Dollbaby: A Novel (7 page)

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ueenie was so riled up trying to come up with a plan to keep Miss Vidrine out of the house that it only took about twenty minutes to finish the oyster shucking. All the while, Doll was conjuring her own plan so she could join her friends on Canal Street. She decided to use the same ploy she often did, by pretending to be upstairs in her sewing room working on a new dress for Miss Fannie. Her mother never came upstairs anyway, so if she planned it right, she could sneak away while her mother was watching her stories on the television as she did the ironing.

“My, look a the time,” Queenie said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Almost eleven-thirty. Better hurry up so I can watch my stories.”

Queenie pulled the ironing board from the utility closet in the kitchen and dragged it into the parlor. Doll hurried down the hall toward the stairs.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” Doll said.

Queenie didn’t answer. She was too busy tuning into
Search for Tomorrow
to care. Once her stories came on, she was in a different world. That’s one thing Doll could count on. Doll stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for her moment. When she heard Queenie talking back to the television, she knew her chance had come. She tiptoed
down the hall past her. Not that it really mattered. Queenie had the volume on the TV turned up so loud the whole neighborhood could probably hear, even with the windows closed.

Doll made her way out the back door and to the garage, where she’d stashed a set of clothes for such occasions when she wanted to get away from the house. She changed out of her maid’s uniform into a pair of slacks, a white cotton shirt, and some loafers. When she got to the front of the house, she peeked through the window, where she could see her mother leaning on the ironing board with her chin in her hands, staring at the television. She hurried down the street toward the bus stop, aware that she was garnering suspicious stares from some of Miss Fannie’s neighbors because to them, a black person out of uniform scurrying down the street only meant trouble.

When she reached the corner, she found a few maids in uniform huddled together at the bus stop on their way to run errands for the mistresses of the house. She checked her watch. It was eleven-forty. She was supposed to meet her friends at the corner of Canal Street and St. Charles at noon. She felt a sense of relief when she spotted the bus only a few blocks away.

She paid her fare and followed the rest of the maids toward the rear of the bus, nodding at a few people she knew. She wasn’t much in the mood to talk so she found an empty seat next to a window and gazed out. Every couple of blocks, the bus stopped to pick up a few more colored women in uniforms who shuffled wearily down the aisle and slumped into a seat near Doll with exhausted expressions on their faces, all of them wishing they were somewhere else, doing something different. Just as she did.

About thirty blocks later, the bus line ended at Canal Street near the Mississippi River. Doll started toward the five-and-dime where she was supposed to meet her friends. She passed an empty storefront with a “For Lease” sign, in a small redbrick building with plate-glass windows that used to be a shoe repair. Doll thought it would be the perfect spot to open a dress shop.

She cupped her hands over her eyes and looked in. She pictured herself with a sewing room in the back, designing gowns for all the Negro balls, displaying one or two of her favorites in the front window. She reached into her pocketbook to jot down the information when she noticed some writing beneath the phone number on the sign.

“No Negroes Need Apply.”

Doll stood there blinking hard, the “For Lease” sign reflecting back against her chest, leaving a dark rectangular shadow. She felt her blood boiling up inside her, and at that moment, all she wanted to do was punch the window until it shattered into small pieces. Instead, she walked away, her head hung low with disappointment.

It wasn’t until a few blocks down, when she spotted her friends near the corner of St. Charles Avenue, that she brightened up, remembering why she’d come in the first place.

“Where you been, Dollbaby?” a young man in a cloth hat rimmed with blue ribbon called out as she approached. “We thought you might be bagging us.”

“Sorry, Slim,” she said. “Got caught up. Where’s Lola Mae?”

“I’m right here,” a young woman in a checkered shift said as she walked up behind Doll.

“Where’s everybody else at?” Doll asked.

Slim nodded toward the other side of the street, where a few of their friends were milling around, trying hard not to look as if they were up to anything.

“Don’t want too many of us hanging together,” he said. “Might draw attention.”

Doll stole a glance across the street, trying to figure out how many of them had shown up for the sit-in. “Doretha here?”

“Yeah. She standing behind Jerome on the other side of Canal Street,” Slim said. “Now that you showed up, we all here. Follow me, and remember what I told you.”

When Slim tipped his hat to Jerome, Jerome did the same. It was
the signal for them to begin their approach to the store. They followed one another, keeping a good distance, going into the Woolworth in five-minute intervals. Doll stood on the corner, pretending to wait for a bus. One came and left. Then another. She was beginning to get a little uneasy as the third bus approached, but then Jerome gave her the signal. She opened the door to Woolworth and looked around the store with the pretense of searching for hairspray. After a few minutes, she made it up to the lunch counter, where five other colored folks, including Jerome, Doretha, and Lola Mae, were already seated.

The soda jerk behind the lunch counter came up to Jerome and pointed to a sign on the wall. “Jerome, what in the hell do you think y’all are doing? Can’t you read? This counter is for white folks. No coloreds. You know the rules. How many times I got to tell you?”

The soda jerk knew him because this was about the fourth time he’d staged such an event.

Jerome ignored him and said in his most sophisticated voice, “I’d like a nectar soda, if you please.”

The young man behind the counter crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Then he walked away, untying his apron. Doll knew he was probably on his way to get the manager. By the time he returned, the lunch counter was filled with colored folks. The store had become unusually quiet as all the white folks, seeing what was happening, slipped out of the store. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall in front of them. Twelve-fifteen. Had they been there only fifteen minutes? It seemed like an eternity.

“What do we do now?” Doll whispered to Doretha, who was seated next to her, wearing a nervous face.

“Remember what Jerome told us. We need to wait for the reporters to show up so they can get our picture,” she said. “Hope the reporters get here first, before the cops, otherwise we gone get beat up for nothing.”

A short man in a starched white coat with “Mr. Balducci, Manager” stitched in red on the front pocket came up behind them. “I’m going to have to ask you folks to leave.”

No one at the counter moved.

“All right then. You leave me no choice but to call the police,” Mr. Balducci said.

Still no one moved, but Doll could hear Lola Mae breathing heavily at her side.
Where are the damn reporters?
Doll wondered.

The front door burst open, and a man with a camera raced in and began taking pictures.

Mr. Balducci rushed up to him and put his hand up. “No pictures. Not in my store.”

He tried to grab the long lens of the camera, but the reporter ducked and ran behind the lunch counter, snapping away at a dozen somber black faces.

Doll noticed a paddy wagon pulling up to the front of the store. Before she could nudge Lola Mae, six policemen barged in the front door pulling handcuffs from their belts. One of them came over to Doll.

“Come on, baby, don’t give me no trouble,” he said as he held up the cuffs.

When Doll glanced at his nametag, her heart sank. She’d been warned about Gormley. He was fat and pink-skinned with small beady eyes, and he was snarling at her in a way that made Doll catch her breath. Gormley grabbed her wrist and pulled her until her face was even with his.

“What’s this?” he said, pointing at her face. “Hey, Frank. Come take a look at this one. She’s got one nigger eye and one blue eye. Your mama been fucking a white man, honey?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. Then he whispered in Doll’s ear as he slapped the cuffs down hard on her wrist. “You like to fuck white guys, too? You want to fuck a white cop? That’s the only way I’m going to let you go.”

Gormley tried to pull Doll up out of her seat by the handcuffs. She resisted. She gave Doretha a pleading look, but Doretha pretended not to notice what was going on. Something worse than fear gripped Doll,
a feeling of pure helplessness. She tightened her lips, determined never to feel this way ever again. Never. Not if she could help it.

“Come on now, don’t give me no trouble.” Gormley grabbed the billy club from his belt and was about to backhand Doll when Lola Mae jumped up from her seat.

“No!” she screamed.

From the corner of her eye, Doll saw Lola Mae stick out her arm just as the billy club came down. Lola Mae fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

Another officer, a tall, thin man with jet-black hair came running over before Gormley could get in another blow. “What the hell you doing, Gormley? You had strict orders not to use any unnecessary force.”

Doll recognized him. It was Lieutenant Kennedy. She began to breathe a little easier.

“The bitch wouldn’t listen,” Gormley said, giving Lola Mae a good kick as she lay on the floor.

Lola Mae let out a moan and began to cough.

“I’ll take it from here,” Lieutenant Kennedy said. He motioned for another officer to come over and assist. “From the look of that arm, you might want to call an ambulance.”

The young officer helped Lola Mae up and escorted her outside.

Gormley grunted and followed them out the door, but not before he gave Doll a look of pure hatred.

“Come on, I’m taking you home.” Kennedy uncuffed Doll and walked her out of the store and around the corner. He helped her into the backseat of his squad car. When he got in, he took off his cap and leaned over the seat. He spoke calmly, even though he was scolding her. “What in the hell were you doing here, Doll? You could have gotten yourself locked up, or worse.”

Doll knew what he meant. Gormley was notorious for such behavior.

She fell back against the seat. As they drove off, she began to wonder what might have happened if Lieutenant Kennedy hadn’t been there to help her, the truth of her mother’s words ringing in her ears.

You may not be so lucky next time.

Doll was relieved to find that Fannie’s car was still gone when they pulled up to the house.

“You won’t say nothing?” Doll said to Lieutenant Kennedy.

He shook his head. “Go on. Before Fannie misses you.”

Fannie wasn’t the one she was worried about. Queenie was going to kill her if she found out she’d gone against her wishes. Doll hurried down the driveway, hoping no one had seen her getting out of the squad car, and went into the garage to change back into her uniform. She sneaked up to the back door, and when she didn’t see Queenie in the kitchen, she went in, took a seat by the back window, and began polishing silver.

“Where you been?” Queenie asked as she came in the kitchen.

“What you mean?” Doll answered. “I been upstairs working on Miss Fannie’s dress, like I told you. Why?” She felt a trickle of sweat drip down the side of her neck.

“I didn’t hear the radio. You always play the radio when you sewing,” Queenie said.

“I had the door shut. Didn’t want to disturb you while you was watching your stories,” Doll said.

Queenie gave her a hard look. “Really? Since when you so considerate?”

“I’m always considerate, Mama. You taught me that. You a good mama.”

Queenie closed one eye. “Then why you sweatin’? You been up to something?”

Doll shook her head. “No, Mama, I been here the whole time. You just too busy with your stories to notice.”