by Alyssa Cole
“What debt?” Amir was angry and confused but neither of them acknowledged him.
“You’ll be repaid with my vote, if I get it—and if you earn it,” she said, then inclined her head toward the door. “Beat it, Victor.”
The man chuckled ruefully as he walked out. “Good luck, buddy.”
“Are you going to explain what just happened?” Amir asked.
“No.” She walked around the desk and sat down. “You’re leaving, right? So it doesn’t matter. None of what happened matters.”
The words were forced, as if she were telling herself at the same time she was telling him.
“I don’t know if I’m leaving,” he said carefully.
“Well, you didn’t think it important enough to tell me either way, so the point still stands.”
“Not important?” Amir ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “This is the most important thing, Bertha.”
You are.
He walked over to her desk and turned her chair so that she was facing him. He couldn’t talk about this with her desk between them, the way they discussed food deliveries and the nightly menu.
“How was I supposed to tell you why I might have to go back to Bengal without explaining all the reasons I cannot?”
She looked down, refusing to meet his eyes, so he dropped to his knees and looked up at her.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, by the way, even though I’m here illegally and can’t get a well-paying job or even my citizenship, I think I’m going to give up my family land because I’m in love with you and want to stay here’?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“You can’t even be seen in the street with me without feeling compromised and I’m supposed to put the pressure of my future on you? I couldn’t do it without feeling like I was forcing your hand, and I didn’t want to be just another man trying to make you his,” he said. “I was wrong, and I made a mistake, but not because you aren’t important. If you don’t believe anything else, please believe that.”
Her hand went to his face, and he closed his eyes as her fingertips brushed against his stubbled cheeks.
“Maybe I’m too good at this acting thing,” she said softly. “If you thought I wouldn’t want to hear that.”
Relief rushed through Amir. He hadn’t meant to tell her that, but he had and she hadn’t spurned him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy. I’m still mad enough to spit nails,” she said. “I felt like my legs got knocked out from under me, and I don’t handle that well.”
“I know,” Amir said, turning his head to kiss her palm. “I’m the same way. You may have noticed.”
She sighed. “Looks like we’re gonna have a bumpy road ahead.”
“I’m a village boy. I’m used to bumpy roads.”
She laughed, not too loud but it seemed like it, and that’s when Amir realized the music had suddenly stopped.
“What—”
There was a commotion in the club and it wasn’t because someone was blowing hot on the stage. Bertha jumped up and peeked through the curtains.
“Shit.”
A chill went down Amir’s spine as she whirled away from the window, and the sound of falling chairs and the scrambling patrons reached him at the same time. She was boss Bertha again, and she snatched his sleeve and pulled him to his feet as she marched toward the door.
“Cops are here,” she said. In the hallway, the sound of people screaming and glass crashing could be heard more clearly. Instead of heading toward the noise, she pulled him in the opposite direction, toward her apartment door. She turned the key and pushed him into the hallway that led away from the club. “Go up to the apartment. If they try to get in through this door, go out the front door and head up to the roof, then cross over to one of the connected buildings.”
Amir wasn’t quite comprehending what she was saying or how she could say it so calmly.
“What? What about you?”
“This is my club and the girls are my responsibility. Now go.”
“I can’t—”
“You can’t do anything down here but get in the way and get your ass hauled onto a slow boat to India. If you meant anything you just told me, you’ll go. Now.”
He wanted to argue, to butt heads, but instead he pulled her into a kiss. It was brief, but he put every bit of his love into it. And when she pulled away and ran into the fray, he locked the door, went up to the apartment, and did the only thing he could. He knelt and he prayed, hoping Allah was truly as flexible as Amir believed Him to be. If not, he might lose Bertha for the second time that night.
Chapter 11
“This isn’t quite how I imagined I’d be spending Election Day,” Bertha said, examining her nails instead of the décor in the sterile office she had been marched to. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep—the jail cell hadn’t been the most comfortable place she’d spent a night, but not the least either. Worries about her girls, her club, and, most of all, whether Amir had been taken had kept her up, staring at the ceiling of the dank jail cell until daylight had begun to filter in through the barred windows. She was exhausted and scared, but she couldn’t let the man across the table know that.
He pulled out a file and opened it, calmly flipping through the thick stack of papers. He had such a benign face, like a white-haired grocer you forgot as soon as he handed you your change, but Bertha wouldn’t be put at ease by it. Gregory Barton was the head of the Commission of Fourteen, meaning he had taken up the mantle of purifying the city of whores, drugs, and race mixing. That he even saw the latter as a vice didn’t bode well for her.
“Miss Hines, your establishment has been a hotbed of immoral activity for some time. Lewd dancing. Women selling their bodies. It says here that the act of fellatio was observed more than once, carried out in bathrooms and alcoves.”
“Oh dear. Is that so?” She raised a hand to her mouth and widened her eyes. She wondered who had relayed this information, mentally running through a list of regular patrons in her mind, but it could have been anyone. She knew that the commission paid well, and not everyone who came into the club was in a position to turn that down.
Barton glanced up from the file. “Don’t get cute, Miss Hines.”
“Well, I can’t help it, sir. I was born this way.” She batted her lashes, though she was sure her make-up was a mess. The urge to be sick pushed at her throat. She could not, would not, let him see that.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown either, and Bertha counted that ambivalence as a win. Some people would be groveling or lashing out, but she was trying to toe the line that led to her getting out of jail with her body, soul, and business intact.
“Patrons of different races were allowed to co-mingle.” He looked up at her.
“My club is strictly Negro, sir. If anyone else got in, I wouldn’t know, as I’m color blind.” More lash batting.
“And on top of all these offenses, you personally spearheaded a push to influence male voters in your establishment on the issue of suffrage.”
Bertha tilted her head to the side, unable to hide her surprise at that. “Is voting a vice, sir? If that’s the case, I can direct you to several locations where men are brazenly engaging in that very act today.”
Barton dropped the file to his desk, the wrinkles on his brow deepening. “It’s undignified behavior for a woman. And for your kind, it’s unseemly.”
She hoped that the men heading out to the polls were more enlightened than the one before her. She hoped Amir was somewhere warm and safe, not being detained in a place certain to be more frightening than the bland office she was in. She wouldn’t know the status of either hope unless she was released. Inside, she was fuming, ready to flip the desk over and make a run for it, but she couldn’t show that. She would play this cute and flirty; if she kept things light even in face of his ignorance she might have a chance.
“I know
what’s unseemly—not getting to choose who represents me as a citizen, or who fills well-paying positions like the one you currently occupy.”
Well so much for playing it light.
The man’s lip curled.
“You have a lot of mouth for someone facing jail time,” he said.
“First amendment. Read it sometime, fella.”
Too much?
“Since you’re so keen to talk, how do you answer to these charges?”
“Fifth amendment. Try that, too. I recommend it.”
The man closed the folder and stared at her. “This isn’t a joke Miss Hines. I know your crowd is all for a good time, but I have the power to make your life very uncomfortable.”
She leaned toward him. “Every man has that power, snowflake. Why do you think I’m even here?”
“Ms. Hines, you go too far.” His face went red and he stood abruptly. Bertha felt dread run through her. She’d played it all wrong. Should she have been more demure? Have shed a few tears? Men always liked that. She had pushed her luck and now—
Barton sat back down with the cigar he had grabbed from a wooden box and pointed it at her. “Because this is your first offense, and because someone has vouched for you, I’m going to let you go with a warning and a fine. But as for the Cashmere, that’s it. I know you think you can do what you want, but we’re watching you now. Next time, and there will be a next time if you think you can engage in these immoral acts, I won’t be so lenient. No whores, no miscegenation, no funny business. You won’t find prison life so amusing by half, I guarantee you that.”
He shoved the cigar in his mouth and chomped on it, staring her down with a look that made her insides quail.
Bertha had no more smart-aleck remarks. She nodded, holding back the anger and frustration that churned in her chest and sought release. Her mind was already clicking ahead, trying to think of how she would get around this. She had to, didn’t she? The Cashmere couldn’t just close down. She couldn’t give up on it that easily.
“You can go,” he said.
Barton looked down, dismissing her, and she was escorted out into the main office, drawing leering looks that reminded her she was still dressed for a night in the club. She walked out into the chilly November afternoon and shivered. She’d lost track of time in the jail cell, but the sun would set soon. She had no money for the IRT or trolley, so it would be a long, cold walk back to Harlem.
The honk of a horn from the curb in front of the station got her attention, and she looked over to see Miss Q sitting in the back of a car that had been shined up like a pair of new dance shoes. Her driver got out and opened the door, motioning for Bertha to get in.
She climbed in and accepted the shawl Miss Q handed her. “I take it you were the one who vouched for me?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“An envelope full of cash was all the vouchsafe they needed.” She lit one of her cigarettes.
“Why?” Bertha asked as the car pulled into traffic. “Why would you do that for me?”
Unease roiled in her stomach. She owed the woman for real now, and that was no small thing.
Miss Q took a long, slow drag, holding Bertha’s gaze as she did. “Why did you teach those classes?” she asked, her words dressed in wisps of smoke. “You expect all those girls to give you something back for the time and money you put into it?”
“No, but—”
“Girl, how do you think I got where I am? I came here from an island no one’s even heard of, barely spoke English, and thought I would die in the gutter.” Miss Q shook her head. “We help each other. Whenever we can, however we can, using whatever means we got. You got the Cashmere and your knowledge. I got money. If I have to choose between another coat and a sister in need, you best not think you’re gonna see me in a new coat come Sunday service.”
She took another agitated draw of the cigarette and Bertha felt her throat close up. Not from the smoke, but because Miss Q was right. She thought about the girls trading shifts when one was sick, chipping in to raise money for Cora and her family even though Bertha had already made sure they were comfortable. Women helped each other in ways small and large every day, without thinking, and that was what kept them going even when the world came up with new and exciting ways to crush them.
“Thank you,” Bertha said.
Miss Q sucked her teeth in response and looked out the window, but then she nodded her acceptance. “The club was ripped apart. You should know before you get there.”
Bertha nodded numbly. “That can be fixed. My girls?”
“Most got away while everything was topsy turvy. Those who were arrested are out now, that I know of.”
“And Amir?”
“The cook? Haven’t heard anything about him.”
“He’s not here legally…if they caught him…” Bertha’s heart constricted.
Miss Q just looked at her like she was a fool, then shrugged. “If they caught him, they’re probably saving you trouble down the line, but I hope for your lovesick self that they didn’t.”
“And the vote?”
She almost wished she hadn’t asked. She couldn’t take one more bit of bad news. If the club was ruined and Amir was gone and women hadn’t won the vote…she just might crack up.
Miss Q exhaled. “Nothing official yet, but it seems like the YES votes are adding up, according to my guys. I don’t believe in counting my chicks before they hatch, but we might be at the ballot box next election.”
Bertha sagged back against the leather seat and stared out the window, focusing on her relief as the tall buildings and crowded streets of Fifth Avenue passed by. She choked back the emotion blocking her throat and, for just a moment, let herself feel a bit of pure, one hundred fifty proof hope. It was a heady thing.
They would have the vote. Women in New York State would have the vote, and then across the country, because once a change like this started, it wouldn’t stop.
The world wouldn’t become her oyster overnight. She knew there was still a long road ahead—for women, for Blacks, for Asians, and all those downtrodden people who’d had their rights stripped away while being told they should just be glad they were allowed to call America home. But she knew a thing or two about performing; America had been pulling one over on a good number of its citizens for all these years, and it couldn’t do it forever. No one was that good of an actor, not even her. Women winning the vote showed that the Land of the Free had been telling lies since its inception, just as Emancipation had shone light onto truths that many would have preferred stayed hidden. Maybe one day, all the pointless lies would be done with, and everyone could get to that Dream folks liked to talk about so much.
“What’re you gonna do now?” Miss Q asked when they pulled up to the Cashmere.
“That depends,” Bertha said.
“On a man?” Miss Q asked.
“On my man,” Bertha said. “On my country.”
“And here I thought you was smart.” She shook her head in disappointment, but winked at Bertha as the car pulled away.
Bertha took a deep breath and entered the club. She had to push the door hard because debris was piled up behind it, blocking her path. She took a step inside and all the exhaustion she had been fighting slammed into her. It was destroyed, like a twister had gone through, taking everything of value and making sure it was good and broken. Wall hangings were ripped, chairs and tables in splinters, and glass had been crushed into shards that spread across the floor like sand at Coney Island. She couldn’t tell what had been broken when patrons had made a run for it and what the police had gleefully destroyed, but the Cashmere was a shambles.
She clutched her hands to her stomach against the nausea working its way up through her system, trying to fight it down. She’d been building this place up for years, from even before Arthur had passed, giving him ideas and making him think they were his. Slowly crafting it into the place she’d wanted it to become until she’d been in control of it completely. And no
w it was ruined. She might win the vote once everything shook out, but it seemed she had lost everything else.
Something dropped in the kitchen and she jumped, the echo of the sound through the empty club getting her pulse racing. She started toward the door cautiously; no one knew she had been released, and people might have decided to pick the club over in case she wasn’t coming back any time soon. She took up the broken leg of a chair and hefted it in her hand before striding into the kitchen with it raised over her head like one of the batters in the Negro league.
She walked in and found Amir at the stove, humming as he cooked, as though there weren’t glass shards at his feet and flour and spices covering the walls. She realized she hadn’t expected him to be there. She’d thought that it wasn’t possible for her to have the vote and have him, too.
“Amir?”
One second he was stirring and the next he was stalking toward her, pulling her into his arms. He held her tightly and swayed with her, repeating a word over and over until she could make out the sound of it, even if not the meaning.
“Alhamdulilah. Alhamdulilah. You’re safe.” After that he began murmuring in Bangla, and she only understood the word Allah and her name.
Was he praying for her? She couldn’t say the last time she’d appreciated someone doing that, but she let his fervent words wrap around her.
“I saw them take you away,” he whispered, his hand sliding up to caress the back of her neck. “And I was so frightened I would never get you back. Anything could have happened to you.”
Bertha took a deep breath, and released it.
“Of course nothing happened. I told the coppers I had something good to come back to,” she said, turning to kiss his dimpled cheek.
“The club is wrecked, though,” he said, leaning back to look into her face. His expression clouded with regret. “I’m sorry.”
She swatted his arm. “I meant you, fool.”
She watched as the realization hit him, the smile that stretched across his face, but also the hesitancy in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to fight the dread rising to the surface of her skin. Even with his arms around her, she couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.