seriously ill. He sat beside her bed and nursed her back to health. He never paid the doctor who treated her.
But they braved the hunger and the illness, and the next spring he got a job at the country club serving drinks in the taproom. It was the best job he had ever had, a job where all he had to do to earn fifteen dollars or more each night was just to be a nigger. But he was afraid of the members when they became drunk. They said things to him even a nigger should not be expected to take. What finally gnawed him down to a jittery wreck, however, was the fear that one might ask the price to see his wife, as one had asked another of the waiters. He simply quit.
He had thought that with Ruth he would never be afraid again. But it merely changed the pattern of his fear. Now it was the fear of being unable to support and protect his wife in a world where white men could do both. A fear that caused him to look inside of strange restaurants to see if Negroes were being served before entering with his wife.
Slowly, this changed the pattern of their relationship. For he could not contain his fear or resolve it. His only release for it was into her through sex and censure and rage.
Twice they were refused service in downtown restaurants. Each time he stood there in that blinding, fuming, helpless fury, moved by the impulse to beat the proprietor to a bloody pulp, restrained by the knowledge of the penalty. As enraged at having Ruth witness his cowardice as at being refused.
Each time having to decide before jerking her out into the street the value of his pride and how much he was prepared to spend for it.
Each time accepting Ruth’s tense entreaty: “Let’s go, Lee. Don’t get into any trouble; it’s not worth it.”
Each time lying awake all night, hating her for offering him the easy and sensible way out. Tortured by the paradox of managing to live on by accepting things that afterwards made him want to die.
The first time he slapped her was not for anything she did, but for what he did not do. Preceding him between the rows of seats in a darkened theater, she requested a white man to remove his hat from an empty seat. Looking up, the man observed that she was a Negro, and snapped: “Sit some place else.”
“I will not,” she snapped back.
The man had moved as if to strike her when he noticed Lee and subsided.
“What’s the trouble?” Lee asked, coming to her rescue.
“Oh, nothing,” Ruth replied.
“I thought you were arguing with that man.”
“No, it wasn’t anything.”
But he had seen and heard it all. He could have reprimanded the man then. But he accepted her dismissal of the incident. He could not enjoy the show and sat there fuming. When they had returned to their room he brought it up again.
“I thought I heard you arguing with that white fellow.”
“Oh, he just didn’t want to move his hat.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He got up as if he was going to slap me but when he saw you he sat down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, Lee, it wasn’t worth starting any trouble.”
“I’m your husband, don’t you know that? You don’t have to take insults from anyone, don’t you know that?”
“But, Lee—”
“If a white man’s wife had been insulted she’d expect her husband to protect her.”
“Oh, Lee, a white man, yes—”
He slapped her.
Thus each night he renewed his will so upon rising the following morning he could assume the role that he played throughout the day, that of swaggering with feigned courage through the ever-present knowledge that beyond the black ghetto he was without defense or appeal.
In the fall of 1937 he got a job as research assistant on WPA. During the lunch hour, a couple of weeks later, a Jewish girl told him: “When I first saw you, I said to myself: What’s this guy doing on his muscle? What have we done to him?’”
“I didn’t know I was,” he said.
She shook her head. “You needn’t say. I know.”
The
But they braved the hunger and the illness, and the next spring he got a job at the country club serving drinks in the taproom. It was the best job he had ever had, a job where all he had to do to earn fifteen dollars or more each night was just to be a nigger. But he was afraid of the members when they became drunk. They said things to him even a nigger should not be expected to take. What finally gnawed him down to a jittery wreck, however, was the fear that one might ask the price to see his wife, as one had asked another of the waiters. He simply quit.
He had thought that with Ruth he would never be afraid again. But it merely changed the pattern of his fear. Now it was the fear of being unable to support and protect his wife in a world where white men could do both. A fear that caused him to look inside of strange restaurants to see if Negroes were being served before entering with his wife.
Slowly, this changed the pattern of their relationship. For he could not contain his fear or resolve it. His only release for it was into her through sex and censure and rage.
Twice they were refused service in downtown restaurants. Each time he stood there in that blinding, fuming, helpless fury, moved by the impulse to beat the proprietor to a bloody pulp, restrained by the knowledge of the penalty. As enraged at having Ruth witness his cowardice as at being refused.
Each time having to decide before jerking her out into the street the value of his pride and how much he was prepared to spend for it.
Each time accepting Ruth’s tense entreaty: “Let’s go, Lee. Don’t get into any trouble; it’s not worth it.”
Each time lying awake all night, hating her for offering him the easy and sensible way out. Tortured by the paradox of managing to live on by accepting things that afterwards made him want to die.
The first time he slapped her was not for anything she did, but for what he did not do. Preceding him between the rows of seats in a darkened theater, she requested a white man to remove his hat from an empty seat. Looking up, the man observed that she was a Negro, and snapped: “Sit some place else.”
“I will not,” she snapped back.
The man had moved as if to strike her when he noticed Lee and subsided.
“What’s the trouble?” Lee asked, coming to her rescue.
“Oh, nothing,” Ruth replied.
“I thought you were arguing with that man.”
“No, it wasn’t anything.”
But he had seen and heard it all. He could have reprimanded the man then. But he accepted her dismissal of the incident. He could not enjoy the show and sat there fuming. When they had returned to their room he brought it up again.
“I thought I heard you arguing with that white fellow.”
“Oh, he just didn’t want to move his hat.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He got up as if he was going to slap me but when he saw you he sat down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, Lee, it wasn’t worth starting any trouble.”
“I’m your husband, don’t you know that? You don’t have to take insults from anyone, don’t you know that?”
“But, Lee—”
“If a white man’s wife had been insulted she’d expect her husband to protect her.”
“Oh, Lee, a white man, yes—”
He slapped her.
Thus each night he renewed his will so upon rising the following morning he could assume the role that he played throughout the day, that of swaggering with feigned courage through the ever-present knowledge that beyond the black ghetto he was without defense or appeal.
In the fall of 1937 he got a job as research assistant on WPA. During the lunch hour, a couple of weeks later, a Jewish girl told him: “When I first saw you, I said to myself: What’s this guy doing on his muscle? What have we done to him?’”
“I didn’t know I was,” he said.
She shook her head. “You needn’t say. I know.”
The
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