She heard the shuffle of the driver’s feet, then watched the man’s boots square up in front of her.
“Missy?”
Judith raised her face.
“Yes?”
“We’re not in D.C. no more. We’re in Virginia now.”
Judith blinked and stared.
“You need to move to the back.”
From the rear of the bus, Judith heard Mrs. P. “Oh, my lands.”
“Why?” Judith asked the man calmly.
The driver crossed his arms over his chest. Judith looked about her. The white people who had ridden near her across the Potomac glowered; a few whispered to each other. The man who’d winked at her shook his head as if he’d been tricked.
The driver said, “You’re colored, aren’t you? You came on with the coloreds.”
Judith got to her feet. The driver did not back off but remained close, within arm’s reach. Judith retreated one step for distance. She kept her arms loose at her sides. The driver kept his eyes fixed on hers, fearing nothing. Judith looked away, down his torso, then to his feet. He tapped one foot, his balance on his heels.
“What if I’m not?”
“Then I apologize and you sit back down.”
She lifted her gaze to his.
“And if I am?”
“Then you need to go to the back with the rest.”
“That makes it very easy for you. It must be wonderful.”
Judith waited, locked on the man’s eyes. The bus idled. Whispers in the seats became voices. Again, she lowered her face to watch his boots.
The driver said, “Missy. I got no idea what you’re talking about. But I don’t make the rules. And you don’t break ‘em.”
With that, the man’s weight transferred to his toes, stepping forward. Now he was committed, he could not retreat.
Judith raised her eyes and measured him in a fraction of a second. She straightened her right hand, firming the fingers into a rigid knife-edge. Her left hand she balled to a fist. She watched his boots; when the rear foot came off the ground, when he stood for a moment on one leg, rooted, the fingertips of the right hand driven into his throat would throttle him, her left knuckles into his sternum would stun him to his knees. After he buckled, a fist hard to the temple would incapacitate him. The three-inch blade in her brassiere would finish this soft, stupid, unafraid man.
A hand gripped Judith. She flinched at the unexpected touch. The hand jerked her backward, off balance, out of her unseen coil.
“Girl, get yo’ parts to the back of the bus with the rest of us. What you doin’ up here?”
The driver nodded. “You’d best talk some sense into this girl. I’ll kick her off the bus and she can just walk her ass to work.”
Mrs. P. tugged again on Judith’s elbow.
“Desiree, get movin’. Mister, I’m sorry. She from out o’ town. I don’t know what-all she got in her head sometimes.”
The driver pivoted to return to his seat. Judith held her ground in the aisle with Mrs. P. attached to her arm and tugging. Judith met the driver’s eyes reflected in his big rearview mirror, the one above his head looking back into the seats. The look in his eyes asked: Did she want him to come back? The look in her eyes answered: Yes.
Mrs. P. yanked Judith away. No one else on the bus, black or white, moved while the driver made a show that he would not drive one inch farther into the state of Virginia until this colored girl sat in the back where the law put her. Mrs. P. spat in her ear, “Come on, Desiree, or I’m gon’ whup you myse’f. You remember, we done talked ‘bout you gettin’ a new attitude.” By this, Mrs. P. meant, again, the threat of the police.
Judith allowed the old woman to pinch her arm all the way to an empty seat in the rear. The heavyset maids clucked their tongues when she sat, and talked about her as if she were not there. “Where that girl from, Mrs. P.? She gon’ buy herse’f a peck o’ trouble.”
Mrs. P. did not answer. She softened her grip on Judith. Then she leaned close and spoke only for her ear.
“What’s goin’ on wif you, girl? You gon’ tell Mrs. P.?”
Judith worked her jaw and hands, grinding off the tension.
“I know one thing,” the old woman murmured. “You ain’t from no New Orleans.”
Slowly, Judith turned to Mrs. P. The woman patted Judith’s hands.
“That’s alright,” the old woman said. “You tell me when you ready. I’ll be waitin’.”
The bus heaved forward. The others, black and white, quit looking at Judith and rode on together, south from the river, in their proper places.
* * * *
Aurora Heights
Arlington, Virginia
MRS. P. CAME TO a stop on the sidewalk in front of a wide brick home. Old trees arched bare branches above them. Judith imagined in summer how lush and private this neighborhood must be. So many robust houses on this street, just one of a hundred streets in this enclave a mile from the river. This was America living well, very well.
Bringing her eyes down to Mrs. P., Judith was reminded that only one part of America blossomed on this street. Standing in front of the big house, the old woman altered. Her shoulders sagged under these trees and assumed the yoke of her station here.
“Girl, you done?”
“Done what, Mrs. P.?”
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. Done bein’ Miz Uppity. That lady in there got no truck wit’ them kind o’ airs. You want this job, you come off that high horse you think you ridin’. I don’ know how you come by it, but you leave it outside.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You keep in mind what happened to the landlord’s boy. Alright? You better’n that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You jus’ keep sayin’ ‘Yes’m,’ and you be fine.”
Judith followed to the front door. Mrs. P. rang and they waited on the stoop.
A tall, thin woman opened the door. Judith was struck immediately by her fluttering manner when she greeted Mrs. P. She seemed overly friendly and breathless.
“Mahalia, good morning! And you must be Desiree! Yes, come in, come in. You certainly are as pretty as Mahalia said you were.”
Judith stepped into a high foyer. Crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, and heavy furniture anchored the rooms on both sides, brown and bland spaces as though parched. Judith in her own home sat on cushions and plush carpets, with day and moonlight and luminous fabrics, open windows, market smells and noises invited in. This house was glum, a quiet cage around this birdy woman. Mrs. P. took Judith’s coat.
“Desiree, come sit. Mahalia, there’s coffee on the stove.”
“Yes’m.”
The woman took an overstuffed chair in the dour parlor, indicating Judith sit on the nearby ottoman.
“I’m sure you know, my name is Mrs. Jacob R. Tench. My husband, of course, is the assistant secretary of the Navy, under Secretary Forrestal. It might interest you to know that my husband holds the identical position President Roosevelt himself held under President Wilson during the first war. Did you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You did? How excellent. Well, we’ll get along just fine. I suppose Mahalia told you the pay. Three dollars a day, and I’ll need you five days a week plus some evenings and weekends when my husband and I are entertaining. I will pay an extra dollar and a half when you work at night. Those are extremely fair wages, Desiree. I assume you are a firm hand with a broom and a dust cloth?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. You look like a fine worker. Mahalia will handle the kitchen. Do you know how to serve?”
Judith did not know what she meant.
“Food, Desiree. Have you served at formal dinners before?”
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tench steepled her fingers. “Oh, dear. Hmm, well. We’ll have you taught quickly enough. You seem like a bright girl. Aren’t you dressed nicely, though? I’m afraid you’ll need to wear something a bit less frilly, h
owever. Those are not appropriate clothes for housework, dear.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good. Finally, my husband travels quite frequently. On those occasions, I often visit my family out of town, or I simply stay in our Georgetown home. You may be asked to come with Mahalia out here to Arlington to prepare the house for my husband’s and my return, or sometimes to our Georgetown residence. That means I will be trusting you in my home in my absence. Can you be trusted, Desiree?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you sure? I’ve had some unfortunate experiences with help.”
Judith and this woman were the same height and build, though Judith was held together by muscle and this one by nerves.
“You can trust me.”
“Good. Now, do you have any questions for me before we start the day?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll need an apron for today.”
Mrs. Tench sat erect, with a disapproving pinch of her lips.
“Dear, it is your job to provide your own work clothes. Just be careful in that pretty dress today and tomorrow wear something more sensible.”
Judith paused, to stay placid. On board the bus, she’d been tempted. That would not happen again.
“There’ll be some weeks I can’t work past two o’clock. I can come early. Or I can come back in the evenings, but never before six.”
Mrs. P. entered the parlor with a china coffee service on a silver tray. She leaned the tray forward for Mrs. Tench.
“Desiree, what do you do between two and six?”
Judith told as few lies as she needed. Lies only complicated matters.
“It’s a private matter, ma’am.”
The thin white woman shook her head, disheartened with Mrs. P.
“Mahalia, you didn’t mention this girl had other obligations.”
Mrs. P. glowered at Judith while the assistant secretary’s wife reached to pour herself a cup. With a scolding face, the old black woman mouthed the word “Uppity!”
“First I heard of it,” she answered. “But all the housework be done, I promise, or I won’t let that girl walk out the door myse’f.”
Focusing on her coffee, Mrs. Tench spoke. “I suppose so long as everything is finished, Desiree, you may leave. But not unless. If you’re as industrious as Mahalia says, I foresee no problem.”
The thin woman sipped. Attempting a private smile, she said, “I declare, keeping this house in order is going to be the death of me yet.”
Judith ignored the irony, keeping herself—in the best tactic of a maid and an assassin—blank.
* * * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
January 20
Washington, D.C.
THE CLOSEST LAMMECK COULD get was Constitution Avenue. The Capitol police had cordoned off the south lawn, reserving the baseball fields on the Ellipse for five thousand family, friends, and the influential.
Around him on the street, hundreds jostled for a view. Youngsters puffy in warm layers rode high on the shoulders of their dads. Cameras dangled from necks. Street vendor carts hawked coffee, chestnuts, and hot dogs. People pressed in, Dag pushed them back, and Lammeck followed the agent through the crowd, watching.
Lammeck decided this was a small crowd for the inauguration of a president. But there was to be no inaugural ball, no military parade, no entertainments. This was Roosevelt’s fourth swearing-in. Maybe the shine had worn off.
Lammeck searched faces, not knowing what he looked for, trusting an alarm to go off inside him, some instinct.
She was here; he was certain.
A thousand yards away, on the South Portico, a red-clad Marine band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” On either side of the White House’s curved staircase, stately magnolias hefted fat baubles of snow. Below the bunting-draped portico, fifty soldiers in wheelchairs applauded. Out of the well-dressed crowd on the dais, Roosevelt hobbled into place on the arm of a young man.
“That’s his kid. Colonel Jimmy,” Dag called above the cheers.
Lammeck grabbed Dag’s coattail to stop him forging forward. He halted to look across the long lawn at FDR, the first time he’d seen the man in person.
“He looks like hell. Even from this far off.”
“He’s holding up okay,” Dag said. “His legs are failing him, that’s all.”
Lammeck was aware that FDR had been stricken with polio almost thirty years ago. The ailment and the politician’s efforts to rehabilitate were well documented. But Lammeck had no idea the President had become so crippled; Roosevelt took the few steps to the lectern like the rusty Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Clearly he would collapse if his son took away his supporting arm. More amazingly, nothing ever appeared about the President’s health in any newspaper or on radio, not here in the States or in Britain. FDR was waning, you could see it plain as day. But if Lammeck were not standing here himself, he could not realize the degree of FDR’s deterioration. This fascinated Lammeck, that America at war deceived itself in order to believe their President was strong enough to lead them. Even seeing the same feeble, staggering man that Lammeck saw, the crowd murmured to itself, “He looks great. The old man’s fine.”
Reaching the lectern, Roosevelt raised a hand to the throng on the Ellipse and the street beyond. The people answered with a roar, drowning out the Marine band. Son James never left his father’s side while the crowd quieted and the oath of office was given by Harlan Stone, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.
“You know,” whispered Dag, “this is the first time he’s had his leg braces on in over a year. The Old Man’s got gumption, I’ll give him that. Those things have got to be killing his legs.”
Lammeck did not look away from the oath-taking. “How bad is he, Dag? I need to know.”
“I told you, he’s good. He’s just tired. You try being President.”
“This isn’t idle curiosity,” Lammeck insisted. “I need to know what she knows.”
Dag waved away the suggestion, but kept his voice low. “She doesn’t know any more than you do, Professor. Only what she can see for herself, and that’s not going to be much. The press has had a total blackout on photos of him in a wheelchair for twelve years, so hardly anyone even knows he uses one. Reports of his health are a total taboo and top secret to boot. As far as anyone can tell, he’s a guy who had polio when he was young but gets around fine now. He’s got an unattractive wife and four kids in the service, like the rest of these Joe Blows out here. He’s stiff, that’s all. Ask anyone in the crowd, that’s what they’ll tell you. You’re just making it worse than it is because you don’t like him.”
“Dag.”
“What? Leave me alone for a minute. I want to hear the speech.”
Lammeck poked him. “Does it dawn on you that we’ve determined she’s working for a government? Remember, the folks with subs? If that’s the case, then that same country also has spies, and that means she has access to intelligence. We have to assume she knows everything you do. Maybe more.”
Dag blew out a defeated breath. “Okay, in a minute. Let me listen.”
“Fine. Stay here.”
Lammeck moved out of the crowd to one of the hot dog carts. He bought a coffee and watched FDR from farther off, where the man appeared smaller, but erect and stronger. America had voluntarily moved this distance from Roosevelt to keep faith in him. In return, Lammeck wondered, how did the distance affect the President? Was the Old Man as blinded to his nation as they were to him? FDR repeated the oath today to begin his unprecedented fourth term as President. Was the country growing tired of him, even as he was tired of being President, but with a war on neither of them could quit on the other? Lammeck considered the thousands of threatening letters FDR received every month. Millions of Americans were so displeased with their leader they refused to even say his name, calling him “that man.” Roosevelt’s economic policies had long smacked of socialism, angering the powerful Wall Street interests of America. His entry into a second European war hurt families still reeling
from their losses a generation earlier. His waiting so long to join that war had offended those—including Lammeck—who believed America should have acted sooner to relieve the plight of England, France, the Jews, Poland, Czechoslovakia, even Russia. Roosevelt’s multiple terms validated the claims of his critics that he was an imperial president. Even in England, Roosevelt was far less than beloved. There, the veneer that he was Churchill’s boon friend and companion was threadbare: The common man on any London, Glasgow, or Dublin street was grateful that America had risen to Britain’s aid, but was keenly aware of how this assistance had arrived late and at a high price. America under FDR was no supporter of England’s old colonial ways; the future for Britain would little resemble its imperial past, thanks in great part to Roosevelt’s vision of a new world order when the war was done, where America and Russia would be the only ones on top of the smoking heap. Americans had the luxury of buying into the ruse of Anglo-American mutual affection, like they swallowed the deception over Roosevelt’s wheelchair. But the English were a savvy, jealous bunch. And they were prickly. The first chance they got, they would probably blame Churchill for their long fall from prominence, and the rise of Russia and America in their place.
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