In Their Shoes: In Their Shoes

22: The “Great Relation”

22·:lIe 'great !flela/ion " CCLove, not sex, is the c way out' offeeling. )) -May Sarton, writer Oue day, looking not like any Lothario I had ever seen but reluctant and quite miserable, Roscoe put a proposition before me: in brief he was saying how about sex between you and me. If he had thought about it previously , he had never so indicated. He did not begin his suit with any pawing or power play but rather the two of us were sitting at my dining table, like a long-married couple discussing a problem that had never been given the light of day. I recognized a Roscoe I had not previously seen and knew that his feelings were raw. And I also knew I had to use psychological skills, the kind he had used with me, the kind we all use in developing a friendship: jumping quickly into the other's shoes, trying to see a situation from his or her viewpoint. As we talked, I said from all that he had indicated to me, since he had married Dorothy, and that was like eons ago, he had never been untrue to her. And he said that was the case. But he also said that he wanted to be with a white woman. And so on we went. The "need" of the black man for the white woman was consuming me in my research and writing of my book Black-White Sex. And Roscoe was bringing this truth I had discovered too close to home for comfort. His friends had 229 230 In Their Shoes dubbed him "Horse," and he often referred to himself by that name. Once, he related, male friends and relatives asked, "Horse, have you ever been with a white woman?" He said "No," so they arranged for him to be at one of their homes. He was lying on a sofa, awaiting the paid-for prostitute, "and when she walked in," he said, "I chickened out." He had never been with a prostitute, and he could not bear to touch her. Now perhaps, with me, he was attempting to fulfill his life. And why, if I were such a good friend, could I not supply what was missing? As we talked, my mind flitted back to a scene ofMother standing by my apartment door, ready to leave, to return to Texas. And with us was Roscoe, who called himself "a coal burner," having dark-chocolate skin pigmentation. He was of medium height, perhaps slightly shorter, and sturdily built. He kept his hair cropped close to his head. In his late sixties, he had retired from two regular jobs and was working as a maintenance man in my apartment building . "Now Roscoe," Mother had said, as she was almost out the door, "you take care of Grace, you know she's up here by herself." Later, recalling that scenario, I asked myself if Mother was being patronizing. Perhaps some would see it that way. But Mother was prescient. She must have known I would be in need of him. The year was 1963. I had returned to the States from Peru and was working for the Houston Post) based in Washington. I had taken an apartment in the Calvert House. I had no furniture, only a couple of boxes with my papers and books and one suitcase with a few clothes. Living around the world in many hotels, I was accustomed to ringing a bell, giving my dirty laundry to a maid or a bellman and getting it back freshly laundered. Soon after I met Roscoe, I handed him a bundle of personal itemsbras , panties, slips-asking if he knew someone who would wash them. I knew Roscoe would take the clothes and ask his wife or daughter or some member of his fam- The «Great Relation» 231 ily to wash my undergarments, and this is indeed what happened. He returned them, but when next I saw Roscoe, I was upset: "You did not return everything," I said. "Some items are missing." The next day he tapped on my door. He held green bills in his hand, ready to deal: "Tell me what I owe you." I was taken aback. I apologized. I admitted I had made no list, I did not know what I had given him. Standing before me, he had forced me to see him as a person, one with whom...