The only answer was, “No, Miss Cramp.”
“And how can you afford to wear such nice looking things on eighteen dollars a week?”
“Well,” Linda said, “ ’course I could do better on twenty.”
Miss Cramp did not hear this, but observed, “Patent-leather pumps and a black satin dress—”
“They’re cheap shoes,” Linda explained. “Just look nice ’cause they’re new. The dress I got down on Eighth Avenue for seven dollars.”
“But your skin, my dear. You might pass for a Sicilian or an Armenian.”
Linda was not sure about these. “I was a gypsy once in a concert,” she admitted.
“A concert?”
“At church.”
“You go to church?”
“I like to go very much.”
“Now that’s just what I wanted to ask you about. Your people are very religious creatures aren’t they?”
“Well, some are and some not.”
“I thought—er—slavery, you know, would have made you very religious.”
“Maybe it did,” said Linda. “I wouldn’t know ’bout that.”
“But don’t you have your own hymns? Spirituals, I believe they are called.”
“Not in my church,” Linda said.
“What church is that, Linda?”
“Saint Augustine’s,” said Linda. “It’s Episcopal.”
“Episcopal!” incredulously. “Why I’m an Episcopalian.” The tone indicated clearly that there must be some mistake.
A little devilishly, Linda smiled, but all she said was, “Is that so?”
“But you—” began Miss Cramp, then reconsidered. “But you must sing spirituals. All Negroes sing spirituals, don’t they?”
Doubtfully Linda ruminated. “Why—I remember some jubilee singers gave a concert of ’em once at the Parish. And I’ve been to Methodist revival meetings where they sang ’em just like jazz. We only went for fun, to see the folks get happy and shout. I’ve never heard them at my church in regular service, though.”
“Well,” said Miss Cramp. And again, “Well.” Then, “What I was getting at was—do your churches make any effort to improve conditions, to render any real service to your people?”
“Oh, yes. We have an employment agency. They sent me to the one that sent me to you.”
“No, no, Linda.” So stupid a reply restored Miss Cramp’s self-assurance. “That is not what I mean, my dear. I mean the people that are mentally ill, the criminals, the dope-fiends, the fallen women. Do your churches try to help them?”
“I don’t think so—not unless they’re members.”
“There must be some organization to do such work among your people,” Miss Cramp insisted.
“Well,” Linda suggested brightly, “maybe the same organization does it that does it among your people.”
“Of course—of course. One would think so, wouldn’t one? But I haven’t come in contact with—of course, I haven’t worked in colored communities—”
After a vacuous pause, Linda said, “Maybe you mean the G.I.A.”
“G.I.A.? What’s that?”
“General Improvement Association.”
“What do they do?”
“Well, they collect a dollar a year from everybody that joins, and whenever there’s a lynching down south they take the dollar and send somebody to go look at it.”
“Whatever’s the good of that?”
“I don’t know, Miss Cramp. Seems like they just want to make sure it really happened.”
“Well. Then what do they do?”
“Well, by that time the year’s up and it’s time to collect another dollar. So they collect it.”
“Why don’t they turn their attentions to conditions here at home?” Miss Agatha wanted to know. “There must be much to be done here among you—an alien, primitive people in a great, strange metropolis. Why don’t they do something here?”
“Well, nobody gets lynched here.”
The simplicity of this response did not satisfy Miss Cramp, who could never have suspected that her colored maid would dare make game of her ignorance or play upon her credulity.
“Why I can’t understand—I really can’t. Here is a situation that surely needs attention, and the people do nothing—absolutely nothing—about it. Lynchings—of all things! When right here in New York City there are—How many of you are there here, Linda?”
“Two hundred thousand, according to Father Bruce.”
“Oh, that’s an exaggeration, of course. But even if there are as many as ten thousand, a great work could be done among them. This organization you mention—”
“The G.I.A.”
“Yes—quite evidently needs someone to point the way. Their attention is entirely in the wrong quarter.”
“Whyn’t you help them out, Miss Cramp?”
“That’s just what occurred to me Linda. Exactly what occurred to me. When I saw you this morning and noticed for the first time how different you were from most colored people, I said to myself, ‘There now—why can’t they all be like that?’ And I said, ‘Why they can be if they have the right sort of help. Some organization that could render real service, that’s just what they need!’ Then you mentioned this G.A.R.—”
“G.I.A.”
“—and told me of the mistake they were making, and I said, ‘There now, there is an instrument that can be turned to good use in the proper hands.’ Yes indeed, Linda, I think I will help them out. I really do think I will.”
“They’ll certainly appreciate it, Miss Cramp.”
“Of course … Well, that’s all, Linda. Thank you very much. Linda, bring me the phone book when you come back, won’t you? I presume they have a telephone?”
“Who, Miss Cramp?”
“This G.I.R. Society.”
“A telephone? I don’t know, Miss Cramp.” Linda was elaborately uncertain, eventually concluding, “They might have one. They might at that. I’ll bring the book, Miss Cramp.”
VII
There is at least one occasion a year when Manhattan Casino requires no decorations, the occasion of the General Improvement Association’s Annual Costume Ball. The guests themselves are all the decoration that is necessary.
This is not only because many guests attend in costume, but also because, of all the crowds which Manhattan Casino holds during the year, none presents a greater inherent variety: There is variety of personal station that extends from the rattiest rat to the dicktiest dickty, for this is not an exclusive, invitational “function” but a widely advertised public affair; and it is supported by everybody, because the proceeds are to be given over to Negro advancement. There is variety of personal appearance that ranges from the dingiest dinge to the most delicate pink;
