Chapter Eight
Eunice
New York, New York
I don’t realize I’m trembling until my mother links her arm around mine. “Put it in God’s hands,” she whispers.
Mr. Walker, the elevator operator, yanks back the gate, and my mother and I cross the marble-floored lobby. The doorman tips his cap before he swings open the dark-stained door. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hunton, Mrs. Carter.”
We thank him, then step into the golden afternoon. My mother takes a deep breath. “I needed this fresh air.”
“Let me know if you want me to slow down,” I say as we begin our stroll.
“I’ll be fine. In a few minutes, the sun will begin to work its medicine.” After just moments, my mother says, “Okay, sugar. First you and Lisle didn’t exchange a word over breakfast, and now you’re home in the middle of the day to pick up your son from school. What’s going on?”
How can I tell my mother that I haven’t had a calm breath since I spoke with Polly Adler yesterday?
After that conversation, my only aim was to speak to Lisle.
But even though I’d left Polly and dashed straight home, we weren’t able to talk until the early hours of this morning, when Lisle had finally sauntered in from the Harlem Forum.
“Mama, it’s getting worse with Lisle.” As we amble along Edgecombe, I recount what began as a conversation and ended in a confrontation.
—
The moment he came from the bathroom and into our bedroom this morning, I said, “Lisle, I’ve been thinking.
You may be right…the streets may not be safe after Coll’s murder.
” His face brightened until I continued.
“We have to protect Junior, and I think we should send him to Barbados. To your mother.”
“What? That’s not what I was talking about.”
“I know, but you made me really think about this. There will be more violence, and I will be worried about our son every moment of the day. We’ll send him away just until we get a conviction.”
“That is not the only way for our son to be safe, Eunice.”
—
I sigh. “And the argument kept on from there, Mama.”
“He told you to leave your job again.”
“Of course. But he finally agreed to sending Junior away because I told him if we didn’t and something happened to our son…” I leave my words there just as I did with Lisle.
“Oh!” my mother says.
“I wouldn’t blame him, Mama. Not completely. But at least he did agree to sending Junior to Barbados.”
We’re silent again, and I think about Polly. I don’t tell my mother, just as I didn’t tell Lisle, about what Polly said yesterday and how her words had troubled my sleep all night.
“So that’s why you’re home early. To tell Junior.”
“Yes.” Squeezing her arm tighter, I add, “And I’m grateful you agreed to walk with me. Because I’ll need your steady hand to do this.”
She nods. “This is right. For you. For Lisle. For Junior.”
For the next few minutes, we take in the springtime rhythm of Harlem.
Through an open window, the breeze carries the soulful sweetness of the lone saxophone playing “In a Sentimental Mood,” the notes drifting down like a ribbon from the sky.
Well-dressed ladies carrying bags and hatboxes from Blumstein’s sweep past us as children, still too young for school, skip and hop up and down the block under the watchful eyes of their mothers.
This is the season I cherish most, when this neighborhood stirs awake from its winter slumber and the streets come alive with the music and magic that belong to Harlem alone.
But today, the promise of spring weighs heavy on me.
This is Junior’s favorite time of the year, too, and sending him away means we will miss so much: my taking him to the spring opening of the children’s plays at the Lafayette Theatre, his afternoons flying kites with his father in Colonial Park, and Lisle and me cheering as he and his friends play a spirited game of stickball.
It’s just so heartbreaking, but safety comes before all else.
Just as we arrive at the school, the bell rings. A moment later, a flurry of kids spills through the doors, their faces glowing with end-of-the-school-day joy. I search for Junior in the mass of little boys, all in navy, black, or brown knickers, white shirts, and matching sweaters.
“Junior!” My mother spots him first and waves.
His face brightens with surprise. But then his glance shifts to me and his smile wilts. He moves toward us, his steps heavy with worry, as if seeing me at his school when I am normally at work is a sign of trouble ahead.
As my mother pulls him into a hug, he turns to me and asks, “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, adding as much cheer to my voice as the swollen stone in my throat will allow.
When I don’t say anything else, my mother jumps in. “I wanted to go for a walk, and we walked so far we landed right here at your school. Now we can go home together.”
“I was going to walk with Eric, Chris, and Herman,” he says, pointing to his friends.
“Why don’t you come with your grandmother and me?” I say. “You’ll see them tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says, his reluctance apparent. He waves to his friends, who dart off in the opposite direction. It takes him a moment to fall into stride beside me.
Putting my arm around my son’s shoulders, I ask, “Did you have a good day in school?”
He gives me a small shrug. “Yes, ma’am.”
I wait. When he offers nothing more, I ask, “What did you study today?”
Again, he hunches his shoulders. “We practiced our penmanship and multiplication tables. I got one hundred on my spelling words,” he says.
“That’s wonderful,” my mother and I say together. I add, “But I’m not surprised. You’ve always been such a bright boy.”
Then we go quiet. The steady putter of automobiles blends with the laughter and shouts from the schoolchildren, their glee rising like a chorus. I know Junior is disappointed about not walking home with his friends. But what I’m about to say will make that fade fast from his mind.
Finally, I say, “Son, your father and I are going to send you on a little trip.”
He glances up at me, and I hope the sun shields my eyes. I don’t want him to see my sorrow.
“A trip to where?” His words are edged with caution.
“To Barbados. We want you to spend a little time with your other grandmother.”
He looks at Mama, then turns back to me. “All right,” he says, his tone still uncertain. “For the summer?”
I glance at my mother, and she gives me the smallest nod of assurance. “No, son. You’re leaving in a few days.”
“What?” Junior stops. “Mama, no. I have school.”
“You’ll go to school there.”
“I don’t want to.” His voice rises. “I don’t want to go to Barbados. I want to stay here with my friends.”
“I know, sweetheart. But sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. This is for the best.”
“Why?” he snaps, his tone sharper than I’ve ever heard. “Is it because you’re going back to school?” His voice trembles. “Last time you sent me away it was because you were in law school.”
His words astound me; I thought he’d enjoyed those few months with Lisle’s brother during a particularly difficult time for me during my final year.
“I only sent you away because I wanted you to be well cared for while I studied for my exams. I knew your aunt and uncle would give you their full attention.”
“So why do I have to go now?”
“Because sometimes parents have to make difficult decisions for their children. You’re going to have to trust me, sweetheart.”
He presses his lips together as if sealing his feelings.
When I crouch down and meet his eyes, my heart twists.
“You’re going to have a wonderful time. Your grandmother will be so happy to see you.
And remember how close her house is to the beach?
The ocean is practically in her backyard. You’ll be swimming every day.”
“I don’t want to go swimming. I want to go to school. Right here. With my teachers and my friends.”
“You’ll be in a fine school in Barbados. You’ll make new friends, and you’ll be in classes with some of your cousins. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“No!” The word bursts from him. “You just don’t want me. You don’t want me here with you and Daddy.” Junior spins away, darting between a cluster of boys and girls walking in front of us.
I rise to go after him, but before I can take a single step, my mother grips my arm. “Let him be.”
“I have to explain.”
She shakes her head. “Some things are not meant to be explained to a child. I know.” She looks at me pointedly. “In a few minutes, you can go home and talk to him. For now, let’s sit down here.” She gestures toward a nearby wrought-iron bench in front of the park.
As we sit, my son’s words whisper to me in the breeze: You just don’t want me. “I think Junior hates me,” I say at last. The tears in my eyes have seeped into my voice.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Mama says softly. After a beat, she asks, “Did you hate me when I had to leave you and your brother?”
I remain silent. Because there were so many times when our parents left Alphaeus and me under the guardianship of their friends, I don’t know which occasion she means.
In this moment, I remember back to 1918 when my mother, serving as a representative of the YMCA, boarded a ship bound for France to support and care for the colored troops headed into war.
At least by then I was in my first year at college.
So it was Alphaeus who suffered most from her absence that time.
Mama snatched him away from New York and shipped him to her friends in Philadelphia.
All the other times, my brother and I were together, the source of each other’s strength.
Never before had he been left to bear the burden of abandonment alone.
“You haven’t answered my question,” my mother says.
It takes a moment for me to come back to the present. I glance at her, then slowly look away.
She sighs. “All children hate their parents at some point. And then they grow up and realize their parents did the best they could.”
I stare at my hands, having a sudden urge to hug my son. “I just want Junior to be safe, and someone said something yesterday that made me concerned….”
My mother tilts her head, waiting for me to say more. When I don’t elaborate, she says, “Do what you have to do to protect Junior. Family is most important.”
I twist on the bench and face my mother. “Mama, maybe you should stay with Alphaeus for a while.”
She waves her hand as if my words are foolishness.
“Because of Dutch Schultz? You think I’m afraid of him and his goons?
” She clicks her tongue. “Sugar, I’ve stared into the beady eyes of the Ku Klux Klan.
All of them are little men, just cowards behind those hoods and guns.
If I didn’t back down from men who carried torches and hatred, I sure as hell am not backing down now. ”
My mother speaks the truth—another banner in her long line of accomplishments.
She’s crossed the country as a crusader, setting up NAACP field offices in towns where it’s dangerous for a Negro to live, let alone speak, protest, and organize.
Yet she sauntered into Southern cities and did just that, even after letters were sent warning her to stay out of Birmingham, Atlanta, Memphis…
the list goes on. Mama persevered, traveling alone without fear, but always with God’s favor.
And she’s never faltered. In pulpits and meeting halls, she stood before colored folks and urged them to rise and claim every right this country has promised.
“If these old knees worked like they used to, I’d be out there gangbusting those thugs right alongside you. Don’t you know by now that I’m fearless?”
“Oh, I know that. I got my courage to face anything from you.”
“No, that courage came from your father. That fire in your belly—that drive to rise higher than what the world expects of you—that came from me.”
“My ambition.” My drive, something that has been a source of pride, now feels like a millstone. I want to rise to the pride I hear in her voice and claim every triumph as my own. But the truth is, many of my achievements have been because of grace given to me in my mother’s name.
It was my mother’s friendship with Mary White Ovington—the suffragist I’ve long called the mother of the NAACP—who opened the doors of Smith College for me and paid for it, too.
Even the short time I spent writing happened because my mother had reached out to her friend Charles Johnson, the editor of Opportunity.
So I say, “You’re right, Mama. I got my ambition from watching you out there fighting to make a difference. I hated being away from you, but I always knew the work you did was important.”
“And now that’s what you’re doing.”
I nod. “But it’s ripping at the seams of my family. I want this more than anything, but…I don’t want to sacrifice my marriage. I don’t want my son to feel abandoned.”
“If God put the desire in you to do it, He will give you the protection and everything else you need to get through it.”
“I wish God would have a little chat with my husband.” A brittle chuckle slips through my lips.
“Lisle knows who you are. He just has to remember that he fell in love with Eunice Roberta Hunton, the Smith College graduate, who was reaching for the stars long before he asked for your hand in marriage.
“He’s forgotten it was your ambition that drew him to you.
Now, with other men whispering in his ear, he thinks he wants a wife like the ones they go home to.
But you were never that woman. He’ll remember that soon.
And Junior will grow up to understand all of this, too.
” She pauses for a long moment before she adds, “Just like you came to understand your father and me—even if it did take you many years.”
“I hope you’re right, Mama.”
My mother straightens my smart forward hat, which has slipped askew. And then she folds me into her arms. “Oh, I am, sugar. I’m your mother, I’m always right.”