“No, no! Now you just sit there and let me do this. Ain’t every day I have company to spoil.” She laid the cup gently on the small table next to Lena’s bed.
Lena grinned pleasantly. She wanted to laugh, but her ribs still hurt badly. So, she simply smiled and sniffed the aroma of the coffee. No one had ever brought her coffee in bed before. No one had ever spoiled her.
They were engrossed in pleasantries when the old manservant handed Mrs. Jones the newspaper. She smiled, “Thank you, Robinson,” and then turned to the paper. Her smile quickly disappeared.
The low look on her face scared Lena. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Jones? Has there been another murder?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head no and quickly handed the paper to Lena.
AMOS JOHNSON FOUND BURNED ALIVE IN SHOP, the headline screamed. Lena fainted instantly. When she awoke, Mrs. Jones and the old manservant, Robinson, were fanning her and trying to give her smelling salts. She shooed them away from her and asked to get dressed. She threw on her clothes not even being careful to protect her ribs. She had to go and see him. Lena had prepared herself to walk – run if she had to – to Sy’s office, but Mrs. Jones had a taxi waiting outside for her when she came down the stairs. Lena stared in disbelief. Mrs. Jones simply hugged her and had the driver walk her to the waiting taxi.
Lena thought about all of this as she walked up the steps to Mrs. Jones’ home now. She hadn’t even noticed the burgundy and white Chrysler Imperial parked in front of the house. As she opened the door, she heard a man and woman’s voice laughing. It wasn’t the old manservant as this voice sounded young and alive. “Lena, is that you?” called Mrs. Jones from the reading parlor.
“Yes,” she called back hesitantly as she came into the reading room. She stopped suddenly. A tall, handsome looking brown-skinned man in a black casual suit holding a white fedora hat in his hand was standing in the middle of the room. He smiled sweetly as he was introduced to her by Mrs. Jones who seemed more than delighted that the young man was there as she seemed an unusual shade of red for such a dark skinned woman, thought Lena.
“Lena Johnson, this is Jeffrey Peterson. He is the son of a dear, close family friend.”
Jeffrey took the soft hand that was offered to him in a shake. His hands were firm, but a little sweaty as he was nervous to meet the woman he had been watching for the past 24 hours. “Mrs. Johnson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes locked onto hers as he kissed the front of her extended hand.
Lena felt a little uncomfortable, but flattered as no man had ever kissed her hand before. Not even Amos did so when he was trying to coax her into dating him when they first met all those years ago.
“Jeffrey dropped by to see me. It really has been such a while, Jeffrey – since way before the death of your mother, I believe,” Mrs. Jones said rather offhandedly.
“Oh, I am so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. Was she ill?” Lena asked.
Jeffrey paused a moment to stare a little longer at this woman with the black eye who had captured his imagination. “A heart attack, the doctors said. And now, my poor father is ill as well, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Mrs. Jones. “What’s wrong with Elijah?” she asked in concern as she laid her hand onto Jeffrey’s arm. For a moment, a dark look crossed his eyes as he looked quickly at Mrs. Jones. It took her by surprise as she had never seen him look so dark. She removed her hand from his arm. “Is he okay, I mean?”
“No. He has stomach cancer they say. I simply came by to ask for prayers as you are a dear friend to my parents and believe so firmly in…in a higher power.”
“Well, it’s such a shame, all this death goin’ round. Lena herself has just experienced a tragic loss. Did you read the Planet yet?” Mrs. Jones inquired.
“Yes, the unfortunate gentleman that died last night, he was related to you?”
Lena’s shoulder tensed. “Amos was my husband.”
Jeffrey’s eyes grew wide as the truth of the situation revealed itself to him then. “Ah! I see,” he replied, feigning sincerity as he politely nodded his head.
Mrs. Jones mistook this for apathy on the part of Jeffrey, and responded in accordance. “God rest his soul,” interjected Mrs. Jones sincerely.
Lena found herself staring at the young man who had turned his gaze upon Mrs. Jones after her interjection. She had sensed his contempt in saying the word. His dismissal of the idea of a source which guided their lives sparked something deep inside of her. “You don’t believe in the higher power, as you call it, Mr. Peterson?” Lena’s voice challenged, bringing his attention back to her. She had always believed in the Lord. Her mother had made sure that she was schooled in the word of the Lord for protection of her only daughter’s soul – and body. She prayed every night, mostly for Amos, though.
But Jeffrey never got the chance to answer her question as Mrs. Jones interrupted the uncomfortable seconds of silence that had embraced the room after Lena’s question. She had long since known of the young Peterson’s apathy towards the body of Christ since he rarely attended services at Ebenezer. She didn’t want this conversation to go any further in that direction. “Well, I most certainly will. I will go and see him tomorrow, in fact, after church, Jeffrey.”
“Thank you,” he replied rather absentmindedly. He had been staring at Lena, a little too much for her comfort, making her skin tingle as if a rash were coming.
“Um, well, it was a pleasure to meet you under these difficult circumstances. I hope all ends well with your family,” said Lena as she prepared to leave the uncomfortable parlor.
“I wish the same for yours as well. It was a pleasure, Mrs. Johnson,” he said softly, his eyes intent on her as if they were the only two people in the room. “I must be heading out anyway. I am preparing to attend the Black and White Ball this evening. Will I see you there, Mrs. Jones, as usual?”
Lena stood still for a moment as her mind was trying to recall a memory. What was it?
“Yes, you will. I am coming with a special friend of mine,” she replied warmly.
“Oh! Well then I look forward to seeing you then,” he replied as he made his way to the front door to leave. But before he walked out the door held open by Robinson, he turned back to Lena, grabbed her hand, and gave it a lingering kiss. She had to gently pull her hand away. Then, he walked out the front door into the cold October air.
“He’s a strange one,” Lena meant to say to herself, but she spoke it out loud. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Jones. I meant no disrespect …” she tried to explain.
“No, no, Lena! There’s none taken. He did seem a little strange to me. He always was a little … different, even as a child. Oh, well!” she said, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. “The death of his mother must have him shaken … I suppose. It’s only natural, right?”
Lena didn’t know if she should answer Mrs. Jones as it seemed like she had asked the question more to reassure herself than to have it actually answered by anyone. And then Lena remembered. “Mrs. Jones, is Sy your guest for this evening?” asked Lena as she followed Mrs. Jones up the stairs.
“Yes, he is. Didn’t he tell you? He came to me yesterday seeking an invitation. Somethin’ to do with the case, you know.”
“Yes, I guess it must have slipped his mind with all that’s … that’s happenin’.”
They made it to the top of the stairs. Mrs. Jones turned to Lena. “My dear, have you made funeral arrangements for your poor husband yet?” she had genuinely wanted to know.
Lena shook her head no. “I … I have no idea where to begin, Mrs. Jones. Everythin’ just seems so unreal now.” Her voice had wavered on the verge of more tears. Mrs. Jones wrapped her big arms around Lena’s shoulders to comfort her.
“Now, now, dear! If you wish, I can call upon Mr. Price. He can arrange a fine funeral for Mr. Johnson. I’m sure there’s plenty of folks who’d like to pay their respects.”
Lena just nodded her head, and wondered to herself if that were really true or n
ot. Who’d come to Amos’ funeral other than her?
Chapter 26
The Black and White Ball was a major event in Jackson Ward, at least for the elite of the Negro community. It was started in 1909 by one of the wealthiest families in the Ward, the Michums. The family matriarch had decided that Jackson Ward needed a signature event which showcased the wealth and prestige of the community’s elite and also demonstrated their progress in a society which was determined to exclude them.
In fact, the real reason Mrs. Michum had started the ball was in retaliation against the wife of Mr. Smith Waller, one of Richmond’s most prolific philanthropists. Mrs. Michum believed that money trumped race and felt bitter when she was yet again not invited to the biggest ball in Richmond, hosted by Mrs. Waller. She had vowed after the last snub in 1908 to have a ball that would rival all other events in the City of Richmond, and she had spent the last ten years seeing to this.
But not just anyone could come to the Black and White Ball. You had to have a certain amount of income – money in the bank – to qualify. The bigger your bank account, the more entrenched you were in the elite Negro society and were guaranteed an invitation each year to the ball. So, it was no surprise to see the likes of Mrs. Maggie Walker, Preston Miller, Mrs. Perditia Jones and others attend the ball in their finest evening wear.
In fact, the Negro women would spend weeks preparing for the event. The best designers in the area were called upon to design lavish gowns that topped the previous year’s gowns. Money was no object as silk and satin found its way to the docks of Richmond and onto the bodies of these women. Countless hours were spent on sewing and piecing together lace and frills to the dresses, and even the shoes were specially dyed and embellished to make them stand apart from others.
Minks and bears were killed for the honor of being worn by the women of Jackson Ward elite. Not one would dare attend the ball without her shoulders being draped in some sort of dead, furry creature that was touted by their white counterparts as being of value and a signature of wealth and prestige. So, foxes and such looked as forlorn as possible on the shoulders of dark and light alike.
The men of this elite class were not to be outdone by their counterparts either. Countless hours were spent by seamstresses sewing together two piece and three piece suits made of cotton and wool, whatever the best materials of the day were called upon by their customers. Zoot Suits were becoming the rage of the day, so large pleated pant legs and pockets were sown and even worn by the most daring thanks to the popularity of famous Negro musicians like Cab Calloway. Matching big hats were created as well, although the fedora hat was still a well-known piece of the male wardrobe of the day. But for the most part, the tuxedo did well for most of the older men who attended the ball.
Hair stylists were called upon at all hours of the night to create unique hair designs and to press and relax hair that was otherwise coarse and kept under fashionable hats when in public. These women spent hours in a makeshift torture chamber called the beauty shop trying to tame hair that would only go down when annihilated by the lye and other chemicals the hairdressers – or stylists – found to give the elite women of Jackson Ward what they desired and paid good money for.
Even cars were called upon to join in the festivities. No one of this class showed up at the Price Funeral Parlor second floor ballroom without fanfare. Only the best cars carried the elite of the Ward to the event of the year that said they were worth something if for one night only. Leigh Street was flooded with Chryslers, Cadillacs, Fords, limousines and whatever the latest car that found its way to the streets of Richmond and the white community praised as solid and American. The Negroes were not to be left out of that, so they had their chauffeurs drive around the block a few times so that they could make a grand entrance into the ball.
This ball circulated a lot of money through the Ward. No one would dare think to spend their money hiring white tailors and hair stylists. It also didn’t help that the white professionals would not dare be hired by the Negroes who wanted so badly to be like them if not better, they often thought to themselves and out loud. Richmond was divided down the color line in all things, but especially in commerce.
Jackson Ward, in particular, Second Street, was not called “The Black Wall Street of America” for nothing. The neighborhood thrived in this area of Richmond because they kept the money circulating throughout the community. No Negro businesses in the Ward, from barber shops to funeral parlors to schools to insurance agencies, hurt for customers. The money made by these businesses went back into the community to renovate old buildings or build new neighborhoods on the edge of the Ward.
For example, Charles T. Russell was also responsible for building some of the most brilliant buildings and houses in the Ward such as Virginia Union’s chapel and even the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank – he was hired by Mrs. Maggie L. Walker herself to renovate the building soon after he had completed work on the renovations of her own home. He was even commissioned to build several houses in the area which housed some of the wealthiest Negro families in the Ward and Church Hill as well. The Leigh Street Armory where Miss Sara Young had lain was the building that brought the Negro community in Jackson Ward – both poor and wealthy – the most pride as it symbolized their desire to have something significant of their own.
Its castle-like towers bounced off the shadows of the city at night when the armory’s tower light was turned on. The old timers called it a beacon of hope for the community. It also at one time housed the Negro men who served in the armed forces providing food and shelter for a group of men who were oftentimes forbidden from sharing quarters or meals with their fellow white counterparts.
So, the Ward thrived in its business and, as a result, the elite were able to build the homes their slave grandparents or parents could only dream of. They were able to afford clothes and food and material things that were but dreams and shadows to their ancestors. The money circulated in the community: they bought and sold Negro. And this irked the white merchants as they saw no real increase in their profits because of this circulation.
They would try many different tactics to close down the businesses that threatened them the most like food and retail, but to no avail. Negroes in the Ward simply would not shop outside of the Ward because everything they needed was there … except for police protection, that is. And Sheriff Mason would take any chance he could get to let them know about it. That’s why he had not really looked into the murders that were occurring in Jackson Ward. He and many other of his fellow cohorts hoped that the murders would send those who could afford their products to them on bended knee and then they’d make them pay for their success in commerce.
But tonight, the elite of Jackson Ward had other things on their minds than the fears of white folks in the City of Richmond. Tonight was their grandest event of all and they looked forward to showing off their splendor and speculating about the hot topic of the day: the murders in Jackson Ward.
Chapter 27
As residents of the Ward prepared for the night’s festivities, Jeffrey Peterson stood stock still at the bedside of his father, Elijah, who was in a coma, according to the doctors. He had come to St. Philip’s directly from his hair appointment at the salon. He had had a conk put in his hair after he’d left Mrs. Jones’ house and it still burned through his scalp. He wanted to scratch it so bad, but the stylist had said not to as it would cause severe irritation and a possible infection in the scalp. He shook himself in an effort to ward off the pain. He wanted nothing to distract him from tonight, and what a lovely night it was going to be, he thought to himself as he looked now more closely at his dying father.
Elijah’s skin was ashen gray, the color nearly dissipated from the lack of oxygen to his cells and organs. A needle ran from his arm to a bag hanging on a pole next to his bed: morphine to keep down the pain, the doctor had said. His once portly stature had diminished considerably as the cancer ate away at him. Jeffrey stared down at his father’s blank face, then at
his body. He wondered how he had not noticed that his father was losing weight so rapidly these past few months. Or maybe he did, but had just attributed it to the sudden tragic death of his dearly departed Katherine a week ago. A scowl crawled across Jeffrey’s face as he thought about his dear, sweet mother. “God rest her soul,” he murmured under his breath.
He watched as air struggled to find its way to the old man’s lungs, thereby allowing his heart to continue to beat. Jeffrey had waited years for this day, had secretly prayed for it even. To say that he hated his father was an understatement. He loathed the older Peterson. Where were his women now, he thought to himself? He had not heard of anyone else coming to see him since he took ill.
“Worthless hags, all of them,” he hissed. “They only used you for your money, father. That’s what they do,” he continued as he folded his arms tightly across his chest, “Use their bodies to entrap a man and then discard him once she gets what she wants.” He unfolded his arms and then leaned down and whispered in his sleeping father’s ear. "Better to use and discard them first, I believe.”
Jeffrey laughed softly. “Was it worth it, you bastard?” He was wearing his tuxedo in preparation for the ball this evening. It was going to be a special night, in more ways than one, thought Jeffrey as he stood back up and stared down at the blank face of his father. Pain shot through his scalp. Again, he wished to scratch his head, but prudence warned against it. Besides, he wanted to look his best tonight. It was a special night. But the irritation on his scalp intensified. Jeffrey hated pain, and so he was annoyed tremendously at this moment, which made him even more impatient.
He walked over to the window in frustration. Dark grey clouds hovered above the city. Looking down, he could see horse buggies trotting up and down Broad Street carrying workers to their jobs or homes. They looked awkward trying to avoid the beeping of the cars that also used to the same road to carry passengers. You could identify the status of the person by the style of hat they wore. Fedoras and bowler hats were more commonly worn by middle class men, and working class men wore newsboy caps or flat caps. With the women, it was a little bit more complicated as all classes of them seemed to be caught up in the latest fashion of the cloche hat, a ridiculous looking hat Jeffrey thought looked like a helmet.
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 15
