The Unexpected Diva
Chapter One
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania February 1850
Come home. STOP. Quickly. STOP.
I have been clutching this telegram in my hands since I received it two days ago. The paper is wrinkled and sweat-stained now from my nervous handling. But how can I not be anxious? The telegram orders me home as fast as I can travel. Yet there are no details as to why I should rush home from my precious singing lessons in Buffalo—the ones Miss Lizbeth procured for me on the strength of a favor from a friend. The lessons that are mostly unavailable in my hometown because I am black.
Yet, no matter how necessary my lessons are, I booked passage on the first steamship I could take out of Buffalo Harbor to Erie, Pennsylvania. Then three days in a packet boat down the Erie Canal until now.
My knee bounces along with my trembling hands as I peer out of the tiny grime-encrusted window of the covered carriage. This is the final piece of transport to take me to the only mother I’ve ever known, but the driver does not appear to be in any rush.
More than anything my worry stems from the fact that this telegram came not from Miss Lizbeth herself, but from her nurse, Sarah. When I departed for my lessons six months ago, Miss Lizbeth was in her regular state of frailty—she is nearly one hundred years old, after all—but she was not sick. Every morning, she rose before I did and had our tea and biscuits ready before I was dressed. She could send her own telegram before I left home for my lessons.
“Here is the address,” I say to the driver who has nearly passed our brownstone.
The carriage halts so suddenly that I must stretch my arms forward to keep from being thrown from the seat. If I was a more slender girl, I would have been. I give silent praise for my heavy bones, healthy appetite, and for never having missed a meal.
Of course, my dear friend Lucien is waiting for me in front of our three-story brick house on Arch Street. I had sent word of my travel before boarding the stagecoach, but there was no way of knowing when I would arrive. He could have been standing here for hours, dressed in his church jacket and pants, his smile stretching from one ear to the other.
Lucien is tall and wiry, with sandpaper-colored skin and a friendly disposition. His kind nature makes up where he’s lacking in looks. Separately, his features aren’t ghastly: large widely set eyes, a broad and flat nose that takes up too much space, and large heavy lips which he can never seem to properly moisturize – they’re either too moist from him licking them, or too dry from the elements. The collection of these features is not exactly what most women consider handsome, but with his physique, chiseled from hard work, and a little confidence he would still manage to turn many heads. Unfortunately, confidence is not something Lucien possesses, and he tends to slouch, making himself smaller and less threatening.
When the carriage slows to a complete stop, Lucien rushes forward to take my bag and help me down the two steps, making me feel like a lady for a change. The carriage speeds off without a goodbye as payment was required when I boarded.
“Lucien,” I say while he encircles me with his arms. Lucien gives the best hugs, warm and sincere, like his personality. “Have you spoken to Miss Lizbeth?”
“She is not well, Eliza. It’s good that you’re home.” I hear the concern and worry in his tone, and it makes me feel anxious to see Miss Lizbeth.
Not wanting to go inside to Miss Lizbeth with a melancholy expression, I hold back the flood of emotions I feel. I know how old she is, so perhaps I shouldn’t have gone so far away to take my lessons.
“It isn’t your fault,” Lucien consoles me as if reading my thoughts. “The doctor says it’s pneumonia. She’s taken to her bed.”
“And have you seen her? Talked to her?”
Lucien takes my arm with his free hand and helps me up the snow and slush covered stairs. I am grateful for this, because the wind is whipping so that I’ve already stumbled twice since climbing out of the carriage. It is late February, but there is no hint of spring in the air, only blustery winds, overcast skies, and a cold that chills to the bone.
“I have not seen her,” Lucien laments. “Sarah keeps her hidden away from the world, or maybe just from me.”
I believe this. While Sarah is an excellent nurse, she is not as fond of black people as Miss Lizbeth, although she would never say as much around the other Quaker members of our closely knit community. I have seen her cast envious glances in my direction, especially once I entered adulthood. Perhaps, I was less threatening to her as a little girl, and a former slave. But at twenty-six, and with Miss Lizbeth still doting on me as she gave birth to me herself, I may be a problem for Sarah. She would probably do away with me if she could, so I am sure she has no use for Lucien.
I use my key to open the door and am overwhelmed by the odor of sickness in the air. It smells of medicine and decay. Of a long life nearing its end.
“Lucien, will you take my bags to my room? I want to go directly in to see Miss Lizbeth.”
Sarah emerges from Miss Lizbeth’s bedroom with her lips pressed together in a grim expression. She looks neither happy nor surprised to see me, but I stretch my arms toward her anyway. She barely embraces me, and there is no love in the motion.
“Miss Elizabeth is resting,” Sarah says coldly. “You will have to visit with her later.”
“I will sit next to her while she sleeps.” I push past Sarah to open the door. “Excuse me, please.”
Sarah narrows her eyes in my direction but does not object. She knows better than to do that. I may be black, but I am still her employer’s daughter.
Though I try to be as quiet as possible, as I step into Miss Lizbeth’s bedroom, her eyes flutter open when I close the door behind me. A weak smile teases her lips, and I force myself to smile back.
“Eliza, you’re home.” Her voice is dry and raspy and barely above a whisper, but I can still hear her joy at seeing me. She pats the chair at her bedside. “Come and sit. Tell me about your lessons.”
I fight back tears at her wasted state. She looks so tiny in her sleeping dress. Mostly she seems old and tired, and though she’s been in the winter of her life since I was born, she never appeared so. Miss Lizbeth has always been full of vigor. This pneumonia has stolen that from her.
I sit and fold my hands across my lap, the way Miss Lizbeth taught me. Even with her education on etiquette, I am never sure how I will be judged by even the friendliest of white people. I know that my robust size and my very dark complexion cause some to believe I am a brute, no matter how genteel my behavior.
“Lucien asks about you,” I say, not wanting to remind her of the lessons that kept me far away when she fell ill.
Miss Lizbeth opens her mouth to speak, but she is overcome by a fit of coughing. She reaches for the glass of water on her nightstand, and I rush to hand it to her. Luckily, she is propped up on a mound of pillows and able to drink without incident.
“Why hasn’t he visited? I would’ve enjoyed seeing him over these past few months.”
“And he you. But Sarah would not allow it.”
Miss Lizbeth’s eyebrows shoot up at this offense from hired staff. “Sarah does not allow nor disallow anything in my home. I will speak to her.”
“No need,” I say, taking the glass of water from Miss Lizbeth and returning it to its place on the nightstand. “I am here now, and so Lucien will get an audience.”
“No need to be so proper my dear. You are home,” she says, patting my hand and calming me. “Lucien will visit, and we will laugh as we always do.”
“We will, but first we have to get you better.”
Miss Lizbeth’s heavy sigh does not match her smile, but I wait for her to elaborate. “I just bet Lucien was waiting for you when the carriage arrived, wasn’t he?”
So, we’re not going to discuss her health. Or her getting better. There is a sinking feeling in my belly at what I suspect is the true nature of this illness. A person cannot live forever, but I cannot fathom my world without Miss Lizbeth.
“He was. He is such a loyal friend to me. Always there when I need him.”
“Well, he desires more than friendship. You know that.”
I look away from Miss Lizbeth’s knowing gaze. This is a difficult subject for me.
Everyone believes that Lucien wants to court me, but I don’t have the same feelings for him. I also do not have any other men inquiring after me, so there’s a small voice inside me that nags at me not to discourage Lucien so hastily. “He has not said as much, and I will not broach the topic myself. I quite enjoy our friendship.”
“Lucien never changes. He is a good man.” Even in her whispery voice I can hear the compassion Miss Lizbeth has for Lucien.
“I do enjoy his company, but I sometimes fear there’s an additional motivation for his attentions. I don’t know what will become of us if he makes these motivations plain.”
There are times when I let myself dream of something more than a life with a husband and children. But then other times I think I might welcome the security of a marriage, because what choice is there really, other than spinsterhood?
Still other times I wonder if it’s the idea of marriage that gives me pause or if it’s Lucien. Because would I want children and a quiet life if it was with someone other than Lucien? Someone who makes my toes tingle if that is a possibility. I have never felt le tingling from Lucien.
“His actions are clear, Eliza. To anyone with eyes, his motivations are plain,” Miss Lizbeth says knowingly.
Hearing this oft-repeated message from Miss Lizbeth has made me anxious. I no longer wish to speak of this. Not today. Today, I only care about spending time with Miss Lizbeth.
“I don’t know about Lucien, but I do know I’d like to tell you about my lessons.”
Miss Lizbeth closes her eyes for a long moment, hopefully accepting my clue to turn our attentions somewhere other than Lucien, at least for now.
“And I want to hear about your lessons,” she finally croaks after coughing for an extended amount of time. “How is Bella?”
I cannot think about Miss Bella without wanting to adjust my posture and breathe from my diaphragm. The tiny Italian woman is well into her eighties but has the energy of a woman decades younger. Even miles away, I can almost hear her cane tapping in my head, keeping the tempo for me as I sing.
Bella is short for Isabella Antonacci, and she moved to America as a young woman. Her story changes almost every time I ask, but from what I gather, she had a promising career ahead of her as a prima donna and was trained by her cousin Tonio who was a composer and one of the last castrati—young men who were castrated at an early age simply to preserve their soprano voices for the stage.
She says her career was ruined, and she hints at the reason, but I can never quite pinpoint the exact story. I believe it had to do with her exquisite beauty. If the portraits hanging in her studio are accurate depictions, she was stunning, with lush dark hair, blue eyes, full lips, and a buxom figure.
“Miss Bella is as fiery as ever,” I say. “Still teaching her young students too.”
“The small children? Is she mad?” Miss Lizbeth manages to sound amused between a few weaker coughs.
Weak not because there’s less congestion because I can still hear the loud rattle, but I think because she’s growing even more tired. I hate to leave her side, but I may need to heed Sarah’s advice and allow her to rest.
“Miss Bella says she will continue to teach them singing and Italian as long as she has the energy. But lately, she has started to use her walking stick all the time.”
Miss Lizbeth now simply shakes her head in wonder. She motions to her tumbler of water, and I quickly give her a drink. Some of the water dribbles onto her nightgown, and she does not look refreshed, but she gives a tiny smile that makes her look peaceful.
“Show me what you’ve learned,” she asks.
“Well, I am learning an aria, but I don’t think it’s good enough yet.”
“I’m sure it is better than you think. Learning from Bella is the next best thing to being educated in Europe. She may even be better. Let me hear it.”
Another soft smile and a hand squeeze are all the encouragement I need. I push away the thought that this may be the last time I sing for Miss Lizbeth, but her chest continues to rattle with every breath, and the pale wrinkled hand that covers mine is weak.
I swallow to moisten my throat. It isn’t enough, but I will not sing in full voice, and I will pull back on the high notes—things my teacher has instilled in me, things I didn’t know to do before. Miss Bella says my voice, my range, will not last forever and that I must do all I can to preserve them.
Miss Lizbeth shudders when I open my mouth to sing the first melancholy note. This aria, from La sonnambula, is a sad one, perfect for this occasion.
All the grief I feel at the sudden thought of losing Miss Lizbeth comes rushing out over the notes as I sing the words. My parents, formerly owned by Miss Lizbeth, but now manumitted, went to the freed slave colony in West Africa called Liberia when I was five years old. My father wanted to go back to his native land, but my mother was born here. Miss Lizbeth says they left me in America, because they did not know what they might encounter in Liberia, and she promised she would spare no expense educating me.
What I remember of them is in bits and pieces. My mother’s soothing voice and her long, heavy hair that she wore in a long braid that came past her bottom. I recall her being much shorter than my father, and I recall his laugh. It was loud and booming and seemed to go on forever once he got going.
I never questioned their decision to leave me behind until now, because when Miss Lizbeth dies, I will have no protector.
Of course, I will have Lucien, who may have his heart set on marriage and family. He would perhaps relish being able to step in to protect me, but that protection would accompany his promise of forever. Only Miss Lizbeth’s love comes without strings.
Tears stream down Miss Lizbeth’s face as I hit the last note and perfectly trill as Miss Bella has taught me. The aria, while melancholy, is beautiful and haunting.
“The words,” Miss Lizbeth says after another coughing fit, “what do they mean?”
“I’m sure my Italian pronunciations are imperfect, but it begins with I had not thought I would see you, dear flowers, perished so soon. That is the translation.”
“I wouldn’t know if it was correct or not, since I don’t speak Italian.”
We both laugh, though singing the words properly is part of my education. Miss Bella teaches me more than the rudiments of singing. She also teaches me how to stand, how to hold my hands, and how to look elegant and gracious while making my voice accomplish nearly impossible feats. And, of course, she tries her best to teach me Italian, so that if I become a prima donna one day, I will be able to visit Italy and learn from greater teacher than herself.
“Miss Bella says I should honor and cherish each syllable,” I explain. “But it’s so hard, because I only know some of the words until I hear the translation. In Italian they are mostly sounds with music notes attached.”
“I have confidence in you, my dear Eliza. You will learn as much as you can from Bella, and then you can receive more training in Europe.”
“You are surer of these things than I am, Miss Lizbeth. Please do not leave me. I am not ready to be in this world without you.”
There. I’ve spoken the words in my heart. I am afraid of what comes next without her.
“Everyone, everything is temporary, but when we’re gone, we must leave the world better than when we entered it, yes?”
I nod, digesting Miss Lizbeth’s often spoken words. She is a fear-inspiring and phenomenal woman who has long navigated this world without a husband or protector, though she was married twice.
“And when I am gone, you will cleave unto your sister, Mary. She will be a comfort for you.” Miss Lizbeth delivers her words with certainty and finality, and without hysterics.
But my head reels with hysteria.
“I am not ready for instructions on what to do after you’re gone. I do not wish to think about that.”
But you must think about these things. I don’t have much time left.” This is punctuated with a hacking cough that does nothing to clear the moist sounds in Miss Lizbeth’s chest. I pretend not to notice the blood-tinged spittle at the corners of her dry lips.
“You have had illnesses before, and you have recovered.”
“This one will finish me, and you are what I leave behind,” Miss Lizbeth says. “You must pursue your gift.”
What a heavy burden to lay at my feet when she will not be here to endure the suffering that is sure to come with this pursuit. How can I be the thing she leaves behind? I am her namesake, and it is true that she has nurtured and cared for me my entire life, but she cannot bequeath unto me the one thing that will make cultivating this gift possible.
“Pursue singing as a profession?” I ask the question because the Society of Friends does not encourage singing or the arts in general.
“Why not?” Miss Lizbeth scoffs.
“The Friends…”
One side of Miss Lizbeth’s mouth rises in her familiar lopsided grin. “Come now, Eliza. Don’t you try to convince me that you will follow the Quaker way of life when I’m gone. I can barely get you to visit our meetings. You and Mary have your Baptist church.”
“We do.”
“And last I checked, the Baptists are quite fond of music and singing.”
“Yes, but I am…” I search my mind for the word that will best fit this sentiment. “Limited.”
Miss Lizbeth shakes her head. An adamant no. “You are gifted.”
“Yes, but there are limits to what I can achieve. I am too black to be seen as delicate in this world. People don’t expect beautiful music to come from my mouth. They must always be convinced. I must always prove myself.” I feel my explanation is rambling and emotional, but she must listen to me.
Though it seems like it should be impossible for her to do so, Miss Lizbeth rises from her mound of pillows. She grips my hand with a strength that she doesn’t appear to have, and she gazes directly into my eyes.
“Believe this. Every gift comes from God. Promise me you won’t waste it.”
“I—”
Miss Lizbeth’s frail body shakes with terrifying coughs. What little color that remains drains from her face as more blood trickles from the corners of her mouth. I try not to scream, but I do let out a yelp that brings Sarah bursting into the room. She pushes me away from the bedside.
“Eliza, she must rest,” Sarah hisses. “Can’t you see that with your own eyes?”
I grit my teeth but allow Sarah space to do her work. Miss Lizbeth might be her charge, but she is my guardian, and she is slipping away.
“Promise me Eliza,” Miss Lizbeth whispers as Sarah gently lowers her head back into the rearranged pillows.
“I promise.”
Miss Lizbeth’s eyes close as I give my uncertain response, and she falls into a restless sleep. Her body shudders with every rattling breath. Though I am unsure about where this gift will lead me, I am certain that Miss Lizbeth will not be here to witness the outcome.
Sarah tucks the blankets high around her neck, though it looks uncomfortable, and then turns to glare at me.
“I told you she was tired, but you disturbed and excited her,” she says in a tone that is not only unpleasant, but disrespectful as well.
She does not deserve an answer, so I don’t give her one. Sarah resumes her station next to Miss Lizbeth’s bedside, and I leave the room.
Lucien is waiting outside the door, with his hat in his hand, a look of worry on his face. Seeing his concern unleashes my flood of tears. I allow him to wrap me in the warmth of his strong, muscled arms, no matter how he may interpret my closeness. If nothing else, I feel safe with Lucien. I look up at his face, his smooth skin and kind eyes, feeling sorrowful that I don’t have a love attraction for him. And as I gaze, I question if I could ever feel attracted to him.
“It won’t be long,” I say after abruptly pulling away from the hug, when Lucien tried to hold on a little longer than was welcome. “She can barely breathe without coughing, and there is blood in her spittle.”
“She has lived a good long life. Don’t be sad.”
But it is not sadness that I feel. It’s concern and trepidation. I have made a promise to Miss Lizbeth, and I am bound by duty and by love to honor it. More than this, I want to believe in the greatness that Miss Lizbeth sees in me. I will continue my lessons and see what unfolds.
Hopefully, my friendship with Lucien will survive unscathed even if I don’t want to bear his children and cook his meals. There are many women in Philadelphia who can do these things for him.
None of these women, however, can sing La sonnambula.
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A Harlem Wedding
Chapter One
April 1920
Brooklyn, New York
Papa says the only way for colored people to have equality is to agitate for it. Today his agitation includes my senior promenade at the Brooklyn Girl’s High School. Since it concerns me, it would be nice if Papa cared about my wishes on these matters.
He. Does. Not.
I have no desire to protest about those white girls banning us from their little old dance. I’m perfectly fine with having our own private celebration, and I told Papa as much when I mentioned that the white students had voted on whether we’d be allowed to attend.
By an overwhelming majority it had been decided that us colored girls would be excluded from the dance. This surprised me, but maybe it shouldn’t have, especially since we’d been denied a vote. Papa said we’d been disenfranchised.
As usual, when it comes to color line, I could fall out in the middle of the floor, scream or cry bloody murder, and it would make Papa no difference at all. He and his cronies were going to write their letters. This time to the principal, the superintendent, the mayor, God, and everybody else.
Now Papa is fully energized after a dinner of roast beef and vegetables as he paces in front of the dining room table where Mama sits quietly. His trudging back and forth makes my insides tumble and my head pound, so I stay a safe distance away on the living room sofa. I wish I hadn’t had that second slice of cake as now the entire meal rests too heavily in my stomach.
“I will have Jessie get the addresses of all the families with colored girls graduating,” Papa barks in his typical, all-business, gruff way of speaking. “So that I can assure we are all aligned in this conflict.”
Mama looks up from the letter she’s been reading all evening, perhaps annoyed at Papa’s interruption, but if she is I cannot tell by her expression. Mama’s serene smile is fixed upon her stunningly gorgeous face.
No matter what chaos Papa causes or chicanery I find myself embroiled in, Mama’s smile hardly ever changes. It could be that her stoicism is the mark of a dutiful wife and mother. Or it could have something to do with the nerve pills she takes that she doesn’t think I know about.
Besides, I don’t know why Papa’s discussing this with Mama anyway. He’s decided the task of finding the parents’ addresses is for Miss Jessie Fauset, his literary editor at The Crisis, not Mama. Because he’s lumped this affair into the oppression of the people bucket, and Miss Fauset handles these kinds of things for Papa. The struggle things.
“Are you sure the other parents want to make such a big fuss about this, Will?” Mama asks, wringing her hands, already getting worked up about it.
I can see the lines of frustration on Papa’s forehead as he furrows his brow, even though I think Mama’s question makes plenty good sense. I know for certain that my best friend Margaret’s parents aren’t agitators. Her father runs a successful business and has both black and tan customers. He may not want to lose any money to one of Papa’s protests.
“If they don’t then they must be made to understand what’s happening here,” Papa says, his tone matching the exasperation on his face. “We cannot stand for any discrimination against our daughters. They have toiled at their studies as diligently as the white scholars and have paid their school fees.”
I wish I could sink into the couch cushions and disappear. I may or may not have toiled very much. But it isn’t my fault. I never wanted to go to the Brooklyn Girl’s High School in the first place. I wanted to finish my classes in England at the Bedales School.
But Papa had given me a grand lecture about how I hadn’t applied myself, because no great talent had emerged from that investment in my education. If you ask me, my extraction from Bedales had more to do with how much it cost for me and Mama to live abroad while he stayed here in Brooklyn, than it had to do with any lack of unique gifts on my part.
At any rate, when Papa snatched me away from my friends at Bedales, I did not have quite the number of classes I needed to graduate. Papa had waged a war at my enrollment into the Brooklyn Girl’s High School to ensure that I wasn’t left behind while my friends went off to college.
Poor Mr. Felter, our principal, probably still hasn’t recovered from that initial encounter with Papa. And now he’s embroiled in another battle.
“I will get the addresses tomorrow, Papa,” I say to save Mama from more of Papa’s explaining. And to rescue Miss Fauset from this task that doesn’t have anything to do with The Crisis.
Papa turns to look at me as if he’s only now remembered I’m here. He gives me the beginning of a grin that doesn’t fully bloom. That’s enough, I suppose. He’s rarely pleased enough to give a full smile. I will take this over his ranting.
“Very good, Yolande. I am glad you see the importance of this.”
“Yes, Papa. I do.”
I don’t dare admit I’d rather we have a separate senior promenade for the colored girls. The senior committee chose the Hotel Margaret (not named after my friend, ha) and everyone knows they don’t want us there anyway. So, why can’t we just go to Harlem and dance all night?
“Mr. Felter is determined to shirk his responsibility to you and the rest of the colored students, by saying the promenade is a private social event where he has no jurisdiction,” Papa continues sermonizing. “He has drawn the color line before, and he must be stopped.”
But next year I won’t even be at this school, and this will be a fading memory. I wish I was attending Columbia or New York University, but Papa has arranged for me to attend Fisk University, his alma mater. So that’s decided. No one will remember me at the Brooklyn Girl’s High School. And if by chance I am remembered, I do not want it to be for Papa’s fight with Mr. Felter.
But I don’t say any of this, because for now, Papa is pleased with my initiative and support of the struggle. I settle for this tiny approval, since there is nothing I can do to stop this effort anyhow. The train has left the station, so Mr. Felter may as well get off the tracks unless he wants to be run right over.
“What infuriates me most,” Papa says as he finally sits at the table, signaling the end of the speech (for now), “is that I am certain it’s not the girls they’re concerned about having at the promenade. It’s their escorts. And I will not allow these valiant and gifted young men, who have been hand-selected by careful mothers, to be treated like they’d rape and pillage their precious ivory-skinned daughters.”
Mama glances at me, her lips curving into a wry smile. Her expression tells me Papa doesn’t know our secret, and I am glad about that. He might be disappointed to know that I do not currently have an escort to the senior promenade. George Cuffee was my intended date, but he’s attending some unimportant family function out of town. Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s unimportant, but George, disagrees. Abandoning me at the last minute is unforgivable, especially since, I have not yet found a replacement, and the dance is less than two weeks away.
Mama says she and her friends will find a suitable escort, but I don’t know if I believe them. George is the only decent boy who wanted to ask me. The rest of them are all terrified of Papa.
“Yolande, are you still sleeping over with Margaret tomorrow night?” Mama asks timidly, knowing exactly how Papa feels about me spending the night outside our home.
“Yes. We going to shop for new shoes to wear with our promenade dresses. And stockings too.”
“And you will be home Sunday morning, before they attend church as a family?” Papa asks.
The plan had been for me to go with them because there are plenty of potential escorts at the Welmons’ AME church. Since I go to school with all girls and hardly ever attend a church service, it is difficult for any boy to be in my company long enough to find me interesting.
“I think it’ll be fine just this one time, Will,” Mama says, coming to the rescue (thank goodness). “Many of our friends attend that same church.”
“I do not care what many people do,” Papa says as his fist comes crashing down onto the table.
“But Papa, I love going places with Margaret and Anna. They are the closest thing I have to sisters.” My voice is whiny, but I can’t help it. Papa is making a beggar out of me. “Won’t you make an exception this one time?”
“It would do Yolande some good to socialize with her friends. And the Welmons’ daughters are good girls.”
Papa’s lips become a thin, tight line. He never likes being defied, but on the rare occasion when Mama and I stand in unity, we are a great team.
“Very well. I suppose it can’t hurt. She is almost an adult and should be able to distinguish between fact and fable.”
I give Papa a gracious and adoring gaze and feel fortunate that he cannot read my thoughts. If he could he’d know that I care little about fact or fable when it comes to church. Papa needn’t worry about that at all. I’m going to that church for the boys.
***
It always feels strange sitting with the Welmon family on their church pew. They attend Mother AME Zion church in Harlem and when I visit, I squeeze between Margaret and Anna, to Anna’s irritation. Mostly because Margaret and I whisper the entire service while Anna tries to look cute.
We are an interesting trio, Margaret, Anna, and I. Margaret is tall, lean, and elegant with her mother’s lighter than a paper bag skin tone and pretty features. Her height and slim shape make her look much older than eighteen years, and those huge almond-shaped eyes intrigue all the boys.
Anna is slim like Margaret, but she and I are closer to the same height. Both sisters have those beautiful eyes, but Anna is dark, like her father.
And then, there’s me. I have my own assets, and I am smart enough to leverage them once the boys realize they don’t have a chance with Margaret and happen to look my way. Like the women in my father’s family, I have a round face with sleepy eyelids, and fair skin. My curves and cushion are in all the right places, so I’ve been told, but I’d be fine if there was a little less cushion.
Since my family doesn’t attend church services, I have learned by watching Margaret how to have the appropriate responses when the minister is preaching. I clap at the opportune times and even throw in an amen or two. At least they don’t go to one of those shouting churches where people fall out in the aisles when they feel touched by the spirit. I visited one of those with another friend and while I was highly entertained, I was also a little frightened. What if that spirit jumped on me?
Papa had insisted I didn’t need to worry about that, because most of the folk being touched by the spirit had just worked themselves into an emotional frenzy. But I’m not certain that he has all the answers on this subject. I was there, and it looked real to me.
Margaret nudges me in the ribs with her pointy elbow and I stifle a yelp. Then Anna nudges me for almost yelping.
“There’s Charles,” Margaret whispers.
I glance in the direction she’s pointing, and there is Charles Waters, looking debonair and rich. And he is both. His family has more money than they can even spend. Mama says it will be a coup if Margaret gets a marriage proposal out of him, because his mother has other plans for her son. But I don’t tell Margaret this nugget. Besides, who’s thinking about marriage right now except our mothers?
“Who’s that sitting next to him?” I whisper back.
The young man, whom I’ve never seen before, is very handsome even from across the sanctuary. He’s got a pretty, toothy smile and perfect eyebrows. I have a thing about a boy’s eyebrows, especially when they take time to groom them.
“That must be his musician cousin visiting from out of town.”
“Musician? He can’t be much older than we are,” I say, trying to get a better look at the boy’s features without obviously staring.
Anna glares at me and Margaret, but Margaret just rolls her eyes at her older sister. I don’t roll anything, because Anna’s sharp elbows are poised to nudge me again for being too noisy during the sermon.
We quiet down and pretend to listen although now I’m excited to get to the benediction. During the spring, their congregation usually leaves for lunch or dinner and comes back for an evening service. While we’re on the break, the young people try to get away to go have a bite to eat at the Y, and maybe even walk around Harlem, feeling fine in our church clothes. No matter what, I get to spend the entire day in Harlem with the Welmons until we all take the streetcar back to Brooklyn in the evening.
As soon as the preacher says amen, Margaret pulls a tube of lipstick out of her purse and hands it to me after slathering a layer of red all over her pouty lips.
“Am I not stunning?” she asks as she toots her pout in my direction.
I look down at the tube in my hands. “You are perfectly divine, but do you have one that’s less red? A pink perhaps?”
“Oh, does Papa’s little girl want a sweet candy pink?” Margaret teases. “Let me see.”
She digs around in her purse and produces another, less harlot-like shade. This one I accept and dab a tiny amount on my lips instead of the slathering that Margaret put on hers.
“Now we’re both gorgeous,” Margaret says with a shimmy that I don’t think is quite appropriate for church. “Let’s go find Charles.”
Old sour Anna stands in Margaret’s path as we try to exit the pew. She takes one look at Margaret’s lipstick and shakes her head. “Where are you two going?”
“Move Anna,” Margaret says. “You know where we’re going.”
“Mmm-hmm. It’s the Lord’s day, so make sure you’re not up to no good. You too, Yolande,” Anna fusses, sounding like somebody’s mama. Just not mine.
Margaret gives Anna a rude shove on the top of her shoulder, and she moves out of our path. Finally, away from the watchful eyes of Anna and Mr. Welmon, we make a beeline for Charles and his grinning companion.
“Wouldn’t it be grand if we had cousins escorting us to the promenade?” Margaret says wistfully as we move through the groups of chatting churchgoers.
“Yes, but I thought he was only visiting.” I’m not going to get my hopes up on a migrant colored boy.
Charles’s eyes light up when he sees Margaret crossing the room. I love how obsessed he seems to be with her, like he can’t get enough of looking at her. Papa never looks at Mama like he just wants to eat her up, and they’ve been married forever. I wonder if he ever did. Does getting married to someone change that? I hope not. I think I want someone to gaze at me like that always.
When we make it over to where the boys are standing, Margaret gives Charles’s hand a chaste squeeze and then steps back so that no one can say we’re being fast. We don’t need anyone insisting that we have any extra chaperones.
Up close, Charles’s companion is even more handsome, and so tall. He towers right over me, and I don’t mind it one bit. His eyes widen at my coquettish smile, and then he bashfully looks away. I was hoping he’d be a smooth charmer like Charles.
“Are you going to introduce us to your cousin?” Margaret asks.
Charles looks confused for a second. “Oh, this isn’t my cousin, this is Jimmie Lunceford. He’s in my cousin’s band. Jimmie this is my girl, Margaret Welmon, and her friend Yolande Du Bois.”
Margaret beams, probably at being properly titled my girl by Charles. Jimmie struggles to maintain eye contact with me, but he does give us a smile. My, he has pretty teeth. I bet he doesn’t eat sweets or have any cavities at all.
“Pleased to meet you both,” Jimmie says.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I say easing closer so Jimmie knows I mean it.
“Would y’all like to go have lunch at the Y before second service?” Margaret asks. “It’s so nice outside. We can probably get an ice cream too.”
It tickles me how Margaret never waits for Charles to ask her out to any amusement. She lets him know what’s going to happen and he falls right in line.
But this time, Charles exchanges a fidgety glance with Jimmie. Is he going to turn down Margaret’s request for lunch? I hope not because I’m hungry too. Whether or not the boys are buying, I need to eat before being forced to sit through more church.
“You know I’d love to go,” Charles explains, his hand lightly touching Margaret’s now angrily folded arms, “but I’m going with my cousin, Andy, and Jimmie. Their band came all the way from Denver, and they’re making a phonograph recording at the Columbia Graphophone Company.”
I feel my eyes stretch wide, while Margaret keeps pouting. “That sounds like fun,” I say. “Will you be playing an instrument, Jimmie? Or do you sing? What kind of music is it?”
“I play a whole slew of instruments, but today I’m going to be playing the alto saxophone,” Jimmie says.
Jimmie’s shyness just melted right away, as he seems to stand even taller with his square shoulders and muscled arms. I can hardly breathe, he’s so handsome, but I manage to maintain my composure.
“It’s jazz music,” Charles says, now trying to get back in the conversation with someone, because Margaret has all but turned her back to him.
“Well, come on then, Yolande,” Margaret says in a huff, not at all impressed by this talk of instruments and jazz. “Maybe we can find our own lunch. Perhaps George will buy us sandwiches.”
George W. Cuffee. I don’t want to go to lunch with him, after he’s left me without an escort to the promenade. I cannot cut him off completely, though, because Papa thinks he’s a fine young man.
If only Papa hadn’t launched into his battle formation. Then, I wouldn’t need an escort at all. But Papa takes every fight to the bitter end, because he’s a leader of the colored people from America to Liberia, especially the uppity and brilliant ones he’s dubbed the Talented Tenth.
Well, maybe he isn’t the leader of everyone, but that’s sure what it feels like. It’s why the old ladies in the neighborhood snitch about my every move. I can’t blow a bubble without Papa hearing it pop.
Before I realize what’s happening, the room starts spinning, and I stumble to the left a few steps. Thank goodness for Jimmie Lunceford and his strong arms. He catches me right before I tumble into the back of the pews.
“Are you all right, Miss Yolande?” Jimmie asks. “It is a little hot in here, do you need to sit down?”
“No, I’m quite all right, thank you.” I’m not all right, though, I’m starving, and the anxiety of Papa and the promenade just about overwhelmed me in the moment. But I smooth the wrinkles from the front of my dress and beam at Jimmie. He deserves it, for saving me and all.
“Maybe they can go with us, Charles,” Jimmie says, his hand still touching my elbow, and steadying me. “There’s room for spectators to listen to the band while we record.”
For some reason, Charles seems annoyed at this suggestion. Perhaps he doesn’t want us tagging along. Maybe he’s not as mesmerized with Margaret as I thought.
“I wish they could, but they need to be back for church this evening. We might not make it in time,” Charles says.
“Where is the recording taking place?” Margaret asks. “Maybe we can catch part of it and then leave early.”
Charles sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head. “Way down in lower Manhattan at the Woolworth Building. There won’t be time to find lunch, get all the way there, listen, and come back.”
Margaret lifts an eyebrow at Charles. “Do you have another girl meeting you at the recording?” she asks. Charles’s mounting protests must have made her suspicious.
Jimmie and I exchange glances, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Now I wish Margaret and Charles weren’t here so that we could get properly acquainted.
“There’s no other girl, Margaret. I just don’t want you to get in any trouble right before the senior promenade. What if your father makes you stay home as punishment?”
Now, this is funny. The way our mothers have painstakingly planned and purchased dresses, and given us money for shoes, hairpins, and what have you, there is no colored father in Brooklyn who would dare impose such a punishment. Not even my papa. The wrath of their wives would be too great.
“You let me worry about how my father will or won’t punish me,” Margaret says with a sass in her tone. “I think I’d quite like to hear a jazz recording.”
“And it doesn’t start until two o’clock, so we have time to get a sandwich if we hurry,” Jimmie says. “I think Miss Yolande might need something to eat.”
Charles let out a defeated sigh. “Okay, Margaret, you two can come, but when Mr. Welmon and Dr. Du Bois start roaring, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Margaret says, her excitement returning. “Let’s go.”
“What will we tell your mother when we don’t make it back to church?” I ask, now feeling just a twinge of worry. Mr. Welmon doesn’t roar like Papa. The promenade might not be canceled, but I am not in the mood for one of his speeches about decorum, and the great woman I should be growing into.
“You know what?” Margaret says, with her nonexistent bosom poked as far forward as she can muster. “I am just going to tell her that we’re going out with Charles for dinner, and that we will be back before church is over. Wait here.”
We all watch Margaret disappear into the crowd of milling congregants. I turn to Jimmie to spark a conversation and surprisingly he’s already gazing at me. That makes my heart race, because the only other boy I’ve ever caught staring at me is George.
“So, Jimmie, are you attending college in Denver while you travel with the band? Did you have to take time away from your studies?” I ask, simply marveling that he’s here in Harlem, because Denver seems like another country, it’s so far away.
Charles covers his face with his hand, but I can tell he’s snickering while Jimmie looks good and nervous.
“I mean, it’s okay if you’re not in college,” I say, thinking maybe he’s embarrassed about that. “It’s not for everyone, although you can’t tell my papa that. Every issue of The Crisis is full of talk about graduations and the colored colleges.”
“Your father is that Dr. Du Bois? From The Crisis?” Jimmie asks, his eyes wide as saucers. “My father reads that magazine religiously. He saves every copy.”
“Yep, that’s her papa,” Charles says, clutching his side trying to hold in his laughter. “Are you gonna tell her, Jimmie?”
“Tell me what?”
“Oh,” Jimmie stares at the ground bashfully. “He just wants me to tell you that I’m only a sophomore in high school.”
“You must be joking,” I say, unable to believe this. “Only a sophomore, but here making a record with a real jazz band?”
Jimmie’s head pops up, now with a look of pride on his face. “I’m only seventeen, but I’m good enough to be in the George Morrison Jazz Orchestra. We were supposed to be going to Europe after this recording, but instead we’ve booked six weeks at the Carlton Terrace.”
“I am impressed, Jimmie. That is amazing.” He must play exceptionally well to be allowed in a traveling band at this young age. “Doesn’t your mother fret over you? I don’t think my mama would let me go to the end of our street at seventeen.”
“She does, but she trusts Mr. Morrison to keep a close eye on me, and I don’t get up to mischief anyhow.”
“You’re a good boy, Jimmie?” I ask, teasing with a flirtatious wink. “Can’t I convince you otherwise?”
“Maybe,” Jimmie says, blushing again.
Charles rolls his eyes at our flirting just as an irritated-looking Margaret rejoins our group, with Anna in tow.
“All right, I’m ready to go,” Margaret says. “My mother is making me bring her along.”
Jimmie face is full of questions. “This is Margaret’s older sister, Anna,” I explain. “She does go out with us sometimes.”
“Correct. Because you two can’t be trusted,” Anna declares with a motherly glare over the top of her eyeglasses. “Now what are we getting into? Are we really going to dinner?”
“You’ve muscled your way into our afternoon.” Margaret’s scowl is deep, and her cheeks are fiery red. “But you don’t get to ask questions. You just follow along and keep quiet.”
My stomach lets out an anxious growl and instinctively I touch my tummy. This tickles Charles and Jimmie, so I’m not sure if I should feel embarrassed, but I do.
“Let’s get Miss Yolande some lunch. Please,” Jimmie says as he offers his arm for me to grab. “Hold on to me so you don’t go stumbling again. Just until we find you a sandwich.”
I feel a different kind of swooning when I wrap my arm in Jimmie’s. A different kind of warmth, and a different kind of hunger.
And Jimmie . . . well, he sure seems ready to feed me.