She Wears the Mask

By Shelly Stratton

Gripping and moving, She Wears the Mask is a novel about two women from two very different worlds, both burdened with secrets from their pasts, who form an unexpected bond...

1950s Chicago: Angelique Bixby coul

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lashell Stratton-Childers
• Release date: Jun 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999379226

Shelly Stratton

Shelly Stratton is an award-winning journalist who earned her degree at the University of Maryland, College Park. Another Woman’s Man, her novel written under the pseudonym Shelly Ellis, was nominated for a 2014 NAACP Image Award. A film buff and amateur painter, she lives with her husband not far from Washington, D.C. Visit her online at www.shellyellisbooks.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Angelique

November 9, 1950

Chicago, Illinois

She will never get used to the sound of the L train.

Angelique realizes this for the umpteenth time as the train thunders above her and she ducks her head and clutches the collar of her wool coat in a white-knuckled grip with one hand. While crossing the street under the train tracks, she doesn’t look up—too frightened to witness its passage. She focuses her runny eyes instead on the puddles of melting snow where the halogen lights from bars and the late-night delicatessen glow. Her eyes then drift to the bundle in the basket she holds.

Hearing the steady click-clack of the train wheels, the seismic rattle of metal beams, and the whoosh of air as it passes will never become background noise to her, no matter how long she lives in the Windy City to some or Chi-Town to others—but it did for Daniel. He laughed at her the first time she cringed when the train passed their bedroom window.

Look at you, he drawled that first night they slept in their apartment. It’s just a train, sugar. It can’t hurt you none.

But what did Daniel know? Even though he’d grown up on the alfalfa fields of North Carolina with dirt under his nails and the sweet stench of manure in his nostrils, he’d been a city boy at heart. The L was practically a Mama’s lullaby, lulling him to sleep at night, while it became her torturer, yanking her awake every time her eyelids would drift closed.

When she did sleep, the train would haunt her dreams—those hungry steel wheels gnashing at the tracks, sending up sparks into the dark night. Her mind’s eye would see the train barreling at high speeds over Logan Square, Hyde Park, and Chinatown, like it was searching for her, leaving quaking windows in its wake.

She dreamed of standing with other commuters waiting to head Uptown, only to have someone accidentally shove her. She’d go tumbling off the platform, onto the train track, and get hit by the L, yelling for help as she watched it approach. She dreamed of Daniel riding on his way to work at the stockyards, and one of the train cars would derail and go careening to the busy street twenty feet below. She would wake up screaming, and Daniel would wrap her in his strong arms, pull her close, and let her tremble in his embrace.

After a while, she started to sleep with a pillow over her head to finally get some rest, hoping to drown out the sound of the train at night. Unfortunately, it also drowned out their baby’s cries. Daniel had to shake her awake and tug the pillow from her head a few times.

She’s hungry, sugar, he would say, bringing their baby girl to her.

She would turn onto her back, prop the pillow behind her, tiredly undo the ribbons of her night gown, and lower the infant to her tender breast, yawning and staring out the window at the passing of the L as she nursed.

Ultimately, Daniel would be proven right. It wasn’t the train she should’ve feared, but the street car. That’s what took her man away in the end. The sound of the trolley bell would be the harbinger of death for him, not the screech of train wheels.

She gives a bleak, dark chuckle at the irony as the L finally . . . mercifully passes overhead, leaving behind the distant sound of rattling metal and fluttering newspapers. She can hear her baby girl, Emma Jean, crying now and see her squirming in the basket at her side, making it hard not to drop the basket and the baby from her sore fingers. She holds fast though, and continues to walk in the cold and through the melting snow. Her leather shoes—one of her few remaining pairs—are covered in rubber booties, but the booties have holes in them. The shoes are now damp and she suspects her feet are starting to freeze. Her toes are stinging like they’re being poked by tiny needles. She wonders if she will develop gangrene, but she doesn’t stop to check her feet. She’s already walked this far. May as well keep going.

Hey, lady! What you doin’ out here with that baby? a voice slurs, startling her and making her pause for the first time.

Angelique turns to her right to find a figure lurking in a doorway. An old Negro man with weathered skin stumbles out of the shadows like someone has given him a hard shove. He clutches a half pint of Old Forrester in his dirty hand. He’s wearing several layers of clothing, all of which are either shredded, riddled with holes, or covered with stains. The rank smell of alcohol, body odor, and urine drifts from him like an atomic cloud. He narrows his bloodshot eyes at her.

She stares back at him, tugging the basket close to her side, but she doesn’t respond. She turns back around and starts walking again.

Cain’t you hear that baby cryin’? he shouts drunkenly after her and she starts to walk faster. Shouldn’t be out here in the cold with no baby no way! Take it inside!

When she nears the end of the block, she is almost at a run, jostling the infant in the basket and making her cry louder.

Crazy cracker wench! his voice howls against the growing wind.

Angelique is finally a block away. She stops at an empty wooden bench to regain her breath. She sets the wicker basket on the bench, sits beside it, and takes out Emma Jean. She holds her against her chest, cooing to her and rocking her softly. Emma Jean is no more than a little round face engulfed in blankets under the street light. Big brown, watery eyes gaze up at her. After a few minutes, the wails quail to whimpers and the whimpers die down to hiccups. Emma Jean’s eyes close. Long dark lashes like her daddy’s sweep her cheeks. Eventually, Emma Jean quiets, asleep again.

This is when Angelique begins to lose her nerve, feeling the familiar warmth of her baby girl against her body, seeing Emma Jean slumber so blissfully in her arms.

Her vision begins to blur as the tears well. She sniffs and a nose that was already chapped red from the chill and the wind, becomes even redder.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this, she whimpers, shakily rising to her feet, leaving the basket on the bench. She lurches back toward the corner with Emma Jean, and sees the outline of the drunken bum leaning against a brick wall, watching her from a distance like a specter in the dark.

Seeing him again, she suddenly remembers the empty shelves in the kitchenette cabinets back at her apartment and the icebox filled with one block of cheese and a bottle of milk that is about to go bad. She remembers the Rent Due notice tacked to her front door. And she remembers that she can’t return to her plush sales girl job thanks to Mr. Mullan. She probably will never be able to show her face, let alone work anywhere at the posh stores on State Street again. Odd jobs at night clubs and seedy bars won’t keep her and Emma Jean from starving. She could very well find herself on the street like that bum. She must move on and start all over again, but her baby girl will not be able to move on with her. Emma Jean does not fit into her life anymore. Not after the mess she’s made of it. That is why she is here to procure her daughter a new life—a better one.

She lowers the infant back into the basket, nestling her in the soft blankets, careful not to wake her again. She adjusts the envelope beside the baby, the one containing a note, a picture of Daniel, looking dapper in his Army uniform, and a lock of her own hair.

Angelique blinks through her tears and starts walking again, continuing to her destination.

It is almost 2 o’clock in the morning when she arrives. The block is quiet and the houses are palatial with their blend of Romanesque and Queen Anne architecture. They are much nicer than the dingy, rickety tenements where she lives. Their spires along the exteriors stand out like little stone castles against the clear night sky.

She stares at the numbers along the doors, looking for the right address. Her feet are no longer stinging now; they are almost numb—two icy blocks that clomp beneath her. Her arm is tired, too. She has to use both hands to carry the basket.

She finally spots the right number in bronze along one of the doors, and when she does, she stays rooted in place. It takes a few seconds to find the will to climb the stone steps. When she reaches the top, she searches for a doorbell, but finds none. Instead, she sits down the basket and bangs the brass knocker: a lion’s head that roars silently at her. Nothing happens. She bangs again and waits for a light to flicker on in the window beside the front door, but she sees none. She hesitates and glances down at the basket.

What if no one’s home?

Angelique had not considered this scenario. She had imagined this moment a hundred times, envisioning knocking on the front door or ringing a doorbell. Someone would answer—perhaps a young maid or an elderly housekeeper—and she would be down the stairs before they could even see her, before they could figure out who had left the baby behind. But she had not imagined that no one would answer at all.

She cannot leave her baby here and hope that someone will open the door and spot the basket in the morning. The baby could die in this cold. She glances at the basket again, accepting the possibility that she may very well have to carry it and Emma Jean back to her apartment.

Then what will I do? she whispers.

But suddenly, a light does flicker on behind the lace curtains. She blinks and rushes to the stone steps, her heart thumping like a snare drum in her chest. She jogs down the stairs, almost slipping on a patch of black ice along the way, but she makes it to the sidewalk and behind the stairs of a neighboring house by the time the door swings open.

A young maid does not answer the door or an elderly housekeeper, but a tall Negro man in a navy blue robe. He squints at the silent street, adjusting a pair of spectacles on his nose.

Angelique recognizes him instantly. He is the man in the newspapers, the reverend who spoke out against the covenants barring Negroes from living anywhere outside of the Black Belt on the South Side. He’d received death threats for his frankness.

Now that is a fella with some metal, I’ll tell ya’, Daniel said with a nod, jabbing at a page in The Chicago Defender as he read her the news story while she cooked dinner months ago.

And that was a man she knew she could entrust with the welfare of her baby girl.

She watches as a bright-skinned Negro woman who looks to be in her late 30s pushes past the reverend and points frantically to the ground. The woman’s head is hallowed by a nest of pinned rollers. She is also wearing a robe—pink and satin with lace around the high collar. The woman stoops and scoops the baby into her arms, making her wail again.

She tries to soothe Emma Jean, bouncing her up and down, while saying something to the reverend.

Viewing them from a distance, Angelique wants to shout to the woman not to bounce the baby quite so hard.

Rock her! Don’t bounce her up and down like that! She likes to be rocked! she wants to yell, cupping her hands around her mouth. But she fights the urge.

The reverend reaches down and grabs the basket. He tugs out the envelope and rips it open, and she hopes that he hasn’t ripped the note, too—the last thing she will ever say to her baby girl. The note is still intact. He is reading it as the couple takes the baby and the basket inside.

They shut the door behind them, and a deep, dark hole opens up beneath her. Angelique falls into it. She doesn’t bother to claw at the edges; she knows she will never get out.

Angelique stares at the closed door for a long time until the interior light goes out. She finally turns around to make her way back to the L, back toward home to get the sleep she suspects will never come.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? she whispers to herself as she walks, choking back sobs, sending puffs of breath into the frigid night air. The wind dries her tears.

In the morning she will head to Union Station and board another train to a destination she has not yet determined, praying that she has done the right thing tonight, that she has done right by her Emma Jean.

Chapter 2

Jasmine

August 12, 1994

Alexandria, Virginia

"Cam? Baby, are you going to let this beeping go on forever?" I shouted as I hopped into the kitchen like some deranged bunny rabbit with one patent leather pump dangling from my foot and the other foot bare. I dropped the shoe to the floor, letting it clatter against custom-made Spanish tile that was badly in need of a good mopping. But I didn’t have time to mop it, and mopping wasn’t exactly my husband Cameron’s forte, so dusty it would remain.

I slipped my bare foot inside my pump and paused to adjust my shoulder pads in my blazer.

The damn things were going to be a nuisance all day—I could tell. I wondered if I should just change into one of my Ralph Lauren blazers instead. Maybe the red one with the black lapels?

Or maybe not, I thought.

I didn’t want to walk into work with a gold Ralph Lauren crest and crown on my breast pocket and gold buttons on the sleeves, looking like a gauche label whore, a shameless climber who didn’t know any better. I could only imagine what the associates or partners at Winthrop, Ferguson, and McGruder would think, the judgement they would convey with the quirking of an eyebrow or the twisting of a lip. No, thank you. I’d wear this blazer.

Decision made.

"Huh? What did you say, Jaz?" Cameron called back to me distractedly.

He was reclining at our kitchen table with his feet propped up on one of the chairs, biting into a slice of buttered English muffin and staring at our living room widescreen television—a television that I believed was too big for the room and had said as much when we purchased it from the electronic store. It had taken three delivery guys to bring it in, shouting to one another in Spanish as they hoisted it up the three flights to our condo. It now sat against the farthest wall, hording almost as much square footage as our sofa.

I reached out to press the black button on our coffee maker, finally silencing its insistent beep.

I asked, I shouted over the blare of the television while opening one of the overhead oak cabinets and removing a coffee mug, if you were going to let the coffee maker beep forever. It’s been doing it for the past five minutes!

Forever isn’t five minutes, Jaz, Cam murmured, taking another bite of his English muffin, still watching the morning news.

I burst into laughter and removed the decanter, pouring myself a cup of French roast, skipping the cream and sugar. Oh, are we getting technical on me? I glanced at the wicker basket on the counter and considered the fruit inside, but I decided against a banana breakfast. Is that the note we’re starting on this morning, Mr. Stanley?

If you don’t want me to get technical, Mrs. Stanley, you shouldn’t have married an engineer.

I watched as he raised the remote to change the channel to another news station when a commercial came on screen.

I wasn’t offended by Cam’s sarcasm, even though it was as dry as the Sahara Desert; I was used to it. Without it, he wouldn’t be my Cameron, just a cactus shorn of its protective needles.

I rolled my eyes and walked to the kitchen table. I kissed his dark brow along the hairline. You’re lucky you’re cute, my friend. I wiped away any traces of my red lipstick from his mahogany-hued skin and playfully pinched his cheek. It’s the only reason why I put up with all that mouth. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside him.

It’s not the only reason. He winked and gave a suggestive eyebrow wiggle, making me roll my eyes again and slap his shoulder. He leaned over and kissed my cheek as I sipped from my coffee mug and gazed at the television screen, too, watching as a perky weather girl pointed to an angry nest of red and orange pixelated clouds in the Midwest.

The truth was I’d dated and married Cam not because of his prowess in the bedroom, which was notable compared to the other guys I’d dated but not exceptional, though I’d never tell him that. I’d married him because he’d been able to do what no other man had done in my life: Be an equal. Many guys had tried over the years, from the smooth-talking impresarios of the rough neighborhoods of my childhood, to the business-card-wielding lawyers I’d met at meet-and-greets where flirty professionals sized up each other over glasses of merlot and chardonnay. But all those boys and men had seen the gleam in my eyes as I talked about my classes, the law, my job, and my goals, and eventually begged off. I didn’t blame them. They’d either known instantly or gradually concluded I would refuse to be sidetracked by sex, love, babies, or any other obstacles that the average person considered part of the natural course of life.

When it came to girlfriends, I wasn’t a starter kit; I was the experimental model that a few had tinkered with, and most were too scared to even try.

Cam had been different though. From that night four years ago when we’d met on a blind date at an Italian bistro downtown, I’d realized he was a contender—a man who could match me in ambition, wit, and passion. I never had to explain late nights at the firm to Cam. I didn’t have to apologize for skipped vacations and holiday dinners when I got paged and disappeared to make an important business call. He didn’t complain about being dragged to boring networking events and the law office’s cocktail parties or annual picnics. He was striver just like I was, though he had grown up a lot higher up the ladder than me.

Cam was the son of an internist and retired school teacher. The first time he took me home to meet his parents, I realized just how much money they had. His family lived in a 4,500 square-foot home in Potomac, Maryland, surrounded by golf courses and lakes filled with ducks and Canadian geese. But just because he was a rich boy, it didn’t mean Cam rested on laurels. He hustled at his engineering firm where he worked just as hard as I did at my law firm. He was already being considered for a vice president position even though he was only 33.

I sipped the last of my coffee, pushed up the sleeve of my blazer, and stared wide-eyed at my watch. Damn, baby, I’ve gotta go! I’m going to be late, I said, shoving back my chair from the table.

By late you mean thirty minutes before everyone else, he muttered wryly.

More of that mouth! I shouted over my shoulder, setting my coffee cup in the stainless steel sink and quickly rinsing it out. You know I get there thirty minutes early to make a good impression!

I know, he said as he continued to gaze at the television, still chewing his English muffin. It’s why I’m with a lawyer. It looks good on my resume.

Oh, shut up! I cried playfully before racing out of the kitchen and down the hall to our condo’s front door. Call you later, baby! Have a good day!

Knock ‘em dead, Jaz! he called back to me as I shut the front door behind me.

I glanced at my reflection as I opened the glass double doors leading to the waiting area of the law offices, adjusting my collar and flashing my pearly whites, making sure no lipstick marred my teeth. I stepped onto the plush rug in the lobby, glancing up at the two-story ceilings and antique finishes that included heavy velvet curtains and brass wall sconces. I nodded in greeting to Deidre, the receptionist.

Morning, I chirped to Deidre’s bowed head.

The older woman stopped typing and slowly looked up at me over the tops of her red-rimmed glasses. She pursed her lips. Mornin’, she drawled with tepid enthusiasm before taking a sip of coffee and returning her attention to her keyboard.

Well, OK then, I thought.

I had long ago learned to ignore Deidre’s aloofness, though the older woman seemed to only behave that way with me and not any of the other associates or partners. At first, it had been disconcerting that the only other black woman who worked in our building not only seemed to not like me, but also seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with me.

Maybe she’s jealous, Cam had postulated one day over a dinner of General Tso chicken and white rice when I’d lamented to him about Deidre. I mean . . . you’re a big time associate at a law firm with your whole life ahead of you. Meanwhile, she’s manning a receptionist desk, answering telephones in her fifties. I’d be jealous if I were her, too!

I didn’t know if Cam was right about Deidre, but I guessed I would just have to accept his explanation. I raised my chin, turned away from the standoffish older woman, walked across the waiting area, and headed to the polished cherry wood staircase.

Winthrop, Ferguson, and McGruder prided itself on not looking like the typical sleek, chrome, and black marble offices of the lobbying firms on the other side of the Potomac River. Over there, the glass-enclosed buildings seemed to jockey for space and superiority on K Street like the lawyers inside. Here on North Patrick, their law offices exterior with its brick, ivy, and white shutters, could easily be mistaken for one of the many historic mansions dotting the scenic street.

Though the firm’s client list included multi-millionaires, senators, ambassadors, government contractors, and the like, the partners went to great lengths to retain the old Southern charm of the firm by keeping the number of associates relatively small with a roster of less than 30 lawyers, and keeping the historic character of their main office intact.

I knew the partners liked to tell clients the landmark had once been a tavern patronized by the likes of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, creating visions of men in powdered wigs and white-stockings secretly plotting revolution against King George. But I’d heard that the building had really been a brothel. The only plotting that had gone on in these walls more than two hundred years ago had been done by the working girls wondering how to rid their customers of all their coins before the night was done.

I mounted the last stair and walked down the hall toward my office, passing a few opened doors along the way.

Good morning, I called to Leonard McGruder, one of the partners, as I passed his doorway.

Leonard usually arrived even earlier than I did, in the wee hours of morning before the first hint of dawn was on the horizon. He also stayed late every night, though as a partner he wasn’t expected to put in those long hours anymore. I had to admire his work ethic, though I’d heard it had cost him two marriages and a considerable amount of alimony in bitter divorces.

The balding man turned away from his computer screen and dropped his glasses to his chest, letting them dangle from a black strap around his neck. He smiled.

Morning, Jasmine! How’ve you been? he asked, leaning back in his swivel chair, squinting blue eyes up at me.

I halted in the doorway.

I hadn’t planned to stop to chat with Leonard. Even though I was always eager to earn brownie points with the partners, my interactions with him were usually awkward.

I’m good! I said, trying to make an attempt at conversation. Had a busy weekend, but I got a lot done. And you?

Same. Same, he said, nodding thoughtfully.

We stared at one another in silence. I pivoted on my two-inch heels and cleared my throat, not knowing what else to say. Finally, I waved goodbye.

Well, I’d better get to my office. I’ve got a call that I’ve—

He shot up his hand. Uh, Jasmine, hold it a sec! Will you?

I paused. My forced smile shifted briefly before I pulled it back into place.

He reached for a ballpoint pen on his desk and began to twirl it around and around. He then abruptly dropped it to his desk calendar with a clatter. All the days on the calendar were covered in blue and red ink and highlighter. When you have a break today, can you stop by my office again? I’d like to speak with you about something.

Something? I repeated, cocking my head and stealthily adjusting one of my shoulder pads.

What could this something be? If one of the partners asked to speak with a junior associate personally, it was either extraordinarily good news or extraordinarily bad news. My mind went through a catalog of things I had done last week—phone calls I’d made, cases I’d reviewed, and faxes I’d sent. Had I done something wrong?

Is everything all right, Leo? I asked.

He laughed. Everything is fine! Nothing’s wrong! Don’t worry. I just have a . . . well, a matter I’d like to discuss with you. It’s a simple request. It shouldn’t take too much of your time.

Oh . . . oh, then, sure! I can do that. I’ll stop by say . . . 10 o’clock, if that works for you. I should have a break by then.

Works perfectly! Thank you, Jasmine.

I nodded goodbye and then stepped back into the hall. When I arrived at my office door, I opened it and exhaled after flicking a switch to turn on the lights. I set my briefcase onto the oak console near the door.

My office was one of the smaller ones in the building, but it had one of the best views, in my opinion, thanks to a window facing

Reviews for She Wears the Mask

[mishker-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Angelique Bixby is braving the streets of 1950's Chicago.  After her husband Daniel's death Angelique has had trouble supporting herself and newborn, Ella Jean.  Living on Chicago's South Side as a white woman married to a black man has not been easy.  Feeling she has no other choice, Angelique leaves her child with a respected family and tries to move on with life.  Years later, Angelique has remarried into a family of privilege.  She has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer and wants to amend her  will to include the daughter she left behind.  Angelique hires Jasmine Stanley, an ambitious, rising star at her law firm.  Jasmine's has been asked to keep strict confidentiality with Angelique's task.  At first, Jasmine believes that Angelique is another stuck up debutante, however as she digs into Angelique's past, she realizes that they are more alike than they seem; both women hold onto life altering secrets.She Wears the Mask is a story about secrets, identity and family.  The characters were well developed and I could feel the heartbreak as Angelique made the most difficult decision of her life as well as the emotional weight of the secret Jasmine carried.  The writing skillfully worked across dual timelines divulging bits of Angelique's history as we learn about her present circumstance as well as unraveling the history of pain in Jasmine's family without giving everything away early on. I do wish we got to see a little more of Angelique's story at the end. Along with the themes of reconciling the past are themes of  gender, race and the perceptions and weight that the color of your skin can carry.  Overall, She Wears the Mask is an intense and absorbing plot and interesting characters.This book was received for free in return for an honest review.