If I Should Die

by Grace F. Edwards

  She left the room and returned with a small tray, glasses, and a decanter.

  “I’m glad you came to see me. I don’t get many callers.”

  She filled each glass and handed one to me. Then she offered a brief toast, and before I could blink an eye, Mrs. Harding was placing the empty glass back on the tray.

  “Yes, where were we … The services would have been perfect if Johnnie had had the decency to stay away.”

  “Johnnie?”

  “Johnnie Harding. He likes to call himself Erskin’s brother, but Erskin never acknowledged him. I never acknowledged him either, not because his father had left me for another woman, whom he eventually married, but because, as their son grew up, he had no sense of values. From the day Johnnie was born, his father gave him every advantage he never offered Erskin: private schools from the time he entered kindergarten and at least three private colleges which he flunked or was kicked out of.

  “Johnnie’s mother wasn’t much help. She haunted the hair salons and department stores. She was one of those young fashion plates who existed mainly to impress the bar crowd. And his father went along with it, smiling all the way. Johnnie had everything, yet he had nothing. Got into petty theft, drugs, numbers … whatever he thought he could get away with, that’s what he did.

  “Then his father said something on his deathbed …”

  Mrs. Harding poured another glass but this time she held it in her hands, turning it round and round as she stared out of the window. The weak afternoon light cast her face in perfect profile and I could make out the faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  “You know what he said to Johnnie? He said, ‘You’re nothing. A bum. A worthless bum. I’m sorry I didn’t raise my other son, Erskin.’ ”

  “He actually said that?”

  Mrs. Harding shrugged and placed the glass on the tray. “That’s what Johnnie said the night he came banging on this door. Midnight. Made such a racket I didn’t want Erskin to open it. But he was afraid the neighbors might call the police so he let him in, and Johnnie raved and cursed for over an hour, calling his father every name in the book. He also had a few choice words for Erskin, daring him to show up at his father’s funeral.”

  “Did he go?”

  “He wanted to, but I talked him out of it.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Well, that’s when the phone calls started. All hours of the night, threatening calls. Then they stopped as suddenly as they had started.

  “By that time, Erskin had had enough. He practically became a private detective, started keeping track of the things he heard Johnnie was involved in. Listening every time his name came up. Harlem is a small place whether we like it or not and talk does get around. Whether you’re sitting in a bar, a barbershop, or a beauty parlor.”

  “What was Johnnie involved in?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Erskin compiled a list but I never saw it. I heard rumors though—of hairdressers, clubs, laundermats, restaurants, a building somewhere …”

  She held up her hands. “Who knows for sure? Maybe Johnnie’s so small-time he circulates all this talk to boost his reputation. A large part of his life is spent pretending to be something he isn’t. He must have spent more than a thousand dollars packing that church with all those flowers. And I’m sure he expected me to thank him for it.”

  “Did he approach you as you left the church, heading for your car?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes he did. What nerve.”

  “Assuming Erskin had made such a list, what did he intend to do with it?”

  “I really don’t know … Now I’ll never know.”

  I was silent for a moment, wondering why a man would go to such lengths to gather information if he didn’t intend to use it. Perhaps he intended it as a shield, blackmail … a bargaining chip to keep his brother at arm’s length. And somehow, someone slipped through …

  “Maybe Erskin kept this list in his head.” Even as I said this, I thought of the calendar and did not believe it.

  I wanted to talk about Gary Mark but it would have been too much for her to deal with. She was still trying to find her way through the nightmare maze of her own son’s death.

  I looked out of the window again but her comment brought me back.

  “I suppose the police will work a little harder to solve Erskin’s death now that Gary has also been killed.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell her that Tad and Danny were tracking down every lead as carefully as they knew how, that they were on the case and something should break soon. But I saw the anger and resentment and couldn’t say a word. I left, promising to bring Alvin the next time I visited.

  Out in the street, I wondered how a dying father could set the stage for a lasting hatred between two sons and how one had to be cut down so suddenly while the other continued to flourish like a wild and useless weed.

  Back in my bedroom, I kicked off my shoes, sprawled in the chair, and pressed the button on my answering machine. Dad had a separate phone line and machine downstairs in his studio and it’s a good thing because the crank calls were becoming more frequent. A male voice came on now, quoted the time of the call, then said: “Bitch, watch your back because we’re watching you.”

  There were no other messages.

  chapter ten

  I thought I was dreaming when I turned over and opened one eye. I had fallen asleep with the blinds up and now the morning sun washed over the bedroom. I grabbed the receiver and propped myself up on one elbow.

  “Mali, you sure you want to hear this?”

  It was Deborah, calling at six o’clock on a Sunday morning, the time most sensible people were in bed. She had had a change of heart but I was too sleepy to recognize it.

  “All I want to hear right now, Deborah, is the sound of this phone hanging up.”

  There was a minute of silence and I thought that she had indeed hung up, but she continued, “I don’t think so, girl. Matter of fact, there’s so much stuff, not only about Mark’s insider trading but stuff the media didn’t deal with or doesn’t know about. There’s a whole lot of other folks he hung with … unhealthy, unlikely folks. And seems he has an interesting connection uptown. Maybe I’d better bring this folder over.”

  “Now? It’s practically dark outside. The sun’s not even up yet.”

  “The sun is up, but not to panic. I’ll drop by on my way from church.”

  “Church?”

  “Yes, you know, that strange institution you only think of visiting once a year? It’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t cave in when you show your face at the door.”

  It was too early to think of an appropriate response, so I simply said, “Deborah, I’ll see you soon.”

  The phone went dead and I rolled over but I was wide awake now and suddenly remorseful. Ten minutes later I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and dialed her number.

  “Deborah, you’re right. I’ll come over and pick up the stuff and we’ll go to church together. And have breakfast afterward. See you in about an hour, more or less.”

  “This is a surprise! Church? You? Remember what I said about the ceiling caving in. I—”

  The line went dead. I waited, then tapped the receiver.

  “Deborah?”

  I hung up, dialed her number, and there was that fast dial tone that signaled trouble on the line, then nothing. I quickly scrambled into my sweat suit, collared Ruffin, and started out of the house, pausing only long enough to slip Dad’s straight razor into my shoulder bag. Better to be caught with something than without.

  Damn, how could I have been so stupid …

  Deborah lived in a high-rise complex two blocks away. I ran fast, not waiting for the lights and easily dodging the few cars passing at this hour. Ruffin had no trouble keeping up with me. By the time I reached the lobby, my chest hurt from fear.

  The elevator to the fifteenth floor moved like a winter glacier.

  I
stepped out and moved down the narrow corridor just as her door opened and a man came out. He saw me and darted back into the apartment.

  “Deborah!” I threw myself against the door as he tried to lock it but he was not fast enough. I wedged my shoulder bag in the opening and Ruffin’s barking grew loud as he jumped up and pawed the door. The man suddenly let go and I fell in, landing hard on my knees. Ruffin leaped over me and bounded through the living room after him.

  “Git that fuckin’ dog away! Git ’im away!”

  He ran into the dining room toward the door leading to the terrace.

  “Git that dog away, you bitch! Git ’im away!”

  “Fuck you! What’re you doing here? Where’s Deborah?”

  I was screaming as I searched the bedroom. Then I heard the hard rush of water. I entered the bathroom and stopped.

  “Deborah! No!”

  He had left her lying in the shower. Her throat had been cut, but she was still alive. I grabbed a towel, pressed it over the wound, and ran back through the ransacked apartment. Furniture was overturned, drawers were opened, and dishes had been swept from all the cupboards. Beyond the small kitchen, I heard a thin, spiraling echo.

  I ran to the terrace intending to push that man off, to kill him, but there was no one there except Ruffin with his paws up on the railing. And down below, a small crowd was gathering around the form lying spread-eagle in the courtyard fifteen floors below.

  My screaming and Ruffin’s barking had brought out all the neighbors on the floor. One of them, an intern at Harlem Hospital, knew which artery to press and held the towel to Deborah’s throat.

  Minutes later I was pacing the corridor outside the hospital’s operating room. Tad was there too, routed out of bed by my hysterical call. He walked the floor, trying to make me understand.

  “Listen, Mali. I want you to lay off this case. For your own good. You gotta promise you’ll let me handle it. This is my job.”

  “But Deborah was my friend. This happened because of me.”

  “Stop talking past tense. She’s still alive, you understand? Your friend is still alive.”

  “Yes, but—”

  A door swung open at the far end of the corridor and I rushed over.

  “Doctor, how is—”

  He removed his glasses, and the lines of fatigue were visible in his face. “We’ve done all we can, for the moment. She’s going to the recovery room.”

  He described the procedure to repair the carotid artery, which carries blood to the head. I didn’t understand any of it until he said, “The next twenty-four hours will be critical. That’s all I can say right now.”

  He turned and I tried to concentrate on his green cotton surgical jacket, his nondescript trousers and soft shoes moving away from me and carrying Deborah’s life with him. I concentrated on that to keep from looking at the walls, tiles, ceiling, and lights, which did not want to stay in one place.

  What seemed like a second later, I was sprawled on a small bench, coughing, and waving a small vial of something away from my nose.

  “Are you all right?” a nurse asked.

  “I … guess so.” Even if I wasn’t too sure of where I was.

  Then Tad’s voice: “I’m taking her home.”

  Outside, Ruffin had been tied to the bus shelter pole. He paced the length of the enclosure and everyone waiting had been forced back several feet. The cool spring air revived me somewhat as it hit my face. We crossed Lenox Avenue and walked slowly past several Sunday morning churchgoers who stared in disgust at my bloodstained sweat suit, uncombed hair, and swollen eyes. Tad, leading me by the hand, did not look much better, and the churchgoers drew their own conclusions, which were easy enough to read: we were nothing but a pair of Saturday night lowlifes who couldn’t take two steps to the corner without pulling a blade on each other. It’s folks like us who gave Harlem a bad name. I could see it in their faces as they edged out of our way. One couple pulled their child close—a small boy with large inquisitive eyes.

  … It’s not what you think. My friend’s life is hanging in the balance. In the balance …

  But there was nothing to make them understand that.

  I unlocked the door and managed to make it past the kitchen, where Dad and Alvin were fixing breakfast. Tad remained in the living room as I headed to my bedroom and changed into another sweat suit. Dad peeked out of the kitchen as I came back downstairs.

  He looked from me to Tad and back again.

  “You folks all right?”

  “We’re okay,” I whispered. “We’ll be better after some coffee.”

  He looked at me again. “Yeah, you better sit down … I’ll bring some cups.”

  Once again, I started to shake and Tad held me until it subsided. I wanted to fall asleep right there in his arms.

  “Take it easy … easy, you hear?”

  I heard but could not answer. Deborah was nearly killed because of me. I could not answer and could not stop the tears. Dad came in with two large mugs of coffee, looked at me, and placed the tray on the table. Then he frowned at Tad. “Okay. You two look like hell. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Two days later I sat by Deborah’s bed and held her hand. I had promised to lay off the case, but Deborah had been my friend before she became “a case.” And even though Dad had acknowledged that I’d probably saved her life, he had been shaken to the core. “When are you going to learn to mind your own business? If that man had had a gun, you’d be dead. And I’d have lost another …” Tears had welled in his eyes and he had stomped out of the room, leaving me wondering if I should have told him anything.

  I looked at Deborah now. Her face was swollen to twice its size and her neck was immobilized, but she lifted my hand to her bandaged throat. No sound came but she recognized me.

  The surgeon said there had been no brain damage despite the blood loss. She recognized me … Thank God. Thank God, I breathed silently, and started to cry again.

  As I left her room, her mother and sister stepped out of the elevator. Mrs. Matthews was a short plump woman of fifty-five, and Deborah’s sister, Martha, was small and slim, a younger version of Deborah. Both women looked as if they had not slept in a week.

  “The police said it was a robbery,” Mrs. Matthews said, “but we can’t figure out what’s missing.”

  “Yes, all her jewelry was still there,” Martha said. “Her fur coat, even her purse had money in it.”

  They had flown in from Washington. Deborah’s father, bedridden for years, was left at home, so Mrs. Matthews had to return as quickly as possible. Martha, however, planned to remain but she seemed on the verge of a nervous collapse.

  “When my sister’s able to travel, I’m taking her back to Washington to recuperate,” she said. “Why she ever moved into that damn building in the first place is beyond me. She knew its history.”

  I said nothing. Everyone knew its history. Everyone knew that the development had been built by a major life insurance company several years ago as a compromise—after a long court battle—to keep black folks from darkening the door of their segregated residences downtown.

  Martha continued to shake her head. “New York is … New York … is …”

  Even though she had been born and raised here, she could not find the words to describe her dislike for this place.

  “Deborah had called me to come over and pick up a package,” I said, “something she was researching for me. When I got there, a man was coming out of her apartment. Rather than face my dog, he ran back inside, then he must have jumped or fallen from the terrace. If I had been five minutes later, Deb would have bled to death.”

  Martha’s eyes widened. “But why would anyone do this? It had to be a madman …”

  Even if I had known what to say, I couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t let me.

  Night had fallen and the canopy in front of Harlem Hospital was brightly lit. I paused near the lobby door and stared at the vendors and their flower-filled carts, concentrating o
n the clusters of roses and gladiolas in an effort to compose myself.

  It was a short walk home and I didn’t want Dad on my case the minute I stepped in the house. Wanting to know where I’d gone and with whom. He was still upset about Deborah and now he worried about me. Right now I needed peace and quiet and space and a warm bath to slow the spinning inside my head.

  It had been a week since Deborah’s surgery and I had visited every day. Her neck was still swollen but her face appeared less puffy. The contours of her mouth, nose, and eyelids now seemed more defined but she could not utter a sound.

  I had gone to the precinct, again, to answer questions. This time Danny seemed to know the questions to ask. The problem was that I had no answers. The man who attacked her, he said, had been a crackhead and petty thief from uptown named Jackson Lee who was known for his push-in robberies. And no, there was no package with my name on it in the apartment.

  It had to be there, I thought. Jackson Lee didn’t have it on him when he landed in that courtyard, unless, perhaps, someone in the crowd picked it up.

  I wanted to mention this to Tad, but he had said to lay off, and right now all I cared about was for Deborah to get well, to be whole again.

  I stood for a while under the canopy, concentrating on my breathing and feeling the deep, measured response in my diaphragm. Visitors bought flowers from the vendors and moved through the doors in a steady stream. Across the avenue, a line of cars had pulled up in front of the Schomburg Center and a large crowd had gathered, waiting to go in. I had read in the City Sun about the opening of a sculpture exhibit from Ghana and knew Deborah would surely have been in this crowd.

  At the corner, someone touched my shoulder and I jumped away.

  “Easy, Mali. Take it easy,” Danny said. “I can see you’re not taking this too well and I can’t blame you. Your friend’s in terrible shape. That guy that did this—” He shook his head.

  The light changed and we stepped off the curb. “I’ll walk you home. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Tad said you found her in the bathtub. Did she say anything?”