Calling Me Home (25 page)

Later, I learned Robert had difficulty finding an open shop; in our bliss, we’d forgotten it was Sunday. He regretted turning down Sarah Day’s offer to send leftovers with us the evening before. Finally, he found a café serving lunch and spent too much money on a meal that was expensive to carry away. He wouldn’t return empty-handed on our first full day of married life.

A nervous tap startled me fully awake. I knew it wasn’t Robert. I threw on my robe, tying it clumsily as I moved toward the door.

“Who is it?” I said in hardly more than a whisper.

“It’s Sarah Day. Hurry now, open the door.”

My insides went cold and steely at her voice. I feared right away something had happened to Robert. Somehow, Sarah knew and had come to inform me. My second thought—that my family had found Reverend Day and made him talk—was the correct one, of course.

I pulled Sarah inside. The apron under her overcoat increased my dread. She hadn’t bothered to remove it before leaving her house—and I knew in my gut that Sarah Day wouldn’t wear an apron in public. I clutched at her arms. “What is it? Is Robert all right? What happened?”

“Oh, honey, you’ve got to act quick. Your brothers, your father, they were at my house, and they’re probably headed here now. They know about the wedding. I came to warn you—I’m sure there isn’t much time.”

I heard her words, but in my shock and terror, I simply sank onto the mattress. “What do I do? Robert’s gone to get us something to eat. What can I do, Sarah? I don’t know what to do.”

“Robert gone is probably the best thing. I don’t know about those brothers of yours. They were angry when I left, threatening my husband. I think maybe I should go watch for Robert, head him off. They could hurt him real bad—if they even leave him here.” I know we both saw pictures in our minds of the boy the reverend had described the day before. “Your daddy, he just stood there, not wanting to cause trouble, but I don’t believe he’s a match for those boys.”

She was right. My mother’s insistence on leniency had ruined them, had made them confident to a fault. I knew they weren’t scared to fight or hurt anyone who got in their way—not even our own father.

“You’re right. Please go, Sarah. Go watch for Robert. Tell him not to return until—I don’t know when. I’ll deal with my brothers.”

She hesitated at the door. “Honey, your father said you’re only seventeen. Is that right?”

I nodded, ashamed of my lie.

She shook her head. “Oh, honey, that wasn’t the smartest thing to do. You lied, not only to your parents but to us. It’s going to be hard for this marriage to stand up to that, much less everything else you’re facing.”

I doubled over in a sob, and she let herself out. I’d lied before God, too. All my plans were useless now. What I’d done so far was all I could do. I prayed Robert was far enough away he wouldn’t run into my brothers, and that Sarah would find him and warn him in time. Robert knew my brothers wouldn’t hurt me, even if they were furious. I was almost certain he’d do the smart thing and stay away as long as he needed to.

Finally, though, I pulled on the dress I’d worn before our wedding and tidied up the place so it wouldn’t look as though I’d spent half the day in bed with a man. Even though I had. Even though he was my husband and I’d had every right to.

I could have left. In the spare moments after I straightened our room, my heart could have pointed it out as the obvious course. Gather up what I could, find Robert, and race toward the place where we could begin again, where we could live peacefully as husband and wife.

Was there such a place?

But in the back of my mind, I knew running wouldn’t work. I knew if my brothers didn’t find me, they’d find both of us eventually and it would be even worse. I knew that if they didn’t find us, they’d hurt Reverend Day, or, God forbid, Sarah, as they’d threatened, and I couldn’t be responsible for bringing such pain to folks as kind and generous as the Days. In the light of day, I saw it plainly: It wasn’t just the two of us. It was Cora. It was Nell. It was a whole circle of people we respected and loved.

I sat in the easy chair and waited for the second knock—this one, no timid tap.

The knock became a crash. My brothers kicked in the door, desperate, I suppose, to rescue their sister from the monster they believed Robert to be. Why else would a Negro think he had the right to marry a white girl?

I sat in my chair, scared but resolute. Thankful when I saw all three—and only the three. My brothers hulked in the door frame. My father stood behind them, not exactly apologetic. Perhaps he was entitled to be displeased with me for leaving home without permission, for making a choice that could alter irrevocably what he’d worked so hard to create.

If all three were there, it must mean Robert was safe, distracted from returning to our room. I hoped Sarah would have the sense not to tell him right away, perhaps to act like she’d encountered him by accident, then keep him busy talking for a while before she told him the truth. A part of me still feared he might take it upon himself to come inside the house and up to our room, to try to protect me, when he’d be the one in danger.

“Are you crazy, girl?” my oldest brother yelled. “Where’s that boy? Where is that nigger boy? Soon as I see him, I’m going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he can’t feel it no more.”

My father finally stepped forward. “Now, Jack. That’s not necessary. We found Isabelle. We can take her home now.” He placed a hand on Jack’s arm, but Jack pushed him away.

“That boy ruined our sister, Daddy. Your little girl’s been ruined by a nigger. We won’t let him get away with it, will we, Pat?” He looked at my younger brother. Patrick shook his head and threw me a look of contempt. “If he argues, I got something better than my hands.”

I gasped when Jack withdrew a handgun from his coat pocket. They wanted blood. I could almost smell it. But now I desperately wanted to know if my mother had sent them with her blessing, knowing what Jack carried in his pocket.

“Remember now, you’re in Cincinnata, boys,” my father said. “Things are different here. You might not get away with what you can at home. You want to end up in jail over this? Both of you, let’s just gather up Isabelle and go on home. Come on now, Isabelle.” Daddy’s eyes pleaded with me to do as he asked.

“I’m not leaving. Daddy, I love him.”

Jack and Patrick stepped forward. The looks in their eyes said they thought I was an animal for admitting this much. But I knew better; they were the animals.

“Isabelle, sweetheart, you don’t have any choice. You’re a minor. Your marriage is invalid. And you’re coming home with us.” He stood up to me, when he’d refused to stand up to anyone else. And I was the one he’d loved most. How could he?

So what choice did I have then, my brothers willing, maybe eager, to let blood over this, my father unwilling to intervene? At that point, I believed the best thing I could do for Robert was to leave quietly, without drama. We would have to find another way to be together. We were married now, at least in the eyes of God. We had the right.

But I was wrong. I should have refused to go. I should have run as fast as I could, far away from the ones who’d always claimed to love me.

24

Dorrie, Present Day

I
COULDN’T IMAGINE
how Miss Isabelle must have felt, leaving the place she and Robert thought would be home. Robert must have been out of his mind with worry and heartbreak when he returned later to that empty room, and when he imagined what lay in store for Isabelle at home. But if he hadn’t gone for that meal, who knows what might have happened when those louts showed up with their fists and a gun. (
Louts,
sixty-two down. The definition might as well have said “Jack and Patrick McAllister.”) And I’d so wanted to like her father. He’d seemed like a fair man—one who loved his daughter more than anything. I supposed his hands were more or less tied because of the times, and if he’d tried to help the two of them, he’d have been powerfully outnumbered. But I hated him, too, for letting those nasty brothers of hers get away with what they did.

We’d blown right past Elizabethtown while Miss Isabelle talked. I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her. Up ahead, an exit pointed toward another little town—named after someone else, of course. “You ready to eat?” I asked, though the timing felt insensitive.

Miss Isabelle heaved a tiny sigh, as if revisiting that day had worn her out. I hoped again it wasn’t a mistake to let her share her story with me. But what could I do? She wasn’t a child, and I couldn’t stop her if she wanted to tell me.

“I
am
hungry.” She seemed surprised.

Faced with the usual three or four small-town restaurants right off the interstate, we went with a familiar breakfast-food chain, even though we’d had our fill of breakfast food that morning. The hostess seated us quickly.

But more than seventy years since Miss Isabelle’s wedding, some folks still weren’t ready for us—and who some of those folks were would surprise you. This old boy and his wife were eating at the table next to ours. Before we even got settled, he proceeded to stare, nudging his wife’s foot with his toe when he thought I wasn’t looking and quirking his head at us, trying to get her attention. She just looked, gave a
tsk
with her tongue, and shook her head, then went back to buttering her pancakes, but her fool husband kept ogling me and Miss Isabelle like we’d each sprouted an extra nostril.

Maybe the best response would have been for us to ignore him and carry on with our meal. Miss Isabelle and I were both more than a little tense after she told me the part about her brothers forcing her to leave Robert. Maybe what occurred next in that restaurant would not have happened if not for our emotional state.

Maybe Miss Isabelle projected a bit.

And what could I do to stop a nearly ninety-year-old angry woman from expressing her entirely valid opinion?

“Young man,” she said, and I almost cracked up. The guy was sixty if he was a day, but he was a baby compared to Miss Isabelle. “Haven’t you got better things to do than stare at people?”

He did a double take, then looked over at his wife, who was obviously trying her best to ignore the whole situation. She scooped another dollar-size pancake into her mouth, licking her lips to catch the dripping syrup. Mr. Eyeballs contemplated his own food while the waiter delivered our ice water and menus. But before long, there he was again, sneaking glances, shifting his weight so he could hear our conversation—not much, given we were both weary and drained.

By the time the waiter came back for our order and went off to clip it up over the grill, the man was outright gawking again. And Miss Isabelle might have ignored him at that point had he not leaned back against the pleather seat, toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth, legs spread so far apart in his tight jeans I could have seen the outline of his boys if I’d looked close enough—which I didn’t, thank you very much—and said to his wife in a stage whisper, “I never saw a black girl and an old white woman together in a restaurant around here. You think she’s her maid?” He scoffed. “Lady’s taking her out for a birthday or something? Otherwise, I can’t imagine why—”

Miss Isabelle stood in the narrow space between our tables. It took a while for her to draw herself up to full height, naturally. Long enough for me to think, Oh no, he didn’t. Fool really should
not
have said that. But what’re you gonna do? I waited for the fireworks.

“No, she is not my maid. She’s my granddaughter.” I’m sure my jaw dropped as far as the man’s did at that. “Furthermore, I’m almost a hundred years old, and I can’t believe they still permit idiots like you to walk the earth. In case you missed it, it’s now perfectly acceptable for whites and blacks to have relationships. To be friends or relatives. Or lovers.”

Our waiter hovered nearby, and Miss Isabelle waved him over. “Sir, we’d like our food to go. I can’t stay in this building another minute.”

Our waiter stood there, hands flapping, unsure how to handle this obviously sticky situation. Miss Isabelle dug her credit card out of her pocketbook, then waved me to follow her. We sat in the waiting area until the waiter brought us steaming to-go boxes and cups with lids.

“I apologize, ma’am. I’m not sure what happened there, but I am really sorry. Are you sure we can’t seat you somewhere else to enjoy your meal?”

“Oh, honey, it’s not your fault,” Miss Isabelle said. She looked past him to the manager, who hovered behind him. I’m sure the woman entertained visions of her corporate race-relations officer grilling her about the events. “But may I suggest you post a notice on your door that says ‘No bigots served. Of any color’?”

The waiter packed our food containers into a handled bag. He returned Miss Isabelle’s card. “There’s no charge. We’re so sorry.”

“Oh, well, I don’t mind paying for the food,” she said, but he waved her away.

We found a little picnic area on the town square. Monuments and markers dotted the area. The whole scene, bordered by old buildings, was downright quaint (eleven across), and, finally, completely different from anything I’d seen at home. Eating from those flimsy Styrofoam boxes was awkward and messy. Miss Isabelle fumed. But eventually she sighed and relaxed her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Dorrie. I shouldn’t have caused a scene back there, but you know, there’s no call for that kind of—”

“Oh, hush. As of right now, you’re officially my hero.” It was true. I couldn’t have said what she had better. “I can’t believe sometimes how people act—even black folks. Some of them have this idea it’s being disloyal to hang out with white people. If you hadn’t said it, I would have.” That’s right. Those folks looked a lot like me. If you’d squinted just right, I could have been their daughter. Which reminded me …

“Miss Isabelle.
Granddaughter?
” Surely she was just messing with the guy, but I had to ask. Was there some bigger reason she’d invited me on this trip—one I’d never even considered?

“I couldn’t think of a better way to wipe the judgmental look off that jackpot’s face, pardon my French. So what if I want to call you my granddaughter? You
are
the closest thing to family I have these days.”