Daytona Beach, Florida
November 5, 1936
I step over the threshold of my house, thinking that if I could hug my home, I would. Since the campaign season began for President Roosevelt’s reelection, I haven’t been home for more than two consecutive days. When the president won less than forty-eight hours ago, I’m not sure if I was more excited for his victory or the chance to hop on the first train heading south.
“Welcome home,” Mrs. Brown says, coming from the kitchen to greet me. “Albert will be so glad to see you. He tried his best to stay home from school today.”
I laugh. “I’m sure. But he’ll be here in a little while.”
She nods. “I’ll take your bag upstairs.” She pauses as she lifts my valise. “I sure wanted to make all of your favorites for dinner. Are you certain you want to go out?”
“You know if it were up to me, I’d be sitting right there,” I say, pointing to my dining room table. “But I promised Albert he could have anything he wanted, and he said he wanted to have dinner with me and his father at Hattie’s, so . . .” I shrug.
Mrs. Brown laughs. “He just loves her pies. Well, I’ll have a big breakfast waiting for you in the morning.”
I spend long, languorous moments strolling through the living room, glancing at the latest edition of Life magazine, then moving into the dining room and smiling at my reflection in the sparkling glass of the hutch. Finally, I enter the kitchen, which is Mrs. Brown’s domain. Even though I rarely come in here, I am proud of this space just the same, especially my stove with the built-in slow cooker.
Settling in the living room, I make a mental note of all I have to do while I’m home. Most pressing are my staff meetings at the college. Over the last few years, with the death of Mr. Gamble and the Depression, it’s been challenging to meet the college’s operating expenses, but I know, with God, I will find a way.
Then my latest project for the city needs attention. It’s been three years since Albert Jr. was chased off the beach, but since that time, I’ve identified two and a half miles of beachfront property, the investors are on board, and all that’s left is to select the architects and planners so the Bethune Beach project can move forward.
The front door opens, then shuts with a slam, and my fifteen-year-old grandson barrels in. “Mother Dear! I’m so happy to see you,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.
“I bet you I’m happier than you are.” I squeeze him back. It isn’t lost on me that my grandson is now part of the very demographic for which I’m working so hard in my position with the NYA. But while Albert is chronologically a member, he is not financially. My work and my prayer are to give others the kinds of opportunities I’ve been able to give him.
“Dad said for us to meet him at Miss Hattie’s. I can’t wait.” He pulls me toward the door.
“Okay. Let me get my pocketbook.”
As I grab my bag, Albert hands me my cane. “Don’t forget this. I want everyone to know that Mother Dear is back!”
Hattie’s is less than a mile away. A stroll to her restaurant is a special joy on afternoons like this, when the temperature is at least twenty degrees higher than what I left behind in Washington, D.C. But only a few minutes into our traipse, I find myself struggling to breathe. It’s only because he hasn’t stopped chatting that Albert doesn’t notice. By the time we reach Hattie’s, I’m perspiring and exhausted.
When Albert Sr. hugs me in greeting, he steps back and stares. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” I say, although I sit down quickly. “I just haven’t had a walk like that in a while.”
I manage to deflect my son’s attention by focusing on Albert Jr., and the three of us spend our time laughing at my grandson’s stories about school and his football team. My son is in a buoyant mood. Bethune Funeral Home, which has only been open for a few months, is prospering. He’s finally found his place as an entrepreneur.
The biggest blessing is that our talk never turns to politics. Albert has been dismayed with my new alliance with the Democratic Party. On my last trip home, we had quite a disagreement, although the conversation was mostly one-sided. Albert was apoplectic: “How can you switch to the Democratic Party when they have a history of senators who’ve served as the grand dragons of the KKK? I’m just glad my grandparents aren’t alive to see your betrayal.”
His words would have hurt if I didn’t know much better. My parents and grandmother would be proud of my work. And one day, my son will be, too.
Our dinner is interrupted more than a few times as neighbors stop by. I chat with everyone until I feel like I’m losing my voice and I’m ready to go home. Outside, I’m grateful that Albert drove so we won’t have to walk. When my son drops us off at home, I send my grandson to his room to do his homework and I rest on the sofa, wondering why I’m so winded when I only walked from the car to the front door. Must be the schedule I’ve been keeping.
I lean back, but before I can collar a nod, Mrs. Brown comes into the living room. “Mrs. Bethune, you have a long-distance call from Washington.”
Retreating to my office, I pick up the telephone’s receiver. “Hello?”
“Mary!” a deep male voice with a hint of Southern twang calls out.
“This is Mrs. Bethune,” I say, frowning. “To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Steve Woodburn.” His press secretary’s tone is filled with arrogance, suggesting that I should know who he is from his voice.
Why on earth is he calling me?
This is not a man I want to speak to. Louis Howe died last spring, leaving a grieving president and First Lady. Since that time, Steve Woodburn has been wreaking havoc. Even when Eleanor and I were trying to help the president’s campaign and suggested dispatching several Federal Council members to give speeches, Woodburn stopped that. “The campaign doesn’t have the money for that kind of undertaking,” he lied. Eleanor had to find separate funding for our travels.
“Mary, I need to—” Woodburn starts.
I interrupt him. “Excuse me, Mr. Woodburn. But have we ever been formally introduced?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so, but—”
I interrupt him again. “Therefore, I would prefer to be called”—I pause—“Dr. Bethune.” My tone is firm.
“Doctor?” He chuckles. “Well, in the South, we aren’t that formal—Mary.”
I inhale, recognizing his words for the slight they’re meant to be. I swallow the words I really want to say, then I give him a proper response. “Mr. Woodburn, if we knew each other better, it might be proper for you to call me Mary and me to call you Steve. But until then, this call is not appropriate.” Without another word, I end the telephone call, rise from my desk, and return to my sofa.
I’m just about to get comfortable when the telephone rings again. I wait and begin counting in my head. Before I get to thirty, Mrs. Brown comes into the living room.
“You have another call from Washington, D.C.”
Rise above, I say to myself as I return to my office. “Good evening,” I say, as if I don’t know who’s on the other end.
“Uh . . . Dr. Bethune,” Woodburn says, not apologizing, although he seems to have learned the lesson. “If you have a moment, there are a few things of an urgent nature.” And then, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to risk my hanging up again, he rushes to add, “It’s about your upcoming Negro conference.”
As intended, now he has my attention. “What do you need to discuss with such urgency about my National Conference on the Problems of the Negro and Negro Youth?”
“There are two things associated with your conference that will have to be changed. First, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’ve been counseling the First Lady so that she appears more positive in the press.” I have to hold back a snort of laughter. Eleanor would never allow herself to be “counseled” by Steve Woodburn. “And one of the things we must do is limit her appearances to only those that will enhance and improve her image.”
Even though I understand the terrible insult in his words, again I bite back what I really want to say. “That is wonderful, Mr. Woodburn. Thank you for letting me know, and I’ll make sure the press gets plenty of photos of Mrs. Roosevelt as she’s giving the keynote address at my conference.”
“Uh, Mary . . . I mean, Dr. Bethune. You don’t understand. I’ve determined your conference is not the best use of the First Lady’s time. She is the First Lady of the United States, after all.”
I half expect him to finish the sentence with another insult, like and therefore she cannot be at your little Negro conference. “This is interesting, Mr. Woodburn. When Mrs. Roosevelt and I discussed her attendance, the First Lady of the United States thought it was a wonderful use of her time,” I say, no longer having the patience for this insulting waste of my time. “I’ll speak to the First Lady, and someone will get back to you.”
“There’s really no need for you to speak to her,” he rushes to say. “I can handle everything from this end.”
Ah, just as I thought. Eleanor has no idea of this call.
“There is no need for you to handle anything that is my business, Mr. Woodburn. I’ll speak to Mrs. Roosevelt for clarification, because your statements contradict her earlier representations. But I thank you for your call.” I slam the receiver onto the cradle.
Squeezing my fists, I feel the fury rise within me. And this is only a tiny fraction of Woodburn’s insidiousness. Eleanor and I will have to be better prepared. Tonight, however, I do have some solace. I picture Mr. Woodburn still staring at the receiver in his hand, listening to the static of our disconnected telephone call.