“But you know the answer as well as I do.”
Her eyes met his.
“She came to this window,” he said, “to get help.”
From her expression, he knew they had reached the same conclusion.
To get help. Like pebbles piercing the surface of a still, deep pond, those three small words would cause ripples if applied to Lilian’s death. They implied, in effect, that she had either regretted her decision to die or that the decision itself had been someone else’s to begin with.
“So, you’re gonna stay?”
“Yes,” he said and his voice was tired. “I’m going to stay.”
She exhaled with relief. “I’m glad, Mr. David, so glad. Things is gonna get better with you here. I know they’ll be just fine.”
Her sweet words brought a bitter taste to his mouth.
You don’t know me, he wanted to say. You don’t know what I’ve been doing. If you did, you’d turn your back on me. You’d help me pack my bags yourself.
8. Rachel and the McKays
A few blocks away, Rachel was thinking about how small her apartment was and how much she would’ve loved to move. Her thoughts skipped nimbly to the McKay house, as they often did at such times, and in her mind’s eye she could see their beautiful parlor—
Big enough to hold a wedding in.
And the spacious upstairs bedrooms—
Why go away on a honeymoon?
The house was wonderful, of course, nearly perfect, but as every woman knows, there’s always room for improvement.
First things first. If it were up to me, I’d change them old paintings in Lilian’s room, throw out the—
She happened to glance out her bedroom window and her daydreams about redecorating were for the moment forgotten. A young girl, about seven or eight, was jumping rope across the street. The child’s feet kept getting entangled in the rope, but she refused to give up. She would patiently unwrap the rope from around her ankles and start jumping again. She did this repeatedly and Rachel watched, fascinated. If there was one thing she admired, it was determination.
She’s just like me. One day she’s going to be Somebody.
Rachel leaned on the windowsill. A sad smile played about her lips.
Isabelle would’ve still been too young to skip and jump like that. But in a few years, she would’ve been able to .. . she would’ve been, if she’d lived.
She blinked and wiped the sudden tears away, staring through blurry eyes at the child across the street.
Go on, girl, she whispered. Go on. Don’t never give up.
Rachel knew the meaning of perseverance. She recalled the days when she’d travel from the Tenderloin to visit the McKays after school. How she’d struggled to imitate the family’s effortless grace. How she’d striven to emulate its sedate gentility. All to no avail. She had learned the hard way just how complex and uncompromising the African American elite could be in its membership requirements. If you could not certify pedigree and demonstrate connections, your presence was condoned but you were given to understand in subtle and polite ways that you would not be—could not be— considered a member.
Her clothes, for example, had always made her stick out like a sore thumb. Lilian had offered to share her clothes with her, but Rachel was too proud to take them. And so she’d worn the same clothes to school, day in and day out, for nearly two years: a pale blue shirt, in some places held together with pins; a long gray skirt; thick black stockings that were pulled down and tucked under at the toe; and black brogues that had seen much, much better days. Some of the girls at school had tried to taunt her, but Rachel had a fury in her that caused them to step back. She wasn’t interested in impressing them. It was the McKays she wanted to impress. It was their world she yearned to be part of. And if it hadn’t been for her no-good father, she would’ve been.
When he died, I didn’t care. I was just glad me and Mama were free of him.
And when they moved, finally moved, uptown, she’d rejoiced, thinking she had it made.
But that was foolish, now, wasn’t it?
One afternoon—it was right before Christmas—she’d gone over to the McKays’. It was 1920, the first Christmas after Lila McKay’s death, and Rachel was twenty-three. Lilian had told her to come by to pick up some presents. Rachel had gone to the front door, as usual, and rung the bell. Annie opened it promptly.
“Hi!” Rachel fixed a bright smile on her face, although she didn’t particularly like Annie. Never had and didn’t even know why. “Miss Lila told me to stop by,” she said, wondering why Annie just didn’t step aside and let her in, as she always had.
“I see, miss. Well, you’ll have to go round by the back side.”
Rachel looked dumbstruck. She hadn’t heard right. She couldn’t have. “‘Scuse me?”
“I said, you’ll have to—”
“I heard what you said. You don’t understand. I never use the back way. Why, I’m not a serv—”
“I know, miss.” Annie’s tone was restrained but firm and it was starting to get on Rachel’s nerves. “Most times, there ain’t no problem with you coming in this way. But to day, Mr. Augustus, he got comp’ny.” Her eyes dwelled on Rachel, as if to repeat: Comp’ny. It’s pretty clear what that means, ain’t it?
Rachel felt herself grow smaller and smaller. And her face grow hotter. She was furious to find tears coming into her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she brushed them away.
“You let me in!” she cried, balling up her puny hands into impotent fists. She saw the pity in Annie’s eyes and that made her angrier. “Let me in, I said!”
Annie sighed. “C’mon ‘round back, miss. Don’t stand out here in the cold no more. Miss Lilian’s waiting for you and I got to get back to my pie.”
Rachel stared at her a second longer, then dropped her fists, defeated. “You can tell Daddy McKay that he’ll rot in hell before I walk through his servants’ entrance.”
Annie smiled, unperturbed. “You want me to tell him that, miss. D’you really want me to?”
Rachel wanted to smack her. She almost did, but some residue of common sense took hold. “Why d’you stick up for him?” she cried. “You know that he’s... he’s ... that he’s evil.”
Annie’s eyes widened just a tad. It wasn’t much of a reaction, but it was something. Rachel pulled her thin coat tighter around her, whirled, and stomped away. At the end of the block, something made her pause and look back. Annie was still standing in the doorway, watching her.
Two days later, Lilian, Gem, and David showed up at Rachel’s door, with presents for her and her mother.
“I’m very sorry,” Lilian said. “I didn’t know Daddy had told Annie to do that.”
And what would you have done if you had known? thought Rachel. Probably nothing. But she saw the look on Lilian’s face and knew her friend’s apology was genuine. And so she relented, at least until Gem opened her mouth. Gem took one of the assorted candies they’d brought Rachel’s mother, one of the choicest ones in fact, and popped it into her mouth. She was home from college, and it looked like the only subject she was studying out in California was how to wear makeup.
“Look,” said Gem, giving her fingertips a quick lick, “you have to understand. Daddy had guests. Some very important people. We just couldn’t let you in. Not by the front door. It would’ve been unseemly. After all, we are people of consequence. You’re not.”
Rachel’s anger surged back. Her mother had set a teapot on the table and for one crazy moment, Rachel was sorely tempted to grab it and bash Gem over the head with it. She almost reached for it when she caught David’s expression. He’d been silent so far throughout the visit. He was looking at her now with amusement. There was affection and mischief and yes, admiration too. His eyes went to Gem and then back to her and she understood.
Don’t take her so seriously. None of us do.
But that was easy for him to say. He was Gem’s older brother. He was one of those “people of consequence.” Rac
hel knew at that moment that she disliked Gem because deep in her heart, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she believed that what Gem said was true.
“You’re too tied up with them McKays,” Rachel’s mother told her later. Minnie regarded her only child with sad exasperation. “You should be proud to be a Hamilton. We ain’t rich, but we’s a fine family, too. We just as good as them McKays. What you wanna be one of them dicties for, anyway? Most of them rich, light-skinned colored folk don’t even know what side of the bridge they standing on. Don’t know if they’s black or white. ‘Least you know who you is, honey. That’s important. It’s about the most important thing there is. It’s one thing you got over any dicty any day.”
A dicty. Yes, the McKays were dicties. But she was infatuated with them.
Rachel adored her mother, but she’d chosen Mrs. McKay as her role model. Lila McKay had been both dark and beautiful. She’d married a successful light-skinned man. She’d been cultured and gracious. Lila had lived barely eight months after moving into her new Strivers’ Row home, but before her death she’d completed its decoration. In a burst of activity, she sought out beautiful pieces from the Americas, Asia, and Europe to create an atmosphere of harmony and comfort. Mixing antique and modern with a sure hand, she’d created a luscious home.
Rachel was back at the McKay house as soon as the Christmas and New Year’s holidays were over, as soon as the McKays’ circle of parties ended and the rounds of important guests slowed down, as soon as the imperative for her to enter by the servants’ gate was lifted. And sometimes, to make up for the disastrous holidays, she was now allowed to sleep over.
Her stays at the McKay house were tantamount to visits to a small but lovely mansion. She loved how the tiered chandelier in the McKays’ entryway twinkled overhead; how the polished wooden banisters of the curving stairway gleamed softly; how the smell of fresh cut flowers sweetened the air. She never ceased to wonder at the walls of delicate Japanese prints with their soft pastel colors and the fine ink drawings by French masters. She hesitated to step on the beautiful Aubusson rugs that adorned the hardwood floors, but joyfully curled her toes in the deep pile cream-colored carpet that covered the parlor floor. She sank happily into the deep chairs that furnished the library and let her eyes rove eagerly over the endless shelves laden with dark leather-bound books. When not there, she dreamed of the large airy rooms, of the massive soft beds with their long, tapering posts.
She’d lie on her narrow cot at home wondering how it would be to live permanently in such plenty. Her contact with the McKays taught her to love nice possessions at an early age. Over time, her desire would grow into a craving.
“Honey, if you ain’t careful, your love of pretty things’ll be your downfall,” her mother would tell her. “People like us, we can’t afford such fine things.”
“Yes, Mama,” she’d say and keep on dreaming. Most of her earnings now went toward clothes, books, and furnishings. She would’ve liked to wear frocks and furs from Bendel’s and Revillon Freres, but this was patently beyond her. Some looks she could approximate, but others she knew better than to even try. She preferred to do without rather than settle for the embarrassment of a cheap copy.
She turned away from the window and surveyed her neat little bedroom. She thought of Annie and David and Sweet.
All of them sitting in that huge house not so far away—while here I am, stuck in this little cage.
The image flashed through her mind of her living in this “cage,” forced to struggle until the last of her youth was gone, until nothing was left of her strength and she was an old crone, dying, forgotten, and bitter.
Oh, how long? she cried. How long before things go well enough for me to get out of here?
9. Sweet’s Rear Guard
Some five months earlier, on the night of October 10,1925, a mob armed with pistols and baseball bats had charged the home of a young black Chicago physician. Boston Richards had just bought the house, which was in a white neighborhood. As the mob rushed forward, he opened fire and a white man died. Dr. Richards was caught and charged with first-degree murder. But he was lucky. He wasn’t summarily lynched, as he would’ve been elsewhere. Instead, he was jailed and tried in what became highly publicized proceedings.
Six weeks of heated courtroom drama came to a grinding halt when Richards’ lawyer had a stroke and collapsed during an argument with the presiding judge. The Movement took up the matter. The case files, dozens of them, landed on Byron Canfield’s desk in January. To contemporary eyes, Richards’ innocence might seem obvious. But in 1925, no black was ever justified in raising a hand, much less a weapon, against a white. Canfield knew that to beat the odds and win an acquittal he’d need the assistance of the best legal mind the Movement could offer. If he’d stayed in New York four years earlier, David McKay would’ve come to mind. Now it was Jameson Sweet.
Months of working on the case had brought Canfield and Sweet a bond that surpassed mutual respect. Long hours of sweating over law books and plotting strategy can teach a man a lot about how his colleague thinks. Canfield decided that Sweet was one of the best legal gamesmen he’d ever known.
He could’ve been my son, he thought.
He and Emma had never had children. When young, she hadn’t wanted to have any. An image of their barren marriage bed flashed across his mind. He sighed. He’d once loved her. God, how he’d loved her! But that was then. What it meant to love was a faint memory. It was no more relevant to his current state of mind than a faded rose pressed between the pages of a forgotten diary.
He removed his coat from the vestibule closet and took his hat down from the shelf. She came out of the living room just then and paused with one foot on the stair.
“You’re going out?” she asked.
Her voice held a trace of disappointment and that surprised him.
Perhaps there is something left.
He shrugged into his coat, buttoning it up and adjusting the collar. He looked at her round familiar face and for a moment felt regret.
“Just down the street. I have to see Sweet.” He yanked down a cuff.
“Right now?”
“Right now. He’s in trouble.”
She said nothing more and he turned away from the look on her face. It was a vague, haunted expression that arose whenever he mentioned Sweet’s name. A mixture of resentment, jealousy, and longing—as though she’d been reminded of the children she’d refused to have.
Canfield stepped out of his house and looked up the street. A few doors away, Sweet had just left the McKay house. The two men met midway down the block and after a few moments of discussion decided to walk along Lenox Avenue.
Canfield studied Sweet. The young lawyer had been preoccupied lately. He hadn’t been making mistakes, but his work wasn’t as exact as it used to be. Of course, with Lilian’s illness and now the sudden reappearance of her brother, it was to be expected.
“This is about David, isn’t it?”
Sweet glanced at him. “You’ve met him?”
“At Nella Harding’s last night.”
“He does get around, doesn’t he?” Sweet clamped his pipe between his teeth. “So what did you think of him?”
“Something’s very wrong there—”
“He’s a troublemaker. He stayed away while Lilian was alive, didn’t show his face while she was ill; now he comes and wants to play the hero.”
“In what way?”
“Well, he just about accused me of killing her.”
“He didn’t! He wouldn’t have!”
“Oh, but he did. He didn’t come right out and say it, mind you. He didn’t have to.”
Canfield shook his head. “His own guilty conscience, that’s what’s behind it.”
“Definitely. Didn’t do anything for his sister before, so he’s angry at the person who did. But if that’s all there was to it, I wouldn’t be bothering you.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“He wants the house.�
�
Canfield came to a halt and stared at Sweet, then shook his head. “Actually, I’m not that surprised. Irresponsibility and greed tend to go together.” They began walking again. “But there’s more than just run-of-the-mill greed at work here. Four years ago, David McKay left on Movement business and disappeared. God only knows what he’s been up to. It would be horrible if he’s done something that would destroy the credibility and efficiency we’ve worked so hard to build.”
“I know the name of a man down in Philly. He’s done some work for the Movement. He’s good, real good. If there’s anything worth knowing, he’ll find it. I think we should contact him—for the sake of the Movement, of course.”
Canfield glanced at Sweet. Something in Sweet’s tone bothered him, gave rise to a slight unease. After a moment’s consideration, he dismissed the feeling. “You’re right, of course. We should do something.”
“So I have your backing?”
Again, Canfield found himself hesitating and wondered why. Was it because he disliked the idea of investigating a fellow lawyer? Or because he disliked the idea of investigating a fellow race man even more?
“Well?” Sweet said.
Canfield looked at this young lawyer he so admired, feeling that glimmer of unease, but seeing nothing in Sweet’s eyes to justify it. “All right,” he said, “Do it.”
10. Gem’s Indelicate Tales
David was relieved to see that Sweet had left the parlor. He sank into his father’s armchair, made a tepee of his fingertips, and stared into the crackling flames.
If what he suspected was true, then Lilian had been murdered. It didn’t take a leap of the imagination to land on the most likely suspect. But it would take a great deal of imagination to ferret out the full truth of the matter and find proof, legal proof, of a crime. He didn’t have much time. He’d been back in town only two days and already two people were suspicious of him: Nella and Canfield. It could be a matter of days before they found him out. He had to move fast. But where should he begin?
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts. He heard Annie answer, then the soft tones of another woman. Rachel.
Harlem Redux Page 11
