Lucille was with them on Saturday mornings at the open-air farmers market, as they grinned at each other over woven baskets filled with yams, string beans, and beets. She accompanied them to the picture shows, sat one row ahead of them, which was never far enough, because Lucille could still hear Sam’s whispered sweet nothings.
Months collapsed and advanced. Soon it was Christmas and then the champagne-popping welcoming of 1917.
* * *
On Friday, April 6, 1917, President Woodrow Wilson declared war on Germany, officially entering America into World War I.
In response, Reverend Tenant Robinson opened his church and announced that the next seventy-two hours would be dedicated to prayer for those soldiers called to defend life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Faith-filled Maconites answered, arriving by the carriage load, on foot and bicycle. To shelter the overflow of people, tents were erected on the church lawn. From Friday midday straight until Sunday-morning service, the Cotton Way Baptist Church rang with prayer and song.
Emma, Sam, and Lucille went to the confectionary shop following the Sunday service. Ice cream in hand, they sat outside on the benches, shading their eyes from the sun.
Around them, worried faces hovered over the afternoon edition of the Macon Telegraph. And it was quiet, as if the thirty-seven million dead and wounded had already been prophesied, leaving Macon hush with anticipatory bereavement.
“I’m moving,” Lucille uttered beneath the lull.
Emma dragged her napkin over her lips. “What you say?”
Lucille’s voice climbed an octave: “I said I’m moving to Chicago.”
Emma’s mouth fell open.
“What’s in Chicago?” Sam asked casually.
Lucille blushed. “Bill.”
“What?” Emma chirped, wide-eyed.
“Oh, that your beau?” said Sam with a wink.
Lucille nodded and turned to Emma’s blank face. “He done asked me to marry him and I said yes.”
“What?” Emma echoed again as if she’d gone deaf.
“She said she’s getting married,” Sam laughed, nudging Emma in her waist. “Congratulations, Lucille.”
“Thanks.” Lucille dropped her eyes from Emma’s shattered gaze. “Well, ain’t you gonna say something, Em?”
Emma’s eyes closed and opened in a slow and deliberate blink. “What’s there to say?”
“Oh, Em, don’t be like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like that. Can’t you just be happy for me?”
A wide, leering smile rose on Emma’s lips. “See, Lucille,” she pressed the tip of her index finger to the corner of her mouth, “look how happy I am for you.”
Lucille stood. “Lord, Emma, can’t you think about someone other than yourself for once in your life? You’ve got every damn thing, can’t I have this?”
The patronizing grin vanished from Emma’s face. “What are trying to say, Lucille?”
“I think you know.”
Emma rose, propped her hand on her hip, and narrowed her eyes. “I think I don’t,” she stated pointedly. “Maybe you should tell me.”
“Now ladies . . .” Sam started, stepping between the friends.
“The only reason you’re even a tiny bit upset that I’m leaving is because of Sam. Without me, there’s no him.”
Not only had Lucille hit the nail on the head, but she had driven it deep into Emma’s core, and she erupted. “Well, I thank you very kindly for your assistance. I wouldn’t have asked if I knew you’d be throwing it back in my face like a filthy rag. A real friend wouldn’t stoop so low. Thank you for showing me your true colors!” And with that, Emma marched off, leaving Sam and Lucille blinking.
Lucille shook her head. “You sure she’s what you want, Sam?”
Not peeling his eyes from Emma’s retreating back, he replied, “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life.”
Chapter 6
Sam convinced Lucille to make peace with Emma, and eventually she did.
The night before her best friend left Macon forever, Emma asked her parents if she could spend the night with Lucille. It was a risky request because, best friend or not, sleepovers were not allowed on weeknights.
If Louisa knew that the pleading in her daughter’s eyes had less to do with the heartbreak of losing her longtime friend to Chicago and everything to do with the ache and throb of blossoming love—Louisa would have turned Emma down flat. But Louisa didn’t know and so she agreed.
* * *
After dinner, the two friends closed themselves away in Lucille’s room, climbed into bed, folded their arms around each other, reminisced about what was, and swooned over what could be. Before long, it was midnight, time for Emma to leave.
“I’m gonna miss you so much,” Emma moaned, rubbing her wet eyes.
“Me too,” Lucille concurred.
“You’ll write, won’t you?”
“Of course I will, Emma.”
Emma climbed out of the bed, smoothed her dress, and finger-combed her hair back into place.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful as always, Em.” Lucille raised herself up onto her elbow.
“I’ll stay here tonight if you want me to.”
“And hate me forever?” Lucille laughed. “No thank you.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “You promise to write?”
“As soon as I get there.”
Emma quietly opened the window and climbed out. She blew a kiss at Lucille and disappeared into the night.
Beneath a black sky strewn with stars, Emma hurried toward her destiny. When she reached the rooming house, Sam was on the porch waiting, just as he had promised.
In his bedroom, the flame of the kerosene lamp cast their shadows long and dark against the walls and lace curtains covering the window.
Sam thought sitting on the bed would seem suggestive or presumptuous so he offered Emma the only chair in the room, while he remained standing.
“I-I got us some Coca-Cola,” he said, pointing at the two bottles perspiring on the dresser.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Emma said, nervously wringing her hands.
Her eyes darted between Sam and the door, certain that at any moment her father would come bursting in, swinging his belt like a lasso.
Sensing her uneasiness, Sam said, “If you wanna go, I’ll understand.”
Emma shook her head and exhaled. “No, I want to stay.”
He handed Emma a bottle of Coke.
“So,” Sam started, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, “is Lucille all packed?”
“Pretty much.”
“I guess you’re really going to miss her, huh?”
“Yeah,” Emma sighed.
Silence pulsed between them.
Sam finished his soda and set the empty bottle on the dresser. “Emma?”
She looked at him expectantly. “Yes, Sam?”
“I, um, I just want to say that I really, really like you.”
Emma’s face flushed. “I like you too, Sam.”
He took a measured step toward her. “I know you probably don’t think I’m good enough for you—”
“I think you’re a fine man, Sam. As good as any out there.”
It was Sam’s turn to blush. “Well, thank you, Emma.”
Feeling warm, Emma leaned toward the window, hoping to catch a breeze.
“I want you to know that I ain’t never felt about no woman the way I feel about you.”
Emma shot him a bashful look.
“Emma Robinson, I’d—”
“Yes, Sam?”
“I don’t want you to think me too forward, okay?”
“Okay, Sam.”
“Emma, may I kiss you?”
All she knew of kissing were the brush of lips against cheeks and the modest pecks newlyweds bestowed one another after her father pronounced them man and wife. Although there was that one time when she was walking with her mother and, out o
f the corner of her eye, she spied a couple in the alleyway that separated the feed store from the barbershop. The woman’s back was against the wall, the man pressed against her, their lips tightly locked; Emma wondered how in the world they were able to breathe. The scene never left her and every time she thought of it, her intestines wiggled in her gut.
“I would very much like you to kiss me, Sam Elliott,” she uttered breathlessly.
The kissing quickly escalated and before Emma knew it, she was on the bed, skirt rolled up to her brassiere, bloomers dangling from her ankles, Sam on top of her panting like a racehorse.
It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Afterward, they lay very still, listening to each other breathe.
Sam touched her waist. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her to his chest, brushed the hair from her face, and kissed her wet cheeks.
“Why are you crying?”
“I can’t say. It’s so stupid.”
“Are you sorry we did this?”
“N-no.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just worried that people will know.”
“How would they?”
“I heard that people can tell by looking at the back of your knees.”
Sam chuckled. “I think that’s an old wives’ tale, Emma.”
“Maybe.”
“The only way people will know is if you tell them.”
“Well, I’m not gonna tell a soul—are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Good, then we don’t have anything at all to worry about.”
Sam kissed her again. “Not one thing.”
Chapter 7
“You’re what?” Tenant boomed, carefully setting his Bible onto the sofa table.
“Pregnant,” Emma repeated timidly, gripping Sam’s hand.
“Pregnant?” Tenant uttered stupidly as if he’d never heard the word before. He turned confused eyes to Louisa. “Pregnant?”
“Yes, dear,” Louisa said sadly. “Three months.”
Dumbfounded, Tenant dropped down heavily beside his wife. He winced at Sam. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Yes sir, I’m—”
Tenant wagged his finger at the young man. “Aren’t you Lucille Nelson’s beau?”
“No sir, I’m not, I—”
“What in the world are you doing in my living room . . .” Tenant trailed off, his eyes bouncing from Emma’s face down to their tightly linked hands. “Oh, no. No, no, no,” he lamented, shaking his head.
“Daddy, we—”
Tenant raised his hand and turned to his wife. “Well, we’ll just have to send her away.”
“Away?” Louisa said.
“We’ll send her up to Atlanta or maybe down to Jacksonville!” The words tumbled from his mouth. “She’ll have the baby and put it up for adoption—”
“Adoption?” Louisa reeled back in horror.
“Yes. And then she’ll go off to Howard University and complete her education.”
“I’m not putting my baby up for adoption!” Emma screeched.
Louisa shot her a hard look. “Now Tenant, there’s no need for all of that. Sam is willing to marry Emma.”
“Marry?” Tenant barked, jerking his thumb violently in Sam’s direction. “Him? Who is he? He’s nobody. Just a carpenter. Certainly not good enough for our Emma!”
Emma started to protest, but Sam quieted her with a gentle squeeze of her hand.
Stepping toward Tenant, he said, “Sir, I believe Jesus was a carpenter too, was he not?”
Chapter 8
Three weeks later, Sam and Emma exchanged vows. Tenant officiated the ceremony.
The day of the nuptials, thunder rang though the heavens and lightning knifed the sky, dumping buckets of water. Emma was near tears.
Louisa said, “Don’t worry, it’s good luck.”
The reception was held at the Robinsons’ home. People had never seen so much food and flowers in one place.
Emma wore a girdle beneath her simple white dress. It did wonders concealing her bulging stomach, but nothing at all to dissipate her glow. Louisa dusted Emma’s face with so much powder that for a few moments, the girl looked like a ghost. In the end, all of Louisa’s efforts were for naught, because minutes later, Emma’s radiance burned right through that mask of powder, bathing her face luminous once again.
It made Tenant nervous whenever he saw a guest looking too hard at Emma. During these moments he would bellow boisterously, “Look at my beautiful daughter, she’s just glowing with happiness!” And any mother in earshot would roll her eyes and spit, “Who he think he fooling? I been pregnant before, I know what it looks like!”
Sam, who was not a drinking man, had two glasses of fine champagne at the reception—the bubbles were still floating in his head as he and Emma entered her bedroom.
Everything was pink: the canopy bed, walls, and window treatments. Everything.
Sam looked around the room and fell apart with laughter.
“Shhhh,” Emma warned, reaching for his zipper.
“What you doing, girl?”
“What you think? It’s our wedding night, you know.”
Sam backed away from her. “You jumped the gun on that. I gave you your wedding gift a few months back, remember?” he slurred drunkenly, aiming his chin at Emma’s midsection.
“No, I don’t quite remember, so I guess you gonna have to remind me now, won’t you?” Emma giggled seductively.
* * *
Before God blessed them with abundance, Tenant and Louisa had been sharecroppers, living in a one-room chattel house with two other couples and their three children. That life wasn’t so distant a memory that they couldn’t recall having to offer privacy in a home where there was no privacy to be had. They’d turn their backs on the grappling lovers, push their fingers into their ears, and pray for a hasty conclusion so they could snatch some shut-eye before it was time to head back to the fields.
But in 1917 there were no fields for Tenant and Louisa to fret over, just the squealing bedsprings and love talk slipping through the thin wall that separated their bedroom from Emma’s.
That first night and the nights that followed, Tenant and Louisa lay in bed, spines touching, palms pressed over their ears, minds ringing loudly with the familiar appeal: Hurry up and be done now. Hurry up!
Chapter 9
As promised, Lucille did write. She and Bill Hegamin were planning to leave the bone-chilling cold of Chicago for the endless sunshine of California. There was talk of her making a record.
Can you imagine, Emma? Me on somebody’s record?
But for now it was still just talk. If it did happen, Lucille would be the first black female vocalist in history to do so.
Emma wrote back that Sam was a good and kind husband. He had built a beautiful crib for the baby. Emma said that if she gave birth to a girl, she would name it Lucille and perhaps, when the baby was old enough, they would all come out to California for a visit. In the meantime, she and Sam were making plans to start their new life somewhere north of Georgia.
* * *
One night, she announced casually over dinner that she and Sam were planning to leave Macon after the baby was born.
Louisa lowered her fork. “And go where?”
“The capital,” Emma spouted excitedly.
“Atlanta?” Tenant said, his voice bright with hope.
“DC,” Sam corrected.
“Why DC?”
“Got an uncle there, seems as good a place as any to start a new life.”
“Why can’t you start here?”
“Oh, Mama, we can’t start a new life in an old place,” Emma snorted.
“Washington, DC is an old place,” Tenant countered. “Older than Macon. DC was established in 1790, Macon in 1823—”
“Daddy, you know what we mean!”
Tenant shoveled a mound of mas
hed potatoes into his mouth.
Louisa folded her hands onto the edge of the table. “What are you going to do in Washington, DC?”
Emma shifted her eyes away from Louisa’s excavating gaze. “Sam’s going to find work and I’m going to give piano lessons.”
“Piano lessons? Really?”
“Yes ma’am.”
PART II
He Is Born
Chapter 10
The baby arrived on Christmas Eve, right there on the parlor floor between the piano and the Christmas tree.
Emma was hanging an ornament when she was struck with the first knee-shaking pain. Setting the ornament on the arm of the sofa, she cautiously spun around, intent on moving into the kitchen where her mother was kneading dough for bread. The second pain sliced across her lower back, and her head went light. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper.
Her water broke, gushing fluid everywhere. Surprised, Emma careened backward into the mantle and crumpled to the ground, taking the Christmas stockings down with her. By the time Louisa heard the commotion, Harlan’s head was crowning.
“Easy now, easy, Emma,” Louisa cautioned, squeezing her daughter’s trembling hand.
Emma pushed twice and the baby boy slid out as easily as jam from a jar. Louisa had to pop his buttocks three times before he made a sound. And when he finally did open his mouth, he yawned.
Louisa reeled back with astonishment. “Well, ain’t he a grand piece of work!” she cried. “Been here a hot minute and already bored!”
They named him Harlan, after Sam’s deceased father.
Copper-colored with a mane of slick black hair, Harlan kept his eyes closed for two whole months—as if he couldn’t care less about what the world had to offer. Considering how his life would turn out, perhaps Harlan knew, even in infancy, just what the universe had in store for him.
“Is there something wrong with my baby?” Emma asked the doctor.
“No, he’s perfectly healthy, just lazy.”
Chapter 11
Spring swept into Georgia, gartered in green, yellow, and blush.
The Book of Harlan Page 2
