The Davenports(34)

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Olivia clutched a small glass of wine she hadn’t touched during dinner. The meal had gone well. Better than she’d expected even. Mr. Lawrence sat on her left, where she could study him. His neat mustache and easy smile reached brown eyes as deep and rich as dark chocolate. Jacob Lawrence was funny and charming. He seemed to flit from conversation to conversation with her family as easily as a hummingbird. He was smooth. Practiced. Perfect.

“You did the tour?” Helen asked. The sound of her sister’s voice pulled her back into the moment.

“The factories are a marvel, Mr. Davenport,” he said, looking past Olivia to where her father sat at the head of the table.

Mr. Davenport dipped his head. His chest seemed to swell with pride. “It was a great leap of faith,” he said. Olivia watched the tender look her parents shared across the table.

“Faith and hard work,” said Mrs. Davenport.

Mr. Lawrence nodded. “Of course.” He took a sip of his wine, the charm slipping for a moment. A shadow passed over his features. Olivia sat straighter, but it passed as quickly as it had come. Jacob Lawrence was his jovial self again. “What are your plans for the adjacent lot? Forgive me, I heard the gentlemen outside your office discussing an expansion.”

Mr. Davenport smoothed the front of his shirt.

Helen’s face brightened. “Daddy, are you opening a garage?”

“No—”

John propped his elbows on either side of his plate despite their mother’s glare. “Why not? It would be the perfect place to repair automobiles instead of here at Freeport.”

“We are a carriage company,” her father said.

Helen set her knife and fork down with a clatter. “Automobiles are horseless carriages.”

Mr. Davenport gave his younger daughter a stern look. Olivia watched Helen’s stubborn chin work to either hold in a pout or a retort. Her father sighed. “And this is why we don’t discuss business at dinner.”

Helen looked at John, her brows raised, then sighed. Olivia felt a tug in her chest. Though Helen should know better, she thought.

John faced Mr. Lawrence, seated across from him. “The ponies or the ring?” He slumped back in his chair, shoulders still tense.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you bet on the ponies or enjoy a good boxing match?”

“I don’t gamble, but I appreciate the skill of both sports,” said Mr. Lawrence. He and John spoke at length about boxing, baseball, and cricket, though she couldn’t recall John ever picking up a bat of any kind. Their childhood was full of piano lessons and horseback riding. They were tutored and kept mostly at home. Washington DeWight’s words came back to her. She was sheltered. Her parents sat at the ends of the dressed table, the pain of their younger selves hidden under a veneer of silk and silver.

The struggles of the people on the South Side were as taboo to mention at this table as the scars on her father’s back, as the business he had founded despite those scars.

“I saw in your appointment book, you were meeting with a lawyer.” John’s words cut through Olivia’s thoughts. So much for keeping business away from the table. “Are you thinking of replacing the Howards?”

Mr. Davenport placed his knife and fork down on the table. “No, not all. The gentleman I met with is from Tuskegee, Alabama. He expects a lot of Black folks will be moving north for work.”

“Because of the Jim Crow legislation?” Olivia asked before she could stop herself. Her father readjusted the front of his jacket. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, and her family’s curious looks.

“Yes,” he said. “Among other things.”

John frowned at her, ready to ask his next question, but she beat him to it. “What kinds of things?”

Mr. Davenport looked more uncomfortable now than when he shut down the conversation about the garage. He was slow to answer, but a look from his wife got him speaking again. “Lack of opportunity. Violence.” He picked up his knife and fork.

“And the lawyer wanted?” Olivia felt, more than saw, the glances of her mother and siblings. Mr. Lawrence leaned slightly forward. From the corner of her eye, she saw his attention dart from her to her father.

“He wanted to make connections. He’s looking for support in creating unions for laborers and coalitions to protect the progress of equality. I said I could pass his card along to the people heading organizations started after the tragedy in Springfield.” The table grew quiet then. No amount of interference from her parents could have sheltered them from the death and destruction in Springfield two summers ago.

“Tragedy in Springfield?” Mr. Lawrence asked.

“For three days, Black businesses were destroyed and Black residents burned alive in their homes,” he said gruffly. “I can fund the Cause and direct them to those who can offer more help. Beyond that, I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

Mr. Lawrence said, “I think that is prudent. It’s best to leave matters like this to lawyers and politicians and activists.”

Olivia looked down at her meal sitting on the bone-white china. The light above winked off the silver service Henrietta had polished to perfection. “Surely, more can be done.”

Mrs. Davenport’s smile froze. She glanced at Mr. Lawrence, but Olivia pretended not to see. She couldn’t be the only person at this table who realized how removed they were from the news Washington DeWight had laid at their feet.