Glorious (8 page)
E
aster and Colin stared at the cucumber sandwiches that the servant had set down before them and Easter wondered if white people truly enjoyed that type of food or if it was all for show and when out of the sights of colored folk, they hungrily gorged themselves on pig’s feet and Johnny cake.
“I really loved your work,” Meredith leaned forward and said. “It resonated with me in a way that I never thought it would.” She reached her hand out for one of the sandwiches and then decided against it. “I can’t believe you’re not published.”
Easter tried to focus on Meredith’s gray eyes, and on the words that were streaming from between her thin lips, but she was distracted by the strands of pearls that hung in waves around her neck and the precious baubles that graced her fingers, and how Rain was sitting so close to Meredith their hips touched.
Colin was fidgeting.
He was a simple man and was uncomfortable with the lavish surroundings. He felt intimidated by the crystal chandelier and offended by the expensive oil paintings that hung on the walls. He found it hard to meet the eyes of the black female servant who brought him his drink, as if his being a guest of the white aristocrat was somehow a slight against her, against their race.
And that woman. That Rain. She was fooling herself if she thought her light skin and green eyes made her one of
them
. Hadn’t she heard of the one-drop rule?
“You have a phenomenal voice and I think with some polishing …”
Colin pulled at his tie; the knot was cutting off his air supply and he’d begun to perspire. When Meredith interrupted her monologue to ask if he would like another drink, he said yes too quickly.
“Polishing? But I thought you said they were good.” Easter sounded wounded.
“Oh they are, darling, they are, but …”
Colin raised the glass and drank.
He hated them, these white people who had everything. He looked over at Easter and began to scrutinize her. The dress she wore was old and the color faded. She wore dull hair pulled back into a ball. Her shoes were scuffed and the heels worn down to the nail.
The servant brought him another drink without Meredith having to tell her. The liquor made Colin feel confident and he finally found the nerve to look up and into the servant’s eyes. There was nothing there, save for complacency. She was a trained seal. They all were. Including him.
Colin shifted on the sofa, working hard to contain the anger that was bubbling in his stomach. He swallowed the liquor and the servant brought him another.
“They’re good, but they’re raw. And raw is not a bad thing. I just think with some tutelage they could be better.”
His mother was sick, her house was falling apart, the shop was closed and his pigs were dying, and this woman was talking about
tutelage
? Everything he had worked hard for was going to rot and she was talking about tutelage. He needed some tutelage right about now, preferably in the form of a check.
Money.
He’d borrowed five dollars from his friend Jack and sent it off to his mother with the promise of more to come. That was two weeks ago and he hadn’t heard anything back yet. He’d gone to the UNIA headquarters on three separate occasions to speak with Marcus Garvey in person and each time was told that Marcus was traveling. Jack, an officer with the UNIA, had confirmed this and then asked if there was anything he could help him with. Colin had said no, and then yes, and Jack ended up lending him the money.
“I can help you. I mean, if you want my help, that is,” Meredith said to Easter.
Colin’s eyes roamed the room and lit on a set of silver candlesticks. He thought he could live for a year on what those candlesticks would bring him. They were just sitting there looking pretty; she probably never even used them. Rich people did things like that. They spent extraordinary amounts of money on things that looked pretty but served no real purpose. They bought expensive clothes for specific occasions and then never wore them again. They purchased cars that they never drove, preferring instead to stash them away in warehouses. They bought wine they didn’t drink, jewelry they rarely wore, and vast estates they only visited once a year. In Colin’s opinion, they were an excessive, wasteful people.
“You could help me with my work. I write in longhand as well and my secretary usually transcribes—”
“Transcribes?”
“Yes, she transcribes my written notes to typeface. Can you type?”
No she couldn’t, though she had seen it done. It looked simple enough. How hard could it be?
“Yes.”
Colin was drunk and could barely stand up when it came time for them to leave. The butler brought him his hat and it slipped from Colin’s hands and fell to the floor. The butler made no move to retrieve it and Colin was in no condition to make the attempt, so Easter stooped down and picked it up.
On the street Colin tripped over his feet and swayed drunkenly from side to side. In the streetcar, he plopped heavily down into a seat and began talking loudly.
The closer they got to their neighborhood, the more contentious and hostile his babbling became. Easter remained stone-faced and silent. There was no use trying to speak to him while he was in that state. And she realized as they climbed off the trolley and started up the street that he was in that state more and more frequently.
When she’d first met Colin, he had not been a drinking man, but that had changed. Whatever life circumstance had triggered that change he wasn’t saying, and Easter was tired of asking.
J
ack Jones turned the desk lamp off, rose from his chair, gathered the receipts, stacked them neatly, placed them in the bottom drawer of his desk, and locked it. He pulled the shades down over the windows before walking out of the office and down the steps to the lower level of the brownstone that housed the UNIA headquarters.
The kitchen was thick with the scent of herring and boiled yams. Sitting at the square table were three men of various shapes and sizes. “Rum?” one of the men suggested, nodding at the bottle in the center of the table. Jack shook his head as he reached for a chair.
“You eat?” another asked.
Jack raised his hand and said, “I’m good.”
Wesley Payne, one of Marcus Garvey’s generals, reached for the bottle and poured until the amber liquor reached the rim of the glass. He drank deeply and made a face as the liquor burned a fiery trail down his throat. He gasped, slapped his chest, and asked Jack, “How many today?”
“Two hundred thirty-five.”
A murmur of satisfaction passed around the table. Wesley grinned. “That’s nearly a thousand shares of stock sold this week alone.”
“When will Marcus be back?” Jack asked casually.
“The end of the week.”
Jack nodded, stood, and bid the men goodnight. He took the train down to Greenwich Village. On the street he was vaguely aware of the crunching sound his shoes made against the frozen snow. The sky above his head was dark, the moon and its cousins hid behind clouds that threatened more snow.
Jack headed to Chumley’s, which was located at 86 Bedford Street. He stepped in and allowed the door to close nosily behind him. He stood in the vestibule stomping the packed snow from his shoes and then shrugged off his coat and stepped into the warm, dimly lit bar.
The embers in the fireplace glowed and crackled as Jack moved past men and women seated at booths and round tables, embroiled in conversation. He slid into a booth located in the rear, where the shadows were thickest.
“What can I get fer ya?” the brawly waiter with shockingly blue eyes asked.
“Coffee.”
The history of Chumley’s made him uneasy. Why they’d chosen that particular place to meet was not entirely beyond him. Chumley’s had been a refuge for runaway slaves. He imagined that the meeting place made great fodder for jokes amongst his colleagues.
A few minutes later two white men joined him. Even though Jack Jones had the color and features of an Anglo, he felt conspicuous sitting between the two men. In a line-up he was sure one of his own could confidently pick him out as a spade masquerading as an ofay.
“How many today?” the larger of the two men asked.
“Two hundred thirty-five,” Jack responded.
The smaller man let off a long whistle. “That nigger—no offense, Jack—is really pulling in the cash, ain’t he?”
Jack said, “None taken,” but his jaw was clenched. “And he’s in negotiations to purchase another vessel.”
The two men exchanged looks of surprise. The smaller man laughed, “I’ve got to give it to him, he’s got heart.”
“That he has,” said the other man.
“Imagine, he wants to take Negroes back to Africa. Africa, for God’s sake! We get ’em here and get ’em halfway civilized and they wanna go back to Africa and live like savages again.”
Now both men laughed. Jack raised his cup to his lips and drank. The smaller one reached for his hat and set it firmly onto his head. Still laughing, he asked the larger man, “What is that catch phrase he’s using to rile up the Negroes?”
The larger man rolled his eyes in thought and tapped at his chin. “I can’t remember.”
“Africa for Africans,” Jack said in a low voice, and raised the cup to his lips again.
“Yeah, that’s it!” the two white men cried in unison.
Who are you?
the voice echoed in Jack’s head as he rode the train back uptown. The voice always came after he left Chumley’s. He wasn’t a superstitious man; he didn’t believe in ghosts, haints, or juju. Besides, he knew it was none of those things; the voice in his head was clearly his own.
As he trudged home, the snow finally began to fall, sugaring his hat and the top of his coat. At that late hour he had Harlem to himself. Jack stopped walking, tilted his head back, and opened his mouth. The flakes melted instantly on his warm tongue.
He remained that way for some time, his mind drifting back to his childhood in Massachusetts when he and his family lived in a community of Octoroons. Did they think themselves better than other Negroes? Maybe not always better than—but certainly better off. They could move among the whites unnoticed, gaining access to places their darker cousins would never be welcomed. The idea of living that way forever was seductive, and many fell under the spell and made the small leap from black to white, often never to be heard from again. But living a duplicitous life was a curse and a blessing. Jack had witnessed several young women who passed to marry white men. A year or so later they would return to the community, shame-faced and distraught, cradling mocha-colored newborns.
One drop.
Jack climbed the stairs of 28 West 133rd Street and inserted his key into the lock. He walked into his small room and removed his hat and coat.
The voice sounded again:
Who are you?
Jack ignored it and moved to the vent to warm his frozen hands.
Every day he gathered information on Marcus Garvey and the activities of the UNIA. The U.S. government had labeled Garvey an anarchist. He was to Negroes what Emma Goldman was to women. Dangerous Emma had called for access to birth control—how dare she suggest a woman be in control of her own reproductive system! And so, too, how dare Marcus Garvey suggest that Negroes develop and maintain their own economic system? How dare he put it into their minds that they could return to Africa, form their own government in Liberia, and unite the continent as one massive, indestructible force?
Africa for Africans!
Marcus Garvey’s words rang in Jack’s head. He moved across the room to the small looking glass that hung on the closet door and gazed wondrously at the man in the mirror. His mind shouted out:
Who are you?
He was a black man encased in white skin who faithfully served a hypocritical government, which had expressed, through a variety of laws and lack thereof, its blatant loathing and disregard for its Negro populace, and had the audacity to become outraged when those same Negroes sought to pack up and leave these United States.
Africa for Africans!
Why couldn’t the government just let them go? Be rid of the lazy, nasty, stupid, murderous, thieving, raping, lying coons once and for all? Did white people need Negroes to make them feel good about themselves? To be their whipping boys, their entertainment? Certainly they could have one of their own scrub their floors, wash their clothes, and raise their children.
Why?
It always came down to that one word: why?
And when Jack arrived at that point—as he did every time he had this particular inward conversation—he found that he had no answer.
Who are you!
Jack finally responded:
I am James Wormley Jones, the first ever Negro FBI agent, assigned by Hoover himself. I am Special FBI agent 800, James Wormley Jones, assigned to infiltrate the UNIA organization and to report on all activities!
The man in the mirror smirked.
But who are you
really? James Wormley Jones opened his closet door and pulled from the shelf a shoe box containing his special agent FBI pistol. He closed the door and his reflection was still waiting for an answer.
He released the safety on the gun.
I am a rat-fink, sell-out …
He cocked the hammer and pressed the nozzle to his temple.
An Uncle Tom house nigger.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rested the pad of his index finger against the trigger and found, just as he had numerous times before, that he couldn’t do it, because above all, he was weak.
E
duardo Tomas gave his wife a sharp look. It had been months since her friend, the woman with the ridiculous name, had appeared on their doorstep. As far as he was concerned, Rain had well overstayed her visit, and had over-indulged in their food, liquor, and was taking advantage of Meredith’s generosity. Didn’t Meredith see that Rain was a leech? And now she was talking about taking Rain to Paris! It was more than Eduardo could bear and so he exploded.
“I won’t have it!” he barked, and brought his fist down onto the breakfast table. The eggs, bacon, and toast trembled on their porcelain plates and the coffee swilled over the edge of the gold-embossed cup.
Meredith batted her eyes. “You won’t have what, darling?”
And now there was another. A darker one with quiet ways who showed up every other evening and pecked mercilessly away on the typewriter until all hours of the night.
Who did Meredith say she was? Oh yes, her secretary.
What kind of spell did these
changos
have over his wife? She surrounded herself with them. She donated money to their useless causes, ladled soup in their poorhouses, cradled their babies in their orphanages, and now she had one living in their home.
“I won’t allow you to squander any more of my money on that
puta
!”
She dressed like a
puta
, spoke like one, drank like one, and moved like one. And the places she spent her time, down there in Jungle Alley singing and baring her breasts—only
putas
did that.
She was a bad influence on his wife.
Meredith lowered the newspaper she’d been reading and looked at her husband with a knitted brow. “
Puta
? Really, darling, such language so early in the morning?”
Eduardo bristled. “I am not making fun with you, Merry. I mean it, no more!” His arm swept through the air and knocked over a crystal vase filled with geraniums. The butler appeared in a flash, cloth in hand, and began to attend to the mess.
Meredith stiffened.
“When I come back from Havana, I want her gone.” He was absolute, and without another word he stormed from the room.
Rain never rose before noon. But that morning the commotion roused her and she removed the pink satin sleep mask from her eyes and peered into the milky darkness of her bedroom. Her head was heavy, her throat dry, and her feet swollen. The culprit was the excessive amount of gin she’d consumed before bed.
The front door slammed and the windows rattled. Outside her bedroom she could hear the
tap, tap, tap
of Bijou, the gray and white Malti-Poo, as he followed close on Meredith’s heels. One knock and the door slowly opened. Meredith’s distressed voice reached through the darkness. “Rain? Rain, darling, are you awake?”
Rain raised her hand and waved.
“No, Bijou, no,” Meredith chastised as she used her slippered foot to gently nudge the dog back out into the hallway. “Darling,” she breathed dramatically, rushing to the bed, “Eduardo is not at all happy with our little jaunt across the water. He is being a complete monster!”
Rain threw back the coverlet.
Meredith unknotted the belt of her silk robe, slipped her arms from the belled sleeves, and allowed the material to crumple to the floor. “You must see Paris—everyone must see Paris before they die!”
She was stark naked. Her small breasts curved upwards, the nipples were erect and pink. She climbed into the bed and wrapped her sinewy arms around Rain’s neck.
“He spoke to me in the most horrendous manner,” she said, bringing her face close to Rain’s. “And he called you a
puta
!”
Rain kissed her, a deep, passionate kiss that sent a lightning bolt of excitement through both of their bodies.
“He wants you to go. He says you must be out by the time he returns.” Meredith’s voice was full of sadness. She pressed her palm against Rain’s cheek. “I won’t allow it, I won’t,” she sobbed.
Rain pulled Meredith to her and laid her head against her breasts. “Shhhh,” Rain consoled as she lovingly stroked Meredith’s hair. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”