Harlem Redux (22 page)

“Just like that.”

“Then why don’t you do the work required to keep him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: Be pretty, Lil. Give him something to look at.”

“Jameson loves me the way I am.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“Yes. I do. I’m plain. I’m old-fashioned. That’s me, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“But why? You can look as good as I do!”

“Don’t you understand? I don’t want to look like you!”

“Well, be plain then! It’s annoying to look at you. If you lose your precious Jameson, you’ll be the one to blame, not me.”

I didn’t like what I saw in her eyes. “Why should I lose him?”

She didn’t answer, but her lips curled maliciously. I suddenly felt cold.

“You want him, don’t you? That’s what this is all about.”

“Yes, I want him, dear. But more to the point: He wants me.”

The little man in my head struck his anvil a reverberating blow. I gambled when I married Jameson. For the first time in my life, I flew in the face of general opinion. And I did it quickly, afraid to give myself time to reconsider. But I’ve never been able to silence a nagging doubt...

Gem was studying me with the sharp, observant eyes of a hunter, eyes that missed nothing. And I wondered once more, why does she have to be a part of my life?

I closed my eyes, shutting out the outer world. I could hear the sounds of people drawing their chairs up to their tables, of napkins being snapped open; the obsequious murmur of waiters taking orders, the clink and clatter of silverware. I felt the suffocating quality of air in a closed room, and smelled the riotous mix of spices and oils in the sumptuous dishes laid out on surrounding tables. But I heard and felt and smelled everything from a distance, as though I sat on the other side of a dampening curtain, isolated, alone with this throbbing pain, this exhaustion and this rapidly spreading dread. The only sensation that was up close and immediate was the penetrating impression of Gem’s scrutiny crawling over me, probing, tasting, analyzing. Opening my eyes, I met her gaze head-on.

“I won’t make it easy for you.”

She laughed, but I didn’t let that dismay me. I went on.

“You’ve always taken what you wanted—but not this time. I have Jameson; I’m going to keep him. He’ll never leave. He’ll stay where the money is. And that’s not with you. Perhaps you’ll get him to cheat. Maybe you can teach him new tricks. But he’ll bring them right back to me, to me and my bed. He will always come back.”

Gem’s face became as glacial as carved ice, her eyes as hot as molten lava. They virtually glowed with spite.

“Don’t be a fool. You may be well off, but you’re not rich. Not rich, little sister. I know rich. You are simply financially healthy. And you’re not beautiful. You’ve got the material, but you don’t want to use it. There are many other women who are either incredibly ugly but breathtakingly rich—or incredibly lovely but breathtakingly poor. Jameson would leave you for either one.”

Her fangs had drawn blood and from my expression she knew it. My mind scrambled for a suitable reply. My thoughts ran hither and thither—I admit it—like a trapped mouse.

The waiter brought our orders. He swung our plates down on the table with a proud flourish. Gem picked up her fork and attacked her plate with gusto, but I’d lost my appetite. I tried to isolate Gem’s venomous words with a mental tourniquet, but her poison had hit my veins. Self-doubt and apprehension burned through me. The dread of losing Jameson cut my breath to a painful wheeze. I couldn’t lose him; I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the shame.

Gem picked up a piece of celery and snapped it in two. “Wake up, dear. In this world, you’ve got to fight with everything you’ve got.”

“He’ll never leave me,” I whispered.

“Baby, you don’t even know what’s cooking under your own roof. You need me to pull your pretentious little butt out of the fire. Well, I’m going to do you a favor. I’ll save your marriage for you.” Gem savored my stunned silence for a long delicious minute. “That’s right. I’m going to help you.”

“Help me? How?”

“I’ll take you shopping. Get you acquainted with the seductive side of life.”

The thought disgusted me. “I don’t need your help.”

“You’re an idiot.”

I felt sick. That little man with the pickax was swinging to a steady, bitter, battering rhythm. “Since when would you be willing to help me?”

She didn’t answer at once. Her expression softened and saddened. Gem, the tough woman of the world, suddenly appeared vulnerable. It was an amazing transformation.

“You asked before why I came back. You didn’t believe me when I said I missed you. But it was true. Europe was magnificent, but it was also very, very lonely. Can you imagine what it’s like to wander past the expensive shops of the Champs Elysees or struggle through the hordes clogging Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm, year after year, and never once see a familiar face from back home?”

“But that’s what you wanted.”

“At first.” Gem’s gaze was distant. “Those first couple of years passed in a frantic haze. I was so busy, I could barely keep up. But then time seemed to slow, to stretch out. The days became longer; the nights lonelier. I missed Harlem. And I missed you.” Gem’s eyes refocused on me with a strange intensity. “Whatever happens, please believe that. I missed you.”

Something in her tone gave me the chills. I tried to shrug it off. “All right, you missed me. That doesn’t explain why you would be willing to ‘save my marriage,’ as you put it. If you want Jameson, then why would you help me keep him?”

“There are many men in the world, but I have only one sister. Does that satisfy you?”

“No.”

She eyed me. She seemed to be measuring me, perhaps assessing just how much she could get away with.

“I want the truth. Gem.”

“The absolute truth? All right, then.”

She shrugged and snapped another celery stalk. It sounded like the breaking of bones.

“The fact is, I’m not interested in helping you keep Jameson, or any other man. I don’t want to help you, period.”

“That’s more like it.”

She laughed. “Truth is, I just like shopping. That’s all. Especially when it’s at someone else’s expense. There, are you satisfied now?

I eyed her.

“Come now,” she coaxed. “What difference does it make why I help you? Just as long as I do?”

She was making me feel unreasonable. She had put me in an unforeseeable and disagreeable quandary. I’d always been free to blame Gem for our estrangement, but by offering to reconcile, she’d turned the tables. The onus was on me. I felt trapped. Manipulated. Outmaneuvered. And irritably, annoyingly, against all reason, vaguely guilty—I suppose for being so suspicious and unyielding, as though Gem has never given me good reason to distrust her, as if her demonstrated gift for deceit and deception is as insignificant as the dead leaves of autumns past, to be swept aside and discarded, without a second’s qualm.

Was I being unreasonable? Perhaps Gem had indeed been homesick. Perhaps she had realized that those friends of hers in Paris were nothing more than opportunists who lost interest in her the moment her pockets were empty. Perhaps.

I would’ve liked to believe in Gem’s avowed sisterly love, but.…

Well, no matter what my doubts might be, one aspect was perfectly clear: As long as there was no proof of “an ulterior motive,” I couldn’t reject Gem’s conciliatory offer in good conscience. And didn’t want to admit it, but I do need help with this marriage. So I relented.

Gem was delighted. That made me wonder anew. I still can’t figure it out. And somehow, I can’t free myself of the image of Gem signaling the waiter, then turning back to me with a grand smile, and saying brightly:

“Your bill.”

Those two words made me shudder. Just what will I have to pay for? And what will be the price?

David closed the small book and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He’d had no idea that Lilian was so lonely. Now he understood why she’d married so quickly. No wonder she hadn’t informed him of her decision: She herself had never been at ease with it.

Like Lilian and Rachel, he wondered about Gem’s sudden willingness to help.
Life does change people,
he thought. He knew that only too well himself. But had it changed Gem? Had the loneliness of her years abroad actually taught her to value her family or had it simply, as Annie put it, left her lean
 
and hungry? And if Gem had indeed learned to care so much for Lilian, then where was she now? Why was she silent in the face of Lilian’s death? Why the blatant indifference? Perhaps the reconciliation was short-lived. Did the diary hold the answer? Sitting up, he flipped it open and found where he’d left off.

Friday, December 5, 1924

Wonder of wonders ... Dr. Steve agrees that I’m going to have a child.

David read the one line twice. She was pregnant? He sat there, stunned. But where was the baby? And why hadn’t Annie said something? He’d seen no evidence of a baby in the house. Nothing, anywhere. And why had Lilian never written to him about it? He wasn’t keeping a list of her emerging secrets, but maybe he should start.

He looked down at the slender book. What else would he find in there? For a split second, he was afraid to continue reading it. Would he learn something he didn’t want to know?

Monday, December 8, 1924

I haven’t told Jameson yet—I don’t want to. This secret, this wonderful secret, is something I want to cherish alone. At least for a while, I want to enjoy it alone.

Sunday, January 18, 1925

There was a time when everything was going so well. I was writing regularly and my work was well received. Now when I put my fingers to the keys, they tremble so badly I can’t type. This diary is now the only writing I do.

Tuesday, January 20, 1925

Gem has made friends with some rich whites, the Hardings. She brought them by yesterday. Horrible people. Always gushing about how “marvelous” Negroes are. But I suppose they were as sincere as ofays can be. It amazes me how white people observe so little and presume to know so much. Whites have hated and hunted us for years. Now they’re fascinated with us. Their ignorance is deafening, their arrogance dazzling. Any colored man could fill an encyclopedia with what he knows about them, but it’s a rare ofay who could fill a pamphlet with a little truth about us. I believe they know more about their dogs. Certainly, I don’t recognize myself or anyone else I know in the black characters produced by white writers. As for white patrons: They’re only out to back what they think is “pure Negro art.” As if they know us better than we know ourselves. I thank the Lord every day that I don’t need the white man’s money. I wouldn’t trust a single one of them.