The Queen of Sugar Hill, page 27
My eyes widened as I poked my head out. I’d been discreet so I had no idea how she knew about Winston. She saw my expression and answered my question.
“It’s my job to know everything,” she said with a smile.
It took a few weeks but I slowly began breaking through the cloud of grief.
“Just keep moving.” Ruby’s words catapulted me out of bed most days.
Today, I decided that maybe cleaning would help rid my mind of the platter of negative thoughts my brain served me every day. I grabbed a rag and bottle of vinegar to begin wiping down my counters. I spotted Walter White’s invitation to the dinner at the Crystal Tea Room. I had forgotten that was today. I tossed the invitation in the trash. I had a whole other set of problems and did not have the wherewithal to focus on the unfixable situation with Walter White.
There had been no shortage of people trying to get me to “open my mind” to dining with Mr. White. And I told everyone the same thing—you’re wasting your time, especially since the man was back at it, boycotting my latest film, Song of the South.
Almost immediately after the film opened last week, critics said it was a “devastating animalization of Negro images that only perpetuated racism’s most harmful and disparaging elements.” That was a direct quote that I’d committed to memory from one of the Negro papers.
Pickets went up protesting the movie in Manhattan and other parts of the nation. Several colored theaters refused to screen the film, and some said my role was particularly objectionable. I received a barrage of letters protesting my appearance in the film. And that was just this week, all while I was trying to bury my sister.
I decided to take Ruby’s advice and summon Winston, who, in his defense, had been trying to spend time with me for weeks.
* * *
My night with Winston had dulled the pain I’d been feeling and had been a welcome distraction. Now, as the morning sun made its appearance in my bedroom, I left him sleeping while I went downstairs to make a cup of coffee.
I’d only been downstairs about twenty minutes when he trudged down fully dressed in army fatigues and looking spry with energy.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
“Good morning. You were sleeping soundly and I didn’t want to wake you,” I said, smiling as he came over and started massaging my neck.
“After that good loving, was there another alternative? I’m so glad you called me. I was missing you.” He kissed my neck, then took a seat across from me. “But for real. What’s wrong?”
I sighed, then said, “What’s right?”
He picked up an apple that sat in a bowl in the center of my table and took a bite. “Talk to me. I know you’re sad about your sister, but it seems like more than that.”
“Naturally, I’m devastated by the loss of Etta, but you’re right. There is so much weighing on me.”
“Call me Dr. Winston.” He crossed his arms and got serious like he was a bona fide therapist.
My shoulders drooped. It probably would be better for me to talk about it rather than holding it all in.
“You know that movie I did, the Walt Disney production Song of the South?”
A nostalgic smile spread across his face.
“Yeah, remember I told you my dad used to read those Uncle Remus folktales to me when I was little?” he said.
“At first I’d been excited about the role because these tales have been told for generations within the Negro community. But when Disney got ahold of the stories, they made them into another extension of racist ideology and I knew from the first day of filming it was going to be an issue.”
“Did you say anything?” he asked.
“I wanted to, but it’s one thing you’ll learn in this business, Winston, if you rock the boat you will get tossed in the water.” I exhaled heavily as guilt filled me. “I had hoped that I could bring change from the inside. An authenticity that would make people not hate the people we used to be. I am sorry to say I failed miserably.”
My doorbell rang, interrupting our discussion.
“Dang, you’re just a regular Grand Central Station here,” Winston teased. “I’ll go out the back.”
I took in his appearance as he stood and placed his patrol hat on his head.
“You know what? It’s been three months. We’re grown, enough with the sneaking in and out,” I said, standing and heading into the living room. “You can go out the front.”
He followed me. “What! Does that mean we’re official?” he joked.
I kissed him on the cheek without answering his question. The doorbell chimed again. Winston stopped my hand just before I opened the door, leaned in, and planted a wet kiss that made my knees weak. “Official or not, I think you’re the greatest, Hattie McDaniel. See you later,” he said. “Don’t wait too long to call me next time.”
I opened the door to reveal Louise and Lillian on the porch. Winston smiled and tipped his hat.
“Good day, ladies,” he said as he stepped past them and bounced down the stairs.
Both Louise and Lillian, mouths agape, turned to watch him walk away.
“Y’all just gonna stand on my porch like some clucking ducks or are you coming inside?” I asked.
“Holy smokes . . . you wanna tell us what that’s about?” Lillian asked, cocking her head in feigned shock.
“I don’t,” I said, grinning as I turned and walked back inside.
“You know you’re not right?” Louise said as they followed me inside, closing the door behind them.
“Hush and mind your business.” I laughed, then turned serious as I added, “How was the meeting?”
“You were right not to attend. It was awful,” Lillian said, removing her jacket.
“Hmmph,” I replied, taking a seat in my leather chair in the sitting room.
Lillian said, “I would ask how you’re doing, but . . .”
“Ha . . . I’m okay. Winston does help dull the pain. . . .”
“The way your eyes just lit up, I’d say he sure does.” Lillian chuckled before turning to Louise. “And to think when we left her, she was going into a decline.”
“Well, that young whippersnapper looked like he could pull anyone out of a depression.”
“I’m sure you all didn’t come by to talk about my beau,” I said. “What happened at the luncheon?”
Louise set her purse on the sofa, then sat down. “Do you know Walter White revealed plans to open a Hollywood office solely dedicated to improving colored cinematic representation. By the time he finished outlining his plan, the room erupted in protest.”
Lillian made her way over to the bar and poured herself a glass of brandy.
“Clarence Muse was livid as a hornet, saying we didn’t need another branch in the region since we had the NAACP Los Angeles office. You know how hard he works with that.” She sipped the hooch, closing her eyes and savoring it like it was instant medication.
“Ummmph,” I said, suppressing the “I told you sos” screaming to be released.
Louise continued, “I stood up and told Mr. White how we felt about his continued circumvention of Negro performers. And I brought up the letters he had those colored GIs in the Pacific send to you.”
“Well, I’m glad you came to my defense,” I said.
“It didn’t matter,” Lillian replied. “Walter denied all responsibility, but I tell you, Louise was on a roll. She got up under his skin. Even brought up what you said about him being prejudiced against darker-skinned Negroes.”
“Good,” I replied.
“Poor Lena, though,” Lillian said. “They lit into her, called her an Eastern upstart and a tool of the NAACP.”
“Shoot, forget that ‘poor Lena’ stuff. Lena got some Hattie in her.” Louise chuckled. “She held her own and defended her career. She did refute the charges that Walter was prejudiced, but she said, however it was that she got on the Hollywood scene, it was her talent that was keeping her there. Still, her remarks did little to quell the crowds. Though it’s all just a shame. We’re battling each other when our real foe is the white studio system.”
I tsked. “So nothing came of this meeting?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Surprise, surprise.”
“We were there for three hours and it was nothing but berating of Walter White and going back and forth. We left there more incensed than ever,” Louise said, reaching for Lillian’s glass.
“No, ma’am, get your own.” Lillian moved the glass out of reach. “Louise called the NAACP a new type of streamlined gangsterism,” Lillian continued. “Fortunately, I was in a non-belligerent mood and I laughed at their cracks.”
“Walter had the audacity to call us selfish,” Louise said, then released a defeated sigh. “But I think he’s gonna go ahead and build the Hollywood bureau.”
“Well, just like he continues to fight, we gotta continue to fight as well,” I said.
Louise’s tone turned serious. “Ain’t you tired of fighting, Hattie?” she asked. “Everything and everybody? When all we want to do is make a living and live in peace.” I could see the weariness in her face.
“I am, but I can’t stop fighting till the day I die,” I told her. “I know I have my days, but I didn’t come this far to give up now.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of this stressful talk,” Lillian proclaimed as she leaned back in her seat. “I want to hear all about Mr. Stars and Stripes Forever.”
“Lillian’s right. Let me live vicariously through you. Do tell. It all.”
All of us laughed as I decided to let my Winston secret out of the bag to my friends. We enjoyed the rest of the day talking about everything but Walter White and the NAACP.
* * *
Over the next couple of weeks, news of the meeting at the Crystal Tea Room was everywhere. The Pittsburgh Courier ran articles supporting Walter White and his plan to open a Hollywood bureau. They even ran a news story where they placed a significant amount of blame for lynching, disenfranchisement, unequal educational opportunities, and job discrimination on us. That was ludicrous. How Negro actors were responsible for the woes of the world was beyond me.
Mr. White had done an interview with the Chicago Defender where he continued his tirade against me. I’d just gotten my hands on a copy and was infuriated as I read. “‘What is more important—jobs for a handful of Negroes playing so-called “Uncle Tom” roles or the welfare of Negroes as a whole? If a choice has to be made, the NAACP will fight for the welfare of all Negroes instead of a few colored stars, such as Hattie McDaniel.’”
Why this man insisted on badmouthing me was one of the world’s greatest mysteries. I tossed the newspaper aside.
“How is he gonna blame us for racism?” I muttered to my dog Danny, who came and nuzzled up against my leg. “No matter what we do on the screen, he blames us for the racism in the world.”
Danny just stared at me with his tongue hanging out. I reached over, rubbed him behind the ears, and stood.
I had to remember the words I told my friends, that the fight could never end until I took my last breath.
Chapter 38
October 1946
I was the first one on my feet applauding the magnificent performance I’d just witnessed here in the Biltmore Theatre in downtown Los Angeles. Winston, who was sitting next to me, seemed bored. I chalked it up to his youth. He didn’t understand the magnitude of what we had just seen. Anna Lucasta was a Negro-cast drama in a different kind of theater. And the star, a young woman named Ruby Dee, was a different kind of actress.
The play told the story of a young prostitute in conflict with her family and herself. It took the colored experience from a segregated existence in Harlem, and it had come to the Biltmore. I’d heard that originally, playwright Philip Yordan had written the romantic story to be about Polish Americans but decided to make the cast colored. That was the type of progress I was ecstatic about seeing.
I knew the actors were from an ambitious young theater group called the American Negro Theatre and I couldn’t wait to meet them. When the show wrapped and the cast had received a double standing ovation, I turned to Winston. “Do you see how the characters didn’t have to be labeled?” I said, my enthusiasm brimming over.
“Ummm, I guess.” He shrugged. He’d been disinterested from the first scene. As an aspiring actor, I thought for sure he would appreciate the brilliance of this performance.
I ignored his lack of excitement as I continued talking. “I mean, I know Anna was a prostitute, but she was also sort of a heroine. It was just magnificent.”
Winston stared at me, blinking, before he said, “You think the concession stand is still open?”
I rolled my eyes and looked over to the other side of the theater where Louise had been sitting with her date. She’d share my excitement. She was already out of her seat and heading with others up to the stage.
The excitement of the all-Negro-cast drama was vivacious. When the curtains went down, actor Charlie Chaplin and some other local performers had already made their way up onstage. Everybody was embracing and raving about the play.
“Can we go?” Winston said as I tried to navigate the folks crowding the stage. “I just heard someone say the concession stand is closed and I’m hungry.”
I took a deep breath and turned to him. “You can go on,” I said. “I want to meet this young actress.”
Winston seemed grateful for the reprieve and kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll catch up with you later,” before darting off. I didn’t even bother asking how he was getting home since I’d driven to the theater. My attention was focused on Charlie, who was vigorously applauding Ruby Dee, as well as a man next to her that I remembered them calling Ossie at the curtain call.
I finally made my way onto the stage, taking a spot next to Louise.
“I’m not kidding,” Charlie was saying just as I walked up. “This is something that Hollywood would want to do—we need to get this made into a picture!”
His enthusiasm lifted everybody. I’m sure that none of these actors had come to California looking to get into movies, but if Charlie Chaplin suggested it, the likelihood of it happening was strong.
“Thanks for the information,” Charlie said, patting a card in his hand. “You will definitely be hearing from me!”
I smiled as I watched him dance away.
“Oh my God,” Ruby Dee said when she spotted me. “Hattie McDaniel!” She squealed as she raced over and hugged me like we were old friends.
“So nice to make your acquaintance,” I said.
She released her embrace and struggled to compose herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re one of my favorite actors,” she said. This petite young woman, who couldn’t have been any more than twenty-three years old, was even more beautiful up close. She wasn’t light enough to pass, but she had the smoothest fair skin I’d ever seen. With big bright eyes and an innocent smile, she was going to have a long career in show business.
“Well, from that show you just put on, I can tell I’ll be saying the same thing about you one day,” I replied, my smile genuine.
She looked like she was going to pass out from excitement. I squeezed her hand. “You really did put on a spectacular performance.” I looked around at the other cast members who had started to gather when she squealed my name. “You all did.”
“Thank you so much,” Ruby Dee said.
The young man stepped next to her and extended his hand. “Ossie Davis. And you have no idea how much it means to hear you say that.” His grin was wide as he shook my hand like he was trying to put out a fire.
“Well, it’s the truth,” I said, pulling my hand back before he broke it. “I’m sure you all are exhausted. Where are you staying?”
Ossie gave a one-shoulder shrug. “You know how this goes. The theater didn’t extend hotel accommodations to anyone but Ruby Dee,” he said, and I saw guilt instantly fill Ruby Dee’s face. “The rest of us are staying here and there. Some are staying with people in the community,” Ossie continued.
That was no surprise. Several of us local actors served as a floating hotel for entertainers who came through town.
“I’m staying in San Pedro, down near the railroad station,” Ossie said. “There’s lodging there for railroad sleeping-car porters and a few of us are staying there.”
“Well, as long as you’re comfortable.” I turned to Ruby Dee. “Are you enjoying our city? Are they giving you the star treatment?”
She leaned in and whispered, “I’ve never had a wardrobe person dress me or prepare me.” The way her eyes danced warmed my heart. “And to see people like you and Humphrey Bogart and Ben Johnson, Anthony Quinn, Charlie Chaplin . . . Oh, it’s just a dream come true,” she exclaimed.
I greeted some other cast members before saying, “So, where are you all going to celebrate, because I know you can’t be calling it a night?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, we have to turn in because we have another show tomorrow, but we’ll be ready to hit the town after that,” Ossie said.
Louise stepped up before I could extend an invitation. “Well, you all go get some rest, have an amazing show, and tomorrow, come to my place after the show and we’ll throw you a private cast party.”
The reaction from the cast members was instantly joyous.
I looked up to see Hedda Hopper heading over toward us. I hadn’t even noticed that she was here.
“Why, Hattie McDaniel, I thought that was you over here,” she said, adjusting her white gloves as she sashayed up to me.
“Hello, Hedda. I’m a little surprised to see you here.” As usual, she wore her signature hat, this one with black feathers protruding from the right side.
“Why? I’ve heard great things about this play and wanted to check it out. Plus, I heard you were going to be here and wanted to see if we could get that exclusive about your divorce from James Lloyd Crawford.” She batted her big doe eyes as she pulled out her notepad.
“This is their night,” I said, pointing to the cast. “So that’s all I’ll be talking about.”
