Furthermore he always took Geraldine to parties and dances. Geraldine with her olive colored skin and straight black hair. Geraldine, who of all the people he pretended to love, really inspired him emotionally as well as physically, the one person he conquested without thought of monetary gain. Yet he had to do something with Emma Lou, and release from the quandary presented itself from most unexpected quarters.
Quite accidentally, as things of the sort happen in Harlem with its complex but interdependable social structure, he had become acquainted with a young Negro writer, who had asked him to escort a group of young writers and artists to a house-rent party. Though they had heard much of this phenomenon, none had been on the inside of one, and because of their rather polished manners and exteriors, were afraid that they might not be admitted. Proletarian Negroes are as suspicious of their more sophisticated brethren as they are of white men, and resent as keenly their intrusions into their social world. Alva had consented to act as cicerone, and, realizing that these people would be more or less free from the color prejudice exhibited by his other friends, had decided to take Emma Lou along too. He was also aware of her intellectual pretensions, and felt that she would be especially pleased to meet recognized talents and outstanding personalities. She did not have to know that these were not his regular companions, and from then on she would have no reason to feel that he was ashamed to have her meet his friends.
Emma Lou could hardly attend to Arline’s change of complexion and clothes between acts and scenes, so anxious was she to get to Alva’s house and to the promised party. Her happiness was complete. She was certain now that Alva loved her, certain that he was not ashamed or even aware of her dusky complexion. She had felt from the first that he was superior to such inane truck, now she knew it. Alva loved her for herself alone, and loved her so much that he didn’t mind her being a coal scuttle blond.
Sensing something unusual, Arline told Emma Lou that she would remove her own makeup after the performance, and let her have time to get dressed for the party. This she proceeded to do all through the evening, spending much time in front of the mirror at Arline’s dressing table, manicuring her nails, marcelling her hair, and applying various creams and cosmetics to her face in order to make her despised darkness less obvious. Finally, she put on one of Arline’s less pretentious afternoon frocks, and set out for Alva’s house.
As she approached his room door, she heard much talk and laughter, moving her to halt and speculate whether or not she should go in. Even her unusual and high-tensioned jubilance was not powerful enough to overcome immediately her shyness and fears. Suppose these friends of Alva’s would not take kindly to her? Suppose they were like Braxton, who invariably curled his lip when he saw her, and seldom spoke even as much as a word of greeting? Suppose they were like the people who used to attend her mother’s and grandmother’s teas, club meetings and receptions, dismissing her with—“It beats me how this child of yours looks so unlike the rest of you … Are you sure it isn’t adopted.” Or suppose they were like the college youth she had known in Southern California? No, that couldn’t be. Alva would never invite her where she would not be welcome. These were his friends. And so was Braxton, but Alva said he was peculiar. There was no danger. Alva had invited her. She was here. Anyway she wasn’t so black. Hadn’t she artificially lightened her skin about four or five shades until she was almost brown? Certainly it was all right. She needn’t be a foolish ninny all her life. Thus, reassured, she knocked on the door, and felt herself trembling with excitement and internal uncertainty as Alva let her in, took her hat and coat, and proceeded to introduce her to the people in the room.
“Miss Morgan, meet Mr. Tony Crews. You’ve probably seen his book of poems. He’s the little jazz boy, you know.”
Emma Lou bashfully touched the extended hand of the curly-headed poet. She had not seen or read his book, but she had often noticed his name in the newspapers and magazines. He was all that she had expected him to be except that he had pimples on his face. These didn’t fit in with her mental picture.
“Miss Morgan, this is Cora Thurston. Maybe I should’a introduced you ladies first.”
“I’m no lady, and I hope you’re not either, Miss Morgan.” She smiled, shook Emma Lou’s hand, then turned away to continue her interrupted conversation with Tony Crews.
“Miss Morgan, meet … ,” he paused, and addressed a tall, dark yellow youth stretched out on the floor, “What name you going by now?”
The boy looked up and smiled.
“Why, Paul, of course.”
“All right then Miss Morgan, this is Mr. Paul, he changes his name every season.”
Emma Lou sought to observe this person more closely, and was shocked to see that his shirt was open at the neck and that he was sadly in need of a haircut and shave.
“Miss Morgan, meet Mr. Walter.” A small slender dark youth with an infectious smile and small features. His face was familiar. Where had she seen him before?
“Now that you’ve met everyone, sit down on the bed there beside Truman and have a drink. Go on with your talk folks,” he urged as he went over to the dresser to fill a glass with a
