The Book of Harlan. Bernice L. McFadden
what they call themselves.”
The home came into view. Stacked porches, Greek columns, and a sweeping verandah. Harlan had never seen anything like it.
“How many people live there?” he whispered in awe.
“Just them two,” Lucille said. “Not counting the help.”
Clarence and Joy were well into their seventies, silver-haired and wrinkled. Their matching green eyes made them look more like siblings than husband and wife. They seemed hungry for the company. Unwilling to let their guests retire. After the sumptuous meal, the Temples coaxed everyone out onto the rear porch to sip cognac and deliberate on all things musical.
It was near midnight when Harlan, yawning, excused himself and headed up to the room he was sharing with Craig. Before retiring, he slipped into their private bathroom and fired up one of the three joints he’d purchased from Cecil.
Head spinning, floating more than walking, he crossed the room and dove onto the goose-feathered mattress, slipping into blissful slumber.
Just at the tip of three, Cecil stumbled noisily into the bedroom, hissing, “Pssst!”
The room flooded with yellow light.
“Psssssssst! Harlan!”
“Shit,” Craig mumbled angrily.
Harlan sat up, shielding his eyes.
“Turn that light off!” Craig growled. “Ain’t you got your own room to go to?”
Alongside Cecil was a curvaceous raisin-colored woman. Cecil dragged her toward Harlan. “You gotta see her eyes.” He was giddy. “I ain’t never seen no shit like this in my life!”
The two reeked of whiskey, reefer, and something else Harlan couldn’t put his finger on.
Craig sat up. “Man, you crazy or what? Here these nice white folks welcome us into their home, and you bring a whore up in here?”
“Aw, man, shut the fuck up and mind your business,” Cecil snapped.
“It’s ’cause a niggers like you that good, decent black folk get a bad rap!” With that, Craig punched his pillow, lay back down, and turned his back on the sordid affair.
“Go show him,” Cecil urged. “Wait till you see this, Harlan.”
The woman wobbled forward. The hem of the tight black and red dress she wore inched up her thigh with each step. When she reached Harlan’s bedside, she uttered a breathless, “Hi,” before flopping down on his thighs.
“Show him,” Cecil urged again.
“Okay, okay, damn,” the girl giggled. “See,” she sang, pushing her face into his and stretching her already large eyes wider.
Swimming in the dark pond of her face were two watery blue orbs, ringed in gold.
“You ever seen anything like that in your life? A nigger with blue eyes?” Cecil slapped his thighs, chortling. “That’s some wild shit right there!”
Harlan’s lips flapped. The woman raked her fingers across his bare chest. “You a scrawny something, huh?” she purred. “How old you is?”
Harlan looked stupidly at Cecil, who was still bent over laughing.
“Eighteen,” Harlan coughed.
“Sixteen!” Craig yelled from his bed. “Too young for your old ass.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you again, Craig,” Cecil warned. He looked back at Harlan and licked his lips. “Hey, she a pretty thing, don’t you think?”
Harlan nodded.
“I thought you’d feel that way. That’s why I brung her up here for you to have.”
Harlan blinked. “Have?”
“Yeah!” Cecil laughed.
Harlan’s eyes bulged.
“Nigger, this is where you say thank you,” Cecil admonished.
“Say thank you, nigger, so I can get some goddamn sleep!” Craig cried.
The girl took Harlan’s face into her hands. “Tell me something, boy. You still a virgin?”
Harlan swallowed hard. “Yes ma’am.”
The woman giggled, rolled back the quilt, and pressed her hand against his groin. “Oh my,” she crooned seductively. “Well, that there ain’t scrawny at all, is it?”
Cecil turned off the light and backed out of the room, whispering, “And to all a good night.”
* * *
Harlan woke to the scent of flapjacks and bacon. Upon opening his eyes, his stomach growled. He lay there for a moment, trying to figure out if the woman had been a dream spurred on by the reefer. But that notion was quickly put to rest when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of blue panties crumpled on the pillow beside his head.
Chapter 31
Sam and Emma waited all day for the bus—taking turns leaning out the window, standing on the stoop, walking from one corner of the block to the next, and pacing the parlor floor like parents awaiting the birth of their first child.
“You see anything?”
“Nope, not yet.”
It was nearly eight o’clock when the bus finally arrived. They nearly tripped over one another getting through the door and down the steps to greet their son.
When Harlan stepped off the bus, Emma stalled. Even in the fading summer light, she saw in Harlan what she had seen in Lucille the first time she’d gone away and come back. “Oh,” she mumbled miserably, “he’s pissing straight now.”
Not only that—Harlan was taller and heavier, and there was a shadow of dark hair above his upper lip. Gone was the carefree, arm-swinging gait, replaced now by a confident swagger historically hitched to men who frequented pool halls and whorehouses, drank whiskey before noon, and kept a lit cigarette dangling from the knotted corners of their mouths. Those men carried switchblades in their coat pockets, pistols stuffed behind the waistbands of their trousers. They smoked dope, had women in every city and children they would never claim. Those men worshipped jewelry, money, and pussy. They lived fast and died young.
Harlan opened his arms. “Hey, Mama, Daddy,” he called sluggishly.
Sam took his hand and pumped it exuberantly. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”
Emma folded her arms across her chest. “Hello, Harlan,” she offered coolly.
Oblivious to the chill, Harlan leaned in and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “Did you miss me?”
Emma turned her face away from his alcohol-soaked breath. “Um-hum.”
Harlan chuckled, kissed her again, and started up the steps. Sam followed close behind, happily lugging his son’s suitcase.
Later, over a hefty plate of boiled potatoes, pig tails, and black-eyed peas, Harlan regaled them with stories from the road. He went on and on about the venues, the audiences, sleeping on the bus, pissing and shitting in the woods, and that time the bus broke down beneath a big sky. Lucille had spat on the ground and called that place the “middle of nowhere,” but it was beautiful and green and quiet in a way Harlan didn’t know the world could be. He left out the blue-eyed black woman and all the other ladies who followed, and the reefer.
Emma listened quietly, suspiciously. Sam, however, was so enthralled that he forgot about his food, leaning over his plate, lapping up every word that tumbled out of Harlan’s mouth. When Sam finally scooped a potato into his mouth, it was cold.
Harlan dropped his fork into the center of the plate, fell back into the chair, and slapped his gut like an old,