Chapter 97

He had been living with Lucille for a year when in the summer of 1972 she decided to rid herself of the awful dusty wig she’d been wearing for a decade. Her intention that day was to chop off her processed hair for a natural cropped style, made popular by the forward-thinking women of the Black Is Beautiful movement.

Harlan tagged along for moral support.

Lucille climbed into the red-leather and chrome chair, snatched the scarf from her head, and said, “Take it all off.”

The barber, a young man with silver slats between his teeth, twirled a black comb in his hand like a baton. “You sure that’s what you want?”

Lucille shot him a lopsided look. “Don’t let this gray hair fool you, baby. I still know what I want and when I want it.” She was the only woman in the shop that day, the grand dame amongst a bevy of loud-talking men, unused to having to censor themselves in the very place they had always been able to speak freely. More than just a place to get a haircut, the barbershop was a church, meeting hall, classroom, and sanctuary all balled into one.

But all of that changed when the women started wearing their hair like the men. Now they crowded into the barbershops reeking of musk oil and Afro Sheen, wearing dashikis, wooden bracelets stacked clear up their forearms, and ridiculously large hooped earrings.

The women fully expected to be treated like the black queens they claimed their ancestors to be. All of this to say, there was to be no cursing when a lady was in the shop. Even the bull-dagger barbers rolled their eyes when they saw them coming.

* * *

After the barber had worked his magic on Lucille, he spun the chair around, bringing her face-to-face with her mirrored image. She sat stupefied, gently fingering her cropped silver hair.

“Lawd,” she whispered, looking at Harlan. “Whadya think?”

“I think you look beautiful.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Now all you need is a pair of those big hoop earrings the sistas wear.”

Lucille shook her head. “Nah, I’m fine with my pearls. Those things they wearing look too much like handcuffs.”

Above their heads, the bladed fans cycled, shredding the heat into a smooth breeze that swept the fallen tufts of hair across the floor into corners and out onto the sidewalk whenever someone entered or left the shop.

A tall man pulled the door back, mistook the rolling hair for rodents, and did a hop-shuffle that entangled his ankles. He would have fallen flat on his face if Harlan hadn’t grabbed his arm. The scene was comical—barbers and customers rippled with laughter.

“You okay, pops?”

The man barely glanced at Harlan; his eyes were too busy roaming the black-and-white-checkered floor.

“Herbert?” Lucille called. “Herbert Bolden?”

The man squinted at Lucille and frowned. “Where the hell is your hair?”

“Well, hello to you too!”

Herbert gawked.

“It ain’t polite to stare,” Lucille admonished. “How you been? How’s Arlene? I ain’t seen y’all in years.”

He shuffled over and circled Lucille like an exhibit. “Arlene died last fall,” he mumbled, reaching to touch her hair.

“Sorry to hear that. She lived a long life. What was she, fifteen years old?”

“Seventeen,” Herbert corrected distractedly.

Lucille looked at Harlan’s puzzled face. “We talking ’bout his dog, not his wife. He ain’t never married—no woman with any sense would have him,” she clucked.

Herbert spun around on well-worn shoe heels. “Who you?”

“See,” Lucille shook her head, “he don’t have any manners. Never did. He’s the man who kept you from falling on your ass, Herbert. It just happened, don’t you remember?”

Not taking his eyes off Harlan, he fanned his hand in Lucille’s face. “Hush up, woman.”

Harlan offered his hand. “My name is Harlan.”

Herbert’s long face stretched longer. He eyed the younger man’s hand with disdain. “I ain’t ask your name, I asked who you are.”

Harlan moved his hand down to his side. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you ain’t her son, ’cause she don’t have no kids. So who are you? Cousin, nephew . . .” He twisted his neck around to look at Lucille. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, Herbert, stop being nasty. You know Harlan. He’s Emma and Sam’s son.”

“Emma and Sam who?”

“Elliott.”

Herbert brought his face close to Harlan’s. “So it is,” he said, pulling back. “Heard ’bout your parents. Terrible.”

Harlan swallowed.

Lucille climbed from the chair. “I know you don’t remember this old fool,” Lucille said to Harlan, patting Herbert’s back, “but he used to own Club Lola down on 57th Street.”

Harlan nodded. “It sounds familiar.”

Herbert slipped into the chair Lucille had vacated and pulled one long leg over the other.

The barber drummed Herbert’s shoulder with his metal comb. “You trying to start a riot in here? There are three other people ahead of you, Herbert. Get up.”

Herbert waved him away. “In a minute. I’m talking.” He returned his attention to Harlan. “I used to have a club right here in Harlem, but when the white people stopped coming uptown, I had to move to Midtown where they were spending money.”

“Uh-hmm, good times,” Lucille moaned.

“Do you still have the club?” Harlan asked.

“Nah, left that life years ago. Now I’m into real estate.”

“Slumlord,” one of the waiting customers stage-whispered.

Herbert ignored the insult. “I got a few buildings here in Harlem and two in Brooklyn. Almost had the Theresa, but that crooked L.B. Woods swiped it from under me.”

Harlan’s face glowed. “The Hotel Theresa?”

“The very same,” Herbert said before turning to look at the man who had slandered him. “Now, L.B. Woods is the person you should be calling a slumlord. My properties are all well maintained.”

Lucille pulled a compact from her purse and flipped it open. “Hey, ain’t it up for sale again?”

Herbert dragged his hand across his mouth. “Sure is, but it don’t make no sense to buy it.”

“Why’s that?” Harlan asked.

“’Cause Harlem ain’t the kingdom it once was—all the royalty is dead.” Herbert struggled up from the chair. “So what you doing with yourself?”

“Looking for work.”

“Looking?” Herbert’s eyes rolled over Harlan. “How you been supporting yourself so far? You pushing drugs?”

Harlan shook his head. “No sir. My parents left me a little insurance money.”

“Uh-huh.” Herbert sounded doubtful. “Welp, ain’t much work to be found ’round here. What can you do?”

“A little bit of everything, I guess.”

“Are you good with your hands?”

“Yes sir, my daddy made sure of that.”

“You know about boilers?”

“Some.”

“You got any plumbing skills?”

“I can get by.”

“Most important thing is taking care of the garbage and keeping the building clean. Sweeping, mopping, and such.”

“Important for what?”

“Yeah, important for what?” Lucille echoed.

“Can’t you see we mens is talking business?” Herbert snapped.

Lucille threw up her hands.

“I have a friend. Ira. Ira Rubin. He’s been on the hunt for a new super . . . superintendent for his building in Brooklyn. The guy he’s got now just ain’t working out. It’s a pretty sweet deal. You work six days, live rent-free. I don’t know what he’s paying, but Ira’s always been fair. You got a wife? Kids?”

“No.”

“Good. The super lives in a kitchenette. Perfect for a bachelor like yourself.” Herbert looked Harlan up and down again. “Your father was a good man. Are you a good man?”

Harlan always believed himself to be good, just a little misguided at times. “Yes sir.”

Herbert grunted. “Well, are you interested?”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You heard the part about Brooklyn, right?”

“Uh-huh. I ain’t got no problem with Brooklyn.”