Leigh

by Lyn Cote

  “Peddle your papers somewhere else, young lady.” Jerusha’s mouth puckered up. “Frank is a man, not a boy. You’re a pretty girl, and he’s got eyes in his head. There’s a touch of wildness in him. He come by it honest with that mother of his.”

  “You don’t like his mother because she’s white?”

  “You know that?” Aunt Jerusha frowned.

  Leigh nodded. “I met her at the start of Dr. King’s march. Frank said his parents divorced when he was twelve.”

  “That’s right.” Jerusha began rocking her chair, creaking on the wood floor. “Frank Two never should have married her. Not just because a mixed marriage sets a man and woman up for extra pain and some real nastiness. I never liked Lila. I’ve always thought she married Frank Two just to shock people—not because she really cared about him as a person. And when she divorced him, she was happy to leave Frank Three with our family. She didn’t want to raise a mixed child. Oh, no.”

  Saddened, Leigh worried her lower lip. Maybe, just maybe, Jerusha would give her some information. She began tentatively, feeling her way. “Frank told me things that first night when I met him and we walked to the creek.”

  Cocking her head, Jerusha studied Leigh’s face. “What things?”

  “He said our families are related by blood.”

  Jerusha’s face became grim. “He should never have talked about such things to you. You’re a young, innocent girl.”

  Leigh felt no surprise. Frank wouldn’t have misled her. “It’s true then?”

  “It was different times. Slavery times.” Aunt Jerusha looked out the window as if seeing something besides the barren trees outside. “My parents were slaves, you know. And I grew up when the fear of lynchin’ was always there, always waitin’.”

  “Why did your family stay here after the Civil War then?” The TV announcer now discussed plans to transport the president’s body back to Washington, D.C. by air.

  “This was our home. And moving north doesn’t change the color of your skin. The Carlyles weren’t as bad as some, and my family was house slaves. It was better than workin’ in the tobacco fields. But nothing was easy in those days. No matter what color you were born, life was hard. No electricity, no hot runnin’ water, no indoor plumbin’, no radio, no phones, no cars or tractors or washin’ machines. Men and women—white, black—worked themselves into early graves. And after the Civil War, money was scarce, and the KKK was ridin’ high.”

  Leigh sat down. Sometimes her grandmother would talk about the Carlyle family, her grandmother’s family, the ones who built Ivy Manor, but never about this side of the family history. “It’s true then? We are related?”

  “I do mean it. Frank will never date Leigh.” Chloe edged closer to Bette. “Frank suffered when his parents got divorced and his mom left him to be raised by his father’s family. Do you think he’d do the same thing to his own children?”

  Bette looked away and began dredging the chicken through the flour mixture. “Then why is he writing to my sixteen-year-old daughter?”

  Chloe looked down at the highly polished, gray-speckled linoleum floor, praying for wise words. “It’s hard for Frank. He has an edge to him because of who he is. Minnie wrote me, he recently went against his family and entered the military. I think he’s done that because he wants to find someplace where he’ll be judged for himself alone—not because of who he’s related to, not because of his race. I don’t know if he will find that in the army or not. I hope—for his peace of mind—that he does.”

  Bette slipped the first piece of chicken into the hot oil, and it began to sizzle and spit. “What has this got to do with Leigh?”

  Chloe drew back from the stove. “Leigh is special. She doesn’t look at people with any prejudice. She’s open and accepting. And the two of them shared a special experience, going to the march together. You’re the one who forced that to happen.”

  “You mean because I was concerned about my daughter’s safety?” Bette asked in a snippy tone, continuing to add chicken to the skillet.

  “If your stepfather and I thought it was safe to go, you should have backed down and let Leigh go with us.” Another thing Chloe had held back from saying. “Then it wouldn’t have been Leigh and Frank alone. It wouldn’t have been Frank becoming Leigh’s hero for taking her to be a part of an historic event. You are going to have to learn when to bend, or your relationship with your daughter will be damaged forever.”

  “So it’s my fault Leigh is attracted to Frank, and I should just let them go on writing letters.” Bette bristled in concert with the snapping oil.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’d prescribe for this situation.” Listen to me, Bette. “The more you try to control Leigh, the more she’ll pull away from you and the more rebellious she’ll become until she finds herself making terrible choices just because she’s so busy fighting you.” Chloe took hold of one of her daughter’s arms. “Stop it now, Bette, before you cause real harm to your daughter and your family.”

  “Yes, we share blood relatives. Another thing they didn’t have in slave days was that new-fangled birth-control pill,” Aunt Jerusha said dryly.

  Leigh was shocked in spite of herself. The nuns at school had lectured them all repeatedly about the sin of birth control—but without any reference to human biology, and without ever mentioning the word sex.And sex was a subject her mother wouldn’t discuss, either. When Leigh was eleven, Grandma Chloe—not her mother—had explained to her about her monthly flow and all about how babies were made. “Do you know how we’re related?”

  “I don’t know everything. After all, we were slaves here for almost a century before emancipation.” Jerusha kept rocking. “But I know for sure my father was an illegitimate son of your… let’s see… great-great grandfather, the daddy of your grandmother’s mother, Miss Lily Leigh. You’re named for her.”

  Leigh let this sink in as she recalled framed photos and tintypes of her ancestors that sat on the mantels and decorated the walls of Ivy Manor. “Does Grandma Chloe know about this?”

  “I think so, but we never talked about it.” Jerusha gazed at the TV screen.

  “You haven’t? Why not?”

  The older woman shrugged. “Why? Can we do anythin’ about who we’re related to? Your grandmother is a good woman. And she had a rough childhood with those two fightin’, good-for-nothin’ parents of hers.” Jerusha looked grimly satisfied, as if she’d wanted to say that for a very long time. “What saved Miss Chloe was she was raised by my mother, Patty, and your great-grandma Raney, two good women. Miss Chloe had a few years where she lost her way, but when the Depression happened, she come home and made sure no one was turned off the land.”

  This didn’t interest Leigh. The announcer murmured that they’d have a retrospective on JFK’s life later. Leigh was sick of her mother always telling her how hard life had been during the Depression. Was being poor as hard as living with the atom bomb hanging over everyone’s heads?

  “Now I think you should do my grandson right. Stop writin’ him. You’re a very pretty girl and sweet like your grandmother. It’s easy to see why Frank would take a shine to you. But it’s not gone to do him any good. You could make him a target of bad things, real bad things.”

  “What things?” Leigh folded one leg under her and suddenly the sting of hunger hooked her.

  “I already mentioned lynchin’, but even if it didn’t come to that… people can be plenty nasty and they’d go after him not you.”

  “But—”

  “Enough talkin’. Have you called to let your family know you’re here?”

  “No.” Leigh felt weighed down. Her mother prying and now the assassination. What an awful day. She’d heard about carrying the weight of the world, but this was the first time it had been real to her.

  “Go, then.” Aunt Jerusha waved Leigh toward the backdoor. “Use the phone in the kitchen up at the house and then make us a snack. I’m hungry.”

  “How can I let her go on correspo
nding with Frank?” Bette demanded.

  “She’s going to do it anyway. You may think you’ve put a stop to it, but she’ll find a way. Unless you want to quit work and follow her around every day of the week, she can still go on writing to him without your finding out.” Chloe didn’t want to say that Bette was reminding her of her own mother, who had burned Chloe’s letters from her first love—a futile gesture that had pushed Chloe into rebellion. “You know I ended up running away from my parents.”

  Bette looked uncertain for the first time. “I thought that your running away was just because you and my father wanted to marry before he left for the war.”

  Chloe made a sound of irritation. “That and the fact that my parents didn’t want me to marry someone they hadn’t chosen for me. They wanted to control me, keep me theirs alone.”

  “I don’t want to do that.” Bette worried her lower lip. “I just don’t want her to make a disastrous mistake.”

  “Bette, we liked Curt,” Chloe appealed to her. “He was a good man. How could you or your father and I have predicted how your marriage would turn out? No one but God knows the future. No matter what precautions you take, your daughter will grow up and she’ll make her own choices, her own mistakes. I’m just worried that you will push her into such a state of rebellion she will do things she ordinarily would not do.”

  “Thank you, Chloe,” Ted said, entering the kitchen. “That’s been my point all along. Leigh is pretty, smart, and has so much personality. Whatever she decides to do, she’ll be a success. Bette, you try to control her too much. You’ve got to let go. Or you will bear a bitter load of guilt.”

  Bette threw her hands upward. “All right. She can write Frank. I’m just trying…” She burst into tears and Ted folded her into his arms.

  The phone rang.

  Chloe walked to the wall phone and picked up. “This is the Gaston residence.”

  “Grandma?” Leigh’s voice came over the line—tentative.

  “ Leigh,where are you?” Chloe felt a rush of relief.

  “I’m calling from Ivy Manor. I got here about an hour ago.”

  “You shouldn’t have left home like that, Leigh,” Chloe scolded. “No matter what your mother said or did. Carlyles don’t run. They stand and fight.”

  “I’m tired of fighting, Grandma. Aunt Jerusha told me to call you,” Leigh sounded defeated. “If it’s all right, I think I’d like to stay here with her for the night. And I think she would like me to stay, too.”

  “You’ll have to ask your mother.” Chloe handed the phone to Bette. “Your daughter wants permission to stay the night with Jerusha.”

  Bette took the phone as if it were a cobra. “Leigh, honey, are you all right?”

  Leigh felt relieved her mother didn’t sound angry. She just didn’t have the energy to face any more of her mother’s displeasure. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I cut school today.”

  “You know the president’s been killed?” Bette’s voice was gentle.

  Had the assassination overshadowed everything else—even her mother’s anger? “Yes. Please, may I stay with Aunt Jerusha tonight? I don’t want to have to walk back to town.”

  “That’s fine,” Bette agreed. “Call tomorrow and we’ll make plans for you to come home.”

  “Okay.” Leigh paused and then guilt made her say, “I love you, Mom.” Then she waited for more scolding. Whenever she showed any contrition, her mother always followed it with the “you are such an ungrateful daughter” lecture.

  “I love you, too, honey.”

  Surprised that the lecture didn’t come, Leigh hung up and walked into the large country kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and the phone rang.

  Oh, great. What now}She hurried back into the hall and picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Frank Three. Is that you, Mrs. McCaslin? Could someone ask my great-grandmother to—”

  Leigh heart stuttered. “Frank, it’s me, Leigh.”

  “Leigh. Leigh?What are you doing there?”

  “I ran away today and came here.” Leigh held onto the phone as if it were an extension of Frank. “My mother found your letters to me.”

  “And you’ve been forbidden to write me again.” He sounded disgusted but not at all surprised. “I knew that would happen. I’ve been waiting for it to happen. I’m sorry for putting you—”

  “It was my decision to write you.” Leigh made her shaky voice firm. She recalled his large black eyes and thick black lashes. “I could have just kept your first letter and left it at that. I wanted to write to you. I still do.”

  “I’m too old for you, and you’re white and I’m black,” Frank spoke the words like a familiar litany, “even if this is the 1960s,not the 1860s.”

  Fear nearly choked her. “Frank, we can’t let… nonsense like that spoil our friendship.”

  “This isn’t friendship. We know that. You’re so sweet, so innocent, so passionate about life. You attract me like no other girl ever has.”

  His words went through Leigh like a lightning bolt.

  “And I shouldn’t have said that, either.” Frank sounded disgusted. “I won’t write you again, Leigh. I’m… sorry.”

  “Frank,” Leigh clung to hope, “isn’t it possible for a white girl and a black man to be friends?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  She felt her throat tightening. “Frank, I—”

  “Please tell my great-grandmother,” he interrupted, “that I called to see how she was in light of the president’s assassination and tell her I’ll write her soon. Good-bye, Leigh.” The line went dead.

  Shaken, stinging, yet faintly relieved, Leigh returned the receiver to its cradle and made her way back into the kitchen to get on with making Aunt Jerusha a snack. As she worked and pondered the days’ events, a line from a Langston Hughes poem about hope came to mind: “What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?”

  Leigh felt hemmed in on all sides, trapped, smothered. My mother’s spoiled it all.

  *

  A week later, Leigh sat on the bed in Mary Beth’s large turquoise-blue room. It was raining outside, and the leaves and branches from an old oak outside the window kept dragging over the glass, adding a creepy haunted-house quality to the atmosphere of the sleepover.

  “So what’s wrong, Leigh?” Cherise asked. She sat near Leigh on the bed in a pink-flowered flannel nightgown.

  Leigh’s spirits had been at low ebb since President Kennedy’s assassination and Frank’s good-bye call. “What?”

  “You’ve been miserable all this week.” Mary Beth chipped in from where she sat cross-legged in blue pajamas on the floor. “Is it because of the assassination?”

  Leigh—to her horror—burst into tears.

  Mary Beth leaped up and perched beside Leigh. “What is it?”

  “You can trust us,” Cherise said, patting Leigh’s shoulder. “We won’t tell anything to anyone.”

  Leigh wiped her wet face with her fingers. She had held it all in. Now, evidently, she wasn’t going to be able to go on without trusting someone. “You promise?”

  Mary Beth raised her hand as if she were taking an oath. “On my honor.”

  Cherise nodded. “Come on. Is it a boy?”

  “It’s a man. His name is Frank Dawson III.” Each word dragged at Leigh’s mood. “He’s in Officer’s Candidate School.”

  “He’s in the army?” Mary Beth breathed in, looking excited.

  Leigh again wished she’d been strong enough to hold it all in.

  “How’d you meet him?” Cherise asked, looking wary.

  “At my grandmother’s this summer. Our grandmothers grew up together.” She looked into Cherise’s pensive face. “He’s Negro.”

  “Negro?” Mary Beth echoed. “That’s why you asked us what we thought of interracial dating.” She nearly bounced with excitement.

  Leigh frowned. “We’re not dating.” We’ll never have the chance. “We’re just friends, b
ut I knew what my mother would say if I let her know we were writing to each other.”

  “You’ve been forbidden to write him ever again,” Cherise inserted, nodding knowingly.

  Leigh gave a half smile. “At first, but then it got weird and my mom said I could write him. But when I told him this, he said he shouldn’t have written me and that he wouldn’t anymore. That we couldn’t be just friends.”

  “Ah.” Cherise raised her chin.

  “Well, if you understand this, explain it to me,” Leigh said, feeling out of sorts.

  “He’s older than you, isn’t he? He’d have to be in order to be in service.”

  Leigh nodded. “He’s twenty-two.”

  “He’s twenty-two,” Mary Beth repeated reverently.

  “He’s trying to protect you,” Cherise said. “He knows that no one will believe a man and girl can just be friends—especially not when one is white and one is black.”

  “What are they protecting me from?” Leigh asked, knowing she wasn’t being completely honest.

  Cherise looked down her nose at Leigh. “Don’t give me the naive act. You know exactly what kind of trouble. He might not be lynched these days, but if you went out with him…” Cherise shook her head and gave Leigh another knowing look.

  “So that means you think I shouldn’t write him again.” Leigh lifted her chin. “We should just bow to prejudice and I should just let it… him go?”

  Cherise looked as if she were mulling this over. She propped her chin on one hand. Mary Beth sat like a hopeful puppy, waiting for a treat. With her forefinger, Leigh traced the fancy stitching on Mary Beth’s turquoise satin quilt.

  “Why couldn’t we all three write him a letter together?” Cherise grinned suddenly. “I mean, then it’s not just a twosome. It’s three girls writing a soldier who will someday defend our country.”

  “That’s right.” Mary Beth’s head bobbed. “It would be patriotic.”

  Leigh did not like this suggestion, but what could she say? “I want Frank all to myself”? Impossible. “Okay,” she agreed reluctantly.

  Mary Beth jumped up, went to her desk, and snatched up a clipboard and a sheet of stationery. “What’s his name?”