No Crystal Stair (33 page)

“I thought the emphasis was on who you could keep out!”Dr. Carter winked at Rob. “I want you to know that many a heart has been broken, many a bitter tear shed over a rejection.”

Julia Belle put a hand on his sleeve. “Will, stop teasing Sophie.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” Sophie declared. “Take in, keep out—what's the difference? All I say is that Essie Campbell was certainly not Ladies caliber!”

“Well, now, you have to admit, she's well padded. In the physical, as well as the monetary sense.” Dr. Carter grinned as he took the dish of peach ice cream from Ann Elizabeth. “Thank you, honey.”

Sophie sniffed, “Well padded with tainted money!”

Turning to Rob, Dr. Carter laughed. “That means, my boy, that Hern Campbell's got no letters behind his name—just dollar signs and a whole lot of numbers.”

“Oh?'Rob lifted an understanding brow. ”A numbers man?”

Dr. Carter nodded. “Yep. Made his money and got out before the white folks caught on and took it over, calling it a lottery.”

Rob smiled, “Smart guy, huh?”

Sophie sniffed. “A racketeer!”

“Now, Sophie, what's wrong with the numbers racket?”

“Will,”Julia Belle said, “you know it was illegal. And he was put in jail.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Seems the white folks don't want the niggers to make any money.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sophie asked.

“You don't see anything wrong with the stock market, do you?”

“Now, Will,” Julia Belle said, “you can't compare the stock market with the numbers game.”

“I certainly can. Mr. Rockefeller puts a few dollars into some stock, trying to make a few million, and a poor Negro puts a few pennies on a number, trying to make a few bucks. What's the difference?”

“It's illegal,” Sophie said. “Exploiting people.”

“You might call it exploiting. Some regard it as an opportunity.”

“Call it what you like. I don't care to hobnob with people who made their money outside the law.” Sophie said decisively. “Ann Elizabeth, I think I'll take a dish of that ice cream before you put it away.”

“Truth is,” said Dr. Carter, “many folks just like to hobnob with money.”

“You're right about that,” Sophie agreed. “A lot of people know very well that the Campbells' money come from the numbers racket. But as soon as she built that fine house and gave those big parties, they all went trotting over. They tell me folks were there eating her food, drinking her drinks and asking, ”Now which one is Mrs. Campbell?”

They all laughed. Dr. Carter kept teasing and Sophie kept defending the Ladies. “The Ladies would soon become nothing at all if they let just anybody in. We'd be in the same category as all these other clubs that keep jumping up.”

“I know just what you mean, Sophie,” Rob said in mock sympathy. “When it was just Jackie Robinson and Campanella, we were solidly behind the Dodgers. Now there's so many of us on so many teams, we don't know who to root for!”

They laughed again as Dr. Carter said they'd better get back to the game. Ann Elizabeth washed the churn and slipped quietly upstairs to find her daughter.

Maggie lay on her stomach on the bed, head propped on her elbows, as he read a book.

“Maggie, you should—” No, she wouldn't remind her about turning the spread back. “Hi honey.”

“Hi, Mom, how was the movie?” Maggie rolled over, her lips curved in a welcoming smile, even white teeth against smooth chocolate skin. No braces, no sign of acne. Ann Elizabeth crossed her fingers. How lucky could you get! Maggie was beautiful, small-boned like herself with Julia Belle's fine aristocratic features and Rob's dark deep-set eyes.

“Oh, the movie was great. What are you reading?”

“Anna Karenina.”

“Oh,” Good heavens! Heavy reading for a twelve-year-old. What had she read at Maggie's age?
The Five Little Peppers,
The
Secret Garden
...

Maggie stretched and yawned, long lashes fluttering. “She was so silly.”

“Why?” Ann Elizabeth, who hadn't read the book, tried to recall the movie. “Because she left her husband?”

“No. After she left him. Why didn't she just go on and be happy, instead of practically going crazy because those society ladies wouldn't speak to her?”

Ann Elizabeth studied her daughter. She had never before heard the book discussed from that perspective. “Speaking of society, why didn't you go to the Jack and Jill picnic?”

“Ugh!”

“That's a funny way to describe a picnic.” Ann Elizabeth sat on the bed and pushed back a strand of Maggie's hair. It was darker and coarser than hers, and quite unmanageable out of braids. Bertha had shown her how to run a warm comb through it, so that it fell in soft waves about Maggie's shoulders.

“I was reading.”

“Sweetheart, you can read any time. We're on vacation. This is a time to enjoy yourself.”

“I am enjoying myself.”

“With other people.”

“I don't know any of them.”

“Margaret Ann Metcalf! Your very own cousins!”

“They're so silly. Giggling about who likes who and somebody kissed somebody.”

Ann Elizabeth laughed. “I guess that's the way kids are at this age.” She thought back. Wasn't she thirteen when Ambrose Phillips had kissed her at the Sunday-school picnic? She'd slapped him, but had been secretly pleased. Ambrose was the best-looking boy in their set. How grown-up she'd felt, telling Helen Rose all about it in this very room. They had certainly giggled. But Maggie... What made it so difficult for her to fit in? Even here, she was withdrawn.

Integration. Ann Elizabeth was beginning to hate that word. All of Maggie's young life had been spent in integrated schools, sometimes the only black child in her class. There, but not quite in. Oh, she had friends, in Brownies, then Girl Scouts. But it wasn't the same.

Ann Elizabeth had tried to compensate. She'd joined the Sacramento chapter of Jack and Jill, the national organization formed by Negro parents to bring their children together for a proper social life. But that was artificial, too—infrequent meetings with kids scattered all over town, not the cozy easy everyday contact Ann Elizabeth had enjoyed as a child. Her heart ached for her daughter.

Later, propped up in bed with a book on her lap, she watched Rob as he peeled off his shirt. He was still lean and handsome, and could still beat Bobby at tennis. He seemed so complacent. He never worried about the children the way she did.

She sighed. “Rob, I'm concerned about Maggie. She's so ... so out of things. Always has her nose stuck in a book.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, yes, I'm glad she reads. But she ought to be out having fun.”

“Seems happy enough to me.” Rob took off his watch, laid it on the dresser.

“She's not happy.”

He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“She's so out of things,” Ann Elizabeth repeated.

“Like what, for Christ's sake?”

She watched him drop one shoe and tried to explain. “She doesn't even want to go to Susie's party tomorrow night.”

“Can't blame her for that. Those silly girls of Helen Rose's are as shallow as their mother.”

“Robert!”

“Oh, I know she's your cousin, but there's always so much damn crap about who's invited to what and who belongs and who doesn't.”

It struck her that his remark was uncannily similar to Maggie's complaint about the cousins. Giggling about who likes who... But she had to make him understand.

“Oh, Rob, it's only natural to try to select the right friends for your children.”

“It's not natural.”

“Well, it's certainly natural for Maggie to be comfortable with kids her own age.”

“She's comfortable enough.”

“Not really. You know, I think that always being in an integrated environment—”

Rob laughed. “Oh, oh! Here we go again. Mrs. Moonlight, who wants things to stay the way they always were.”

“That's not true! I'm glad we've made progress—glad about integration. But -” she sat up, put the book aside “—I just feel for Maggie. She's never really had a chance to develop socially. She's never really felt a part of anything.”

“Don't know why. You sure did your best to see that she was in all kinds of groups. Brownies, Girl Scouts, chasing all over town with the Jack and Jill,” Rob yawned, unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants.

“You think that's wrong, don't you? To want Maggie to have what I had.”That sense of security, never feeling different. She blinked. Rob just didn't understand.

She was surprised to find his arms around her. “What you had...” he crooned as he rocked her. “My little princess who's traveled all over the world and never left Atlanta.”

“Maybe that's why. What I had here, I mean...” She fumbled for the words. “Maybe that's why I was never uncomfortable—wherever we went. The way Maggie seems to be.”

“You mean you can't integrate Maggie with the Ladies?”

“The Ladies?”

“You know. That select organization dedicated to keeping out whoever they can.”

“Oh, that. Dad was just teasing Aunt Sophie.”

“But it's true. Somebody's always going to be left out of something. Even in your precious Atlanta.”

“I don't want Maggie's life based on what she can or can't get into. That's not what I mean, Rob.”

“That's not what you mean to mean, I know. Let Maggie alone. She'll get more out of a book than she will out of any party Susie's giving.”

“But she's so withdrawn, so uncomfortable.”

He kissed her. “I'm not worried about Maggie. She's her mother's daughter.”

She stared at him.

“Now what?” he asked.

“You made me remember something Dad said a long time ago.”
You're definitely your mother's daughter... that same core if inner pride, that sense of knowing you're somebody.
Did Maggie have that? She shook her head. “I don't know,” she said. “I just don't know.”

September 1965

 

T
helma Metcalf was tired and she kept getting that sharp little pain in her chest.

“Why don't you stay here tonight, Thelma?” Mr. Tyler said. “It's late and you have a long drive home.”

“No. I'll go on. Don't seem to get no rest cept in my own bed. I'm not going to put these dishes away, though. You can do that tomorrow.” She didn't work for Mr. Tyler anymore. Didn't need to. Her social security and the check Rob sent every month were more than enough, especially since she'd paid off the duplex. But she did come sometimes to help out, like tonight, when the Tylers had a dinner party.

She panted a little as she got into her old Buick for the drive back to Watts. It had been a long day. She still liked to get her groceries out here and she'd come early to shop at the supermarket.. She'd loaded up on staples for the Stevenses and herself. Didn't know when she'd get back this way.

As she made the turnoff from the freeway into the Watts area, she heard sirens. A fire somewhere. She could smell the smoke and saw a big blaze. Wasn't near her place, thank goodness. She said a little prayer for the person whose house was burning.

It's more than a fire,
she thought with some fear as she started to make her turn into the main street and found the way blocked. Something had happened. People running back and forth, cars just standing in the street, some turned over. What on earth?

“You can't get through, Mrs. Metcalf.” Stoney, a stringy teenage boy from her Sunday-school class, stuck his head in the window.

“I can see that, Stoney. What's happened?”

“Don't know, but all hell's done broke loose. Peoples gone crazy. Somebody broke into Mr. Ben's pawnshop and they just helping themselves—watches, radios, clothes and everything.”

“I hope you—”

“No'm I'm just watching.”

“You shouldn't be out here,” Thelma tried to speak calmly, tried not to be frightened. “Get in the car. I'm going to park it in Mr. Grant's garage and walk home. You'd better go straight home, too. No sense being out here in all this mess. Somebody's going to get hurt.”

She managed to back up and maneuver the car into the lot at the garage, which was closed. She hoped the car would be safe. Stoney helped her unload her groceries and they started home through an alley, each carrying a bag. Thelma walked as fast as she could, but the pain was back and she was having trouble breathing. They had almost reached the street when they were blinded by the headlights of a squad car as it turned into the alley. Thelma and Stoney backed against a building wall to avoid being hit but, brakes squealing, the police car stopped a few feet past them and two policemen got out and advanced toward them.

“Halt there, boy! What you got?”

“Nothing,” said Stoney. “I'm just helping Mrs. Metcalf.”The policeman cursed, and whatever else he said was lost as three motorcycles roared past.

Thelma, startled by the nose and the sight of the helmeted patrolmen, was momentarily stunned, but immediately came to her senses when she saw the policeman moving toward Stoney, his billy club raised. “Don't lie to me, boy. We ain't gonna stand for this looting.”

Without stopping to think, Thelma grabbed his arm. “Don't. Stoney ain't done nothing'. He's just... just...” She tried to catch her breath, tried to talk, but the words wouldn't come out. The pain was sharper and spreading down her arm, her back... and everything was fading...

 

 

On the day of Thelma Metcalf's funeral, Shiloh Baptist Church was packed. The funeral had been delayed until the furor had subsided, the helmeted troopers no longer needed, the riot officially over. Over but not forgotten, Ann Elizabeth thought as they drove toward the church and she surveyed the battle-scarred neighborhood. Buildings boarded up or gaping open, all the contents gone. Rubble and ashes where a building had been. What had happened? she wondered. What trivial incident had set a torch to the tinderbox of frustration just waiting to blow?

The church, however, except for one broken window, was untouched—a haven of peace and order amidst chaos. The service was surprisingly inspiring. It was as if Thelma was still with them, her smile warm and welcoming, her lovely contralto blending with the voices of the choir in the gospel songs she had so loved. The teenage boys from her Sunday-school class were the pallbearers. One former member, Charlie Gates, delivered the eulogy. He told how, within the class, she had organized WIS, Watts Improvement Society, inspiring the boys to clean up the area and start community projects to improve their standard of living. He ended by declaring, “It was because of Mrs. Metcalf that I stayed out of trouble and am now a student at UCLA.”

Then, one by one, other members of the congregation stood to talk about Thelma. She had brought fresh vegetables from Belair for one, organized the deaconess board to take meals to the sick, assigned her boys to run errands for others.

It's as if her living giving spirit is still alive
. Ann Elizabeth remembered her father's comment about making the best of life “Wherever you're flung.”

Maggie, sitting next to Ann Elizabeth, was leaning against Rob's chest, sobbing openly. Both the children had loved Thelma. Ann Elizabeth was glad Bobby, just getting settled in medical school, had not come. It's so awful for all of us, she thought, glancing at Rob. She had never before seen him cry. She reached over to gently squeeze the arm that was wrapped around Maggie.

“I wish to God I'd made Mama come to us.” He said later, when they joined mourners in the church hall where dinner was served by the women's auxiliary. “She'd still be alive.”

“You can't be sure of that,” Ann Elizabeth said, “You know it was her heart.” This had been confirmed by the doctor at the hospital where the policemen had taken her. They'd done so immediately, Stoney had said, as soon as they realized she was ill.

“I know,” Rob said. “But it was what happened here. All that excitement. If she'd been with us ...”

“Then she wouldn't have been here.” She shook him a little. “And so many good things happened just because she was here.”

 

 

Am I making the best of life where I'm flung?
Ann Elizabeth wondered when she returned to Sacramento.
I'm involved with me and mine
—the Jack and Jill for Maggie, the Officers' Wives Club for Rob, her two bridge clubs for her own enjoyment. Thinking of Thelma, she had an urge to reach out to others.

With a burst of energy she volunteered two mornings a week at a local hospital, read books to the blind and was soon an active member of several civic organizations, pulling many of her friends, black and white, in with her.

“I don't know why I let you get me into this,” complained Cora Samples as they addressed mailers for the League of Women Voters. “I may as well have a job. Anyway, I'm not the volunteering type.”

“Nonsense.” Ann Elizabeth smiled at the woman who'd been her friend since that first dinner party when they'd labored together over a broken bowl of gravy. “You're the perfect volunteering type.” It was true. Her rather shy anxious-to-please personality, coupled with dependability and willingness to work, had gained her quite a reputation. “If you want something done, ask Cora.” Probably that was why this Mr. Wimbush had called her.

“Out of the clear blue sky, from somewhere in Arkansas,” she told Ann Elizabeth. “He said I'd been referred to him, that I was the best person in the city to do the recruiting.”

“Recruiting?”

“For the White Citizen's League. He wants to start a chapter in Sacramento.”

“Cora.” Ann Elizabeth felt her blood run cold. “They're just like the Ku Klux Klan. More sophisticated and probably more deadly.”

“I know. I was appalled. I didn't know what to say.”

“What did you say?”

“That I couldn't of course. I was too busy. And then he wanted to know if I could suggest someone else, someone, he said, who was active in various city organizations. He went on and on about how they want members who are well-known and respected in the community. I was shocked, but I couldn't shut him up. I didn't want to be rude. But—”

“You should've just told him to go to hell!” Ann Elizabeth retorted. “But not you, Cora. You couldn't be rude to a rattlesnake.” Rage hammered at her. This group, with its venomous racial bigotry poised to strike at all the rights, all the good will, was more dangerous than a rattler. “People like you, Cora, have
to speak out. You can't just sit complacently back and let a group like this get its hooks into our city!”

“Ann Elizabeth, calm down. I told him I was too busy. You know I wouldn't participate in such a venture.”

“But you didn't tell him—” She broke off. If the man couldn't get Cora, he'd just get somebody else. An idea began to form in her mind. “Cora . . .” she said softly, tentatively.

Cora was still trying to recover from her friend's outburst. “I know I should have told him off, but—”

“No, no. I'm glad you didn't. Is he planning to call you back, or did he leave his number?”

“Well, no. That is, yes.” Cora stared at her trying to decipher this change of mood. “He did say he'd call back, even though I told him I couldn't recommend anyone.”

“No, you won't.” Ann Elizabeth said decisively. Now the idea was fully formed. “You'll do the recruiting yourself.”

“What? You want me to . . . to ...” Cora trailed off in bewilderment.

“I'll help you.” Ann Elizabeth said decisively. This was going to be fun.

It so happened that Julia Belle came for a short visit on the day before the initial meeting.

“You can't be serious.” She stared at her daughter. “You surely don't expect me to attend a meeting of the White Citizens' League.”

“Oh yes, I do. We need as many people as we can get.” Ann Elizabeth's eyes twinkled. “I wish I could pass. I'd just love to be there.”

When the plan was explained to her, Julia Belle agreed to go, albeit rather dubiously. At seven o'clock the following evening she was picked up by Tony Ross and his wife, Alice, both of whom, Ann Elizabeth said, had been active in the recruitment. Alice Ross was a blond buxom woman, very talkative and enthusiastic about what they'd accomplished.

“ Ann Elizabeth is so clever,” she said. “It was her idea. I never would have thought of it, but I'm sure for it. My maiden name is Bernstein. Did you bring the tape recorder, Tony?” she asked. Her quiet unassuming husband nodded and she turned back to Julia Belle. “I'm going to tape the whole proceeding for Ann Elizabeth. Don't want her to miss all the fun.”

Julia Belle felt a little nervous when they entered the meeting room in one of the city's major hotels, but everyone was cordial. There were about sixty people, and all of them seemed to know the Rosses, who received friendly nods and greetings as they settled in their chairs.

“That's the organizer from Arkansas,” Alice said of the tall cadaverous man at the head table. Seated beside him was Cora Samples. “Cora agreed to serve as recording secretary,” Alice whispered.

When Mr. Wimbush got up to speak, his voice was a surprise to Julia Belle—a clipped, almost British accent. He started out mildly enough, expressing appreciation for their presence, saying he knew they were concerned, as he was, with maintaining the American way of life. However, as he continued, Julia Belle became shocked, indignant, incredulous. How could anyone with such intellectual bearing spew such racist venom! Be so bigoted! She hoped the rage wasn't showing on her face as he went on to talk about “the lechers on our economy, the lazy ignorant niggers, who swell the welfare rolls and increase the taxpayers' burden.” It seemed the “money-grubbing Jews were conniving, cheating and taking over most of the business in the city.”This all had to be stopped, he said.

Julia Belle sat tense, almost unable to contain herself, and wondered how the people around her could be so . . . so relaxed. There were even chuckles and murmurs of agreement every now and then.

Mr. Wimbush finished his speech and opened the meeting for discussion.

Tony Ross stood up. With a perfectly straight face, he suggested that one way to get back at the Jews was to refuse to work in any of their establishments.

A women in the back agreed. “Many white Protestants hold important executive positions in stores owned by Jews,” she said. “If they all resign—”

“Er, just a minute,” Mr. Wimbush looked confused. “We don't have to be hasty. Cut off our noses, so to speak,” he said with a chuckle. “There's a bit of a dilemma here, a conflict of interests.”

Tony persisted. “Look at it this way. What's best for us? We sure don't want to help Jews be successful.”

Wimbush promised to take his view under consideration

Another man stood. “Sir, I think we should work to ban restrictive covenants.”

Mr. Wimbush seemed even more confused. “Ban them? We're having enough trouble keeping them from being broken. Some of the realtors are ruining good neighborhoods by selling to inharmonious groups—Negroes, Orientals and Mexicans.”

“But don't you see?” the man said politely. “If they're living around us, we can keep our eye on them, prevent riots and that sort of thing.”

Enlivened by the look on Mr. Wimbush's face, Julia Belle stood. She might as well join the fun. “I think that's an excellent idea. It would stop some of the agitation. I have another idea that will put an end to all the abominable picketing at our stores.”

“Yes?” questioned the dazed Wimbush.

“Give them jobs,” said Julia Belle. “Then they'd have no reason to picket.”

“Good thinking,”Tony Ross said. “They'd be too lazy to take the jobs, but they wouldn't have any reason to agitate. Have you got all these ideas down, Cora?”