It was different, making love to Rodney. There was nothing hidden in him. He gave me everything he was, all of himself, willingly. There were no tricks, no ulterior motives and no demands. He took what I could give him in that moment and gave me everything in return.
I didn’t feel like he expected anything from me, and that was important because I had nothing permanent to offer him.
Part Seven: 1972-1974
Chapter Eighteen
Grad School-Law School
1972-73
THE CAB DROVE THROUGH the stately gates at St. Johns University, onto a tree-line drive of red, gold, green and amber foliage, dwarfed by the massive stone buildings. The cabbie dropped me at the main administrative building, that was topped with an iron cross set against a sky as blue as the ocean waters off the Caribbean island and named for the same saint, John the Baptist. Something about the spiritual, serene atmosphere soothed my soul and made me feel welcomed and happy.
I registered for classes and met with my department head, Dr. Merrick Harper, who helped me write the syllabus for the two freshman English courses I’d be teaching, under his direction.
I wrote my parents to give them my new address, a small apartment just off-campus set aside for professors and administrative staff who needed housing. It was adequate, convenient and cheap. Perfect.
I tried to sooth my dad’s anger about my clandestine departure by boasting about the campus, my job, my apartment and the Queens Borough of New York.
I started graduate school and soon was in a routine of classes, studies, and my part time job as a graduate assistant. That meant classes to teach, papers to grade, student conferences and staff meetings. When I walked to the English building I strolled around the bell tower that rose above the trees and rang out the time of day with a campanology of three brilliant clangs. I crossed the two, large lawns, separated by a walkway, around the old Catholic Church topped by a tall, domed spire with an iron, body-less cross encircled where the two appendages crisscrossed.
I hadn’t realized how many hours college professors worked until I became one, but I was happy and felt fulfilled. I loved being in school, learning and growing, and I loved my students, many were my age and some older.
Merrick Harper was thirty-five, handsome and well-dressed. His female students went gah-gah over him, whispered about him and made excuses to meet with him. He found it amusing. He taught Literature and Poetry in the Graduate School where I was a student. He directed my master’s program so he was more than my professor, he was my mentor and supervisor. Every graduate assistant had one.
He asked me to have dinner with him the first week. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, although there were rumors that he had a family. I didn’t know for sure, or care, so other than our age difference, and the fact that he was my boss, I didn’t see a problem. We’d get to know each other and establish a strong working relationship.
He was charming, yet honest and forthcoming. Before long we were having dinner a couple times a week and, after the first month, he took me to his apartment, a one room, cozy study he called his writer’s retreat. It had a fireplace, a mahogany desk, a bar with a sink and a small refrigerator and a Murphy bed that pulled out of the far wall, between the two floor to ceiling windows. A pair of wonderful club chairs sat in front of the fire and I sank into one.
“You like?” he asked when he brought me a glass of white wine.
“It’s wonderful Merrick. How did you find such a place?”
“Stay here long enough and things start to fall in your lap.”
He sat on the arm of my chair and stroked my hair. “It’s beautiful, you know.”
“What?”
“Your hair. Well, everything about you is beautiful.”
“Thank you.” We talked about literature, his travels to Europe, my dreams to write novels and, we made love.
It was sweet, gentle and comfortable. Twice a week we went to dinner and spent the night at his retreat. When he told me he was married, I wasn’t shocked, nor did it matter to me. That made it more comfortable, less pressure. I knew deep in my psyche, that I became involved with Merrick Harper because he had a wife, which made him unavailable. He would never pressure me to marry him.
I didn’t go home for visits, feigning lack of funds, extra work during breaks, studies and other obligations. Since my parents wouldn’t pay for me to fly home I wasn’t under any obligation to spend my hard-earned dollars on airfare. I knew my mother, especially, wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t visit during the three years I spent at St. John’s, even at Christmas time.
I secretly hoped Rodney would come to New York to see me, and at Christmas break, I waited, but he never arrived.
Occasionally I received a letter from Sissy, or from one of my brothers and I answered them with lots of facts about my life, school and job. I knew Daddy would read my letters so I wrote them appropriately. He called every week from his office. I didn’t speak with Mama, who Daddy said, was very busy with the children.
I wrote to Rodney and Marianne, and they wrote back. Their letters were newsy and filled with their busyness. My responses were similar. Every week, without fail, I received a letter from Rodney; and he called me once a month, regular as clockwork, for the first year. I wondered whether he wrote out of obligation or from habit or maybe from a feeling of compassion for me, alone and far from home. His words didn’t talk about love, the future or missing me—they were full of humor and anecdotes but he signed them:
I’ll love you always,
Yours forever,
Rod
And I thought he meant it.
The letters and calls began to dwindle during the second year, and by the third year, our correspondence consisted of Christmas and birthday cards and an occasional newspaper clipping that told of people back home.
I knew in my heart there was someone else in his life, after all, there was someone in mine. Because I loved Rodney so much, I was happy for him. He deserved a wonderful life with a girl he could be proud of and have children with and who would live in Jean Ville, Louisiana. I could never be that girl. Yet, as many times as I told myself I was happy for Rod, I was sad for myself. I missed him desperately. I needed him.
I went to the city on weekends to shop, sit in cafes and people-watch, and to get off campus. Merrick was with his family and it made me less antsy if I wasn’t on campus thinking about being alone while he was so busy. I looked for interracial couples who seemed to grow more commonplace.
Every time I saw a mixed race couple I not only dreamed about a future for me and Rodney, but I also thought about Emalene and Joe and my heart yearned to see my little girl—their little girl. Emalene sent me a picture of her at Christmas and on her birthday, August 15th, every year, but I never called. I didn’t even have the courage to ask what they named her, much less risk a visit. I knew I would want her, and that wouldn’t be right for her or me, and certainly not for Joe and Emalene. So I stayed away; but that didn’t mean I stopped thinking about her every day, and about Rodney. I might daydream about Rodney moving to New York; but I would never ask him to do that, never make him choose between me and his family.
I didn’t want to date. I was afraid of other experiences like the ones with Josh and Gavin, and I certainly wasn’t interested in another proposal. My relationship with Merrick was enough. We spent hours discussing journals, literary pieces and our experiences with students. We had a great deal in common and I enjoyed his company and, I think, I became a damn good writer because of his tutelage.
Just before graduation from St. John’s in 1974 I was teaching a freshman English class when a student knocked on my classroom door and handed me a note. It said that I had a telegram.
I was alarmed as I walked briskly across the front lawn to St. Augustine Hall to pick up the message. I thought of all the catastrophes that could befall the people I loved back home—Rodney? Marianne? Tootsie? Catfish? What about Sissy or my brothers?
Oh, maybe it was about my parents. My pace quickened.
I entered the student union and walked to the Western Union counter.
“Susanna Burton. There’s a telegram for me?”
“Yes, M’am,” the student said, and he took an envelope out of a slot behind him and handed it to me.
“You must be from the South,” I said. “I haven’t heard, ‘M’am,’ since I was home last.”
“Yes, M’am,” he said. “I’m from Jackson, Mississippi.”
“Well, I hope you like New York.”
“So far, so good,” he said and smiled his best smile.
I stepped to the corner of the room where there was a counter with pens and forms. It smelled of ink and foot odor and there was a ticking sound from the clock on the wall. The murmur of students hanging out in the union building attached to the post office faded in the background as I unfolded the paper and read the telegram.
Granddaddy very sick. Doc says not long now. He’s asking for you.
Marianne
I went to the English department and found Merrick. I explained that my surrogate grandfather was dying and I needed to go home to be with him. We were standing in the hall. A few students walked by and said hello, but it was obvious we were in a serious conversation. We knew there were rumors about us, but neither of us cared.
“You didn’t tell me you had a, did you say, ‘surrogate’ grandfather?”
“You never asked.” I tried to laugh it off. I didn’t talk about my family. I told him my dad was a CPA and I had a brother in law school and other siblings, but I didn’t go into detail. I certainly didn’t tell him about my special family in the Quarters.
“How long do you need?” he asked.
“At least a week. Of course I don’t know how sick he is. And if he dies ... funeral.” I looked up at the ceiling and felt salty tears begin to gather.
“Will that give you enough time, My Dear?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, Merrick. My thesis is almost finished. I just have some final revisions to do. I should be back in a week. If not, I’ll call or telegraph.”
“I’m sorry, Susie. Is there anything?”
“No, Merrick. Thank you. I appreciate you understanding.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“And I, you.”
He told me he’d manage my classes through finals, not to worry. He’d finalize the students’ grades for the classes I taught if I wasn’t back in time. We both wanted to hug and kiss good-bye, but, of course, we couldn’t.
“If you can’t get a flight out today, can we meet at my place to say`good-bye?” he asked.
“Sure, if I can’t get out, I’ll call you.”
I went to my apartment and packed a bag. I was able to get a flight to Baton Rouge that afternoon. At the airport I found a pay phone and called Rodney. We hadn’t seen each other in three years. I hadn’t heard his voice in almost two. I knew he was almost finished with law school and Marianne told me he would be moving to Jean Ville to practice at the District Attorney’s office.
When he answered the phone, I hung up. I thought how selfish it would be to disrupt whatever life he had built over the past three years. Maybe he had a steady girlfriend, maybe a fiancée. Maybe he was married.
Chapter Nineteen
Goodbye Cat
1974
I STEPPED OFF THE plane in Baton Rouge and it was sticky and hot, as if announcing what could be expected during the coming months. When I got to Jean Ville, the air was stifling. Even the birds hid in the shadows and refused to sing.
There was no breeze and not a leaf swayed nor a blade of the newly cut grass blew or skipped across the lawn in front of St. Matthew’s Baptist Church on St. Matthews Road a few days later. The church was old, it had been there for one-hundred years, before houses surrounded it or a grocery store had been built on Prescott Street, within walking distance.
The Chickasaw Indian Reservation was connected to the St. Matthew’s Quarters by a footpath that cut through the woods everyone called, “First Bridge.” I stared at the trees behind the church and remembered when I was six and my brother, James, led me deep into those woods and left me to wander deeper and deeper into the thickness until, petrified by the sounds and darkness, a posse of my parents’ friends found me after midnight. An electric pulse ran up my back. I shook it off
It was Friday, May 17, 1974. I had arrived from New York on Tuesday and went directly to Catfish’s house. He died an hour after I told him good-bye.
I stared at the tall, handsome figure who stood next to his dad at the front door of the church, greeting people. He had a white carnation pinned to the lapel of his perfectly fitted dark grey suit. The red and grey striped bow tie made him look sophisticated and grown-up. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as I stepped out of my dad’s car and stood on the sidewalk flanked by my two younger brothers and waited while Daddy parked his Mercedes.
Rodney must have felt my stare because he turned his head and looked at me. A controlled smile spread through his eyes and lifted the lines on either side of his mouth. I had kissed those full lips and had held that gaze while he gently made me his own. I would always be a part of him—my first kiss, first hug, first touch, first lover, first everything.
I swallowed hard.
In that moment, standing in front of that old Negro church between Will and Robby, I realized that Rodney Thibault was not only my first everything, he was my only everything. I stared at him and knew, in my knowing, that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be complete without him in my life. And I’d probably screwed that up by distancing myself, by not telling him how I felt.
It was a revelation that caught me off-guard. I shuttered and popped my knuckles by lacing my fingers together, extending my arms in front of me and pushing my palms outward, a nervous habit Mama had tried to get me to break for years. Rodney caught my unintended gesture and laughed, then he covered his mouth as if to catch himself.
I diverted my gaze to my dad when he walked up to my brothers and me on the sidewalk and led our little group up the steps and shook hands with family members standing on the little porch in the front of the church. I could feel Rodney’s eyes follow me, even while he was greeting other people.
I shook hands with Mr. Thibaut then I was standing in front of Rodney.
Time seemed to stop. He took both of my hands in his and although his palms were sweaty and warm, his touch sent shivers up my arms and I could feel goose bumps form under my long sleeved suit jacket. I breathed in the sweet fragrance of carnations, fresh cut grass in the church yard and gas fumes from the cars that were pulling up and parking in the lot behind Rodney. Most of all I smelled him— the sweat-filled, gas and oil-coated, ivory soap-showered, Tide detergent-washed, masculine scents of Rodney—those smells that could cause chills down my spine and moisture in my panties. And I stared at the hazel, amber, azure eyes that looked directly at me and made me feel like there were no other people for miles around.
When he opened his mouth to say “Susie,” I tasted peppermint and orange soda and remembered the first time he leaned against the car and said, “How you doin’ today?”
“Rodney,” I whispered. He smiled with his entire face, his lips parted and spread under high, lifted cheekbones and the sides of his eyes rose and his eyelashes touched his eyebrows and my eyes traveled from his bow tie to his lips to his cheeks to his eyes to his hairline, then back to his eyes and I stood there like a mannequin, composed but frozen, stymied. I wanted to say something but my voice wouldn’t cooperate and neither did his, so we just stood there, my hands in his, looking at each other and smiling, broadly.
All too soon he released me and my daddy pushed me with his hips and took my place in front of Rodney. I was mildly aware of him shaking hands with my dad and exchanging niceties as I made my way through the rest of the line and into the church.
I watched Rodney throughout the long, loud service. People scr
eamed, cried, laughed, shouted, sang, hummed, and even danced at various times. My brothers were entertained but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the gorgeous being who stood with the pallbearers, focused and purposeful throughout the service.
Rodney was Catholic, like me, so I presumed he was uncomfortable in the Baptist church, too—and when he looked at me, we shared a common expression of unrest.
The black station wagon led a long stream of cars up Ferdinand Street, onto Prescott, then west on Gravier Road. When the procession turned left onto South Jefferson Extension towards the Quarters, Daddy turned right towards our house.
“Please stop, Daddy,” I said. “I want to go to the burial.”
“Why are you are so involved in Catfish’s death and burial? You don’t even come home for Christmas, yet you came home for this?”
“It’s complicated. Just let me out here, I’ll walk to the Quarters.”
“I’ll just park in the Dauzat’s yard and we’ll all walk there together. If I park in the Quarters I’ll never get out my car out.” I could tell he was angry, but he seemed resigned. He insisted that he and the boys accompany me to protect me from, ‘those people.’
I wanted to ask Daddy what he meant when he referred to Tootsie and her family as, ‘those people.’ Is that what he called Tootsie, the woman he had been screwing for more than twenty years? The woman he might have a child with. I wanted to ask him why he taught us, his children, to be non-judgmental of Negroes, then he turned around and made comments like ‘those people.’ I wanted to remind him that Tootsie was Catfish’s daughter and that Tootsie was family and had raised his children. I had so many questions for him, for Daddy, but I didn’t ask any of them. I knew he was already angry and I also knew that even the most innocent comment could push him into violence—and what I needed to say to him was not innocent. But I had learned how to walk that tightrope, so I kept my mouth shut.
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