Glorious

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Easter waited until she heard the front door close before she retrieved the ball of paper and unfurled it. The telegram read:

  Colin Gibbs.

  Marda Gibbs passed away yesterday at 3:15PM.

  Send money for burial.

  Your aunt Nita.

  Easter looked at the door. Her heart pained for her husband. She knew what it was to lose a mother.

  It was just after six in the evening, but a noonday sun was still beating down on New York City, raising the mercury to a sizzling ninety-eight degrees. Colin moved through the streets oblivious to the heat, in fact he walked as if in winter, with a bustling gait that caused people to pause and stare at him. So the next day when his picture graced the front page of the local newspapers, more than a few dozen mouths uttered: “I remember him; he did have the look of a man who could kill.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Back in the apartment, Easter reached for her Bible, the place where they kept their savings. Colin’s mother was dead. Of course he would have to go home to Barbados and say his final goodbye.

  Easter turned the book over, clutched it by the spine, and waved it briskly through the air. The pages flapped noisily, but not a dollar fell. The money was gone.

  She rushed from the apartment and ran all the way to Jack Jones’s place. His landlady was outside, humming to herself as she swept debris into the street. When she glanced up, Easter was marching toward her.

  “Jack there?” Easter screeched, clutching her fists to her chest. The woman shook her head no and watched as Easter turned and streaked back in the direction she’d come.

  By the time she arrived at the UNIA headquarters the muscles in her legs were twitching. She took the stone steps two at a time and pressed the black doorbell and jumped back in surprise when the firecracker sound of a gunshot echoed from behind the double doors, instead of the ding-dong-dang she’d expected.

  Colin was already in the building when Easter discovered their life savings was gone. He had a snub-nosed .38 shoved deep into his right pants pocket, the stock certificates in his left. A sheath of sweat lay across his forehead and the short metal neck of the gun had begun to pulsate and burn hot against his thigh.

  The building was always filled with people and Colin was a familiar and friendly face, so nobody took special notice of him when he entered the busy office located in the front parlor.

  A typist named Gail Forbes looked up from her stack of papers and acknowledged him with a slight nod of her head. A man at the desk across from hers hollered, “How you doing, Colin?” then used his eraser to rub out a number on the ledger page he was working on.

  “Is Marcus here?” Colin’s voice came across louder than he meant it to, and the room went quiet for a moment. Colin tightened his hand around the wooden handle of the gun and forced a nervous smile. “I—I got an appointment with him,” he said in a lower tone.

  “Upstairs,” someone finally responded.

  He turned awkwardly around, colliding first with a coat rack and then a file cabinet. Someone called out, “You sick, man?”

  Kendrick Lawrence was coming down the stairway when Colin grabbed hold of the banister and placed his foot on the bottom step. Kendrick said, “Hey, man,” and almost stepped aside to allow Colin to pass, but he saw the gleam of perspiration on his face and the odd, vacant look in his eyes and an alarm sounded in his head. Kendrick gripped Colin’s shoulder, and his hand almost recoiled from the moist material. “Hey, Gibbs, where you going?”

  Colin addressed his shoes: “Up to see him.”

  Kendrick saw that Colin was shaking and panic immediately swept through him. “Uhm, why don’t you wait here and I’ll go fetch him for you.”

  Colin nodded and mumbled, “Yeah, okay.”

  Kendrick considered him for a moment, and when he turned around Colin punched him in the kidney. Bright lights exploded behind Kendrick’s pupils and he sank down to his knees. Colin leapt over him and bounded up the stairs.

  “Stop him!” Kendrick yelled just as Marcus Garvey and another man appeared on the top landing.

  Colin pulled the gun from his pocket, pointed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the wall and grazed Marcus’s temple. The second bullet caught him in the arm, and he collapsed against the wall.

  Colin aimed again but was tackled by Kendrick and two other men, allowing Garvey to escape into the safety of his office. The mass of bodies struggled, punches were thrown, and the men tumbled down the steps and ended in a heap at the bottom. The gun went skating across the parquet floor, and when Colin reached out to retrieve it a young woman whacked his hand with a law book and then brought it down square on the top of his head. Colin collapsed into darkness.

  When it was over, thirteen of the banister spokes were splintered, the pier glass in the front foyer was shattered, and the stock certificates Colin had purchased a year earlier were strewn across the floor.

  The sound of the gunshot startled Easter and she turned and bolted down the steps, out into traffic, and across the street to safety. Moments later the doors flung open and a man darted from the building, frantically waving his hands and screaming, “Police! Police!” as he tore down the sidewalk. It seemed an eternity passed before he returned with two police officers, who pushed him aside as they pulled guns from their holsters. One officer crouched down at the foot of the steps while the other sprinted into the house. After a moment the second officer followed.

  Out on the street people began to gather, and more officers arrived, accompanied by a paddy wagon. Barricades were put in place and batons were waved. A horse-drawn ambulance arrived and then Marcus Garvey appeared in the doorway, his dark face splattered with blood. He stood erect as a soldier and waved at the crowd who erupted in applause. Marcus gave his onlookers a hearty thumbs-up and another cheer went up. Two UNIA officers helped him into the waiting ambulance and he was whisked safely away.

  The assailant appeared, his head bowed and his wrists cuffed at his back. Two brawny policemen stood on either side of him, their hands wrapped tight around his arms. They yanked him down the steps, toward the paddy wagon. Easter stood on the tips of her toes. The crowd booed and hissed. Colin raised his head; his eyes swept over the angry gathering and stopped briefly on the astounded face of his wife.

  The news whipped through Harlem like wild fire and landed in the ear of Meredith’s cook who was buying tomatoes at a vegetable stand. He carried it back to the penthouse and delivered it to the butler, who chuckled as he stood polishing a silver teapot.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I think so,” answered the cook.

  When the girl named Dolly, whose job it was to attend to the immediate needs of the mistress of the house, and who was, to the butler’s disdain, a devoted Garveyite, strolled into the dining area, the butler raised his head and gleefully proclaimed, “Your Black Moses has been slain!”

  Rain was lounging in the music room when she heard the butler’s declaration and the bile and anguish in Dolly’s response, and so decided to take a walk and find out for herself if the rumor had legs.

  Minutes after Colin was thrown into the dank cell at the Harlem jail, Jack Jones walked into the aftermath of the melee. UNIA members were scurrying about tidying up and assessing the damage. Jack stepped gingerly over the jagged pieces of mirrored glass and wood and sidled up to the shaken woman who had dealt the crippling blow.

  “What happened here?”

  Valerie Cumberbatch raised her large brown eyes and Jack saw that they were swimming with tears. “He … he had a gun,” she managed in a trembling voice.

  “Who did?”

  “Colin … Colin Gibbs.”

  She broke down in sobs and Jack reached out and patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, take your time,” he heard himself say, then realized he’d uttered those same words a million times as a police officer in D.C.

  “Did he …?” Jack didn’t want to hear himself ask the question.

  A shiver went through Valer
ie’s body. “He shot at Marcus and …” The sobbing started up again and this time it didn’t seem as if she would be able to regain control. But time was of the essence.

  “Is he dead?” Jack asked anxiously. Val shook her head no and Jack was happy that her tears blurred the disappointment shining on his face.

  Colin had been an easy target; his growing unhappiness with his wife, his financial situation, and the lack of return on his investment in Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line had fed his discontent until it began to spill out of him like sewage.

  Jack had played his role of the good friend, confidant, and understanding black brother to the hilt. He’d lent his ear whenever Colin needed someone to listen and nodded sympathetically in all the right places. In Jack’s tiny rented room he and Colin had played cards and drank until the wee hours of the morning as Jack carefully voiced his own suspicions about Marcus Garvey. He had to be delicate because Colin had great respect for Marcus and his ideals, respect that ran root deep. But blood was thicker than water, so when Colin’s mother became ill and he tried to speak to Marcus about buying back the stock shares, the leader had deftly avoided him and Colin’s frustration became radiant.

  Jack Jones used that and liquor to slowly twist Colin’s mind.

  “I could kill ’em!” Colin slurred drunkenly one night.

  “I’m sure one day someone will,” Jack offered matter-of-factly.

  Colin glared at him, “Not one day and someone—me, tomorrow!”

  Jack’s heart flapped, but his face remained solemn.

  “You think I’m making sport?” Colin challenged.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Colin jumped to his feet and trained his index finger on Jack. “If I had a gun I would put a bullet right between those black eyes of his.”

  “Sit down,” Jack chuckled. “You’re drunk.”

  Colin’s bottom lip hung recklessly from his face. “That may be, but a drunk tongue speaks a sober mind,” he said, as he dropped down into the chair and reached for the glass of whiskey.

  “If you’re serious,” Jack whispered, “I mean really serious, I can get you a gun.”

  Colin stared at him for a moment and then waved his hand.

  “You think I’m making sport?” Jack mocked Colin’s Carribean colloquialism.

  Colin laughed, reached over the table, and patted Jack heartily on the head. “Did I ever tell you,” he said as he refilled his glass, “that you look like the white people in my country?”

  Jack nodded his head, “Yes, all the time.”

  Colin drained his glass and poured another. Jack watched him.

  “So, do you want me to get you the gun or not?”

  Colin’s head lolled to one side and he wrapped his arms around himself like a blanket. A foolish grin spread across his face and he dropped his head back on his neck. “I’ma give that black bastard one more chance,” he mumbled, “and then bang, he’s dead.” Colin chuckled before dozing off.

  Jack would have to devise a plan that would force Colin’s hand. He was, after all, a man on the edge; Jack would just have to find the one thing that would send him careening over it. And after a few days thought he finally found it.

  The telegram was bogus.

  But Colin didn’t know that and now he sat in a jail cell with a tray of food resting on the floor at his feet. He looked at the brick walls, breathed in the rank bouquet, and knew that this was not one of his dreams. The telegram had arrived and he’d read the saddest words ever written: Your mother is dead.

  And at that moment the only thing deeper than his grief was his hatred for Marcus Garvey and so he’d marched off to find Jack Jones and the gun he said he could get him and then he’d gone to the UNIA with blood in his eyes.

  Colin dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.

  The day passed into night and then day again and no one came to see him. Not a lawyer and not his wife. He glanced up at the small window, at the slate-colored sky and thought, Even God has turned His back on me.

  Halfway through the second day, two officers appeared beyond the bars and ordered him to his feet. “Back against the wall,” one of them barked. That same one aimed his pistol at Colin’s heart while the other unlocked the door, stepped in, and ordered him to turn around and face the wall. Colin did as he was told and the officer cuffed his wrists and ankles.

  The Harlem Station was circular in structure. In its former life, the building had been used for storing, grading, and exporting wheat. The space of floor between the cells and the edge of the balcony was narrow, which made it difficult for the three men to walk side-by-side. So one of the officers fell to the rear.

  The newspapers would report that Colin had made an attempt to escape. That in his desperate state of mind, he had broken free of the officers, climbed up onto the short wall of the balcony, spread his arms out at his sides like wings, and leapt to his death. That story, just like the telegram, was a lie.

  The policemen ushered Colin across the wood plank floors, their rings of keys clinking loudly and echoing off the walls. Colin shuffled slowly down the dim corridor; his heart raced in his chest and thumped like a drum in his ears. The air changed and was suddenly swathed with the scent of bougainvillea. Colin thought his mind was getting away from him, but with each step the perfume grew more pungent. He came to an abrupt stop, raised his head, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Visions of home appeared and Colin smiled. “Do you smell that?” he murmured.

  The two officers exchanged perplexed glances and then the one in the rear frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and rested his hand on the crown of Colin’s head. The other he wrapped around Colin’s chin and with great force pulled each hand in opposite directions, severing Colin’s skull from his neck with a pop. Colin fell to the floor like a rag doll. They hoisted his limp body over the edge of the balcony; before either of them could look away, Colin hit the floor with a sickening clap.

  Easter had not been permitted to see him at the jail. When she asked why, the sergeant in charge said, “I have my orders.” And then ordered her to go home and advised that if she refused, “I’ll throw your black ass in a cell right next to your husband.”

  At the morgue Colin’s body was displayed on a table of steel. The smile was still pressed against his lips and when Easter looked at him a sea of emotion rose up in her throat and she slapped her hands over her mouth. She signed the papers that needed to be signed, including the one that stated that Colin’s body could not be released to her because even though he was her husband, he was not an American but a British subject who had committed a crime in the United States, making him a criminal of the state and the country, which qualified him—dead or alive—for deportation.

  Easter kissed his smiling mouth, slipped the silver wedding band from his finger and spent the next three hours weeping and walking aimlessly around the city. Her grief was bottomless, and even though the streets teemed with people, she felt alone in the world. When she finally rounded the corner of her block, she looked up and saw Rain standing there, the ends of her bright yellow scarf fluttering in the late-afternoon breeze. Rain lifted her hand into the air. It was not a greeting but a show of unity that said, You are not alone—I am here.

  CHAPTER 21

  In 1922 everything changed again. The Eskimo pie was invented; James Joyce’s Ulysses was printed in Paris; snow fell on Mauna Loa, Hawaii; Babe Ruth signed a three-year contract with the New York Yankees; Eugene O’Neill was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama; Frederick Douglass’s home was dedicated as a national shrine; former heavyweight champion of the world Jack Johnson invented the wrench; and James Wormley “Jack” Jones was recognized by a former D.C. police officer as he sat in Chumley’s staring down at his cup of coffee.

  “Jack?”

  Jack looked up and into the dark face hovering over him.

  “Jack Jones, right?”

  Jack nodded his head as he tried to place the face.

  “Benjamin Caruthers,” the man said
and sat down. “We worked together in D.C.”

  Jack’s lips quivered.

  “Wow, it’s been ages,” Benjamin said and presented his hand. Jack took it and they shook. “You still a cop?”

  Jack’s eyes wandered around the bar. People were looking. And those who weren’t looking were listening.

  “Uhm, no, I’m not.”

  “Me neither man,” Benjamin’s voice boomed. “So, how’s the wife and kids?”

  Jack’s life spilled out of Benjamin’s mouth, like water from a spout. Every detail of who he really was: a former police officer, husband and father, with a house and mortgage in Maryland.

  Jack looked around the bar; it was filled with mostly whites, but that didn’t make Jack feel safe—Garvey had plenty of white sympathizers, nigger lovers, Negrophiles—they were everywhere, and the news that Jack Jones, one of Garvey’s most trusted officers, was not at all who he claimed to be arrived at Garvey’s doorstep wrapped in a red bow.

  Within twenty-four hours a special edition of Garvey’s newspaper, The Negro World, hit the streets of Harlem. The front page showed a picture of Jack Jones; below that, in bold print, was the word JUDAS.

  That of course ended Jack’s career as the first ever Negro FBI agent. To tell the truth, James Wormley “Jack” Jones was relieved. He returned to Washington, D.C., handed his gun and badge to his superior, and in return received a handshake and a plaque acknowledging his years of service. And just like that he became James Wormley “Jack” Jones, civilian.

  Later that year, Mussolini marched on Rome; the architect Howard Carter entered King Tut’s tomb; the British court sentenced Mahatma Gandhi to six years in prison; Eubie Blake and Noble Sissi’s all-Negro musical Shuffle Along premiered on Broadway; Easter was working full time as a laundress and publishing stories in The Crisis magazine under the moniker E.V. Gibbs; Harcourt, Brace & Company published Claude McKay’s book of poetry Harlem Shadows; and the Harlem Renaissance began.