An Excerpt from CORA’S KITCHEN by Kimberly Garrett Brown

May 16, 1928

A strange thing happened this afternoon at the Fitzgeralds’. I had started supper and settled into the alcove next to the window to work on the cardinal story. The words poured onto the page as if the pen had a mind of its own. I didn’t hear Eleanor come in. When she called my name, I jumped.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said as she unpinned her hat and laid it on the table. I closed the notebook and slid it into my apron pocket.
“I hope you don’t mind. I had some time while the roast was in the oven,” I said, standing up.
“Of course not. So, you write!” she said, as if it were a shock that a black woman could write. “I have always wanted to keep a journal, but I haven’t anything of interest to write about.” 
I opened the oven to check the meat. The room filled with the smell of baked onions and potatoes. The juices sizzled and popped against the edges of the pan. I had a spoonful up to my mouth when I realized Eleanor was watching me. She asked what I wrote about.
“People I grew up with back home,” I said, pouring the spoon of juice over the roast instead.
“Memories?”
“Stories.”
“Like the ones in Vanity Fair?” she asked.
“Nothing like that. Far from it,” I said, though I suppose it isn’t that far from it. A story is a story. But unfortunately, the editors haven’t changed since back in the days when I wanted Mama to write down her stories for the Ladies’ Home Journal. White editors still aren’t interested in a colored woman’s stories, because she is always going to be more colored than she will ever be a woman. They don’t believe white women have anything in common with colored women.
I moved around the kitchen to look busy while we talked. She asked how I got interested in writing. I told her my mother took me to the library as a girl and I fell in love with books.
“Cora, come sit down,” Eleanor said. “You’re making me nervous, flitting around the kitchen.”
I slid into the seat across from her. She leaned forward, her elbows propped on the table in front of her. Her green eyes were alert and bright, not like the day I found her in the dining room crying. “What did you think of The Awakening?” she asked.
The first thing that came to mind was how much I identified with Edna. But that felt much too personal to share, especially since I knew Eleanor was the type of person who always asked why. I didn’t want to have to explain why I thought being married was the same whether you’re colored or white. A woman is a woman. The only difference is a white woman has the luxury of her race and money.
“It made me think about how unfair life can be,” I said.
“I know exactly what you mean. Men get to make their own choices. Why should a woman have to live a prescribed life because of her sex?” she asked.
Or a Negro because of the color of his or her skin, I thought. She went on about the roles and expectations society places on women.
I thought about the place in Genesis 3, where God says to the woman, “Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” 
“God gave men dominion over women,” I said.
Eleanor considered the idea, but then suggested it wasn’t God’s intention for women to be so unhappy. “Why would He have given women thoughts and ideas, if all He wanted us to do was service the men in our lives? We were made to experience life, too. To find contentment. Peace. Don’t you want to experience life, Cora?”
“Where I come from women are supposed to find a husband and have children. Folks have a name for women who try to experience life. But men are supposed to get out and see the world. When my brother jumped on a cargo ship to Africa, my father practically threw a party to celebrate his independence. If I had done that, I wouldn’t have been able to ever show my face in town again.”
“But you came here. Isn’t that your way of experiencing the world?”
“I didn’t come here. My father sent me. He wanted me to get a good education.” 
Eleanor sat back, her eyes losing some of their earlier glimmer. “Many decisions have been made for me, too. I often wonder what my life would be like if I’d had a real say.”
Earlier this morning I heard Mr. Fitzgerald scolding her like one of the children. He didn’t like what she was wearing and instructed her to change before she left the house. “Spend that healthy allowance of yours on a decent dress, for God’s sake,” he said. For some reason it reminded me of how Bud talks to Agnes as if she is the stupidest person in the world.
I wanted to ask what she would have done differently, but that was prying. Besides, folks, especially white folks, are only going to tell you what they want you to know. There’s plenty they don’t want you to know, but the biggest secrets tend to be the most obvious. 
“If I had more of Edna’s resolve, I wouldn’t be afraid to do what I want to do,” she said.
“Edna ended up walking into the ocean,” I said.
“I know. But if we are too afraid to step out of our comfortable lives, we risk dying, too,” she said.
I wanted to laugh. I step on the trolley at 6 a.m. in order to make it to their house by 6:30 to make coffee. And before I worked at her house, I’d have to be at the library by 7:30. Comfortable is how I might describe my shoes, but never my life. “I’m not as worried about living as I am about surviving,” I said.
Eleanor picked her hat up and tapped it lightly against the table. “Life can be so frustrating. But I refuse to accept that there is no hope. I want more. Don’t you?”
I glanced around her spacious kitchen. Small puffs of steam seeped around the edges of the white enamel of the oven door. The copper faucet glistened as sunlight reflected off the hammered surface. How could I explain that if I had what I wanted I wouldn’t feel envious of her porcelain cast iron sink with the attached drainboard? My house would be quiet during the day, but especially at night because I wouldn’t live in a crowded building with more families than apartments. Or pay twice as much rent. Or worry about my son walking to the store even though, thank God, we don’t live in the South. My husband would be able to play at Orchestra Hall with world-class musicians instead of Rueben’s rundown nightclub. And I would be in my own kitchen, cooking my own supper.
“Of course,” I said.
“What stops you?’” she asked.
My thoughts run through all the reasons why it’s hard for Negroes to accomplish anything. But I could almost hear my father’s voice saying that’s just an excuse.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Eleanor nodded and stood up, the lines in her forehead visible for the first time. She picked up her hat and left the room. I sat there for a few minutes, replaying our conversation.
Even now, as I lay here unable to sleep, I wonder why I let myself run on so. It’s so easy to talk to her. I forget that she’s not my friend. Tomorrow, I’m going to keep my mouth shut no matter what she says.