Chapter 79
When the letter from the State Department arrived, notifying them that their son, Harlan Samuel Elliott, had been found, Emma dropped to her knees and screamed with joy.
Three weeks later, she and Sam were standing at a Midtown pier, huddled beneath a black umbrella, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their one and only child. The passengers spilled down the gangplank dodging raindrops, as stevedores hurriedly unloaded suitcases, steamer trunks, barrels, and boxes.
When the drizzle stopped, Sam closed the umbrella, removed his hat, and loosened his tie. Emma shrugged off her trench coat and looked at her watch.
“What’s taking so long?”
“He’s on this boat, baby, don’t you worry. He’s here.”
They’d waited five years, but those last few minutes were the most agonizing.
A jumbo-sized man with shoulders as broad as an avenue started down the gangplank, pushing a wheelchair. Sam and Emma stepped aside, clearing space for the attendant and his patient. The burly man rolled the wheelchair to a halt and looked impatiently around. There were very few people left on the dock, save for Emma, Sam, and the stevedores.
The man looked directly at Sam. “Mr. Elliott?”
Emma’s and Sam’s heads snapped up.
“Y-Yes,” Sam stammered, nervously rolling the rim of his hat between his fingers.
“Hello, sir.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Frank.”
Sam looked at the hand and then at Emma. A long awkward moment passed before he finally shook Frank’s hand. “This is my wife, Emma.”
Emma glanced at the blanket-shrouded person in the chair.
“This sleepyhead,” Frank chuckled in an accent neither one of them had ever heard before, “I believe is your son, Harlan.”
They stared down at the fedora and dark glasses and then up the gangplank. Surely this man was mistaken. This was not their son.
Frank gave Harlan’s shoulder a gentle shake.
Harlan lurched awake, head wobbling; the fedora rocked on his crown, the cocoon of blankets slipping from his frail shoulders. He peered over the rim of his dark glasses. “Mom? Dad?”
Frank leaned over and tucked the layers of cloth back into place.
Emma and Sam stared in disbelief.
“It must be so nice to have your son home again, huh?” Frank’s voice was hesitant.
With an unsteady hand, Emma reached down and slipped the glasses from Harlan’s recessed face.
Harlan grinned. “Hey, Ma.”
Tears flowed down Emma’s cheeks. “Oh my God, Harlan, Harlan,” she moaned, covering his face with kisses.
Swallowing his own tears, Sam threw his arms around Harlan’s shoulders and planted a kiss on his forehead.
* * *
In the taxi home, Harlan sat between his parents, just as he had so many years earlier, when he’d first come to New York as a young boy. They rode in silence with their hands tightly clasped.
The streets and sidewalks were busy with people window-shopping and standing on corners laughing, children skipping rope and riding bicycles. Sunlight bore down on the wet streets, creating rainbows in puddles; raindrops dangled from telephone lines.
Harlan stared out at the scene with all the wonder and delight of a child.
When the cab came to a stop at 200 West 119 Street, Harlan looked up at the five-story building and asked, “What’s this place?”
“Oh, um . . .” Emma stammered.
“We sold the house,” Sam quickly interjected. “A lot has changed since you’ve been away.” He said “away” as if Harlan had spent the last five years on holiday, frolicking on a sugar-white beach.
The apartment was on the third floor, and the building did not have an elevator. The walk from the cab into the building taxed Harlan of the little strength he had; no way could he climb three flights of stairs.
After some contemplation, Sam handed his hat and coat to Emma and crouched down alongside Harlan. “I’ll just have to carry you.” Sam had never been a big man and age had chiseled some of him away.
Emma didn’t think it was a good idea and said so. “I can run up and see if JoJo is home. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
Their neighbor JoJo Clark moved furniture for a living, so for him, hoisting Harlan up the flights of stairs would be as easy as carrying a five-pound bag of flour.
“It’ll be fine,” Sam assured her. “Get on, Harlan.”
Up they went, Harlan clamped to his father’s back like a knapsack; Emma close behind, hands braced out ahead of her as if beaming an invisible force to help them along.
By the time they reached the third floor, Sam was perspiring and panting. He set Harlan down and promptly fell against the wall, exhausted. But seeing the shame pulsing in Harlan’s face, Sam swiftly made light of the situation. “I bet you didn’t think your old man had it in him, huh?” he grinned. “Next time you carry me up, okay?”
Harlan nodded.
* * *
The apartment was spacious and cheery with a generous amount of windows. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen half the size of the one they’d had in the brownstone.
Except for a few new pieces, the furniture was all the same.
Harlan flopped down onto the couch and pointed at the piano in the corner of the room. “That new?”
“Yes,” Emma said.
Sam turned on the radio. Count Basie’s popular tune “Jumpin’ at the Woodside” blared in the air.
Harlan winced, asked his father if he wouldn’t mind finding another station.
“Sure, sure,” Sam said, “whatever you want.”
Emma clapped her hands together. “I bet you’re hungry, huh?” She rushed into the kitchen. “I was cooking all day yesterday. Fried chicken, deviled eggs, collard greens, candied yams, tater salad, mac and cheese . . .”
How many times over the years had Harlan dreamed about eating his mother’s cooking? He couldn’t even begin to count.
“. . . and Mrs. Atkins sent over an apple pie. You remember her, don’t you? I sent your father out to get some ice cream. The fool came back with rum raisin. I told him, You know Harlan don’t like no rum raisin, Harlan likes vanilla! You still like vanilla, don’tcha?” Emma ducked her head around the doorway, her eyes sparkling with something approaching happiness.
“Mama, I haven’t had ice cream in five years. I don’t remember if I like vanilla or rum raisin.”
Emma didn’t know why, but this broke her heart. She moved to the stove and turned the flame on beneath the pot of greens.
Harlan asked, “So, are we expecting company?”
Sam smirked. “Nope.”
“That’s a lot of food for just us three, don’t you think?”
“Well, you know how your mother is.” Sam clasped his hands on top of his head and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
Emma appeared, blushing with shame. “I just wanted you to have all of your favorites.”
* * *
Just as they sat down to eat, the phone started ringing.
He get in okay?
How he look?
Can we come by?
Aww, yeah, I understand, maybe in a few days, after he’s settled in.
Tell him I asked about him, okay?
I told you, God is good all the time.
Eventually, Sam took the phone off the hook.
* * *
They talked around the pressing questions.
Harlan didn’t bring up the last five years, and Sam and Emma didn’t either. Instead, they spoke about the changes in Harlem; the end of its golden era, the climbing crime rate, Lucille’s new husband, and her career as a nurse at Harlem Hospital.
Harlan listened, head bobbing, eyebrows climbing and falling, barely touching his food.
They tried not to stare, but it was difficult because Harlan looked like death walking. He hadn’t eaten enough to fill the belly of a field mouse when he rubbed his eyes and yawned, “I think I’d like to go to bed now.”
It was barely five o’clock.
* * *
When the sun went down, Harlan turned on the light and kept it on through the night. He lay in bed, keenly aware of every opening and closing door, the clacking of shoes, car horns, and conversations had in the neighboring apartments.
He must have opened and closed his eyes a thousand times, fully expecting to awake from this dream to find himself back at Buchenwald, standing in the prison yard, legs numb.
And then, for one wild moment, Harlan thought that maybe he was dead, and Buchenwald hadn’t been hell after all, but purgatory, and now he had finally ascended into heaven.
Heaven? An apartment on West 119th Street was God’s idea of nirvana? The idea was ludicrous—probably the most ridiculous notion he’d had since those last days in Buchenwald when he’d seriously considered chewing off his thumbs.
In the living room, Emma placed a call to Martin Carter, a family friend and doctor. “He looks real bad,” she whispered into the receiver. “Will you come and give him a look?”
“Of course, I’ll be there tomorrow ’round eleven.”