Authors: Persia Walker
Harlem Redux (42 page)
They walked in comfortable silence, pausing at the corner of 133rd. To the left and right stretched “Jungle Alley,” the main drag of expensive Harlem cabarets. David’s memories came to life. The Nest Club, Kaiser’s, Barron’s: Once he’d been a regular at them all. Farther down Seventh was the Lafayette Theater. There was no better place to see tap-dancing greats Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Honi Coles, Bunny Briggs, Chuck Green, and Baby Laurence.
Then there was the Band Box Club, just off the Avenue on 131st. A man could go there and hear the purest jazz he could hope for. And what about the Tree of Hope? Folks said it had magic. Entertainers hoping for a break would rub it. On a good night, a man could see any number of stars under it: jazz singer Ethel Waters, Fletcher Henderson, and Eubie Blake. Across the street was Connie’s Inn. Bill “Bojangles” Robinson and Earl “Snakehips” Tucker entertained hundreds of guests on Connie’s raised dance floor nightly. Below Connie’s was the Barbecue, the best rib joint in Harlem.
David took a deep breath. There was talk everywhere about Harlem enjoying a heyday, and if he could believe his eyes, that was certainly the case. But what no one wanted to talk about was the poverty lurking behind the glitz.
“I’m glad to be here,” she said suddenly, “but Harlem ain’t an easy place to live. Ever since I been up here, I been hearing talk about the ‘New Negro,’ but what does it mean? I feel the same and I don’t see where nothings changed. There’s a lot of white folks stepping up here to go clubbing. But what do we get out of it? A few jobs and nothing more. The places they go, we cain’t go. There’s a lucky few—some colored writers and painters and singers I hear tell about. But there’s always a lucky few that breaks through, whose star gets to shine a li’l brighter. But what about the rest of us—the reg’lar folk? When’ll it be our turn?”
He smiled at her. “What would you do if you had the chance?”
“I’d paint,” she said. “Every now and then, I’d paint.” She laughed. “But them’s all dreams. My pappy, he said dreams is like water: Too li’l of them and you dry up. Too much of them and you drown.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “Don’t get me dreaming. I can’t afford to do that.” She looked down at her work-worn hands and sighed. “No, I can’t afford to do that.”
David married Rachel two days later in a City Hall ceremony, then took her to the Bamboo Inn for a small celebratory dinner. When he brought her home, there was no party, great or small. Rachel would have preferred one, but she acceded to his wishes for privacy and quiet.
“I want to be with you alone,” he said.
“Perhaps we can have a party later. Introduce me to society?” she asked.
He hesitated, then agreed. He carried her across the threshold of the front door, then eased her down. She slid to her feet as agile as a kitten. She stood for a moment, just looking around, then piled her coat and purse on Annie’s waiting arms. David caught the disapproval in Annie’s eyes and made a mental note to talk to Rachel. Now, however, was not the time.
He followed his new wife as she walked through the parlor, touching things here and there.
“So beautiful,” she whispered. “These are all ours … for as long as we both shall live.”
Turning to him with an adoring smile, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a deep, lingering kiss. He groaned. Loving Rachel was addictive. Bending, he grabbed her up and carried her up the stairs to his room. Once in bed, she opened his shirt and covered his bare chest with hard kisses. She ran her fingertips lightly over his body, playing it as though it were a familiar instrument, as though she had loved him every night in her dreams. Then their clothes were gone and the world fell away and he was lost, lost in tidal wave of need that for a time suspended all the fear and doubt and self-recrimination that plagued him.
“It’s hard to believe that I’m finally here … with you,” she whispered afterward.
He kissed her naked shoulder and gathered her in his arms. “Are you happy?”
“Very.” She gazed into his eyes. “And you?”
“Quite.”
“You’re so quiet.”
He smiled. “That’s because I’m sated with love.”
She slapped him playfully on the cheek. “You and your fancy talk. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Never,” he laughed out loud, and hugged her.
It felt good to be here, with her, to be able to forget, at least for a while, the nagging fear that someone would learn his secret. And yes, it also felt good to not think about Lilian.
Rachel sighed happily and gazed around the room. “It’s a bit dark in here. Lilian’s room’s brighter. And bigger.” She inclined her head. “You ever think about moving in there?”
“No. And if I ever
had
thought about it ... well, I wouldn’t want to do it now.”
She nodded. “I know. I can understand that.” She was quiet for a minute and then: “But the room ... it’s just too nice to go to waste.”
He half-raised up. “Rachel, I’m not moving in there. That’s where my sister died. Eventually we’ll do something with the room—it will not ‘go to waste’—but we are not, I repeat
not,
moving into it.”
“Shhh. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just asking, that’s all.”
He eased back down. “It’s just difficult, you know? Just difficult.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “Know what I’m thinking about?”
“I have no idea, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I was remembering these boys at school when I was eight.”
“Not even one day married and you’re already thinking about other men?”
“Hush. These boys—I wish they could see me now. They told me I was dog dirt. Got me in a corner one day and tried to do nasty things to me. Then they yanked my hair and made fun of my clothes. And there was this rhyme they kept singing over and over.
Cat on the scene, cat on the scene.
Yella sits pretty in a black limousine.
Brown sits humble in a Model-A Ford.
They going somewhere. Oh yes, my Lord.
Monkey on my back, monkey on my back.
Black gals climb on a donkey’s back.
They never getting nowhere, eating out a sack.
They never getting nowhere, just ugly and fat.
“It was the first time I realized that my own people can cut deeper than any ofay.” She paused. “I never expected nothing from whites no-how. I trusted my own people. But they was the very ones who tried to knock me down.
“I remember looking for a room to rent. So many times a Negro landlady took one look at me and slammed the door in my face. And then, when I was trying to find a nurse’s job, one supervisor said to me: ‘Children is afraid of dark skin. We can’t afford that.’ Can you imagine?”
He stroked her back. “Rachel, a lot’s been done to our people to make us hate ourselves. Sometimes we colored folk ... we’re our own worst enemy.”
She snuggled up closer to him. “Well, I’m protected from all them evil people now. I got you.”
He sighed, thinking of the danger his past represented. It was time he told her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she hushed him with her fingertips.
“I don’t want to talk no more. Not right now. I don’t want no more looking back.”
They snuggled deeply under the blankets together. She began to dream aloud of the parties she’d give. She named the names, like the Nails up the street, of the people she intended to invite.
“We’ll have luncheons, bridge parties, and formal, white-tie dances. And we need a new car. And a boat. And didn’t Augustus buy a summer house in Martha’s Vineyard?”
He listened with half an ear, his thoughts elsewhere. “Sweet’s due back in about a week.”
She looked up at him, realizing that he hadn’t been paying attention. She didn’t seem to be annoyed, though. Getting Sweet out of the house was a real concern. She understood that.
“I’m sure he’ll want to move out,” she said. “Now that you’ve decided to stay, he won’t feel comfortable.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“I’m sure you can handle it.” She gave him a kiss on his chin. Then, apparently full of confidence in her beloved husband, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
But he lay awake, worrying.
I should’ve told her. And I should’ve done it before we got married. When she could’ve made a choice, when she was still free to—
C’mon,
an inner voice said,
she would’ve married you no matter what and you know it.
Yeah, but—
And she still wouldn’t have wanted to run away. She’s a fighter. Be glad you’ve got her in your corner. No, my friend. She’s not your problem.
You’re
the problem.
David rubbed his eyes. He’d arranged by telephone with his secretary in Philadelphia to shut down his office there. He would also give her a list of colleagues who would be willing to take over his cases. His life in the City of Brotherly Love was over. Now he had to deal with the question of just what kind of work he could do here.
The same kind you did in Philadelphia. Defend the indigent. Just under your own name, as yourself.
Only to have it all destroyed by, how did Nella put it? The right word in the wrong ears? How much time would he have to build up anything
anyway?
He would’ve liked to rejoin the Movement, but how could he? With his past hanging over him and with Sweet in the Movement?
Speaking of...
Was he really going to let Sweet get away with his part in Lilian’s death?
He sighed.
Be patient,
that inner voice said.
Sometimes it takes years to gather proof and evidence and put them together in a way that means a conviction.
And what about Rachel? he wondered. He’d promised to drop the inquiry.
That little voice laughed mirthlessly.
Are you kidding?
Over breakfast the next morning, he watched Annie and Rachel avoid one another, circle one another like cats in an arena. It was subtle, but it was there. Rachel would tell him what she wanted, and it was up to him to tell Annie.
Meanwhile, Annie acted as though Rachel didn’t exist.
He took a deep breath. Annie wasn’t happy about his decision—
stated
decision—to drop his inquiry into Lilian’s death, and though he hadn’t mentioned Rachel’s part in it, Annie seemed to sense the connection.
He watched her move about. She was indeed much slower than she used to be.
She looks exhausted,
he thought.
But after more than half a century of cooking and cleaning for others, she has every right to he.
Since reading Lilian’s manuscript, he’d watched Annie and listened to the words behind her words. He knew little of her life before she’d joined his family—to him it seemed that she’d always been there—but he did remember a story she’d once told him about her childhood. He was twelve and angry that Augustus had made him stay home to do extra homework. Annie had brought milk and cookies to his room. There, she’d sat down with him.