It had never occurred to him that Lilian might die. He had not seen her in four years, but he had always been able to visualize her writing poetry at her desk or reading a newspaper before the parlor fireplace. Those images had comforted him. He had summoned them in times of doubt. Lilian: stable, dependable, clearheaded, and never changing. Whether she agreed with his life choices or not, she had been there for him.
It wasn’t only her death that stunned him; there was the manner of it: The telegram said she had committed suicide. When had Lilian’s life become so unbearable that death seemed to offer the only relief? And why?
She had mailed him a letter on the first of every month for some two years, starting in January 1923. Her letters had never reflected dissatisfaction with her life. They were always warm, colorful missives, filled with innocuous but witty gossip or news about her writing career. Her letters had arrived with efficient regularity until a year ago, in March 1925, and then ended abruptly. He told himself now that he should have become worried at her sudden silence. He should have made inquiries. That last letter had begged him to return home. He hadn’t answered it.
Now he longed for one more chance to hug her, to tell her how proud he was of her, to confess and explain the unexplainable. But he would never have an opportunity to do that—never. And that stunned him.
Struggling to confront the inescapable, he tried in vain to reconcile the immense contradiction between her dramatic death and her deep devotion to discretion during life. She was a proud, gentle woman, known for her exquisite discipline, delicate tastes, and exceptionally even temperament. Were someone to ever write her life story, a most likely title would be Pride of Place. She was a reclusive person, raised with a deeply ingrained awareness of her responsibilities toward her family, her class, and her race—in that order. A conscientious conformist, she strove to keep her name synonymous with propriety, refinement, and perfect manners. She scrupulously guarded her privacy and avoided contact with anyone whose behavior might attract inappropriate attention. It was a horrible irony that the most private of all acts—the act of dying—had made her the source of tabloid scandal.
He had lost all sense of time during the train ride from Philadelphia. Fear had lengthened the trip into an eternity. And fear had shortened it, propelling him toward his destination much too quickly. He had gotten hold of a copy of the New York Times, but neither the latest corruption tales involving the Democratic Party machine at Tammany Hall nor the political circus of the Sacco-Vanzetti case could distract him. His terrorized mind fought to stave off the coming appointment with his very personal reality. A vague protective hope that some terrible mistake had been made rode with him, kept him company the entire way, but this false friend abandoned him the moment his train pulled into Manhattan.
That was less than an hour ago. Now he stood on the doorstep of his family home on Harlem’s elegant Strivers’ Row, deeply disoriented, his one suitcase at his side, and it seemed that the family maid was the only person there to greet him. But the sight of her loved and familiar face warmed him.
Annie Williams’s wizened face lit up when she saw him. Her hands went to her cheeks and her dark eyes widened in surprise.
“Mr. David? Is it you? Is it really you?”
David gave a barely perceptible nod and the whisper of a smile. He sensed her astonishment melt into joy, momentarily eclipsing her grief, and felt the knot in his chest loosen. God, how he’d missed her. She’d been there as long as he could remember. His eyes went over her. She was ginger-brown, like her favorite spice, a thin, wiry woman of strength surprising in someone her size and age. She was in her late fifties. Most of the time, she appeared younger, but mourning for Lilian had taken its toll. Her eyes were sunken and ringed by circles of dark gray.
He wrapped his strong arms around her in a hug. Her soft breath buffeted his ears as she whispered gratitude to God for having answered her prayers. Finally, she stepped back, swiped at her tearful eyes with her apron, and took a good look at him.
“Where you been, Mr. David? We sure did miss you. Coulda used you ‘round here.”
“Movement business,” he said, glancing away.
“It was so horrible when you didn’t come back. We thought you was dead and gone. Nobody seemed to know nothing. Them Movement people even offered a reward. But they just gotta lot a kooks writing in. Nothing worthwhile. ‘Magine, Miss Lilian knowing where you was all the time. I ain’t faulting her for not saying nothing—I’m sure she had her reasons, but—”
He managed a small smile and forced himself to look at her. “I asked her to be discreet.”
“Well then, I guess I can’t say nothing—but it sure woulda lifted a coupla hearts to know you was all right.”
She ushered him into the house. Until that moment, he’d wondered if he would actually manage to set foot in it again, but with her to welcome him it wasn’t so difficult.
I’m acting like a child, he thought.
And like a child, he let her ease off his coat. She brushed her hand over it and hung it in the vestibule closet.
“I was going through Miss Lilian’s things after the fun’ral. That’s when I found your address. I wish I’da known where you was before. Maybe it woulda made a diff’rence. Then again, maybe not. I just know I sure is glad you here. I’m so glad you come back.”
Her eyes went over him devotedly. It had been years since he’d seen so much love for him in anyone’s face. He walked into her arms. They held one another again and it was hard to tell who was comforting whom.
In her own way, Annie had helped raise him and his twin sisters, Lilian and Gem. She’d seen them through their first loves and first heartaches. She’d rejoiced with them when they won school prizes and comforted them when they lost. He knew that she was as proud of the McKay children as she would’ve been of her own. As she hugged him, her flat, spade-like hands patted him on the back.
Like I’m a child, he thought. And I’m glad of her comfort, like a child. All these years of living away, and the moment I return here, I’m—
“C’mon, Mr. David. Let me fix you something to eat.”
He nodded and followed her as she led him down the corridor. She moved with unfamiliar slowness, as though the weight of her years were bricks on her back. Her left shoulder was a tad bit higher than the other from a slight curvature of the spine he hadn’t noticed before, and she walked with a slightly perceptible limp. He did not remember her being so frail, so worn.
What else had changed? He cocked an ear. He didn’t know what he was listening for, but he knew what he heard:
Emptiness. No sounds of life, of love or laughter. Just a roaring emptiness that fills every nook and cranny. A hollow silence that echoes every thought, every heartbeat.
He looked around, at the paintings on the walls, the flower-bedecked tables that lined the hallway. All seemed familiar, yet remote. His eyes knew what to expect, but none of the sights seemed to touch his heart. He was detached and distant and it reassured him to feel that way.
This is like a place I only dreamed of.
But then his gaze fell on the dark gleaming door to the left of the library. This was the door that had guarded the heart of the house. This was the door that had haunted his childhood dreams and even now—
His breath caught; his shoulders rode up. He counted his steps and kept his eyes straight ahead. The hallway seemed to twist and lengthen. It was taking an eternity to cross that door. Every footfall echoed in the thudding of his heartbeat. Finally, they were past the door, beyond it. The hallway snapped back into shape. He exhaled.
They entered the kitchen. It was warm and comforting, familiar in its rich mixture of smells. His joints were stiff after the long train ride. He eased himself down into a chair at the kitchen table and let his tired eyes drift over the spotless room: up to the clock on the wall, down to the gas stove, the enameled sink and the refrigerator. His breathing slowed.
How many meals have been prepared in here . ..
This kitchen was Annie’s domain. She’d made it her own, made it a place for more than just physical nourishment. Annie’s kitchen was a source of warmth, a place for truthful conversations. It was a place to break down and weep or bust out with a big laugh, to be temporarily free from concern about what was or was not becoming in a colored family of status. Never before had he been so intensely aware of the role Annie’s kitchen had played in his life. Never before had he so envied the boy he’d been.
She moved about the room, singing softly to herself. He watched her go about boiling water and heating something in a pot on the stove. Nothing more was said as the contents of the pot simmered. In a short time, she placed a cup of black coffee and a deep bowl of rich vegetable soup before him. She went to the pantry and fetched him bread and butter. He ate in silence. For a while, the only sound was the clink of his spoon scraping against the side of his bowl.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table across from him. He felt her eyes dwell on him with affection. He could imagine what she thought she saw: a good man possessed of a kind and compassionate nature, a man who performed brave deeds. He could imagine her talking to her friends. He could just hear her describing how it was before he went away.
“Always so nicely dressed in his debonair British suits. Never a hair outta place, shirts perfectly pressed, razor-sharp crease in his pants, black shoes so shiny you could see your face in them. ‘Fine David McKay,’ the young ladies used to call him. Them girls was crazy about my David, with his soft hair. But David never had no time for any of them. He was too busy studying. Wanted to be a lawyer. That’s what he done, too. After he come back from the war, he went off to Howard University and got hisself a fine education. Then he got a job with the Movement. They sent him on down south. He went to get to the truth behind them lynchings. It’s dang’rous work, going down to them there hot spots. Those ol’ crackers would just as soon lynch a colored man as look at him. That was back in ‘22. There sure was a lot to keep a colored lawyer busy back then. Still is. Sad to say, there still is.”
David thought about a little town in Georgia and his brief sense of well-being vanished. A chill touched his soul. He’d virtually disappeared after joining the Movement. He had kept his whereabouts secret from all but Lilian. He looked at Annie. Had she read his letters? No, it wasn’t likely. She was inquisitive, but she could be trusted to respect private matters. Furthermore, he’d been careful to keep his letters lean.
Finishing his soup, he laid his spoon and napkin neatly to one side. Silence permeated the room, thick and waiting. His mind was filled with questions. So many questions. They mobbed his mind like grief-stricken relatives clamoring around an accident scene, all seeking the impossible, the essentially unattainable—an explanation, an answer, a satisfying solution to that one question survivors are always driven to ask: Why?
“What happened?” he asked. “What brought her down?”
Annie wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. It was old and chipped. He realized with a start that the cup was the one he’d given her as a Christmas present when he was ten years old. He’d spent all of his first allowance on it.
“I don’t know if I can give you the answers you need, Mr. David. I seen a lot in this house, and I got my thoughts. But they’s just the notions of an old woman.”
He’d never known her to lie or bite her tongue when the truth needed telling. “It’s me, Annie. Whatever you want to say, however you want to say it, just go ahead.”
She looked away, out the window, where a couple walked past pushing a baby carriage. The young husband said something and his wife gave a high-pitched giggle. Inside the kitchen, it was quiet, so quiet that David could hear the sound of his own breathing. He waited. He could be patient. As a lawyer, he’d learned to be patient. Her eyes swung back to his. Do you really want to know? she seemed to ask.
Yes, he thought. I want to know. “I need to know,” he said.
Her roughened hands trembled. “Well... a lot’s done happened since you been gone, Mr. David ... an awful lot.” Her words pierced him.
“Go on,” he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse and tight and unwilling.
“I don’t know where to start. It’s hard when I think back on all I seen and heard.” Her voice trailed off. “Miss Gem come back for a while—”
“ Gem is here?”
“No, she gone. Been gone. She didn’t stay long. Just long enough to try to cause trouble.” An expression of disapproval flitted across her face. “Anyway, she left again after a few months. And ain’t nobody heard nothing from her since Miss Lilian died.”
“Does she know?”
“She should. I sent a telegram. She never sent no answer. Never showed her face. I don’t know what to make of it. Nobody does.”
He had his own opinions on the matter, but he kept them to himself. “Go on.”
“Well, that young Miss Rachel—you know she was gone for a while— well, she come back, too.”
His heart gave a little twist. He kept his face unmoved.
“And then ... as for Miss Lilian ...” Annie paused.
“Yes?”
“She got ill. Her mind went. And ain’t none of the doctors knowed how to help her.” Annie folded her hands together. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. The biggest change, the one I’d better begin with, is how Miss Lilian up and got married.”
David’s eyelids raised involuntarily, then lowered like shutters yanked down over a dark window. Married. He shivered and wondered at his own reaction. Surely news of a marriage was to be welcomed.
It was also to be shared.
Why didn’t she tell me? She never once wrote a word about it, not even dropped a hint. All those letters of pretended openness. By saying nothing, she lied.
He was suddenly furious. And instantly ashamed. How could he be angry with the dead?
“I wondered if she’d written and told you,” Annie said. “Didn’t think she had. She didn’t tell nobody.”
“You mean she eloped?”
“It’ll be exactly two years ago next month. She kissed him in March, married him in April. Knowed him for one month. Met him at a fancy-dress dinner them civil rights folks at Black Arrow magazine had down at the Civic Club. You musta heard about it.”
Yes ... The dinner had caused a lot of talk. It was widely written about in the Negro press. The dinner introduced the cream of Harlem’s black literary
crop to influential white publishers. It was held at the Civic Club because the Fifth Avenue restaurant was the only classy New York club that admitted patrons regardless of color or gender. It was the perfect meeting place for distinguished black intellectuals and eminent white liberals. As a writer and editor at the Black Arrow, Lilian would have been there.
He loosened his collar. What kind of man had finally elicited Lilian’s love? She had made female friends quickly and maintained them easily, but men she had kept at a cool distance.
“So who was the lucky guy?”
“His name is Sweet, Mr. Jameson Sweet. He’s gone on business. He’ll be back Sunday. Maybe you know him? He works for the Movement, too.”
A light flickered in David’s deep-set eyes. Regret, anxiety, and fear rumbled like freight trains through his chest. He had known he was taking a risk in returning, but the danger was closer to home than he had anticipated. He felt Annie watching him, her eyes quick with intuitive intelligence, and forced himself to remain calm. He must take care. She was as gentle as a dove, but as sly as a fox.
“Mr. David, I got your old room waiting’ for you,” she was saying softly. “I gave it a good going over when I knew you was coming’.”
“No, it’s better if I stay in a hotel.”
“This is your home.”
Not anymore, he wanted to say. “It’s better if I go. I can’t stay long, no way—”
“Oh, but you got to stay.”
He gazed at her. “No, Annie. I’ve got business down in Philadel
phia—”
“You got business here, too. Fam’ly business.”
“Annie—”
“Miss Lilian’s gone and Miss Gem’s ‘cross the ocean. I’m just an old woman and I got no say. You the only one left to set things straight.”
His eyes narrowed. “Set what straight?”
She measured her words. “Mr. David, you and I, we both know ... well, we both know that things ain’t always the way they seem.” She looked at him as though that explained it all.
It didn’t. As far as he was concerned, it most definitely didn’t. “Yes … and?”
Her expression became somewhat impatient. “Mr. David, I’ll put it as simple as I can. More than one fox got into this chicken coop while you was gone.”
“You mean Lilian’s husband—”
“I mean he’s sitting pretty in this here house, real pretty.”
A pause, then: “Just what kind of man is he?”
“A hard man, a determined man. And he ain’t the sharing kind.” She reached across the table and laid a firm hand on his wrist. “Now Miss Lilian never meant for this here house to pass outta the fam’ly. You know that.”
What she said was true. This beautiful house had been his father’s pride, the crowning glory of a lifetime. A stately, turn-of-the-century Italianate building on tree-lined 139th Street, it boasted twelve rooms, casement windows, and iron filigreed balconies. Set on Strivers’ Row, with its air of manicured exclusivity, the house was a monument to Augustus McKay’s real estate acumen. It was a coveted symbol of the McKay family’s status among Harlem’s elite—and a lightning rod for the hate and envy of others.
“Mr. David, you can’t be willing to give up your daddy’s house—-just like that.” Annie snapped her fingers. “You can’t be.”
He gazed steadily at her for a long time. She meant well, but she didn’t know. How could she? He had forfeited the right to call the house his home. He was in no moral position to reclaim his birthright. He doubted he ever would be. The small jaw muscles on either side of his face began to bunch. He had but one question.
Harlem Redux Page 2
