Now, she was not willing, even though her blood coursed to those intimate parts of her body in expectation of his touch. As she descended from the cab and approached the calash, the shadow that was the driver became more distinct. He must have been given a description because he stepped down from his seat and approached her.
“Would you be named Rachel, ma’am?” he said with a thick Irish brogue. The “ma’am” would have been at Joseph’s insistence; white men did not address a colored woman with such deference. Especially not a man from the street, as surely this man was.
“Yes, I am Rachel. Where are we going?” she asked as he led her to the calash, then helped her up the two-wheeled vehicle into the hooded interior of soft leather seating. The comfort of the carriage made her feel even more like a bought woman. Joseph always provided nice transports to their secret places, places that invariably would be stark and spare, with maybe a table and chair, and always a bed. With clean sheets. He provided that little comfort, at least. He never gave her much time to notice the ugliness of their surroundings, his ardor eclipsing every sense she had.
The driver did not answer her question, but proceeded along the lane leading them out of the park. At the exit, he veered the horses south, taking them down Fifth Avenue. They drove along, but her mind was blind to the sights they passed. Twenty minutes seemed more like an hour, and she drew her coat tightly around her, feeling a chill where there was none. Her mind came out of its fog after a time only when she realized they were passing the rebuilt Madison Square Theatre.
The sight of the building now jarred her. It meant they were on Twenty-fourth Street. Joseph’s apartment was on Twenty-sixth. They had passed the turn.
Confused, and a little frightened, she demanded against the wind, “Driver, where are you taking me?”
He half turned his head and his words seemed lost in the clatter of horses’ hooves and the rush of air caused by their swift pace. “The Points, ma’am,” drifted to her, and for a moment, she thought she had misheard him. But they were still going southward, and a dread took hold, bringing a new level of fear. Five Points. A district so infamous that decent folk only deign to read about it in the newspaper. It was the site of murders, thievery, and debauchery on a level that no city had ever seen before. More important, it was the site of the 1863 Draft Riots sixteen years earlier, where white men and women ran rampant, targeting innocent Negroes to assault. By the end of the riots, more than two thousand souls were lost.
She yelled to the driver to stop, but he kept his speed, ignoring her plea. She did not want to go to that place. If she thought she’d been diminished by her assignations in The Tenderloin, there would be no washing off the filth that would cover her soul just by stepping foot in Five Points. Only the worst or poorest souls dwelled there, and now he was making her an honorary resident of that damnable place, even if for a short period of time.
Her pleas went unheeded for the remainder of the ride. They passed Eleventh Street, Tenth, Ninth before the driver turned east on Eighth. This was some horrible nightmare. Each passing mile brought her closer to something she couldn’t imagine. They reached The Bowery, where the driver then turned southward. Thirty-five minutes had already passed. Even if Joseph did not keep her for an hour, there would be no way that she could get home before Lawrence did. She would have to lie, knowing that Lawrence would not believe her. That he had stopped believing her a long time ago.
The smell of overrun sewers hit her abruptly, causing her to gag. Mixed with the sickening odor was the brine of the East River. She had never been this far south in the city. Outside of her honeymoon in Chicago and her years in Tennessee at Fisk, Fort Greene had basically encompassed her entire world. She had always felt safe there, far removed from many of the ills most colored women had to endure. Now she had put herself in harm’s way because of her weakness of spirit.
The driver finally pulled over on a long, narrow street that was strewn with debris. Of the gas lamps that stood on either side of the street, only a few seemed to be working, leaving most of the buildings looming ugly in the dim light of a wan moon. In a few of the doorways, men and women loitered, their talk loud and strident. Many of the buildings appeared to be shops of various sorts. In front of a pawnbroker shop, two men stood arguing animatedly. Next to it was a structure barely more than a shanty that passed itself off as a hotel. Another building, this one two-storied, had a sign announcing itself as a boardinghouse. In front of this was parked a hansom cab. The distant strains of a player piano and discordant singing indicated a concert saloon nearby.
The driver stepped down from his seat and rounded to where she sat, then put out his hand. She sat for a moment, resistant to his tacit signal to step down. But then the door to the cab across the street opened, and a man in a dark coat and hat stepped down. He walked toward them, his pace slow and deliberate. As he neared, his features became clear and achingly familiar. Her heart jumped at the hardness of his face, a face that she hadn’t seen in the three weeks since she had left his apartment vowing never to see him again.
Even then, both of them had known that she was fooling herself. Because here he was again and here was she. He stood near the calash now. The driver stepped aside. This time it was Joseph’s hand that beckoned, and after a hesitant moment, she gingerly took it, her body warming at the first contact.
Desire battled fear and indignation. “Why did you bring me here to this place?” she demanded as soon as she alit.
He smiled, but it did not soften his face.
“So that we are far from any distractions and so that there is no chance of you easily making off into the night. Tonight, we will not be interrupted and you will not leave me…until I say.”
Her tongue failed her. She had never seen him like this before, and she realized that he had lied. This would not be a matter of an hour, or a night, for that matter. For it was apparent now that he would never leave her alone.
She was silent as he led her across the lane to the boardinghouse from where the hansom cab had since departed.
He stopped at the bottom of three stairs that led up to the entrance, indicating that she should precede him. He followed her and she could feel his presence behind her. He pulled a key from inside his coat and opened the plain-looking door.
A stifling darkness obscured the immediate interior. He was waiting at the door, again signaling for her to proceed. With no further protest, she stepped blindly into hell.
Chapter 35
Chicago, 2006
H e didn’t respond as she stepped a little closer. His eyes still stared downward at a horror only he could see.
“Dav…Joseph, talk to me,” Tyne encouraged softly. “Tell me what you’re seeing.” And with a faith she couldn’t explain, she asked, “Is it me you see lying there?”
The man named Joseph lifted his head and turned to her. His face was contorted with his confusion and despair. “Rachel? But…it isn’t you, is it? After all, how could you be here?” He looked down, then at her again, as though trying to decide between reality and illusion. “I killed you,” he said in a voice strained with remorse and disbelief.
She edged closer. “No, David. I’m here, standing next to you. Please, try to understand that what you’re seeing there on the floor isn’t real. But I am real, Dav…I mean, Joseph. I’m right here, alive.”
For a second, it seemed as though he did understand as he stared at her, trying to comprehend. But just as suddenly a blaze of fury swept over his face. “What kind of trickery is this? You are not Rachel! You can’t be her because she lies here dead at my feet! And she’s lying there because of me! Because of me.” This last trailed off in a moan. “I did this to her!”
He looked at Tyne again with such incredible anger, she had to resist the urge to take a step back. He railed at her. “What did you think to gain by trying to make me believe Rachel is alive, and that you are her? Yes, you may resemble her…but you are not her! Because she was my everything….” He looked s
omberly at the empty floor, all of the anger visibly seeping from him. His voice was dead as he said, “And now I have nothing.”
Still uncertain of the rightness of what she was doing, Tyne reached out a tentative hand and laid it gently on his arm. “Tell me what happened to her, Joseph.”
She could feel his body trembling. Then he let out a wretched cry and said, “Dear, God, all I wanted to do was see her one last time, just one more time. I would have let her go. But…oh, God…everything is so blurred, I can’t even remember….”
She gripped him tighter, moved until she was a breath away from him. “Try to remember, Joseph. What happened to Rachel?”
New York—November 14, 1879
Joseph wanted to savor this evening, this hour. He had to restrain the craving that had nearly overtaken him the moment he saw her, the second he touched her hand. Her scent was soft jasmine and permeated the space around her. She sat in one of the two chairs, looking up at him with trepidation. He didn’t want to see that fear there, had not wanted her to feel threatened in any way. But how could she not? He had summoned her with a threat and then had brought her here to this godforsaken place to force her to do that which she would not willingly do.
A bottle of absinthe rested on a three-legged wooden table next to the only window. The table’s surface was scratched and bruised from years of overuse and the wear of time. Everything in the room was worn, tired, a pall to the eyes. By contrast, Rachel’s beauty shone like a precious diamond. In his desire to have her alone, he had paid the owner, a Mrs. Doggel, fifty dollars for the whole night with the stipulation that she was not to stay in the downstairs room where she usually slept. Not tonight. The old hag had happily snatched the money from his hand, then winked obscenely. “Rest assured, Mista, that ole bed up der has seen betta days, but she’ll do you well, nice and sturdy.” This had been followed by an equally obscene cackle that had made his skin crawl.
The bed did look sturdy. The legs were of oak, although quite scarred. He had also paid to have the mattress changed and had checked earlier to make sure his instructions were followed. There were also clean sheets, although somewhat faded to a mottled gray from their original white. He never wanted to soil her with someone else’s filth.
Joseph saw her note the direction of his gaze, saw a shade of color flood her caramel skin. Skin so soft, like the gossamer wings of a butterfly. Poetic hyperbole, he knew, but there was no other way to describe his pleasure in touching her. He felt himself stiffening, readying for her. But not yet. To distract himself, he grabbed one of the glass cups on the table. He poured the absinthe into the glass, then asked with his eyes whether he should do the same for her. She shook her head. She never did indulge in this sin, at least.
The liquor went down raw, a fire in his throat. It seared its way to his stomach, settled there, quietly simmering like the waters of Parnassus. No, not Parnassus, that elicitor of poetry, whose waters quench appetites and desires. If anything, his desires were stoked, aided by the liquor as well as the heroin he had earlier imbibed. Time was passing quickly; there was not much left of it. If he was to keep his word to her, he would have to move now.
In two strides, he walked to Rachel and abruptly pulled her up from the chair. The sudden motion caused her to inhale sharply. He closed his arms around her waist, and without a word, brought his lips down on hers.
Her lips were not compliant, and he felt her whole body stiffen against his assault. He could not help but compare this kiss to their first, when again she had stiffened against his sudden act, unexpected because moments before he had been sitting demurely in one of her parlor chairs in the house she shared with her brother. It had been his third visit, that one as furtive as the preceding two. From the moment he had left the ball weeks before, he knew that he would see her again, somehow. After diligently seeking out her address from sources around town, he had staked out her home for nearly a week until he knew her and her brother’s comings and goings, the exact times when they both left for work, when they returned. Her brother, the attorney, never returned until evening, leaving many hours between his return and that of his sister’s from her teaching duties at the school where classes ended in the early afternoon.
Though surprised when she answered the bell that first time and found him at her door, she had not denied him entry nor courtesy. Her graciousness had given him hope, and had emboldened him then much as the liquor emboldened him now. Their first kiss had been sweet; this one was bittersweet. Now, just like the first time, he felt her resistance give way, felt her body mold into his, her mouth soften, allowing his tongue access to her own.
Several intoxicating moments passed before he pulled away. She was breathing hard, her eyes luminous, her desire apparent. Still, she said breathlessly, “This is the last time. And if you dare threaten me again, I will simply leave the city and go someplace where you can never find me.”
The defiance, instead of tempering his ardor, set it ablaze. “There is no place you can go, Rachel, where I will not find you. Forever isn’t hardly enough time for us.”
“You’re mad!”
“If loving you is madness, then yes I am mad. I freely admit it. And like a happy lunatic, I welcome the madness and will enjoy its every pleasure.”
Unceremoniously, he grabbed the lacing of her bodice, and with a deftness of habit, unlaced the top of her dress. She did not protest, but neither did she aid him. After bodice, skirt, bustle, underwear, and shoes had been nearly ripped from her, she stood nude, her arms around her breasts as though to hide them from him. He pulled her arms away and settled his tongue on a nipple, knowing the pleasure this would elicit. With satisfaction, he heard her barely stifled moan.
His lips traveled along her breasts, nape, shoulders, touching every contour with the renewed vigor of an explorer too long kept from his quest. He could feel the stirrings and shudders, her body’s betrayal of her will.
He stopped only to finally lead her to the bed. He gave her a little shove, and she dropped onto the mattress with a small bounce. He then positioned her, hindered by her disobliging limbs. Letting lust take him, he shed his own clothes hastily. He joined her, resuming his trek along her body with tongue, lips, fingers, hands. Despite his varied attentions, she lay there as though dead or dying, her whole body stiff, unresponsive. Not even the earlier shudder. He lifted up to look at her face, then saw the lone tear running toward the pillow, where it merged into the already stained fibers.
In that moment, the passion left him, and shame settled in its place. Love didn’t ask for another’s abasement and he did love her. If he hadn’t known it before, if he had only thought that it was her beauty and flesh that called out to him, he knew now that he could never harm her soul. Not like last time, when he had forced her, to both their surprise. He hadn’t planned to hurt her then, but realized that it was her pain he had planned for now. Realized now that he could truly not force her body, nor her heart.
He rose from the bed, his emotions dead in the cold glare of self-examination.
“Get dressed,” he said quietly.
Her eyes registered confusion, until she realized he meant what he said. Then they held relief, a fact that stabbed his already wounded heart.
She sat up on the bed, her bare feet barely touching the floor. “So, you’ll let me go then? And not require…”
“You can go,” he said abruptly, already donning his own clothes with a somberness reserved for someone in preparation for a funeral.
“But why?”
He damned her curiosity. Couldn’t she just get dressed without questioning him? Without forcing him to admit to her as he had to himself that he had sunk so low that he didn’t think he could ever recover his own esteem? That he would forever know that he was no better than a rapist lurking in the dark waiting for his prey?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just know that this will be the last time I ever ask anything of you and that I truly regret all that has happened between us.”
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“Everything then?” she asked. There was a touch of hurt in the question.
“Woman, what do you want from me?” Will you please choose one road or another! You don’t want any part of me, yet you want me to want you! Well, I’ll not be the fool in this game anymore! Just get dressed, and I’ll get you a cab.”
He turned from her, trying not to listen to the rustling of clothing as she silently dressed.
He stood now fully dressed with his back to her, allowing her the dignity he had stolen earlier.
“You can turn around now,” she said, and he turned to find her standing quietly, beautifully regal in a green velvet and tulle dress. She’d been wearing green when he first saw her eons ago. Around her neck was a gold locket in the shape of a heart. She’d worn it that night also. She had told him that it was an anniversary present from her late husband. The color of the dress set off the glow of her skin, the luster of her reddish hair. Lust and desperation had blinded him earlier. He realized at this moment that this would be the last time he would see her.
“Let’s go.” He held out an arm, and for a second she seemed hesitant to touch him. He wondered that a man already dead could still feel pain.
He escorted her down the steep stairs. The state of the hostel was shameless, but indicative of the owner’s near poverty. As bad as this home was, it still was heads above the stifling, windowless apartments nearby that at times sheltered nearly twenty people.
They reached the door, opened it. He let her precede him. He had just descended the three stairs when he heard a familiar voice.
Chapter 36
J oseph thought he heard a woman’s voice, strangely familiar, floating to him on the wind. “What else happened, David?” But the words drifted away, quickly replaced by someone else’s.
“You left too soon, rich man. You no give me the chance to win some a tha money in your pockets. Now, dat’s no like a real gentleman, such is yo’self.”
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