The House of Eve (25)

Inside, the pinewood floors gleamed like glass under her feet and the ceiling soared above her head, with a crystal chandelier catching the afternoon light. They turned in to the parlor, where on the wall above the fireplace was a painting that Eleanor recognized as a piece from Jacob Lawrence’s migration collection. She could only identify it because Mrs. Porter had shown her a recent article about Lawrence’s work in a glossy magazine and had started a hunt to secure something of his for “her collection.” Eleanor cocked her head, wondering if it was an original.

William interrupted her thoughts with two flutes. “You want orange juice or something stronger?”

“Orange juice, please.” She took the flute while wondering if the something stronger wouldn’t have settled her some.

While her father never needed an excuse to drink, her mother didn’t consume libations on Sundays, for it was the Lord’s day, and Eleanor hadn’t really drunk much at all. She couldn’t risk appearing off-kilter in front of these fancy people. While she sipped, her eyes took in the four white women giggling over champagne on tufted velvet chairs. William made the introductions, and the women were pleasant enough, but their presence caught Eleanor off guard. Maybe it was because she had spent so much time at Howard in the constant presence of Negroes, because it had never occurred to her that the brunch would be mixed companied.

William led Eleanor deeper into the house. Every room they entered had beautiful crown molding and detailed paneling. There were heavy mirrors on the wall and vases with sprays of exotic flowers in yellow and lilac and mint green at the very height of bloom. As Eleanor took in all of the elegant touches, from the glass end tables to the Persian rugs, she couldn’t help feeling like she had stumbled into a place where she didn’t belong.

William seemed to feel no such qualms. He came alive, his chest growing in size with each conversation. He introduced her to several more white people, and she continued searching for people who looked like her. How come his family didn’t have any Negro friends? It was odd in a city so fraught with Jim Crow laws. Who were his parents anyway?

In the next room, string music from the phonograph chimed under the laughter and loud bantering between guests. Two older gentlemen—both of them white—clutching half-empty tumblers, were in the middle of a heated discussion.

“Country-ass Negroes, always have to drag us down with this slave history crap,” one man said.

“I think it’s important to remember where we came from.”

“I think it’s important to forget it and move on.”

Eleanor’s jaw dropped. White people talking about Negroes like that? In their own home? Before she could stop herself, she glanced up at William in shock.

“You’ll have to excuse them.” He gestured to the men, whose faces had started to turn red from their debate. “Those are two of my father’s oldest friends. They were roommates at Howard. They argue about the same stuff at every brunch.”

“Howard?” fell from her lips, her head swinging as if on a swivel back in their direction. The men were Negro? Eleanor opened her eyes wider but didn’t see a trace of anything in their features that would mark them as such. Perhaps she had been wrong about the women in the parlor also. Before she could ask William, he reached out his arms.

“Dad.” William embraced a man who was the same sandy-skinned tone as him and almost identical, except for the little relief of his belly and gray streaks in his hair and mustache.

“Eleanor, this is my father. Dr. William Pride Senior.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“The honor is all mine.” His father took her hand warmly in his. Eleanor immediately felt a bit more at ease.

“William, you never told me you were a second.”

“I thought I did.”

“I would have remembered.” She tapped him playfully on the arm, as a sturdy, fair-skinned woman in a winter-white frock, embroidered with rhinestones, moved toward them. Her eyebrows arched up as she looked from Eleanor to William.

“Mother.”

“William, I haven’t seen you in—how long has it been? I couldn’t even say.”

“It’s been a week, Mother.” He leaned in to peck her cheek. She wiped imaginary dust from his lapel, but her eyes were on Eleanor.

“Feels much longer. You act like LeDroit Park is on the other side of the planet.”

“I’ve been studying.”

“Studying what is the question.” She turned her full gaze on Eleanor.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Pride. You have a lovely home.” Eleanor offered a smile and her hand as she introduced herself, but his mother kept her red painted lips tight.

“Quarles?” She looked Eleanor over. “Are you one of the McLean Quarles?”

“I beg your pardon?” Eleanor looked to William.

“Mother, Eleanor’s from Ohio.”

“Oh.” Rose Pride looked her up and down again, then turned her attention to a brown woman in uniform, who whispered discreetly into her ear. Rose nodded and put up two fingers.

“Which part of Ohio are you from?” she asked, cocking her head as if she wanted to hear better.

“A small town southwest of Cleveland.”

Rose’s expression looked as if she had tasted something bitter.