by Julie Kibler
Mr. Bartel declared my small, nimble fingers a good fit for mounting slides. He warned me I’d better show up for work every day and on time, but I could start the next Monday, with Saturday afternoons and Sundays off.
It was Friday. I sped back to the coffee shop where I’d found the ad, hoping the newspaper was still, by some lucky chance, where I’d left it. If I were to start a job in Cincy on Monday, I would need a place to live and a way to pay the rent until I received my first wages.
The newspaper was scattered in sections around the shop, but I found the ads for rooming houses and scanned them for a few promising ones that claimed suitability for single young women, quality only. It was anyone’s guess whether the description fit now, as used and dried-up as I felt so soon after giving birth, emotionally bereft after losing my dream of love and family, but I could surely give the illusion of wholesomeness.
I walked right past the first house after noting its disheveled appearance—oily-looking men in undershirts hanging around the porch, smoking cigarettes, and a young woman leaning from a window in nothing more than a slip, calling to another man on the street. Quality?
The next house, though, was in a quiet neighborhood. It looked recently painted, and the stoop had been swept clean. The woman who answered the door was friendly and youngish, with two toddlers clinging to her skirts. She scanned me up and down and studied my shoes and clothing, apparently coming to the conclusion I would do. She agreed to hold the room until three o’clock the next day. If I returned with two weeks’ rent, the room would be mine. Her small attic-level room was pleasant, sunny, and clean. I could eat with the family for an extra fee or take my meals elsewhere, provided I notified her a day in advance.
My heart thumped as I calculated the amount—seven dollars for two weeks, nine if I included suppers. A small fortune. I realized now how hard Robert had worked to secure the rent for our room—only for it to go to waste almost right away. I’d never saved more than a few coins at a time from birthday or Christmas envelopes, and I’d spent what little I had accumulated on coffee, tea, and streetcar fares while looking for work.
The only solution I came up with was to approach my father. His inaction in the face of Mother’s determination, his refusal to speak a word against her, had finished me with him, but I figured he owed me at least this. I could talk him out of a measly ten dollars.
I hurried back to Shalerville, hoping to catch him before he left his office. He spent Friday afternoons there, catching up on paperwork and reading his medical journals, unless an emergency called him away. Patients with mild complaints were instructed by his nurse to call again Monday.
In my haste to exit the streetcar, I marveled at my body’s recuperation. Only weeks earlier, my insides would have protested, jarred by the thud of feet against curb.
I didn’t speak, gave the nurse no chance to stop me as I passed her, only rapping my knuckles hard against the solid door of my father’s consulting room before opening it. I caught my breath while he studied me, emotion seeping from his eyes. An odd mix—sadness, trepidation. “Isabelle?”
Is it really you, his eyes asked, or the phantom of your former self? I wasn’t sure myself.
“Hello, Father.” The formal address still irritated my throat, dragged over my tongue like sandpaper, like the accusation it was. “I need ten dollars. Please don’t ask why.”
His gaze stayed on my face as he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. He withdrew a slender stack of bills, only glancing down to identify a five and five ones. Before he bent them together and slid them across the desk, he added another five.
“Oh, Isabelle.” He sighed. “I won’t ask, but I will wonder. I suppose you’ve earned the right to your secrets now.”
His mouth’s droop got me. I admitted I’d found employment and a place to live in the city. I reminded him I was an adult now, eighteen, and that I hoped this time—if he knew where I’d gone and that I wasn’t doing anything to offend my mother, my brothers, or their strange moral code—they would leave me alone.
“I’ll tell your mother what you’ve decided. You’ll leave in peace,” he said. “And, honey … I’m sorry … for everything.”
Oh, Daddy. I nearly cried the words aloud. Almost ran to his side to throw my arms around his neck and cling to him like a child. But I wasn’t, and I couldn’t.
Money. Apologies. Running interference with my mother—at last. Even his own self-loathing.
It would never be enough. I started toward the door.
“Isabelle?”
I turned back reluctantly.
“Do you remember asking about the signs?”
I nodded, cautious. It seemed he wanted to make amends by engaging me in this conversation. Again, it was too late. But I waited.
“We’re not the only town with them, you know.”
I knew. I’d seen them here and there when we’d made road trips—as often in Ohio as in Kentucky. Intermarriage might have been legal there, but it didn’t mean there weren’t towns just like Shalerville.
Daddy continued: “Here in Shalerville, it was considered a more civilized action than some others you might hear about. Long before you were born, the good citizens of our city ran every Negro out of town.” His lip curled around the word good.
I gaped. Negroes had lived in Shalerville? I’d assumed they’d simply never been there. Why would anyone have run them out?
“It was an era of fear. In many places, people didn’t know what to do about the freed Negro slaves. They felt they were encroaching on the land, threatening their livelihoods, so they used whatever excuses they could trump up to run them out of places—false accusations, making entire communities a scapegoat for one person’s crime. But not in Shalerville. Here, it wasn’t about that, they said. When Shalerville incorporated, the leaders thought the appearance of exclusivity would draw high-class residents. So they gave the Negroes one week to pack and leave. Not many, you see. But they’d been here as long as any white family.” He shook his head. It seemed unbearably wrong. But my father’s eyes told me his story wasn’t finished.
“You know, Cora’s family served the physicians of Shalerville for generations.”
I remembered that Cora had talked about her mother working for the family that came before us, in the very same house. I nodded, and I suddenly felt sick.
“So far back, they were the property of the doctor that came before the ones that came before us. Her grandparents were slaves, honey. Given their freedom, they chose to stay on. They were good, loyal workers, and the doctor was a fair employer, paid them decent wages. And the doctors who came after. Cora and her brothers were born and raised in a little house that used to be on the back lot—her family had been given title to it. And Doc Partin was better than most around here. When Cora’s family was forced out, he paid them for their home, helped them find a new one in a safe area. He disagreed with the policies—and especially the signs—but he was outnumbered. They said it was about making the town better. But truly, those men were just itching for a reason to hurt someone—like everyone else. No telling what would have happened to Cora’s family if they hadn’t complied with what those folks demanded. And you know, honey, things haven’t really changed.”
My father’s story sent a warning, subtle and clear at once. I must abandon my illusions. I could never be with Robert—not if he and his family were to remain safe. And it was more than a warning. My throat ached. A family home had been lost as a result of blind prejudice and ignorance. To add insult to injury, a family tradition of service and mutual respect, generations old, had ended with our actions—my mother’s, and mine.
* * *
SATURDAY, I PACKED, afforded far more room this time than when I’d left before. I used my small suitcase, but my mother spared a few carpetbags, too, sent upstairs via Mrs. Gray. I had more time to tarry, but less inclination to be sentimental. I took only a few mementos that required little space. The rest, I packed into a battered, unlabeled box, th
en hid it in a corner of the attic, assuming it would be overlooked there unless I decided to return for it.
Father kept his word, and I exited without fear or fanfare. My brothers were as scarce as ever. I endured a short embrace from my father, careful to look over his shoulder and not into his eyes. My mother’s farewell was a cautious nod. She turned away, back at her busywork before the screen door slapped the heels of my shoes.
* * *
ON MONDAY AND Tuesday, on my way to the Clincke house at the end of each day, I struggled against the flow of traffic, fighting the crowds walking in one solid mass of celebration toward Crosley Field for the final two games of the World Series. It seemed an appropriate metaphor for the previous year.
But soon, I found the routine of my new life reassuring, if not exactly comforting. Work and home. Work and home. My landlords were pleasant but not invasive. I satisfied Rosemary Clincke’s desire for a respectable boarder with my early departure and early return, before the sun even thought about setting throughout that long fall. My willingness to pitch in pleased her. I stirred the supper pot or set the table while she tended to one of her many chores involving the children, who seemed to multiply like rabbits in the days after I arrived. I was thankful she didn’t have a tiny one—I knew it would make my loss that much harder to bear. But the bulge at her waist, which I’d assumed was weight left over from her last pregnancy, began to increase, reminding me soon enough.
She seemed happy with her growing brood, and her husband acted proud, coming home from his job as the superintendent for a bricklaying company to pat the older children as they finished their schoolwork, or toss the littlest ones in the air while they spewed pure glee. But one evening, as we watched, Rosemary said quietly, “When you find a fellow, wait a while before you start thinking about a wedding and making a family. You need time together, before the kids come along. It’s my only regret, God bless ’em.” She waved fondly at the children, but the weariness in the gleam of her eyes said it was sometimes too much. I nodded and smiled, never feeling a deep-enough bond to share my secret and not desiring to burden her with it.
Work was easy enough. Mr. Bartel showed me the procedure the first day, how to carefully fit the pressboard frames he’d constructed around the two-layered glass squares, glue them, label them, and pack them into small boxes. By the next afternoon, I’d mostly perfected it. The shop was quiet, other than the occasional tinkle of the bell over the door when customers dropped off or reclaimed their orders. I also performed various housekeeping or organizational duties Mr. Bartel didn’t have time to do himself. Eventually, he allowed me to help customers if he was busy. Mainly, I perched on a high stool at a table bare of anything but the tools and supplies essential to my routine, numbly organizing others’ memories. The aroma of the pressboard and cement was strangely soothing.
I quickly checked the mounted slides for flaws that needed correcting by Mr. Bartel before I boxed them, but if I happened to get ahead of him or I had but a small stack of slides to build and no other chores waiting, I slowed. Sometimes I held a few close to the lamp to study them more intently. Most often, the subjects were landscapes or small groups of people, sitting or standing shoulder-to-shoulder, posed to commemorate some occasion. I considered the expressions on their faces, the level of tension in their shoulders, the space intentionally left between their respective ribs and hips. I tried to discern whether they were truly happy, or if they, too, breathed cautiously, guarding secrets like mine in their hearts, close and prickly and numb and distant, all in the same inhalation and expulsion of air. A glimpse of something too familiar spurred me quickly on to the next slide, and I buried my emotions in the routine.
One late-fall morning, a particularly stubborn slide, cut crooked, refused to fit the frame as it should. I was supposed to wear the soft cotton gloves Mr. Bartel had provided to protect both the slides and my fingers, but when I struggled, I sometimes removed one or both to gain more control. That morning, I tugged off my right one. In my attempt to align the slide with the pressboard, I knocked apart the two glass layers, then dragged a fingernail across the emulsified surface.
I cursed under my breath and glanced to see whether Mr. Bartel had noticed my consternation. He was occupied, so I hastily pulled on my glove, then lifted the slide toward the light to see how badly I’d damaged it. I cringed at a long diagonal scratch. A good picture, now ruined. I studied several of the slides that preceded it in sequence, as well as a few that followed. As often happened, the scratched slide was sandwiched between nearly identical shots. Photographers were inclined to shoot a scene several times to capture the best composition. In this informal family portrait, the same tiny figures appeared in each of five slides, in more or less the same poses. Before I’d scratched it, I’d noticed the faces were black. Slides of colored folks were not common, but neither were they unexpected.
I glanced at Mr. Bartel again, then tucked the ruined slide in my dress pocket. He’d never know. Surely the customer who retrieved the finished slides would never notice one shot missing among several similar, or that the count returned was off by one.
I could have admitted my error. But I was still new at my job. I was afraid if Mr. Bartel knew I’d disregarded his instructions to always wear the gloves and that I’d ruined a perfectly good slide, he’d be angry at the least, perhaps even dock my pay. At the worst, he might let me go. I’d just begun to breathe easily, knowing I could afford my room and board at the Clincke house, with a bit left for practical needs and occasional inexpensive entertainments. I was also strangely drawn to this family portrait, almost as though I’d been meant to ruin it so I’d have to take it home. Maybe I wanted to study it more, imagine it was my family. It could have been.
I hurried to finish that order, then the others, scarcely glancing at the slides I framed. I held them up for quick quality checks, then packed the trays, keeping one eye on Mr. Bartel to be sure he wasn’t waiting to scold me until I’d finished my work for the day. I sighed with relief when I left that evening and he gave his usual half wave, murmuring, without so much as a glance at my face, that he’d see me in the morning.
After I dressed for bed that night, I withdrew the damaged slide from my pocket. I studied the group under my desk lamp, wondering what occasion had called for this tangible, visual memory. I imagined myself among them.
Eventually, I folded the tiny square of pressboard and glass into a handkerchief and tucked it far back in my dresser drawer.
The next morning, I dragged my feet all the way to work, worried again that Mr. Bartel would somehow discover my misdeed, likely when the customer came to retrieve the slides. After I arrived, I glanced in the drawer by the register, my eyes searching out the name I remembered from the order.
Mr. Bartel performed his morning activities behind me. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
I glanced to see how closely he was watching me. “I thought I’d forgotten to place the order slip back with a tray yesterday.”
“They all looked fine to me.”
“Oh, well, good, then.”
“Several pickups this morning before I even turned the sign around.”
My heart lightened. Mr. Bartel often arrived early to get a head start on the day’s work, and he’d help early customers, too. I’d missed whoever had picked up the slides. All was well.
But at night, alone in my room, I often pulled the damaged slide from my dresser drawer, carefully swaddled in my handkerchief, and fell asleep clutching it to my chest.
* * *
ON MY DAYS off, I wandered the nearby Cincy neighborhoods, strolling through the markets where butchers and produce men hawked their wares and housewives sorted to find the best quality before handing over their coins—more plentiful amid the recovering economy and rumors of war in Europe.
One afternoon, when winter’s chill was taking a firm hold on the city, I found myself straddling the invisible line between white and colored territory—a marketplace w
here the boundary wasn’t as clearly acknowledged as elsewhere. I wasn’t the only young white woman in the place, nor was a young woman who skirted me indifferently the only Negro one. But when we collided, startling each of us from whatever we studied separately, we both gasped.
It was Nell.
Her face hardened, but when I didn’t look away, when I forced her to maintain eye contact with my helpless and hope-filled gaze, her eyes went soft, gleamed at their edges, exposing a vulnerability she likely resented, but couldn’t help. Her voice was cool and steady, though, when she answered my cautious hello. She nodded curtly. “Miss Isabelle.”
“Oh, Nell, there’s no need to call me that. It’s just you and me now. I’m a working girl, living in a rented room. I never cared for it anyway.”
“Fine, then,” she said. “Isabelle.”
“I don’t blame you if you despise me. I ruined your life, your mother’s. Robert’s.” Even saying his name was painful. I missed him so. Our story’s end had defeated me.
Her eyes shuttered. “We’re doing fine, taking care of our own.” Doubting she’d say more and recognizing that it might be my only chance to get news of what had happened to them all, I plunged ahead. I grasped her left hand and pulled it close, studying the silver band encircling her ring finger.
“You’re married?” She nodded.
“Brother James?” She nodded again.
“Oh, Nell, I’m thrilled for you. It was your dream. You must be so happy.”
