Glorious (9 page)
W
hen Colin first complained, Easter brushed it off, called him silly, wrapped her arms around his neck, and used baby talk to assure him that he had nothing to be concerned about. She told him that he was her big strong husband and all she and Rain were doing was getting reacquainted and reminiscing about old times.
Colin had acquiesced, but could not ignore the perpetual bliss that Easter had worn like a cloak ever since Rain stepped back into her life. She was positively buoyant; it was as if Easter was living on a great body of water. Colin half expected her to leave puddles of salty water in her wake. He’d never had that type of effect on her and he was her husband. His ego imploded.
The second time he broached the subject, Easter’s response was cutting and she accused him of being childish and selfish and pointed out that she never uttered a word about all the time he spent down at the UNIA headquarters.
When she began working over at Meredith’s apartment, he held his tongue. But what started out as one night a week had progressed into two and then three, and now she was spending her one day off over there with
them
instead of with him, her husband. And when she
was
home all she talked about was Rain and Meredith.
Colin looked at Easter, really looked at her, and for the first time he saw her naïveté. It was shining like a star right in the center of her forehead. How had he missed it all this time?
“I don’t understand why you don’t hate them.”
They’d had this conversation a million times. And the thought of revisiting it yet again made Easter weary.
“They raped your sister. They lynched and burned your friend—you saw it with your own damn eyes!”
Easter sat down on the sofa, reached for one Colin’s cigarettes, and lit it.
“What they do to your people here in this country is disgraceful, yet you run to the buckra in her fancy apartment in the sky and you lick her ass.” His chest heaved and he bared his teeth like a wild animal.
Easter didn’t know what language she needed to make him understand. Did she love white people? She would not go so far as to say that, but she couldn’t say she hated them, not as a race. She tried to judge
all
people on an individual basis.
But Colin needed her to hate, he needed her to feel what he felt and know it. “Come with me,” he said, and grabbed his hat.
She had never been to the Bronx, not once in the few years she’d been living in New York. He said they were going to the zoo, but his face was solemn and dark, an expression best suited for a visit to a funeral parlor or gravesite.
They boarded the train and Easter rested her head on the window and watched the scenery peel by. Her thoughts were not on their destination, but on Rain. She wondered what she was doing at that very moment.
Colin took her hand and practically dragged her through the arched gates of the zoo. They sped past the caged sea lions, the sleeping leopards, the yawning tigers, and the cages filled with chattering rainbow-colored birds, until they found themselves at the entrance to the monkey house. Easter opened her mouth, a question balanced on her tongue, but Colin raised a finger to her lips.
Once they were inside his grip tightened around her hand as he edged his way through the throng of fascinated onlookers. Easter could see bright orange fur and huge droopy eyes pressed into an elongated face. An orangutan? He brought her all this way to see an orangutan?
They moved closer until they were right up front and Easter found herself staring at a man, who gazed back at her from the opposite side of the metal bars. She thought her mind was playing a cruel trick on her eyes, but when she blinked he was still there. The orangutan threw his arms around the man’s shoulders and hugged him. The man hugged him back and then shrugged him off.
The white people laughed, and some of them hunched their backs, pushed out their bottom lips, and made whooping monkey sounds.
Easter’s eyes roamed to the sign posted on the enclosure:
The African Pygmy, “Ota Benga.”
Age 28, Height 4 feet 11 inches.
Congo Free State, South Central Africa.
By Dr. Samuel P. Verner.
The natural emotion should have been anger and embarrassment, but all Easter wanted to do was cry. She looked up at her husband and her eyes asked what her mouth couldn’t:
Why did you bring me here?
Ota Benga was naked except for a loincloth. And as was the custom of his people, his teeth had been filed to sharp and precise points. In his hand he held a child’s bow and arrow, which he trained first on the orangutan and then squarely on the crowd. Some of the male onlookers clutched their chests and stumbled backwards on the heels of their expensive leather shoes, crying, “Ow, you got me!”
The ladies twirled their parasols and giggled behind hands encased in delicately embroidered gloves as they watched their children toss peanuts through the bars, even though there was a sign that read,
Please Do Not Feed the Animals.
Ota Benga spotted Easter and Colin—the only two dark faces in the sea of white—and pleasure spread across his face in a smile. He rushed excitedly to the front of the cage, wrapped his fingers around the bars, and proudly announced: “I. Am. Man.”
On the way back home, Colin was satisfied that he had accomplished what he’d set out to do. He didn’t have to ask Easter if she finally felt the hate. He knew she did, he could see it oozing out of her like pus.
T
hat night Easter dreamed of blood. The next day she went to work and did not smile for the entire day. When Mattie Mae—now-Madeline asked what her problem was, Easter pressed her lips together and shrugged her shoulders. One woman after the next came to her sink and she scrubbed, rinsed, and massaged their scalps, but she did not make small talk and uttered a barely audible “Thank you” when they dropped the quarter tip into her open palm.
She could not erase Ota Benga from her mind. He was stuck there, nailed into her memory for all eternity—him and those three little words that crushed her heart.
And what had the white people done when he spoke those words? They laughed and clapped their hands and shouted, “Now say ‘Polly wanna cracker’!”
The morning stretched into afternoon. The clock on the wall struck noon and with it came a squeal from one of the hairdressers. The entire shop shuddered and Easter looked up to see that Lumpkin had Mattie Mae—now-Madeline pinned against the paned glass wall of the shop. One hand was flat against Mattie Mae—now-Madeline’s chest, while the other held tight to the wooden handle of a hot comb; its metal teeth glowed crimson and hovered just inches from her jugular.
She didn’t utter a word, she didn’t even breathe, as Lumpkin screamed into her face, “I told you he’s mine!”
Without thinking, Easter snatched up a pair of barber’s scissors from a nearby station. In a flash she was behind Lumpkin, the business end of her weapon pressed against Lumpkin’s neck.
A collective gasp went up from the women in the shop.
“This don’t have nothing to do with you, Easter,” Lumpkin sneered.
Easter shifted her eyes to Mattie Mae—now-Madeline and smiled assuredly at her friend. “It’s got everything to do with me, Lumpkin.”
“Well, then I guess me and Madeline both going to meet our maker today.”
Lumpkin moved the hot comb closer and Madeline’s skin went tender and pink beneath the heat. Soon it would begin to blister. Easter applied pressure, piercing Lumpkin’s flesh. A thin stream of red spilled from the puncture and pooled in the hollow curve of her collarbone.
Lumpkin’s face contorted with pain. “Your friend? This roach ain’t got a lick of respect for me. I done told her time and time again to leave be my man. But do she mind what I say? No! She throw herself at him every chance she get. She ain’t nothing but a hussy, and I’m gonna take care of that, cause those who can’t hear will feel!”
Lumpkin’s face disintegrated right before Easter’s eyes and was replaced with a collage of white faces belonging to people who had hurt her family and friends. Blood flooded Easter’s ears and she howled inwardly, and she almost did it, she almost stuck Lumpkin like a pig.
“Look here, Lumpkin, Mattie Mae is a fool for sure. You right, you done told her numerous times to leave be your man and she ain’t mind. But her hard ears don’t call for this. Mattie Mae is like family to me. We come from the same town, played in the same dirt, swam in the same lake. Her mama whipped my ass like I was her’n and my mama did the same to Mattie Mae. We got history, ya hear? So when you say I ain’t got nothing to do it with it, you dead wrong. Me and Mattie Mae is wrapped up tight like a ball of string. So if you burn her, I swear ’fore God I will cut you.”
Lumpkin swallowed hard and when she spoke again, most of the fight had left her voice. “You better tell her to mind then, Easter. She better mind what I say or next time …”
Easter nodded her head. “There won’t be no next time,” she said smoothly, her eyes fixed on Mattie Mae—now-Madeline, “will there?”
“N-no,” Mattie Mae—now-Madeline stammered.
“You hear what Lumpkin say, right Madeline? Fats is her Jody not your’n.”
Madeline slowly nodded her head.
Satisfied, Lumpkin lowered the hot comb; it slipped from her fingers and went clanging to the black-and-white tiled floor.
After that Easter wet a towel and told Mattie Mae—now-Madeline to hold it against her neck. She did the same for Lumpkin and then went to sit down for a spell. She looked around the place she had worked since she came up north and the shop suddenly seemed small and cramped and that familiar feeling began to creep through her.
It was time to move on.
Easter stood, removed her apron, rolled it into a ball, and dumped it into a hamper. She had her pocketbook slung over her shoulder and was halfway to the door when Mattie Mae—now-Madeline called out, “Where you going?”
“Home.”
“You coming back?”
“No.”
Minutes later, she was hit with the shakes so bad that she barely made it up the stairs and into bed.
When Colin finally came home, his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He found Easter buried under layers of blankets, shivering so badly he could hear her teeth chattering. He stumbled over to the bed and glowered down at her. “You sick?”
Easter opened her mouth to answer, but Colin cut her off and spat, “My mum is dead,” and with that he tossed a crumpled ball of paper at her, staggered over to the table where Easter had laid her purse, snatched it up, turned it over, and dumped out the contents. The only money she had were the tips she’d made that morning—one dollar and fifty cents. He raked the bill and the coins into his hand and left.
Easter waited until she heard the front door close before she retrieved the ball of paper and unfurled it. The telegram read:
Colin Gibbs.
Marda Gibbs passed away yesterday at 3:15PM.
Send money for burial.
Your aunt Nita.
Easter looked at the door. Her heart pained for her husband. She knew what it was to lose a mother.
It was just after six in the evening, but a noonday sun was still beating down on New York City, raising the mercury to a sizzling ninety-eight degrees. Colin moved through the streets oblivious to the heat, in fact he walked as if in winter, with a bustling gait that caused people to pause and stare at him. So the next day when his picture graced the front page of the local newspapers, more than a few dozen mouths uttered: “I remember him; he did have the look of a man who could kill.”
B
ack in the apartment, Easter reached for her Bible, the place where they kept their savings. Colin’s mother was dead. Of course he would have to go home to Barbados and say his final goodbye.
Easter turned the book over, clutched it by the spine, and waved it briskly through the air. The pages flapped noisily, but not a dollar fell. The money was gone.
She rushed from the apartment and ran all the way to Jack Jones’s place. His landlady was outside, humming to herself as she swept debris into the street. When she glanced up, Easter was marching toward her.
“Jack there?” Easter screeched, clutching her fists to her chest. The woman shook her head no and watched as Easter turned and streaked back in the direction she’d come.
By the time she arrived at the UNIA headquarters the muscles in her legs were twitching. She took the stone steps two at a time and pressed the black doorbell and jumped back in surprise when the firecracker sound of a gunshot echoed from behind the double doors, instead of the
ding-dong-dang
she’d expected.
Colin was already in the building when Easter discovered their life savings was gone. He had a snub-nosed .38 shoved deep into his right pants pocket, the stock certificates in his left. A sheath of sweat lay across his forehead and the short metal neck of the gun had begun to pulsate and burn hot against his thigh.
The building was always filled with people and Colin was a familiar and friendly face, so nobody took special notice of him when he entered the busy office located in the front parlor.
A typist named Gail Forbes looked up from her stack of papers and acknowledged him with a slight nod of her head. A man at the desk across from hers hollered, “How you doing, Colin?” then used his eraser to rub out a number on the ledger page he was working on.
“Is Marcus here?” Colin’s voice came across louder than he meant it to, and the room went quiet for a moment. Colin tightened his hand around the wooden handle of the gun and forced a nervous smile. “I—I got an appointment with him,” he said in a lower tone.
“Upstairs,” someone finally responded.
He turned awkwardly around, colliding first with a coat rack and then a file cabinet. Someone called out, “You sick, man?”
Kendrick Lawrence was coming down the stairway when Colin grabbed hold of the banister and placed his foot on the bottom step. Kendrick said, “Hey, man,” and almost stepped aside to allow Colin to pass, but he saw the gleam of perspiration on his face and the odd, vacant look in his eyes and an alarm sounded in his head. Kendrick gripped Colin’s shoulder, and his hand almost recoiled from the moist material. “Hey, Gibbs, where you going?”
Colin addressed his shoes: “Up to see him.”
Kendrick saw that Colin was shaking and panic immediately swept through him. “Uhm, why don’t you wait here and I’ll go fetch him for you.”
Colin nodded and mumbled, “Yeah, okay.”
Kendrick considered him for a moment, and when he turned around Colin punched him in the kidney. Bright lights exploded behind Kendrick’s pupils and he sank down to his knees. Colin leapt over him and bounded up the stairs.
“Stop him!” Kendrick yelled just as Marcus Garvey and another man appeared on the top landing.
Colin pulled the gun from his pocket, pointed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the wall and grazed Marcus’s temple. The second bullet caught him in the arm, and he collapsed against the wall.
Colin aimed again but was tackled by Kendrick and two other men, allowing Garvey to escape into the safety of his office. The mass of bodies struggled, punches were thrown, and the men tumbled down the steps and ended in a heap at the bottom. The gun went skating across the parquet floor, and when Colin reached out to retrieve it a young woman whacked his hand with a law book and then brought it down square on the top of his head. Colin collapsed into darkness.
When it was over, thirteen of the banister spokes were splintered, the pier glass in the front foyer was shattered, and the stock certificates Colin had purchased a year earlier were strewn across the floor.
The sound of the gunshot startled Easter and she turned and bolted down the steps, out into traffic, and across the street to safety. Moments later the doors flung open and a man darted from the building, frantically waving his hands and screaming, “Police! Police!” as he tore down the sidewalk. It seemed an eternity passed before he returned with two police officers, who pushed him aside as they pulled guns from their holsters. One officer crouched down at the foot of the steps while the other sprinted into the house. After a moment the second officer followed.
Out on the street people began to gather, and more officers arrived, accompanied by a paddy wagon. Barricades were put in place and batons were waved. A horse-drawn ambulance arrived and then Marcus Garvey appeared in the doorway, his dark face splattered with blood. He stood erect as a soldier and waved at the crowd who erupted in applause. Marcus gave his onlookers a hearty thumbs-up and another cheer went up. Two UNIA officers helped him into the waiting ambulance and he was whisked safely away.
The assailant appeared, his head bowed and his wrists cuffed at his back. Two brawny policemen stood on either side of him, their hands wrapped tight around his arms. They yanked him down the steps, toward the paddy wagon. Easter stood on the tips of her toes. The crowd booed and hissed. Colin raised his head; his eyes swept over the angry gathering and stopped briefly on the astounded face of his wife.
The news whipped through Harlem like wild fire and landed in the ear of Meredith’s cook who was buying tomatoes at a vegetable stand. He carried it back to the penthouse and delivered it to the butler, who chuckled as he stood polishing a silver teapot.
“Is he dead?”
“I think so,” answered the cook.
When the girl named Dolly, whose job it was to attend to the immediate needs of the mistress of the house, and who was, to the butler’s disdain, a devoted Garveyite, strolled into the dining area, the butler raised his head and gleefully proclaimed, “Your Black Moses has been slain!”
Rain was lounging in the music room when she heard the butler’s declaration and the bile and anguish in Dolly’s response, and so decided to take a walk and find out for herself if the rumor had legs.
Minutes after Colin was thrown into the dank cell at the Harlem jail, Jack Jones walked into the aftermath of the melee. UNIA members were scurrying about tidying up and assessing the damage. Jack stepped gingerly over the jagged pieces of mirrored glass and wood and sidled up to the shaken woman who had dealt the crippling blow.
“What happened here?”
Valerie Cumberbatch raised her large brown eyes and Jack saw that they were swimming with tears. “He … he had a gun,” she managed in a trembling voice.
“Who did?”
“Colin … Colin Gibbs.”
She broke down in sobs and Jack reached out and patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, take your time,” he heard himself say, then realized he’d uttered those same words a million times as a police officer in D.C.
“Did he …?” Jack didn’t want to hear himself ask the question.
A shiver went through Valerie’s body. “He shot at Marcus and …” The sobbing started up again and this time it didn’t seem as if she would be able to regain control. But time was of the essence.
“Is he dead?” Jack asked anxiously. Val shook her head no and Jack was happy that her tears blurred the disappointment shining on his face.
Colin had been an easy target; his growing unhappiness with his wife, his financial situation, and the lack of return on his investment in Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line had fed his discontent until it began to spill out of him like sewage.
Jack had played his role of the good friend, confidant, and understanding black brother to the hilt. He’d lent his ear whenever Colin needed someone to listen and nodded sympathetically in all the right places. In Jack’s tiny rented room he and Colin had played cards and drank until the wee hours of the morning as Jack carefully voiced his own suspicions about Marcus Garvey. He had to be delicate because Colin had great respect for Marcus and his ideals, respect that ran root deep. But blood was thicker than water, so when Colin’s mother became ill and he tried to speak to Marcus about buying back the stock shares, the leader had deftly avoided him and Colin’s frustration became radiant.
Jack Jones used that and liquor to slowly twist Colin’s mind.
“I could kill ’em!” Colin slurred drunkenly one night.
“I’m sure one day someone will,” Jack offered matter-of-factly.
Colin glared at him, “Not one day and someone—me, tomorrow!”
Jack’s heart flapped, but his face remained solemn.
“You think I’m making sport?” Colin challenged.
“Aren’t you?”
Colin jumped to his feet and trained his index finger on Jack. “If I had a gun I would put a bullet right between those black eyes of his.”
“Sit down,” Jack chuckled. “You’re drunk.”
Colin’s bottom lip hung recklessly from his face. “That may be, but a drunk tongue speaks a sober mind,” he said, as he dropped down into the chair and reached for the glass of whiskey.
“If you’re serious,” Jack whispered, “I mean really serious, I can get you a gun.”
Colin stared at him for a moment and then waved his hand.
“You think I’m making sport
?” Jack mocked Colin’s Carribean colloquialism.
Colin laughed, reached over the table, and patted Jack heartily on the head. “Did I ever tell you,” he said as he refilled his glass, “that you look like the white people in my country?”
Jack nodded his head, “Yes, all the time.”
Colin drained his glass and poured another. Jack watched him.
“So, do you want me to get you the gun or not?”
Colin’s head lolled to one side and he wrapped his arms around himself like a blanket. A foolish grin spread across his face and he dropped his head back on his neck. “I’ma give that black bastard one more chance,” he mumbled, “and then bang, he’s dead.” Colin chuckled before dozing off.
Jack would have to devise a plan that would force Colin’s hand. He was, after all, a man on the edge; Jack would just have to find the one thing that would send him careening over it. And after a few days thought he finally found it.
The telegram was bogus.
But Colin didn’t know that and now he sat in a jail cell with a tray of food resting on the floor at his feet. He looked at the brick walls, breathed in the rank bouquet, and knew that this was not one of his dreams. The telegram had arrived and he’d read the saddest words ever written:
Your mother is dead.
And at that moment the only thing deeper than his grief was his hatred for Marcus Garvey and so he’d marched off to find Jack Jones and the gun he said he could get him and then he’d gone to the UNIA with blood in his eyes.
Colin dropped his head into his hands and began to sob.
The day passed into night and then day again and no one came to see him. Not a lawyer and not his wife. He glanced up at the small window, at the slate-colored sky and thought,
Even God has turned His back on me.
Halfway through the second day, two officers appeared beyond the bars and ordered him to his feet. “Back against the wall,” one of them barked. That same one aimed his pistol at Colin’s heart while the other unlocked the door, stepped in, and ordered him to turn around and face the wall. Colin did as he was told and the officer cuffed his wrists and ankles.
The Harlem Station was circular in structure. In its former life, the building had been used for storing, grading, and exporting wheat. The space of floor between the cells and the edge of the balcony was narrow, which made it difficult for the three men to walk side-by-side. So one of the officers fell to the rear.
The newspapers would report that Colin had made an attempt to escape. That in his desperate state of mind, he had broken free of the officers, climbed up onto the short wall of the balcony, spread his arms out at his sides like wings, and leapt to his death. That story, just like the telegram, was a lie.
The policemen ushered Colin across the wood plank floors, their rings of keys clinking loudly and echoing off the walls. Colin shuffled slowly down the dim corridor; his heart raced in his chest and thumped like a drum in his ears. The air changed and was suddenly swathed with the scent of bougainvillea. Colin thought his mind was getting away from him, but with each step the perfume grew more pungent. He came to an abrupt stop, raised his head, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Visions of home appeared and Colin smiled. “Do you smell that?” he murmured.
The two officers exchanged perplexed glances and then the one in the rear frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and rested his hand on the crown of Colin’s head. The other he wrapped around Colin’s chin and with great force pulled each hand in opposite directions, severing Colin’s skull from his neck with a pop. Colin fell to the floor like a rag doll. They hoisted his limp body over the edge of the balcony; before either of them could look away, Colin hit the floor with a sickening clap.
Easter had not been permitted to see him at the jail. When she asked why, the sergeant in charge said, “I have my orders.” And then ordered her to go home and advised that if she refused, “I’ll throw your black ass in a cell right next to your husband.”
At the morgue Colin’s body was displayed on a table of steel. The smile was still pressed against his lips and when Easter looked at him a sea of emotion rose up in her throat and she slapped her hands over her mouth. She signed the papers that needed to be signed, including the one that stated that Colin’s body could not be released to her because even though he was her husband, he was not an American but a British subject who had committed a crime in the United States, making him a criminal of the state and the country, which qualified him—dead or alive—for deportation.
Easter kissed his smiling mouth, slipped the silver wedding band from his finger and spent the next three hours weeping and walking aimlessly around the city. Her grief was bottomless, and even though the streets teemed with people, she felt alone in the world. When she finally rounded the corner of her block, she looked up and saw Rain standing there, the ends of her bright yellow scarf fluttering in the late-afternoon breeze. Rain lifted her hand into the air. It was not a greeting but a show of unity that said,
You are not alone—I am here.
