“Lug,” she scolded. She looked like a wild kid who had stayed up all night except for her eyes. Her eyes weren’t wild stay-up eyes. They were shining at him; they held love for him.
“Baby.” His voice was shaky. “Here’s your milk.”
“Lug, lug.”
The glass of milk in one hand, he hugged her to him, kissed her on the cheek. She cried out. “Don’t spill the milk.”
The manager hurried over to them. “Break it up.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said. They sat down at a table and she sipped at the milk.
“You’re tough,” he said.
“Give me your hand.”
“What about Mr. Automat?” He reached out his hand on the table and her fingers curled into his.
“That’s better,” she said. “How do I look, messy?”
“Beautiful but skinny. On the skinny side. How about some food?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She frowned thoughtfully. “I can eat some baked beans.”
“Hell, that ain’t food.”
“Baked beans I said.”
“All right.” He brought back two brown dishes of baked beans on a tray, two plates of rolls and butter, another glass of milk. He set the tray down and she sniffed at the beans.
“Don’t they smell elegant, Sam?”
“You bet.”
Her grey eyes flashed up at him. “Did you miss me?”
“No.”
“Who’s the milk for?”
“You.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You drink it or I’ll pour it down your throat.”
“How do I look? People keep staring at me.”
“Beautiful. Drink that milk.”
She dug her fork into the dark brown savory beans. He gazed at her. It didn’t seem true to him that she had been kept in a black room like a dog punished by a mean owner. Everything she had told him seemed like the grotesque details of a nightmare: The bag. The Negroes. The ride into the city. The safety pins. He looked at her ring hand. The ring he had given her was gone. So it was true. “Here we are eating beans.”
“They’re good,” she said. “I’ll eat yours, too, if you don’t.”
He thought of Matty Rosenberg eating his food at La Palina’s. He passed her his dab of butter. “Suzy, I know a fine Italian place. We’ll go out there for dinner one of these nights.” He sighed. “I’ve got a woman on my hands, God bless her.”
She began to sniffle as soon as he unlocked the door of her apartment. He took her into his arms. He could feel her fingers pressing into his back. “It’s over,” he said. “No fooling.”
“I know but — ”
“It’s the coming home again.” They went inside into the living room. She switched on the light and sat down on the studio bed.
“I have to phone ma, Sam.”
“Sure.”
“It feels so good. Come here.”
He sat down next to her and she kissed him.
“Sam,” she whispered. “What are you scowling for?”
“The police. They’ll want to know when you got away and where you spent the night. Don’t you see?”
“I see.”
“Well?”
“Well.”
“I’m not kidding,” he smiled.
“We were going to come here and break the news to ma. Remember?”
“I told her. We love each other, I said. We had tea.”
“I hate tea.”
“That’s what we had.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.
She pushed him away. “Sam, I have to know what’s been happening?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No, now.”
“You daffy kid. You’re nuts but I love you.”
“Don’t put me off.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I won’t be able to sleep until you tell me.”
He stared at her, tousled her hair. “Okay.” He related everything; his talks with Marian Burrow; what Marian had said about Aden; tonight Johnny was taking in Aden’s talk; he told her about Maddigan and Blaine and Wajek; about the newspaper stories and Vine of the C.I.O. and the labor lawyers; about the new leaflets that had appeared late Saturday night. “You’re going to be headlines again,” he concluded.
“Do you like this room?”
“What’s that got to do with — ”
“I’m asking you a civil question. Do you or don’t you?”
“I like it, daffy.”
“That settles it.”
“Settles what?”
“Dopey.” She snuggled to him. “Oh, you dope.”
“You mean — ”
“We’ll get married and move right in. You won’t mind ma living with us? She’s old, Sam. She has to live with us.”
He hugged her to him. She broke from him, walked over to the end table for a cigarette. She lit the cigarette. “I take it, it’s a deal,” she said. “Oh, Sam, I wish I didn’t have to think. I don’t trust my own reactions. I wonder what Clair’d advise — ”
“About those Negro muggers?”
“They’re not muggers.”
“I know. I said that to stop myself from saying something else.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. “I better call ma. Poor ma.”
Sunday morning at twelve o’clock, they were still coming to the offices of the Harlem Equality League. The door between the two offices had been left wide open; everywhere men and women were standing, smoking and asking questions. All the people invited had been told one thing: The Suzy Buckles kidnapping will be cleared up today; if you are interested in the disclosures come to the offices of the H.E.L. at twelve sharp. The voices were buzzing.
“That’s her.”
“Where’d she come from?”
“Is that the girl up there in the yellow dress?”
“That’s Buckles, boy.”
“What’s up?”
“How did Clair dig her up?”
“The girl in the yellow dress?”
“The man next to her is Miller.”
“Miller?”
“The other guy’s Clair.”
“I see Vincent.”
“They should have hired a hall. Can’t breathe here, damn them.”
Suzy in a dark yellow dress was leaning against the far wall of Clair’s private office, Clair on her left, Sam on her right, the desk between the three of them and the crowd. All the faces began beyond the desk. Sam looked out on the faces, his heart beating. He rubbed his chin nervously. His face was closely shaven, he was wearing yesterday’s shirt and yesterday’s tie but he felt as if he had dressed up for his wedding, for some once-in-a-lifetime occasion. He glanced at Suzy’s pale profile, hoping it wouldn’t be too much of a strain on her. He stared at the crowd. Faces jerked up suddenly as some short man or woman rose on tiptoes. And from these men and women, a warm packed smell began to arise; it began to smell like a subway train. Clair called to his secretary to shut the outer door. The buzzings stopped. But as Clair turned to speak to Suzy, the voices started all over again.
“When’s it begin?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Where was the girl anyway?”
“Ask Clair.”
“I see Detective Wajek here. I thought Maddigan was in charge.”
“Wajek looks as puzzled as anybody else.”
“Miller’s in on this — ”
“There’s a story — ”
“Telling me.”
“When did the girl get back?”
“She looks okay.”
Their voices lashed across the desk. Sam lit another cigarette. He looked at all these reporters from the newspapers, at the members of the All Harlem Negro Committee. He recognized Vine, Butch Cashman, Johnny Ellis, the labor lawyers, Wajek. At eight that morning he and Suzy had gone over to Clair’s apartment. Clair had listened to Suzy’s story and they had agreed on this conference. Clair had done all the telephoning. Detective
Maddigan was away for the weekend and Headquarters had transferred Clair to Detective Wajek. Clair had notified the N.A.A.C.P., the various political parties, the unions, other organizations. There were famous individuals who had been called because of their interest in Negro-white relations. Sam wished that Clair would begin. He wanted to say a few words to Suzy but he was too conscious of all their eyes. He stood stiffly like a public school boy before making a recitation in assembly. The telephone was ringing constantly and Clair’s secretary, flustered and very nervous, was answering the calls and trying to pass them on to Clair. Clair was now speaking with Councilman Vincent. Sam wiped his forehead. He smiled as Johnny waved at him. God, when would it begin, Sam wondered. A stout Negro woman sat down on the corner of the desk. A white reporter brandished a pencil at a friend who had shouted a question at him. There were more people present than had been invited. The news had grapevined around town; there were not only reporters but free lance writers tipped off by reporters; not only the leading members of the Negro community but also a former Negro judge and a Negro writer who had written a novel about racial maladjustments. At last, Clair called for attention. “Attention, please! Please, let me have your attention! On behalf of the Harlem Equality League — ” The voices stopped, nailed in their throats. “ — I welcome you here. Before I introduce Miss Buckles — ” Excitement flared up in a dozen exclamatory: “It’s she — ” “It’s her all right — ” and subsided as Clair continued. “Before I introduce Miss Buckles, I would like to say a few words. Ladies and gentlemen, this unusual conference has been called on the express desire of Miss Buckles. Ladies and gentlemen, I will not bore you with a recital of recent Harlem history but I ought to mention the latest of the scurrilous leaflets that have appeared on our streets. One of these leaflets is a reprint of a poem originally published in the Harlem Independent News. It was reprinted without permission by the so-called United Harlem Committee. The second of these two leaflets invites a race riot. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a race riot! Against this background, we have summoned this conference. I cannot speak too highly of Miss Buckles’ motives. She believes that her kidnapping by a group of Negroes is not only her private concern but the concern of the entire community. I can inform you that she volunteered to work in these offices in order to be near Mr. Miller to whom she is engaged — I wish to thank Detective Wajek, present here today, for his cooperation — Ladies and gentlemen, I do not wish to talk endlessly. I am as excited as any of you. You have all assembled here, the representatives of the press, the political parties to hear Miss Buckles.” Sam felt all their eyes swoop at Suzy. It was as if they were seeing her again but differently as if they had met by accident on the street. “Miss Buckles believes that what has happened to her is inextricably bound up with recent Harlem history. She has asked me to impress upon you all that she herself does not want to increase the racial antagonisms that exist at present. Miss Suzy Buckles.”
Sam turned towards Suzy. Suzy seemed very small to him now, very small, only a little girl. Suzy began to speak in a low voice. “Mr. Clair has told you of my feelings — ”
“Louder please!” somebody called from the outer office.
“I do not want to help foment a race riot,” Suzy raised her head and looked straight in front of her. “This is what happened to me. Before I begin, I want to ask you reporters to please write that I believe in the complete equality of all races. That is why I am here now. To help us get such equality — To do my small share. Not, to — Not to do anything else.
This is how it was. A Negro came to these offices …” Sam, listening to Suzy, felt as he had last night; again he was sitting with her on the park bench and she was trembling in his arms; again he was listening to her speak of the room without light; the Negro who had ripped her dress. He stood next to her, chilled by what he heard. The telephone rang. Clair’s secretary whispered to Clair. Clair passed the phone to Sam. “Hello,” Sam said. “This is Miller.” “Miller,” a voice said, “the man you want’s a white man with burn scars on his face. He’s at the Hotel St. George in Brooklyn.” “Who’s this?” “The man you want’s at the St. George.” The voice stopped; the wire was dead. Suzy was still speaking. Sam whispered in Clair’s ear. Clair shrugged. Sam looked out at the audience. A reporter in the front row was smiling. Councilman Vincent was nodding to himself as if adding his own unvoiced comments. Sam thought: A white man with scars. Staring out at the faces of all these Negroes and whites, reporters, leaders, lawyers, politicians, he felt the immense city in this room; Suzy was speaking to the city, establishing contact with the presses, with the millions who would read the newspapers on Monday, contact with the union leaders and the representatives of the city’s organizations; her story would sift down to the millions of trades union members; to the Negro masses in Harlem, to the multi-millioned faceless people. He felt the people in this room, standing countless and endless-rowed behind the faces in front of him and he thought: A white man with scars at the St. George. Was that a contact, too? Maybe? It was as if the basement people had insisted on being represented, too, adding their voice to all the other voices. “That’s about all,” Suzy was saying. “I understand that there will be a mass meeting at Madison Square Garden and that I will speak there. And I will speak there. Mr. Clair will speak, Sam — Mr. Miller will speak — We will speak again!”
Questions quickened on dozens of lips. Clair interrupted. “One at a time, please. Please!”
“What were your feelings when the Negro tried to attack you?” a white woman yipped. “Be specific.”
“How many times did you get hit?”
“Why didn’t you go to the cops first?”
“When are you and the cop getting married?”
“How long have you been a friend of the colored people?”
“Are you a Red?”
“When — ”
“Where — ”
“Why did — ”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Clair cried. “Please. One at a time. I will act as chairman. You will direct your questions at me. Yes, that gentleman near the wall.”
“Why didn’t you go to the cops first?” the gentleman near the wall asked. Clair nodded at Suzy. The telephone rang and Clair’s secretary answered and called to Sam. “For you, Mr. Miller.” Sam put the receiver to his ear and a voice said, “You’re wasting your time, Miller. The guy you want’s at the St. George. He’s aimin’ for a riot. He print the leaflets. He make the trouble. You want him.”
“Have you any idea who those Negroes were?” another questioner said to Clair and Suzy. “Were they a gang, in your opinion, who kidnap white women for Negro call houses?”
The questions pumped at Clair. “What is your politics, Miss Buckles?” “Do you believe in segregation?” “What familiarities did the Negroes take with you?” But Sam wasn’t listening to them and he didn’t hear Suzy’s answers. The Negro writer shouted, “Miss Buckles, I want you to inform the gentlemen of the press that you were not criminally assaulted. I want you to restate that fact. I don’t want to read in tomorrow’s papers that you were criminally assaulted. Will you please restate that fact.” A blond man bawled out, “Are you a Communist, Miss Buckles?”
“No.”
“Are you a fellow traveller? Did you vote for Browder? Did you or have you supported the Russians in everything they have done?” Voices broke all over the offices. Somebody was indignant. Somebody approved. Clair tried to restore order and Sam kept on thinking about the man with scars at the St. George.
“Did that Negro hit you with his fist?”
“Miss Buckles, ever been South?”
“How long have you known Miller?” A thin white man waved a finger at Sam. “I’d like to ask you a question, Mr. Miller. Is it not true that because of you the girl got tangled up? Isn’t it true that if you had observed ordinary police discipline, the girl would not have gotten tangled up?” Councilman Vincent cried out at the speaker.
“I wish there were more policemen li
ke Miller. I wish that the police begin to recognize the fact that in a democracy, Negroes as well as whites are members of the people.”
Clair raised both hands. “Let me interrupt the questions! Let me — Please! Miss Buckles is tired. I propose that we let her rest a few minutes before resuming the question period. In the interim, I want to bring up another matter. I said before that this is a conference. It is. What are we going to do about the tension in Harlem? What positive steps can be undertaken? I have drawn up a list of suggestions that I would like to read. They are not arbitrary — ”
Sam whispered to Suzy, “I’ll be right back. Wait here for me.” “Where are you going?” “See some guy.” He moved away from the desk as Clair began to read from a sheet of paper.
“ ‘1. A committee to be sent to the Mayor tomorrow morning. This committee to be composed of both Negroes and whites to be elected today. 2. We will request loud speakers from the Mayor to be installed in key points throughout Harlem. In case the tension increases or if a riot begins, the committee will broadcast direct to the rioters and dissuade them from rioting. 3. A memorandum describing the Buckles’ talk today to be prepared and printed. This memorandum to be mailed to all organizations, to all churches. We will ask ministers, priests and rabbis to read this memorandum to their congregations at the earliest opportunity. This memorandum to be distributed all over Harlem …’ ” Clair glanced up for a second. “Ladies and gentlemen, these suggestions and the others that I will read are merely suggestions. I think that most of us are agreed that our big problem is to demonstrate that there are both Negroes and whites who have faith and belief in each other and belief in democracy, a democracy of action, not of speeches and promises — ”
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