The Personal History of Rachel DuPree

by Ann Weisgarber

  “What happened to the other two?” I had asked Isaac when he brought the herd home.

  “Cost more than I figured,” he said, not meeting my eyes. I thought he was ashamed. I believed he was worried that I might think less of him, that I’d think he wasn’t a real rancher. I looked at my gold wedding band. That was where the money had gone. I took it off. “Here,” I said, holding it out.

  “No. Put it back on. No wife of mine goes bare handed.”

  I snapped my kitchen towel again at a cluster of flies, my wedding band flashing.

  Isaac had given money to that squaw. That was what was in his knapsack; that was how he got rid of her. At the time I didn’t let myself think about it. Now it made me sick.

  Under the kitchen table, Alise chattered as she played with her rag doll. Nearby, Emma was on her side, her thumb in her mouth, half asleep but fighting to keep her eyes open so she could watch her sister. Earlier she had been fussy, her gums suddenly sore and bright pink from teething. To ease her hurt, I had given her a teaspoon of children’s soothing syrup.

  What else could Isaac have done? Take the squaw in? Have her live in the barn? Or take just the boy and expect me to raise him? Don’t think about it, I told myself. It happened a long time ago, long before Isaac knew me. Think about something else.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead, then sifted flour for soda biscuits. In a few months, I’d be grateful for the oven’s heat. A nervous chill swept through me. In a month, there’d be nothing to cook.

  Don’t think about winter, either. Put your mind on your soda biscuits. Resolving to do that, I measured out the baking soda, the sugar, and the salt with measuring spoons instead of guessing. I spooned the batter onto the baking sheet, paying special mind to make sure that each biscuit would turn out the same size. I spaced them just right. I did all this as if I were new to cooking, as if I had not been cooking since I was six, Liz’s age.

  How many biscuits, I asked myself, do you suppose you’ve made? Hundreds? No, more than that. More like thousands. I’d probably made that many cookies too. Before the drought set in so hard, every Saturday I made two batches of cookies. I did that to please Isaac. He had a sweet tooth.

  He got that from his mother. Mrs. DuPree loved her sweets. And didn’t it show, Trudy the housemaid was prone to pointing out. I could fill my kitchen clear to the ceiling with the cookies I used to bake at Mrs. DuPree’s boardinghouse. There, I baked cookies with sugary white icing and cookies with big fat raisins. I made molasses cookies, lemon cookies, and oatmeal cookies. Sometimes they were for the boarders, but most times they were for Mrs. DuPree. At Christmas they were for her friends. Cakes too. I baked chocolate cakes with vanilla icing, and pound cakes with just enough brandy to bring out the flavor.

  I licked my lips, tasting it all. I put the sheet of soda biscuits in the cookstove and checked the heat. I recalled another hot and sticky day when I had baked two devil’s food cakes. I hadn’t been working for Mrs. DuPree all that long, maybe four or five months. It was 1896. I had just turned eighteen, and I was talking to myself about how mean Mrs. DuPree was for not letting me open the kitchen window to catch a bit of air.

  An open window meant flies, and even with the house closed up, the flies were thick that day. Of course, flies were nothing new in Chicago, especially as close to the slaughterhouse district as we were. But that day the flies were a personal insult to Mrs. DuPree. She was entertaining. Her literary club, the Circle of Eight, was meeting that afternoon in the parlor. This meeting, though, was not the usual book discussion followed by coffee and one of my fancy desserts. Far from it. Mrs. Ida B. Wells-Barnett, writer and owner of Chicago’s Negro newspaper, was coming to talk about her recent travels to England.

  As soon as the boarders had left that morning for work, I started in on making fresh bread and a spread of olives, nuts, and creamed cheese for tea sandwiches. That finished, I baked the Circle of Eight’s favorite: two devil’s food cakes, chocolate rich, with sprinkles of coconut on top. I was starting to ice the cakes when I heard Mrs. DuPree in the dining room just outside the kitchen door. She was talking to Trudy.

  “Flies,” Mrs. DuPree said. “They’re the bane of my life. Today of all days. Why me?”

  “Flies are the devil himself,” Trudy said.

  Mrs. DuPree clicked her tongue in a disapproving way. Then, “Of all days. Trudy, I’m warning you. Do not let go of that fan, I don’t care how tired your arms get. I don’t want the first fly to even think about landing on Mrs. Barnett. Or on her plate. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I want it so the ladies see nothing but a wicker leaf fan floating in the air, keeping the flies off, keeping us cool. Do not even let us get close to perspiring.”

  “Perspiring?” Trudy stumbled over the word.

  There was another disapproving click of the tongue. “Sweating.”

  This was my chance. I went to the kitchen door. “Mrs. DuPree, I’ll do the fanning. My arms are good and strong.”

  “Your place is in the kitchen.”

  I knew that, but that didn’t stop the disappointment. There was nothing more in this world that I wanted than to meet Ida B. Wells-Barnett. I admired her; every Negro alive admired her. Her newspaper columns were bold and blunt, and she wasn’t scared of anybody. Whenever there was a lynching, even in the Deep South, Mrs. Wells-Barnett was the first one there, searching for the truth with her notebook and pen. That was why she had gone to England. In London she spoke out against lynching—she had said so in her newspaper. She wanted to embarrass the people of America. She wanted to shame President Cleveland into punishing the killers.

  If Mrs. Wells-Barnett could go to England, if she could face Southern white sheriffs, I could stand up to Mrs. DuPree.

  “Please,” I said. “Could I just say hello to her? Tell her how me and my family read the Conservator every Sunday after dinner? Please, ma’am?”

  “Most certainly not. Mrs. Barnett has been invited to speak to the Circle of Eight. She does not expect to mingle with the help.”

  That stung.

  Later that day, Rose Douglas, Mrs. DuPree’s cousin on her mother’s side, arrived first. Rose wasn’t a member of the Circle of Eight. Her husband was an uneducated bricklayer. On special occasions, though, Mrs. DuPree invited her to help serve. It was her way, Mrs. DuPree once told me, of allowing Rose to stay in touch with the finer things in life.

  “Rose married down, darker too,” Mrs. DuPree had told me then. “Jim Douglas was nothing but a field hand fresh off the train from some plantation in South Carolina. He came here looking for a job; he had heard men were needed to build the World’s Fair. My aunt nearly died from the shame of it when Rose married him.” Mrs. DuPree sniffed. “I don’t even want to think how Rose met him.” Then she turned her eye on me and I could see what she was thinking. I was from a plantation. I was from the South. Worst of all, I was dark.

  She said, “Your father . . . didn’t you say he came out of the fields? In Mississippi?”

  I wanted to tell her that my mother had once been a housemaid. I wanted to say that my mother could read and write, and that my mother did not think she had married down when she married my father. Instead, I had said, “Louisiana. We’re from Louisiana.”

  The Circle of Eight ladies arrived a few minutes early that day; most of them brought their mothers, aunts, or daughters as invited guests. Mrs. DuPree’s friends, members of Chicago’s high Negro society, were at least four generations removed from slavery. They were smooth and their voices were like music. Their gloved hands fluttered while they made parlor-room talk. Some of them had gone to what Mrs. DuPree called finishing schools. The ladies were proud of their husbands what were doctors, lawyers, or merchants. They were a cut above the rest of us, and I had overheard enough to know that the ladies didn’t approve of Southern Negroes. Southern Negroes’ grammar left something to be desired, and they shuffled their feet and bobbed their heads when in the presence of w
hite people. The ladies did not appreciate Southern Negroes coming to Chicago and embarrassing them this way. But since they were there—and the ladies really wished they weren’t—it was their responsibility to set an uplifting example.

  And that, I couldn’t help but think as I trimmed the crusts from the tea sandwiches, was the funny thing about today’s guest of honor. Ida B. Wells-Barnett had been born a slave in Mississippi.

  I kept the kitchen door half open so I could listen and watch the Circle of Eight. It was a strain; the dining room was between me and the parlor. But if I stood just so, I caught a glance now and then of the ladies in their crisp white blouses with pleated sleeves puffed high at the shoulders and lacy collars that held their necks tall. Wide satin sashes, every color of the rainbow, showed off their waistlines pulled tight by corsets. Their dark skirts flared from their hips. Petticoats rustled when they walked. The ladies wore brooches pinned to their collars. Earrings of colored crystal beads dangled from their ears. Their broad-brimmed hats dipped, throwing shadows on their faces. Their maids, I knew, had worked hard to make the ladies look that good.

  I couldn’t imagine wearing fancy clothes on a Tuesday afternoon. I didn’t even have anything half as fine for Sundays. I put a hand on my collar. No brooch for me. Instead I had on the black dress with the starched white apron that Mrs. DuPree made me wear when special guests came. Trudy liked wearing hers. She was proud of it and especially liked how the apron strings made a crisp bow in the back. But I thought it was the kind of dress you’d expect to wear if you worked for a white woman.

  In the parlor the ladies talked, their voices high with excitement. I tiptoed into the dining room, stood close to a side wall, and peeked out. There was Trudy, standing to the side of the sofa, waving the fan, her face wet with sweat. Some of the younger women circled around the room looking out the windows, unable to sit still for more than a minute. They were as excited as I was about Ida B. Wells-Barnett.

  “I just don’t know what to call her,” Mrs. Fradin said. Her husband was a lawyer and had an office on the edge of downtown. Mrs. Fradin snapped open a fan. On it a picture of a pasty white woman with slanted eyes dressed in a long black narrow dress flashed before Mrs. Fradin’s coppery round face. “Should we call her Miss Wells, or is it Mrs. Wells-Barnett? Or Mrs. Barnett? I’ve heard it all three ways.”

  “She’s a married woman with two babies,” Mrs. DuPree said. “I’m calling her Mrs. Barnett.”

  “Yes, but her columns say Ida B. Wells. They wouldn’t say that, would they, if she didn’t approve? She’s the owner, after all, she and her husband.” Mrs. Fradin’s free hand played with her earring. “I wonder what he thinks about this business with her name?”

  “When I sent her my invitation,” Mrs. DuPree said, “I addressed her as Mrs. Barnett. She’s a married woman and that’s her name.”

  Rebecca Hall said, “I do believe that she prefers Mrs. Wells-Barnett. With a hyphen.” She leaned back in the black love seat. “Wells-Barnett is so modern. Don’t you agree, Mother?”

  Eve Hall raised her eyebrows. “I most certainly do not. I’m proud to be Mrs. Wilbur Hall, and someday, young lady, you’ll be proud to take your husband’s name.”

  I saw Mrs. DuPree frowning at me. I went back into the kitchen. Seemed to me that being modern didn’t have a thing to do with it. Ida B. Wells-Barnett had to keep her maiden name when she got married three years ago. If she had changed it, folks would feel like they didn’t know her. They’d worry that she wouldn’t speak her mind anymore. They’d say that marriage and motherhood had turned her soft.

  A little past three she arrived, and then I was tearing around the kitchen pouring coffee into the polished silver urn and arranging tea sandwiches on Mrs. DuPree’s white scallop-edged platter. Rose Douglas hurried into the kitchen and hurried back out with the coffee urn. A minute later she was back for the tea sandwiches.

  “Mrs. Douglas, let me carry that for you,” I said. “You’re wearing yourself out.”

  Sweat beaded Rose Douglas’s forehead, dampening a row of pressed curls. I gave her a handkerchief; she dabbed at her neck and face.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Elizabeth said you weren’t to—”

  But I was already past Rose Douglas, the platter held high. I didn’t care if Mrs. DuPree fired me. I was not going to miss the chance to see the world-famous Ida B. Wells-Barnett.

  I put the platter on the dining-room table. The ladies were talking, but I couldn’t make out any words, my ears were ringing so loud. I took a deep breath and went into the parlor. The ladies were a blur of hats and white blouses.

  I swallowed. Then I saw her.

  Mrs. Wells-Barnett was plainer than the Circle of Eight ladies. Her navy skirt wasn’t as full as the other ladies’. Her cream blouse was simple, with few lacy frills, and she didn’t wear a brooch. Her brimless hat had only one feather. She was round, and her skin was as black as mine.

  My heart pounding, I looked right at Mrs. Wells-Barnett and curtsied. “Refreshments are served,” I said in my best voice.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. DuPree. She was reared back in her chair, glaring and warning me off with several quick shakes of her head. I ignored her.

  “Why, honey, thank you,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said to me. She talked Southern, like my parents. “That is so good of you. And here we are, enjoying ourselves while you,” she turned toward Trudy, “while you both are working so hard.”

  I curtsied again, and Trudy bobbed, her fan dipping with her.

  “No need to curtsy me,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said. “I’m not royalty—wouldn’t want to be.” She held up her teacup. “There’s more African blood than white in my veins.” She paused. “Obviously.”

  I drew in my breath. Somebody made a sharp, gasping sound. Mrs. Wells-Barnett’s eyes smiled at me as she drank some tea. I raised my chin, a chill running along my spine. For the first time I was proud of my black skin.

  “Rachel,” Mrs. DuPree said, her voice hard. I flinched and then hurried back into the kitchen, the door closing behind me. There, I did a little two-step dance. Nothing Mrs. DuPree said or did was going to ruin what had just happened. Ida B. Wells-Barnett had looked me right in the eye and thanked me like I was somebody important.

  I heard what Mrs. Wells-Barnett really said behind her words: I know what it’s like to be a maid. That’s what she meant when she told me not to curtsy. I know how it feels when other people think you don’t count for much. Put your chin up, Rachel Reeves. Change their minds. Show them what you’re made of.

  “I will,” I said out loud in the empty kitchen. “I’ll make you proud. You’ll see.”

  Not that it’d be easy. Changing people’s minds never was. Especially people like Mrs. DuPree and the Circle of Eight ladies. But it could not have been easy for Mrs. Wells-Barnett. Her parents had died when she was sixteen, leaving her with five little brothers and sisters to rear. But she did all that and got an education too, good enough to be a newspaper lady. Mrs. DuPree was always saying education was the key to advancement for the Negro race. Maybe she was right, even if I didn’t care to admit that anything Mrs. DuPree said might be true. Ida B. Wells-Barnett was a living example of what a woman—a Negro woman—could be.

  Then and there, I vowed to do better. It was too late to go back to school; I had quit five years ago. But I could still improve my mind. That very night, I decided, as soon as the supper dishes were washed up, I’d ask Mrs. DuPree if I could borrow one of the books she kept locked in the parlor bookcase. That was, if she didn’t fire me. But if she said yes, I’d read two pages—no, five pages—every night, no matter how tired I was. And I wouldn’t quit just because I didn’t know all the words. I’d ask my mother and Sue to help me. If they didn’t know the words, I’d just have to ask Mrs. DuPree.

  I’d start saving my money too. After all, everyone knew a person couldn’t get ahead without a little savings. That’d mean no more Saturday evenings at the Peppermint Parlor. My
spirits drooped. The Peppermint Parlor was something to look forward to every week, that and church on Sunday mornings. Thinking about the Peppermint Parlor made getting out of bed on Monday mornings easier. It was where I went with friends for ice cream; it was where men courted young women.

  I could still go, I decided, if I settled for an iced drink instead of an ice cream soda. That saved money. Of course, I gave half of my wages to Dad—that was only fair. And some went in the church collection basket. But I didn’t have to have fancy buttons for my dresses, and I didn’t have to have a new pair of gloves every winter. I’d save for my future instead. Like Ida B. Wells-Barnett must have.

  And men? Mrs. Wells-Barnett was over thirty when she got married. She might have been born a slave, but that didn’t mean she kept her sights low. She married a newspaperman. She waited for a man of proven ambition. I didn’t know where I’d meet such a man, but if Mrs. Wells-Barnett managed to do it, so could I.

  The clock in the parlor chimed four times. Time to start supper.

  I was cutting up chicken parts to fry when the ladies applauded. Rose Douglas banged into the kitchen door with the empty urn. “More coffee,” she said. “And it’s time to serve the cake.”

  “Isn’t she something?” I said, wiping my hands on a damp washrag.

  “I’ll say. She’s certainly no lady.”

  I stared.

  “Embarrassed Elizabeth something awful. Told her her name is Mrs. Wells-Barnett. Of all the gall, treating her hostess like that.”