“Whitey sure knows how to break a man.”
Ozzie nodded in the right places; while he had never been beaten down by the police, he’d had his run-ins with the authorities.
“Gentlemen,” Raymond finally interrupted. “Where are my manners. Ozzie, these loudmouths are my dearest friends. John Francis Williams, Lewis Tanner Moore, and M. Hubbard. These men are the best damn lawyers in the City of Brotherly Love.”
“And don’t let no one tell you different.” Lewis slapped Raymond five, and they all laughed.
“This is Ozzie Philips, Rita’s husband. He’s a manager at the shipyard, just got out of the army.”
“Very honorable of you,” John said, sipping from his glass.
“Make yourself right at home. Get a drink,” Lewis pushed.
“Good to meet you,” Ozzie said.
Then the men turned their backs and returned to their conversation. Ozzie couldn’t find his way into their discussion, and unable toshake the feeling that he didn’t belong, he slunk away and sidled up to the man behind the bar at the rear of the kitchen.
Once he had a fresh drink in his hand, he felt some of his power return. Raymond took hold of Ozzie again and introduced him to a doctor and a judge. Then a restaurateur and his wife. All the names blurred together. Each professional introduction felt fancier than the last, and as the night wore on, the liquor stopped giving him courage. Ozzie felt his confidence seep out of him like the helium from a party balloon. Echoing inside of his head wasYou ain’t shit, and you’ll never measure up to these men.
Raymond got pulled into a lengthy chat, and Ozzie excused himself for another stop at the bar, but the bartender had stepped away. Ozzie looked around and then helped himself to an aged Scotch that went down so silky smooth that before he had swallowed good, he was pouring another fistful. Then he found a stool just off the kitchen that was unoccupied. It had a full view of the living and dining room, but he was shrouded in darkness and out of sight.
As Ozzie watched the people laugh and dance, it was crystal-clear that this was a party of “who’s who” in Negro society. Ozzie had not met another working-class man without a title or a degree, not unless he included the maid and the bartender. How had these folks gotten so financially far in life? What was Ozzie doing here pretending like he had anything in common with them? He moved materials down at the shipyard for seventy-five cents an hour. They lived in his wife’s great-aunt’s house. In that moment, he felt like he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out.
Rita had invited him to one other work event since he had returned home. The Alexanders had held an NAACP fundraiser in their offices at Nineteenth and Chestnut streets last month. To that event, Ozzie had worn the same suit. He wondered now if Raymond Alexander had noticed and pitied him for it. Was Raymond lookingdown his nose at Ozzie, knowing instinctively that he didn’t measure up? It was easy for him to introduce Ozzie around his fine home, because the job of the host was to make a guest feel welcome whether he was worthy or not. That was just good manners and did not mean Ozzie had Raymond’s respect.
Perhaps Raymond’s kindness had all been a hoax for Rita’s sake, because the Alexanders were invested in her future with their law firm. They’d helped her get a full scholarship to University of Pennsylvania, for goodness’ sake. Once she became one of them, and fully ascended into their world, what would Ozzie have to offer her? He couldn’t catch up to these folks in the room right now, even if they gave him a pocketful of money and a head start.
“Hey, good-lookin’, what’s cookin’?” Rita had sneaked up on him. She smelled of champagne, and her cheeks were flushed. “Babe, this is simply the best night of my life. Are you having fun?”
This was the best night of her life? Not the night their wedding reception had spilled out onto Ringgold Street, where they had danced under the stars and then made love until the sheets were sliding from the bed?
The music playing on the phonograph had gotten louder. A horn was whining. It sounded like Miles Davis. Ozzie tapped his feet on the white oak floor as a strumming pounded in the back of his head.
“You been socializing?” she asked, sitting down in his lap.
He draped one arm around her waist while thinking: How long would it be before Rita’s girlhood crush on him wore off, and these high-siddity men in suits got her attention?
“Of course.”
“I saw Raymond introducing you around.”
“Yeah.”
Rita balanced herself on his thigh. “He’s great and so supportive of Sadie’s career.”
“I bet he is, he can damn near pass for white. Doors must fall open at his command.” The comment had floated through his mind and left his mouth before he could filter it.
“What did you say?” Rita turned her face toward his, her brows knitted.
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat.
“Don’t be rude. We’re guests in their home.”
“I know exactly where we are,” Ozzie retorted.
“You talking like you ain’t got good sense. Like you left the screws from your head in Germany.” She sniffed, then peered at him more closely. “How many of those have you had?”
“Stop studying me, woman.” His voice came out raspy. “I’m cool.”
