Again (24 page)

New York—November 14, 1879

S
he would not, could not, she told herself, her hand nervously tightening around the green silk reticule that held the letter. The seed pearls adorning the purse seemed to burn through her gloves, searing her fingers. The illusory pain was both a beckon and an accusation. She should have thrown the letter away when it arrived in her mail over a week ago. Most of all, she should not have even opened it once she saw the postmark. Still, the pull had been too great, and she had opened the missive, and with each sentence, her horror had grown. Even now, she could remember nearly every word.

 

Rachel,

I know that mine is the last face you would ever want to look upon again, and I have no doubt that you meant the words you last spoke to me, harsh words that ripped through my heart and left it in pieces. I am, therefore, appealing to your compassion, a trait of which I know you have an abundance and of which I hope you will spare a miniscule portion for me, your once lover, your forever love. You claimed that our love is over, but if what you felt was even one-tenth a measure of the fire that still burns inside me, I know that you still carry an ember of the passion that was ours. For a man starving for warmth, that ember is enough to carry me through the years in which you will deny me your presence, your touch, your smile.

As a starving man, I will do whatever I need to do to receive the sustenance I crave. And I crave you, you alone. There is no one else in this world but you. In my heart, my soul, my very dreams, there is always your beauty, your charm that is yours alone. I could marry any one of a number of beautiful women, cultured and suitable for a man of my position. But I find that my heart could never let them in because it brims full.

Do not think ill of me for these next words, but understand the desperation behind them. I
must
see you again, and if you do not oblige me just one more meeting, one last chance to savor your love, then I will not be responsible for what you will force me to do. Your standing, your relations with your brother, your church, your community will be little more than strewn rubble to be tossed away. I shall enlighten any who will hear me of the times we met, the love we made, the love you declared then so cruelly rescinded.

Understand, I do this not out of hatred or bitterness, but from a love that now tortures and consumes me. I shall die from it if I cannot have this one solace, a solace that will have to last me a lifetime, however brief or protracted that may be.

This coming Friday the 14th, at 8:00, I will have a calash waiting for you in front of Castle Belvedere in Central Park, the spot where you often came to meet me. Whatever you need to do to get away, whatever subterfuge, whatever dissembling you must do, please do so. The calash will bring you to me. Even if for only an hour, we will be together.

Please do not disappoint me.

Yours,

Joseph

 

The room was filled with the Who’s Who of the colored elite. In the corner, chatting with Twila Dabney and her sisters, Flora and Esther, sat Miss Susan Maria Smith, from Weeksville, Brooklyn, the first colored woman valedictorian of the New York Medical College for Women and the first ever to practice medicine in the state of New York. Lawrence often mentioned Miss Smith with a paradoxical mixture of racial pride and male resentment for a woman who was audacious enough to pursue and achieve that which was denied to many colored men. Across the room, Mrs. Sarah Smith Tompkins Garnett fanned herself against the temperature of the overheated room. The public school principal was a personal heroine to Rachel, and Rachel often held the woman up to her sixth grade class as an example of how far they could go and what they could achieve if they set their minds to the course. In the large chair next to the blazing fireplace sat the illustrious abolitionist and journalist, Frederick Douglass, who was wiping away a bead of sweat with his handkerchief. His untamed hair and whiskers were even whiter than last year when she had seen him at George’s funeral. He had purchased a home just a couple of years ago in Washington, D.C., but the distance never prevented him from answering a summon of duty. He and her father had been fellow journalists and great friends. He was almost like a second father to her.

There were only about twenty souls stuffed into the moderate-sized living room of the parsonage where the Reverend lived with his daughters. They were gathered to hear the appeal from Edwin McCabe, who was seeking financing of the migration of thousands of colored families from the south to Kansas, in a movement referred to as the “Exoduster.” The native New Yorker had left his job on Wall Street with dreams of establishing an all-black metropolis out west; he was a major organizer of the movement. He sat now with the Reverend, both men to the left of Douglass. The Reverend stood up, the gleam of sweat on his brow visible in the light of the oil lamps. A large, sturdy man (his daughters took after him), he introduced the speaker. The gathered guests welcomed Mr. McCabe with a warm applause. Rachel clapped her hands mechanically, too aware of Lawrence sitting next to her. Lawrence often served in the capacity of attorney for the church, and was called whenever funds were at issue. Mr. McCabe’s voice boomed in the room, his expression assured as he was a man on a godly mission who did not question the godliness of those assembled before him.

“Good friends, I thank you for your welcome, and for the generosity of your time. I ask that you extend that generosity even further to help those of our race who have not had the fortunes God has blessed many of you with. As many of you no doubt know, the colored families living in the south often live in peril, especially since Congress passed the Civil Rights Act, giving the Negro man the right to vote. Just a few years back, in the great state of Mississippi, the white folks who wanted to deny the Negro his vote used everything from political assassinations to intimidation to keep the Negro from exercising his God-given rights as well as those privileges recently afforded to him by law.

“Unlike those of us in the North, our sisters and brethren in the South have few expectations and even fewer choices. Those who want to stand up and be counted as men are often shot down like mongrel dogs. No, the white man will not let them live in peace and with dignity. So, I say that if whites and coloreds cannot live peaceably together, then let the two races abide apart, with equal liberties and opportunities, and no resentments for one by the other.”

At this moment, McCabe paused for effect. Twila, ever dutiful, brought out a heretofore unseen glass of water, and walked it to the speaker. He nodded gratefully as he took the glass and sipped at the refreshment. Twila waited as McCabe sipped some more. Then he gave her back the now half-filled glass and she took it away, gingerly stepping back to her place in the corner of the room.

Lawrence took this moment to lean over and whisper, “Are you all right? You look ill.”

Rachel was aware of the lateness of the hour as well as what day it was. Friday, the 14th. The speaker began again, and Lawrence cast a quizzical glance at her, waiting for her answer.

She looked around at all the illustrious people gathered in the well-furnished room. This was her place in society. These people gathered here were people she admired and respected and whose respect she desperately wanted to keep. She imagined the disdain they would have for her if they were to discover how she had fallen.

In the end, she had no other choice. To maintain her place, to keep her good name, she would have to prostitute herself this one last time. She determined not to think about how she missed him, missed his touch, his voice. If she allowed herself that bit of truth, she would be lost.

She leaned toward her brother. “I think I should leave. It’s overly warm in here, and I am feeling somewhat faint.”

He moved as though to get up, but she stayed his action with a hand on his arm. “You are needed here, Lawrence. I will hail a cab.”

“I will not leave you unescorted so late in the evening. I will come with you.” Again the authoritarian voice, tempered with actual brotherly concern.

“Lawrence, I’d rather you didn’t. You know I don’t like a lot of fuss. Besides, the house is so near, I don’t need an escort. Really, I’ll be all right if you just don’t make a grand production of this.”

Lawrence looked undecided for a few moments. McCabe was talking about the thousands of dollars needed to purchase more land in Kansas for those families preparing for the move. Lawrence’s ear was turned to this. The issue of money had arisen, the main reason his presence had been requested. Depending on how much financing would be needed, papers would have to be drawn up. It was important that he hear the rest of the speech so that he would be better informed for his talk with McCabe and the Reverend. This, Rachel knew, and she could see in her brother’s face the moment he acquiesced to her request. He settled fully into his seat again.

“Well, I should be home no later than ten. I’ll have to stay afterward to talk with the Reverend and Mr. McCabe. If you’re sure you’ll be all right…”

“I’m sure, Lawrence,” she said calmly, even though she quaked inside. She rose in one move, motioning Twila that she was leaving. Unexpectedly, Twila rose also and followed Rachel out into the foyer where she gathered her coat from one of the coat hooks.

“Rachel, dear, is there anything wrong?” Twila asked, concern in her voice, but avid curiosity in her eyes, light brown eyes the color of topaz that were complemented by a brown and tan suede dress and lustrous light brown hair. The woman’s upswept chignon added another inch to her already towering six feet. Not exactly beautiful, but handsome nonetheless, Twila’s stature lent an inherent authority that she used to her advantage whenever she wanted to persuade someone to do her bidding, or to gently extract information. Rachel looked the woman in the eye, trying not to feel intimidation in addition to the other emotions coursing through her.

“There’s nothing particularly wrong. I’m just not feeling myself tonight and thought it best to quit the evening now. Lawrence will stay, of course, to confer with your father later. He knows how important this evening is.”

“I am sorry that you have to leave. I so rarely get to see you these days. It seems you’ve been…distracted…for the past few months. I do so miss our teas together. Maybe we can plan for something next week. Just us girls, Flora, Esther, Adele Watkins, and Bertha Mason. You know Bertha just gave birth last month and is slowly working her way back into the social calendar. We would just love to sit down with you and catch up on old business.”

Rachel blinked, but smiled. “Of course, tea would be nice. I miss you all also, and apologize for past distractions that have kept me away. I promise you, though, I will not allow that to happen again.”

Twila smiled widely. “I’m so glad to hear that. We would not want to lose the pleasure of your intercourse.”

Rachel blinked at Twila’s choice of wording, but only nodded as she finished buttoning her coat.

Twila opened the door. “Shall we say here, next Wednesday, then? Noon?”

“Yes, that will be fine, Twila. Absolutely lovely.”

Rachel then escaped into the cold and only felt safe once Twila had finally closed the door. Providence was being either cruel or kind, as she spotted a hansom cab that had just turned onto the street of stately brownstones. She hailed it, and it obediently stopped.

The air was chilled, and she found herself trembling as she descended the stairs and waited for the driver to descend from his seat to help her into the cab. Even as the door closed against the cold, she found herself still trembling and knew that it was not the climate that had her in such a state.

She closed her eyes and prayed this night would end quickly.

Chicago, 2006

R
achel? Why was he calling her that damned name? The man took a step toward her and Tyne stepped back, nearly knocking over a table situated near the door.

“Rachel, please don’t run from me. Not again.” He reached out a hand, his eyes begging her.

Tyne fought through her panic and confusion, trying to grab hold to some shred of reason. Anything to explain away what was happening before her eyes. To explain how it could be happening at all.

Either she was going crazy. And that frightened her.

Or this was truly happening. And that terrified her to the core.

She was close to the door, but she knew he would be there even before she could get it open.

Somehow she had to reason with him. Reason with this stranger, who should be David. Who was David. She had to convince him to go…or to let her go.

“I thought I had lost you, Rachel. Please, love, don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you…not like before.”

He moved so quickly she didn’t have a chance to evade his grasp. His hand closed firmly around her arm, but not roughly. A gentle vise. He pulled her close enough for her to look up into his face, to see his features.

She couldn’t believe the change. There was nothing left of David, as though he had been totally subsumed by the stranger. Yet, for some reason, the face was familiar. Or felt like it should be. The smell of liquor was warm on his breath. And his eyes had the dangerous edge of someone not clearly sober. Or sane.

“I’m…not…I’m not who you think I am. My name’s Tyne, not Rachel. David, please let go of me.”

His eyes hardened. “Why are you playing these games with me? Of course, you’re Rachel! And please do not try to confuse me by calling me by another name. You know I’m Joseph.”

“Joseph?” she whispered. No, his name was David. And hers was Tyne. And this wasn’t happening. She was asleep, having another dream. A nightmare.

Another dream. A dream lover like David…but not David. Someone who could strike desire and fear. All of it so familiar.

He closed his eyes, his face in a grimace as though he were in pain. “For so long I thought you were…” He stopped, drew in an audible breath. Then pulled her completely to him.

His lips found hers and in her shock, she let him kiss her. Let him because she was afraid of what he would do if she resisted. He didn’t invade her mouth, just let his lips wander along hers. She tasted him, felt the contours of his body. So familiar.

Yes, he had kissed her before. Had held her before this moment.

And not just in her dreams.

He pulled back finally and his eyes were clouded over. He stared at her, confused, as though he wasn’t sure who she was. Then he released her and stepped away.

She knew that if she was going to escape, now was the time to do it, when he seemed so lost. Instead, she continued standing there, watching as his shoulders slumped and his face fell. The sadness emanating from him was almost palpable. It almost smothered her. He looked around the apartment as though seeing where he was for the first time.

“This isn’t right. It isn’t real,” he said mournfully. “This place…you. It’s all just a trick of my mind. A strange delusion somehow. My Rachel is gone, forever gone.”

The grief in his voice struck a plaintive note. She’d heard that same note in David’s voice that night when she’d run from him. And although the voices were different, they were echoes of one another. As though both were from the same man. As though this stranger named Joseph and the man she knew as David were—

Something inside her tried to hold on to a truth that was evasive, a truth that was so painful she didn’t think she could stand to know it. But she reached beyond her fear and disbelief. Began gleaning the logic from the chaos before her.

The dreams. How they had pulled her to David and, at the same time, made her so afraid of him. The otherworldliness, the undeniable attraction…. But they were just dreams. They couldn’t have been anything else. Could they?

The stranger stood unmoving, looking downward now at something unseen at his feet. Then he said, “My love’s dead.”

What was he seeing? Whatever it was had increased his sorrow greatly. He seemed paralyzed by the emotion. She stepped closer, keeping a safe distance. He lifted his head for a moment to look at her but his eyes were immediately drawn back to the unseen apparition.

“My beautiful Rachel. I killed her.”

Tyne blinked at the confession. Killed her?

She didn’t have to see his face to know that he was crying.

She should leave. Right now, just turn and walk out the door. She should find a phone, call the police, get him some help. But how could she explain that this stranger was and wasn’t the man she knew as David Carvelli? The police would think she was the crazy one. Maybe, she was. Maybe she was only imagining the change, seeing David as someone totally different.

In the end, though, she knew she wasn’t crazy or imagining things. Just as she knew she wouldn’t leave. Even as everything inside her resisted, tried to block out the madness of this night. Told her to run. Told her she was in danger.

Instead, she accepted the duality that was David…and Joseph. That they were the same. And that they both mourned a woman named Rachel. A woman they both had loved. Still loved. A woman Joseph just admitted killing.

She should have been afraid, but her earlier fear was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sadness. And as she stood watching the man she had made love with, made love to, saw him swallowed into someone else, she could finally admit her deepening feelings, though she had tried so hard to deny them these past weeks. She couldn’t bear to see him so tormented. And even though he wasn’t David physically, she knew that the anguish the stranger felt was also David’s anguish. His pain belonged to David.

Whatever she had to do to stop that pain, she would.

Even if she had to become Rachel to do it.

She just didn’t know how.

New York—November 14, 1879

The calash was there, just as he had promised. It was a dark silhouette beneath the gaslight that darkly illuminated the stones of the medieval-looking folly known as Castle Belvedere. There were just a few souls wandering around the serpentine paths, one of the reasons Joseph had decided to make the park, and particularly this out-of-the-way spot, their meeting place. He would often drive her from here, going to his apartment or some other secluded place. During those times, when she had stood before the battlements of the building, anticipation had built, making her feel giddy and sullied at the same time. And, like a whore, she had gone willingly.

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.