Harlem Redux

by Persia Walker

  And no, it didn’t help, what Annie said about Sweet’s intentions toward the house. It didn’t help at all.

  For a moment, he tried to take a step back and put himself in Sweet’s shoes. If he were Sweet, would he give up his place in a house like this? No, not easily. But he would see the very wrongness of trying to fully claim it. He would see that. Would Sweet?

  He turned from the window, went to his washstand and poured cold water from a porcelain pitcher into a basin. He splashed his face once, twice, three times, the chilly drops splattering his bare chest and shoulders. Grabbing a towel, he dried himself, rubbing his skin with rough strokes.

  He happened to look up and caught sight of his reflection in the bureau mirror. The puckered skin of an angry scar slashed across his left shoulder. He stared at it and a mental trapdoor opened. For one horrid moment, he was falling, falling into a deep, dark place.

  Jonah … Jonah, in the belly of the whale.

  There had been only one time in his life when he’d been called upon to display not only physical but also moral and spiritual courage. And he had failed. Miserably. He had never forgiven himself. And he lived in constant fear that his failing would be discovered. Worse, he dreaded the possibility that he would be put to the test once more and his weakness revealed, but this time before an audience, in such a way as to ruin him. He touched the scar.

  The war over there was nothing—nothing compared to the one over here …

  He shuddered, wrenched his eyes away, and tossed his towel over a chair. Dressing quickly, he left his room. Annie stood at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mr. Jameson’s back,” she said. “He’s expecting you.”

  “I’m glad Annie found your address,” Sweet said, his voice a rolling low timbre. “I wish I could’ve been here sooner.”

  “We would’ve contacted you, but we didn’t know how. Lilian said nothing.”

  She told me nothing about you either, David wanted to say. Had she ever planned on telling him? Or had she simply trusted that he would always stay away?

  After breakfast, he’d told Annie that he was ready to meet “the mystery man.” She started off down the hallway. He realized with growing consternation that she was heading for his father’s office. She put one hand on the doorknob, turned to him, and raised the other. “Wait.” Then she knocked lightly and went in. Fifteen seconds later, she reappeared. Seeing his expression, her forehead creased.

  “Yes, he’s in your father’s office. I know it’s a shock, but please try to get along with him. For now, you’ve got to try.”

  David smiled to be polite, but said nothing. Trying to get along with Jameson Sweet was neither his concern nor his intention.

  The room he’d entered had a high ceiling but was dusky, deep, and narrow. Weighty tomes of encyclopedic volumes lined the walls on either side, as somber as soldiers guarding a path and pointing the way forward. Thick pile carpet covered the floor, absorbing the sound of every footfall. The air was bitter, stale, and still, tainted by the flat smell of old tobacco. He thought of his father and a sense of unspeakable regret rose within him. He had to force himself to put one foot in front of the other.

  The room culminated in a rich mahogany desk set before a tall slender window. Thick drapes were drawn to block any outside light. A banker’s lamp cast a soft amber glow over part of the desk. The weak light shied away from the man that sat behind it. Shadow obscured his face. For a moment, the room was filled with an unearthly quiet. All David heard was the scratching of a pen, saw was the movement of a large, masculine hand, a left hand, as it signed papers. Then Jameson Sweet leaned forward into the light, as stealthy as an animal emerging from its lair, and the two men took each other’s measure.

  Sweet’s complexion was smooth, almost unnaturally even—like a mask, David thought —and the color of mahogany—a tough, resilient wood. Sweet’s close-cropped hair was an inky black and meticulously cut. A refined sliver of a mustache graced his upper lip, as dignified and precise as the stroke of a master’s paintbrush.

  Like Gem, David was struck by Sweet’s uneasy resemblance to Augustus. Physically, Sweet was as dark as Augustus was light. But looks are irrelevant, David thought. He could smell the rank odor of frustrated ambition. It had a bitter bite he’d learned to recognize among those who roam the halls of justice.

  Sweet rose to his feet with grave dignity and came around from behind the desk. From his pinstriped vest to his tailored woolen pants, he was immaculately attired. He shook David’s hand firmly and willingly. There was no apparent enmity in him. But his lizard-like eyes were cold. David sensed a hypnotist’s gift for persuasion and an actor’s skill at pretense. Here was a man who would be neither lightly deceived nor easily led into revealing more than he chose.

  Sweet offered a drink, which David declined. “Thanks, but no thanks. Relax, there’s no need to treat me like a guest. I am, after all, in my own home.”

  Sweet inclined his head in a nod. “Very well. Shall we move to the parlor?”

  The front room held a sofa and a couple of armchairs, one of which was a deep royal blue. With its high, wing back, this particular chair was quite regal. When Augustus first had it brought in, the family gathered around and laughingly nicknamed it “Daddy’s throne.” Augustus had spent many hours in the spacious chair, staring into the flames of the fireplace, planning his investments. Lila had sat opposite him, reading, casting a thin shadow.

  Sweet now placed himself firmly on Augustus’s “throne.” David said nothing and took a seat on the couch opposite. He could be patient. After all, Sweet’s days as a pretender were numbered, whether he realized it or not.

  Annie had lit a fire in the fireplace and brought them coffee. Flickering flames threw devilish reflections on their faces. Sweet lit his pipe, using his left hand. He smoked contemplatively, his eyes on the flames, and David watched him.

  “When did she fall ill?”

  “Around February of last year.”

  “What kind of doctors did you take her to?”

  “Every kind that I could think of.”

  “Psychiatrists?”

  “She saw Dr. Hawthorne once a week for six months, then refused to go anymore.”

  “You couldn’t change her mind?”

  “She wanted drugs, not therapy. Drugs to make her sleep. Drugs to wake her up. At first, they helped, but soon the effect wore off. She started drinking. She thought she could hide it, but I know what drinking looks like. And smells like. She lost weight, went down to nothing. Her face got puffy. She was tired and sleepy, kept falling down. Kept seeing things, hearing voices.”

  David listened not only to what Sweet said, but how he said it. Sweet’s voice was melodious, full of cadence and echo. It was the modulated voice of a natural orator, an invaluable commodity for a courtroom contender. Sweet had presence. His charm was calculated and purposeful. He had passion, the dark and dangerous kind. He was indeed the type of man to fall deeply in love, but would he have fallen in love with a shy, reserved woman like Lilian?

  “She seemed to get better for a little while after Gem left—Gem’s being here must’ve been too much for her—but the improvement didn’t last. And then she was worse than ever. Hawthorne suggested that I put her away, but she begged me not to. I told the doctor to get us a nurse. I asked Rachel Hamilton to step in temporarily. We’d just arranged for someone permanent to take over when it happened. Annie found her. I was in Newark that weekend. When I got home that Monday, the police were here.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  Sweet rested his pipe on a large crystal ashtray. He took a wallet from his back pocket, and removed a folded square of white paper from it. This, he handed to David. The note was typed:

  Tears and nightmares never persuade family and friends of the depths of your despair. But death, at a stroke, ends all doubt.

  “They’re the words of the French-Algerian philosopher Pierre Lorraine,” David said. He pondered the slip of paper for a
moment, then handed it back. “The thing is, Lilian never liked Lorraine. But you didn’t know that did you?” He regarded Sweet.

  The man shrugged. “No, but I don’t see where it matters.”

  “It matters, because I don’t see her choosing to use the words of philosopher she couldn’t stand for such a delicate matter.”

  Sweet nodded. “Yes, well, she changed. Your sister … changed a lot.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told.” David looked into the flames, was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, it was as though his question had just occurred to him. “That weekend, why did you leave her here alone?”

  “I didn’t—Annie was here.”

  “But no nurse—not Rachel.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  A pause. “This is beginning to sound like a cross-examination.”

  “I just want to know why she was left alone. A simple enough question.”

  “There was ...” Sweet shifted in his chair. “Well, a mix-up. A very unfortunate mix-up. I left Lilian with Annie on Thursday. The nurse was supposed to come that Friday—but she didn’t. Annie had planned to go visit family. She started to cancel when the nurse didn’t show. But then Lilian told her to go ahead. She said she was going to visit friends. She’d be gone all weekend, so it would be okay for Annie to leave. I’m sure Annie wouldn’t have left the house otherwise. You can’t blame the old woman. She’s—”

  “It wasn’t Annie I was thinking about.”

  Sweet’s dark eyes glittered. “You have a helluva lotta nerve.”

  “You married my sister after knowing her for exactly one month.”

  “It was love at first sight.”

  “Love for her––or for this house and what her name might bring you?”

  “I won’t even dignify that with an answer.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  The two men faced off, stared each other down.

  Sweet spoke first. His voice was low and intense.

  “I loved your sister. And yes, I love this house. I love it because we were happy here together.”

  “And now that she’s gone, you intend to stay.”

  “I have a right to stay.”

  “Your ‘rights’ came into question the day she died.”

  Sweet gave David a cool appraisal. Then he chuckled. “So that’s what this is all about. You don’t care about what happened to Lilian. You’re the one who’s only interested in the house. You stayed away all these years, waiting for your chance. Now she’s gone and you want to take over.”

  “It is my family house.”

  “It was.”

  “It still is.” David rose to his feet. “If you loved her, and I’d like to believe you did, then nothing can replace your loss. And it would be a double blow to lose the home you shared with her. But you know as well as I do that she never intended for this house, our father’s house, to pass out of the family.”

  “But, like it or not, I am family. And legally, I own fifty percent of this place. Of course, possession is nine-tenths of the law. So for all intents and purposes, this house is mine and you are a guest––”

  “No––”

  “Now I’m perfectly willing to purchase your half—”

  “I’ll never sell my share.”

  “And I’ll neither sell nor give up mine.”

  David regarded him with barely concealed fury. “I would advise you to reconsider.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “If anything, I’m trying to spare you a battle.”

  Sweet’s lower lip curled with contempt. “You wouldn’t dare take me on.”

  “Oh, but I would. With joy. But I’m trying––trying hard––to give you the benefit of the doubt. I heard that you took good care of Lilian when she was ill and if that’s true, then I’m grateful. But if it isn’t, then trust me, I’ll find out and I’ll make you pay. So I suggest you leave. Now. Go while the going is good.”

  Sweet’s response was a look of disdain. He leaned back in Augustus’s armchair and made himself comfortable.

  “Get used to me, brother-in-law. Get used to me. Cause I’m here and I’m here to stay.”

  David left the parlor, went upstairs and down the hall to Lilian’s room. Standing at the foot of her bed, he let his gaze pass over the dresser top again. He eyed the perfectly replaced wallpaper, the refurbished bed, and the well-scrubbed floor. His face was drawn, his eyes thoughtful. He needed to leave town, but having met Sweet he knew in his bones that there was more to Lilian's death than met the eye. Surely this room could tell him something.

  He heard a cough behind him and turned at the sound. It was Annie. He saw the worry, the fear and uncertainty in her eyes, and understood. He had said he would leave when he had spoken to Sweet. Now that he had, she wondered whether he was about to go. But like every natural diplomat, she knew better than to introduce the subject of her main concern.

  “Mr. David, you shouldn’t stay in this room by yourself,” was all she said.

  He gave a brief, gentle smile to reassure her. “I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how things aren’t always the way they seem.”

  “And?” She came up to him.

  “And I find it strange, very strange ... that she chose to cut herself there, in the bed.” He felt Annie’s questioning gaze. “When people slash their wrists, they often do it in a bathtub filled with warm water. It contains the blood ... and makes the dying faster.”

  He leaned against one of the bedposts. The surface felt cool and smooth.

  “Even the bedpost was covered in blood,” said Annie. “Bloody handprints, as though she’d grabbed it to help her stand.”

  He looked at her. “Why would she struggle to get up after lying down to die?”

  “I don’t know. But she sure ‘nough got up. There was a line of blood running from here to there.” Annie pointed to a place about five footsteps away. “And on up to the windowsill.” She swung her arm in a low arc and pointed to the base of the window. “That’s where I found her.”

  He studied the area. A ghostly ache swelled in his chest. Turning around, he let his gaze travel over the newly papered walls above the bed, over the new canopy, and then back over the trail that Annie had indicated on the floor.

  “Tell me about the blood.”

  “The what?”

  “The blood. Was it in spots? Close together?”

  “It was everywhere. Like I said: Dried hard. Dried black.”

  “And what about on the floor? Was the blood in large splatters or—”

  “Mr. David, what you wanna ask me sumptin’ like that for?”

  “Bear with me. It’s important.”

  She set her shoulders and still looked unhappy, but complied. “Well, the blood on the floor ... It wasn’t in spots. It was more spread out, smeared-like, in a wide line, like sumptin’ had been dragged—”

  He nodded. It was the answer he’d expected. “And you say, it appeared that she’d been here alone?”

  “Weren’t no hint of nobody but her.”

  “No sign of a break-in?”

  “None at all.” Her forehead creased. “Why you ask, Mr. David?”

  “Blood everywhere, you said. Usually, that means a struggle.”

  “You mean, like a robber?”

  It wasn’t at all what he meant, but he said nothing.

  “A struggle .. .” She reflected. “But nothing was missing. Nothing ‘cepting that vase.”

  “Which vase?”

  “The one that used to sit in the window.” She pointed. “You remember?”

  “That little Japanese one? It was gone?”

  “Smashed to smithereens on the sidewalk. And there was blood on the windowsill.”

  He went to the window. Faint pink smears still showed on the sill. Or did he imagine them? Drawing his fingertips over the new coat of paint, he was thoughtful. He drew the curtains apart and peered out. It was a crisp, clear Sun
day morning, and Strivers’ Row was impressively still. The best of Harlem was undoubtedly gathered together in their finest finery a little ways over and down the road at Saint Philip’s to worship. The street was empty, as it would’ve been that night.

  That night. Who would’ve been out on the street that night?

  David perched on the edge of the windowsill and stared out. He pictured the little vase, remembering its delicacy and beauty. He thought of the love and effort that must have gone into fashioning it. He recalled how his mother had treasured it, admired it, striven to protect it from the clumsy, the curious, the covetous. She had kept it sheltered here, within the heart of the house, where only the most trusted were allowed. How and why had the vase been ripped from its place?

  He could imagine it in freefall. In his mind, he watched it tumble over and over, spin out of control, then crash against the concrete pavement. He saw its fragile beauty shatter. And he saw Lilian. Also fragile. Now also shattered. A chill, as sharp as a scalpel, pierced his core. He shivered. The vague notions that had been germinating in his mind for the past days became clear.

  Conservative and cautious, the Lilian he knew wouldn’t have married someone she barely knew. Sensible, sane, and solid, she wouldn’t have slashed her wrists. Stoic, proud, and deeply religious, she would have never shamed her family name.

  Not the Lilian he knew.

  Annie had come up alongside him. She was staring out the window herself now. He turned to look at her.

  “Do you believe my sister killed herself?”

  Annie’s gaze was fixed on the hard pavement three stories below. “As God as my witness, after I seen the way that sickness changed her, I b’lieve ... I b’lieve she coulda.”

  “But you don’t believe she did.”

  “No ... I don’t.” With a sigh, she looked at him. “I could never help wondering why she dragged herself, used her last bit of strength, to get to this window.”