City of Light (18 page)

“I admire you tremendously, Mrs. Talbert.”

“Don’t idealize me, Miss Barrett,” she said forthrightly. “I’ve only put my hand to what I’ve found in front of me. And of course William Talbert has given me a certain … standard, as you put it, that I would be loath to give up in order to return to the public schools of Arkansas.” She nodded, acknowledging our common ground.

“This brings me to the second reason for my visit today. In about a week’s time I shall be appearing before a meeting of the executive committee of the Pan-American Exposition, to make a plea. I would be honored if you would accompany me to that meeting—at the Buffalo Club, needless to say.” Sarcasm filled her voice.

“What is the nature of your plea?”

“As you may know, I lost what I call the first battle of the exposition: the attempt to force the committee to invite a Negro to join their ranks.”

This battle had been conducted primarily in the newspapers, and I remembered it well. The Pan-American was the only recent national exposition not to have a Negro commissioner.

“Now what I feared has come to pass: The exposition will include on the Midway a display of plantation life with ‘happy darkies’ shuffling through their days, performing songs and selling miniature bales of cotton. The ‘original’ Uncle Tom’s Cabin will be displayed. But nowhere will there be a comprehensive exhibition of the achievements of my people. Oh, there may be a passing reference here and there, hidden away in the machinery building or the agriculture building,” she said dismissively, “but nowhere will there be a coherent presentation. This must change, Miss Barrett.” She tapped her fingers on my desk, a crusading spirit sharpening her face. “If
they
would have us ignore their ‘darkies’ on the Midway, then
we
must have a pavilion devoted to our accomplishments.”

She lowered her tone a notch, taking me into her confidence. “This matter is also a personal embarrassment to me, because I successfully lobbied the National Association of Colored Women to hold its biennial conference in Buffalo in July. Miss Love was kind enough to volunteer the use of Lyric Hall—whether she checked with the management, I don’t know!” This was a bitter joke, because Lyric Hall was run by the Women’s Educational and Industrial Union, a broad-based settlement house, and its managers were, more than most, at Miss Love’s mercy.

“As things stand now, my compatriots will visit the exposition and see only that which we have fought to leave behind.” Her public persona slipped away, and she looked deflated. “And there is another reason, one that may be closer to your heart: Millicent. Our situation as a race is fraught with challenge. Five years ago, as you know, the Supreme Court approved systematic segregation throughout the South under the Jim Crow legislation; lynching has become commonplace in southern states, where there are perhaps as many as three lynchings per week, according to reliable reports. What kind of future are we to create for Millicent?”

Here I had no doubts. “Millicent is very bright. She can aim for whatever future she chooses.”

“So it would seem to you, from your lovely office high above the fray.”

“I admit to a degree of isolation,” I said smoothly.

“Will you endorse this endeavor by joining me at the meeting? You will be proving to the commissioners that our view has support within the educated white community. I intend to stress the economic benefits that the NACW conference will bring to the city. We expect several hundred attendees, and many women will be bringing their families.” There was an almost imperceptible weakening in her voice, as though she knew her effort to be doomed and was preparing herself for an unwinnable fight.

“Mrs. Talbert, I sympathize with you, truly I do. But I do not become involved in public disputes.”

“Your presence would endow my plea with profound validity for these men.”

“I will speak to Mr. Rumsey about it privately.”

“You would need only sit in the back of the room—your support would be symbolic, rather than active.”

“Isn’t Maria Love the person you should be asking? Especially if she’s already arranged for the use of the hall for your convention. I’ve never known her to hesitate in the face of a battle, and she knew most of the commissioners when they were boys. Probably even spanked them when necessary. She’s the one who’ll get you what you want.”

“Yes, Miss Love has always been a friend to my community.” For a moment, Mrs. Talbert remained silent. Then she continued thoughtfully. “Miss Barrett, have you ever noticed that there is a certain type of reformer who likes to help only the helpless? Who takes it as a personal affront when the people he or she wishes to view as subjugated become independent?” Unexpectedly Mrs. Talbert’s eyes now danced with playfulness. “Have you ever noticed that type of reformer?”

“Why, yes, indeed, I have—right here in Buffalo.” Gently I acknowledged her game. “I’ve also noticed how very annoyed such reformers become when they see other people filling the place that they believe should be theirs.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that too.”

“Well, Mrs. Talbert, perhaps I shall join you. I will consider it.”

“I have one more reason for asking you, if truth be told.”

“Yes?”

“The idea of standing in front of a row of rich white men scares me.” She smiled broadly, her face transformed into beauty.

What could I do then, but accept her invitation?

After I said good-bye to Mrs. Talbert, I focused again on the scholarship applications. I began to separate out the candidates with real potential, pausing regretfully over each borderline applicant. How long, I wonder, was Grace watching from the doorway before I looked up to find her secretive smile bestowed upon me? I glanced over and there she was: her cheeks red from the cold, her eyes bright blue against the white of her rabbit fur hat, her entire being suffused with the brilliance of a snow princess. How I loved her.

“Hello, Aunt Louisa. I was watching the school with my spyglass. Was that Millicent’s aunt who came to see you? After she left, I told Papa we must go and get you and take you sleigh riding.”

“Sleigh riding?” I hadn’t gone sleigh riding for fun in years; just the mention of it filled me with a delight I hadn’t felt since childhood.

“Papa’s waiting downstairs.”

I went to the casement window. Parked in front of the school was the Sinclair sleigh, long and sleek, black with red trim, the metal work curving into fanciful arabesques. Two mahogany-brown horses with bells dangling from their harnesses stamped at the snow. Tom reclined on the velvet seat, a bearskin blanket spread loosely across his legs, his head resting against the seat back. He smoked a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the sky. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks, not since I’d met him and Grace horseback riding on the parkway. I’d written him a note after my visit to Maria Love, explaining my lack of success, and he’d replied with a gracious letter of appreciation for my attempt. Seeing him there in the sleigh, my worries about Speyer seemed absurd; Tom could not have made Margaret so happy if he’d been capable of such a deed against his colleague, or so I told myself. Of course if we don’t want to believe something, denial is so very easy … and on some days it’s easier than others.

Of more immediate concern was that there might be gossip if I went sleigh riding. However, I was Grace’s godmother; and in addition, despite the inroads of Susannah Riley with Francesca, I was still commonly considered beyond romantic involvements—with men at least. I glanced at Grace, then back at the sleigh. The scene glowed as if it were a painting waiting only for Grace and me to enter the places intended for us.

As we drove away, I saw diamonds in the treetops. Diamonds of ice, blowing in the breeze. We rode down Chapin Parkway to the circle and so to Forest Lawn Cemetery. Passing through the cemetery’s whimsical gate, we joined our neighbors amid the tree-covered hills and curving paths.

Angels and obelisks covered the hillsides, but there was nothing morbid here. As in so many cities, the cemetery was a favorite place for picnics in summer and snowball fights in winter. No one came here from the narrow streets along the waterfront, or from the neighborhoods where people spoke languages different from ours. Or had skin of a different shade. We who idled here were like an extended family, at ease and at home.

Today children built snowmen and played hide-and-seek among the sandstone mausoleums and the marble peristyles. Their parents strolled the grounds, unconcerned about separation from their little ones: The guard at the gate was conscientious, keeping out everyone he didn’t know, and since everyone inside knew virtually everyone else (whether living or dead), any lost child was invariably found.

So many were here among my students and their families, among the sixty millionaires and many near-millionaires of Buffalo, and among the doctors, attorneys, ministers, artists, and architects who served them. Yet despite these many visitors, the cemetery felt blissfully uncrowded; there was more than enough room for all of us to spread out among the lofty tulip trees and the broad beeches, to find sheltered glens lined with white-barked birches where we could linger beside still ponds.

Coming toward us now was Maria Love, with a sleigh full of her grandnieces and grandnephews: mischievous little Carys and Rumseys, one or another continually tumbling off the sleigh and into the snowdrifts. Without slowing the horses, Miss Love circled the sleigh around and reached out a hand to retrieve them. A trio of men named John approached us, all members of my board of trustees: John Milburn, bestowing his charming smile on one and all; John Albright, bird-watching with his youthful second wife; John Larkin, the mail-order soap king, gleaming as he always did with the cleanliness bestowed by constant use of his own products. Even his hands gleamed, and undoubtedly because of this, he rarely wore gloves. Mr. Rumsey drove past, tipping his hat like a minister offering his blessing upon us all. His daughter Ruth, he told Grace, was home with a cold; bad luck, we agreed, for her to miss such a glorious day.

Grace sat between Tom and me. She held my hand and sometimes touched her father’s arm or rested her head against his shoulder. She asked to tour the cemetery and so we did: around the spring-fed Mirror Lake surrounded by flowering, snow-covered crabapple trees, white on pink; along the cascading Scajaquada Creek, where a great blue heron fished slowly along the shore; across stone bridges and into hidden vales of oak trees. Scattered among the obelisks and angels were stone portraits of dead children, captured in their playfulness and hurry, snow like shawls around their shoulders.

Grace appeared serene and at ease. After my useless consultation with Dr. Hoyt, I could feel only relief that at this moment, at least, she was fine. When she spotted a field of violets poking through the snow beside a small Gothic steeple, she pulled at Tom’s sleeve.

“I want to pick some for Mama.”

Tom brought the sleigh to a stop, and she slipped out. A flock of white-throated sparrows fluttered up as she approached. She spent some time among the violets, carefully gathering only the most perfect.

As we watched her, Tom said quietly, “I never dreamed I’d see Grace picking violets for Margaret’s grave. Before we were married, Margaret asked me to bring her here to pick violets for
her
mother’s grave. This is the same spot. I remember the steeple.” Then he fell silent. How different this day would be if Margaret were with us. We’d probably be throwing snowballs at each other now, or having a contest to see who could throw one the farthest; Tom and Grace would be the finalists, and Tom, of course, would let Grace win.

Finally Grace returned with the flowers sheltered in the crook of her arm, and we drove to the area near Margaret’s grave. Tom tied the horses, and we climbed up the hillside, Grace leading us. When I slipped on the snow, Tom caught my elbow. This was the highest hill of the cemetery; President Fillmore was buried at the top. Margaret’s grave was three-quarters of the way up. A rabbit hopped away from the marker as we approached, its white tail bobbing in the snow. Laughing at the sight of it, Grace turned to us, her smile making me yearn to hug her. When we reached the grave, Grace stood still as if saying a prayer, then placed the violets beside the stone. The flowers were velvety purple against the melting white. Only a stone marked Margaret’s grave now, but on the anniversary of her death a carved angel would take its place above her. Grace wiped the snow from the stone so we could see the lettering.
Margaret Winspear Sinclair, 1866 to 1900
. I bit my lip, trying not to cry; I didn’t want Grace to see me cry.

I had stood here with Tom last September when Margaret was buried. Grace wasn’t with us. Because she was distraught, Tom had allowed her to stay home with the housekeeper during the funeral and burial. The Winspears had clucked their disapproval at Tom’s decision. The funeral and burial were exactly what she needed to see, they argued, to help her with her mourning. They appealed to me. Generally children did attend burials, but at that moment I was too distraught myself to judge or advise. The Sinclair house was so confused the morning of the funeral: people turning up from everywhere, food being served in every room, muffled greetings exchanged, hugs bestowed upon me by friends whose names I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t slept in days. Grace threw a tantrum, kicking the maid who tried to help her dress, throwing a dish of applesauce against the wall of her playroom, screaming for “Mama” over and over. In retrospect, I realized that Tom had been right to keep her home. Finally that evening, as Tom had tucked her into bed and I had given her a good night kiss, a numbness—an utter blankness—descended upon her. She slept for fifteen hours, and when she woke, for weeks that blankness became her refuge.

“I wonder if Mama sees us now.” Grace didn’t sound sad today, only matter-of-fact: a child who had been raised to believe in heaven and still had no reason to doubt its existence. “Remember how much Mama loved the snow? Remember that time she helped me build the biggest snowman anyone had ever seen, on our front lawn? Remember how we dressed him up in your silk top hat and scarf?” she asked Tom.