Margaret Sexton - A Kind of Freedom

Evelyn wanted to say yes — there was something about the silence of that house tonight that seemed formidable — but she thought of her mother in the kitchen. She could hear her clanging pots and glasses that were already clean, fussing in Creole so the kids couldn’t understand her.

“ Cofaire to pas laisse moin tranquille? ”

Mother thought Daddy was too easy with their oldest daughter; she often said Evelyn’s head was in the sky, and instead of rooting her, Daddy propped it up there as if the clouds were a row of pillows. She thought Evelyn should be seeing boys, on the verge of courtship, but her daddy would raise his voice at any intimation of the sort.

“She’s got plenty of time for that,” Evelyn had heard him shout.

“Does she? Seems like the good men are already getting snatched.”

“Not the ones that have the sense to wait.” He’d pause. “She’s going to be more than somebody’s wife, Jo,” he’d say, and her mother would clam up, fry Evelyn’s eggs too long the next morning.

“No, Daddy,” Evelyn said. “I’ll be all right.” She paused. “I’ll read some. And then I could always study.”

He lit up at that. He had hoped for a sharp and disciplined mind from his son, but he’d soon learned that was like expecting corn from a pumpkin seed. He’d be lucky if Brother graduated from Valena C. Jones Elementary on time, he often joked. But Evelyn being a nurse, now that was something even his own grandfather, the first Negro doctor in the state of Louisiana, would be proud of.

“Go on now, Daddy,” she said. “And don’t get so drunk you get Mother upset.”

“What are you going to tell me about behaving? Like I’m the one was birthed by you.” He smiled.

Mother cleared her throat from the other room, and he tipped his hat at Evelyn and clicked the door behind him.

Evelyn turned over and stared at her ceiling. She returned to imagining Renard again, but as she settled on a memory of his hands, she began to wonder at the point. He was somewhere doing something interesting, and she was at home lying under sheets and blankets that might as well have been chains.

She dozed off. When she came back to, she didn’t know where she was for a while. She never slept outside the confines of her nightly slumber, and she didn’t understand why Ruby wasn’t in the bed next to hers, why the lights were on, and why the doorbell was ringing. After a few seconds she sat up. It was probably Miss Georgia. She came by sometimes for company. Her only son was away at the war, and her husband had died before he could give her more children. Evelyn could relate to her loneliness though she’d been surrounded by people her whole life. When she’d explained that to her mother once, the woman grabbed her by the wrist and looked her dead in the eye: “If you forget everything I tell you, remember this: You can’t ever be friends with somebody who wants what you have.”

Evelyn only nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am,” but she’d folded and unfolded the statement around in her mind several times since and still couldn’t find an angle in which it held meaning.

She walked through her bedroom, through the kitchen, then the parlor, and peeked through the small curtain guarding the window on the side of the front door. Lord Jesus, it was not Miss Georgia, it was the uneven man. She turned to the mirror on the wall nearest the entrance. The right side of her face was red from where she’d fallen asleep on her hand. Her hair was tousled on that same side, and though she licked the palm of her hand and dabbed it down best she could, some still stuck out in every direction. She tucked her blouse back into her skirt, which had ridden up, and cinched each of her breasts out of her bra, then plopped them back in, seated a tad higher this time. The doorbell rang again, and she almost shrieked. She wondered if she could pretend to be out, but he must have seen the curtain on the window move. Her heart was beating enough to sustain ten men, and it was too much for her, thoughts flooding her mind, her hands shaking when they should have been still, her whole body paralyzed by its doubled intentions.

The doorbell rang one more time. She heard Ruby’s voice in her ear. You didn’t even get him to ask you on a date ? How tickled would she be when she came back to see Evelyn had found something to do all right. Evelyn settled her hand on the knob. A note slipped through the door, and she almost bent down to read it, but she stopped herself and inched the door open.

Renard had started walking down the steps and turned around. “I hope I didn’t bother you, miss,” he said, stammering on the last word only and calling her miss , not ma’am , which Evelyn thought was a good sign.

“No, no, I was just in the back room sewing a dress.” Evelyn didn’t know where the lie came from; in fact, one of her expressions that Ruby mocked most was that lying didn’t get enough emphasis in the Ten Commandments, but here she was. Maybe next Friday she’d be off at Circle Food stealing glazed meat.

“You sew? That’s mighty nice.” A pause. “You sewed what you’re wearing right now?”

Evelyn looked down. Mother had sewn this in fact, but should she say she had to lend her previous lie more credibility? Or was what she was wearing so drab that the new lie would detract from her intent? “Whether you did or you didn’t,” Renard went on, “it’s mighty nice on you. I reckon this is what an angel on earth looks like.” He stammered all over that last sentence, every single word but an , but that was because he was nervous saying what he meant, and their nervousness together was like two negatives multiplied. She felt herself quieting inside. With her head a little clearer, she considered her options: There was absolutely no way she could invite him inside. Her parents wouldn’t be home for three or four hours at least, but Brother could come in any minute, and she’d have to shine his shoes for the rest of the year to get him to forget a man had been in the parlor. If she sat outside though, Miss Georgia would certainly peek out at least once during their visit. She might even walk across the street and embarrass Evelyn. That was a risk Evelyn would have to take. She cleared her throat.

“My parents aren’t here, or I’d invite you in,” she said.

“That’s all right, I’d best be going anyhow.”

He didn’t move though, which gave Evelyn the courage to state her mind. “I can come out and join you if you want to stay a spell.”

Renard’s face lit up. “I’d love that, miss.”

She reached into the hall closet for her trench coat and cinched the belt around her waist. They sat on the swing her daddy had built when she turned five, pushing themselves back and forth with their knees bending and straightening at the same rhythm. Evelyn thought about the house from Renard’s perspective, its wood frame with sky-blue trim, the baskets of fresh watered ferns adorning its porch, the pansies and petunias on either side of the long, winding driveway. A large palm tree guarded the corner of their property, and in the summer she and Ruby would sneak under it with books and frozen cups, sugar water iced until it was solid. Evelyn thought to share that memory but realized how extravagant it all might seem. The night air had cooled, and when Renard saw her shiver, he inched over. Even through their coats, she felt grown with his arm so close to hers. She wanted to reach for his hand, but there was Miss Georgia to consider.

They didn’t say anything for a while, and finally Evelyn thought to ask, “How’d you remember where I lived?”

“I made myself memorize it when you said it,” he said. “I went over it in my head the whole walk home so I wouldn’t forget.”