Dancing in the Dark (2 page)

.   .   .

But these days an increasingly impatient George does not share his partner’s circumspect feelings with regard to their white audience. Before
In Dahomey
, neither Williams nor Walker objected to being presented as “The Two Real Coons” on the New York stage. They were young men, freshly arrived in the city and making their determined way in the world of vaudeville, often sharing the boards with acts billed as “The Merry Wops” or “The Sport and the Jew,” and when money was in short supply they were happy to play on the same bill with trained dog and monkey acts. But it is now 1903, and times have changed and they are successful, and although Bert does not like to heat up the white man’s blood by being flash in his face, George feels differently. George takes the role of the dude of the pair, the Broadway swell with silk cravat and fancy spats who blazes with energy, and who is not afraid to bad eye the audience. He is always pushing and demanding more, and the more George agitates, the more sorrowful his partner becomes both in performance and in person. He thinks, No need to be like that, George, as his gold-toothed partner grins and winks and seems determined to create a palpable flutter of feminine hearts both onstage and in the orchestra stalls, but Bert never says anything to dandy George in his colorful vests. Some days, Bert feels that their act, although seamless and coherent on the outside, is beginning to fracture internally for George has absolutely no interest in going gently with an audience and learning how to seduce them, and Lord help the man, white or colored, who would dare refer to him with an unpleasant epithet. In fact, an increasingly successful, and confident, George is beginning to act as though he doesn’t give a damn about white folks.

He listens to the applause for his slow and cautious character. He listens to the applause for George’s dapper, city-slick Negro dude. Do the audience understand that his character, this Shylock Homestead whose dull-witted antics amuse them, bears no relationship to the real Egbert Austin Williams? Every evening this question worries him, and every evening as he takes his curtain call he tries to ignore it, but he often lies in his bed late into the night trying to calculate where he might force a little more laughter here, or squeeze an inch more room to work with there, and therefore impress them with the overwhelming evidence of his artistry. Every evening he listens to the rainstorm of their applause
and every evening he takes his bow, careful to make sure that he bends from the waist in tight unison with George, careful to make sure that the pair of them move and offer their best smile as one. George talks without moving his lips or turning his head. “You want to give them more?” Bert looks straight ahead. “Not tonight.” Again they bow as one. “Everything okay?” “Sure, everything is just capital.” The band begins to play their number and Bert waves a slow-branched hand to the audience and turns to leave. He holds the curtain open for George and makes sure that his partner passes safely through the velvet drapes. The thunderous applause continues, but Bert does not turn again to look at the audience for, at this moment, he wants something from them that he suspects he can never have: their respect. However, from the very beginning, this reluctant seven-legged word has failed to make an appointment with him.

—Mr. Williams?
He listens to the stage manager hollering out his name in the busy corridor. Why can’t the impatient man wait until he has taken off his face?
—Mr. Williams, you’ll be wanting me to keep a seat at tomorrow night’s performance for your pop?
Every night the same intrusive question, and every night the same polite answer.
—Sure, Mr. Kelly, you keep that seat nice and warm. I reckon he’ll be coming back either tomorrow night or some night soon. He places the newly soiled towel by the bowl of murky water and he stares into the mirror at his fresh, clean face. He knows that his father has no desire to return and witness his son transforming himself into a nigger fool. He knows his father well enough to understand that beneath his placid exterior a quiet frustration burns within him, and he believes that his father does not like to
place himself in situations that might cause him to get heated up. Father and son have never spoken of this fact, but since their arrival in America father and son seem to have found it difficult to communicate on any subject.
—Mr. Williams, will you be needing anything else tonight?
—I don’t believe so, Mr. Kelly.
—Well, you just remember. I’ll be holding that spot for your pop. Tomorrow night, or whenever he’s ready to see you perform, you just let me know.
—Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I surely appreciate it.
He averts his eyes from the mirror and listens to the sound of retreating footsteps in the corridor beyond his locked dressing room door. Although no words have been exchanged between them, it is clear that his bewildered father is deeply ashamed of his only son.

The balance has gone. Five years ago, when she first met him, young Mr. Williams was a man with a purpose. Handsome, well dressed, and still in his mid-twenties, he possessed courtesies that belonged to an earlier era. He rose early, and retired early, and drank and smoked only in moderation, and he possessed a fierce ambition and work ethic. And talent. Lord, he had a talent that others could see, but none, she believed, could imagine it in full bloom the way she could. This, she thought, was a man fit for a widow who had already mastered the art of nurturing a man’s dreams. This new man had traveled a long way from his Caribbean birthplace and twice crossed America, first to the west and then back to the east. This was a man whose brow she might soothe, a man she could encourage to relax and stay focused as he journeyed toward his destiny. Truly, fate had blessed her, but five years later the balance has gone. On that momentous day she accompanied her friend Ada, and sat quietly in the corner of the
photographer’s studio. The tobacco advertisement was to feature Ada and another woman, all dressed up in their finery, sophisticated ladies ready to step out on the arms of two gentlemen. Quality colored ladies, quality product, and then the two dandies entered the studio, one tall and tan, one dark and short, and her eyes were drawn to the tall man, who bowed gently before Ada and the other woman and then turned to her and smiled with a sweetness that caused her body to tremble, so much so that Ada had to shoot her foolish friend an unambiguous glare. She lowered her eyes, for there was now no longer any need to look at this tall man for his image was burned deeply into her soul. She had immediately noticed that this lofty man, with long fingers to match his legs, possessed a strange spring in his step. She expected a less nimble gait from a man with his build, something that might betray the fact that he was overly conscious of his size, but there was a curious buoyancy to his movement. She looked up as the photographer set the first pose, and she observed that it was
his
arm that Ada’s companion was instructed to take but the woman began to act uppity with him, and then plain downright cold, for she had noticed him looking across at Lottie, but it made no difference for he kept right on treating this difficult woman like a queen upon whom he was honored to attend. Lottie observed that the darker man also had manners, although he did not possess the same courtesies as his taller friend. She scrutinized the darker man and immediately sensed that beneath the sugar he would probably be quick to anger and express his mannishness, and should a woman attempt to slip a noose around his ankle he would soon be stepping clear. A heartbreaker, she thought, but if Ada wished to make reckless eyes at this man, then who was she to say anything? Her friend’s new preoccupation left her free to secretly pursue her own interest, although, of course, she had no intention of letting this man know that her
heart was already beating to his tune. And yet again the photographer moved this tall man and Ada’s tiresome friend into another position that suggested both courtliness and intimacy, and the tall man turned his head so that his eyes once more met those of Lottie, who remained seated quietly in the corner. She reminded herself that whatever thoughts might be coursing through her mind she was a widow and she should not forget herself and allow her heart to fist up so rapidly for this young man.

Sitting across the table from him at a fine restaurant on Fiftythird Street, Lottie melts. But he does not blow any hot air on her. He just listens to what she has to say about her late husband’s painful final days in Chicago, and he drinks up her words as though they were the finest red wine. She is helpless in the face of his stillness. He is balanced, and he seems to understand that the first duty of love is to listen. She looks closely at his hands, for she knows that gentle hands that are afraid of loss are the only hands for her. Lottie wishes to apologize for her somewhat coy behavior at the photographer’s studio, but saying sorry seems unnecessary. She toys with her food while, inside of her, certainty falls like an anchor.

He insists on walking her the four blocks back to her rooming house on Forty-ninth Street, and as they step out of the restaurant he offers her his arm. They ignore the unsavory odors that emanate hereabouts from dark hallways and open windows, and they promenade regally as though crossing a meadow that is high with the scent of flowers on a bright spring morning. He tells her that there is no other girl; that there has never been another girl, that his life has been selfishly dedicated to performing, but now he is ready for something else. He confesses that her quiet dignity has captured his heart and he wonders if she might consider
hitching her fortune to his. She smiles coyly and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with embarrassment. As they reach the junction at Fifty-first Street and Broadway they both hear the word “niggers” fly from a horse-drawn carriage, but neither looks up to investigate what foul mouth has unleashed this missile. The word ricochets off a wall and crosses in front of them, creating a low obstacle over which they both step. They do so without breaking stride and press on toward Lottie’s place of residence. Were they to turn around they would still see the word hurtling around the junction of Fifty-first Street and Broadway, picking up speed here, losing tempo there, as purposefully silent as a bird’s flight, yet furiously burning energy deep into the New York night.

Before she retires Lottie lights a solitary candle and then kneels by the side of her bed. As the scarf of smoke eddies its way toward the ceiling in swirling fits and starts, she begins to recite her cherished list of names. Her dry lips peel stubbornly apart, and as she whispers the names her now freshly moistened lips brush gently, one against the other. She squeezes her hands together and adds one more name. But what to call him? Mr. Williams? Perhaps she should have given him the opportunity of naming himself, but she knows that Mr. Williams is not this type of a man. “Call me the Honey Man.” “They call me Sweet Loving.” “Let me be your daddy.” For most of her years on the stage she has heard this kind of sweet talk, and a ring, bold and visible on her left hand, has never stopped a man’s tongue from flapping. “Baby, they call me the Candy Man.” But this man, whose head fame has not yet managed to turn, seems to have no desire to rename himself. She continues to kneel by the side of her bed.

Sitting high up in the balcony with the colored folks, she watches tall, twenty-six-year-old Mr. Williams perform with his partner.
Two Real Coons whooping it up on the New York stage, and a shiver of pride runs through her body. Women of all shades, from nearly night to nearly day, are captivated by the sight of Mr. Walker all prettified in his spats and his vest and his trim jacket, and each evening these ladies return in order to enjoy the thrill of being under the same roof as Jim Dandy. Lottie looks at these women and understands that while they respect the taller man, he can never generate the same heat in their hearts, which pleases Lottie for she knows that some women possess appetites that are dangerous to men. Again Lottie looks at Mr. Williams. Hers is a private passion, studying how he moves, how a raised eyebrow here and a turn of the wrist there make the white folks downstairs collapse into heaps of laughter. They laugh at him, and they feel sorry for him, but
she
understands that they are laughing at somebody else. This is not the dignified man that she knows, and so she too is permitted to laugh. However, the sight of her suitor in corkface disturbs something in her soul. But there is nobody to whom she might turn and quietly confess her anxieties, sitting high up in the balcony with the colored folks.