A Kind of Freedom. Margaret Wilkerson Sexton
Still all the Seventh Ward girls congregated after school outside Dufon’s Oyster Shop, the best Negro-owned restaurant in the city, and smoked. Evelyn had come to relish the anticipation of the first, slight inhale—she was a lady—and the long release afterward. She would never have referred to herself as an anxious person—Ruby had claimed that role in the family—but any nerves that jingled inside her settled at just the thought of a drag. She blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth so as not to hit her sister and smiled at the thought of the uneven hem. “Maybe he was in a rush.”
“Even still,” Ruby said, breathing in so sharply she almost made herself choke. “He might have found time to even out his pants’ hems,” she laughed. “Cute though. Too brown for most people, but it is a nice shade of brown.”
Evelyn nodded. Cute he was.
Men and women rushed past them, bustling in and out of offices and stores, the Boot Seed and Feed, Queen of the South Coffee, Miller Funeral Home, Meriwether’s Photography, Bejoie Cut-Rate Pharmacy, the Sweet Tooth Ice Cream Parlor, and Fine Time Billiard Hall. The outdoor market where Evelyn’s mother made groceries was just a block away at St. Bernard Avenue, and Evelyn could smell the Cajun spices simmering. The butcher let out a high-pitched call. “Veal to roast, and cabbage and green beans.”
Ruby raised her voice to combat the new noise, “And his hair lays so flat, and that’s not a conk either.”
The uneven man looked over at the girls then, and Evelyn held his gaze for less than a second, so quick if he doubted it had happened, he could convince himself it hadn’t.
She shook her head back at her sister. “No, much more natural looking than a conk.”
“All that, but he couldn’t hem the pants evenly.”
“I wouldn’t have ever noticed those pants if you hadn’t hit me over the head with it, Ruby,” Evelyn said, though it wasn’t true. It was clear that despite his pressed suit and neat tie, the uneven man didn’t belong among the passé blancs he stood with, no, not with their damn near-white skin, straight black hair and even straighter noses, their moustaches like silk against their lips, and she didn’t know what possessed her to declare otherwise. She liked what she’d said though, not only that, but the fact that she said it, and for the rest of the day whenever she thought of the uneven man, she thought of the weight of her voice when it came out firm.
Since that day was a Friday, she had to go the whole weekend without seeing him again. That was fine because she had memorized him. Evelyn was in her second year of nursing school at Dillard University, and for a Negro woman to even consider such a rigorous field, she had to be up on her memorization. Because of it, she didn’t need to see a face more than once to imagine it fully, and she spent the weekend doing just that. She remembered details she hadn’t even known she’d seen in the first place: that the shorter hem of his pants revealed a faded grey sock. That he was the color of ginger cookies her mother might bake then sprinkle sugar over, that that similarity made his skin seem like something she might taste, that he was tall, taller than her daddy even who was six three, that he was skinny, but not breakable, that he had small slivered eyes that when she caught them seemed to be breaking through their lids with something vital to say. When she thought on him longer, she realized he had been holding a biochemistry textbook, probably studying to be a doctor. Just like Daddy. Maybe he could help her with amino acids. In all her memorization, she couldn’t get the codes straight.
The following Monday, Evelyn led the way from her house on Miro Street to St. Bernard Avenue then North Claiborne, her sister swishing behind her, and looked for a cigarette, feeling steadied by it even as she reached through her pocketbook. Sure enough, the uneven man walked up halfway through her smoke. He was with Andrew again, a boy with an even hem, but something lacking, and maybe it was an uneven hem, which she’d grown used to associating with comfort.
“That ol’ passé blanc has a smug look on his face,” Ruby said about Andrew. “He must think he’s too much.”
“He’s cute,” Evelyn said, smiling while she talked in case the uneven man looked over.
“Not so cute he can’t look at a woman decently,” Ruby said. “Besides, not as cute as Langston.” Langston was her last boyfriend, and he had been cute all right, so cute Ruby had heard from a senior at vocational school that he was carrying around phone numbers for every girl in the Seventh Ward with hair past her bra strap. Ruby had taken that hard, which meant their mother cooked her favorite food all week, and every sentence Evelyn directed at her was presented like a question that had no business being asked. When Ruby had gotten over it, she had sworn off the light brights, but here she was again.
“I could do better,” Ruby said, “and I have done better, but he’s over there looking like he’s the best I could do in the state of Louisiana. Not so,” Ruby added.
“He’s not so bad, just putting on a show,” Evelyn said. The uneven man looked up at her again. He leaned, whispered something to his friend, and both men walked over. Ruby’s man was leading the way, which confused Evelyn but didn’t deter her. When the men reached the girls, Ruby’s stood in the front right beside Ruby, and the uneven man lingered in the back watching his shoes. They were okay shoes, Evelyn noticed. One-tone lace-up oxfords that had been shined too many times. She hadn’t seen them the day before in all the fuss about the hem, and they were okay, but certainly no competition for the rose blush she had applied to her soft nearly white face, or for the long hair Mother had straightened the night before and which Evelyn had rolled into a coil at the base of her head. She stared at him, holding her head high and still, feeling as if she was pushing her chin forward to coax him into talking.
“How do you do there, young lady?” Ruby’s man asked.
Ruby was most confident Monday afternoon. They hadn’t gotten back to Mother’s yet, and those beans were still at the top of the pot.
“Not as good as I was when it was just me and my sister,” Ruby answered.
“So that’s your sister, huh?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? You’re not too quick on your feet, are you?”
“Y’all are some pretty sisters. Your mama must be pretty too, huh?”
“Why are you asking about my mama?” Ruby wasn’t even fooling this time; she was fierce when it came to their mother.
“Aw, I was just making conversation, lil’ girl. Don’t get ya panties all up in a knot.”
“You certainly don’t need to know a thing about my panties,” Ruby said, trying to maintain her frown, but it was hard on her pretending to be so uninterested. She had a weakness for red beans and red boys. And then that talk about her panties.
Evelyn couldn’t take it anymore; she could feel her face heating. The uneven man was lost in his shoes, and she was just standing there, being ignored, as if she weren’t the one Daddy twirled around the parlor for their extended family when he drank more than one glass of Sazerac after Christmas dinner.
Evelyn moved her books around in her hands to get his attention. The uneven man looked up, but when he saw her, he looked down again. Evelyn hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes the other day either. They weren’t so brown they were black like most people’s his color. They were an actual brown, the way the color came out in the crayon box. He had long eyelashes, and their tips might have touched the top of his cheeks when he blinked. He looked up again.
“You two are sisters?” he asked, stammering over the word sisters, and as he spoke he lifted his grey felt fedora and pressed it into his chest.
“We are,” Evelyn said, nearly sighing she was so relieved.
“Are you the oldest?”
“How’d you know that? Everyone always thinks she’s the oldest ’cause she’s—” Evelyn almost said the word vocal but didn’t want to sound resentful.
“I could just tell.” He looked down again.
“How