Chapter 76

On a crisp Saturday in September of 1944, a few months before the twins’ fourth birthday, Gwen dressed the boys in matching gray sweaters and red caps. Her intention was to take them to the Prospect Park Zoo and then for a whirl on the merry-go-round, but when she got outside, instead of walking toward the park, she headed in the opposite direction.

The boys tugged her hands. Bobby, the smaller of the two, wailed, “Mother, the park is the other way!”

They weren’t identical in looks or character. Bre was tall, dark, and gregarious. Bobby was an inch shorter than his brother and shy; a mama’s boy early on, he stuck to Gwen like a tight panty—so said Ethel. Gwen marveled at how different they looked from each other while both still being the spitting images of Harlan.

She quickened her pace. “I know that but I’ve changed my mind about the park. I think we should ride the trains instead.”

The boys cheered. They loved riding the trains. Sometimes the trio would spend an entire day switching between lines, getting off at random stations to explore unfamiliar neighborhoods.

Their subway journeys had been confined to Brooklyn, but on that Saturday, Gwen made up her mind to take them all the way to Harlem and introduce her sons to their father.

* * *

In Harlem, they tunneled their way through the flock of Saturday shoppers. Gwen’s heart skipped and jumped in her chest like that of an elated child on the last day of school.

“Stay close to Mother,” she warned, crushing their hands in her own.

Gwen had no idea what she would say to Harlan. Maybe she wouldn’t say a word, maybe when he opened the door she would just shove the boys at him and flee.

Motherhood had been difficult enough to get used to without Ethel’s relentless criticisms about her parenting skills. Gwen couldn’t do anything right where those boys were concerned.

How many times do I have to show you how to properly wash a diaper?

Aww, your nipples hurt? Well, they were feeling damn good when you were making those babies, right? Stop your bellyaching and stick that bubby in his mouth before he wakes the other one.

She was doing her best, but her best would never be good enough for Ethel Gill.

Sometimes Gwen fantasized about taking the twins to Eastern Parkway and leaving them on one of the many benches that lined the promenade. Other times she imagined smothering them in their sleep. The previous winter, Gwen had bundled the boys in wool coats, knit scarves, and hats, and had taken them to Prospect Park. It was the middle of the workweek; it was cold, the park was empty and white with day-old snow.

The boys snapped icicles off low branches and licked them to water, made snowballs and snow angels. When she asked if they were cold, if they were ready to head home, the boys dragged mittened hands over their runny red noses and said no.

When she’d stopped to adjust her pink earmuffs, Gwen realized that they had ventured farther into the park than she had intended. Just ahead was the boathouse and behind that, the frozen lake.

Her feet safely planted on solid ground, Gwen had sent her sons out onto the ice. A little farther, go on. It’s just like ice-skating, she urged.

The boys clasped hands and spun. “Mother, come play with us!”

Gwen strained to hear the crack and splinter of the ice above their squeals and laughter. She was smiling so hard, her teeth ached from the cold.

And then came the patrolling police car.

The officer stumbled through the snow, waving his hands and shouting: “Get those kids off the ice! Lady, don’t you know that’s dangerous? They could fall through and drown.”

No, she didn’t know, Gwen had lied. “Stupid me,” she said, wiping away fake tears. She thanked him a hundred times.

On the way back home, she threatened the boys to keep quiet about the lake and the policeman. “If you say one word about it, just one, I’ll make you eat pepper sauce . . . again.”

* * *

She’d met a man. A nice older gentleman named Edgar who felt as trapped and suffocated in his marriage as Gwen felt in motherhood.

The two had exchanged vows of love and had fantasized about walking away from everyone and everything, starting afresh in California. They’d even toyed with the idea of changing their names.

But for now it was all just talk.

“You can’t leave your kids,” he’d said. “And nothing against your boys, but I been there and done that. I raised four with my wife, and I ain’t interested in raising any more.”

“And if I didn’t have children?”

“Well, that would be an entirely different story.”

* * *

From the 135th Street station, Gwen and her sons made their way south on Lenox Avenue, walking a wide circle around hopscotch boxes chalked in blue on the sidewalk, toward 133rd Street.

Past dog walkers and people lounging on their stoops, they turned left onto 133rd Street, and continued quickly up the street. When they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and 133rd Street, Gwen’s mouth formed a large O.

The crossing light changed and changed again, and still Gwen just stood there, stuck.

The boys looked at each other. “Mother?” they chimed in harmony.

Without a word, she stepped off the sidewalk, against the light, and dragged the children across the busy avenue. Amidst the blare of angry car horns and curse words thrown from the motorists she’d nearly turned into vehicular murderers, Gwen shouted, “Where are the houses? Where are the goddamn houses?”

She questioned the utter desolation.

The boys pulled away from her grip and went running toward a flock of sun-basking seagulls. On their approach, the birds took flight, lit silver by the sun; they glided toward the smattering of rain clouds looming over the Harlem River.

Gwen walked to the corner to check the street sign, to make sure this bareness was indeed East 133rd Street.

It was.

That was it. East 133rd Street was no longer there. All of the houses were gone and so was Harlan. And as long as Gwen was stuck with those boys, Edgar wasn’t going to leave his wife. At least not to be with Gwen.

“Bre! Bobby!” she screeched.

“Can we get some ice cream, Mother?” Bre asked, falling into step alongside her.

Gwen stopped walking, raised her hand, and brought it down across Bre’s face. Bobby jumped back, trembling.

“Shut your nasty mouth. Always begging, always taking,” she snarled.

Eyes flaming with hatred, Bre rubbed his cheek, but said nothing.

Head high, back straight, Gwen courageously blinked back the water in her eyes and marched swiftly toward the subway station with Mary Bruce’s voice blaring in her head.

Smile, Gwenie!

Smile!

Smile!