Peggy, who had believed the story up to a point, said, “Oh, Idgie, you’re playing with me!”
Stump was glad when the evening was over and they were headed home. The fact that he had been a football hero the year before made him still subject to a lot of younger boys standing around staring at him and girls squealing and giggling when he said hello, or anything, for that matter.
He stopped the car in front of Peggy’s house and was getting ready to get out and go around and open her door when she took her glasses off, leaned over, and looked up at him with those big brown myopic Susan Hayward eyes of hers and said, “Well, good night.”
He looked down into those eyes, realizing that he had never seen them before: pools of velvet brown that he could have dived into and had a swim in. Her face was now a quarter of an inch from his, and he smelled the intoxicating scent of her White Shoulders perfume; in that moment she became Rita Hayworth in Gilda; no, Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice. And when he kissed her, it was the most passionate moment he had ever known.
That summer, the blue suit was trotted out regularly, and that fall it wound up in Columbus, Georgia, when they went over to the courthouse to get married. All Idgie ever said to him was “I told you so.”
After that, all Peggy ever had to do was take off her glasses and look up at him, and he was a goner.
MAY 24, 1949
Birmingham’s black middle- and upper-class society was at its peak, and the Slagtown News was kept busy reporting on the doings of over a hundred social clubs; the lighter the skin, the better the club.
Mrs. Blanche Peavey, Jasper’s wife, who was as light in color as he was, had just been named president of the famous Royal Saxon Society Belles Social and Saving Club, an organization whose members were of such fair coloring that the club’s annual group picture had wound up in the white newspaper by mistake.
Jasper had just been reelected as Grand Vice Chancellor of the prestigous Knights of Pythias, so it was only natural that his oldest daughter, Clarissa, was a leading debutante that year and was being presented to the Carnation Coalition.
With her red-gold, silky hair, her peaches-and-cream complexion, and her green eyes, she was considered the deb you would most want to be with.
On the day of the Debutante Ball, Clarissa went downtown to buy some special perfume for the affair. She had ridden up to the second floor on the main white elevator, as she had done a few times before when she had been downtown alone, knowing that other members of her race rode the freight elevator.
She knew her mother and daddy would kill her if they knew she was downtown passing, for although she was encouraged to mingle only with the lighter-skinned people, passing for a white was an unpardonable sin. But she was tired of the stares of the other blacks when she rode the freight elevator before; and besides, she was in a hurry.
The beautiful woman in the royal blue wool dress behind the counter was so considerate and polite to Clarissa. “Have you ever tried White Shoulders?”
“No ma’am, I don’t think so.”
She bent down under the counter for the display bottle. “Try a little of this. Shalimar is very popular, but I think it’s going to be a little too heavy for you, with your fair skin and all.”
Clarissa smelled it on her wrist. “Oh, this is wonderful. How much is it?”
“It’s on special, eight ounces for two ninety-eight. That should last you at least six months.
“I’ll just get this, then.”
The lady was pleased. “I think it suits you perfectly. Cash or charge?”
“Cash.”
The woman took the money and went off to wrap the box.
A black man wearing a checked hat and coat had been staring at Clarissa. He remembered a picture in the paper. He walked over.
“ ’Scuse me, ain’t you Jasper’s baby?”
Terror-struck, Clarissa pretended not to hear him.
“I’m your Uncle Artis, your daddy’s brother.”
Artis, who had had a few drinks and didn’t know Clarissa was passing for white that day, put his hand on her arm. “It’s me, your Uncle Artis, honey … don’t you know me?”
The perfume saleslady came around the corner, saw Artis and shrieked, “YOU GET AWAY FROM HER!” She ran to Clarissa and held her. “YOU GET AWAY FROM HER … HARRY! HARRY!”
The floor manager came running. “What’s the matter?”
Still holding on to Clarissa to protect her, she shouted for the entire floor to hear, “THIS NIGGER WAS PAWING MY CUSTOMER! HE WAS GRABBING AT HER! I SAW HIM!”
Harry yelled, “GUARD!” and turned on Artis with slits for eyes. “Did you touch this white woman, boy?”
Artis was shocked. “Naw suh, that’s my niece.”
Artis tried to explain, but by that time, the guard had spun him around like a top and had his arm behind him and he was on his way out the back door.
The saleswoman comforted Clarissa. “It’s okay, honey, that nigger’s either drunk or crazy.”
The group of lady shoppers who had gathered around offered sympathy. “Just another drunk Negro … See what happens when you’re nice to them?”
Artis, who had skinned his hands and knees when he was thrown out in the concrete alley behind the store, caught the south-side streetcar and walked back behind the wooden sign that said COLORED. He sat down, wondering if that girl had been Clarissa, after all.
Years later, after Clarissa was married and had children, she came into Brittling’s Cafeteria, where he was working carrying trays, and tipped him a quarter; but she didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t recognize her.
AUGUST 10, 1954
Mishaps Galore
Must be getting old or crazy … my other half, Wilbur, came home three days in a row, complaining of a headache … and is there anything worse than a man who has a little pain? Guess that’s why we have the babies …
I, myself, was having a terrible time reading the paper, so yesterday morning, I went to Birmingham to get my eyes checked, and, lo and behold, I had on Wilbur’s glasses and he had on mine. We are getting different colored ones next time.
I don’t feel too bad. I heard there was a fire the other day over at Opal’s beauty shop, and Biddie Louise Otis, who was hooked up to the permanent wave machine at the time, started screaming bloody murder because she thought it was her head that was on fire. But it was just some old hair in the wastepaper basket that was burning. Naughty Bird, Opal’s shampoo girl, put out the fire and it was fine.
Don’t forget to vote. Nobody is running against Grady Kilgore, but it makes him feel good, so do it anyway.
By the way, Jasper Peavey got another write-up in the Railroad News, and we know Big George and Onzell must be proud.
… Dot Weems …
P.S. The Dill Pickle Club had its annual Icebox Follies again and it was hilarious as usual. My other half sang “Red Sails in the Sunset” again. Sorry, folks … I just cain’t get him to learn a new one.
SEPTEMBER 14, 1986
Evelyn and Mrs. Threadgoode were taking a walk out behind the nursing home when a flock of Canada geese flew over, honking happily through the fall sky.