I drove the four blocks to my town house on West 139th Street and pulled into an empty parking space. For several minutes, I just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel. I felt physically exhausted and mentally drained. I leaned forward, rested my chin on my knuckles, and closed my eyes.
Bad idea.
It all came back. Images of Charlie Spooner, his chest ripped open; of Queenie’s face and the fear in his eyes; I could smell the gun smoke, hear the screams, see the bullets tearing up the floor in front of my face. And always in the background, Queenie’s cries. I could see him being dragged through that back door. Hear him, once proud, now begging for someone, anyone, to save him; and I could see myself, hiding under a table, heart pounding.
I sighed, opened my eyes, and rubbed my forehead. I had done nothing to help Queenie; in retrospect, I wasn’t sure there was anything I could’ve done. But that didn’t stop me from feeling guilty. No, not just guilty, but dirty, used, and utterly spent.
I’d covered crime for years at the Harlem Age, so this wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed violent death. It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed a shooting, either. But it was the first time I’d seen a friend, Spooner, shot before my eyes. It was the first time I’d been talking to one of the victims only minutes before the crime. And it was certainly the first time I’d been made an accomplice.
Or was it?
One day, when I was a child, maybe five or six, in Virginia and out with my mother, we were walking past a park. It was the middle of the afternoon. I don’t remember where we were going, but my mother was in a hurry to get there. I also remember looking up and seeing two men. They held a woman by the arms, and were dragging her toward the park. She was struggling, weeping, looking around for help. All I recall of her face is her fear. But I can still see her dark velveteen hat, her dark gray coat. She had a black leather purse with a silver handle slung over one arm. I can still hear her, so terrified she couldn’t scream. She was babbling, begging for help. She kicked and tried to dig her heels into the ground. But it didn’t matter—they were pulling her inexorably into the darkness.
People were walking past, stone-faced, my mother included. How could they? Couldn’t they see what was going on? Why weren’t they helping? I tugged at my mother’s sleeve and pointed. She hushed me. “It’s none of our business.” Look straight ahead, she told me, but I couldn’t. My eyes followed that woman into the bushes.
I never found out what happened to her, but I’ve always wondered. I’ve always been haunted by the thought that I could’ve done something. I’ve always felt puzzled and somehow dirtied by the fact that my mother refused to do anything.
I hadn’t thought of that woman in years, but I thought of her now. I thought of how we’d helped those men do whatever they did to her, simply by doing nothing.
Of course, I was a child back then. I couldn’t have done anything. But I wasn’t a child anymore. I had to take responsibility for my role in the crime that had just taken place.
I went over it again, but didn’t see what I could’ve done differently. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
My hands were ice cold and, despite Sam’s coat, I was shivering. I needed to get out of the car, go inside, get warm. But I couldn’t bring myself to move. Instead, I sat there, staring out the windshield, at the quiet, familiar street.
I lived in a small, highly insular part of Harlem dubbed “Strivers’ Row,” an appellation that began as a term of mockery but soon became a badge of pride. The enclave’s distinctive town houses were home to many of Harlem’s most renowned “strivers,” including entertainers, lawyers, doctors, and other professionals.
The mention of Strivers’ conjured up images of red Roman brick or Georgian yellow town houses. It meant private gateways and courtyards, quiet dignity and distinction, all designed by some of the best architects of the day, including Stanford White.
Strivers’ Row consisted of only two blocks—West 139th and West 138th Streets—and it ran only one block east and west, from Seventh to Lenox Avenues, but those two blocks contained some of the most elegant town houses in all of New York City.
Of course, I was partial.
I glanced over at my house, sitting there looking so pretty. Hamp and I had purchased it shortly before his death. Since then, the house had become a source of both pain and comfort. Everywhere I looked, I saw signs of Hamp. To live there meant living with a continual reminder of what I’d had and what I’d lost.
There was one part of the house where memories of him had been softened, if not fully overlaid, and that was the kitchen. Sam had labored long and dusty hours in there to build me a set of cabinets. He’d started over the Christmas holiday and worked on them every weekend, assembling them bit by bit, until they stood lined up against the walls like perfect soldiers. Like Sam, they were solid, dependable, and attractive.
I thought of those cabinets now. How I’d fought to keep Sam out of my heart, out of my home. Then, in December, after the terror of the Todd case, I turned to him. He was everything he appeared to be, and for a few weeks I’d known some semblance of peace.
But only a few weeks.
Soon, the fear, the reluctance to become involved again, resurfaced with a vengeance. I knew I could trust him. At least, I thought I could—there was so much about him I didn’t know. He was singularly silent about his past.
But that wasn’t it. Lack of knowledge about his past wasn’t the reason I’d pushed him away.
What then?
I didn’t know. Earlier in the evening, when I’d first gotten out of the club and arrived at the newsroom, I’d been so glad to find him there. There was no place on earth I would rather have been, and I was grateful, so very grateful, that I didn’t have to be there alone. Thoughts of him had sustained me even through those grueling police interviews.
When had my feelings begun to change? Had it been while I waited for the portrait artist?
Yes, perhaps then. I’d sat in the regular waiting room, fully exposed to the jostling misery of that frantic crowd. By the time I sat down with the artist, all I could think of was getting out of there, of going home and being alone.
Totally, restfully, blissfully alone.
Sam hadn’t understood that. I hadn’t understood it myself and couldn’t explain it to him.
I frowned.
Then again, maybe he had understood. There were many times when he seemed to understand me better than I understood myself. Perhaps this was one of them. He’d understood me and known better. Perhaps he was right and I was wrong.
Exhausted, I again allowed my eyes to close for a second. Memories from the nightclub instantly flared up once more, images of the agony in Charlie’s face, the terror in the Ralston girl’s eyes, of the man and woman lying slumped in their seats, the acrid stench of gunpowder, of blood and fear. I opened my eyes, gasping and feeling sick.
My gaze traveled up the long empty street. Everyone else on this tranquil block was in bed. No. Lights did burn in one window: diagonally across the street, at the home of the Bernard family. Hmm. Was it the miseries of the evening keeping them up, as with me? I hoped not. I hoped that it was simply a good book.
For a moment, I had the wild wish to go over there, ring their bell, talk to them, enjoy their normalcy. But I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t just that it was late—well past two in the morning—it was also that, well, I’d been a poor neighbor to the Bernards. I’d known them through my husband, but I’d rarely seen or spoken to them since Hamp’s death. My fault, not theirs.
My gaze moved down the street. Other than the Bernards’ single light, all the windows along Strivers’ were dark. This was a street of couples and families. Behind most of those windows were husbands and wives, cozied up together, finding comfort and strength in each other’s company. I could’ve had that tonight, but would it have been real and lasting, or just something to get me through the loneliness of the night? Did it matter?
I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Sometimes, I didn’t understand myself. I really didn’t.
With another deep sigh, I turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. I went up the stairs to my front door, unlocked it, and entered, but paused in the vestibule.
I peered at the gleaming stairway leading up to the second floor and beyond. I thought of all those beautiful but empty rooms, more than ten of them. For the first time in a long while, the house seemed achingly empty. I’m not superstitious, but in my heart of hearts, I’ve always believed that houses are alive, that perhaps they’re imprinted by the thoughts of their creator and the succeeding hopes and sorrows of their owners.
For a moment, I felt as though the house itself was speaking to me. I could sense its disappointment. I wasn’t the only one to have lost dreams; the house too felt a wrenching void. It was a big place, with generous spaces. It was meant to be filled with noisy, laughing children and grumpy but lovable relatives. Instead, it stood empty.
I knew I had to change, to do something, but how?
It was too much to think about just then.
The house was warm—I could feel the warmth on my skin, but it didn’t touch the chill inside me.
I hung up Sam’s coat, then went upstairs. I undressed, slipped into a lace cotton gown, and slid under the covers. I lay there shivering for a while, then got up and fetched more blankets. They didn’t help.
Fact was, I longed for a man’s arms to hold me. That night, especially, after what I’d gone through. Was I going to spend the rest of my life like this? I didn’t want to.
As it so often did, my gaze moved to Hamp’s photo on the night table. I couldn’t see the details of his image in the dark, just the outline of the silver frame glinting from a stray bit of moonlight. It looked cold.
Like the grave.
My beloved husband was in the grave. He was gone. Really, really gone.
I closed my eyes and the sobs erupted, harsh, hot tears. I was alive, yes, but I felt cold inside, as cold as the dead.