Harlem Redux

by Persia Walker

  Tuesday, January 21, 1925

  Jameson leaves me alone a great deal. He says he must, because of his work. That’s true, but only to a certain extent. The truth is, he spends as little time with me as possible. He either locks himself in Daddy’s old office or makes arrangements to meet friends, and he always meets them elsewhere, never inviting them to the house, carefully avoiding any overlap between his friendships and our marriage. I once asked him why.

  Don’t you want me to know your friends, darling?

  He only smiled. Enigmatic. Charming. Unattainable.

  But darling …

  He never answered. His habit of evading my questions infuriates me. Like a cloud, he seems solid but is as insubstantial as mist when I reach for him. He’s always gently kind, astutely considerate and sweetly polite when we pass in the hallway or sit down to dinner, but his manner is detached, as though I’m a neighborly acquaintance instead of his wife. He’s gentlemanly and affectionate in public, holding my hand, supporting me by the elbow, making sure I’m properly seated in restaurants and at dinner parties. To all outer appearances, he’s the perfect husband, but he leaves my side the moment our front door closes behind us.

  We still share the same bedroom, but during the day he never enters the room when I’m in it, and on most nights, he eases into our bed only when he believes I’m asleep. Once a month, he exercises his husbandly privileges, but he’s mechanical, distracted. I wonder why he bothers. Ours is a shell of a relationship, a lovely, beautiful shell.

  Friday, January 30, 1925

  He has never loved me. I knew it from the beginning. I hoped I could change him, but the more I do for him, the less he cares.

  He’s only interested in my money and his career. I’m scared to tell him about the baby. He doesn’t want children. But I’m determined to have this child, come what may.

  Sometimes I think of the years Mama endured Daddy’s cruelty. I always sympathized with her; now I can empathize with her, too. But Mama had it better than I do. Deep down, Daddy did love her. And she sensed it. She felt that he needed her all along, even though he didn’t know it himself. And that gave her strength. I wish I could feel that way about Jameson. But I can’t. My only sources of comfort are my church and this child. All my hope I put into this one small human being. And all my love.

  Wednesday, February 4, 1925

  Jameson loves someone else. I’m sure of it. I’ve discovered that I can be intensely jealous. I’ve searched his jacket and coat pockets for bits of paper, checked his shirts for lipstick smears, read his mail. In short, I’ve done everything I could think of to find evidence that he’s been somewhere he shouldn’t have been, with someone he shouldn’t have been. But I’ve found nothing. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel worse. It sounds crazy, but the very lack of evidence seems proof that Jameson is being careful to hide something—or someone—from me.

  Saturday, February 7, 1925

  It’s hard to remember the way it was when we first got married. I was so deeply in love with him, so grateful to have him, that it didn’t matter that his ardor was weak. I wanted to believe that he was cool by nature, but loyal and committed. I was proud to have such a brilliant lawyer as my husband. But with the pregnancy, I can no longer ignore his lack of affection. I must find the strength to tell him about the baby.

  Tuesday, February 10, 1925

  Jameson continues to be solicitous and overwhelmingly kind, but today I realized that I hate him. I’ve heard of pregnant women coming to loathe their husbands, but my feelings don’t stem from my condition. My feelings toward him have been changing for some time. I just didn’t want to admit it. I wouldn’t have believed that I could detest anyone so intensely.

  Why did I marry such a lower-class social climber? What was I thinking of? Jameson should be grateful I even looked his way. Most women of my class wouldn’t have given him the time of day, and here I went and married the man. Daddy would’ve never stood for it. I can’t believe I made such a mistake.

  I’m compelled to spend the rest of my life with him. That realization horrifies me. But the thought of losing him to someone else is worse. The shame, the scandal, would be unthinkable. Yet, I don’t know how I can go on with him. The very sight of him makes me shake with rage.

  Friday, February 13, 1925

  If only I could get him away from me. But he’s ever present, always there with his potions and medicines. I have to force myself to submit to his ministrations. I’m sure he can feel my loathing for him, but he ignores it. He’s outwardly concerned, attentive and responsive to my every murmured wish. He pretends that the only problem is my “nerves,” as he calls it.

  I wish I had someone to talk to. If only Mama were here, but she’s long gone. There’s Annie, but as much as I love her, she’s still just a servant and I can’t see myself stooping so low as to confide in the help. I think of David. Often. But he has problems of his own. And to be truthful, I’d rather not have to admit to him that I’ve made a mess of my life.

  Then there’s Gem.

  The reversal in my feelings toward Jameson, dramatic as it is, still amazes me less than the change in my attitude toward Gem. After so many years, the two of us have come to share a closeness that I’d only heard other sisters speak of. She and I are at ease with our differences now. And we’ve discovered similarities that surprise us. Our rivalry will always be there, but it has lost its bitter edge. We can laugh and joke with one another.

  Wednesday, February 18, 1925

  I wonder whether Gem has noticed my changed feelings toward Jameson. She’s very cool toward him. Sometimes I watch the two of them together. She’s clearly not thrilled to see him when she runs into him. She’s extremely cordial, but she seems blatantly relieved when he goes off on one of his business trips. I haven’t told Gem about the baby, either. I’ve tried several times, but I just can’t bring the words out. I don’t know why. Instead, I’ve confided in Rachel. That choice confuses me. I went outside the family. Why? It seemed right at the time.

  For a moment, David stopped breathing. Rachel? She told Rachel? He closed the diary, too angry to read further. If Rachel knew then surely Annie knew, too, and neither one of them said a damn thing. He glanced at his pocket watch, left lying on his night table. It was nearly ten. Annie was in bed—it was too late to see her now … although he was sorely tempted to wake her—and Rachel was probably busy at the hospital. He sat for a moment, trying to get his emotions under control. There are too many damn secrets in this house, too many. His gaze dropped back down to the diary; he flipped it open. Only two more pages left.

  Tuesday, February 24, 1925

  I took a walk down by the Hudson River to see the sunset this evening. It was such a pleasure to get out of the house, away from the smell of medicines. The air was cold but crisp and clean. And the colors were magnificent. As though a mad painter had taken his brush and, in florid strokes, splashed the horizon with streaks of red, orange, violet, and gold. For one intense fleeting moment, I wished that I were as free as Gem, to simply pick up and go and never look back. But that will never be. I have responsibilities, status, property. I’m a wife and soon will be a mother. I’m rooted to my place, as firmly shackled to it as a prisoner wearing handcuffs.

  Saturday, February 28, 1925

  Our lives are falling apart. Snyder has broken with Gem. He did it in the most degrading way, right out in public, and now the town is buzzing about it. She has fled to the Hardings’ estate in Amagansett. I feel for her and I envy her ability to escape.

  Monday, March 2, 1925

  Gem has sent me a message. She’s still in East Hampton, feeling alone and humiliated. It isn’t just the breakup with Adrian. She says there’s no place for her here, with Jameson and me. I’m trying to convince her otherwise, but she doesn’t believe me. It’s ironic that this miserable marriage to Jameson has brought me closer to Gem. I’m almost ashamed to recall my earlier fears that she would try to take him. True to her word, she has
become a loyal friend and ally. The thought of what has happened to her saddens me.

  Thursday, March 5, 1925

  My health seems to be worsening. Something must be very wrong with me. I’m so tired. I’m ready to collapse. My head throbs continually. The pain is almost unbearable. I seem to have lost my sense of balance and I stumble a lot. I’m afraid of falling and hurting the baby. I’m worried about my bouts of forgetfulness, too. These memory lapses are humiliating. And the dreams. Miserable, shifting images that invade my sleep. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I lay awake at night, the blood pounding in my temples, unable to raise my head from the pillow or even turn it sideways without stabbing pain. The doctors poke and prod but find nothing. Jameson wants me to see a psychologist. I don’t want to. I’m not crazy. I know I’m not. I can’t be.

  That was the final entry, the last words of a voice now stilled. He would have to speak to the living to learn the rest of Lilian’s story.

  He closed the diary and weighed the little book in his hand. It was so small to contain such misery. He thought of Lilian’s letters. What effort it must have cost her to sound cheerful. He recalled how her last letter had asked him to return and how he hadn’t answered it. And he gave a long, deep sigh. He’d been so obsessed with his own dilemma that he had never considered, had refused to consider, that she might need him. And this ... this was the consequence.

  13. The Picnic

  “Why did you tell me he was a good husband?”

  “Because he was.”

  “Lilian’s diary tells a different story.”

  “Her diary? You found her diary?”

  It was late Monday morning and they were sitting in Rachel’s living room. Her thin shoulders were hunched and tense under her cheap white cotton shirt. She folded her arms across her chest. He felt a spark of pity for her and quashed it.

  “And why didn’t you tell me that Lilian was pregnant?”

  “Because I ...” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Well, I wasn’t sure. I mean I ... I knew she claimed to be—”

  “Claimed to be?”

  She licked her lips. “Remember, I told you there was a time when Lilian and I didn’t see each other?”

  He nodded.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, there were two times when we did see each other ... two times that ...” She swallowed and looked at him. “David, this is so hard to tell you.”

  “Just spit it out. Nothing can be worse than what I’m thinking right now.”

  Something glimmered in her eyes, something like hurt. “A year ago, in January, Lilian stopped by. She hadn’t spoken to me in ages, but there she was. Pale as a ghost. Said she had to talk. But once she came in, she got quiet. Wouldn’t say nothing. I let her be. And I made some coffee. Then the clock struck three. The kids started leaving the school across the street. We could see them through the window, all loud and laughing. Lilian started crying. And then she said she was pregnant.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? Neither you nor Annie said anything about Lilian having had a child.”

  “Well, I guess that’s because she didn’t.”

  “You mean she lost the baby?” A horrible possibility dawned on him. “Did she kill herself because she lost the child?”

  An indecipherable glimmer came into Rachel’s eyes. Did it reveal sadness, perhaps agony, even a flash of anger? She swallowed and dropped her gaze.

  “It would’ve made sense, wouldn’t it? Losing a baby is... why, it’s unbearable.” She gave a little shake of her head. “But no, that’s not what happened.”

  “Then what did happen?”

  “I don’t know,” she said thickly.

  “How far along was she?”

  “She claimed she was in her fourth month, but there still wasn’t nothing to see. She said she hadn’t been sleeping. She talked a little bit about it being a boy or a girl. And then she said she was scared, that maybe it wouldn’t turn out right. I told her a lot of women worry about stuff like that. But the baby almost always turns out fine. She smiled at me, sort of in a sad way. Then she got up to go. She stopped at the door and gave me a hug. She told me she loved me, but she didn’t come by no more.”

  “But that wasn’t the last time you saw her?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “But it was a while that went by. She’d stopped coming to church, too, you see. For years, she’d come. Every Sunday, rain or shine. But after Gem, everything changed.

  “The time came for our church’s Fourth of July picnic. Even the blue bloods over in Brooklyn come over for it. Lilian was one of our best organizers. Folks at church were hoping she’d show up just to say hello.”

  “And did she?”

  “Oh, she was there all right. Holding a big plate of food when I saw her. She wasn’t eating it, though. Just picking at it. Like she needed something to do. She didn’t look good. She’d fallen off. Her color was bad. And her belly was as flat as a pancake.”

  “What?”

  “She tried to act like she didn’t see me. So I went up to her and asked her about the baby. She turned white—whiter than a bleached sheet. Said she didn’t know—didn’t want to know—what I was talking about. I asked her if she remembered coming by my house that January. And her face changed. It just sort of.. . crumpled. She looked so sad. I asked her if I could do anything for her. And then she gave me this look.” Rachel frowned. “This look, David, it was hard to describe. There was hurt and anger and, well ... disgust—like she thought I was her worst enemy. Then she turned and ran. She hightailed it out of there so fast you’d have thought the tax man was behind her.”

  “So she did lose the baby.”

  “David, don’t you get it? When I asked her about visiting me, she really didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Not to me.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. Her gaze went out the window, to the school across the street. “Your sister wanted a baby. Wanted it bad. Don’t you know what that kind of wanting can do to a woman?”

  “Are you saying she imagined being pregnant?”

  Her mouth tightened. “Do you really want to know what I think? What I honest to God think?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. I can tell you right now that I don’t think she killed herself because she lost a baby.” She looked him in the eye. “She did it cause she couldn’t have one.”

  For a moment, he sat there in utter silence. He was stunned. That possibility had never occurred to him. Could she be right? Was that it? He sighed. Was that what brought Lilian down?

  “Now that you know, David, would you please, please leave this alone?”

  He licked his lips and took a deep breath. “No.”

  “David, please—”

  “I cannot. I will not.”

  She sagged down onto the sofa and put a hand to her forehead. He sat down next to her. His voice was quiet but penetrating.

  “You might be right about the baby and her wanting one so badly. But there was another hand in this. Another reason.”

  “She got sick. That’s all. She was sick and—”

  “Yeah. Slit her wrists. I don’t buy it.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying that all this talk of a mysterious illness makes no sense.”

  For a moment, she studied him and then her expression changed. She looked as though she were seeing him clearly for the first time. “I almost don’t recognize you and that frightens me. All of a sudden, you’re not just the grieving brother—you’re an avenging angel.”

  He didn’t deny it. “Look, there’s something wrong here. I felt it before, but I know it now. And that something has to do with Sweet.”

  “I told you—Lilian wanted a baby and when it came to Sweet, she wasn’t confident—”

  “The diary, Rachel. The diary. Lack of confidence wasn’t the problem. And I’m betting you know it
.”

  She swallowed.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not angry. Not yet.”

  “What do you want me to say? I know how you feel—”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about how I feel. I’m riding a rollercoaster through hell. I want to know why it happened.”

  “You just want to blame somebody.”

  “Yes, I want to blame somebody.”

  “But there is no one to blame! Not you, not me. Not Annie, not Sweet. You’ve got to accept that Lilian did what she did because she had to do it. Something in her drove her to it. None of us could’ve stopped her. Why can’t you see that? My God, it’d be better if you’d just stop thinking about it.”

  “Don’t think about it? Hell, I can’t think about anything else!”

  He jumped up. She grabbed his forearm. He tried to wrench himself away, but she held firm. She stood up, put her arms around him, and laid her face against his chest. He was rigid.

  “Please, let this go,” she whispered. “Let Lilian rest in peace. Please, please, let her go.”