Again (5 page)

S
itting in the Newberry Library, Rhea Simmons paused at one of the records listed on page 134 of the
African-American Freedmen’s Sourcebook
. She’d been leafing through the book all afternoon and the names and text were beginning to blur. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, put the glasses back on. Yes. There it was, the name she had been searching for, for nearly an hour. The listing leapt from a page of the Register of Signatures of Depositors of the Freedmen’s Saving and Trust Company, New York 1865–1876.

 

Record No. 1013 Record for Rachel Chase

Date: Feb. 20, 1876

Where born: New York

Where brought up: New York

Residence: 358 W. 15th St.

Age: 24 Complexion: Brown

Occupation: Teacher

Works for: Colored School #1

Wife or Husband: George (Attorney)

Children: None

Father: Lawrence Simmons, died on Thompson St., 1873

Mother: Gertrude Olmsted of NY.

Brothers and sisters: Lawrence, Jr. of NY.

Remarks:

 

This was a start. She would have to research the collections some other day for more information. The research would take a lot of time and effort, but ever since her grandmother had handed her the bundle of letters, her curiosity had been piqued about the woman who’d written them.

Rhea copied the information into her lined notebook, then double-checked to make sure she had written everything correctly. With a sigh, she closed the heavy vellum-bound book, put her pen down and sat back in the chair. In the hour since she’d first arrived, the room had partially filled with people. College students like her, mostly. There were a few older patrons, browsing through large tomes, probably researching their family genealogies. The librarian had told her that the second floor of the Newberry Library held an extensive collection of urban histories, census reports as well as 17,000 genealogies. Here was the place to come to research the past, to find information about somebody who lived and died over a century ago.

Rhea peered around at the bronze-grilled oak cases holding thousands of volumes, the tapered ceiling, the paintings of old Chicago hanging along the wall. The quiet elegance of the room, accented with large windows, marble-and-steel tables, and teak chairs, pulled her into its deliberate illusion of another time, some bygone era where privileged gentlemen sat down to brandied wine and cigars while poring over the news of the day. The plush carpeting muted footsteps, insulating its patrons in a cocoon of studious quiet. The whole room was meant to close out time. Or shut it in.

Rhea looked down again at the information written in her notebook. It was brief, yet it told much. For instance, her grandmother had long ago enlightened her about the early practice of distinguishing status in the colored community by skin tones. Never mind that all were designated “Negro” and were subject to the same discrimination by the majority society. To be too dark among one’s own was sometimes an immutable shortcoming, even if one had scads of money. An old adage her grandmother once told her about came to mind: “If you’re white, just right; brown, stick around; black, get back.” Unfortunately, the sentiment still survived to a degree. Rhea, medium-complected, still knew what it felt like to be the only black in a class, a room. To not be light enough in some situations, or not dark enough in others. Here in the log the entrant’s complexion was a matter of record. Rhea wondered whether it had been used as an identifier or for some discriminatory purpose. Designation “brown.” As opposed to what? “Yellow?” “Pearly white?” “Charcoal black?” Was “brown” here a plus or minus?

Rachel Chase had been twenty-four years old in 1876. The earliest letter Rhea held in her possession was dated September 1879, and was addressed to Rhea’s great-great-grandmother Sarah Parkins. According to at least one of the letters, Rachel’s husband, George, had died in a fire in early 1878. So who was the unnamed “gentleman” mentioned in the letters? Rhea pulled the folded pages of the first missive from her satchel, stared at the browned pages, the partially decipherable words. Some of the words had faded with time, but parts were still legible. It was this particular letter that had started Rhea’s quest, that had stayed on her mind, then began to prey on it.

At first glance, it held nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the content was everyday filler that might be found in letters of that time, a lot of chatter about weather, health, and expected travel plans. It was near the end of the letter, two paragraphs in particular, that caught Rhea’s eye after the first reading. At the time, she had barely wondered about the allusion to the mysterious gentleman, someone who was obviously Rachel’s lover. That Rachel refused to name him began to nag at Rhea. But searching among the subsequent letters, she found no clue as to the man who had brought the young widow so much pain and anguish. Rhea read the words again; she had lost count of the many times she had reread them:

 

I wrote to the gentleman (I need not divulge his name here to you where prying eyes might find it) just as you suggested. I impressed upon him my desire to cease this madness that has come over both of us. To never again let prior events occur. It is much too dangerous for both of us, given our place in society. Sarah, I implore you not to think less of me for my lapse in judgment and integrity, and hope you do not judge me too harshly. Loneliness for George and a need I cannot understand temporarily did away with my propriety and good sense.

I know there is no future for us. Especially not here, for it was only a few years ago that the whites burned down the colored orphanage on 51st Street, almost killing those precious children. I remember Father had to move us out of the city after the riot because for a long time it was not safe for colored folks to live in New York. Then there were the draft riots years later. And even though the years have passed, the hatred has not. I tremble to think what would happen to us if anyone were to discover our prior assignations. Worse yet, divulge them. Yes, I must find the strength to end that which should never have begun in the first place.

 

Rhea carefully folded the pages together and returned them to her satchel. What was she chasing? A piece of history? Or a satisfaction to her fervid curiosity? What was the soap-opera fascination that made her read and reread the letters, and now go through stacks of books looking for anything that might bring Rachel forth in her mind as more than a phantom long dead?

She wished she understood what was driving her, but she didn’t. What she did know was that she would continue searching until she found out who the “gentleman” was and what had happened to him and Rachel, something not found in any of the letters. The last letter was written in November 1879. Had Sarah moved away? Or had Rachel and her great-great-grandmother ceased communication for other reasons?

D
avid took a sip from his Manhattan and watched over the rim as Rick tried to engage their waitress with some stupid comment and an even stupider grin. The woman didn’t look in the mood to be bothered. She barely broke a smile as she set down the teeming plates of buffalo wings, fries and sour cream in front of them, then rushed away.

After she had gone, Rick looked at David, winked. “I’m wearing her down. I’ll give it another two, three weeks before she finally comes around and agrees to have at least one drink with me.” He took a gulp from his glass of beer.

David shook his head in mock pity. “Man, you need to give it up. Not gonna happen. At least, not with Ms. Chill over there.” He nodded in her direction where the waitress was taking the order at a nearby table. “Look, back to business. I have to tell you I think we really fucked up going in to see Kershner without Clarence. The man barely heard us out and hardly glanced at the plans. After all, this was supposed to be Clarence’s deal, and Kershner obviously was expecting him to be there.”

Clarence Debbs was their third partner in Gaines, Carvelli and Debbs, the architectural firm they formed three years ago. Lately though, Clarence had been showing signs of wanting to pull out. David suspected their partner was secretly taking on outside projects, a violation of their agreement. That he hadn’t shown up for this meeting was a not-so-subtle indication of his lack of interest in the business.

“We have to talk about Clarence, where he stands with the firm, because if he pulls out now—”

“OK, I’ll talk with him,” Rick said too quickly.

David realized Rick was holding on to a blind loyalty established from years of friendship. David had no such illusions. He hadn’t gone to private school, then Yale, with Clarence as Rick had. Rick actually was the one to introduce Clarence to David nearly five years earlier, and David had followed both men’s careers as a friendly competitor. Then a couple of years later, Rick suggested the two of them partner up. David agreed to the venture and then had said yes later to bringing Clarence on board, solely on Rick’s word. But he was starting to worry that Rick’s friendship was coloring his judgment. David had too much invested in the business to just sit and watch it flounder because of Clarence’s ambivalence.

“You better do more than talk with him. If he wants out, we should just let him walk. We’ll buy out his third…”

“No, no, man. I promise, he’s not going to walk. He’s got a vested interest in our success.”

“Does he? Because it looks to me like he’s out to fill his own pockets at our expense.”

Rick’s earlier jovial mood seemed markedly dampened. He poured off the rest of his bottled beer into the glass and gulped it down. “I’ll talk to him. I promise. He’s not going to screw me—us.”

“We’ll see.” David dipped a buffalo wing in the sour cream, trying to get his appetite back. He had said what he had to, and he would just wait to see what Rick would do. Or more importantly, what Clarence would do. If Rick didn’t follow through, then he would.

For the rest of dinner, Rick tried to lighten the mood with his usual stories about his girlfriends. Actually there were two, Melinda and Amy, both of whom David had met a couple of times. Rick rotated them in shifts. Rick scheduled Melinda for sports outings, picnics, day activities. The sultrier Amy was for evenings at upscale restaurants and parties. Rick considered himself a player, but David knew that if Melinda ever showed the slightest interest in getting serious, Rick would be down at the jewelers picking out a ring. As for Amy, Rick used her for show and as a backup in case Melinda walked.

“Heard from Karen lately?” Rick’s question came between bites of fries.

The question took David off guard. He didn’t want to talk about Karen. After two months, he was still sensitive about how it had ended. A picture popped in his mind, crystalline blue eyes brimming with tears. She had been especially beautiful that night, wearing the lavender dress that clung nicely to her sylphlike figure, her auburn hair elegantly swept up in a bun. She’d brought over dishes of
cavatelli venezziana
and tiramisu from Rosalina’s, his favorite Italian restaurant. After dessert, she smiled and pulled out a small, black velvet box. Inside was a solid gold ring. An engagement ring for him that had caught him by surprise. It would have been a lovely evening except that he’d had to admit to her—and himself—that he didn’t love her.

The admission had taken them both by surprise. In response, she threw a plate against the dining room wall and accused him of wasting two years of her life. He let her walk out, sorry that he couldn’t give her what she wanted. But he hadn’t given more than a passing thought to settling down, although sooner or later he knew he would have to. He was already thirty-four and the years were going by fast.

He shook his head, then signaled the waitress for the tab. He didn’t feel like talking about Karen, and the problem about Clarence was giving him a headache. He had counted on the Kershner deal coming through, particularly since the last two projects had barely covered costs. Things weren’t looking good. He had too much shit to deal with, especially on the little sleep he’d been getting.

He looked at the check, pulled out twenty dollars to cover his half. “Gotta get on home. I got an early morning call in to Larry tomorrow about those condos being planned for Dearborn Street. You’re checking on that liability insurer tomorrow, right?”

Rick nodded as he put down his cut and the tip on the table. The waitress came and picked up the bills, then brought back the change. They both stood and walked to the door.

“Sorry about bringing up Karen, man. Thought she might have seen reason and called you by now.”

“Why would she? I was the one who rejected her. Most women don’t come back for seconds of that.”

“I guess. Though that’ll teach her to let the man do the asking.”

David smiled at his friend’s simplistic philosophy on romance. “Anybody ever call you a Neanderthal?”

Rick laughed. “About as often as they call you a noncommitting bastard.”

David didn’t let Rick see the wince. That had cut too close.

Outside, they parted and David walked to his Lexus.
Noncommitting bastard
. She hadn’t exactly called him that; she hadn’t needed to. Because they both knew that was exactly what he was.

Maybe such a thing as karma did exist. He had pissed on Karen. Now life was shitting on him, robbing him of his business, even his sleep.

He felt uneasy as he got behind the wheel and pulled off. But anticipating an evening of Ellington and Coltrane along with a glass of wine, his mood lightened a little as he turned off onto the Eisenhower Expressway and drove the nine miles to Oak Park.

David felt a peace descend whenever he drove through the quiet streets of his neighborhood. A mix of Victorian mansions, neoclassical buildings, and Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie homes, the historic area contained an old-world charm and stately beauty that drew the elite, the creative best. Writers, artists, and architects like himself called Oak Park home. Hemingway had been born here. It was a place of tree-lined streets, families old and young, wide lawns and lovely homes.

When people discovered David was an architect living in Oak Park, they invariably asked whether Wright was his inspiration for going into the field. Invariably he told them no. Wright’s style was interior light and open, dramatic spaces in low-hugging, long buildings. David’s was eclectic, combining the contemporary and traditional, the utilitarian and the decorative. He was married to no one style.

As uncommitted in work as he was in life.

When he got home, his message light was flashing on the machine. He dropped his keys on the foyer table and hit the play button. The first two messages were from his mother asking him to call, but no detailed message. Something was up, but it must not be an emergency, otherwise she would have said so. He didn’t feel like dealing with her tonight. He would call her from the office tomorrow. The last message was from Sherry, asking him to call as soon as he got home.

Sherry was a friend of ten years, beautiful as well as gay. She had been there during the first days after Karen, trying to convince him that he wasn’t the total ass he thought he was. She had been empathetic instead of accusing since she had gone through a recent breakup herself.

He dialed Sherry’s number, wondering what crisis was up since she had sounded just a little bit desperate in her message. She picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he said without any introduction.

“Good, you’re home. Need you badly.” He heard a lilt in her voice.

“For what? If it’s that faucet again, you should get a plumber and stop being so cheap. My expertise doesn’t lean to diddling with washers and pipes. I only design the houses they go in, babe.”

“Nope. Not that. I need your body.”

There wasn’t any misinterpretation. She wasn’t asking for a warm body to bed. “Need it for what? What’s going on?”

“Wedding. I need an escort. Don’t want to go by myself and since Gina’s gone…C’mon, good food…”

“You know how I feel about those things.”

“Hey. You should enjoy the irony of someone else falling into the pit you barely escaped. C’mon, it’s a friend of mine, and I really want to go and I don’t want to go alone. If I ask a girl, I don’t want her getting any ideas. You’re my safe date. As well as being handsome, you won’t clash with my dress.”

“Look, Sherry, I’d do almost anything for you but I don’t relish getting all dressed up to attend some wedding, especially since…”

“I know, I know. Since Karen. But this is a good friend of mine, and I want to be there. And I want a good friend by my side. It’ll only be a couple of hours at the most.”

David sighed. He didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want to disappoint Sherry, who had served as arm decoration for at least one of his functions since Karen. It was only fair that he do the same. “When is it?”

“A week from Saturday at seven. First Unitarian Church in Hyde Park. Then there’s the reception later. Good food and all the wine you can drink. C’mon, I’ll owe you one.”

“No, actually, I owe you, remember?”

“Great. I really appreciate this. I promise I won’t impose on you again.”

Dave chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not until next time when you need something fixed or someone to drop off some Chinese pickup.”

“Don’t forget the sperm donation I might ask you for one day,” she laughed.

Dave nearly choked, then laughed. “Don’t even joke about that,” he said. “OK, I’ll pick you up say six-thirty?”

“Yeah, great. See you then.”

David hung up the phone, hung up his jacket, then walked to the living room. He found his jazz compilation CD, put it on. Ellington’s “Sophisticated Lady” flowed through the living room, floated up to the rafters, bounced off the windows. He poured a glass of white wine, settled down in his lounger facing the fireplace, pushed off his loafers with his feet, sipped, and closed his eyes. A vestige of the earlier headache still drummed behind his eyelids, and he willed it to go away. If that didn’t work, he would have to hunt for some ibuprofen. Relax. That’s what he needed to do.

As he listened to the music, the tension began drifting from his limbs. It seeped away, leaving a quiet lethargy in its place. Sleep came unexpectedly, quickly, taking him with it to some other place…

He walked slowly, afraid that she might sense him following behind. The bustle of her lilac skirt swayed with her steps, hypnotizing him as he watched her continue up Broadway. She was wearing one of those ridiculous female concoctions on her head. This was lilac also, velvet, trimmed with tiny roses. He imagined the lustrous auburn hair caught up beneath, could feel the texture of it as he stroked the corkscrew curls. So different than he had supposed, as he had imagined in his dreams. He remembered the silk of her brown skin, and thought it an inimitable sin to have such loveliness enshrouded where no eyes could see. Where his eyes in particular were now denied. The spectral scent of jasmine tormented him. There had been the slight essence of that perfect flower between the luscious breasts and he had tasted the salt of her skin. Knew that he had to taste, to touch her one last time. He walked faster.

He didn’t know how long he could follow before she sensed him. Sensed the longing trailing her with each step. Would she stop and welcome his “good morning” or would she hasten away as she had before? He didn’t know and if he were to be truthful to himself he didn’t care. She would not get away from him. He would make her see reason. But he knew that reason had left him a long time ago. It had disappeared with the first setting of warm brown eyes on him, and a smile from soft, full lips. He was a man possessed, and he knew that he was on the verge of madness. That he would not ever let her go. That if he could not have her here….

She struggled against the hand holding her, pulling her. Fetid smells mixed with the smell of brine, making her gag. The lover held her, his grip tight, desperate. She wanted to pull away, but she couldn’t. He was too strong. He wouldn’t let her go, had said he would never let her go. She turned to see his face, but only saw the glint of the knife as it came toward her. It slid along her neck in a cruel, thin, red line. The shock of the pain seared as she began to choke on her own blood flooding her throat, her lungs…

Tyne spluttered awake, coughing. The sound machine was no longer playing, the waves of the ocean silent. She covered her mouth with her hand as a spasm wracked her body. She felt as though she were drowning. But it was her imagination. She wasn’t dying. She was safe, sitting up in her bed. She had swallowed wrong. That was all. Still, fear settled on her like a cold sheet.

Several moments passed, and the coughing died. The fear remained.

She pulled her hand away from her mouth, saw the dark circle of moisture in her palm. It seemed darker than saliva. The taste in her mouth was salty, metallic.