Unforgivable Love

by Sophfronia Scott

  The boots he brought to her weren’t much to look at—just black with a plain zipper up the front. They came up to just over her ankles and were topped with a fur cuff that felt warm. He took Cecily’s stocking-clad foot and guided it into a boot. She held her breath when he lifted her leg, placed the foot against his left shoulder.

  “Just push your heel down in there.”

  She hesitated at first, but as she put pressure against him she realized he felt solid, like a wall. She pushed her foot more and it slid into the bottom of the boot.

  “That looks just about perfect, Mr. Travis! And you didn’t even have to measure her foot. How’s that feel, Cecily?”

  She could only nod. The boot was a perfect fit. Its mate went on just as easily and Mr. Travis stood and took Cecily’s hand so she stood and walked around in them. His fingers felt strong as they pulled her up from the bench.

  “Well, I’ve been doing this a long time,” he said in the breathy, sighing voice.

  Cecily sat down again and removed the boots. Mr. Travis placed them in a large paper bag. He rolled the top and handed it to Cecily. She felt like she could finally look him in the eyes, those eyes that looked like they had absorbed every inch of the sky. He seemed to return the look pointedly, with a firm nod of his head, as though Cecily and he had just agreed on something. She nodded too, surprised she didn’t feel embarrassed or scared.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “You have a good day now,” he said to Aunt Pearl.

  Cecily wore the boots when the cold began to cling to the land and the leaves no longer shielded her in the woods. But still she made her way down to the river. If she met him again she hoped to speak to Mr. Travis, to say something kind and comforting. But she didn’t see him again and perhaps it was just as well. She didn’t know what those kind and comforting words should be. She also got the sense he knew them better than she did.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cecily

  Harlem, May 1947—Sunday Morning

  In the heat, Cecily found it hard to focus on the minister’s voice. Her eyelids kept drooping. She had the full breasts, lips, and hips of a woman but, sitting stoop-shouldered next to her mother, felt she looked more like a girl. The pink dress she wore hung awkwardly on her body and she crossed and uncrossed her long arms in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them. A part of her was still stuck in Anselm, the day she returned from her walk and found Mama sitting back in a kitchen chair, spreading open like a magnolia flower. Aunt Pearl had been closed up and tight and not smiling. At that point Cecily had been in Anselm for over a year and was feeling settled.

  “It’s time for Cecily to come on back home,” her mother had said, sighing and tired from the heat.

  “The peaches were going to be good this year,” Aunt Pearl had said quietly. Cecily knew she had been thinking about the cobbler they had planned to make together and how she had yet to show her niece how to make whipped cream.

  Now that she was back in the city, Cecily felt hot and tired all the time. Her feet hurt from the new pumps Mama had bought for her but that Cecily still didn’t know how to walk in right. She wondered if she could slip the shoes off under the pew without her noticing. Mama had bought the shoes right before they met that man, Frank Washington, who had been so nice to Cecily, but she kept wondering why they were talking to this old man. He had come over to them again this morning and now sat just across the aisle from her, smiling like he knew something she didn’t. Cecily refused to look at him. She dozed off and on throughout the service thinking, in her brief moments of sleep, she was in the South again. In Anselm the grass had been soft beneath her feet and she knew how to look for crickets as nighttime fell.

  Cecily missed spending her mornings in the kitchen with Aunt Pearl, learning how much water to add to the flour when making biscuit dough, how to soak beans before putting them on to cook, how to can tomatoes for the winter. And she still thought of her afternoons out with Rex, and the river in the woods, and, though she had told no one about him, Mr. Travis.

  She thought about him because in Harlem Cecily felt like she had been cut off from some important part of herself that he seemed to know on his own, for himself. She was just beginning to figure it out before Mama came and got her. Now she felt out of place, even though Harlem had been the place where she grew up. What troubled her most was there seemed to be fewer ways to mark time here, aside from a clock and a calendar. The buildings stood between her and the sun’s daily walk across the sky. The flowers couldn’t tell her the season because the ones she saw were often forced to bloom out of time. It was only May yet summer seemed to be bearing down already in a rage of endless heat. The people here were always insisting on their own time—time for drinks, time for church, time for dinner, time to dance, time to play bridge.

  On the farm they woke and slept with the sun. They planted when the earth knew it was time, and they reaped when the ground was ready to give it up. Her seventeen-year-old body seemed to welcome these natural rhythms.

  Now, at home, she seemed to get the signs all wrong. Her arm still stung from the memory of Mama’s smack from the day before. Cecily thought she had been so clever—she missed the smell of the fresh air in her clothes and had taken it upon herself to dry her own laundry outside. But she had hung the garments where people could see. Mama had yelled about how Cecily should know better, how they weren’t living in a tenement on 116th Street. The fact that Cecily didn’t understand—they had always hung their clothes out in Anselm and it didn’t seem to bother anybody—only upset her mother more.

  That’s when Mama said they had to go see her cousin Mae.

  Her mother nudged her and Cecily realized she had been asleep. The minister was saying, “And we give thanks this day oh Lord for our generous flock who maintain your house.”

  The collection plates were going around. Gladys nudged Cecily again. The girl, still yawning, pulled the bill her mother had given her out of the little blue purse and placed it on the plate. She tried to hand it to Mae, but one of the ushers swooped over her and took the plate before Mae could touch it. He held it as she placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto it with her manicured hand.

  Cecily looked up and noticed the good-looking man in the balcony. There was something familiar about him, but she didn’t know why. It seemed to her he might be looking down her dress and the thought gave her a funny feeling. It made her scared, but not really scared. It was something else and she didn’t have a name for it.

  She realized she felt that way all the time now, like suddenly there were no names for a lot of the things she saw and felt. It was like she was on the brink of something about to happen, like she was sitting in the dark of a movie house and waiting for the show to start. When? When would it begin?

  “Now I have some good news to share with all of you,” the minister went on. “As you all know, the drive to raise funds to build an addition to our church to accommodate our growing congregation had stalled in recent weeks. Well, I’m happy to report that we recently received a very generous donation in the amount of twen-ty-five thou-sand dol-lars!” He made sure to punch every syllable and paused to wipe his brow dramatically with a handkerchief. “That has, I am grateful to say, totally made up for the shortfall and we’ll be breaking ground on the project in the coming weeks.”

  Murmurs of approval moved through the room and many heads turned Mae’s way. Cecily shifted in her seat. It felt like they were all looking at her.

  “The donor is listed as ‘Anonymous,’ but I think we’ve all known this donor to be modest and protective of her privacy and we will respect that.” He smiled at Mae. Cecily thought Mae looked annoyed but she acknowledged him with the slightest nod of her head. Cecily bowed her head to disguise the tiny smile forming on her own lips.

  “EXCELLENT SERMON, REVEREND,” Mae said afterward as they crossed the threshold. “So inspirational.”

  “Thank you, Miss Malveaux. As always, we are blessed with
your inspirational presence.” He kissed Mae’s hand and held on to it just a little too long. She gently pulled it away before he released it, and she walked down the steps to where Lawrence and the car waited for her at the curb. Gladys followed but she wanted to give Reverend Stiles her own assessment of the service.

  “And it was so right, Reverend! I was just telling Cecily the other day you can’t be too careful about choosing the people to have around you.” Gladys paused. Just then she saw the movement of Mae’s wrist, first toward her and then away, motioning her to the car. Then the arm disappeared through the window.

  “Well, it was a lovely sermon. Come, Cecily, we don’t want to keep Mae waiting.” Gladys took Cecily’s arm and they hurried down the steps.

  CHAPTER 8

  Val

  Harlem, May 1947—Sunday Morning

  Val and Sebastian sauntered out of the church just in time to see the green Packard pull away.

  “Sebastian,” Val said quietly. “Get the car, please.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Sebastian walked down the steps and Val moved to the side of the doorway, opposite from where Reverend Stiles stood. Val put on his hat and clasped his hands behind his back. He enjoyed watching the flow of parishioners coming out of the church. It was like a rainbow tipped on its side because the women wore every color under the sun. Their hats, some small and jeweled, others large swirls of lace and feathers, bobbed and danced on nodding, smiling heads. The men in their suits were like thick, dark blocks inserted at various intervals to corral the riot of color. Val felt the warmth of the late spring day on his face and relaxed.

  He looked over to where the minister still collected compliments for his weekly outpouring of fire and brimstone. Reverend Stiles took time in between his greetings to glare at Val over his wire-rimmed glasses. Val smiled and winked at him.

  “How ya doing, Reverend! I see you’re keeping the flock fine, as always!”

  He nodded at Val but didn’t answer. Instead he took the hand of Elizabeth Townsend, who had come through the doorway. They smiled at each other. Val wanted to hear what they were saying, but the voices and footsteps of the people between them made it impossible. After a few minutes she joined the flow of parishioners and walked down the street. Val watched the backs of her legs and the swooshing of her skirt against them.

  When the crowd finally thinned Reverend Stiles stared at him a few moments longer before delivering a terse, “Good day, Mr. Jackson.” Val winked at the retreating minister, then strolled down the steps in the direction Elizabeth had gone. He knew she was headed for the back lower-level entrance of the church.

  The hallway off the entrance was narrow and darkened by the wood paneling. Dim yellow bulbs lit the passage. Soon it would be filled with a line of men, women, and children waiting to be fed in the church’s soup kitchen. Val made his way down the hall, turned right, then stepped through the open double-door threshold of the large gathering room. It was set up with rows of long tables and at one end an open kitchen buzzed with the work of the churchwomen preparing the meal. A line of windows along the top of the room let in natural light and made the basement space more inviting.

  Val lingered near the doorway, just out of sight, and finally spotted Elizabeth. She had just finished greeting her sister volunteers and was getting ready to help. She moved with quick and careful hands. She put her hat on a shelf and took a long white apron from one of many hooks along the back kitchen wall. She touched her hair briefly then began some occupation that called for her to turn her back to Val. All he could see were her shoulders sloped downward and her arms moving with assurance and skill. There was a lightness about her that he liked. It made him think holding her would be like possessing a butterfly in the palm of his hand—hard to grasp, easy to crush.

  He heard a car horn bleating in short bursts through the windows above his head. He knew it was Sebastian. He stared at Elizabeth a moment longer, then went back down the hall and up the steps. Sebastian pulled the Cadillac toward him in a slow crawl. When the car stopped, Val got in.

  “To Miss Malveaux’s?” Sebastian asked. He put the car in gear and paused with his foot on the brake.

  “Yes, but no rush,” Val said. He leaned back into the seat. “Mae can afford to wait a little. It’ll be good for her.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Cecily

  Harlem, May 1947—Sunday Morning

  Cecily wanted desperately to sit down. The high heels pinched her feet and seemed to hurt more than they did at church. Her cousin’s white maid—Mae called her Regina—laid out a tea set bordered with pretty blue flowers. She wanted to study the cups and take off her shoes but Mama insisted on walking her through all of Mae’s parlor-floor rooms.

  “All of this furniture, honey?” she was saying, pointing to the golden side chairs placed against the wall in the living room. “It’s made to look like the same furniture in a king’s palace in France. These candlesticks”—she pointed to the heavy round pillars on either side of the mantel—“are from England. I remember when Mae’s mama came back with these. Saw her unpack them myself.”

  During the tour Mae didn’t speak or move from her seat at the table. Cecily had the feeling Mae was watching her, maybe even sizing her up. She could barely look Mae in the eye. There was something about her that made Cecily feel like looking at Mae would be like gazing into the sun. She was glad to focus instead on all the beautiful things her mother showed her. She lingered over the paintings on the walls and ran her fingers over the piano keys of the Steinway. But the pain in her feet forced her to hold on to tables and chairs as she moved around. She felt like a baby still learning to walk.

  Finally Mae spoke. She waved a graceful hand toward her. “Please sit down, Cecily. Gladys, come have some tea. You make me tired just watching this poor girl on her feet.”

  The tea tasted bitter to Cecily’s lips but she was afraid to ask for sugar. However, sitting across from Mae and Mama, she managed to summon the courage to get a good look at her famous cousin. Her only memories of Mae were from her childhood—faint images of someone very pretty, like a fairy, and how she could make a room seem full of light. But Cecily had never been allowed to stay in those rooms. She was always being taken to bed or sent to the kitchen to eat. Sitting with Mae now Cecily found herself trying to understand the difference between Mae and Mama. Cecily knew her family had money. She didn’t know how much, but her family did possess wealth. Her mother frequented the same bridge parties and church meetings as Mae. Cecily knew they sat together at the Swan, the most exclusive club in Harlem.

  But money seemed to do different things for Mae. Cecily noticed she moved coolly, slowly, and deliberately through a room. She had so many elegant ways about her. Mama seemed to be always on the verge of nearly crashing into a person or a piece of furniture wherever she walked. In Mae’s presence Cecily became uncomfortably aware of how Mama seemed to talk too loud and too fast. Even having a delicate cup of tea in her hands didn’t slow her down. Mae’s yellow dress seemed simple yet sophisticated. Mama’s polka-dot dress felt too busy.

  “I knew the moment Cecily arrived that we had to come see you, Mae,” Mama said after draining her cup. “I don’t regret the time she spent in North Carolina. It’s a safer place for a young girl to grow up. But now I have so many plans for her and she is not at all ready. She’s missed the debutante balls and had no instruction in dancing or music. I knew you could help us.”

  “Indeed.” Mae raised an eyebrow.

  “Mae is so wonderful about these things,” Mama said to Cecily. “She has all the right connections! Langston, Cab, Ella—all the right people! The best of Harlem! And Mae knows exactly what we need to do to make you presentable. Lord knows she has more time than anyone else since her poor Brantwell died. How long has it been, Mae?”

  Cecily noticed Mae winced at the mention of “poor Brantwell.”

  “Six years” was all she replied.

  “And who’s been running the
business since then?”

  Mae sipped her tea. “I have, along with a board of advisors of course. That’s how my mother would have wanted it.”

  Mama took her fork and speared a tiny sandwich on the platter in front of her. She added two more. “Well, we all know your mama was as smart as a whip! Making her own hair product, then coming up with the idea to put your face on every single can when you were just a baby! Everyone always said your mama made the business, but your face made the money!”

  Mae smiled but said nothing.

  Cecily looked around, unsure of what to focus on. She thought about eating something herself. Then Mae placed a reassuring hand on Cecily’s knee. She wondered if Mae could tell she had taken off her shoes.

  “Don’t worry, my dear, it won’t be so bad,” Mae said. “We’ll start with finding you a music teacher. Is that all right, Gladys?”

  Mama chewed loudly. “Perfect!”

  “And maybe we’ll do a little shopping. You’ll see how that makes it fun to be a woman, among other things.” She smiled and leaned on her elbow, hand under her chin.

  Regina came in bearing a full kettle of hot water. She filled the teapot, then spoke quietly to Mae.

  “Mr. Val Jackson is here, ma’am.”

  “He is? Hmm.” Mae raised her eyebrows. She looked at Mama and smiled. “What could he possibly want? Send Mr. Jackson in.”

  “Oh, that man!” said Mama. “I can’t stand the sight of him. Mae, why in God’s name would you have him up here in your house? Did you see him in church this morning, leering down on all of us like the dog he is? I don’t know why Reverend Stiles puts up with it.”

  Mae set her teacup on the table. “And yet he attends your Winter Ball every year at your invitation.”