“I’m not going to be the one to point fingers,” he said. His other hand moved down and he tried to pull up her dress and grab between her legs at the same time. “But yeah, I wanted something. I’m gonna get it now.”
She held herself perfectly still. She didn’t want to struggle. She allowed his fingers to fumble as he tried to strip her and maintain control of her at the same time. “Do you like hurting women, Val?” She squeezed the words out through thin lips. “Trying to go two for two?” He tried to kiss her but she turned her head away.
“I don’t have time for this,” she said. “I’m expecting a better man tonight.”
She tried to push him away but he tightened his hold.
“Oh,” he whispered into her face. His breath stank of whiskey and sweat. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
He kissed her hard on the neck. His mouth felt hot on her skin.
“I mean baby boy Sam is not coming. He’s busy.”
“What?” The statement threw her off. A flash of frustration overtook her and she tried to slap at his hands. She needed him to stop moving, to stop talking.
“Yeah. He came to see me and he asked me for help with Cecily.” He kept kissing her as he spoke. “I set it up for him to be with his true love tonight.”
He laughed. Laughed!
“Yeah, he’s so devoted to you.”
“Stop it.”
She felt her jaw clench and the muscles of her neck tighten. Her left eyelid fluttered.
He loosened his grip on her and smiled. Mae steadied herself against the wall. She had not seen his smile this close for so long.
“Yeah, let’s stop it,” he said. “Come on, let’s get nicer.”
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
He moved closer to her again. His groin pressed against her. “We had a deal. You’re gonna pay up, Mae. Or—”
“Or what?” Mae laughed and felt the charge rushing through her body. The thrill of wanting him and not wanting him burned through her. She held on to the feeling. It felt like life. “Do you want to be my enemy, Val?”
He raised an eyebrow. His fingers rubbed the skin at the nape of her neck. “Mae, I don’t think you want to be my enemy.”
She sighed. “It could be a lot of fun.”
He tugged at a piece of her hair near the back of her neck. Her eyes widened with the bright sharpness of the pain. “I can think of better ways to have fun. What’s it gonna be?”
She smiled. “Oh, Val.”
She raised her knee fast and hard and connected squarely with the soft flesh of his groin. The impact reverberated up her thigh and the sensation of it released an “Ah!” deep and satisfying from her throat. He crumpled like a rag doll. He managed to stay on his feet, but he was bent over, coughing and sputtering.
Yes, she thought.
Yes.
She put her hands against his back and pushed. The door, which he’d left ajar, swung open and he fell out. She quickly gathered his coat and shirt and threw them out into the hall. When she did she was disappointed to see he had caught himself, grasping the rail with his fingers, before he rolled down the steps. She slammed the door closed and locked it behind her. She leaned against it and laughed. Her face glowed.
CHAPTER 48
Cecily
Harlem, Mid-September 1947
The night Cecily waited for Sam her nerves were so bad, she couldn’t hold a glass. It didn’t help that the mid-September evenings now held a chill that sank right into her bones once the sun went down. She thought about starting a fire in her fireplace, but it was too early in the season. She shut her windows and stood rubbing her arms and wondering what else she might do. She had already removed the shiny-haired dolls from the shelf above her vanity and wrapped them lovingly in tissue paper. They now resided in a box on the floor of her closet. A simple blue bedspread replaced Aunt Pearl’s quilt and she had laid a large square of rose organza over her lamp to soften the light in the room. When she finished these preparations she had nothing to do but stare at her bed. Val’s note, which she found under her door the day before, had said Sam would arrive around nine p.m. Her clock on the nightstand said it was not quite eight. She didn’t even have to worry about Mama coming in and finding them. She was with Mrs. Townsend, who wasn’t feeling well.
She paced the length of the room twice. When she started the third time she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her eyes were pushed wide open as though she were startled to find her own face and body walking around in real life. Her brown dress with the pink and white flowers looked stiff and formal. She thought about changing for bed and this brought her to a better thought—a bath might help.
The water ran into the tub and sounded like a chorus of murmuring voices. She listened to the shimmering flow and how it seemed like the bathroom was full of people whispering, passing judgment on her nakedness as she sat there. She thought about Mama, a hovering dark cloud; Val, a sharp blade of clarity; Sam, her blanket of comfort; Frank Washington, an old entitled toad; and her unborn child, voiceless yet expectant. They closed around her with steady, fervent gazes and crowded in on her so much it seemed they all sat right there on the rim of the tub, the baby too, with their feet soaking in her bathwater. She hugged her knees to her chest and shut her eyes as the tub filled. She tried to transform the voices back into water, the sound of running water, water rushing over stones like the river in Anselm.
Then she remembered the sound of splashing, of Mr. Travis thrashing about in the river. And with a movement that was almost unconscious she reached out a hand and slapped at the water. The splash was like a tiny explosion that stung her ear and died too soon. So she did it again with her other hand and again achieved the satisfying whoosh that broke through the accusing whispers. Then both hands attacked the water in unison. She kicked too. Her long legs fluttered in front of her and soon she was ensconced in her own maelstrom. Invigorated by the noise, she kept going, pushing her arms up and down and kicking her legs until the water sloshed up to her chest and spilled over the sides. She enjoyed the oblivion and wished she were submerged in more water, living water, like the currents running through Anselm, the same ones that enlivened Mr. Travis. She thrashed like a spiteful child and didn’t care about the pools forming on the floor or the streams running down the walls. She shut her eyes tight and pressed on.
When her arms grew tired and heavy she let them drop into her lap with a final slosh. Then she turned off the faucet and listened. The waves settled; the final drops plinked to the surface; then silence. Cecily took a washcloth, wet it, wrung it out, and held it over her face. She breathed deeply. The quiet settled around her, as did the warm water. She sighed and opened her eyes. She took in the empty room—she saw the smoothness of the rectangular spring-green tiles on the walls, savored the coolness of the porcelain against her back, and noted the black pane of window reflecting the falling night. All of these pieces and sensations were hers. They were hers because no one else was there—not Mama or Frank Washington. Even the baby, nestled somewhere deep inside her, wasn’t really there yet. If she could somehow remember that and stay in a place of knowing she was all by herself and safe, maybe she could pretend everything was as it was before Mama found out about her and Sam—that she remained untouched and wasn’t pregnant, and everything about Sam held the excitement of possibility. That she didn’t have to be afraid of anything. She wasn’t sure if she could deceive herself so well, but it would only be for a little bit, a couple of hours at most. Certainly she could have this clutch of time so she could enjoy herself with Sam. She leaned against the side of the tub and rested her cheek on her hands.
After sitting in silence a few minutes longer she got out, dried herself, and mopped up the water on the floor with her towel. She went back to her room and pulled on her yellow nightgown, the sleeveless one, which she could now wear because she was no longer cold. She sat on the edge of the bed and listened and waited
. Before long she heard slow and careful footfalls stepping along the hall and coming closer to her. The doorknob clicked quietly and turned. Then there was Sam.
He walked through the door like he was coming home. He tossed his hat on the vanity, which was just to his left, and removed his jacket of brown tweed and laid it there as well. Cecily couldn’t move. She stood there drinking him in with long, slow sips as if he were a soothing hot tea. They had never been alone before, not truly alone, and she realized her earlier views of him had been so chopped up—no more than a series of glances and stolen glimpses—never a simple, uninterrupted time of just looking at Sam. His skin was tawny like caramel and the soft reddish curls of his hair, slightly crushed from his hat, lay flat against his temples. When she met his eyes, straight on, for the first time, she suddenly felt whole, like her mind was no longer split between what had happened and what would be. This one moment, so similar to what she perceived in the bath, was the only moment and she was so alive and so awake that she could dwell in it forever.
He raised his arm, perfect and muscular under the vivid white sleeve of his freshly pressed shirt, and she saw it as pure invitation. She knew immediately she belonged in that warm place, snuggled right underneath his arm and her face caressing the skin of his neck. She went to him to claim it. He folded her in his embrace and she marveled at how he was so much taller and heavier than she was and yet he felt light, so light. His touch didn’t press on her, didn’t consume her or smother her. Instead she seemed to rise in his arms and they floated together in the lamp’s pinkish haze.
His kiss, summery and ardent, tasted like coffee but in a way that seemed new, like she had never relished a man’s lips before. But as she fell against the pillows she realized neither she nor Sam existed before this moment, not as the people they were now. They were creating each other anew with every degree of heat generated from skin against skin, and they did this together as equals. She was no longer the student being cajoled and led by Val—her hips pushed here, her head and arms adjusted there. She loved this freedom, like flying, this newness. Sam smelled of fresh earth, and she imagined walking barefoot in the woods of Anselm and with that thought in mind she gave herself to Sam, as she would submit to the sun under the sky in a field of fresh-cut grass. She thought they could be doing this outdoors, in Central Park, and it wouldn’t have mattered to her. That’s how right it felt—not shameful, not something needing to be hidden. She wanted people to see, to show them, This is what love looks like. But she knew no one would be able to see beyond the raw nakedness of their bodies. They would only see what scared them, what they didn’t understand. She could only take what would be left after they were done—the glow she already felt rising to her face—and wear the light wherever she went. She didn’t care if Mama saw it and knew what she had been doing. She didn’t care how most people wouldn’t understand what they were seeing. But she refused to believe this fire she and Sam ignited would be without purpose. Somebody or something would be changed by it. She would carry it forth, a flaming torch, and see what burned in her wake.
When they were done she lay on her belly, her hand beneath her cheek, and watched his chest bellow up and down with each breath.
“Sam?”
“Uh-huh?” The fingers of his right hand reached over and smoothed the hair on the back of her head.
“Where have you been?”
He rolled toward her and propped himself up on his elbow. “Paris, France! How about that? I never thought I’d ever get to say something like that, but it’s true! I was in Paris.”
Cecily raised her head from the pillow. “What were you doing all the way over there?”
Sam laughed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What didn’t I do? I saw the Eiffel Tower and heard jazz like they don’t dare play it here. Damn, there’s so much music in Paris it runs through the streets like a river.” He talked about nightclubs made out of caves and houses turned into museums and statues that looked so alive he thought they would follow him around the grounds. His dark eyes shone and Cecily absorbed the light and the flood of words. But for all his talking there was something she still didn’t understand.
“Were you there with a band? To sing?”
Sam ran his fingers down the skin of her back and no longer looked at her face. “No,” he said. He swallowed. “Miss Malveaux took me.”
Cecily frowned and he spoke faster. “We went because of you, Cecily. She knew—she knew I was so broke up over you and I was doing nothing but waiting and waiting for days and days. She was the only one I could talk to about you. She’s been a good friend.”
Her chin, full of doubt and inquiry, dipped. “She has?” The sting to her heart surprised her. She supposed it was jealousy—what else could be so sharp? And why else would Mae Malveaux’s face, serene and confident, suddenly amble through her mind?
Sam’s hand settled on her shoulder. “She was, Cecily. She was.”
Cecily closed her eyes and settled her head on the pillow again. Her mouth felt dry and a metallic taste settled under her tongue. She wanted to cry out and complain but she knew the protest, if she made one, wouldn’t live long. She’d spent their weeks apart in another man’s bed, with enduring results Sam knew nothing about. But Mae knew the truth and, Cecily suspected, had taken advantage of her infidelity. Now Cecily understood her silence and thought it echoed around them in the room.
“Cecily.”
She opened her eyes. Sam stroked the side of her face. “I’m here now. I love you. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure out how to stay together. We have to—I know that now. We’re supposed to be together.”
Cecily nodded and said nothing.
“Where do we go from here?” Sam asked. “What do you think?”
She sighed and turned over. She draped an arm over his torso and pulled herself against him. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” she said.
“Yeah, but we should. It feels like everything is about to change. It’s like . . .” He looked around as though searching for the words. “It’s like summer and us being separated was a dream, a strange dream. Now it’s over and we have to get ready for winter.”
Maybe so, Cecily thought to herself, but she had a tiny spark growing within her.
CHAPTER 49
Elizabeth
Harlem, Late September 1947
Elizabeth lay in bed listening to a key being worked into the lock of the outside door. But she didn’t move. Instead she listened to Gladys repeating the words “Oh my Lord.” She must have seen the darkness of the apartment and found the broken dishes in the kitchen.
“Elizabeth? Are you here?”
Still Elizabeth didn’t respond because she wasn’t there, not really. And she didn’t know how to explain such a truth so she stayed lying on her stomach watching the door and waiting for her friend to come find her.
“Elizabeth! Why didn’t you answer me, honey? Kyle is worried sick about you. He says you haven’t been answering the phone. And now I see it’s off the hook. Why is it so dark in here?”
She moved to open the curtains but Elizabeth couldn’t allow her to do that. Gladys could do anything else she wanted, but the curtains would stay closed.
“No!” she shrieked. “I don’t want the light.” The tears began again and Elizabeth sank back into the bed.
“Elizabeth, honey, what’s wrong?” Gladys asked. She ran her cool hands over Elizabeth’s face.
“I should’ve listened to you . . .”
“Honey, you’re burning up. I’m calling a doctor.”
She picked up the telephone and started dialing while Elizabeth buried her face back into the sheets.
Elizabeth heard the voices, male and female, through a fuzziness in her brain, but then she slept again. Next she heard Gladys telling Cecily she would be staying the night.
“Are you awake, honey? How are you feeling?”
Elizabeth reached out her hand and Gladys took it.
“I know what will
make you feel better,” Gladys said. She held on to Elizabeth’s hand and used her other hand to reach for the telephone. She dialed. “You can talk to Kyle.”
Elizabeth suppressed a whimper. She wanted to stop Gladys but she heard the ringing on the line and the drone of Kyle’s deep voice. Gladys turned away from her and spoke quietly into the receiver. Then she turned back to her and pressed the receiver into Elizabeth’s hands. She managed one word.
“Yes?”
“Elizabeth? What’s going on? Gladys says you’re not taking care of yourself. What’s the matter? Why didn’t you go back to Rose’s house?”
“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and pinched the top of her nose between her fingers.
“I’m not mad. I just need to know you’re all right.”
“Well, then why can’t you just come home? Come home for a little while.”
He was silent. She heard what sounded like papers being shuffled around. “Look, Elizabeth, you have to pull yourself together. The case is at a critical point; I can’t leave now. Maybe when you feel better you can come down here. But you won’t know anyone.”
He went quiet again. Then he said, “And I can’t rightly say it would be safe for you.”
Elizabeth shook her head. Safe! What did that word mean anymore?
“You just need something to do,” he said. “I’ve asked Gladys to stay with you a couple of days. Maybe she can help you find some work to keep you busy. You could volunteer on another committee at church since you seem to be hell bent on staying in the city.”
Work. He had no idea how hollow the word sounded. The word “work”—and the word “love” for that matter—had taken on new meaning because of Val Jackson. Work wasn’t work and love entwined with purpose. She had lived a brief, light-drenched moment when her work had been to love, and she had performed it so well it had absorbed her being.
Kyle seemed to be waiting for an answer.
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