Papa was buried in the cemetery behind the church, like most of his family. He was buried a few feet from his mother. His daddy was buried in the slave cemetery on the plantation. My brothers fought back tears all through the service, yet Momma still didn’t cry. I suppose she had done all her crying at home.
Momma stood at the foot of his grave for ten minutes after the service was complete. We were the last people to leave the graveyard. We even waited until the deacons and the grave attendant had covered Papa’s casket with dirt. Then Carl drove us home.
Nobody said a word. Some of the same people who came with us to the church followed us home to celebrate Papa’s home-going.
Mr. Camm came, too, though he shouldn’t have been there. I frowned at him, unsettled by his walnut-colored skin and dark, beady eyes set deep in his head. I noticed him peering at me, watching my every move, staring openly without blinking. Words don’t do justice to how uncomfortable he made me feel.
He had that effect on a lot of people. It was no wonder that so many people wanted him dead.
CHAPTER 2
PEARL
I watched the new Model T Fords steer around the street cars and horse-driven buggies on Pennsylvania Avenue, as I headed to the LeDroit Park neighborhood, where I performed near Howard University. Folks liked to unwind at the colored restaurants and clubs along “The Colored Broadway.” It was a steamy night, and folks with wide grins were delighted to rid themselves of their worries, as if they were shedding their jackets. For two years people had prayed for the safe return of the soldiers fighting in Europe, but this Friday night, in 1919, the spirit was different.
An anxious crowd had been gathering long before the orange sun slid behind the clouds. The nightclub in Northwest D.C. where I performed hadn’t seen this much action since Bessie Smith and her big voice packed the joint last summer. As I walked inside, the only lights were candles flickering on each table throwing shadows of heads bouncing across the room. The smooth sound of a blues recording and the jovial laughter of the crowd reverberated throughout the place.
The bartender was busy wiping beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief while filling jugs of beer and providing the ever popular setup of liquor and Coke. I took a table in the back that provided me a view of everyone who came through the door. Sitting with my long legs crossed, I watched everyone and everything. I waved to the bartender, Roy, with my red handkerchief. He always kept his eye on me. I wasn’t bothered by him being ten years younger, because he was a tender man who cared for me like I was his woman. He strutted toward me, swinging his thick muscular arms and grinning, showing me all of his beautiful white teeth.
“Can I get someth’n’ for ya, Miz Pearl?”
I leaned over the wood table, exposing the cleavage of my heavy breasts. “Sit down for a moment. You know I don’t like to sit alone.”
He pulled up a chair and eased down in it, gaping at me lustfully. His mysterious large eyes always seemed to be reading people, figuring out things about them.
“I’ve got to do the bartending, Miz Pearl; can’t stay long.” His large eyes darted around the room, checking out the traffic. “It’s a lot of peoples coming in here.”
“I thought we’d have some time, Roy, to catch up on things. How’s that girl you had your eyes on the other night?”
“Miz Pearl, I don’t know who you are talkin’ about. I don’t have a girl.”
“You sure about this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Roy replied without looking her in the eyes, but still scanning the room for new arrivals.
“I’ve got to go back to the bar, Miz Pearl. Two men are waiting to be served.”
I rubbed his shoulder and whispered low and seductive in his ear, “You’re right. I need a drink.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shivered like a chill had come over his body. I smiled slyly. I had been doing that to young men, and old men too, ever since I was a teenager in the country. My mamma told me that I had grown up with the kind of body that men craved. She said, “Be careful; some of ’em don’t mean you no good.”
“You’re all right, Roy?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and cleared his throat.
He sat still for a moment, like he needed to gain his composure, and then asked, “Is there someth’n’ else, Miz Pearl?”
“No, baby; some gin and lemon will do fine.”
He headed back to the bar, a lot faster than he had come. The room had begun to fill with patrons. People hovered around the bar, anticipating service. The women sat elegantly with their legs crossed and bright red lipstick smeared on their lips, waiting for the men to deliver their drinks. Before Roy waited on them, he rushed back to me carrying a gin and tonic in one hand and a saucer of lemon slices in another.
“Anything else, Miz Pearl?” he asked.
“No, thank you; this is good.”
He grinned at me as if I had made his night.
I couldn’t believe I had settled in this place. After doing nightclubs and even performing a couple of times as a backup for Ethel Waters in New York City, I was still doing the local scene. When I first came to Washington, D.C. in 1902, I was convinced that after a year or so I would be traveling around the country. I could sing, and everybody felt I was prettier than Ethel. I liked being tall, curvy, caramel, and gorgeous. Men whispered in my ear, begging for my company. I never left the house without a little nutmeg powder and lipstick. I was an elegant colored girl. I could read and made sure I clearly enunciated every word I spoke. Why not? It had gotten me in places other coloreds were not allowed. I had performed twice at the Washington Supper Club for a crowd of white politicians; I was the only colored in the house. One of the blue-eyed darlings wanted to take me home, but as tempting as the proposal was, I had to decline. I couldn’t help thinking how the white man had been raping me in some form my entire life.
“Miz Pearl, you all right?”
I looked up to find Roy still standing in front of me. “You’re on in twenty minutes,” he said.
“All right, thanks,” I said, and smiled.
The room was full by now. Heads were bobbing as the tunes spun on the hand-cranked record player. The better places had the new jukeboxes. Soldiers were finally coming home after being gone for a year or two. Most of them had signed up to gain dignity in a country where a colored man had no respect. My Willie would be coming home soon, too, I reflected. That thought didn’t fill me with any joy, though. I’d urged him to enlist so I could get rid of him. How in the hell was I going to deal with his ass when he returned?
“Hey, baby.”
I glanced up and there stood Herman Camm, a man small in stature, with a dark tan, and sexy beady dark eyes that penetrated like an arrow. Herman was smooth; his voice sharp and cultured. He knew how to dress and he loved women, especially me. So when I saw my reflection bounce back at me from the spit shine on his Stacy Adams shoes, I smiled.
The first time I saw him had been in this same club. He had come in one night wearing a brown suit with a wide collar, and pants with cuffs. On his head was a wide brim Fedora that tilted down over one eye. He was the best dressed man in the place, and everybody took notice. The regulars waved at him as he made his way through the crowd toward the back room where gambling took place.
Later that evening, he stood at the bar watching me sing. When I was done, he came over to my table. “I love what you do,” he had said, grinning.
“Thank you. Why don’t you have a seat?” I motioned him over in invitation. The confident way he carried himself was intriguing, and he was friendly, yet often by himself. I had heard mention that he was top dog at the poker table, and one of the best crap shooters around.
He pulled a chair out and sat down. “You are a beautiful woman, and tonight I need a little company,” he said, sipping on scotch and water.
“I’m spoken for, I got a man,” I commented.
“I don’t see anybody around,” he said, scanning the room.
�
��My husband is in the war,” I replied.
“Oh yeah? So tell me,” he said, and gestured, studying me, “how could a man in his right mind leave a woman like you all alone?”
“Who said I was alone?”
“Where’s your man then?”
He was a bold fellow, and his charisma strongly attracted me. I had seen him on many occasions before, flashing fists full of greenbacks. He would buy drinks for a table simply because, and I had a thing for generosity, especially when it came free, no strings attached.
“He’s across the sea fighting for his country.”
“Well, while he is fighting for the white man, I am going to fight for you,” he said.
And from then on, we started spending time together. After a while, I forgot about being married to a World War I soldier, for it seemed like I couldn’t get enough of Herman Camm. So as he stood in front of me now, I couldn’t help thinking about how he had mesmerized me the first night we met.
“Sit down,” I said, and watched the smile light up his face.
Before he sat down, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. From his breath I felt warmth flow from my neck to my shoulders. He instantly grabbed my hand under the table, then he cautiously rubbed my thigh, strumming his fingers up and down my stockings.
“Herman, why do you always do that?” I asked him, enjoying every bit of his inviting touch.
“I don’t want you to forget who you’re singing for tonight.”
I blushed and wondered how this thin man, barely an inch taller than I was, could get next to me and make me want to sing to him.
He tapped me on the thigh. “It’s almost time, baby. The crowd wants you.”
I sipped on the rest of my gin and tonic to warm up my pipes. As I waited at my corner table, with Herman squeezing my hand, I noticed two women from my past standing at the bar. Both of them were attractive, yet out of place. I pointed them out to Herman.
“I don’t know them, Pearl,” he answered nervously as if he had something to hide. “Our paths never crossed.”
“I know them.”
They were dressed as if they had walked into the club mistakenly believing it was a church. The petite one even had on a Sunday hat. They sure stuck out in the crowd. Many nights over the years, Jefferson County, Virginia residents had showed up at the club yearning to hear me sing. Around these parts I was a celebrity, more popular than Bessie or any of the Ma Rainey crew. To the country folks, I was it.
I finished my drink, stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of my dress. The crowd started to clap as soon as they recognized me. Being five feet ten inches tall, I stood out amongst the women of average height; and I wore my red dress with my corset drawn so tight, my waist was twenty-five inches. I loved the noise and accolades. I deliberately placed each step firmly on the hardwood floor as I sashayed to the stage.
A group of men stood up, and as I approached the stage, one shouted, “Girl, you are so beautiful.” I turned and smiled at the handsome gentleman that made the remark, and the lady beside him grunted and rolled jealous eyes my way.
The crowd roared as I took the mic and began to sing. Whenever Herman could make it, he sat close to the stage. On some occasions, he would hand me a flower as I performed one of my steamy, seductive blues songs. Most of the seats were taken tonight, except two at the table with the women from my hometown, and I noticed Herman move over to join them. After nearly twenty years, I couldn’t remember their names, but I never forgot a face.
Herman started talking and grinning at the two country girls. Seeing him chat with them made me so nervous I almost forgot the lines of the song I was singing. He scooted close to one of the women and stared deep into her eyes. Annoyed, I asked Joseph on the guitar and Max on the drums to play Herman’s favorite song.
That got his attention. A smile rippled across his face when he heard me sing “Baby.” From that point on, his eyes rested only on me. I seductively licked my ruby red lips and Herman jerked in his seat. His beady eyes had me mesmerized, thinking about the nights when I had crawled into his lean, toned arms and let him take advantage of my body, kissing, licking, and making love to me until I forgot who I was. No man had ever done that to me before. I poured out the last verse of the song, and raised my head in full cry for the applauding crowd as they expressed their appreciation for the powerful crescendo.
As I gazed out over them, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I had to refocus to see clearly through the smoke circles billowing in the air. In the rear of the club stood Willie Brown, in his soldier’s uniform, staring directly at me. I inhaled sharply, and stopped a sudden grimace from overtaking my face. I decided I had better put on a good show.
“Welcome home, Willie,” I uttered, and pointed him out in the crowd.
When they turned to see the doughboy all dressed up in uniform, they all started clapping and cheering.
Willie stood straight as an arrow as the folks gathered around him. With his chest inflated and shoulders squared, he stole all the attention. Four other World War I soldiers stood the same way in their turtle shell-colored jackets, pants snug on the legs, and boots to the knee. Men walked up and either patted them on the shoulders or shook their hands. The women stood around grinning shyly and waving. Two nearby women whispered loud enough for me to hear, “He is handsome.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Herman peering directly at me from the table he shared with the country women. I turned away quickly; I wasn’t going to let Willie in on my secret. Instead, I sashayed over to Willie, right past whispering women, my heart pumping hard. In the midst of all the “Welcome homes,” he had been studying my every step with his deep, dark eyes. When I reached him, I threw my arms around his neck. He grabbed me and hugged me so tightly I could feel each of his finely chiseled muscles kneading into my body, reminding me of so many sweaty nights in his arms.
He was a handsome man, six feet three and strong, with ebony skin as smooth as milk and beautiful almond-shaped eyes the color of mahogany. Yet he was rough as sandpaper. He lacked sophistication, something anyone could tell as soon as he began to speak.
“Did you miss me, gurl?” he said in his deep baritone voice, kneading his thick hands in circles on my back.
I paused to gather my thoughts when I noticed Herman was now standing up, his arms folded across his chest. He was frowning so deeply, indented lines rippled across his forehead.
“Of course I did,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. Herman was shaking his head, as if to warn me. Some of the regular women had their heads together, whispering.
“Well, Daddy’s home now. Gonna take care of his baby tonight,” Willie said.
He pulled my face into his and kissed me hard. When he tried to force his tongue into my mouth, I resisted, keeping my lips tight.
He raised his voice. “What’s wrong with you? You got yo’self somebody else?” His fingers clenched my chin as he gazed deep in my eyes.
A chill came over me, but I hastily fought it away.
“No, Willie,” I said softly, and draped my long arms around his shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
CHAPTER 3
CARRIE
The summer heat would not let up. Even in the evenings, everyone complained as they sat on the porch fanning, wiping beads of sweat from their brows and sipping ice water. “It is too hot. We need rain. Even the devil wants a sip of water today.” If you had to get something done, you needed to start early. I tried to stay inside, especially on Saturday mornings, but Momma wouldn’t hear of it.
I ignored the faint call for as long as I could. Then it started closing in on me, getting stronger and louder, rippling in my ears.
“Carrie! Carrie Parker!” I turned over to snuggle deep in the bedcovers, placing my pillow over my ears to filter out Momma‘s voice.
“Chile, you better get up. You oughta go to bed at night, you night-oil-burning rambler! You heard me calling you!”
As was the case every Saturday morning, I was b
eing forced to get up way too early. I removed the pillow, eased open one eyelid, and Momma was standing directly over my head with her hands on her tiny hips, her face stiff with authority.
“All right. I’m getting up,” I muttered, trying to keep my tired eyes open long enough for her to turn and walk away.
When she did, I closed my eyes again.
“What did you say, girl?” she inquired from across the room.
“I mean, yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, holding my breath until she left, and then pulling the covers over my eyes and snuggling tight in them one last time.
“It’s time you got up. We got things to do this mawnin’.” I could hear Momma’s fading voice as she walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.
In the country, there was always something to do, even if it was sweeping dirt in the yard.
I could barely raise my head off the pillow. Every night I stayed up practicing my school work as my teacher said I should over the summer break. Making up sentences was more difficult than it sounded, and I still did not feel as though the work enhanced my knowledge of nouns, verbs, and capitalizations. So instead, I wrote about myself, filled my notepad up with my cares, fears, and desires.
Our teacher, Mrs. Miller, was obsessed with learning. Repeating something over and over until it became second nature. At moments when the repetitions got out of hand, I’d lean over and whisper to my friend, Hester, “She’s doing this because she had a bad weekend and is taking it out on us.” Mrs. Miller was tall and statuesque, with bronze-colored skin. She wore her long, black hair pulled back into a flawless bun. She had everything in place, and whenever we forgot why we were in school, she’d point to the whipping strap she hung on the nail beside her desk. And she would not hesitate to use it.
I stretched my arms and let out a long, groaning yawn, trying to wake myself up. Rising with the chickens was not for me. Already I could feel the sun beaming through my bedroom window, burning my face. I could see Carl way out between the tall leaves of tobacco with beads of sweat trickling down his face, his collar moist with sweat, his back bent. Deep inside the overgrown leaves, my youngest brother, John, was coaxing mules down the rows. Don’t they ever quit? I thought.
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