3. Hard Questions

Welcome to Dancing at The Royal Jade, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel in the Beaucatcher Chronicles series. Visit the novel's Table of Contents to see all the chapters available to read for free on this website.

Expecting to see Dancing at The Orange Peel and the Kent Creek Chronicles instead? In short, this is my discovery draft and things always change during the creation process, so you'll see "The Orange Peel" mentioned in the first ~20 chapters. That will be changed to "The Royal Jade" in editing and in the published novel. Read all about the name changes here.

Content Note

Language - The language and attitudes of the fictional characters in this chapter are intended to be representative of the cultural climate at the time and place of this story. I’ve made every effort to present them in a manner that is historically plausible and yet reduces harm.

Chapter 3: Hard Questions

After Mama finishes work at five, we cross the street to catch the bus home. I stretch my neck to see Uncle Grant’s parking space in the police station parking lot. “He’s gone.” I moan.

“We’ll see him and Brenda for supper tomorrow,” Mama says.

“Good! Maybe me and her can beat you and Uncle Grant at gin rummy again.”

“Not a chance!”

The first part of our ride home, the city bus goes the reverse of my school bus route, back down Valley Street past The Orange Peel. Seeing the club again as the bus sits at the stoplight makes me think of the man in the purple-black suit.

“Mama.” I run my fingernail down the rib of my bookstrap. “That Negro man in your office today . . . ” I feel Mama’s eyes on me. “Is he the one everybody’s talking about?”

Her lips spread into a slight smile. “He is.” She points out the window. “He runs that place there.”

For the second time today, I stare at the orange neon sign above the black door, and I think of Daddy and Raymond Peabody. Does the Negro I saw at the Chamber know Peabody? And that he shot my daddy? Prob’ly not. Peabody was a no-good, and this man seems proper, like Mr. Misener. I remember Mama telling Uncle Nelson the man has family here in Kent Creek.

“He’s going to be a member.” She sounds pleased. “Mr. Misener owns that business for now. He recently hired Nate—Mr. Boniface—to run it for him, but Mr. Boniface wants to buy it someday.”

Why sure, that’s why Mr. Misener signed the man’s membership form too. He’s the Negro’s boss. “Bonny Face. That’s a funny name.”

Mama grins.

“So, he’ll be a businessman?” I ask.

“Yes. He will.” She pauses. “He is.” I wonder why she seems proud when she says it.

As the bus pulls away, I keep my eyes on the brick building ’til we round the next corner. “Is he . . .?” I puzzle over how to ask. “A nice man?”

Mama cocks her head sideways at me the way Granddaddy’s old dog used to. “Why, yes, Libby. He is. A very nice man.” She means it, too.

“Is he your . . . friend?”

At first, she doesn’t answer. Then she puts her hand on my arm and looks me right in the eyes. “Yes, he is.”

I rub my thumb down the spine of my science book. “You’ve never had a Negro friend before. Unless you count Dark Willie.”

“Mr. Willie, Libby.” Mama is the only one who doesn’t call Grandmamma’s handyman Dark Willie. She won’t, and she doesn’t like me to either. But I forget sometimes. She continues, “I do count Mr. Willie as my friend. Skin color doesn’t matter.” She leans closer to me and rests her hand on her heart. “We’ve talked about this. It’s what’s inside. That’s what helps us know whether they’d be good friends—good people—or not.”

“And you think that man who works at The Orange Peel would be a good friend?”

“I do.” The edges of her mouth turn up a little and her eyes sparkle. “And he is. He’s . . . very kind,” she adds.

He does seem like it. We lean back in our seat. Staring out the window at the passing buildings, I think about what Mama’s said. She’s already made up her mind to be friends with the Bonny Face man. I tug her sleeve. “Mama, I know I’m not supposed to use”—I lean closer to her—“that word that starts with ‘n’.”

She pulls back and lowers her chin. “Right, you’re not.”

“But I have to ask you something.”

“Then ask.”

“But I can’t . . . without using that word.”

She looks puzzled. “What, Libby?”

“Will the kids at school . . .? If you’re friends with . . .?”

I check to see if anyone’s listening. Three businessmen in ties sit in the front of the bus. Two ladies wearing hats and a teenage girl with a bandana tied around her head are in the middle, close to us. An old colored man stares out the back window, and across from him is a lady dressed like a maid, her chin resting on her chest, eyes closed.

I lower my voice. “If you’re friends with Mr. Bonny Face, will the kids call me a—” I bite my lip. “You know what I mean,” I add, hoping I won’t have to say it. Mama wrinkles her forehead. Crooking my finger, I beckon her closer and raise to her ear. “Will they call me a—” When words stick in my throat, I cup by hands to make a circle around my mouth, then barely whisper, “a n——r lover?”

Mama pulls back and straightens, her eyes wide.

“Like they do Mary Margaret and Sarah Misener,” I explain.

She sucks in a breath. “They do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The space between her eyebrows wrinkles up again. “Those poor girls.” She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, she turns to me and asks, “What do they do when the other kids say that?”

“They cried. At least Mary Margaret did.”

Mama takes in more air, then lets it out slow.

I reach for her arm and squeeze gently. “I don’t want to cry at school, Mama. They’ll say I’m a baby too.”

The vinyl squeaks when she twists sideways in our seat, facing me. “Don’t you let them make you cry, Libby. Those kids are wrong!” She tilts back her head until I can see up her nose and under her chin. She stays that way, staring at the bus ceiling, for the longest time. I know she’s not mad at me. But whenever she’s upset, I get nervous. Finally, she takes my hands. Her eyes look sad. “We are to be loving and kind to all people.” I’ve heard those words in Sunday school, but I don’t know what to say back to her. I wait. She frowns at her lap. “Those kids are dead wrong.” Then, putting both her hands on my shoulders, she locks eyes with me. “You tell them that.” She says it so loud the others on the bus can surely hear, and I feel my face go red. Her breathing is heavy now. “And don’t you dare cry when you do.”

“I promise,” I whisper. But I know if it comes right down to it, I might not be able to keep my promise to her. Those kids can be real mean.

But maybe, just maybe, they won’t find out.

Thank you for reading! With this being an ongoing work-in-progress, you’re a vital part of my creation process. This story will likely expand or contract as I write. So I encourage and value your comments since my intent, when all chapters are complete, is to edit (heavily) based on what I hear from you and then publish as a print book and an ebook.

I am grateful to you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading and being part of my reading+writing community.

This chapter first appeared on my Substack publication.