If I Should Die

by Grace F. Edwards

  The sun was up now and the shadows had gone. Alvin moved away from the window, gathered some sheet music, and stuffed it in his backpack. He moved with the awkward grace of a child disinterested in a task and going through the motions to please everyone but himself.

  “We’re doing six songs today,” he said.

  Breakfast was quiet but I was glad to see that Alvin’s appetite had returned. He devoured six pancakes and bacon and eggs while I hugged a lukewarm cup of coffee.

  “I’ll walk Alvin to rehearsals, if you want,” Dad said, looking at me and probably noticing the circles under my eyes.

  “No. I need the exercise. I’ll go with him.”

  The truth was I didn’t want to fall asleep again and have to fight another nightmare. Fifteen minutes later I left the house and called Tad from a public phone. His voice was as deep as ever.

  “I was beginning to give up on you, Mali.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said, surprised that he was home to answer the phone. I had expected to leave a message but here was his voice, alive and fresh and concerned. Listening to him helped push the nightmare, hangover, and aching feet into an unused corner of my mind.

  “I have a late tour today. How about lunch?”

  “Fine,” I said, realizing how suddenly beautiful the day seemed.

  “Meet you at Emily’s about one o’clock.”

  Alvin and I took the long way to the rehearsal hall and passed by the ball court. Clarence was there alone, sitting on the bench near the fence, and there was no ball in sight.

  He came over when we waved. He looked thinner and he needed a haircut but he smiled as he approached.

  “How’s it going, Clarence?”

  “Could be better, Miss Mali, but I’m not complainin’ … How you doin’, Striver?”

  “Okay,” Alvin said, smiling. I could see that he was now even less interested in going to rehearsal and wanted to remain right here on the court, but I wasn’t having any of that.

  “Where’s your ball?” he asked.

  Clarence shrugged. “Rolled out into the street and car run over it. So I’m just hangin’ till some a my boys breeze by. Maybe pick up a game with them …”

  “How’s Morris?” I asked.

  “He all right. Seen ’im last night.”

  Which meant that Mrs. Johnson was still inviting him in for dinner. I did not ask how his mother was.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you, glad you’re out …”

  “Me too,” he said. He was suddenly very talkative, as if he wanted the world to know what he’d gone through but couldn’t find the words to describe it.

  “Man, ain’t no way to say what it’s like in the joint. Got to be down with the program or ready to throw down. Brothers got to go in badder than Tyson if they spect to survive. Some of ’em don’t. Wind up swallowin’ glass to git to the infirmary. That don’t work, they hang theyselves. It ain’t like in no movies. In there’s the real deal.”

  I looked at his face, at his dark, young, unlined skin, and knew what he had seen but would never really talk about. The “blanket parties”—gang rapes—drug deals, beatings, blackmail, and thievery that went on under the very noses of some of the guards.

  “Who bailed you?” I asked, knowing it was none of my business.

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is I’m out and I ain’t goin’ back. Ever. No, I mean it ain’t that I don’t care who did it. I do. But nobody never told me. I mean, one minute, I’m in hell, and the next minute, the door open and I’m breathin’ real air again.

  “Besides, the Legal Aid sister said they ain’t even got a case on me as far as this second rap is concerned. I ain’t killed nobody. And the other charge is gonna be downgraded to simple assault and they might even drop that once they get a look at—”

  He glanced at Alvin and said no more.

  Just then, three young men entered the court from the other end and called out to him. They had a ball and bounced it a few times off the rim.

  “Be cool!” Clarence smiled, and I watched him lope easily down to the basket and slap five. The ball went up. He tapped it against the rim and the game was on.

  I dropped Alvin off at the hall and was glad that more parents had shown up.

  “Dad will pick you up,” I reminded him, giving him a hug even though he didn’t like this show of affection in front of the other kids. Then I headed downtown on Powell Boulevard to Emily’s.

  On the way, I browsed through the African market on Lenox and 116th Street where the spring weather had brought out the bargain hunters and a busload of tourists. The pavement shook beneath car-size boom boxes that put out enough juice to power a rock concert. Hot dog and lemonade stands were crowded. The tops of the patterned tents riffled in the breeze, and inside, the tables were piled with fabric, sandals, incense, and hats. I was caught in the festival sounds and found myself stopping at several tables.

  “Ah, madam,” a vendor called, holding out a wide-brimmed pale yellow straw hat, “this hat is you. It was just waiting to frame your face. No one else would do it justice.”

  His accent was deep and his English was soft and precise as he held a postage-stamp-size mirror up to me. I smiled and ignored the pile of identical straw hats on the table.

  Last year when Deborah had returned from Senegal, she had advised, “You better learn how to bargain if you expect to visit the motherland. That’s all they do.”

  So I practiced. Smiling wider, speaking softer, finally bargaining harder, and ten minutes later the hat was on my head at a price I could live with.

  I tilted the hat, glad that the vendors had found this location, but in the shifting political currents, who knows how long they would be here? The city administration had forced them from their original location on 125th Street, and without the festival sounds and tourists and occasional public speakers, Harlem’s main thoroughfare now seemed drained of life.

  Emily’s has large windows which look out on Fifth Avenue and 111th Street and though smaller than Sylvia’s, caters to loyal soul food aficionados. It has a fancy bar and a cool, subdued atmosphere. I slipped into the seat opposite Tad and he leaned over, pushed my hat back, and kissed me.

  “I haven’t tasted your lipstick in a long while,” he whispered, holding my hands against his face. He looked great, as if he had come out of his depression and was ready to talk about important things. Like making love all night long.

  “The lipstick’s only the appetizer,” I whispered.

  “I know,” he smiled, rubbing my fingertips against his chin. “When can I start on the main dish?”

  “Depends. When can you get a day off? I could cut a class. We could take the phone off the hook, and do all those good things we—”

  “Miss another class? At this rate, you won’t see your diploma before you’re fifty.”

  I sighed and said nothing. He was right, of course. Dad was also beginning to make noise about my sudden slowdown. But with all that had happened—to Erskin, and Deborah, and worrying about Clarence and Alvin—it was hard to concentrate.

  “School is one thing. I’m not in class today.”

  Tad took my hands again. “Sounds nice but I have to make a hospital visit in a few hours.”

  I gazed at him and knew I’d better change the subject while my temperature was still somewhere near normal.

  “Well, okay, some other time—”

  “Come on, baby. You know how I feel. Don’t—”

  I concentrated on his hands. As long as I didn’t gaze into his eyes, everything would probably be all right.

  A minute passed before I said, “I was at the Club Harlem last night. Dad played the opening. I saw something interesting …”

  “I know. You saw Harding. You saw Danny. And you were walking around in your stockings. Must’ve been quite a night.”

  I stared at him. He said nothing more. “Did Danny tell you?” I whispered.

  “No. Matter of fact, I haven’t sp
oken to him in a few days, but as the old folks say, ‘All shut-eye ain’t sleep and all good-bye ain’t gone.’ ”

  I looked away and smiled in spite of myself. That meant he was still on the case, in his own way, and had his eyes and ears working the street even when he wasn’t.

  He winked and settled back in his chair. “Anything else happening?”

  “Well, I was in the Pink Fingernail Friday and—”

  “The Pink Fingernail. On Amsterdam?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Mali, of all the beauty shops in Harlem, you had to pick that one. What happened to Bertha’s place? I thought that was your cool-down spot?”

  “It is. It still is. Bertha mentioned the Pink Fingernail and I wanted to check it out. When I got there, I decided I needed a facial …”

  He stared at me, as if he were examining my pores. I expected at any minute to see him whip out a Sherlock Holmes—style magnifying glass.

  “Mali, your skin is beautiful. You needed a facial?”

  “Well, thanks for the compliment. Anyway, I heard some talk.”

  “Such as?”

  “A woman named Lexi was getting her hair together …”

  “I know her. Her mama was a big-time dope dealer when smack first came on the scene. She did time in Lexington and had her baby there. Not too much imagination when it came to naming the kid …”

  “Lexi’s living with a man called Nightlife.”

  “Small-time thief uses Riker’s as his vacation spot. Go on.”

  “From what she said, I think Nightlife may be connected to Erskin’s death. He may’ve been in the car that day.”

  Tad leaned back now as his expression changed. His eyes were as narrow as a cat’s. “What exactly did she say?”

  “Nightlife had some gold caps punched out about a month ago. Lexi was complaining about it. A few minutes after she left, Johnnie Harding came strolling in.”

  “Harding. What did he do? Did you hear anything?”

  “Nothing. He went straight to the back of the shop and Maizie must’ve had some envelopes or something for him. He left in a matter of minutes.”

  Tad passed his hands over his face and I decided not to mention that Johnnie had stared at me as if he knew me. Tad gazed out of the window, absently rearranging his knife and fork on the table. I waited. Finally he leaned over and whispered, “Don’t go there again. At least not for a while. That’s a hot spot.”

  And just as quickly, his face changed. His eyes were alight and he was on the verge of a smile. “Anything else interesting going on?”

  “Yes,” I said, glad to change the subject. “Clarence is out. Who stood the bail?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Depends on what I’m after …”

  He shifted in his seat, choosing to ignore the double meaning of my remark and said, “Seems a J. Harding contacted a bondsman—”

  “But why would Johnnie—”

  “It’s not our boy Johnnie. It was Julia Harding that done the deed.”

  Julia Harding. Erskin’s mother. Good for her and bless her soul. I sat back and nodded my head. This was something to think about, take my mind off Nightlife and Erskin and concentrate on something else. Like that time when a very refined woman, much like Julia Harding, had come into the precinct along with the man who had tried to rob her in her elevator. She hadn’t screamed, but simply opened her purse and shot him in the arm with a .22.

  Naturally the robber fled only to be arrested in the E.R. and naturally the woman had been arrested for carrying an unlicensed handgun. She explained to the detectives that the gun had been a gift from her late husband and she had had no idea that it was unlicensed. When the holdup occurred, she said, there was no time to call a séance to ask his advice. “Just aim and shoot,” he had once told her.

  And that’s what she did.

  She was small and thin with striking silver hair and went through the fingerprint process with an amazing calm, wiping her hands as if she were brushing away crumbs at high tea. When she saw me watching, she had smiled. “Honey, I’m not rough or tough, but mama don’t take much stuff.”

  That had been a woman after my own heart. Now here was Mrs. Julia Harding, a woman who followed her own intuition and everyone else could kiss her refined behind.

  No need to ask if Danny knew. He probably did. No need to worry about him visiting Mrs. Harding. He probably would. But no need to worry about her holding her own against his relentless, roundabout questioning. Julia Harding, just like that little lady with the .22, would let him know in a few words that she could do as she pleased. She was not rough or tough but she didn’t take no stuff.

  “You have a look in your eye,” Tad said.

  “I do?”

  “Yes. A look that says you can’t wait to fly out of here to stick your nose in something that doesn’t concern you.”

  The man seemed able to read me but not well enough.

  I didn’t look up and we ate in silence when the food arrived.

  Of course I was going to see Mrs. Harding, but I also needed to know more about Nightlife.

  chapter seventeen

  The construction near Mrs. Harding’s building was finished, but across the avenue, another phase was under way with the slow driving noise of the bulldozers lifting the soil from the community garden the neighbors had started several summers ago.

  This time I called instead of barging in unannounced. It was perfectly all right, she said, to come right over.

  The place looked the same, the book-lined walls, the fish tank, plants, and the shining baby grand piano that seemed to dwarf everything around it.

  “That was a wonderful thing you did for Clarence,” I said, settling onto the sofa.

  She offered me a glass of sherry but I opted for a cup of tea since I had not fully recovered from last night.

  “Clarence doesn’t know who you are but he certainly appreciates what you did.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Saw him earlier today when I took Alvin to rehearsal.”

  “Is the boy—is Clarence back in the Chorus?”

  “Not yet, but he will be once this … situation is resolved. He’s very grateful. Wants to know why anyone would do something like that for him.”

  Mrs. Harding looked at me, then rose and walked over to the piano, where she lifted the lid.

  “This is why I did it,” she whispered, keeping her voice soft as if someone else were in the room with us. She handed me a small manila envelope. Inside was a four-by-six-inch spiral notepad.

  I thumbed through it and recognized Erskin’s precise script. There were six pages of numbers aligned in two columns on each page. The numbers were mostly nine or ten digits and some had a line drawn through them. The rest of the pad was blank.

  “When did you find this?”

  “About two days before I bailed the boy out. It pays to do a thorough housecleaning once in a while. I was dusting and polishing, lifted the lid and there it was, taped to the inside.”

  I continued to look at the numbers and remembered what Dad had said about an artist recording events that occurred in other people’s lives. Erskin had left a record after all, except that the entries were coded—like the message on his calendar.

  “There’re too many digits to be anyone’s address. What do you think these numbers mean?” I asked.

  “I have no idea, unless Erskin scrambled them. But those notations, whatever they mean, convinced me that Clarence had nothing to do with Erskin’s death and that something far more sophisticated is going on. That’s why I posted the bond and that’s why I want you to have this book.”

  “You want me—are you certain?”

  She moved toward the window and stared out. The grinding noise of the bulldozers now blended with the other sounds of the avenue and the construction seemed far away.

  “I want to know who killed my son, Mali. If I depend on the police for answers, I will be waiting until the middle of
the next century. And at my age, I don’t have the luxury of time.”

  She turned away from the window to face me. “There’s something I didn’t mention earlier because I didn’t see what good it would do to tell you, but now I think you should know how my son felt about you.”

  I looked at her. “Erskin?”

  “Yes. He … liked you very much. Very, very much. When I asked why he hadn’t approached you, he said … he said that you were very beautiful and would probably turn him down.”

  “What?”

  “I never intended to tell you because he’s gone now, but you know, aside from my pastor and a few members of my church, no one has been to see me since the funeral except you. You were there when Erskin died. You tried to save him. I like to think that the last face he saw was yours. I want you to have that book.”

  I did not know what to say. Erskin had been shot point-blank. He probably died before he fell to the ground.

  A minute passed before I hugged her, then slipped the envelope carefully into my shoulder bag.

  “Mrs. Harding, I ought to tell you that the police—probably a Detective Williams—will be here to ask why you bailed a prime suspect.”

  “Clarence may be a suspect, but not for the murder of my son.”

  She looked at me now and I remembered the enigmatic smile of the .22-caliber lady at the precinct.

  “So let Mr. Williams—or whoever they decide to send—let them come. I’m not as frail as I look. When I get through reading them about their foot-dragging, it’ll be a while before they decide to darken my doorstep again.”

  She walked me as far as the landing. The veined marble walls reminded me of an old sanctuary and I imagined how full and rich Erskin’s music must have sounded floating through these halls.

  I tried to think back, to recall the times we’d spoken, or recall the look in his eyes. But the only image that came to me was the final blank gaze.

  Mrs. Harding touched my arm. “Next time you visit, please bring Alvin. I’d love to see him.”

  Back home in my own room, I studied the calendar again and compared the handwriting in the pad. Then I went over my notes. When nothing clicked, I began to feel a grudging admiration for Tad and Danny—Tad for being able to take the smallest clue and dissect it until the layers fell away to reveal the answer, clear as day. And Danny for hanging on to a shred of evidence, shaking it like a pit bull would until something finally fell apart.