Scarlet Carnation: A Novel Read online

  At the front door May looked back for a final wave. John’s lusty smile confirmed parting was hard for him too, and made her heart dance. Such sweet sorrow, she thought with a smile.

  May forced her body to turn away from him and go into the dark, quiet house. She rested against the closed door and stopped for a deep breath. Only a few more days of this, she reassured herself.

  She took off her shoes and got ready for bed in her stocking feet. As she climbed into bed her mother turned over and whispered, “Good night, May.”

  May exhaled. “Good night, Momma. Sleep well.”

  May lay in bed, her back to Momma, longing for the day she would be climbing into bed next to her husband, Dr. John Barrow.

  The next morning Nana Lisbeth carried clippers and straight pins when they walked out the door for church. They stopped in their front garden and she went to work harvesting the blooms she’d nurtured for this day—Mother’s Day. The white-haired woman clipped one carnation followed by another until all the white blooms, representations of love and protest, were in her hands. She clipped two scarlet ones but left the rest.

  At May’s church, congregants wore white carnations to honor deceased mothers and scarlet ones to honor living ones. The tradition began after the Civil and Prussian Wars when Julia Ward Howe encouraged mothers to wear white carnations to protest sons being sent to be killed in battle. Decades later, Anna Jarvis popularized the symbol as an honor to motherhood, going so far as to successfully advocate for a federal law making the second Sunday in May a time to honor mothers.

  With the war raging in Europe, many congregants would wear white carnations for two reasons: a protest against the United States joining the fight and to honor their deceased mothers. The symbols were getting muddled.

  Nana Lisbeth handed Momma a pin and a white carnation. She touched her hand to her chest and said, “For Ann Wainwright.”

  Momma attached the white flower to Nana in honor of her mother. Ann Wainwright was only a name to May. Nana’s mother, father, and brother, Jack, died on the other side of the nation in Virginia long before May was born. They were characters in Nana Lisbeth’s stories but didn’t feel like family.

  Nana Lisbeth held out another white flower for Momma to pin on her. “For Mattie Freedman.”

  May smiled. This flower honored Nana’s enslaved caregiver from the family plantation—Fair Oaks. Nana Lisbeth called Mattie her “real mother,” the person who shaped her the most.

  May hadn’t met Mattie’s son Samuel or his descendants that lived in Chicago, Detroit, and Memphis, but the branches of their two families that lived in Oakland remained close. They saw each other a few times a year. Auntie Jordan, Cousin Naomi, and Cousin Willie were extended family—a treasured part of the fabric of love woven into their life, less close than Uncle Sam and Auntie Diana or her cousins, but definitely beloved family.

  “And for peace.” Nana Lisbeth held up another white flower for Momma to pin onto her chest.

  Each flower placed on Nana’s chest seemed a prayer.

  Nana Lisbeth turned to face May and pinned a scarlet carnation on her granddaughter’s chest. “To honor your mother.”

  May heard the command in her grandmother’s mature voice. She’d not been gracious to Momma lately. She believed she was responding to her mother’s attitude, but Nana Lisbeth wanted them both to be kinder to one another. May was ready for more distance, to share a bed with her husband rather than her mother. She longed for her own home and family separate from her elders. Momma hadn’t done anything wrong; May simply wanted a different life than Momma had settled for. After her husband died Momma never remarried, never traveled, and served people: first in the boardinghouse and now as a grocery store clerk.

  May was going to be a professor’s wife, surrounded by interesting conversation and intellectual rigor, nothing like Momma—a store clerk living with her elderly mother. May was grateful for the life her mother and grandmother gave her after her father died. She knew they worked hard, but she wouldn’t be held back by her mother’s ennui.

  Nana Lisbeth held out a white carnation and raised her right eyebrow in question. Did May want to wear one for peace? May sighed. Of course she wanted peace, but was she against this war? There were sound arguments for staying out of it and equally strong ones for joining in the fight. She’d yet to decide where she stood and didn’t want to wear one simply to go along with a common sentiment. She shook her head.

  “I will have one of each,” Momma declared.

  Nana Lisbeth handed over two carnations, which Momma pinned herself.

  “Did he propose last night as you’d hoped?” Nana Lisbeth asked May as they rode the train down Telegraph Avenue.

  They were going for worship at the Unitarian church in Oakland. The Berkeley church was closer to their new home, but her mother and grandmother were loyal to the congregation where they’d been active since they’d become involved in the suffrage movement in the 1890s.

  May found their attitudes when it came to women’s freedoms to be both amusing and annoying. They assumed she would get married and live independent from them after high school, but seemed to think she was being too independent in accepting John. She suspected it was because he refused most of their supper invitations. He was too busy with his studies, and he didn’t find her family interesting enough to have dinner with them every week. He’d come often enough for May—even to a Sunday supper where he met Auntie Diana, Uncle Sam, and her cousins.

  May shared their fears that her marriage to John might take her far away, but they needed to accept that she was an adult and would be living her own life separate from them.

  Neither Nana Lisbeth nor Momma were married. When she was an infant, May’s father traveled for work to Hawaii and died there. They didn’t even have a grave to visit. Momma was so disturbed by his absence that she never spoke of him, not on the anniversary of their wedding or his death or on his birthday.

  May only knew two facts about her father: he immigrated alone as a young man from Germany and he died alone in Hawaii. He was a gaping hole in her heart and in her mind. As much as she wished Momma was strong enough to speak of him, she wasn’t.

  In contrast, May’s childhood was filled with stories about Grampa Matthew and the produce business he and Nana Lisbeth started after they moved to Oakland in 1873. She heard so many stories about him at family gatherings that she felt as if she’d met him. Every week Nana Lisbeth visited Grampa Matthew’s grave in Mountain View Cemetery. May accompanied her when she was young, but the habit fell away as May matured.

  May simply shook her head in answer to her grandmother’s question. She didn’t elaborate because she wasn’t interested in either defending John’s actions or hearing their opinions about her life.

  May’s aunt, uncle, and cousin were already seated in their usual row in the sanctuary. She took the chair next to her cousin, and leaned over Elena’s belly and said, “Hello in there!”

  Elena laughed and rubbed the small protrusion.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “The nausea has dissipated at last—and I have energy again. Hallelujah!” Elena declared.

  “Wonderful.”

  May beamed. She and Elena were as close as sisters—especially since Elena’s older sister, Tina, moved to Martinez four years ago. May confided in Elena more than anyone else in her life. They saw each other at least once a week—at church followed by Sunday supper at Aunt Diana and Uncle Sam’s. Hopefully Elena becoming a mother would bring them even closer. May intended to be as helpful as possible.

  “How was the dinner?” Elena asked.

  “Lovely,” May declared and then added, “And a touch disappointing.”

  “No question?”

  May shook her head. “He paused our journey at the top of a staircase. We took in a gorgeous view of the bay. He agreed that the East Bay is preferable to San Francisco. When he cleared his throat in a way that caused me to believe this might be it, my heart raced in
my throat. But we only kissed again and moved on.”

  May let out a sigh.

  “What is he waiting for?”

  “He wants a settled position before he makes such a request; I’m sure of it. His future is still uncertain.”

  “Well, that is practical,” Elena said, her voice cheery, but her eyes held a different sentiment.

  “What?”

  “We always spoke of our children being as close as sisters, like us. I am happy for you. John is a successful and kind man. But selfishly, I don’t want you to move away.”

  May teared up. “I agree. It is at once thrilling and horrifying to imagine moving. I still hope a local college will extend an offer.”

  Reverend Simmonds walked down the aisle and worship began with one of May’s favorite hymns: “My Life Flows on in Endless Song.” She always took the choice in music as a sign of how enjoyable a worship service would be. She looked at the beautiful stained glass window of the sower and the huge redwood beams above her head. Sorrow bubbled up. May would miss worshipping with her family each week. John showed no inclination to attend regularly, though he did express enthusiasm for Unitarian values. Mills College, she hoped or prayed—sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. She would hold out hope that John would be offered a position at Mills so they could stay in Oakland. May hooked her arm through Elena’s and gave her a squeeze.

  After the closing hymn and benediction the family walked to Uncle Sam and Aunt Diana’s home for Sunday supper. Wanting privacy, May and Elena trailed behind the group. May whispered in her cousin’s ear, “Do you have the pamphlet?”

  “As promised.”

  “It worked for you, right?” May confirmed.

  Elena nodded. “For two years, until . . .”—Elena rubbed her belly—“it didn’t.” She laughed. “Peter and I are mostly ready. In an ideal world this would have happened after our house was more finished, but we will make do. Even though she’s a surprise, she’s a welcome surprise.”

  “You sound so certain you are having a daughter.”

  “If I say it enough God will grant my prayer.”

  May laughed. “You know that’s not how it works.”

  “So the scientists say. But my Bubbi is certain God is still deciding if there’s a boy or girl coming.”

  May laughed again.

  “I’m happy to use science when it suits me and folklore as I see fit,” Elena declared.

  May said, “Remember when you used to insist you were going to marry another girl?”

  Elena looked wistful. “Oh, to be young and naïve.”

  “I’d insist, ‘Two girls can’t get married!’”

  “And I’d argue back, ‘Why not?’”

  “And I’d say, ‘I don’t know any girls that are married.’ And you would declare, ‘You will when I am.’”

  They both laughed.

  Elena returned to the topic of family planning. “The pamphlet isn’t very long. It’s written in the plainest language and easy to read. I used the sponge soaked in carbolic acid and glycerin. I’ve never found a place to purchase a pessary—though they sound more pleasant. I always douched with Lysol after the act. I didn’t always take the laxative as Mrs. Sanger recommends.” Elena made a face as she rubbed her belly. She continued, “And I think that’s what got us this little treasure.”

  “It sure is a lot of work!” May observed.

  “Less work than having a baby, and if you have a good man, more fun.” Elena laughed, her mouth wide and her head thrown back. She looked like Aunt Diana—full of life and joy.

  And the holder of a secret that May was ready to be in on.

  CHAPTER 2

  NAOMI

  May 1915

  “My next-door neighbor is moving to Stockton. Might you be interested in purchasing his home?” Mrs. de Hart leaned in to ask Naomi Smith. They were in Mrs. de Hart’s elegant living room for the executive meeting of the Northern California branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.

  The mere thought of buying a house sent Naomi’s heart racing. She’d met all her dearest goals in life excepting that one. She was certain it would ensure them, and their three children, Cedric, Joseph, and Maggie, economic security. If she and Willie owned a house they could maintain it, make improvements, and never be forced out of their home. And if it were large enough, Gramma Jordan could live with them too, though these compact bungalows were built for modern, smaller families and typically only had two bedrooms.

  Naomi’s husband didn’t share her dream—or rather, he believed it was unattainable, so he dismissed it. When she raised the longing to own a home, Willie declared he had simple needs and was very satisfied with their life. Naomi feared he took her desire as a criticism of his ambition, but she never meant it as an insult.

  Naomi smiled at her friend. “I should enjoy living near you in this lovely suburb. However, we do not have those kinds of funds stashed under our mattress.”

  “Perhaps he can arrange for payments over time? I’ve heard that is becoming more common,” Mrs. de Hart replied. “After the meeting we can knock on his door.”

  Naomi nodded consent while reminding herself to balance out her desire and reality.

  She told her companion, “I will love the house, if it is anything like yours.”

  “It is nearly identical, only reversed. They were built at the same time in 1908. You might be pleasantly surprised at the price. These houses are much more affordable than custom.”

  They’d formed this branch in 1913, soon after the esteemed W. E. B. DuBois, a founder of the national NAACP, visited their beloved city to raise passions. It was one of the stronger branches in the country, with 150 members. Naomi had signed up immediately and became a founding member of this executive team.

  Colored people were losing their limited political rights and economic opportunities in too many states. Mr. DuBois firmly believed the freedoms enjoyed by their race in California would set an example of the possibilities in other places. Instead of allowing the forces of oppression and hatred into Oakland, a city known for its progressive views, they would be a shining example of harmony and equal freedoms to the rest of the nation. Naomi refused to sit idly while colored people were trampled by unjust laws and images in the press.

  Their first campaign for the dignity and rights of colored people in Oakland was to end the showing of the picture The Birth of a Nation, which portrayed Negroes as barbarians and only served to raise animosity. President Wilson revealed his prejudice by showing that vile movie as the first moving picture ever to be screened at the White House.

  They’d lost the injunction against the film, but continued gathering with signs in front of the theater to protest it. As a small minority in the East Bay, colored people were no threat to the white majority; however, a few cruel men were determined to oppress her family. Naomi could ensure her children’s future by advocating for equal rights and opportunity.

  Mr. Butler of San Francisco, the president of this branch of the NAACP, called the meeting to order. Today they were planning their part of the program for Alameda County Day at the Panama-Pacific Exhibition. Naomi’s mind kept wandering from the conversation and she gazed around the living room and imagined it as her own home. Her red-and-gold rug would contrast beautifully with the shiny finish on the hardwood floor. She pictured her favorite vase with dried flowers on the mantel. The caramel tile surrounding the fireplace was obviously crafted by artisans, lending a simple elegance to the space. The apartment she’d lived in for more than twenty years was built in the last century. With no modern amenities and a great need to be painted, it felt run down and dirty no matter how much they cleaned.

  Naomi shook her head and told herself to stop daydreaming. She turned her attention back to the group and their plans to show the accomplishments of their race.

  “Our children are our greatest pride and asset. I believe we should feature them on our float—decorated in flowers from our gardens,”
Mrs. de Hart declared.

  “Few people outside of our community know that Virginia Stephens is colored,” Naomi added. “They know her name as the child who won the contest to name the exhibition—The Jewel City—but not her race. We should ask her family if she can be at the center of the design with her name in large letters. That will put aside any doubts about the capabilities of our kind.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” Mr. Butler agreed.

  Mrs. Simmons looked at Naomi and said, “Mrs. Smith, I understand your daughter has been working at the fair.”

  Naomi nodded. “Yes. Maggie is working for Sperry Flour Company booth selling pancakes.”

  “Has she been treated fairly?”

  Naomi remembered the moment she first saw her beloved Maggie degraded by the vile costume required by her work. The long gray gown covered with an apron and her hair wrapped up in a white kerchief was an instant signal: “Aunt Jemima.”

  Fifty years after the Emancipation Proclamation, three thousand miles from the town where Naomi’s mother and grandmother were enslaved at their birth, white men still profited from restricting her daughter’s place in society.

  Naomi felt her bile rise. She shook her head. “They must dress up as mammies while they distribute pancakes.”

  She looked around at faces shaped by disgust. Shame passed through her. Maggie plans to be a nurse, she’s a smart girl.

  “She wasn’t told about the costume when she was hired,” Naomi explained, “. . . and then she knew she could easily be replaced were she to object. It is only for the summer. She’ll return to high school when it resumes.”

  Mrs. de Hart took her hand and reassured her, “Our young’uns need jobs.”

  Naomi smiled at Mrs. de Hart. She didn’t need to defend her daughter to these fine people. The meeting continued with a discussion about their ongoing campaign against The Birth of a Nation. They decided to write a letter to the Oakland Tribune twice a week for the next two months. In addition, Miss Delilah Beasley, a valued NAACP member and special contributor to the Tribune, would submit editorials condemning the race-hating film.