If I Should Die Page 12

  Perhaps it was the feeling of helplessness, of being trapped behind the mask with only my mouth and my eyes showing. My eyes. I narrowed them but it was too late to pretend to be dozing. He had seen me staring. I remained still and thanked God for the mask and for the towel Maizie had wrapped around my head.

  He approached, paused, then moved to the back as Maizie called. “Baby, here it is …”

  There was a quiet shuffling of paper—probably envelopes—and he left as quickly and quietly as he had come.

  By the time Maizie removed the mask and the towel, I was drenched with sweat.

  chapter fifteen

  I was still sweating when I got home but I considered the information I’d gotten and was determined not to let Johnnie Harding’s visit bother me.

  Dad was in the living room when I walked in, so I asked, “Notice anything different?”

  He looked up from the stack of sheet music on the table and I could tell from his expression that my trip to the Pink Fingernail had not been worth it. Cosmetic-wise, at least.

  He leaned forward. “Light’s so dim in here, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at. New dress, new hair, new face, legs? What? I’m an old man, honey. You have to be more specific.”

  He always fell back on the “old age” syndrome as a convenient way out. I sighed, headed upstairs, and knocked on Alvin’s door. He was stationed in front of his computer and did not look around so I couldn’t ask his opinion.

  “How was the rehearsal?”

  “It was good.”

  I stepped into the room. “So everything went well? The selections and all?”

  “Yeah. Except that Mr. Lloyd was mad but nobody knew why. Kept walkin’ in and out of the room. Somebody said he was countin’ heads.” He turned from the machine, frowning. “What’s his problem?”

  “Nothing he can’t handle,” I said, touching his shoulder. “Lloyd’s under some pressure right now but he’ll be all right.”

  I was feeling a vague anxiety myself, but later a warm shower calmed my nerves enough to settle down and add to my notes everything I had learned in the Pink Fingernail. I had not spoken to Tad much since Clarence had been released. What with trying to catch up with my class assignments to avoid a failing grade, visiting the hospital, and trying to track down things I needed to know, my main contact had been with his answering machine. When he returned my calls, he seemed too depressed and angry to talk.

  I avoided asking anything relating to Danny’s so-called Choir Murders file but I knew it was on his mind and talking would have made matters worse. Better to sort out the information that came my way, compile my own file, and present it to him all at one time. If he hit a wall at the precinct, then I would go to the district attorney with it.

  I put the notebook away when Dad knocked on the door.

  “What time will you be ready?” he asked.

  “Ready?” My mind went blank. “For what?”

  He opened the door a crack, then stepped inside. He smelled of a wonderful lime aftershave. He stood there with his hands jammed in his pockets and I could see his pained expression. “The opening-night gig is at ten o’clock this evening.” He pronounced each word individually as if speaking to a child.

  “Opening! Oh, Dad …”

  I looked at him and tried to find the words to apologize. The New Club Harlem on Malcolm X Boulevard was opening tonight and he had been practicing and preparing for this for at least a month.

  “Of course I’m going,” I said, scrambling for words and moving across the room to my closet. Thank goodness that what few party clothes I still had were hanging just inside on the closet door and I could have reached in blindfolded to pull one off the hanger.

  “What time are we expected?” I asked, trying to soothe his hurt feelings. I was on my knees in the closet searching for matching shoes and a handbag when he sighed.

  “You’ll have to meet me there. I’m expected to meet the boys a little early. Miss Laura is coming to sit with Alvin. I reserved a table for you.”

  I raced for the door before he closed it and gave him a kiss. “Good luck, Dad. Good luck. I’m happy for you.”

  The New Club Harlem on Lenox Avenue was built on a site that once held a three-story garage and auto storage warehouse. The present structure was new from the ground up and spotlights flashing on the white stucco facade highlighted the red canopy and carpet stretching to the curb. Large potted evergreens flanked the double-height brass-inlaid doors, and the velvet rope across the entrance suggested that the least expensive drink would cost three times as much as in the local hangout bar around the corner.

  Despite the forbidding rope and prices, the opening caused a wave of excitement in the neighborhood—a supper club to feature jazz exclusively was finally back on the scene.

  It was silly to take a cab five blocks when I could have walked to the place but it had been a while since my feet had been in four-inch heels. I looked nice standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a thigh-high black silk dress, triple-strand rope of pearls, and silk shoes, but by the time I left the house and walked to the corner, my toes were calling for a taxi louder than I was.

  A crowd of onlookers was gathered outside the club and barricades had been set up just like in the movies. The doorman rushed to help me out of the cab and a murmur went up as I tipped lightly down the carpeted walk.

  “Oh, I know her, she’s—let’s see, she’s—”

  “Yeah, that’s her, the model … I seen her with that movie star last year … You know her, she’s—”

  I made it to the door amid the whistles and flashbulbs and without having to sign a single autograph.

  The interior was decorated the way Hollywood imagined a Harlem nightclub ought to look: bright red walls with black silhouettes of Savoy-style dancers caught in various acrobatic poses. Wall sconces cast wavering lights on the silhouettes to create an illusion of shadowy movement.

  The tables, small linen-covered squares, were set in tiers around the dance floor. The aisle slanted down so that everyone had a view of the musicians in the center. Stars blinked in the painted ceiling and the lighting was just bright enough for a patron to wave and be recognized.

  I wondered how much money went into this. And whose money. How much had the liquor license cost? Was there a front? I noticed a table, larger than the others, just to the right of the door, where four men sat—obscured by a tall screen of plants.

  I waved to Dad, took my seat, and ordered a vodka martini from a hovering waiter. I slipped my shoes off under the table and Tad came to mind as I wriggled my toes. I missed him, really missed him. He should have been sitting right here with me but Dad was still upset about Deborah. Tad’s presence would have reminded him all over again and I wanted nothing to interfere with his night.

  A half hour later the lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on the emcee.

  “Welcome to the new jazz club. And let’s welcome Jeffrey Anderson, our own Harlem-born, -bred, and -blessed. The only man I know who can make a bass sing soprano.”

  The spotlight faded to a soft magenta and Dad said simply: “This composition is for Benin.”

  A soft play of fingers floated over the piano, cutting the silence. Sound rose from keys barely touched but lingered long enough to be caught by the edgy call of a trumpet. After the sax opened up, the bass notes could be heard undergirding and holding together everything that had to be said.

  In the darkness, I listened along with everyone else. For weeks I had heard the tapping of keys and plucking of bass, disjointed and hollow, coming from his study. At times there was no sound at all and I had wondered if he was all right or if he had fallen asleep. Other days, profanity loud and strong persuaded me to mind my business and leave him and his Muse strictly alone.

  Now here was the finished piece—a memorial—washing over everything in small exquisite waves of sound.

  I brushed my tears away as the lights came up and applauded long after everyone else had st
opped.

  The band played five more numbers and then took a break. Dad eased into the chair beside me. “Trio’s coming on after midnight. I can check the acoustics, then maybe take my little girl for a spin on the floor.”

  He meant to dance. My toes wriggled around and found my shoes, and what I had feared most had happened. My feet had swollen one whole size larger than the shoes. I reached under the table and gathered them up.

  “Which way to the ladies’ room?”

  He pointed to an exit near the front and I thanked God that the lights were dim enough for me to hobble away with some dignity. In the bathroom, I locked myself in a booth, took off my panty hose, and gingerly placed a wad of tissue between the toes that hurt the most. All I needed was enough relief to get me through this session and out of the club. I intended to barefoot it home.

  I reapplied my lipstick and walked to the door, only to open it and close it just as quickly.

  “Damn!”

  I leaned against the door, hoping no one wanted to come in, hoping I hadn’t been seen. Johnnie and Danny? Together? Damn!

  I let a minute pass before I peered into the corridor again. The two had moved a distance away.

  Their voices were muted against the sound from the stage but in the dim light I could make out Danny angrily waving his hand in Johnnie’s face and Johnnie laughing. The music died, the applause ended, and the voices floated easily above the voice of the emcee.

  “… I’m tellin’ you, Danny, I don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about!”

  “Don’t pull that on me. You know what went down. Your name is on that sheet. You put ’im back out in the street!”

  “You think I’d be that stupid? Fuck you!”

  The music started again and the rest of the conversation was lost.

  chapter sixteen

  Walking in Harlem at 5 A.M. reminded me of my old midnight shift except now, instead of moving with the weight of a .38, I had Dad beside me rolling his bass.

  Much to his embarrassment, I strolled in my stocking feet, trying to make up my mind whether to throw my shoes into the next trash can.

  “You gonna have arthritis up to your knees by morning,” he said. “You, a city girl, walking barefoot on concrete. Never saw such a thing in my life.”

  “Dad, if you only knew how much my feet hurt …”

  “I know you should use something called common sense and buy shoes that fit. You wore a size nine when you were age nine. You’re thirty-one now and—”

  “Dad. Please …”

  He glanced at me and whatever else he meant to say was swallowed back in a grumble.

  He was right. It made no sense to stroll barefoot, what with dog gifts and other debris to contend with, but I couldn’t think about that right now. I was still surprised to see Danny and Johnnie Harding together. But things being the way they are, it was entirely possible for cops and criminals to sometimes frequent the same place at the same time.

  Dad and I continued the short distance. He remained quiet and the silence between us made the walk seem longer.

  Two gypsy cabs, one after the other, slowed down, but we waved them on and watched them disappear into the fading darkness. Already, a small pink rim was enlarging in the downtown sky and transforming anonymous silhouettes into real buildings with windows and drawn shades and people sleeping behind the shades.

  A bus rattled by, shifted gears noisily, and a minute later we were alone again, crossing Powell Boulevard with the only sound coming from the small rolling wheel of the bass.

  This stillness was remarkable for a neighborhood that never slept. Folks usually lounged on stoops, decorated lampposts, and hung out twenty-four seven in front of the all-night bodega, with music and beer and expectant attitudes, waiting for something to happen even if nothing ever happened. Sometimes the crowds were so thick that other folks thought something had already gone down and so came out to join them.

  We passed one person, a forlorn figure nodding off a high on the stone steps of a burned-out building. The entrance was cinder-blocked and the windows above yawned open like black eyes. I did not like this kind of quiet.

  I thought of Danny. He was operating in Rambo mode, using more muscle than mind, but why had he allowed Harding to laugh at him?

  When they had moved farther down the hall, I had managed to slip from the ladies’ room and back to the table, but the rest of the evening had been lost. The music, the applause, and the emcee’s voice all seemed to flow from the other end of a long tunnel and I had been glad when the last set ended.

  I put the key in the door, waking Miss Laura. Alvin was fine, she said, and she fell back to sleep on the sofa.

  The carpet in the foyer felt like a cloud under my feet and I lingered there as Dad went into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m too tired.” What I really needed was solitude.

  Upstairs, I sat near the window with my feet in a basin of water and watched the dawn slip over gray-brown branches of the linden trees, turning them red-gold in the new light. The birds came next, with their morning sounds.

  And somewhere beyond the trees and the birds, it was midnight again and I was alone in the street as a black Cadillac pulled up beside me. The tinted window rolled down to reveal a clay mask floating in the dark interior, floating like a balloon.

  I tried to run but clawlike hands reached out, growing larger as I struggled to move across a street pockmarked with craters. Then I stumbled and fell soundlessly into a gaping manhole, falling deeper and faster and unable to grasp the slippery walls. The clay mask zigzagged down behind me, and the deeper I fell, the nearer the voice behind the mask seemed. “… Let it alone … let it alone …”

  The voice sounded familiar and I tried to call out but fractures appeared in the clay and the mask began to fly apart in sharp, cutting pieces. I turned away screaming, afraid to look at the face behind it.

  When I opened my eyes, Dad was shaking me by the shoulders.

  “See what walking barefoot will get you? Nightmare had you hollerin’ so loud you scared poor Alvin out of a year’s growth.”

  I looked down at the basin which had been knocked over, saw the water seeping into the carpet. The metallic taste of alcohol in my mouth was enough to curl my tongue but I managed to apologize.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize … Is … is Alvin okay?”

  “Yeah. Go take a shower and get yourself together. Coffee’s ready. I’m gonna walk Miss Laura down the block.”

  I hurried to the bathroom, avoided the mirror, jumped into the shower, and remained under the icy spray long enough to come to my senses. I knotted a terry robe around me and hurried to Alvin’s room.

  The door was ajar and I tapped lightly before poking my head in. He was sitting in the window seat with his knees drawn up under his chin.

  “Alvin, how’re you feeling?”

  He lowered his legs to make room for me to sit beside him. On the walls on either side of the window he had taped life-size posters of Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson, and directly over his bed, the face of Patrick Ewing with the ball held chest-high glowered into the room. Magic and Michael were smiling, Patrick looked grim, all were sweaty with determination.

  I wondered if they ever had to cope with the crushing anger of abandonment or the guilt that survivors sometimes endured. I turned away and gazed out of the window.

  “I’m sorry about waking you,” I said, not knowing where to begin.

  He raised his shoulders slightly and said nothing. The small chorus of bird chatter just outside the window did little to fill the silence.

  “It was a dream,” I whispered, “something I can’t even remember now that I’m awake.”

  “I remember all my dreams,” he said, turning from the window to look at me. His eyes in the slanting sun took on the light brown cast of his mother’s eyes. “I remember my dreams ’cause they don’t wanna go away.” He bent his leg to examine a small scratch
on his knee, then began to pick at it absently. “They come two and three times a night. I wake up tired most of the time.”

  “What do you dream about?”

  He hesitated, trying to decide if he wanted to talk about it. Finally, he said, “Mom. Dad. I see them at the airport.”

  I put my arms around his shoulders and pressed him to me. He was nine years old when that overseas call had come in. He was supposed to stay with me and Dad for two weeks, long enough for his parents to take a quick trip to celebrate the end of William’s internship. A trip that had been planned for a long time. And they were supposed to come back. Instead, the phone call had come in the middle of a rainy night.

  At times I feel we, Dad and Alvin and I, are still waiting for them to come back. Even though the bodies had been recovered and brought home. Even though Dad and I had scattered that final wet handful of earth on the caskets and listened to the slow squeal of the winch lowering them into the ground, we seem to be waiting. Even though I can still feel the wind, the chill that had settled in me that day and never left, we wait and listen.

  We seem to be in a state of suspension, anticipating a tap on the door, imagining that rush of air as Benin and William stroll in, laughing and breathless from the flight, complaining of the cab ride, dropping suitcases and shopping bags heavy with perfume and Paris labels to prove there had been a mistake.

  Two years later and we are still waiting.

  I catch myself speaking in the present tense. “Your mother wants you to … Your father wants …” as if they will one day return to say what a wonderful job we did with their son in their absence.

  Early on, I had gone back to Dr. Thomas for crisis sessions. There must be a sense of closure, he said. And it would have been better if Alvin had attended the funeral, gone to the burial, as young as he was. It would have helped him most.

  But it’s too late to change that. Too late. So we must work all the harder toward this closure. But how does one give up the past without giving up memory?