Loving vs. Virginia
Page 5
I can’t go in.”
I giggle
’cause I think he’s kidding.
But he’s got his arm
around my shoulder
walking toward the door
and he’s a whole lot stronger
than me.
As we step into the doorway
a white man,
maybe the guard,
puts out his hand—
bars our path.
He looks at Richard
and cocks his head at me—
like
that says it all.
I know I’m not allowed,
I feel embarrassed.
HUMILIATED.
I don’t care if I go in.
I don’t like to rock the boat.
“You go in, Richard,” I say,
my voice rising.
“You wanna dance?
You go in.
You wanna listen to the music?
You go ahead.”
I feel my lower lip jutting out.
That’s how I know
I’m angry.
I train myself not to be angry.
So I don’t always know that I am.
Anger takes energy
that I’d rather use
being happy.
But now I’m ANGRY—
and I’m angry
at Richard.
I don’t want to cry,
but I feel my lower lip
trembling—
my face is warning me
that the tears could start
spilling.
Richard knows me well
enough
to know this too.
He pulls me back
out of that lit-up
doorway,
out to where it’s dark,
away from the people.
He puts his
arms around me
and he kisses my eyes
which are salty with
escaped tears.
He says,
“Bean,
Bean, I’m sorry,
but your Daddy is playing in there
and Doochy and Button,
and all of ’em, Theo,
and I thought maybe
they’d let us in.
It was stupid.
I was stupid.
Let’s hang out here.
It’s nicer out here,
in the dark,
anyhow.”
And Richard,
who never ever
dances,
just holds me
and we rock together
taking little steps
and we’re
dancing.
The moment they said,
No, you can’t go in,
he saw—
I know he really saw—
what it is
to be colored.
It’s true—
when we go to movies
we have to sit up in the balcony.
But this is different.
YOU CANNOT
COME IN
HERE.
We walk to where
the car is,
climb into
the backseat
with no one around.
I tell him.
I tell him everything.
He’s gonna find out anyway.
I cry while I tell him.
His face folds up
He steps out of the car.
I wail.
He’s gone what feels like
forever
in the dark.
I’m in the car whimpering.
He comes back.
Drives me home.
RICHARD
Had a bad night with Millie
last night. I just gotta think.
Don’t know what to do.
MILDRED
THREE MONTHS LATER
JANUARY 1957
When the pains get bad
and close together
Mama sends Lewis over to Lovings’—
not for Richard—
for Mrs. Loving.
Lola Loving comes right over.
Mama is already boiling water.
I’m in the downstairs bed
on an old sheet and towels
that have been boiled
many times
for many births.
Lola says,
“Push, Honey.
You’re doin’ real good,”
over and over.
I’m crying
and Lola is saying,
“The baby’s coming.
Push, Honey.
You’re doin’ good.”
Good?
I’m doing good?
What is good?
I’m screaming.
My mama sets behind me
propping up my back.
“The baby is coming.
Push.”
The baby is here.
Lola puts the baby
on my belly.
And my mama
lets me lie back.
I cry.
Everyone cries.
Lola says,
“You did real good,
Millie. You’re
the right age
to have a baby.”
Young.
She trying to make me
feel better?
“That was an easy
labor,”
she says.
He’s a wrinkled little guy—
looks like a little old man—
a Sidney.
I name him
Sidney Clay—
he’s beautiful.
I love him.
RICHARD
ONE MONTH LATER
FEBRUARY 1957
I drove up to Millie’s. No one was outside.
I knocked on the door. Her mother came,
said, Richard! surprised.
She said, Millie’s napping, then stepped aside
so I could see into the front bedroom.
It was dim inside because there’s no window
and no light on.
Millie sat up and rubbed her eyes.
She ran her hand through her rumpled hair.
Richard?
I stood in the doorway blocking the light
so maybe she couldn’t quite see me.
Of course she was surprised. She hadn’t seen me in weeks.
In months.
My eyes adjusted, we just looked at each other.
She patted the bed. I sat next to her.
I was about to say something—I don’t know what—
I heard whimpering.
Millie reached behind her, gathered a bundle
cradled it in her arms.
Pulled down a corner of the cover, said,
Sidney, this is Richard.
Richard, this is Sidney.
She looked down at him, cooed at him,
looked up at me still holding that look of pure love.
She’s a beautiful mother.
How can I not love her? How could I leave her?
I’m sorry, Millie. I’m so sorry.
If you want me, I’m back.
I choked up a little.
Millie cried, but not making no sound.
Just tears sliding down her cheeks.
She nodded. Nodded for a long time. She handed me Sidney.
I hesitated a moment, but I took him.
Cradle his head, she said. Soft and gentle.
RICHARD
FOUR MONTHS LATER
MAY 1957
Millie and me turned off the hardtop to our road
which people been calling
Passing Road.
You pass up north from where we are.
Siren and lights. Oh shoot. The sheriff.
Bean scooted out from under my arm—
scared.
I pulled over.
&nbs
p; Don’t be scared, Bean, we didn’t do nothin’.
Sheriff swaggered up to the window.
Yessir, I said.
Can I see your license?
I pulled out my billfold.
He stooped to look in the car.
And who is this? he asked,
but I had the feeling he already knew.
Bean didn’t say nothing, probably tongue-tied,
so I said,
This is Mildred Jeter, Sir.
Can’t she talk? asked Sheriff.
Your daddy Theoliver? Plays hillbilly music?
I looked over at Millie. Her jaw set hard. I could see
besides scared,
she was angry.
Yessir, she said, kind of like a mouse.
My Millie isn’t usually like a mouse.
Made me mad.
What’s the problem, Sir? I asked—still real polite.
Well, you didn’t have your turn indicator on.
Nor did you have your arm out to signal.
Now, that’s a law—
to signal when you turn.
I wanted to say, It’s late at night.
There’s no one else on the road.
Why would I signal?
’Course, I stopped myself
from saying anything.
He seemed to be having a good time.
He leaned in my window so I had to smell his lousy breath.
He said, This is a warning.
I ain’t givin’ you a ticket
this time.
Now, you take that little Negress home
where she belongs.
And you don’t go breakin’ the law again.
Hear me?
Yessir, I said. I hated calling him Sir—
the sonofabitch.
I wanted to drive off so his arm would get wrenched.
But he was quick
in how he stopped leaning.
I didn’t need no trouble, anyhow.
And I didn’t
want Millie to be in no trouble
either.
So I drove off gentle. I patted Millie’s knee.
I didn’t want her to cry.
I took a quick look over at her.
She was staring straight ahead.
It’s okay, Bean. We didn’t do nothin’.
MILDRED
ONE MONTH LATER
JUNE 1957
Mama says,
“I guess you’re serious about that boy.”
“Yeah, Mama, I am.”
“Bring him round to dinner.”
Richard comes
for Sunday dinner—
one o’clock sharp.
Aunt Coree Johnson comes,
most of my brothers
are here.
Mama boils
chicken, collards, turnips.
I slice bread
we baked this morning.
Garnet fries last year’s apples.
And we have rice pudding
for dessert.
The cream is from our cow
who I milked this morning,
eggs laid by our chickens.
Richard has sat here
many times.
But today
we have on the checkered tablecloth
because he is my special guest.
The table is heaped with food,
Sidney in a basket alongside me,
family crowded around.
Richard grabs my hand under the table,
at the same time he slips the napkin off my lap,
puts it on his.
Still holding his one hand,
I grab for my napkin.
But he won’t let me have it.
I can’t help but giggle—
having our own conversation
with no words
under the table hidden by the cloth,
while everyone else
talks over the top
of the table.
RICHARD
SIX MONTHS LATER
DECEMBER 1957
Over at Ray’s with him under some car
I found an old can of paint in his mess of a shed.
It was part solid, but there was enough liquid to whitewash
the board I brought.
I told him, Decide what you want on your sign.
I’ll get the black at Blatt’s.
Time you set up business—
stop bein’ a bum.
He laughed.
Me too, I laughed.
He said, You woulda loved seeing
me—your friend, the bum—
outsmarting the
jackass sheriff this morning.
No, I said. No, no, but I laughed.
Are you off your rocker?
No, listen, Ray said.
I’m at the junkyard this morning
looking for some copper tube.
Up drives Sheriff, says,
Boy, what you need with copper pipe?
I don’t wait to answer.
I’m off and running,
ducking between trashed cars.
What?
He’s going to arrest me for some copper tube?
They know I’m good to pay for my piece of tube.
But not now.
I dip into the woods and I’m home free.
I dodge blackberries
knowing he’s gonna plow through,
get his ass raked by thorns.
He’s never gonna find my still.
It’s a wild goose chase and ’course
I win.
I said, Ray, you lost your marbles?
Lookin’ for trouble?
Man, you are gonna find it.
Don’t go messin’
with Sheriff.
MILDRED
FOUR MONTHS LATER
APRIL 1958
I know how it feels
from last time.
No mistake.
I haven’t told
Garnet.
She’ll tell me how
stupid I am.
She’ll say,
Why didn’t you—
Why didn’t I—what?
What could I do?
Richard’s a man.
He needs to do the thing.
And I wanted to do it too.
But I’m the one in trouble.
WHAT am I going to do?
What will Richard think?
Lord, help me.
RICHARD
I asked, Are you sure?
Yes. Yes. It’s been three months, Richard.
Could there be a mistake?
It was just a question.
But she went nuts.
I seen her upset before,
but never like that.
MILDRED
How could he ask that?
“Richard, what are you thinking?
Do you want to get rid
of this baby?
Of me?”
He pauses.
In that moment,
I don’t breathe.
I look him in the eye.
All this time we’ve
been doing it,
doesn’t he know
what could
happen?
What could he be
thinking?
That I’d walk away
and do this
alone?
Again?
I’m about to look away.
When he says,
“No.
No, Millie.
No.”
He takes hold of my two shoulders,
pulls me to his chest.
“I want to do the right thing.”
He kisses my forehead.
He says, “Do we need to talk
to my mother?
Find out when you’re
going to have this baby?
And make plans.”
Oh, Richard.
Thank you.
>
Thank you.
Thank you.
RICHARD
A MONTH LATER
MAY 1958
Ray said, You can’t marry a colored girl. Not in Virginia.
You’re white, Man. Did you forget that?
I told him, We’ll do the marrying in D.C.
He said, For godsakes, Man, live next door to her,
if you have to be big about it.
Look at Farmer.
In our section
white man named Farmer
set up his colored woman in a little house
and he lived next door.
They have a mess of kids.
Everyone knows, but no one says.
All his kids take her name and when they grow up, they
leave—
pass as white people.
Somewhere.
Away from here.
Farmer didn’t want to rock the boat.
Millie deserves better.
I called Ray a pig. I called him worse than that.
I’m just trying to look after you, Man, he said.
I said, You wanna help? Ray?
What you can do is steer clear of Sheriff.
He knows we’re friends. Keep yourself outta trouble.
That’s how you can look after me.
He said, You’re crazy, Man.
I said,
You got your moonshine.
I got Bean.
Ray said, You think Sheriff gonna let it go?
He might.
Ray can’t stop. You know it ain’t legal—race mixing.
And Sheriff, he’s mean through and through.
I didn’t say nothin’.
But, yeah, I knew.
Ray said, You are dreamin’. You been rockin’ Sheriff’s
racial hatred
a long time—
pretending all y’all ain’t no different,
everyone the same.
Race mixing?
That ain’t gonna slide in Caroline County.
MILDRED
ONE MONTH LATER
JUNE 1958
Missed enough school
doin’ chores and stuff,
I’m still a junior.
Doesn’t matter anyway.
I’m five months pregnant,
beginning to show.
I quit school.
Don’t say anything to anyone.
Just stop going.
MILDRED
RICHARD
Baby due in October.
That’s what my mother says—
My midwife,
Lola Loving,
Lola Loving,
she says,
she says,
“You seem to be very happy.
We are—