No Crystal Stair (18 page)

It was later, when they were alone in their bedroom, that she ventured to suggest alternatives. “Your mother's right about one thing, Rob. You're already in with the post office—and you could easily get on full-time.”With his hands behind his head he stared into the dark. “A steady government job, and it's not a bad income, Rob.”

He shifted. Just forget all you've learned about propellers, jets and everything. At least sorting mail's a hell of a lot easier than digging ditches.

“Just while you're waiting,” she added quickly. “One day someone's going to figure out how smart you are and sign you on. What about that new company in Arizona? Have you sent them an application?”

He felt as if the room was closing in on him.

“And we wouldn't have to wait.To buy a house, I mean Daddy wouldn't let me pay a cent when I was living with them, and we've still got all that allotment money. A hefty down payment. Why don't we go Sunday and look at the new development? It would be like an investment, and we could sell it when—”

“When what, Ann Elizabeth?”

“When you get—”

“When hell freezes over!”

“Oh, Rob, don't say that.” She sat up in bed. “I know you're discouraged now. But you can't let it get you down. You can't let other people determine your fate. How does it go?” She began to quote from favorite poem of hers, Rudyard Kipling's “If,” “‘If you can trust yourself...'” He stood it as long as he could, but when she got to “‘Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,'” he blew.

“Shut up, Ann Elizabeth!”

“What?” He couldn't see her, but he heard the astonishment, the hurt. He didn't care.

“I said shut up with all the sweetness and light! You don't know what the hell you're talking about. What about when you're being lied to and you know it and they know you know it and there's not a damn thing you can do about it?” He snatched his pants off the chair. “I've had it up to here with the bring-me-roses and all the rest of that crap! You need to know this is a shitty world we live in. And for niggers, it's double! So just forget all the poetic gibberish, Ladywhoever-you're-playing-now!”
While he talked, he was dressing. He'd better get out before he smashed something.

 

 

Ann Elizabeth lay on her pillow. Not moving. Stunned. Never before had Rob spoken to her like that. And he had no reason to. None at all. She'd just been trying to ... trying to ... How dare he speak to her like that! When all she'd been trying to do was...

What? Cheer him up? Or were you trying to figure some way to get out of this cramped little house with those stiff plastic covers that make the only place you can sit down so darn uncomfortable. To get away from his uncompromising, bossy childish—okay, kind and generous mother—with all her church socials and prayer meetings and those thunderous boring come-to-Jesus sermons every Sunday of the year. Oh, it's fine for you, Robert Metcalf. You just don't go. But...

You
don't have to go, Ann Elizabeth. No, but... Oh, God, she'd rather go than stand the fussing or the sulks or ...

Darn it, she just wanted a place of her own. It didn't have to be a big place. Just a small separate house with no meddlesome tenants downstairs, without a hundred steps to climb down just to get a breath of fresh air, no pool hall practically next door. A yard big enough for Bobby to play in and where she could have a flower garden. And Rob with a regular job—not this studying and rushing to the post office and no time to do anything with each other.

I've put up with it for three years, just so he could do... be what he wanted to be. And now... She buried her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs. She couldn't bury the misery. It was a dead weight inside her.

It was after four in the morning when he returned. He was due at the post office at five. She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, feigning sleep, breathing deeply as he tiptoed about
the room, collecting his things. She heard the shower in the bathroom, and later the quiet shutting of the front door, his steps as he hurried out.

She wished she could sleep. Or just disappear.Then she heard Thelma in the bathroom and that was when she remembered. Fran and Pete were coming to dinner tonight. Oh, God! Today of all days.

She couldn't call and cancel. What would she say? Rob and I had a big fight. Bobby's sick and... No. Lies like that sometimes came true.

They were coming. She'd have to get ready. She'd planned to take Rob to work so she could use the car to shop. Now what? Maybe she could ride out to Belair with Thelma, ask Liz downstairs to keep Bobby. She was sorry she'd called her meddlesome; the woman was always so obliging. Still, if she rode out with Thelma, how would she get back in time to clean the apartment and start dinner? Was there a bus?

Thelma solved the problem for her. She said she'd planned to leave work early today so she could help prepare for a social at the church tonight. If Ann Elizabeth didn't mind the wait, she'd drive her to the store now, and then could be back at the house about one.

The supermarket where Thelma dropped her was in a small shopping area that also contained a beauty parlor, a drugstore, a dress shop and a deli. Three hours to kill. She decided not to pick up groceries yet. Almost numb with depression she moved like an alien among the shoppers hurrying in and out of the drugstore or beauty parlor, loading groceries into parked cars. She'd been so happy when Fran called yesterday. So looking forward to tonight, to the kind of fun they used to have, a break from her usual monotonous routine. She tried not to think about Rob, tried not to think about anything as she wandered into the dress shop, poked through the sale rack. A yellow sundress with
a full skirt bordered by embroidered orange chrysanthemums caught her eye. She tried it on. It seemed made for her and she felt a tiny surge of pleasure at the thought of the coming dinner party. Rather expensive, even on sale, but she bought the dress.

In the drugstore she bought a few toilet articles and a couple of magazines. She wasn't hungry, but she'd better eat something. Lots to do to get ready for Fran and Pete.

In the deli she ordered a Coke and club sandwich and sat at a corner table. She tried to eat, tried to blank out Rob and their quarrel, idly thumbed through the
Ladies Home Journal.

The column “Making Marriage Work” jumped out at her. Perhaps there was some advice here. But no, this advice was aimed at a wife who complained that her husband was a slob. After he moved out she'd found seventeen pairs of his socks under the bed. Ann Elizabeth giggled. What kind of wife would leave that many socks under a bed that long? White folks sure didn't have much to worry about.

When Thelma arrived she was ready with her bags of luscious fruits and vegetables.

“Nice,” Thelma said when Ann Elizabeth put two pots of orange chrysanthemums on the back floor of the car. “That'll sure brighten up the place. Did you get peaches? I'll have time to make you a cobbler before I leave for the church.”

They got home a little after one, and with some relief, Ann Elizabeth noticed that Rob's car was parked in its usual place. At least he was home. Did he remember they were expecting company? He was stretched across their unmade bed, half dressed, in a deep slumber.

“Let him rest,” Thelma said. He had that long drive yesterday.” If she knew he'd also been out all night, she gave no indication.

Ann Elizabeth didn't dare ask that the plastic covers be removed, but when they'd polished everything to perfection,
the apartment looked warm and welcoming. The flowers did brighten it up. She broke off three of them and a few fronds from Thelma's fern to make a low centerpiece for the table.

Finally everything was almost ready—Thelma's cobbler and the candied yams, string beans, crisp fried chicken in a big covered bowl, the corn ready to boil and the corn muffins to pop into the oven at the last minute. Thelma was off to her church social, and Ann Elizabeth bathed herself and Bobby. Then she went in to wake Rob.

It wasn't easy. He was still fast asleep and it wasn't until Bobby climbed up and pulled at him, “Daddy, Daddy, play with me,” that he began to rouse. He sat up, his arm around Bobby, but still seemed dazed.

“Get up. Rob,” she said. “Fran and Pete will be here in twenty minutes.”

He looked at her, his focus sharpening as memory surfaced. “Ann Elizabeth ...” He hesitated, his expression half defiant, half sheepish. “Listen, I—”

“Daddy,” said Bobby, tugging away.

“That's right, Bobby,” she said. “Get your daddy up. Company's coming.”

“Ann Elizabeth—”

“Not now, Rob. There isn't time. Hurry and get dressed.”

“Okay, buddy,” he said to Bobby, lifting him high in the air before putting him down and hurrying in to shower.

“Don't mess up the bathroom,” she called after him as she began to make the bed. Then she combed her hair, slipped into the new sundress and helped Bobby change into his pajamas.

But the pleasurable anticipation had been expelled by anxiety. With a heavy heart she wondered if they were going to be able to act natural. She wished Fran and Pete weren't coming. Not tonight.

H
ow could you not be natural around Fran? She burst in like a ray of sunshine. “Ann Elizabeth!” she cried, hugging her. “I hate you. You're as pretty and tiny as ever. More so. While I'm getting fat and flabby and I haven't even had a baby. And this is Bobby. Come here, you, and give you aunt Fran a kiss. Isn't he cute, Pete? Dimples, just like his dad.” She handed Bobby to Pete and turned to hug Rob. “That's what I said—dimples. I always did like a man with dimples.”

Rob took Bobby downstairs to the Stevenses, where he was going to spend the night, and then, as if they'd been together only yesterday, they settled into the old laughing teasing relaxed routine.

“My mouth's been watering all night, Ann Elizabeth,” Pete said as he helped himself to his third piece of fried chicken. “I remembered what a good cook you are.”

“That's my wife,” said Rob, his gaze enveloping her, the colorful dress, the matching flowers on the table. “A cook in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor—”

“You sure got that right!” Fran broke in. “Ann Elizabeth's sure enough a lady.'Cause she come from them seditty Atlanta folks, you know. Too bad for you Pete—you got this country bumpkin from Waycross. But I'm learning how to set a nice table like this with the pretty little flowers. I'm watching you, honey chile.” She flashed her impish grin at Ann Elizabeth and rattled on.

But Ann Elizabeth was conscious only of Rob's steady gaze that signaled he was remembering the rest of the saying. She felt herself blush. “Listen, do any of you want wine?” she asked. “It's been so hot. I thought that iced tea—”

“Delicious,” said Fran. “And so refreshing. Now, Pete do you notice that little sprig of mint stuck in the slice of lemon? Make a note. That's one of those fancy touches us common folks must remember. Especially now that I'm Mrs. Major Peterson.”

They had already congratulated Pete on his promotion, but that started another round. Rob brought out the wine.

“Have to make a toast to my old buddy,” he said as the cork popped out and he filled their glasses. “It didn't come easy,” he said, lifting his glass. “Up and onward, old pal.”

“Onward is right,” Pete said as they touched glasses.” Did Fran tell you we're being transferred to Wright-Patterson next week?

Rob stared at him. “In Dayton? Are fighter squadrons based there? I thought that was the headquarters of the Materiel Command. Has there been a change?”

“No. It still is. I'm going to Area B where they invent and test—fly. Integration, buddy boy. Ain't you heard? Got to put us somewhere and they're scrambling like mad. This is election year, kid, and the catch phrase is civil rights.”

“Oh yes,” said Ann Elizabeth. “I almost couldn't believe it when we heard Hubert Humphrey read the Democratic platform.” Even now she could recall the thrill that had shot through her as she listened. “We watched the whole convention downstairs on the Stevenses' little television.”

“We watched too.” Fran put down her ear of corn, wiped her hands on her napkin. “A whole bunch of us at the Officers' Club just jumped up and hollered when Truman thumbed his nose at the Dixiecrats!”

“And that took guts,” Rob said, his eyes glowing. “We didn't know what we got—back in ‘forty—five I mean. I was on the
march to that prison camp when some German woman ran out to tell us Roosevelt was dead, and Truman was president, and somebody asked who's Truman! I knew he was the VP of course, but I didn't really know him.”

“You know him now! When he took his seat, he put his money where his mouth was. Signed Executive order 9981, integrating the armed forces. Hallelujah!”

“He's reaching for the colored vote,” Fran said.

“And he's sure got mine,” Pete said. “As Rob put it, the man's got guts.”Pete stood up and, with a great deal of poetic license, did an impersonation of the little man from Missouri. “Okay, boys, this is the way it is. Enough of this separate-but-equal shit. We're starting with the Armed Forces. Integrate. That's an order.”Pete slammed his hand on the table, almost upsetting his wineglass, amid a chorus of amens.

“I bet the shit hit the fan then,” said Rob. “You know how many rednecks there are in the Army.”

“Oh yeah, he got a whole lot of buckin‘and kickin'. I can hear them now. ‘This'll never work. Mr. President.'‘It's gonna work while I'm Commander in Chief,”Course under their breath they're saying, ‘That won't be long.' And then he says, Any of you can't follow my orders can quit. ”I'll accept your resignation now. At that table right over there. Is that clear?'”

“Ain't many of'em walking, either,” said Fran. “They got bills and car payments just like we have.”

“Truman,” Rob looked very sober. “Like I said before, that took a lot of courage.”

“Yeah, but it ain't all courage,” said Pete. “It's politics. He's had a lot of pressure from the NAACP and the Negro press, and don't discount the Negro vote.”

“Politics.” Rob had almost forgotten. It was a congressman who'd untangled the red tape and finally got him into the Air Corps. “You don't think about it,” he said, “or you get too busy to be involved. I remember a man in Germany said to me you
just go along, doing your job, trying to take care of your family, not thinking much about politics...”

Ann Elizabeth saw the sad haunted expression that always scared her, and she hastily changed the subject. “Have you seen Jackie Robinson play?”

“Have we!” Fran grinned. “Every time there's a Dodgers game in Cincinnati, we're there.”

“Worth it, too. Just to see him rattle the pitchers when he's on base. ‘I'm gonna steal, I'm gonna steal.' And he does. Folks come just to see him outrun the throw between bases. I tell you that nigger's a clown.”

“He can play ball,” said Rob. “I know. Played against him when I was at Fresno and he was at UCLA. Sure took the big leagues a long tine.”

Ann Elizabeth relaxed as the talk moved to baseball. Fran said that now they were gradually moving in more colored players, the fans were as much fun to watch as the game. She said last time she was in Cincinnati, there was a fat colored woman behind her who had ajar of collard greens for lunch and a crush on the new colored catcher, Roy Campanella. Fran said she kept waving her jar of collard greens and yelling. “Come on, Pomponelly!”

Talk drifted to other subjects. Who had gotten out of the corps and who had stayed in. Trace Wells had finished at Meharry and was setting up practice in Memphis. Bo and Lil had separated. Bo got into Yale Law School, you know. Yeah, he made it, but he was still trying to pass the bar in Atlanta.

When Ann Elizabeth led her to the bathroom, Fran confided that she wasn't looking forward to Wright-Patterson. “Living on the base, next door to white folks who ain't as much fun as we are and don't want you there, anyway.” She sighed. “I know it's the right move and good for Pete. But I'm sure gonna miss the fun. Almost every night, we'd gather at the Officers' Club and, Lord, that Chappy James is a real kick. I hear he's moving to...”

Soon the evening was over. Fran and Pete were gone; Rob and Ann Elizabeth were alone. She stacked some of the dishes and took them into the kitchen. Rob followed, carrying several glasses. She emptied scraps into the garbage and went to the sink, turning on the water. Rob moved behind her and slid his arms around her.

“Ann Elizabeth, I'm sorry. So sorry.”

“I know.” She knew the hurt, the frustration he felt. Knew how hard it was to hold it in. How hard not to strike out at someone. She wanted to tell him she understood, but the words caught in her throat.

He buried his face in her hair. “I shouldn't... I mean I was kinda mad and I took it out on you. When it was me. I shoulda stayed in the damn Air Corps.”

Tears filled her eyes. Yes, it was hard for him; she realized that. Congratulating Pete right after he himself had been turned down by every company he'd approached. “You didn't want to stay in, Rob. And we're all right. You've got a good job and...” She stopped. Sorting mail. He hated it. She turned to face him. “Get back in.”

His brows went up. “Yeah. Excuse me, Colonel, sir, but I made a big mistake. If you'll just let me back in, I—”

“No, I mean as a civilian. All those airplanes? You wouldn't be designing them, but they must need engineers. And that Executive Order Pete mentioned. I've been readying about it. It includes federal employees, as well.”

Rob seemed to consider her words. “Yeah. Not exactly what I want, but better than the post office. Let's face it—engineers are paid a lot more. But hell, Ann Elizabeth, that's the kind of position white folks reserve for themselves.”His eyes grew hard. “It'll be just as difficult to get past some two-bit government clerk as it is to—”

She drew herself up. “I didn't say it would be easy, Robert Metcalf, Nothing is. One of my Daddy's favorite quotes goes,
‘Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's—”She closed her mouth, eyes wide.

“Oh, Ann Elizabeth, don't look at me like that! And don't stop. Don't ever stop,” He crushed her to him, held her tight. “Never stop being you... play acting and quoting. It keeps me going. I love you, Ann Elizabeth. I love everything about you, my lady in the parlor. Do you know how proud I was tonight? After I'd gone off like a damn idiot and left you... I don't know how you managed with the house and the dinner, but you're some kind of lady, Ann Elizabeth. When I saw you tonight in this dress with matching flowers on the table and... Oh God, I love you. I'll ever stop loving you,” he said, kissing her hair, her temples, her lips. “So. How does it go? Life ain't no crystal stair? Tell me. The end is always the best.”

She grinned, happy that he was more like his old self. “Well, it's from a poem by Langston Hughes. A mother talking to her son, you see. She tells him about the hard time she's had, but she didn't give up and he mustn't, either. ”Don't you quit now. Don't you ...‘”

Rob smiled, thinking of his own mother.

 

 

September 10, 1948
Sacramento, California

 

The placement officer's glance skimmed over Rob briefly as he scanned the circle of new employees waiting in the reception area at McClellan. “Robert Metcalf?” he inquired.

Rob stood up. “Yes sir.”

The man's head snapped back and his mouth fell upon. He quickly recovered, but his face turned a pale shade of red as he ushered Rob into his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Metcalf,” he said, waving toward a chair.

“Morning.”Rob sat in the chair, a straight padded olive-green
chair, in front of the olive-green desk. The nameplate facing Rob read James J. Green.

Green shuffled through the papers in Rob's file, cleared his throat. “Let's see. Robert Metcalf,” he said dubiously. “CAF-9, $8,500 per annum.”

“Yes, sir.” CAF-9 was his classification as a government employee. A relatively high classification, he knew.

Another shuffle of papers. “Well, I see you had a great deal of experience, but it's as a rated flying officer. Not much on the engineering side of the house.”

“I was the engineering officer for my group for six months before I was shot down. Isn't that in there? And there's my degree in aeronautics.” Why the hell was he explaining? “I passed the exam. The telegram said report for duty.” Not for a damn interview.

A frown furrowed Mr. Green's brow. “It's just that at the CAF-9 level, three years of experience is preferred.”

“Oh?” Rob's eyes narrowed. Another runaround by another two-bit clerk?

“Not to worry,” Green said hastily. “We'll find a space for you in Materiel Command. Something to fit your experience.”

“I see. Or maybe I don't.”

Green was quick to counter. “It's okay. You're on the payroll as of today. But the exact position will have to be finalized. A new requisition will have to be written by the office you'll be assigned to, and that'll take a little time.”

“I see.” Rob drew a carefully controlled breath. Here we go again. “I am on the payroll, you said?”

“Yes, indeed,” Green rose from his chair. “Do you have friends in the Sacramento area?” he asked.

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, Rob, it'll take a day or two, maybe a week, for the personnel requisition to be processed. And I thought you could visit or something. While you wait.”

Rob got the point—while they figured out where the hell they could put this nigger! “I passed a golf course as I drove in this morning, and—”

Green interrupted. “You play golf?”

Rob wanted to laugh at the man's unconcealed surprise, but he simply answered, “Yes. I play.”

“That's excellent. Why don't you just go and play a round and come back tomorrow morning.” Green rose in the age-old gesture of dismissal.

In the parking lot, Rob got into his car and looked over the data he'd been given. A temporary badge, a sticker for the front bumper that would allow him to pass through the gate, a booklet that said “Welcome to the Materiel Command,”which featured a picture of the commanding officer, a map of the base and other related data.

Okay, here's my passport, badge, sticker and all. So why do I feel like I've just been kicked out?

Relax, nigger. You're on the payroll. The man said so. Go find yourself a house and get your family up here.

Christ. A house. Where? Who'll sell to me? Another struggle I'm not up to facing just now.

The man made a good suggestion. Go play golf.

Rob smiled, remembering Green's surprise. He'd played golf since he was sixteen, when he first began to caddy at Los Angeles's poshest country club. Not only had he picked up an interest in the game, but he'd gotten a little practice and some great pointers, thanks to the pro, who was an all-right guy. Rob had continued to play—at any public course that didn't give Negroes the “no tee time” runaround.