Authors: Kibler Julie
“I
SA, HAVE YOU
lost your mind?” he wrote back.
“Yes, my mind is lost in love for you,” I replied.
“It can’t work. You’re too young. You have too much to lose,” he responded.
I crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into a corner. I retrieved it and smoothed it and stared at his reasoning, then pulled out a clean sheet of stationery.
“Don’t think of me. There’s nothing here for me. You’re the one who will have to postpone your studies. You’re the one they’ll come after. You’re right—it’s hopeless. Forget my insane rambling.”
He didn’t forget it. Instead, he sent a detailed list of every conceivable argument to prove the plan wouldn’t work. His analysis told me it wasn’t a lost cause.
“I know these things. Could it be you really don’t want to be with me? Am I the reason?” I wrote.
I knew it was manipulative, and I regretted it as soon as I sent Nell away with the note. I sent another the next day. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to say that. Please forgive me for doubting you.”
A weekend passed without any word, and I resigned myself. Finally, I’d proved exactly how selfish I was. But then, a week later, came Robert’s response.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than join my life with yours—even if the thought terrifies me. But marriage won’t solve most of the problems we’d face as a couple—not even in Cincinnati. Just because the laws are different doesn’t mean the people are. And it wouldn’t be only me they’d judge.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I wrote, “even if I frequently act like one.”
But I chose, like an idiot, to dream only of the hat and dress I’d wear the day we were married, of scenes of domestic bliss. I chose to ignore thoughts of what vicious folk might do to a pair such as us. I didn’t allow myself to envision our life without my family’s support—especially the support of my father.
Robert didn’t rush his decision.
“Isa, you must be patient while I investigate the process for marrying in Cincinnati myself, for my own peace of mind. I would have to find work, a place for us to live. It would take time. I already miss you more than I can bear,” he wrote.
Though I missed him desperately, too, I distracted myself with school. If he agreed, I might not complete my final year at my own school; but wherever Robert and I lived, I could enroll and finish, even if late.
Through the remaining days of fall, I waited for confirmation. Instead, Robert’s letters were still about his schooling—unspoken and unintentional reminders that marriage would suspend his own coveted education, for my father would surely cut off his financial support. Without it, Robert would have little hope of paying for school, not to mention that he’d be busy supporting the two of us. But I believed that, like me, if he was meant to return to school, we’d find a way.
Finally, the day came. During the Christmas holidays, Robert wrote that he’d found employment in a dockyard on the Cincy side of the river. The pay wasn’t much, but enough to secure lodging in a boardinghouse. He hoped I wouldn’t be ashamed to live in the West End neighborhood populated mostly by Negroes—with a few Orientals and Cherokee-looking folks sprinkled here and there. He had no choice; women who took boarders in other parts of town had closed their doors in his face when he inquired about living space for him and his wife.
His wife.
The phrase both terrified and mesmerized me.
“Isa … will you marry me?” he wrote.
“Yes, yes, yes! I will marry you, Robert.”
I sealed the letter and pressed it to my heart before I sent it with Nell.
Robert believed we needed an ally to help with our scheme. Nell eyed me with even more caution, passing letters—more quickly now that Robert was home from college—with hardly a word or a glance. The distance between us grew again, until I couldn’t stand it.
I pulled her into my room as she passed one day.
“Nell, please. Don’t look unhappy. This is what we want, your brother and I. Imagine if you and James couldn’t be together. Imagine if you couldn’t see each other in public places.”
Her shoulders drooped so low, it seemed they’d collapse in upon her ribs. I pressed her down on my bed and sank beside her. It had been years since we’d sat on an equal level like that, but I feared she might fall over if I didn’t brace her up. “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m so scared for Robert, and for you, too. It’s got me all knotted up right here.” She poked her fingers against her stomach and grimaced as though her innards were in literal turmoil. I understood, though the dose of joy mixed with the turmoil in mine made it possible to bear. “There’s mean folks out there … going to be ready to make things ugly and dangerous for you two. Just because they say it’s legal in Ohio doesn’t make it safe.” She dabbed at tears with the corners of her apron, then looked away, as though she were ashamed.
I wanted to reassure her we’d be fine, that once we had our license and a minister of the gospel had signed it, we’d be like any other married couple she knew. But I knew it would be a lie. Instead I appealed on a different level. “Nell, you’re like a sister to me. I can’t wait until you are my sister—when Robert and I marry, you will be.” Her eyes widened, a fleck of pleasure lighting her irises, even as she denied our plan could work, or that if we succeeded in marrying, anyone would see my logic.
“And we’ll take care of you and your mother. I promise we will. No matter what my mother does, we’ll take care of you.” Our marriage would surely mean Cora and Nell would be fired, and they couldn’t survive on Albert’s income alone. Robert and I had agreed he’d work two jobs to replace what they’d lose. I’d work, too. His mother would find other employment eventually, and Robert even felt it would inspire Brother James to propose to Nell sooner—which seemed imminent anyway. We’d planned for every contingency we could imagine.
Her shoulders lifted a fraction. “It’s mostly Momma I’m worried about. James and I, we’ll be okay.”
I nodded. “I’ll need things if I’m going to be married,” I said. “Will you help me?”
This asked more of her than anything. It wasn’t just asking for help. It was asking her to align herself with what would cause a rift between our families—even as it joined them at one tenuous point. Nell grasped my hand and squeezed.
18
Dorrie, Present Day
H
EARING ABOUT
M
ISS
Isabelle so young and so sure it would work took my mind off things. It gave me something to root for in my head, even though I had a feeling the story wouldn’t end well. There she was, the same age as my Stevie Junior, and she and Robert were trying to think of a way to change the world for the better, while Stevie was thinking of ways to ruin his life as fast as he could. I suppose at the time everyone thought Miss Isabelle and Robert were trying to ruin their lives, too. I was thankful times had changed. More or less.
When we pulled away from Nashville, finally heading north instead of east, I thought about my childhood in that small East Texas town. The schools had integrated at the last possible minute, and we all knew the middle school used to be the black high school, closed down and renovated only a few years before I was born. There was still a definite color line in the town, signs or no signs. You knew where the blacks lived and where the whites lived, and though a house or two might deviate along the fringe, nobody truly crossed the line.
One summer, I took my kids home for a visit before my mother moved to the city to be closer to us. We were playing in the park one day. A cute little white girl befriended Stevie Junior on the playground and invited him to the annual Vacation Bible School at the big Baptist church the next morning. My jaw about popped off when her mother said sure, that she was the teacher for their age group and that she’d be glad to pick up Stevie and take him as their guest. Bebe was still in diapers and too young to go. The next morning, Liz honked her horn outside my mom’s door, and I packed Stevie into her car, and they all toodled off to the church. Stevie had such a great time. He came home sticky from snacks and stained with finger paint and glitter and so tuckered out, he took a long afternoon nap for the first time in years. We walked back over to the park later, and little Ashley and her mom were there again. Only this time, Liz met us with a long face.
“I hate this town,” she said. “Ever since my husband got this job and we had to move here, I’ve been feeling this undercurrent, but I never could put a finger on it until today.”
I felt worse for Liz than for myself. I knew what was coming. I’d grown up there. I’d figured this deal was too good to be true. “Someone tell you Stevie wasn’t welcome at VBS tomorrow?”
Her mouth fell open and she closed it again with an angry snap of her teeth. The pastor had come by to tell her an anonymous caller had threatened to do something horrendous if they allowed black kids at VBS again. Only they didn’t put it that nicely. The pastor said he felt bad, but his hands were tied. “Geez. Us. This is ridiculous,” Liz said. “I’m not even believing it. What is this? The Dark Ages? Makes me wish we’d rented instead of buying. I can’t get away from this place soon enough.”
“Well, Stevie had a great time today. I’m glad you invited him. Sorry it won’t work out for the rest of the week, but don’t feel bad.”
“Oh, Dorrie. I don’t care what they say. I want you to send Stevie anyway.”
“Nah,” I said. “It’ll cause too much trouble for you down the line. You’ll have a reputation as ‘that woman.’ And trust me? You don’t want to be that woman around here.”
Next thing I knew, she was sniffling, and her eyes welled up with tears. I knew she was battling between wanting desperately to do the right thing and understanding I was right, too.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I promise. Isn’t anything I haven’t seen around here before or won’t see again. I appreciate you trying.”
She threw her hands up in frustration.
Later, when I explained to Stevie Junior that he couldn’t go to VBS the next day, first, he cried, and then, he pestered me about it until I finally broke down and stopped making excuses. I figured at almost seven, he was old enough to know the truth if he was old enough to be the victim of it. “Son, some people still don’t think black folks are as good as white folks. They say and do ugly things that make it hard for us to get along.”
“But Miss Liz, in our class she said Jesus loves
all
the little children of the world. We sang a song about it. Black and red and yellow white…” He sang all the different colors in crazy order, and I smiled through my heartbreak, remembering how I’d sung the same song as a kid. It wasn’t politically correct anymore—calling people red or yellow, or even black some days—but I figured Liz brought the song out of storage and dusted it off for Stevie’s visit. It sure as heck probably wasn’t in any new curriculum.
“You’re right, honey, he does. But some ignorant people don’t believe it. Miss Liz does, and she’s very sorry you can’t go back tomorrow. She still wants you and Ashley to play together at the park, though.”
Even now, in the sprawling metropolitan area of Texas where Miss Isabelle and I lived, we ran into racism. A young white girl who had rented a station from me in the shop for a while had a child who was biracial. Her little girl had come home from school crying more than once because she didn’t fit in with either the black kids or the white kids. And one time, she’d been invited on an after-school playdate, but when the other mother came to pick up the kids, she made some excuse about having an emergency and not being able to take the little girl home with her. The school secretary called Angie to have her pick her daughter up at the office, because the woman had just
left
her there.
My own mother fussed at me for doing white hair. She couldn’t understand why more than half my clientele was white. I explained that in school I’d learned to work with all kinds of hair, and I’d discovered over time I was
good
at doing white hair. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down a customer because of the color of his or her skin. I’d always worked in shops with a mainly white clientele, and when I opened my own place, most of my clients moved along with me.
Worse yet, when we were driving along, me thinking my own thoughts and Miss Isabelle wrapped up in her crossword puzzle book again, my own prejudices jumped right in my face.
The one time I’d been inside Teague’s house, I’d seen photos of his kids plastered everywhere. There was one old picture of them with Teague and his ex before they split. She was white. The kids were golden. That’s the only way I could describe them. Their skin and hair practically glowed in that photo, and his little girls had eyes the color of a warm ocean.
As progressive as I claimed to be, with my white clients, and the fact that I wasn’t freaking out over my son’s white girlfriend—not because she was white, anyway—who might be the future mother of my half-white grandbaby, I wondered how well I could mother children whose biological mother was white—if it came down to that. Even more, I wondered what she would think. Sure, she’d run off and left Teague to care for them most of the time, but how would she react if some black woman—a
very
black woman—started playing the role of mother in their lives?
Stevie’s mess gave me yet another excuse to cater to these fears now. I kept ignoring Teague’s text messages, and when the phone rang again and I saw it was his number, I silenced it and turned it facedown in the console.
19
Isabelle, 1940
O
N A CHILLY
Saturday in late January, the sun barely peeking through the clouds at midday, I left home with my book bag, giving studying at the library as an excuse. Mother had been less vigilant the last few months, too busy with the holidays to note my comings and goings. The library had become my kingdom again, when I wanted it. I retrieved a small suitcase I’d hidden under a hedge that morning before anyone else woke, then placed the tote full of library books in the empty space. I apologized silently to Miss Pearce; the books might be moldy by the time they were discovered.