Harlem Redux Read Free Page B

children as she would’ve been of her own. As she hugged him, her flat, spade-like hands patted him on the back.
    Like I’m a child, he thought. And I’m glad of her comfort, like a child. All these years of living away, and the moment I return here, I’m—
    “C’mon, Mr. David. Let me fix you something to eat.”
    He nodded and followed her as she led him down the corridor. She moved with unfamiliar slowness, as though the weight of her years were bricks on her back. Her left shoulder was a tad bit higher than the other from a slight curvature of the spine he hadn’t noticed before, and she walked with a slightly perceptible limp. He did not remember her being so frail, so worn.
    What else had changed? He cocked an ear. He didn’t know what he was listening for, but he knew what he heard:
    Emptiness. No sounds of life, of love or laughter. Just a roaring emptiness that fills every nook and cranny. A hollow silence that echoes every thought, every heartbeat.
    He looked around, at the paintings on the walls, the flower-bedecked tables that lined the hallway. All seemed familiar, yet remote. His eyes knew what to expect, but none of the sights seemed to touch his heart. He was detached and distant and it reassured him to feel that way.
    This is like a place I only dreamed of.
    But then his gaze fell on the dark gleaming door to the left of the library. This was the door that had guarded the heart of the house. This was the door that had haunted his childhood dreams and even now—
    His breath caught; his shoulders rode up. He counted his steps and kept his eyes straight ahead. The hallway seemed to twist and lengthen. It was taking an eternity to cross that door. Every footfall echoed in the thudding of his heartbeat. Finally, they were past the door, beyond it. The hallway snapped back into shape. He exhaled.
    They entered the kitchen. It was warm and comforting, familiar in its rich mixture of smells. His joints were stiff after the long train ride. He eased himself down into a chair at the kitchen table and let his tired eyes drift over the spotless room: up to the clock on the wall, down to the gas stove, the enameled sink and the refrigerator. His breathing slowed.
    How many meals have been prepared in here . ..
    This kitchen was Annie’s domain. She’d made it her own, made it a place for more than just physical nourishment. Annie’s kitchen was a source of warmth, a place for truthful conversations. It was a place to break down and weep or bust out with a big laugh, to be temporarily free from concern about what was or was not becoming in a colored family of status. Never before had he been so intensely aware of the role Annie’s kitchen had played in his life. Never before had he so envied the boy he’d been.
    She moved about the room, singing softly to herself. He watched her go about boiling water and heating something in a pot on the stove. Nothing more was said as the contents of the pot simmered. In a short time, she placed a cup of black coffee and a deep bowl of rich vegetable soup before him. She went to the pantry and fetched him bread and butter. He ate in silence. For a while, the only sound was the clink of his spoon scraping against the side of his bowl.
    She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table across from him. He felt her eyes dwell on him with affection. He could imagine what she thought she saw: a good man possessed of a kind and compassionate nature, a man who performed brave deeds. He could imagine her talking to her friends. He could just hear her describing how it was before he went away.
    “Always so nicely dressed in his debonair British suits. Never a hair outta place, shirts perfectly pressed, razor-sharp crease in his pants, black shoes so shiny you could see your face in them. ‘Fine David McKay,’ the young ladies used to call him. Them girls was crazy about my David, with his soft hair. But David never had no time for any of them. He was too busy studying.