Harlem Redux (44 page)

“It was just a joke. I ain’t mean no harm.”

“You’ve got a strange sense of humor. It could get you killed one day.”

Jolene fumbled at his pants pocket. David slammed him again. Jolene threw his hands back up.

“Easy, man. Easy. You wanna know where Shug is, right? A bird told me he’ll be playing a rent party tonight.”

“A bird told you that, huh?”

Jolene nodded. Beads of sweat had popped out at his temples. “No lie this time.”

“So where’s the jump?”

“Card’s in my pocket.”

Jolene gestured downward with his right hand. David dipped into Jolene’s pants pocket and drew out a cheaply printed square.

“It’s a woman named Lulu Smits,” Jolene said.

David nodded, “Lulu, huh?” and read the card.

Hey, papa, come on and shake that thing.

Bring pretty mama and let it swing.

We gonna hop and pop and rattle the room.

We’re gonna shimmy and shally and shatter the gloom.

David tucked the little card into his breast pocket. Now, what to do about Jolene? He was inclined to inflict a bit of pain.

Jolene cringed. “Man, don’t cut me,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”

David shoved Jolene back against the doorway, looked at him with disgust, and released him. He felt dirty from having touched him. David turned to go. He had taken two steps when some minuscule sound warned him to turn around. Jolene was coming at him with a switchblade. David sidestepped the lunging blade, then pivoted and swung around in a neat movement. He put his fists together and brought them down like a hammer between Jolene’s shoulder blades. The ugly barkeep went down with a grunt. David stood over him. He deliberated for a moment. Then he gave Jolene a deeply satisfying kick in the ass for good measure.

30.
 
Neighbor, Neighbor

It was still way too early to go to Lulu’s, so David headed home. He wanted to get cleaned up before going to the party, anyway. He’d just turned the corner onto his street, when he ran smack into Byron Canfield.

“My God, can’t you look where you’re going?” Canfield brushed off his coat sleeve as though he’d collided with something dirty. Then he realized he was speaking to David. “Oh, it’s you!” He looked David up and down, noting his slight dishevelment. “Yes, well ... I did hear that you’d stayed.”

The derision in Canfield’s tone was unmistakable, as was the hint of unsavory knowledge and superiority. And the look in his eyes—that, too, was unpleasant.

David was tempted to curse his luck at this chance meeting but realized that it had been inevitable. As a young lawyer, just starting out and still hoping for a career within the Movement, he’d wondered what it would be like to try a case with the great Canfield, a man as known for his arrogance as for his intellect. David now realized that such a collaboration would’ve been unprofitable. He realized that the antipathy between them wasn’t simply the product of the present situation, but stemmed from disparities that went much deeper. Remembering his manners, David donned a polite smile.

“Circumstances forced me to change my plans,” he said.

“Did they, now? Well, fancy that. So you’re staying?”

“For a while, yes.”

Canfield nodded to himself, as if to confirm some private thought.

“Well then, there’s no reason you can’t come by for dinner,” he said. “We’ll do it immediately. Tonight. You’re not busy, are you? Even if you are, you’ll cancel.”

David understood that he was not being invited but summoned. He briefly entertained the idea of firmly but politely saying no. He was tired, he felt ill: Any one of a hundred excuses would do. But Canfield would know them for what they were, a way of avoiding him. And Canfield’s curiosity, already aroused, would grow stronger.

David found himself recalling one of his teachers at Howard: Professor John Milton. Milton was a gifted strategist and an enthusiastic instructor. He was full of good advice and pithy mottoes. David could hear him now, saying, “If you want to know your enemy, then go visit him: Just drop by, sit down, and enjoy a nice, long chat.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” David now said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

They shook hands and Canfield turned to go. Then he hesitated and turned back, as though he’d remembered something.

“Oh and by the way,” he said, “you needn’t worry.”

“Worry?”

“Yes. There won’t be anyone there tonight—no one except you and my wife and I.”

David’s pleasant expression froze. He clamped down on the chill and fear that Canfield’s words had given rise to and forced himself to use a normal tone of voice.

“A small gathering? How nice. I’ll bring my wife.”

“You’re married?” Canfield seemed surprised. “But you were single the last time I met you, weren’t you? My wife prides herself on knowing about everything that occurs on Strivers’ Row. I don’t see how she could’ve possibly missed hearing about your wedding.”

“It happened rather quickly.”

“Well, well... you’re full of surprises.”

“My critics have never accused me of being boring.”

“I’m sure I would agree with them.”

They parted, David having agreed to show up for dinner at eight. Rachel was delighted at the invitation. The Canfields were exactly the type of people she wanted to impress.

“Have you met Mrs. Canfield? Is she nice? Do you think they’ll like me?

“They’ll adore you.” David kissed her. “Just be yourself and you can’t go wrong.”

As he escorted her to the Canfields’ that night, he watched her admire her new neighborhood.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she whispered. “So very, very beautiful. And quiet.”

He only smiled in response. As always, he was caught between guilt and pride that his family lived there.

“Isn’t it amazing that colored folk ever managed to get into such nice buildings?” she said.

“Yeah, I can remember Daddy’s joy when he bought our house.”

“I hope I can fit in here. I’ve been waiting for this all my life, but now ...”

She looked up at him. She seemed so fragile. He hugged her and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

Dinner was pleasant enough, but David was glad to see it end. Afterward, Emma Canfield led him and Rachel into her parlor while her husband went off, looking for a favorite wine in his pantry.

The Canfields were the perfect example of a Strivers’ Row couple. They were educated, traveled, refined. They saw themselves as influential, but benign and modest. They were also hopelessly out of touch with the concerns of Harlem’s poor.

“I don’t understand those people out there,” Emma
said, gesturing toward her windows. “It’s as though they want us to become what they are. They’ve got this blind hatred of us. Just because we read and keep our property clean, they say we’re snobs. We’re not snobs. We just enjoy knowledge and we want to live well. It’s as though they’ve accepted the popular idea that the only genuine Negro is an ignorant, dirty Negro.”

David felt Rachel tense. He glanced at her. Her lips were bent in a smile, but her eyes regarded Emma with resentment. She wanted to speak up. She was biting her lip to keep silent. He took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze.

Like most of the doctors, lawyers, and educators who composed the bulk of Strivers’ Row residents, the Canfields were committed to doing everything they could to make sure that their street would not be sucked into the slum beyond. They had convinced themselves that they could provide a shining example to other blacks of how a winsome neighborhood could be maintained. But the effort was failing dismally, and they were bewildered by the reaction they were getting. The more manicured Strivers’ Row became, the more mockery it drew from Harlem’s poor. The more elevated the Row became, the greater the cleft between it and the rest of the neighborhood.

David, perhaps because he’d lived for so long among Philadelphia’s poor, understood what Emma could not.

“Mrs. Canfield, let’s be honest,” he said. “If the people who don’t live on Strivers’ Row resent the people who do, it’s at least partly because the people on the Row deserve it. The people ‘out there,’ as you put it, simply resent the sight of Negroes who not only live well, but don’t seem to care that others live poorly.”

“We do care,” Emma cried. “But there’s no way we can help them if they won’t help themselves. No one helped us. My husband and I—and all the rest of us here on the Row—why, we have what we have because we worked for it and worked hard. Nobody gave us anything. Nobody urged us on. And now that we have something, it’s our own people who want to tear us down. I don’t understand it.”

David raised an eyebrow. Actually, he agreed with her––to a degree. At the same time, he found it ironic to hear her, a relatively rich woman, echo Rachel’s poor woman’s complaint. He glanced at his wife and saw the repressed anger in her eyes and the tight smile on her lips and he wondered whether it was her being intimidated or disciplined that kept her from saying the words that surely must’ve been on the tip of her tongue.

Emma set her bone china teacup down on her glass coffee table with a rattle and fixed David with her jet-black eyes. She was a matronly woman of about fifty. She had a round, soft figure and a pretty face. One would have thought her the soul of tolerance and generosity from the sweetness of her expression, but the hardness of her eyes reminded David of granite. She was assiduously groomed and everything about her displayed an exacting perfectionism. She was, David thought, the perfect match for Byron Canfield, from the top of her perfectly coiffed head to the tip of her polished kid leather shoes.

“Strivers’ Row is about more than black-tie dinners, bridge parties, and balls,” she said. “It’s proof that not only whites but blacks can make it. If we’re smart enough, stubborn enough, tough enough. It proves that DuBois is right, that the best of us, the ‘Talented Tenth,’ will succeed if we commit ourselves to American ways and reject that Back-to-Africa nonsense. We try to be role models and an inspiration. I wish they’d think of us that way.”

David glanced at Rachel again. Her smile had grown tighter. He thought he understood why she didn’t feel free to speak up; Emma’s imperious smugness was intimidating. But he couldn’t sit there and smile. Emma’s arrogance was beginning to make him feel suffocated and her lack of commonsense compassion was definitely making him bristle.

“But how can we be role models when we’re increasingly cut off from the community?” he asked. “Most of the people on the Row don’t know a single soul who lives out there.”

“And why should we? They’re shiftless, lazy. If they worked, they could have what we have. Or nearly as nice. If their houses are dirty, it’s because they dirtied them. And if they’re living five and ten to a room, it’s—”

“It’s because they can’t afford the rents, Mrs. Canfield. Open your eyes.”

“Those people—”

“Are our people,” he said gently. “And they need us. Harlem’s not just the well-feathered beds of Strivers’ Row. It’s the hot beds of shift workers. It’s battered tenements, cramped kitchenettes, and bleak rented bedrooms. It’s the wheelers and dealers on Seventh; Mr. Jones’s barber salon on 125th, and Mrs. Johnson’s beauty salon on 122nd. Harlem is storefront churches and jackleg preachers. It’s people finding faith wherever and however they can: young folk visiting the conjure man on Friday and the jump joint on Saturday; it’s old folk giving up their nickels and dimes to the preacher on Sunday, singing and praying and singing some more at the First Baptists, Good Saviors, and Little Bethels that dot nearly every Harlem street.”