“Carla, you know I don’t smoke.”
“I know, just come with me, girl.”
“We’ve got Study this period.”
“Damn Study, Mrs. Welles ain’t even here today.”
“Okay,” I agreed, sort of looking forward to getting out.
Carla and I sat across from each other, on either side of the main school steps.
“Prom tickets go on sale next week,” Carla announced after lighting a cigarette.
“Yeah, I know.”
“I wish Ivory was a senior.”
“How are you two doing these days?”
“He blew my mind last night!”
“What do you mean?”
“Girl, while we was fucking, he rubbed the top of my pussy with his thumb.”
“Where?”
“It’s a spot, like a little button,” Carla said as she exhaled.
“The clitoris?” I asked.
“The what?”
“The clitoris. I read about it in this book called Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex.” I had been walking around Hyde Park while Mama was at the dentist when I’d seen the book in a bookstore window. Hyde Park was the only neighborhood on the South Side where you were guaranteed to see something unusual, like hippies or interracial couples or pottery or a book like Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex.
“Well,” Carla said, “you get a nigger to rub the clawtaurus the right way, honey, and it’ll make you wanna slap the judge!” She stretched her hand out and I gave her five.
Carla blew smoke rings in the air. “Dang, Stevie, much as you read, seem like you’d wanna do more.”
During the middle of tenth period, I returned to Nurse Horn’s office with the stencils that she had given me. It was my third week of being her helper.
“You ready to collate and staple?” Nurse Horn asked without looking up from her desk.
“No, that doggone ditto machine was out of ink, again. They said it’ll be a couple of days.”
Nurse Horn sighed, “I wanted to have those handouts for tomorrow. But, oh well.”
I nodded at Tanya lying on the cot, all doubled up.
“Tanya has a stomachache. She’ll be all right. I just gave her some peppermint tea.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling kind of jealous.
It struck me how wavy Nurse Horn’s brown hair was. It wasn’t stringy like some white people’s. And her breasts had felt soft and comfortable when she’d hugged me that time. Plus even Carla would have to admit that Nurse Horn had a nice behind for a white woman. And she had the softest gray eyes you could imagine.
“Stevie, you can type up my report for the district if you like.”
“Is it urgent?”
“No, not at all. Why?”
“Because, look at that window. Aren’t you tired of looking out of it? Wouldn’t you like a clean window?”
“Sure, I didn’t know that you did windows.”
“I’m in the mood.”
I’d found everything I needed in the janitor’s closet. I couldn’t believe how much clearer things were beginning to look as I washed away the layer of dirt. I couldn’t wait for Nurse Horn to return from her break and see the sparkling-clean view of the faculty parking lot.
“Stevie! Stevie!”
It was Carla. She and Ivory were lounging up against a Volkswagen bug, smoking cigarettes. I waved my rag. Carla waved back and Ivory shook his fist playfully.
“Hey, what’s happening, Aunt Jemima?” Carla shouted. She and Ivory fell out laughing. Ivory had the nerve to add, “Tote that barge, lift that bale!”
I glanced over at Tanya but she turned away. I wondered if she looked down on me as some white woman’s flunky too. My view was suddenly blurred by my tears.
I wiped my eyes as Nurse Horn walked in with Miss Humphrey trailing behind her in a denim skirt and peasant blouse. “Diane, you’re a lifesaver.”
“That’s me, the human aspirin dispenser,” she joked, opening the medicine cabinet.
“Well, maybe I can get rid of this headache before I have to hit the traffic.”
“Good luck.” Nurse Horn shook a couple of aspirins into Miss Humphrey’s outstretched palm.
Miss Humphrey noticed me standing by the window.
“Jean, I’ve got your brother David in my class. He’s a pretty good artist. But you were a real sweetheart.”
“The window looks great,” Nurse Horn cut in.
“Thanks.”
Miss Humphrey got all up in my face and tugged at my cheek.
“Smile, honey chile,” she said. I turned away and glanced at Tanya on the cot. She was facing the wall.
“I’m not in a smiling mood,” I mumbled.
“But you look so cute when you smile.”
I frowned even more. I wasn’t in the mood to have Miss Humphrey up in my face. Why did white people want you to be all the time grinning for, anyway?
“I don’t have to smile. I’m not on a plantation.”
Miss Humphrey looked embarrassed.
“Excuse me,” I said, passing by them carrying my rag and pail.
“You know, I’ve been offered a job in Vermont next fall. Maybe I should take it,” I overheard Miss Humphrey say.
chapter 22
I stepped into Mother Dickens’ Fried Chicken Stand, past the BLACK OWNED, BLACK OPERATED and KEEP A COOL SUMMER signs in the window. The same picture of the late Dr. King and the Kennedy brothers that hung above the takeout counter was on our living-room wall at home.
I needed to talk to Grandma. Carla and Ivory’s comments had me all shook up. I needed to know if it was all right for me to be friends with a white woman, or if it was unheard of to try such a thing. I’d never known a black person who was really friends with somebody white. I’d heard of famous people like Sammy Davis Jr. and Leslie Uggams being buddy-buddy with white folks, even marrying them. But I wasn’t rich or famous, and I also had my pride.
“How’s my favorite niece?” my Uncle Franklin asked, revealing a gold tooth as he smiled from the cash register.
“Fine,” I lied. “Your only niece is fine.” I usually loved to joke around with Uncle Franklin, but today I was on a mission. I couldn’t rest until I reached Grandma. My nose led me to the small kitchen. The smell alone was enough to set your mouth to watering. I almost forgot about my problems.
“What? Your mama ain’t feeding you at home?” Grandma teased, looking up from a wire basket filled with golden fried chicken.
“I didn’t just come here to eat, Grandma, I came here to see you.”
“Well, you know I’m always glad to see my girl.” Grandma smiled and handed me a wing.
“Thanks.” I sank my teeth into the juicy meat.
I finished my chicken, washed my hands, and began helping Grandma by digging homemade potato salad out of a huge plastic container with an ice-cream scoop. I put a ball of potato salad and two slices of Wonder Bread on each paper plate while Grandma saw to the chicken.
“Grandma, could you ever be friends with a white woman?”
Grandma looked confused. “You mean really friends, not just ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ friends?”
I nodded. “Yes, really friends.”
“Baby, white people are like actors, they don’t feel things the way we do. If they really had deep feelings they couldn’t have done half the dirt they’ve done and sleep at night.”
“Aren’t some of them different?”
“There might be that rare exception, that needle in a haystack. But generally speaking, getting close to a white person is just asking for trouble. Nine times out of ten, you’ll only end up getting hurt. I wouldn’t trust one behind a broomstraw.”
Uncle Franklin stuck his head in to pick up an order.
“Did you ever trust one, Grandma?”
Grandma drained the fried chicken on a paper towel. She stopped and stared into space.
“Yeah, Kathy Jo.”
“Who’s Kathy Jo?”
“Once my mother was working for a family and I spent a lot of time over there. I grew up with Kathy Jo. We even took baths together. That was common in the South. We couldn’t sit together on the streetcar, but we could share the same bathwater. Figure that one out.”
“Wow.”
“The white man in the South is different from the white man in the North,” Grandma continued. “In the South, a black person better not get too big, and in the North, a black person better not get too close.”
“How’s that, Grandma?”
“Kathy Jo’s mother thought nothing of throwing her in the bed between me and my sister if she wanted my mother to keep Kathy Jo on a Saturday night. White folk in the South don’t mind getting close to you as long as it’s clear who works for who. White folk in the North don’t care how big your house is, so long as you’re not their neighbor.”
“So, Grandma, did you trust Kathy Jo? Tell me what happened.”
“Start mashing these sweet potatoes and I will.”
Grandma handed me the masher. I started squishing and she sat down in a kitchen chair and started telling.
“It was Kathy Jo’s tenth birthday and she was having a big party. It was all she talked about. For some reason I forgot that I was colored and thought that I would be invited. I dreamed about playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Musical Chairs and eating hot dogs and ice cream and chocolate cake. I bragged to my sisters and brothers that I was going to the party. Mama tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t pay her any mind.”
“Grandma, did you get an invitation?”
“Of course not,” Grandma said. She stretched her legs out and I noticed her ankles were swollen again. Grandma had on a pair of Uncle Franklin’s old house slippers. They kept her corns from acting up.
“I figured I ain’t needed an invitation,” Grandma explained. “Me and Kathy Jo was still sleeping together in the same bed sometimes. Well suh, my mother didn’t ask Miss Mary if I could attend the party. She just let me put on my Sunday dress and go sashaying in there like I was rich and white, carrying my present. I’d made Kathy Jo a kite. She was nothing but a tomboy. The little white children looked at me like I was the boogey man, including Kathy Jo. Miss Mary turned beet red.”
“What did you do?”
“I handed Kathy Jo the kite and asked her where she wanted me to sit. She took my present and told me to sit in the kitchen and they would call me if they needed anything.”
“No, she didn’t, Grandma.”
“Yes, she did, chile. I looked into Kathy Jo’s eyes and they were cold as blue ice.”
“What did you do, Grandma?”
“I took back my kite and I took back my friendship.”
“What Kathy Jo did was really cold, Grandma.”
“I’ve never trusted a white person since. Oh, I might smile and act cordial, but I never let them touch the real me,” Grandma said, pointing to her chest.
Grandma stood up and started adding eggs and sugar to the mashed sweet potatoes.
“So, Grandma, you think only a fool would try to be friends with a white woman, huh?”
Grandma laughed. “Chile, the only black women and white women who can be friends are hookers and bulldaggers.”
“Bulldaggers?” I swallowed.
“Yes baby, bulldaggers, you know, funnies … lesbians.”
“Lesbians.” The word sent chills down my spine. I pretended to be cheerful as I poured the rich, orange mixture into the little tins covered with crust. But I felt scared and alone in the small kitchen with Grandma.
On Saturday, Mama decided to bake a pound cake for no reason. She was just in the mood. I was busy scraping the bowl with my finger.
“Mama, you want me to wake up Kevin and David so they can lick the beaters?”
“Jean, haven’t you heard, let sleeping dogs lie?”
“Mama, are you calling Kevin and David dogs?”
“Just an expression. It’s such a nice, quiet morning. The fewer people disturbing the peace, the better.”
“I’ll put the beaters aside for them, for when they wake up.”
“That’s a good sister.”
I decided to take advantage of this time alone with Mama. I couldn’t believe that I was sixteen and a half and still coming to her. But I knew that I was desperate for answers.
“Mama, me and Sean were arguing about homosexuality,” I lied.
Mama looked surprised. She liked Sean. He was polite and intelligent, he came from a two-parent family, and he even had a decent grade of hair.
“Sean says they’re sick and I say they’re sinners. Who’s right, Mama?”
Mama’s face relaxed. She was probably glad that I was asking her to give the last word on a subject.
“Well, Jean Eloise, actually you’re both right, they’re sick sinners.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d hoped that Mama might shed a little more light on the subject.
Mama shook her head as she set the cake in the oven.
“They’re to be pitied. Every time I look at the ones in the choir, I say to myself, ‘What a waste of husband material.’”
“So Mama, what about the women?” I tried to sound casual as I carried the bowl over to the sink.
“They’re pathetic creatures, too. Remember Mrs. Huff who used to do my hair before she retired?”
I nodded.
“Her daughter Shirley is one, lived with her girlfriend right in her mama’s basement. This close to where Mrs. Huff did hair,” Mama said, holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Shirley would come in demanding her dinner, just like a man.”
“Mama, was Shirley like the husband?”
“Yes, and Cynthia was the wife.”
“Does one always have to be the man?”
“Whenever you see a couple, it’s like that: one plays the man and the other plays the woman.”
I was confused. “Why didn’t Cynthia just get a real man, if that’s all she wanted?”
“That’s why they call them queer, they don’t do what a normal person would do.”
“Mama, do you think Shirley and Cynthia were happy?”
Mama shook her head. “Women like that can never be happy. They live sad, lonely, tormented lives.”
“Oh,” I swallowed. My hands shook as I rinsed out the measuring cup.
“And on top of that, they’re doomed to hellfire and eternal damnation,” Mama said quietly as she opened the oven door to check on her cake.
Monday afternoon, I was in Nurse Horn’s office, alphabetizing a stack of cards.
“Stevie, you sure are quiet today,” Nurse Horn said, looking up from her desk. I ignored her comment, continuing to work.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Nurse Horn, my grandmother says a black woman and a white woman can’t really be friends.”
Nurse Horn cleared her throat. “Well, I happen to disagree with your grandmother. One of my closest friends is a black woman.” I knew she couldn’t be talking about Mrs. Stuart. “We met in nursing school,” she continued.
“Is she a prostitute?”
“A prostitute? Are you kidding? She’s one of the best nurses at Michael Reese Hospital. Whatever gave you the idea that Allison might be a prostitute?”
“My grandmother said the only white women and black women who can be friends are prostitutes and … funnies.”
“Funnies?”
“You know, homosexuals.”
“Your grandmother is wrong, in my opinion. I know that it’s not easy because this society is so … segregated. But I want you to know that it is possible for black women and white women to be friends in spite of that.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “My grandmother’s from a different time.”
“Well, tell your grandmother the times they are a-changin’.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “I’m through with these cards. You want me to finish grading the health quizzes?”
“Good.
Yes, look in my briefcase and pull them out.”
I stuck my hand in Nurse Horn’s open briefcase and grabbed the stack of yellow papers. I picked up the Chicago Sun Times and was about to ask Nurse Horn if I could read Ann Landers, when I saw it: a paperback book with two women in long dresses reaching for each other on the cover! The title of the book was A Place for Us. I flipped it over. “They lived together—in a world apart,” it said on the back. I wasn’t stupid. A chill ran through my body.
“Stevie, did you find them?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, use the top sheet as the key like you did before.”
I stood staring at the book. My stomach started hurting. Nurse Horn had lied to me. I stuck the book back under the newspaper.
“I’ve decided to go ahead and do it with Sean,” I announced. “Just get it over with.”
“Get it over with? Sounds about as romantic as a dose of castor oil, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
I faced Nurse Horn. She looked hurt. “Of course you would be against it. ’Cause you just want me to end up a freak … like you!”
Nurse Horn just sat there with her eyebrows arched. I started grabbing my stuff together. I couldn’t face her.
“Stevie, what brought that on?”
“That book of yours, that’s what!” I said, and rushed out of the office.
chapter 23
Tonight was the night! After I did it with Sean there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that I was normal. When I had told Sean I was ready to go all the way, he’d seemed almost as happy as Carla had been to hear the news. Sean had smiled from ear to ear, but Carla had picked up her pompoms and shouted, “Two, four, six, eight, Stevie’s doing it, before it’s too late!”
I had just taken a long luxurious bath with Joy dish soap and rubbed Jergens lotion all over my body. I reached for my favorite jeans. I had on my lacy new bra and my best panties. I had told Mama that we were going to Old Town, over on the North Side, to look in the stores and get something to eat.
We were lucky. Sean’s oldest brother, Walter, wanted to help him out. He’d offered the use of his pad, a one-bedroom apartment on the North Side in Belmont Harbor, four blocks from the Lake. Walter worked with computers, so he was doing well. I was happy I wouldn’t be giving it up in a cheap motel or the back seat of a car. We were going to do it in style.
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