Shadows of St. Louis (4 page)

Dinner with the Millers

 "Are you alright, Henry? You've barely touched your supper," his mother asked as the Miller family enjoyed their evening meal.

"Yes, Mother, I'm fine," he lied. He wasn't fine. He was in love with a Negro and quite embarrassed by it. He felt that anyone who looked at him would see through him to the uncomfortable truth. But instead of trying to talk himself out of it a like a rational person, his mind was consumed with the event on Saturday night. He knew they wouldn't sit together or anything, but just seeing her would satisfy his desire to be near her at least for a little while. Then maybe they could talk in the alley behind the hotel hidden by the shadows of night. Maybe they could even dance to the music drifting out of the reception hall. His spine tingled in anticipation.

"I'll tell you what's wrong with him, Lillian. He needs real work. Man's work. Delivering milk everyday is making him weak," Henry's father Joseph said. "He needs to join me and his brothers at the Ore Company."

"Don't you mean at the picket line?" John said with a mouth full of potatoes.

"What are you trying to say, boy?" Joseph asked. Everyone grew silent. Henry's mother pushed her food around and around her plate. The twins Walter and Willie turned red with anger. Thankfully, their oldest brother Fred wasn't there. He would have likely punched John for the insolent remark. Fred enlisted in the army just after the United States joined World War I the month before. Henry felt Fred's decision had less to do with patriotism and more to do with earning a paycheck to feed his wife and children.

Henry and John were the only Millers with jobs at the time and thus, the only ones bringing in any money to the house. Their father and three eldest brothers were all on strike from the Aluminum Ore Company.

"I'm saying that it's been two months since the strike started. Henry and I are working ourselves into early graves trying to keep food on the table while you three walk around holding a sign all day."

Joseph banged his fist on the table. "What would you have me do? They're giving all the jobs to the darkies for half the wages we deserve."

"Half is better than nothing," John said. Henry wondered when John had gotten so bold. Of his four older brothers, John was the one most like him.
Shy, reserved, and pensive.
That was probably why they were the only Millers that didn't work for Aluminum Ore. It was their way of differentiating themselves from the other Miller men. So, instead, Henry delivered milk and John worked for the paper.

Joseph stood from the table and glared at his son. Henry feared the wrath of his father. He often got into fistfights with Walter, Willie, and Fred. Henry often thought their fights were more about releasing anxiety than actual anger since they usually ended with bear hugs and laughter. He and John were never involved in these demonstrations of manhood.

Instead of striking him, however, Joseph stormed out of the apartment.

Lillian cried into her hands. Walter glared at John, ready to pick up the fight where their father had left it. Willie grabbed his father's plate and scraped the potatoes on to his.

"Don't cry, Mother," Henry said, reaching for her hand. "We're going to get through this."

"How?
How are we going to do that? I heard even more Negroes are moving here from the south. There won't be any jobs left for decent white folk. The Negroes are ruining this family and this country."

"They need to go back to where they belong," Walter said.

"Yeah, back where they belong," Willie chimed. Never having an original thought of his own, he usually just repeated whatever his twin brother said.

Feeling a sudden surge of courage, Henry said, "How can you say that? White people brought them to this country against their will in order to work and then when they try to do just that, you say they should go back to where they came from."

The room was silent again. Even John stared at him curiously.

"Are you defending Negroes? What in
tarnation
has gotten into you?" Walter said.

"Yeah, what in tar — what has gotten into you?"

His family continued to stare at him waiting for a response.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I don't know what I was thinking." Henry's courage quickly waned.

"Damn right you shouldn't have said a thing like that. You're talking crazy," Walter said.

"Crazy talk," Willie added.

Trying to change the subject, Henry said, "I'm going to a reception at the
Grande
Hotel Saturday night."

"Good. We could use the extra money," John said, his focus returning to his potatoes. The tension in the room dissolved as the only sound became the clanking of forks against plates.

Henry wanted to let the conversation end there. He didn't actually tell a lie. It wasn't his fault that they assumed he was working at the hotel. His conscience weighed upon him. What would happen Monday morning when he didn't have any money to give his father? He felt it best to tell the truth now. He was weary of keeping secrets.

"I won't be working. I—I'm actually a guest."

The forks stopped moving.

"Who on earth invited you to a party at the
Grande
Hotel?" Lillian asked.

"Charles Goodwin." Henry stared at his plate and tried to ignore the eyes of his family drilling into the top of his head.

"Well my, my, aren't we fancy?" Walter asked.

"Yeah, you think you're fancy?" Willie added.

"When did you befriend Charles Goodwin?" Lillian's interest was growing by the second. Henry could practically see ideas spinning in her head.

"We're not friends exactly —"

"Isn't Rebecca Jane engaged to Frank Gibson? His father is running for mayor. This could be a very profitable friendship, Henry. He could do so much for our family. Maybe he could help end the strike. He could force the factories to fire the Negros and send them back south." Lillian pushed her food away and continued to talk with vigor. "This is very important, Henry. Oh my goodness, what are you going to wear?" Lillian rushed off to her bedroom and began rifling through clothes.

Walter and Willie went back to eating. Fancy parties held no interest to them. But John kept staring at him. He knew there was something more going on. And knowing John, he'd figure it out sooner rather than later.

Broken

Emma Lynn wasn't sitting on the stairs waiting for him when he pulled his truck into the alley. This worried Henry. She wasn't in the shop yesterday evening and now she wasn't there to collect the milk. Was she avoiding him? Maybe she had read the poem he'd written for her and she didn't feel the same way. No, that couldn't be it. In his heart he knew the feelings were mutual. What if she was still sick? What if it was something serious? His chest tightened. He found it hard to breathe. Logically, he knew he was probably overreacting, but that didn't keep panic from creeping in. Emma had seized a part of his soul. If something happened to her, he didn't know if he could handle it.

Henry paced back and forth, regretting leaving his hat as he had nothing to occupy his hands. Should he knock? What if he woke Mrs. Goodwin? Maybe he could sneak into the cellar to check on her. He knew the window didn't latch properly and he was thin enough to slip through the narrow space. Could he be so bold? He shook his head. No, he couldn't.

The sun reaching higher in the sky hinted at the time. He needed to finish his work. He had just decided the best thing to do would be to make his other deliveries and return later when he saw a dark figure exit the house and start down the stairs. He sighed in relief. It was his Emma.  He had to restrain himself from running up the stairs and sweeping her into his arms.

"Hello, Emma," he said when she finally stood before him at the bottom of the stairs. He longed to gaze into her light brown eyes, the eyes he saw in his dreams, but they were cast downward. Her thick dark hair almost completely covered her face as if she wanted to hide her existence from the world. Why would she not look at him? He needed to figure out something to say that would make her open up to him.

"I have the milk." Henry wanted to slap himself. What an idiotic thing to say. Of course he had the milk. He was the milkman. "Let me take it up for you." He grabbed the bottles and dashed up the stairs hoping that she would be a step behind, ready to let him inside the kitchen as usual. Then they could sit and talk over a cup of coffee. He didn't care how late he was to his other deliveries. He needed to find out what was bothering his Emma.

But she didn't follow him. Instead she continued standing at the street next to his truck staring at the ground in front of her. Dejected, Henry left the milk on the porch and went back down the stairs.

His chest tightened again as he stood before her not knowing what to say or do. He didn't know if he could make it through an entire day without hearing her voice let alone not knowing the source of her ailment.

After standing in front of her in silence for a moment he finally said, "Are … are you okay,
Em
… Emma?"

When Emma Lynn nodded her response, her hair floated out of the way just long enough for Henry to catch a glimpse of a dark contusion on her soft caramel skin.

He gasped. Instinctively, he reached for her face. She jerked away from his hand.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you."

Emma Lynn started to cry as Henry gently brushed her hair away from her face to reveal an eye black and swollen shut along with a split lip crusted over with dried blood.

He folded her into his arms and let her cry. "
Shh
. It's all right," he whispered into her hair although he really wasn't sure anything would actually be all right. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to end her pain and that he never wanted her to leave his arms.

Henry squeezed tighter and Emma Lynn yelped in pain. She pushed away from him and clutched her side.

Emma Lynn squeezed her eyes shut as if to hold in the pain. "I should go." Her voice was strained and thin.

"Emma, wait. Who did this to you?" Henry asked grabbing her hand. He entwined their fingers and gently pulled her toward him. He wanted to hold her again, but he also didn't want to hurt her any more.

She shook her head.
"No one.
It's my fault. I did it to myself."

Henry didn't like the tone in her voice. She sounded defeated, like her life was worthless. Gone was the undercurrent of conviction and potential he had always sensed in her. Someone had beaten it out of her and broken her spirit.

"Don't say that Emma. Tell me what happened. Let me help you. Do the
Goodwins
know?"

"Yes." Her voice was a whisper. She refused to look directly at him, but she also didn't remove her hand from his.

Henry was shocked. How could they know about her condition and not do something about it? Unless ...  "Did they do this to you?" he asked. His heart began to race. He didn't know what he would do if the
Goodwins
had actually beat her, but he knew he would not be able to leave her to live in those conditions.

"No, of course not."

"Then who?
Who did this?" he asked after breathing a sigh of relief.

"I can't say, Mr. Miller.  Please just let it go." She slipped her hand out of his and looked into his eyes for the first time. "This is just the way it is." She turned and started up the stairs still clutching her side. "Goodbye, Mr. Miller."

Mr. Miller? Why was she calling him Mr. Miller? He thought they were past that. Henry didn't want to say goodbye. In fact, he refused to say it as he watched Emma Lynn slowly climb the stairs. He knew had to do something.