House of Rougeaux(28)

“That may be so,” allows Charlie, Loretta’s beau, “but this is different. This is the white man’s war. There ain’t no Hitler over there. The Black man is the white man’s cannon fodder.” Dr. King has spoken out against the war in Asia, and Brother Malcolm too. Charlie has never followed the Nation of Islam, but he still refers to the now ex-minister in this way. Indeed, Black boys are being drafted at twice the rate of whites, and are suffering double the casualties of white soldiers. That’s cannon fodder, if ever there was such a thing.

The women are less concerned with the politics. “If he goes up to Canada,” says Aunt Violet, “he may never be able to come back.”

Everyone stays quiet after that. The meeting, for tonight at least, is adjourned.



* * *



The last Friday in August, Rosalie finishes up at the doctor’s office and decides to drop by her sister’s apartment before going home. It’s five o’clock and Loretta will be back from the switchboard at the Bell Telephone building. Fridays she starts early, seven a.m. When Rosalie arrives Loretta is out of her work clothes and in her slip and dressing gown, the Japanese silk one printed with purple grape leaves. Her long, hot-combed hair is up in a French twist, and she is ironing a shiny silver party dress.

It’s obvious, notes Rosalie with a measure of envy, that Loretta has inherited the elegance of their mother and their aunt. In their youth Virginia and Violet Rougeaux were both beautiful, and also gifted in the art of enhancing that beauty. What is it about those two? folks used to say. Edwin Montgomery and Lionel Hubbard had come out on top of a large pile of eager suitors, winning their engagements each in his own way. In Edwin’s case with gentle kisses, and in Lionel’s, a pair of sizzling eyes.

“Where’s Charlie taking you tonight?” says Rosalie from the sofa.

“Up to the City,” says Loretta, turning the dress over to iron the other side. By “City” she means New York City, which means Harlem. She doesn’t mind shaking it once in a while at a nice nightclub.

The heat of the afternoon, the smell of Loretta’s perfume, the hiss of the iron and the end of the activity of a busy week soon conspire to make Rosalie’s eyelids droop. Before she knows it she’s waking up to the sound of the telephone ringing, and the sun is slanting in at a much lower angle. She hears Loretta answer in the next room.

“Momma, Momma, she’s right here. She’s with me, she’s fine. Came right after work.”

Rosalie staggers up and over toward the bedroom where Loretta has the phone in one hand and the receiver to her ear. She glances at Rosalie and gives a gesture with her free fingers meaning not to worry. “Okay,” she says, “okay, we will. Charlie’s coming any minute now. We’ll see you soon.”

“All hell’s breaking loose up on Columbia Avenue,” she says. Just last month race riots raged over Harlem and Rochester, and everyone knew it could happen in North Philadelphia too. Rosalie had read a recent newspaper editorial that called North Philadelphia a “tinderbox,” describing the heavily grieved black community as at a near breaking point with the white police force.

“Is it a riot?” whispers Rosalie.

“Maybe,” says Loretta. “As soon as Charlie gets here we’re taking you home. Momma was scared to death you were still up at Dr. Leventhal’s.” The Broad Street office is only a few blocks from the Columbia intersection.



* * *



They haven’t even knocked before Virginia flings open the door and drags them all inside. She bolts the door behind them and embraces them savagely. Loretta sees their father coming up behind them from the kitchen.

“Where’s Junior?” she says.

“On his way,” says Lionel Senior, doing his best to calm the situation with his steady voice. “He just called over here from Freihofers.”

“You all heard anything else?” says Charlie. Lionel gestures for him to follow, he’s got the transistor radio on in the kitchen and wants to leave the women alone for a spell. Loretta leads her mother to the sofa and sits her down. Virginia is trembling. Something wild has sprung up in her eyes.

“I’m taking Junior up to Montreal,” she says, “soon as I can.” Lord knows she can’t afford to lose another child.



* * *



Unhinged. That is the way the world feels to Rosalie during the days of rioting. In fact, ever since the draft letter she has felt this way. Now smoke spills over the sky and turns the sun a bloody red. Church leaders, her father among them, remain in close conference and go out in teams trying to quell the chaos. Her mother forbids the children from going out at all, except to Aunt Violet’s, which is only four doors down. Nelie is there with the baby as their apartment is nearer to the fray. Nelie, who wraps an arm around Rosalie’s shoulders, reassures her they’ll get through.

By Monday it’s all over. On Wednesday evening Rosalie calls Dr. Leventhal on the telephone to ask if the office is open that week. It is, but the doctor certainly understands if she would rather not come in. The shopfront windows downstairs are broken, but nothing was disturbed in the offices upstairs. Rosalie has her parents’ permission to go, as they feel sure the fury has been spent. Folks need to see the doctor and it’s time to pick up the pieces. This will be her last two days at the office. School starts up again next week and Rosalie will be a senior. All of it is hard to believe.