“Look at this blouse, sugarfoot. Olivia would have loved this.”
He’d hand over a piece of clothing, and I’d dutifully stroke the material, while a white saleslady looked anxiously in our direction. Once, a blond woman who’d followed us around Saks for twenty minutes asked Uncle Root if his “nurse” wanted to try on something, just for fun.
“I beg your pardon. This young lady is my niece.” The saleslady’s expression of confusion as she looked from Uncle Root’s pale face to my brown one tickled him, but he was kind enough not to laugh openly. He waited until we reached the car.
In late afternoon, our faux shopping would end, and the old man and I would sit on the bench outside the stores and chat until it was time to drive back to Chicasetta, where I’d spend the night at his house and make grilled cheese sandwiches, with sweet tea to go along.
That summer, I decided that I would stay south. Uncle Root and I made great roommates: he was entertaining enough when I wanted company, and when I didn’t, he did not seem bothered. He always had a book that he could read, or he would call my mother’s brother and ask him for a ride out to the farm.
Mrs. Cordelia Rice had arranged for a summer job for me in the office of a doctor who was her late husband’s kin, Dr. Rice. His assistant was Nurse Lansing, a heavyset sister with a baby face, who had attended the old colored high school with my mother. My labor at the practice was easy, only light filing, but it would add fat to my future medical school applications. My employer was a sociable gentleman with a boisterous comb-over, and sometimes he brought in cinnamon doughnuts, my favorite. One July afternoon, when I returned from work, David James was sitting on the claw-foot settee, drinking a cup of coffee. He’d changed so much since I’d seen him the previous summer, at my family reunion.
In Uncle Root’s living room, I sat in the wing chair farthest from my ex-boyfriend, cutting my eyes in his direction. His haircut was neat as always. His handsome, chocolate face was smooth-shaven, but he was no longer skinny. His chest was broader, his arms thicker. He looked almost like a grown man. Even his voice had deepened.
“You didn’t bring what’s-her-name with you?” I asked.
“It’s Carla, and she’s been my girlfriend for a while.” David paused and looked away. “Ever since you kicked me to the curb.”
“Whatever.”
“She’s in Atlanta. She’s at Spelman now. She has a summer job there.”
“Negro, I don’t need this information! I really don’t care. And why are you here?”
“I’m visiting Dr. Hargrace. And why you always so mean?”
“’Cause I can’t stand you, that’s why.”
The old man interrupted us: a snack was called for. He’d always been hungry when he was young. He would warm up slices of the pie he’d made, and could I help him? In the kitchen, he put the pie on china plates with white linen napkins covering them.
“I make excellent desserts,” he said. “My pie is much better than Miss Rose’s. My pound cake, too.”
“But y’all both use Dear’s recipe.”
“That’s not true. I add some special, secret ingredients.” He poured coffee into a cup for me, splashing in some cream. Then a bit more. “You don’t need your coffee black. You’re already high-strung, and Ailey Pearl, could you please stop picking on that young man every time you see him?”
“I do not—”
“—yes, you do. But if you hadn’t noticed, no matter how cruel you are, he never fights back. I’d like you to consider that beating up on a defenseless person makes you a bully.”
He held the plates and backed out of the kitchen door. I leaned against the table, sipping my coffee. My granny had scolded me about how I treated David, too. She’d told me that I was mean as a snake to him.
When I went back out to the living room, the old man was telling his story about meeting the great scholar. When he came to his negative feelings about Booker T. Washington, I was curious: Why did everybody seem to despise that man?
“There was this dude in my Freshman Orientation class,” I said. “And he called Mr. Washington an Uncle Tom.”
“Indeed, that young man was right.”
David put his plate on his lap. “Is it okay if I disagree with you, Dr. Hargrace?”
“Certainly, you may. You’re entitled to your own opinion.”
David flashed a smile: his teeth were sparkly as ever. “Well then, respectfully, I disagree. I think Mr. Washington was only looking out for poor Black folks. I mean, back in the day, white people didn’t want us to go to college, right? My history professor told us they would punish us during slavery for even holding a book. Sometimes kill us.”