front page—“I guess all that language was aimed at her. Anyway, she left her barstool, walked up the front, and read him out. Told him and the whole bar how hewasn’t even a man, ’cause a real man would be about a man’s business, not about wastin’ time cursin’ and makin’ a fool of himself.
“He started for her, and this big, clean head brother just come out the men’s room, stepped up. Plus four guys, old as me, sitting at a table, cleared that railing like Olympic high jumpers. Moved like athletes. Next thing I knew, James was out the door and huggin’ up the recyclin’ can at the curb.
“We cut into a jam and things snapped back. Drinks flowed and folks started partyin’ again.
“Betty told me later that James had been actin’ crazy from the jump, thought maybe he’d run into some static on the street and his attitude rode in when he stepped through the door. Who knows? Anyway, they evicted him for steppin’ up to this girl.”
He gazed at the picture. “Damn shame,” he whispered. “A damn shame. This girl’s dead.”
I stared at the table with the platters of pancakes, bacon, fresh strawberries, and scrambled eggs. Alvin was late getting up and now I heard the shower running and his voice singing above the noise. I wanted to get up and take the platters back to the kitchen, to keep them warm until he came down, but I could not move.
I was the person who’d confronted James that night, caused him to get an attitude. Why didn’t he come after me? Instead he’d gone after his ex-girlfriend.
I collared Ruffin and left the house, heading for St. Nicholas Park, avoiding Edgecombe Avenue because I did not want to look up at the curtainless windows of Claudine’s empty apartment.
The stairs through the park led up to St. Nicholas Terrace winding behind City University. The grasssmelled fresh and a light sprinkle of rainwater still dropped from the leaves when the wind disturbed them.
From the terrace, I gazed down over the steep incline of the park and the playground. A bus moved busily along St. Nicholas Avenue, discharging passengers, taking in more, and moving on. Purposefully. Everyone on that bus had a destination. Even the driver had a purpose. To get where he had to go, complete the assigned route.
I turned around to face the Gothic mass of Shepherd Hall, my favorite building on the campus. Students were already in class, poring, just as I once had, over their assignments. With purpose.
“I’m going to find James,” I said.
I spoke to Ruffin because there was no one else to make this promise to. Ruffin looked up, then rested his head on the ground between his paws. Two campus security guards watched us from a safe distance across the street, reluctant to approach. They stared at Ruffin and I let a minute pass before I waved good morning. One lifted his hand halfheartedly, as if he feared Ruffin would leap across the street and snack on his arm for breakfast.
“Come on, Ruffin. The guys are getting nervous.”
We left the winding walk at 140th Street and came out on Convent Avenue, passing the John Henrik Clarke House, a brownstone named for one of the founders of the Harlem Writers Guild. At Convent Avenue Baptist Church we turned east and walked down the hill at 145th Street, weaving our way through the crowd rushing to the subway.
Dad said that when Florence Mills, a popular entertainer in the 1920s, died, the funeral procession had moved down this street and 100,000 people had linedthe sidewalk watching in silence as a low-flying plane released a huge flock of blackbirds.
“They don’t have send-offs like that anymore,” he complained, but I reminded him of James Baldwin’s funeral: how Olatunji’s Drums of Passion had echoed against the vaulted stone of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and how the dancers, dressed in elaborate flowing white pantaloons, pranced and somersaulted down the aisles to the sound of the drums. The ceremony had ended with thousands of
“He started for her, and this big, clean head brother just come out the men’s room, stepped up. Plus four guys, old as me, sitting at a table, cleared that railing like Olympic high jumpers. Moved like athletes. Next thing I knew, James was out the door and huggin’ up the recyclin’ can at the curb.
“We cut into a jam and things snapped back. Drinks flowed and folks started partyin’ again.
“Betty told me later that James had been actin’ crazy from the jump, thought maybe he’d run into some static on the street and his attitude rode in when he stepped through the door. Who knows? Anyway, they evicted him for steppin’ up to this girl.”
He gazed at the picture. “Damn shame,” he whispered. “A damn shame. This girl’s dead.”
I stared at the table with the platters of pancakes, bacon, fresh strawberries, and scrambled eggs. Alvin was late getting up and now I heard the shower running and his voice singing above the noise. I wanted to get up and take the platters back to the kitchen, to keep them warm until he came down, but I could not move.
I was the person who’d confronted James that night, caused him to get an attitude. Why didn’t he come after me? Instead he’d gone after his ex-girlfriend.
I collared Ruffin and left the house, heading for St. Nicholas Park, avoiding Edgecombe Avenue because I did not want to look up at the curtainless windows of Claudine’s empty apartment.
The stairs through the park led up to St. Nicholas Terrace winding behind City University. The grasssmelled fresh and a light sprinkle of rainwater still dropped from the leaves when the wind disturbed them.
From the terrace, I gazed down over the steep incline of the park and the playground. A bus moved busily along St. Nicholas Avenue, discharging passengers, taking in more, and moving on. Purposefully. Everyone on that bus had a destination. Even the driver had a purpose. To get where he had to go, complete the assigned route.
I turned around to face the Gothic mass of Shepherd Hall, my favorite building on the campus. Students were already in class, poring, just as I once had, over their assignments. With purpose.
“I’m going to find James,” I said.
I spoke to Ruffin because there was no one else to make this promise to. Ruffin looked up, then rested his head on the ground between his paws. Two campus security guards watched us from a safe distance across the street, reluctant to approach. They stared at Ruffin and I let a minute pass before I waved good morning. One lifted his hand halfheartedly, as if he feared Ruffin would leap across the street and snack on his arm for breakfast.
“Come on, Ruffin. The guys are getting nervous.”
We left the winding walk at 140th Street and came out on Convent Avenue, passing the John Henrik Clarke House, a brownstone named for one of the founders of the Harlem Writers Guild. At Convent Avenue Baptist Church we turned east and walked down the hill at 145th Street, weaving our way through the crowd rushing to the subway.
Dad said that when Florence Mills, a popular entertainer in the 1920s, died, the funeral procession had moved down this street and 100,000 people had linedthe sidewalk watching in silence as a low-flying plane released a huge flock of blackbirds.
“They don’t have send-offs like that anymore,” he complained, but I reminded him of James Baldwin’s funeral: how Olatunji’s Drums of Passion had echoed against the vaulted stone of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and how the dancers, dressed in elaborate flowing white pantaloons, pranced and somersaulted down the aisles to the sound of the drums. The ceremony had ended with thousands of
Similar Books
