“So it was a sign, because here I am, and there you are.”
“Yet . . . if it wasn’t a sign, you would still be there, and I would still be here.”
I imagine the confusion fanning over Lizzie’s face. “So . . . is that a yes, then?”
“It would be my pleasure to accompany you.”
My face is stuck in a grimace. I grab my barley water but, in my agitation, misjudge the volume, and the hot liquid sloshes over my fingers. “Agh!” I cry out, dropping the mug. It falls to the concrete floor with a wet crack, along with my heart.
I don’t move a muscle, hoping that my extreme silence will somehow rub out the noise.
“Oh! I am looking forward to it,” says Lizzie, who seems to have not caught my outburst in her excitement. “I will let you know my colors by next weekend.”
Nathan doesn’t answer. I run through at least a dozen potential reactions he might be having. Perhaps he has put his finger to his lips, and now the two of them are kneeling by the newly discovered ventilation grill, their faces close as they listen. Or maybe he has taken a screwdriver to the vent, and she is admiring his manly physique and his adroitness with tools. Being discovered by Nathan would be humiliating enough, but with Lizzie beside him, it would be more than I could bear.
“Your . . . colors?” he says at last, sounding no closer than the last time he spoke.
“So you can choose the right flowers.”
“Er, of course.”
Dare I hope he didn’t hear me?
“Oh, Nathan. You’re supposed to bring flowers to the parents of the lady you are courting, reserving one for her to wear on her dress.”
“Uh, right.”
Courting. That Lizzie is pretty slick for all her guilelessness, slipping in the word in a way that a gentleman could not deny without being rude. The conversation thins. The visit must be ending.
I pick up the broken shards of my mug and sop the spilled tea with a rag. Why should it matter if Nathan goes with Lizzie? It is none of my business. Naturally, I would’ve preferred not to have played a role in the matchmaking, but how was I to know?
I take a sheet of paper and manage to knock my candle clear off its base. I hastily blow it out before it singes my small rug. I sink to the floor. Miss Sweetie frowns on jealousy, an emotion that, like lye, tends to eat away at its container. He has to date someone, eventually, someone who cannot be me under the great laws of Georgia.
We all must abide by the rules, but some of us must follow more than others. Robby can be a deliveryman but not a clerk. Mrs. English would never have promoted me to milliner, just as Mr. Payne will never promote Old Gin to head groom. Like Sweet Potato and her twisted leg, we have been born with a defect—the defect of not being white. Only, unlike in Sweet Potato’s case, there is no correcting it. There is only correcting the vision of those who view it as a defect, though not even a war and Reconstruction have been able to do that.
Miss Sweetie has gone sour.
I stretch my legs, which I can no longer feel. Too much sitting and thinking creates stagnation in the brain, and stagnation leads to despair. I hop on the balls of my feet and make my breathing effortless.
Then I grab my pen.
THE CUSTOM-ARY
Not to be confused with its more common cousin, the yellow-plumed canary, the custom-ary is a species whose characteristics vary from bird to bird. Some knock about in their cages without reason or purpose (such as the custom of knocking wood to ward off bad luck), while others exhibit more sensible patterns of behavior (such as the custom of driving on the right side of the road). A good number of customs cling stubbornly to their withered branches, though they should’ve been set free of their cages long ago (such as the custom of wearing crinoline slips).
Finally, there are those that are more cuckoo than customary. For example, the custom of women riding sidesaddle when, from an anatomy standpoint, that honor should go to men. Or the custom of not hiring coloreds for clerks and agents when we trust them to manage our households, even to tuck our children into bed. It is time to release these customs into the wild blue yonder before they push the others out of the nest, as cuckoos are known to do.
Readers, what customs would you set free?
Respectfully,
Miss Sweetie
There. Sometimes a point is best made by approaching it from a different angle, like how Merritt and I slung the jumping fish from the river rather than catching them head-on. But will the Focus print something so . . . provocative? Definitely not with Mr. Bell at the helm. But Nathan is different from his father. He had pushed his father to print the editorial criticizing streetcar segregation. He’s not the kind of man who stands out in a room, but he is the kind who stands up for his beliefs.
My ears perk up at a mention of Miss Sweetie by Mrs. Bell.
“The bicycle article was perfect. Made me wish I were younger. I would like to meet this woman.”
I suck in my breath and silently implore Nathan to divest his mother of this notion.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” he says after a considerable pause. “She made it clear she wishes to be anonymous, and if we press her, she might quit, and she’s already working for free.”
“I suppose you’re right. How old did you say she was?”
“I couldn’t tell, Mother. Her face was covered.”
“Well, what did her voice sound like?”
“Like a regular voice.”
I shall need to thrash my voice up a bit, maybe even smoke a few cigarettes like Mrs. English does, chased by some meat pies and plenty of beer.
“Not again, Nathan. You’re a reporter. Give me a better description than that.”
I press my ear closer and will my heartbeat to pipe down.
“To be honest, it sounded like she was nursing a cold, phlegmy.”
“Phlegmy?”
“Yes. Now, that’s a word that doesn’t care what anyone thinks. All those letters trying to prop up the ‘leg’ in the middle.”
“Nathan.”
“Without the cold, I imagine her voice would be clear and forthright like a good ginger ale—the kind of voice that gives good advice.”
“So she’s bossy.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Why do you think she wants to be anonymous? Maybe she has a controlling husband.”
I imagine a glint in the woman’s gray eyes as she presses a finger to her cheek.
“Or maybe she has chin hairs and nose warts, and she uses a broomstick to get around town,” he says.