The Davenports(44)

“I want him to win.” Ruby’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’s difficult to imagine what you’ve never seen. A Black mayor.”

“Oklahoma elected a Black mayor,” said Olivia.

“This isn’t Oklahoma,” Ruby countered.

“True, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen here.”

The footman returned. “Miss Olivia, the tables have arrived.” He waited for her response. “Miss Olivia?”

“Thank you,” she replied, distracted. This is what I can do. When the fundraiser at the start of summer arrived, Olivia would have garnered the votes of the wealthy and influential Black and white people her privilege afforded her. The charities her mother championed could be used to her—to Mr. Tremaine’s—advantage. The Black progress and community found in the city could only be protected from within.

Olivia joined her mother and sister outside and hugged Ruby before her friend got into the buggy with Mrs. Tremaine. “Thank you,” she said.

Ruby’s eyebrows pinched together. “I really just watched you work, but you’re welcome?”

The buggy was halfway down the drive when Mrs. Davenport asked, “What are your plans for this afternoon, Olivia?”

Helen stared wistfully in the direction of the garage.

“I was hoping Helen would help organize my wardrobe tonight, what with Mr. Lawrence coming to dinner again,” Olivia said, trying to catch her sister’s eye. Perhaps they could help each other out. Vouch for each other’s whereabouts.

“What?” Helen exclaimed. She had straightened quickly and her voice pitched clear across the grounds. She gave their mother an apologetic smile. “I’d rather not, Olivia, dear sister, but thank you for the offer.”

Olivia laughed, then hesitated. Washington DeWight’s comments rang in her ears. Ever since they’d nearly collided in the hallway outside her father’s study a few weeks ago, she had doubled her efforts at the community center, hoping for another chance to hear him or other activists speak. But waiting for that next opportunity was sapping all her energy. And Tommy’s patience too, as she often pulled him away from his chores to take her around town. She was glad that her mother was an active member in many charities. At Mrs. Davenport’s elbow, Olivia had recently helped organize a book fair, clothing drives, and ladies’ luncheons with Black and white women looking to support various initiatives. When scheduling conflicts arose, Olivia had been able to stand in for her mother. Those were the best days.

“I think I’ll have a quiet night in after dinner.” Olivia followed her mother back inside. They stood underneath a painting of Mr. and Mrs. Davenport embracing and looking at each other instead of at the artist.

“Your father and I appreciate your help and all the work you’ve done. Mrs. Johnson reports the ladies have nothing but kind words and gratitude.” The corners of Mrs. Davenport’s almond-shaped eyes crinkled above her smile. Olivia’s own felt more like a grimace. It’s true, she had been more involved with the charities, but many of her outings had been under the pretense of meeting the other activists. But they’re all working to help the same people, she told herself, ignoring the tightness in her chest.

“Just don’t stretch yourself too thin,” said Mrs. Davenport.

“I won’t,” she promised. She watched her mother head down the hall toward the study. As Olivia approached the bottom landing of the stairs to the kitchen, she heard voices from the other side of the door. She wondered belatedly how many conversations were overheard in this quiet corner, but two words stood out among the rest, and soon Olivia had an ear pressed against the plain pine door: civil rights.

“They’re gathering at the old Samson House on the South Side again.”

“Better you than me, Hetty,” Jessie said. “I ain’t got time to head down there. Let you young folks feel what it’s like to get rounded up and beat on.”

“You don’t mean that, Jessie,” Hetty said.

“I sure do, and I expect you to be as spry as a spring chicken tomorrow. There’s still a lot to be done.” The door Olivia stood behind suddenly opened. And there was Hetty, carrying a stack of table linens.

“Miss Olivia,” Hetty said, “are you okay?”

Was she? Olivia’s heart pounded, and just like that afternoon at the community center, she felt a pull toward the South Side. “Do you mean to go to the civil rights meeting tonight?” she asked as the kitchen door swung closed behind Hetty.

Hetty backed away. Olivia held out a hand. “No, don’t be afraid. Tonight, when you head downtown, I want to go with you.”

“But, miss—” Hetty looked stricken. She glanced behind her as if to the kitchen. “I heard what your father said at that dinner with Mr. Lawrence. He wants your family to stay away from that scene. I don’t know—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out and meet you in the stables.” Olivia suppressed the urge to reach out to Hetty. She didn’t know how to describe her need to be there, so she waited, saying nothing more. When the young maid finally nodded, Olivia smiled.



* * *



—

After the main course, Olivia claimed to be suffering a migraine and excused herself. It was such a rare occurrence, her parents barely protested, and her brother and sister wished her well before returning to a conversation about a horse he saw at the track. Mr. Lawrence, ever the gentleman, pulled out her chair and wished her well. She fought her way out of the floor-length silk dress she chose for dinner, the buttons along the back slowing her down. Then waited in her room until she heard them move to the sitting room. Music wafted upstairs.