new opportunities. Stil , she hadn’t fought for them, and now the man was dead. It would have been difficult to explain her shame even if she had anyone to explain herself to. Her father wasn’t speaking to her, and her husband was on the verge of remarrying, less than a year since she had moved into the rooming house on Ashby Street. Mother worked each day, looking her best in one of the three good dresses she’d bought with her discount and a smal advance on her pay.
James approached the counter on an afternoon on which she was feeling particularly remorseful, not so much for throwing away her marriage but for having gotten married in the first place.
“May I help you, sir?” she said. He was wearing his chauffeur uniform with the hat clutched under his arm like an army officer. She cal ed him sir because that is what they cal ed al the male customers, and she went out of her way to let the colored patrons hear that word of respect there in Davison’s. Was this not what Dr. King died for?
Mother was pretty; she knew this. Not Dorothy Dandridge or Lena Horne beautiful but lovely enough that people noticed. She had what she considered to be an ordinary Negro girl’s face, the kind of medium-dark skin tone that no one cal ed anything but “brownskin.” Her eyelashes, in her opinion, were her best feature; she gestured with them, the way other people talked with their hands. Everyone else, she knew, would say that the key to her looks was her head of hair, long and thick, that reached past her shoulder blades. It was the only useful thing her mother left her. Wil ie Mae, the girl who roomed next door to her in the boardinghouse, made good money every two weeks pul ing it straight with a hot comb and twirling it with irons. At that time of her life, Mother liked to think of herself as an honest person and told anyone who asked that her hair wasn’t natural y good.
When James slid the electric carving knife across the counter, Mother noticed the flash of his wedding band and thought of Wil ie Mae, who had no problem spending time with men who were married — as long as they swore they were not happy. As my mother asked my father what sort of wrapping he wanted for the carving knife, she decided that he wouldn’t do for Wil ie Mae, as she was a sucker for pretty men — bright-complected, with light eyes and wavy hair.
“You would have been crazy for my ex-husband,” Gwen told her once, as Wil ie Mae pul ed the straightening comb, sizzling with grease.
“Is he stil available?”
Mother chuckled and took a drag from her cigarette, catching the smoke with a damp towel. “He was available the whole time I was married to him.”
“Girl,” Wil ie Mae said, “I am not tel ing you how to live your life, but you must be one high-minded lady to leave a perfectly good man just for chasing a little tail.”
“It wasn’t just that,” my mother said. “And who’s a lady? Not me. Just ask my daddy. According to him, I stopped being a lady the day I walked out on my husband.”
“At least you had a husband to leave,” Wil ie Mae said.
THE MAN BEFORE my mother with the carving knife said, “Can you wrap it in anniversary paper?”
Mother said, “Wedding anniversary?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She had to smile at the “ma’am.” “Who’s it for?”
“My wife.”
Mother laughed and regretted it immediately. The man in front of her looked embarrassed, and there were white people in the line behind him.
“W-what?”
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, and she real y was sorry. “It’s just that most men buy their wives something a little bit more romantic. Like perfume.”
He looked at the carving knife. “This is a g-good present. It cost twenty-three dol ars.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Let me wrap it for you. We have a nice floral paper that just came in.”
“Wait.” He took the knife back. “I ch-changed my mind.” He headed toward the escalator, with his hat stil clamped under his arm.
The next customer in line was a white woman who had purchased a set of baby’s pajamas for her pregnant sister.
“Men,” the customer said. “Who can understand the way their minds work?”
Mother knew what the white lady was talking about, but she couldn’t laugh at a black man with her, even though she was only laughing at him for being a man.
James returned more than two hours later as the store was closing and my mother was tidying up the gift-wrap counter, throwing away bits of string, lining up the tape dispensers, and counting the shirt boxes. He handed her the carving knife again.
“It’s a good knife,” my mother said, tearing a rectangle of floral paper from the rol . “I didn’t mean any harm.”
He didn’t speak, but she noticed his neck bulging as she squared the corners and rol ed the tape to make it sticky on both sides.
Mother handed him the box, so pretty now with a double bow, wondering if she hadn’t overdone it. She imagined his wife undoing the ribbons, assuming the contents were as lush as the wrapping, but she decided that it was not her concern.
“And this,” he said in a rush of air, handing her a smal box containing a compact of solid perfume.
“Your wife wil like this,” Mother said. “She’l love pul ing it out of her purse in front of her friends.” She felt like she was speaking too much, but this odd man was staring at her, and she felt that someone should do the talking. She wrapped the compact in a saucy red wrapper and used a simple gold tie. “Look at that. It’s got a little cha- cha.”
