Dancing In The Dark

by Caryl Phillips

  She blames her grandmother. After all it was she who, after her mother died giving birth to her younger sister, raised the pair of them as her own with the authority of the Lord as the stick to beat them with. From the age of three, when Lottie passed into her grandmother’s care, Saturday afternoons were given over to the straightening iron for the following day involved church. And so began the weekly ritual in which a terrified Lottie would be forced to submit to the agony of her grandmother’s attempts to tame her kinky head. Everything was about appearances, and her grandmother made it clear that no kin of hers was going to look like they should be walking barefoot. When her sister was less than two years old, she too was introduced to the ritual, but Florence’s hair took nice and easy, which only made her grandmother all the more determined to conquer Lottie’s head. Florence had “good” hair that flowed out to her shoulders, and inch by inch, her grandmother teased it down her younger sister’s back. However, despite years of this tugging and pulling and rubbing and creaming, her own hair remained stubbornly short and knotted. Of course, her resentment of the Saturday afternoon ritual meant that Lottie never truly engaged with the Lord’s day, although she could not admit to this. However, what caused her the most sorrow was the fact that over time a chasm grew between herself and Florence. While she could never bring herself to blame her sister for the death of their mother in childbirth, she took exception to the manner in which Florence flaunted her tresses and silently mocked her less fortunate older sister. Their grandmother seemed to delight in reminding them both that Florence resembled their father, with the same light blue eyes and “good” hair, but neither of them knew whether this was true or not for neither sister had ever set eyes on the man. They knew (but how they knew they were not sure) that he was a tall, good-looking gambling man from across the river who worked the boats, often going down as far as New Orleans in search of his thrills, and they had also heard the persistent rumors that he had once killed a man. But over the years the gulf between the two sisters grew wide and they seldom spoke about their father, or their mother, or about anything that mattered. As a young girl Lottie sang and danced, which was her way of hiding her wounded self, while Florence simply stood still but seemed pleased with herself that she seemed to be attracting the attention of strutting older boys. Hardly a week passed by without their anxious grandmother taking Florence to one side and chiding her for her wanton behavior, but soon little else seemed to matter to Flo, not church, not her big sister, and certainly nothing that the ailing old woman might say to her. When their grandmother finally died, leaving the two teenage girls alone with nobody to look out for them, Lottie tried to play both mother and grandmother but it was too late. Florence, her hair now down to her waist, had grown as wild as her grandmother had feared, and fasttalking Teddy Washington had already entered her life with his gun-toting, mannish ways. He had long been determined to make young Flo his woman, and within a month of their grandmother’s funeral the child in Flo’s thirteen-year-old belly suggested that Mr. Washington had already succeeded. A year later Lottie took off for Chicago, and a life on the stage, but by then her sister was already carrying her second child and looking ten years older than her true age. Lottie found decent lodgings in Chicago, and a job in a show that presented colored people in a respectable light. She also found a woman who was prepared to take on the challenge of her hair, but after eagerly accepting a great deal of Lottie’s money, this woman was ultimately forced to admit defeat. However, some men still found Lottie attractive company and sought her out, but the young dancer was not in any hurry to find herself attached to a husband. She finally kindled an affection for the Lord, and the church became her constant companion until Mr. Sam Thompson began to appear at the theater each evening. After every performance he made a habit of waiting for her by the stage door, but not with plaintive, hopeful eyes like the other men who loitered in the narrow alleyway. This man waited with a silver-topped cane in his gloved hand, and a chin held high, and eyes clear and bright, and a voice so deep it sounded like a train rumbling by.

  Eventually Florence had three children, all girls, and all by Mr. Washington, but before the third child declared itself, her beau disappeared and she had no idea if he would ever return to her. To begin with she asked around, venturing into drinking dens that she knew he used, and although she was clearly big with Mr. Washington’s child this did not deter wet-lipped men from sidling up to her and offering to make her and her children comfortable. And then it struck her: Teddy Washington must be either dead or in prison for nobody would dare talk to Teddy Washington’s girl in this manner if there was even the slightest possibility of his returning. A desperate Florence needed money to put food on the table to feed her two children, plus the one in her belly, but she could not bring herself to write to Lottie, who she heard had just married some swanky colored businessman in Chicago. And so Florence went back to Willie’s Foxtrap and asked a balding, thickset nigger sport named Duke the same question that she had asked him the week before, but the man had still not seen or heard from Teddy Washington. This time Florence sighed and looked Duke up and down for she understood that whether she liked it or not she would need the protection of a man, good or bad, if she was going to get through this life. And so, after the birth of Teddy Washington’s third child, Duke started to pay her manly attention, running his fingers through her long black hair, and whispering in her ear, and then he too walked clear out of her life, for high-pitched wailing from another man’s offspring was not something that he had bargained for. But other men did not seem to mind. They left crumpled bills on the side table before they hit the door and disappeared back onto the streets leaving Flo to endure the resentful eyes of her children, who by now were becoming familiar with the uncomfortable weight of the word “company.”

  Mr. Sam Thompson broke the news to her late one weekday afternoon. Lottie was sitting in the drawing room readying herself to leave for the theater when Mr. Thompson returned home early from work and sat down opposite her. For the longest while he said nothing, and he simply stared at his wife as though unable to release whatever it was that was dammed up inside of himself. And then he spoke quietly, but with a gravity that was meant to assure his wife that everything was under control. But everything was not under control. Florence was dead. The police had found her in a tenement yard behind the city’s most notorious juke joint, with her throat neatly cut and her skirt hoisted up over her shoulders. However, Mr. Thompson spared his wife the more intimate details of her sister’s death and remained loyal to the plain facts of the situation. Florence with her good hair was gone, and the three children were being looked after by the city. Mr. Thompson continued, and he made it clear to his wife that should she wish to take in her three nieces, then he would find it in his heart to tolerate the clamor of growing children in his world. But the single word “tolerate” was like a slap in her face, and Lottie immediately smiled and shook her head. Thank you, but she was sure that the children were being properly cared for, and then the tears began to race down her cheeks. Mr. Thompson leaned forward and eased himself out of the chair. He had to return to work.

  She hears her new husband walking slowly up the stairs. His footsteps are heavy so she knows that he has drunk a little more than is good for him, but unlike George, he always stops short of getting tongue-drunk. In the case of her husband, drink simply causes him to stumble somewhat, and melancholy to descend. He pushes the key into the door and eases it open before pausing, as though worried that he might be rousing her from sleep. But she is never asleep, for she likes to wait up and make sure that he returns safely, and so she lies perfectly still with her eyes tightly shut. He closes the door carefully so that it does not whine or shriek, and then he turns the key. He can see in the dark—a skill she imagines he has perfected from years of waiting backstage in the wings—and then she feels the weight of his body on the end of the bed, and she listens to his heavy breathing as he leans forward and removes first one shoe and then the
other. She knows the routine. First the socks, and then the shirt, and then he will stand and remove his pants, careful to fold them neatly and drape them over the back of a chair, and soon after he will slide into their bed, but there will be no touching. Her new husband will lie next to her on his back and fall smartly into a deep sleep that will be announced by the thunderous rumbling of his snoring. And Lottie will lie next to him and stare at the ceiling and continue to plan their escape from this hotel and the dull routine that is already threatening to choke the life out of their young marriage.

  She looks at two houses, both of which are beyond their pockets, and she wonders if this Mr. Nail insists on showing her such extravagant residences because of the manner in which she is dressed. However, the third house is better suited to Mr. and Mrs. Williams’s needs and their budget. Williams and Walker’s new production, The Policy Players, is doing well, but not well enough for her husband to buy this property without her help and so this will be her gift to him. She looks out of the drawing room window onto the broad expanse of Harlem’s Seventh Avenue— Negro Broadway—and observes finely dressed colored folks promenading up and down the boulevard. This uptown world is changing, and a tall, four-storey house means that if Mr.Williams truly does wish to bring his mother and father out from California, then there will be plenty of room right here. Mr. Nail watches and waits until he imagines that whatever thoughts are running through her mind have finally completed their circuit, and then he steps forward. She already has her hand extended in his direction, and he gently shakes it.

  “I can just picture yourself and Mr. Williams in a fine home like this.”

  She looks at his beaming face, but having been married to a businessman she understands that punctuating the transaction with such small talk is merely part of the routine.

  “Believe me, Mrs. Williams, it is only a matter of time before this whole area boasts the finest-quality colored people.”

  He places both of his hands behind his back, pushes himself up and onto the balls of his feet, and then rolls forward.

  “You know, I do not care to employ the word ‘fashionable’ because such a word suggests that things may soon change. You are, of course, familiar with the old saying ‘Fashions come and fashions go.’ The word sounds a little insubstantial to me, if you understand what I am saying.”

  She does understand what he is saying, but she chooses to say nothing further to this man who seems to care little that he is wasting his time. After all, their business is already concluded. The price is fixed and agreed upon. Why is he still nervously running his untrustworthy mouth in this way? They move deftly down the steep steps and onto the sidewalk. Her mind is made up. She will stroll south as far as 110th Street and the park and then ride a streetcar. Mr. Nail walks six blocks with her and then stops, claiming that he has other clients with whom he is expected to rendezvous. He doffs his hat and politely bids her farewell, and she watches him turn to the left and her eyes follow this man until he is swallowed up by the pedestrian traffic on West 129th Street. Lottie continues south, walking slowly and with as much proprietorial elegance as she can muster, happy in the knowledge that these fine streets will soon constitute her new vicinity.

  He takes the news of the house calmly, as though determined to conceal his true feelings from his wife, but these days so much of his behavior falls into this pattern. They seldom exchange more than the occasional sentence, but he eventually looks up at her as though he wishes to say something. She watches his face struggle with the emotions, but finally there is peace and just two words, “thank you.” She asks him if he would like to see the house, or if he would prefer to look at a selection of different properties before signing away their future in this manner, but he simply smiles and tells her that he is grateful that she has taken care of this problem and that he looks forward to the day when they might move out of Marshall’s Hotel and into their own residence. He pauses. “Thank you, Mother.” His voice falls now to a whisper. “Thank you.” Clearly he has said all that he is capable of saying. There is a performance tonight, and she convinces herself that her husband is simply conserving all of his energy for the cakewalking contest at the end of the evening. She rubs and then squeezes the nape of his neck with her gentle fingers. “Would you like me to meet you at the theater after the show?” He smiles again, clearly grateful that she is paying him so much attention, but he shakes his head. “No, Mother. Thank you, but there is no need. I will be fine.”

  He falls heavily as he climbs the stairs to their large room at the top of Marshall’s Hotel. She sits bolt upright in bed and then leans over and lights the candle. She can hear him groaning, but she knows instinctively that it would be improper to get out of bed and witness this spectacle, and so she waits until she hears him drag himself up from the stairs and noisily begin to put one foot in front of the other. She fears that it isn’t just the thought of moving and taking possession of a four-storey house that is punishing her new husband like this. In fact, of late, she has begun to wonder if perhaps his parents put the child in him down too early, thus causing him to labor under what appears to be the burden of excessive responsibility. Again she hears him stumble, and this time she rises from the bed and pulls on her gown, but by the time she reaches the door he is already there, bent double, key poised, his pleading eyes looking up at her. Please don’t be angry with me, Mother. There are things going at I cannot talk about. And George does not understand, brimming as he is with a brashness that makes white men angry and causes colored men to move a little closer to him in the hope that some of his confidence might ease its way out of his short dark body and into their own cautious hearts. But me, they look at me and wonder, Mother—they look at me and wonder why I am what I am. All of this with his eyes alone, and she reaches out and takes his hand and key together, and helps his drunken body across the threshold and sits him down on the end of the bed so that the springs squeal and then fall silent again. She leans forward and gently eases off his shoes. Tomorrow, she says, I’ll show you the house. Four storeys looking out on to Seventh Avenue just above 135th, and it has a grand entrance, and once you pass inside you’ll see there’s plenty of room for all of us. He looks at Mother and moves his shoulders first one way and then the other so that she can slip off his shirt. Your folks can come from California. Don’t you think it’s about time they met your wife? She smiles as she says this, and then she runs a heavy hand back through his nice suite of hair. This really is a capital second husband that she has found for herself, a man solid like a tree but with the sensitivity of a boy. His partner, George Walker, was no doubt downstairs in Marshall’s Lounge waiting for whatever clench-waisted, high-yellow dancing girl happened by this evening, but he is Ada’s cross to bear, not hers. She knows that a colored woman cannot expect too much out of this life, but Lottie is satisfied with her young man. She has no complaints.

  A fatigued-looking Bob Cole passes George the bottle. He waits for him to take another drink before he says anything further. George pours a full glass and then he throws it back in one movement, head, neck, glass, whiskey, all moving as one. George breathes a long sigh of relief and then pours a second glass and passes the bottle back to Cole, who laughs.

  “Long night?”

  George laughs. “A Lucky Coon ain’t so lucky for this coon.”

  Cole pours himself a drink. “Everything all right with Bert?”

  “Why you asking?”

  “Well you know, since he got married, he’s been acting kind of different.”

  George sits upright and looks at Cole. “Ain’t no way to talk about Bert.”

  Cole opens his broad mouth, ready to insist that he isn’t talking about Bert no way, but George holds up his hand.

  “Bert got pressures on him that you and me don’t fully understand.”

  Cole laughs sarcastically, but he will not meet George’s blazing eyes.

  “I said he got pressures on him that maybe we don’t understand, and if you can’t be respe
cting this, then maybe it’s best you hold your tongue.”

  Cole is stung now. He has no desire to argue, yet here he is fighting with old George. He takes a drink, and then he turns and addresses his fellow performer with melancholy coursing through his voice.

  “I’m just worried, George. Bert ain’t never been one to mix in, you know that better than anybody, but this marriage thing seems to have beaten up on old Bert.”

  George says nothing. He takes a sip of his whiskey and he continues to look closely at Cole, whose face is as easy to read as that of a clock.

  Later.

  “George, you have to treat women like you’re a dead-swell coon who’s always got somebody that you’re ready to replace them with. You let a woman know that you’re feeling too much for her, then it’s over for you as a man. You may as well take up with one of those goddamn inverts that you see all over our business. You listening to me, George?”

  There were no colored girls in any of the venues they played on the Barbary Coast, and so after their performances George would rush down to the seaport, and the colored taverns, where he knew that a sporting welcome always awaited “Mr. George.” “Ladies, if it ain’t Mr. George paying us a visit this evening.” “Sit yourself down here, Mr. George, you sweet thing you.” George was barely out of his teens, but hustling was in his blood and the powdered and overscented dusky belles of the San Francisco seaport recognized one of their own kind. To begin with Bert would accompany him, but while George hurried upstairs in search of company his cautious colleague would stay downstairs by the bar, listening to the piano playing and concentrating on the drink in front of him. When George came back down he inevitably found his friend still there. Sometimes, the barman aside, Bert was the only patron left in the place, and although George was puzzled by Bert’s reluctance he already knew that this was a subject that it was best not to raise with him. And then George began to leave the Midway Plaisance without waiting for his partner, who he sensed was deliberately taking his time in an effort to avoid the seaport. And sure enough some tension between the two of them began to dissipate, for there was no longer any expectation, and some nights Bert even found his way to the seaport by himself. Stumbling downstairs, his shirttail flapping outside his pants, George was always happy to see Bert sitting at the bar and grinning in his direction. And then one night, having taken a good fill of liquor, George forgot himself and asked Bert the question.