What did this mean? Nothing, silly. Don’t be so sensitive. Emma Lou’s eyes sought the pictures on the wall. There was an early twentieth century photographic bust-portrait, encased in a bevelled glass frame, of a heavyset good-looking, brown-skinned man. She admired his mustache. Men didn’t seem to take pride in such hirsute embellishments now. Mustaches these days were abbreviated and limp. They no longer were virile enough to dominate and make a man’s face appear more strong. Rather, they were only insignificant patches weakly keeping the nostrils from merging with the upper lip.
Emma Lou wondered if that was Mr. Brown. He had a brown face and wore a brown suit. No, maybe that was Mr. Angus, and perhaps that was Mr. Brown on the other side of the room, in the square, enlarged kodak print, a slender yellow man, standing beside a motor car, looking as if he wished to say, “Yeah, this is me and this is my car.” She hoped he was Mr. Angus. She didn’t like his name and since she was to see Mr. Brown first, she hoped he was the more flatteringly portrayed.
The door to the cubby hole opened and the girl Mr. Brown had called Grace, came out. The expression on her face was too businesslike to be natural. It seemed as if it had been placed there for a purpose.
She walked toward Emma Lou, who got up and stood like a child, waiting for punishment and hoping all the while that it will dissipate itself in threats. The typewriter was stilled and Emma Lou could feel an extra pair of eyes looking at her. The girl drew close then spoke:
“I’m sorry, Miss. Mr. Brown says he has someone else in view for the job. We’ll call the agency. Thank you for coming in.”
Thank her for coming in? What could she say? What should she say? The girl was smiling at her, but Emma Lou noticed that her fair skin was flushed and that her eyes danced nervously. Could she be hoping that Emma Lou would hurry and depart? The door was near. It opened easily. The steps were steep. One went down slowly. Seventh Avenue was still spangled with forenoon sunshine and shadow. Its pavement was hard and hot. The windows in the buildings facing it, gleaming reflectors of the mounting sun.
Emma Lou returned to the employment agency. It was still crowded and more stuffy than ever. The sun had advanced high into the sky and it seemed to be centering its rays on that solitary defenseless window. There was still much conversation. There were still people crowded around the desk, still people in all the chairs, people and talk and heat and smells.
“Mrs. Blake is waiting for you,” the gray-haired lady with the young face was unflustered and cool. Emma Lou went into the inner office. Mrs. Blake looked up quickly and forced a smile. The good-looking young man, more than ever resembling a Y.M.C.A. secretary, turned his back and fumbled with the card files. Mrs. Blake suggested that he leave the room. He did, beaming benevolently at Emma Lou as he went.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Blake was very kind and womanly. “Mr. Brown called me. I didn’t know he had someone else in mind. He hadn’t told me.”
“That’s all right,” replied Emma Lou briskly. “Have you something else?”
“Not now. Er-er. Have you had luncheon? It’s early yet, I know, but I generally go about this time. Come along, won’t you, I’d like to talk to you. I’ll be ready in about thirty minutes if you don’t mind the wait.”
Emma Lou warmed to the idea. At that moment, she would have warmed toward any suggestion of friendliness. Here, perhaps, was a chance to make a welcome contact. She was lonesome and disappointed, so she readily assented and felt elated and superior as she walked out of the office with the “boss.”
They went to Eddie’s for luncheon. Eddie’s was an elbow-shaped combination lunch-counter and dining room that embraced a United Cigar Store on the northeast corner of 135th Street and Seventh Avenue. Following Mrs. Blake’s lead, Emma Lou ordered a full noontime dinner, and, flattered by Mrs. Blake’s interest and congeniality, began to talk about herself. She told of her birthplace and her home life. She told of her high school days, spoke proudly of the fact that she had been the only Negro student and how she had graduated cum laude. Asked about her college years, she talked less freely. Mrs. Blake sensed a cue.
“Didn’t you like college?”
“For a little while, yes.”
“What made you dislike it? Surely not the studies?”
“No.” She didn’t care to discuss this. “I was lonesome, I guess.”
“Weren’t there any other colored boys and girls? I thought. …”
Emma Lou spoke curtly. “Oh, yes, quite a number, but I suppose I didn’t mix well.”
The waiter came to take the order for dessert, and Emma Lou seized upon the fact that Mrs. Blake ordered sliced oranges to talk about California’s orange groves, California’s sunshine—anything but the California college she had attended and from which she had fled. In vain did Mrs. Blake try to maneuver the conversation back to Emma Lou’s college experiences. She would have none of it and Mrs. Blake was finally forced to give it up.
When they were finished, Mrs. Blake insisted upon taking the check. This done, she began to talk about jobs.
“You know, Miss Morgan, good jobs are rare. It is seldom I have anything to offer outside of the domestic field. Most Negro business offices are family affairs. They either get their help from within their own family group or from among their friends. Then, too,” Emma Lou noticed that Mrs. Blake did not look directly at her, “lots of our Negro businessmen have a definite type of girl in mind
