The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [52]
“I will,” I said out loud in the empty kitchen. “I’ll make you proud. You’ll see.”
Not that it’d be easy. Changing people’s minds never was. Especially people like Mrs. DuPree and the Circle of Eight ladies. But it could not have been easy for Mrs. Wells-Barnett. Her parents had died when she was sixteen, leaving her with five little brothers and sisters to rear. But she did all that and got an education too, good enough to be a newspaper lady. Mrs. DuPree was always saying education was the key to advancement for the Negro race. Maybe she was right, even if I didn’t care to admit that anything Mrs. DuPree said might be true. Ida B. Wells-Barnett was a living example of what a woman—a Negro woman—could be.
Then and there, I vowed to do better. It was too late to go back to school; I had quit five years ago. But I could still improve my mind. That very night, I decided, as soon as the supper dishes were washed up, I’d ask Mrs. DuPree if I could borrow one of the books she kept locked in the parlor bookcase. That was, if she didn’t fire me. But if she said yes, I’d read two pages—no, five pages—every night, no matter how tired I was. And I wouldn’t quit just because I didn’t know all the words. I’d ask my mother and Sue to help me. If they didn’t know the words, I’d just have to ask Mrs. DuPree.
I’d start saving my money too. After all, everyone knew a person couldn’t get ahead without a little savings. That’d mean no more Saturday evenings at the Peppermint Parlor. My spirits drooped. The Peppermint Parlor was something to look forward to every week, that and church on Sunday mornings. Thinking about the Peppermint Parlor made getting out of bed on Monday mornings easier. It was where I went with friends for ice cream; it was where men courted young women.
I could still go, I decided, if I settled for an iced drink instead of an ice cream soda. That saved money. Of course, I gave half of my wages to Dad—that was only fair. And some went in the church collection basket. But I didn’t have to have fancy buttons for my dresses, and I didn’t have to have a new pair of gloves every winter. I’d save for my future instead. Like Ida B. Wells-Barnett must have.
And men? Mrs. Wells-Barnett was over thirty when she got married. She might have been born a slave, but that didn’t mean she kept her sights low. She married a newspaperman. She waited for a man of proven ambition. I didn’t know where I’d meet such a man, but if Mrs. Wells-Barnett managed to do it, so could I.
The clock in the parlor chimed four times. Time to start supper.
I was cutting up chicken parts to fry when the ladies applauded. Rose Douglas banged into the kitchen door with the empty urn. “More coffee,” she said. “And it’s time to serve the cake.”
“Isn’t she something?” I said, wiping my hands on a damp washrag.
“I’ll say. She’s certainly no lady.”
I stared.
“Embarrassed Elizabeth something awful. Told her her name is Mrs. Wells-Barnett. Of all the gall, treating her hostess like that.”
I turned away to hide my smile.
“That was just the beginning. She’d hardly sat down when she saw Mr. Booker T. Washington’s photograph on the mantel. She looked right at Elizabeth and said, ‘That man has sold out the black race, bowing and scraping to the white man.’ I thought Elizabeth was going to strangle her. And she didn’t say anything about sightseeing in England, not even when we asked her about Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. All she talked about were lynchings, how we need to organize protest rallies, stop being so mealy-mouthed like Booker T. Washington. Then she passed around a picture of this colored boy hanging from a tree, his neck all twisted. It turned my stomach. He’d been set on fire.”
Rose Douglas picked up the coffee urn. “Hurry up with that cake. The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get that woman out of here.” She backed out of the kitchen with the urn.
Her standing up to the Circle of Eight made me admire Mrs. Wells-Barnett all the more. It pleased me that she had shocked them. They should have known better. If they’d been