The House of Eve, page 2
“I could have spared you the trouble if I had known you were going out for the ABCs. Why didn’t you tell me?” She removed her wool suit jacket while simultaneously kicking out of her peep-toe heels.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Honey, everyone knows they only pick girls with hair straight as a ruler, and skin paler than a paper bag. Where have you been?” Nadine took a seat on her twin bed, tapping her gold cigarette case. “Sometimes you act like Ohio was another planet.”
Eleanor had heard those rumors before about the ABCs, but she had written them off as just that. One because it was just plain foolish to judge a girl’s worth by her skin color, and two because she knew at least two girls who’d got in and did not fit that description. “Millicent’s an ABC and she’s a shade browner than me.”
“Millicent’s daddy is a judge. She comes from old money.” Nadine lit up her Chesterfield. “Her mother is an ABC, and both of her parents attended Howard. It’s called legacy.”
Eleanor hadn’t realized that. This way of life was all new to her. She turned from Nadine and studied herself in the wall mirror that hung to the right of the door. Her eyes were still stained with tears. She had warm bronze skin, a broad nose, high cheekbones and a decent head of hair. That’s how her mother, Lorraine, always referred to it when she ran the hot comb through it every Sunday before church. Eleanor had been told that she was good-looking, but she’d never considered her skin color a plus or a negative. It just was.
Honestly, she hadn’t even known that Negroes separated themselves by color until she stepped foot onto the all-Negro university’s campus a year ago. Eleanor’s house in Ohio was wedged between Italians and Germans; a Polish family lived just up the block. The Negroes in her hometown were too busy getting along with everyone to pit themselves against each other.
“What am I going to do now?”
“Forget about those stuck-up hussies and come to the dance with me tonight.”
Eleanor blew out her breath. That was Nadine’s response to everything. Go to a party. It was a wonder how she got any studying done at all.
“I have to work.”
“You are always working. College is supposed to be the time of your life and you never let loose. I don’t think you’ve been to a good party all year.”
“I have to keep my grades up. My parents didn’t work their butts off to get me here to waste it away doing the Lindy Hop, Nadine.”
Eleanor wanted to add, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you, but Nadine didn’t deserve that. She had always been sweet to Eleanor, never making bones about their differences.
Nadine got up and thrust open the closet they shared, though the reality was that almost everything in it was Nadine’s. After pushing around a few tailored frocks, A-line skirts and silky blouses, Nadine tossed a scoop-neck dress onto Eleanor’s bed.
“I can’t fit into this anymore. Looks like it’s just your size.”
Eleanor pressed her lips together to keep them from breaking into a smile. It was a beauty. Belted at the waist. The perfect blush color. Satiny material soft to the touch.
“Stop trying to tempt me.” She turned away.
“Dancing will release those blues from your bones.” Nadine teased her, crossing the tiny room back to her bed. “And just so you know, no one does the Lindy Hop anymore.”
Eleanor shook her head and reached under her bed for her one good pair of wedged shoes. After a year of wearing them a half size too small, they had finally stretched out to being somewhat comfortable. Her shift started in thirty minutes, and with the library on the other side of campus, she needed to get moving.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Nadine fixed her with those haughty eyes. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Eleanor caught herself sizing up Nadine’s slender features. If what Nadine said was true about the ABCs, she could have easily checked the hair and complexion box requirements, though she didn’t appear the least bit interested in social clubs. Nadine had lived in Washington, D.C., all her life and didn’t have to work as hard as Eleanor to fit in. Her last name opened doors for her, without her having to lift a finger to make a single connection for herself.
“I better go.”
“Tonight. Ohio,” she hummed her pet name for Eleanor. “I’m going to wait for you to return, and then hound you until you put on that dress.”
“I didn’t even put in for a pass to go out this evening.”
“I’ll take care of the dorm matron,” Nadine shot back.
Eleanor nodded in exasperation, and then closed the door behind her. How could she focus on going to a party when her confidence was so injured? Eleanor couldn’t remember the last time she wanted something as much as she’d wanted to join the ABCs. She had worked extra hard on her application, spending over a week on perfecting it. Her GPA was well above the requirement, and she had volunteered several times at Harrison Elementary school for her community service. What was worse, it had been the first time she had put herself out there, after that trouble she had gotten herself into her senior year of high school. Only for it to blow up in her face. On paper she looked like the model candidate.
Not in the mirror, you aren’t.
She picked up her pace, trying to dampen the flicker of self-doubt that had started whispering to her when she arrived at the university. In her distraction, she wandered through the Founder’s Square, treading over the university’s limestone seal. It was believed that if you walked over the mark without reading it, you’d earn a semester of bad luck. Eleanor stopped. She couldn’t take any more bad luck.
* * *
The campus library was just ahead, and Eleanor walked through the doors and up the marble steps to the second floor. Her boss, Dorothy Porter, stood on the other side of the glass wall in the collection room, holding a magnifying glass to her eye. Her tight curls were pushed away from her forehead, and she wore a polka-dot dress that hit below her knees.
“Has a new flat arrived?” Eleanor asked as she dropped her bag.
The collection room was always kept cool and dry, providing a stable environment for the assemblage of rare manuscripts, pamphlets and books that Mrs. Porter curated in her role as an archivist.
“It’s a letter written from James Forten, of Philadelphia, addressed to William Lloyd Garrison, dated December 31, 1830,” she spoke in a hushed voice, as if talking at full volume would destroy the delicate paper in her hand.
Eleanor read over Mrs. Porter’s shoulder, knowing from working with her for the last year that she dare not touch the naked sheet without washing her hands.
“Forten was a wealthy Negro sailmaker. A stunning piece to add to our manuscript puzzle.” Mrs. Porter’s eyes shone. “I’ll need you to codify this.”
“Freeman. Biography. Philadelphia?” Eleanor looked at her boss expectantly.
“Yes, and then by decade and gender.”
Mrs. Porter slipped the flat paper into a clear polyester film sleeve and then passed it on to Eleanor. “We have a private viewing of biographies and portraits for a donor in Boston next month. I’d like your suggestion on which pieces we should display.”
Eleanor whipped her head toward Mrs. Porter in surprise. This was a first, and it patted a layer of salve over the sting from the sorority’s rejection letter. Mrs. Porter was very protective of “her collection” that she had spent two decades amassing, and her zeal for her work was astonishing.
Eleanor had arrived at Howard as an English major with the mind that she would become a teacher, but that had changed only a few weeks into her first semester, when she’d first met Mrs. Porter.
Eleanor had been studying in the library when a voice behind her asked, “Would you mind lending me a hand, dear?” A woman—Mrs. Porter—had stood in a plaid suit with a bulky shopping bag in each hand. Eleanor had taken the heaviest one from her and followed her up to the Moorland Room.
“Careful with that.” Mrs. Porter chastised her when Eleanor thumped the bag on the table. “You never know what treasures can be found on the floors of people’s basements.”
The contents in the bag were odorous, but that didn’t sway Mrs. Porter from gently going through all the pieces with the care of a mother hen. There were letters, a diary, photographs, dusty books, rusty trinkets and newspaper clippings. Eleanor asked Mrs. Porter what the assortment was for as she had a propensity for antiquated things.
“My goal is to build a collection that would reflect all of our history. Comprehensive Negro history.” Mrs. Porter beamed.
Her enthusiasm was contagious, and after just a few moments together, Mrs. Porter asked, “Have you read Incident in the Life of a Slave Girl?”
“By Harriet Jacobs? It’s one of my favorites.” Eleanor grinned. She had been a self-proclaimed history hound since her eighth-grade teacher introduced her to the writings of Claude McKay, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, and her husband, Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Mrs. Porter had instructed Eleanor to put on a pair of white gloves and then placed a weathered newspaper clipping in her hands. Eleanor had looked from the piece between her fingers to Mrs. Porter with her mouth agape.
Mrs. Porter confirmed. “An original advertisement for Jacobs’s capture. It ran in the American Beacon newspaper on July 4, 1835, in Norfolk, Virginia.”
Chills surfaced up Eleanor’s arms as she pored over the ad offering a $100 reward for Harriet Jacobs’s apprehension and delivery. Unexpected tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes as she recalled Jacobs hiding in an attic of her grandmother’s house for seven long years before finally escaping north to freedom. Eleanor’s gaze locked with Mrs. Porter’s as an understanding passed between them. From that moment on, Eleanor was hooked. Before her first semester was over, she changed her major to history, with the goal of becoming a library archivist, just like Mrs. Porter.
Curating a collection was a first step and she responded brightly, “I have a few ideas.”
“Wonderful. I’ve left a stack of card indexes for you at the circulation desk that need cataloguing. I’ll be in my office charming away monetary donations.”
Mrs. Porter picked up several new bags brimming with books and headed up to the third floor. When Eleanor arrived at the circulation desk, she found the list of patrons with overdue books who needed to be telephoned. Between the calls and Mrs. Porter’s assignments, she had more than enough work to keep her mind occupied.
The library was the most peaceful place on campus, especially for someone like Eleanor, who had grown to prefer the company of books to people. Though deep down she knew that she desired both, which is why she wanted to join the ABCs, and the new wave of rejection tugged her bottom lip into a pout. Perhaps she should consider going to the party with Nadine. It had been a long time since she dressed up and she had always loved to dance. But no, she had several chapters to read for her philosophy class. The time she’d spent working on her application for the ABCs had put her dreadfully behind on her studies. And it had all been for nothing. Eleanor cast that thought aside and turned to her library work.
After an hour of sorting and filing indexes, the steady sound of crinkling paper pulled her attention away from her task. At the table across from her, she noticed a growing pile of balled leaflets. Her cheeks warmed, and she had to rest her elbows on the desk to steady herself. The Back was back.
The Back belonged to a boy. He always sat in the same cushioned chair, at the same wooden table. He had wide shoulders and dark hair that curled tightly at the nape of his long neck. Eleanor often daydreamed about what it would be like to give those shiny curls a tug. In the many months that she had admired him from her post, she could not recall ever catching him full frontal. Spotting Mr. Back at his regular place always made her day a bit brighter.
An hour or so later, as Eleanor was making a list of stationery supplies that needed to be ordered, she heard footsteps as someone approached the circulation table. She looked up and was met with broad shoulders, tightly curled hair. It was him. Mr. Back.
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am. But can I sharpen my pencil?” Eleanor’s tongue lost the ability to speak. She had caught his side profile a few times, but that had not prepared her for him up close, in her personal space. Oh Lord, faced front Mr. Back was fine.
“Does it work?” His slightly slanted, inky black eyes looked puzzled. He had smooth skin and soft lips.
“I’d be happy to.” Eleanor regained her composure. She took the pencil from him, thrust it into the sharpener and cranked the metal handle. Suddenly worried about her own appearance, she wished she could catch a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the sharpener. Were her eyes puffy? Hair in place? She turned back to him, pencil in hand.
“William,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“My name. It’s William. William Pride.”
“Oh, Eleanor Quarles.”
“How long have you been at Howard?”
“I’m a sophomore. You?”
“Third year of medical school. I did my undergrad at Howard too.”
Eleanor kept her face cool, even though her insides did a pirouette. He was going to be a doctor. A Negro doctor.
“Well, I’ll be here all day if you need your pencil sharpened again.” Her voice cracked, and she tried to cover up her nervousness with a hearty laugh.
“I’ll remember that.” He winked and turned for his table. Eleanor went back to filing, the whole time trying to focus on the papers in front of her instead of staring at William Pride’s beautiful back.
CHAPTER THREE THE SWEETEST THING
Ruby
I arrived at Thomas Durham Public School forty-five minutes late, with the feeling of Leap’s vile tongue and nauseating scent still on me. My enrichment instructor, Mrs. Thomas, had locked her classroom door when I tried to enter, so I sat on the hard bench in the hall trying to overhear the lesson on college essay writing. I couldn’t see the blackboard through the frosted glass, or hear the student’s responses, but Mrs. Thomas had a voice that carried, and I jotted down what I could gather.
My blouse had discolored with wet rings under the armpits, and my stomach wouldn’t settle down no matter how many times I rubbed it. For two long hours I waited, feeling completely disgusted with myself. I’d endured being slobbered on by my mother’s boyfriend, and where had that gotten me? I was still on the outside of the classroom while everyone else was in. Finally, the door pulled open, and my cohorts filed out. As some snuck furtive glances my way, it felt like they had known what I had done with Leap, and I squirmed shamefully on my seat, avoiding all eye contact.
Two years ago, back in eighth grade, we had been selected for We Rise. The program provided tutoring and mandatory Saturday enrichment classes, along with vigorous testing throughout high school, to prepare us for college. As the best and the brightest, we twelve were competing for only two full scholarships. The ten who were not awarded the highest opportunity would be given a modest stipend to attend a trade school and continued support for job placement. I couldn’t afford to be one of the ten who didn’t qualify and be stuck living hand to mouth with Inez, begging Fatty for money, and being prey to Leap. This was my only way out. Failing to get the scholarship just wasn’t an option for me.
The last students trailed by as if I were nonexistent. But as their shoes echoed down the hall, I was sure of what they were thinking: How come she’s always late? I don’t have to worry about her nabbing the scholarship over me. Careless. Stupid. Not even a threat.
“Miss Pearsall,” my teacher called, in her firm voice. She’d seen me through the window in the door.
I pushed my bag over my shoulder and walked into the classroom while Mrs. Thomas got to work erasing the blackboard. She kept the shades up for the various gardenias, ferns and snake plants she had perched along the windowsills. A horn honked outside her window, and two dogs barked in succession. The room smelled of honeyed tea and the vanilla candle that always burned.
Mrs. Thomas closed the door behind me, and then took a seat at her long wooden desk. Her dark brown hair was rolled away from her face and pinned off her neck. She wore a string of pearls with a gold broach, and matching droplets hung daintily from her earlobes. She was the most proper Negro woman I had ever met, and disappointing her hurt like a hole in my tooth.
She motioned for me to take a seat. “Miss Pearsall, do you realize that there are many Negro students up and down the East Coast that would give anything to be in your position?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then what is your problem? I warned you last week.”
“I know, but…”
“There are no buts.” Her voice bit into me as she leaned across her desk. “There are no second chances when it comes to us. If you want to escape your current circumstances, you have to work like your tail is on fire.”
My right knee shook, and I bit down on my bottom lip.
“Potential without focus and full commitment bears no fruit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned back in her seat, moving some papers around in front of her. “Instead of the field trip to Hahnemann Hospital next week, you will stay here and make up the work you have missed.”
“No, please. I can make that work up from home.”
“I’m sorry, Ruby. I cannot allow you to attend. It will look as if I am showing you favor to the students who are here every week on time. Now, go home and decide if attending college is really what you want.”
“It is, ma’am. More than anything.”
“Then show up and work like your life depends on it. Now you’re dismissed.” Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up and pointed to the door.
I walked out feeling like a stone was lodged in the middle of my chest. The field trip had been planned for weeks. My class was going to shadow the medical staff as they made their rounds. It was my chance to connect with real doctors, and I had blown the opportunity.
