The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [23]
“What’s this?” he said. “You didn’t think I’d back out of our deal, did you?”
I pulled myself together and shook my head.
“I was up in South Dakota, staking your claim. That, and other business, took a little longer than I expected. But just wait until you see it. Three hundred and twenty acres all told. Prettiest piece of country I’ve ever seen.”
That was the last night I cooked dinner in Mrs. DuPree’s boardinghouse. Isaac sat at the head of the table with the boarders. His mother was shut up in her bedroom, spitting mad that he had come for me. The men begged for more stories about the army and about Isaac’s homestead, and he was glad to oblige them. Feeling light on my feet, I served bowls of fried chicken, snap green beans, and sweet yams. I thought I saw pride in Isaac’s eyes as he watched me. When it was all on the table, I went back to the kitchen. There, Trudy said she’d do the dishes—that was her wedding present to me. Tears in my voice, I promised her I’d write; she said she’d come visit. “I’ll look for you,” I said as I hung up my apron for the last time. I took off my hair kerchief. I went back to the dining table, my bag in hand. One by one, I said good-bye to the boarders. I saw the envy in their eyes, but they wished me well, even Thomas Lee Patterson, the man I had snubbed not all that long ago. When I came to Isaac, he gave me a quick nod. I expected him to say something but he didn’t.
I turned back to the kitchen. “Not that way,” Isaac said. I didn’t know what he meant. He got up and took my arm. I stumbled as a shock bolted through me. It was the first time he had touched me. I felt woozy and weak. He tightened his hold. The boarders watched. A few of them grinned. To my surprise, Isaac led me through the parlor to the front door. We stood there not sure what to say to each other. Finally he said, “Wednesday morning. Eight o’clock. I’ll meet you at Preacher Teller’s church. The train leaves at 10:10 A.M.”
“I have a trunk,” I managed to say.
“Have it sent to the station.”
“How?”
He hesitated. In that moment I saw that he understood what he was getting: a woman what didn’t know anything about the world. He said, “Bring your trunk to the preacher’s then.”
He let go of my arm and opened the screen door for me. I went out, hearing the door slap closed behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Isaac was gone. All the same, I held up my hand as if he were there to see me wave good-bye.
Forcing a smile, I stepped off of the front porch and went along the gravel walkway to the walk that followed the street. I hardly knew where I was. The alley was my way home, not this.
Old oak trees lined the walk. Their thick, twisted roots buckled the surface. I picked my way over the roots, sure that I was going to fall. My legs felt loose and my ears rang. My skin was clammy like I was coming down with something. Nerves, I thought. I stopped and steadied myself, pulling in some air. It was then that I saw that the houses on the street were shabby. They wanted paint, and the yards needed trimming. All but Mrs. Du-Pree’s. The neighborhood had once been the home of Chicago’s educated Negroes, but that was before the slaughterhouses got so close. That was when Mrs. DuPree had been the wife of a doctor. That was before her husband died and she was forced to take in boarders. The neighborhood once was grand. But now Mrs. Du-Pree’s son was marrying the help, and that help had just left by the front door.
I started walking again, picking my way over the broken sidewalk, my chin high. Mrs. DuPree might have the money for a second boardinghouse, but this neighborhood was where she lived. Mrs. DuPree was on her way down, I told myself, but the next Mrs. DuPree—me—was on her way up.
On my wedding day, Dad hired a horse cab and took me to Preacher Teller’s. My mother and Sue had to work. So did church friends and neighbors,