If I Should Die Read online

He had stopped talking and was gazing at me, smiling. “You’re making me nervous, girl …”

  I lowered my eyes, looked around the room for something else to interest me, then laughed. “I’m sorry. Bad habits die hard.”

  “Hey, I’m only teasing you.”

  He looked around also, attempting to focus on something. His gaze took in the piano, the bar, the paintings, the fruitwood mantel over the fireplace, and the oak staircase in the foyer.

  “This is a beautiful place, Mali. In fact, the whole block is beautiful. Strivers Row. I walk through it every chance I get.”

  Every chance he got. I suppressed a sigh, a deep one. Had I known that he strolled the neighborhood, I’d have propped myself up in the window wearing less than a New Orleans working girl. I’d have even gotten one of those velvet swings.

  Instead I said as casually as I could, “Lived here all my life. Born a short walk away.”

  “Harlem Hospital?”

  “That’s right. My mother liked to tell the story of how she walked there at two A.M. The night I was born, my father was at an all-night gig. He never lived it down. She wouldn’t let him, I suppose. They laughed about it a lot.”

  I felt relaxed, but somehow I curled up tighter on the sofa, drawing my legs under me. Now that he was here and we had run out of ideas about the calendar, at least for now, I needed to gather some other, more personal information. I needed to catch up, to fill in the gaps that needed filling in this relationship, this friendship really, that previously had not gotten anywhere beyond precinct talk, a few dinners, and late night phone conversations.

  I knew now that I had hesitated at the time because he was stepping out of a bad marriage and had been busy with attorneys and alimony and ulcers.

  He had been busy, and when he finally called, something had happened in my own life and I could not speak to him.

  Now I settled back into the pillow, determined.

  “One month after I was fired from the department, my older sister died. I never got the chance to tell you because everything happened so fast. She and her husband had been vacationing in Europe. Hiking in the Alps between France and Italy. They stepped on an ice shelf and it caved in under them. That was nearly two years ago. Dad and I are raising their son.”

  Tad looked at me. His eyes seemed deeper than ever. “Mali, I’m sorry. Jesus. I didn’t know. How old is the boy?”

  “Alvin’s eleven. Nice, bright …” I looked down at the floor, trying to concentrate. “I’m raising him, or trying to, but I don’t know … At times I wonder if I’m doing the right thing … like not allowing him to join the Scouts because I can’t stand the idea of him going hiking. When he goes to camp in the summer, I take him there personally to tell the administrator that my nephew is not to go hiking.

  “The only thing I feel comfortable with is the Chorus. But now with this kidnapping attempt and Erskin Harding’s death—his outright murder …” My voice trailed off and Tad waited patiently before I was able to continue.

  “Alvin was very close to Dr. Harding and this is the boy’s second loss in two years. I don’t know what to …”

  Tad leaned over and his fingers covered my hand.

  “Listen, Mali, I can understand how you feel but maybe … maybe … at times we don’t realize how easily we can spoon-feed our own fears into someone else, into children especially.”

  “I know it, but I can’t help it. He and my father are all the family I have left. I have no children of my own so my family ends with my nephew. I can’t help it.

  “My sister taught school and her husband had just finished his internship. He planned to specialize in pediatrics. It was a terrible blow. None of us has gotten over it and I’m especially worried about Alvin. For a long time, he had screaming nightmares. They had begun to fade, but now they’ll be back. Since Dr. Harding was killed, I know they’ll come back again. Sometimes, I think—” My voice was about to leave me and I put my hands over my eyes. “I don’t know what to think. It’s been one thing after another without a minute to catch my breath.”

  “Mali—” Tad leaned across the sofa and pulled me to him. My head rested on his shoulder and his voice was soft near my ear. “I remember now. You never spoke much about your family except to say that your father’s a musician …”

  “I know …”

  I let it go. “Keep your own counsel,” Mama had always said. “Especially among strangers.” And I had found soon enough that nothing was stranger than the NYPD. If I hadn’t been fired, I certainly would’ve quit.

  “I know,” I said again. I could feel the steady reassuring weight of his hand on my shoulder as he spoke.

  “I read about that accident in the City Sun. But I didn’t make the connection because the last name was different than yours. I didn’t realize it was your sister.

  “Mali, you had a hell of a lot happen. Your family. The problems with the department. Now this … I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He turned my face up to meet his eyes. “Listen. I don’t know if this is the right time or not. If it isn’t, or if it isn’t what you want to hear, just shut me up. But since we’re finally talking, I may as well tell you.

  “When you didn’t return my calls, I was really confused. And angry. I didn’t know what was going on. I thought of writing to find out what was going through your mind. I thought we’d meant more to each other than just that good-bye card you left on my desk.

  “The day you left, I put your card in my pocket and went home and earned a king-size hangover the next day. Then I called and called … and you were never there or you were too busy to come to the phone.”

  He pressed the palms of his hands to my face and I felt the strong pressure of his fingers.

  “Mali. Baby. I missed you. I’m—”

  I put my fingers to his lips to quiet him but he opened his mouth and drew them in lightly.

  “Listen, Mali …”

  His hands slipped down the small of my back and I had no idea what the next few minutes might bring. A light massage. Or a heavy one. Starting from the shoulders down. And ending somewhere around my legs. Or no massage at all, just moving directly to the heart of the matter. I had imagined this and dreamed of this for so long, day and night, that I knew exactly how I intended to help him get started.

  I had wanted to reach now for the lamp and turn it off but I heard the loud scrape of the key in the lock and Dad’s familiar noisy movements as he opened the front door and made his way through the foyer.

  He was whistling. Probably left the game early because he had won all there was to win.

  Damn! His good night had certainly ruined mine.

  “Dad.”

  When I called, I was so out of breath, I did not recognize my own voice.

  “Dad, I’m in the living room. I want you to meet a friend …”

  I watched the two men shake hands. My father seemed cautious; Tad looked uncomfortable—like an overgrown kid who’d just been caught with his hand in the honey jar.

  I wanted to laugh but I still had trouble breathing.

  “We’re going out for a walk, Dad. Can I bring you anything?”

  “Nope. Did all right by that game. Henry and the fellas’ll be better prepared next time.” He patted his pocket and turned. “Nice to meet you, young man.”

  He climbed the stairs and I waited until I heard the heavy sound of his bedroom door closing. The door needed planing and was in danger of etching a serious semicircle in the wood floor. God knows when it would be repaired. Dad always promised but his music came first.

  Outside on the steps, the street was quiet, and when Tad spoke, his voice was low. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Anywhere, as long as we pass by a phone on the way. I have to return a call.”

  “Want to drive or walk?”

  “Walking’s fine. I need the exercise.”

  “Okay by me,” he said.

  I watched as he walked over to check the lock on his car. It was a black late-model
Cadillac parked at the curb and the “HO” on the license plate stood out under the lamplight.

  chapter five

  Lord, when I come to the end of my journey …”

  At the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the voices of the Uptown Children’s Chorus rose toward the vaulted ceiling, then flowed down against the stone piers to touch the crowd gathered to pay their respects.

  All of the choristers were present, each group—tenors, altos, bass, and sopranos—distinguished by the individual colors of their robes.

  A tall, stately woman from the borough president’s office, with hair worn in tight locks, spoke of the tragic loss to the family, community, and friends. She stepped away from the pulpit and the voices rose again. I looked around me.

  I’m not comfortable sitting in the first row of anything—classrooms, buses, theaters, airplanes, and certainly not funeral services—but now I sat as close to the front as I could manage in order to watch Alvin.

  He had insisted on attending, and singing with the group. Even Dad had agreed: “Let the boy deal with this the way he knows how. You didn’t want him to attend his mother’s funeral because you thought he was too young. Wouldn’t understand what was going on. He was nine years old, for God’s sake, and you insisted he was too young.

  “Well, that may be why he keeps having all those nightmares. He never got the grief out of his bones. Let him make it through this one for Harding. Do ’im good.”

  There were huge banks of flowers and the fragrance mingled with the smoldering incense to drift heavily in the air.

  Alvin was one of the taller boys and stood in the third tier surrounded by candlelight. I could not distinguish his voice from the others but his mouth moved, he held himself erect, and he appeared calm. I guess Dad was right again. I’ll have to tell him so later.

  Several people spoke of Harding’s life. I listened, trying to read between the lines and trying to listen to those around me, hoping to find some connection to the memo on the calendar. In between, my thoughts wandered back to Tad’s license plate, then I simply dismissed it. There were probably hundreds of plates in the city with those same letters. I tried to refocus on the eulogy but learned nothing and two hours later moved outside to the steps and watched the procession file out.

  As Erskin’s mother passed, a man reached out and touched her arm. She looked at him, surprised, and drew back.

  “Don’t you dare touch me. My son is gone. All of those flowers. They don’t mean a thing to me. Get out of my sight!”

  She moved away and walked quickly to the waiting car.

  The man, exquisitely dressed, was the person who had sworn under his breath in the rehearsal hall the night Erskin was killed. He nodded his head slightly, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

  I watched him move away and wondered about his connection to Mrs. Harding. I did not see Alvin and Dad approaching until they were nearly in front of me. Alvin’s robe was white with a purple yoke and he appeared older than eleven years. The set of his jaw seemed hard.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  He looked away, scanning the crowd, which had thinned now to those small lingering knots of mourners who always remain after such events and long after the procession of cars, their headlights ablaze, had moved from the curb and out of sight.

  I wondered what he was thinking but before I could ask, he said, “I’m tired.”

  “Come on, kid,” Dad said immediately. “You’re tired. I’m hungry. Let’s head on down to Majestic’s and pick up an order of fish ‘n’ chips on the way home.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The slant of Alvin’s jaw softened somewhat but tightened again when I said, “You two go on. I’m waiting for someone. I’ll catch up later.”

  “Shall we get something for you?”

  “Probably not. I don’t know how long I’ll be out.”

  Five minutes later my eyes met Mrs. Johnson’s and she made her way over to me.

  “Didn’t mean to keep you waitin’. You know how these services are. Everybody got to get in a word or two about how well they knew the deceased. Happens every time. Betcha most of ’em never even said hi to ’im. And I’m sorry about the night when you called back. Clarence was there and I couldn’t talk.”

  “Clarence?”

  “The person I wanted to tell you about.”

  “What about him?”

  She looked around and didn’t answer. We walked to the corner of 110th Street and Amsterdam Avenue as three yellow cabs sped by, ignoring our outstretched hands.

  “Do you want to walk?”

  “Not in these damn heels,” she said. “I’m gettin’ a cab if I have to lay down in front of one.”

  Luckily, a gypsy cab finally stopped and we headed for Singleton’s Bar-B-Que, a small restaurant on Malcolm X Boulevard and 136th Street. It was jammed with Harlem Hospital staff but there was an empty table in the back which we rushed to claim. Once settled, I apologized.

  “I didn’t want to talk to you on my phone, Mrs. Johnson, because I’m an ex–police officer and I’m suing to get my job back.”

  Mrs. Johnson looked across the table at me, her eyes wide.

  “I knew there was somethin’ about you … a don’t-take-no-stuff attitude that I like. Well, we face-to-face now. This is always the best way.”

  We stopped talking when the waitress, a young girl clad in jeans and a “Free the Juice” T-shirt, approached with the menus.

  “Be back in a minute, ladies.”

  We waited until she moved away. I opened the menu and laid it flat on the table but did not look at it.

  “Mrs. Johnson, what’s going on? Is Morris all right?”

  Mrs. Johnson scanned her own menu carefully, then glanced around before she spoke. When she did, her voice was low, nearly lost in the floating din of general conversation.

  “Morris is okay. Still scared some but he’s okay. You know, when that first big wave of fright hits you, you forget things, sometimes it could be so bad, you forget your own name. Well, Morris, he started rememberin’ and tellin’ me certain things once he quieted down.”

  She looked around again and her voice went even lower, forcing me to lean over the table.

  “Morris said he overheard somebody threatenin’ Dr. Harding the Saturday before he got killed.”

  She drew a breath, and a frown covered her face, as if the whole situation was too much for her to handle alone. She needed support, someone who would tell her what to do.

  With the pink rollers gone from her hair, she did not look like the housewife who had come out of the crowd the night of Erskin’s death. Her dark brown hair was now swept up and over to the side and held in a deep stiff wave which added at least three inches to her height and cut ten years from her age. She wore very sheer white stockings—a vivid counterpoint to the dark suit and patent-leather high heels. The three-strand pearl necklace completed the picture of a very well dressed, stylish woman.

  Funerals will do that, I thought, looking at her.

  “Did Morris say who it was that threatened Dr. Harding?”

  The frown deepened and her fingers played along the menu, curling the edges. “Said it was Clarence. Boy used to be a problem but somehow he started actin’ right even before he joined up with the Chorus. Used to hang out on the basketball court all hours of the night, even past midnight, sometimes playin’ ball out there all by himself. Felt sorry for him. ’Specially when it was cold. Talk travels in those projects so I know for a fact that many a times that boy would open his fridge hopin’ that for once, the food stamps had been used to buy food. I mean how you expect a child to study fractions and French while his belly button is pressin’ on his backbone?

  “Most of the times, I just call out the window for ’im to come on up and eat dinner with Morris. Even though there’s a difference in their ages. Clarence probably seventeen now—” She closed her eyes to calculate, then said, “Yeah, he’s seventeen and Morris ain’t but eleven, but when a boy
’s starvin’, you don’t look at age, you just try to step in and help out … but I want to tell you God has blessed me for what I did ’cause you stepped in and saved my son.”

  She sucked her teeth and avoided my eyes as if anticipating my next question.

  “Clarence’s mama got a little problem. Ain’t too straight right now.”

  She said no more and I let it go. There were so many euphemisms for crack addiction.

  “What did Morris hear Clarence say?” I kept my voice low and tried not to sound too eager.

  “Seems like Dr. Harding had called Clarence into the office to tell him he wasn’t gonna go on that trip to France. He had failed some grades in somethin’ or other, Morris wasn’t sure.”

  “How did Morris hear all of this?”

  “He was standin’ right outside the office, waitin’ to bring some sheet music Harding had sent him for. The voices was so loud, Morris said he was embarrassed just bein’ there, but he didn’t know what to do. Said Clarence even used some street language with Dr. Harding and I know for a fact that kinda stuff just don’t go in there … they don’t stand still for nuthin’ like that.”

  I shook my head, remembering the long, grueling orientation session I had attended when Alvin joined earlier. If a child survived that lecture, he could survive anything.

  That day the goals of the organization had been stressed, along with the responsibility of each chorister to “act as an ambassador representing every Harlemite who ever lived, past and present.”

  Three thousand singers had applied and one hundred had been chosen to join. The incoming hundred, fifty boys and fifty girls, had to dress, act, think, and speak with the utmost decorum. Just as the other, more seasoned choristers had been taught. That meant no profanity—“off-language” the director had called it. No oversize T-shirts, no gold-capped teeth that did nothing but cause bad breath, no baggy trousers falling off the hips, and no short skirts.

  As I saw it, the director didn’t care if it was the style for the nineties, if the pants couldn’t stay up and the skirts down, he wasn’t cuttin’ no slack. The kid was out the door. Plain and simple.