“Teacher said that you could leave? In this weather?” Ollie looked at his daughter, Melissa, aged eleven. She nodded, her braids—curling up at the ends like little smiles—providing an emphasis.
“Miss?” Ollie, remembering his manners, took off his hat, shook out the melting snow. He took a step toward the schoolteacher—he had no idea what her name was, that was his wife’s department—but stopped when she cowered farther into the corner of the room where she seemed to have set up camp.
She was a very young woman. A girl, barely more. Slight, no figure yet, but attired in women’s clothing—a long green skirt, black belt, white shirtwaist with a cameo at the throat, and a big paisley shawl clutched tightly about her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear, and they only grew bigger with each step he took toward her. So Ollie—recognizing her behavior, for he encountered it too often, the behavior of a white woman terrified to be in such proximity to a colored man—instinctively gentled his voice and his movement. He must not give her any reason to fear him, because who knew what she would do or say? He had seen other men’s lives ruined—or ended, swinging from a tree—because they had not read the signs, not until too late.
It was almost like dealing with a wounded animal, Ollie sometimes thought. You had to understand the mind of a creature, you had to anticipate its movements, and its fear. You had to know when to back off, when to duck your head, cross to the other side of the street, avert your eyes.
“Miss—” Ollie turned to his son and hissed, “What’s her name?”
“Miss Carson!” Francis said too loudly, and Ollie winced.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carson, is it? I’m Mr. Tennant. Francis and Melissa’s father. How are you all doing? Have the children eaten their lunch? Have you had anything to eat?”
“Stay away from me,” Miss Carson said in a choked voice; she drew her knees up against her chest, pressing herself even farther against the wall, although Ollie hadn’t thought that was possible. “I don’t know—it’s so awful outside—don’t take one more step toward me, you—you—”
Ollie pressed his lips together, turned away so that he didn’t have to see the terror in this young woman’s eyes—and so that she wouldn’t see the disgust in his. This was who was teaching his kids? A girl who hated them, who was terrified of them? Was she able to hide her disgust at the color of their skin because they were small and couldn’t hurt her? He tried to remember what he knew about the school, newly open. His children could legally go to the white schools but they weren’t welcome there, not as their numbers grew. Schools were forming here on the North Side to accommodate the growing population. He’d heard there was only one colored teacher in all of Omaha, and she taught at a small high school. So the younger children were being taught by white teachers, mainly those who volunteered in, or were volunteered by, their churches. He’d never thought of it this way, but it was true; teaching his children was considered an act of charity. And Ollie knew people well enough to understand that those performing a charitable act rarely had much love or consideration for the recipients of it.
“I have to go home!” Miss Carson stood up abruptly; she was trembling from head to toe. “I have to go home, they’ll be worried for me, I can’t stay here, I don’t care about—you can take them home, get them out of here, get them away! All of you, just go away!”
“Now, miss, listen to me.” Ollie’s voice could be as smooth as honey when he wanted it to be, and right now he did. “It’s not possible, not with the way this storm is. Where do you live, anyway?”
“Why do you want to know?” The girl’s eyes narrowed, her lips grew white.
“Just—is it on this side of town? Or somewhere else?”
“Near Fremont, the Episcopal Church—my papa is the rector there. It was his idea that I teach here.”