On the weekends, if the weather was foul, friends crowded into the basement to play spades and dominoes, and bid whist. Emma and Mayemma cooked pots of food and John and Harlan accompanied Lucille, in town from Harlem, through her repertoire of songs.
The gatherings swelled, and by ’52 Emma was hosting a bimonthly fish fry, which quickly became the best place to be two Fridays a month that side of the Holland Tunnel.
Eventually, it was almost like old times in that new place across the Hudson River.
Chapter 87
Even with the pills, Harlan still slept with the bedroom lights on. Sometimes, of course, he didn’t sleep at all, and Emma would lay awake counting his footsteps as he wandered through the house mumbling to himself.
Every morning, she half expected to discover her son dead by his own hands, and every morning that she found Harlan asleep on the sofa or sitting at the kitchen table hunched over a bowl of Cheerios, her knees went weak with relief.
His night terrors came and went with the seasons and thunderstorms left him trembling for days. Emma and Sam did their best to comfort him through those harrowing times, resigned now to the fact that whatever he had suffered over in Germany couldn’t be eradicated with a pill, reefer, Scotch, or a mother’s unrelenting love. The fear and rage living inside of Harlan was a virus, creeping and latent, springing unexpectedly—much like a jack-in-the-box or a stalking cat.
* * *
In ’54, Sam began working as a janitor at the Tilton General Hospital in Fort Dix, New Jersey. He got Harlan hired on as a floater, who sometimes mopped floors, sometimes emptied bedpans, and other times worked as a server in the mess hall.
It was the end of the Korean War, and the three-hundred-bed hospital had become a temporary home for returning veterans.
Harlan felt right at home amongst those limbless, body-ravaged, mentally scarred men. He listened to their stories and shared a few of his own. He treated the patients with the same compassion and empathy that his parents had showed him day in and day out.
At Emma’s prodding, Harlan began bringing his guitar to work. “I hear it’s therapeutic,” she remarked with a sly smile. Harlan knew she was speaking more about his own healing than that of the strangers she would never meet.
After his obligations were done, Harlan often stayed on to jam with those patients who were also musically inclined. They were a comical bunch to watch—blind, bandaged, and amputated—but the music they made consistently belied their physical disabilities.
* * *
It was at Tilton General Hospital that Harlan, quite by accident, made his first narcotics transaction as a dealer.
Every morning before leaving for work, he would slip a joint into his pack of cigarettes. At lunchtime, he’d steal away to the boiler room for a few puffs and then again at quitting time if he’d planned on staying around to jam or play cards with the patients.
One day, a vet who’d had his right cheek and eye blown off by a grenade pointed at the pack of smokes nestled in the breast pocket of Harlan’s shirt. “Can I have one?” he mumbled through his ruined mouth.
At that moment Harlan was chatting up a doe-eyed nurse’s aide and hastily handed the pack of cigarettes to the man. “You can keep it,” he said, unwilling to pull his eyes from the woman’s full lips.
The man tottered off.
Harlan realized much too late exactly what he’d given away. The loss, however, was worth it because he had bedded the pretty aide in an empty room on the floor of the hospital occupied by the mentally unstable.
The next day, the man approached Harlan, his one eye rolling happily in its socket. “That was some good weed,” he whispered.
Concerned about losing his job, Harlan played foolish: “Weed? I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”
The vet was persistent: “I let some of the other guys hit it and they want more. So how much you selling it for?”
“Selling?”
“Yeah.”
Although Harlan had been a tried and true customer, it had never crossed his mind to become a dealer. But as he stood there looking at the broken man, it occurred to him that Tilton General Hospital might possibly be his personal gold mine. The realization rose in him like the sun. “Let me get back to you on that.”
Chapter 88
Being financially independent for the first time in years, Harlan spent most of his money on women and Scotch. He bought himself a used convertible—red with white racing stripes along the sides—and took a girl he’d met waiting for the Trenton city bus to Atlantic City for the weekend. When he came back, he handed a bag of strawberry taffy to Emma and a gag cigar to Sam. When Emma asked about the young lady, Harlan told her he’d taken her back to her husband where she belonged.
* * *
In 1955, two white men were accused of killing a young black boy in Money, Mississippi. They swore to God they didn’t do it, got off scot-free, and then later admitted to a journalist that they did indeed kill that nigger and would do it again if they got the chance. Emma said that was why God reached down and snatched away America’s golden boy, James Dean—because what goes around always comes around.
Mad or not at white people’s ways, they all took a liking to that Elvis Presley, with his colored-sounding music and dance moves. When he appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show in ’56, Emma pretended to faint into Harlan’s arms. He was laughing so hard he almost dropped her.
In the South, black Americans, sick of centuries-long maltreatment from a country built on their backs, launched boycotts, freedom rides, and sit-ins. Across the waters, inspired by their American cousins, South Africans also took to the streets to demand civil rights.
As a result, blood was spilled on both continents. Rivers of it flowed through the gutters, seeped into the core of the earth, and came together in a thick, red knot.
Justice was blind, and God was deaf.
That sexy starlet with the blond hair and bow-shaped hips fell in love with the leader of the free world, and when he didn’t leave his wife, she took a handful of pills and went to sleep forever. Not too long after that, a lunatic shot a bullet into the head of that president, scattering his brains all over his prep-schooled wife.
A man named Malcolm Little, who had at one point in his life been a thief, addict, and womanizer, found Allah in a tiny jail cell and changed his name to Malcolm X. He told black people that there was a white man paying Dr. Martin Luther King to keep Negroes defenseless, because wasn’t no one asking white folk to turn the other cheek. On top of that, Malcolm X had been smug and flip about the assassinated president with the Hollywood looks and that upset a lot of people, so somebody did to him what had been done to JFK just to see how he liked being killed.
But he never did say, because he was dead.
The black minister called King, who was causing so much trouble for white America, marched on Washington, along with 250,000 supporters. On the steps of the memorial dedicated to the great Negro emancipator, Martin Luther King shared a story about a dream he had for America.
Either President Lyndon B. Johnson liked what he heard, or he was good and tired of hearing Negroes sing “We Shall Overcome,” because he signed Martin’s dream into law.
When the president of South Africa got wind of what Johnson had done, he laughed and called him stupid, declaring that there would never be an apartheid-free South Africa. “Not here, not ever!”
* * *
The first time Sam and Emma had ever heard the name Nelson Mandela was in 1962, when Harlan came home wearing dark shades, black tam, and dashiki, causing Emma to choke on her Nehi soda.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
Harlan pulled a chair from the dining table and straddled it. “I’m still me, just conscious.”
Emma eyed him. “Are you off your medicine again?”
“No, Mama, I—”
Emma shoved a finger in his face. “Didn’t I tell you to steer clear of them Black Panther hooligans? They ain�
�t nothing but trouble.”
Harlan lowered her finger. “The Black Panther Party is all about the betterment of our race—”
“Seems to me they more about guns and violence!”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Mama. Anyway, the Panthers are planning to protest the imprisonment of Nelson Mandela.”
“Nelson who?”
Harlan stood and opened his mouth to explain, but Emma brutally interrupted him.
“And I don’t like you wearing that African getup. You need to go and find something decent to put on.”
Harlan rolled his eyes. “Mama, you need to start taking some pride in your African roots.”
Emma clapped her hands. “African roots? I ain’t got no goddamn roots in Africa; my roots right down there in Macon, Georgia!”
Turns out, Harlan wasn’t a revolutionary after all, just a pussy hound hell-bent on laying every pretty female who joined the party.
* * *
That same year, Lucille came out of retirement to record A Basket of Blues, with legends Victoria Spivey and Hannah Sylvester.
Lucille was so proud that she had Gomez drive out to Trenton from Harlem in a rainstorm just so she and Emma could listen to the album together.
When Emma saw the jacket (a black-and-white photo of the three elderly singers posed around a piano), she squinted at it and then smirked at Lucille. “All y’all look like ya got one foot in the grave. You shoulda called the record A Casket of Blues!”
The two friends laughed themselves to tears.
* * *
One Sunday morning, after many years of defection, Emma announced that she wanted Harlan to drive her and Sam to church.
Harlan gazed at the blue straw hat on Emma’s head; she looked like someone’s grandmother. It was the first time he truly realized that his mother had grown old. His heart tugged.
“Church?”
“Negro, did I stutter?”
“No ma’am.”
PART X
The Summer of Love
Chapter 89
July 1967
In that famed city by the bay where Mark Twain once spent an entire summer in his winter coat, a hundred thousand people adorned in bell-bottoms and midriffs, high on everything including life, gathered in Golden Gate Park committed to resurrecting love.
Rebelling against the Vietnam War, oppression, and a social system replete with rigid ideas, the hippies tossed away bras and neckties, grew their hair, stuck flowers behind their ears, hung leis around their necks, flashed peace signs, and liberated sex from its dark closet—renamed it “free love” and flaunted it in the faces of the bourgeoisie.
Black with white, men with men, women with women, young with old. Free love. Love for everyone, with everyone. All of that fucking and freethinking required lots of LSD and marijuana. The demand transformed small-time dope peddlers into low-level tycoons, which is why Harlan had money to burn.
The dice rolled swiftly across the wooden floor, bounced against the baseboard, and displayed seven black dots, prompting a chorus of curse words from the losers.
Grinning, Solomon Hardison, a beady-eyed amateur boxer, swept up the wrinkled bills and shoved them deep into his pants pocket.
Harlan huffed: “Ain’t you gonna give me a chance to win my money back?”
Solomon’s grin stretched wider. “You’re what I call a glutton for punishment.”
“Never mind all of that,” Harlan said, peeling off ten five-dollar bills. He waved the money in Solomon’s face. “You down or what?”
Solomon shrugged. “Sure, fool. I’ll keep taking till you’re broke.”
They were supposed to be playing music, but a midday downpour had sent them running from the backyard into the clawing heat of the basement. It was July, too warm to play in that poorly ventilated cave. So the musicians waited out the rain with gin, pot, and dice.
“Lemme see.” Harlan plucked the dice from the floor and set them in the palm of his hand, testing the weight. He then brought the dice close to his eyeballs to examine the validity of the black dots.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with them shakers!” Solomon exclaimed.
“Yep, they brand new. I saw Solomon take them out of the box with my very own eyes,” John Smith said.
Harlan shot John a hard look. “I can’t trust your eyes,” he laughed. “I seen your women!”
“Ug-leeee!” someone railed from the other side of the room.
The basement shook with laughter.
“Aww, later for y’all.”
“Roll the fucking dice,” Solomon demanded. “Let me get this money real quick. I got things to do.”
Harlan curled his fingers around the dice, raising his hand above his head, then turned to Solomon. “Double or nothing?”
“We could do triple or nothing if you want.”
The dice skated across the floor.
Snake eyes!
Harlan pounded his fist into his palm. “Shit, shit, shit!”
The door creaked open. “Hey,” Emma called from atop the landing, “the rain’s stopped.”
They played till five, and then one by one the musicians and onlookers headed elsewhere. But John stayed behind, parked himself on the porch steps alongside Harlan, and lit a cigarette.
Beneath a darkening sky, they ogled and grinned at the beautiful things posturing billowy Afros, platform shoes, and miniskirts. Even though Independence Day was eight days gone, the nights continued to erupt with firecrackers, cherry bombs, and the silver sputter of sparklers.
A tall brown beauty, dressed in a psychedelic halter dress, sauntered across the street in her bare feet, waving as she approached. “Hey, y’all.” She nodded at John, bent over, and planted a kiss on Harlan’s cheek. “The music was good tonight.”
“Just tonight?”
“Aww, it’s always good.” She slid her hands over her curvy hips. “So, um, you got something for me?”
“You got something for me?” Harlan shot back.
She nodded, slipped her hand down the front of her dress, and plucked out a rolled bill.
John gave his head a little shake and peered off down the street.
Harlan took the money, went into the house, and returned with a small bag of marijuana.
“Thanks, baby,” she cooed, slipping it from his fingers.
“Thanks is all you got for me?”
“For now,” she offered with a wink. “See ya later?”
“Yeah.”
John and Harlan watched the hypnotic roll and bounce of her ass beneath the thin dress. When she was out of earshot, John muttered, “I don’t think she’s wearing any drawers.”
Harlan chuckled. “Believe me, she ain’t.”
John stood, stretched his arms high above his head, and yawned.
“You out?”
“Yeah, man, I gotta go make some bread.”
“All right then.” Harlan presented his open hand. “Stay tight.”
John slapped his palm with his own. “You know it.”
Chapter 90
When a phone rings at that time of the morning (1:15 a.m.), it can’t be good news. Even those who are welcoming the birth of their first or fifth child have the good sense (and manners) to wait until the sun is up before they start dialing numbers to spread the happy word.
Harlan was snoring on the couch, having fallen asleep in the middle of watching the Johnny Carson show. He was dreaming he was playing a trombone. Lizard was alongside him, strumming his trumpet like a banjo. Using a peacock plume to conduct the orchestra of two was Harlan’s grandfather, dressed in the suit and brown shoes he was buried in.
The phone jolted Harlan from his dream. He sat up and stared stupidly at the American flag fluttering on the black-and-white Zenith console until the phone rang a second time.
“Yeah, h-hello?”
“Harlan? Harlan? They killed John.”
Harlan rubbed mucous from his left eye. “What? Who is this?”
“It’s Solo
mon, man. Did you hear me? The fucking pigs killed John.”
Harlan gave his head a hard shake. “John who?” He knew at least six.
“John Smith.”
“W-what?”
“Goddamn cracker-ass crackers!” Solomon sobbed. “Harlan? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he whispered in a state of disbelief. “Where you at?”
“In Newark, at the diner across from the Fourth Precinct.”
Harlan’s knees threatened to buckle.
“You coming, man?”
“Yeah,” Harlan croaked, “I’ll be there.”
* * *
Six blocks from the diner. That’s as close as Harlan got before coming upon the sea of people clogging the streets and sidewalks as if it was a Saturday afternoon and someone was giving away money.
Figuring the cops had more important things to do than write tickets, Harlan parked the car next to a hydrant and walked the rest of the way.
Springfield and Belmont avenues were congested with dozens of taxis from Newark and the surrounding towns. The black drivers of those cabs were shaking their fists and shouting at the riot gear–clad police officers who had formed a human barrier in front of their precinct.
Across the street, residents of the Hayes Homes housing projects streamed from the buildings, shouting obscenities and accusations. The police shouted back through bullhorns. Ordered the crowd to disperse and the area cleared, but their demands fell on dead ears.
Harlan mopped sweat from his brow and elbowed his way through the crowd into the packed diner. He spotted Solomon seated in a booth, surrounded by a group of men who Harlan did not recognize.
“Yo, make room for my man,” Solomon said. The guy sitting next to him slid out of the booth and stood.
Harlan sat down, rested one elbow on the table, and curled his fingers around his chin. The heat inside of the diner was even more oppressive than it was outside.
“What’s happening? Are all those people out there because of John?”
The Book of Harlan Page 22
