She was leaving. She was going back to the Y.W.C.A., back to St. Mark’s A.M.E. Church, back to Gwendolyn, back to Benson. She wouldn’t stay here and have that child grow up to call her “black mammy.” Just because she was black was no reason why she was going to let some yellow nigger use her. At once she was all activity. Putting Alva Junior’s nightgown on, she laid him back into his crib and left him there crying while she packed her trunk and suitcase. Then, asking the woman in the next room to watch him until she returned, she put on her hat and coat and started for the Y.W.C.A., making plans for the future as she went.
Halfway there she decided to telephone Benson. It had been seven months now since she had seen him, seven months since, without a word of warning or without leaving a message, she had disappeared, telling only Gwendolyn where she was going. While waiting for the operator to establish connections, she recalled the conversation she and Gwendolyn had had at the time, recalled Gwendolyn’s horror and disgust on hearing what Emma Lou planned doing, recalled . . . some one was answering the ‘phone. She asked for Benson, and in a moment heard his familiar:
“Hello.”
“Hello, Benson, this is Emma Lou.” There was complete silence for a moment, then:
“Emma Lou?” he dinned into her ear. “Well, where
