Harlem Redux (21 page)

I sat on Gem’s bed this evening, watching her unpack. She has tawdry taste. There was a slinky number in glittering crimson with a deep cut in the back––
vulgar.
And the gold outfit that followed––
obscene.
And the shoes she had! Pair after pair after pair! I had to ask her if this is how she’s been spending Daddy’s money, on trashy outfits.

Gem turned her nose up. “Darling, my clothes come from the best collections. There’s absolutely nothing trashy about them. And I’ll have you know, I didn’t pay for a single stitch—at least not with cash.”

She chuckled shamelessly. Then she proceeded to tell me what she’s been up to. Living it up, as she called it. “Having a helluva time! In London, Paris, Amsterdam, Munich, Berlin! Fantastic city, Berlin. German lovers have incredible energy. No style, but lots of energy. And stamina.”

She ground her hips into the air and thrust them forward roughly. Her manner was crude. Disgusting. She laughed at my expression and twirled exuberantly. She told me about her life in Paris. Montmartre, she said, is a playground.

“There’s no other word for it. A playground. You need to go there. It’s home-away-from-home for us colored folk.”

She had a singing gig at Le Grand Duc, she said. I’ve heard of the club. Only the best people go there: Nancy Llewellyn, Raymond McMasters, Geoffrey Aragon, the Bendal sisters, Maria Noone, the Baltimore Tates. All of them fought to get tables to hear her, Gem said. And between sets, they begged her to sit with them and drink champagne.

“After hours, the Grand Duc was like a Harlem cabaret. Niggers from the other clubs would come over and we’d get down. Even Langston was there! He was working at the Due, washing dishes. After hours, he’d come out of the kitchen and join in.”

Gem’s eyes sparkled; her cheeks were flushed and her skin glowed as though lit from within. I closed my eyes against the sight of her. She made me feel pale and drab, stiff and regimented, claustrophobic within my own skin.

My life has been dominated by obligation. It was never my own. What did Gem do to merit such freedom? What did she ever do? Nothing. She took it as her right. Perhaps I should have done that, too. Simply taken my freedom, instead of having felt compelled to earn it.

When I consider all those years of teaching school …
Pure drudgery.
Daddy’s voice would boom in my conscience every time I thought about quitting.
Duty, duty, first and foremost.
I would think of Gem and dream about what she was up to. I wanted to go out and experience life too, but I stayed put—because I thought I had to. I endured loneliness—because I thought I had to. This evening, listening to Gem, it seemed that my sacrifices weren’t only useless, but foolish. An acute nausea crept up from the pit of my belly. Not once in five years had I felt this insecure—not once since Gem left. Only a few hours in the house and already she was affecting me.

I was suddenly angry, not just at her, but at myself. How could I let this empty-headed woman cause me to doubt myself? She’s always had only one goal in life—to have fun—and she’s never felt guilty about it. Such a goal would have never satisfied me and apparently it hasn’t done much for her either. Gem has squandered her freedom. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have come back. I let her prattle on about how marvelous her life in Paris was until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“If it was so wonderful there, then why are you here?”

Gem didn’t miss a beat. “Because I missed you, sister dear. Missed you terribly.”

“Are you sure you didn’t miss my money more?”

Something flickered in her eyes. I told her about the letter I got from Aunt Clara the other day. About how well Auntie’s doing. Settled in Chicago. On her third husband. He’s even richer than the last, I said, related to the Johnsons. I told her that Auntie had asked about her.

“You were always her favorite. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”

Gem caught my meaning. Her expression toughened and her left hand went to her hip. With her right index finger, she jabbed the air to emphasize every word.

“This is where I want to be. Here, in Daddy’s house.”

“Daddy’s house
no longer belongs to you. Remember? You sold your share to David and me.”

“Well, I like it here. I’m going to stay—as long as I want to— and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She thrust her face up close to mine. “You don’t have the guts to throw me out.”

“Don’t underestimate me. I’ve changed. I won’t support you.”

“Oh, but you will. You’ll give me anything I want because you’re afraid of people talking. And you know I know how to make people talk.”

I stood to leave. “I won’t let you destroy what I have. I’ve worked too hard to let you take it away. I’ll see you out on the streets first.”

She snickered. “Don’t be stupid and don’t try to scare me. I’ve run with the big boys. They play for keeps. And so do I.”

David paused, remembering. Lilian and Gem had fought viciously in high school. Gem had been the one with the glittering looks and witty personality; the studious Lilian couldn’t compete. The more people had urged her “to be like Gem,” the harder she had fought to be different. She’d deliberately chosen to downplay her beauty and gain respect for her brains. They’d carried the conflict into adulthood. On Gem’s first night home, they hadn’t wasted time on niceties, but gone straight to the heart of the matter. They virtually declared war on one another. How in the world had they reached the point where they would go shopping together?

He found his place and read on.

Friday, November 1, 1924

Is something going on between Gem and my husband? So, Lilian had begun to doubt Sweet’s fidelity, after all ...

Wednesday, November 12, 1924

Gem and I had lunch today. Her invitation was a surprise. Expecting the unpleasant, I planned to tread lightly and listen carefully. However, the conversation took an unexpected turn. I’ve decided to try to reconstruct it as accurately as I can because I sense that Gem’s words contain a secret that I’ve yet to pierce.

Gem picked the Civic Club, because of its high social visibility, of course. When I arrived, she was seated at a center table, dressed in a buff-colored wool suit with a cream chinchilla stole. A bit much for so early in the day.

“You need to relax. Have more fun,” she told me and chuckled. “I know you think I have too much fun. But you should try it. You might like it. Once I had a Buddhist lover. He’d pound me into the mattress for hours. Then he’d have the nerve to meditate for ten minutes and lecture me on moderation for twenty!” Gem gave a husky laugh.

Her voice was loud and I was sure her shameful words had carried. I glanced around, expecting to see ovals of shocked faces staring at us, openmouthed. Thank God, there were none. But I was still mortified. I looked back at her, at her overdone makeup, her supercilious air. She was the same old Gem: crude despite all her culture.

“You never will change, will you?” I said in a low, tense voice.

“Why should I?”

“That you have to even ask—”

“Listen, if I have too much fun, you have too little. Look at you. You’re aging before your time.”

This was an old argument between us. I wasn’t in the mood for it.

“All right, all right,” I said, waving her words away and hoping she would quiet down. The waiter was approaching with our tea.

As soon as he was gone, Gem produced a silver flask and before I could say anything, she had poured a dollop of whisky into my cup.

“Here. Eat, drink, and learn to be merry,” she said.

I was tense and tired. My paper wasn’t as well received at the Chicago conference as I’d hoped it would be. And I’ve been having nightmares. So I thought Gem might be right. I should relax. I took a sip. I didn’t like it. I’ve never liked alcohol. But then I felt warmth spread through me and decided to take another sip after all.

Gem nodded approvingly. She waved her jeweled hand at the waiter and he promptly took our orders. Gem and I chatted. The conversation was going well and under the influence of several cups of tea, I began to relax. Indeed, I think now that I relaxed too much. The trouble began when Gem started criticizing me.

“You should do more for yourself. Take off those old-fashioned clothes. Doll yourself up a little.”

“I’m as ‘dolled up’ as I need to be.”

“Don’t be a sap. Your face, your clothes—they’re what people see first and remember last. Sometimes, I think you work to make yourself look like a zombie.”

“I work to be respected. I don’t want to be a bit of fluff on a man’s arm.”

“Like me, you mean?” She smiled saucily. “Why are you so stubbornly naive, dear? It was forgivable when you were younger, but it’s tiresome now.”

“Oh, please! My profession doesn’t involve seducing men. Yours apparently does.”

“Watch yourself, dear—”

“Getting a man was never as important to me as it is to you. I saw what Daddy did to Mama and I vowed I’d never let that happen to me. I knew that I could do without a man. Didn’t want one. Didn’t need one.”

“Then why the hell did you marry one?”

“Men do have their uses. I wanted children—”

“You wanted sex—”

“No—you’ve had enough of that for both of us.”

I stopped, appalled at what I’d said. But Gem smiled, unperturbed. She scooped up her flask and sloshed more whisky into my cup.

“Drink up, sweetheart. It seems to be doing you good.”

I nudged my cup away. I’d had more alcohol than I intended to and now it was tricking me. Arguing with Gem was the last thing I wanted to do. The conference was exhausting. And this feeling, ever since I’ve been back, that something isn’t right with Jameson ...

My head ached. It felt as though an evil dwarf with a pickax had gotten inside my skull and was hitting an anvil with malicious regularity. I can’t quite explain it, but something gave way inside me. I just didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“The simple truth is that I was tired of being alone. I was in my late twenties and still single. I knew what everyone was thinking: ‘How sad. What an old maid.’ So when I met Jameson, I decided to marry him.”

“Just like that?” Gem snapped her fingers.