She grabbed Gilda’s arm and drew her away from the bar. “Lemme show you the joint before they eject Emory and plunk me down at the piano.” Gilda followed her through the kitchen to what looked like a comfortable office. Gilda stepped inside and leaned against a narrow desk, watching as Lydia crossed the room sipping from her drink. Her wavy dark hair was loose around her shoulders and the vibrant red polish on her nails gleamed in the dim light. Gilda was fascinated by the way she filled the room.
“So, uh, what do you think? About me, my singing, stuff like that.” She almost sounded like a child; her enthusiasm and curiosity were unconscious and genuine.
“Your voice carries almost all the joy in the world.”
“Um.” She stopped and leaned against a bookcase to think for a moment.
“Benny likes you a lot,” Gilda said, pausing. So many thoughts were swirling in her head, she couldn’t easily choose one. Gilda felt ripples of desire expanding inside. She put her drink down and pressed her hands to the desk.
“How can you tell that?”
“He can’t take his eyes off you. If you’re anywhere in the room his body is turned in your direction as if you were the sun.”
“Ain’t you the poet?”
Gilda felt embarrassed, but there was no sign of it. Her skin remained the rich dark color it had always been.
“Ben’s like my brother.”
Gilda’s skepticism was obvious.
“No, really. He took good care of me when I needed it and I do the same.”
“Have you been friends long?”
“I was traveling with a show. ‘Blue Heaven.’ You ever see it?”
Gilda shook her head.
“About a year ago we’re doing the gig and I got sick. Him and Morris got me to the hospital when the troupe moved on. Made sure I had everything. Then give me the job singing at the Evergreen. They are two right guys. Benny’s always helping somebody with something. The colored school, this church or that one. He’s got a buck for everybody.”
The description fit easily with the impression that Gilda had formed since arriving in town.
“So what’s your game?” Lydia made the question sound soft, not an accusation.
Gilda thought a moment. She could easily have diverted the question, but she didn’t want to, at least not right away.
“I’m trying to decide what to do next,” Gilda said, knowing Lydia could never understand how big a question it was.
“Stick around this burg for a while.” Lydia’s voice carried the same invitation to joy that Gilda had heard in her singing.
“I think I will.”
“Good. Benny’s gonna need someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Smart, figuring on the future. That’s his one… kinda flaw, you know. Colored folks in this town need this, they need that.” Lydia’s eyes were unwavering as she watched Gilda listening to her. She spoke and examined Gilda at the same time. “He’s always thinkin’ about it, but he’s got no sense of a plan. You a woman who knows somethin’ about planning for the future. And he don’t know how to handle those mugs that keep edging up on him.” Lydia’s confidence in her words and in Gilda surprised her.
Gilda looked around her at the books and ledgers. It felt like a room bursting with ideas and with life; Benny’s presence was as strong here as it was downstairs in the Evergreen. Gilda wouldn’t let herself listen to Lydia’s thoughts. That was another lesson from Bird she’d embraced: Intruding on another’s thoughts simply for personal gain was the height of rudeness. So, the reasons for Lydia’s certainty remained unclear. Lydia watched Gilda watching her, as if she awaited Gilda’s assent. The memory of Lydia’s scent unfurled like an unexpected fog in Gilda’s head and she tried to clear her mind.
“Why does the billboard say ‘Indian Love Call’?” Gilda asked.
“My father was Wampanoag. Back East, you know, the Indians they named Massachusetts for. They were Wampanoag.”
Gilda looked again at Lydia and recognized the bone structure. The blending of African and Indian lines was so common in this country, yet Gilda had forgotten. She’d seen many women who looked like they might be Lydia’s relatives.
“Of course,” she said.
“That was Benny’s idea, not mine. My mother would be fit to be tied.” She sipped from her glass, then set it down on a shelf and moved closer to Gilda. This time the cinnamon and flowers were real, not a memory. “She’s not much for people pretending not to be colored.”
“But you’re not.”
“Naw. Everybody likes a bit of mystery. So this year I’m it.”
“What about next year?” Gilda kept her breath shallow, trying not to take in too much.
“I’ll be Lebanese!”
The room was filled first with Lydia’s laughter, then Gilda’s. Deep inside an image blossomed for her, a tiny glimpse of her past. Inside she held a precious moment of laughter between her and one of her sisters as they’d toiled among the rows of cotton. The reason for mirth had quickly faded then. In the expansive dining room with Lydia, Gilda recaptured that forgotten joy and savored it as fully as if her sisters were still alive and in the room beside her.
This was what Gilda found so entrancing in Lydia’s voice. It was rich with the happiness she’d had; very little sorrow or bitterness weighted her songs. The melodies Lydia sang each night might be mournful when delivered by someone else, but Lydia sang with the light of what was coming, not merely what had been done in the past.
They both stopped laughing, comfortable with the recognition of the feeling growing between them.
“And what’s your mystery, lady?” Lydia asked as if she already knew the answer.
Gilda pressed her hand to Lydia’s cheek lightly, letting herself enjoy the softness around Lydia’s smile. She didn’t want to pull away from the question, even though she knew she couldn’t answer. Lydia stepped in closer, the full length of her body pressing its aura of heat against Gilda.
The air wavered around them, intoxicated by mist and cinnamon. Then the unnatural silence in the rest of the flat crashed around them. No piano, voices, or glasses. The ominous silence was broken by a shout and the explosion of a gun.
“Stay here!” Gilda said in a low voice, and bolted through the door. She moved quickly but without sound. When she entered the dining room, everybody was huddled on the floor, satin dresses and silk jackets askew. Through the parlor, she could see the front door forced open, almost off its hinges. The maid’s face was barely visible thorough a crack in the bathroom door and Gilda waved her back.
“Shit.” Gilda heard Morris.
“Everybody stay down,” Gilda shouted as she listened to the entire flat—the attackers seemed to have fled. She hurried to the bar. Behind it, Benny lay on the floor. Morris held his hand to the wound in Benny’s chest. His fair skin had paled as if the blood were draining from him as well.
“I told him we had to give them the joint. They been wanting in for months.” Tears filled Morris’s voice. “We got other stuff, we don’t need this shit.” Morris spoke as if his words could bind the wound.
“Quick, let me.” Gilda edged Morris out of the way and knelt beside Benny. “Get them out of here.” The floor around Benny was awash in his blood. The moments moved in rapid flashes for Gilda. She looked into his eyes as she tried to find his pulse. He was there and not there. Morris’s apologetic voice was a low murmur as he helped people to their feet and kept the exit orderly. The woman in the maid’s apron came out of the bathroom and helped Morris find people’s coats.
As Benny’s blood cooled around her, Gilda thought of the little boy, Lester, arriving tomorrow at noon with his sister for a job. She could feel Lydia reaching out, begging her to make everything all right as if she knew Gilda was able to hear her. All the connections Benny had with those around him in this room had created a family, and in turn he aided others holding their families together. He was able to help give life in ways different from
Gilda. She fought the urge to save Benny with the power only she possessed.
Blood should not be given as an unexpected gift. Bird’s admonition rang in her mind. Gilda knew of those who’d not chosen wisely, giving the gift of blood to those unable to manage the powers. She’d seen the results: deadly tyrants, intoxicated by their powers, unable to care about the havoc they created around them.
The explicit wish for the gift must be stated. How can you know who is capable of carrying such a burden? Gilda accepted all the reasons for letting Benny die. She turned to see Lydia standing at the bar looking down at them, her mouth open in horror.
“I know you can save him.”
Lydia’s eyes were full of that knowing. Gilda didn’t understand how that could be, and at the same time knew she could not let Benny’s life slip away from him, to be soaked into the hard wooden floor. But to give the blood without his direct request was against all she’d been taught. Which would be the worse transgression?
Gilda put her lips to the wound in Benny’s chest, where the blood had pooled. She took his blood into her mouth and listened for his needs. His mind was full of many people he wanted to help. Pictures of people, of towns, of the Evergreen were lit inside Gilda like reflections from a mirror ball. A fascinating dizziness pulled Gilda closer to Benny’s mind. Lydia was deep inside his dreams, too, and it was as she’d said: as a sister.
The most urgent image inside Benny was his love of Morris. Gilda was startled that she hadn’t realized it earlier. Their bond had grown out of a mutual care for the colored people of their town. Without the guarded protection they both maintained in public, the kinship and desire between them was unmistakable. The two men were partners in business and in life. There was little time left, but Benny’s thoughts kaleidoscoped through her mind like spokes on a wheel. This was a family. They had work to do. Benny’s thoughts were filled with an array of faces, although his body was almost still under her hands. She could not ignore the tie that held so many together.
Gilda let herself feel rather than think about what was coming. She would give him her blood and he would survive. Benny, Morris, and Lydia would know what she was. She would have to explain the life of the blood. If he desired it, Benny could go on with his life, fully recovered, and reject that preternatural life. When the hunger came on him, he could fight as if it were a drug, until it subsided, then dissipated completely.
But Benny might also decide to live with the blood. He would have the right to ask Gilda to share with him twice again until he was strong, and she would teach him about their life as Bird had taught her. She could not guess which path he would choose. Only in the moments and years to come would Gilda know the meaning of her decision.
She could feel Lydia staring down at her. With the hard nail of her small finger, Gilda cut the skin on her wrist smoothly and held it to Benny’s mouth. At first, the blood just washed down his face. She tilted his head back so his mouth would open. He began to take the blood in and Gilda felt life slowly return to his body. His eyes fluttered, then filled with confusion and relief.
Lydia’s eyes showed both her gratefulness and bewilderment when Gilda looked up, Benny’s warm blood staining her face and clothes. The door to the flat slammed shut and they heard Morris running.
“Benny,” he bellowed as he came. Their life together had seemed about to end when he’d gone to the front of the flat to help the shocked guests leave. His anguish was carried in the tears that ran down his face onto his blood-splattered shirt. He stopped abruptly when he saw Lydia smiling. Incredulous, he looked down at Benny, whose eyes were open and had regained their focus.
A familiar vitality pulsed through Benny’s body as Gilda cradled him in her arms. She sensed they would be spending much time together in the coming months.
“He’s all right, Morris,” Lydia said, as if she knew it was true even though she wasn’t exactly sure why. Her voice was full of joy like her songs.
BLACK NO MORE (EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL)
George S. Schuyler
(1931)
NEGRO ANNOUNCES REMARKABLE
DISCOVERY
CAN CHANGE BLACK TO WHITE IN THREE DAYS.
Max went into Jimmy Johnson’s restaurant and greedily read the account while awaiting his breakfast. Yes, it must be true. To think of old Crookman being able to do that. Only a few years ago he’d been just a hungry medical student around Harlem. Max put down the paper and stared vacantly out of the window. Gee, Crookman would be a millionaire in no time. He’d even be a multimillionaire. It looked as though science was to succeed where the Civil War had failed. But how could it be possible? He looked at his hands and felt at the back of his head where the straightening lotion had failed to conquer some of the knots. He toyed with his ham and eggs as he envisioned the possibilities of the discovery.
Then a sudden resolution seized him. He looked at the newspaper account again. Yes, Crookman was staying at the Phyllis Wheatley Hotel. Why not go and see what there was to this? Why not be the first Negro to try it out? Sure, it was taking a chance, but think of getting white in three days. No more jim crow. No more insults. As a white man he could go anywhere, be anything he wanted to be, do most anything he wanted to do, be a free man at last… and probably be able to meet the girl from Atlanta. What a vision!
He rose hurriedly, paid for his breakfast, rushed out of the door, almost ran into an aged white man carrying a sign advertising a Negro fraternity dance, and strode, almost ran, to the Phyllis Wheatley Hotel.
He tore up the steps two at a time and into the sitting room. It was crowded with white reporters from the daily newspapers and black reporters from the Negro weeklies. In their midst he recognized Dr. Junius Crookman, tall, wiry, ebony black, with a studious and polished manner. Flanking him on either side was Henry (“Hank”) Johnson, the “Numbers” banker, and Charlie (“Chuck”) Foster, the realtor, looking very grave, important and possessive in the midst of all the hullabaloo.
“Yes,” Dr. Crookman was telling the reporters while they eagerly took down his statements, “during my first year at college I noticed a black girl on the street one day who had several irregular white patches on her face and hands. That intrigued me. I began to study up on skin diseases and found out that the girl was evidently suffering from a nervous disease known as vitiligo. It is a very rare disease. Both Negroes and Caucasians occasionally have it, but it is naturally more conspicuous on blacks than whites. It absolutely removes skin pigment and sometimes it turns a Negro completely white but only after a period of thirty or forty years. It occurred to me that if one could discover some means of artificially inducing and stimulating this nervous disease at will, one might possibly solve the American race problem. My sociology teacher had once said that there were but three ways for the Negro to solve his problem in America,” he gestured with his long slender fingers, “To either get out, get white, or get along. Since he wouldn’t and couldn’t get out and was getting along only differently, it seemed to me that the only thing for him was to get white.” For a moment his teeth gleamed beneath his smartly waxed mustache, then he sobered and went on:
“I began to give a great deal of study to the problem during my spare time. Unfortunately there was very little information on the subject in this country. I decided to go to Germany but didn’t have the money. Just when I despaired of getting the funds to carry out my experiments and studies abroad, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Foster,” he indicated the two men with a graceful wave of his hand, “came to my rescue. I naturally attribute a great deal of my success to them.”
“But how is it done?” asked a reporter.
“Well,” smiled Crookman, “I naturally cannot divulge the secret any more than to say that it is accomplished by electrical nutrition and glandular control. Certain gland secretions are greatly stimulated while others are considerably diminished. It is a powerful and dangerous treatment but harmless when properly done.”
“How about the hair and features?” asked a Negro re
porter.
“They are also changed in the process,” answered the biologist. “In three days the Negro becomes to all appearances a Caucasian.”
“But is the transformation transferred to the offspring?” persisted the Negro newspaperman.
“As yet,” replied Crookman, “I have discovered no way to accomplish anything so revolutionary, but I am able to transform a black infant to a white one in twenty-four hours.”
“Have you tried it on any Negroes yet?” queried a skeptical white journalist.
“Why, of course I have,” said the Doctor, slightly nettled. “I would not have made my announcement if I had not done so. Come here, Sandol,” he called, turning to a pale white youth standing on the outskirts of the crowd, who was the most Nordic looking person in the room. “This man is a Senegalese, a former aviator in the French Army. He is living proof that what I claim is true.”
Dr. Crookman then displayed a photograph of a very black man, somewhat resembling Sandol but with bushy Negro hair, flat nose and full lips. “This,” he announced proudly, “is Sandol as he looked before taking my treatment. What I have done to him I can do to any Negro. He is in good physical and mental condition as you all can see.”
The assemblage was properly awed. After taking a few more notes and a number of photographs of Dr. Crookman, his associates, and of Sandol, the newspapermen retired. Only the dapper Max Disher remained.
“Hello, Doc!” he said, coming forward and extending his hand. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Max Disher.”
“Why certainly I remember you, Max,” replied the biologist rising cordially. “Been a long time since we’ve seen each other, but you’re looking as sharp as ever. How’s things?”
The two men shook hands.
“Oh, pretty good. Say, Doc, how’s chances to get you to try that thing on me? You must be looking for volunteers.”
“Yes, I am, but not just yet. I’ve got to get my equipment set up first. I think now I’ll be ready for business in a couple of weeks.”
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