The Davenports(11)

The beginning of a smirk tugged at his mouth. Olivia had a feeling he knew just how to play those high cheekbones. “It’s worse than I feared,” he said. The desire to set him straight raised her temperature, but he continued before she could respond. “It is a good thing you’re here,” he said, his chin pointing behind her, where Reverend Andrews appeared, brushing past them to walk onstage and step onto an overturned crate. He faced the crowd. A hush fell over the room, like the quiet that falls over a congregation before the organ bellows the opening hymn. But this was not a service Olivia was used to.

The reverend cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming here today. I know these are trying times, dangerous times. It may seem as if a force greater than ourselves means to pull us back after each stride toward equality.” Women nodded into their fans and men’s jaws hardened. A few offered mumbled prayers through barely parted lips.

“But we must not lose faith.” The people around Olivia responded to his words with a chorus of Amen. “Without further delay, Mr. Washington DeWight.”

“Excuse me,” said the mysterious young man, the one who had interrogated her. She watched him gently part the masses on his way to the stage.

It took her a moment to understand.

He is Mr. DeWight?

He skipped over the crate to the spot where the reverend just stood. He found Olivia in the crowd and winked at her, setting her pulse raging in her ears. She wished she could disappear, run back up the stairs. But she didn’t want him to know how much he’d rattled her. She forced her feet to stay rooted to the floor and to not turn from his gaze, which seemed locked on her.

Alabama lawyer Washington DeWight spoke with a steady confidence as he described growing unemployment and restricted access to employment and education, famine and violence that forced Black people north and west. He painted a picture so unlike the world she knew, despite insulting behavior from the occasional store clerk, that she couldn’t help but question its veracity. But then she looked at the men and women beside her, the tears that lined many of their proud faces. Her stomach clenched and her breaths turned shallow.

“The Jim Crow laws of the South are spreading north.” Mr. DeWight’s words rang out, impassioned. The crowd jeered at the news and chattered. The reverend attempted to settle them. A small boy shoved a tattered blue pamphlet into Olivia’s hands. She read the laws recently passed in Mr. DeWight’s home state of Alabama. Each sentence started with It is unlawful in bold black letters. Each one struck down a right she’d taken for granted her entire life: Negros prohibited from entering establishments, owning businesses, sharing public spaces with white people. The list continued onto another page.

“The sentiment that the dark color of our skin is something to be feared continues to dictate policy, corrupting public places, stripping us of our only too recent freedoms!” he continued. His words sparked more and more side conversations in the audience. The woman beside her nodded as her companions began whispering amongst themselves. He shouted, “I ask that we all keep a watchful eye. The malevolent times of the recent past are still upon us.” His words felt like ice water running down her back. She tucked the pamphlet into her purse as her mind struggled to imagine the ways these laws could impact her family, destroy everything her parents had worked so hard to build, everything her brother was set to carry forward.

Rare, is what her mother called their family. Her father had been enslaved, as had his father and mother before him and on and on. He didn’t discuss his experience. Their mother preached patience, that he would share in time. The Davenport children had known only what history had been taught by their governess, leaving them to imagine the worst. Olivia remembered the moment she’d realized that every Black person she knew was touched by the horror of slavery. Sometimes Olivia felt it like a wound hidden deep under smooth skin—one that she didn’t remember receiving but that ached nonetheless.

Every month or so, her father locked himself in the study with Mr. Tremaine and their contacts from the South, men who were in the business of finding lost family members. Her uncle, her father’s brother, who aided in his escape, had yet to be found.

John was the first to notice that their mother filled those days with activities that kept them out of the house. Mama had been born free, but carried a weight of her own. She didn’t share her burden either. Instead, she armored her children with the best things money could buy. Her mother’s foresight allowed them safe passage throughout the city, seats at tables where they drew unwanted attention, but also served as an example of success in the Black community. Their excess allowed them to help others. It seemed impossible that a world in which her parents had built the Davenport Carriage Company could be dismantled.

Olivia’s cheeks burned. Her chest felt tight. Was it true that everything she knew—her entire world—was being threatened by an assailant she couldn’t see, one her parents hadn’t fully warned her about? Did they even know? They must. Olivia remembered how closely her parents kept them when about town. Even when traveling to the community center, they had a member of the staff accompany them. Oh no—how long had she been down here?

Olivia pushed her way toward the entrance as the voices around her rose.

“You’re not leaving so soon, are you?” Washington DeWight had left the stage and now caught up to her.

“I—I lost track of time. I’m late for a previous engagement,” she stammered. Her eyes darted around the room.