The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [101]
The cab stopped. Isaac told me this was the place, we were getting out. I didn’t wait for him to help me; it didn’t cross my mind—I was wondering why we weren’t at the train station. The street was lined with shops, and the sidewalks were crowded up with white people. They hurried past us, not seeing us, not knowing it was our wedding day. Some of the men had long hair and wore beards that came down to the top button of their black suits. “This way,” Isaac said, and I followed him into one of the stores.
It was the first time I had ever been in a jeweler’s shop. I had walked past such places before, and a few times I had stopped long enough to admire the diamonds that sparkled in the window displays. But being inside a jeweler’s and being surrounded by all that beauty was a glory all of its own. Jewels glittered in the glass cases that lined both sides of the narrow shop.
A white man with gray, thinning hair was behind one of the glass cases. He was hunched over a square of black material, and like most of the men on the street, he wore an odd black cap too small to keep out any kind of weather. He studied a pocket watch laid out on the material. He looked up at us when we came in. Pressed in one of his eye sockets was what looked to be a little telescope about an inch long. The man took it out and eyed us for a moment, surprised, I thought, to see a Negro man in uniform. Then he cleared his throat as he slipped the watch into his breast pocket. “May I help you?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Isaac said. “I want a wedding band.” I looked at him, taken aback. Never for a minute did I expect a band. My mother didn’t have one. Mrs. DuPree did, but she had married a doctor.
The jeweler smiled slightly. “Ah, yes. A wedding band.” He looked at me and then back to Isaac. “And this is your bride?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a lucky man,” he said. I bit my lower lip, but I smiled all the same. He waved me closer to the counter; I obeyed. The jeweler said, “Will you do me the kindness of taking off your glove?”
My smile disappeared. My hands were rough and chapped even though most every night I soaked them in buttermilk and wore cotton gloves to bed. But both men were looking at me, so I put my cloth bag on the countertop and took off my left glove, my face hot with shame.
The jeweler studied my hand, his forehead drawn. I imagined him thinking that a gold band would look out of place on such a ragged hand. Instead, he said, “Long fingers. Very nice.” He picked up my hand. I drew in my breath. I’d never been touched by a white person before. He ran his pasty forefinger and thumb along my ring finger. I felt faint; his touch was soft and cool, and I wanted to pull my hand away. He didn’t seem to notice. He said, “Little boned and no knuckles to speak of. A size four I’d say.” He let go of my hand and stepped away. I steadied myself. He got a ring of keys from his pants pocket and unlocked a case. Humming a little song to himself, he pulled out a tray. He brought it to us and, still humming, he studied the wedding bands, his eyes looking at my ring finger from time to time. Finally, he put three gold bands on the square of black material.
One band was wide—it would cover the lower third of my finger. It was the kind the ladies in Mrs. DuPree’s Circle of Eight wore. It wasn’t meant for work; it was for show. As pretty as it was, I didn’t want it. I looked at the band beside it. It was nearly as thin as a pencil point; hard work would wear it away. It wouldn’t last long. The third band was not too big, not too small. I felt a surge of desire for it. It wouldn’t get in the way of hard work, and yet it would hold up. From the corner of my eye, I saw Isaac as he studied the three bands. His forehead was furrowed, and it came to me that he was embarrassed to ask how much. My face flushed; he was sorry he