The Harlem Charade

by Natasha Tarpley

  Jin took out her notebook. “We want the truth.”

  “Yeah, starting with your relationship with the three guys who’ve been trying to kill us,” Elvin piped up. “Are you working with them? Did you set us up?”

  Verta Mae raised her eyebrows. “And which three guys would this be?”

  “Your coworker, Pugnacio Green, a graffiti artist named, T.J., and this man.” Elvin pulled out Isabel’s photograph of the Invisible 7 and pointed to the older man he and Alex had seen with Pugnacio. “Who is this?”

  Verta Mae shook her head sadly. “I know all of them. And no, we are certainly not in cahoots. The man you pointed to is Clarence Aubrey. I was hoping that he would’ve healed and moved on, but it looks as though he’s still holding on to the hurt he felt all those years ago,” she sighed. “Clarence was one of the younger members of the Invisible 7. He started hanging out with us when he was still in high school. He was a talented enough painter but certainly not a prodigy like Henriette. What he lacked in talent, he made up for in his passion for the arts. He eventually became an excellent arts administrator, but he’d had his heart set on being an artist.

  “Clarence graduated from high school the spring before the Harlem on My Mind exhibit went up at the Met. I presume you’ve already done your research on the exhibit.” Verta Mae paused to look over the rim of her tiny glasses at them. Elvin, Jin, and Alex nodded, and she continued. “When the news about the vandalized paintings at the Met broke, Clarence started receiving rejection letters from all the art schools and internships he’d applied to. And he placed the blame squarely on Henriette and the Invisible 7.

  “It was tough for all the members of the Invisible 7, though I admit I was luckier than the others. None of them could find work. Nobody wanted to risk hiring a radical. But I’m not convinced that the fallout from the exhibition was Clarence’s main problem. His work needed a bit more time to develop. I encouraged him to focus on creating a few really strong pieces to bolster his portfolio, and to reapply to the various programs in a year or so.

  “But Clarence refused to let go of this idea that Henriette had ruined his life. It was a tiny ember of rage burning in his heart, which he’s continued to tend all this time. I’m not surprised that he’s been seduced by a trickster like Markum who, with all his paper-thin promises and false hopes, has added fuel to Clarence’s fire. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything Clarence is willing to do for a chance to get back at Henriette and redeem the life he feels he’s lost.”

  Elvin leaned forward. “What about Pugnacio and T.J.? How do they fit into the picture?”

  “Both of them are self-serving, conniving opportunists,” Verta Mae said sharply. “As you may know, Pugnacio is Clarence’s adopted son. I hired Pugnacio as an administrative assistant here at the museum as a favor to Clarence, and I’ve regretted it every day since. Pugnacio is after my job, even though he doesn’t have the sense to fill a thimble, or even much of an interest in the arts. No, his passion is power, at any cost. And T.J. is Pugnacio’s supposed protégé, a kid he plucked from the streets. He claims to want to expose him to more opportunities and a better way of life, but really, I think Pugnacio keeps T.J. around to do his dirty work.”

  Alex shook her head. “Like Jin said earlier, we actually came here to tell you that Pugnacio, Clarence, and T.J. are planning something. You’re in danger.”

  Verta Mae sighed. “In my life, the line between friend and enemy has often been blurry. For that, I must accept the lion’s share of blame. The choices I’ve made have not always made me the most popular person.”

  “The Harlem on My Mind exhibit,” Jin said as threads of the story began to weave together in her mind like a tapestry. “You were working at the Met when Henriette vandalized those paintings and you were a member of the Invisible 7—why didn’t you stand up for your friends? Why didn’t you defend them when you knew they weren’t the troublemakers and criminals that people thought they were? Why didn’t you tell the truth about the Invisible 7?” she challenged.

  Verta Mae grimaced. “It was because of me, and my pleading with the museum’s board not to press charges that Henriette wasn’t arrested and taken to jail. I got Clarence a job with the Cultural Affairs department of New York City, and I slipped Jacob Morrow’s poetry to the publisher of an independent press here in Harlem. But you’re absolutely right, young lady. When it came down to it, I did not go out on a limb for the Invisible 7. Though I have some regrets about that now, I chose then, and will continue to choose to save myself.” Verta Mae locked eyes with each of them from across her desk. “And I suggest that you three choose to do the same.”

  Alex stood up abruptly. “I think our work here is done. You’re no better than the rest of them. Everyone’s just out for themselves.”

  As they headed toward the door, Verta Mae called, “It wasn’t all for naught, you know.” The three stopped and turned to listen. “As a result of all the protests and heated debate surrounding Harlem on My Mind, neighborhood artists were inspired to create institutions that would celebrate and exhibit their work in a way that respected their voices. I was one of the founders of this museum that you’re standing in at this very moment. People have their own ways of accomplishing very similar goals. Remember, things are not always as they seem. Eventually, every invisible thing becomes visible.”

  With that, the three headed out of Verta Mae’s office, and immediately began to compare notes about what they had just heard. They were so engrossed in their discussion that they didn’t hear the soft padding of a pair of high-top sneakers treading behind them.

  “Even when she’s trying to be helpful, that Verta Mae Sneed still gives me the creeps,” Alex proclaimed once they had left the stillness of the museum, and found a concrete bench outside to sit on.

  “Yeah, especially that part at the end when she said, ‘Every invisible thing eventually becomes visible.’ What was that about?” Jin asked.

  Elvin’s ears perked up. “That reminds me of what I wanted to tell you guys about the Invisibles book. I think it will help us find the paintings.” He pulled The Life of the Invisibles out of his coat pocket. “I’ve been reading through this book ever since Dr. Whitmore gave it to me, but I could never figure out what the poems meant. Whenever I have a problem, my mom always tells me to shift the perspective, to try another angle, another way of thinking about it. So yesterday, I tried doing that and I came up with an idea. The title of the book is The Life of the Invisibles, right? I started to think, what if it’s not the poet or the people who are invisible, but the paintings?”

  “That makes sense in a lot of ways,” Jin interjected. “Even though the murals by the Invisible 7 are technically visible, they kind of fade into the landscape. Sometimes they even get destroyed like the properties on Markum’s list, so that nobody sees them anymore. People forget about the paintings, and they also forget about what was in the painting—the events, the places, and even their neighbors.”

  “Exactly!” Elvin said. “And if the book is about the ‘lives’ of the paintings, then wouldn’t the poems in the book be a way for them to tell their own stories?”

  “Just to be clear, are you saying that the poems are written from the perspective of the paintings?” Alex looked confused.

  Elvin bobbed his head up and down excitedly. “I think that through the poems, the paintings are asking us to remember them, to notice them. They want us to see them. Take this poem as an example.” Elvin opened the book to the poem about the Magic Skillet and read it aloud. “ ‘Meet me at the Skillet/They’ll surely make us something good to eat/I won’t have far to travel/I’m just across the street.’ Get it? That’s where the mural that Rad showed us is—across the street from the Magic Skillet,” he pointed out.

  “So in order to find Henriette’s missing paintings, maybe we just have to follow the right poems,” Alex said, catching on.

  “I think so,” Elvin said hesitantly. “I haven’t exactly tested the theory out.”


  Jin reached for the book and began flipping through it. “Listen to this,” she read. “ ‘In a writer’s garden/a place of quiet repose/alongside the flowers, creativity grows.’ Hmm,” Jin thought for a minute. “The community garden where the painting was found—it’s named after the writer Zora Neale Hurston. And repose, that means to rest or relax.”

  “Like on a bench,” Alex added.

  “Exactly! And the part about creativity growing alongside the flowers … Flowers grow up from the ground. Remember, Jarvis found the painting buried in the ground next to a bench. It’s a little bit of a stretch, but it could make sense,” Jin mused. “Let’s try out a few more,” she suggested.

  They continued working through the poems in the book until they had identified most of the murals that they had seen on Rad’s walking tour.

  “I think this one is about the hospital mural,” Jin said, and read the poem at the end of the book to Alex and Elvin.

  “Isabel told us that the hospital mural was Henriette’s last known painting, but there’s one more poem after it.” Alex flipped over the last page.

  Perched above the door,

  In a place horses once called home,

  The Harlem Goat now stands watch

  Over these four walls that contain both

  The beginning and the end.

  Tug his beard and he will

  Give you the key

  To unlock the chamber

  Where once there was

  Peace without distinction, unity within difference.

  Encased in this place, my heart still beats,

  Faint as an ember,

  A tiny seed,

  A dream to be uncovered.

  Remember, remember.

  “A place horses once called home, goat perched above the door,” Elvin thought aloud. “I remember where I’ve seen that before. When we were on the mural tour, Rad took us to that abandoned church building that used to be the headquarters of the Invisible 7. He told us that it was originally a stable, so that could be our horses’ home. And wasn’t there a stone goat head above the door?”

  “Sounds like that could be it,” Alex suggested. “Let’s check it out.”

  They hopped in a cab and headed for the small brick building on 122nd Street. As the car stopped and started in the heavy traffic, Elvin’s stomach began to churn. He rolled down the window and stuck his head outside. The day was brisk but sunny, and he should have felt exhilarated to be finally closing in on the missing paintings, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Even the prickling hairs on his arms thought so.

  When the cab finally pulled up to the curb, Alex shot out and pointed to a small stone carving above the stable door. “There’s our goat!” She jumped up to try to touch it, but it was too high. “How’re we going to tug its beard?”

  Jin glanced around and spotted a bodega a few doors down. “I’ll be right back.” A few minutes later, she returned carrying two empty plastic milk crates. “We always have these lying around our store. One of us should be able to climb on them to reach.”

  “I’ll do it. I’m the tallest in my boots,” Alex volunteered.

  When the sidewalk was relatively clear and they were sure there were no police in sight, Jin and Elvin stacked the crates and held them steady while Alex climbed on top. The crates gave her just enough height to reach the tip of the goat’s beard. She tugged it, waited, and tugged again. “Is this goat supposed to start talking or something, ’cause I’m getting nothing here. What does the poem say?”

  Elvin took his hands off the crate to flip open the book. “It just says, ‘tug its beard, and it will give you the key.’ ”

  “Maybe something’s supposed to happen with its mouth when you tug the beard.” Alex tugged the beard once more and craned her neck back to look into the goat’s mouth. “Wait a second, I think I see something. There’s an opening in its mouth. It looks like someone just hammered out the concrete because it’s really uneven.” She stood on tiptoe so that she could slip her fingers into the jagged opening. As she did, her balance shifted and the crates toppled over. Alex landed hard, twisting her ankle in the process.

  “Are you okay?” Jin rushed over to help.

  Alex winced. “I’m fine. But thanks a lot, Elvin! You were supposed to be holding the crates,” she said as she rocked back and forth on the sidewalk, cradling her ankle.

  “Sorry! I was looking at the book,” Elvin apologized.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jin said. She ran down to the bodega again and returned with a plastic bag filled with ice, which she handed to Alex. “Here, put this on your ankle,” she said, and sat down beside her on the sidewalk. “Maybe we ought to call it quits for today.”

  “No way! We’re too close to give up,” Alex insisted. “The goat’s mouth was empty, but it looked like someone could’ve taken something out before we got here.”

  “Maybe we have the wrong goat,” Jin suggested. “What others do we know about?”

  “What goat don’t we know about?” Elvin quipped. “There’s this one here. My grandfather was called the Goat. The goat was the original symbol of Harlem way back when. The Life of the Invisibles has one on its back cover. And last, but not least, there’s the goat Pez dispenser that my grandfather gave me.” Elvin took the toy out of his pocket. “My grandfather told me in the hospital that he hoped that the goat would tell me his story one day, but this thing never even worked.”

  “Halmoni wouldn’t sell a broken Pez dispenser.” Jin grabbed the dispenser to inspect it. “See, something’s just jammed,” she said, and gave the goat’s beard a firm tug. The head flew off the dispenser, and a small metal object clattered to the sidewalk.

  “The key!” Alex gasped.

  “I guess that’s what my grandfather meant about the goat telling me his story,” Elvin surmised. “He must’ve taken it from the goat up there on the door and put it here for safekeeping when he saw Pugnacio and T.J. staking out the community garden. Maybe he thought that if they knew about the painting there, they might also discover the key.”

  “But we still don’t know what the key opens,” Alex pointed out.

  “What does the poem say next?” Jin asked.

  Elvin read the next lines of the poem. “ ‘To unlock the chamber where there once was peace without distinction, unity within difference.’ ”

  Alex repeated several phrases aloud to herself, and then paused to think about them. “You know, the peace and unity parts kind of sound like what the Invisible 7 were all about,” she said. “What if the chamber is literally the room where they came together?”

  “And maybe the next part about the heart still beating is a metaphor for the paintings. The poem is saying that the paintings are alive, and they’re waiting for us to uncover them, to remember them,” Jin said excitedly.

  “You could be right.” Elvin flipped back to the first poem in the book. “It says, ‘That which is invisible lives … visible to those who choose to see.’ ”

  “I think this is it, guys! I think this is where the paintings are!” Alex leapt to her feet, immediately regretting it afterward, as sharp arrows of pain shot through her ankle.

  “Alex, you are not okay. We need to take you to a doctor,” Jin said, concerned.

  “After we find the paintings,” Alex said through clenched teeth.

  “So if this is where the paintings are, how do we get inside?” Elvin asked, looking up at the abandoned building.

  “Give me the key,” Alex said. When Jin handed it over, Alex hobbled up to the front door to try the padlock. “No luck. We’re going to have to break in. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.” She winked.

  “But the fire escape is on the front of this building. We’ll never get away with it,” argued Elvin.

  “We’ll just have to go around back.” Alex started toward a chain-link fence on one side of the building. “There’s a hole big enough to squeeze through here,” she said.

&
nbsp; Jin looked worried. “I don’t like this. We don’t know what’s in there.”

  “I always carry pepper spray,” Alex said, and pulled a small black aerosol can out of her pocket. “Besides, we’re only going in to take a quick look.”

  After surveying the street for cops, she led the way through the chain-link fence to the back of the building. On the first floor, there were a few partially boarded-up windows. The wood on one of them was peeling back like it was about to fall off. Elvin reached up to jiggle the part that he could reach from the ground. “It’s loose.” It didn’t take much to pry the old, weathered wood from the frame, exposing a partially broken window underneath. Elvin studied the window. “Brick,” he said after a few minutes, like a surgeon ordering instruments during an operation.

  Alex found one among the debris in the building’s backyard. “Don’t worry, I’ll have my parents reimburse the owner for this,” she told Jin, who looked like she was about to start hyperventilating.

  She handed the brick to Elvin, who removed his coat and wrapped the brick inside. Then he swung it at the remaining glass, which fell away easily. He laid his coat across the bottom of the sill and slid through the window.

  There was silence for what seemed like several long minutes.

  “Are you all right in there?” Jin whispered loudly.

  Elvin’s head suddenly popped up in front of her. “All clear.” The girls followed him through the window.

  The air inside the building felt damp and smelled musty, like wet earth. Alex, Jin, and Elvin all switched on the flashlights on their phones and shined them around the room. They were in what used to be a kitchen, with a stove and a refrigerator still in place.

  “Over there.” Alex pointed toward a doorway that led to a narrow hall. They walked down the hall, pushing aside cobwebs and ignoring the sound of scurrying creatures at their feet, until they got to a closed door at the end. Alex, pepper spray at the ready, gave the door a light push and it squeaked open.