Passin'

by Karen E. Quinones Miller

  “All you can say is you’re sorry?” Tyrone slowly approached Nikkie’s bed, his hands balled up into fists. “You made a fool of me in front of my family and my friends, and all you can say is you’re sorry?”

  Mrs. Bennett threw herself in front of her son. “Tyrone, no.”

  “Tyrone, please.” Nikkie was now crying hysterically. “I know you hate me, but please try to at least understand.”

  Tyrone stood stock-still for a moment, shook his head, and hissed, “You no-good nigger bitch,” then stomped out the door.

  Chapter Thirty

  I still can’t believe it. Nikkie is black? How did she hide it all this time? You didn’t know?” Ritchie dipped a hundred-dollar bill into the packet of white powder and brought it up to his nose, then took a long sniff.

  “I know,” Cindy told her brother as she popped her second ecstasy pill and swigged it down with a glass of bourbon. “I thought she was one of those damn liberals, you know hooking up with a black guy, but all this time she was a fake. Damn, I should have known. She was the best dancer in the group.”

  “All this time I could have been scoring at a discount, and I didn’t even know.” Ritchie dipped the hundred-dollar bill back into the white powder. “Bet her stuff would have been better than this whack shit.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! So all that time I was living with a black girl? She didn’t smell black.”

  “Sarah, stop acting silly,” Yanna said reprovingly into the telephone. “Blacks don’t smell any different than anyone else.”

  “Maybe not out in the open, but their homes are supposed to smell different.”

  “How do you know that? Have you even been in a black person’s home?”

  “No, but I just assumed—”

  “God, I don’t believe you can be so stupid. You’d think as a Jew you might be more sensitive.”

  “Man, I wish I could remember where she got her hair done. They say that black beauticians straighten hair better than anyone else, and you know how frizzy my hair is.”

  “I’m going to hang up.”

  “Come on, Yanna. I’m only kidding,” Sarah said with a laugh.

  “No, you’re not,” Yanna said stiffly.

  “Yes, I am. I’m just shocked, is all. I mean, well, what do you think about it? She fooled you, too.”

  Yanna hesitated. “I used to like her. Not so much anymore, I suppose.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason I despise the women in the synagogue who get nose jobs. I think people should be proud of their heritage.”

  “There you go with that ‘Jewish pride’ thing again.”

  “Okay, now I’m hanging up for real.”

  “But what I can’t understand is why she would want to pretend to be white,” Rachel told her mother as they sat out on the balcony sipping tea. “It’s not like back in the thirties and forties where blacks couldn’t get an education or jobs.”

  “The poor dear,” her mother said simply, shaking her head. “I feel so guilty.”

  “Why, Mother?”

  “Well, I reprimanded her for using the word ‘nigger.’ But you know blacks use that word all the time when they’re referring to each other. It’s like a form of endearment or something. I hope she didn’t think I was a prude.”

  “I tell you I was shocked when Helen Riverton told me. But I can’t say the girl ever told me she was white. I just assumed.” Henry Finch took a leisurely puff of his cigar, then motioned for the butler at the gentleman’s club to come over. “Another bourbon, Walter. And not as much ice this time.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Finch, right away.” The mahogany-skinned butler bowed his graying head and walked off.

  “So you say no one at your firm knew, Art? What about her job application?”

  Mr. Kadinsky shook his head. “I pulled them as soon as you called me this morning. You know the racial part of the form is voluntary, and she never filled it out. I asked other members of the firm, and her teammates, but they all said they assumed she was white, although she never came out and said so.” He tinkled the ice in his glass. “I just hope none of them made any racial remarks in front of her. You know how touchy those people can be.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Henry asked.

  “There’s nothing I can do. She was a good worker, and as soon as she comes back from maternity leave, she’ll find her position waiting for her as promised. We were going to give her a bonus for all of her good work, but I’ve already told Human Resources to cut it in half. Those people are always demanding raises, so we can’t just give them the same bonuses willy-nilly. We’ll give her the other half once she comes in and asks for more money.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  October 2009

  So how are you holding up?” Mrs. Randolph said as she daintily dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin at Morton’s Steakhouse in midtown Manhattan. “I know the last few weeks must have been hell.”

  “About as well as anyone whose life has come crashing down on them. Twice,” Nikkie said dryly.

  Mrs. Randolph’s eyebrow shot up. “Twice?”

  Nikkie nodded. “First my black life, and now my white.”

  “Well, you can always go for Asian and see how that works out.”

  Nikkie rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said dryly.

  Mrs. Randolph sighed. “I have to admit I feel guilty about this whole thing. After all, it was my idea for you to pass in the first place. But God knows I had no idea you were going to take it as far as you did. Marrying a black man and letting him think you were white? Nikkie, what were you thinking?”

  Nikkie rubbed her hands over her face. “I don’t know. I don’t think I was thinking. In fact, I don’t think I’ve done any

  thinking at all since this whole thing started. I just kind of was telling myself I was going with the flow. I just didn’t realize I was swimming against a tidal wave of my own making.”

  Mrs. Randolph took a sip of her drink and said nothing.

  “Now,” Nikkie continued, “my husband, whom I truly love, is divorcing me, I’m suddenly a single mother of a child with a serious disease, and I’m the laughingstock of New York.”

  “I’d say that last little bit is an exaggeration,” Mrs. Randolph said, and sliced into her extra rare prime rib.

  “Well, at least among my circle of friends.”

  “Really? All of your friends have turned on you?”

  Nikkie shrugged. “Well, Jenice is still in my corner. I don’t know how I would have survived this fiasco without her, in fact.” Nikkie smiled. “And she was the one I thought was my sworn enemy in the beginning, remember?”

  Mrs. Randolph nodded. “I remember.”

  “She’s even got me going to church now. It’s kind of late in the game, but God knows I have a lot to pray about lately.

  “You know, Jenice never got on me about passing, but I knew she didn’t approve. Hell, nobody approved. And I knew it was wrong. And I felt guilty and ashamed of myself the whole time. So why the hell did I do it? Like you said long ago, it was one thing to pull it off to get the job, but why did I continue?”

  Mrs. Randolph put her napkin down on the table. “I’m listening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just asked why did you continue, and you’re the only one who knows, Nikkie. And I’d love to hear the answer.” Mrs. Randolph took a sip of her red wine. “Please go on.”

  Nikkie bit her lip. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since it all blew up in my face, and I honestly don’t have a good answer. Except maybe . . .” She paused. “Maybe it was because I just wanted to see what it would be like. I wanted to see how the other half lived.”

  “The other half?”

  “Whites. I just knew their lives were so much different than ours, and I wanted to live that difference, even though I wasn’t sure what it would be. And I kept chasing the difference.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Ra
ndolph’s fascination was evident in her tone and her face as she egged Nikkie on.

  “Well, you see, once I was, you know, white, I thought somehow I’d see what the difference was between blacks and whites. But I couldn’t find it. I mean, Cindy and Rachel were different than any blacks I’ve known, but then I haven’t known any blacks who were that rich. But then the whites like Yanna and my roommate, Sarah—who were working-class whites—were just like the working-class blacks I’ve known. Passing for white let me hear some of the bigoted statements that whites make about blacks, but being black, I’ve always heard bigoted statements about whites. It was all the same! All I really learned was that whites had all the same desires, the same fears, the same wants, the same struggles, that we have. But I couldn’t accept that. I just knew whites were different, and I wanted to experience that difference. I couldn’t stop until I did.”

  Mrs. Randolph leaned back in her chair. “Wow,” she said finally.

  “Yeah, I do think that whites may have more of a feeling of entitlement than most blacks—but I think they’re born with that, you know? And passing for white is not the same as being born white, so there was no way I was ever going to obtain that. But I wanted to! Even though I knew it wasn’t going to happen, I wanted to. I wanted to just assume like I could do anything, instead of hoping I’d get the chance. But it never happened.”

  Nikkie started chewing her lips again. “And there’s the self-hatred aspect of it.”

  Mrs. Randolph’s eyebrows shot up.

  Nikkie shook her head. “No, I don’t mean what you think. I don’t mean that I hated being African-American and so I wanted to be white. I mean that deep down I didn’t like myself. I didn’t like me. I didn’t like my superficiality, my shallowness . . . my everything. I’m sure I thought by reinventing myself I’d like my new self more. But being white didn’t change anything. The only difference between black Nikkie and white Nikkie was that white Nikkie was always looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to find out her little secret. Black Nikkie didn’t have that stress. But I was still the same screwed-up person—not caring enough about the people around me to worry about the hurt I might be causing them, just wanting to get what I wanted, and disregarding the pain I caused people in the process.”

  “God,” Mrs. Randolph said with a little laugh. “Now I’m not sure that I even like Nikkie.”

  “Yeah, well”—Nikkie picked up her glass of wine and downed it in a gulp—“join the club.”

  “I still think you’re crazy. Tyrone said he’d let you keep this place. Why do you want to move back to Detroit?” Jenice said as she wrapped a goblet in newspaper and placed it in a box marked glassware.

  “New York hasn’t been good for me, and it would be even worse for me now,” Nikkie said simply. “Tyrone hates me, and even though I’m sure he’s not going to go around spreading what happened, there’s just going to be too many questions asked that I won’t be able to answer. Better to just go back to Detroit and start all over again.”

  “So, are you going to be Nicole Jensen or . . .” Jenice wrinkled up her nose. “What did you say your real name was, again?”

  “Shanika Jenkins. I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll probably stay Nicole. I’m going to have to get a job, you know, and all of my work achievements have been credited to that name.”

  The women were interrupted by the sound of a baby crying. “Oops! Feeding time!”

  Nikkie walked into the nursery, with Jenice following closely on her heels.

  “So you’re still going to pass, then?” Jenice said after Nicole settled into a rocking chair and began nursing the baby.

  “Oh, good Lord, no. I’ll be Nicole Jensen, but I’ll be a very proud black Nicole Jensen.” Nicole gave a sad chuckle. “Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “I know that will make your brother happy.” Jenice sat down in a chair across from Nicole.

  Nikkie sighed. “I don’t know that anything I do will make my brother happy at this point. I’m sure he’s glad that I’m no longer passing for white, but at the same time, I don’t think that he’ll ever forgive me for having done so. Especially after I went and got married as a white woman, because that meant I was renouncing him as my family. So how can I now be angry with him renouncing me?” Tears sprung to Nikkie’s eyes.

  “He’ll come around again,” Jenice said soothingly.

  “Well”—Nikkie shrugged—“I hope he does, but my going back to my roots really doesn’t have anything to do with him. I’m doing this for me and my little Elizabeth Ann. She’s not going to grow up having to live a lie her mama told, that’s for sure.” She began to hum a lullaby as the baby nursed at her breast. In ten minutes her daughter was asleep, and she placed her back in the bassinet. She was so focused on her infant that the ringing of her cell phone startled her.

  She rushed to answer it, hoping against hope that it was Tyrone, and he had finally come to his senses and realized that he wanted to make the marriage work. The disappointment on her face was apparent when she looked at the caller ID and saw that it was just Lucia.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, have you gotten used to being black again?” Lucia asked in a jovial voice.

  Nikkie chuckled. “It’s like riding a bike. You never really forget.”

  “Good. Now, did you quit your job at Paxon and Green yet?”

  “I’ve still got another three weeks’ maternity leave, so I haven’t turned in my notice yet. I mean, what’s the rush, right? I’ll probably sneak in like four forty-five on a Friday, when most of the people are gone. I don’t want to have to face them.”

  “Uh-huh, yeah, whatever,” Lucia said as if not really caring. “Look, you can’t quit just yet. I need you.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I think I have that role in Imitation of Life. And I really, really want it. I know that at least one of the producers is having some doubts because he thinks there might be some stink

  in the black community, like you said. So you have to fix that for me.”

  “Oh? And how am I supposed to do that?” Nikkie asked as she settled down into a chair next to Jenice.

  “We’ve got to get it into the papers that I’m actually black.”

  “What?”

  “What’s going on?” Jenice whispered, nudging her. “What happened? Is that Tyrone?”

  Nikkie quickly shook her head and held up her hand to signal Jenice to hold on.

  “I’m serious. I am. Well, biracial, anyway. My mother’s Italian, but my father is Brazilian. You know, as in the country that has more blacks than any outside the continent of Africa. I’m half-black.”

  “And you never told me?”

  Lucia giggled. “You never asked. In fact, no one has. Let’s face it, all of the roles I’ve had up until now have been good, but small. No one’s ever taken any notice of me, or really worried about my bio. And it’s not like my bio contains any lies. I was born right here in Manhattan. I look white, and no one’s ever questioned my ethnicity. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  Nikkie grinned. “I’m sure I do.”

  “My father died when I was a kid, all of his family is still in Brazil, and I’m an only child. So all anyone saw was my mom. But now—”

  Nikkie nodded. “Now it’s to your advantage to make sure people know.”

  “Exactly!”

  Nikkie’s brow furrowed, “But, well, why now? I mean, what about the Spielberg movie? You lost that part because you weren’t black; why didn’t you speak up then?”

  “Oh, please. For that little part? A chambermaid? I wasn’t going to blow my cover over that, even if it was a Spielberg movie. But this . . . come on, this is a starring role. The kind that can really make my career! For this, I’ll be black.”

  “You sure about this?” Nikkie asked.

  “Positive. But you have to spin it just right, Nikkie. Don’t make it like I was pretending to be white before, but that as an actress I
was just playing roles I was asked to play. You know how to do it, girl.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get on it immediately. I’ll call into the office and let them know I’ll be taking care of this personally, from home, of course. Do you have any pictures of your father?”

  “I’ll have my mother send them over to your house by messenger this afternoon.”

  “Good. I know just the person at the New York Times to bring in on this. Very compassionate, but always looking for a scoop. Don’t worry, girl, I got you covered. But, listen, this is likely the last thing I’m going to be able to do for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As I said, I’m going to be giving my notice to Paxon and Green in a few weeks, and I’m moving back to Detroit.”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “You still there,” Nikkie asked nervously.

  “Is my contract with Paxon and Green or with you?”

  “With Paxon and Green.”

  “And you won’t reconsider your decision to move back to Detroit?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Well,” Lucia said after a pause, “how about I insist that Paxon and Green keep you on as a subcontractor or something even though you’re in Detroit? I mean, they’re not stupid. My career is definitely on the upswing, and they’re going to want to keep me happy.”

  Nikkie looked at Jenice. “I have a better idea. I really want to cut all my ties with Paxon and Green and this whole mess I’ve made of it in New York, but I’ll turn you over to one of my colleagues who would be perfect for you. Wait. Hold on.” She took the phone away from her ear and hit the mute button.

  “Jenice. What’s your workload like?”

  Jenice grimaced. “Please. Overloaded as usual.”