C H A P T E R • 4
I walked back from the precinct to 125th Street where it was even more crowded than usual with the people rushing up to learn whether it was one of theirs who had died that morning. Once they were reassured, they settled down into conversation.
I took a pencil from the twist of my hair and took out my notebook and my mirror. I needed to make sure I hadn’t messed up the “do” because, even though I was downplaying the movie star bit, I was still vain enough to care. Plus, presentation helps Harlem take me seriously and I needed to do some reporting.
What I heard was that we were all outraged, shit is out of control and, although no one saw the driver, everyone had a theory. New Yorkers will make up a story rather than send you away empty-handed. I wrote down why people thought she might have been hit on purpose or why she was so careless, and occasionally some quote they had been meaning to get into the newspaper about the ongoing plot against us.
A vision emerged moving through them from the direction of the Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building. It was Cecelia’s mother Elizabeth Miller. She leaned heavily against the support of Marcus Bell, dapper as ever, wearing a fedora, his navy suit hanging loose on his lanky frame. She kept dipping, and the cane which was usually enough to keep her moving through Harlem’s streets, kind of dragged along.
There was a terrible moment when she walked up to the roped-off accident scene and stood frozen at the place where her daughter died, now empty. Mister Bell bent to gather her into an embrace and rocked with her long enough until they shimmered. I looked away to give them some privacy.
When he released Mrs. Miller, Mr. Bell took a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. Then he wiped his own face. “I’ll be calling you baby,” he said, and he placed her gently into a police car.
Reverend Garrison walked up beside me.
“It is inconceivable she could be lying there dead in the street,” he said. “Even after having seen her, I still cannot believe it.”
“I’m so sorry, Gary,” I said. “I saw it from the window. It was terrible.”
“How could such a thing happen?” he asked. It was the age-old question. But the reverend didn’t have an answer yet the morning his girl was lying dead in the street.
We walked together to the police car and I put my hand on the window.
“I have Cecelia’s bag,” I said and handed it in to her mother. “Is there anything you need? Can I help you do anything? Should I call someone?” They were all good questions and they sounded absurd and inadequate. She reached out and held my hand in both of hers.
“No, dear. Thank you, Pearl. No.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are,” she said and let my hand go to take the hand Gary offered.
He was perfectly creased, his suit and shirt shades of gray. His yellow bow tie was one startling departure from gray decorum and the pointed van dyke beard a second. I hate those little beards.
She said, “What are we going to do Gary? What will we do without her?”
She broke my heart. But, I stepped back to what I determined was a respectful distance while the reverend offered the platitudes of devotion and consolation his tribe dispenses at those times. I took a picture of them with Karl’s little compact camera. Being a reporter is no joke.
When the police car drove Mrs. Miller away, Gary and I walked over to Mister Bell.
His skin was dark and rich. And his face was full of horrible grief.
“Mister Bell,” I said, “I’m so sorry. You were probably the last person to spend time with Cecelia. She had oranges in a bag. She must have bought them from you at the bookstore this morning.”
“Yes. She bought two oranges from me. Always does in the morning. Always did. Loved oranges since she was a little girl.”
“Can you tell me anything else I can use for the story I’m writing?”
“Not today, Pearl. Not now.” He was close enough for me to smell the grassy smoke smell of Vetiver, same as Daddy, his friend, always wore. “And not here.”
Gary interrupted. “If you witnessed something, you must tell it.”
“I didn’t see doodley squat,” Mr. Bell said. “Not doodley I’m going to tell you.”
“That’s not fair,” Gary said. “Especially not now. You know it’s not fair.”
“I know you’re a selfish son of a bitch.”
“We should be able to share what we loved about her. She wouldn’t want us to be fighting,” Gary said.
“It’s a little late for you to be worrying about Cecelia. And I don’t think you know what she would want,” Mister Bell said. “Or care.”
Gary said, “The great tragedy is that we will not now be able to get to the truth behind the lies and innuendo surrounding Cecelia’s relationship with the bank and with the people who love her.”
Mister Bell’s voice was a croak, “No. The great tragedy is Cecelia is dead. This is not about you.”
Reverend Gary shifted back and forth on his wingtips, and for a minute it looked like he was going to cry. It was unsettling and unexpected. Then he turned around and walked away, uncharacteristically sunken in the perfect fit of his beautiful grey chalk stripes. His briefcase hung from one hand and the perfect pocket handkerchief in the other hand was seemingly being used for more than decoration.
“What was that about? Another story for the paper?”
“I’ve got nothing for you now,” Mister Bell said. And he turned away.
“I saw it from the window,” I told him. “And I’m not convinced the car didn’t hit her on purpose.”
He turned back to me. Paused. Then he turned again. I caught up and walked away with him and only glanced up at the open window where my responsibility was waiting.