Harlem Redux (14 page)

“Well, it ain’t her family. It’s none of her business. And the more attention we give that damn book, the more people will buy it. Those fools demonstrating outside the publisher’s office today—they did nothing but drive up sales. Idiots.”

Remarkable,
thought David.
If Canfield thinks so little of Nella and her work, then what’s he doing here? It’s like giving her the Movement’s seal of approval.

He felt Nella return to his side and turned to her. “By any chance, are you celebrating
Ebony Eden
tonight?”

She smiled. “You haven’t read it?”

“I
have
—”

“But you don’t like it?”

“There are ... points with which I have difficulty.”

She appeared to be tickled by his tact. His eyes flickered over to the little group that had been criticizing her book. She caught his glance and laughed. It was a practiced, pleasant, musical sound.

“Them. I don’t mind them. The fact is, you people don’t trust anything we whites write about you.”

“The fact is,
we people
have good reason not to.”

“Is that so?” She regarded him with faint disappointment, as though she had expected better judgment from him. “But if I don’t write about Harlem, someone else will. And with a good deal less sensitivity.”

“Are you so sure?”

She looked stunned. How could he question her commitment, her understanding of the issues at hand?

“Harlem is a field waiting to be harvested,” she said. “It’s ripe with fresh, untouched material. No one has written the ultimate gambling or rackets story. No one has unveiled the seductive secrets of cabaret life. Who has even bothered to inquire into how such a melting pot of diverse African tribes can coexist? No one. Nobody has taken a bite out of all the luscious and wild fruit that’s for the taking in Harlem.”

It was a nice little speech. How often had she delivered it? Quite often, if one could judge by how fluidly the words with their rather mercenary logic flowed over her tongue. He was impressed by her enthusiasm, but appalled at her insensitivity.

“Has it occurred to you that what you find exotic and captivating we might consider embarrassing, offensive?”

Like a spoiled child, she stamped her foot. “I don’t care.”

“Exactly. You don’t. We do.”

She put a hand on her hip and wagged a finger under his nose. “Instead of complaining, you Negro intellectuals had better hop to it. Harvest your own fields or ambitious whites will get to it before you do. They’ll gather quickly, steal away silently, and sell your life stories right out from under you.

“Just as you did.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Slowly, she closed it. A new respect for him came into her eyes. He’d got to her. She smiled, her indignation fading.

“Yes … just as I did.”

He couldn’t help but smile, too. She was amusing, in a way.

“I like you,” she said. “You’re honest. You have the nerve to tell me to my face what you think ... unlike others.” She looked over at the little group. Her expression became roguish. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Nella slipped her arm inside his, as if they had known each other for years, and David found himself propelled toward a meeting with Byron Canfield. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and worked to keep his expression bland.

“People,” Nella called out lightly. “This is David McKay.”

Three heads bobbed with sympathetic nods and stretched with empathetic smiles. The woman, a short, plump lady with neat gray hair, clutched David’s hand, murmured words of condolence, then excused herself, muttering something about the lateness of the hour. Canfield shook David’s hand firmly.

“My sympathies regarding your sister. I didn’t know her personally, but I heard of her. From her husband. A marvelous trial attorney.”

David didn’t know whether to feel reassurance or panic. On the one hand, if Canfield knew Sweet, then that spoke for Sweet’s legitimacy. On the other—

Before David could stop her, Nella had touched his shoulder and was saying with an odd sense of personal pride: “David here’s a lawyer, too.”

Canfield’s inquisitive eyes flickered over him. “Really?” Something registered in Canfield’s eyes, something that made David uneasy. Did Canfield know him—know
of
him? David tensed for trouble, but none came. The conversation flowed on and David was relieved to see that he would not be the center of attention.

Having wondered how Nella had lured Canfield to her party, he now caught a hint of an explanation. Apparently, Canfield had written a negative review of
Ebony Eden.
The review had been given wide coverage and somewhat dulled the glimmer of Nella’s success. She’d invited Canfield to her party to discuss the matter. Or so it seemed. David wondered whether Nella’s indignation was simply a subterfuge. He remembered her words— that she didn’t care what black people thought about her work—and he believed them. If that was true, then her sole purpose for inviting Canfield was to dupe people into believing that Canfield didn’t think so badly of her book after all.

David had another thought and it made him queasy. Had she invited him to her party to bring him together with Canfield? Did she already know of his life in Philadelphia? Or was he being paranoid? Every now and then, he caught Canfield looking at him. When David met his gaze, Canfield would smile. But the smile never reached his eyes. They remained thoughtful.

If David hadn’t been so preoccupied, he would’ve found it amusing to listen to Nella and Canfield dicker. It was clear that Canfield, despite his opinion about Nella and her book, felt complimented by her attentions. Naturally, however, he refused to change a word of what he had written. He did magnanimously offer to edit any of her future manuscripts for “verity of content and character.” But Nella’s smile froze on her face at the very thought of it. David, despite his unease, chuckled inwardly. It served her right.

For a moment, Nella’s attention went to another of her guests in their little circle, and Canfield turned to David. “We’re neighbors, you know.”

“On Strivers’ Row?”

“Moved there two years ago. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry. I have a train to catch.”

“You’re leaving? Too bad.” Canfield rubbed his chin. “Actually, I’m sure I’ve heard your name before. And it wasn’t from Sweet.” He paused, looking at David, his eyes speculative. There was something … something worth remembering, and he was on the verge of grasping it.

David was about to make a distracting comment, when one of Canfield’s eyebrows shot up.

“Yes ... of course. It was when you joined the Movement—some years ago. That’s how I know your name. Everyone in the New York office was looking forward to working with you.” Canfield’s eyes narrowed. “Then you were sent out on a case and ... and—why, you’re the one who
disappeared.”

Canfield’s voice carried, not across the room, but far enough to let others standing close know that something was wrong. Nearby conversation died. Nella’s eyes, like those of her guests, went from Canfield to David and back again. David’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, words failed him.

“Where in the world have you been?” Canfield demanded.

The question, so directly put, was brutal. David had been dreading it for years. Now here it was, presented to him not in private, the least he could have hoped for, but before influential listeners—”inquisitors” was the word his mind supplied. He felt more than a little ill. Nella took a step away and to the side. He could see her out of the corner of his eye. A little smile played about her lips. Was this an ambush, after all? Did she know? But how could she? There was only one way to handle the situation. He adopted a pleasant, urbane expression and allowed a trace of amiable condescension to creep into his tone.

“I’ve been busy handling matters elsewhere.”

“So, you didn’t disappear?”

“Of course not.”

“But no one in New York heard anything about your reassignment. I certainly would’ve heard something.” Canfield paused. “Where did you say you’ve been working?”

“I didn’t.”

Canfield looked as though he’d been struck. He arched a heavy eyebrow and gazed at David with increasing displeasure. David met Canfield’s gaze head-on.

“The Movement is large, complex,” David said. “One hand doesn’t always know what the other is doing. My responsibilities require me to move around a lot. You know how it is.”

Canfield looked David up and down. He stroked his mustache. “No, in this case, I don’t. Normally, we keep close tabs on our workers, for their own safety. And I usually know if—”

“Byron, don’t be such a bore.” Nella stepped to David’s side and wrapped a proprietary arm around him. “I was just being polite, introducing you. But I’ve barely had a chance to speak to him myself. I certainly didn’t bring him over here for you to grill him.” She stroked David’s collar. “Leave that up to me.”

There was some uneasy laughter.

Canfield cracked a thin smile. “Yes … perhaps you’re right. I think it’s time for me to go.” He offered David his hand. “It’s been ... shall we say ... very interesting to meet you.”

“Likewise,” David said, shaking Canfield’s hand.

Turning back to Nella, Canfield thanked her for her hospitality.

“You’re not bailing out on me?” she said.

“I must. I have to go to the office tomorrow.”

“Work even on a Sunday?”

Canfield glanced at David. “Calls to make. Questions to ask.”

Nella shrugged, pointedly dismissing him. She turned away from the group, pulling David with her. “My, my, dear boy. You got the old goat going. Just what have you been up to?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“But Canfield—”

“—is a bit overcurious.”

“Well, so am I.” Nella’s eyes moved over him intensely, as though if she tried hard enough, she could see right through him. “You’ve got a story, dear boy, and I want to know it.”

“You’re mistaken.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “Smart of you to leave tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because if you stayed, Canfield would unearth every detail he could about you. And so would I.”

His heart thumped heavily, but his smile stayed easy. “It would be a waste of your time.”

7.
    
Getting to Know the New Relation

David rose early Sunday morning to the rhythmic drumming of raindrops against his bedroom window. He had slept like a man buried alive, kicking and clawing at the sheets. Now, rubbing his eyes, he threw aside the bedcovers and swung his legs out of bed. Staggering to the window, he drew apart the curtains. Dark bands of sooty clouds roamed the sky, trailing ragged tendrils as dirty as trampled cotton.

This was the day he would return to Philadelphia. It was apt weather for his return. There was a five-thirty train leaving from Penn Station. He would be on it.

But, first, he would talk to Jameson Sweet, get that ball rolling.

David felt a powerful surge of anger just thinking about it. He tried to tell himself that Sweet might actually be a decent man, despite what Annie said. He was obviously a man of accomplishment, or Lilian wouldn’t have married him. But the fact that she hadn’t written to her own brother about the marriage galled him—and his first instinct was to blame the man she’d married.