Val stood up and pulled his coat closer around him.
“Come on, Sebastian, this game is over. I don’t want to stay for the celebration.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sebastian pushed his hat onto his head and followed Val down the stadium steps.
They folded in with like-minded Dodgers fans who were all leaving the stadium. People shrugged on coats and shuffled toward cars and subway trains. Their relatively slow movement made it easy for Val to spot fifty yards away what he had been waiting for.
Sam Delany crossed East 157th Street and charged hard toward him like a mad bull. Val sighed with relief to see him coming at last.
“Sir.” Sebastian stepped forward and Val saw he was about to move between him and Sam, but Val put an arm in front of him and pushed him aside.
“Don’t worry, it’s all right,” he said to Sebastian. “I’ll take care of this.”
The .22 he’d loaded that morning weighed down his pocket and had seemed to pull on him the whole afternoon. But when Val drew the gun it slipped out easily and felt light as a dream when he held it up high and straight in front of him. He heard gasps and screams and the charging bull froze a few feet from Val.
This gave Val the moment he needed—it was a flickering of an instant just when everyone had moved safely away and just before Sebastian, who was two steps too far, could reach his arm. In that moment Val turned the gun into his own chest and fired.
The sky rushed up and made everything blue—blue like the world was when Marcus’s flashbulb had lit it; blue like the dress Elizabeth once wore.
He didn’t hit the ground. Someone’s arms held him aloft and he suspected they were Sebastian’s. Then a face, Sam’s face, filled the sky. Val grabbed him by the arm.
“Don’t think you know everything, man.” He choked out the words and tasted metal on his lips. “Don’t think you know everything. Don’t make the mistake I made.”
“What . . . what . . . what do you mean?”
Sebastian was yelling for someone to call an ambulance, but Val held Sam fast as more people came running and he felt the moment slipping through him.
“Mae Malveaux. She played us all for fools. The devil couldn’t do a better job.” He felt himself draw in a breath, but felt it go nowhere, a welling in him, the breath only a grab at a straw, one last thought. “You gotta love Cecily. Love that baby she’s gonna have. Sebastian will help you. Don’t make the mistake I did. Don’t let your pride keep you from love.”
Val sighed. His eyes lifted up into the blue, and didn’t come down again.
CHAPTER 52
Cecily
Harlem, October 1947
Cecily heard the sound of shattering glass and went downstairs to see about Mama. Ever since Mrs. Townsend had leapt from her window it was as though her mama’s fingers no longer knew how to grasp the hard surfaces. In public she cried, yes, but still she had ordered the women of Mount Nebo around as she organized Mrs. Townsend’s wake and the gathering after the funeral. But in private Cecily noticed how when they arrived home Mama moved slowly and in increments. She prodded Mama to eat, reminded her to go to bed.
Cecily found her in the parlor. She was sunk down in her chair like every muscle in her body had failed her. She looked gray and defeated and if it hadn’t been for Mama’s constant murmuring of “Lord, have mercy,” Cecily would have thought she’d suffered a stroke.
“Mama, what’s wrong?”
Then she heard the name “Valiant Jackson” and Cecily turned to face the tall walnut cabinet of the radio that stood across the room from where Mama sat. More words pushed through the static and they included “shooting” and “dead” and they grasped Cecily’s heart like a childhood nightmare. She fell to her knees and heard “self-inflicted gunshot wound after an encounter with a young man.”
Sam. It had to be Sam.
Had she done this? The story, Val’s voice, her own laughter rolled back to her. What are men willing to die for? What had she done? She saw herself pushing over a domino like a child at play, only she’d been unaware of the falling. Now it was coming toward her, she could feel it, as though the force of the coming wave would knock over the radio on top of her.
Dead? Could he really be dead? Her hand flew to her mouth. She felt a bitter taste rising in her throat. Only a month ago death had been nothing but a word, not even a shadow to her, and she had no way to begin to think of it because life pulsed so hard around her and within her, including the child growing in her womb.
She pressed her ear to the speaker. She wanted to hear Val’s name spoken again, as though somehow a final spark of him were inside it and could be released by the sounding of his name.
“Cecily, I don’t know what this world is coming to.” Mama pushed herself out of her chair and Cecily stood and took her arm to steady her.
“Yes, Mama.”
She stared at Cecily and Cecily thought for a moment her eyes drifted down to her midsection. But Mama said nothing. Instead she climbed the steps as though they were an afterthought, her mind far away. Cecily followed her.
Cecily couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Mama’s bedroom, or rather the last time she’d really looked at things in there. Now she noticed, pulling back the covers, how the mattress was worn down on only one side. She could only assume the other was where her daddy once slept.
Mama sat down on the bed and Cecily kneeled to pull off the pumps misshapen around Mama’s swollen feet. She peeled the stockings down over her thick thighs and calves and rolled them into a black cloud-like ball before putting them in the dresser drawer. She climbed onto the bed and unbuttoned Mama’s dress at the back, and it fell down around her waist. Cecily undid the clasp of the brassiere and she realized she had not seen her mother’s naked body since Cecily herself was a child. As Mama’s breasts dropped free from their restraints she felt a new tenderness for her mama drawn forth by the soft mound of flesh that looked like it might melt from the grief heaped upon it. Cecily knew Mama once had her own affection for Val Jackson and she wondered if she were recalling it now, how they danced on the night Cecily’s daddy was shot.
She put her arms around Mama from behind and she cried then, her tears wetting the skin on the back of Mama’s neck. Mama patted Cecily’s forearms and the dampness of her fingers said she was weeping too.
“It’ll be all right, baby. Lord willing, it will be all right.” She turned so her lips could graze the top of Cecily’s head.
Cecily squeezed her tighter then pulled aside the sheets so Mama could raise her legs up onto the bed and settle underneath them. She kissed Mama’s cheek and was about to turn out the light.
“Cecily, honey,” Mama said. She lay back against the pillows, her arm covering her small and tired eyes. “Read me Psalm 23 before you go.”
“Yes, Mama.” She nodded and picked up the Bible from the night table and sat down on the side of the bed.
The Bible, covered in worn red leather with Mama’s name embossed in gold capital letters in the lower right-hand corner, was another artifact she had not touched since childhood. When Cecily opened it an antique small rose from the pages and made her feel small and childlike again, marveling at the red and black type on the pages as thin as butterfly wings.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.’”
Here she thought of Anselm and her feet tingled to feel the soft grass beneath them. She wanted to leap into the river and thrash madly because she wanted to feel clean and she saw that’s what it would take—a full immersion, a new baptism, where she had to throw herself headlong into a point of reconnection to wake her up and help her live despite all the dying.
It wasn’t that she felt dirty—no—it was more the need to shed old layers of herself, like skin that she needed to beat and scrape away—the parts of her that had been needy and fearful and ignorant of herself. Those parts had to go so she wouldn’t f
eel shame or regret over what she once was. She had no time for it—and it didn’t matter anymore. With the old gone she could think clearly and perhaps hear what the new part of her wanted to do and where she would go.
“‘He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’”
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”
Mama whimpered quietly at these words and Cecily held the Bible on her lap with one hand and she rubbed Mama’s shoulder and arm with the other. Her voice remained calm and clear, and she wondered if the words explained why she herself wasn’t falling apart, why she wasn’t rolled up in a ball of grief in her bed. She felt the ache of it, the desire to give in to the sorrow hanging dark and heavy on her like a shroud. But Mama was already doing it and there was no room for her to do the same, even with Mama sleeping on only half the bed. Something sustained her, though, made her feel capable.
“‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’”
What did she have? A baby on the way, its father dead. But still love and hope in her heart and nothing about any of this felt catastrophic, although it should. She had to hold on to this feeling, stand up for it however she could.
“‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’”
“Amen,” Mama said. The word flowed out on a breath that sounded like a sigh of relief. Her arm moved away from her eyes and she turned onto her side, her back to Cecily.
“Yes,” Cecily said quietly. “Amen, Mama.” She put the Bible back on the table and stood. She kissed Mama on the cheek and pulled the blankets up over her soft rounded shoulder.
After Cecily closed the door she stood in the dark hallway and listened.
Surely goodness and mercy will follow me.
Yes, follow her wherever she went. She had to believe that. Cecily went to her room and pulled the quilt from her bed. She climbed another flight of stairs and then the metal ladder. At the top she unlatched and lifted the door and opened it. She pulled herself out onto the roof. She wrapped the quilt around her. The cold air rushed over her in soothing waves. To the south she could see the treetops of Central Park, their leaves silhouetted against the light of the city buildings. The streets seemed to buzz beneath her feet and she wondered if the sound came from people celebrating the end of the World Series or people gossiping about Val’s death. Most likely they talked about both because of the close proximity of the two events.
She sighed. Mrs. Townsend had kissed the sky and now Val Jackson was following her. Cecily sensed the empty spaces where these two people once stood and wondered if they, now released from their physical beings, could be anywhere or everywhere. Could they see her? Could they know what she thought? Were they judging her?
Then she remembered the photograph. Mama had sent her into Mrs. Townsend’s room to straighten it up and retrieve the clothing Mr. Townsend had requested for the burial. Neither of them could bring themselves to set foot in the place where Mrs. Townsend last stood.
The sheets on the bed were still shaped in the twisted curves in which Mrs. Townsend had left them. When Cecily pulled at them to strip the bed she saw the corner of what looked like a thick envelope just under the bed and partially hidden by the sheets. She picked it up.
She was shocked by how familiar it was. She recognized the day—she had been there, at Mercylands, when the picture was taken. She half expected to see herself walk through in the background. But she hadn’t seen the photograph being taken. She couldn’t stop looking at it. She knew and didn’t know them at once. Mrs. Townsend didn’t look serious in the way Cecily had seen her. Val didn’t look cool and collected. It was like some surface of both had been cracked and their smiles, their joy, could then flow freely through. Were they in love?
She felt no jealousy over this and she had meant to ask Val about the picture. At first she did wonder how he could feel such emotion for Mrs. Townsend and still be in bed with her, under the same roof. But hadn’t she done the same, enjoying herself physically while still holding her love for Sam? Who was she to judge, especially when the woman who would have been her rival was gone? And there was something hopeful about the way they looked, bright and happy like children. She had wanted to protect them, to not have unkind fingers touching the picture or the owners of those fingers saying disapproving words. So she’d hidden the picture in her coat and had intended to give it to Val when she had the chance.
Now that would never happen. She would keep it hidden. She would keep it safe if only to show her child someday what her real daddy looked like. What did it mean to her that Val Jackson was dead? She could only guess that for her he could never be fully, truly gone. His last spark was ignited within her. In fact she was certain she could feel, day by day, the heat of this new sun burning within her. A piece of him lived.
If dominoes were really falling toward her, as she had felt when she heard of Val’s death on the radio, then the one coming for her would be Sam. He must have found out about the baby. Until he appeared, every moment would be about waiting for him, looking for him. She wasn’t afraid or worried. It seemed inevitable. She didn’t believe he would hurt her—she was well aware she herself had done the hurting. She had to stand up for that and to do so seemed as obvious and inevitable as taking and hiding the photograph of Val and Mrs. Townsend. This was more out of necessity than anything else. She had no one to turn to but she was also well aware that she had moved herself, all alone, into this swirl of events. Though the thought made her sad and ill, it was also helpful. Because little by little, she began to understand that she also had the power to walk out of this, with her child, and go where she chose and not where Mama chose to move her.
That’s when the thought came to her, and it seemed whispered from the stars above her head and not from the hum of the streets below—she would be in Anselm come spring. Her child would be born there. Something in these deaths released her, pulled from her a rising that seemed to take her out of herself, stretching her even taller than she was before if that was possible. She felt stronger with the thought because she knew she would go no matter what happened next, no matter what Sam did or said when he arrived.
THE NEXT MORNING Cecily stood at the parlor window and rubbed her belly with her right hand. She wasn’t really showing yet, but she saw her stomach was beginning to thicken and her hand seemed drawn to the area now. The gesture calmed her and helped her to concentrate. She looked down the street again. Sebastian’s message said Sam would come to the house this morning. She moved aside one of the window’s wooden shutters and saw Sam coming down the street. He carried a large box in his arms in front of him. Just a few months ago she would have rushed to the door to open it before Sam could even ring the doorbell. Today this Cecily, who was tired of running and tired of being fearful, did not do it. So she let Sam ring, and even allowed him to wait for Mama to open the door when she came downstairs from her room where she’d just finished dressing.
“What are you doing here?” She sounded more confused than angry. It seemed to Cecily that Mama didn’t have the strength to be mad at anyone anymore.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vaughn,” Cecily heard him say from the hall. “I’m sorry to disturb you. You probably know Mr. Jackson died yesterday.”
“Yes, I know that, God rest his soul,” her mother said, and Cecily thought she could hear in her voice that this was the truth: she wished him peace.
“Mrs. Vaughn, I have in this box some of his personal papers. I brought them to you because some of it concerns Cecily and myself.”
“What are you talking about, Sam? What concerns Cecily?”
“If I could just come in I think we can answer those questions together.”
Cecily got to the door in time to see Mama step ba
ck and open it wider for Sam. When he walked in Cecily realized she hadn’t seen him in the house in broad daylight since the last time he taught her a lesson. It seemed so long ago and now they both seemed older, so much older. Sam’s eyes looked heavy, as though he had been crying. His shoulders, stooped and sad, made her yearn for the lightness of the music they once played.
“Hey, Sam.” She held her hands clasped in front of her to stop her fingers from lifting over imaginary piano keys.
“Hey, Cecily. Come on. Follow me.”
He walked through into the dining room, where he put the box down on the white lace tablecloth. He turned to Mama.
“Mrs. Vaughn, I want you to know my intentions toward Cecily have always been honorable. We only wanted to be together.”
Cecily stood next to Sam and put her palms flat on the table and waited. Mama crossed her thick arms and nodded. “Go on.”
He pulled open the cardboard flaps of the box. “I’ve got here some letters that belonged to Mr. Jackson. If you read them you’ll see someone used our situation to take revenge on other people. One of those people is you.”
“What? Who are you talking about?” She tilted her head toward Sam as though that would help her understand him better.
Sam swallowed and his chin dropped down to his chest.
“Mae Malveaux.”
Cecily looked at Mama, whose arms fell to her sides. Then she gripped the back of one of the dining room chairs.
“You’re talking nonsense now,” Mama said. She shook her head. “Mae don’t have any reason to want revenge on me.”
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