George Schuyler: Black No More

“Now, now, little girl,” said Matthew soothingly, touched by her words. “You haven’t disgraced me; you’ve honored me by presenting me with a beautiful son.”

He looked down worshipfully at the chubby ball of brownness in the nurse’s arms.

“You needn’t worry about me, Helen. I’ll stick by you as long as you’ll have me and without you life wouldn’t be worth a dime. You’re not responsible for the color of our baby, my dear. I’m the guilty one.”

Dr. Brocker smiled knowingly, Givens rose up indignantly, Bunny opened his mouth in surprise, Mrs. Givens folded her arms and her mouth changed to a slit and the nurse said, “Oh!”

“You?” cried Helen in astonishment.

“Yes, me,” Matthew repeated, a great load lifting from his soul. Then for a few minutes he poured out his secret to the astonished little audience.

Helen felt a wave of relief go over her. There was no feeling of revulsion at the thought that her husband was a Negro. There once would have been but that was seemingly centuries ago when she had been unaware of her remoter Negro ancestry. She felt proud of her Matthew. She loved him more than ever. They had money and a beautiful, brown baby. What more did they need? To hell with the world! To hell with society! Compared to what she possessed, thought Helen, all talk of race and color was damned foolishness. She would probably have been surprised to learn that countless Americans at that moment were thinking the same thing.

“Well,” said Bunny, grinning, “it sure is good to be able to admit that you’re a jigwalk once more.”

“Yes, Bunny,” said old man Givens, “I guess we’re all niggers now.”

“Negroes, Mr. Givens, Negroes,” corrected Dr. Brocker, entering the room. “I’m in the same boat with the rest of you, only my dark ancestors are not so far back. I sure hope the Republicans win.”

“Don’t worry, Doc,” said Bunny. “They’ll win all right. And how! Gee whiz! I bet Sherlock Holmes, Nick Carter and all the Pinkertons couldn’t find old Senator Kretin and Arthur Snobbcraft now.”

“Come on,” shouted the apprehensive Givens, “let’s get out o’ here before that mob comes.”

“Whut mob, Daddy?” asked Mrs. Givens.

“You’ll find out damn quick if you don’t shake it up,” replied her husband.

Through the crisp, autumn night air sped Fisher’s big tri-motored plane, headed southwest to the safety of Mexico. Reclining in a large, comfortable deck chair was Helen Fisher, calm and at peace with the world. In a hammock near her was her little brown son, Matthew, Junior. Beside her, holding her hand, was Matthew. Up front near the pilot, Bunny and Givens were playing Conquian. Behind them sat the nurse and Dr. Brocker, silently gazing out of the window at the twinkling lights of the Gulf Coast. Old lady Givens snored in the rear of the ship.

“Damn!” muttered Givens, as Bunny threw down his last spread and won the third consecutive game. “I sure wish I’d had time to grab some jack before we pulled out o’ Atlanta. Ain’t got but five dollars and fifty-three cents to my name.”

“Don’t worry about that, Old Timer,” Bunny laughed. “I don’t think we left over a thousand bucks in the treasury. See that steel box over there? Well, that ain’t got nothin’ in it but bucks and more bucks. Not a bill smaller than a grand.”

“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun,” blurted the Imperial Grand Wizard. “That boy thinks o’ everything.”

But Givens was greatly depressed, much more so than the others. He had really believed all that he had preached about white supremacy, race purity and the menace of the alien, the Catholic, the Modernist and the Jew. He had always been sincere in his prejudices.

When they arrived at the Valbuena Air Field outside Mexico City, a messenger brought Bunny a telegram.

“You better thank your stars you got away from there, Matt,” he grinned, handing his friend the telegram. “See what my gal says?”

Matthew glanced over the message and handed it to Givens without comment. It read:

Hope you arrive safely Stop Senator Kretin lynched in Union Station Stop Snobbcraft and Buggerie reported in flight Stop Goosie and Gump almost unanimously reëlected Stop Government has declared martial law until disturbances stop Stop When can I come?

“Who’s this Scranton broad?” queried Matthew in a whisper, cutting a precautionary glance at his wife.

“A sweet Georgia brown,” exclaimed Bunny enthusiastically.

“No!” gasped Matthew, incredulous.

“She ain’t no Caucasian!” Bunny replied.

“She must be the last black gal in the country,” Matthew remarked, glancing enviously at his friend. “How come she didn’t get white, too?”

“Well,” Bunny replied, a slight hint of pride in his voice. “She’s a race patriot. She’s funny that way.”

“Well, for cryin’ out loud!” exclaimed Matthew, scratching his head and sort of half grinning in a bewildered way. “ What kind o’ sheba is that?”

Old man Givens came over to where they were standing, the telegram in his hand and an expression of serenity now on his face.

“Boys,” he announced, “it looks like it’s healthier down here right now than it is back there in Georgia.”

“ Looks like it’s healthier?” mocked Bunny. “Brother, you know damn well it’s healthier!”

Toward eleven o’clock on the evening before election day, a long, low roadster swept up to the door of a stately country home near Richmond, Va., crunched to a stop, the lights were extinguished and two men, one tall and angular, the other huge and stout, catapulted from the car. Without wasting words, they raced around the house and down a small driveway to a rambling shed in a level field about three hundred yards to the rear. Breathless, they halted before the door and beat upon it excitedly.

“Open up there, Frazier!” ordered Snobbcraft, for it was he. “Open that door.” There was no answer. The only reply was the chirping of crickets and the rustle of branches.

“He must not be here,” said Dr. Buggerie, glancing fearfully over his shoulder and wiping a perspiring brow with a damp handkerchief.

“The damned rascal had better be here,” thundered the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, beating again on the door. “I telephoned him two hours ago to be ready.”

As he spoke someone unlocked the door and rolled it aside an inch or two.

“Is that you, Mr. Snobbcraft?” asked a sleepy voice from the darkness within.

“Open that damned door, you fool,” barked Snobbcraft. “Didn’t I tell you to have that plane ready when we got here? Why don’t you do as you’re told?” He and Dr. Buggerie helped slide the great doors back. The man Frazier snapped on the lights, revealing within a big, three-motored plane with an automobile nestling under each of its wings.

“I-I kinda fell asleep waitin’ for you, Mr. Snobbcraft,” Frazier apologized, “but everything’s ready.”

“All right, man,” shouted the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association, “let’s get away from here then. This is a matter of life and death. You ought to have had the plane outside and all warmed up to go.”

“Yes sir,” the man mumbled meekly, busying himself.

“These damned, stupid, poor white trash!” growled Snobbcraft, glaring balefully at the departing aviator.

“D-D-Don’t antagonize him,” muttered Buggerie. “He’s our only chance to get away.”

“Shut up, fool! If it hadn’t been for you and your damned fool statistics we wouldn’t be in this fix.”

“You wanted them, didn’t you?” whined the statistician in defense.