as being a man’s slave.
She had told Mr. Judson on the night of their marriage that she wasn’t born to lick the boots of anybody living. It was dawn before she got through telling him what she would and wouldn’t do, and by then it was time for him to get up and go downtown to regulate the heat in his banana rooms.
It was not a long walk to Scollay Square down Cornhill to Market Street, through an area which at some point or other touched the tortuous streets and squares which had rung to the heels of disembarked British soldiers, and had heard John Hancock read aloud to a listening world the articles of independence.
Bart’s basement store was on the south side of Market Street, directly across from Faneuil Hall, in the busiest trading section of the district. Cleo looked exasperatedly at the flight of unswept stairs down which she must descend, seeing the slippery trail of peels and pulps of the morning’s fast and furious unloading. She remembered the elegance of the ice-cream parlor in Springfield and the polished fruit behind plate glass. She saw herself sweeping through the high arch with a reverent friend at heel, whom she had favored with a ribbon-tied basket of beautiful fruit, and whom she now led to a center table, as a black boy dashed forward to pull out their chairs and fashionable white folks whispered across their silver dishes that the best-dressed one was the owner’s wife.
As she gathered up her skirts to show her disdain of the dirty steps and guided Judy down them with exaggerated care, Cleo felt distinctly peevish. There wasn’t a decent chair to sit on in the sunless rooms below, and all that fruit piled everywhere you looked made you sick of the sight of it.
The bookkeeper’s small, gaslit office was just to the left of the entrance. Through the narrow glass window with its small slot for the intake of money, Cleo saw Bart talking excitedly to Miss Muldoon and Christian Christianson, his manager. They were looking rapt while he told a long-winded tale. Cleo could not bear to see him being indulged by their undivided attention.
“Mr. Judson,” she called imperiously.
He jerked around, then his whole face splintered into smiles. He opened the office door and rushed forward, holding out his arms to Judy.
She flung herself into them, and he swung her up. His mustache tickled as he planted a large wet kiss on her cheek. She hugged him hard and uttered little sighs of adoration.
“Put her down,” said Cleo jealously.
He set her down quickly and stretched out his hand to smooth her mussed frock. He saw his grimy palm. Judy seized his hand before he could conceal it and cuddled her cheek against his arm. He looked at Cleo guiltily, then he said gently to Judy, “Let go papa’s hand. Papa’s not clean enough to touch you. If I’d known my best girl was coming, I’d have washed up.”
She did not release him. “You’re my papa,” she said loyally. “I don’t care if you’re dirty. I like the way you smell.”
Bart squeezed his armpits against his side, and his eyes appealed to Cleo. She saw how alike he and Judy were, and this likeness, which might denote a similarity in their souls, irritated her so much that she jerked Judy to her and smoothed her so hard that it was like spanking.
“A little Boston lady doesn’t discuss the way people smell,” she scolded, and she glared at Mr. Judson, thinking angrily that he stank like a ram.
“Come speak to Miss Muldoon and Chris,” Bart said quickly. “They see you so seldom.” He lowered his voice and said urgently to Cleo, “Act nice.”
He led the way into the office. Chris shooed Jinks, the rat-catcher, off a rickety chair. Bart took a fruit-stained handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted it. Presently Cleo was gingerly seated on its edge, with Judy leaning hard against her knee because Jinks was a large and formidable cat.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Judson,” Chris said delightedly. He was Swedish, and he felt no embarrassment in the presence of a beautiful Negro woman. He did not know that she was not his equal, and he was charmed to see a striking face so early in the day.
“It’s nice to see you,” said Cleo, giving him a brilliant smile. She thought his blond good looks were wasted on anything as lowly as a man. But she could not resist feeling flattered by his obvious pleasure at seeing her.
“How are you, Mrs. Judson?” Miss Muldoon said warily from her perch beside the money till. She had been Bart’s bookkeeper for fifteen years. She had been middle-aged when she met him and now she was nearly old. It had never occurred to her in her wildest dreams to want to be the wife of a colored man, but she had had a vague resentment when Bart married Cleo Jericho. She had felt that any woman so young and pretty was hardly the right sort of wife for a hard-working, sober-minded man. She preferred to picture Negro women as fat, black, and plain-faced. It upset her when Mrs. Judson condescended to put in her brief and radiant appearances. At such times she felt unhappy that she helped to gild the lily.
“I’m very well, thank you,” Cleo said sweetly. “I’ve thought about you all summer, and hoped you were standing the heat.”
She thought about Miss Muldoon summer and winter, and never with concern about her constitution. She was certain that Miss Muldoon was stealing Mr. Judson’s money. She could not imagine that Miss Muldoon might not be tempted. Often it preyed on Cleo’s mind that Miss Muldoon had access to that money till, and she had not.
“Hasn’t my little girl grown, Miss Muldoon?” Bart asked proudly.
“She’s a walking doll,” said Miss Muldoon warmly, for it always pleased her to see that Judy was not a beauty like her mother.
“She’s you all over, Bart,” Chris said happily. Bart was the first black man he had known in his life. After five years he was still enchanted with him.
“We’re going to live in a great big house,” said Judy, excited by all the eyes upon her, and eager to say something important.
“You got it all right?” Bart asked Cleo. “No trouble about the rent?”
Cleo thought a moment. “It was sort of a compromise. He took the forty-five dollars, but I owe him five dollars more. He wanted fifty the first month, and if we’re satisfactory tenants, he’ll take forty-five thereafter.”
Bart considered that. “Seems fair enough. No reason we shouldn’t be satisfactory tenants. I guess he was thinking about children being destructive. But Judy’s good as gold. Isn’t as if we had a boy,” he added rather regretfully.
“Cleo promised me a little boy to play with,” Judy piped.
Miss Muldoon coughed agitatedly and stole a look at Cleo’s figure. Chris’s smile widened, for he knew how much Bart wanted a son to follow him in business.
But Bart knew better. At least he thought he did. Or did he? A wild hope began to pound in his heart. It was foolish, of course. He could count on one hand, and have fingers to spare, the number of times that Cleo had let him approach her. But perhaps that last time — though he certainly didn’t see how it was possible, with Cleo’s rigidity turning his blood to ice. Still, God worked in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. And out of the mouths of babes — Judy was God’s messenger, bearing good tidings.
“I didn’t exactly promise,” Cleo corrected Judy. “I just said maybe.” She looked a little flustered. She didn’t want Judy to give the show away. She intended to lead Mr. Judson by degrees and duplicity.
Bart
