Chapter 20

To Harlan, New York City was as chaotic and thrilling as the three-ringed circus that came through Macon each spring.

No matter which direction his head spun, there was something new and exciting to behold: white men with long beards and black hats as tall as chimney stacks; poor people begging for money; rich people walking white poodles tethered to long leather leads; blind people tapping walking sticks; fat people munching soft, salted pretzels; and middle-of-the-road people like themselves.

Harlan had never seen an Oriental, so he gawked openly as six Chinese men—mandarin-collared and skullcapped—bore down on him. Sam jerked Harlan out of the way, rescuing him from being trampled beneath their slippered feet. The group hurried along, leaving Harlan gazing at their long, inky-colored braids, swaying like tails against their backs.

In the checkered cab Harlan sat with his forehead pressed to the window, silently ogling the tall buildings, trollies, and fancy automobiles.

His new home was a three-story brick row house on East 133rd Street, between Fifth and Madison avenues, right near the Harlem River. The house was resplendent with wood moldings, parquet floors, and fireplaces. Harlan’s bedroom was on the second floor, in the rear of the house, just down the hallway from his parents’ bedroom. It was small and made smaller by the mountain of toys and games heaped in the center of the floor.

The backyard was a disappointment—just a rectangle of dirt enclosed by a short wooden fence. No matter, all playing—stickball, catch, hide-and-seek, hot peas and butter, tag—happened out front on the sidewalk or in the middle of the street.

When Harlan first arrived, the tenants—the mother and her two children—came down to make his acquaintance. The family paraded into the parlor, brother and sister flanking their mother like bookends.

“Harlan, this is Miss Mayemma Smith,” Emma said, stringing the woman’s two first names together like harlot beads. “And her children, John and Darlene.”

All three had identical beak-shaped noses, slanted eyes, and full lips. Mother and son were the color of coconut husks. The girl was much darker, as if she had been slathered in crude oil. John was clutching a book to his chest; Darlene’s hands were locked tight behind her back.

“So nice to finally meet you,” Mayemma beamed.

“Hey,” said John.

Darlene mumbled a greeting.

“Hi,” Harlan piped.

“John is one of my students,” Emma said. “He plays very, very well.”