A Kind of Freedom. Margaret Wilkerson Sexton

      “Get back, nigger, you know you’re not supposed to be in there.”

      Renard stopped where he stood. Evelyn turned to see a red-faced officer clutching the baton at the side of his waist.

      “He wasn’t going in, Officer. He knows the law,” Evelyn called out. It was second nature for her to plead like a little girl in front of whites, and she didn’t notice that she did it now, only that the officer took his hand off the club at his side.

      She felt him sizing her up, but she looked down before he could get any ideas.

      “Well, all right, just get on then,” he said after a minute, and he waited for them to leave.

      Evelyn hustled over to Renard and grabbed his hand. She was prepared to run all the way back down Esplanade, but she had to pull Renard behind her.

      She assumed the day was over after that. They walked back home in silence of a different sort than the one that had led them in—this one seemed to weigh on them, leave them heavier with each step. Evelyn didn’t know what to expect by the time they reached Miro Street. She was certain he wouldn’t make it to dinner now, and she didn’t even hold it against him. Something about brushing up against their limitations made her understand the sense of weakness he’d been referencing earlier, and she understood too that it might show up and announce itself in front of a man like her father. But he turned to her, smiled even, said, “I’ll see you tonight,” and it came out so sturdy she might have thought she had imagined his anxiety an hour earlier.

      “Oh, Renard,” she squealed. “I wasn’t sure what you would do, after what just happened.”

      He shook his head. “I wouldn’t let anything like that shoo me away. If anything, it only confirmed it. We’re all we have. Like you said, we’re all Negroes anyway.”

      Back home, Evelyn tended to the normal Saturday chores: dusting her bedroom, bleaching the toilets, scrubbing the hard wood with vinegar until it shined. Ruby had sometimes helped her in the past, but since Andrew had come into her life, Ruby’s time tending to anything but him was long gone. Once Evelyn finished, she ventured out into the kitchen for a cool glass of lemonade. As she was setting the pitcher back, her mother cornered her between the icebox and the stove. She hunched over so close Evelyn could smell the late-afternoon coffee on her breath.

      “Does Renard like veal?” her mother whispered, picking at the hair that had strayed from her loose bun.

      Evelyn was relieved by the question’s minor nature. “I’m sure. He’s not picky, Mother.”

      “Yes, but that’s not what I asked you. Does he like it?”

      Evelyn nodded. “I think I remember him saying he loved the taste of a nice veal,” she lied.

      Mother jerked her head toward her. “Well, I was planning to roast it with some celery and onions and bell peppers. And then I would bake a pan of macaroni and cheese with the long spaghetti noodles and a tomato salad. I don’t suppose he would have an issue with that. I would have made fish but we’ve been eating it every Friday.”

      Evelyn shook her head. “Whatever you make will be delicious, Mother.”

      It was only when her mother had ushered her out into the dining room and Evelyn was alone with the place settings and the cloth napkins that she wondered what had come over the woman. Evelyn had never seen her doubt herself in the kitchen or otherwise; Mother threw receptions and parties nearly every month of the year, and guests never left without complimenting her gumbo or sweet potato pie or just the careful way she organized the flowers, linens, and centerpiece just so. Evelyn wondered too if Mother had been just as eager to please Andrew, if she had the same conversation with Ruby; Evelyn hadn’t heard anything, but if not, why? Why would Mother be more nervous about Renard?

      A little while later, Ruby burst into the parlor carrying a bunch of tulips.

      “Is that for dinner?” her mother asked.

      “No, indeed. They’re from Andrew, for me.” Ruby held her head high and back; the pink blossoms had started to wilt, but they might as well have been an engagement ring.

      “Hmph, well, go get changed and help me in this kitchen,” Mother snapped.

      Ruby took her sweet time anyway and managed to come out only once Evelyn and Mother had completed all the tasks.

      “What a coincidence. Just in time to taste the veal,” their mother huffed.

      “It’s perfect,” Evelyn said, wiping the gravy from her mouth, piling the compliments on so her mother might relax.

      “Real good, Mama, a little salty though,” Ruby added.

      At that, Evelyn pinched her sister, Ruby swiped her back with a wet towel, and their mother smacked them both on the bottoms with the palm of her hand.

      “What did I do?” Evelyn screamed. “Ruby’s the rude one.”

      Mother just glared back, unaccustomed to managing the conflict. It wasn’t that Ruby hadn’t tried to antagonize Evelyn for years, it was just that Evelyn had always preempted the attacks by catering to her sister’s needs before Ruby even knew she had them. If Evelyn sensed Ruby was on the rag, she’d make her a sugar sandwich; if it was a Monday and a boy hadn’t asked Ruby out, Evelyn would compliment her on her figure. Oh, I wish I had your breasts, she might say. Even Brother’s are bigger than mine, and Ruby would laugh Evelyn into a net of safety. But since Renard had come along there had been a great change in Evelyn. Who was Ruby to criticize their mother’s cooking when Mother had spent the morning straining her nerves into a jumble? Who was she to waltz in twenty minutes before a dinner party with flowers in her hair? Evelyn was tired of her sister’s whims, her privilege, her moods, and her authority in thinking the whole house needed to be privy to them.

      Their mother just shooed them into their bedroom, and the sisters sat in silence there until the doorbell rang. When Evelyn walked out, her parents were standing at the front door whispering.

      “Let’s not make them wait, Nelson,” her mother said, still grim faced.

      And even when Renard and Andrew walked in with flowers, Mother didn’t adopt her normal state of ease. Evelyn was concerned. She found that with her mother on edge, she couldn’t relax either. She fulfilled the expected duties: She ushered her man into the house and introduced him; she set the flowers he brought in a vase on the kitchen counter; she spoke in an educated manner about the riot in Detroit. But the ease she had hoped to feel introducing her new family to her old one escaped her.

      Renard, on the other hand, soared. When Daddy remarked that Negroes expecting Roosevelt to address the violence against blacks were going to die waiting, Renard agreed, adding that it was educated folk like Thurgood Marshall who were changing things in this country. He remarked with a genuine air that their mother could have been their sister. He ate every morsel of food on his plate and asked for seconds. He raved with Brother about Satchel Paige’s three scoreless innings at the last East-West All-Star Game. Evelyn had worried that Renard and Andrew would compete with each other, but neither man took over the table, and instead they yielded it to each other. Renard went on about Andrew’s father’s intelligence. And Andrew gushed over Renard’s work ethic, said that he would surely be a doctor one day, and that anyone who was treated by him would be lucky. Even Ruby praised Evelyn’s bread pudding.

      “I don’t like raisins,” she said, “and you usually overdo it with them, but the way you plopped them so scarce in here, you can barely taste them, Evelyn.”

      After dinner, Evelyn helped her mother with the dishes, and the men snuck off to the parlor for cigars and whiskey.

      When Evelyn was done, she joined them. Both men were seated on the sofa, Daddy in between them. Andrew was shouting.

      “Have you read the Courier? All I know is we have a duty to give our all to the war effort, and maybe when we exercise our duty this country will start to exercise theirs.”

      Daddy scoffed.