Harlem Redux (19 page)

He had such devotion, even more than Miss Lilian. Where’d it go?

When she mentioned that Miss Lilian had been buried in unconsecrated ground, his silence had said more than words.

What happened to him? Whatever it was, it just about ruined him. And kept him away. Kept him in exile.

He thought she believed he’d been working for the Movement all this time. But she knew better. Knew it in her heart. Something had gone wrong in his life.

“Terrible wrong,” she said out loud.

Her gaze dwelled on the Bible.

At least, he took it out. Could be he’s trying to find his way back, God help him.

The Bible was open to the New Testament. A passage had been marked. Bending for a closer look, she squinted at the fine print.

“Matthew 26:57-75,” she whispered and began to read aloud. “Those who had arrested Jesus took him to Caiaphas, the high priest … Peter followed him at a distance, right up to the courtyard of the high priest... A servant girl came to him. ‘You also were with Jesus of Galilee,’ she said. But he denied it b’fore them all. Another girl saw him and said, ‘This fellow was with Jesus of Nazareth.’ He denied it again. Those standing there went up to Peter and said, ‘Surely, you are one of them, for your accent gives you ‘way,’ Then he began to call down curses on hisself and he swore to them, ‘I don’t know the man!’ Immediately, a rooster crowed. Then Peter remembered the words Jesus had spoken: ‘Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.’ And he went outside and wept bitterly.”

She eased herself down into the wooden desk chair and touched the pages, wondering.

Peter’s denial of Jesus: What’s that got to do with my David?

“‘And he went outside and wept,’” she read again. “‘Wept bitterly.’“

The page was well-fingered.

He been sitting here and reading—reading and reading about how Peter denied his Lord. Why? Has he done sumptin’?
 ... Or
has somebody done sumptin’
to him?

She was peering into the display window of the Righteous Lady Dress Shop. From a distance, she looked pretty in a clean, simple way. Her coat was practical, but not stylish. And her little hat was modest. Her arms were full of groceries and at her side stood a small boy of about three dressed in knickerbockers. He was playing with a bright green ball. As David’s gaze moved from the woman to her child, his lips bowed in a faint smile. Once, he’d hoped to have a family.

The boy bounced his ball and it rebounded high. He tried to catch it, but it escaped from between his plump little hands and rolled toward the curb. He scrambled to catch it, but every time he reached for it, it slipped away. It wobbled until it hit the curb, then bounced off and rolled into the street. He followed. His mother, her attention on the display, didn’t notice.

A milk wagon swung around the corner with a screech of tires. David glanced at it and his lungs contracted. The wagon had taken the corner way too wide and way too fast and was careening down the street. The boy didn’t hear or see it; he was intent on his ball. It had settled dead in the middle of the street. Now it was just beyond his fingertips. He took another step and reached for it.

David’s heart lurched. Then he was running. Running hard. Giving it all he had. He had a sensation of terrible slowness, of trying to run through mud. Somewhere, as though from far away, a woman screamed. Her sound of terror was muffled, as though he heard it through a glass wall. Now he was closing in on the child, surging forward with arms outstretched, conscious of the wagon bearing down on them. He got a brief glimpse of the boy’s startled brown eyes; then he’d snatched him up and was diving forward, crashing against the pavement. His head hit the ground hard. He felt an explosion of pain and fractals of color went skidding before his vision. The wagon barreled by in a puff of smelly exhaust. David lay with the boy in a heap, the child resting on his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment, stunned. When he reopened them, he found himself looking up into a pair of wide, innocent eyes. A cute little face with round cheeks and a set of miniature teeth grinned back at him.

“Ooh, that was fun!” the boy giggled. “Can we do that again?”

What a little charmer,
thought David. Then the boy’s smile disappeared into a look of surprise as he was yanked away. David heard a woman sobbing and scolding—the child’s mother, he assumed—in a mixture of love, anger, and relief. Then there were other hands, strangers’ hands, helping him to his feet, brushing him off, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You okay, mister?”

“I’m fine.” David nodded. He was still dazed, though, and his head was throbbing.

“Damn them wagons,” someone muttered.

“Lady, you one lucky woman,” another said. “I ain’t never seen nobody move that fast.”

David dusted himself off. The young mother stood nearby, holding her son in her arms. Up close, he could see the dark circles under her eyes. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she looked wrung out.

“Oh, baby, don’t you know you coulda been killed?” she was saying, stroking her son’s scratched and dirt-smudged cheeks.

Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. The boy looked at her with stupefied concern. He reached out with his small hands and touched her face. “Don’t cry, Mommy. Please, don’t cry!”

“You my precious angel. You all I got. If I lose you, I’ll go outta my mind.”

She bit down on her lip, trying to keep herself under control. An expression of horrified dismay crawled over her boy’s small face. Then the corners of his lips turned down and his lower lip began to quiver. His face screwed up, his mouth dropped open, and he let out a deafening wail.

“But I wah-wah-wanted my ball!”

She tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “Toby, I’ve told you: If a ball goes out into the street, don’t go after it. Let Mama do it.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please, please baby. Let Mama do it. You promise? Don’t never run out in the road like that again.”

Fat tears slipped from his eyes, rolled down his cheeks, and fell in thick drops from his chin. “Unh-uh, I won’t,” he said. “I promise.” He hugged his mother tight, nestling his head in the crook of her neck.

She looked up from him to David, extended a hand, and brushed David’s sleeve with her fingertips.

“God bless you,” she whispered.

“It was nothing.” He reached out and tweaked the little boy’s ear. “You’re a fast one, chum.”

Toby managed a weak smile through his tears.

“Too fast,” his mother said. “He ain’t got no sense yet.”

“He’ll learn.”

“He’d better.” Now she did give her son a little jiggle to show her annoyance, but she was betrayed by the loving expression in her eyes. He looked up at her and the faint smile he’d given David grew into a mischievous grin for his mother. She grinned back, then looked at David and her eyes were humble.

“God was with us today, but I shoulda been paying attention,” she said. “I just bought him the ball. He was so excited and he wanted to carry it. I told him not to play with it till we got home, but I shoulda known better. He’s just a baby. How could I expect him to understand? Then I just stopped for a minute to look at that shop window. They had a sign last week, saying they needed help. I shoulda been paying attention,” she repeated. She glanced down at her son, hugged him closer, and looked back at David. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “If you hadna been here, I ...” Her voice broke and the tears she’d been fighting to contain slipped from her eyes.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” David reached over and stroked the small head. “He’s fine. And he’s learned a lesson. He won’t be running out into the street again. Will you, little man?”

Toby nodded his head without lifting it from his mother’s shoulder. The crowd had drifted away. David put a supporting hand under her elbow and escorted her back to the sidewalk. Her groceries lay spilled on the ground.

“I’ll pack your bags for you,” he said.

“You don’t need to do that.”

Their eyes met.

“Yes, I do,” he said warmly.

She smiled and briefly averted her large chocolate eyes. He realized that she was quite pretty, despite the dark half-moons under her eyes. Her face was well scrubbed and her complexion smooth. She had high cheekbones and a kind mouth.

“This is awful kind of you,” she said as he gathered the errant goods—a Hormel canned ham, a box of Wheaties, some Sanka decaffeinated coffee, a box of Quaker Quick oats, and two candy bars. He returned them to their bags and started to hand them back to her, but she was still holding her son.

“I can help you carry these,” David said.

Doubt flickered in her eyes. He understood. He had just saved her son’s life, but he was still a stranger. In New York City, a wise woman did not let a strange man, even an apparently helpful one (in some cases,
especially
an apparently helpful one), walk her home.

“It’s okay. I’ll just take you to your corner, if you want me to.”

She smiled, but shook her head. Putting her son down, she picked up her grocery bags.

“My ball,” the boy protested.

David spied it lying in the gutter. He fetched it, pulled a worn silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the ball clean. Then he sank down on his haunches and offered it to the child. “Here you go.”

The boy reached out and hesitated. He looked up at his mother. She nodded that it was okay to take the ball and he did so. Suddenly shy, he hid behind his mother’s coat.

“Toby, say thank you,” she said.

Toby peeked out from behind her coat and said, “Dankyu.”

David laughed and straightened up.

“I’ll be going now,” she said.

Thanking David once again, she left him. Her tiny son firmly grasped her coat with one pudgy fist, his ball tucked under his other arm. David watched them go. She must’ve felt his eyes on her because at the corner she turned and gave a little wave. David waved back. Then she and her son disappeared from view. David dropped his arm, aware of an odd surge of sadness. The feeling bewildered him. A woman and her boy going about their lives—people he’d never seen before and would never see again: Why did the sight of their walking away make him feel so alone?

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he headed back toward Strivers’ Row. As he walked, he had an image of the house, waiting for him with all of its empty rooms. And he recalled what he’d asked his father when he bought it.

“Why’d you buy such a big place, Daddy? What do we need all them rooms for?”

Augustus had laughed. “For grandchildren, son. Babies. The babies that you and the girls will bring home when you get married someday.”

“We’re a family,” Lila had said. “And families need a place where they can be together.”

David paused at a street corner, waiting for the light to change. Well, since his father’s death, Gem had gone to Europe and he’d headed off down south. Only Lilian had remained in that big house, alone. Where were the grandchildren his parents had dreamed of? What had become of their vision of a large family, of generations gathered around the dining room table? Gem had never taken part in that dream, but he and Lilian had. Now Lilian was gone and he was the only one left. There was little chance of his marrying and having children. Not with the hell he was living.

Annie wanted him to fight for the house and he would do so, because he loved his parents, he loved Annie, and deep down, a part of him did love the house. He would fight and he would win, but in the end to what purpose?