Chapter 1
Aileen Jackson pressed her palms against the ironing board, steam hissing as she flattened the collar of a man’s dress shirt. Her knuckles ached. Outside, kids chased a dented soda can down the cracked sidewalk, laughter sharp against the low hum of Jefferson Avenue. She didn’t look up. The scent of simmering collard greens and cornbread clung to her small kitchen, warm and heavy like a blanket.
Her mother’s voice drifted from the next room, tired but firm. "You finish that, baby? Mrs. Abernathy’s expecting her blouses by five." Aileen nodded, though Mama couldn’t see. She slid the iron across the fabric, slow and precise. Every crease had to vanish. White folks noticed wrinkles faster than they noticed a Black woman’s tired eyes.
A car door slammed out front—Betty’s old Chevy, rattling to a stop. Aileen set the iron upright. Her best friend’s footsteps pounded up the porch stairs, quick and familiar. The screen door screeched open. "Girl, you won’t believe what Winnie heard down at the diner," Betty burst out, her curls bouncing. She fanned herself with a rolled-up newspaper. "Mr. High-and-Mighty Smith’s son is back from Europe. Parading through the office like he owns the air."
Aileen wiped her hands on her apron. Starch dusted her wrists. She pictured Ronald Smith: cold blue eyes, that slick blond hair, the way he’d once glanced right through her in the company elevator. Her jaw tightened. "Let him parade," she said, turning back to the ironing board. The heat bit her skin as she gripped the handle. "Rich white boys always do." Outside, a distant police siren wailed, slicing through the children’s laughter.
She gasps at the time, grabbing the stack of pressed shirts. "Lord, Mama, I gotta run these to the Abernathys before the Smith's meeting." The blouses feel heavy in her arms, starched perfection that won't earn a thank you. Betty follows her onto the porch, the late afternoon sun baking the concrete. "You be careful round that office today, hear? Ronald Smith ain't just parading – word is he's taking over procurement."
Aileen hurries down the street, past Mrs. Johnson's beauty parlor smelling of burning hair and Dixie Peach, past old Mr. Pettigrew whittling on his stoop. Her patent-leather pumps click a frantic rhythm on the pavement. She cuts through the alley shortcut, garbage cans overflowing in the heat, the smell of decay thick in her throat. At the service entrance of Smith & Sons Textiles, she smooths her skirt and pushes through the swinging door.
The service elevator groaned upward, its rattling cage filled with the starch-stiff blouses Aileen carried. She emerged into the executive hallway just as old Mr. Smith’s voice boomed from the open conference room. "Effective immediately, my son Ronald assumes oversight of procurement." Polished leather shoes scraped the marble floor as white men rose in applause. Aileen lingered near the doorjamb, watching the Black staff clustered at the back—cooks, cleaners, junior clerks—exchange tight-lipped glances. "Daddy’s boy, Daddy's money" she muttered under her breath, the words bitter as burnt coffee. The crowd dispersed like oil separating from water; the whites to mahogany offices, her people down the narrow stairs to the windowless basement room where the air hung thick and sour.
Betty fanned herself with a ledger, sweat beading above her lip. "Heard that new foreman call Jimmy ‘boy’ again today." Aileen didn’t look up from her typewriter, fingers flying over keys. "White men got dictionaries full of insults," she replied, the clack-clack-clack punctuating her sentence. The room hummed with low curses and the scrape of chairs—ten Black women processing invoices under a single buzzing bulb. Hours bled together in the heat, the only breeze coming from the door whenever someone left to fetch water. When Aileen’s bladder clenched, she hurried upstairs, only to freeze at the gleaming "Ladies" room door. A pale hand tapped her shoulder. "Colored facilities are out back, dear," a secretary chirped, already turning away.
The "colored" restroom was a converted storage closet behind the loading dock, reeking of diesel and mildew. Aileen’s heels sank into gravel as she half-ran the distance. Inside, a single bulb flickered above a cracked sink. No soap. No towels. She dried her hands on her skirt, the coarse cotton scratching her palms. By the time she sprinted back, her blouse stuck to her spine. "Takes half your shift just to pee in this place," she hissed, collapsing at her desk. The women nodded, their silence heavier than any agreement.
Twilight painted the sky bruised purple when Aileen finally pulled up to the Smiths’ Georgian mansion. Her mother’s shift should’ve ended an hour ago. She knocked, shifting her weight in her worn pumps. The door swung open to reveal Ronald, sleeves rolled up, a highball glass in hand. His eyes narrowed briefly. "Can I help you?" She kept her voice flat. "Here for my mother, sir." He studied her—the damp hairline, the stubborn set of her jaw—then stepped aside. "She’s in the kitchen." Aileen’s suspicion flared at the unexpected courtesy. As her mother gathered her coat, Ronald lingered in the foyer archway, his gaze thoughtful, distant. Not cruel. Not kind. Just watching.
The drive home was thick with silence. Aileen gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pale. "He let you go late again?" Her mother sighed, rubbing her temples. "Mrs. Smith wanted the silver polished twice. Said it looked dull." Aileen’s jaw tightened. The streetlights flickered past, casting long shadows on the dashboard. "Betty says Ronald’s taking procurement. Watch yourself around him." Her mother’s hand covered hers briefly. "He ain’t like the others, baby. Remember Miss Clara? She raised him." Aileen snorted. "A white man raised by Black hands still bleeds white privilege." Her mother didn’t argue. The truth hung between them like smoke.
Saturday’s market buzzed with chatter and the tang of ripe peaches. Aileen sorted through okra, Betty beside her gossiping about Winnie’s new beau.
"What should I cook for dinner, Ma?" Aileen asked her mother, who inspected collards with a critical eye. "Them pork chops in the icebox need using," Mama replied. Aileen nodded, already planning the pepper gravy.
As she counted change into the vendor’s palm, her mother's hand tightened on her arm. "We need to have a talk at home, child." Aileen froze, the coins suddenly cold against her skin. Her mother’s eyes held a weight she hadn’t seen since the day Daddy died—a quiet dread that turned the market’s cheerful noise into distant static. Betty caught the shift instantly, her chatter dying mid-sentence. "Everything alright, Mrs. Jackson?" Mama just shook her head, her gaze fixed on Aileen. "Not here."
Back in their cramped kitchen, the pork chops forgotten on the counter, Mama leaned against the sink. The faucet dripped like a ticking clock. "Got word from Miss Clara this morning," she began, twisting her apron strings. Aileen’s breath hitched—Clara was the only white woman Mama trusted, the one who’d raised Ronald Smith. "Clara’s sick," Mama continued, her voice fraying at the edges. "Cancer. Doctors give her months." Aileen sank onto a chair, the news landing like a physical blow. Clara had been their lifeline, slipping them extra pay or medicine when times got lean. "She asked for you," Mama whispered. "Wants you to work the house with me, just for a little extra."
Aileen shot up, the chair scraping loud against linoleum. "In that house?" Her pulse hammered in her throat. Mama gripped her shoulders, fingers trembling. "Clara’s wages paid our rent when the factory cut hours. Fed you when I had nothing." Her eyes pleaded. "Three nights a week. Just ’til… just ’til she’s gone." Outside, children’s laughter floated through the screen door, absurdly bright against the silence thickening between them.
