“Nursing school?” Emma echoed.
“Um-hum, what else am I gonna do? Day work?”
Emma slowly shook her head. She’d traveled that road, and it had been bumpy and unforgiving.
“I can see it now,” Lucille spoke dreamily, “me walking into some white lady’s house in my starched maid’s uniform, all ready to attack the baseboards and her husband’s dirty drawers, and then . . .” She paused dramatically; her eyes stretched saucer-wide and when she spoke again her voice was shrill and animated: “Oh my! Is that Lucille Hegamin? The Lucille Hegamin? Why, I saw you perform at the Panther Club, and I have all of your records!”
The women howled with laughter.
Lucille wiped tears from her eyes. “I won’t put myself through that type of embarrassment.”
“And the house?”
Lucille’s face clouded. “Gonna have to let it go.”
Emma reached across the table and closed her hand over Lucille’s. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I . . . we all had some good times here. It served its purpose and served it well. My season is over. Seasons come to an end. Don’t the Good Book say as much?”
Emma nodded.
“Besides, it wasn’t always easy being Lucille Hegamin—”
“The great Lucille Hegamin,” Emma corrected with a smile.
“So they say,” Lucille sighed. “People don’t know how hard I had to work. How much I had to give up.”
“I know,” Emma said.
Lucille turned toward the window—sunlight lit the tears swimming in her eyes. “You know, it wasn’t easy being in Mamie Smith’s shadow.”
Emma squeezed her hand.
“You don’t get no parade for being second,” Lucille huffed.
Emma, eager to brighten the grim mood that had befallen the kitchen, hurriedly changed the subject. “So, when you gonna start nursing school?”
“Hmmm, I don’t know yet. Right now, it’s just a thought. Until I make up my mind, I’m going to ride this train until it runs out of steam.”
“Oh?”
“Umh-hm. I’m booked solid for the next six months.”
“That’s good.”
“God is good.” Lucille winked and raised her glass of sweet tea in salute. “I’ve got some dates booked down south, and I was wondering if you think Harlan might wanna come along.”
Emma was struck. “Really?”
“After all he’s been through, seeing that child doing what she did . . .” Lucille trailed off, shaking her head. “I just think it would be good for him to get away.”
Emma grinned.
“Best he see for himself that this life ain’t as easy or as glamorous as folks think. Best he see the for-real-deal before he jump in with two feet.” Lucille drained her glass, slapped her chest, and belched. “What you think, Emma? You think he ready for the road?”
Emma beamed, “Yeah, I think he is.”
Chapter 29
Harlan, all of sixteen, having only really been in Macon and Harlem, hit the road green, brimming with delight.
In a rickety bus that had seen better days, the veteran musicians and their entourage rolled out of New York on a spring morning thick with the scent of flowering things.
They traveled for days, covering mile upon mile of open road and ever-changing countryside. Harlan watched with amazement as emerald pastures gave way to fields choked with cotton stalks, plantation estates, and ramshackle shotguns.
Their first stop was Wilson, North Carolina, and even though the country was crawling through the muck and grime of financial ruin and despair, you wouldn’t have known it by the number of people who came out to see them.
“Man, you look as green as a frog!” the squat, flat-faced drummer named Cecil laughed. “You scared?”
They were about to perform on a makeshift stage in a dilapidated barn that reeked of livestock. Lucille was on the bus, donning her dress for the evening.
Harlan looked down at his sweaty, trembling hands. “No,” he gulped nervously.
The drummer shoved a half-empty jar of corn liquor at him. “Drink this, it’ll calm you down.”
The swig Harlan took would have been too much for a drinking man, much less a young boy who’d only stolen sips of beer. He gagged.
The drummer laughed again, slapped Harlan hard on the back, and told him to take another. “You’ll get used to it,” he said.
Harlan’s hands stopped shaking, but now his head was spinning.
“Come on.” Cecil grabbed him by the elbow.
On the stage, the guitar strings felt like spaghetti against his fingers. Sweat as biting as lime juice streamed into his eyes as he clumsily strummed chords that might have belonged to some other singer’s song, but not Lucille’s.
After the show, an angry Lucille pressed her lips together and stomped past Harlan without a word.
Bill was the one who took him aside. “If you can’t handle your liquor, you shouldn’t drink,” he warned angrily.
Shamed, Harlan dropped his head and stammered an inaudible apology.
* * *
By the time they reached South Carolina, Harlan hadn’t had a swig of anything harder than Coca-Cola and he was beginning to perform like a pro.
After a show in Charleston, Cecil loudly proclaimed, “You did great out there!”
“Thanks.”
He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and held it out to Harlan. “For you.”
Harlan scrutinized it for a second. “Naw, I don’t smoke.”
Cecil’s eyes narrowed. “Aw, you think this is the tobacco type of cigarette?”
Harlan shrugged his shoulders.
“This here,” Cecil announced grandly, “is a reefer cigarette. One puff of this and you’ll know Jesus.” He slipped the cigarette between his lips, pulled a silver lighter from his suit jacket, and fired the tip.
Harlan watched the flame swell and collapse as the drummer puffed.
“You gotta hold it in,” Cecil instructed in a strangled voice. After a few seconds, he blew a stream of smoke into Harlan’s face. “Just try it. One toke, that’s all. That’s all you’ll need.”
Harlan smirked. “Naw, that’s okay.”
“Don’t you wanna know Jesus, boy?”
Craig, the piano player, swaggered by, nodding in their direction. When his nose caught the pungent scent, he turned back. “May I?” he asked, grinning.
Cecil passed him the joint.
Craig inhaled deeply and then exhaled. “Damn, that’s some good shit,” he coughed.
“The best,” Cecil said, thrusting the joint at Harlan for the second time. “You’ll play better than you ever thought you could.”
“Sure ’nuff,” Craig agreed.
Three tokes later, Harlan couldn’t stop laughing at his shoelaces. An hour after that, he was stumbling up and down the dark aisle of the bus, begging for food to quell his ravenous appetite.
Their arrival in Augusta, Georgia coincided with the National Baptist Convention, so all of the colored guesthouses were full. Bill informed them that they would have to spend the night on the bus.
Harlan watched the musicians remove their shoes and fold their jackets into makeshift pillows. “But we passed a hotel not a mile down the road that had a vacancy sign in the front yard,” he said sleepily.
“You talking ’bout the Partridge Inn?” Bill questioned.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Bill laughed.
Lucille pulled a purple scarf over her curls and knotted it behind her neck. “Boy, this ain’t Harlem,” she said. “Down south, you can’t walk through the front door of any establishment you please, sit down, eat and drink your gut full. Down here, if your bladder begs, you got to search high and low for a bathroom marked Colored. This here is Jim Crow territory—the rules down here are different. That vacancy sign you saw was for white folks, not us.”
Chapter 30
The following night, they performed under a massive tent rai
sed in the middle of a cow pasture. Before taking the stage, Harlan sought out Cecil and his magic cigarettes.
“Um, you got some more of that weed?”
Cecil eyed him amusingly, crowing, “You done had all the freebies you gonna get from me. You want some more, it’s gonna cost you.”
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
* * *
The band opened with “Chattanooga Man” and moved into “Down Hearted Blues,” “Always Be Careful Mama,” and “Dinah.” After two hours, they closed the show with “Reckless Daddy.”
It was Harlan’s best set to date. He knew it before Bill and Lucille even told him. He had felt like a king on that stage—unstoppable and all-powerful.
And best of all, that night when Harlan bedded down on the cramped bus seat, Darlene was nowhere to be found and he slept soundly.
* * *
In Mobile, Alabama, the entire band stayed at the home of Clarence and Joy Temple, a wealthy white couple who had befriended Lucille early in her career.
“They ain’t your run-of-the-mill white folks,” Lucille called out over the laboring engine as the bus chugged its way up the halfmile-long driveway. “These people are free thinkers. Liberals is what they call themselves.”
The home came into view. Stacked porches, Greek columns, and a sweeping verandah. Harlan had never seen anything like it.
“How many people live there?” he whispered in awe.
“Just them two,” Lucille said. “Not counting the help.”
Clarence and Joy were well into their seventies, silver-haired and wrinkled. Their matching green eyes made them look more like siblings than husband and wife. They seemed hungry for the company. Unwilling to let their guests retire. After the sumptuous meal, the Temples coaxed everyone out onto the rear porch to sip cognac and deliberate on all things musical.
It was near midnight when Harlan, yawning, excused himself and headed up to the room he was sharing with Craig. Before retiring, he slipped into their private bathroom and fired up one of the three joints he’d purchased from Cecil.
Head spinning, floating more than walking, he crossed the room and dove onto the goose-feathered mattress, slipping into blissful slumber.
Just at the tip of three, Cecil stumbled noisily into the bedroom, hissing, “Pssst!”
The room flooded with yellow light.
“Psssssssst! Harlan!”
“Shit,” Craig mumbled angrily.
Harlan sat up, shielding his eyes.
“Turn that light off!” Craig growled. “Ain’t you got your own room to go to?”
Alongside Cecil was a curvaceous raisin-colored woman. Cecil dragged her toward Harlan. “You gotta see her eyes.” He was giddy. “I ain’t never seen no shit like this in my life!”
The two reeked of whiskey, reefer, and something else Harlan couldn’t put his finger on.
Craig sat up. “Man, you crazy or what? Here these nice white folks welcome us into their home, and you bring a whore up in here?”
“Aw, man, shut the fuck up and mind your business,” Cecil snapped.
“It’s ’cause a niggers like you that good, decent black folk get a bad rap!” With that, Craig punched his pillow, lay back down, and turned his back on the sordid affair.
“Go show him,” Cecil urged. “Wait till you see this, Harlan.”
The woman wobbled forward. The hem of the tight black and red dress she wore inched up her thigh with each step. When she reached Harlan’s bedside, she uttered a breathless, “Hi,” before flopping down on his thighs.
“Show him,” Cecil urged again.
“Okay, okay, damn,” the girl giggled. “See,” she sang, pushing her face into his and stretching her already large eyes wider.
Swimming in the dark pond of her face were two watery blue orbs, ringed in gold.
“You ever seen anything like that in your life? A nigger with blue eyes?” Cecil slapped his thighs, chortling. “That’s some wild shit right there!”
Harlan’s lips flapped. The woman raked her fingers across his bare chest. “You a scrawny something, huh?” she purred. “How old you is?”
Harlan looked stupidly at Cecil, who was still bent over laughing.
“Eighteen,” Harlan coughed.
“Sixteen!” Craig yelled from his bed. “Too young for your old ass.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you again, Craig,” Cecil warned. He looked back at Harlan and licked his lips. “Hey, she a pretty thing, don’t you think?”
Harlan nodded.
“I thought you’d feel that way. That’s why I brung her up here for you to have.”
Harlan blinked. “Have?”
“Yeah!” Cecil laughed.
Harlan’s eyes bulged.
“Nigger, this is where you say thank you,” Cecil admonished.
“Say thank you, nigger, so I can get some goddamn sleep!” Craig cried.
The girl took Harlan’s face into her hands. “Tell me something, boy. You still a virgin?”
Harlan swallowed hard. “Yes ma’am.”
The woman giggled, rolled back the quilt, and pressed her hand against his groin. “Oh my,” she crooned seductively. “Well, that there ain’t scrawny at all, is it?”
Cecil turned off the light and backed out of the room, whispering, “And to all a good night.”
* * *
Harlan woke to the scent of flapjacks and bacon. Upon opening his eyes, his stomach growled. He lay there for a moment, trying to figure out if the woman had been a dream spurred on by the reefer. But that notion was quickly put to rest when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of blue panties crumpled on the pillow beside his head.
Chapter 31
Sam and Emma waited all day for the bus—taking turns leaning out the window, standing on the stoop, walking from one corner of the block to the next, and pacing the parlor floor like parents awaiting the birth of their first child.
“You see anything?”
“Nope, not yet.”
It was nearly eight o’clock when the bus finally arrived. They nearly tripped over one another getting through the door and down the steps to greet their son.
When Harlan stepped off the bus, Emma stalled. Even in the fading summer light, she saw in Harlan what she had seen in Lucille the first time she’d gone away and come back. “Oh,” she mumbled miserably, “he’s pissing straight now.”
Not only that—Harlan was taller and heavier, and there was a shadow of dark hair above his upper lip. Gone was the carefree, arm-swinging gait, replaced now by a confident swagger historically hitched to men who frequented pool halls and whorehouses, drank whiskey before noon, and kept a lit cigarette dangling from the knotted corners of their mouths. Those men carried switchblades in their coat pockets, pistols stuffed behind the waistbands of their trousers. They smoked dope, had women in every city and children they would never claim. Those men worshipped jewelry, money, and pussy. They lived fast and died young.
Harlan opened his arms. “Hey, Mama, Daddy,” he called sluggishly.
Sam took his hand and pumped it exuberantly. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”
Emma folded her arms across her chest. “Hello, Harlan,” she offered coolly.
Oblivious to the chill, Harlan leaned in and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “Did you miss me?”
Emma turned her face away from his alcohol-soaked breath. “Um-hum.”
Harlan chuckled, kissed her again, and started up the steps. Sam followed close behind, happily lugging his son’s suitcase.
Later, over a hefty plate of boiled potatoes, pig tails, and black-eyed peas, Harlan regaled them with stories from the road. He went on and on about the venues, the audiences, sleeping on the bus, pissing and shitting in the woods, and that time the bus broke down beneath a big sky. Lucille had spat on the ground and called that place the “middle of nowhere,” but it was beautiful and green and quiet in a way Harlan didn’t know the world could be. He left out the b
lue-eyed black woman and all the other ladies who followed, and the reefer.
Emma listened quietly, suspiciously. Sam, however, was so enthralled that he forgot about his food, leaning over his plate, lapping up every word that tumbled out of Harlan’s mouth. When Sam finally scooped a potato into his mouth, it was cold.
Harlan dropped his fork into the center of the plate, fell back into the chair, and slapped his gut like an old, sated man. “That was good, Mama, thanks,” he yawned.
“Yeah, baby, that was good,” Sam chimed, smacking his lips.
Emma nodded, rose from her chair, and silently cleared the table.
Harlan cocked his eyebrow. “You okay, Mama?”
“Yeah, you okay?” Sam echoed.
“I’m just fine,” Emma responded tersely, evidence that she was not fine, not fine at all.
Father and son exchanged a cautious glance. When Emma was out of earshot, Sam scooted his chair closer to Harlan. “So, tell me ’bout the gals.”
* * *
That night, Emma’s nose caught the scent of something foul. She sat up, sniffing the air and rubbing sleep from her eyes. The scent was unmistakable: reefer.
“Not in my goddamn house,” she grumbled angrily, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “Get up!”
They found Harlan in bed, his back propped against two pillows, one hand behind his head, the other holding a joint.
“What’s wrong?” he sputtered when they rushed into the room.
Emma’s eyes narrowed; she aimed a stiff index finger at the joint. “Is that what I think it is?”
A wisp of a grin surfaced on Harlan’s lips. “That depends. What do you think it is?”
“Now look here—” Sam started just as Emma exploded.
“Don’t you sass me, Harlan Elliott! You’re not too old for the switch, you know!” She turned wild eyes on Sam. “Tell him!”
Sam’s lips flapped, but before a word could cross his tongue, Emma was shrieking again.
“Dope? Dope! In my house? You think ’cause you got your dick wet, you grown? Well let me tell you something, Negro, you must have left your whole mind down south somewhere, if you think you gonna sit up in my house smoking dope!”
The Book of Harlan Page 7