City of Light (35 page)

“Yes,” I said, the tension easing out of me. Because of Margaret, everything would proceed slowly; because of Margaret, bit by bit I could overcome my fear, step by step imagination could evolve into reality, and I could become Grace’s true mother at last. In that time too, I would surely learn the truth about Speyer and Fitzhugh—if in fact there was any other truth to be learned. I felt as if my best friend had returned to offer me a gift. “Yes, I would agree to that.”

“Do you think possibly having an understanding in a year or so will appease our little girl?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Neither do I,” he agreed. “Well, that’s part of growing up, isn’t it? Learning to wait for what you want. A new experience for Grace. And, perhaps, for me.”

CHAPTER XXI

U
sually after the Macaulay graduation in mid-June, my Monday evening salon went on hiatus. I hated entertaining in the hot weather, and in any event the good families left Buffalo for their summer homes along the shores of Lake Erie, in the Genesee River Valley, or in Newport, Rhode Island. But not this summer. My salon ceased as usual, but because of events surrounding the Pan-American Exposition the good families stayed in town and the world came to them.

To all of us. Parties and receptions filled my days. I saw Franklin Fiske at many of these parties, and he was unfailingly kind. I never saw Tom, however. He’d sent me a note the week after our meeting at Trinity Church to tell me that he was consumed with business. I had to admit that this was a relief. In retrospect, I’d startled myself by how quickly I’d agreed to the notion of an understanding with him. As the days passed without the pressure of his presence, however, I gradually developed more confidence in the idea of marriage sometime in the future.

Meanwhile the newspapers were filled with stories of what had been dubbed the “race to the finish”: the number of days left until September 6, when President McKinley was scheduled to visit the power station and push the lever that would put Powerhouse 3 online—if it was ready. Work was being conducted in twelve-hour shifts, twenty-four hours a day. The papers were documenting every aspect of construction, every test, every difficulty no matter how minor (in the articles Tom referred to these as “challenges,” not difficulties); profiling everyone from engineer to janitor, searching for heroes. And in the eyes of the newspapers (albeit not the establishment-bound
Express)
Tom had become the greatest hero of all. While he was working, Grace spent the long summer days visiting friends and taking tennis, swimming, and riding lessons at the country club. I had breakfast with her every other morning. Most days, Tom had already left for the power station by the time I came to call or had simply spent the night out there, leaving Grace in the capable care of Mrs. Sheehan.

Each week brought new dignitaries to the Pan-Am, lured by special events in their honor: University Day bringing academic officials; Opera Day renowned musicians; national days bringing troops of ambassadors and princelings, the local families vying to provide their entertainment and accommodation—such privileges generously bestowed by John Milburn, never a man to overlook a detail that might someday result in a reward to himself.

We became a city transfixed by expectation.

On July 9, the National Association of Colored Women convened its three-day biennial convention at Lyric Hall. Miss Love invited me to attend the first day. Ordered me, would be a better description of the note she sent. But no matter, entering Lyric Hall I felt an assuaging of my guilt about not joining Mary Talbert in her protest at the exposition. The hall was decked out in banners of purple and white, the NACW’s colors, symbolizing royalty and purity. “Lifting As We Climb” proclaimed the central banner across the stage. Miss Love had staked out a row toward the back, not far from the portrait of the Marquis de Lafayette. Every Caucasian woman who came in the door was peremptorily called to join her. We made for a small group: myself and several reform-minded ladies, seated primly in our row while around us several hundred Negro women beautifully attired in white or purple greeted one another with excitement. They ignored us.

In a white lace dress, Mrs. Talbert stood at the front of the hall answering questions, making notes, passing out leaflets, directing people to their seats. Her protest at the Pan-Am had garnered no attention whatsoever—at least not in our newspapers, although undoubtedly the Negro papers had covered it. Nonetheless she was still organizing, her demeanor forthright and proud; she buried any despair she might feel under a veneer of steadfast commitment.

I sat between Miss Love and Miss Mary Remington, a short, stout, and formidable lady originally from Massachusetts. She’d established her own settlement house in Buffalo—the Remington Mission—in the worst part of town. Unlike Miss Love, she actually lived at her mission among the destitute, with her loyal friend Miss Alice Hyde. Miss Remington was rumored to be both gracious and affectionate toward the many who came to her for assistance. Miss Love viewed Miss Remington as her chief female competitor in the charity circuit.

After everyone who could be expected to join us was in attendance, Miss Love announced to no one in particular, “When I was a girl my mother hid runaway slaves in our stable. Our stable was a station on the Underground Railroad!”

I’d heard this before. More than once. No doubt Mary Remington had too.

“How well I remember the day I saw a slave auction in the South,” Miss Love continued, nostalgically reminiscing. “I’ve always been lucky enough to travel. Nearly fifty years ago, that auction was, but I recall it as if it were yesterday. An entire family separated—each to a different owner. I can hardly bear the memory. It’s an inspiration.”

“What did you say, Miss Love?” asked Miss Remington pointedly, and not because she was hard of hearing. She leaned across me, and because of her bulk, I had to press myself against the back of my chair.

“An inspiration.”

She caught Miss Remington’s astounded expression.

“To reform, of course!” Miss Love snapped. “An inspiration to commitment!”

I sighed. It would be a long day, sandwiched between these two. Programs were dispensed. Over the three-day convention there would be lectures and discussions on such topics as the convict lease system and nurse training for colored women. Several presentations would be devoted to the ever-increasing prevalence of lynching. The women would discuss whether federal legislation could be formulated to help curb lynching. Indeed every lecture would end with a call to action—with practical steps women could take to confront the challenge.

Mrs. Booker T. Washington gave the keynote speech. She spoke about the achievements of the Tuskegee Institute, where Negroes received high-level vocational training as a path toward economic prosperity and equality. Applause was tinged with an undercurrent of critical comment. Even I knew about the debate between Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois. Washington focused his work on economic advancement for Negroes, and he had made concessions on the issue of enforced segregation in return for racial harmony and for support from the likes of Andrew Carnegie. Du Bois, on the other hand, rejected segregation and believed that political action was the only route to equality for Negroes.

After the keynote speech, a thin, earnest woman from Chicago gave the first lecture, on the subject of the establishment of free kindergartens for Negro children in the Midwest. With discussion time, this lasted about an hour. The next topic was a consideration of the state of Negro teacher training, an issue of much concern and debate. As the time passed, the hall grew stuffy. Negro and Caucasian alike, we fanned ourselves with our programs.

Finally, at three P.M., Mrs. Talbert took the lectern to give the day’s concluding remarks. She stood silently for several moments, garnering the room’s attention. After thanking the lecturers, she said, “Now we will disperse for the day, and many of us, I know, are eager to tour the Pan-American Exposition, for both pleasure and education—for pleasurable education!” There was a smattering of laughter. “Before you go, I must confess to you my great disappointment that despite my best efforts, the exposition pays no formal recognition to our achievements as a race. Accept my apologies, for having failed you.” For a moment she bowed her head in humility. “And yet … I cannot accept that all is lost. No, I will never accept defeat. I believe we can still make a difference.” Several women cheered. “Therefore I am calling today for a leaflet campaign. If each one of you takes only five leaflets each day to distribute among the visitors to the Pan-Am, our request will turn into a groundswell of support, and I pray—I know—that the public will rise up with us to demand our rightful place at this, the greatest exposition in the history of our nation!”

“Amen!” the women called. There was conversation all around and questions were called out as the women pondered more action than simply a leaflet campaign. As righteous passion surged around me in the stifling heat, I felt a need to escape. Immediately. Their cause was hopeless. Bidding good-bye to a surprised Miss Love, forcing my way around Mary Remington’s wide legs, I left. I didn’t have the strength to be part of hopeless causes.

Wanting a bit of a walk, I took the streetcar only partway home, listening to the other passengers chat in German, Italian, and Polish. I disembarked at the corner of Main and Allen streets, the atmosphere around me raucous and commercial. From there I strolled across Allen to Delaware Avenue—several short blocks, bringing me to peace and tranquility All at once I was in a different city altogether. On Delaware, the elm trees along the sidewalks met overhead in a green arch, while across the wide lawns sprinklers swirled in a flash of diamonds. Lawn mowers whirred, and the breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass.

At this hour of the afternoon, in the warm, quiet shade, there were few people around and fewer vehicles, just the ice wagons, making their slow journey from house to house, the horses’ hooves muffled by the heat-softened asphalt. Regardless of its architectural style, each house had French doors and ivy vestments; tall upper windows filled with gauze curtains that swept in and out upon every breeze; and stone flowerpots brimming with blue and orange blossoms. My girls, when they were Grace’s age, viewed the entire avenue as their private domain. On summer days, when the mood struck them, they would go from house to house on their horses and beg treats from the cooks at each kitchen door.

At the corner of North and Delaware, at the top of the hill, I turned and looked back over the city. Beyond the skyscrapers, church steeples, and grain elevators, Lake Erie shimmered in the distance. High clouds drifted across the sky. The air was so clear I could see even the smokestacks at Stony Point. Along the lakeshore, freighters, steamships, and commercial schooners glinted in the sunlight, while beyond them sailboats caught the wind for pleasure, colorful spinnakers unfurled. To the west were the beckoning green hills of Canada. Less than fifty years ago, escaped slaves had made the journey across the Niagara River at night to freedom. Buffalo, the final stop on the Underground Railroad: We had so much to be proud of.

I continued walking up Delaware, past two mansions designed by Stanford White in the style of Renaissance palaces. Then I passed Westminster Church, with its soaring Gothic spire.

“Miss Barrett?”

I turned to find Franklin Fiske wheeling toward me on his bicycle. Hailing me on the street, he’d used my family name, and once again I appreciated his discretion. He came to a stop at the curb and dismounted. Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

“Where have you been, Franklin?” I asked as he brought his bike onto the sidewalk beside me.

“In and out of town,” he explained. “Serving time in the state capital, basking in the summer beauties of Albany while interviewing state water inspectors.”

“Was that interesting?” I asked, skeptical.

“Oh, being a water inspector is a most unusual job,” he assured me. “You go to a power station, let’s say right here at Niagara for the purposes of argument. Pad and pencil in hand, you stare at the water flowing into the powerhouse sluices for a good long time. You stand alone and uninterrupted. Then you pronounce the amount of water being taken as absolutely within legal limits. Thank you for noticing my absence,” he added abruptly. Looking around at the deserted street, he asked, “Might I walk beside you? If it wouldn’t scandalize the town, that is. And if your errand isn’t secret.”

“I’m walking home. And yes, you may walk beside me.”

While he pushed his bicycle by the handlebars, I felt the sense of his body there beside me: tall and slender, the dark hair, the smell of him—a touch of sweat on this hot day mixed with his citrusy shaving lotion, the lemony scent cutting through the heat.

“This is a nice sidewalk,” he observed.

I laughed at his excuse for conversation. “Yes, it
is
very nice. Red medina sandstone. One of the prides of the city. Brought here by barge on the Erie Canal.”

“You’re certainly a font of knowledge.”

“Part of my job description: experienced schoolmarm, font of knowledge.”

“You shortchange yourself.”

“That, I assure you, I would never do. You’re very fashionable these days, wheeling around town.”

“Yes, it’s true: I am fashionable.”

“I’ve never been on a bicycle.”

“Try mine,” he offered.

“No, thank you,” I said firmly. “A woman in my position must be properly attired for wheeling.” The Buffalo Women’s Wheel and Athletic Club recommended sturdy knee-length bloomers and thick stockings.

“Quite right,” he agreed with mock-seriousness. “A woman in your position must always be properly attired. Whatever she’s doing,” he added in a voice that hinted at unseemly implications. When he saw that I ignored them he continued. “This is a wonderful city for wheeling.”