“It’s just coffee, Cassie!” he called after me.
I didn’t respond. I just kept on walking.
Guy didn’t give up. I thought at the next class he would choose to sit elsewhere. He didn’t. As always, he came right over and sat next to me. As always, he smiled and spoke pleasantly. As always, I returned his greeting without a smile. He didn’t invite me to coffee again.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
It was at a law school Christmas party that I finally accepted Guy’s friendship. I hadn’t planned to attend. I felt awkward since I was the only Negro who would be attending and I had no one to invite to go with me. I had decided not to go to the party until another student warned that not to attend was frowned upon by the staff and possibly it could affect job recommendations down the line; I had to be able to socialize within the legal community. So, at the last minute, against my better judgment, I went.
The party was at one of the professors’ houses. It was an early evening party, so I took the bus over. I planned to get back the same way. I intended to make my appearance and stay for only a short while. The fact that some of the faculty were late in arriving persuaded me to stay longer since I believed it was in my best interest to be present when they arrived. I stood quietly by as the law students arrived and made merry. A few of them came over to speak to me and made polite conversation for a few minutes, then were gone. I was totally uncomfortable.
Then Santa Claus arrived.
It was one of the law students, and from the sound of him, he was already inebriated. He called for all “good little boys and girls” to come over. The partygoers gathered around. I happened to be standing by the table where he plunked the huge red sack he was carrying. He then announced, “You good little boys stay where you are. I want to see these good little girls first . . . and . . . they don’t all have to be so good.” He winked. “They can be as bad as they want to be.”
The crowd roared with laughter. I started to back away, but I was penned in at the front of the circle by people surrounding the jolly law student.
“Now,” said Santa, sitting down with a grunt, “who’s the first naughty little girl wants to sit on Santa’s lap?”
Someone pushed a young woman toward Santa. I recognized her from one of my classes. Her name was Maureen. She had dark hair, block-cut at chin level, very dark eyes, and wore movie star red lipstick. She was quite pretty. Drink in hand, she went over to Santa. Santa patted his thigh. “Have a seat,” he said, “and let me see what you’re drinking there.” Maureen giggled, sat down on Santa’s lap, and handed her glass to him. Santa took a sip. “Owww, good stuff,” proclaimed Santa. “Bourbon. This tells me you must be a mighty good girl!”
Maureen laughed and so did the rest of the partygoers.
“Now, tell Santa what you want for Christmas,” ordered Santa. “You don’t have to tell everybody, just put your sweet lips next to my ear and whisper your wish to me.”
Maureen complied; leaning seductively close to the Santa and cupping her hand to one side of her mouth, she whispered into his ear. Santa’s eyes went big in mock surprise as Maureen made her wish known, then Santa nodded profoundly and said, “Well, I sure will try to do my best, little girl! I am sure I’m the man for the job!”
More laughter.
“Now, hang on before you get down from Santa’s lap. Got a little present for you.” He reached into his sack and pulled out a neatly wrapped box with golden ribbon. “This is because you’ve been such a good little naughty girl! Now give Santa a kiss.”
Maureen complied, kissing him full on the lips. As she got up, two more young women were summoned to Santa. One sat on each knee. They were given much the same Santa treatment as Maureen. Then someone shouted out, “’Ey, Santa! What about Miss Logan here?” Someone grabbed me from behind. “Don’t want to discriminate!” I was pushed forward and down on Santa’s knee. I tried to get up, but strong hands on my shoulders kept me down.
“Ah, come on now,” said Santa, “you figure you’ve been too naughty to sit on Santa’s lap?”
“I figure,” I said, “this is something I don’t do.” Again I tried to rise. Some in the crowd laughed, but the laughter was not as raucous as before. There was a nervousness to it. I thrust my arms back hard, jabbing the person holding me. The grip slipped away and I jumped up. “You might think this is funny,” I said, “but I don’t.”
“Ah, look here,” said Santa, grabbing my arm, “it’s all just in fun. Be a good girl and sit back down here on Santa’s knee.”
That is when Guy Hallis suddenly stepped forward. “Let go of her arm, Sean. She said she wants no part of this. Let her go.”
The red-faced Santa looked up at Guy and released his hold. “Neither one of you is any fun. You two, expect to get lumps of coal in your stockings!” A few people laughed, but mostly there was quiet as I finally was allowed to turn and make my way through the crowd. Guy followed.
“Sorry about that,” Guy said when we were out of the crowd and into the next room.
“It wasn’t your doing.” I looked around. “What did they do with the coats?”
“You’re leaving?”
“I think so.”
“You have a car?”
“No. I’ll take the bus.”
“I can take you home.”
“I can make it fine on the bus,” I said, heading for the pile of coats on one of the settees.
Guy went with me. “It’s dark already. I’d feel better if you’d let me take you. Believe me, I’m nothing like Santa.”
I studied his face. Guy had always been kind to me, kind and considerate. I decided to trust him. That was the beginning of our friendship.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Guy Hallis learned early on in our newly formed friendship that I was widowed and the circumstances of it. He also learned that I did not want to talk about my husband. The pain was still too great. I learned about Guy too. His Christian name was Augustus, but everyone called him Guy. He had been drafted after graduation from college in 1943 and served in the Pacific as a Navy officer. When the war was over, he came home for a short while, then went to Europe. He wanted to see what five years of war had done. He stayed on in Europe for several years, and when he returned to the States he enrolled in Boston University School of Law.
Guy accepted the friendship that was forging between us on my terms, but as a woman I knew he wanted more. When that didn’t happen, he went his own way with another law student, Maureen from the Christmas party. It was obvious to everyone that she had eyes for him. Their relationship didn’t bother me, for I felt nothing for Guy in that way. Although Guy was seeing Maureen, we remained friends, and I was close to no one except Guy. There were things I could talk to him about, although not everything. He was a good listener. He had his own opinions too and I listened to those, although not as intently as he listened to mine. There were times when I needed to be held, just to feel a human touch, and he held me. Guy married Maureen in the third year of law school, and after that I no longer saw him except in the classes we shared. The marriage did not last long. By the time Guy and I were selected for the trip to Europe and Africa, they were divorced, and he called me again. Our renewed relationship was all about friendship, as it always had been. It wasn’t until we traveled through Europe and Africa together that things began to change between us. Guy was no longer content to be just a listener. He wanted to be a greater part of my life.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I decided to go to Maine. I took the bus. Guy drove. He had wanted me to drive up with him, but I wasn’t about to consider it, a Negro woman driving alone with a white man, sitting up front beside him at that, even in the North.
“It isn’t the South, Cassie,” Guy said.
“No. But it is the United States,” I countered. “So what’s the difference?�
��
I had my way. Guy met me at the bus station in Portland. As he picked up my bag, he said, “Hope you don’t mind riding with me far as my parents’ house.”
“You can joke about it,” I said, “but I still figure it’s a mistake. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
“Look, Cassie, I told you what I told my parents. I invited you along with some others from the law firm. They’re expecting you. They’ve got a room ready. They’re great people, believe me.”
“I’m sure they are, but I only know your father professionally, not socially. He’s hardly ever spoken to me.”
“Take my word for it. He’ll speak to you this weekend.”
“They won’t approve of us.”
“We’ll have to wait and see about that. Like I said, they’re great people.”
“My folks are great people too,” I said, “but they’d never accept something like this.”
By the time we got to Guy’s family house, others from the firm had already arrived, as well as some of our classmates from the law school. As Guy said, his parents were warm and welcoming. Upon entering the Hallis house, I was impressed by it, but not overwhelmed. During my stay in New England, I had been invited to a number of homes owned by prominent New Englanders. The houses were always attractive, well-appointed, and the kind of houses Americans of all races could only dream of having. The difference I immediately recognized from the other New England houses I had visited was the location of the Hallis house. As I stepped from the heart of the house to what the family called their backyard, I found myself facing the Atlantic Ocean.
Guy hadn’t told me.
The lawn, brownish now, rolled down unencumbered to a rocky cliff. There were no fences. On either side of the Hallis house, several hundred yards away, were houses just as grand, all looking toward the ocean. One belonged to a former governor. On the ocean, great ships passed slowly by. I had never seen such a sight, not up close, not so personal.
“You didn’t tell me,” I said softly to Guy.
“I know.” He took my arm. “I want to show you something.”
He led me down the long sloping lawn to the cliffs, then we wove our way down a trail to the water. There was a wooden cage at the edge, several feet beneath the ocean surface. Guy lifted it out. The cage was filled with lobster.
“So,” I said, meeting his eyes, “you get fresh lobster whenever you want.”
“Only in season.” He smiled and returned the cage to its waters. He straightened and looked at me again. “You want me to apologize? I know you like lobster as much as I do. Would you object to having lobster anytime you wanted during the season if you could have it? Just like fishing, Cassie, down on the Rosa Lee you told me about. You could have fish anytime you wanted, just as long as you were willing to put in the time to get it. It’s the same with the lobster. No difference.”
I just looked at him. Maybe he was right about that, but I didn’t know any colored folks who could just walk out to their backyard and get themselves a cage full of lobster.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The festivities began soon after dark with holiday partygoers arriving in great spirits with good wishes and gifts. All were well-dressed, all seemed merry, all were white. Once again, I found myself the only one. As on previous occasions, people took note and a number of them went out of their way to start a conversation with me. These were well-educated, world-traveled, sophisticated people. Some tried to engage me in casual conversation about how I liked Maine. I told them I liked it just fine. Some tried to engage me in conversation about the New England weather. I told them I liked it just fine. Some tried to engage me in conversation about Boston and the law office there. I liked them just fine too. Then there were those keeping up with current events who pointedly asked my views as a Negro about race relations in our country, about ongoing attempts at desegregation in the South. I looked at each of them directly and said, “It’s way past due.”
By the end of the evening I had had my fill of all the people with their polite but curious conversations with me. I went onto the stone patio and stood shivering, staring at the ocean, at the glimmering lights of the ships as they passed, and at the sky laden with thousands of bright stars, and was in awe at the meeting of God’s sky and the earth’s waters. Guy soon joined me. He took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. He leaned his elbows on the stone ledge of the half wall that separated the patio from the lawn and stared at the ocean too. “Are you about tired of these people now?”
I laughed. “What makes you think that?”
“Because after seven years, I think I know you a little bit.” He turned and looked at me. “Do you think you’ll ever feel comfortable with them?”
“Probably not,” I answered honestly. “Different world.”
“They’re not bad people, Cassie. Different from the world you grew up in, but decent and willing to accept new ideas.” He took my hand and kept hold. “But you’re comfortable with me.”
“You, I’ve gotten used to.”
“It took a while,” he said. “But you do trust me now, don’t you?”
I smiled. “As much as I can.”
Guy didn’t smile back. “I want you to trust me, Cassie. I’ve told you that before. All this time I’ve been trying to earn your trust, and I think it’s time that you do trust me.”
I sighed. “Why is it so important to you, Guy?”
He turned again toward the ocean. “Because I want you to marry me, Cassie. I’ve told you that before. I want you to be my wife.” He did not look at me for some time. Finally, he pulled from the ledge, his eyes on mine. I just stared at him. Guy let go of my hand. “Something to think about for the new year.”
Several of the houseguests joined us on the patio, and the conversation between Guy and me was ended, but not before his eyes met mine again. I knew he wanted an answer. I had none to give him. The next day I took the bus back to Boston. A few days later I boarded a train for Toledo. I told Guy I would see him in the new year.
FAMILY REUNION CHRISTMAS
(1959)
The family no longer lived on Dorr Street.
Dee had finally realized her dream of having a single-family house. She and Stacey had lived in the Dorr Street house for eight years and it had served them well, but in the fall of 1953 they found their dream home. In a neighborhood where real estate was opening up to people of color, they were able to buy a house from an elderly white couple who, like a number of other residents on the elm-lined street, were moving from the changing neighborhood. A decade before, when Stacey and Dee had first come to Toledo, this neighborhood would not have been open to them. Now Negro professional people—doctors, lawyers, teachers, even a judge—lived on the three-block street, along with business owners and factory workers like Stacey and the Davises. It was the best neighborhood in the city for colored people; other areas were still off-limits to us.
Stacey and Dee’s house was fabulous, huge and majestic, with a brick chimney running up its front porch to its roof of red Spanish tiles. A long driveway ran along the side of the house to the two-car garage, also roofed in red tile, which restricted the view of what lay to the south of it. In front of the garage was an expansive concrete turnaround space, in front of the house was a deep lawn, and beyond the garage and the turnaround space was an even deeper back lawn that extended to a tall woven wooden fence. A stately blue spruce towered high above the garage and grounds and stood like a sentinel guarding the back gate.
All of us were in awe of this new house, bigger and finer than any our family had owned. The living room was impressive, much larger than other living rooms in the area, and had a sizeable fireplace. Two entries led from the living room to the kitchen, one through the dining room, the other through a short hallway that passed stairways going to the second floor, and to the basement. There were oak beams in th
e ceiling of the dining room, and ceiling-to-floor beveled-glass cabinets lined the back wall. Beveled glass also was in living room cabinets and the French doors opening from the living room into the sun parlor, the front entry room into the house. Brass wall light fixtures shaped like long-tapered candlesticks adorned the walls of every room throughout the house. A tiered chandelier hung from the dining room ceiling and another hung in the breakfast nook.
Adjoining the breakfast nook through an archway was a spacious kitchen. Cabinets and counters and appliances lined three of its walls. Tucked into an alcove of the fourth wall was the refrigerator. Also on the wall was a rectangular box, designed like a clock. In the box were the numbers one through four lined up vertically, with an arrow next to each number. When the doorbells at the front door, side door, or back door were rung, an arrow turned to the number, indicating which had been rung. The fourth number was to ring the maid. None of us had seen such a thing. Built in 1918, the house was large enough to have a maid, and during its early days, a maid had stayed in the attic, two rooms of which were completely finished with a living area, a bedroom, and a closet. The attic became a playroom for Rie and ’lois.
In addition to the fireplace in the living room, there were fireplaces in the master bedroom and the recreation room, located in the basement. Also in the basement were a large washroom and an even larger furnace room, where Stacy kept his workshop. It was a grand, grand house, and like the Dorr Street house, it became the family gathering place for the Logans and the Davises. Through Dee and the girls, we were melded into one family now, and the house was a source of pride for all of us.
Stacey and Dee did not sell the house on Dorr Street. One of the Davises had married and the couple with their two boys moved downstairs, where Stacey, Dee, and the girls had been, while an elderly gentleman from Mississippi took over two of the upstairs rooms and a young married Mississippi couple with a paraplegic daughter moved into another. All the unmarried Davises had moved right along with Stacey, Dee, and the girls and immediately claimed the recreation room as their bedroom. Dee and Stacey were all right with that. Zell and the Davises had become like older brothers to Rie and ’lois and were protective of them, just like Stacey, Christopher-John, and Clayton Chester. Now they were all married and had places of their own, so only Stacey and Dee and the girls lived in the house. It was just the four of them now. It had been a long time coming.
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 28
