Coming to Terms (A Moment in Time) Read online

  Coming to Terms

  By

  Marv Leit

  Interracial marriage is hardly a good start in life. Besides love, it takes strength, and a huge amount of patience, perseverance, and understanding to overcome the differences in cultural backgrounds that threaten the foundation of the relationship.

  Building an interracial marriage in a new country can be especially difficult. A fact to which my wife Raquel can attest as a black American woman who married a white Canadian husband, and moved with her daughter from the United States to Canada. Many people may not see that as much of a change, but as it turned out there were many difficulties involved in that move that severely tested the strength of our love.

  Raquel was a beautiful woman. She was bright and cheerful, with an open personality, a genuine love for people, deep compassion and boundless energy. I loved her dearly and a relationship with her was the most wonderful gift life had given to me. We moved to a quiet suburb of Toronto, enrolled her daughter in school and set about building a new life together.

  Our problems began almost immediately. Although our love for each other seemed strong and immutable, the environment into which we had settled threatened to destroy the relationship. Her first test came when we applied for her status as a landed immigrant. In the States this is equivalent to Permanent Resident status. Since she was already in the country our application for her to live and work there was to the Canadian Immigration and Naturalization office in Toronto.

  We were assigned to a young female agent of eastern European origin, who made it quite obvious she felt that dealing with a black person was distasteful, and beneath her. She addressed her questions and conversation exclusively to me. “Now, where was your wife born?” and “How long has she been in Canada?” with Raquel sitting right there beside me getting steamed. The woman took the attitude that my wife, being black, either could not understand our language or did not have the mental capacity to formulate an answer, and that was not all.

  The whole experience was an exercise in frustration, delay, exasperation and fruitless meetings that usually ended with a request for additional documents or replacement copies of documents we had already provided. This went on for three years. The agent suggested on several occasions that we should have an immigration lawyer. I resisted that option because I saw no reason to pay for a lawyer to handle such a simple case. Every new appointment was scheduled not for days, or weeks but months in the future. On more than one occasion we would arrive at the office, take a number, wait for it to be called, and find out that our agent was on vacation. No one else could handle the case and we were forced to call for a new appointment which, of course, would be scheduled several months away.

  Complaining to a supervisor did nothing. They would simply say these things take time. We don’t want to start over with a new officer. We’ll look into it.

  In the meanwhile Raquel could not apply for legitimate work, or do ordinary things like get a driver’s license. She became depressed and moody. I tried to keep her spirits up, but the situation was wearing on me as well as her. Finally, one day we arrived for another appointment. Instead of our usual agent, we were directed to the office of another young lady, a Canadian by all appearances, who addressed the case with efficiency and dispatch that was surprising and refreshing. In two months she had her papers.

  What a relief that was!

  It was even more surprising when I heard on the news that some immigration lawyers and several agents working for the Canadian office of Immigration and Naturalization had been arrested and charged with fraud and extortion. Our agent was one of those named in the report. We had a visit from the Canadian Mounted Police who interviewed us about our dealings with the agent. Eventually they were all convicted and served time in prison. Her treatment of our case was not simply racism.

  Raquel could now look for legitimate work. During the period of time she had been waiting for her status she was not entirely idle. Raquel was too intelligent and motivated to remain idle for long. She managed to find work under the table, as it were where normal rules were not enforced. She began working with a modeling agency. Raquel had modeled before. She was slim and attractive with a good figure and a great camera presence.

  However, being black she was not immediately picked up on any assignments. She did inside work, on the telephone. She had a wonderful mellow voice and could charm the spots off a leopard. She became a top sales rep for the agency, working on a commission based on placements for the girls at promotional events and appearances. Although she did well, and the work was steady, it did not provide a big income.

  One day she was asked if they could take some photos of her to include in their portfolio. She agreed and posed for some photos in various outfits. She was pleased and I congratulated her on the recognition she so richly deserved. I was very proud of her. Even though some of the proofs of her photo shoot were a little risqué, as she said, that’s part of the business. Very quickly she went out on several assignments to be a pretty face at a convention and assist at the odd promotional event. One day when she was taking some time off at home the agency called and asked if she would consent to spending some time in the evening with a client. It would involve dinner and socializing with some of their top sponsors, for which she would be paid a stipulated fee.

  She talked to me about it, and I could see no reason to refuse. She agreed to a few evenings a month. She was excited when she was called just a few days later to have dinner with someone the very next evening. She got dressed in one of her most alluring outfits and left the house to meet him. Before she left I told her she looked fabulous.

  When she came home about eleven that evening, her excitement was tempered by some inner reflection. I asked her if everything was okay, she passed it off. Then the next day, she came to me and said.

  “Darling, I think we should talk.”

  “Okay” I said, ‘what about’ was on my mind.

  “These evenings with clients are supposed to be a little more than dinner and conversation.” She said, “I’m expected to be a paid escort, with after-hours services. I talked to the manager at the agency today. I told her my client last night wanted me to go to his hotel room after the clock had run out on his allotted time. She said ‘you are being paid to spend at least three hours with the client. What you do after that is entirely up to you. If he offers to pay for more of your time, that’s between the two of you.’”

  My interest was piqued. She continued.

  “I asked her what the agency expected me to do. She said, ‘that’s up to you. Many of the girls accept a client’s offer to spend some private time alone. It’s not our policy to dictate what you should do, but clearly the client’s satisfaction is what we want.’ If you think it’s worthwhile to spend more time, and make some extra money, we don’t object.’ What do you think of that?”

  “So they’re telling you if you want to make some extra money by giving the client a little private time, that’s okay.” I said.

  “Yeah, basically, it would mean, uh, giving the client a little special attention.” She said.

  “Special attention, like what, - sex?” I said.

  “Maybe.” She said.

  “What would you like to do?” I asked. Her options it seemed were to quit or continue.

  “Well,” She said. “I think I would like to keep my options open. I’ll take a few dates, make a little money. Sex doesn’t have to be a part of it. But, how do you feel about it? Am I free to make the choice?”

  I looked at her. She gave me a little smile. She was beautiful, and desirable. I knew it would be a choice she would have to make. I couldn’t impose any restrictions on her ability to make
that choice. In fact, that possibility added a little excitement to our relationship.

  “Sure” I said.

  “You sound pretty confident, Bobbie.” She said, with a laugh. “Are you that sure of me?”

  “Listen, babe” I said. “I’m not concerned that you will be indiscreet or irresponsible. I want you to feel free to be open with me whatever happens. I trust you, and nothing you do will make me stop loving you. You do what you feel like doing.”

  “Thanks, darling” She said. “You are a wonderful husband. That’s why I love you. You let me be me.”

  We kissed and hugged each other. I loved the feel of her body in my arms.

  Raquel went on several dates. Her exotic beauty attracted the interest of many men. I was comfortable with her making her own decisions. Usually she was back at home in a reasonable time. And, when she told me a date involved ‘special attention’, it was like an aphrodisiac in our sexual encounters. In fact, I enjoyed the fact that she was desirable and sexually active outside our relationship.

  Then one evening I was at home watching TV and waiting for her to return. The phone rang.

  “Baby, come and get me. I’m at the Hilton. Please hurry. I’m in the lobby.” She said.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. Just hurry, please.” She said. I hung up and left the house. I drove down to the center of the city and parked in the Hilton garage. I went up to the lobby. She was watching for me and jumped up from one of the lobby chairs as soon as I came in. She looked a little disheveled and obviously in distress. She had no shoes on.

  “Oh, thank god you’re here. Let’s go, baby. Take me home.” She said as I approached her.

  “What’s happened to you?” I asked as I hugged her. “Where are your shoes?”

  “Never mind” She said. “Let’s just go.” I got her to sit with me and tell me what was going on.

  “This guy, I thought was a nice guy turned out to be a real jerk.” She said. “I fought him off and ran from the room. I left my shoes there. He was such a … such a damned prick. I just had to get away from him.”

  “What’s the room number?” I asked.

  “Never mind the shoes, baby. Let’s just go.” She pleaded.

  “Tell me what room it was.” I demanded.

  “Now, don’t start any trouble, darling. He’s a jerk. He’ll…” She began.

  “Give me the room number.” I demanded.

  She told me. We went to the elevators. She kept saying don’t get into an argument with him. It’s not worth it. Leave it be.

  I knocked on the door of the room. Raquel hung back and stayed near the elevators. I heard some noise behind the door. I knocked again.

  “Who’s there?” I heard from the other side.

  “Hotel security, sir.” I said, loudly. “A young lady out here says she left her shoes in your room.” There was a muted sound from inside. After a few seconds, the door opened a hand’s width and a man’s hand appeared with a pair of woman’s shoes in it. I took the shoes.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir.” I said, again loudly. I went back to Raquel and gave her the shoes.

  “Thank you, baby” She said. “I’m sorry you had to come down here.”

  “Let’s go home.” I said.

  Raquel stopped taking dates for a while. I didn’t mind at all. Running into jerks was an occupational hazard in the profession. She could have been a victim of much worse. Raquel continued with the modeling assignments. Our sex life suffered no ill effects.

  Although she was beautiful, she was no angel. After a while she came to me with a proposition.

  “Baby, I can’t just sit here with you every evening. And, I can’t ask you to take me out all the time.” She said one evening. “I made some contacts when I was working for the escort service. Men I like and trust. Would you mind if I went out on a date the odd time?”

  “As long as they don’t try to steal your shoes, I’m fine with it.” I said. It cracked her up.

  Raquel started going out on dates again, this time with men she could trust not to be jerks. She sometimes complained about them as well, but she was confident about her ability to handle them. Raquel had already told me she was not above using her sex appeal to earn a living. However, she said she was rarely asked by her dates to have sex. Most of them were older married men with wives who didn’t want to be bothered, and they just wanted to be seen with a hot black chick. They usually took her to dinner and sometimes the opera, or the ballet, or a symphony. Sometimes she went dancing. On some occasions she stayed out all night.

  On those occasions, I punished her with vigorous sexual pillaging, reinforcing my claim by driving the stake in hard and deep. A penalty she loved.

  However, it annoyed me when men assumed that because she was with a white man, she was sexually available. That was more common in my own country than it was in the U.S. She has often been approached in a bar while I’m with her, by some jerk who wanted to hook up with her for sex. Like, as soon as you’re finished with him, I’m next in line. She was more polite than me. She’d say, “I’m with my husband.” I’d say take a hike you freaking pervert!

  Sometimes the guy would apologize, but more often he would just slink away.

  I’ve actually had guys sidle up to me in a line, at the subway or a movie theater and say something like; I’d like to try that. Is she expensive? Or, could I get her number? I’d fire away at them. Get lost, you asshole! This is my wife!

  One day we were in line getting a sub sandwich. The guy behind me said in a low voice, ‘I’ve thought about trying that. Is it good?’ For some reason, I thought he was talking about the sandwich I was ordering. I said, “Yeah, it’s pretty good, but they don’t always have it. You have to ask for it.” We moved along. Outside Raquel was cracking up, laughing. I said what’s the matter? And suddenly it hit me. I started laughing too. He was talking about her.

  Although she was naturally gorgeous, when she dressed down in everyday work clothes she was just like any other black woman. One day she was outside the house cleaning our front windows. A car rolled up and stopped at the edge of the front yard with two women in the front seat. Raquel went to see what they wanted, thinking maybe they were looking for directions. When she got close to the car one of them rolled down the window and said

  “We’d like to have our windows done. How much do you charge?”

  At first Raquel thought it was a joke. She started to laugh. Then the woman said

  “We live just around the corner. Could you come on Monday?”

  Raquel said

  “I’m sorry but the owners here wouldn’t want me working for someone else.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry. Would you know of anyone else we could hire?”

  Raquel shook her head and they drove off. She laughed when she told me about it later that day. In that neighborhood, anyone black had to be a cleaning lady, or a handyman.

  However, this automatic assumption came in handy. Sometimes Raquel would answer the door to someone soliciting or asking for money. Raquel would say, “Well, my people aren’t in right now, I’ll tell them you called.” Or she’d get the question, “Are the owners at home?” She would say, “No they’re not.” They’d go away, satisfied.

  Racism was always around, but when it happened it always came unexpectedly. We got used to being asked “Are you two together?” when we piled the groceries on the belt for the cashier, or, being stared at as we entered a room full of people, whether they were mainly white, or mainly black.

  One day we were in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. We were on vacation and had driven down from Wilmington, North Carolina, about sixty miles away for lunch and a bit of sightseeing. I had a convertible, and we had the top down. It was a glorious day, sunny and warm with a nice breeze. Both of us were enjoying the drive. However, when we stopped at a light, a big battered old pick-up truck with monster wheels pulled up beside us. Three young good ol’ boys
looked over at us.

  “Hey, lookee, there’s a nigger woman and a white man.” One of them yelled.

  “Hey there, Suzie Q, you like white meat. I got some for you.” Another hollered.

  The light changed, traffic moved forward. The truck stayed beside us. We pulled up at the next light. We tried to ignore the ignorant yahoos.

  “Hey little nigger gal, c’mon over and join us. We’ll show you a good time.” The driver yelled down at us. Raquel and I both ignored them.

  “Hey, sweetie pie. I got a piece of white meat you can have for lunch.” They all laughed.

  Raquel looked up at them and gave them the finger.

  “Oh oh! That little nigger bitch is getting nasty.” One guy said.

  “Hey nigger, I got something bigger you can play with. Suck on this!” He gave us the finger.

  Traffic moved forward. I could see a left turn coming up. The truck kept pace with us on the right side. At the last moment I veered quickly into the left turn lane. The guys in the truck tried to shift across and got a blast of the horn from behind them. I made the left hand turn while they had to go straight through. They yelled something at us as they went by. Just around the corner there was an entrance into a parking lot. I dodged into it and pulled into an empty spot. We sat there. I was boiling mad. Raquel was swearing