The Book of Harlan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Harlan’s face warmed with amusement. “Aww, Mama, this ain’t dope. I seen dope, and this ain’t it.” He turned to his father. “Pop, will you please tell her that it’s no big deal?”

  “I think—”

  “You know like I know,” Emma interrupted. “You better not ever smoke that shit in my house again.”

  And with that, she stormed from the room, leaving Sam standing there looking at the tops of his feet. Finally, when he was sure there was no threat of Emma interrupting him again, he mumbled, “Listen to your mother, boy,” and walked out of the bedroom.

  * * *

  Emma lay in bed seething until the sky paled and the streets came alive with the chattering of domestics hurrying to catch the downtown bus.

  After Sam headed off to work in Greenwich, Connecticut—a town he claimed to be so wealthy that the butchers wrapped meat in hundred-dollar bills—Emma washed and put away the breakfast dishes, wrote a letter home to her mother, put a roast in the oven, swept and mopped the floors, and played Chopin’s “Marche Funèbre”—three times.

  When she looked at the clock and saw that it was half past one and Harlan still hadn’t made an appearance, she went up to his bedroom, shook him awake, and picked up where they had left off.

  “Aww, Mama,” Harlan whined, “why you making such a big deal about this? All the musicians smoke it.”

  “I don’t do it,” Emma snapped.

  “Of course you don’t,” Harlan remarked smugly. “That’s because you ain’t no real musician, you just a piano teacher.”

  If Harlan had spat in her face or called her a dog, it still wouldn’t have been as cutting.

  “What did you say?”

  Harlan saw too late the hurt crouching in her eyes. “Mama, I didn’t mean—”

  Emma raised her hand. “Don’t say another word.” She walked stiffly from the room.

  * * *

  That night, Sam came home to a dark and quiet house. Harlan was out; Emma was in bed, under the covers, sobbing.

  Sam tried and failed to pry from her the name of the person who had hurt her so badly, but Emma refused to say; she just clung to him and wept.

  Chapter 32

  Pussy: hypnotic and narcotic. It had toppled dynasties, initiated wars, transformed boys into men, men into idiots, led husbands away from their good wives, turned sons against their dedicated mothers—had Harlan believing he was kin to Christopher Columbus, as if he’d discovered sex, as if it hadn’t existed before he was born.

  Fool.

  Four years of steady fucking, combined with a daily, healthy dosage of reefer and Scotch, had raised in Harlan a level of conceit that people (mostly grown folk) found difficult to endure.

  Him, coming to rehearsal late, stinking of weed, liquor, and self-regard, boldly directing the great Lucille Hegamin on just how she should sing her own damn songs.

  Scandalous.

  Lucille had kept Harlan on after the tour, not because he was such a great guitarist—he was adequate at best—but because she loved his mother like a sister. But even love has limits, and Harlan had managed to breach every one.

  In September of ’37, four years after Lucille first took Harlan out on the road and returned him to Harlem with his nose wide open and narrow ass propped high on his shoulders, Lucille decided that enough was enough.

  Harlan stumbled into rehearsal, high and late, and Lucille wagged an angry finger at him, yelling, “Just turn your black ass around and go on back where you came from.”

  A lopsided grin rippled across his face as he continued to move unsteadily toward her, bouncing his hands in the air. “I . . . know, I know I’m late, but lemme tell you what happened—”

  “Nah, ain’t interested. You’re done,” she spat.

  “Is it about the fine? I got the money,” he slurred, slapping the pockets of his pants. “Oh yeah, I moved it.” He chuckled, lifting the black Stetson from his head and removing a few dollars from the interior band. “Here you go.” Harlan flung the bills at her.

  Lucille watched in open-mouthed astonishment as the money fluttered down to the scuffed wooden floor.

  The musicians shifted uncomfortably, their eyes skating between Harlan, Lucille, and the wilted dollar bills lying at her feet.

  “Out. Get out and don’t come back,” Lucille ordered in a trembling voice.

  “Psshhh,” Harlan sounded, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

  She flew at him, rushed him like a linebacker, howling, “I said get the hell out!”

  Les Parker, the clarinet player, caught her by the arm and swung her out of striking distance. “Calm down, Ms. Lucille.”

  Harlan reared back. “You serious?” He was genuinely miffed. “I gave you the money, didn’t I?”

  Les said, “Just go man, okay?”

  “But I gave her the money.”

  “You’re fired,” Lucille rasped, trying to wiggle free of Les’s grip. “Get the hell out!”

  Harlan looked around the room, helplessly searching for support, but none of the men would meet his pleading gaze. “So that’s the way it is, huh?”

  “Yeah, that’s the way it is,” Lucille shot back.

  They stood glaring at one another until Harlan arrogantly cocked his Stetson to the side of his head. “Forget you then. Forget all of you.”

  * * *

  Harlan spent the remainder of the day roaming through Harlem, dragging Lucille’s name through the streets like a mangy dog.

  Somewhere between the Midnight Bar and the pool hall, his guitar went missing. Lost, stolen, or gambled away in some backroom game of craps—he couldn’t recall.

  By the time he got home, he was so intoxicated he could barely manage the steps. After several attempts, he finally reached the front door, but was unable to fit his key into the lock and so gave up, slumped down onto the stoop, and promptly fell asleep. His Stetson toppled off his head and careened down onto the sidewalk. Without missing a beat, a passing pedestrian scooped up the hat, placed it in the crook of his arm, and hurried away.

  An hour later, Sam arrived home from work to find Harlan slouched over and snoring. He had a mind to leave him right where he slept, but he knew Emma would never forgive him. He hooked his hands under Harlan’s armpits, dragged him into the house, and dropped him in the hall. The commotion startled Emma, who was in her bedroom changing the linen. She appeared on the top landing—head crowded with pink, foam rollers—brandishing a hammer.

  “Oh my goodness, what happened to him?” she exclaimed.

  “He’s fine, just drunk.”

  “Are you sure?” Emma checked Harlan’s face and neck for bruises. Finding none, she sighed with relief.

  “Hey, you been crying?” Sam asked.

  Yes, Emma had. The tip of her nose was as bright as maraschino cherry and her eyes were puffy. Her lips quivered. “Oh Sam, it’s awful,” she sniffed. “Bessie Smith is dead.”

  PART IV

  Coming to America

  Chapter 33

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1937

  BESSIE SMITH, QUEEN OF THE BLUES,

  HAS CHANTED HER LAST INDIGO LAMENT . . .

  Beneath the headline of the week-old newspaper was Bessie Smith’s smiling black face. Ethel studied the photo and with a shrug of her shoulders muttered, “So what,” and then folded it in half and laid it across a white dinner plate. “Gwen! Gwen! Your tea is getting cold, gal!” Ethel’s shrill voice echoed through the apartment like an alarm bell.

  “I’m coming!” the girl called back. From her bedroom, she soft-shoed her way through the living room and into the kitchen. Just about five feet four inches in height, thick-legged, the color of warm honey, Gwen was an exact replica of her mother at that age: fourteen.

  When Gwen made her raucous entrance into the kitchen, Ethel turned on her, wagging the spatula. “Stop all that noise, girl!” she scolded. “Have some respect for the people downstairs.”

  “Sorry,” Gwen mumbled.

  Ethel smiled in spite o
f herself. “What me going do with you, heh?” She slipped the spatula into the frying pan and carefully flipped the half dollar–sized Barbadian staple made out of water, flour, sugar, nutmeg, and baking powder. Bakes were usually served with fried fish, but there was no fish that morning, so Gwen would have to make do with bacon.

  Ethel lifted the bakes from the pan and placed them on the newspaper to drain. She watched, unbothered, as the oil seeped across Bessie’s face, then set the plate on the table before Gwen.

  “Where’s your food, Mum?”

  “I already ate. Hurry up or you’ll be late.” Ethel retrieved her teacup from the table and went to stand in the spray of sunlight coming through the window. Even after a decade, she was still amazed at how the air could be cold even when the sky was clear and the sun dazzlingly bright. In Barbados, clear or cloudy, rain or shine—it was always hot. Shuddering, she pulled the panels of her robe closed over her chest.

  Ten years?

  Ethel shook her head in wonder. The decade had run off like sand through a sieve. Quick. When she’d left Barbados she hadn’t one gray hair—now she had a headful. “I picked up half of them on the trip over,” Ethel chuckled to herself.

  Gwen stopped chewing. “Mum?”

  “I’m just talking to myself.” The memories of the crossing, those first hard years, were still fresh in Ethel’s mind; she could recall them with ease, as if she’d just stepped off the ship last week.

  It was December. It was a Tuesday. The wharf was packed with weeping and cheering people waving handkerchiefs and miniature Barbadian flags. Ethel’s young daughters, Irene and Gwendolyn, hadn’t known that they were supposed to feel sad about leaving Barbados, and so smiled and waved back at the crowd. Ethel thought that was okay because she had enough tears for all three of them.

  When the SS Munargo was so far out to sea that Barbados was little more than a shadow on the water, the passengers turned their attention to the setting sun. When the fiery ball disappeared, they focused their sights on the ever-darkening sky, the tremendous ocean rolling beneath it, and forced themselves to imagine how life would be in America.

  Two weeks later, the ship floated into New York on a frigid, cloudy morning. The Hudson River was swimming with ice and tugboats. Overhead, seagulls squawked and swooped frantically across the slate sky.

  Layered in the scratchy wool blankets provided by the shipping company and every stitch of clothing they owned, the passengers rushed on deck. They gasped at the cold, and the sound floated out of their mouths in frosty white clouds.

  When the Statue of Liberty came into view, some passengers broke out into song: “Oh beautiful for spacious skies . . . ” Others dropped to their knees in gratitude, threw their hands up in celebration, grabbed hold of their loved ones and squeezed.

  Little Gwen, just four years old at the time, glanced shyly at Lady Liberty, pressed her cheek against Ethel’s thigh, and softly chanted, “America, America, America . . .”

  Chapter 34

  Aubrey Gill had only one suit. It was navy blue. He only wore this suit on special occasions—night-watch service and Easter Sunday. The day he went to collect his family from Ellis Island was as special as any of those days, so Aubrey donned that blue suit, sprinkled a few drops of Old Spice cologne on the lapels, and headed off to Manhattan.

  In the receiving area, upon seeing their family members, people whooped with joy and broke into dead runs, flinging themselves into the arms of their beloveds.

  Ethel watched in wonder.

  Extravagant expressions of affection were not her way. Not the way of any Barbadian she knew. Barbadians prided themselves on their reserve, just like that of the island’s ruling royal English family.

  When Ethel spotted Aubrey’s six-foot-six frame floating above the throng of people, she gently squeezed her daughters’ hands. “There’s your daddy.”

  “Daddy!” Irene yelped with excitement.

  “Daddy!” Gwen echoed, even though she had no memory of Aubrey, who had left Barbados when she was just three months old.

  Aubrey and four other fathers in earshot turned around, faces plastered with wide smiles.

  Both hands waving, Aubrey hurried toward his family. Husband and wife beamed at each other. “I glad to see yuh,” he said.

  Ethel curled her fingers around his forearm. “I glad to see you too.”

  Aubrey rested his hand on top of hers and grinned down at his daughters. “Who deez pretty ladies, Ethel?”

  Irene blushed. “It’s me, Daddy!”

  “Me? Me who?” Aubrey laughed.

  “Irene!” Irene cried.

  Aubrey pressed his palms against his cheeks and rocked on his heels in mock amazement. “My little Irene? Can’t be!”

  Irene nodded vigorously.

  “And this little one. What is her name?”

  Irene’s face went slack, her tone turned serious. “Daddy, don’t you remember Gwendolyn?”

  Aubrey winked at Ethel, who pressed a calloused palm over her smile.

  “Are you telling me that this is Gwenie?”

  “Yes, it is,” Irene responded earnestly.

  Aubrey bellowed with laughter and scooped both girls up into his arms. “You think I could forget you all?” He planted kisses on their foreheads, then looked at Ethel. “They’re sweet enough, heh?”

  * * *

  Their new home was located in Brooklyn, on a long east-west street called Fulton that was lined with dreary gray and redbrick mixed-use buildings. Monday through Saturday the sidewalks teemed with peddlers, hawking all manner of pickled things, jams, vegetables, freshly baked bread, and hard and soft cheeses.

  The street itself was a hazard. Daily, some unwitting pedestrian was mowed down by a horse and buggy, bicyclist, kid on a pogo stick, or trolley snaking its way along the latticework of silver tracks. At night when all other Brooklyn streets had been put to sleep, Fulton still sparked and sizzled with life: marauding stray dogs, ravenous rats, and drunkards loudly serenading the streetlamps.

  Located above a butcher shop, the apartment originally intended for one family was now rented out as rooms, accommodating three families.

  Their room was average size, consisting of a pair of double beds, one chest of drawers, one closet, and a pale blue wooden rocking chair. The dull oak floors were pocked and dimpled with wear, and the once-white walls were yellow with age and veined with cracks. At the center of the distended ceiling hung a single sputtering lightbulb.

  Certainly not the home Ethel had hoped for.

  Aubrey saw disappointment sweep across his wife’s face. He dropped his head, shoved his hands deep into the wells of his trouser pockets, and mumbled ashamedly, “It’s just until we can do better.”

  Ethel nodded, forced a smile, and heeded her mother’s warning: When you get there, I don’t care if he living in a box, you hold your tongue. No quarreling, hear? Yuh lucky he sending for you and the chirren. You see how many wives here without husbands? How many women here without men?

  The lure of the American dollar had slowly emptied Barbados and her sister islands of most of their able-bodied men. Soon enough, the women left behind looked up from their bubbling pots of rice, from hands plunged deep into galvanized tubs of soapy water, up from the scaling of fish and plaiting of hair, and were astonished to find that their men were all gone.

  On Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings, fingers banded in rings of Guyanese gold, the women filled church pews, babies propped on their laps, older children sitting at their hips silently watching their mothers flip frantically through battered Bibles in search of a psalm that could provide comfort for a lonely soul awaiting the return of her man.

  At the end of the American harvesting and planting seasons, some Caribbean men did return, and those women who could steal away from work to meet the ships did. Clothed in vibrantly colored dresses and skirts, they swarmed the wharf like hungry rodents, congesting the air with their spirited chatter, perfume, and scented hair grease.


  For some, however, the joy was fleeting. Not all of the men came home. Within weeks, the sad truth arrived by post, telegram, or the worst delivery of all—gossip—advising the waiting woman that she should pawn her wedding ring and get on with her life, because he had gotten on with his in the land of the free and home of the brave.

  But not Ethel’s husband. Not Aubrey Gill. When his letter arrived, it contained American greenbacks and said: Buy passage for you and the girls and come.

  So Ethel did as her mother told her—held her tongue as best she could—and set both feet in the well of gratitude.

  She looked at the four blank walls. “No window?”

  “It’s just for a little while, Ethel,” Aubrey repeated.

  Ethel bobbed her head thoughtfully. “Who in the other rooms?”

  Aubrey pointed at the wall to his left. “A family from Trinidad. Husband, wife, daughter, and son.” He aimed his chin at the wall to the right. “A couple from Haiti.”

  Ethel frowned. A fine way to start a new life, she thought, pulling back the dull brown bedspread to examine the cleanliness of the sheets. She did not like Trinidadians. Her baby sister had married one. Three years and two children later, she was running for her life, the husband hot on her heels, swinging a cutlass. Trickster-dadians, Ethel called those people.

  She reached for the pillow, raised it to her nose, and sniffed. The Haitians would be another problem altogether. Black-magic dabblers, voodoo practitioners fond of raising the dead, like Jesus Christ himself. Cross a Haitian on Tuesday, wake up blind Wednesday morning, Ethel always said.

  She grunted and dropped the pillow onto the bed. She would be polite, but she would never call them friends. She and those women would never, ever be souly-gals. If they happened in while she was a preparing a meal, Ethel would offer them food—but she would never accept a grain of rice from any of them.

  “Where’s the toilet?”

  “Down the hall,” Aubrey announced excitedly.