“I showed them the portraits we took every year,” Lillian said. She began a story about the private photography sessions “their” father insisted on having in their living room. Her ease and animation made Mary wonder whether it was an experience Lillian had really had.
To help mend “Kitty’s” broken heart, the girls began tossing around the names of men to set her up with. She politely listened, knowing she’d never consider dating a White man. Beyond the horror stories she’d heard, her very life was evidence of the trauma they caused. She was relieved when one of the names finally turned the conversation away from her personal life. When Chuck Berry came on, the table left to dance, and Mary ate another slice of cake, watching.
They finished their last Lakes well past one in the morning, leaving the ashtray full of lipstick-stained butts.
When they got home, Lillian fell asleep in her clothes on the living-room couch. Mary was wide awake, fueled by the thrill of the night. She wanted to call her mother but didn’t, realizing she wasn’t home yet from her night shift. Her momma couldn’t have known about Lillian, Mary reasoned, or she never would have sent her there. Willingly abandoning one’s family was something Hazel would never support, having tragically lost her own. Lillian’s social integration into the White world meant she intended to disappear. Pretty soon, Lillian would have only White friends and date only White men, hoping those in her past forgot her—or, perhaps, understood.
Mary wasn’t going to tell on Lillian, because truthfully, it had been fun to play on the other side with her again. It was a welcome break from the mounting stress she’d felt since her graduation. She finally fell asleep, reasoning that once she was home, whatever Lillian was in Los Angeles would no longer matter. As long as she got to ride that Ferris wheel in the picture and go to the beach, she’d return south, to Richard, a happy girl.
She wrote this information to him in the letter she had started on the train. She described the pole-like trunks of the palm trees and the well-dressed Negroes leisurely strolling the streets. Looking at them made her imagine the two of them living in Los Angeles together, she wrote. She closed the letter with all her love and no mention of her return.
CHAPTER 14
Mary
June 1955
“Want eggs?” Lillian’s head popped out of the refrigerator as Mary entered the kitchen. Without makeup, she had red splotches on her cheeks, as if someone had pinched them. Remnants of red lipstick settled in the dry cracks of her lips like food stuck between teeth.
“No, thank you; I don’t like eggs.”
“There’s oatmeal or grits.” She opened a cabinet, still in her green dress from the night before. “And some canned peaches.”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
Lillian looked relieved. “I have a headache.” She opened a bottle of aspirin and offered one to Mary, who refused.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were passing before we got there?”
Lillian poured coffee beans into a grinder. “I thought you’d sound more natural if you were surprised. And I was right; you did. They loved you.”
“I’ve never done that before. Been around White people, ate a meal with them.”
“It’s like riding a bike.”
“I don’t know how to ride a bike.”
“It means you’ll never forget how.”
“I know, but”—Mary stopped herself growing impatient with the diversion—“who are Kitty and Emma?”
Lillian reached for the butcher knife on the drying rack. “You don’t like your name? I guess we can call you Lane. That’s your middle name. Or Lanie.” She opened the refrigerator again and offered a green apple to Mary. When she took it, Lillian handed her another one. “Wash them, please.”
“It’s not about the name.” Mary turned on the sink, cradling the apples in her hands. Though they were alone, she lowered her voice. “Why did you lie about us being sisters?”
“I couldn’t have you show up out of the blue.”
“Why not? I’m visiting.”
Lillian pivoted with two coffee cups in her hand. “My God—you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
Lillian handed Mary a towel. “Dry your hands.” She pointed for them to sit. “Your momma sent you here to live with me. She wants you to pass.”
“Can’t be.”
“I have a job for you here. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m starting school. I’m getting married.”
Lillian smacked her teeth. “A Negro boy, right?”
Mary crossed her arms in defense against Lillian’s disapproval. “His name is Richard.”
“Don’t you want more for yourself?”
Mary felt a flash of anger—Lillian didn’t even have a boyfriend. “He’s going to be a doctor.”
Lillian held out her hand. “Let me see your ring.”
“I said I’m getting married.”
“Where’s your engagement ring?”
Mary didn’t know what that was. The ladies she knew wore the band they received at the ceremony.
Lillian read her thoughts. “An engagement ring is what a man gives you when he asks you to marry him.”
Her tone prompted more defense from Mary. “We don’t have much now, but he’s going to be a doctor. We’re moving north when he goes to medical school.” Hearing the claim aloud, even Mary doubted its validity.
Lillian slid her chair out to stand. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do, but it does matter to your momma. She sacrificed everything to send you here.”
“I don’t believe you. She would have told me.”
Lillian pointed to the phone sitting in an alcove in the hallway. “Don’t take my word for it.”
* * *
Hazel answered on the first ring, as if she’d been expecting Mary’s call.
“Is it true?” Mary blurted.
The line sounded dead; Mary couldn’t even hear her mother breathe. “Is this because of what I did? Momma, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s what’s best.” Hazel’s voice sounded strained. “You have your own life to live.”
“Is that why you gave me all that money?”
“I’ve been saving for this your whole life,” Hazel said.
“Momma, I’ll never be able to see you again.” Mary started crying, feeling the weight of her words.
“Hush now. It’s done. Being a White woman won’t be all roses, but it’s better than any life you’d have here or anywhere else being a Colored one.”
“What? You should have told me.”
“You wouldn’t have left.”
“Come to LA. We don’t have to pretend.”
Hazel stayed silent, her way of saying no.
“We’ll talk on the phone every day, then.”
“Hearing your voice and never being able to see you makes it too hard for the both of us.”
“Write?”
“Go on with your life now. Don’t worry about me.”
Mary yelled into the phone. “Momma! I don’t want to do this!”
Hazel’s voice held a level of desperation Mary had never heard before. “I don’t want you back here. You hear me? If you don’t have enough sense to take advantage of the gift God has given you, then I don’t want your fool self back in my house.”
In response to Mary’s tears, Hazel only sucked her teeth. “You stop that, you hear? Lillian’s been waiting for you. You two take care of each other.”
“You should have told me.” The line went dead. “Momma?”
Mary called back several times, to no answer. The gravity of her loss evoked physical pain, nausea, and sent her fleeing to her room. She slammed the door behind her wanting to break it. She didn’t even have a picture of her mother. She collapsed on the bed and closed her eyes, remembering their goodbye and how she’d hurried Hazel’s hug; Richard was coming to see her off, and she hadn’t yet finished her hair. I’ll be back in a week, momma.
Within her grief was a degree of relief. In the pit of her stomach, she knew it was true: being Negro was akin to being a jack-in-the-box. Sometimes the lid opened, and you were able to shine, but eventually, you ended up back inside the darkness of limitation until someone got the notion to open the box again.
No one talked about these things. Dwelling caused crippling anger that was sure to get you or a loved one killed; the hum of it below the surface was the undercurrent pulling thousands of Negroes away from the South, away from their homes. Whether she was conscious of it or not, it was what had made Mary dream of going to Los Angeles in the first place.