The House of Eve (33)
She looked me up and down, then slipped a pair of gloves over her hands and opened the case containing the stockings. Each pair was separated by a thin piece of tissue paper. In the end, we decided on a crispy nylon taffeta garter belt and a pair of reinforced heel and toe knit stockings. Aunt Marie returned as the saleswoman placed them in a crisp white paper bag with gold lettering.
“Give her a second pair in case she gets a run in one of them.”
Outside, I threw my arms around Aunt Marie in gratitude.
Not one for a lot of affection, especially not in public, Aunt Marie tapped my arm and then nudged me away. “You can pay me back by helping me clean Kiki’s on a few Monday mornings while you out for the summer. Way for me to make a little extra money to help make ends meet.”
“Anything,” I said, grinning, gripping my bag. I could not contain my excitement. I didn’t need Gimbels—this was like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. I was chatting on about which of my skirts would look good with my new stockings when I stepped off the curb and bumped into someone’s shoulder. I looked up and saw a thin white woman grimacing at me, a young girl in a gray wool coat by her side.
“Watch where you’re going, nigger,” she hissed as she grabbed her daughter tightly by the wrist.
I stumbled backwards, feeling as if she had punched me in the gut. No one had ever hurled that word directly at me in my life, and for a split second I felt completely dumbstruck.
“It was… an accident,” I murmured finally.
The woman straightened her pillbox hat. “Now I must shower!”
“Not a bad idea. I can smell you from way over here,” Aunt Marie said matter-of-factly. The woman looked at both of us and shouted, “Stay in your own neighborhood.”
“I pay taxes just like you. Next time watch where you’re going,” Aunt Marie called back before grabbing me by the hand and marching me off in the opposite direction. I followed her farther down the street toward city hall and into Gimbels, but my head had filled with lead.
The inside of the store smelled of sweet perfumes and creamy cosmetics. Everywhere I looked my eyes were met with sparkling hanging displays. The beautiful glass escalator that wound across three stories was like an invitation to heaven. But there was no magic in the moment for me. Instead of moving through the room wide-eyed, I felt the stares of every white person we passed. It was suffocating. The double-door exit was up ahead on the right, and I pushed out and onto the sidewalk.
An angry horn blasted at a passerby crossing the street, the traffic light turned from red to green, as the woman’s voice echoed in my ears. Nigger.
Mr. Greenwald’s mean face bore down on me. You can’t be friends with the likes of her.
Mrs. Thomas’s clenched teeth. There are plenty of Negro kids who would kill for your place in this program.
And then I was reminded all over again. What I’d known to be true from the moment Shimmy knocked on Aunt Marie’s door. This thing between us would never survive. The world wouldn’t permit us the light to grow. Shimmy and I would forever be sneaking around in dark parking lots, lurking in piss-infected alleys, with me always crouched down in the back seat. Our relationship was doomed from the start. Before I got hurt, I had to let him and the fantasy world we had created go.
The white bag with my coveted stockings slipped from my hand and onto a patch of dirt in the street. Aunt Marie stooped down and retrieved it, dusting away the grime. But I didn’t reach for the bag.
“Can’t let nobody steal your joy, sweetness, or you gon’ live a miserable life. I done seen it. You show that ignorant woman by getting your education. Keep your eye on the prize. Forget about her.”
I nodded like I understood, but the hurt had shattered into sharp pieces that scraped and bruised the inside of my throat. Knowing about racism and being abused by its wrath were two different things. Mechanically, I followed my aunt to the bus stop that would take us back to our cage in North Philadelphia. Where it had been decided for us that it was where we belonged. Crammed together like pigs in a stall so tight, it was impossible to dream or breathe. Every single day we had to fight for food, for carfare. And this trip downtown had shown me that we even had to fight for what should have been free: our dignity.
CHAPTER TWELVE LIGHT OUT
Eleanor
Making up excuses to stay overnight with William on the weekends became as natural to Eleanor as fitting women at the department store. When they couldn’t meet in person, Eleanor monopolized one of the three telephones on the first floor of her dormitory, shooing girls away if they even tried to go near her middle stall. There was a forty-five-minute time limit per call, and William phoned every weeknight at nine o’clock sharp. Eleanor liked that he was a man of his word. Sturdy and dependable, just like her father.
Each night, he’d start with asking her about her day. And he never seemed to tire of the intricate details of her archival work with Mrs. Porter, or her complaints about Nadine leaving their small room like a typhoon had hit it each time she went out.
“Her mother needs to hire a maid or something to come by. I love her dearly, but the girl is a train wreck,” Eleanor joked.
But as much as they talked, she avoided conversations about money; never disclosing when she’d been called to the bursar’s office because her tuition was overdue, never complaining when she had been removed from the schedule at the department store because they had hired new girls who needed to be trained on her shift.