At first he had tried to ignore her, for fear that she was a streetwalker. This concern was quickly dispelled by her appearance and manner. She was attired in a crisp white uniform-he would learn she was a dental assistant, only recently moved into the neighborhood-and there was a fresh, unused look about her and a self-contained air of minding her own business.
Against his will, without being too obvious, he had inspected her several times from head to toe. She sat erectly on the stool, one leg crossed over the other, exposing a knee and shapely calf. She was, his thumping heart told him, breathtaking. Not since he had enjoyed and suffered through a long-distance crush on the singer Lena Horne, way back when he was a sophomore at Oregon State University, had he known a colored girl to attract him so instantly and engage him so totally. This one had tousled gamin hair, silken, brunette, sort of French, and widely spaced, large almond eyes, a short cute nose, and pouting lower lip. He guessed that she was no more than five feet two, and he thought it therefore remarkable how firm and large her breasts were beneath the white uniform, and how broad her thighs were against the tightened skirt. And she was black, although it kept amazing him how her color enhanced rather than detracted from her prettiness.
She had not spoken, and he had not spoken, that first time, until he had emptied his stein and was sorting his change. Suddenly she had turned to him and said, “I’m guessin’ who you are-Lordy, I kin tell-y’all the famous Mr. Beggs, the Secret Service hero.” He had flushed with pleasure and pride, and mumbled that he was no hero at all but that yes, he was Otto Beggs and he was a Secret Service agent. He had wondered how she knew. She had told him that everyone in the neighborhood knew-Lordy, he was the big celebrity in the neighborhood-and that he had been pointed out to her last week. She had been apologetic about intruding upon his privacy-“I knows you must git mighty tired of bein’ a celebrity”-but she wanted to brag to the girls in the office that she had met him. He had asked her name, and she had told him, and had told him where she worked, and he had said that he hoped to see her around, and he had fled (alive and young as that young one) into the brightening street.
That had been the first time, and that had been last week. The second time had been a few days later, again on his way to work, and this time she had been sitting at the bar, and he had summoned up the nerve to sit beside her, making some kind of joke to which she had responded with delightful laughter. They had talked incessantly, for twenty minutes maybe, this second time, until she had to leave to return to her dentist and his drills.
For five successive days after that, he had come into the Walk Inn in search of Ruby Thomas, and she had not been there. At last, casually, he had inquired of Simon what had become of her, and Simon had explained that she had to take her coffee break earlier now, that she was usually in at three o’clock instead of three forty-five. And so two days ago, motivated by this intelligence, Otto Beggs had contrived his first small lie for Gertrude. His shift at the White House began at four o’clock, and he had been leaving for work as late as twenty-five or even twenty minutes to four. At lunch he had told Gertrude that his new shift began at three o’clock, an hour earlier, and he would be leaving around twenty minutes to three. Gertrude had thought nothing of it, except to worry that he would have an hour less to bone up for his real estate examinations. He had promised her that he would make up the lost reading time at night.
Thus two days ago, he had driven to the Walk Inn and found Ruby at the bar, as he had known that he would, and had sat beside her and enjoyed an entire half hour with her. By the end of this meeting, the best there had been yet, he had learned a good deal about Ruby Thomas. She had lived in Louisiana and Indiana, and was an only child. She had managed to have one year of high school before being forced to quit and help support her family. She had wanted to be educated, though, and had saved up for mail-order courses, and tried to take one a year. She had been a photographer’s model-“but when them white boys kept wantin’ me to pose in the way it ain’t fittin’ to be seen, in my altogether, I sorta got it in my cottonpickin’ haid they was wantin’ more than pitchers an’ I told them where to go”-and so she had quit. She had been quick to assure Beggs that she was no prude-“I got as much lovin’ naycher in my bones as any no’mal gals”-but she did not believe in mixing business with pleasure.
She had seen an advertisement in Ebony magazine, and enrolled in a mail-order course that would graduate her as a dental assistant. Her diploma, she had learned later, had not been enough to make her a qualified dental assistant, but only a sort of assistant to an assistant, as well as a receptionist, file clerk, telephone operator, and jane-of-all-trades. She had held three such jobs already, including the new one, and she liked working for dentists because they were on their feet so much during the day, they were too tired to chase her at night. She ate lunch in the office, in order to get this daily midafternoon break, which she found picked her up when she most needed it and left her refreshed for the evening. She had located a pleasant, inexpensive double apartment a block from the Walk Inn, a furnished apartment with a private entrance, which was important to her because she liked her own business to be her own. Her only extravagance was a recently acquired hi-fi phonograph-she would pay it off in eighteen months-and her avocation was collecting classical jazz records. Did Otto Beggs like Jelly Roll Morton? Beggs had never heard of Jelly Roll Morton, but he had told Ruby he had never heard anyone better.
Best of all, she had enjoyed listening to Beggs, enjoyed questioning him and listening to his lengthy answers, her wide almond eyes concentrating on his lips. She was curious about his life, his achievements, his work in the Secret Service. He had been able to talk to her more easily than he had talked to anyone in years. The latter years with Gertrude had dammed up his pride in himself, and now he was able to release what had been too long held back. He had told Ruby of his boyhood, of his athletic triumphs at Oregon State, of his war days in Korea, of his Medal of Honor, of his numerous jobs, of his years in the Secret Service. He had avoided telling her about his family. All he had recounted to Ruby Thomas, every minute detail, every anecdote, even to the contents of his beloved scrapbooks, impressed and awed her. “Dog my cats!” she would exclaim. “You really done that?” Above all, she held his work in high esteem. Where Gertrude considered a Secret Service agent as nothing more than an underpaid game warden, Ruby considered the role of guarding the President an honor next to the Presidency itself.
Only one truth marred their relationship, and it trailed doggedly after him, following their third meeting. She was black.
Otto Beggs had long taken pride in his tolerance. Sure, Negroes were different from white folk, they were lazier, less dependable, trickier, less smart, but hell, they weren’t to blame, because look what they came from; they came from Africa and from plantation slavery. He had not known any Negroes, except Solly, who ran interference for him on the football team in Oregon, and a few others in the Army, and he had liked them well enough. Of course, he didn’t like Prentiss too much, because Prentiss had got the job as assistant to the head of the White House Detail that had rightfully belonged to himself. Still, he could not hold that against Prentiss personally. It was not Prentiss’ doing. If anyone was to blame, it was Chief Gaynor. Beggs couldn’t prove it yet, but he was willing to bet money Gaynor intended to promote as many colored agents as he could, which was natural when you played politics. As to President Dilman, Beggs wasn’t definite about him. He didn’t like him in general, that was for certain. On the other hand, he could not say he disliked him entirely, either. What he did dislike was having to track around on the heels of a Negro. Beggs knew that he was smarter than Dilman, more courageous (as he had once proved), and had more personality, and yet, look what that lumpy politician was paid per annum and look what he was paid. And worst of all, for the lousy money he was getting, Beggs was pledged to lay his life on the line to protect that colored man. For one of Beggs’s stature, gifts, potential, it was demeaning. Imagine Dilman doing any
thing to deserve a Medal of Honor? Ha!
Without being able to define it, Beggs felt uncomfortable around Negro men, especially the ones in this cruddy neighborhood, which even his so-called friends, the Schearers, had now abandoned. About Negro women, however, his feelings were more lenient, although still confused. After all, he had loved Lena Horne in his youth, well, when he was younger. He had always liked to watch Negro women in the street from his bedroom window. The young ones carried themselves great. And their builds, they were built for heroic men. Sometimes, but not often, in his pre-Ruby days, he had entertained wild thoughts about Negro women and their secrets. But then he would always get mixed up in his thoughts, for sometimes he would think they were below him, not in the street below but socially beneath him, and not good enough for him, with their secrets, those builds from Africa, and only Negro men could manage them.
Several times he had recalled the night that he had escorted President Dilman to that brownstone where the Reverend Spinger lived, and the crazy thing that had happened before they left, that colored girl, an older one but a swell looker, who had come dashing out after Dilman. The President had called her Miss Gibson and acted like she was a secretary, which she probably was, taking notes on the conference with Spinger, which she probably had done, yet Beggs could not forget that when she had come out, she had been kind of informal, calling after the President, “Doug.” Beggs had never heard of a secretary calling her boss by his first name, especially a boss who was President of the United States. He had tried to picture Miss Gibson exactly in his mind, but could only remember that she had been kind of light-colored and slender, and not bad for her age. He had wondered if she was Spinger’s secretary and had just called Dilman by his first name because she had known him a long time, or if maybe she was Dilman’s lady friend and nothing else. The latter thought had been so disrespectful, so Communistic, especially for one in his job, that Beggs had driven it from his mind as best he could and had not dared repeat the juicy speculation even to Gertrude.
But it had come back to him, the thought, in a different context last night when he could not sleep, when he had enjoyed his daring dreams of Ruby. If Dilman, he had told himself, could manage to take care of a pretty fair-looking light-colored girl-lady-then he, Otto Beggs, could do ten times better with any one of them. This feeling of superiority had brought some order to his confusion, and reinforced his ardor for Ruby Thomas. He had not waited for lunch to tell his lie to Gertrude. He had done so the moment that he had sat down to breakfast.
Suddenly he realized that he was standing before the Walk Inn. No more last night’s dreams. No more last week’s accidental meetings. He was here, now and today, because he had planned it. He had even left the Nash for Gertrude, being gracious and considerate about it, announcing that he would take the bus (because he did not want the car parked so dangerously long in front of the nearby tavern). He had planned everything. His first assignation.
He went inside, past the clanging pinball machines, and headed straight for the horseshoe bar.
He stopped in his tracks. There were three men at the bar, two colored, one a white laborer, but there was no Ruby. His disappointment was as sharp as if he had received a physical blow. He had started toward the bartender, Simon, who was busily drying his glassware, when the flutter of a distant brown hand crossed his vision. He stood on tiptoe, elevating his bulk to its utmost height, and peered over the bartender’s bent head. The hand fluttered still, and then he could see it belonged to Ruby.
Quickly Beggs made his way between the bar and the wooden tables and chairs, to the farthest of the three leatherette booths hidden deep in the rear of the tavern. She was waiting for him in a corner of the dark booth, fingering the rim of her drained glass. What perplexed him was not that for the first time she was waiting in the intimacy of a booth, but that for the first time she was not in a white uniform.
As he clumsily slid into the booth, he could not help but gape at her across the table. Since he had never seen her out of the dental uniform, he had not imagined that any different garment could improve her good looks. This instant he could see that he had been wrong, that a new dimension had been added to her. She wore a ruffled pink chiffon blouse, one that almost indecently revealed the well-filled pink lace brassière beneath, and could not adequately contain her breasts. Her waist was tied tightly with a red flowered sash above her red skirt. She was ravishing.
She smiled timorously, showing him even white teeth and a deep dimple. “I was hopin’ y’all be comin’, Otter,” she said. The first time that his Otto had become her Otter, it had made him squirm, reminding him that he was white and she was not, but the intimacy of it had quickly appealed to him, as it did now. “ ’Cause,” she went on, “I didn’t wanna be made to feel foolish, ’cause I done come here ’specially today expectin’ you to come, like it was an occasion.”
“Ruby,” he said, “where’s your usual outfit, the uniform?”
“Doc done come down with the flu bug last night, and we been cancelin’ the customers. So today’s off for us-all, an’ I been fixin’ an’ messin’ ’round the apartment, and done some shoppin’ for records, but still thought to git me here case you come, too.”
His head swam, and last night’s fantasies began to grow real in the daylight. “That’s awfully nice of you, Ruby. I guess you knew I’d, well, I’d be hoping to run into you for a drink.”
“You were ackin’ like you was meanin’ it day ’fore yesterday.”
He opened his hands. “Here I am,” he said. “You been here long?”
“One drink’s worth.”
He felt expansive and rich. “Well, have another.”
“You gonna?”
“I’ve got to go on duty, but-what the hell-one beer never made anyone cockeyed.” He twisted, raised his arm and snapped his fingers. “Simon! One J and B on the rocks, and one tap beer. Bring some pretzels, too.”
She reached for her folded coat to find a cigarette, but he took one from his pack, handed it to her, and then put a match to it.
“I was thinkin’ ’bout you last night, Otter.”
“If it was something bad, don’t tell me.”
“I was thinkin’ how I hopes you don’t go sellin’ real estate land. Maybe I should hush my big mouff, but-”
“No, go ahead, Ruby, please.”
She set her elbows on the table, and stared at him. “I been thinkin’ you is too much man-Lordy, too much man-to be givin’ up bein’ a hero and protectin’ our Pres jes ’cause of extra money. Bein’ a richcrat ain’t no more impo’tant than what you is.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’m so important, Ruby-thank you, anyway-but I do think the job is certainly important. I’m beginning to feel the way you do about giving it up. But my pay’s sure not up to what I could make in real estate, and everybody can use extra money.”
“Bet if you eggs ’em ’bout leavin’, Pres Dilman would git you a raise but fast. Bet he wouldn’t wanna lose you.”
He wanted to tell her that Dilman probably did not know he was alive, but he did not want to run himself down in her eyes. “Maybe,” he agreed. “You think a lot of Dilman?”
She brushed the air with her long thin hand. “Aw, Otter, I don’t mess ’round much studyin’ politics or race stuff an’ nonsense like such. Like my mothah always used to be sayin’-‘Sweetheart, live an’ let ’em live, and don’t fuss ’round none with such p’ofessional matters.’ Sep, ’course, I wanna git an education an’ be smart so’s I kin live good an’ be right for the right man, but I don’t fuss my mind with Dilman this and Dilman that-I jes mostly wanna have me a good time, swing it ’round a little, ’joy my days.”
Beggs had tried to assess what she was saying, and wondered if it was meant to be provocative. Since he was not certain, he said pedantically, “You have a healthy attitude, Ruby.”
The drinks had come, and she drank hers and he drank his, and then she said, “ ’Course my not messin’ with politics don�
�t mean I’m not fascinated ’bout your impo’tant job. Otter, what you do day ’fore yesterday when you left here, an’ what you do yesterday?”
He was on, and liking it, and he went on and on, without interruption, except for a reverent “Sure enough?” or “Ain’t that somethin’!” from her occasionally. He narrated his activities of the day before yesterday, and of yesterday. He told her of his colleagues and their duties. He presented her with the highlights of the history of the Secret Service. He described the West Wing offices and the people and life in them, and he described what sections of the White House he himself had visited, with himself always in the foreground of these descriptions.
She listened raptly, and drank, and exclaimed or clucked her admiration.
His monologue took him a half hour, and when he was done, he was hoarse and happy. “Christ, Ruby, I’ve been bending your ear to death. You shouldn’t let me go on that way.”
“You-all a good teacher, Otter. I was lovin’ it.”
He finished what was left of his beer. “What about you, Ruby? What have you been up to today?”
“Like I told you, nothin’, ’cept sleepin’ too long this mornin’ to git me my naycher back full stren’th-nothin’, Otter-”
But then she went on about her hi-fi set, and the fun she’d had shopping for rare jazz records to add to her collection of classics. With enthusiasm she evoked names little known or unknown to him, mystical names like Bix Beiderbecke, Joe Oliver, Fats Waller, Muggsy Spanier, Bunk Johnson. She spoke of Storyville jazz and gut-gone bands and Bessie Smith’s “St. Louis Blues” and King Oliver’s Creole combine belting out “Froggie Moore.”
After ten minutes she stopped. “You diggin’ it, Otter? No, you ain’t, you not with it, you a orfan from the blues. You need educatin’, Otter.”
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