Oh, he said. Who’s this?
He’s my son, sir, said the boy’s father. With his grandmother in the hospital, I’m afraid—
The fat white man interrupted him. He spoke to the boy directly. You just keep out of the way, boy, he said. We can’t be having you causing any trouble now, can we?
The boy said, No sir.
The fat white man smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. Then he walked away. The boy’s father had a funny look on his face, a look the boy had never seen before. He took his son’s hand and sat him on the bench.
Stay right here until I get back, he said. Do you understand?
Yes sir, the boy said.
His father left.
For a while the boy sat there. He was embarrassed. He had never seen anybody talk to his father like that. He wondered who the fat man was. Other men kept walking in and out in their uniforms. One or two of them glanced his way but mostly they did not pay him any attention at all. The boy sat on the bench. He glanced down at his shiny blue shoes. He was still upset about the way the fat white man had talked to his father. The boy kept expecting his father to come back, but when he looked at the big clock only half an hour had gone by. Finally he could not stand to wait any longer. It was wrong to talk to his father that way. He would have to find somebody to tell. He slipped off the bench and walked down the hall the way his father had gone. Nobody stopped him. He opened the door. He was in a big kitchen. He smelled fried food. He smelled spices. There was a lot of yelling back and forth. He saw the people in uniform going out a little passage off to the side, so he went that way too. He wound up in some kind of room with shelves and suitcases. He went out another door. He was in the lobby. The lobby was very bright and cheerful. The floor was tiled. The ceiling was two stories high. There were chandeliers. There was music. White people in fancy clothes were coming in through the front doors. Luggage stood on shining gold carts. Black men in uniforms pushed the carts. One of the men was his father. He was walking with a young white couple, a man and a woman, pushing their luggage on a golden cart. He walked with the couple to the front desk. The man was wearing one of those Yale scarves. He turned to the boy’s father and said, Thanks, boy, and gave him some money. His father said, Thank you, sir, that’s very generous, and if there’s anything else I can do for you, just call down and ask for me. He gave them his Christian name. The white couple was talking to the clerk behind the desk. The boy’s father just stood there waiting with the cart. Then the clerk handed over the key and the boy’s father and the white couple went off toward the elevator. The boy followed them. His father said, I’ll meet you upstairs with the bags, sir. The white man turned around. He said, Can you shine my shoes for me and have them back in an hour? His father said, Of course I can, sir. It would be my pleasure. Shall I pick them up when we’re upstairs? The white man said, Well, I can’t very well give them to you now, can I? Not when they’re still on my feet. His father nodded his head and smiled and said, No sir, I expect you’re right. Here’s the elevator now, sir. Another Negro in a uniform stood inside. His father said, Take these nice young folks to the eleventh floor. He said to the white man, I’ll see you upstairs, sir.
The elevator doors closed. His father rolled the cart down another hallway. The boy stood there staring. He had never seen his father smile before. Not like that.
When his father was gone, the boy went back into the room with the suitcases and back into the little passage and back into the kitchen and back into the hallway and back into Men Staff Lounge. He sat on the bench again. He sat there for two more hours. His father came in, stern and unsmiling. He took the boy to the bathroom. He gave the boy an apple and a peanut butter sandwich to eat. He said, You’ll only have to sit here a few more hours, son. I’m leaving early today.
The boy sat on the bench for three more hours. Then his father came back. He asked if the boy had to go to the bathroom. The boy said no. They went out into the hall. His father went into Staff Men Dressing. He was out fifteen minutes later, back in his suit and crisp white shirt. He took the boy’s hand and they left the hotel. Across the street was an ice cream shop. He bought the boy a cone and they walked to the trolley stop. His father hardly said a word on the ride home. They passed Yale again. The boy looked out at the stone towers with their long windows and wondered how it would feel to be one of the kids inside throwing his shoes out.
That night after dinner the boy got down on his knees to say his prayers. His mother sat on the bed. She reminded him to pray first for others. So he asked God to make Nana better. Then his mother said he should give thanks. So he said, God, thank you that Monday is over and tomorrow is Tuesday and I can go back to Vacation Bible School. Then he said, I hate Mondays, God. I really hate them. His mother was upset. Don’t say things like that, she said. I told you, God doesn’t want us to hate. The boy said he was sorry. But he already knew he was going to hell. Then his mother said he should say a prayer for himself. He shut his eyes tightly.
Dear God, he said, when I grow up, please, God, I will do anything you want. I will be anything you want. But please, God, please, don’t let me grow up to be a Negro. Amen.
Author’s Note: For more on the origin of this story, see Chapter 1 of my novel Palace Council as well as the author’s note at the end of the book. The Edward Malley store on Chapel Street did indeed have the window display the boy describes in 1948. In the fall of that year, New Haven did indeed retire the streetcars. The Vacation Bible School lessons are drawn from Florence M. Waterman, Standard Vacation Bible School Courses: Primary — First Year, published in 1922.
Second Act
by Jessica Speart
Food Terminal Plaza
It was the way her hand hovered around the deli case that first caught his eye. It fluttered back and forth like a butterfly caught in a moment of indecision. Her palm finally came to rest between the salami and the tuna salad and her fingers lightly tap-tap-tapped on the glass window case.
“Come on, already. Pick something, will ya? I wanna order a sandwich and get back on the road,” groused the trucker behind her.
Jimmy saw the heat rise in her cheeks and planted his meaty fists on the countertop. “Leave the lady alone. I’m sure McDonald’s can wait a couple of extra minutes for your delivery. Take your time, miss. Don’t let this bum rush you.”
The trucker angrily tugged on his blue Ferelli Sausage cap. “Screw you, Jimmy. The taco trucks have better food than this place does, anyway.”
“Sure, if you like chowing down on crappy corn cakes filled with mystery meat. Try not to choke on the truck fumes coming from I-95 while you stand there eating your lunch.”
Annabelle’s eyes lowered as she drifted off into thought. She didn’t say a word although she knew the food trucks they were talking about. Parked on a thin strip of asphalt along the waterfront, they resembled a flock of exotic birds with their colorful array of plume-like flags and flashy yellow, green, and red exteriors. The pulsating sounds of salsa and mariachi music blared from their speakers most of the day and into the night. She’d been drawn to them one evening after rehearsal. Their siren song had lured her past Ikea, under the highway overpass, and on to Long Wharf Drive where the sun was beginning to set. It hung in a fiery ball above a group of white petroleum storage tanks, round as moon pies, that lay across the Sound.