Harlem Redux

by Persia Walker

  David had spent more than half his life in the rat-infested Tenderloin and clearly remembered his family’s move to Harlem when he was nineteen. He understood the hope that Harlem had represented to New York City’s black residents. It was their chance to build a community—a respectable, decent community. Now, as he gazed at the tenements around him, he wondered how far that dream had been realized.

  Harlem’s residents were caught between low salaries and high rents, yet many people saw it as the largest, most dynamic black enclave in the United States. And in fact, the community was alive with success stories and colorful characters: bootleggers and racketeers, literati and blue bloods, barefoot prophets and uniformed liberators.

  As David waited for a streetlight to change, his gaze drifted over the street life around him. There were so many half-forgotten, familiar sights. Mamas tired after a long week’s work dragged toddlers with one hand and hugged grocery bags with the other. Tail-wagging dogs strained against leashes to gain the nearest fire hydrant. Stray cats with scarred faces and ripped ears huddled alongside the entrances to alleyways. Hip young men with cool ambition in their eyes hustled by. Others, with deadened dreams, sat on stoops or leaned languidly against street lamps. Street vendors hawked toys, perfume, dresses, stockings, and watches. Their goods spread out on torn blankets, they proudly displayed a profusion of glittery items one might desire, but would never use. And an abundance of dreary items one could use, but would never desire.

  He’d been away a long time. What he saw was both familiar and foreign. Part of him was baffled and bewildered. But another part, a deeper part, understood and accepted, without doubt or dismay. He walked for hours. Nostalgia slowly drew his unwilling soul into her lonely embrace. These were the streets he’d roamed, the alleys where he and his friends had played. He remembered the days when 134th Street was the northern boundary of Negro Harlem, when a black man knew never to cross Lenox Avenue, no Negroes lived on or near Seventh, and none dared to appear unarmed on Irish Eighth. He remembered so much, but realized he’d forgotten even more. This was indeed his town, but it was no longer his home.

  What he needed, he decided, was a drink. What about Jolene’s? It was a lap joint, not far away. Back in his first days home after the war, when he and his friends wanted a break from the cabarets, wanted something a little dingier, dirtier, and down-to-earth, they would hit Jolene’s. Gem had sung there sometimes, living out her fantasy of being a torch singer.

  Jolene’s was a dive on the edge of Harlem’s “low-down” district, on 135th and Fifth. It was run through the back door of a grocery store. A body could stroll into that store any night until five in the morning to find Birdie Williams perched on his stool behind the counter. Signs in the window advertised five-pound bags of sugar for twenty-two cents, half a pound of bacon for a dime, and three cans of dog food for thirteen cents. You could also buy a bottle of Pepsi for a nickel, but if you were a regular or knew the right words, Birdie would let you go downstairs, where you could get happy with some hooch. If you thought you could get in because you were a Somebody, then you were wrong. Birdie kept a sling razor ready just to show you how wrong you could be.

  When David pushed open the door to the store that night, he found Birdie cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a nasty-looking blade. Birdie looked up and saw David, and a surprised grin spread over his broad face.

  “Well, hot damn!” Birdie jumped up and came around the counter. He pumped David’s hand and slapped him on the back. “Man, oh man, I ain’t seen you since Hannibal was a child. Where the hell you been?”

  “Laying low. Taking it easy.”

  “Shit, I heard you got lost down—”

  “That was just talk, man. Just talk.”

  Birdie perched on the edge of the counter. “Sorry to hear about your sister. Was a damn shame.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Staying long?”

  “Just visiting.”

  David glanced around. He saw nothing but two bags of sugar and a lonesome can of dog food, the sum total of Birdie’s efforts at pretending to run a legitimate operation.

  “So who’s playing tonight?”

  “Sweet Lips and his boys. We had Ethel in last night.”

  “No lie?”

  “She just happened by.”

  “Too bad I missed that.”

  “Next time, brother. Next time.” Birdie went back behind the counter and pulled a long chain connected to a bolt on the back door. “Go on down.”

  Jolene’s was simply a raw cellar behind a door at the bottom of a steep flight of rickety steps. It was as damp and dark as a rotten boat. A wall of smoke greeted David as he entered. The air was heavy with the stink of cheap whisky, sweat, and a busted toilet. But the smooth, bluesy sound of Sweet Lips’ sax almost made the stench worthwhile.

  David ordered a drink, knocked it back, and grimaced. He hated cheap liquor and this stuff was raw enough to clean a car engine. He glanced around. Half of Harlem was there. About two dozen tables were jammed into the small room; most were crowded with five or six people. The rest of the folks were perched on wire-legged chairs. Guys in silk-striped shirtsleeves and gals in bright dresses with low-cut necklines were laughing and jiving, telling tall tales and smoking reefer. Dancers filled the tiny open space before the band, but it was too crowded for them to do the bump or the mess-around, so they were shuffling in place, dancing on a dime.

  “Hey, David,” a coarse voice called from behind him.

  David turned back to the bar. It was Jolene, Birdie’s older brother. Birdie wasn’t bad looking, but as Gem once put it, Jolene was “uglier than a witch’s tit.” He was short, fat, and bald. He wore a patch over one eye—he’d lost the eye in a knife fight—and his other eye tended to roam, sort of like an eight ball looking for a pocket. You never quite knew if he was really looking at you when you talked to him.

  “Birdie told me you was here,” Jolene said. “So, what’s Mr. Yella Nigger himself doing in my humble gut-bucket?”

  “Keeping you humble.”

  “Well, you can just press the pavement, jack.” He reached out and shook David’s hand. “Glad to have you back.”

  David accepted the handshake coolly. He and Jolene had never gotten along. Birdie was all right, but Jolene hated light-skinned Negroes. It was as simple as that and he’d never tried to hide it, so David was surprised at the warm welcome.

  Well, people do change, David thought and put the matter out of mind.

  Sweet Lips was working with a torch singer that night. She walked out on the floor with great leisure and self-assurance, then stood there with haughty nonchalance and waited. The dancers sat down. The babble of voices subsided. She began her song.

  Waiting at home, now

  For him to come home.

  How long’s it been .. . since he’s been gone?

  Watching the nightfall

  Hearing my heart call.

  I don’t know what I’m gonna do, oh Lord

  No, I don’t know .. . what I’m gonna do.

  “Sing, Stella! Sing!” the people cried. They tossed wadded dollar bills at her feet and rapped on the tables with glasses to demand more.

  “Pretty, ain’t she?” said Jolene.

  David glanced back at him. Jolene was chomping tobacco and ogling the singer with his one good eye.

  “Yeah,” David said. “She’s pretty. Pretty enough to make a preacher lay his Bible down.”

  “Name’s Stella.” Jolene rolled his cyclopean eye in David’s direction. “Now, don’t get no ideas, Mr. Yella Nigger. She’s mine.”

  “Is that what she says?”

  Jolene spat and a muddy-brown substance flew across the counter. “Don’t matter what she says. That little sheba’s all mine. You lay a hand on her, I’ll slice you open.”

  David raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Hey, I don’t want her.”

  Jolene leaned across the counter. “You insulting my Stella? What the hell you say?”
>
  “I don’t want her ‘cause she’s yours. Should I want her just to give you a reason to ‘slice’ me up?” David had to smile. If nothing else, Jolene was good for a laugh. “Jolene, you crazy. You know that?”

  Jolene gave him an evil look. Then a little smile crept over his hideous face. “Well, you crazy, too, nigger. Playing with me like that.”

  Stella did a couple more numbers, then the band took over. She sauntered over to the bar and got a drink. Her eyes fell on David and lit up. “Well, lookey, lookey what we got here.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Her forehead dimpled with a frown. “You know, you look mighty familiar, baby.”

  “Ain’t that my line?”

  “Seriously. I seen your face before.”

  “He got a sister,” Jolene said. He was looking evil again. “You know her. Gem—”

  “You Gem’s brother?”

  David nodded.

  “Well, if that ain’t a monkey’s uncle. She used to come in here. Liked to sing a song or two.”

  “Yeah ... But that was years ago.”

  “Not that long. She was in here last year. Looking mighty fine, too. She’s back in Paris, I hear.”

  “Paris?”

  Stella smiled. “You ain’t heard nothing from her, huh? I dig that. Well, I don’t know if you’re interested, but I was talking to Shug the other day—”

  “Shug?”

  “Shug Ryan. He blows a pretty mean sax. Shug and Gem used to hang out in Montmartre. He just come back from over there. He mighta seen her.”

  David wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Shug, but he asked anyway: “Where can I find him?”

  “Hell if I know.” She shrugged, turned to Jolene, and put her glass down on the bar. “Set me up, babe.” Then she glanced at David’s empty glass and his sad eyes and smiled. To Jolene, she said: “Gimme the bottle. My friend here and I, we gonna make a night of it.”

  David saw the look on Jolene’s face and Stella saw it, too. David didn’t want a fight, but he was too tired and wrung out to care. Stella laughed and flung an arm around Jolene’s meaty shoulder, then planted a kiss on his scarred cheek.

  “Don’t make no trouble,” she whispered, “or I’m gonna be gone with the morning light.”

  Jolene did as he was told.

  It was past four in the morning when David left Jolene’s, melancholy and drunk. As the lively sounds of Jolene’s faded behind him, images of Lilian’s room returned. And that curious sensation it had given him of a museum exhibit—staged, detached, sanitized—gripped him once more. He shivered. How he dreaded going back to that house.

  A lot’s done happened since you been gone.

  Stella had invited him to enjoy her hospitality, but while expressing his appreciation, he’d refused. Now, he wondered if that had been wise.

  My life, he thought, is just a series of missed opportunities.

  He only hoped that he’d walked enough, drank enough, smoked enough reefer to exhaust himself. He wanted to sleep like a rock. No, like a dead man, he thought, and chuckled at his morbid humor. He made his way back to Strivers’ Row. After letting himself in, he managed to hang up his coat and was about to climb the stairs to his room when his gaze fell on the door, that door, the one next to the library. He stared at it, like a moth drawn to a flame. One moment, he was standing by the newel post; the next, he was facing the door. His hands hung at his side, balled into fists. Beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead. His right hand went out. He touched the doorknob ... then hesitated. What would he find behind this door? Indeed, after all these years, what in the world was he looking for? Reconciliation? Peace?

  He gripped the knob and twisted it.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  He blinked, confused. Then, taking a deep breath, he gripped it harder, jiggled it and tried to turn it again.

  It held fast.

  He fell back, baffled. He didn’t remember the door ever being locked. Running a hand through his hair, he tried to clear his thoughts.

  But, of course. I locked that door the day Daddy died. It’s been closed ever since.

  He closed his eyes. Suddenly, he was so tired. Here in this empty house, this house that was so full of ghosts and memories, how would he ever find rest? As in a daze, he spread his hands over the door panel and pressed his face against it. The polished dark wood felt cool and smooth. He let his mind drift back ... back through the years to the times when he and his sisters had been summoned to this office, to one particular afternoon in which he alone had been called.

  “You’re my heir and I expect great things! Great achievements!”

  Images from that afternoon flew toward him like slivers of a splintered mirror. He spun around and pressed his back against the door.

  “You’ve been given an edge in life. What’ve you done with it?”

  “I’ve done my best.”

  “Your best? Well, your best could’ve been better!”

  David clapped his hands over his ears, but the words echoed inside his head. It had been five years since his father’s death. Five years. Why hadn’t the old man’s voice died with him? Why did it live on to haunt him?

  You’ve been given an edge, an edge ... Your best could’ve been better!

  He tore away from the door with a cry and stumbled toward the stairs. On the third step, his strength left him and he sank down. He rested his head against the cool wood of the banisters and closed his eyes.

  A lot’s done happened, done happened, done happened ... A lot’s done happened since you been gone ...

  He drew himself up, staggered up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his room. He sagged down onto his bed, still fully clothed, and closed his eyes, exhausted.

  But sleep eluded him.

  He lay awake, his eyes burning in the dark, and the voices followed him. They came from either side, chanting in a rhythm that threatened to drive him insane.

  And always protect ... always protect ... always protect your sisters … And always (she suffered) … and always (she suffered) … (and always) She suffered a bad death … a bad death.

  With a groan, he turned over and punched the pillow. In the morning, he’d ask Annie to tell him the full story of what had gone on in the house.

  3. Annie’s Tale

  “For a good part, the story of Miss Lilian is the story of Miss Gem. You never could mention one without the other. Diff’rent as day and night, but just as connected. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether Miss Gem’s return marked the beginning of Miss Lilian’s end.”

  Annie placed cream and sugar on the kitchen table, but David decided not to use them. He needed coffee and he needed it black. His head hurt and his eyes were bleary. He hadn’t been able to touch the grits, biscuits, and sausages she’d made. He’d called himself seven kinds of fool upon waking. Going to Jolene’s had seemed like a good idea last night, but he was sure he’d never do it again. The price in pain was too damn high.

  She took a seat opposite him, added a little cream to her coffee, and stirred it with an even rhythm. Her voice, as quiet as a coming storm, slowly filled the room.

  “Lotsa folks say the trouble started when Miss Gem went back to Europe. I say it began a lot sooner: the moment she arrived. From the day that girl stepped foot in this house till the day she left, she ain’t meant nothing but trouble. Miss Gem come back for a purpose. I could see that the minute she walked in the door. She had that look in her eye. That look, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what she done all them years in Paris, but whatever it was, it sure left her looking lean and hungry.”

  Lean and hungry, David repeated to himself. Gem was always hungry. Somehow, we all were. Funny about that. Or maybe not so funny when you think about it. That we should be as rich as any colored family needs to be, yet still hungry.

  “It was Halloween,” Annie was saying. “Miss Lilian got to the door before me. She didn’t even bother to ask who it was. She was expecting a bunch of kids, some
trick-or-treaters, I guess. When she saw who it was, she lost her voice. Couldn’t find nothing to say.

  “Miss Gem stood there like a ghost that everybody’s done put out of mind, even if they ain’t quite forgotten about it. The wind was at her back—whipping her hair up, like a black cloud. She’d been gone five years—five years—but didn’t look a day older. Maybe she was a bit thinner, but she still had that smooth, creamy skin. And she had this sable coat, thrown over her shoulders. Wore it like a queen, she did. Rich and sophisticated—like a Eur’pean. Miss Gem knew she was sumptin’ to look at. Knew it. It was in the way she held herself: just so. And in the way she looked down at Miss Lilian.

  “Y’know it’s hard to b’lieve that they started out as iden’ical twins. I ain’t never seen two women given the same material work so hard to do sumptin’ diff’rent with it. ‘Course, Miss Lilian was lovely in her way, too. It’s just that her way weren’t Miss Gem’s way.”

  No…it wasn’t, thought David. Lilian also had the slight but shapely build of a dancer and the paradoxical air of being fragile yet strong. She too had the oval face, fawn-colored complexion, and lustrous chestnut hair typical of her family. But Lilian downplayed her looks. Her full lips were sweet and generous, but she was puritan in outlook. She rarely put on makeup. She wore her long hair in a tight bun. And she treated clothes as a pragmatic matter: Fashion was a secondary indulgence. Her outfits were neat, tailored suits; her perfume, clean and light.

  “Well, Miss Gem was a-looking at Miss Lillian like a lion on the hunt. Miss Gem threw her head back and laughed. You know how she likes to flash them pretty teeth. Then she teased Miss Lilian. Said: ‘Cat got your tongue, sister dear?’

  “Miss Lilian asked Miss Gem, just as cool as you please, ‘What’re you doing here?’ Miss Gem didn’t like that. She got this funny look on her face and said, ‘It’s wonderful to see you too, dear.’ She took Miss Lilian’s face in her hands and kissed her twice, once on each cheek. Lawd, Lawd! You woulda thought Miss Lilian was being clawed, the way she yanked her face back. She looked down at Miss Gem’s suitcases—two large ones standing on the doorstep—and Miss Gem caught her.