Iron Lace Part 41

Phillip stood and began to pace the narrow strip of carpet in front of the sofa. "We didn't part on the best of terms."

"That could be fixed."

"What have I got to offer her?" He stopped in front of her, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his dark slacks. "The world's going up in smoke, and I don't know where it's going to end. Somebody killed Malcolm X last week. We're bombing North Vietnam now, and that war's only going to get worse. There's going to be a civil rights march next week starting in Selma, and already people are talking about what to do when it gets violent. Not if, Mere, Mere, but when. What kind of world is this? Am I supposed to settle down and make a life with Belinda in the middle of chaos?" but when. What kind of world is this? Am I supposed to settle down and make a life with Belinda in the middle of chaos?"

"You're not supposed to do anything except what you know is right for you. But don't wait for the world to be safe and comfortable, Phillip, before you make your choices. Because it never will be."

"Look at yourself. You can't even talk about your childhood. Your memories are so painful you've locked them away. What kind of world were you brought into? What kind of world would a child of mine be born into?"

"Yes, look at me." She stood, too. "What do you see? Someone who suffered? Welcome to the human race. Someone who'd rather not dredge it up? Welcome to the human race. But how about someone who persevered and led a good life in spite of everything?"

He didn't smile. "Welcome to the chosen few."

"I've been wrong not to tell you more about my childhood. Some wounds bleed no matter how old the scars that cover them. Even at my age, it's easier not to remember some things."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Come sit with me." She settled back on the sofa and patted the s.p.a.ce beside her, as she had when he was a little boy. "Because I've been thinking about this since the last time we talked about it. And I want to tell you about your grandfather. I always planned to, but I told myself the time was never right. Well, it's past right. Way past it. You can be proud of the people you've come from, even if you're not proud of the world that they lived in."

He took her hand and squeezed it. "I've always been proud of you."

"Someday I'll tell you what little I remember about my years here. But not now. You asked about Chicago." She took a deep breath, as if she might not have the chance again. "We left New Orleans for Chicago when I was eleven. When I say we, I mean my father and me. I loved my father. And you know how I adored Clarence. When Papa and I got on that train to Chicago, all I could think about was that I was going to see Clarence again. He wasn't really my grandfather, Phillip. My father's name was Cantrelle, Rafe Cantrelle, and Clarence was just a good friend. Clarence had gone North a year before, because the money was better. Seemed like New Orleans jazz just packed its suitcase and started toward Chicago about the time of the first World War."

She waited for Phillip to question her about that, but he seemed willing to let her warm up slowly.

"It was a different world. I don't even know how to tell you. My father had money, from investments in New Orleans, I suppose. We bought a house in a neighborhood on the South Side, outside the Black Belt. Negroes were just starting to move in. There'd been trouble about it, I think. I remember talk of bombings. But by the time we got there, things were quiet, and if we weren't welcomed, at least n.o.body burned a cross in our yard. There weren't many other places to live. Black people were living ten to an apartment. The only way to change that was to spread into white neighborhoods. Clarence refused to. He didn't mind the crowding. He grew up in the worst New Orleans slums. The Black Belt felt just like home."

She slipped her hand from his and folded her hands. "I don't know how to tell you what I felt. The air was different there, and I'm not talking about the weather. In New Orleans, Papa and I kept to ourselves. I wasn't white, and I wasn't black. I wasn't even a colored Creole. I didn't fit anywhere except with Papa."

"And suddenly you belonged?"

"Belonged? I don't know about that. But Chicago was like a light coming on. There was energy there, a different kind of energy. In New Orleans our energy was all in our music. We knew we were going no place fast, and we sang about it, blew our frustration into p.a.w.nshop coronets and banged it on the keys of barroom pianos. But up North there was hope. I sat anywhere I wanted on the streetcars and trains, went to school with white kids, said h.e.l.lo over the back fence to white neighbors. I'm not saying it was perfect. But it felt like a place to start. Do you understand what I mean?"

"It's still just a place to start."

"My father got involved in the community right away. There weren't any Jim Crow laws to make it hard for him to do business. He bought into a real estate company, made investments. I don't know how many, but we lived well, and we were accepted in a way we never had been before. I can't tell you what my father felt, but I can tell you what I saw. He got quieter in those first months away from New Orleans, and he turned into someone else. It was like he decided he needed to change the world."

"He was right."

"Problem is, I think he began to believe he could. Then it turned into summer. Everything changed, all right. And he was caught in the middle of it." She stopped, stopped talking, even stopped breathing for a moment.

Then she faced Phillip and touched his cheek. "That's when he was killed-saving my life."

Nicolette was an avid reader, and she was aware of some of the worst effects of racism. In 1917, resentment over Negro employment in East Saint Louis erupted into violence, and when the fury spent itself, forty-seven people, mostly Negroes, lay dead.

Racial hatred continued to simmer wherever Negroes moved into jobs vacated by the whites who had gone to fight. But not all Negro men stayed behind. At the war's end, the return of proud black doughboys, men who had served their country and risked their lives, fanned the flames of prejudice. In Georgia, a Negro soldier was beaten to death for wearing his uniform home from the train station. By the summer of 1919, race riots had broken out in the North and the South alike.

Nicolette read about lynchings and riots in the Defender, Defender, one of Chicago's Negro newspapers, but they were horror stories from far away. She preferred to study what musician was playing what music where. Names like Keppard and Oliver, Ory and Armstrong, sent songs trilling through her head, and she dreamed of nights at the Royal Gardens or the Lincoln Gardens Cafe. one of Chicago's Negro newspapers, but they were horror stories from far away. She preferred to study what musician was playing what music where. Names like Keppard and Oliver, Ory and Armstrong, sent songs trilling through her head, and she dreamed of nights at the Royal Gardens or the Lincoln Gardens Cafe.

Clarence was playing with a band at the Dreamland, and she had been there once to see him, but only before the night really began for everyone else. A singer-not much older than she was, and not nearly as good-had come to their table to wiggle her hips and serenade them, and when the song ended, Nicolette had wanted to follow her right around the room, collecting her own tips.

Her father always insisted that he understood what music meant to her-just before he reminded her that school was more important. She liked school, and she haunted the library because she loved to read. But music was different. It throbbed inside her, building until it had to escape. She breathed it in with every breath, tasted and touched and saw it in bursts of radiant color. Sometimes the voices of her teachers became songs; sometimes the words on a page changed to notes, and she could chart the rise and fall of a story like the wailing of the blues.

As the temperature soared in July, her father spent more time away from home. She didn't know exactly where he went, except that his meetings had to do with improvements for Negroes. People listened to him when he spoke, even though he hadn't lived in Chicago long. But a lot of people hadn't lived there long, and sometimes it seemed like most of them had come from Louisiana.

The lazy summer days ended abruptly on a Sunday afternoon in July. Nicolette had gone to spend the day with a new friend who lived nearby, because her father was away on business. The temperature had hit a record high, and she and her friend Dolly were too hot to do more than sit under the shade of a tree in a nearby park and complain because no one could be coaxed to take them swimming at the lake.

By late afternoon, it was clear that something was wrong. Groups of people pa.s.sed, chattering excitedly, and from somewhere in the distance whistles shrieked. But only after Dolly's mother, Etta, came to fetch them did they learn what had happened.

Etta Slater had short legs and no visible neck, as if at birth someone had compressed her like the squeeze box of an accordion. She didn't greet them with her usual smile, but she was obviously relieved when she spotted them. "We're going home. Right now."

"Why, Mama?" Dolly whined. It was too hot to move, and certainly too hot to hurry. Nicolette would have whined, too, if Etta had been her mother.

"Don't talk back. Just come. You, too, Nicolette. Right now."

The girls got to their feet, but they were still moving slowly. Etta grabbed Dolly and shook her. "I said come on! Don't think I don't mean it!"

Both girls moved faster. Etta took each of them by one arm and dragged them across the park. She looked both ways as she went, and when she spotted a group of white men approaching, she pulled them behind a clump of trees. "Be quiet," she mouthed.

By now both girls knew something was terribly wrong. They waited in silence as the men pa.s.sed. Then they stumbled along with Etta, stopping once more to make themselves inconspicuous behind shrubbery as another group of men went by.

Nicolette heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of the men's conversation, but none of it made sense until they were safely inside Dolly's house and Etta had closed and locked the windows-despite the heat.

"Boy was killed up at the lake a while ago, a colored boy," Etta said as she worked. "Some white boys threw stones at him 'cause he drifted into their part of the water. Like water would know or care who was in it! Some people say a stone hit him, others say he fell off his raft and drowned 'cause he was afraid to go in to sh.o.r.e. I don't know, but I do know there's gonna be trouble. Already is, if I'm hearing right."

"Are the white boys in jail?" Nicolette believed she was in the Promised Land, or a rough equivalent. Surely here murdering Negroes was a crime, even if it wasn't a crime in the South.

Etta made a sound like the wind dying. "You think they're gonna arrest a white boy for killing a colored one? They arrested a colored man for telling them they was doing wrong!"

Nicolette wished her father were there. The way Etta had dragged them home frightened her.

"It's hot in here, Mama," Dolly said. "Why do we have to close all the windows?"

"Listen up, and listen good. Whenever there's trouble like this, we get blamed." She punctuated her words with the slam of another window. "Don't matter whose fault it is. We get blamed. We got to stay out of the way of white people till they get tired of blaming us. I know what I'm talking about. This is gonna be the worst place for trouble right here, 'cause there ain't a lot of us around. If there were, whites'd be scared. But like it is, there's more whites than colored, so they know they can do what they want and n.o.body going to be around to stop them."

"Why would they want to hurt us?"

"'Cause we're colored. Only reason they need."

"I'm not very colored," Nicolette said. She held out her hand beside Dolly's. Dolly was many shades darker.

"You think that's gonna matter? You any colored at all, that's good enough," Etta said. But the sting had gone from her voice. She almost sounded as if she wanted to cry.

"Will they hurt Daddy?" Dolly asked. Her father was across town for the day, visiting his mother.

"Your daddy's smart. He'll stay out of the way till he can get home."

"I hope my papa's smart," Nicolette said.

"I hope so, too," Etta said. "I hope he don't think 'cause he's living in Chicago he's invisible."

Nicolette hoped not, too. But as the day wore on, then the evening, and Rafe didn't return, she worried more and more.

She stayed with the Slaters that night, although no arrangements had been made. The Slaters had no telephone, so Rafe couldn't have called, even if he was able. They heard gunshots sometime after dark, gunshots so close that she and Dolly hid under an upstairs bed and Nicky taught Dolly to say the Hail Mary until they both fell asleep from exhaustion.

Just before dawn, Mr. Slater came home. Etta left the lights off as he told them what he'd seen. Men, Negro men mostly, had been beaten on the streets. He'd heard that several had been killed right in this neighborhood.

Nicolette was forbidden to wait by the window for Rafe. The shades were all drawn, anyway. All she could do was pray he would come and get her.

She worried about Clarence, too. She wondered where he had been when the riot broke out. He loved the lakesh.o.r.e because it reminded him of the West End in New Orleans. What if he had been there when the boy was killed? The boy had a name now. Mr. Slater said he was called Eugene Williams and that he hadn't known how to swim very well. That made it worse somehow.

By the time the sun came up, the streets were quiet. Peeking out a window, Etta reported that people were on their way to work. Over his wife's protests, Mr. Slater got ready for his job at the stockyards. From the second story, Nicolette and his wife and daughter watched as he ventured outside, but the streets remained quiet. No one said a word to him as he walked toward the park and the streetcar stop on the other side.

Half an hour later, Rafe arrived. Nicolette threw herself into his arms and sobbed with relief. He made no pretense of trying to rea.s.sure her. He thanked Etta and explained that he and some others had spent the night trying to organize a constructive solution to the violence. By the time it became apparent nothing could be done except take cover, it had been too late and too dangerous for him to travel home.

Nicolette clung to him. He was haggard and preoccupied, but undeniably alive. It had never been clearer to her that her father and Clarence were all she had in the world.

On the way home, he held her hand tightly. Only when they were inside did he explain what he intended to do. He sat her down in a soft armchair and squatted in front of her so that they were eye to eye. His eyes were like the coals that burned through the night on their fireplace hearth. He hadn't slept, and he hadn't eaten, but his eyes still glowed with outrage.

"There's bound to be more trouble, Nicolette."

"But Mr. Slater went to work."

"Because he was afraid he'd lose his job. But there'll be trouble tonight, if not before. This area was the worst in town last night. I'm just glad you were with Etta. She's got a level head. When I couldn't get home, I knew you'd be safe with her."

"But you'll be home tonight, won't you?"

He shook his head. "We're trying to pressure the mayor to call in the militia. The more businessmen who pressure him, the better our chances. I have to do what I can."

In front of her was a man with her father's face, but his thoughts were somewhere else. "Can't you just stay here? I'll be afraid by myself." Her lip trembled.

"You won't be by yourself." He twisted one of her curls around his finger. "I'm taking you to Clarence's apartment. I don't think any white man is so stupid that he'll penetrate that far inside the Black Belt. If there's trouble, it'll be in places where the whites aren't afraid to go."

"We could stay inside and lock the doors and windows, just like Etta did last night."

"I can't, Nicolette." He smiled, but he'd never looked sadder. "I have to do what I can. I've spent most of my life running from what I am. But what I am is a man, and a man doesn't run. He stands, and he fights."

"But I don't want you to fight!" She threw herself into his arms.

"I'm fighting for you," he said, wrapping his arms around her so that he could stroke her back. He had comforting hands, strong and broad, with long fingers, like her own. "You're all I've got. How can I stay home when I've got a chance to make your life better? Clarence will take good care of you, and maybe when I come back the riot will be over."

"But it's all over now!"

"If you're right, then there won't be anything to worry about, will there?"

She clung to him anyway, and she clung to him again later that afternoon, when he dropped her off at Clarence's apartment. The streets were strangely quiet there, just as they had been at home. Usually there were gangs of children darting between buildings and fighting imaginary wars in the vacant lots. Now the streets were nearly empty.

Nicolette continued to cling to her father even after Rafe straightened. She only moved away when Clarence put his arms around her neck. "Your papa'll be back, Nickel girl. Let him go now so you and me can make some music."

She found a smile, one forlorn farewell smile. Rafe kissed her; then he was gone.

The afternoon wore on into evening. Even her beloved Clarence couldn't make her forget her father's absence. She couldn't concentrate on the words to the new songs Clarence tried to teach her, and she barely touched the red beans and rice that he'd simmered all day especially for her.

In the evening, she heard the first gunshots. An automobile sped through the street outside the front window. She heard the squealing of tires, the gunning of an engine, then the staccato pop of bullets. She'd fallen to the floor and covered her head before Clarence could reach her. The automobile roared past, and the street was silent for a few minutes. Then doors slammed and angry shouts began.

"Young fools!" Clarence helped her up, then peeked between the curtains. "What call they got coming here and shooting at us?"

"My papa said no white man would come this far, that they'd be afraid!"

"Your papa's got sense. Them fools ain't got nothing inside them 'cept hate." He guided her away from the window. "Now there'll be trouble, all right. They think colored people ain't got the sense to defend themselves, but they's wrong. Men on this street killed a hundred Huns between 'em. Lots of 'em armed and itchin' to pull the trigger in a white man's face. We gotta get into a back room and stay there. Wish I had that apartment upstairs."

She let him guide her to a back bedroom. "What if Papa comes? Who'll let him in?"

"He won't come now, not till it's safe. I told you, your papa's got sense."

"But what if he doesn't know what's happening?"

"Nickel girl, he told me to take care of you, and that's just what I'm doin'."

She couldn't argue with Clarence. There was a comfortable bed in the room he deemed safest, and despite her fears she fell asleep quickly.

It was still dark when she awoke. She had heard noises through the night, the distant whine of bullets, and men shouting. But she had drifted back into sleep each time when the noises faded away. This time the streets were quiet, but despite the calm, she sat up and gazed around the room. She was alone.

She got up and went to look for Clarence. He was standing in the front room with a dearly familiar figure. She ran into her father's arms and started to cry.

"Hush, Nicolette." He held her close. "I'm fine. We're all fine."

"I want to go home." She tried to bury her head against his chest. "Or I want you to stay here!"

"I'm not going to leave you. We'll wait a few minutes, and if it's still calm, we'll go."

"You're taking her back home?" Clarence asked.

"No. I was just there, and it's not safe, either. A streetcar strike started at midnight, and tomorrow there's going to be h.e.l.l to pay when Negroes start walking to work through white neighborhoods. But the mayor still won't call for the militia. I've done what little I can. I've got Nicolette to think about now. We're leaving town."

"Until this is over?"

"No, for good."

Nicolette pulled at his sleeve. "But I don't want to go for good. I want to stay here in Chicago, with Clarence."

"Nicolette, you have to trust me."

"But what about Dolly? What about Clarence?"