Authors: Persia Walker
Harlem Redux (46 page)
But what if she didn’t leave Paris?
Wasn’t it time he admitted what had been right before his eyes?
The increasingly overwhelming signs that she never even got there at all?
They’d been married for two days. Every minute that ticked by was borrowed time, time counted against the moment his secret was revealed. Whether that time could be counted in months or weeks or even days, David didn’t know. That was all the more reason to make the most of it. He decided to surprise Rachel with a night out. So earlier that day, he’d reserved tables at a cabaret. When she returned home from work that day (“When are you going to quit?” he kept asking. “I can’t right now,” she’d say, “They still need me”), he told her to get fixed up.
“We’re stepping out,” he said. “But first, let’s see if you like this.”
He pulled out a slender blue box. It was tied with a gold ribbon. He set it on the bed and her face lit up like a child’s at Christmastime. He sat nearby and watched her. She tore the ribbons open and lifted off the cover. When she saw what lay within, her mouth formed an O of surprise.
“My God,” she whispered, and covered her mouth.
A string of pearls gleamed on a bed of blue velvet. She reached out to touch them, then drew her hand back.
“Go on,” he said. “They’re yours. Try them on.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t move. With a smile, he got up, took the necklace from the box, draped it around her throat, and fastened it. He put his hands on her shoulders and steered her toward the mirror. She stared at her reflection, that of a very beautiful—and wealthy—young wife. She stroked the pearls and regarded her image with wonder.
He laughed and hugged her. “And now, my dear, you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, David, you shouldn’t have.’“
Her gaze moved to his reflection. “Am I supposed to say that?”
He nodded.
“All right,” she said, warming to the game. “‘Oh, David, you shouldn’t have.’”
“And then I say, ‘But aren’t you glad I did?’“
“And then,” she turned to face him, nuzzled him, kissed him, “And then … I get to show you just how glad I can be.”
An hour and a half later, they were walking east across 139th Street toward Lenox Avenue.
“Where we’re going,” he said, “used to be one of my old stomping grounds, Jack Johnson’s Club Deluxe. Of course, it’s got new owners now, and a new name, but I’m sure it’s just as fine.”
They turned north. When they reached the corner of Lenox and 142nd Street, they saw a long queue of limousines pulled up in front of the club’s marquee. People in ermine and top hats pressed around the entrance, waiting to get in. Rachel and David joined the crowd. He noticed that a few glances were thrown at Rachel, then at him, but he thought nothing of it. After all, Rachel was a pretty woman and the new clothes she’d bought did her justice. The crowd moved forward and soon they were just inside the entrance. He missed the hesitant look the doorman gave them.
An usher came up, wearing an unctuous smile. He was young, white, and skinny, and already starting to bald. He glanced at Rachel and his smile disappeared.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” David said, “we have reservations—”
The usher’s eyes again went to Rachel. “I’m afraid that can’t be.”
Rachel tensed.
“What do you mean?” David said, perplexed and irritated. “You took my reservation.”
“You must be mistaken. We’ve been booked out for weeks, months—”
“Years?” David
added.
The usher shuffled uncomfortably.
David said, “This is ridiculous. I—”
“Perhaps it would be better if you spoke with the manager.” The usher bowed himself away, leaving David and Rachel standing there.
“David, let’s leave,” she whispered.
He put an arm around her shoulder. She edged closer. The usher reappeared, this time with a large, fat, bullet-shaped man, who was also white. The usher gestured toward David and Rachel, then stepped back. The big guy surged forward with a definite I’m-in-charge attitude. He had Mob written all over him, from the loud checks of his sack suit to the scowl on his face. He jabbed a thick thumb in the direction of the cowering usher behind him.
“My man here tells me you folks got some kinda problem.”
“No problem,” David said. “We just want our table.”
“You’ve made a mistake. All our tables are taken.”
Rachel’s grip on David’s arm tightened. “Please, let’s go.”
“No.” He turned to the fat man. “If there’s been a mistake, then you’ve made it. I was here yesterday. I made reservations and your man said everything would be fine. Now we’re going to sit at our table. If somebody else is sitting there, you’ll just have to ask them to leave.”
The fat man glared at David. “Buddy, you’re the one who’s leaving. You wanna hang out with a spade, that’s fine with me. But you can’t do it here.” Two muscular men appeared at his elbow. “I suggest you don’t ask for trouble.”
“David—” Rachel tugged at David’s arm. “It’s not worth it. They’ll have us thrown in jail—or worse.” She threw them a terrified look. “Now please. I just want to be with you. It doesn’t have to be here.”
“Rachel—”
“I don’t want to stay here!”
As they left the Cotton Club, they were silent. He could’ve kicked himself. He should’ve known better. He’d heard that some of Harlem’s best clubs had gone white, but it hadn’t really registered. He looked at Rachel. The worst part was that he didn’t know what to say to her. He didn’t know how to make it better.
I’m protected from all them evil people now. I got you.
He stopped, took her in his arms, and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I should’ve checked. It was my fault.”
“It’s nothing, David. It don’t matter. Don’t matter at all.”
But looking down deep into her eyes, he could see that it did.
That next evening found Rachel and David sitting in the parlor, reading. He was deep into J. W. Johnson’s
Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man
. She peeped at him over the top of her magazine. He’d asked her if she wanted to go out again that night and she’d said no. She could tell that he’d been relieved, but he felt guilty. He assumed that she was still upset over the Cotton Club business. She was, but that’s not why she wanted to stay home. In fact, he was more upset about the Cotton Club than she was. She simply wanted to stay home because she had this sudden desperate desire to keep him all to herself. She didn’t want to share his attention, not with anyone, not even an admiring social circle. She knew this was unreasonable, but the impulse was so strong it didn’t have to make sense.
He glanced up, caught her staring, and smiled, then went back to his book.
I can’t believe he belongs to me … that I’m here with him … and that no one, but no one, can ever order me away again.
Her eyes rose to the painting over the mantelpiece. Augustus McKay’s portrait looked down at her with stern disapproval. She felt a little chill crawl up her spine. For a moment, she actually thought the eyes in the portrait were alive. They seemed so full of displeasure at the sight of her.
I bet you’re rolling over in your grave to see me here. Well I am here and you can’t do nothing about it.
Her memories of Daddy McKay were vivid. He’d been one of those successful colored men who were not only proud of their achievements but acutely aware of their responsibility toward other “less fortunate” members of their race. As far as she was concerned, he’d been obsessed with “the race issue.” He’d systematically subscribed to every protest magazine and religiously read every sensationalist newspaper printed by the Negro press. He was always ready to discuss, debate, and deliberate on the injuries and humiliations done to his people.
“Rachel, I don’t want you over there so often,” her mother had told her one day. “Don’t be hurt when I say this, honey, but I don’t think Daddy McKay likes you.”
At the time, Rachel was fifteen. She put down the book she was struggling to read––
Jane Eyre
it was––and scowled. “Well, I don’t like him neither.”
“Then what you going over there for?” Minnie asked, letting her knitting sink to her lap.
Rachel felt a surge of impatience. Her mother would never understand. “Leave me alone, Mama. I can’t explain. Just let me be.” She picked up her book and tried to find her place.
Minnie was hurt. “Lord, Lord, help my child,” she whispered, just loud enough for Rachel to hear.
With an irritated sigh, Rachel laid
Jane Eyre
aside. She went over to her mother where she was sitting in the rocking chair, hugged her, and gave Minnie’s sunken cheek a kiss. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Minnie gave a wan smile and squeezed Rachel’s hand. “That’s okay, baby, but you be careful.”
Rachel nodded, although she really wasn’t sure what her mother was warning her against. Daddy McKay might not like her, but he’d never harm her. She was, after all, the family’s pet “uplift” project. Her dark skin and her poverty made her perfect for that role, though absolutely unsuitable for any other.
She had nothing but contempt for the man.
What a hypocrite.
He railed against “social inequality” but he believed in social “distinction.” He would have scornfully refused any invitation from a white, had he ever received one. Certainly, no white was ever made welcome in his home. He swore that every wretched black sharecropper deserved as much respect as any world leader. But he looked down his chiseled nose at his people’s earthy spiritualism, their hearty meals, their love of bright colors and light-hearted tomfoolery. He viewed their everyday ways with detached contempt. He never permitted criticism of black art, music, or literature, but he had no personal affinity for his people’s songs, their dances and softly cadenced speech. He despised and distrusted white people, but he admired their clothes and emulated their manners. Like other elitist “brown” men of his time, he lived in a world of “society” events and self-serving perceptions that insulated him from a harsh reality while rewarding him the status the white world denied.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” she said. “Daddy McKay ain’t violent—just weird.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Minnie said, but Rachel wasn’t listening.
“He likes to have these meetings,” she said.
“Meetings? What kinda meetings?” Minnie was quick to be suspicious.
Rachel smiled and for a moment, she looked much older than her years. “Oh, they ain’t got nothing to do with sex or religion, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Minnie gasped. “Why, Rachel Hamilton, you—”
“They’s got to do with something much worse—politics.”
“Politics!”
“Yes, ma’am. He gets David and the twins together once a week—and if I’m there I get pulled in, too. We get to sit in his office and ...” She let her voice trail off and gave a shrug that said,
What goes on in Daddy McKay’s office ain’t worth the effort of describing
. But now that she’d mentioned the meetings, Minnie wanted to know about them. In detail.