Because We Are (8 page)

Nine

By the time her mother got her home, Emma felt she had cried herself dry, but she shook as if she had been seized by a fit of shivering. Her mother helped her through a warm bath, insisting all the while on trying to soothe her with the thought that it was a mistake. She would straighten it out.

Finally, in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet, Emma sipped warm milk. Her mother sat on her bed in silence until the milk was finished, then left the room. Emma slept fitfully, her sleep disturbed with unpleasant dreams that woke her frequently. One that she forgot immediately upon waking left her frightened.

She sat up in bed and realized it was one o'clock in the afternoon. The quiet in the house drove her from her bed in search of her mother. In the hallway, voices filtered through to her from the kitchen.

“You know, you sound as if you're happy that she's rejected,” her mother said. “What's with you, Larry? Are you ashamed of Emma, or is it that you don't expect much from her?”

“Don't go putting what you feel off on me. I'm merely being realistic. Blacks who have
class
are no different from any other people with class—thank God for that—and anybody wanting to be considered by those with class have to measure up,” her father said.

“And you think your daughter doesn't measure up because she was railroaded out of Marlborough?”

Emma became rigid at the asking of that question. Did her mother really feel that Ms. Simmons had lied and had never admitted it before? She wanted to rush in and interrupt the conversation, but she didn't want them to know she was eavesdropping. She turned to go to her room, but stopped when her father answered, “Let's not be dishonest. Emma was not without guilt. We had both noticed the chip on her shoulder.…”

“Is that reason enough to be transferred? I made the mistake to let them force me to confront them without Emma. I never had their word and Emma's at the same time. And, of course, you were no help at all. I'm just tired of fighting battles alone.”

“Isn't it possible she cursed? Here lately she's been acting like a lot of Blacks who think all authority is racist.”

How could he take the side of Ms. Simmons? Emma thought as her anger flared.

“I can remember in the sixties when you were afire with Blackness and
knew
most authority
is
racist, and I know who cooled your fire; but that is not the issue. The real issue is: We didn't go to bat for Emma and left her out on a limb. If I had thought for one moment our so-called friends would cut her off, I'd never given in that easily.” Her mother's anger showed.

“Why are you so surprised, Janet? Has there been a Manning girl a Golden Slipper debutante, ever?”

“Emma is not ‘a Manning girl,' and you know it.”

“She's there. Let's face it.”

“Listen, Larry, those people are
your
friends, more so than mine. Will you talk to them? Rules can be broken.”

“I don't know what good it will do. Whether Emma is a good girl, or bad, Manning girls are not considered Golden Slipper material. That's that.”

“Are you saying you won't ask? I think it's just a mistake.”

“I'm not saying I will and I'm not saying I won't; I'm just stating a fact.”

“Larry, we don't ask much of you. I don't ask anything for myself, but I'm begging you now. Do this for Emma.”

Emma heard the tears in her mother's voice, and forgetting she was eavesdropping, rushed into the kitchen and put her arms around her mother. “Mama, don't beg him. I don't want it. If they offer it now, I won't take it.”

She looked at her father, who sat at the table eating an apple, looking boyish in an English wool sweater and cords. There was something about him that reminded her of Marvin. With others he was warm, friendly, even playful. She wished he was that way with her. Now he sat with his eyes down, refusing to look at her.

The look on her mother's face made her know she had done an awful thing to interfere.

“You can't make that decision,” her mother shouted as Emma fled the room.

Her mother followed and found Emma staring out her window. “Emma, you don't know what you're saying. I want you to calm yourself and think this through.”

“I am calm.”

“Come here and sit down,” her mother demanded. Her mother sat on the rumpled bed. Emma sat, tailor-fashion, on the floor. “You have worked too hard for this and you deserve it as much as any girl chosen, more than some.”

The fight has come too late with the wrong people, Emma thought. Why had her mother let Ms. Simmons off the hook so easily? Why hadn't she insisted on bringing that incident into the open? Emma said nothing.

“You can't see it now, Emma, but these activities are important. They are necessary if you want to be a part of things. Later, you might want to join a sorority or a nice social club. Having been a deb will help, Emma. It opens doors. You understand?”

“Mama, I … I thought it would be fun. And I like most of those girls, but … can't you understand? What would it look like being there when they all know I was not accepted—until Daddy put the pressure on.”

“It's not ‘putting pressure on,'” her mother said, mimicking Emma. “It's letting them know they cannot cast you aside as if you're a … a nobody.”

“Call it what you will, Mama. I can't. Not with my friends.”

“Now you listen to me. I'm going to call your father in here, and you're going to tell him that you
want
this, and
you're going to have it.
”

Emma looked around her room: clothes about, bed unmade. She felt trapped. “Oh, no, he can't come in here.” She felt ashamed and angry that she had to face her father; and, now, mixed with that anger was the anguish from feeling that her father was ashamed of her.

“I'm going to call him,” her mother said.

“No. Please, wait. I'll go out there and talk to him.”

Her father was still at the table. He did not look at Emma as she moved into the room and stood, her back against the refrigerator.

“Emma has something to say to you,” her mother said, standing near the table where Emma's father sat.

Emma was taken off guard by that direct approach. Suddenly she realized that she could not say what her mother wanted said. She kept her eyes down, feeling the angry humiliation she had felt when she heard her mother begging.

“So? Did she change her mind? Should we pursue this further?” her father asked.

“Isn't it too late?” Emma asked. She wanted to scream at her father, Why did you let me go to Manning if you knew?

“No, it's not too late. She wants it,” her mother said.

“I'll do my best,” her father said.

Emma went to her room, wondering why her mother kept insisting that it was a mistake. But maybe she should be thankful for their efforts. Then she remembered the humiliation, shame, and hurt when her friends had been accepted. How could she face them, even if her father reversed the decision?

She must have fallen asleep again, for when she was startled by a knock on her door the streetlamp was on. Her mother was calling.

“What day is it?” Emma asked, scrambling out of bed.

“It's Saturday, and Marvin is here.”

She looked in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her face drawn; she was a mess. “Tell him to wait,” she cried and rushed to bathe her face in cold water, trying to restore some of its moisture. She decided against any makeup.

Her mother and Marvin were enjoying a good laugh at something. They had an easy way with each other, but when Emma entered the room, her mother left them alone.

“Hi, Marvin.” Emma moved toward him, fighting the urge to cry. “I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped you'd call.”

“I did call. Your mother asked me to come over.” He held her close.

“Oh,” Emma said, drawing away from his embrace. She sat on the sofa.

“I heard the bids were out, so I called to congratulate you. Your mother told me the news.” He sat beside her, but on the edge of the sofa facing her.

The hurt returned. She had wanted this so much for them. To spend that time with him. Now that chance was gone. Maybe her father would succeed; and for a moment she didn't dare think of the consequences, she only hoped.

As if knowing her thoughts, Marvin said, “There's still a chance.”

She thought of the humiliation and said, “I think I'm crazy to hope. I should admit it: It's not really what I want.”

“What do you mean, not what you want?”

“Marvin, you don't understand.…”

“I understand. This is
the
social event of the year. Everybody—
who is anybody
—will be there. And you say it's not what you want?”

She struggled to fight back the tears. She must not let him think that she was being insensitive. “Well … it's not as simple as my not wanting it.…”

“It is as simple as: A mistake was made and corrected. All you have to do is pull it off with class, Em.”

Emma laughed.

“Why you laughing? All you have to do is act as though the mistake never occurred and get on with it, have a ball.”

“I can't do that.”

“How can you
not
do it? How can you hurt your mother? And how can you do that to us?”

“I don't see what it has to do with us.”

“To
me
, then?”

The hurt and sorrow she had felt about not being able to go flared into anger. How could he even think she could refuse to go just to hurt him? Then maybe she was being selfish. But suppose the decision was not reversed. She couldn't keep vacillating back and forth with all the hurt and humiliation. “I'm sorry if you think I'm being mean. I'm not. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

“Listen, baby, you know I had looked forward to going to that ball with you. I wanted it and I thought you did, too.”

“I did, Marvin.”

“Well, I intend to go with or without you. I'd much rather be going with you. You can understand that, can't you?”

She couldn't believe what he was saying, nor did she understand the mixture of hurt and anger dissolving so quickly when he took both of her hands. She suddenly knew she didn't want to lose him, yet she knew she did not want to face her friends in humiliation again. She could hardly hold back the tears. She did not look at him when she whispered, “Yes, I understand.”

He then held her face, pressuring her to look up into his eyes. She glanced at the long slender fingers of his strong hands and felt a rush of love; but she turned aside quickly and said, “Please, Marvin, go.”

Before she had time to recover from Marvin's departure, the phone rang. Her mother reached the phone first. Emma stood close by. The look on her mother's face told the story. “It's your father. It has nothing to do with you, Emma, they said. It's the rules. If they let you, then they would have to deal with applications from other Manning girls, and …”

Emma did not wait to hear more. Her nightmare was over. Or was it beginning, with the season to be jolly just ahead?

Ten

The past weekend had been so unsettling that neither Emma nor her mother could spring back easily into the regular routine. Emma got to Manning late Monday morning. The crowd had already gathered; and with only three days of school before Thanksgiving and winter vacation only three weeks away, a festive holiday mood had taken over. Even Emma felt charged.

She sensed the powerful exhilaration that could often move quickly to uncertainty and even apprehension. There was nothing like this atmosphere at Marlborough. A burst of laughter here, boisterous shouts there, jest and humor everywhere that might spark laughter, or an angry response that could explode into a violent scene, but often was easily smothered in more joking.

She hurried by three white teachers standing together. One, Mr. Kooner, had his hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up, eyes alert. He looked very ordinary, but was doing his best to appear in control. He was not talking with the others, yet seemed bound together with them in that sea of energy. What was he thinking?

She remembered how alone she often felt at Marlborough. But it was not exactly loneliness. How could she put it? Intimidated. Not knowing what to expect, trying to hold on until she was with those few Blacks, relieved to be herself again. Was Mr. Kooner intimidated?

“Whew!” she exclaimed, mopping faked perspiration from her brow when she finally reached Allan, who was waiting in the usual place. “I didn't think I'd make it. Boy, this crowd! It's exciting, but, you know, it's a little scary, too. All that energy. Something's here that I just can't explain.”

The bell rang. “Oh, no,” Emma cried. “I gotta talk to you, Allan.” The frustration and hurt needed release through talk.

“All that hassle with you last week, I gotta know what's up with the ball. Did the bid come?” Allan asked as they walked toward their classes.

“Stay for fifth period today,” Emma pleaded.

“You know I can't stick around here for lunch.”

“Listen, I packed some food for us. Stay and we'll talk.” Emma started into her classroom.

“Tell me, just tell me. Did it come?” Allan shouted after her.

“Tell me, just tell me,” Emma repeated to herself and smiled as she waited for Allan to join her on the steps at lunchtime. She was glad she had remembered the night before to make tuna sandwiches, for she barely had time that morning to grab apples and brownies to stuff into the lunch bag.

The noon crowd was thickening. By now Emma was beginning to place names on many faces. But who would not remember Carrie, the climber. Carrie, Emma thought, might be fun to know, but how could anybody outside get close to Carrie? Walt, her boyfriend and constant companion, had not yet arrived, but Carrie's usual entourage of fellows was there.