Sleep alludes me as visions of men in white sheets and apples hanging from low branches invade my thoughts in an unstoppable loop. It’s dawn before I finally close my eyes, sliding the ring back onto my finger like an amulet to drive the dark thoughts away.
With morning comes a renewed determination. I dress slowly, my best day dress, the one with the tiny rose pattern, my white lace headband, my pink pearl choker. I apply my rouge, the mascara, the lipstick, all with the precision of a great painter. Lotion, perfume, stockings, all applied methodically.
I’m going to be a married woman soon, after all. I must show that I can play the part.
Mama is already gone to work, a plate of muffins half eaten on the stove. I bite the top off one while searching for my white walking shoes. Stopping long enough for a glance in the full mirror in the bathroom, I appraise myself carefully, twisting this way and that.
There’s no trace, no evidence at all of my mulatto blood.
And I intend to keep it that way.
Masie will help, she’ll know what to do. My dearest friend, how could she not keep my secret? I know she’s not like most people when it comes to such things, she’s never uttered a cruel word or insult in her life. We traveled together on occasion to some of the clubs in Harlem to listen to the sultry jazz singers too dark skinned to appear in some of the uptown joints, she’d even danced with a few colored fellas. I’ve never seen her pay any mind to a person’s skin color, unlike Dutch who’d once publicly tossed a fella out of his speakeasy on account of his cheap shoes and brown skin.
No, Masie will understand. Far more than either of the boys, and she’d have no compunction about keeping secrets from them either.
I raid Mama’s bedroom, first for her file of papers and then for loose change and make my way to the train, knowing that if I don’t hurry. I’ll miss lunch, and my opportunity to tell my future sister the wonderful news.
Masie is alone when I arrive, sipping coffee from a dainty white mug on the terrace. She’s wearing a snappy grey sweater and matching skirt that flairs just below the knee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look ruffled or amiss in any way. Every golden stand hair lays in perfectly obedient waves, every fingernail is polished to a crimson shine.
I pull off my pink cloche hat and take a seat at the table across from her, not saying a word.
Behind her cup, the corners of her lips turn up in a sly smile.
I toss my gloves on the table, “No. You little brat, he told you, didn’t he?”
She laughs and it sounds like chimes on the breeze, “Who do you think helped him pick the ring?”
I pout and she reaches across the table with one hand, taking mine in hers. “It looks even better on your finger, though,” she offers.
“I’m glad at least someone in the family is happy for us,” I say pointedly.
She waves one hand, tossing her head back, “Daddy will come around. Eventually.” Picking up a tiny bell, she rings for the butler who appears in the glass doorway. “Butler, can you bring in the magazines I sent for?”
He nods, disappearing and reappearing a few moments later with a mound of booklets.
“What’s all this?” I ask as he sets the stack on the table between us and Masie pours a second cup of coffee and hands it to me.
“Flowers, invitations, and food ideas, mostly. I thought we could go downtown and wander some bridal shops. That way when the wedding planner arrives, we can give her some ideas of things you like. We’ll have the gown handmade, of course, and JD’s tuxedo as well. Then there’s the matter of venue…”
She continues chatting, but there’s a buzzing in my ears that makes it almost impossible to hear. I shake my head, my carefully coifed black bob tickling the length of my jaw.
“No, no church?” Masie asks, blinking up at me with her doe grey eyes.
“No, I mean yes. I mean, before we start with any of that, I need your help with something.”
She sets the magazine in her lap, leaning forward. “What is it? You’re white as a sheet.”
“I have to tell you something, and it’s…” I hesitate, struggling for the right word. “Sensitive.”
She stares at me for a moment, then jerks her head. “Let’s go to the library. It’s a bit more private.”
Taking my arm in hers we walk down the hall to the massive library and she releases me to close the heavy oak doors behind us.
I breathe in, sweeping a gaze around the pristine room. The scent of pine oil fills the room, the freshly polished wood shelves shining. The parquet floor is smooth under my shoes, and I have to admire the gleam of the wax. No doubt some hard working maid had spent hours on her knees scrubbing away scuff marks and rubbing in the wax until it was smooth as glass. I twirl on my toe until I’m facing Masie, who leans back against the door, eyeing me for a moment before pushing off and stepping across the room.
“What kind of trouble are you in now?” she asks, her tone playful. “The last time we had to talk privately you’d lost the pearls JD gave out in a poker game, if I’m not mistaken.”
“He was cheating,” I defend. “And besides, that low-brow wouldn’t know real pearls from plastic beads. He didn’t deserve them.”
She grins. “You’d better hope not, considering he gave the phony necklace we swapped out to his dead old mother.”
“Who can’t tell a cat from a canary, her eyes are so bad.” I pause, the depth of what I’m asking sinking in. This is no simple grab and swap. Though the idea is the same.
I square my shoulders, handing her the envelope and then taking a seat in one of the high-backed leather chairs, not unlike the ones in Dutch’s secret room, come to think of it.
She opens it, sliding out the paper. “Your birth certificate?”
I frown, pressing my lips together hard before responding. “Yes and no.”
She raises one eyebrow, dropping into a chair beside me. “Sugar, I’m gonna need more than that.”
I chew at the inside of my lip for a minute. I’d had a whole speech prepared for this, but here, in the moment, it’s vanished from my head. “I have a secret. And before I tell you, you have to swear you won’t tell your brother, or your father.”
Crossing her legs she leans over, propping her chin up in her hand, her elbow on her knee. “Oh, this is going to be good. Alright, I promise. Now spill it.”
I sit back, half hoping the chair will devour me whole. That seems like a less terrifying option at the moment. “It’s a forgery.”
She squints, clearly confused. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the one my mother forged to get me into private school.”
“I thought your mother was passed?”
I stare at her for a moment. A flicker of understanding blossoms in her grey eyes. Her mouth forms a delicate O shape.
“The truth is, my mother is very much alive,” I begin, watching her expression carefully. Her face pales at my words, and she goes rigid, the playful smirk wiped away. Just when I’m sure she’s stopped breathing, she shakes her head.
“What?”
“We lied. We changed the birth certificate and created the story that my mother died in childbirth. We—she—didn’t want anyone to know the truth.”
Masie brings her thumb to her mouth, chewing on her nail nervously. “Why would she want people to think she was dead?”
“The name on that paper, where my mother’s name should be, she made her up. That woman never existed. We made her up so no one would know the truth, so that no one would know who my real mother was,” I fumble to explain, pausing to make sure she was following. She makes an impatient get on with it wave with her hand before retuning to her nail biting. “The truth is, Nely Watkins is my mother. You actually saw her once, she was at my house one night when you came to pick me up. I told you she was the maid.” The last words burn in my mouth, sour lemons and guilt.
She blinks, clearly trying to recall. Then, it hits her. Her head jerks straight, “But she’s a—
“ she stops herself from saying the rest. Then, after a moment, “But you’re clearly…” she motions to me.
“My father was white, and rich. He ran out on her after I was born, died in the war a few years later. I’ve been passing as white my whole life.”
She falls back, her arms draping over the sides of the chair. “Goodness.”
There’s a long silence between us during which she stares at me, now, I know, looking for traces of my negro heritage. It’s uncomfortable, like a bug under glass. When she finally speaks again, I brace for the worst.
“And JD doesn’t know?” her voice is soft, understanding.
I let ought a heavy breath. “No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
She shakes her head, “That’s silly. He wouldn’t care.”
I throw up my hands, leaping to my feet. “Of course he’d care. He’d never look at me the same ever again. And don’t get me started on your father.” My voice is high, near panic, but I can’t seem to bring it back to normal.
“Well, you aren’t wrong about daddy. But JD…”
I strike out, making a chopping gesture with one hand. “I’m not willing to risk it.”
She considers it for a moment, then stands, handing the envelop and it’s contents back to me.
“Okay. What’s the plan. I assume some sort of larceny is involved?”
Rushing forward I throw my arms around her, “Oh, I knew I could count on you mas, I just knew it.” Suddenly, with her arms snaking around to join the embrace, everything feels like it just might work out.
It’s almost eight o’clock when we finally arrive at the city register office. They closed a few hours earlier, and most of the block is empty. The occasional car rushes past, not bothering to even slow down as we stand on the sidewalk across the street, staring at the office. We spent the day chatting with a fella named Richard who just happened to work at the city office. It took her exactly three phone calls to her father’s network of people to find just the man we were looking for. As it turned out, he’s one of her many doting fans and was only too happy to tell us all about where they keep those sorts of records, and what kind of security to expect. He never saw me pick his pocket for the door key while Masie smiled and bat her eyelashes, laughing at his horrible jokes. When we left him, whiskey sodden and nearly unconscious despite the early hour, she’d ordered one of the bartenders to leave him in a booth till we returned, his dinner and drinks on the house.
Now it’s finally dark and I shiver under my long black coat. We’d opted for a little less drama in the wardrobe tonight, better to avoid unnecessary attention.
“You think this will work?” Masie asks, sweeping a glance up and down the road to check for stragglers.
I fidget, stomping my feet against the chill running up my stockings. “Of course. We just gotta break in, steal the original, and replace it with the forgery. No problem.”
“The last time you said no problem, we spent the night in a jail cell,” she says, her tone playful.
“Thanks for reminding me, as if I could forget. I ruined my best glad rags trying to get over that fence.”
“I never did find that shoe,” she complains, elbowing me gently.
“This will work,” I repeat, as if saying I can will it to be true. “It has to.”
With that, we scurry across the road, rounding the building to the back door leading to a long alley. There’s one streetlamp in the distance and it’s hard to see. Masie does her best to block me from view of any people or cars that might pass by as I slide the stolen key into the lock. The door falls open and I quickly pull her inside, closing it with a gentle click.
Luckily there’s no guard on duty, as Richard explained, who would want to steal a bunch of boring paperwork? I’d nearly choked on my gin and tonic.
“Here,” Masie calls out as we grope our way through the darkness. Passing around the front desk we make our way to the door to the storage room. Once we are inside, she hits the light button and rows and rows of box-covered shelves are illuminated. Our shoes click through the stale air as we waste no time, each choosing an aisle to search.
“What’s the year again?” she calls.
“1909,” I call back. Thankfully the boxes are labeled and well organized and I quickly spot the date on the nearest one. “It’s here,” I call out. “I’ve got it.”
Three boxes bear the correct year, and we have to open only two before we get to March. Together we kneel on the hard linoleum floor, combing through file after file. I’m about to lose hope when Masie holds up a thin piece of parchment.
“Here, I got it.”
I snatch it from her fingers, “You sure?” I examine it closely. Though the handwriting is awful, the names are clear. William Duncan West III father, a scrawling W in the box labeled color. Across the page, under the mother portion, the name Desiree June Watkins. My mother. My real mother. The following box, an unmistakable capital B. I scan to the bottom.
June Philomena Watkins. Under color, an M. Mixed.
Mixed blood.
One little letter to define me, my future. To limit my choices, kill my opportunities, and, unless I fix it, ruin my life.
I’m frozen, the page, so simple, is trapped in my fingers. Masie grabs the envelope from under my arm, quickly replacing the phony certificate and stuffing the files back in the box. I’m still on my knees on the floor when she snaps her fingers in front of my face. She’s cleaned up the mess and it takes me a slow second to realize that she’s speaking.
“Let’s go before we get caught.”
I let her tug me to my feet and we sneak out the same way we came.
Once we are back across the street, she grabs the key from my coat pocket. “I’ll get this back to Richard before he knows it’s gone. You get rid of that,” she points to the paper still in my hand, which I immediately crumple into a ball and stuff in my purse.
I nod, the M still stamped in the front of my mind. She grabs my face in both hands and press her lips against my forehead.
“Relax. It’s done. No one will ever know now, not unless you tell them,” she says, patting my cheeks. “But I still think you should tell JD. You might not get the reaction you expect. If you love him, if you trust him, trust him with this. I know how hard it is to carry a secret like this, June. And I promise that it’s a lot to bear without some help.”
I try to force a smile and fail. “Thanks Masie. You know if you ever need anything…”
She shrugs, “Yes, I know. You’re forever in my debt. Don’t worry, I’ll collect one day.”
The corners of my lips curl up, “I know you will.”
Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves a box of matches and tosses them to me. “Here. Do it now. Nothing left to find. It’ll be like it never existed.”
With that she turns on her toe and walks away, her long white coat flapping in the breeze. Ducking into the row between buildings I pull the wad of paper out of my pocket, smoothing out the creases. I set it atop a pile of trash and flip the matches over in my palm. It’s the unmistakable logo of Dutch’s club, an umbrella with the black dot logo underneath. The Dry Spot, a play on the current prohibition laws. I strike the first match and it immediately blows out, a victim of the cool evening breeze. I strike a second, carefully cupping my hands around it until the flame is strong, licking its way up the wooden stick. Picking up the certificate, I touch it to one edge of the dry paper and it flames to life. I shake the match, tossing the remnants aside and stuffing the box in my pocket before turning my attention back to the burning paper. My name burns away first, the flame crawling up from the bottom. As I watch line by line of hasty ink truth is devoured, leaving first black ash, then nothing at all. It’s not until the fire reaches the tips of my mother’s name that my heart stutters painfully in my chest.
This is the last thing, the last piece of evidence in the whole world, that my mother is alive. That she is real and loving. No one will ever know who she was, the lengths she went to
for me, the sacrifices she made. She lived for me, and—at least in the eyes of the world—she died for me. The paper isn’t the only thing being destroyed, so is my past, the real history of me, of my life.
Now, only the lie remains.
That, and my guilt, choking me in a dark alley beside a pile of putrid garbage, the odor carried to my nose on the wind. I drop what’s left of the paper onto the ground and it curls at the edges, then surrenders, only bits of char remaining at the tips of my expensive shows.
I hadn’t expected this, the crushing sorrow threatening to take me to my knees. My mother is a miracle, a strong woman in a time when strong women shouldn’t exist. Whatever the color of her skin, she’s got more courage and more love than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m proud of her, and proud to be her daughter. How is it that I never realized that until now?
Masie is right. I have to tell JD. He might understand, he might choose to love me no matter what or he might never forgive me. He might toss me out his door like a sack of trash. But I’ll fight for him until there’s no breath left in my body if that’s what it takes. I’ll fight for him and I’ll fight for mama. I’ll even take on Dutch Schultz if I have to.
Once my mind is made up I start putting one foot in front of the other, walking block after block, my mind winding and planning, moves and countermoves. Plotting my speech in my head. How I will explain myself, how I will make him understand.
Then, if he stays, I’ll take him to meet her. She’ll see that he’s not like my father, and eventually she’ll come to love him like a son. For so long I’ve only wanted fame and fortune, it never occurred to me to ask for more. To demand all that and still be able to keep true to who I am and where I came from. It never occurred to me to be proud.
Before I realize it, I’m at the door to the club. Soft jazz music is already pouring out, muffled by the nondescript green door. There’s no line yet, it’s still too early for that, so I walk right up, knocking firmly and repeating the password into the slot that slides open.
Glitter and Gold (The Canary Club Novels Book 1) Page 8