Harlem Redux (16 page)

“I’ll never sell my share.”

“And I’ll neither sell nor give up mine.”

David regarded him with barely concealed fury. “I would advise you to reconsider.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“If anything, I’m trying to spare you a battle.”

Sweet’s lower lip curled with contempt. “You wouldn’t dare take me on.”

“Oh, but I would. With joy. But I’m trying––trying hard––to give you the benefit of the doubt. I heard that you took good care of Lilian when she was ill and if that’s true, then I’m grateful. But if it isn’t, then trust me, I’ll find out and I’ll make you pay. So I suggest you leave.
Now
. Go while the going is good.”

Sweet’s response was a look of disdain. He leaned back in Augustus’s armchair and made himself comfortable.

“Get used to me, brother-in-law. Get used to me. Cause I’m here and I’m here to stay.”

David left the parlor, went upstairs and down the hall to Lilian’s room. Standing at the foot of her bed, he let his gaze pass over the dresser top again. He eyed the perfectly replaced wallpaper, the refurbished bed, and the well-scrubbed floor. His face was drawn, his eyes thoughtful. He needed to leave town, but having met Sweet he knew in his bones that there was more to Lilian's death than met the eye. Surely this room could tell him something.

He heard a cough behind him and turned at the sound. It was Annie. He saw the worry, the fear and uncertainty in her eyes, and understood. He had said he would leave when he had spoken to Sweet. Now that he had, she wondered whether he was about to go. But like every natural diplomat, she knew better than to introduce the subject of her main concern.

“Mr. David, you shouldn’t stay in this room by yourself,” was all she said.

He gave a brief, gentle smile to reassure her. “I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how things aren’t always the way they seem.”

“And?” She came up to him.

“And I find it strange, very strange ... that she chose to cut herself there, in the bed.” He felt Annie’s questioning gaze. “When people slash their wrists, they often do it in a bathtub filled with warm water. It contains the blood ... and makes the dying faster.”

He leaned against one of the bedposts. The surface felt cool and smooth.

“Even the bedpost was covered in blood,” said Annie. “Bloody handprints, as though she’d grabbed it to help her stand.”

He looked at her. “Why would she struggle to get up after lying down to die?”

“I don’t know. But she sure ‘nough got up. There was a line of blood running from here to there.” Annie pointed to a place about five footsteps away. “And on up to the windowsill.” She swung her arm in a low arc and pointed to the base of the window. “That’s where I found her.”

He studied the area. A ghostly ache swelled in his chest. Turning around, he let his gaze travel over the newly papered walls above the bed, over the new canopy, and then back over the trail that Annie had indicated on the floor.

“Tell me about the blood.”

“The what?”

“The blood. Was it in spots? Close together?”

“It was everywhere. Like I said: Dried hard. Dried black.”

“And what about on the floor? Was the blood in large splatters or—”

“Mr. David, what you wanna ask me sumptin’ like that for?”

“Bear with me. It’s important.”

She set her shoulders and still looked unhappy, but complied. “Well, the blood on the floor ... It wasn’t in spots. It was more spread out, smeared-like, in a wide line, like sumptin’ had been dragged—”

He nodded. It was the answer he’d expected. “And you say, it appeared that she’d been here alone?”

“Weren’t no hint of nobody but her.”

“No sign of a break-in?”

“None at all.” Her forehead creased. “Why you ask, Mr. David?”

“Blood everywhere, you said. Usually, that means a struggle.”

“You mean, like a robber?”

It wasn’t at all what he meant, but he said nothing.

“A struggle .. .” She reflected. “But nothing was missing. Nothing ‘cepting that vase.”

“Which vase?”

“The one that used to sit in the window.” She pointed. “You remember?”

“That little Japanese one? It was gone?”

“Smashed to smithereens on the sidewalk. And there was blood on the windowsill.”

He went to the window. Faint pink smears still showed on the sill. Or did he imagine them? Drawing his fingertips over the new coat of paint, he was thoughtful. He drew the curtains apart and peered out. It was a crisp, clear Sunday morning, and Strivers’ Row was impressively still. The best of Harlem was undoubtedly gathered together in their finest finery a little ways over and down the road at Saint Philip’s to worship. The street was empty, as it would’ve been that night.

That night.
Who would’ve been out on the street that night?

David perched on the edge of the windowsill and stared out. He pictured the little vase, remembering its delicacy and beauty. He thought of the love and effort that must have gone into fashioning it. He recalled how his mother had treasured it, admired it, striven to protect it from the clumsy, the curious, the covetous. She had kept it sheltered here, within the heart of the house, where only the most trusted were allowed. How and why had the vase been ripped from its place?

He could imagine it in freefall. In his mind, he watched it tumble over and over, spin out of control, then crash against the concrete pavement. He saw its fragile beauty shatter. And he saw Lilian. Also fragile. Now also shattered. A chill, as sharp as a scalpel, pierced his core. He shivered. The vague notions that had been germinating in his mind for the past days became clear.

Conservative and cautious, the Lilian he knew wouldn’t have married someone she barely knew. Sensible, sane, and solid, she wouldn’t have slashed her wrists. Stoic, proud, and deeply religious, she would have
never shamed her family name.

Not the Lilian he knew.

Annie had come up alongside him. She was staring out the window herself now. He turned to look at her.

“Do you believe my sister killed herself?”

Annie’s gaze was fixed on the hard pavement three stories below. “As God as my witness, after I seen the way that sickness changed her, I b’lieve ... I b’lieve she coulda.”

“But you don’t believe she did.”

“No ... I don’t.” With a sigh, she looked at him. “I could never help wondering why she dragged herself, used her last bit of strength, to get to this window.”

“But you know the answer as well as I do.”

Her eyes met his.

“She came to this window,” he said, “to get help.”

From her expression, he knew they had reached the same conclusion.

To get help.
Like pebbles piercing the surface of a still, deep pond, those three small words would cause ripples if applied to Lilian’s death. They implied, in effect, that she had either regretted her decision to die or that the decision itself had been someone else’s to begin with.

“So, you’re gonna stay?”

“Yes,” he said and his voice was tired. “I’m going to stay.”

She exhaled with relief. “I’m glad, Mr. David, so glad. Things is gonna get better with you here. I know they’ll be just fine.”

Her sweet words brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

You don’t know me,
he wanted to say.
You don’t know what I’ve been doing. If you did, you’d turn your back on me. You’d help me pack my bags yourself.

8.
     
Rachel and the McKays

A few blocks away, Rachel was thinking about how small her apartment was and how much she would’ve loved to move. Her thoughts skipped nimbly to the McKay house, as they often did at such times, and in her mind’s eye she could see their beautiful parlor—

Big enough to hold a wedding in.

And the spacious upstairs bedrooms—

Why go away on a honeymoon?

The house was wonderful, of course, nearly perfect, but as every woman knows, there’s always room for improvement.

First things first. If it were up to me, I’d change them old paintings in Lilian’s room, throw out the—

She happened to glance out her bedroom window and her daydreams about redecorating were for the moment forgotten. A young girl, about seven or eight, was jumping rope across the street. The child’s feet kept getting entangled in the rope, but she refused to give up. She would patiently unwrap the rope from around her ankles and start jumping again. She did this repeatedly and Rachel watched, fascinated. If there was one thing she admired, it was determination.

She’s just like me. One day she’s going to be Somebody.

Rachel leaned on the windowsill. A sad smile played about her lips.

Isabelle would’ve still been too young to skip and jump like that. But in a few years, she would’ve been able to .. . she would’ve been, if she’d lived.

She blinked and wiped the sudden tears away, staring through blurry eyes at the child across the street.

Go on, girl,
she whispered.
Go on. Don’t never give up.

Rachel knew the meaning of perseverance. She recalled the days when she’d travel from the Tenderloin to visit the McKays after school. How she’d struggled to imitate the family’s effortless grace. How she’d striven to emulate its sedate gentility. All to no avail. She had learned the hard way just how complex and uncompromising the African American elite could be in its membership requirements. If you could not certify pedigree and demonstrate connections, your presence was condoned but you were given to understand in subtle and polite ways that you would not be—
could not be—
considered a member.

Her clothes, for example, had always made her stick out like a sore thumb. Lilian had offered to share her clothes with her, but Rachel was too proud to take them. And so she’d worn the same clothes to school, day in and day out, for nearly two years: a pale blue shirt, in some places held together with pins; a long gray skirt; thick black stockings that were pulled down and tucked under at the toe; and black brogues that had seen much, much better days. Some of the girls at school had tried to taunt her, but Rachel had a fury in her that caused them to step back. She wasn’t interested in impressing
them.
It was the McKays she wanted to impress. It was their world she yearned to be part of. And if it hadn’t been for her no-good father, she would’ve been.

When he died, I didn’t care. I was just glad me and Mama were free of him.

And when they moved,
finally
moved, uptown, she’d rejoiced, thinking she had it made.

But that was foolish, now, wasn’t it?

One afternoon—it was right before Christmas—she’d gone over to the McKays’. It was 1920, the first Christmas after Lila McKay’s death, and Rachel was twenty-three. Lilian had told her to come by to pick up some presents. Rachel had gone to the front door, as usual, and rung the bell. Annie opened it promptly.