The first one spoke in a laughing sort of way: “Ma’am, you must be the Chautauqua speaker with the snazzy motorcar.”
Marian nodded. “Mr. Harp, thank you for letting me hire Emmett for a few days, and actually I have another favor—”
She was interrupted by the second mechanic, taller than the first but with the same dark features. “Mr. Harp is out on a delivery. We’re his mechanics. I’m Wade, this is Merle. We don’t see many Packards. Mind if we peek under your hood?”
“Go right ahead.”
Merle turned to Emmett, who was screwing the gas cap on. “Since you’re here for the time being, boy, go get me a clean rag. I don’t want to dirty up this fine, fine machine.”
Emmett’s erect back disappeared into the station. Wade folded the hood open. Both men moved closer, as if approaching a shrine. Marian tapped her good foot restlessly. What is it with men and machines? she thought. The feral cat returned, skulking around a wooden tray of empty soda pop bottles beside an ice chest.
“What’s that favor?” Merle suddenly asked.
“I was going to ask if he would give Emmett a few days off to drive me to Vernon and some of the other towns, until my ankle heals. That’s all.”
Emmett returned with a rag and a dripping bottle of Orange Crush from the cooler. He handed the rag to Merle and the pop to Marian.
“Why, thank you,” Marian said. “Don’t you want some too? I’d be glad to pay. You must be parched driving me around all morning in this heat.”
She fished in her coin purse. Emmett climbed behind the wheel.
“Hey, boy, this lady wants you to drive her to Vernon. Spend a couple of days out that way. What do you say?” Wade laughed too loudly, Marian thought, for something that didn’t seem funny.
“Yeah, yeah! Hah! What’ya say to that?” Merle guffawed.
Emmett sat stonily, staring past the heads of the two mechanics.
An auto driven by a florid middle-aged man pulled up behind the Model T in the bay.
“Guess we gotta get to work now. You take care of this automobile. Don’t let nothin’ happen to her.” Merle snapped the bumper with a rag, then the two men sauntered back toward the garage.
“What was that all about?”
Emmett shrugged.
“Well, you must know.”
“Merle’s mad he didn’t get to drive you, that’s all. Mr. Harp said he was needed here.”
“It seemed more than that. Ah, here’s a nickel! Now, get yourself a drink.” She pressed the cold bottle to her forehead.
“No ma’am. Thank you, though. I’m not thirsty.”
“You must be parched. Here.” Marian held out the nickel. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Look, ma’am. I can’t drink one of those pops from the cooler. The one time I did, paid my nickel and all, Merle raised a big stink about drinking out of a bottle that a colored man had put his lips to. He grabbed it right out of my hand and broke it at my feet. Smashed glass all over the asphalt, right where drivers pull in for gas.”
“For crying out loud,” Marian said. “This is what I think of that.” She extended her arm and poured the rest of the orange drink into the dust. She smiled, but Emmett’s face was neutral. “Let’s go into town and get a soda for each of us.”
Five minutes later, Marian was sipping another Orange Crush and, through the Packard’s windscreen, perusing the flasks of colored water and stacked displays of dyspepsia tablets in the window of Sanitary Drugs.
“This tastes much better,” she said, turning to Emmett who had a bottle of grape pop lifted to his lips.
“Yes. Thank you, ma’am. This hits the spot.”
A slight breeze ruffled the oak leaves above their heads. Marian felt sweat dampening her scalp. Emmett’s collar, she noted, was as starched and dry as it had been when he’d arrived on Tula’s porch.
“So, what do you think about driving me to Vernon?” she asked.
His voice remained even but something flickered far back in his eyes. “Thank you, but that’s not a good idea.”
“Why not? I’ll talk to Mr. Harp. And I’ll pay, of course. Come on.”
She sipped her drink. Emmett’s gaze was fixed, turned inward. Finally, he said, “I’d like to. You’re a nice lady, and this is quite an automobile. Who knows if I’ll ever be behind the wheel of one of these again? Any riding I’ll be doing will be in the back of an army truck, sure ’nuff.”
“All the more reason . . .” Marian’s voice trailed off.
“No, you see, Vernon don’t allow no colored people to stay there. To spend the night.”
Marian bit her lower lip. “I didn’t think of something like that. How about you stretch out in the car? I’ve done that many a time and it isn’t so bad. And surely the next town on the circuit will have a colored hotel. I think it’s a fairly big town.” She frowned. “Can’t think of the name.”
“No, you don’t understand. See, Vernon, it don’t allow no coloreds overnight. At the end of the day, you have to be out of town.”
“Even if I give you permission to sleep in my car?”
“That don’t make no difference.”
“What happens if you stay? Do they fine you? I’ll pay.”
“No ma’am. They throw rocks.”
“What!”
Emmett raised his brows. “Happened to my uncle’s cousin. He’s got a farm out that way. Went into town to pick up some seed corn, lost track of the time. It was coming on dusk when he stepped outside the feed store. A gang of young boys still in short pants had clustered round the door. All of them had stones. He started walking away; slow, then fast. But they followed and when he turned around, more had joined. Then he began to run. Down past the houses. The older men sitting on the porches egged the boys on. Told them to ‘chase that old nigger out.’ Then they threw the rocks. He got hit in the back, on the legs, one cut his head up pretty bad. He didn’t slow up. Not until he was way past the town limits.”
Marian listened in stunned silence. Finally she whispered, “That’s terrible. I never thought . . .”
Emmett shrugged. “That’s the way it is. I’m hoping the war, us colored soldiers having a chance to prove ourselves, will change some things. Some of my friends make fun of me for thinking that, but the way I think, can’t hurt.”
They sat in silence.
“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to stretch my legs. I’ll be right over there if you need me,” Emmett said after a bit, pointing to the small park across from the depot. “Just blow the horn.”
A sour taste rose into Marian’s throat at the thought of small boys scouring the ground for the biggest rocks they could find. Going down the line, she’d heard that sometimes the circuit’s Tuskegee Jubilee Singers stayed with colored families in neighboring villages. But Marian had always assumed this was because the place was too small to support a colored hotel; not that Negroes were run out of town at sundown like stray dogs. How many towns like that have I visited this summer? she wondered.
Three boys scrambled into the park. Two were tossing a baseball mitt back and forth, while the third, a smaller child, tried to snatch it. An arthritic granny carefully lowered herself to one of the benches. She pulled a hankie from her handbag and patted her face.
Marian’s thoughts jumped to another bitter pill—poor, confused Placidia. She sighed heavily, pushing it all from her mind. Sweat had glued her thigh to the leather seat. She shifted her back so that it rested against the passenger door. From here, the scene before her—the same grassy expanse, scruffy kids, Emmett resting on his heels in the shadow of an elm—looked different. A trick of light perhaps. Or the sensation that sometimes happens when you are driving along and unexpectedly come at a familiar landmark from another direction.
She sounded the horn and Emmett trotted back. As he cranked the engine, Marian noticed Deuce standing on the far corner. He waved at her, and was beginning to step from the curb to cross the street, when a trolley approached wit
h three brisk clangs.
It moved into the intersection and stopped, blocking her view. The bell clanged again and the trolley passed, rocking slightly in its shallow rails. The crossing was empty.
“Where did he go?”
“Who?”
“Deuce. Mr. Garland. I thought I saw him standing right over there.”
“He must’ve gotten on the trolley.”
“But I thought he was coming over,” Marian said. “Guess he thought better of it. I gave him a hard time about his paper the other day. Not everyone can take criticism.”
“I don’t think it’s that. He saw something,” Emmett said, his voice matter-of-fact.
“What do you mean?”
Emmett hesitated. “Probably saw me standing here alongside you.”
“So what?”
“Colored people make him nervous, is all.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Marian turned back to the street. “The things you’re telling me, I just find hard to believe. I thought they only happened down south.”
Emmett lifted his shoulders under the white shirt. “Don’t know about down there, but that’s how it is here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BENEVOLENT AND PROTECTIVE ORDER
DEUCE SLID ONTO A SEAT on the opposite side of the streetcar, glancing out of the windows across the aisle. He had a clear view of Marian, parked in front of the Sanitary, with that young Negro from Alvin’s garage. I should have walked over and said hello, he thought, swatting his knee with a rolled-up newspaper. That would have been the polite thing. But the presence of Emmett had stopped him cold. He slumped in the leather seat while the trolley slowly lurched away from the drugstore. Why do I let that get to me? he thought glumly. He tried to focus on the passing view. Seeing all the red and yellow Chautauqua posters and banners gradually lifted his spirits.
Disembarking, he trotted up the steps of the Elks Lodge. Inside, cigar-smoking Brothers were lounging in the reception room’s overstuffed chairs, ears alert for the dinner gong. The soft click of billiard balls sifted through a portiere-hung archway. Off to the right, in a side parlor, three fellows, including Clay, whose back was to the door, were huddled over a game of dominoes. Deuce started in their direction, but hesitated. Relations with Clay had soured in the last couple of months, ever since the June 1 due date for Clay to pay back his loan came and went. Deuce knew this was a risk when he advanced Clay the money. At least I didn’t tell Father Knapp about the arrangement, Deuce thought. That would be another lecture.
One of the domino players spotted Deuce and waved him in with a grin and a raised glass. Ah, hell, I’m not going to let that get in the way of a couple of rounds with the bones, Deuce told himself.
“Hey, old man,” Deuce said, clapping Clay on the shoulders with both hands. “How goes it?”
Clay jerked. Seeing who it was, he quickly dropped the glare and jumped up with an overly eager expression.
“Couldn’t be better! Here, take a load off.” He gestured toward the leather club chair where he’d been sitting.
“Hello, fellows,” Deuce said to the other players.
Mack Abelman asked, “Where you been?” while Trot Carter nodded amiably, the cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth dusting the table with ash.
“Go ahead. Take my seat,” Clay said.
“No, finish your game,” Deuce replied politely.
“You finish for me. You’re a much better domino player than I ever was.” Clay nervously stroked the peninsula of hair above his forehead. “Remember when we were kids? You beat me every time.”
“Wednesday—hash, eh?” Deuce was saying, pulling a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket.
After a couple of games Mack and Trot excused themselves. “Going for another round,” Mack explained, lifting his empty glass.
Clay glanced across the room. “There seems to be more of a turnout today. Probably because of Chautauqua. That afternoon program pulls a lot of the women away from the kitchens.”
“Tula headed over that way?”
“No. Today’s her day for baking. That means I can look forward to a good meal this evening. Helen learn to cook yet?”
Deuce grimaced. “She makes an occasional attempt, but I don’t encourage it.”
Clay nodded. “What say you come over for a regular meal?”
“That would be swell.”
“Let’s make it after Chautauqua, when that woman moves out of our sleeping porch,” Clay said hurriedly, as if clinching a deal. “She’s been nothing but a pain in the neck. I swear her voice is sharp enough to peel the paper off walls. And her ideas about women—how they should dress. It’ll be a load off when she moves on.”
Deuce pulled his lips down, raised his shoulders. “She’s not so bad. How I see it, she’s very opinionated, but that’s her trade. I sort of admire that she speaks her mind.”
“She’s not living with you. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
The dinner gong sounded and the two men joined the throng pressing toward the dining room. Settled at a table, Deuce screwed around to survey the other diners.
A rotund man with unnaturally red cheeks and nose pulled out the chair across from Clay and settled in. “Mind if I join you?”
Deuce grinned. “’Course not, Henry. How’s things in the tool and die business?”
“Nothing to complain about.” He spread a napkin across his wide thighs, then leaned toward Clay and Deuce. “Of course, complaining won’t get me nowhere, nohow.”
Deuce chuckled.
The waiter returned, laid three plates of corned beef hash, each topped with a shiny fried egg, before the men. They dug in.
“So,” Henry said, pointing his knife at Clay, “your studio must be on a roll.”
While maneuvering his slippery egg off to one side, Clay looked up quickly. “What do you mean?”
Pointing the knife at his own mouth, Henry swallowed audibly. “I mean that my brother-in-law Tom Hayes, you know Tom, who runs the delivery business over in Peoria? Well, he was the one that delivered that expensive posing chair to your studio two weeks ago. Didn’t you recognize him? He was in town this past June for the Masonic picnic. Tall man, big nose?”
The color drained from Clay’s cheeks. “I guess I didn’t remember him. So, how is old Tom?”
“Same as always. But he couldn’t stop talking about that chair. He was very taken with it. You know, he’s always jawing about inventing something, making a bundle, cleaning up. Well, when he saw how smartly that chair was put together, with the hole in the back to prop up a baby, and then when he laid eyes on its price tag, he was just kicking himself.”
Deuce paused with the loaded fork halfway to his mouth.
Clay turned quickly to Deuce. “I was meaning to tell you about the chair. It’s the latest thing. My bottom line could use a small boost and you know how many doting mothers we have in this town. It’s an investment. A sound one.”
Deuce slowly set his fork down. “Just how much was it?”
“Not all that much,” Clay said, glancing at Henry who was bent over his plate, trying to scoop a bit of egg yolk on top of some hash. “You know how careful I’ve been with the money. Every penny accounted for.”
“Tom said . . .” Henry swallowed his mouthful followed by a sip of beer, “. . . it was fifty dollars.”
Clay flinched. “No it wasn’t. Closer to forty-five. There were shipping costs, of course.”
Henry laughed. “You can get a first-rate, upholstered chair for thirty dollars down at Duncan’s Furnishings and cut your own hole in it. Why, that piece you bought cost more than my ice box!”
Deuce examined the space between his plate and lap.
Clay said, “You know, I’ve had three sittings with that chair since it came. More will come once word gets around. It’ll pay for itself in . . .” He paused, counting off the fingers of his left hand. “I’d say in two months at the most.” His smile eager, his pale eyebrows raised.
D
euce shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Clay, you know the whole town is behind you. If there’s a baby to be photographed, I’ll be the first one to send the little nipper over. I’m just sort of disappointed that you didn’t . . .” He paused, aware that Henry was listening intently. The financial arrangement between Deuce and Clay was supposed to be secret. “. . . that you didn’t put in a small ad promoting this chair. That’s all.”
Clay perked up immediately. “Why, sure, that’s a terrific idea. ’Course, you’re going to give me a neighborly discount, right?”
Deuce, however, was not listening to Clay’s response or the banter that followed between Henry and someone sitting at the next table over. He gazed abstractly out the window, feeling as if lead fishing sinkers were dropping silently, one by one, into his stomach. What was Clay thinking? Three months in arrears and he’s ordering expensive gimmicks? How many photographs of infants can he sell? But Deuce couldn’t whip himself into anger. It hurt that Clay was banking on their friendship to push off making his loan payments.
Deuce stood abruptly, dropping his napkin onto the seat of the chair. “Fellows, I seem to be fighting some dyspepsia so I’m shoving off.”
Clay jumped up. “Don’t leave yet. Why, we’ve hardly gotten going here. Why don’t I see if Huck could make something special for you if the hash doesn’t agree? I’m sure he would.”
Deuce shook his head. “No. Heading out.”
“Think I’ve got a couple of Stuart’s Tablets,” Henry said, patting his vest pockets.
Deuce laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Thanks, but I’ve got some back in my desk drawer. I guess I’ll be seeing you both tonight over at the grounds.”
Clay, still standing, grabbed Deuce’s elbow. “I’ll stop by your office later. I have a photography catalog at the house that explains the income that can be made with . . .”
Unmentionables Page 7