Paper Castles Read online

  “Do you like them?” His tone said Please like them.

  “They’re lovely.”

  “I had them designed especially for you. I think they look like you.”

  She stared at the case holding the tiny treasures. He designed them. He thought about her, went to the jeweler, showed them his design, talked about it, ordered it. This wasn’t some last-minute stop at the drugstore for a cheap bottle of perfume.

  What was this?

  A bribe? A peace offering? Confusion had her back on her heels. Was his latest affair over and he was saying he was ready to come home and play nice? Was he saying, “I’m done gallivanting around town and oh, by the way, here’s a trinket for being such a good sport?”

  “Thank you,” she said making her words genuine, but noncommittal. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she let him. It was Christmas, after all.

  She turned the tiny velvet box over and over in her hands while she turned her thoughts over in her head.

  Why were you so reckless with our love? Do you know we’re about to lose everything?

  In the background was the joyful sound of two kids without a worry in the world.

  AS MUCH as Savannah loved Christmas, she loved the clean sweep of the New Year more. The promise that hung just off to the side, waiting for the stroke of midnight. The Palmertons rang in 1964 at a big shindig at the country club.

  As the crowd counted down the last seconds of the year, Price took Savannah in his arms and kissed her. Kissed her like he meant it, pulling her close, his lips a feathery promise on hers.

  Of course, she could never tell if he meant it. But it looked good for the photographers who were busy snapping pictures of the Kendall clan. Justice Kendall stood at the center of his family, his arm draped around Kip, home from Washington for the holidays. Savannah wore her new diamond earrings and looped her arm through Price’s. One big, happy, and photogenic family.

  They were knee-deep into January, now, with no repeats of the New Year’s embrace. Still, Price was attentive and generous with gifts, playing the repentant spouse. It was a part Savannah had seen before. As soon as Price got bored with his latest plaything, he picked up his ball and came home. The late nights ceased, the reparations began. Until next time.

  Savannah was making her way down to the kitchen one morning when her ears pricked up at the sound of a heated conversation. Neenie was talking to Claudia, the new maid, and something about the tone of her voice halted Savannah in her tracks.

  “I ain’t been talked to like that in many years,” Neenie said. Her voice had an unfamiliar weakness to it.

  “Why’d you let him get away with it?” Claudia asked.

  “Because I didn’t know what to say. Everybody standing around looking at me. Nobody spoke up.”

  “You can’t wait for someone else to speak up. You got to speak up for yourself.”

  “I feel so old,” Neenie sighed.

  Savannah sank down on a step at the top of the stairs, arms wrapped around her shins, chin on knees. She was eavesdropping, but the wounded tone of Neenie’s voice compelled her to hang back and listen. This wasn’t an argument; Neenie was taking the younger woman into her confidence. Obviously, the two women had come to some sort of an understanding over the past couple of months.

  “Being old is part of the problem,” Claudia said. “You’ve spent your life living with these rich white folk and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to struggle.”

  “Is that right? Take a seat,” Neenie said, accompanied by the scrape of a kitchen stool. “I’ll tell you a little story about a struggle. My momma was a good woman. A hard-working woman. But she got bamboozled by some smooth-talking traveling salesman who had her seeing stars in her eyes, when the only thing he was worried about was the zipper on his pants. He walked outta town just as quick as he’d walked in, never thinking for a second about the scandal he left behind: my momma, unmarried, and pregnant with a white man’s baby.”

  “I thought I remembered hearing something about that,” Claudia said quietly.

  “If you grew up anywhere between 1st and 6th street, west of Bouhon, I’m sure you did. But do you have any idea what it’s like to grow up with one foot in each world? Not black enough for my community, not white enough for my employer. Too white to belong, too black to pass. I didn’t belong anywhere. Still don’t. So don’t talk to me about struggle, child, I been struggling my whole life.”

  Savannah crept back upstairs, shaken, feeling she’d been caught reading her friend’s diary.

  Of course she knew the facts of Neenie’s past. From childhood, she’d known Neenie was considered brown, not black. Her father was white and her mother was a Negro. Common knowledge. Never once had Savannah put that knowledge into the context of a little girl’s life.

  Big, blustering, Neenie was once a young girl ostracized from both sides of her world. She must have come home crying on more than one occasion. No one offered a lap in which to lay her head, no hand to stroke the soft hair. No voice murmuring, “Child, child, everything’s gonna be all right.”

  Later that night, when the house had been put to bed, Savannah knocked and poked her head around Neenie’s bedroom door.

  “Would you like some company? I brought tea.”

  “Well, that’s mighty sweet of you. I’d love a late-night tea party.” Neenie closed her Bible around her fingers and smoothed her blankets, inviting Savannah to sit on the bed.

  “I heard you talking to Claudia this afternoon,” Savannah said, setting the cup and saucer on Neenie’s bedside table.

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t hear the beginning of the story. But apparently something upset you today. Want to talk about it?”

  “Nothing worth getting yourself upset about. I shouldn’t have let it upset me either.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just someone being ignorant.”

  Savannah drank her tea, giving Neenie the space to decide if she wanted to talk or not. Neenie folded her hands in her lap, setting her bible aside. For a moment, Savannah could see the little girl setting aside her armor.

  “Well, if you must know, I was at the butcher’s this morning. Like I always am on Wednesdays. They have some new guy working there. I never seen him before. Anyway, when I stepped up to the counter to place my order, this skinny little man looks at me with a meanness in his eyes and says, ‘Niggers git to the back of the line.’”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I just stood there a minute. I wasn’t sure it was real, you know?” Neenie’s eyes opened wide with the remembering and Savannah caught a glimpse of a lifetime lined with indignities.

  “I can imagine,” Savannah said, although she couldn’t imagine it. She had no frame of reference to comprehend being pushed to the back of a line.

  “It caught me by surprise,” Neenie said. I said, ‘Excuse me?’ He laughed. Like he was happy to say it again. ‘You heard me, Niggers git to the back of the line.’”

  Savannah took Neenie’s hand and squeezed hard. She’d march down there to the butcher’s first thing in the morning, and that skinny little man would get a piece of her mind.

  “But I think the thing that hurt me more than anything...” Neenie’s brown eyes filled with tears. One escaped to roll down her cheek. “Ladies were in the line. People I know. People I talk to every week. And not a one of them spoke up. Most of them just turned away as if they didn’t see it. So I set my basket down and I walked out of there.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit.” Savannah stroked Neenie’s arm, tears of her own at the ready. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the world. I would fix it if I could. It’s so unfair.”

  “Baby Girl, the good Lord never said anything about being fair. Things will change in their own time. People get so caught up in talking about change, we forget just how far we’ve come. But today felt like stepping back, for sure.” She shook her head, the creases in her forehead deepening along with the lines around her tired eyes.r />
  Scooting closer, Savannah wrapped her arms around Neenie’s bent shoulders and rested her forehead on Neenie’s brow.

  “I’m sorry, “ Savannah whispered. “I forget sometimes what it’s like out there in the world for you.”

  “Sometimes I forget, too. I forget when I step outside that door, not everyone looks at me like you do. It slaps my face when I come up against it. When I’m reminded that I can’t eat at the lunch counter. Can’t drink from the same fountain. Can’t use the same bathroom that white folks do.”

  “I feel like I’ve been walking around with my eyes half-closed,” Savannah said, sighing.

  “No.” Neenie patted her hand. “It ain’t your fault. You’ve got your own stuff to deal with. Sometimes we just need to be reminded the world can be an ugly place.”

  SAVANNAH WENT to her father with the outrage over Neenie’s treatment at the butcher’s. Without offering specifics, Judge Kendall assured her he would handle it. This morning, he called Savannah with new marching orders: “Be ready to go at eleven-thirty.” Neenie had been told nothing, only to dress in her best and prepare for an outing.

  Savannah put her arm through Neenie’s as they strode down the sidewalk, their feet matched in a measured cadence. Ahead of them, Savannah’s father walked with long, determined strides.

  Judge Jackson Kendall was about to make a stand.

  “Child, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Neenie said.

  “I don’t. But Daddy does. “

  The three unlikely militants walked through the door of Godfrey’s Diner and Savannah was assaulted with the smell of strong coffee and memories from her childhood. Godfrey’s was where teenagers could be found on Saturday night and where families went after church on Sunday’s. To her staring eyes, the greasy spoon was frozen in time.

  The smell of savory meals and sweet treats from the soda fountain was so thick in the air she could taste it. Nothing had changed. The clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, short-order cooks yelling, ‘Pick-up!’ were all familiar sights and sounds.

  The Judge made his way to the counter, followed by the two women. White plumbers and electricians in their dusty work clothes rubbed elbows on the Formica counter with white doctors and bank presidents on their lunch break.

  “What are we doing?” Neenie whispered to Savannah.

  “Having lunch,” Savannah said, stepping aside for a juggler in a pink uniform and a starched white apron with plates stacked up her arm. Savannah watched as the waitress bumped open the swinging kitchen door with her butt and disappeared.

  Neenie held back, fingers clutching the handle of her purse, her eyes took a quick survey of the crowd. People were already beginning to stare at the odd threesome and the whispering was becoming a steady buzz.

  “I’m no protestor,” Neenie said. “I’m too old for this.”

  “You’re not a protestor, Neenie. You’re a customer. Now sit.” Savannah knew she didn’t have the courage to do this on her own. Her father’s strong presence filled her veins with resolve and straightened her spine.

  Judge motioned to the stool next to him. “Have a seat, Neenie.”

  Neenie took it and sat straight as an arrow, her Sunday hat perched perfectly on her head. Savannah slid on the stool beside her, she and the Judge now flanking the black woman.

  The whispers had risen to murmurs. The red-haired waitress behind the counter looked like she might bolt at any minute. The only other black faces in the diner peered through the little round window in the swinging door to the kitchen. The hum came to an abrupt halt when Homer Godfrey approached the trio.

  “What’s going on here, Judge?” Homer’s face was a mix of pleasantness and suspicion.

  “We’d like to see some menus.” Judge Kendall’s smile was disarming. “How’s the family, Homer?”

  “Fine,” Homer answered, his eyes not leaving Neenie. He dropped his voice and turned his shoulder away from the large black woman as he addressed Jack Kendall. “I don’t want a scene here, Judge.”

  Judge Kendall folded his hands and looked Homer in the eye. “Why on earth would there be a scene?” His voice was conversational. “We’d simply like a sandwich.”

  Neenie begin to fidget. Savannah reached to place her hand over Neenie’s and squeezed. We’re in this together.

  Homer Godfrey wiped his hands on his apron while his gaze swept the crowd.

  “Come on Judge, this is awkward,” he said. “Don’t do this. She’s going to have to go.”

  “Are you saying I have to go?”

  A deep crimson rose from Homer’s neck and swallowed his cheeks. “You know full well what I’m saying, Judge.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. You see, this woman is my guest.” Judge Kendall held the proprietor’s eyes. “Homer, I’ve known you for decades. I know for a fact you’re a decent man. Now, can you explain to me why this good woman, a dear friend of mine, should not be allowed to sit here and have a sandwich with me and my daughter?”

  Homer stood as if his feet had been glued to the floor. Only his eyes continued to dart from the sea of customers to the three faces before him. Savannah could see him working out the problem in his mind. Raising questions, then tossing them aside. He rubbed his chin and she knew he was wavering. All the air went out of him, along with any excuses.

  Three menus slid across the counter. “Coffee?”

  Judge Kendall nodded. “Thank you.”

  Savannah blew out the breath she’d been holding and Neenie’s shoulders slumped. Murmuring continued in the background, but Savannah preferred to think people were simply voicing their agreement.

  She’d never been more proud of her father. The Judge was admired, almost revered in many circles. And Homer Godfrey was a good man in his own right. Perhaps he was already close to making today’s decision on his own. But in the telling and the re-telling of this story it would be Judge Jack Kendall who made Homer see past rules without reason. It was one small lunch counter, on one weekday in Savannah. But it was a start.

  “Changing minds is a long, slow process,” Judge Kendall said. “It’s like turning a giant steamer ship around in the middle of the ocean. Most of the time it doesn’t feel like you’re turning at all. But it can be done.”

  Savannah nudged Neenie with her elbow, “I think you just one-upped Claudia. What’s next? Marching in the streets?”

  “Oh you, hush,” Neenie said. Then she picked up her menu. “What should I order?”

  “Whatever you want, Neenie. Whatever you want.”

  THE PALMERTON house was scheduled for the city garden tour this spring. Savannah and her gardener, Gio, were busy all morning laying out plans for new flower beds. Not only did Savannah trust Gio to bring her vision to life, but she loved to work beside him. Sun on the back of her neck, fingers in the dirt, and Gio’s mix of Italian and broken English weaving with her southern accent.

  When she came inside to get a cold drink, Price was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. He looked up, his lips curled in disgust as she wiped the sweat off her brow with her dirty garden glove.

  “At your insistence, we pay a small fortune for a gardener. Is it really necessary for you to be out there digging in the dirt like a five-year-old?”

  “Yes, it is,” Savannah said, shouldering out the swinging door. “I’m practicing digging your grave.”

  Neenie was arranging flowers for the dining room table and looked over at Savannah as she shook her head and smothered a grin. Savannah shrugged and marched upstairs to wash the dirt off.

  Tonight was the Valentine’s Day dance at the country club. She really didn’t want to go, but Price had practically begged.

  As January slid into February without so much as a whisper, Price’s late-night clients had disappeared and he was home every night. He still slept in the guest room and conversation between him and Savannah was mostly small talk. And the occasional snide remark. But they were trying.

  She had no idea what
tonight would bring, but it felt good to slide into a sexy dress, knowing that she would still turn a few heads. Folds of blue satin caressed her curves and the deep plunge of the back left her feeling risqué. Yet it was a sad reflection in her mirror sighing back at her, as she clipped on a pair of tiny gold heart earrings. The cloying sweetness from the bouquet of roses Price sent did nothing to lift her spirits. The accompanying card, tossed aside, along with its meaningless words, For my Valentine.

  As she made her way downstairs, everyone looked up. As if they’d been waiting for the queen’s entrance.

  “Child, I could eat you up with a spoon.” Neenie crowed.

  “Neenie, you beat me to it,” Price said. “What do you think, kids? Is your mother gorgeous or what?”

  “You look beautiful, Mom,” Angela said. “Look how your dress matches Daddy’s tie.” It wasn’t like Angela to gush, and the unexpected enthusiasm had a ring of desperation to it.

  “You look swell, Mom.” PJ’s eyes swept over his mother, then looked away. Unsure of what to do with the information that his mother was an attractive woman.

  Both of her children had such palpable happiness on their faces because their parents were going out to dinner and a dance. She could feel them holding their collective breath, hoping that this trial balloon of perfection wouldn’t run out of air before the night was over. She wanted to whisper, “Don’t get your hopes up,” but she couldn’t take this moment from them. She and Price weren’t the only people living on this iceberg. There were other inhabitants praying for sunshine.

  On the dance floor, Price and Savannah swayed to the music. Her right hand curled in his left. Her other hand up around his shoulder. His free hand rested on her bare back, rubbing slowly up and down.

  A half dozen times, she started to lean in to him, put her forehead on his shoulder or her cheek on his chest, then stopped. Just like she did on their very first date, when she wasn’t sure how affectionate she was allowed to be. Back then it was the uncertainty of what he wanted. Now, it was weighted with the uncertainty of what she wanted.