The oak table was the closest to the reception desk, in clear sight. I waited for Mrs. Ransom to deliver my manuscripts, and when they were set down, I dipped my head in gratitude, said, “Thank you, ma’am,” and got to work, writing on my legal pad with the fancy pencil David had given me, that long-ago summer. Once she’d mistaken it for a forbidden ballpoint pen, until I’d screwed off the top, showing her the lead inside.
I was careful with Mrs. Ransom, who hovered near my table. Who watched me. In this modern day, the collections weren’t barred from a person of my color, not like during the era of Terrence Carter Holmes, the old man’s professor at Routledge College. While researching for his dissertation at North Carolina Regents University, Mr. Holmes had been forced to sit in a separate, secluded room, far away from white female librarians, and wait for men to bring him his plantation records, lest Mr. Holmes give in to the much-feared rapist tendencies of Black men that southern white people in 1929 believed they knew all about. A natural fact, despite Mr. Holmes’s daily suit and tie; his timid, near whisper; and his ten letters of introduction from W. E. B. Du Bois, Mr. Holmes’s white professors from Yale, and other renowned white historians throughout the south, liberals of their time. It had taken six months of constant telegraphs and letters by his patrons to gain him entry to these collections.
At my oak table, I’d ignore Mrs. Ransom’s careful eye and move through plantation journals, fascinated yet horrified by the inventive punishments of enslaved African Americans. All of it recorded in elaborate, cursive writing.
One imaginative owner had written a letter to another owner, noting that it was important to provide torture that did not disable the slaves’ hands and feet: those were needed to work. But teeth were not needed, and neither were ears.
I’d get so engrossed in my readings, I’d lose track of time, until Mrs. Ransom came over to my table.
“Yes, Mrs. Ransom?”
“It’s time to leave.”
“But I just got here a little while ago. Did I do something wrong?”
“Ailey, it’s five thirty. You’ve been here five hours. We’re closing now.”
As I walked the mile across campus to the parking lot, I tried to shake off the horror that I’d read about in the journals. When I’d lived in Georgia, doing this research for Dr. Oludara had been emotional, but I’d never felt lonely in my grief. Or foolish: trying not to cry over the sufferings of folks who weren’t even alive.
But when I opened the door of my duplex, I wouldn’t wait. At the door, I’d drop my bag on the floor. I’d shower, put on my white nightgown, and kneel on the rug next to my bed. I’d stay a long time there on my knees, praying. I’d lose track of time again.
Mammies, or, How They Show Out in Harlem
In September, I saw Scooter again, out at Shug’s Soul Patrol. When I’d arrived in town, I’d driven to Shug’s on a Saturday, but it had been overrun by whites, with a line that stretched a quarter mile. I stood for an hour, tolerating openly hostile looks from white customers. When I got inside, Miss Velma, the cashier, whispered enough to let me know that weekends were for “them.” Monday through Friday, Shug’s was for “us.” The system had been worked out during segregation, when Mr. Shumate, the original “Shug,” ran things, before he turned it over to his son. His daughter-in-law owned the barber and beauty shops next door, the only places in town Black folks could get our hair styled. The other places claimed no one was trained in “Ebony textures.” Miss Velma wore black brogans with thick soles, used endearments, and asked about our days when pouring the coffee. She smiled when I never failed to say, thank you so much. I appreciate you. Sometimes when mornings were slow, Miss Velma would come and sit with me, and I’d put aside my books and papers and we’d chat.
When Scooter walked in that Monday, he was in another suit, a black pin-striped one this time. He carried a brown ostrich briefcase. He looked preposterous and sexy, but I didn’t regret not calling him. I didn’t need some married man poking a stick through the bars of my cage. When he spoke my name, I returned a dry half salute. I left it at that.
Two days later, I saw him at Shug’s again. When I went to the counter, Miss Velma told me my refills had been taken care of. I looked around and Scooter lifted his cup of coffee. He was semi-casual: the suit and shirt were a tan linen, and there was no tie. He came over to my table with his briefcase, sat down without asking, and removed his jacket. I had my papers and books spread out, and he pushed them to one side to make space. He looked amused, as he had that evening in the parking lot.