Harlem Redux (34 page)

David was stunned. “What?”

“Your sister was displaying all the signs of early pregnancy when she came to see me. But pregnancy wasn’t the only explanation for her symptoms. I agreed with her that she probably
was
pregnant, but I cautioned her that I could not be sure. Not at that time. And I told her to come back.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I did believe that Lilian was pregnant. Now, however, looking back, I realize that it was partly because she was so sure herself—many times a woman knows these things. But you yourself told me there was no child. We both know she was not the kind of woman to have had an abor—a termination. And surely, someone would’ve known if she miscarried. So what else can I conclude?”

David leaned on the wall. “Doctor—”

“I’m sorry. But given what I later heard about Lilian’s state of mind, there is the chance it was a hysterical pregnancy that simply went away by itself.”

David rubbed his eyes. “Do you actually think that’s possible? Knowing Lilian, you—”

“I know what you mean. Normally, she wasn’t the type to have hysterics, but, at the end, she wasn’t … well, she just wasn’t normal, was she?”

There was a silence.

Then David drew a deep breath and sighed. “Thank you,” he said and hung up.

For a long moment, he stood there, lost in thought. Then he grabbed his coat and headed out.

When Charlie Epps answered his doorbell, David thought that maybe his luck was changing. Epps turned out to be squat, round, and partially balding. He had beady brown eyes and full cheeks. He was nibbling on a ham sandwich with buckteeth when he opened the door. He acted friendly enough until David explained the reason for his visit and started asking questions about Sweet.

“Who’d you say you are?” Epps asked.

“I’m a lawyer. And I’m inquiring into a family matter.”

“Is Sweet in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I know of. Why would you ask?”

“No reason.” Epps shrugged indifferently, but his eyes shifted uneasily. He put the sandwich down on a plate left lying on the living room coffee table. “What exactly did you want to know?”

“Whether Sweet was in his hotel room the entire night of Sunday, February twenty-first. Was he?”

Epps folded his arms across his chest. “This sounds like something serious. I don’t know if I should be talking to you. Does Sweet know you’re here?”

“Is there a reason why you wouldn’t talk to me? Do you have something to hide?”

“Of course not.”

“Does Sweet?”

“Look, man, I don’t want to get involved in—”

“Just answer my question, that one question, and I’ll leave.”

Epps coughed and rubbed his throat.

“Well, what’s your answer?”

Epps averted his eyes. “Sweet never left his hotel room that night. He went to bed at nine with a stack of briefs. I couldn’t sleep because his lamp was on half the night.” He looked back at David. “Now please go.”

“Are you absolutely certain that Sweet was in the room all night?”

“Mister, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you’ve gotten all you’re going to get out of me.”

David left. Epps’s statement had disappointed him, but when he thought about it, he couldn’t say that it surprised him. Sweet was clever. He would have made sure that he had a sound alibi in the unlikely case that anyone raised questions. So he had either gotten Epps to lie or convinced Epps that he was still in the room for the hours he presumably left it.

I’ve got one more chance at bat,
David thought. Epps’s statement counted as a strike. And Dr. Steve’s call certainly chalked up as another one.

Two strikes. Three and I’m out.

Of course, if Nella’s description of Lilian’s lost weekend was counted ... well, then he’d already struck out.

But I don’t count it,
he thought.
There was too much room for Nella’s opinion.

His lips tightened. The fact was, he’d run up against a wall. Hit it full speed running. His intelligent face was grave. He had proven neither method, nor motive, nor opportunity. He was angry and frustrated—and scared.

Am I wrong?
he asked himself.
Am I wrong to suspect Sweet?

Did he really think Sweet was guilty? Or did he just want him to be? Without a doubt, Sweet had been a lousy husband, but was he a killer?

Back in his room at home, David forced himself to reflect. True, he had no proof, but his suspicions had a solid basis, didn’t they? What about the questions his talks with Annie, Rachel, Nella, and Snyder had raised? The contradictions?

What contradictions?

He wasn’t even sure what they were anymore. The gravest of them all— Lilian’s pregnancy—was apparently no contradiction at all. It was the question of her pregnancy that had formed the underpinning of his suspicions. Without a confirmation of the pregnancy he had nothing. He was sinking into a quagmire of doubt. It was getting harder and harder to think.

Were his suspicions valid? Or were they simply the effort of a weary mind and even wearier heart to blame someone else for his failure to answer Lilian’s call for help?

Has your sense of guilt really driven you this far?
Rachel had asked,
Is the idea of murder actually easier to live with than suicide? Murder means you can blame someone else ...

He would have to tell her. He went downstairs to head out again and saw Annie.

“You haven’t had lunch yet,” she said.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“I can fix you sumptin’ real quick.”

“That’s all right. I’m going to see Rachel. Maybe we’ll have a bite to eat together.”

“Miss Rachel?” she repeated. “You going to see Miss Rachel
again?”

He was reaching for his coat. Her tone stopped him. “What’s on your mind, Annie?”

Her nostrils flared just a bit. “‘Course it ain’t my place to say … but I hope you ain’t meaning to start up sumptin’ you can’t finish.”

Relieved that her concern wasn’t over something more serious, he gave a wry smile and took down his coat. “I’m not.”

“That young woman done been through a lot. Please don’t go making no promises you know you can’t keep.”

“We’re friends. That’s all. Friends.”

“Does that mean what I hope it mean?”

“It means that I won’t hurt her.”

Her stern expression softened, somewhat, but he could tell that she still wasn’t satisfied.

“I know I hurt her when I went away,” he added. “I know she hoped for more, but...”

“But what?”

“But sometimes,” he hesitated, then looked at her. “Sometimes we can’t have what we want.”

She studied him. “In them four years you was gone, what happened to you? What’d they do to you
out there?”

He forced a smile and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Nothing important,” he said lightly. “Nothing that a man can’t learn to live with.”

24.
 
Isabella

He
 
felt a pang of guilt when Rachel opened her door. She looked exhausted. Evidently, she’d just returned home, hadn’t even had time to remove her coat. The dark circles under her eyes were pronounced and her heart-shaped face was pale. After he’d left the night before, she’d been called back in to work part of the overnight and early morning shifts, she told him. Two of the other nurses had called in sick.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should go.”

“No.” She stayed him with an outstretched hand. “Come in. Please. Seeing you is good for me.”

She went to the kitchen. Rapidly, she put up water for coffee and took out chocolate cake. Finally, he got her to sit down. He spoke in low, intense tones of his failure to prove a case against Sweet.

“Sweet’s hotel roommate claims that Sweet was in his room the whole night Lilian died. All of a sudden, Dr. Steve says he’s
not
sure Lilian was pregnant.”

“Oh, David ... what you’ve been through.”

“When I add all that to what Nella said, I... I have to say I...” His voice trailed off.

“Maybe it’s for the best. You’ve done all you can. Now you’ll have peace of mind. Now you know it
was
suicide. I mean—you do see that now, don’t you?”

He was silent.

“David McKay, you’re one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever known. You’ve got to accept what happened. You’ve got to let Lilian go. That’s the only way to survive this. Your thoughts belong with the living, not the dead.”

Nella had said something similar. Why couldn’t he let go? Admit that he might be
wrong? The fact was, he did want Sweet to be guilty. He needed him to carry the blame.

“Promise me you’ll forget about Sweet,” she begged. “For your own sake, you’ve got to promise me that you’ll move on.”

“Rachel... I can’t.”

There was a long uncomfortable moment.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

She studied him with bleary eyes. Then she rose from the table with the slow, stiff movements of a sleepwalker. “I’m very tired now. I’d like to sleep.”

She was kicking him out. He stood up. He looked at her narrow shoulders hunched miserably under her thin coat, remembered what Annie had said, and felt ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She turned away from him. He laid a light hand on her shoulder. At his touch, she gave a dry sob. He put his arms around her. She turned, laid her face against his chest, and openly wept.

“It was so horrible,” she sniffled. “All those months with Lilian and then her dying that way. And then I heard that you were coming back. And it sounds terrible, but I thought that maybe her death was meant to be, that it was worth it, if it could bring you back. But then you said you weren’t going to stay. I don’t want you to leave Harlem, but I can’t make you stay. I don’t want you to stay, not if it’s going to be this way. Not if all you can think about is getting Sweet.”

She babbled on, like a heartbroken child. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. The sounds of laughter floated in from the street.
Happy people, normal people,
David thought, glancing out the kitchen window.
Do such people still exist?
Sometimes, it seemed to him that he was mired in sadness, that everyone he knew was struggling with tragedy. Perhaps it was his work in Philadelphia; perhaps it was only his own skewed view of the world.

Gradually, Rachel calmed down. The remaining traces of her perfume, mixed with the hospital odors of sweat, disinfectant, and sickness, wafted up to him. He kissed the top of her head. She moaned and looked up. Her green eyes intrigued him. Sometimes, they were as clear as dewdrops; at other times,
 
as opaque as a forest at midnight. Right then, they were tired and reddened, and they wore an expression that made him yearn for a sweetness he had no right to taste. He felt himself swelling. He moaned. Even the agony of saying no was beginning to feel good. He was tempted, so tempted to cross that line. If he didn’t get away soon, he’d burst—