Authors: Kibler Julie
“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.
* * *
S
ATURDAY,
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, then 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.
* * *
O
N
M
ONDAY 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.
* * *
O
N 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 where 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.”
She pulled her hand away, but a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. She and James were destined to be together—even if my actions had accelerated their plans.
“Starting a family soon?”
Nell pressed a palm to her abdomen, just below her ribs. Her belly swelled no more than mine now, and she seemed stunned, as though I’d guessed she was expecting, though it was only lucky fishing for information on my part. I didn’t press for details. “Congratulations. I’m thrilled for you, Nell. And … your mother?” I no longer felt entitled to use Cora’s first name casually.
“Momma’s okay. Got a position over in the new places, up the hill here in Cincy. They treat her fine, but it’s a long trip two times every day.” Though Nell’s voice was tinged with accusation, I was happy Cora hadn’t been entirely blacklisted from the only kind of work she’d known.
I knew Nell wouldn’t bring up that final name, the one she surely knew was the hardest for me to say—the one I was most curious about, however deep my affection and concern for his family. And after a painful silence, neither could I in good conscience. I remembered the conversation with his mother before I began to show. I remembered the unspoken warning from my father. I remembered my debt to Nell’s family.
“Well,” I said. “It’s wonderful to see you, Nell. I’m pleased you and your mother are doing well. And I’m sorry. For everything.” I turned away before she could see the tears that wet my eyes and threatened to overwhelm me.
But she surprised me. She caught my elbow as I began to step away, and I turned slowly back to face her. “Robert, he’s joining the army soon as he finishes up school in Frankfort. Maybe in just a year. They’ve got special programs to speed things up for enlistees.”
Every sinew stilled, in my hands, my spine, my face. I was thrilled he’d returned to school and could finish so soon, but this other? It was the last thing I’d expected. The news of war in Europe and rumors that we’d be in it soon had led to a peacetime draft, and now young men were joining up in record numbers, on standby and waiting to plunge into the fray. But I’d never pictured a life in the army for a young Negro man. What would it be like? What would he do? How would he be treated? If there was a war, would he live?
“He’s hoping to serve as a medic, but he’ll take what he can get—picky’s not allowed.”
I finally spit out words, all lies. “That’s … wonderful. I suspect he’ll be happy if he can start his medical training while he serves.” Nell’s chin tilted, showing her uncertainty. “And I suppose the girls will be lined up to see him off. Maybe even a special sweetheart to wait for him to come back home.” My words stung my throat. I couldn’t ask outright, but I had to know. Did he think of me still?