Campbell Kitchen had told her that when she found economic independence, everything else would come. Well now that she had economic independence she found herself more enslaved and more miserable than ever. She wondered what he thought of her. She had never tried to get in touch with him since she had left the Y.W.C.A., and had never let him know of her whereabouts, had just quit communicating with him as unceremoniously as she had quit the Y.W.C.A. No doubt Gwendolyn had told him the whole sordid tale. She could never face him again unless she had made some effort to reclaim herself. Well, that’s what she was going to do. Reclaim herself. She didn’t care what became of Alva Junior. Let Alva and that yellow slut of a wife of his worry about their own piece of tainted suet. She was leaving. She was going back to the Y.W.C.A., back to St. Mark’s A.M.E. Church, back to Gwendolyn, back to Benson. She wouldn’t stay here and have that child grow up to call her “black mammy.” Just because she was black was no reason why she was going to let some yellow nigger use her. At once she was all activity. Putting Alva Junior’s nightgown on, she laid him back into his crib and left him there crying while she packed her trunk and suitcase. Then, asking the woman in the next room to watch him until she returned, she put on her hat and coat and started for the Y.W.C.A., making plans for the future as she went.
Halfway there she decided to telephone Benson. It had been seven months now since she had seen him, seven months since, without a word of warning or without leaving a message, she had disappeared, telling only Gwendolyn where she was going. While waiting for the operator to establish connections, she recalled the conversation she and Gwendolyn had had at the time, recalled Gwendolyn’s horror and disgust on hearing what Emma Lou planned doing, recalled … someone was answering the phone. She asked for Benson, and in a moment heard his familiar:
“Hello.”
“Hello, Benson, this is Emma Lou.” There was complete silence for a moment, then:
“Emma Lou?” he dinned into her ear. “Well, where have you been. Gwennie and I have been trying to find you.”
This warmed her heart; coming back was not going to be so difficult after all.
“You did?”
“Why, yes. We wanted to invite you to our wedding.”
The receiver fell from her hand. For a moment she stood like one stunned, unable to move. She could fear Benson on the other end of the wire clicking he receiver and shouting “Hello, Hello,” then the final clicking of the receiver as he hung up, followed by a deadened … “operator” … “operator” from central.
Somehow or other she managed to get hold of the receiver and replace it in the hook. Then she left the telephone booth and made her way out of the drugstore into the street. Seventh Avenue as usual was alive and crowded. It was an early spring evening and far too warm for people to remain cooped up in stuffy apartments. Seventh Avenue was the gorge into which Harlem cliff dwellers crowded to promenade. It was heavy laden, full of life and color, vibrant and leisurely. But for the first time since her arrival in Harlem, Emma Lou was impervious to all this. For the moment she hardly realized where she was. Only the constant jostling and the raucous ensemble of street noises served to bring her out of her daze.
Gwendolyn and Benson married. “What do you want to waste your time with that yaller nigger for? I wouldn’t marry a yaller nigger.”
“Blacker’n me” … “Why don’t you take a hint and stop plastering your face with so much rouge and powder.”
Emma Lou stumbled down Seventh Avenue, not knowing where she was going. She noted that she was at 135th Street. It was easy to tell this particular corner. It was called the campus. All the college boys hung out there when the weather permitted, obstructing the traffic and eyeing the passersby professionally. She turned west on 135th Street. She wanted quiet. Seventh Avenue was too noisy and too alive and too happy. How could the world be happy when she felt like she did? There was no place for her in the world. She was too black, black is a portent of evil, black is a sign of bad luck.
“A yaller gal rides in a limousine
A brown-skin does the same;
A black gal rides in a rickety Ford,
But she gets there, yes, my Lord.”
“Alva Jr.’s black mammy.” “Low down common nigger.” “Jes’ crazy ’bout that little yaller brat.”
She looked up and saw a Western Union office sign shining above a lighted doorway. For a moment she stood still, repeating over and over to herself Westem Union, Western Union, as if to understand its meaning. People turned to stare at her as they passed. They even stopped and looked up into the air trying to see what was attracting her attention, and, seeing nothing, would shrug their shoulders and continue on their way. The Western Union sign suggested only one thing to Emma Lou and that was home. For the moment she was ready to rush into the office and send a wire to her Uncle Joe, asking for a ticket, and thus be able to escape the whole damn mess. But she immediately saw that going home would mean beginning her life all over again, mean flying from one degree of unhappiness into another probably much more intense and tragic than the present one. She had once fled to Los Angeles to escape Boise, then fled to Harlem to escape Los Angeles, but these mere
