A Good American

by Alex George

  Rosa would have preferred to go on loathing and ignoring Cora as before, but this complicated matters. There was little in the world that was more important to Rosa than chess. She looked down at the board, marveling at the elegance of Cora’s game, and knew that she would do anything to be able to play the same way. She cleared her throat, unsure if the words she wanted to say would emerge. She pointed at the board.

  “Could you teach me?” she asked.

  In the following months Rosa discovered new worlds. Cora taught her opening sequences and their variations, wily defenses, and other fiendish gambits. Rosa learned them all by heart. Chess pieces danced patterns in her head, an atlas of exotic names: the Italian, the Sicilian, the Catalan, the Indian. Cora was a generous and patient teacher. Even though Rosa would never be able to forgive her completely for stealing Joseph away from her, much of her antipathy dissipated in a quiet haze of gratitude over the chessboard.

  Only one photograph was taken on my parents’ wedding day.

  I have it in front of me as I write. The newlyweds stand in the center of the picture, side by side, holding hands. Cora looks calm, resolved, quietly satisfied. And radiantly pretty, of course. Joseph is grinning like an imbecile. It is ten months since Cora interrupted his silent recital beneath her bedroom window, and he still cannot quite believe that any of this is actually happening.

  Similar expressions of disbelief, although not so beatific, appear on the faces of the wedding guests who flank the happy couple. Jette Meisenheimer and Martin Leftkemeyer share the same faraway look as they gaze vaguely toward the camera. Rosa hovers by her brother’s shoulder, clutching a small bouquet of flowers, her face an unreadable mask. Only Lomax, proud architect of the union, appears to be enjoying himself. He is on the far right of the picture, dressed in a suit purchased for the occasion. He is laughing as the photographer presses the button.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On his wedding night, Joseph packed his bags and made the short journey across the yard, where he joyfully installed himself in Cora’s bedroom.

  Now it was Jette’s turn to spend hours peering wistfully across that narrow expanse of grass, just as her son had done. She gazed at the Leftkemeyers’ house, wondering when Joseph would leave her.

  In fact, the idea of leaving Beatrice had never occurred to the newlyweds. Joseph would have followed Cora to the ends of the earth, of course, but she had no intention of abandoning her father.

  Jette was astonished when, a week or so after the wedding, Joseph suggested that Cora should start work at Frederick’s. “This is a family business, and she’s family now.” He grinned. “Besides, she’s much prettier than me. She can take the orders and charm the customers, and I’ll stay in the kitchen with Lomax.”

  “I could use the help.” Lomax nodded, looking pleased. “It gets kind of lonely back there, you know.”

  Jette looked uncertainly at her new daughter-in-law. “If you’re sure,” she said. “It’s hard work.”

  Cora smiled at her. “I’ll work as hard as anyone else, I promise you that.”

  And she did.

  Cora quickly took control of the dining room. She mastered the restaurant’s peculiar, ever-changing menu. She glided back and forth from the kitchen laden down with plates and glasses, never dropping a thing. When the last customers had been served, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work with whatever needed to be done to get ready for the following day. She polished silverware, mopped floors, and chopped anything put in front of her—and all this tireless industry was performed with a wide smile on her lovely face.

  My grandmother had the grace to acknowledge when she was wrong; Cora was not the prissy girl she had taken her for. Before long the two women worked the dining room in harmonious tandem.

  Cora was not the restaurant’s only new recruit. It was around that time that Rosa also began to work on weekends, busing tables and cleaning dishes. Jette watched her daughter as she worked. Rosa was a pretty enough girl—perhaps not a real beauty like Cora, but she had an open face and big brown eyes that shone with sharp intelligence. Her hair was long and straight and as dark as mahogany. She was tall for a teenager, but did not possess her mother’s robust physical heft or confidence. Instead she moved with awkward caution, as if she couldn’t entirely trust her body to do her bidding. She did her best to smile at the customers, but Jette could tell that it was an effort. Rosa would have preferred to go about her business untroubled by the cheerful parade of diners who marveled at how she had grown and peppered her with well-meaning inquiries. Even back then my aunt’s distaste for the spotlight was apparent. She would always prefer to remain hidden from view. (One day I would discover just how hidden.)

  In the kitchen, Lomax taught Joseph how to cook. At first my father tried to take notes, but soon gave up. Lomax’s idiosyncratic approach to culinary instruction meant that the recipes changed each time he cooked them.

  “It’s not about exact measurements or ingredients,” shrugged Lomax, when Joseph complained. “Good food is about feeling. Cooking is an art, not a science. You got to have soul to feed people right.” He smiled. “That’s what this is. Soul food.”

  Joseph frowned. “Yes, but how many—”

  “Just go with your instincts,” advised Lomax. “Improvise a little.” He held an imaginary cornet up to his lips and blew. “No shame in making it up as you go along. You’ll get a feel for it, I promise you.”

  And sure enough, Joseph did. Under Lomax’s loosey-goosey tutelage he developed an intuitive grasp of how food should be prepared. Not once in his culinary career did my father ever use a measuring cup or scales. He discovered a flair for creating fresh combinations of flavors. He began to concoct his own variations on Lomax’s recipes. Unshackled from the rigid prescriptions of cookbooks, Joseph became a poet in the kitchen.

  With both Lomax and Joseph at the stove, Jette began to offer more choices each day. Business continued to grow. People began to visit from neighboring towns. Jette bought a safe for the restaurant’s takings—much to the chagrin of Martin Leftkemeyer, who couldn’t persuade her to open a bank account. She also took her grandfather’s military medal from its hiding place at the back of her chest of drawers and put it in there, too. She was pleased to have the medal finally out of the house. Her guilt at her theft retreated, just a little.

  At Lomax’s suggestion, Cora began to use her vegetable patch behind the house to supply the restaurant with produce that couldn’t be found elsewhere. She grew several varieties of peppers and chilies that Lomax and Joseph used to add spice to their dishes. There was an inverse corollary between size and kick; the smaller and more withered the vegetable, the more caution was required. Cora grew Jalapeños, Jaloros, Anaheims, Habaneros, Costeño Amarillos, Cayennes, Apaches, and Cherry Bombs. Lomax’s favorites were Bangalore Torpedoes, long craggy things as viciously hooked as a witch’s finger and about as ferocious, if you put one in your mouth.

  Cora and Lomax tended their unusual harvest together. Their horticultural double act was always accompanied by gales of laughter. Joseph liked to watch them as they worked, warmed by their obvious fondness for each other, and hoped that they weren’t laughing about him.

  Married life brought about one other big change for Joseph. He began to go to church.

  Neither Jette nor Frederick had ever had much time for religion. Much of Jette’s childhood had been spent shivering in the shadows of Hanover’s austerely grand cathedral, while her mother peered around to see who else of consequence was there. It had gradually dawned on Jette that her family’s faultless attendance record had nothing to do with faith. Church was a social occasion, not a spiritual one. She had taken to stomping around the Grosse Garten on Sunday afternoons as a means of shaking off the cobwebs of that morning’s dose of hypocritical piety. Frederick’s own Sunday mornings had usually been spent in bed with a pillow over his head, recovering from th
e excesses of the previous evening.

  Joseph had inherited his father’s cheerful agnosticism rather than Jette’s visceral disdain for the whole business, and so when Cora asked him to attend the First Christian Church with her, he went along happily enough. Each week he donned a freshly starched shirt and walked proudly to church with his wife on his arm. He knelt and stood and sang along with everyone else, and listened to the sermons with polite interest. He saw the devout shine in Cora’s eyes, and wished that he shared her faith.

  Every Sunday morning Joseph stood by Cora’s side and kept his eyes squeezed shut as he pretended to pray. It was the only lie he ever told her.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When she wasn’t busing dishes at Frederick’s, Rosa was plotting her escape.

  Formal education was of minimal interest to our little community of farmers back then. The town’s school had been run for years by Heidi Schlatt, who had watched several generations of children stumble through its doors. She believed that her role was more pastoral than strictly educational. More precisely, her job was to make sure that the children made it to the end of each day without hurting themselves, or anyone else, too seriously. On any given day, there might be thirty or so children milling around the schoolroom, ranging in age from five to sixteen. None of them really wanted to be there.

  Except, that is, for Rosa.

  Most children in the town stopped attending school as soon as they were old enough to start work or get married. My aunt had grown used to the sight of girls not much older than her, hunched over in exhaustion from long days helping in the fields and the burden of a household to run. Often they trudged through the town, wearily pushing baby carriages ahead of them. Rosa was determined not to suffer a similar fate. She continued to attend school every day, long after all her friends had stopped. By the time she was seventeen she had read every book in the (admittedly paltry) library, many of them twice. Each afternoon she brought an armful of books home with her and barricaded herself behind a fortress of words.

  When my aunt looked up from the page, Jette would often be gazing silently across the yard toward the Leftkemeyers’ home. Rosa watched this wistful surveillance, wishing that her mother would turn around and notice her. But Jette’s eyes remained fixed on the house next door. This was a bitterness that my aunt had not expected: even in his absence, Joseph still eclipsed her. There was, Rosa concluded sadly, nothing left for her here.

  In the spring of 1926, with Heidi Schlatt’s nervous assistance, Rosa secretly applied for a place as an undergraduate at the University of Missouri, Columbia. If her family no longer wanted her, she would seek out a different life somewhere else.

  The day that her letter of acceptance arrived, Rosa did not know whether to laugh or cry. In the intervening months she had vacillated between hoping that she would get to go to university—and praying that she would never have to leave. She breathlessly read the short, formal paragraphs of congratulation, and immediately told herself that she wouldn’t go if Jette wanted her to stay.

  Later that afternoon Rosa handed her mother the letter and watched her face as she read. Jette remained quite still. Finally she looked up.

  “But, Rosa, why did you never say anything about this to me?”

  “I didn’t know what you would think,” said Rosa quietly.

  “But this is, this is—”

  Jette stopped talking, and began to cry.

  At the sight of her mother’s tears, Rosa’s heart flooded with relief. She smiled. “It’s all right, Mama. I’ve already decided. I won’t—”

  “—this is wonderful.”

  Rosa stared at her.

  “University. You.” At this Jette began to cry again. “I’m so proud I could die.”

  “So I should accept?” whispered Rosa.

  Jette threw her arms around her. “Of course you should accept.” She squeezed her tightly. “This is the happiest day of my life.” Without Jette’s strong arms around her, Rosa might have collapsed to the floor in shocked dismay. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. Rosa and Jette clung to each other, their quiet sobs a tender duet. But my aunt’s tears were tears of sadness.

  Rosa spent the rest of the summer hoping for evidence that Jette was at least a little sorry that she would soon be moving away. But my grandmother’s delight did not abate. If anything, as the start of the new term grew closer, her mood became even sunnier. She bought Rosa a brand-new trunk in which to pack her belongings. My aunt began to worry that she’d made a terrible mistake. At least while she was still in Beatrice, her mother could not forget her completely.

  “Won’t you feel lonely here all by yourself?” she asked.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” answered Jette cheerfully. “I’ll keep myself busy. I’ve got Lomax to keep me company. And Joseph and Cora just next door.”

  Rosa nodded sadly. That, she knew, was all that really mattered. She could be a million miles away, as long as Joseph was close.

  The day of Rosa’s departure dawned bright and clear. The family gathered around the carriage to see her off. Rosa passed between them, kissing and hugging and weeping. Jette waited for her at the carriage door, the last in line to say good-bye. Rosa stopped in front of her. Their fingers touched, then laced tightly together.

  “Mama,” whispered Rosa, “I don’t want to go.”

  “I know,” said Jette, drawing her close.

  Rosa could hardly breathe. “Should I stay?”

  There was a long silence. Rosa closed her eyes as tightly as she could.

  “No, my darling,” said Jette softly. “You should go.”

  Rosa sniffed. “But I just want to stay here with you.”

  “And do what? Wait for a husband to put you to work?”

  “I could work in the restaurant.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. Jette patted her arm and smiled at her. “Time to go,” she said. “It’s a long ride.” She kissed her on the cheek.

  Rosa turned and climbed the steps into the waiting carriage. As the horses began to move slowly off down the street, she turned to watch all the people in the world that she knew and loved. Lomax called out something, but she could not make out the words over the noise of the clattering wheels. Joseph and Cora stood side by side, holding hands, watching her go. At the center of them all stood her mother, her arm raised in cheerful salute. The carriage turned the corner at the end of the street. Rosa slumped back in her seat, her cheeks wet with stunned tears.

  Rosa looked out at the passing countryside, but all she could see was the joyful smile on Jette’s face as she had waved good-bye.

  That smile had not lasted long. As the carriage vanished from view, Jette’s waving hand went to her face, and the tears she had been fighting back began to fall. She stood in the middle of the road and wept. She had lost Frederick, then Joseph, and now Rosa. And now she was alone.

  There had been nothing in the world Jette had wanted more than for Rosa to stay, but she would not deny her daughter the chance to escape. Finally Lomax stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She allowed herself to be guided back inside.

  After that, Jette’s gaze fell with increasing frequency on the house next door. Joseph’s angel wing still hung above the fireplace, a silent reminder of all that she would never be able to recapture now. My grandmother stared at the treacherous walls of her empty home, wondering how they had allowed her family to escape.

  It was Lomax who rescued Jette from her sadness. Every evening he made his way to her house, and the two of them talked, long into the night. Lomax missed Rosa, too, and their shared loss created a new bond, transforming years of polite banter into a deeper friendship. For the first time, they began to speak about themselves, rather than simply the children. Jette told stories about her childhood in Hanover. She told him about her grand
father, watching military carnage unfold from the safety of his balloon. Lomax’s tales of growing up poor in New Orleans made her eyes shine with tears. Murderous German generals and children scrabbling around for forgotten lumps of coal in the squalor of the Third Ward—it was hard to imagine two more different people, but before long each came to rely on the other’s quiet companionship.

  During this time Lomax’s illicit alcohol enterprise was booming. As word of his lethal concoction and its stupefying effect spread, demand began to outstrip supply, and he had to turn away customers from the alleyway. Sometimes there were fights. Men who had purchased bottles began to strike deals with those who had not been so lucky, selling their liquor on for an immediate profit. Lomax watched as his customers doubled their money by these quick resales, and decided to up his prices.

  It was his first mistake. Born while the embers of the war fought for his freedom were still glowing across the country, Lomax had spent his life negotiating the perils of his black skin. He had survived thanks to his ability to spot trouble early, but he had grown too comfortable for his own good in our little town. His finely calibrated defense mechanisms had grown rusty. Men were prepared to pay Lomax for his liquor, but now they muttered angrily to each other as they waited in line in the shadows behind the restaurant. An uneasy standoff continued, until Lomax made his second mistake.

  One of his regular customers had been out of town for several days, and had not heard about the price increase. On the first night of his return, he appeared, as he always did, with exact change for one bottle of brew. Lomax counted the man’s coins and calmly told him that he did not have enough. The matter might have ended there had he agreed to the man’s offer to pay him the balance next time, but he refused to extend any credit. Thirsty as he was, the man was not going to plead with a Negro in front of an audience, and he stormed away. Lomax watched him go, and then turned his attention to the next customer.