Glorious (11 page)
M
eredith had a fondness for other people’s things. When the apartment was empty, she took great pleasure in rifling through the personal belongings of her guests and staff. In the butler’s room she found silk nylons and a pair of panties hidden beneath his mattress and laughed until her sides hurt. Her maid Dolly had nothing of great interest, just a Bible with the names and birth dates of family members written neatly on the last page, a birthday card from a long ago suitor, and a sepia-toned picture of her mother, dead six years by the time she came under Meredith’s employ.
Rain’s treasures included countless silk scarves in all the colors of the rainbow, playbills, a bag of reefer, a letter addressed to someone named Vaughn that was scrawled in the crude hand of a three-year-old and riddled with misspellings and bad grammar.
It was in Easter’s room that she found the best treasure, a gem of a story still in its infancy about a girl named Nora. It was the most exquisite writing that Meredith had read in several years and she wondered why Easter hadn’t shared it with her, hadn’t even asked for her guidance—not that the story needed it. Meredith sat on the floor, folded her legs Indian-style, read and reread passages, and wondered how such loveliness and perfection had come out of someone so plain … so very, very average. Yes, Easter was a wonderful storyteller, but this … Meredith ran her fingers along the passages of typed print and began to seethe with jealousy … this was a far cry from Easter’s previous works. It was, in a word, exceptional.
A daily check found that the story was at a standstill. Not one new word had been written in days, and Meredith was eager for more.
“How’s the writing coming?” Meredith ventured casually one day.
“It’s on and off.”
Meredith eyed her. “Mostly on,” she said as she reached over and plucked a cube of sugar from the crystalware, “or mostly off?”
Easter scratched at her scalp. “Depends on the day, I guess.”
Meredith dropped the cube into her coffee. “It’s the work. It wears you out and you come home too tired to write.”
Easter thought about it for a moment. “I suppose that could be it.”
“I want you to quit that job at the laundry,” Meredith announced wistfully. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this and I just don’t see how you can concentrate on your writing if you’re toiling away in that awful place ten hours a day.”
Easter opened her mouth to speak, but Meredith raised her hand.
“You don’t have to worry about money, I’ll provide that.” Then she added pointedly, “I’ll be your
benefactor
.”
Meredith loved the title: Benefactor. She had been called many things—daughter, wife, philanthropist, humanitarian, and widow—but never benefactor. The title fit her perfectly. She repeated it and the word rang in her ears as if shouted by a million people.
Langston Hughes had Carl Van Vechten, Zora Neale Hurston had Charlotte Osgood, and now E.V. Gibbs would have Meredith Tomas. The world was wonderful again.
“Are you sure?” Easter asked.
Meredith cupped Easter’s face in her hands and said, “More than sure.”
Nothing to do but eat, sleep, and write. It took some getting used to and at first the words came in drips and drabs, like an old pipe being coaxed by a plumber’s wrench. October was upon her and the sidewalks were littered with autumn leaves and still nothing. Weeks passed and two new moons and then winter smiled its icy grin, and with the first December snow the words finally came.
E
ven those white people who claimed to love all things African and wore the title
Negrophile
like a badge of honor on their lapels—even those people were taken aback by the actions of Nancy Cunard, the heir to the multimillion-dollar Cunard Line shipping company.
Nancy’s mother, Maude Alice Burke, had heard from the mouths of various busybodies that her daughter was cavorting around Europe with Negroes. Negroes!
Maude attributed Nancy’s obvious mental breakdown to a growing addiction to absinthe—at least that’s what she told her friends in order to save face. She sent word to Nancy demanding the end of her ridiculous, embarrassing, and reckless behavior and ordered home forthwith. If Nancy disobeyed, Maude would have no choice but to strike her name permanently from her will and her life.
Nancy’s response to her mother’s threats and outrage was to hop a steamer heading to America with her Negro lover, the Chicago-born musician Henry Coward, standing steadfastly by her side.
For Henry, Nancy had been just another white face in a white world. The two had met in Paris at a club he and his band were performing at. Nancy was so enthused by his music that after the set she invited him to join her for a drink. They enjoyed a lively discussion about music and America, after which he’d thanked her for her kindness and conversation and returned to the stage. Some nights later, when she showed up again, he did not even remember her. She looked to him like all the other white women who frequented the club.
Henry did not know that Nancy was an heiress until the second time they slept together. When his band members found out that he was seeing a white woman—and a rich one at that—they took him to the pub and demanded he buy them a round of drinks.
“Careful now,” one of them warned, “white women have been known to lose their minds over black dick.”
Henry assured them that he had the situation under control, and that Nancy was just something
to do
while he was in Paris. “I do have a wife back home in Chicago, you know,” he reminded them with a laugh, and then used Nancy’s money to buy three more rounds.
When Nancy announced that she wanted to go to America, to Harlem specifically, Henry said, “Have a good time.” But when she added that she wanted him to accompany her, he immediately felt the scratchy fibers of a lynch rope against his neck. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because America is not Europe and Harlem is not Paris. We will not be able to stroll hand-in-hand down the streets in New York without being harassed, or worse.”
Nancy blinked. “Worse?”
“I could get killed,” Henry stated bluntly.
But she wore him down with pleading and money and the promise of an automobile, and so he acquiesced, and the noose around his neck pulled tighter.
They arrived in New York just before Christmas; the city was brimming with holiday cheer and the air was heavy with the aroma of roasting chestnuts. Carolers roamed the streets, garland was wound around lampposts, wreathes hung in windows, and mistletoe was tacked above doorways.
Nancy hired a private car, and Henry directed the driver through the vilest of Negroghettoes, pointing out from behind the safety of the sedan windows the degradation the white man had levied on the colored masses. Nancy’s eyes welled with water.
When they arrived at 409 Edgecombe Avenue Easter noted that Henry was handsome and had a soft, quiet way about him. Nancy was a statuesque and reed thin with eager, darting eyes. Her conversation rushed out in gusts, and she used her hands in an exaggerated fashion. On her wrists she wore intricately carved wooden bangles, stacked up to her elbows.
“Your bracelets are beautiful,” Easter said. “Where did you get them?”
“The Ivory Coast.” Nancy slipped one massive bangle from her wrist and handed it to Easter. “A gift from me to you.” She cleared her throat. “Henry,” Nancy explained as she rested a delicate hand on his knee, “was my introduction to the world of the Negro. Before our encounter, I had never even spoken to a Negro. They were invisible to me and now I see them everywhere!”
Easter and Rain exchanged glances.
Meredith nodded. “So, darling, what brings you to New York?”
“I’m here to collect material for an anthology I’m working on.”
“An anthology?” Meredith leaned forward. “Do tell!”
“It’s a collection of stories, poetry, and essays written by and about Negroes from all around the globe. This is something that has never been done before.”
“Sounds lovely, darling. Who’s committed?”
“W.E.B. DuBois has already submitted an essay entitled ‘Black America’ and I have a number of pieces from Zora Neale Hurston. Maude Cuney Hare has written a tantalizing prospective called ‘The Folk Music of the Creoles.’” Nancy trembled with excitement.
“What an impressive list of participants. What are you going to call it?”
Nancy took a deep breath. “I’m going to call it
Negro
,” she announced proudly.
Rain giggled into her glass of gin and Easter thought she’d heard wrong.
Meredith gave Nancy a cool look. “Really?” she said smugly. “Carlo is working on a book with a similar title.” She tapped her finger against her glass as she struggled to remember. “Ah, yes,” she said with a snap of her fingers, “his book is called
Nigger Heaven
.”
Nancy went pale. “Meredith,” she hissed, her eyes bouncing between Rain and Easter’s faces, “that is a horrible, disgusting word.”
“What is?”
Henry had wandered off to the music room and was playing the piano. At the sound of the word he’d missed a note and begun the score from the beginning.
“
Nigger
,” Nancy whispered. “It’s the vilest word in the English language and I don’t understand how it’s used so freely here in this country. It’s bounced around like a child’s ball. And to use it in literature, in the very thing that
should
bring the races together …” Nancy shook her head in dismay. “Well, I think it’s just awful.”
Meredith was unfazed because she understood that as unsavory as the word was, it was also a part of life, a stitch in the American quilt. One would have to go back hundreds of years to rid the world of it and everyone knew the past could not be undone, so the word, as far as Meredith was concerned, was here to stay.
But she humored Nancy: “Darling, you are absolutely right.” Her eyes swung to Easter and then back to Nancy. “Did I tell you that Easter is also working on a book?”
Nancy grinned. “Oh my, I had no idea that you were a writer.”
“Oh yes, and a very talented one. In fact, I’m her benefactor!”
Nancy’s eyes flashed. “Really? I would love to read some of your work.”
“Yes,” Rain added, beaming admiringly at Easter, “she is a wonderful writer.”
Meredith’s head reeled around. “And how would you know? You can’t even read.”
The statement was unexpected and certainly unprovoked. The room fell silent and Rain, never one to be struck speechless, shot Meredith a wounded look, pressed herself deep into the sofa cushions, and did not utter another word for the rest of the night. Easter looked down at her hands in shame and an embarrassed Nancy fumbled nervously with the pineapple-shaped stopper of the crystal decanter until it came free with a pop. Only then was the spell broken.
The afternoon melted into evening, Henry continued to play the piano, and at the end of the night, when the couple gathered themselves to leave, the butler helped Nancy into her full-length fox fur, but did not make a move to offer the same assistance to Henry. As Henry shrugged on his gray, brushed-wool coat, Easter noted its mink collar and for some reason likened it to a dog collar or the metal bracelets owners fastened to the legs of their expensive birds.
H
orace Liveright was at this time one of New York’s most prominent publishers. His house, Boni & Liveright, had published many previously unknown writers to great fame. T.S. Eliot, William Faulkner, and Ernest Hemingway owed him a debt of gratitude. Horace opposed censorship and possessed a deep and fiery love for the arts, theater in particular. He supported that conviction with his own money, which he used to finance a number of stage productions. Some did well; many others did not.
A tall man with wise eyes and smooth skin, he had an ardor for excess that was apparent in the sheer amounts of alcohol he consumed and the lavish parties he hosted that often went on for days at a time.
In attendance at one of those parties was the publisher Alfred Harcourt, who had never been any good at holding his liquor. Alcohol of any kind or amount, even the tiniest bit syringed into the middle of a chocolate candy, affected him. So needless to say, after two gin gimlets Alfred’s drunk tongue spoke his sober mind and he told Horace the very thing he’d been keeping from him.
“Alfred, old boy, I hear that you will be publishing a book of poetry by someone named Claude McKay? Well, you’ve outdone yourself this time, not only is this chap unknown but he must be a figment of your imagination because I’ve been checking around and no one has even heard of him.”
Alfred gave his cigar a confident thump and the short ash flittered into the ashtray. His eyes were soupy when he looked at Horace; he smiled wryly and said, “That’s because he’s a Negro.”
Horace’s eyes stretched and then narrowed. He wagged his finger at Alfred and laughed. “You are a card, Alfred, a real card!”
Mainstream houses did not publish Negroes because most Negroes were illiterate and so who would buy the books? It would be a waste of ink and paper.
“I’m not pulling your leg, Horace, I’m serious.”
Horace stopped laughing and looked deep into Alfred’s face and saw the most earnest of expressions resting there.
“My God, you are serious,” he gasped.
Alfred nodded his head.
“Well, why in the world—”
“It’s magnificent, that’s why.”
Horace had never heard the word
magnificent
used to describe a Negro or his work. He was intrigued.
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“And how did you come by this …
magnificent
work? Did the chap query you directly?”
Alfred grinned, turned on his heels, and tilted his chin toward a cluster of people engaged in conversation.
“Waldo brought the manuscript in to me himself.”
Horace smirked. He did not much like Waldo Frank, not the man nor the books he’d written. His feelings for Waldo were public knowledge, which was probably why Waldo was overly critical in his reviews of the books Horace published as well as the stage plays he produced.
Horace invited Waldo to his parties because it was good business to do so, but he avoided him lest he find himself on the receiving end of yet another one of Waldo’s rants about the joys of mysticism.
Waldo glanced over, saw Horace staring, and raised his glass in salute.
Claude McKay’s
Harlem Shadows
went on to be published to critical, commercial, and financial success, and overnight, poetry and literature written by Negroes were suddenly in demand by the white elite.
Horace was a man who knew how to feed a need, and as Alfred patiently waited for McKay to finish his first novel, Horace quietly contacted the editors at
The Crisis
and
Negro World
, advising them that he was looking for Negro writers. Within days, his office was flooded with manuscripts. He would eventually publish Jean Toomer’s
Cane
and Jesse Fauset’s
There Is Confusion
.
The successful real estate tycoon William Harmon, a longtime admirer of the Negro and his art, created a foundation that recognized the best in Negro artistic achievements, awarding gold, bronze, and silver medals.
Publisher J.B. Lippincott jumped on the black bandwagon and offered a $1,000 cash advance and publication for the best novel written on Negro life by a Negro. Horace, not to be outdone, implemented a similar competition, but doubled the cash prize and opened it to both Negroes and whites.
