Free Palace Council by Stephen L. Carter Page B

allure of her older sister, or, for that matter, of her brother. The day might come, she said, when she would marry, if she met the right man. If not, not. Her secret plan, the one she used to whisper to Eddie when they were yet small and she would crawl into his bed after midnight to talk, was that she would become the first Negro and the first woman to be elected President of the United States. Imagine, Junie would say, the changes we could make. She told no one but Eddie, because she knew her big sister would tease her and her parents would gently nod at the follies of the imagination, then pile upon her strong back a heavier burden of chores in order to give her something to do.
    At Christmas Eve dinner, before the late service at Wesley Senior’s church, the conversation was as thin as in any other year. Father and mother were shaking their heads over Representative Adam Clayton Powell’s surprise decision to support Eisenhower rather than the Democratic nominee, Adlai Stevenson, in the just-concluded election, for Powell, pastor of the largest church in Harlem, was at this time probably the most influential Negro in America. He had campaigned hard for the Republican President all across the country, drawing huge crowds. Eddie had no interest in politics. When Marcella brought up the year-old Montgomery bus boycott, which had ended just four days ago, following a ruling by the Supreme Court, her brother responded with vaguely remembered jargon from his courses at Amherst: the powerful were only fiddling with the superstructure, he said, hoping he had the terminology right. For the great mass of their people, nothing had changed.
    Wesley Senior eyed his son coldly. “Your attitude is inexcusable, Edward. A young man whose career is at last succeeding should view the world through the lens of gratitude, not cynicism.” This was the great pastor’s way of acknowledging the critical acclaim that greeted his only son’s first novel, published six months ago, for the family had never evolved a proper etiquette for expressing pride.
    In the general silence that followed, Junie surprised the table with the news that she had secured a clerkship with a federal district judge in Chicago. Nobody but Eddie knew what she meant. Nobody but Eddie congratulated her. Marie covered her mouth. Marcella, busy breaking up a dispute among her children, paid no attention. Her husband, Sheldon—known among the family as “the undertaker,” and the marriage itself inevitably “the undertaking”—turned mournful eyes Junie’s way as though measuring her for a casket: perhaps her madness might take a fatal turn. Wesley Senior vouchsafed his son a foul look, then grumped that they had spent far too much money paying tuition for his daughter to serve as a mere clerk. Actually they had not. The deacons each year took up a special collection for the amount of Junie’s tuition. There was never a shortfall. The congregation was large. Wesley Senior was much respected, and his family was much loved.
    Junie started to explain that judicial clerkships were few, and much sought after, opening the door to fantastic career possibilities, but her father ignored her. If she insisted on this law nonsense, said the pastor, she should at least get a serious job, working perhaps for one of the large firms in the city. Junie pointed out that few of them had ever hired a Negro lawyer. She doubted that even her forthcoming Harvard degree would change their attitudes. Her father colored. He did not want excuses, he said. He wanted results. Eddie objected that prejudice was fact, not excuse. Wesley Senior repeated a favorite story, about the Negro who went down to a radio station to apply for a job as an announcer. He failed. Asked why, the man said, “B-b-b-because I’m b-b-b-black.” Nobody laughed. Everyone had heard it too many times. One of Marcella’s daughters made the unfortunate choice of