You must know, Hazel had replied as she pounded a chicken breast with a wooden block against Adelaide’s kitchen table. You the one laughing.
“You might be able to leave tomorrow if you can exchange it for a first-class ticket.” Hazel’s suggestion brought Mary back to the moment. Negroes couldn’t purchase first-class train tickets, even if it was for a White patron. Established only to further humiliate the Negro class, it was one of the sillier rules that also inconvenienced Whites who discovered the first-class car was sold out when they went to exchange the holding ticket. Jim Crow became dumber and blinder the older he got, outsmarting the interests of the people he was supposed to help.
“I can’t leave. Richard’s going to propose.”
“Postpone the wedding for a few months. He’ll be here when you get back,” Hazel said. “Do this one thing for yourself.”
“A few months?”
“School doesn’t start until September. Enjoy yourself. I’ll send money with you.”
Mary noticed the ticket was one-way.
“Buy the return when you’re ready.” Hazel adjusted the silk scarf, patterned in a whirl of hunter green, burgundy, and gray, now tied around her head in place of her wig. The bow at the peak of her head highlighted her angular face. She looked younger with her scarf on but refused to wear it outside the house for fear people could tell she was bald. Mary didn’t know how to tell her, but her wig, even though it was of high quality, did nothing to hide the truth.
“How can you afford this?”
Her mother watched every penny, mumbling, whenever Mary asked for something, about how little they had. It didn’t matter what Mary wanted; outside of the basics, her mother didn’t have it.
“I’ve been saving,” Hazel said, setting her snuff can on the table. Its contents—thick, sticky, black saliva from the wad of tobacco always marinating in her bottom lip—reminded Mary of prune juice. She had knocked it over one time and had to boil pot after pot of water to get the floor clean. “You may never leave this town again after you marry.”
“I told you, I’m moving north after college. You’re coming too.”
“Girl, I ain’t going nowhere.” Walking to the stove, Hazel pulled her scarf down at the nape of her neck to cover the few short hairs that lingered. “You hungry?” Hazel reached for a knife.
Mary nodded, watching as the cake sprang back before parting. The palest beige yellow, the inside of the cake matched her skin. It had taken Mrs. Nora years to discover her favorite: Her first cakes were chocolate, which Mary hated, then vanilla, too bland. Strawberry was a favorite for years, until she tasted carrot with pineapple bits and walnuts. Her favorite, though, was the lemon, received the year Lillian stopped coming to Charlotte. Perfectly round and three cake pans high, her graduation cake had been iced by hand. Mary could see the turns in her grandmother’s wrist in the peaks of the icing, the ends of her stroke. Each speck was moist and maybe even slightly underdone, the bite as a whole, dense. Her relationship with her White family was the same, an unfinished and complicated matter glazed over with a decadent birthday cake.
Thoughts of her father—Theodore Tucker Lakes the Third, Esq., now the senator from Virginia—and his family evoked the taste of the sourest lemon: bittersweet.
Hazel set two cups of coffee and plates of cake on the table. “I’ll get my money back if you don’t want to go.” She went through the back door to the porch to air out her uniform.
Mary took a bite of cake. Outside, her mother started to hum, a habit for joy and worry; Mary wondered which Hazel was feeling then. Beyond her, the first peak of sunlight hovered in the sky. Blackbirds made an arrow formation as they flew over the roof across the street and over the trees, west. She looked down at Lillian’s picture again.
Would she have ever heard from her again had Catherine not contacted Hazel? Mary felt a way about her friend’s silence, but her reemergence felt like a sign she couldn’t ignore.
It seemed Lillian was living the life Mary had dreamed about—wishes she tried to forget after falling in love with Richard. But his new plan changed things.
“I’ll go for a week … maybe two.”
Hearing her, Hazel came inside and patted her back. “Good, baby. Good.” Mary closed her eyes, indulging in her mother’s touch.
Hazel pulled her grandma Elizabeth’s gold ball earrings from her robe pocket. “You keep these. Wear them for graduation.”
CHAPTER 13
Mary
June 1955
Mary walked to the first-class train car with the wicker basket of food Hazel had packed for the trip.
“That was smart.” The attendant, a chatty White teen younger than her and intent on making conversation, trailed her with her luggage. “Food’s not very good on this route. Where are you from?” Mercifully, another, older attendant hurried him along.
“Everyone likes a pretty girl,” he said, apologizing for the younger one’s interest. Grateful, Mary reached for his hand onto the car, crossing the threshold of Whiteness. His touch was her ticket.
Mary had been nervous about passing alone all the way to Los Angeles. She’d never been on a train and had only traveled as far as Charlotte. She found the courage knowing she’d be hot and cramped in the Colored cars. Inferior cushioning meant her bottom would be throbbing for days on the wooden bench. And there was likely to be only one bathroom for the entire Colored section.
Seated in the first row on the right was a lady wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked black lace dress and a black feathered hat. Her wiry black hair was nestled into a bun, but little spirals decorated the nape of her neck. Only mourning explained her oppressive clothing in the humidity, but Mary noticed she looked more uneasy than sad.
She caught Mary’s eye the moment the royal-purple velvet car curtain opened and then turned to the window, a deliberate gesture which told Mary that she was also passing. It brought to mind what Hazel had told her to do.
Smile if they’re White but make as little conversation as possible. If they ask, say you’re going to see family in Los Angeles. If they’re Negro, avoid eye contact. They’ll leave you alone.
Mary sat on the left, three rows back, at the recommendation of the attendant, who said the view would be better. Despite having the row to herself and the comfort of the thick seat cushion, it was hard to get comfortable with the small leather pouch her mother had insisted she wear around her waist underneath her dress. Don’t take it off until you get there, Hazel had warned. Inside was some money, Lillian’s picture, and her address. Never tell anyone how much money you have—not even Lillian.
Mary rested her head against the window as the train caught its rhythm. Her stomach grumbled in the middle of the night; she nibbled like a kitchen mouse on biscuits and pear preserves. Outside, the stars illuminated the flat fields, and to her, the landscape didn’t look any different from home. She wondered what time it was in Winston and if her momma, Richard, Adelaide, and Lefred were sleeping. She hoped they all already missed her, because she already missed them.
She thought about Richard’s proposal after graduation. He had knelt before her after the exit procession with a single pink rose, sweating in his cap and gown. She was nervous to tell him, but he was happy about her trip to Los Angeles. He even gave her some money to buy herself something nice.
The night sky was vast and pitch-black, nothingness save for a belt of glittering starlight that seemed to follow the train. She became transfixed by it, sucked in, as if she was a part of its light. She awoke sometime later when a small voice interrupted her sleep. “You’ve been taught well to keep to yourself.”
It was the lady in black. The brim of her hat nearly hit Mary’s eye as she leaned in closer to whisper. “You can never be too careful.”