Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

by Fannie Flagg

  That night Norma and Macky brought her a hot supper.

  When Dena told them what Dr. Diggers thought had happened, a look of relief came over Norma’s face. “I am so glad to finally find out what was the matter. I was always afraid it was something that we had done, or maybe it was just us she didn’t like.”

  For the next three days Dena still felt dazed. But a week later, as her mind began to clear, she woke in the middle of the night and sat straight up in bed. Something was wrong. Something did not add up. She was too good a reporter not to know when a piece was missing from a story. Dr. Diggers’s theory had sounded good at the time, but it was too simple, too pat.

  Her mother had loved her, she knew that now; she would not have left unless there had been something terribly wrong. Her mother had been a strong woman. There must have been another reason beyond stress. Something else her mother was afraid of. But what? There were still too many unanswered questions.

  Why had her mother left Elmwood Springs so abruptly in 1948? Who was the man who spoke German?

  As soon as the sun came up she made her first call.

  “Christine, it’s Dena.”

  “Oh, hello. How are you!”

  “I have a question for you. You mentioned that there had been something in the papers about my mother’s brother, Theo, and I was wondering if you could tell me what year that was and the name of the newspaper.”

  “Oh, dear, it must have been in the early forties, but I don’t have any idea what the newspaper was. I know it was one of the big ones. But I do remember the name of the woman who wrote for it; would that be of any help to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ida Baily Chambless.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Oh, just some stupid woman who set herself up as a society columnist of sorts. I never read it. But Daddy said she was nothing but a Georgia nobody who thought she should be invited everywhere. She had some run-in with your grandfather years before and she just went after poor Theo with a vengeance. Pretended she was on some crusade but she was just jealous. If she couldn’t pass, by God, nobody was going to pass. Honey, I was lucky she didn’t come after me.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “No, thank heavens. Daddy said she finally got herself murdered.”

  Dena’s heart skipped a beat. “Murdered … when?”

  “Oh, a long time ago. I was still living in New York. It must have been 1948, somewhere around then.”

  Dena’s heart skipped two beats. 1948 was the same year she and her mother had left Elmwood Springs in such a hurry.

  A Woman Scorned

  Washington, D.C.

  1936

  Mrs. Ida Baily Chambless, the sixth child of a laundress in Smyrna, Georgia, had always had a way with words. Her writing skills were considered “almost poetic,” as a teacher wrote on one of her reports, “Plucked from Mother Africa’s Bosom and Thrown Asunder.” Over the years she had worked her way up until she wound up writing for one of Washington’s leading Negro newspapers.

  She enjoyed her power and found herself catered to by people desperate to see their names under her newspaper column’s banner, SOCIETY SLANTS … SLAPS FOR ENEMIES, KISSES FOR FRIENDS.

  When Dr. Le Guarde and his family moved to Washington, Mrs. Chambless was chomping at the bit to get to know them. But she had not received an invitation to their home, a fact that she sought to remedy by several glowing mentions of the Le Guardes in her column. Surely they would see that of all the people in Washington, she should be included at their affairs. However, after a year and a half no invitation had arrived, and she was dying to get inside the Le Guarde house. Although the exterior of the big brick four-story was rather plain, she imagined that what she would find inside would be spectacular. She was kept apprised of many social happenings by a certain florist who informed her, among other things, whenever Mrs. Le Guarde ordered floral arrangements for a party.

  Eventually, Mrs. Chambless got wind of a musical evening that was planned and she could wait no longer. She decided that, after all, it was her right and her duty to her readers to report on the social life of such a distinguished Negro doctor. She would simply forgive them the obvious oversight of an invitation and attend anyway. And so, on the evening of the party, Ida Chambless, a large, brown woman with a flat, round face, dressed to the nines, complete with ostrich feathers in her hair, waltzed in the door uninvited, and proceeded to take notes. As she floated from room to room she was sorely disappointed. The house was dull, the clothes were dull; as a matter of fact, as the evening went on, even though everyone had been perfectly nice, she began to think this was one of the dullest parties she had ever been to. Only the art and the music were impressive. It was clear these poor people needed her help. In her column the next day she described the Le Guarde home in generous terms. The clothes the women had worn the night before, pale and muted, suddenly became magenta, lime, purple, royal blue, and red. According to Mrs. Chambless, the ladies at the party had been shimmering with jewels and diamond tiaras. Mrs. Le Guarde’s single strand of pearls suddenly became twelve strands. Brahms and Strauss were described as lively and toe tapping. She informed her readers that gold-plated dinnerware and polished silver heirlooms from Dr. Le Guarde’s family were in evidence everywhere, as were precious art and tapestries hanging on each wall. Mrs. Chambless thought, If that doesn’t make them realize how much they need me in their lives, I don’t know what will. Several days later a letter arrived from Dr. Le Guarde. Ah, here was that thank-you note and, probably, an open invitation to all their future entertainments. She sliced open the engraved stationery and began to read with a satisfied smile on her face that slowly faded.

  Dear Mrs. Chambless,

  Although I am sure you meant no intentional harm, your public report of a private gathering was most unwelcome. Your exaggerations and the descriptions of the interior of my home and the clothes worn by my guests may have been meant as compliments, but I must ask you with all politeness and respect to please refrain from writing any more about my family and friends. The publishing of our address and the listings of the contents, some real and some imagined, has caused me serious concern for my family as there has been a rise in thievery and misconduct of all sorts.

  I am a private person. I seek no publicity and have found your several mentions of my name to be an embarrassment. I am sure you will understand this and comply.

  Most sincerely,

  Dr. James A. Le Guarde

  Mrs. Chambless felt as if someone has just slapped her in the face. She had been slapped in the face by a white girl when she was nine and the effect was the same; however, this time she had recourse and could slap back with a mighty blow that would flatten any man. He was telling her, Ida Baily Chambless, that she was not good enough to be in his home? That she was not welcome? Ida Baily Chambless, who had carte blanche in the homes of richer men than he? Who did he think he was dealing with? Did he think he could insult her and humiliate her and tell her she was not good enough? Oh, he would rue this day. She had power and would turn it full force on this man and his puny, pink-blooded, lily-white family. How dare this pseudo-, ginger-cake, yellow-pine-codfish, self-proclaimed negrocrat think he was better than she was? In one moment that letter brought back every insult, every hurt, every slight, every humiliation she had ever been made to suffer. She was in a blind rage and literally ran upstairs to her typewriter, and wrote another column.

  Soon Dr. Le Guarde had groups of young men walking by his home yelling and making catcalls and a few, who had had several drinks too many, poured black paint down his front doorstep.

  Good. She would never let him forget that he had insulted Ida Baily Chambless for as long as he lived. She would hound him and his family to their graves and beyond!

  Carlos Maurice Montenegro

  San Francisco, California

  1942

  From the moment Carlos began to play, Joseph Hoffman knew at once that the young man before him was one of
the most extraordinarily gifted violinists he had ever heard. Hoffman immediately took him under his wing and in less than six months Carlos Montenegro had been named first violinist of the San Francisco Symphony.

  Of the millions of musicians in the world, only a handful soar beyond what is written on the page, transcend what seems humanly possible, and Carlos was one such musician. His teacher knew that Carlos was destined to become one of the greats, perhaps to take his place beside Heifetz and Menuhin. All he needed was the right person to guide his career, and Joseph was it. If handled correctly, this boy could change the face of classical music. He had the looks of a matinee idol and the talent of an angel.

  If there was one flaw it was that he was almost too pretty, and when he played most women could not take their eyes off him. Carlos had never talked about himself or where he was from, but as such a romantic figure there had been rumors that he was probably the son of a Spanish count. Many went home and dreamed of those beautiful hands and long, delicate fingers and the way the shadow of his eyelashes fell across his cheek. But there was something else that concerned his teacher. Without his violin, Carlos seemed unusually shy and unsure of himself. He seemed content to just play in the orchestra and to compose. But Hoffman was anxious to have such a talent exposed to the world, and took it upon himself to enter one of Carlos’s concertos in an international music competition held in Quebec.

  He wanted the boy to realize his future, to build his confidence. The winner was assured of a year’s worth of concerts around the world. All he needed was this chance to tour. Then the boy would have the world at his feet. A month later, to Hoffman’s great joy and to Carlos’s great surprise, he won. But there was, shortly, another surprise waiting for Carlos.

  SOCIETY SLANTS

  by Ida Baily Chambless

  There is exciting news today. It came to my attention by way of a little bird that last week’s happy headline “American Wins International Music Competition” should have read “American Negro Wins International Music Competition.” The celebrated recipient is none other than Theodore Karl Le Guarde, who has of late adopted the melodious nom de plume Carlos Maurice Montenegro, for “artistic” reasons, no doubt, for the name Le Guarde is a proud Negro name. His father is Dr. James A. Le Guarde, a prominent Negro doctor here in Washington for many years.

  Despite Mr. Le Guarde’s stage name and his absence from our fair city, nothing could keep us from shouting from the highest rooftops that one of us is on his way to the big time. I want you to know that your columnist has been burning the midnight oil, and with much cajoling and powerful string pulling, it is with great glee and salutations to the world that I announce that Theodore Le Guarde, né Carlos Maurice Montenegro, has just been named “Negro of the Year” by this newspaper. We are proud of so many high achievers who share our Negro heritage, and I for one shall be awaiting his return to our fair city with a great big welcome home and where have you been? Move over Cab Calloway, Duke, Jelly Roll, and Louie and make room for a new genius on the block!

  Ida Baily Chambless gloated in her triumph. Dr. Le Guarde’s precious, lily-white son was going to be a Negro whether he wanted to or not. She had known about Theo for some time, but she had waited for the right moment. Shrewdly, she knew it was much more damaging to kick people not when they were down, but when they were up.

  When Theo’s photograph, along with her press release announcing that he had been named Negro of the Year, appeared in newspapers around the country, all hopes of a classical career went down the drain. His colleagues had been stunned by the news. Some had felt betrayed. Suddenly they saw him as someone who had pretended to be something he wasn’t, an imposter who had lied to them. Others were sympathetic and said that it didn’t make any difference to them but it did. It was still the 1940s in America, and many whites had never met a Negro other than a maid or a Pullman porter. Yesterday he had been the charming and incredibly beautiful young man of obviously aristocratic Spanish descent. Today he was something of an odd curiosity. They began looking for signs, hints of Negro blood, and began to see them, even when they weren’t there. Even the young woman who had been so in love with Theo the day before looked at him with different eyes today. She felt that she had been made a fool of. His father was probably nothing more than a yard man. He had tried to push his way into San Francisco society on false pretenses. He must have been secretly going back at night and laughing about her with his Negro friends.

  Of course Theo had never said he was from a wealthy family, and society had sought him out, but facts changed along with attitudes. Hoffman was devastated for him, and went immediately to his apartment but found that Theo had locked the doors and would not let him in. He would speak to no one. The day after the article appeared Negro newspapers from all over the country sent photographers and reporters wanting interviews. Overnight, he was flooded with invitations from the leading Negro organizations wanting him to entertain and lend his name to every Negro cause and speak at every event. They were proud of him and, as the Washington Bee put it, “We rejoice in his victory and add a new star in the crown of Negro accomplishments.”

  White newspapers took a different tack. The caption under his photograph read: NEGRO CAUGHT MISREPRESENTING ANCESTRY.

  The International Music Committee reconvened for an emergency meeting and voted to a man to stand by its decision, but there was a war in Europe, most of Carlos’s concerts had been planned for America, and one by one they began to be canceled.

  Dear Sirs,

  We feel it would be best if Mr. Montenegro were to limit his concerts to halls that can accommodate members of his own race. Our present policy does not do so.

  —Atlanta Philharmonic

  Dear Sirs,

  You have maliciously misled us as to the race of your winner and therefore our contract is null and void. Any attempts to perpetuate the fraud and embarrass our patrons shall be met with legal action.

  —Chicago Music Club

  After several weeks of similar telegrams and letters, and much pressure all around, this press release was sent:

  The International Music Committee has reconvened for the second time and announced today that it has withdrawn its cash prize and canceled all concert dates of recent first-prize winner, Carlos Montenegro. A spokesman for the committee said this decision was made with deepest regrets and was not based on the fact that he is a Negro, but that he withheld that fact from the committee.

  His sister Marguerite was working in New York. When she read about what had happened to Theo she immediately went to San Franciso. But by the time she arrived, he had disappeared into thin air.

  That Something Else!

  San Francisco, California

  1942

  After he left San Francisco, Theo wandered aimlessly about the country, going from one dark, dirty bar to another, from one couch in some stranger’s place to another. He tried to work at a factory job but in a few days collapsed with what the doctors termed a nervous breakdown and spent a year in a charity ward in a hospital outside of Lansing, Michigan. After he was released, he slowly made his way back to Washington, washing dishes, sweeping floors, anything to get by. Once back, he managed to pull himself together somewhat and made a fair living giving private violin lessons to the children of the wealthy diplomats. He often thought about his sister. The last time he had written her she had been living in New York. He hoped she was safe and happy. He hoped that at least one of them was happy.

  For the next four years he lived less than a mile from his father, but as far as real distance, it might as well have been a thousand miles. He wanted to see his father, but he did not want his father to see him. He had shamed his father enough, caused him enough pain, and as much as he missed him, he couldn’t face him. He sometimes bought a copy of the Washington Bee just to see if it had any mention of his father. It was there he learned of his father’s death. The day of the funeral, he stood in the back of St. Augustine Church in a corner and listened to the priest
eulogize his father as a great man and a great doctor. No mention was made of his two children. It was as if they had never existed.

  Theo left before the service was over, shaking from head to toe with regret, sorrow, anger. He hated himself. How could he have done it? How could he have turned his back on his daddy? If only he could go back. But it was too late. He was completely alone in the world now; all he had left was his sister. But where was she?

  Theo didn’t know it but there was someone else who was wondering the same thing. Word had reached Mrs. Chambless that someone who had looked like Theo had been spotted leaving the church, but the sister had not been spotted and it confirmed what she had already begun to suspect. Two days after the funeral she wrote:

  SOCIETY SLANTS

  1948

  I have dipped my spoon into the thick, rich soup of Negro history of our fair city and have pulled out a tasty morsel. It has come to my attention that our reluctant Negro musical genius, Theodore Le Guarde, has a sister, Marguerite, who has all but vanished into thin air. Could it be that she too has chosen to take the same traitorous route leading into white society? As the children at play call: come out, come out, wherever you are. It is a sad fact that there are those of our race who simply do not have the decency to come out in the open of their own accord, and if I am the chosen to spur you to acknowledge you to your duty, if this task must fall on my weary shoulders, so be it.

  You will not be allowed to sit at the table of acceptance until all Negroes are seated. And a word to the wise to all you others out there resting your pretty heads upon the soft white pillows of deception … Rest not, for your days are numbered. There is an army of the righteous, dedicated to exposing you and bringing you back alive!