Choice of Straws

by E. R. Braithwaite

  ‘“Say, you’re some cat,” he said to me. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or not.

  ‘“What I mean is,” he said, “you’re good, see, know what I mean?” I wanted to get back to my seat, and moved ahead of him, but he held my arm, following me, talking. “Never seen you here before. I know just about all the cats who come.”

  ‘I told him that it was my first visit, that my friend and I came really to hear the band.

  ‘“Oh, the chick old Phil’s been dancing with. Phil’s me mate. Okay for the next?”

  ‘I said I’d have the next dance with him and he went off to talk with his friends. Penny was sitting there, looking absolutely furious. I asked her what was the matter.

  ‘“That fellow you’ve been dancing with.”

  ‘I said I thought he was pretty good. Then she told me.

  ‘“He did it for a dare. Danced with you. Him and his two friends saw you standing listening to the band, and they dared each other to dance with you. His friend Phil, the one I was dancing with, told me about it. They drew straws, got them with the coca-cola, and the blond one got the long straw. You know what that Phil said? They wanted to know what it felt like to dance with a Spade. That’s what he said. Damned filthy morons.”

  ‘“With what?”

  ‘“That’s what he said. With a Spade. Meaning you. I was so mad I felt like slapping his damned face. So I walked off the floor and left him. Look, let’s get out of here.”

  ‘We picked up our bags and were going to the cloakroom when the band started another number and he was coming towards us, smiling. Without a word we walked right past him to get our coats. When we came out he was standing there, barring our way.

  ‘“Hey, what’s up? You said I could have this dance.” Pointing his face at me.

  ‘“She’s changed her mind,” Penny spat at him.

  ‘“What for? What did I do?”

  ‘His voice was squeaky, he was so surprised.

  ‘“Just get out of our way,” I said, “Just clear off and leave us alone.” We pushed past him and left. It was too late for the buses so we walked the short distance along the front to where she lived. He must have followed us. A few yards from her house we heard the running footsteps and he caught up with us, blocking our way.

  ‘“What did me mate tell you?” His voice sounded loud out there in the stillness.

  ‘“Will you get out of our way and stop bothering us?” Penny said to him.

  ‘“I want to know what me mate said to you. He told me you walked off and left him on the floor. And anyway, she promised me the next dance.”

  ‘“Will you get out of our way?” Penny wasn’t scared of him. I was.

  ‘“Go on, tell me,” he said to me, “Why’d you shove off? Why’d you promise me the dance and then shove off? Think you’re too bloody good to dance with me?” I was so scared, wondering if his friends might be following too.

  ‘“Look here,” Penny told him, “do you realize we’re standing just outside our house? If you don’t clear off this minute I’ll scream and get my father out here to deal with you.” That would have been some trick because her father died when she was three and we were still about fifty yards from her house. But the boy probably believed her. He moved aside, then suddenly punched me in the face and ran off, shouting “dirty bloody Spade”. ’

  Her voice was tense with remembering. I felt the tightening inside me, the quick hatred for the fellow, wishing I had a face for him, for finding him and hurting him even more than he’d hurt her. Then, in the same moment, the thought of Mum using the same words, and the memory of a wet, windy night and the other faceless man kneeling in the road and slowly, falling over.

  She uncurled her legs, drawing them up until her face was hidden between the knees, her hands over her ears as if trying to shut out sounds I couldn’t hear. I wished I could go and sit beside her, put my arm around her and tell her how I felt. But I couldn’t. There was this thing, like a wall of glass around her. Then I wasn’t thinking any more. I was beside her, holding her. She turned around, her face wet and streaky, her mouth open to say something and I kissed her, holding her tight, feeling my heart near to bursting inside me, and her giving in, kissing me.

  ‘I love you,’ I told her when at last I could speak.

  She loosed my arm from around her, pushing away. I was surprised at how strong she was. She moved away from me.

  ‘You’re covered in lipstick,’ she said, not smiling, and going somewhere inside. I wiped my mouth, the wide red smears on the white cloth reminding me sickeningly of another time. She came back and stood by the window, facing me.

  ‘It was I who sent the telegram,’ she said. Before the words really sank in she went on, ‘I didn’t want to phone your house again and I wasn’t sure who’d open the telegram, so I used Mummy’s name.’

  ‘Okay.’ I understood. ‘What’s it all about?’ The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone full into the window around her head, so I couldn’t see her features clearly.

  ‘I wanted to explain something. Last time you came you rushed off before I could say it.’

  I could still taste the bitter tang of her lipstick and remember the feel of her soft warm tongue in the little moment before she struggled away from me. I crossed my legs, hoping she hadn’t noticed what had happened to me.

  ‘Look, do you have to stand there?’

  She left the window and sat on the couch facing me, her face serious as hell, all the lipstick wiped clean from her mouth.

  ‘What I want to tell you is that in spite of what your mother said I don’t hate you. I’m not forgetting what she said, but I don’t hate you for it, and I didn’t want you rushing off like that, thinking I hated you.’

  When I didn’t say anything she went on, ‘I had it all thought out, what I was going to say to you, I’d gone over it in my mind until it was quite clear, but now … what I mean to say is that I don’t think I want to go out with you any more.’

  ‘Why, because of what my Mum said?’

  ‘No, your mother has nothing to do with it. Not really. The truth is, I’m not in love with you and when we’re out together I’m not comfortable with you.’

  ‘Look, what are you talking about?’ I asked her. ‘What have I done now? Is it because I kissed you just now? Christ, I wasn’t trying to rape you or anything. You don’t have to feel uncomfortable because of that.’ Talking to her I could still taste her lipstick in my mouth and wished I could spit it out or wash my mouth or something. She sat there, not smiling, but cool and easy, not giving a damn.

  ‘I don’t mean sitting here with you, or … I’m talking about when we’ve been out together. Walking along or on a train. The way people stare at us. And I can feel that you’re uncomfortable too.’

  ‘I don’t give one little damn about them.’

  ‘Most of the time I don’t either. When I’m by myself. Or when I went out with Bill.’

  ‘So what’s the difference?’

  ‘With Bill I never noticed if anyone stared. Probably because I didn’t care if they did. It’s the same when I’m with one of the girls from college. People look at us. You can see them looking, not staring. Not the way they look when I’m with a man. A white man. Staring. Hating me with their eyes. And hating him for being with me.’

  Her voice had gone hard and nasty. Just like Mum’s when she’s worked up about something. She went on, ‘When I’m by myself I don’t care who stares at me. By myself I’m at ease, looking them straight in their face, proud because I am who I am and I know what I do and what I’m going to be. I can look at them and not care a damn who they are or what they’re thinking. I don’t want to change places with any of them. Ever. Sometimes I despise them. Not because they’re white. It’s what I see in their faces when they look at me.’

  ‘What’s all that got to do with me making you
uncomfortable?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she asked me, making it sound as if I was some kind of ruddy idiot for not understanding. ‘When you’re there you sort of get in the way between me and them, and I have to tell myself that probably you’re not thinking what they’re thinking, and you’re not like them. It’s as if I have to look at them through you, and that makes me feel helpless against them. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t explain it any better. Mummy understood when I told her, but she said the reason I felt that way was because I’m not in love with you. Perhaps if she was here she could explain it much better, but I asked her to go out because I wanted to tell you myself.’

  ‘So you don’t want me to come here any more?’ She looked away, her voice going so soft I could barely hear it.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d still want to.’ Then, turning back to me, ‘I suppose it would be best if you didn’t.’ Looking down at me the same way like that time over at our house. Like some queen. Yes. Just like some effing black queen. Well, to hell with it. If she thought I’d come crawling to her … I stood up.

  ‘Okay, if that’s how you feel about it.’ I fished the telegram out of my pocket and dropped it on the chair. She followed me to the door and opened it.

  ‘Good-bye, Jack.’ She was holding out her hand. After telling me all that, she was holding out her hand for me to shake as if nothing had happened. The things I wanted to say to her, but I kept my mouth shut and went through the door, not looking at her.

  Going up those steps my insides felt like water, my head full of all the things I should have said to her. Bitch. Sending me a ruddy telegram. Urgent. Just so she could tell me to bugger off. Bitch. Just because my skin was white, that’s why. Comfortable. Balls. If I was black like her ruddy brother or Ron then everybody would be comfortable. Bloody bitch waited till I’d made a damned fool of myself telling her I was in love with her.

  All the way home I could hear her voice saying ‘Good-bye, Jack.’ Standing there, waiting to shake hands. Let her ruddy wait. Bitch. Bloody Spade bitch. I spat to get the last taste of her lipstick out of my mouth, then lit a cigarette.

  Chapter

  Twenty-six

  INDOORS I SAW DAD in the sitting-room but didn’t want to say anything to him. I started upstairs, but he called me down, whispering so as not to wake Mum. He asked what Mrs Spencer wanted to see me about and I said I didn’t know because she wasn’t there when I arrived and I didn’t wait. He looked at me as if he didn’t believe me, then he said that someone had been on the phone to me a couple of times and left a number for me to call. He handed me a piece of paper with Ruth’s number. I wondered what the hell he was playing at, carrying on as if he couldn’t recognize Ruth’s voice. I made the call.

  Naomi answered, right away wanting to know what on earth had happened with Ruth and me. She sounded excited and angry. I could hardly get a word in edgewise. I said I hadn’t seen Ruth all day long, but she asked me what the hell was I up to, that Ruth had left to go to my house and she’d come back and locked herself in her room and would not open the door or talk with her, and I’d better get over there right away. Slamming down the phone. All I could think of was that perhaps Ruth had come and Dad had told her I’d gone to see Michelle.

  He was sitting there, pretending to read the newspaper, but you could see he’d been listening to every word. I asked him if Ruth had been over while I was out, and he said no, she hadn’t called. Looking surprised at me.

  ‘Her flatmate says she’s been over here,’ I told him.

  ‘Not here, she hasn’t,’ he said, ‘I haven’t moved from here since you went out, and nobody’s been here. What’s up with her?’

  I said I didn’t know, but her flatmate said she was acting funny, locked herself in her room. The look he gave me, then right out asked me if I’d gone and got the girl into trouble. Right out. I didn’t know what to say. Just hearing him say it made me scared as hell.

  ‘At your age you ought to have had more bloody sense,’ he said.

  When I got to their flat my finger had barely touched the bell before Naomi opened the door saying, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ as if she didn’t expect me, yet half pulling me inside. Right away asking me what did I say to Ruth to make her behave like that. Not really believing me when I said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  I left her and went to knock on Ruth’s door, saying, ‘It’s me, Jack.’

  She opened up and you could see she’d been crying, her face red as ever, her eyes all puffed up. I asked her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t answer, just went and sat on her bed, looking at me as if she thought I’d hit her, or something. I shut the door. Whatever it was I didn’t want Naomi to hear it, especially if it was what Dad had said.

  ‘Look, what’s up?’ I asked her again. But she just sat there looking at me, her eyes scared, twisting a hankie in her fingers. I went and sat on the bed near her, asking her what was the matter. When I got near she drew away, still not saying a word. So I thought, Right. First Michelle, now you. To hell with it. To hell with all of you. I’d just had enough of it.

  ‘Look, Ruth, what’s going on? What the hell’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, making it sound like she was accusing me.

  ‘Then what did you want to lock yourself in here for? The way Naomi was carrying on on the phone, I thought something had happened to you, for Heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Nothing’s happened to me.’

  ‘Then what’s the big idea?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. You tell me what’s the big idea. You tell me.’ She straightened up, pointing her face at me. ‘Only don’t tell me any more lies. I don’t want to hear any more lies.’

  It couldn’t be what Dad thought, or she wouldn’t be saying this, so I got the idea that somehow or other she must have found out that I’d been to see Michelle and was all steamed up about it.

  ‘If you mean about me going to see Michelle, I had a telegram from her mother asking me to go over there.’

  ‘I’m not interested in where you go or who you see.’

  ‘Then what are you making all the fuss about?’ Smiling at her. Reaching to tickle her chin. Sure that she wasn’t in any trouble, so I wasn’t worried any more. After all, I didn’t have to explain anything to her, about Michelle or anything else.

  ‘I heard about it,’ she said, dropping her voice.

  ‘Heard about what?’

  ‘About what you did. You and your brother.’

  It was as if I couldn’t breathe, everything going weak.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘I was over at your house at lunchtime. Wanted to surprise you so I went round to the back door. It wasn’t closed. I was just going in when I heard your mother. The things she was saying about you killing that coloured fellow.’

  She was looking at me, her eyes scared again. I was cold all over, my heart banging away so I could hear it.

  ‘It was horrible. I just stood there. I didn’t really want to listen. I couldn’t help it, all of you screaming at each other. So I came home.’

  I couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Why couldn’t you just tell me the truth when I asked you, instead of all those lies? Why did you do it, Jack? Why did you?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘What your Mum said. Stab that man?’

  ‘You’re barmy as hell. What are you talking about? I didn’t stab anybody. If you want to go around sticking your nose in other people’s business you’d better damn well make sure that you hear right.’ I was mad as hell, her calling me names and telling me I killed somebody.

  ‘But I heard her, Jack. I heard her.’ She was watching me with her mouth open like some crazy goldfish.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. All I know is I
didn’t stab anybody. If you wanted to know something why didn’t you come right in and ask and get the ruddy story straight instead of sneaking about the place and getting yourself all screwed up?’

  ‘I don’t want to listen to any more of your lies,’ she said, her voice quiet, ‘I’m not crazy. I heard your mother. She wouldn’t say something like that if it wasn’t true. Not about her own son. God, it’s horrible. And you can sit there and say it’s not true.’

  ‘Look, I told you. I didn’t stab anybody.’

  ‘Then who did? Your brother?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. My brother went out that night and got killed in an accident. That’s all I know. I don’t even want to know anything else.’

  ‘Then why have the police been asking all those questions? Why?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask them?’ Suddenly I didn’t give a damn about anything any more. Or anyone. Not her or Michelle or Mum or Dad. Anyone. And I didn’t care what the hell she said.

  ‘Look, if you think I killed somebody why the hell don’t you go to the police? Eh? Why don’t you?’ I got up. She pulled backwards as if afraid I was going to touch her, still watching me with her ruddy mouth open. I left her sitting there and passed Naomi in the hall. She must have heard it all. I didn’t give a damn. To hell with them. To hell with all of them. To hell with the whole ruddy stinking world.

  The house was in darkness. I went quietly up the stairs thinking to myself, What the hell? Passing their room I heard the voice, softly, ‘That you, Jack?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Stood still to listen. Seeing the door half-open. Again, ‘Jack?’ Softly. Sleepy.

  ‘Yes, Mum. You okay, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, Son. Night, Son.’ Sleepy. And the ruddy tears in my eyes, I could hardly see my way to my room.

  About the Author

  E. R. Braithwaite was born in British Guiana (now Guyana) in 1912. Educated at the City College of New York and the University of Cambridge, he served in the Royal Air Force during World War II. Braithwaite spent 1950 to 1960 in London, first as a schoolteacher and then as a welfare worker—experiences he described in To Sir, With Love and Paid Servant, respectively. In 1966 he was appointed Guyana’s ambassador and permanent representative to the United Nations. He also held positions at the World Veterans­ Federation and UNESCO, was a professor of English at New York Univer­sity’s­ Institute for Afro-American Affairs, taught creative writing at Howard University, and was the author of five non­fiction books and two novels. He passed away in 2016 at the age of 104.