The Book of Harlan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  He set his Bible and reading glasses on the nesting table beside his chair and clapped his hands against his legs to get the blood flowing. When he was able to stand, he walked over to Louisa and touched her shoulder. “Will you be much longer?”

  “No, I’ll be up soon.”

  He kissed her and headed up to bed.

  When Louisa finally entered the bedroom, Tenant was snoring like a freight train. Smiling to herself, she changed into her nightgown and slipped in beside him. Soon, she was fast asleep as well.

  * * *

  You don’t spend decades of your life with a man and not become so familiar with his behaviors and sounds that when something changes, you fail to notice.

  It was closing in on three in the morning when Tenant’s body went silent. The silence was as loud as a church bell, as earsplitting as a siren; it tore Louisa from her sleep. She turned onto her side, floated her palm over Tenant’s open mouth, and felt the worst thing of all.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 16

  It had been a couple of years since Harlan last saw his parents, so when they showed up at the front door, he treated them as he had the last forty strangers who had come to give their condolences to the widow Robinson.

  “Hello, I’m Harlan. Please come in.”

  Truth was, Emma didn’t know he was her child until he said his name. After all, the last time she’d seen him, he was still small enough to fit on her hip. The boy standing before her was all limbs—clad in gray knickers, a white dress shirt, and a navy-blue bow tie.

  Emma gasped in surprise. “Harlan?”

  “Yes ma’am. My grandmother is receiving guests in the parlor,” he said, sweeping his hand through the air.

  Emma and Sam exchanged looks. Even though it was one of the saddest days of her life, Emma couldn’t help but giggle at Harlan’s gallantry. “Well, aren’t you the little man!” Stooping down before him, she added, “I know it’s been awhile, but you really don’t know who we are?”

  Harlan glanced at Sam’s smiling face and then back to Emma. “No ma’am.”

  Her heart cracked. “I’m your mother, and this is your father.”

  Sam extended his hand. “Hello, son.”

  “Oh,” Harlan muttered skeptically, “nice to meet you.”

  They followed Harlan into the parlor where Louisa was seated on the sofa, surrounded by her sons.

  Louisa smiled out through a fog of grief. “Oh, babies,” she whispered, wringing her hands, “he’s gone . . . he’s gone.”

  * * *

  The Atlanta Constitution published an editorial dubbing Reverend T.M. Robinson’s funeral the largest and most imposing colored funeral ever held in Macon.

  After Louisa had read the words a dozen times, she climbed back into bed and remained there for five days.

  Emma’s brothers Seth, James Henry, John Edward, and their wives, along with Emma and Sam, did all they could to comfort the grieving Louisa, but she waved them away, keeping her gaze fixed on the sky outside her bedroom window.

  Grappling with his own grief and despair over the loss of his grandfather, and terrified that God was coming to take Louisa from him too, Harlan made a pallet on the floor beside Louisa’s bed, refusing to leave her side.

  Since Emma and Sam returned, Harlan had paid them little mind—treating them like the strangers they were.

  “He hates us,” Emma fretted to Sam.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Well, he may not hate you, but he certainly hates me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Do you see how he looks at me? Like he wishes I was dead.”

  “It’s all in your mind, Emma.”

  “He thinks we don’t want him, that we abandoned him!”

  “You’re just emotional because of your father, and Harlan is overwhelmed too. Tenant’s death took a lot out of both of you.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Give him time, he’ll come around.”

  * * *

  One afternoon, Harlan wandered into the kitchen to find Emma standing at the window. He tried to back away, but it was too late, she’d already sensed his presence.

  “Harlan?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  Emma spun around to face him. Her eyes were bloated and red from crying. She didn’t expect sympathetic words, though she did hope to see a glint of pity in his dark eyes. But there was nothing there.

  “Yes ma’am,” he repeated flatly.

  Incensed, Emma shook her fists, barking, “I lost someone too, you know! He was her husband, but he was my father. I hurt too!” A fresh torrent of tears spilled from her eyes.

  Harlan stared passively at her, unsure of what was expected of him; he droned once again, “Yes ma’am.”

  “I am not your ma’am. I’m your mother!”

  Harlan fled from the kitchen, up the stairs, and back into the safety of Louisa’s bedroom.

  Chapter 17

  Finally, the day came when Louisa, dressed in mourning black, joined the family in the dining room for breakfast.

  Setting a plate of sausage and eggs down before her, Emma asked, “How you feeling, Mama?”

  “How you ’spect I feel? I ain’t never gonna feel right, ever again. Pass me them stewed apples, I need something sweet in my mouth.”

  Emma handed her mother the bowl.

  “I see you all packed up and ready to go,” Louisa said, scooping the apples onto her plate.

  “Well, yes. Sam has to get back to work and I—” Emma stopped. There was really no reason for her to leave. She could stay a few more weeks; Sam could make do without her. But since Harlan hadn’t made her feel especially needed or wanted in the house, she didn’t see the sense in staying on. “Sam has to return to work or he won’t have no job to go back to.”

  “I see. When y’all planning on leaving?”

  “Tomorrow. First train.”

  Harlan’s face broke into a smile so wide, it showcased every tooth in his head. It was all Emma could do to keep from slapping that grin clear off his face.

  “You gotta stay till Friday, Emma,” Louisa said. “That’s when the lawyer will be ’round.”

  “Lawyer? For what?”

  “To read the will.”

  * * *

  Turned out, Tenant owned not just the family house in Macon but acres of land in Warner Robins and a warehouse in Milledgeville. He held savings accounts in two different banks, war bonds, and a life insurance policy worth five thousand dollars.

  While the lawyer rattled off Tenant’s assets, Emma and her brothers were slack-mouthed with astonishment.

  The lawyer went on to say that it was Tenant’s wish that all of the property (except for the family home) be sold off, and the proceeds split between Louisa and their children.

  Emma was aghast. “Mama, did you know Daddy had all this?”

  “That we had all this? Yes, of course I knew.”

  “But how . . . how did he . . . you all acquire so much?”

  Louisa sighed wearily.

  “Mama?”

  Louisa reached for Emma’s hand. “Let’s just say that God has been very, very good to us.”

  * * *

  Sam and Emma didn’t return to Grand Rapids, not even to collect the clothes they’d left behind. Emma said it wasn’t worth the train fare.

  “Well, what about your piano?”

  “That old thing?” She waved her hand. “Why would I go back for that when soon I’ll have enough money to buy a brand-new one?”

  * * *

  It took five months to settle Tenant’s estate. In May of 1923, Emma and Sam took her inheritance and set off for New York to visit Lucille.

  Chapter 18

  The Greyhound bus arrived in the bowels of the Manhattan night. Country mice that they were, Emma and Sam couldn’t help but gawk at the throngs of people swarming along the city streets, lit bright by marquees burning hundred-watt lightbulbs.

  They were met by Luc
ille and her husband Bill—a tall, nut-brown man with a smile almost as stunning as Sam’s.

  Almost.

  After hugs and handshakes, the couples climbed into Bill’s late-model car and set off for Harlem.

  When they stepped into Lucille and Bill’s large home, Emma’s mouth dropped wide open. “This all yours?”

  “Well, me and the bank!” Lucille cackled as she toured them through rooms replete with chandeliers and miles of shining hardwood floors. “These rugs come straight from Turkey.”

  “Turkey?”

  They wandered beneath the fourteen-foot ceilings, past built-in bookshelves, into one of five bathrooms where Sam pointed at the sink and jokingly commented, “That faucet look like real gold.”

  “That’s because it is,” Lucille said with a smirk.

  Lucille’s parents and siblings were now living with her. “You got a house full,” Emma commented. “Me and Sam could get a room somewhere.”

  “Chile, please,” Lucille replied. “Even with all these folks up in here, I still got one empty bedroom.”

  A mixture of pride and awe for Lucille swelled in Emma’s chest, but then, rather suddenly, it was drowned in a sea of unworthiness. Her mood darkened; embarrassed, she feigned a headache and retired to a bedroom so lavish that she lay awake fighting back tears until dawn.

  * * *

  At breakfast the next morning, Lucille glanced up from her plate of pancakes and bacon to find herself in the crosshairs of Emma’s starry-eyed gaze. She calmly rested her fork on her plate, folded her hands beneath her chin, and said, “Emma Elliott, will you please, please stop looking at me like that!”

  Startled, Emma blurted, “Like what?”

  “Like you just now making my acquaintance. Like you only know me from my records. Like we ain’t come up together making mud pies.”

  A hush settled around the table.

  “Huh?” Emma offered quietly.

  “I’m just Lucille from down home, okay?”

  Emma’s cheeks burned. “Okay,” she murmured.

  Envy soon replaced that pride and awe, and in order to keep her feelings at bay, Emma had to drink three tall glasses of water swimming with bitters.

  Sam cocked his eyebrows. “Your stomach upset?”

  “A little.”

  “Maybe you pregnant!”

  “No, I don’t think that’s what it is.”

  * * *

  A week later, Lucille threw Emma and Sam a “Welcome to Harlem” party, attended by the black glitterati.

  Emma was too busy swooning to fully enjoy herself.

  No one would believe that she—little Emma Robinson from Macon, Georgia—was at a party, given in her honor no less, talking bread pudding recipes with blues singer Alberta Hunter. She’d be branded a liar if she told the folks back home that pianist Jelly Roll Morton had slipped her his number and pinched her bottom. And those same folks would just cut their eyes at her claims that country-blues guitarist Sylvester Weaver was as snazzy a dancer as he was a musician.

  “Sylvester, thank you so much, but I’m going to have to sit this song out, my dogs are barking!”

  “Okay, da-hling,” Sylvester said, dancing away.

  Emma spotted space on one of the four cushioned sofas, hobbled over, and sat down between two white women wearing brightly colored flapper dresses. The women were pointing and howling with laughter at Lucille’s father, who was toting an open bottle of gin, snake-hipping his way from one guest to the next, offering to top off their drinks.

  Emma slipped her feet from her shoes and pressed her burning soles against the cool wood floor. When she finally looked into the women’s laughing faces, she was stunned to find that she had sandwiched herself between blues songstress Marion Harris and actress-turned-singer Esther Walker.

  She was still reeling when Bessie Smith walked in, trailed by an entourage of the most beautiful men and women Emma had ever seen at one time.

  Lucille dragged the famous singer over to Emma, who didn’t know if she should bow or curtsy and so awkwardly combined the two, which raised more guffaws from Marion and Esther. Finally, grinning like a clown, Emma presented Bessie her trembling hand. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Smith.”

  After an exaggerated eye roll, Bessie threw her fat arms around Emma’s neck and squeezed the breath out of her. “We hug here in Harlem!” she bellowed.

  The party didn’t end until every drop of liquor was gone and the sky was soupy with misty morning light.

  * * *

  As Sam and Emma climbed the stairs toward their bedroom, Emma laid her head on Sam’s shoulder and announced dreamily, “Harlem is definitely where I want to restart our lives.”

  Chapter 19

  Nine months later they were back in Macon.

  Louisa opened the front door to find Emma and Sam standing on the porch, glistening like movie stars in their expensive leather shoes, fine hats, and his-and-hers raccoon coats.

  Seeing all of that new finery, Louisa feared that they’d run through every blessed cent of Emma’s inheritance. “Well, don’t y’all look like new money,” she gulped. “Come on inside.”

  Harlan came bounding down the stairs. When he saw his parents standing in the foyer, he paused and stared, but said nothing.

  Louisa shot him a stern look. “What do you say, Harlan?”

  “Hello,” he whispered.

  “Hello? Get your butt down here and greet your parents properly.”

  Harlan drifted over slowly and gave them each a weak hug, then planted himself at his grandmother’s hip.

  The family moved into the parlor. Sam and Emma sat in the wing chairs, Harlan on the sofa alongside Louisa.

  “How’s Lucille doing?”

  Emma shrugged. “You know Lucille, she’s just fine. Sends her love to you. Says she’s sorry she couldn’t make the funeral, but she was on the road. She did send flowers, though. Do you remember getting them?”

  Louisa nodded. “And the husband?”

  “She got a good man,” Sam responded.

  “Aww, Sam just likes him ’cause he let him drive his fancy car!” Emma laughed. “But he seems nice enough, I guess.”

  Louisa reached over the sofa table, plucked a white-and-red-striped peppermint ball from the glass jar, and handed it to Harlan. “And her parents? How they like living in New York City?”

  “They seem to like it just fine.”

  Steadily eyeing Emma, Harlan rolled the mint ball across his tongue.

  Emma smirked at him. “So how’s school, Harlan?”

  “Fine,” he gurgled.

  Louisa rubbed his head affectionately.

  “Me and Emma got news,” Sam croaked suddenly.

  “Oh?”

  “Go on, tell her, Emma.”

  Emma straightened her back, planted smiling eyes on Louisa’s anxious face, and squealed, “We bought a house!”

  “A house?” Louisa sputtered. “Where?”

  “In Harlem. Well, not a house like this one, a row house. Brick. Three floors.”

  “Three floors? My goodness, it sounds like one of those mansions in Vineville.”

  “No, Mama, this house ain’t quite as big as those—”

  “Got a tenant on the top floor,” Sam interjected.

  “To help pay the mortgage,” Emma added quickly. “A mother and her two children—a boy and girl.” She looked at Harlan. “I believe the boy is just about your age.”

  Harlan peered down at the floor.

  “Sounds very nice,” Louisa said, casually crossing her ankles. “And what about work? Any one of you got a job?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Sam replied proudly. “I snagged me a job with Applebaum and Sons Construction Company.”

  “Yep, he starts in two weeks,” said Emma, reaching down to squeeze Sam’s knee.

  “Ain’t that nice,” Louisa sighed with relief.

  “Anyway,” Emma waved her hand, “our place is not as grand as Lucille’s, but it’s perfect for us. It’s got a b
ackyard and a bedroom for Harlan.”

  “A backyard? Ain’t that something,” Louisa offered.

  “And a room for Harlan,” Emma repeated, before prattling on.

  Harlan looked at his grandmother, anticipating the moment Louisa would raise her hand and bring Emma’s foolish talk to an end. He waited and waited, but Louisa just sat there nodding and smiling as if she didn’t have a brain in her head.

  Finally, Louisa uncrossed her ankles and spoke: “Sounds to me like Harlan will be very happy there.”

  Harlan’s jaw dropped—the peppermint candy rolled off his tongue and onto the floor. “What?” he blurted.

  Harlan was not a child prone to fits of outrage, but on that day, he stood, screeched his disapproval and contempt, and then dropped to his knees and locked his arms around Louisa’s legs.

  “I hate you and I ain’t going nowhere with you!” he wailed at his parents.

  The adults looked on, stunned.

  Her feelings decimated, Emma fled from the room in tears. For a moment, Sam forgot Harlan was his seed and glared at the boy like a bully sizing up his victim. Mouth twisted in anger, he rose, walked over to Harlan, and caught him roughly by the collar.

  “Get your black ass up off that floor right this minute,” he sneered.

  Louisa’s eyebrows furrowed. Speaking softly and gently patting Sam’s clenched jaw, she said, “No need for all of that, Sam. Just leave him be.”

  After Sam had gone upstairs to check on Emma, Louisa uncoiled Harlan from her legs, pulled him onto her lap, and rocked him against her bosom the way she used to when he was a chubby baby. “You carrying on as if New York is as far away as the moon!” She laughed and tweaked his nose. “Us will visit all the time. You’ll come here and I’ll go there. And in between, we’ll write letters.”

  Harlan remained defiant.

  “Look here, Harlan,” Louisa continued, “this is just the way things are. You have to stop all this crying and showing off and behave like the big boy your grandpappy and I raised you to be.”

  Water sprung from Harlan’s eyes.

  “You remember what the Good Book says about your parents, don’t you?”

  Harlan nodded his head.

  “Lemme hear it.”

  “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”