The Book of Harlan. Bernice L. McFadden
Lenora, I would not consider a repast a party.”
“Okay, okay. How’s the mother holding up?”
“Mayemma? She a mess, of course. Any mother would be.”
“Yes.”
“And the boy, her son . . . What’s his name again?”
“John.”
“John? Such a simple name, I don’t know why I can’t ever remember it. How is he doing?”
“He sad. Blew his horn in his sister’s honor.”
“At the church?”
“Nah, outside on the sidewalk. Stood straight as a soldier, aimed his horn to the heavens, and blew like an angel.”
“Aww, that’s nice. What he play?”
“Don’t know, but the tune sho’ was sad. Mayemma had to be carried away.”
“You go upstairs?”
“Don’t think terrible of me now, but I was just dying to see!”
“So you did go upstairs?”
“I did.”
“Is it like they say? She did it in the kitchen?”
“Whoever they is, they got their information wrong. She did it in the bathroom.”
“In the bathroom? Why they say she did it in the kitchen?”
“’Cause that’s where she got the can of grease.”
“Grease?”
“Uh-huh. I hear she poured grease over herself before she . . . well, you know.”
“Lawd Jesus, fix it.”
“Too late for that. Lucky she did it in the bathroom. If not, the whole house would have gone up in flames.”
“Why the bathroom so special?”
“’Cause she lit herself up in the tub. Cast iron, don’t you know.”
“Oh yeah. So you saw it. The bathroom?”
“You know I’ve always been light on my feet.”
“Like a dancer, you are!”
“Uh-huh. I tipped right up them stairs and was back down before anyone missed me.”
“What’d you see?”
“First, it stinks to high heaven up there. You can still smell the smoke, and her . . .”
“What?”
“Skin. Flesh. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“Oh.”
“And the bathroom tile is as black as I don’t know what.”
“Like she was?”
“It ain’t right to talk ill of the dead.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood. Go ’head on.”
“Well, Emma is just torn to bits. You’d think she lost her own child. And Harlan, well, he ain’t handling it any better. Emma say every other night he wakes up screaming Darlene’s name.”
“He dreaming ’bout her? Make sense. How Sam holding up?”
“You can never tell with him. But I suspect he hurting too.”
“So sad.”
“Ain’t it though? Anyway, Mayemma and that boy of hers moving out to New Jersey.”
“New Jersey!”
“Mayemma say she done with Harlem.”
“My goodness, there are other places in New York she can move to. Brooklyn, for example.”
“Brooklyn? Who in their right mind wanna live in that ass-backward place? Nothing but bumpkins live in Brooklyn.”
“True.”
“When she leaving?”
“She’s already gone. Left two days after the funeral.”
“Aww, that’s a shame. I sho’ would have liked to have said goodbye.”
* * *
After the tragedy, Emma placed their Saturday-night house parties on hiatus, but word of mouth was slow to spread. The following weekend some folks showed up as usual, bottles in hand, ready to party. Even though the house was dark and as quiet as a tomb, they still rang the bell.
When Emma opened the door, her solemn face said it all. But some people just aren’t very perceptive.
“Girl, you look like someone died!” a woman cackled.
Emma didn’t crack a smile.
“Wait, someone died for real?”
Emma closed the door without a word.
Chapter 28
“I’m thinking about enrolling in nursing school,” Lucille announced suddenly while she and Emma sat in her kitchen sipping sweet tea and chomping on fried bologna sandwiches.
Emma’s mouth dropped open. “Nursing school?”
The good times, Lucille explained, were rolling to an end. “With the Depression and things being the way they are, we ain’t selling records like we used to.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My manager says my style of music is going the way of the dodo bird.” A wounded chuckle escaped her.
“Nursing school?” Emma echoed.
“Um-hum, what else am I gonna do? Day work?”
Emma slowly shook her head. She’d traveled that road, and it had been bumpy and unforgiving.
“I can see it now,” Lucille spoke dreamily, “me walking into some white lady’s house in my starched maid’s uniform, all ready to attack the baseboards and her husband’s dirty drawers, and then . . .” She paused dramatically; her eyes stretched saucer-wide and when she spoke again her voice was shrill and animated: “Oh my! Is that Lucille Hegamin? The Lucille Hegamin? Why, I saw you perform at the Panther Club, and I have all of your records!”
The women howled with laughter.
Lucille wiped tears from her eyes. “I won’t put myself through that type of embarrassment.”
“And the house?”
Lucille’s face clouded. “Gonna have to let it go.”
Emma reached across the table and closed her hand over Lucille’s. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I . . . we all had some good times here. It served its purpose and served it well. My season is over. Seasons come to an end. Don’t the Good Book say as much?”
Emma nodded.
“Besides, it wasn’t always easy being Lucille Hegamin—”
“The great Lucille Hegamin,” Emma corrected with a smile.
“So they say,” Lucille sighed. “People don’t know how hard I had to work. How much I had to give up.”
“I know,” Emma said.
Lucille turned toward the window—sunlight lit the tears swimming in her eyes. “You know, it wasn’t easy being in Mamie Smith’s shadow.”
Emma squeezed her hand.
“You don’t get no parade for being second,” Lucille huffed.
Emma, eager to brighten the grim mood that had befallen the kitchen, hurriedly changed