“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how strong are you in keeping your womanhood to yourself until the time is right for you to give it away?”
I just stared at her.
“Look, child, I’ve been married three times. I know the ways of men and I know how a woman usually is with a man she’s had relations with. If I’m right, just looking at the two of you together, I don’t think you’ve been with him in that way. In fact, I don’t think you’ve had relations with a man before. If you’d had relations with that boy Flynn you’d be moving different around him.”
I was silent at the suggestion.
“That’s all right if you don’t want to say. If you’re a good Christian woman, that’s good. But sometimes forces more powerful than our Christian teachings can change a young woman’s mind about her future. That Flynn is a powerful force. You’ve got to know your own mind before you meet it.” She reached for my hand and held it with both of hers. “Did Flynn tell you how we came to meet?”
I shook my head and she went on.
“Well,” she laughed, “it’s a bit of a story. It was back before the war and I still considered myself somewhat young.” She laughed again. “That was before I was in that wheelchair there. I’d already lost my husband, one who gave me this house, so I was making do for myself. I hadn’t yet started opening up my house to ladies in need, but I had this friend name of Thelma lived right across the street there. Widow lady too. Thelma and me decided we weren’t too old yet to do anything we wanted to do, so one day after we’d gone to the grocery store in my car, we had a flat on the way back, and there we were, two seventy-something-year-old ladies trying to change a tire!”
Mrs. Hendersen laughed heartily. “We didn’t know what we were doing! Neither one of us had changed a tire before. We knew enough to get out the jack, then we tried to figure out how to attach the thing on the car. Somehow we got it set, then we had to jack up the car. Well, we couldn’t get it jacked and that’s when we heard this voice behind us asking if we could use some help. We both looked around and there was this tall young man standing there, this bemused smile across his face. I don’t know how long he’d been standing there watching us fiddle with that jack, but I said, ‘What do you think!’”
This time I laughed with Mrs. Hendersen.
“Yeah, that’s just how we met. Flynn jacked up the car, changed the tire in no time flat. Thelma and me, we offered to pay him for his trouble, but he refused to take any money from us.” Mrs. Hendersen paused, looked away a moment, then back at me. “I lost my only child, my son, to cancer when he was about the age Flynn is now.” She let go of my hand and added softly, “Flynn’s been like a son to me. I truly do love that young man. He’s a good man, Cassie. You wouldn’t go wrong with him.”
“Do you think I’ll look too anxious if I see him tonight?”
“Depends on how you handle yourself.”
I thought about all Mrs. Hendersen had said, and said nothing. Mrs. Hendersen was fine with the silence and said nothing either. Finally, I decided and stood. “I want to see him. I couldn’t sleep anyway. There’s no point in putting it off.”
Mrs. Hendersen nodded. “Good,” she said, giving me an approving smile. “Good.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Still in my robe, I sat in the parlor. It was past eleven o’clock. I read for a while, glancing at the wall clock every few minutes. All I wanted was for Flynn to be at the door. Impatiently I waited, but finally as it neared midnight I slammed down the book, turned off the room lamp, and headed for the hallway. I was furious. There was a knock on the door. I ignored it. There was another knock, then Flynn called softly, “Cassie?”
I took a deep breath, went to the door, and opened it.
“I didn’t know if you would see me,” Flynn said.
“I didn’t know if I would either,” I replied. “I talked to Mrs. Hendersen about it.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said I had to be strong in my own feelings.”
“And are you?”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? What did you want to see me about? You called more than two hours ago. What took you so long to get over here?”
“I had to take the person I was with home.”
“And it took ’til midnight to say good night to her?”
“Cassie, would you please come onto the porch? I want to talk to you about tonight.”
I pushed open the screen door and stepped out. I pulled my robe tighter and crossed my arms. “What about tonight?”
“You saw me with someone and I didn’t want you to put that person between us in your mind.”
“Well, you saw me with someone too. Were you concerned about him being between us in your mind?”
Flynn dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand, and I wasn’t sure how to take that. Maybe I wanted him to be jealous, at least just a bit. I certainly was jealous. “It’s not about him. It’s about how you might be seeing this woman and me. We both know what Justine said to you.” He moved away and leaned against the porch post.
“This woman, does she have a name?”
Flynn didn’t answer my question. “Cassie, just a few short hours ago we spent the night together on my mountain. I’ve never taken anyone to my land before, but I wanted you to see it, to experience it with me. As soon as I saw that land, I wanted it. I felt the same about you. As soon as I saw you, I wanted you too.”
I was startled into silence.
“I just wanted you to know that.” He turned to go.
“Is that it?” I said.
He turned back. “For now. I just want you to keep the door open to us, Cassie.”
“Why shouldn’t I close it? Flynn, we’ve only seen each other twice before. We spent the night on a mountaintop together, but there is no ‘us.’”
“Isn’t there? Like I said, Cassie, keep the door open. I’ve got some things to work out, but once I do, I’d like to see you again.”
“And you couldn’t wait until morning to tell me that?”
“No. I wanted you to know tonight. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding between us. How I felt the other night is how I feel now. I hope the same goes for you.” He stared at me in silence, said good night, then turned once again and went down the steps to the Mercedes. I watched him drive away.
CASSIE’S LOVE STORY
CHAPTER II
(1948–1949)
He had been born in Puerto Vallarta. His mother was of African descent, his father a native Indian. Soon after his birth his mother and father separated, and his father was no longer in his life. His mother had, in part, been influenced and educated by British colonialists in neighboring British Honduras, and therefore she named her children after them. There had been two other children, both boys, one older than Justine, one a few years younger. Both were now dead. A few years after Flynn was born, his mother returned to her native British Honduras and took both Flynn and Justine with her. When Flynn was eight, his mother died and Justine, who was sixteen, basically raised him. There were only the two of them left. When he was ten, Justine went to the United States, leaving him behind with a family in Mexico, the Peñas. When he was fifteen, Justine sent for him. Soon after, the Peñas migrated to the United States as well. In 1943, at age twenty, he was inducted into the United States Army even though he was not yet a citizen, but a resident alien. He served on the European front and was at the invasion of Normandy. While with the Peñas in Mexico, he had apprenticed as a carpenter, and upon his return from the war, he started working construction. He had hopes of designing buildings of his own one day and of building his own house on the mountain land. That was what I knew about him. It wasn’t all that much, but for me it was enough. I didn’t need to know anything else.
I already was in love with him.
* *
*
◆ ◆ ◆
The days following my midnight meeting with Flynn, Flynn did not call. He did not call the following week either or come to see me, and I got on with my life. With the help of Mrs. Hendersen, I got a job selling tickets at the Lincoln Theater. She knew the manager. It was a decent-paying job and it was a fabulous one. Sometimes, too, I served as an usherette. The Lincoln Theater, one of several theaters on Central Avenue, was a Negro theater showing the most recent movies as well as showcasing live performances by some of the biggest Negro stars, like Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday and Nat King Cole. It also presented talent shows. Moorish in architectural style, the building had fascinated Flynn and he had pointed it out to me during our first walk together. I loved working there. My hours were mostly during the day, but sometimes I was called to work evenings as well, and when I was, I kept wondering if Flynn would come walking into the theater. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I had been with him only three times, but thoughts of him ruled my days and my nights. I could not forget the words he had said to me. I also could not forget the woman clinging to his life, and that he was not ready to let go of her.
In some ways, I felt myself no match for this woman. I was a country girl and saw myself as that, pretty enough, I knew, but certainly no match for a woman schooled in the ways of men. I knew nothing about men in that way. As confident as I was most times, I had never slept with a man and was often unsure about my own feelings. What I was sure about was that I had strong feelings for Flynn, but despite what Flynn had said to me, I wasn’t sure about his feelings for me. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to be near him again, to touch him again. I wanted him to kiss me again, hold me again. I could not let go of this feeling I had for him. In mid-March, Flynn unexpectedly reached out to me once more. He called. “You get your life straightened out yet?” I asked.
“I’d like to talk to you about that later, if you’ll see me,” he said. “You mentioned you like fishing. I know a great spot.”
I agreed to go fishing. It was before dawn on a Saturday morning when Flynn came for me. He took me to the pier. There we climbed into a rowboat and Flynn handed me a fishing rod, already baited. “Can you swim?” he asked.
“Not very well. Used to wade a little in the Rosa Lee.” His look was questioning. “Creek near our place back home,” I explained. “Used to fish there too.”
Flynn rowed the boat, leaving the rod in my hands. As the morning sunlight began to settle on the water, he stopped rowing. “You thought about what I said that last night we talked?”
“Is your friend still in your life?”
“Her name’s Faye,” he volunteered. “She’s still a friend. Does that make a difference?”
“Why should it? I figure a person can have more than one friend.”
He was quiet a moment, then said, “She won’t be in my life forever, Cassie. She came into it when I really needed someone, right after the war. There were other women, but she was closest to me and sometimes it’s hard for a person to let go.”
“I have no holds on you, Flynn.” I was trying to be sophisticated about his relationship with this woman, Faye. “You go out with whom you want and so do I. One thing you need to know though, I’m not sleeping with you—”
Flynn laughed. “Did I ask you to?” I looked away. No longer laughing, Flynn gently ran his forefinger down the side of my face. “Doesn’t matter, at least not right now.”
I looked at the water, then back at him. “Is that good or bad for us?”
“You’re special to me, Cassie, and it’s more than your body I want.”
“Well, what else do you want?”
“Give it time,” Flynn said. “You’ll find out.”
After that, Flynn began seeing and calling me more often. That night we went to a movie and to dinner afterward. The next weekend we drove down to Tijuana for the day. The weekend following, we drove up the coast. What was left of the Los Angeles winter passed into a Los Angeles spring, hardly different from the Los Angeles winter, and then came the summer and we continued seeing each other. We took long walks along the beach. We went to his land, and we talked. We talked and talked about many things. We also spent a lot of time on Central Avenue. There was always something going on there. Not only did we spend some of our weekend nights at the jazz clubs, we looked for bargains at the record shops, went to the restaurants and, of course, to the theaters. We were even on the Avenue when Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, fought Jersey Joe Walcott.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
It was tradition on Central Avenue that whenever Joe Louis, heavyweight champion of the world, was in a fighting match, the hectic bustle of the street ended and Central Avenue was mostly deserted. Everyone who ordinarily would have been on the street was somewhere huddled near a radio, listening to the fight. This had been going on since 1937, when Joe Louis knocked out James J. Braddock, the world heavyweight champion. James Braddock was white. Joe Louis knocked him out in the eighth round. Mrs. Hendersen talked about how the street had erupted. Everyone had pretty much gone crazy. After the fight, people burst onto Central Avenue yelling and screaming, riding in cars, honking and leaning out windows and shouting in celebration. Down home, we had had the same feeling. Papa, the boys, and I had gathered around the radio for that fight and all the Joe Louis fights after that when we were home. Most of black America had done the same, for when Joe Louis fought, it was a time for joy. He had defended the title numerous times and had kept it. In a country where we as a people were belittled, not recognized for all we had contributed to building it, a country that still denied us equal rights, Joe Louis’s victories were our victories. The days that Joe Louis fought were days to be black and proud in America. The fight Flynn and I celebrated together was different from the many previous fights, for Joe Louis was fighting another Negro boxer. But Joe Louis won. He remained our champion, our hero.
He kept us proud.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Flynn began to open up to me about his life. He told me about his life in Puerto Vallarta and British Honduras. He told me about his life with Miguel and Maria Peña. He told me about poverty. He said I knew nothing of what real poverty was like. In my life my family always had food on the table. I had never gone hungry. I always had people to call family. That was not the case for him. After his mother took him and Justine to British Honduras where she had found work, his little family had to survive on their own. He told me about his brothers, both killed by police in Mexico. He told me about the harsh conditions of their lives, how they struggled to make ends meet, how he had worked, how Justine had worked, how his mother had worked. He told me how he had once swum the crocodile-infested waters in an effort to reach his mother and sister after a fire had consumed the land. The hard life they lived, in the end, had killed his mother. That is when Justine took over. For a while there were only the two of them, and they totally depended on each other. Then Justine made the decision to come to the States and send him back to Mexico to live with the Peñas.
Flynn did not speak again of Faye. I wanted to ask him about her, but I thought I shouldn’t. I knew he was still seeing her, and probably sleeping with her. He was not sleeping with me, and he made no overtures to do so. That bothered me even though teachings throughout my life forbade me from having sexual relations until I was married. To do so was not only considered a sin, but would have brought disgrace upon the family if it were known. There were weekends when I did not see Flynn and he did not call, and that bothered me even more. I had no real hold on him. We had made no commitments to each other, but I was jealous. I tried not to show it.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
In the fall I decided to take a law course at UCLA. The course wasn’t toward a degree, just for my own learning, and I relished being on a college campus again. The class invigorated me. After each class I shared what I had learned
with Flynn and he was always attentive, asking questions, and he delighted in my enthusiasm. The class was once a week on Friday afternoon, and although I took the bus to the university campus, Flynn came for me after class.
He waited for me outside the class building or, if for some reason he ran late, I would meet him on the walk to his car, which he always parked on the same campus street. I never worried about my safety on campus. After all, this was a university, a place of higher learning and highly educated people, where ethics were taught and moral values were supposed to be intact. One evening in early January after an oral exam I emerged from class and Flynn was not outside the building. It was already dark. I waited for a few minutes, then walked the well-lit pathway toward the street. My mind was on Flynn, on seeing him and telling him about the exam. I paid no attention to the man walking toward me. As I neared the man, he stopped and blocked my path. “You need somebody to walk you home? I could do that.”
Startled, I looked directly at the man and did not panic. He was a white man, looked to be in his late thirties, early forties. I had been propositioned before and knew how to respond. “No thanks,” I said. “I can see myself home.”
“Well, really, I don’t mind—”
“Well, I do. I have someone coming for me.”
“Oh, really?” said the man, moving closer. “And just who would that be?”
“That would be me.”
I looked past the man and smiled. It was Flynn.
The man turned, and now it was he who was startled. “’Ey,” he said, backing away. “I was just trying to be of help.”
“Yeah, I know what you were trying to do,” said Flynn.
The man glanced at me, then hurried toward the street and into the night. “My hero,” I teased.
“Am I?”
“Well, you always seem to be there when I need you.”
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 18
