Cleo swished down the spit-spattered street with her head in the air and her sailor aslant her pompadour. Her French heels rapped the sidewalk smartly, and her starched skirt swayed briskly from her slender buttocks. Through the thin stuff of her shirtwaist her golden shoulders gleamed, and were tied to the rest of her torso with the immaculate straps of her camisole, chemise, and summer shirt, which were banded together with tiny gold-plated safety pins. One gloved hand gave ballast to Judy, the other gripped her pocketbook.
This large patent-leather pouch held her secret life with her sisters. In it were their letters of obligation, acknowledging her latest distribution of money and clothing and prodigal advice. The instruments of the concrete side of her charity, which instruments never left the inviolate privacy of her purse, were her credit books, showing various aliases and unfinished payments, and her pawnshop tickets, the expiration dates of which had mostly come and gone, constraining her to tell her husband, with no intent of irony, that another of her diamonds had gone down the drain.
The lesser items in Cleo’s pocketbook were a piece of chamois, lightly sprinkled with talcum powder, and only to be used in extreme necessity if there was no eye to observe this public immodesty, a lollipop for Judy in case she got tiresome, an Irish-linen handkerchief for elegance, a cotton square if Judy stuck up her mouth, and a change purse with silver, half of which Cleo, clandestinely and without conscience, had shaken out of Judy’s pig bank.
Snug in the bill compartment of the bag were forty-five dollars, which she had come by more or less legitimately after a minor skirmish with her husband on the matter of renting a ten-room house.
She had begun her attack in the basement kitchen of their landlady’s house, a brownstone dwelling in the South End section of Boston. Judy had been sent upstairs to play until bedtime, and Bart had been basking in the afterglow of a good dinner. Ten years before, he had brought his bride to this address, where they had three furnished rooms and the use of the kitchen and the clothesline at a rent which had never increased from its first modest figure. Here, where someone else was responsible for the upkeep, Bart intended to stay and save his money until he was rich enough to spend it.
Cleo had bided her time impatiently. Now Judy was nearing school age. She had no intention of sending her to school in the South End. Whenever she passed these schools at recess time, she would hustle Judy out of sight and sound. “Little knotty-head niggers,” she would mutter unkindly, while Judy looked shocked because “nigger” was a bad-word.
These midget comedians made Cleo feel that she was back in the Deep South. Their accents prickled her scalp. Their raucous laughter soured the sweet New England air. Their games were reminiscent of all the whooping and hollering she had indulged in before her emancipation. These r’aring-tearing young ones had brought the folkways of the South to the classrooms of the North. Their numerical strength gave them the brass to mock their timid teachers and resist attempts to make them conform to the Massachusetts pattern. Those among them who were born in Boston fell into the customs of their southern-bred kin before they were old enough to know that a Bostonian, black or white, should consider himself a special species of fish.
The nicer colored people, preceded by a similar class of whites, were moving out of the South End, so prophetically named with this influx of black cotton-belters. For years these northern Negroes had lived next door to white neighbors and taken pride in proximity. They viewed their southern brothers with alarm, and scattered all over the city and its suburbs to escape this plague of their own locusts.
Miss Althea Binney, Judy’s private teacher, who for the past three years had been coming four mornings weekly to give Judy the benefit of her accent and genteel breeding, and to get a substantial lunch that would serve as her principal meal of the day, had told Cleo of a house for rent to colored on a street abutting the Riverway, a boulevard which touched the storied Fens and the arteries of sacred Brookline.
On the previous night, Thea’s brother, Simeon, the impoverished owner and editor of the Negro weekly, The Clarion, had received a telephone call from a Mr. Van Ryper, who succinctly advised him that he would let his ten-room house for thirty-five dollars monthly to a respectable colored family. Notice to this effect was to be inserted in the proper column of the paper.
Thea, The Clarions chronicler of social events, had urged Simeon to hold the notice until Cleo had had first chance to see the house. Cleo had been so grateful that she had promised Thea an extravagant present, though Thea could better have used her overdue pay that Cleo had spent in an irresistible moment in a department store.
The prospect of Judy entering school in Brookline filled her with awe. There she would rub shoulders with children whose parents took pride in sending them to public school to learn how a democracy functions. This moral obligation discharged, they were then sent to private school to fulfill their social obligation to themselves.
“It’s like having a house drop in our laps,” said Cleo dramatically. “We’d be fools, Mr. Judson, to let this opportunity pass.”
“What in the name of common sense,” Bart demanded, “do we want with a ten-room house? We’d rattle around like three pills in a box, paying good money for unused space. What’s this Jack the Ripper want for rent?”
“Fifty dollars,” Cleo said easily, because the sum was believable and she saw a chance to pocket something for herself.
“That’s highway robbery,” said Bart, in an aggrieved voice. It hurt him to think that Cleo would want him to pay that extravagant rent month after month and year after year until they all landed in the poorhouse.
“Hold on to your hat,” Cleo said coolly. “I never knew a man who got so hurt in his pocketbook. Don’t think I want the care of a three-story house. I wasn’t born to work myself to the bone. It’s Judy I’m thinking of. I won’t have her starting school with hoodlums. Where’s the common sense in paying good money to Thea if you want your daughter to forget everything she’s learned?”
Bart had never seen the sense in paying Thea Binney to teach his daughter to be a Bostonian when two expensive doctors of Cleo’s uncompromising choosing could bear witness to her tranquil Boston birth. But he did not want Cleo to think that he was less concerned with his child’s upbringing than she.
Slowly an idea took shape in his mind. “I’ll tell you how I figure we can swing the rent without strain. We can live on one floor and let the other two. If we got fifteen dollars a floor, our part would be plain sailing.”
“Uh huh,” said Cleo agreeably.
He studied her pleasant expression with suspicion. It wasn’t like her to consent to anything without an argument.
“You better say what you want to say now,” he advised her.
“Why, I like a house full of people,” she said dreamily. “I’ve missed it ever since I left the South. Mama and Pa and my three sisters made a good-size family. As long as I’m the boss of the house, I don’t care how many people are in it.”
“Well, of course,” he said cautiously, “strangers won’t be like your own flesh. Matter of fact, you don’t want to get too friendly with tenants. It encourages them to fall behind with the rent.”
“I tell you what,” she said brilliantly, “we can rent furnished rooms instead of flats. Then there won’t be any headaches with poor payers. It’s easier to ask a roomer to pack his bag and go than it is to tell a family to pack their furniture.”
He saw the logic of that and nodded sagely. “Ten to one a roomer’s out all day at work. You don’t get to see
