Shadows of St. Louis (2 page)

"Charles and I are taking her out for her birthday. She can wear it then."

Mrs. Goodwin huffed, then turned and bounded up the stairs.

"Thank you, Rebecca Jane. I didn't mean to be so rude. It slipped. Sometimes I just … I feel like … like there's something missing in my life and there's this anger inside me and
… "

"
Shh
, it's okay." They hugged again. "You best get upstairs and get started with your work. Isn't the milkman coming soon?"

Emma Lynn brushed her tears away quickly. She absolutely could not miss the visit from the milkman. She started up the stairs then paused and said, "Are you and Charles really going to take me out for my birthday?"

Rebecca Jane nodded.

"But where will you ever find a place that accepts Negroes?"

"You leave that to me."

The Milk Man

Emma Lynn sat on the back porch steps staring into the alley behind the Goodwin home. Under the soft light from the low-lying moon, she waited for her favorite sound.
The sound of Henry's truck bringing the delivery of the day's milk.

After several minutes she sighed, then smiled when she recognized the familiar headlights of his
Wideman's
Milk truck. She stood on the steps at the edge of the alley and waved to the oncoming vehicle. She had no doubt that it was her Henry for no other cars passed through the alleyway at 5:30 in the morning.

Henry stopped the truck then hopped out. "Hello, Miss Emma," he said before his feet had even touched the ground.

"Hello, Mr. Miller." Emma Lynn nervously flattened her wild black hair while looking down. She cursed herself for not spending more time with the pressing comb the day before. Surely Henry wouldn't be fond of her Negro looking hair.

Snatching his knit hat off of his head, Henry said, "I'm sorry. I should have taken it off before. Let me start again. Hello Miss Emma." He gave a slight bow and nod of the head then brushed his dirty blond hair out of his eyes. Even in the near pitch dark of the early morning, Emma Lynn could see the blue twinkle in his eyes. She'd hoped she was the one who put that twinkle there.

"Hello Mr. Miller," she said again for lack of anything else to say.

"Please call me Henry, Emma. I—I love the way you say my name.
It kind of sounds like an angel's whisper."

"Okay, Henry," she said softly.

He smiled as if pleased then returned his hat to his head and walked to the back of the truck. He pulled out two crates with four bottles of milk each and said, "This is mighty heavy. May I take it up for you?"

Henry started up the steps not even waiting for her response. She followed behind, then stepped in front of him to open the door to the porch and then to the kitchen. Henry placed the bottles of milk next to the counter where Emma Lynn would spend the next four or five hours baking.

Emma Lynn busied herself by unloading the milk while Henry stared at her and twirled his hat in his hands. She tried not to notice that the top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing the smooth creamy white skin of his boyish chest. When she realized how much she wanted to touch his chest she nearly dropped a bottle and splashed milk on the countertop.

Rushing to her side, Henry began sopping up the milk with his hat.

"Oh, Henry, don't ruin your hat over me."

"I don't mind," he said with a smile, continuing to work on the mess.

When his hat was completely saturated, Emma Lynn finished up with a towel from the shelf above the sink.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for the wet hat. She rinsed it, wrung it out into the sink, and then hung it over the side.

Without something to occupy his hands, Henry jammed them into the pockets of his trousers and rocked on his heels.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked after watching him for several moments.

"Yes, please," he said, his face brightening.

Emma Lynn reached for a cup out of the cupboard as she said, "Are you sure you have time? I don't want to delay you if you have other stops."

"I have time." Henry seated himself at the table and thanked her when she set the steaming, fragrant liquid in front of him.

"Would you like some sweet cornbread? I made it myself."

"Well, if you made it, how could I refuse?"

Feeling her heart flutter, Emma Lynn took in a deep breath to calm
herself
and make sure she didn't spill anything else. Why did he say things like that? Surely he was just being polite. He couldn't possibly be flirting with a Negro.

She set the bread in front of him then stood off to the side near the door.

"Aren't you going to sit with me?"

"Okay," she said softly, taking a seat across from him. Seconds later she hopped up. "Oh, I finished the book you brought me," she said, opening the cabinet under the sink.

"Already?"
Henry coughed a little as if he'd choked on the cornbread.  "I just gave it to you yesterday morning."

"I know, but it was so good I couldn't put it down."

"I'm glad you liked it." Henry stared into his cup as he said, "W—what did you think of the romance between
Heathcliff
and Catherine?"

"I thought it was intense."

"Yes, it was intense.  But didn't the story of their love swallow you whole? Weren't their emotions so all-encompassing that it left your heart breathless and yearning for satisfaction?"

"It left me sad and frightened."

"Love can be frightening sometimes," he said, looking into her eyes.

"I think you're right."

Henry was the first to break their mutual eye lock by downing the rest of his coffee, standing, and then saying, "I better get going."

Emma Lynn stood as well. "Oh, um, I have something I thought you might like to read as well."

"Really?"
His blue eyes twinkled again.

"Yes, it's a book of poetry by Phyllis Wheatley. I find your everyday speech so poetic that I thought you might enjoy it."

Henry let his hand linger on hers when he accepted the two books. His fingers felt so warm against her skin she thought her hand might melt.

"Thank you, Emma," he said, staring at the books. "I—I love poetry."

"I thought you might."

"I can't believe you'd notice that about me." Henry continued to stare down at the books in his hand, especially the book of poetry. Emma Lynn thought she noticed his facing turning red. "I ... um ... I actually write poetry as well."

Emma Lynn's eyes widened. "You do?"

Henry nodded still not looking away from the books in his hands. "Would you ... um ... would you like to read some?"

Speechless, Emma Lynn nodded excitedly in response.

Henry reached into the front pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small notebook. Emma Lynn always wondered what he wrote in that little notebook. She often caught him scribbling away in it while he sat in his truck after delivering the milk to her. Now she knew. He was a poet.

"It's not very good," he said handing it to her.

"I'm sure it's wonderful."

They stared at each other for a moment in an awkward silence.

Finally he said, "I'll see you tomorrow." With a slight nod of the head, Henry shuffled out of the door.

Emma Lynn plopped into a chair clutching the notebook to her chest. Then she rested her head on the table and cried. Henry's visits always filled her with a tormented joy. She loved him more than anything in the world and a piece of her soul whispered that he might feel the same. But the fact that they could never be together cast a shadow upon that love that no amount of wishing, praying, or hoping could lift. She and Henry Miller would never be together.

Mistaken Identity

Emma Lynn threw herself into her work in order to push Henry out of her mind. She used all of her energy to mix batter, pound dough and stir chocolate trying not to notice Henry's notebook sitting on the table. She needed to finish her work before she opened it up. She knew once she started reading it she wouldn't be able to stop. She also knew she probably shouldn't read it at all. It would only make her think about him even more.

By eight a.m. she was sweating from the exertion. The extra effort she put into her work didn't serve its purpose. Her mind continued to drift toward thoughts of Henry Miller. Sometimes she could still feel his warm hand on hers and it made her whole body flutter. And when she'd close her eyes to try to compose herself it didn't make things better. Images of him seemed to float under her eyelids. She almost wished for the diversion of school, but it had ended a few weeks prior.

At school with other Negros was where she belonged. It was harder for her to succumb to her ridiculous fantasies when she was surrounded by the harsh reality of her life. She was a Negro. She would be a maid for the rest of her life. If she was lucky, she would find someone to marry who could perhaps find a job at the local factory. She knew for a fact they had been hiring more Negros lately. She'd heard Mr. Goodwin complaining that Negros
were
taking all the jobs.

After making enough pastry, sweetbread, fudge, and candies to stock the confectionary for the day, Emma Lynn sat down alone. She sighed and gently traced the small rectangular notebook with her fingers. She snatched her hand away and looked around the kitchen. This was her life and it was better than most. Why did she want more? Why did she want Henry?

"What are you doing just sitting there? Shouldn't you be cooking?" Mrs. Goodwin's tight, angry voice yanked Emma Lynn out of her thoughts.

"I'm finished for the day Ma'am," Emma Lynn said looking toward the floor. Mrs. Goodwin often got angry if she looked directly into her eyes.

"How are you finished? It's only half past eight."

Emma Lynn gestured to the countertops filled with goodies. Mrs. Goodwin made an inspection probably looking for some sort of fault in Emma Lynn's work in order to make her start again. Finally, she said, "Fine. You're excused to the cellar."

Emma Lynn looked up and then quickly looked down again remembering her station. "Ma'am, don't you need me to run the store today?"

"You look positively dreadful right now. I can't have a forlorn looking Negro running my shop. Go to the cellar and collect yourself. You can take over this afternoon."

Relieved, Emma Lynn grabbed Henry's notebook and headed for the back stairs. Once in her damp quarters, she flipped the notebook open to the first poem.

A heart filled with an impossible hope cries out in a deafening silence that no one dares to hear.

Dreams are drawn out strangled into submission and then demolished by the hand of fear.

The burning fire inside may be reduced to embers but it is kept alive by someone held dear.

Emma Lynn had read the poem six times before she realized she was crying. His words described her feelings exactly. How was that even possible? Had she revealed to him how unhappy she was with her life? Was it so obvious that he could just see? Or maybe the poem wasn't about her at all. Maybe Henry felt the same way about his own life.

Later that day, when she had composed herself enough, Emma Lynn went upstairs to run the shop. Though her mind kept replaying the words of Henry's poem over and over, she was able to keep up a pretense of normalcy in her behavior. But when Mrs. Goodwin left the house in order to visit with some neighbors, Emma Lynn thought it would be the perfect opportunity to let out one of her strangled dreams.

She found herself in Rebecca Jane's room. They had agreed to keep the blue dress there in order to protect it from the critters in the cellar.

Emma Lynn danced and twirled in the rays of sun that spilled into Rebecca Jane's beautiful, spacious, and girly bedroom. She even found a wide brimmed hat to match and pretended she was getting ready to see a silent film with Henry.

Lost in her make believe world, she almost didn't hear the customer enter the confectionary downstairs. Panic seized her. She wouldn't have time to change before the customer tired of waiting and left. She feared Mrs. Goodwin's wrath if she lost a customer and needed revenue. Thinking quickly, Emma Lynn wrapped a shawl around her in order to hide the opulence of the dress then bounded down the stairs.

Mrs. Brockway awaited her in the shop.

"What took you so long, girl?
Lazy Negro.
The
Goodwins
could do so much better than you. I have no idea why they keep you around." Mrs. Brockway's shrill voice made Emma Lynn's skin crawl. She stared at the ground and tried not to focus on the mammoth beast dressed in black lace in front of her.  Mrs. Brockway always wore black as she was in mourning for her husband even though he died 33 years ago. Rebecca Jane often joked that he wasn't really dead, just lost in one of Mrs. Brockway's many layers of fat. "What are you laughing at, girl?"

"Nothing at all, Ma'am," Emma Lynn said, wiping off the smile that had unknowingly crept across her face. "I'll start your order." 

"Did you steal that dress?" Mrs. Brockway asked just as Emma Lynn finished filling the first box with fudge. She had momentarily forgotten she still wore the fancy dress.

"No, Ma'am I—"

"Wait until I tell Elizabeth you were neglecting your work in order to rifle through her daughter's closet. They'll surely fire you then. Send you back to the shantytown where you belong."

"But I didn't steal it. I swear.”

"And now you're swearing? You best shut your mouth before you make things worse for yourself."

"Yes ma'am." Emma Lynn stared at her shoes like all Negros were supposed to in the presence of whites. The only whites she felt comfortable looking in the eye were Rebecca Jane and Charles.
And, of course, Henry.

"Fetch me that tin of cookies on the top of that shelf there, girl."

"Yes ma'am," Emma Lynn said, reaching for the ladder. As she started climbing the ladder, she heard the door to the shop open. She couldn't turn to see who had entered for fear of falling. Climbing a ladder in an elaborate dress was a difficult process.

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms pulled her down. Her scream was silenced by wet lips that smashed into her mouth. She fought and pushed away with all of her might but the perpetrator refused to relinquish her.

With his eyes still closed, Frank Gibson sighed and pulled away from her saying, "You're sweeter than anything in this shop."

When the two boys he had entered with broke into raucous laughter, Frank opened his eyes. He screamed in horror, and then threw Emma Lynn to the floor.

"Oh, God in heaven!"
Mrs. Brockway exclaimed before grabbing her package and fleeing. Apparently, the scene wasn't ghastly enough for her to leave her chocolates.

"How dare you dress like Rebecca Jane, you filthy colored?"
He spit on Emma Lynn who was slowly trying to rise from the floor. "I thought she was Rebecca Jane. She looks just like her," he tried to explain to the young men who were still laughing.

"Are you saying you think Rebecca Jane looks like a Negro?" one of them said.

"Frank's going to marry a Negro," said the other before laughing again.

Frank Gibson's hands curled into fists and his jaw clenched. But instead of taking his anger out on his companions, he turned and punched Emma Lynn in the face. As she hit the floor again with a painful thud, she feared what would come next from Rebecca Jane's formidable boyfriend. Through her sore, swollen eye she saw that he hadn't left the shop. He kept rubbing his hands over his mouth as if trying to scrub off any of Emma Lynn's essence.

She wanted to jump up and scratch out his cold black eyes, but she had started to feel lightheaded from the punch. Instead she closed her eyes and tried to force out the image of his sinister smirk as he rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt.

Suddenly, the laughing from his friends stopped. The room became eerily quiet except for the grunts of exertion from Frank as he kicked Emma Lynn over and over again.