Harlem Redux Read Free

threads or missing buttons, but the clothes, like the man, gave off an intangible air of fatigue. Even so, he was usually the handsomest man in any crowd. That day, his dark gray cashmere coat was buttoned high against the early spring chill. He wore his fedora tipped low to one side, just enough to cast a shadow, but not enough to hide the sad gleam in his eye.
    Like his sister, David preferred to stay out of the limelight. But his air of quiet distinction was noticeable to even the most casual observer. It was all the more evident that chilly March Thursday because of the mute pain in his eyes. The early evening’s dusky skies emphasized his pallor. Sorrow had grayed his complexion. Tension had cut furrows into his handsome face. He was bone-weary. From shock, grief, and lack of sleep. His sister was dead and buried some three weeks, but he had only learned of it the day before.
    He had forgotten much of the past twenty-four hours. The last moment he did recall was when he got that note while eating lunch at his desk in Philadelphia, that telegram summoning him home. He had an excellent memory. It could be useful, but there were times when it absorbed information he would have rather forgotten. The words to that telegram, for example, would remain etched in his memory until the day he died. It had turned his world upside down. When he left his law office to head home and pack, he was as disoriented as a man who suddenly finds himself walking on the ceiling.
    Lilian was a part of him. It was nearly impossible to accept that she was gone. He swung between anguish and numbness. His mind struggled to accept her death even as his heart rejected it. Her presence hovered in the air about him, a gentle warmth that carried a hint of the light powdery perfume she wore. Whenever he looked at a crowd, he thought he saw her face.
    It had never occurred to him that Lilian might die. He had not seen her in four years, but he had always been able to visualize her writing poetry at her desk or reading a newspaper before the parlor fireplace. Those images had comforted him. He had summoned them in times of doubt. Lilian: stable, dependable, clearheaded, and never changing. Whether she agreed with his life choices or not, she had been there for him.
    It wasn’t only her death that stunned him; there was the manner of it: The telegram said she had committed suicide. When had Lilian’s life become so unbearable that death seemed to offer the only relief? And why?
    She had mailed him a letter on the first of every month for some two years, starting in January 1923. Her letters had never reflected dissatisfaction with her life. They were always warm, colorful missives, filled with innocuous but witty gossip or news about her writing career. Her letters had arrived with efficient regularity until a year ago, in March 1925, and then ended abruptly. He told himself now that he should have become worried at her sudden silence. He should have made inquiries. That last letter had begged him to return home. He hadn’t answered it.
    Now he longed for one more chance to hug her, to tell her how proud he was of her, to confess and explain the unexplainable. But he would never have an opportunity to do that—never. And that stunned him.
    Struggling to confront the inescapable, he tried in vain to reconcile the immense contradiction between her dramatic death and her deep devotion to discretion during life. She was a proud, gentle woman, known for her exquisite discipline, delicate tastes, and exceptionally even temperament. Were someone to ever write her life story, a most likely title would be Pride of Place. She was a reclusive person, raised with a deeply ingrained awareness of her responsibilities toward her family, her class, and her race—in that order. A conscientious conformist, she strove to keep her name synonymous with propriety, refinement, and perfect manners. She scrupulously guarded her privacy and avoided contact with anyone whose