Despite the economic fissure dividing the McKays and the Hamiltons, the friendship that began in the Tenderloin endured. Rachel remained one of the few people outside the McKay family who could tell the twins apart. For nine years, she doggedly made the trip uptown to visit Lilian. The instant affection she’d felt for Lilian in the first grade deepened, as did the instant antipathy she’d felt toward Gem. As for her feelings for David, they were clear even to the blind.
Rachel closed the picture album with an air of finality and put it back on her bookshelf. She looked at her clock. How would he react to her message? Would he come by to see her? Going to her dresser, she eased out the top drawer and dug out a hand mirror. She had spent the better part of the morning preparing for his hoped-for visit. She had marcelled her hair and put on her best dress. It was a cream creation called “champagne beige.” She had bought it from a “hot” man. People said hot men sold stolen goods. Rachel neither asked nor cared. Like most Harlem women who bought from hot men, she spent little mental energy on the ethics of buying possibly pilfered merchandise. If she thought about it at all, she shrugged and said the stores priced the clothes too high anyway, so if something “fell off the truck” or was “rescued from a warehouse,” it was a way of robbing the rich to give to the poor. What she did know, and knew for sure, was that hot men enabled her to dress well and inexpensively. Her earnings were meager as a nurse at Harlem Hospital.
Rachel regarded what little she could see of herself in the mirror coolly, looking for the person she imagined and hoped David would find. Her short hair was groomed using Madame C. J. Walker’s products. Her fingernails were scrubbed and meticulously self-manicured.
Some Georgia plantation owner had passed down vivid green eyes. Otherwise, Rachel’s dark-skinned African forebears had prevailed. Her charcoal complexion unmistakably marked her as one of their own. She knew that people often murmured that she would have been quite pretty if she were not so black, but they raved over her eyes.
Rachel often wondered how an emblem of sexual and racial degradation had become a badge of honor. It was perverse to idolize the legacy of a white slave-owner’s lust. But all rational analysis aside, Rachel loved her jade eyes, too. Her sooty complexion was another matter.
She knew the frustration that compelled some dark-skinned women to try to lighten their complexions. Her friends went from slathering their faces with bleaching creams to swallowing arsenic wafers. She scorned such solutions. She knew they weren’t effective; her pride would’ve kept her from using them even if they were. Unlike her friends, Rachel didn’t blindly worship light skin, but she did see the practical advantages of having it. If she caught herself wishing she’d been born with beige skin, it wasn’t necessarily because she found it beautiful but convenient. “Whiter” meant “righter” in the world she knew.
Take the McKays. Their buttermilk beauty added much to their prestige. Even during the Tenderloin days, the McKays seemed set apart. They were admired and envied. Invitations to their home were rare and highly coveted. Everywhere they went, they were warmly received.
Once upon a time, she dreamed of becoming a David. She had loved David since they were children, but she’d never dared hope for his love in return. Four years ago, it seemed as though he had fallen in love with her. They’d met secretly. She’d given him her heart, her body. She’d trusted him completely. Then one day he had gone away, on Movement business, and failed to return.
Desperate, Rachel went to see an old West Indian conjure woman and paid her some hard-earned cash. The woman told her to take a pair of David’s shoes and sprinkle a little “come on home powder” on top of the toes. If he’d gone south, then she should swing the shoes around and set them down with the toes pointing north.
“He’ll be back in seven days, honey.”
Rachel had a time getting a hold of David’s bedroom slippers—that’s all he’d left behind—but she managed to do it. She sprinkled the slippers generously and followed the conjure woman’s instructions to the letter.
“But it didn’t help. He didn’t come back,” Rachel complained, returning to the woman.
“Well, somebody somewhere is working mo’ powerful magic than you.”
The old woman chuckled and shut the door in her face. Rachel was nearly broke, but she cared little about the money. She wanted David back.
Now he was again in Harlem. She shook her head at her earlier foolish fantasies. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Life had taught her hard and bitter lessons. It simply didn’t pay to be naive.
David climbed the steps to Rachel’s building uneasily. As Lilian’s best friend, she could probably help him, but would she be willing to? What had his disappearance meant to her? They had been young. He could barely remember the person he’d been when he’d last seen her. The life he’d led, the pain he’d felt and witnessed since then, had changed him irrevocably. Rachel represented a life he had been forced to leave behind. Surely, she must see that neither of them could take their love affair seriously. That it was better to consign it to the brief but intense passions of youth. That it was better not to ask whether it could have endured.
He carried a bouquet of pale pink roses, difficult to find that time of year and expensive. After a moment’s hesitation, he rang her bell and went in the building’s entrance. He found her second-floor apartment easily and had just raised his hand to knock when the door was yanked open. His breath caught at the sight of her. She had changed.
She was still very pretty, but so thin. Gray circles ringed her eyes and faint hollows touched her cheeks. The years had added an air of fragility. Something inside him fluttered and his vision of her reverted to what it once was. No longer was she the woman he had abandoned, with all the guilt that entailed. She was, first and foremost, a dear friend. And he had missed her. Suddenly, he was glad, very glad, that he had come. Her face broke into a heart-wrenching smile and she threw her slender arms around him.
“I’m so sorry about Lilian,” she whispered.
Seated on her sofa, the two them shared a warm drink and homemade apple betty. Rachel had displayed his flowers prominently in a vase on her coffee table. Glancing around, David admired the soothing atmosphere of her apartment. She had chosen her furniture with an eye for comfort as well as beauty. He saw too that she had been influenced by his mother’s tastes, but discerned that she had adapted them to fit her own personality. How could Rachel live so well on a nurse’s salary? Smiling gently, he told her that he was glad to see her. He’d heard that she’d gone away.
“I had to come back,” she said. “Two years ago. I had to. Just like you.”
His smile faltered. “It’s not the same. You came back because you wanted to. I returned because I had to. Lilian’s death is the only reason I’m here.”
He saw the flash of pain in her eyes and instantly regretted his words. She knew he had not come back because of her. No need to remind her. Once again, his eyes went over her. The bleakness in her gaze; the sag in her shoulders: What had happened to her? He started to ask, then stopped. If he inquired about her last four years, she might inquire about his.
She asked if he planned to move back into the house. Her voice was full of hopeful expectation, but when he shook his head, she seemed more relieved than disappointed. “So you’ll be selling your half to Sweet?”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“But if you don’t want to live there—”
“That house was Daddy’s pride. I’m not giving it up.”
“I see.”
Did she? He’d never been able to fully read Rachel.
She gazed down thoughtfully at her small, neat hands, which lay folded in her lap. “So how long will you be staying?”
“Not long.”
She gave him a long, intent look. Behind her beautiful eyes battled love and pride. “And there’s no way you can move back?”
“No way at all. As soon as I’m done, I’m catching the first thing smoking.�
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The forced casualness sounded false even to his own ears. Her face took on a set expression. He was reminded that Rachel had a firmness of character that was startling in one who looked so frail. She could express herself in cool, precise terms when she wanted to. When she raised her chin, he knew what was coming.
“If Lilian’s the only reason you’re back, you might as well leave right now. You can’t change what happened.”
“I have to know why she did it.”
“You never will—”
“I have to try to understand.”
“Or try to ease your conscience?”
Her remark stung, as he knew it was meant to. He felt himself grow warm.
“Thank you,” he said, “for putting it so succinctly.”
Her expression softened. “I’m not judging you, but that don’t mean I got to help you deny the truth neither.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Aren’t you?”
He smiled grimly. “Perhaps you’re right. But I didn’t come here to talk about myself.”
“Who then?”
“Lilian’s husband.” His eyes traced her lovely profile. “Do you know him?”
“He’s a good man. Kind. Loyal.” Her eyes flickered over him. “The kind of man a woman can depend on.”
He ignored that. “So he loved her?”
She nodded.
“Treated her right?
“You mean ... did he treat her better than you treated me?”
Their eyes locked.
“You don’t give a man a break, do you?”
“Only when he deserves one.”
Utter silence.
“Rachel, I know I hurt you,” he said huskily. “I never intended to.”
“Then why did you?”
He regarded her with regret. How could he answer? What could he say? As always, when words failed him, he found another way of communicating. Without thinking, he reached for her. He put his arms around her and hugged her. She resisted for a moment and then put her arms around him, too. They clung to one another. Her cheap perfume, acrid yet seductive, enveloped him. She had worn the same scent when he’d last seen her. He paused in his thoughts, remembering.
Life was much simpler then. We were both so hopeful.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “More sorry than you’ll ever know.”
“But why? Why’d you stay away so long?”
“Don’t ask,” he said. “I can’t answer.”
She pulled away. He reached out to caress her cheek but she averted her face, then turned back to gaze at him with suspicion. Taking his left hand, she laid it on top of her own and studied it. She turned it this way and that, with the air of a gypsy fortune-teller. With her fingertips, she stroked his palm and traced a line along his fourth finger. She found no traces of a wedding ring, but still she asked: “Who is she?”
“I’ve stayed alone.”
She searched his face with wide, clear eyes that not only sought the truth of his feelings, but also revealed her own. He had the momentary illusion that if he peered into her eyes, long enough, deeply enough, he would learn all there was to know about her. But then, he asked again about Lilian, and the illusion died. Rachel’s face clouded over; her lovely eyes became dim.
“There’s nothing to tell. Lilian just got sick. That’s all. She just … got sick.”
“I can’t accept that. There’s more. There’s got to be.”
“David, I know you feel bad, but you can’t start chasing demons. Listen,” she said with a rush of feeling. “Sweet was always here for Lilian. She had herself a good man.” A trace of bitterness crept into her tone. “It’s okay if you were out there having a good time, baby, ‘cause believe me, at the end, she didn’t even know you were gone.”
“You’re not being fair,” he said and felt like an idiot saying it.
“Well, neither are you.”
Her eyes challenged him and he started to respond, but then something happened: He remembered how much he’d enjoyed her peppery temper. After a moment, he laughed gently and conceded. “You’re right.”
She looked at him. Then her anger faded as quickly as it had come. A smile came to her lips, too. “You hungry?”
He nodded.
“C’mon, then. Let’s have lunch.”
He helped her set the table and noticed the floral design on her china. It was familiar. “These were my mother’s dishes. Her everyday service.”
“I always liked them. After your daddy died, I asked about them. Lilian said I could have them. She didn’t mind and Gem didn’t care. Don’t you remember?”
He didn’t, but it mattered little. The dishes and the silverware she gave him to lay next to it conveyed a feeling of comfort. The tension between them eased. As she worked to prepare the meal, she exuded an air of serenity. She had the face of an ebony Madonna: gentle and sweet, but solemn. He noted the calming beauty of her dress. She seemed at peace with herself. He envied her.
The air of contentment that filled her kitchen as she cooked stayed with them. They left the topic that had brought him to see her and spoke of pleasant matters. She had seen a new exhibit of sculpture by Meta Warrick Fuller. Fuller’s work was brilliant. Did he know that Fuller, a black woman, had actually studied in Paris with Rodin?
When given free rein to choose her topic, Rachel made a spirited conversationalist. Her inquisitive mind had refused to accept the limitations of her formal training and sought to expand itself. She was well read. Her knowledge of contemporary literature, philosophy, and art was more than adequate for intelligent discussion. She also had a spicy wit that cut through pretension and hypocrisy.
He looked at her laughing face and wondered, What would’ve happened if I had returned? But there was no point in thinking about it. Whatever chance they might have had was long gone. His fall from grace when he decided to stay away four years ago would be nothing compared to the condemnation he would suffer if she knew why he had stayed away.
And was it wise to visit her, speak with her, to sit in her kitchen and share her meal? His visit was meant to heal old wounds, not inflict new ones. He needed her forgiveness. For his sake, as well as hers. He would have to leave Harlem within twenty-four hours. The moment he clarified a few questions about Lilian’s death and settled matters concerning the house with Sweet, he would board a train and speed back to the life he had built in Philadelphia.
That life was simple. It was lonely but not entirely dissatisfying. As a lawyer, he helped people. He lived modestly so he could afford destitute clients, those who might not have had a chance otherwise. He was extremely effective as a criminal defense attorney. In fact, he had made a name for himself, not as a defender of lost causes, but as an honest man who could make things happen.
His work had become his penance. Guilt drove him during the day and exhaustion put him to sleep at night. A successful court decision helped to assuage his shame, but never fully lifted it. Success also fueled his anxiety. He dreaded newspaper coverage that might bring him attention. So he always sought the small cases, the ones no one wanted to be bothered with. But too often, a case would take a twist that lent it unexpected significance. When this happened and reporters knocked on his door, he would bar himself in his small one-man office. He would think of home. He would dream of seeing Lilian and Rachel and Annie.
On Christmas Eve 1922, deeply homesick, he had written to Lilian and mailed the letter before he could change his mind. She had quickly answered. A correspondence gradually developed, sporadic and hesitant on his side, consistent and faithful on hers. After a few months, he suspected that she knew why he was staying away and what he was doing. In time, he became certain she did. But she never once criticized him nor did she pry. Her letters expressed love and gentle curiosity. Her tactful avoidance of issues that might have pained him convinced him that she understood and accepted his way.
Lilian was the only person with whom he had been honest, and that was because sh
e had never forced him to lie. He could not expect that of Annie or Rachel. Their grief over Lilian’s death and relief over his return had temporarily abated their inquisitiveness, but it would return if he stayed too long. He would have to leave in order to retain their respect and affection. He was convinced of it.
In the meantime, he meant to make the most of his short visit by finding out everything he could about Lilian’s last months. Looking at Rachel, he thought he understood her reluctance to discuss Lilian’s illness. It was, after all, an unpleasant subject. But surely she must understand his need to know what had happened.
“Lilian used to write me,” he said, “telling me all the goings-on.”
Rachel dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Did she mention me?”
“Once. She said you’d moved away.”
“Is that all?”
He nodded.
Rachel picked at her food. “You know, Lilian and me . .. well, we sorta had a falling-out. It was more on her side, really. She dropped me. From one moment to the next.”
“But you two were like a married couple.”
“Yes, maybe. But Lilian did drop me. She threw her sticks in with Gem.” Rachel gave a rueful little laugh.
David laid down his fork. “Actually, Annie did say something about that. But it’s hard to believe.”
“Well, believe it. Somehow, Gem got Lilian to trust her. It started with them going out all the time, shopping together. By the time Gem left, she could get Lilian to do just about whatever she wanted her to. Even quit her job.”
Harlem Redux Page 7
