No Crystal Stair (17 page)

One evening the whole family had to be taken out to the Tylers' home and inspected by them. Ann Elizabeth and Rob stood smiling and embarrassed while the Tylers exclaimed over and over again about Thelma's son and his family. “So fine looking!”

Thelma was sweet and generous. And demanding. This wasn't particularly a problem for Ann Elizabeth, but Rob could be as stubborn and unyielding as his mother. When that happened the little flat would rock as tempers flared and voices rose. One sore point was Rob's church attendance, or rather, lack of it. His schedule was pretty full with school and job. Privately Ann Elizabeth felt he deserved one day of relaxation, and he did so enjoy listening to the radio broadcast of football or baseball games on Sundays.

Thelma didn't agree. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Rob. Sitting there by that radio on the Lord's day. You ought to be in church, down on your knees, thanking the Lord for bringing you through that terrible war and giving you such a fine family.”

Rob said he'd be more likely to find the Lord on the football field. This was a championship game.

“Don't you go blaspheming the Lord now! You in enough trouble. I never raised you to act like this. I always taught you to remember the Sabbath and keep it holy.”

But Rob's attention was now on the radio, andThelma's shouts went unheeded. She would leave, Ann Elizabeth and Bobby beside her, for Shiloh Baptist Church. There, with Thelma in the choir loft and Bobby in the nursery, Ann Elizabeth would sit alone, more confused than enlightened by what went on about her. It was so different.

Oh, she knew what they said about her Congregational Church in Atlanta. A “seditty” church. If your skin wasn't light and your hair wasn't straight, you couldn't get in. Jesus probably wouldn't be admitted because of his social standing. She knew
that these charges were only slightly exaggerated. Yet she also knew that in certain ways, the sophisticated members of the Congregational Church, who sat quietly listening to their minister, had the same desires and beliefs as the exuberant, shouting members of Shiloh. They had the same cares and problems, the same yearning for truth, love and peace.

But there was no peace, Ann Elizabeth thought in the preacher's hell-and-damnation sermons. The shouting and amens from the congregation were disturbing. The collections, long litanies and endless announcements, tiresome.

She loved the music, though. When the tones from the organ swelled and the answering chords sounded from the piano in that moving gospel rhythm, a kind of exhilaration would sweep through her and she would tap her foot and sing with the congregation. She hadn't sung the old spirituals since her days at Washington High.

Once again she felt glad her father had defied her mother and insisted she and Randy attend the public high school. There was no auditorium, cafeteria or gym. But every morning they'd had devotions in their individual homerooms. No organ or piano. But the beautiful deep voice of James Hughey or the high soprano of Sadie would lead them in a spiritual. There was something lovely and inspiring about the simple words and powerful beat. So unlike what her father called the la-di-da hymns of the Congregational Church and Spelman Chapel. If her father hadn't sent her to the public high school, she never would have learned these songs, so familiar to her now, and would have felt even more out of place at Shiloh Baptist.

The various church activities to which Thelma dragged her were just about the only social outlet Ann Elizabeth had. She saw so little of Rob. The time he wasn't in class or at work was usually spent at the library. There was no place to study at home. He did play basketball with a group of fellows every now and then. She approved of that; he needed the exercise. The only
exercise Ann Elizabeth got was cleaning the apartment and lugging Bobby's stroller up and down the long stairs. She took him for a walk every afternoon, up the street, past the grocery store and the local pool hall. The men, lolling about outside, always spoke politely and plied Bobby with chewing gum or candy which she confiscated as soon as they'd gone around the corner. She would slowly circle the neighborhood, glad to be out of the apartment. The place was stifling; she felt closed in. The sofa and chairs in the living room were protected by heavy plastic covers, sticky and uncomfortable. She wanted to get a job or take a class at the university, but there was Bobby. She didn't like to ask Thelma to keep him after a long day at the Tylers'. Besides, she never knew when Thelma might be off to some church affair.

Ann Elizabeth tried not to be lonely. She taught at Sunday school and Bible school, and worked with the women's auxiliary. Spent long afternoons on the little enclosed patio with books Rob brought her from the library.
Gentlemen's Agreement
by Laura Hobson, Daphne du Maurier's
The King's General,
Frank Yearby's
The Foxes of Harrow,
and many others.

She desperately longed for a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone on her own level. She was ashamed of that thought. She was not a snob!

Twice a year her father sent her money for train tickets, and she would spend three glorious weeks in Atlanta. But home was where Rob was—the stuffy little house on Central Avenue in Los Angeles.

 

 

September 1948

 

Then Rob graduated. He was now a certified aeronautical engineer, and as soon as he found a job, they would move. Any where!

It would be wonderful. They would have a house of their own. A yard. Flowers. She could even send for her wedding gifts. The day of Rob's graduation she'd picked up the surprised four-year Bobby, swung him round and round. “We're moving! We're moving!”

She banished the thought that it was now three months past graduation and no job was in sight. There were so few aircraft companies and none of them seemed to want a Negro engineer. She shut her mind to Thelma's constant refrain. “You better go full-time at the post office. A nice respectable good-paying job. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush! Ain't none of these big white companies gonna hire a nigger. They likes you down there and you just better stay where you is.”

Ann Elizabeth crossed her fingers and prayed. This time surely! The telegram from Benton Aircraft, somewhere near Seattle, had read, “qualifications excellent. Interview at 9 a.m. Monday, September 1, 1948.”

Please,
she prayed.
Please.

T
he sign outside the roadside motel near the Benton Aircraft plant flashed VACANCY. Rob pulled in. “Completely filled up,” said the man behind the desk. His smirk said he knew Rob knew he was lying and could do nothing about it.

Rob wanted to bust him right between his squinty eyes. But the man was right; he couldn't do a thing. Where would a brawl get him?

Besides, this one hadn't been as blunt as the guy in the other motel. “We don't serve colored.”

Should've stopped in one of the bigger cities, Rob thought as he drove out past the flashing sign. Easier to find a place that would accommodate you. But he'd wanted to put up in the vicinity, so that in the morning he could shower and shave, be fresh for his interview. Fat chance. It was now past midnight. He'd been driving for six hours after a late shift at the post office, and he couldn't get a bed to sleep in. As for a shower and a shave ... well, he'd think about that in the morning.

He found a parking space by the side of a gas station and ate the last of the fried chicken his mother had packed. Then he climbed into the backseat of the car and tried to get some sleep. But his legs were long, his mind in turmoil. Why did he think this interview would be different?

On his application and resume' he had purposefully omitted that he was a Negro. That detail could erase those “excellent” qualifications—in the top ten of his class, letters of recommendation, his years as a pilot.

Hell, what would it gain him? He hadn't mentioned race on his application with Air-tech, and he'd made it to the interview stage. But as soon as they saw his black face, he was shown the door. He shifted position, tried to stifle his mounting anxiety.

This was a fast-growing company and they were hiring, had openings, needed people with his expertise. Experimentation with the new jet engines had landed them a contract with a major airline to build their large commercial airplanes. God, he'd like to be part of that!

When the station opened in the morning, he drove around to the gas tank. Leaving his car to be filled, he got the key for the men's toilet—at least no flack about that, thank God—and went in. He shaved, freshened up as best he could and changed clothes. Neat black suit, crisp white shirt, black tie. Ignoring the attendant's curious stare, he stored his gear in the trunk, paid his bill and drove away.

There was enough time but no place to get a cup of coffee before the interview. He doubted he could swallow anything, anyway. He was that nervous! And hot. Even this early in the morning, he could feel the relentless heat and humidity. He took off his coat, laid it on the back of the passenger seat and loosened his tie.

Despite his qualms, he felt a surge of anticipation as he drove through the entry gates of Benton Aircraft Corporation. The buzz of activity in and around the big office, manufacturing buildings and hangars was like a heartbeat. This was where it was all taking place. The construction of the big airliners, the travel mode of the future. He envied the few workers he saw who were already involved in it.

He parked in one of the unreserved spaces by the office building, adjusted his tie, put on his coat and resolutely entered the building.

Outside the personnel office, he hesitated. This was the last chance and he knew that Ann Elizabeth was counting on it—a
good job for him, a home of their own. He thought of Ann Elizabeth kneeling on that frilly bed of hers in Atlanta, tossing back her head, philosophizing about life.

Poor baby—so naïve. But he chuckled, amused and strangely bolstered by the image.

Okay, Life. Just give me a job.

He approached the girl at the personnel reception desk, and it was like a newsreel that had been played over and over again. Her start of surprise when she saw him.

“Robert Metcalf. To see Mr. Stewart.”

“You have an appointment?” Incredulity written on her face. He produced the telegram.

“Just a minute.” She went over and spoke to a man seated at a corner desk. He glanced at Rob, took the telegram and disappeared into a partitioned office to the left of the large room.

A bald man appeared at the door, looked at Rob and went back inside.

Rob sat on one of the chairs near the outer wall and waited. And waited.

The door from the hall opened, admitting a pleasant-faced young man with blue eyes and crew cut auburn hair. Similarly dressed—dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie. “Gordon Jones, to see Mr. Stewart,” he said to the receptionist. She went over to the office and the man who'd been seated at the desk emerged.

“Oh yes, Mr. Jones,” he said to the young man. “Mr. Stewart is expecting you. This way, please.” He led him to the wide double doors at the back of the office. Before the doors closed, Rob glimpsed thick carpeting and a large potted plant.

The clerk then turned his attention to Rob. “I'm sorry. There seems to be some kind of mix-up.”

Rob stood. “Mix-up?”

“About your notification.”

“The telegram stated specifically to report at 9 a.m. today September first. This is the first, isn't it?”

“Yes. But the position—Er, your qualifications—”

“Are you Mr. Stewart?”

“No, but—”

“My interview is with Mr. Stewart. I've driven a long way to keep this appointment.” Rob didn't intend to be fobbed off by some two-bit clerk.

He couldn't say it aloud, but the clerk seemed to get the message. He seemed embarrassed and confused. “Just a minute. I'll have to go check.” He went back into the partitioned office.

A dark-haired girl came through the double doors. She glanced at Rob, then went over and whispered to the receptionist, who whispered back but didn't look at Rob.

Rob felt his ears burn. Deep down in the pit of his stomach something began to seethe and boil. Something indefinable, something between hurt and hot anger. The old newsreel, playing over and over again. The smirks, the stuttering, the pussyfooting. While he waited. His job ... no, his very life on the line.

He concentrated on a picture on the back wall. Joseph Benton. Old-fashioned handlebar mustache, clear searching eyes.

This time the bald man came out. He was neither confused nor embarrassed. “Sorry, Metcalf. They've been some changes.”

“Since Friday? This is only Monday.”

“Things happen fast around here.”

Rob kept a firm grip on himself. He might not get the job but he sure as hell wasn't going to get stymied by some bastard with a brain as blank as his face. He looked toward the double doors. If he could only get—

As if by some signal, the doors opened and a rather handsome man in a smart gray suit walked out. He was talking to the young crew cut man, whom he led over to the dark-haired girl.

“This way, Mr. Jones,” she said as she escorted the young man out of the office. Presumably, thought Rob, to where he would be placed. It seemed so easy if you were white.

The stabbing sensation cut deep. More poignant than the hurt was the seething anger. The envy.

Not that he wanted to be white. He just wanted to get through those doors. He wanted the opportunity to prove himself. He wanted ... He moved determinedly toward the elusive Mr. Stewart.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said before the man could retreat into his office. “Are you Mr. Stewart?”

The man turned, startled but polite. “Yes?”

“I'm Robert Metcalf. I have an appointment to meet with you.”

The bald assistant moved as if to intervene. Stewart waved him away, giving an I'll-take-care-of this nod. “Oh, Metcalf. Yes, indeed. Come in.”

At last he was inside the thick-carpeted and luxuriously furnished office. Seated, facing the man behind the polished oak desk.

To no avail. He knew it from Stewart's first words. “It's regrettable that we weren't able to contact you in time to save you the trip, Metcalf.”The somber face. A futile gesture, expressing regret. “These last-minute changes...” He shook his head. “There's been quite a shift. The airline contract has been drastically changed. The project on which you were to be placed had to be eliminated.”

“Oh?” Rob had to let Stewart know he recognized the lie. “Your clerk said there was some questions about my qualifications.”

“Oh, no. No, indeed.” Shocked surprised. “He must have misunderstood. You have excellent qualifications. Yes.” He took a folder from his basket and began to thumb through it. So the bastard
had
been expecting him? “Yes, indeed. An excellent record. Excellent war record, too. We here at Benson are aware of the combat performance of the all-colored Ninety-ninth. We provided tech reps for the Seventeenth Air Force in the Italian
theater.” He looked as if he expected some commendation for this support, which, incidentally, had put the damn company on its feet.

Rob said nothing.

Stewart cleared his throat. “But, as I say, the contract change killed the project we had in mind for your services. Business is business. Mr. Metcalf. No reflection on your qualifications.

“I'm glad to hear that. Perhaps there's an opening on one of your other projects where I could be—”

“Indeed, indeed. We'll keep your application on file. When and if something arises, we'll send for you.”

That'll be a cold day in hell, Rob thought as Stewart rose from his chair, indicating that the interview was over. Enough talk spent on you, nigger. Now get the hell out of here.

Rob turned and walked away. He got into his car, feeling very tired, the hot anger subdued by a crushing wave of disappointment. He hated to go home to face Ann Elizabeth. And his mother's “I told you so.”

He drove past the cement buildings and hangars that, just for an instant, had help promise. He drove calmly, easily as if there was no storm raging within him. Out the entry gates, through the little town. It had the feel of a country village, although it was within easy driving distance of Seattle. This was beautiful country. Early fall, and already the leaves were beginning to turn. A quiet town with neat well-kept houses, green lawns. In front of one house, a young woman fastened a toddler into a stroller and he thought of Ann Elizabeth and Bobby. One house, green with white shutters, had a For Sale sign in the yard. Ann Elizabeth would have loved it.

Cut the daydreams, nigger! You think they'd let you buy that place?

The he saw it. A freshly painted white house, a window box with luscious red geraniums spilling from it. He panicked. He pulled to a stop, afraid he might lose control of the car as it all
came flooding back. Germany. A white house, red geraniums, looting soldiers, the colored sergeant. Dachau. He could see him as clearly as if it were yesterday—the Jewish doctor with the sunken cheeks and missing teeth ...

It happens a little bit at a time. They take away your job ... take your children from school... ban your from this or that. Then, when it's too late... this.

A recurring nightmare that haunted, jerked him awake screaming and in a cold sweat. It alarmed Ann Elizabeth, but he'd never told her. Not all of it—the horror that would never leave him. The rotting corpses, the body of a child clinging to his dead mother, the decay, the blood... the unbelievable horror.

God, this was broad daylight, and he still saw it. He wanted to get out of the car and retch. He swallowed fighting for control, hearing the doctor's words ringing in his ears.
Don't let it happen to you!

How did you stop it? By grabbing a bald man by the throat and choking him until his face turned purple? By socking a fist straight into that smooth-talking Stewart's mouth?

By landing in jail? Besides, his fight was not with the bald man or the smooth-talking Stewart. It was with something bigger, something that wound through every fiber of his life, as surely as that river wound through this lush green countryside.

Two women strolling by eyed him curiously, suspiciously.

He switched on the engine and drove away, He drove calmly easily, as if no storm raged within.

 

 

He had married a jewel. He knew how difficult the last three years had been for Ann Elizabeth. How cramped the apartment. How much she longed for a home of their own, more children, the kind of life she'd lived before. He knew she'd been counting on the Benton job more than he had. But by not one flicker of an eyelash did she let her disappointment show. That
adorable inevitable dimple lurked at the corner of her mouth and her eyes sparkled with optimism.

“Well, maybe the good Lord's looking out for us. It gets awfully cold up there in Seattle.”

She even silenced his mother. “Not now, Mama, he's had a long day. Let him eat his dinner. Come on, I've kept it warm.”

While he ate, she talked of something else. A phone call from Pete—he and Fran were in town. “Some kind of air show. They'll be here for a couple of days. I invited them for dinner tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure. Great.”

“It'll be like old times. Do you realize we haven't seen them since their wedding?”

“Yeah.” He'd been best man. At Lockbourne Field when what was left of the Ninety-ninth were just settling in.

“Oh, Pete's made major. Isn't that great?”

“Yeah. Great.” He pushed his plate aside. Most of the guys who'd stayed in the Army Air Corps were moving up, slowly but surely. Just sitting around getting promoted while he'd been busting his brains and getting nowhere.

“Finished? Good. Save room for you mom's peach cobbler. I'll dish it up. Fran sounds just like her usual crazy self. I can hardly wait to see them. Maybe I'll make fried chicken, corn on the cob ...” Not noticing—or perhaps ignoring—his lack of enthusiasm, she talked cheerfully on, while he wondered if he hadn't made one hell of a mistake, not staying in the damned military.
You forgot, didn't you, nigger? How hard it is to get in
...
anywhere.