Authors: Persia Walker
Harlem Redux (63 page)
She hiccupped like a child. “Yes? What is it?”
“I’m sorry for how we made you feel—”
“Oh, David—”
She tried to rush into his arms again, but he held her away.
“Hush, now,” he said. “You’ve got to listen.”
She worried her lower lip, then gave a small nod. “All right.”
“What you’ve got to understand, baby, is that my being sorry for what we did to you is one thing.” He paused. “And letting you get away with what you did to us is another.”
For a moment, she stared at him in puzzlement. Then understanding dawned and her lips parted in disbelief. She shook her head.
“No! No, you can’t meant that. You’re not really going to––”
“If you’d only been honest with me, come to me. Now … well, now, it’s just too damn late.”
With those words he released her. He took a step back and gave a nod. The two uniforms flanked her. One reached for her and she pushed him away.
“Oh, God, David, no!
You can’t do this. I won’t let
you. Do you hear? I won’t
let
you!
You owe me!
You owe me!
”
He had only two words for her: “Good. Bye.”
Handcuffs appeared. She looked around in a panic, seeking a way out, only to find that the others had all formed a circle around her. She had nowhere to go, no way out. Her threats turned to pleas.
“David, please! You know what they’ll do to me. You can’t let them!
You can’t—
”
She gave an anguished sob. The officers gripped her by the wrists and she tried to wrench herself away.
“Oh, no,
David!
no
!
”
She dug in her heels. She struggled and squirmed, but it was no use. They clamped her in handcuffs and took her away.
Days of exhausting celebration followed David’s release. Upper-crust Harlem welcomed home its lost son with backslapping, handshaking, and toasts to his good health.
“We believed in you all the time,” his neighbors said.
“Sure you did.” His smile was good-natured, but his eyes were knowing.
Canfield, backed up by two other leading Movement officials, approached him with offers of reinstatement, but David politely thanked them and turned them down. He preferred to labor outside the established but strife-torn civil rights organization.
Amid all the festivities, he made time to honor his sisters. He saw to it that Lilian’s remains were given proper burial. He visited what he now knew to be Gem’s grave and whispered words of reconciliation. He also ordered a new headstone and invited Snyder and Nella to a small, very private service in Gem’s memory. Afterward, David escorted Nella to her car, then drew Snyder aside. He shook the gangster’s hand.
“I want to thank you. Canfield told me how you stepped in and got the D.A. to listen.”
“Baker was a tough nut to crack.”
“Canfield said you cut a deal. Hope it didn’t cost you too much.”
“I gave him what he wanted; he gave me what I wanted.”
David looked at him.
Snyder smiled. “You don’t want to know too much.”
“No, but tell me anyway.”
“Look, it was a straight exchange. You were a big fish; I tossed him a bigger one.”
“Not another race man, I hope?”
“‘Course not. A dirty judge.”
“Not one of yours?”
Snyder laughed. “Hey, I like you, but not well enough to give up one of my own. No, this was one of the competition’s.”
Later that afternoon, David approached the door to his father’s office. He hesitated, and then reached for the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he gave the knob a slight twist. In his heart, he still expected it to resist him. He was surprised when the lock clicked and the door swung inward. With his knuckles, he nudged it open and went in. The office was as gloomy and musty as he remembered it, but it had lost its dark magic. It no longer oppressed him. He saw it for what it was: an old room with old things, simply that and nothing more. Walking to his father’s desk, he leaned on it. The wood grain felt warm and welcome beneath his hands. He walked behind the desk, swung the wide chair around, and eased down into it.
It felt right.
David stood up. He swept open the curtains and threw up the windows. Light and air streamed in. And then he took a deep breath, inhaling hope.
After the long, stubborn winter, the air had finally gained that balmy touch that signifies spring. The streets were alive with people. Harlemites were bursting out of their cramped apartments, pouring into the streets, searching for life, liberty, and a spark of adventure. The air crackled with vitality and tingled with a steady current of pride. David sensed its strength and felt a part of him reach out for it. Suddenly, Harlem seemed to have so much to offer. That afternoon, it assaulted his eyes with brilliant colors, teased his nose with delicious aromas, and soothed his ears with the rolling notes of jazz careening from radios propped in open windows. David felt nourished by the rich diversity of humanity around him. Bits of conversation floated to him, delicious jokes and improbable tales, his people’s words, their idiosyncratic phrases—the lyrics to a song he instinctively knew how to sing.
Across the street, an old man pushed a wide broomstick in front of his grocery store and waved his fists at a pair of youngsters who tossed a bread wrapper at his feet. At the next light, two young women ran giggling across the street. A little down the way, three little girls were having a good time with a game of double-dutch, their pigtails flying and skinny legs pumping in time to the dancing rope.
Once upon a time
Goose drink wine
Monkey did the Shimmy on the trolley-car line.
Trolley car broke
Monkey choke
And they all went to heaven in an old tin boat.
On impulse, David made for the Mayfair Diner. Grabbing his favorite waitress by the hand, he took the dirty dishes from her and paid her boss to give her the day off.
“You’re crazy,” she cried. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere and everywhere.”
Together, they swung down Seventh. They happened to see two men unloading a large refrigerator from a small truck and paused to observe them. David noticed two women standing on the stoop of a building nearby. They were watching the men work.
“I wanted me a new fridge. Wanted it something bad,” one said. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. But my ol’ man, he said we didn’t have no money. Well, I knows that was partly true. We did and we didn’t. To tell the truth, these last two winters was so cold, we ain’t need no fridge. Just used to set the food out on the windowsill. Still, I had it in my head that I was gonna get one like them rich white ladies got.”
The refrigerator’s apparent new owner had thrown a cheap coat over her baggy housedress. Perfectly aligned rows of hair clips covered her head. Her legs were bare and she wore flat cloth house slippers. Her upper lip was sunken in as though she’d lost several of her upper teeth. Her attention was fastened on the deliverymen.
“Hey, y’all be careful with that,” she yelled, then turned back to her girlfriend. “Anyways, I know the only thing my Joe care about is his beer. So Tuesday last, I up and puts his beer in the oven for a bit, turns the oven on real low. Don’t take much. Didn’t want it to explode. Wouldn’t you know, by the time Joe comes home, that beer’s warm enough to take a bath in! He took one swig, liked to gag. Man, don’t you know he went out an’ bought a new fridge the very next day! Got one of them fine things they had to order special. That’s why it took so long to get here.”
There was a suspicious noise from the truck. The woman took one look at what the deliverymen were doing, dashed down her steps, and went running across the street, slippers flapping, arms waving, all the time screaming warnings, threats, and advice.
David had to laugh. He hadn’t laughed in a long time and it felt good. He felt a flash of exhilaration that stunned him. Yes, Harlem was poor and it was battered, but it never quit. The sense of racial pride that had died at the lynching surged back. These were
his
people and they were a tough lot. He was proud of their creativity, their humor, their endurance and absolute determination to survive.
A great weariness descended upon him and dread rose within him when he thought of the world beyond Harlem’s doorstep. He recalled his lonely room in Philadelphia. He was indeed tired of living as a stranger in a strange land. He had learned much and seen even more during his foray into the white world. It wasn’t as wonderful to be white as some might think. It was still a whole lot more convenient than being black, but he could renounce that convenience handily. He was mighty relieved to be home and back in his own skin. The sight of Harlem’s battered streets and proud inhabitants struck a deep chord within him. He hadn’t walked these streets in years. But they had welcomed him back, risen to greet him. He had regained his faith, his name, and his place in the world. And he had regained them in Harlem. This was where he belonged. Here, where his roots made him strong. The streets of Harlem, those dusty streets of trampled dreams, were an integral part of him. His heart beat with Harlem’s rhythms. His voice sung to its melodies. He inhaled deeply. He needed this place. This little bit of broken concrete. This place called Harlem.
He turned to his companion and took her hand. “I’ve got one question for you—just one.”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name, lady?”
Her smile was warm. “Cora,” she said softly.” My name ... is Cora.”
*****
BLACK ORCHID BLUES
“The best kind of historical mystery: good history, good mystery, all wrapped up in a voice so authentic, you feel it has come out of the past to whisper in your ear.” ––Lee Child, author of
Worth Dying For
“
Black Orchid Blues
, a historical novel set in 1920s Harlem, is better than any pulp I ever read. It’s simply terrific!” ––
The Globe and Mail
“Put a Bessie Smith platter on the Victrola, and go with the flow ….” ––Library Journal
“Smart and sophisticated. Walker hits all the right notes in this dark blues riff." ––Reed Farrel Coleman, three-time Shamus Award-winning author of
Innocent Monster
"Lanie (Price) is a brilliantly drawn character, stubborn, smart, annoying, sometimes petty, often foolhardy, deeply compassionate." ––
Caribbean Life
“A gripping crime novel with characters who'll stick with you long after the story ends.” ––SJ Rozan, Edgar Award-winning author of
On the Line