a double will you, son?” The young man quickly disappeared
in the direction of the bar. “Careful how you talk to niggers,”
Morris said. “Don’t want them to forget their place.”
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“He’s about the same age as my son,” Hank said.
“But he ain’t your son,” Morris said, “We need to make
sure these niggers know their place. We were just talkin’ about
that earlier. When they get to that nigger’s age we got to keep
the pressure on, keep ‘em away from our women.”
“He’s not a threat to anyone here,” Hank said, think-
ing of some of the frightfully unattractive women he’d seen
this evening.
“And we’re making’ sure of that,” Morris said, motioning to
a group of men near the bar to join them. “We were discussin’
our next step with the Racial Integrity Act. I know you’ll want
to be a part of the effort here in Richmond. If we hadn’t gotten
that Act passed by the legislature they’d be marrying our women
and there’d be race mixing to point where we wouldn’t be able
to protect our whiteness. I want you to join our chapter of the
Anglo-Saxon Clubs of America. We’re a progressive group;
don’t go in for cross burnin’ and lynching like the KKK. We’re
committed to racial purity based on scientific social policy.”
Hank accepted another drink and tried to tune out Morris’
racist ramblings. He could handle the insecurity of being who
he was with a few people, but at a large social gathering he
felt as if his true identity would somehow become apparent,
revealing the Negro in their midst and there would be no way
for him to escape.
It was even harder to hold his tongue when he had to listen
to racist remarks and threats. He hated the pretentious formality
of Richmond social events. Negroes, at least the ones he grew
up with, didn’t have cotil ions and galas. They had folks over for
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supper; they had parties to celebrate real things like marriages,
birthdays and holidays. They always came as themselves, not
dressed up like they weren’t who they were every day.
Hank looked over at the young waiter again and saw him-
self at that age. When he looked back at Morris, he saw the
face of the sheriff that had forced him to leave Park Place. He
saw the man’s mouth moving and the other men in the group
nodding in eager agreement, Hank shook his head to get the
image of the dying sheriff out of his mind. He caught the last
part of Morris’ racist rant,
“…pass legislation keeping anyone of any color, except pure
white, from marrying our women.”
Fueled by several glasses of bourbon, Hank could feel the
words, you’re too late, forming in his throat. Before they reached his mouth, the door to the library swung open and Morris’
wife and several other women interrupted the gathering to the
sound of a clanging bell and a booming baritone announcing,
“Dinner is served.”
Mrs. Morris grabbed her husband by the arm and dragged
him away saying,
“We need to get to the table first in case I need to rearrange
the seating cards.”
Morris called after Hank, “We’ll talk more after dinner.”
Not if I can help it, Hank thought.
“Saved by the bell,” Maggie laughed as she found Hank,
slipped her arm through his and guided them toward the dining
room. “The Morrises,” she said shaking her head. “He’s pompous
and she’s insufferable—they are perfect for each other. That’s
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half the fun of these events,” Maggie whispered. “You get to
see who belongs to whom and you wonder what on earth he is
doing with her or she is doing with him.”
“What do you think they say about us?” Hank asked Maggie.
“I think they say what a handsome couple Margaret and
Henry Whitaker make,” she said.
Hank looked at his wife and said, “You look beautiful
tonight Maggie, that’s what they would say.” If they knew me,
Hank thought, really knew me, they would be speechless.
(IV)
Maggie climbed the steps ahead of Hank to seat them on
the dais.
“I don’t want to sit up here Maggie, up here with everyone
looking at us,” Hank said. He had already had enough bourbon
and bull for one evening.
“Don’t be silly Hank, I’m the League president; this is
my event.”
“Why don’t you let your mother sit up here with you; these
folks here don’t want to see me.”
“Hank stop it,” Maggie snapped, tired of trying to put
Hank at ease. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness.” From the
potent combination of alcohol, the stifling heat in the room
and the anger Morris’ racist comments generated, Hank was
in danger of losing control. He pul ed the chair out for his wife
but instead of sitting down next to her, he walked unsteadily
down to the main dining room floor where Charlotte was
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seated with several of her friends. As he arrived at the table
he tripped, nearly landing in her lap.
“Charlotte, I’m not feeling well. Would you sit up there
with Maggie tonight?” Charlotte looked at Hank warily. “I
will arrange for you two to get home,” he continued, slightly
slurring his words.
“You’re drunk, Hank Whitaker,” Charlotte whispered as
he escorted her to Maggie’s side on the dais.
“Hank, sit down!” Maggie whispered to her husband.
“I can’t, I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Hank turned and walked
to the exit without looking back to see the horror on the faces
of his wife and mother-in-law.
(V)
Hank burst through the front door of the house. He was
still very drunk and had nearly driven the car off the road
several times trying to get home to see his son. He stumbled
up the stairs to Lance’s bedroom.
“Lance, Lance,” Hank said, shaking his sleeping son. The
boy was in that deep nearly impenetrable sleep that only some-
one with no worries can attain.
“Wake up son. I need to talk to you,” Hank said, look-
ing at the almost eighteen-year-old spitting image of himself.
Instead of his son, Hank kept seeing the young waiter at the
dinner tonight. The only reason Lance had all the potential
the world had to offer was because his father had deceived
everyone he loved.
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“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? God, what time is it anyway?”
Lance said, struggling to wake up.
“I need to talk to you boy,” Hank said, sitting down heavily
on the bed.
“What is it?” Lance asked as he shrugged his father’s hand
from shoulder. He could smell the liquor on his father’s breath
and in the wedge of light coming into the room from the hall-
way, he saw that his father was dripping with sweat and barel
y
able to sit upright.
“You’re drunk. Where’s Momma? You’re supposed to be
at her gala. Did something happen?”
Hank didn’t answer his son’s questions; he just dropped
his head into his hands.
“Daddy! Did you hear me? What’s going on? Where’s
Momma? What happened to you?”
“Your Momma’s fine, I’m the one in trouble. She’ll never
forgive me, I’ll never forgive myself. I thought I could get
through anything but after more than twenty years I can’t
stomach any more of this shit!” Hank spat out the last word
in disgust.
“What are you talking about Daddy? Twenty years of
what?” Lance asked. He had noticed changes in his father
over the last couple of years. He seemed to be aging quickly;
it wasn’t the grey that salted his sandy hair, it was the weari-
ness that enveloped his face and a malaise that seemed to be
taking his father away from him. Hank would close himself
off in his office at work or his study at home, furiously writing
in a leather journal that he kept with him or hidden away. He
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noticed his father’s frequent surreptitious swigs from the silver
flask he kept in his breast pocket and the glass of bourbon
that he filled and refilled every evening at home. Hank would
often sit alone on the back porch at night staring out into the
darkness and, at least a couple of times a week, Hank was too
drunk to get himself to bed so Lance would put him in one of
the guest rooms so as not to wake his mother. His father was
disintegrating before his eyes, and he did not know what was
driving him from proud to pathetic.
“What is the matter with you, Daddy?” Lance climbed out
of bed to face his father.
Hank looked up at his son with bloodshot eyes,
“I thought I could get used to it,” Hank said quietly. “After
hearing it all my life I tried not to let it bother me anymore,
but tonight when Morris said—” Hank stopped for a moment
as his anger built. “I watched those black men moving around
that room like they were invisible, Morris talking about them
like they weren’t human, saying things about purity and keepin’
them in their place like he was God and they were nothing. I
was raised by colored people Lance, and I never understood why
white people treated them like they wasn’t God’s children too.
But I think I’ve finally figured it out; behind the white man’s
hatred for Negroes, for Indians, for everyone, is nothin’ but
fear. The only way they can feel powerful is to weaken everyone
else. The only way they feel smart is to convince themselves
that everyone else is ignorant. The only way to stay rich, is to
squeeze another man until he has nothing at all.”
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Hearing the commotion Hank made getting into the
house and stumbling up the stairs, Del came from her room
near the kitchen to see the front door ajar and Hank’s tuxedo
jacket laying at the foot of the stairs. Not wanting to overstep
her boundaries and intrude on Mr. Hank and Miss Maggie’s
personal affairs, Del picked up the jacket and waited at the
foot of the stairs until she heard young Lance asking, “What
happened to you? Where’s Momma?” Her foot was on the step
when there was a knock on the front door. Del opened it to find
Charlotte’s maid, Frances, wearing a shawl over her nightgown.
“What you doin’ out in the night dressed like that, Frances?”
Del asked. In her monotone voice, Frances repeated exactly
what she had been told to say.
“Miss Charlotte said she wants Mr. Lance to know that
Miss Margaret is at Miss Charlotte’s house and that he should
come by there in the morning to fetch his Momma. Miss
Charlotte also said not to tell Mr. Hank a goddamn thing.”
When she finished she pushed her wire rim glasses up on the
broad nose that took up most of her round plain face and stood
like an obedient child waiting for Del to give her another task.
“Frances, you go on home now,” Del said, wishing the
woman had at least an ounce of discretion to go along with
the half ounce of brains God seemed to have given her. “Del
has things in hand over here. Mr. Lance be ‘round there in
the morning. You tell Miss Maggie not to worry.” Frances
waddled back out into the night, the wind whipping the long
braid down her back and her cotton nightgown around her
barrel-shaped torso.
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Storm comin’ Del thought as she closed the door, referring
to more than the weather.
“Mr. Hank, is that you?” Del said taking the steps two at
a time to find Hank sitting on Lance’s bed and Lance kneeling
in front of his father, trying to shake him out of his stupor.
“Oh, Del, Del,” Hank moaned, but did not look up. His
head was still buried in his hands.
“What the hell is the matter with him,” Lance asked Del.
“Do you know where my mother is?”
“Don’t you worry none,” Del said to both of them. “Frances
come over to tell us Miss Maggie’s down at Miss Charlotte’s
house. They doin’ a little gossipin’ about the evening they had.
Your Daddy had a little too much of the spirits, Lance, but he
be all right. We gonna go down to the kitchen and get some
black coffee. You go on back to bed, everything be all right.”
As it had been Lance’s entire life, Del was there to fix
things—a skinned knee, salve for the body, food for the soul,
words of encouragement and a firm hand for guidance when
it was needed. Lance and everyone one else in the Whitaker
house counted on Del for those things. Del helped Hank to
his feet – she was in her early seventies yet she was still strong, unlined and trim. No one thought of her as old, just wise.
Like a child hanging onto a parent, Hank grasped Del’s
hand; she walked him out of Lance’s room and sat him in
a chair in the hallway. She reappeared in the doorway of
Lance’s bedroom.
“You go on to sleep now, boy. Your Daddy gonna be just
fine. You know how mens get when they get together. He be
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Donna Drew Sawyer
right as rain in the morning. Come on now, climb on in the
bed. Want Del to tuck you in like I’d do when you was little?”
“You take care of Daddy,” Lance said, not wanting to take
on the burden of his father’s problems. “He needs you more
than I do right now.” Del closed the bedroom door but Lance
could hear her coaxing Hank to his feet. He heard the two of
them shuffle down the hall to the back stairs, descend into the
kitchen and close the door. In the darkness, Lance prayed Del
was right, that his father would be just fine in the morning but
in his gut he knew there was more to his father’s troubles than
a night of too much to drink.
(VI)
“Del, I’m in some kinda tro
uble and I’m in so deep I can’t
see my way out,” Hank said as he sat at the big wooden table in
the kitchen and watched Del pour hot coffee into a mug from
the enamel pot she kept on the stove.
Del knew Mr. Hank needed someone to talk to tonight—in
a way she wished she wasn’t the one here to listen. She didn’t
want to know anything that would change how she felt about
this beautiful man. If he had the strength to tell whatever it
was, she had to be strong enough to hear it.
“Del’s here to listen, Mr. Hank” she said. “Sometimes
that’s all a body needs, someone to listen.” Del watched Hank
closely as he sat quietly and sipped the coffee she had poured
for him, his eyes in a faraway place.
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After a few minutes, Hank put down the cup and leaned
his elbows on the table. He looked up at Del standing on the
other side of the room near the stove.
“Will you sit down here with me?” Hank asked, patting the
chair next to him. Even though the kitchen was Del’s domain,
this was Hank Whitaker’s house and she knew to stay in her
place. Though she wanted to take him in her arms and tell
him things gonna be okay, she could not sit down at the table
with her employer.
“Mr. Hank, you know I can’t do that,” Del said.
“Yes you can,” Hank said. “We’re the same, Del, you and
me, we’re the same.”
“Mr. Hank, I know we all God’s children but on this here
earth we ain’t the same. I understand that and I’m at peace with
that—you have to be too.”
“Del, I’m askin’ you to please sit here next to me,” Hank
said. “I so need the warmth of humanity near me for what I have
to do.” Hank’s eyes were pleading and now Del was afraid. She
walked slowly to the table and perched on one of the straight
wooden chairs, a couple of seats between her and Hank. Hank
reached over, took Del’s hand and gently pulled her into the
chair next to his. The rain that threatened earlier battered the
tin roof of the kitchen porch and even with the windows open
and the door to the screen porch letting in the cool damp air,
the kitchen, filled with Hank’s sorrow and pain, was as close
as an August afternoon. Both Hank and Del felt it. Tonight
had the same fatal tension as the night Del’s husband died and
before that, her mama and her daddy.
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