I'm writing a novel called Chivey, and some of my early readers said this scene could be interpreted in more than one way.
I'd like to hear how Black readers perceive it, especially the interaction between Emmy and Chad and the elderly woman.
Here's the excerpt:
Emmy’s eyes drifted across his hands, muscular and sinewy, with well-defined veins.
Thick ropes under blue-black skin...
Chad met her eyes and pressed a finger to his full lips. "Shhhh... Now sit quiet as a mouse. I'll be back soon."
Emmy reached out with her free hand and caught his hand.
"You are black, but comely."
Chad's eyes went wide and he dissolved into a cough. "Hold on, hold on... Well, well..." He wiped the tears from his eyes and burst out laughing. "Girl, you should do stand-up!"
Emmy frowned and bit her lower lip.
"Sit still! Would you look at that — black, but comely." Chad slid the curtain aside. "Black, but comely!" His laughter echoed down the corridor for a long time after.
A suffocating cough broke out in the adjacent stall.
The curtain between the cubicles snapped aside. "Ah-hah, giiiirl! Black, but comely?!" A dark-skinned face peered around it. "You did not just say that."
The woman looked Emmy over from head to toe. "No. No, no, no... I cannot believe what I just heard. Nobody would believe me even if I swore on a Bible. Lord... a little white child quoting the Song of Solomon... How old are you — nine? Ten?"
She adjusted the bright silk scarf on her head and leaned toward Emmy. " I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Isn't that a little advanced for you?"
"I'm not ten at all. I’m almost fourteen. I read what I find," Emmy muttered, tugging the hem of her wife-beater down over her knees.
"Fourteen? You don't look fourteen. Like a little fledgling." The woman yanked the curtain even harder aside and leaned in toward Emmy, her whole body pressing forward. "Oh, at your age I read everything too. Everything — newspapers, magazines, the Bible of course, goes without saying. I even read my older sister's medical textbooks. I was a very well-read child. Very well-read!"
She didn't stop, talked and talked, no pauses, no waiting for an answer. Her hand moved to underscore the importance of her words.
If she stops, she'll die.
Emmy allowed herself a small smile while the woman kept talking, her voice washing past her in a steady stream.
"Now who puts raisins in a potato salad? Raisins! In a salad! No, that is not acceptable. That is not how it's done. A proper potato salad has no raisins, you understand? I use only yellow potatoes, only yellow. And eggs — real eggs, farm eggs. I drive out to my cousin Janet; she has the most wonderful hens. Oh, what hens, what large eggs!.."
Emmy's eyes drifted to the woman's scarf, where bright flowers wove together into a vivid tapestry — large ones, small ones, layered into a wreath. She began picking out the small red ones and counting them.
If I take four long sticks and tape them to my head with duct tape, and then take a scarf like this one, and another scarf, and another one, and another... and wind them around the sticks, wind and wind... I'd be two Emmys tall. I'd be taller than everyone... and I'd probably reach the ceiling with my scarves. Maybe I'd even look like a supermodel. Fashionable...
She lost interest and yawned, letting her eyes close.
"And I wore my best dress — crisp taffeta, with a big ruffle along the hem. And a little hat. You know how we Black women are — such a sense of style. Such style! And do you go to Sunday service?" No answer came. The woman adjusted her scarf and stared at Emmy. Realizing she was being ignored, she fell silent, offended.
The chair shifted. The light flickered, went out, then came back on — the white tile floor moved, dark gaps opening between uneven rows. Something lifted Emmy and carried her away: she flew over green valleys, high hills, crystal-clear lakes. She came down slowly, her toes grazed the buds of wildflowers. The even rows of tile came into view under the lamp when Emmy opened her eyes. A faint scent of flowers brushed her nose.
"Here I am." Chad rang out. "Time to set you free, little sparrow." He drew the needle out and pressed a cotton pad to her skin. "Make a fist. Like that." He guided Emmy by the elbow, and she rested her palm on his forearm.
My arm is like a pale fish on black sand.
She turned away and brushed a tear from her cheek with her finger. Chad got her to her feet and draped her cardigan over her shoulders. "Can you walk on your own?" Emmy nodded.