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dream,” Lance said, trying to keep a straight face.
“I can always use a good young man on my work crews. We
can start you off like I did—sweeping up, mopping, fixin’ what
needs fixin’ down at the warehouses,” Hank continued the ruse.
Charlotte was aghast, “You want your son around those
filthy men down on Tobacco Row?” she sputtered. The area
was as gritty as the businesses that functioned out of them.
Colonial Enterprises’ holdings were not pretty but they were
very profitable.
“Wel , Charlotte, you’re right. Those bankers down there are
thick as thieves sniffing and swarming all over Tobacco Row.
Are those the filthy men you’re talking about? Your husband
was a banker and Mr. Bennett always used to say that the scent
of tobacco was the smell of money.”
“You are teaching your son to be impertinent. I don’t
appreciate it and I don’t find it at all humorous. Margaret, say
something. Your son’s future is at stake.”
Until now, Maggie had been able to keep from laughing
at the fun her husband and son were having at her mother’s
expense, but Charlotte’s overwrought plea was just too much.
“Momma, what would be the harm in your grandson doing
as well as his father?”
“He would do better if he fol owed your father’s professional path, Margaret.” Charlotte turned on Hank. “You are no one
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from nowhere. If you hadn’t had the insane good fortune of
marrying my daughter, you never would have made anything
of yourself. If you want your son to work for a living, then drag
him into your pedestrian environment. If you want more for
him you’ll encourage him to be a banker, a respected profession
that exudes culture and class.”
Inured to Charlotte’s insults, Hank asked, “So, bankers
don’t work for a living?”
“I’m going home,” Charlotte sputtered as she rose from her
rocker and stomped off the screen porch. Slamming the door
she headed for her car. She had driven the two short blocks
from her house to her daughter’s that evening.
“Do you want me to drive you home? I can walk back.”
Lance called after her.
“No, you stay there and work out the terms of your inden-
tured servitude,” Charlotte said.
While she arranged her dress, put on her driving hat and
gloves, Lance said, loud enough for her to hear, “So, Daddy,
what’s the going rate for an ambitious young janitor these days?”
70
• 7 •
Richmond, Virginia—1930
(I)
“Hank, why won’t you go? I’m president of
the League. I have to be there and I can’t go
without my husband,” Maggie said, leafing
through the latest edition of Vogue magazine. “I’m picking out my dress right now and I’ll be ordering you a tuxedo as well.”
Hank looked up from the business section of the
Times-Dispatch and took a swallow from the tall glass of bourbon that had become a fixture on the night table each evening.
“Maggie, I already told you. I don’t want anything to do with
that society crowd and their fancy galas. I just want to go to
work, come home and be with you and Lance. That’s all I
need—just us.”
“Hank Whitaker, every year since Momma sponsored me
for the League, I’ve made one excuse after the other for you not
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being able to attend our events. There are only so many colds
or conflicting business appointments a man can have before
it is obvious to everyone that you refuse to escort your wife
and mother-in-law to any of our events. This year Hank, you
have to go and don’t you dare tell me no. All you have to do is
stand around, have a few brief conversations, eat dinner and
then we’ll go home. If you’re not there, everyone will wonder
why. What do I tell them?”
“Tell them I’m sick,” Hank said, downing another mouthful
of bourbon.
“No, not again, I will not lie for you this time,” Maggie said.
She looked over at Hank, he had put down the newspaper and
was moving a hand fitful y back and forth across his mouth; his
other hand was tightly clenched around the near empty glass
of bourbon. His eyes were distant. He looked desperate, like
a man being asked to commit some heinous crime. This was
more than not wanting to go to a League Gala.
“What is it Hank?” Maggie asked, softening. “Talk to me.
What’s the matter?” She got up, walked around to Hank’s side
of the bed and knelt next to him.
“I don’t fit in,” Hank said, barely above a whisper. “There
are things I can do. I can make a good living for you and our
son, I do just fine when it comes to workin’ with clients, nego-
tiating and supervising—as long as it’s work and it has some
purpose. But getting all dressed up to sit around pretending to
be better than everyone else—pretending to be someone I’m
not, I can’t do that.”
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“Hank, look at me,” Maggie said, taking his hand in hers.
“These people aren’t any better than you are. Just because you
came from a humble background doesn’t mean you don’t deserve
to take your place with the other wealthy businessmen in
Richmond. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, Mr.
Whitaker, you’ve made quite a success of yourself.” Maggie’s
praise made Hank smile.
“I’m so proud of you, Hank Whitaker, I want to show you
off,” Maggie said and kissed him. “I want to walk into that
ballroom on the arm of my handsome husband. I know you
hate this kind of thing. Whenever the ladies come over you
disappear. I know you struggle during our dinner parties—but
you always survive. I promise we’ll only stay as long as we
have to and then I’ll bring you home and I will reward you for
being so gracious to your wife,” Maggie said, playful y rubbing
Hank’s thigh.
Hank looked at his wife. He loved her and their son, but
the life he’d constructed seemed to be collapsing in on him
more and more each day. He remembered his mother telling
him that sooner or later all the lies you tell catch up with you.
Maybe if he had told Maggie who he was in the beginning he
would not have twenty years of lies eating away at his soul. For
all that time, to keep from being exposed, he’d kept his head
down and avoided the false camaraderie of Richmond’s social
organizations and business clubs. Maggie, following in her
mother’s footsteps, became increasingly involved in Richmond
society and her involvement put constant pressure on him, and
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Donna Drew Sawyer
his son, to be involved as wel . This was the part of passing that
Hank found the most difficult to negotiate.
“Hank please, we have obligations,” Maggie pleaded, “Wil
you go for me, just this once.”
(II)
>
“Aren’t you proud of your wife, Hank? My Margaret, pres-
ident of the Women’s League—presiding over the 1930 Spring
Gala, one of Richmond’s biggest social events,” Charlotte
gushed from the back seat of the car.
“I am always proud of Maggie,” Hank said.
“I’m just glad you aren’t pretending to be sick or traveling
on business. I don’t know what I would have told the ladies if
you hadn’t escorted me this year,” Maggie said.
“I’m here, Maggie,” Hank said as he steeled himself for
the event.
“It’s going to be the most beautiful gala ever, Hank, you’ll
see. Everyone will be talking about this for years to come,”
Maggie continued.
Richmond’s early spring felt more like late summer as Hank
drove Maggie and Charlotte downtown for the dreaded event.
The air was warm, thick with scent of magnolia and honey-
suckle; the syrupy sweetness was suffocating. As the women
chatted excitedly in the car, Hank felt sweat form a warning
on his upper lip. The collar of his new tuxedo shirt and white
tie seemed to be wrenching tighter and tighter around his neck
in competition with the ridiculous waistcoat that was pressing
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all of the air out of his diaphragm and his dinner jacket was
close to smothering him.
“I don’t know why we have to put on all these clothes,”
Hank complained.
“Stop fidgeting like a four-year-old,” Maggie said, as she
reached over and rubbed Hank’s arm. “You look very distin-
guished tonight. The little touch of grey in your hair is very
attractive,” she brushed her finger through his hair. “I dare say
you’ll be the most attractive man there. I promise you’ll have
a good time. All you have to do is be yourself and have a few
conversations with the men you do business with. They’ll all
be there. We’ll eat dinner and then we can go home.”
“I do business with these people; I’m not interested in being
their friends. I don’t fit in,” Hank said barely audible.
“Hank,” Maggie said, putting her hand on his, “we talked
about this,” she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I know how
you feel about tonight and I appreciate you escorting Momma
and me. Isn’t that right Momma?” Maggie said, turning to
look at Charlotte in the back seat of the car.
“We all have obligations,” was all Charlotte would offer.
“And burdens,” Hank responded to Charlotte’s sarcasm.
Fortunately, they were pulling up to the hotel and Charlotte
did not have time to take another verbal jab at her son-in-law.
“I’ll park and meet you inside,” Hank said as he dropped
Maggie and Charlotte off, refusing the bellman’s offer to park
the car. Hank drove to the far end of the parking lot. After
pulling into a spot he took his handkerchief from his breast
pocket and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. He looked
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Donna Drew Sawyer
toward the line of cars pulling up to the hotel, pulled a flask
from his jacket pocket and took a couple of sips, hoping to take
the edge off of his anxiety. He knew he needed to cut back his
drinking. James mentioned that a couple of customers had made
remarks about smelling alcohol on his breath. However, this
was not the time to start rehabilitation. He needed bourbon
to get through tonight. Hank started to return the flask to his
breast pocket but instead he drained its contents, fighting the
urge to get back in the car and drive away. Only the thought
of Maggie waiting for him propelled him toward the bright
lights of the hotel. He had to do this, yet another of the endless
hurdles he had to negotiate to maintain his impossible trans-
formation from colored to white.
(III)
Maggie was waiting for Hank outside of the ballroom. In
the dress she had ordered from Paris, she looked like the exqui-
site, southern woman of means she had become. She was no
longer the spirited girl he fell in love with. She had settled into being the traditional southern society woman her mother always
wanted her to be. He shared her with the League, Charlotte
and Lance, in that order. He still loved her but they were on
different paths—his more private and hers more public.
Lance was stretched between his parents’ worlds. Working
with his father summers and in the afternoons in this year
before he left for college, Lance began to yield to his father’s
influence and the way Del had raised him. Lance had more of
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Hank’s upbringing than he thought was possible. My family
would be proud of my son. The thought that they would never know he had a son pained Hank.
“There you are,” Maggie said, kissing Hank on the cheek.
“There’s my handsome husband.”
“Don’t leave me tonight,” Hank whispered in Maggie’s ear.
Maggie looked at Hank, she could smell the bourbon on
his breath but she laughed off her concern saying, “Don’t worry;
I’ll keep the women at bay.”
They made their entrance and the event was exactly the
spectacle Hank knew it would be. He was plunged into a
large room filled with southern gentry, a sea of whiteness.
Hank instinctively pulled his wife closer. Approaching mid-
dle age, they were still a most attractive couple. Hank tall
and fair and, despite his success, his eyes still held that tinge
of sadness Maggie had seen in them so many years ago.
Maggie was still the petite raven haired beauty. Hank looked
down at his wife of nearly twenty years remembering the
young girl sitting on her porch, the one he thought needed
taking care of. In reality, he was the one who needed her
and that was still true. Hank could still feel the warmth of
the whiskey in the pit of his stomach. It did not help the
panic that he felt rising from the same place. He tightened
his arm around Maggie.
“Hank, you’re about to crush my dress. Relax, please,” she
whispered, escaping his grip. As the guests waited for dinner,
servers passed glasses of iced tea and soda water from silver trays, a difficult concession to prohibition. While Maggie chatted
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Donna Drew Sawyer
with her friends, Hank watched the black and brown men in
their ridiculous waistcoats, frilly shirts and white gloves, move
silently through the crowd of white men and women who only
acknowledged their presence when they wanted something.
Hank noticed how aged some of the servers were. They looked
as if they could barely move yet they hoisted heavy silver trays
filled with drinks, dispensing them throughout the crowd,
then replenishing the trays to begin the ritual again. Others,
younger than his seventeen year-old son, wove between the
partygoers with canapés and more drinks, their eyes always
cast downward.
I see you, I know you, Hank wanted to say but none of them
would make eye contact
with him. Negroes never looked a
white man or woman directly in the eye. They would only speak
when spoken to and then it was usually a mumbled yes sir, no
sir or yes’em, no my lady. To these Negro men, Hank was the enemy – someone to be served and loathed in silence. I’m your
brother, Hank wanted to say, or at least I used to be.
“Hank Whitaker,” he heard his name and looked around
to see John Morris, the man who had taken over as bank pres-
ident when Maggie’s father died. “One of my best customers,”
Morris said, clapping Hank on the back. “Let me borrow you
from your lovely wife for a few minutes. I promise Maggie, I
will have him back to you in time for dinner.”
Morris signaled for Hank to follow him into a room off
the main hall. “We shall retire briefly to the library,” Morris
chuckled, opening the door to a room filled with men, bour-
bon and brotherhood. “Only place a man can get a real drink
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at this shindig, God damn prohibition,” Morris said with a
hardy laugh.
“What is your pleasure, sir?” one of the waiters, a young
black man, asked Hank.
“Bourbon,” Hank said, relieved that he had the option of
something other than weak tea. He watched the young man as
he went to the sideboard and poured the drink. By his diction
and demeanor, Hank could tell that he was probably a student
at Virginia Union, the Negro col ege in Richmond. He returned
with Hank’s drink on a silver tray.
“How old are you?” Hank asked as he accepted the glass.
“Sir?” the young man asked, surprised to be addressed by a
white person with anything other than an order or complaint.
“How old are you? Seventeen, eighteen?” Hank asked,
making the boy even more uncomfortable.
“Eighteen,” the young man said. He attempted to leave to
fill another order, but Hank reached out and touched his arm.
“I have a son close to your age. Are you in school?”
“Yes sir, over at Virginia Union.”
“That’s what I thought,” Hank said as Morris walked up.
“What do you think you’re doin’ standin’ around talking
to the guests? We pay you to get drinks not to socialize.”
Hank put his hand on Morris’ arm. “I was asking the
young man to get me another drink,” Hank said, retuning
his already empty glass to the silver tray. “This time, make it