Bernice remained very quiet. She was not fully attentive. She could have told Dots many things about Henry’s beating. But she had neglected to say them when Dots arrived, and now she felt she could not disclose them. She didn’t even tell Dots that her sister, Estelle, was in the Toronto General Hospital recovering and being treated for a “miscarriage.” In the first place, she had neglected to tell Dots that Estelle was pregnant.
“So what you have to say to that, gal?” Dots asked her.
“You got a point.”
“I got a point! Is that all you can say, I got a point?”
“Work is very hard to find, Dots.”
“Did I tell you different? I haven’ just emigraded here, Bernice! ’Course, I know work’s hard as hell to find. And for us, it harder still. But is it more harder to find than pride? Could it ever be harder to find than that? You tell me, because you is the Black Muslim.”
“Well, I don’t mean it that way,” Bernice said, feeling trapped. She was wondering how much Brigitte had told Dots about Estelle and about Henry.
“Anyhow, I waiting. I waiting to read them papers, the Star and the Globe. Normally they have a damn lot to print and say ’bout negroes living in this city. I waiting to see their story concerning this violence, this blasted racial unjustice that we negroes have to live with, day in and day out. And so help me God, if Henry don’t get satisfaction, well … I have something planned for the Mistress Hunter, the Mistress Burrmann, the mister policeman, for everybody in this place.” Her hostility seemed to exhaust her, and she remained quiet for a while.
Bernice had tidied the apartment. And she was glad she had thought of doing it before Dots came. She had already put the soiled, blood-stained sheets from Estelle’s bed into the dirty clothes hamper.
“But where she gone to so early in the morning?”
“Who? Mistress Burrmann?”
“What the hell would I be inquiring ’bout Mistress Burrmann for? Is Mistress Burrmann and me any friends? I mean Estelle!”
“Oh! Estelle? … well, you should have met her at the corner. You didn’t see her at the corner? … well, she must have gone in Agaffa’s motor car then …”
“So Estelle socializing with Agaffa, eh?”
“Just left.”
“In a motor car?”
“They just this minute turned the corner there, by Marina Boulevard and Eglinton. Not five minutes ago.”
“At nine o’clock in the morning?”
“Child, even I was surprised to see Estelle wake up so damn early, in almost six months that she’s been living here with me. First time Estelle get out of bed before mid-day noon.”
Dots shook her head in that characteristic way when she wanted to express deep and unpronounceable sorrow. Then she looked Bernice straight in the eye, and said, “How long we been friends?”
“Friends? Well, Dots, it’s a long time! If you really want me to count the time, this month coming would be thirty-three, thirty-four months. Almost three years.”
“Right! Three years. Three years I’ve been trampling up here at your every beck and call. Three years. Three Christmases! Every time you feel bad, every time you feel depressed. Every time you get a headache, every time you want to go to church and you don’t want to be the only black person to be riding by yourself on that streetcar. Every time your period comes and you can’t do Mistress Burrmann’s kitchen-work, I have come and help you, I been answering your call. Right? And now, good Jesus Christ, Bernice! you mean to say you can’t be honest with me, for one minute? You call that friendship? Well, let me tell you something. Agaffa just dropped me here! In her motor car, with her man Henry, and Boysie. With Henry in the back seat bleeding like a pig and crying like a dog. Now, is there two Agaffas that we know?”
“Well, I don’t know, Dots. That is what Estelle told me.”
“Estelle is a liar!”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“I have always tell you, Bernice, that Estelle is a lying bitch. She is your sister, and I am your friend … was your friend. And still I say to you, she lie like hell! Now you can do what the hell you like.”
“Well, that is Estelle’s business, not mine.”
“Well, that is Estelle’s business, not mine!” Dots said, aping Bernice. “And that is all you have to say?”
“Well, that is what Estelle tell me.”
“Well, that is what Estelle tell you! Did she tell you she was running round all over Toronto with a married man? Did Estelle tell you that? And that the married man is a white man, to boot? Did she tell you that? And did she tell you that the same white man she was running round with, the same man mind you, did she remember to tell you that that man was, or is, your very own employer, Mr. Burrmann?”
“But Dots …”
“Don’t but-Dots me! Jesus Christ, woman, we is womens, grown women, not kids! I am trying to be honest with you. I made a effort to tell you all this, all this nasty scandal making the rounds round Toronto the last time I came up here in the hot o’ that summer day. You didn’ even want
