The following morning she had telephoned Alva, determined to break with him, or at least make him believe she was about to break with him, but Alva had merely yawned and asked her not to be a goose. Could he help it if Braxton’s girl chose to sit in his window? It was as much Braxton’s room as it was his. True, Braxton wouldn’t be there long, but while he was, he certainly should have full privileges. That had quieted Emma Lou then, but there was nothing that could quiet her now. She continued arguing as they walked toward 135th Street.
“You don’t want to know what I mean.”
“No, I guess not,” Alva assented wearily, then quickened his pace. He didn’t want to have a public scene with this black wench. But Emma Lou was not to be appeased.
“Well, you will know what I mean. First you take me out with a bunch of your supposedly high-toned friends, and sit silently by while they poke fun at me. Then you take me to a theater, where you know I’ll have my feelings hurt.” She stopped for breath. Alva filled in the gap.
“If you ask me,” he said wearily, “I think you’re full of stuff. Let’s take a taxi. I’m too tired to walk.” He hailed a taxi, pushed her into it, and gave the driver the address. Then he turned to Emma Lou, saying something which he regretted having said a moment later.
“How did my friends insult you?”
“You know how they insulted me, sitting up making fun of me ’cause I’m black.”
Alva laughed, something he also regretted later.
“That’s right, laugh, and I suppose you laughed with them then, behind my back, and planned all that talk before I arrived.”
Alva didn’t answer and Emma Lou cried all the rest of the way home. Once there he tried to soothe her.
“Come on, Sugar, let Alva put you to bed.”
But Emma Lou was not to be sugared so easily. She continued to cry. Alva sat down on the bed beside her.
“Snap out of it, won’t you, Honey? You’re just tired. Go to bed and get some sleep. You’ll be all right tomorrow.”
Emma Lou stopped her crying.
“I may be all right, but I’ll never forget the way you’ve allowed me to be insulted in your presence.”
This was beginning to get on Alva’s nerves but he smiled at her indulgently:
“I suppose I should have gone down on the stage and biffed one of the comedians in the jaw?”
“No,” snapped Emma Lou, realizing she was being ridiculous, “but you could’ve stopped your friends from poking fun at me.”
“But, Sugar,” this was growing tiresome. “How can you say they were making fun of you. It’s beyond me.”
“It wasn’t beyond you when it started. I bet you told them about me before I came in, told them I was black. …”
“Nonsense, weren’t some of them dark? I’m afraid,” he advanced slowly, “that you are a trifle too color-conscious,” he was glad he remembered that phrase.
Emma Lou flared up: “Color-conscious … who wouldn’t be color-conscious when everywhere you go people are always talking about color. If it didn’t make any difference they wouldn’t talk about it, they wouldn’t always be poking fun, and laughing and making jokes. …”
Alva interrupted her tirade. “You’re being silly, Emma Lou. About three-quarters of the people at the Lafayette tonight were either dark brown or black, and here you are crying and fuming like a ninny over some reference made on the stage to a black person.” He was disgusted now. He got up from the bed. Emma Lou looked up.
“But, Alva, you don’t know.”
“I do know,” he spoke sharply for the first time, “that you’re a damn fool. It’s always color, color, color. If I speak to any of my friends on the street you always make some reference to their color and keep plaguing me with—‘Don’t you know nothing else but light-skinned people?’ And you’re always beefing about being black. Seems like to me you’d be proud of it. You’re not the only black person in this world. There are gangs of them right here in Harlem, and I don’t see them going around a-moanin’ ’cause they ain’t half white.”
“I’m not moaning.”
“Oh, yes you are. And a person like you is far worse than a hinky yellow nigger. It’s your kind helps make other people color-prejudiced.”
“That’s just what I’m saying; it’s because of my color. …”
“Oh, go to hell!” And Alva rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Braxton had been gone a week. Alva, who had been out with Marie, the creole Lesbian, came home late, and, turning on the light, found Geraldine asleep in his bed. He was so surprised that he could do nothing for a moment but stand in the center of the room and look—first at Geraldine and then at her toilet articles spread over his dresser. He twisted his lips in a wry smile, muttered something to himself, then walked over to the bed and shook her.
“Geraldine, Geraldine,” he called. She awoke quickly and smiled at him.
“Hello. What time is it?”
“Oh,” he returned guardedly, “somewhere after three.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Playing poker.”
“With whom?”
“Oh, the same gang. But what’s the idea?”
Geraldine
