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, sated man. “That was good, Mama, thanks,” he yawned.

“Yeah, baby, that was good,” Sam chimed, smacking his lips.

Emma nodded, rose from her chair, and silently cleared the table.

Harlan cocked his eyebrow. “You okay, Mama?”

“Yeah, you okay?” Sam echoed.

“I’m just fine,” Emma responded tersely, evidence that she was not fine, not fine at all.

Father and son exchanged a cautious glance. When Emma was out of earshot, Sam scooted his chair closer to Harlan. “So, tell me ’bout the gals.”

* * *

That night, Emma’s nose caught the scent of something foul. She sat up, sniffing the air and rubbing sleep from her eyes. The scent was unmistakable: reefer.

“Not in my goddamn house,” she grumbled angrily, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “Get up!”

They found Harlan in bed, his back propped against two pillows, one hand behind his head, the other holding a joint.

“What’s wrong?” he sputtered when they rushed into the room.

Emma’s eyes narrowed; she aimed a stiff index finger at the joint. “Is that what I think it is?”

A wisp of a grin surfaced on Harlan’s lips. “That depends. What do you think it is?”

“Now look here—” Sam started just as Emma exploded.

“Don’t you sass me, Harlan Elliott! You’re not too old for the switch, you know!” She turned wild eyes on Sam. “Tell him!”

Sam’s lips flapped, but before a word could cross his tongue, Emma was shrieking again.

“Dope? Dope! In my house? You think ’cause you got your dick wet, you grown? Well let me tell you something, Negro, you must have left your whole mind down south somewhere, if you think you gonna sit up in my house smoking dope!”

Harlan’s face warmed with amusement. “Aww, Mama, this ain’t dope. I seen dope, and this ain’t it.” He turned to his father. “Pop, will you please tell her that it’s no big deal?”

“I think—”

“You know like I know,” Emma interrupted. “You better not ever smoke that shit in my house again.”

And with that, she stormed from the room, leaving Sam standing there looking at the tops of his feet. Finally, when he was sure there was no threat of Emma interrupting him again, he mumbled, “Listen to your mother, boy,” and walked out of the bedroom.

* * *

Emma lay in bed seething until the sky paled and the streets came alive with the chattering of domestics hurrying to catch the downtown bus.

After Sam headed off to work in Greenwich, Connecticut—a town he claimed to be so wealthy that the butchers wrapped meat in hundred-dollar bills—Emma washed and put away the breakfast dishes, wrote a letter home to her mother, put a roast in the oven, swept and mopped the floors, and played Chopin’s “Marche Funèbre”—three times.

When she looked at the clock and saw that it was half past one and Harlan still hadn’t made an appearance, she went up to his bedroom, shook him awake, and picked up where they had left off.

“Aww, Mama,” Harlan whined, “why you making such a big deal about this? All the musicians smoke it.”

“I don’t do it,” Emma snapped.

“Of course you don’t,” Harlan remarked smugly. “That’s because you ain’t no real musician, you just a piano teacher.”

If Harlan had spat in her face or called her a dog, it still wouldn’t have been as cutting.

“What did you say?”

Harlan saw too late the hurt crouching in her eyes. “Mama, I didn’t mean—”

Emma raised her hand. “Don’t say another word.” She walked stiffly from the room.

* * *

That night, Sam came home to a dark and quiet house. Harlan was out; Emma was in bed, under the covers, sobbing.

Sam tried and failed to pry from her the name of the person who had hurt her so badly, but Emma refused to say; she just clung to him and wept.