by Passing
“Have you ever stopped to think, Clare,” Irene demanded, “how much unhappiness and downright cruelty are laid to the loving-kindness of the Lord? And always by His most ardent followers, it seems.”
“Have I?” Clare exclaimed. “It, they, made me what I am today. For, of course, I was determined to get away, to be a person and not a charity or a problem, or even a daughter of the indiscreet Ham. Then, too, I wanted things. I knew I wasn’t bad-looking and that I could ‘pass.’ You can’t know, ’Rene, how, when I used to go over to the south side, I used almost to hate all of you. You had all the things I wanted and never had had. It made me all the more determined to get them, and others. Do you, can you understand what I felt?”
She looked up with a pointed and appealing effect, and, evidently finding the sympathetic expression on Irene’s face sufficient answer, went on. “The aunts were queer. For all their Bibles and praying and ranting about honesty, they didn’t want anyone to know that their darling brother had seduced—ruined, they called it—a Negro girl. They could excuse the ruin, but they couldn’t forgive the tar-brush.7 They forbade me to mention Negroes to the neighbours, or even to mention the south side. You may be sure that I didn’t. I’ll bet they were good and sorry afterwards.”
She laughed and the ringing bells in her laugh had a hard metallic sound.
“When the chance to get away came, that omission was of great value to me. When Jack, a schoolboy acquaintance of some people in the neighbourhood, turned up from South America with untold gold, there was no one to tell him that I was coloured, and many to tell him about the severity and the religiousness of Aunt Grace and Aunt Edna. You can guess the rest. After he came, I stopped slipping off to the south side and slipped off to meet him instead. I couldn’t manage both. In the end I had no great difficulty in convincing him that it was useless to talk marriage to the aunts. So on the day that I was eighteen, we went off and were married. So that’s that. Nothing could have been easier.”
“Yes, I do see that for you it was easy enough. By the way! I wonder why they didn’t tell father that you were married. He went over to find out about you when you stopped coming over to see us. I’m sure they didn’t tell him. Not that you were married.”
Clare Kendry’s eyes were bright with tears that didn’t fall. “Oh, how lovely! To have cared enough about me to do that. The dear sweet man! Well, they couldn’t tell him because they didn’t know it. I took care of that, for I couldn’t be sure that those consciences of theirs wouldn’t begin to work on them afterwards and make them let the cat out of the bag. The old things probably thought I was living in sin, wherever I was. And it would be about what they expected.”
An amused smile lit the lovely face for the smallest fraction of a second. After a little silence she said soberly: “But I’m sorry if they told your father so. That was something I hadn’t counted on.”
“I’m not sure that they did,” Irene told her. “He didn’t say so, anyway.”
“He wouldn’t, ’Rene dear. Not your father.”
“Thanks. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”
“But you’ve never answered my question. Tell me, honestly, haven’t you ever thought of ‘passing’?”
Irene answered promptly: “No. Why should I?” And so disdainful was her voice and manner that Clare’s face flushed and her eyes glinted. Irene hastened to add: “You see, Clare, I’ve everything I want. Except, perhaps, a little more money.”
At that Clare laughed, her spark of anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Of course,” she declared, “that’s what everybody wants, just a little more money, even the people who have it. And I must say I don’t blame them. Money’s awfully nice to have. In fact, all things considered, I think, ’Rene, that it’s even worth the price.”
Irene could only shrug her shoulders. Her reason partly agreed, her instinct wholly rebelled. And she could not say why. And though conscious that if she didn’t hurry away, she was going to be late to dinner, she still lingered. It was as if the woman sitting on the other side of the table, a girl that she had known, who had done this rather dangerous and, to Irene Redfield, abhorrent thing successfully and had announced herself well satisfied, had for her a fascination, strange and compelling.
Clare Kendry was still leaning back in the tall chair, her sloping shoulders against the carved top. She sat with an air of indifferent assurance, as if arranged for, desired. About her clung that dim suggestion of polite insolence with which a few women are born and which some acquire with the coming of riches or importance.
Clare, it gave Irene a little prick of satisfaction to recall, hadn’t got that by passing herself off as white. She herself had always had it.
Just as she’d always had that pale gold hair, which, unsheared still, was drawn loosely back from a broad brow, partly hidden by the small close hat. Her lips, painted a brilliant geranium-red, were sweet and sensitive and a little obstinate. A tempting mouth. The face across the forehead and cheeks was a trifle too wide, but the ivory skin had a peculiar soft lustre. And the eyes were magnificent! dark, sometimes absolutely black, always luminous, and set in long, black lashes. Arresting eyes, slow and mesmeric, and with, for all their warmth, something withdrawn and secret about them.
Ah! Surely! They were Negro eyes! mysterious and concealing. And set in that ivory face under that bright hair, there was about them something exotic.
Yes, Clare Kendry’s loveliness was absolute, beyond challenge, thanks to those eyes which her grandmother and later her mother and father had given her.
Into those eyes there came a smile and over Irene the sense of being petted and caressed. She smiled back.
“Maybe,” Clare suggested, “you can come Monday, if you’re back. Or, if you’re not, then Tuesday.”
With a small regretful sigh, Irene informed Clare that she was afraid she wouldn’t be back by Monday and that she was sure she had dozens of things for Tuesday, and that she was leaving Wednesday. It might be, however, that she could get out of something Tuesday.
“Oh, do try. Do put somebody else off. The others can see you any time, while I—Why, I may never see you again! Think of that, ’Rene! You’ll have to come. You’ll simply have to! I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”
At that moment it seemed a dreadful thing to think of never seeing Clare Kendry again. Standing there under the appeal, the caress, of her eyes, Irene had the desire, the hope, that this parting wouldn’t be the last.
“I’ll try, Clare,” she promised gently. “I’ll call you—or will you call me?”
“I think, perhaps, I’d better call you. Your father’s in the book, I know, and the address is the same. Sixty-four eighteen. Some memory, what? Now remember, I’m going to expect you. You’ve got to be able to come.”
Again that peculiar mellowing smile.
“I’ll do my best, Clare.”
Irene gathered up her gloves and bag. They stood up. She put out her hand. Clare took and held it.
“It has been nice seeing you again, Clare. How pleased and glad father’ll be to hear about you!”
“Until Tuesday, then,” Clare Kendry replied. “I’ll spend every minute of the time from now on looking forward to seeing you again. Good-bye, ’Rene dear. My love to your father, and this kiss for him.”
The sun had gone from overhead, but the streets were still like fiery furnaces. The languid breeze was still hot. And the scurrying people looked even more wilted than before Irene had fled from their contact.
Crossing the avenue in the heat, far from the coolness of the Drayton’s roof, away from the seduction of Clare Kendry’s smile, she was aware of a sense of irritation with herself because she had been pleased and a little flattered at the other’s obvious gladness at their meeting.
With her perspiring progress homeward this irritation grew, and she began to wonder just what had possessed her to make her promise to find time, in the crowded days that remained of her visit, to spend another afternoon with a woman who
se life had so definitely and deliberately diverged from hers; and whom, as had been pointed out, she might never see again.
Why in the world had she made such a promise?
As she went up the steps to her father’s house, thinking with what interest and amazement he would listen to her story of the afternoon’s encounter, it came to her that Clare had omitted to mention her marriage name. She had referred to her husband as Jack. That was all. Had that, Irene asked herself, been intentional?
Clare had only to pick up the telephone to communicate with her, or to drop her a card, or to jump into a taxi. But she couldn’t reach Clare in any way. Nor could anyone else to whom she might speak of their meeting.
“As if I should!”
Her key turned in the lock. She went in. Her father, it seemed, hadn’t come in yet.
Irene decided that she wouldn’t, after all, say anything to him about Clare Kendry. She had, she told herself, no inclination to speak of a person who held so low an opinion of her loyalty, or her discretion. And certainly she had no desire or intention of making the slightest effort about Tuesday. Nor any other day for that matter.
She was through with Clare Kendry.
THREE
On Tuesday morning a dome of grey sky rose over the parched city, but the stifling air was not relieved by the silvery mist that seemed to hold a promise of rain, which did not fall.
To Irene Redfield this soft foreboding fog was another reason for doing nothing about seeing Clare Kendry that afternoon.
But she did see her.
The telephone. For hours it had rung like something possessed. Since nine o’clock she had been hearing its insistent jangle. Awhile she was resolute, saying firmly each time: “Not in, Liza, take the message. ” And each time the servant returned with the information: “It’s the same lady, ma’am; she says she’ll call again.”
But at noon, her nerves frayed and her conscience smiting her at the reproachful look on Liza’s ebony face as she withdrew for another denial, Irene weakened.
“Oh, never mind. I’ll answer this time, Liza.”
“It’s her again.”
“Hello… . Yes.”
“It’s Clare, ’Rene… . Where have you been? … Can you be here around four? … What? … But, ’Rene, you promised! Just for a little while… . You can if you want to… . I am so disappointed. I had counted so on seeing you… . Please be nice and come. Only for a minute. I’m sure you can manage it if you try… . I won’t beg you to stay… . Yes… . I’m going to expect you … It’s the Morgan … Oh, yes! The name’s Bellew, Mrs. John Bellew… . About four, then… . I’ll be so happy to see you! … Goodbye.”
“Damn!”
Irene hung up the receiver with an emphatic bang, her thoughts immediately filled with self-reproach. She’d done it again. Allowed Clare Kendry to persuade her into promising to do something for which she had neither time nor any special desire. What was it about Clare’s voice that was so appealing, so very seductive?
Clare met her in the hall with a kiss. She said: “You’re good to come, ’Rene. But, then, you always were nice to me.” And under her potent smile a part of Irene’s annoyance with herself fled. She was even a little glad that she had come.
Clare led the way, stepping lightly, towards a room whose door was standing partly open, saying: “There’s a surprise. It’s a real party. See.”
Entering, Irene found herself in a sitting-room, large and high, at whose windows hung startling blue draperies which triumphantly dragged attention from the gloomy chocolate-coloured furniture. And Clare was wearing a thin floating dress of the same shade of blue, which suited her and the rather difficult room to perfection.
For a minute Irene thought the room was empty, but turning her head, she discovered, sunk deep in the cushions of a huge sofa, a woman staring up at her with such intense concentration that her eyelids were drawn as though the strain of that upward glance had paralysed them. At first Irene took her to be a stranger, but in the next instant she said in an unsympathetic, almost harsh voice: “And how are you, Gertrude?”
The woman nodded and forced a smile to her pouting lips. “I’m all right,” she replied. “And you’re just the same, Irene. Not changed a bit.”
“Thank you.” Irene responded, as she chose a seat. She was thinking: “Great goodness! Two of them.”
For Gertrude too had married a white man, though it couldn’t be truthfully said that she was “passing.” Her husband—what was his name?—had been in school with her and had been quite well aware, as had his family and most of his friends, that she was a Negro. It hadn’t, Irene knew, seemed to matter to him then. Did it now, she wondered? Had Fred—Fred Martin, that was it—had he ever regretted his marriage because of Gertrude’s race? Had Gertrude?
Turning to Gertrude, Irene asked: “And Fred, how is he? It’s unmentionable years since I’ve seen him.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” Gertrude answered briefly.
For a full minute no one spoke. Finally out of the oppressive little silence Clare’s voice came pleasantly, conversationally: “We’ll have tea right away. I know that you can’t stay long, ’Rene. And I’m so sorry you won’t see Margery. We went up the lake over the week end to see some of Jack’s people, just out of Milwaukee. Margery wanted to stay with the children. It seemed a shame not to let her, especially since it’s so hot in town. But I’m expecting Jack any second.”
Irene said briefly: “That’s nice.”
Gertrude remained silent. She was, it was plain, a little ill at ease. And her presence there annoyed Irene, roused in her a defensive and resentful feeling for which she had at the moment no explanation. But it did seem to her odd that the woman that Clare was now should have invited the woman that Gertrude was. Still, of course, Clare couldn’t have known. Twelve years since they had met.
Later, when she examined her feeling of annoyance, Irene admitted, a shade reluctantly, that it arose from a feeling of being outnumbered, a sense of aloneness, in her adherence to her own class and kind; not merely in the great thing of marriage, but in the whole pattern of her life as well.
Clare spoke again, this time at length. Her talk was of the change that Chicago presented to her after her long absence in European cities. Yes, she said in reply to some question from Gertrude, she’d been back to America a time or two, but only as far as New York and Philadelphia, and once she had spent a few days in Washington. John Bellew, who, it appeared, was some sort of international banking agent, hadn’t particularly wanted her to come with him on this trip, but as soon as she had learned that it would probably take him as far as Chicago, she made up her mind to come anyway.
“I simply had to. And after I once got here, I was determined to see someone I knew and find out what had happened to everybody. I didn’t quite see how I was going to manage it, but I meant to. Somehow. I’d just about decided to take a chance and go out to your house, ’Rene, or call up and arrange a meeting, when I ran into you. What luck!”
Irene agreed that it was luck. “It’s the first time I’ve been home for five years, and now I’m about to leave. A week later and I’d have been gone. And how in the world did you find Gertrude?”
“In the book. I remembered about Fred. His father still has the meat market.”
“Oh, yes,” said Irene, who had only remembered it as Clare had spoken, “on Cottage Grove near—”
Gertrude broke in. “No. It’s moved. We’re on Maryland Avenue—used to be Jackson—now. Near Sixty-third Street. And the market’s Fred’s. His name’s the same as his father’s.”
Gertrude, Irene thought, looked as if her husband might be a butcher. There was left of her youthful prettiness, which had been so much admired in their high-school days, no trace. She had grown broad, fat almost, and though there were no lines on her large white face, its very smoothness was somehow prematurely ageing. Her black hair was clipt, and by some unfortunate means all the live curliness had gone from it. Her over-trimmed Georgette c
rêpe dress was too short and showed an appalling amount of leg, stout legs in sleazy stockings of a vivid rose-beige shade. Her plump hands wee newly and not too competently manicured—for the occasion, probably. And she wasn’t smoking.
Clare said—and Irene fancied that her husky voice held a slight edge—“Before you came, Irene, Gertrude was telling me about her two boys. Twins. Think of it! Isn’t it too marvellous for words?”
Irene felt a warmness creeping into her cheeks. Uncanny, the way Clare could divine what one was thinking. She was a little put out, but her manner was entirely easy as she said: “That is nice. I’ve two boys myself, Gertrude. Not twins, though. It seems that Clare’s rather behind, doesn’t it?”
Gertrude, however, wasn’t sure that Clare hadn’t the best of it. “She’s got a girl. I wanted a girl. So did Fred.”
“Isn’t that a bit unusual?” Irene asked. “Most men want sons. Egotism, I suppose.”
“Well, Fred didn’t.”
The tea-things had been placed on a low table at Clare’s side. She gave them her attention now, pouring the rich amber fluid from the tall glass pitcher into stately slim glasses, which she handed to her guests, and then offered them lemon or cream and tiny sandwiches or cakes.
After taking up her own glass she informed them: “No, I have no boys and I don’t think I’ll ever have any. I’m afraid. I nearly died of terror the whole nine months before Margery was born for fear that she might be dark.1 Thank goodness, she turned out all right. But I’ll never risk it again. Never! The strain is simply too—too hellish.”
Gertrude Martin nodded in complete comprehension.
This time it was Irene who said nothing.
“You don’t have to tell me!” Gertrude said fervently. “I know what it is all right. Maybe you don’t think I wasn’t scared to death too. Fred said I was silly, and so did his mother. But, of course, they thought it was just a notion I’d gotten into my head and they blamed it on my condition. They don’t know like we do, how it might go way back, and turn out dark no matter what colour the father and mother are.”