I was out of the office. Mrs. Price, isn’t this the same matter about which you bothered Mrs. Goodfellowe?”

  “It is related to the Esther Todd case, yes.”

  “Didn’t you understand that you were to drop this subject? This could cost us.”

  “Cost who?”

  “Well, us.” He made an open-handed gestured that could’ve meant just us three in the room or the world beyond us. “We colored,” he said. “The Movement and everything we’ve worked so hard for.”

  “If that’s what you’re talking about, then it’s already cost us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s the price of looking the other way? What’s the return on letting down one of your own?”

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “I think you do.”

  Sam intervened. “Mrs. Price—”

  “Look, I was told not to write about Mrs. Goodfellowe and I didn’t. No one said anything about not writing about Esther.”

  “You’re exposing a great man to suspicion and—”

  “I want him exposed.”

  Canfield cocked his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He turned to Sam. “Is she crazy?”

  Sam glanced at me. “Well …” His lips twitched with a smile.

  I arched an eyebrow and gave him a severe look. This was no time to be facetious.

  “Actually,” Sam continued, appropriately serious again, his gaze returning to Canfield. “She’s one of the sanest people I know.”

  Canfield sure didn’t expect that answer. His dark eyes darted back and forth between us, suspicious.

  “Mr. Delaney,” he said, “I would warn you against letting any personal feelings contaminate your sense of judgment.”

  Contaminate?

  Sam’s eyes grew cold. “Thank you, but you needn’t worry.”

  “Good,” Canfield said and turned to me. “Mr. Delaney and I have been talking. We agree that there’s another reporter in this newsroom who deserves a column. Selena Troy. You know her, of course?”

  “Quite well.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  I glanced at Sam. Was he actually going along with this?

  “She’s one of a kind,” I said evenly.

  “Well, I think she’d make a one-of-a-kind society columnist, too. What do you say to that?”

  “I say it’s for me to decide,” Sam said.

  Canfield did a double-take. “But you said—”

  “You asked me if Miss Troy was talented. I said she was. You asked me if she deserves a column. I said yes, she does. However, I did not say that she deserves Mrs. Price’s.”

  Canfield went from stunned to furious. Sam was not being as malleable as he’d expected him to be. I gave Sam a look of thanks, which he pointedly ignored. Canfield gave Sam a look of smoldering anger.

  “So you stand behind Mrs. Price and her actions?”

  “I do.”

  Canfield was disgusted. “You just don’t care, do you? Either of you. Certainly not about the Movement.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “Mrs. Price here is one of our most gifted—and loyal—writers. Her support of the Movement need never be questioned.”

  “She’s showing blatant disregard for our concerns—specifically, the need to stand up and defend our men of achievement.”

  “What about our women?” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Our women. What about defending them? Or don’t they deserve your respect and attention?”

  Canfield sputtered. “Well, them too. But Mrs. Todd’s talent can’t be compared to—”

  “How would you know? Did you ever hear her play? I did. She was unique. I could argue that her talent was—would’ve been—as great as his. I could also argue that when it comes to the value of human life and equality before God, it doesn’t matter whether a person is male or female, talented or untalented, prominent or unknown. They’re worthy of consideration. Don’t you agree?”

  “Mrs. Price,” Sam said.

  “No,” said Canfield. “Let her continue. I love sparring with intelligent women. And your Mrs. Price is indeed intelli
gent—just misdirected.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you think you’re man enough to straighten me out—”

  “Your passion is admirable, but you’re missing a basic point.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The need for a cohesive front.”

  “The need to hide our dirty laundry, you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t have used such colloquial terms, but yes.”

  He was such a stuffed shirt.

  “You know what? I’m not interested in hiding dirty laundry. Not yours, mine or anybody else’s. Not when it means letting a man like Whitfield go free.”

  “But you should be interested,” Canfield said. “Why must we colored always turn on our own? Why can’t we retain for ourselves that sense of reserve and dignity that is necessary for progress? The enemy loves it when we destroy ourselves, when we trumpet our weaknesses. You’re an intelligent woman. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “I understand more than you realize. Sure, we can present a united front, but let’s do so with our best and brightest. Does Whitfield really meet those criteria? Not in my book—not by a long shot. Are we, as a people, so desperate for heroes that we’ll condone the vilest behavior? Yes, the man’s a mental giant, but he’s a monster of a human being.”

  “That’s not proven—”

  “Why don’t you step on down to Mabel Dean’s house and tell her that? The woman is deaf in one ear and broken in places you can’t even see because of what he did to her.” I’d used her name, but I was so angry, I didn’t care. “He beat her to a pulp and she’s too scared to say a word about it.”

  “That’s what she told you,” Canfield said.

  “And thank God she did.”

  “But you have only her word for it.”

  “Yes, I do. I have her word. And I have it because I took the time to hear it. You haven’t even done that. And it doesn’t look like you’re willing to.”

  “Mrs. Price, calm down,” Sam said. “This isn’t helping.”

  “You know what would? It would help if Mr. Canfield here thought about how the Movement jumped ship when things got a little hot and heavy with Esther’s family. It would help if he thought about the united front the Movement showed back then. If he thought about who might be the better role model: a single mother struggling to raise her child and develop her talent—or a violent egomaniac who abuses the power of his position.”

  Two red spots appeared in Canfield’s pale cheeks.

  “Mrs. Price, I’m not about to waste my time bantering with you. The fact is Esther Todd could’ve been the role model you describe. But she isn’t. And that’s because she chose not to be. She chose to bite the hand that fed her. She chose to help thieves, to commit a crime, and then pretend she was a victim to cover up for it. That’s behavior we can neither forgive nor condone—much less defend. This is your last warning. Stop harassing Sexton Whitfield. And drop this case. Move on. Crusade for better garbage pickup in the neighborhood. I don’t care! Just don’t write another word about this matter.”

  He turned to Sam. “As for you, I most strongly suggest you convince her to cooperate. It would be in the best interest of the paper.”

  “Is that a threat?” Sam asked.

  “Take it as good advice. From a lawyer.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “Well,” Sam said with a cold smile of his own, “we most certainly know what to do with advice like that.”

  Canfield’s expression froze. “How dare you.”

  “I dare,” Sam said, “because, as the head of this newsroom, I have every right to.”

  Canfield was beside himself. “This will cause repercussions.”

  “I should hope so,” Sam said.

  Canfield glared at him. “All right. You want repercussions? Then that’s what you’ll get.” He gave Sam a tight nod and yanked open the office door.

  The din of typewriters clattering and people calling to one another across the newsroom paused. For a split second, everyone out there halted. Canfield paused on the threshold. He appeared to want to say something, but then bit his tongue and stalked out, letting the door slam behind him. Sam and I were left alone in an uneasy quiet. He gave me an assessing look.

  “We are on solid ground with this, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Ramsey’s on my back, too.”

  “I know.”

  “But he’s nothing compared to this character.”

  He motioned toward Canfield’s departing figure, which we could still see through glass walls. I started out.

  “Lanie?” His voice came from behind, soft and heavy with emotion.

  I paused with my hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

  “You worried?”

  A split second passed. Without turning around, I gave a little nod. He sighed.

  “Good to know I’m not alone. I got your back, Lanie. Just don’t let me down. Not on this one.”

  “I never have, Sam. And I won’t now.”

  * * *

  Ruth needn’t have worried. By mid-morning, my telephone was ringing off the hook and everybody, but everybody, had an idea of who the mystery man was. Any number guessed that it was Whitfield and it didn’t matter that I refused to confirm or deny it. They knew what they knew and that was that. Quite a few wouldn’t give their names, but said they’d seen Esther and Whitfield together. Would they get a reward if they provided the details?

  I wasn’t the only one getting calls. Around noon, Hilda Coleman called from a pay phone at Jimmy Dee’s.

  “They’ve been coming in all morning. From all over. The switchboard’s going crazy. The Harlem Age, the Amsterdam News. It ain’t just the Harlem papers either. I’m talking about the Chicago Defender, the Pittsburgh Courier. Those kinds of papers. They’re big papers, aren’t they? I mean, not to insult you, but bigger than yours?”

  They were big all right. The story was getting play and lots of it. Of course, the reason wasn’t so much interest in Esther as it was in Whitfield. He’d hurt at least as many people as he’d helped and now his enemies smelled blood. Hilda said he’d issued blanket denials. He’d met Esther Todd once, in passing, and that was that.

  I can’t say I expected a word of congratulations from Sam. Hoped for it, maybe, but not expected it.

  “Aren’t you happy, Sam?”

  “Sure I am, but I’ve got to think ahead. Think about it. We didn’t name names, but we drew a bead that everybody’s followed. You think he’s going to sit back and take it? We fired a shot over his bow. I’ve got to figure out how we’re going to protect ourselves from the return cannon fire.’

  I didn’t tell Sam that Whitfield had already shot his best shot. That he’d already threatened me. And that I’d already prepared a counteroffensive. If Whitfield went after me via my tax returns, then I’d go after him. I’d show that he was not only abusing women, but taxpayers who crossed him. I’d convinced myself that as long as the Chronicle backed me, I could deal with Whitfield. And if the paper didn’t back me … well, I’d find one that would.

  That’s what I told myself — and firmly repressed any whispering doubts to the contrary.

  That afternoon brought an early Christmas present.

  “Miss Lanie?”

  I looked up from my desk to see Ruth. She shuffled her feet nervously and gripped the handles of her handbag, a rather large one. She looked upset.

  “What’s the matter?” I rose to greet her.

  “I want to apologize,” she said. “For coming in here like that this morning. But most of all, I want to apologize for this.” She opened her bag, took out a package wrapped in brown paper and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It was Esther’s. I took it out of the trunk before letting you go through it.”

  I was stunned. “But why?”

  “I was ashamed.” She averted her eyes. “I didn’t mean to block you, to make it for hard to help us. I just...
” She sighed. “I was just so ashamed—for my sister’s sake.”

  “Ashamed?” I turned the package over. It was square and heavy, like a brick.

  Ruth nodded at it. “What you’ll find in there could ruin Esther’s memory. Please don’t use it unless you have to.”

  “But—”

  “Please.”

  I nodded. “All right.”

  Ruth drew a deep breath and let it out. She smiled weakly. “I feel better now, knowing that I’ve done all I can.”

  “You hiding anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Her smile brightened a bit. Then her gaze returned to the package and her smile faltered. She bit her lip, raised her hand to me in good-bye and moved on.

  I plopped back down at my desk and ripped open the package. I found a simple wood box, and inside it, a bible, thick and heavy. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a box of jewels with signed receipts—but a bible? What could a Bible have that a church-going sister like Ruth would find shameful?

  Two seconds later I found out.

  It was a letter, tucked between the pages, and written in a bold scrawl. The date: September 13, 1923. That was right around the time Esther tried to end it with her secret beau. The letter consisted of three pages of thick, elegant vellum.

  ‘Love of my life, come be with me again. I can hardly wait to see you, to plunge my spear into your most precious sheath. But first, we will play our special game, the kind that fulfills this fierce need that neither you nor I can deny. Soon, you will be on your knees before me, exposed and hungry. Merciful as I am, I won’t keep you waiting. I will teach you obedience, my love. I will fill you with my—’

  I took a deep breath. How had Esther become involved with this … this—I couldn’t even begin to describe him. I could understand Ruth’s feelings. However, I felt no shame for Esther’s sake. Only rage.

  Sickened, I skimmed the rest, reading just enough to learn the rules of his ‘special game.’ He derived pleasure from a woman’s pain and exulted in her degradation. He reveled in Esther’s sorrow and humiliation. He wrote of her tears and even had the nerve to promise that in due time she’d not only get used to his ‘games,’ but come to love them, that like him, she too would become addicted.