Alone in bed, with the drapes drawn back. The unbearable lucidity of insomnia descends upon Aida. As night reaches, and then passes, its perfect pitch, she watches the slow light begin to bleed through the black; then through the blue-black; and then finally flood the sky. A new day.
. . .
Lottie feels guilty, for she failed to offer her friend any form of comfort or support. She has always known Aida to be a confident, unbreakable woman, and up until this moment her role has been to step aside and let Aida become Aida, and not interfere with her friend’s desire for attention, and her quest for fame. But something has gone terribly wrong. Shortly before dawn, before daylight streaks the sky, Lottie rolls from her empty bed and proceeds to put on her robe.
Tonight Metheney’s is quiet and he sits in his corner, after his performance, after his day is done. He thought about buying flowers, or some chocolates, a gift of some kind to rekindle the bond between himself and his wife, but unable to decide exactly what he should purchase, he chooses, in the end, to buy nothing. These days Mother looks at his books the way he imagines a jealous wife looks at another woman. It might be easier if she could find the words and say something to him, but so far she has chosen to remain silent. George, on the other hand, continues both to talk and to agitate, and he has informed his partner that he intends to form a social organization of Negro entertainers; he has also spoken to Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan and to some of the other performers, but of late things have not been easy between Williams and Walker and their colleagues, who, jealous of the well-established prominence of the Williams and Walker team, have begun to question their talent and commitment to the race. In fact, since the closure of
Abyssinia
things have not always been easy between Williams and Walker. Clyde D places another drink before him, but as ever, he says nothing to Mr. Williams. The dreams have returned and he cannot sleep. Last night he once again chose to sleep on the sofa in his library, but the noise of traffic in the street was distracting and he found it difficult to
rest. Scrape off the black. This strange phrase circling in his mind. Scrape off the black. And in the morning his wife entered the library with the newspaper in one hand and a robe tied tightly at the waist, and as she set down the newspaper she looked through her husband as though he was not present. He wanted to talk to her, but he understands that in order to do so he will have to travel west and then east and then south, and back to a place and to a time when he was not yet two people. The one pitying the other.
Under the chuckling water I can see nothing, I can hear nothing, and I can feel nothing. Except, of course, heat. I am warm and I feel the rush of hot blood pumping through my twice-married body. Eventually I lift my head clear out of the water, and narrow my eyes. A crazy wash of white everywhere, and steam. I feel dizzy, but these days I prefer peering at the world through half-open eyes.
The bathroom is full of strange people who stare at me. But how is this possible? I live here. Why are these people looking down at me as though I have carried out some act of which I ought to feel ashamed? No, I am not ashamed. Leave. Please leave my bathroom. All except my husband. Where is my husband? My father-in-law places a hand upon my arm. I know who he is, I am not stupid. I recognize my father-in-law for he is the only other man in my life, but he too must leave. Where is my husband? I feel my father-in-law’s grip tighten and I push him from me. His wife catches him before he tumbles to the ground. Where is
my
husband?
Are you all right, Mother? My husband leans over me. His face is gentle and kind, like it used to be when we sat in the small, concrete
park in the dark shadow cast by the solitary tree. I can see that he cares, but I cannot speak. Bert, I know your heart is heavy with problems that you feel you cannot share with me. I understand. My poor husband. A new husband, different from Mr. Thompson, and the whole world appears to sit heavily on this sad man’s broad shoulders. Perhaps if he could see me in the water, perhaps if he could see me underneath the water, then he would understand that hot blood still pumps through my body, that I am still in his life. I have not left. I have gone nowhere. I swear this was not an attempt to drown myself, it was an accident. I can lift the world for him. I can lift the world for you, Bert. Perhaps if he saw me in the bathtub then he would come to bed at night. This is all I ask, that he begin again by sharing a bed with me at night.
I have no desire to be like Aida. I have no desire to discover myself dancing with increasing fury. Shamed, and finding life impossible and still so young. I wish to travel through life with my husband by my side. The two of us walking hand in hand and moving gently, but purposefully, toward my husband’s goals. This is all I wish for. This alone would satisfy me. Aida with dark circles under her eyes, abandoned on 132nd Street, undone by the whiteness of winter. Between us two husbands straying, one in mind, one in body, although it is unclear to me which is the greater betrayal. A long time since the photograph, the four of us, each in our own way excited, each in our own way consumed by nerves. Tension shooting through us like gunshots. I watched the man move them around. Hold it. And now this way and hold it. My handsome Bert. I cried the first time I saw him perform.
Shut the door, Lottie. Thank you. It helps keep out the cold. And you know you don’t have to stand on no ceremony with me. Take a seat, girl, and thank you for stopping by. And I’m glad you’re
feeling better after fainting in the tub like that. Lottie, I see George at the show same as you do, but that’s about all for I don’t seem to be able to find him up here in Harlem. Seems like everybody else knows where to find him. I know, Marshall’s. But I hear that place ain’t what it used to be, and that it’s fixing to close down. It troubles me that he would be wasting his time down there. I’m sorry, I haven’t even offered you a drink. You sure? Things haven’t got to the stage where I don’t know how to entertain, but you must tell me if I ever get that way. If I ever get so bad that I lose my manners. Now that would be a sad situation, don’t you think? Well, if you’re sure. Did Bert talk to you about how things are? With George, I mean. You know it’s not in my nature to pry, but I’m just wondering if things are fine between himself and George. I got no reason to think otherwise, but I suppose the truth is I’m just looking for clues. Just looking for something to help me understand what’s become of my own life. I think George loves me, Lottie. No, that isn’t true. I know he loves me, but it just makes everything that much harder to understand. Why so bold? Why not creep around a little like most of them? Why does he have to do me like that, Lottie? What have I done to him to make him do me like that? No, you only just got here. No, please. Sit. Or maybe we can take a walk together? But don’t leave me just yet. You know, I got liquor if it’s liquor you’re needing. Lottie. What’s happening, Lottie?
Two o’clock in the afternoon and Aida is sitting in the window seat held spellbound by the winter storm. Outside the snow is still falling and the naked trees are standing to attention, and as the snowstorm strengthens in intensity it becomes more alluring. She watches the flakes buzzing wildly in the early afternoon light, and she notices passersby protecting their faces, scared of being cut by the whirling blades of sleet. She gently arches her neck and takes
the morphine straight from the bottle, a smile on her face, the sound of a waterfall in her ears, and she looks forward to a new dawn. She has covered all the mirrors with drapes so that she can travel through what remains of this winter day without being seen.
George bursts into Metheney’s and rushes over to him. He looks up, and because his friend’s waistcoat is exactly level with his eyes he can see that it is uncharacteristically spotted with food. The rest of his costume is unmarked. Pants, jacket, cravat, spats, this is dapper George with his diamond rings and matching stickpins. This is the Bon Bon Buddy. George blocks what little light leaks through the begrimed windows. Bert gestures to his partner to sit down, but George remains standing with his mouth hanging imprudently half open. Something is wrong but he waits for George to unburden himself. He has no desire to force the issue in any way, but George simply stands and looks down at him and he sees the clouds beginning to roll behind his friend’s eyes. He reaches up and takes George’s clammy hand into his own.
He looks around the crowded and chaotic hospital waiting room and it occurs to him that it must always be like this. After all, people get sick without regard to the time of day or night. George has talked incessantly all the way to the hospital, but now, as they wait in the airless room, he seems to have become a little calmer. I guess the accident is my fault and I got to change. He looks at George, who leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees and then, cupping his hands, he drops his tired chin into the ten-fingered basket. I got to start looking out for my Aida, and I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter. Anything happens to her on account of me, then it’s just going to bring disgrace on all of us. Bert looks at his distressed partner and slowly nods, and then
he turns from his friend and listens as George begins to jabber idly to himself with his newly pronounced lisp.
Aida appears to be peaceful. She is draped in white with her eyes shut tightly against the electric light, and her thin arms on top of the hospital sheet and straight like two dark arrows. She looks like an angel, and George cannot take his eyes from her. The doctor encourages him to move forward, and so he pulls up a chair and sits and stares as though he is gazing upon his wife for the first time.
Alone at night, outside the hospital, Bert decides to walk home through the wintry streets, and under a sky that is choked with stars. From a fire escape, a few stories above his head, a huge chunk of ice plunges to the sidewalk and explodes in a constellation of crystal bullets. He stands frozen for a moment, his breath clouding in the frosty air, and then he continues on his route, carefully picking his way through the slush so that the melted snow does not climb up and into his shoes. He keeps the brim of his hat low, but glances at the street-lamp faces of those who hurry by at this midnight hour. Near the corner of Fifth Avenue he sees a single early daffodil laboring under the weight of this late snow and he looks around himself and then stoops to pluck it. He will give this to his wife, who he knows will be unable to find any sleep until her troubled husband returns home safely.
Bert sleeps next to his grateful wife. In the morning Mother brings an orange to the bed, and then the newspaper. She asks whether he thinks she ought to visit with Aida, but he assures her that Aida will be fine. George is attending to her. Mother’s mouth falls open, for she cannot disguise her surprise, but she
says nothing. He opens the newspaper, but as soon as his wife leaves the room he rests it down.
Having eaten the orange, he climbs from the bed, gets dressed, and walks the few blocks through the soot-blackened snow down to George and Aida’s place, where he finds his partner sitting alone and smoking a cigar. George greets him warmly and then announces that he must soon leave for he has to go back to the hospital and visit his wife. He stutters as he reminds Bert what a fine dancer Aida is, and how she is the real star of the company. He asks Bert what he thinks of her number “I’ll Keep a Warm Spot in My Heart for You,” telling him that it was undoubtedly the high point in
Abyssinia
and that maybe in the future they ought to feature Aida and her dancers more prominently. Didn’t she put the dance numbers together better than anything in a Cole and Johnson show, better than anything Hogan had ever done? “Menelik’s Tribute to Queen Tai Ta,” “The Dance of the Falasha Maids,” and “The Dance of the Amhara Maids.” Who had ever seen choreography like it? George talks, and Bert listens for George likes to talk. George also likes to be right more than any man he has ever met, but he is not right about Aida. She is not the star of the show, nor does she need to be featured more prominently. Aida simply needs a husband, that is all. If she had a husband, then everything would be all right, and good things might well follow from this. But Aida is lying alone in a hospital room while a guilt-burdened George smokes a cigar and talks incessantly to his partner.
George lights another cigar. He stands now and begins to pace back and forth by the window. He insists that their new show,
Bandana Land
, will be decidedly different, something their public has never seen before. An impatient George stubs out the newly
lit cigar, and then he speaks quietly. But let me get this clear, you’re saying that because white folks pay to see us we got to please them, right? Bert nods, for he knows that this is the truth, and although he does not like this fact it nonetheless remains a fact. George takes a seat opposite his partner. George appears to have forgotten that his wife is lying alone in a hospital bed and he is supposed to be visiting with her. But I’m tired of pleasing white folks, Bert. I’m tired and beat. There is a strange lisp to George’s tongue. Bert, a man can kill himself trying to please white folks.
—Your wife getting strong again, honey? I hear she’s the star of the new show?
—I don’t know about star.
—You getting good early notices, George?
—From you?
—You better save your strength with all that talking if you’re looking for good notices from me.
—I hear Jimmie’s soon going to close down the hotel.
—Well, Eva’ll find some other place for us to play. This ain’t the only joint in town.
—I guess not.
—What’s the matter, you don’t want to play no more, is that it? You feeling guilty, George?
—I ain’t feeling no guilt.
—Well don’t you think you should?
—Whose side are you on here?
—You better change that tone, Mr. High and Mighty George
Walker. That ain’t no way to treat a lady, now is it? Well, is it?
—Eva.
—I can hear you. You fixing to end things between us, George? After all this time?
—Eva, she’s not doing so well.
—Now, that’s not what I asked you, George Walker. If Jimmie closes down the hotel it just means that we don’t have a roost at this flophouse, but there’s plenty of other places. Damn, we can even buy a place, now wouldn’t that be swell? A furnished place, maybe up in Harlem …
—No.
—No? George, you better get whatever it is that’s on your mind out into the open before I lose my patience with you. What’s the matter with you? You listening to me, George Walker?