masculinity. There were men who moved firmly and with purpose, big arms swinging and big, brute backs casting shadows on the sidewalk, their broad, solid backsides taking command of the space. Men with virile faces, engraved with hard, flinty edges. Dapper men, godly with confidence, who grandstanded their way up and down the avenues, brandishing slick suits and two-toned shoes. Working men, tired and tireless, the veins in their arms and necks as thick as pipes. Dark-chocolate men. Café au lait men. Blue-black men. Men the color of caramel or red earth or tea. Ben would dream about the eclectic variety and wake up aroused. Exiled to the living room sofa and unobstructed by a wifeâs objections, he relieved himself in private, guilty pleasure.
Rise. Write. Work. Walk. Sleep.
The poems poured out and the rejections from publishers piled up. He persevered because writing was all he had. That and his expeditions through Harlem, which led him one night to 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue: The Cotton Club. The marqueeâso ablaze it lit the entire blockâproclaimed that Fletcher Henderson and his orchestra were starring. A doorman stood curbside as taxis and Daimlers and Stutzes cruised to the curb, dropping off merry whites in tuxes, flapper dresses, gowns, even furs, though it was only October. Jazz bopped out of the club and into the street. Ben watched the parade from across the street. Out of one taxi stepped a figure he recognized. Mr. Kittredge dazzled with his self-assured flair. He appraised the surroundings, smiling his approval, imparting faultless elegance in his top hat, tails, and spats. A much younger man also stepped out of the cab. Mr. Kittredge touched, just briefly, the small of the younger manâs back as he ushered him into the club.
Next day, the same young man joined Mr. Kittredge at breakfast. Ben watched as they talked and laughed, hands brushing a moment here, a second or two there. Their cheeks nearly grazed as they leaned in to each other and the young man confided something in Kittredgeâs ear with an intimacy that Ben would never share with him. He looked Benâs age with oil-black hair, skin as smooth as cream and almost as white.
âGood morning, Benjamin. Allow me to introduce my friend, David-Nicholas.â Mr. Kittredgeâs eyes never left the young man.
Ben nodded. âPleased to meet you. You from England?â
David-Nicholas glanced at Kittredge, amused. âNo,â he said. âThe Upper East Side. You?â
âHarlem.â
âWe were there just last night, werenât we, Geoffrey?â
Kittredge gave the young manâs arm a pat that looked as though it aspired to a caress. âThat we were. The Cotton Club.â
âIt was swell!â David-Nicholas said. âThe waiters danced as they delivered the food! You must go there all the time, since you live in Harlem.â
Mr. Kittredge fidgeted.
âCotton Club donât allow colored,â Ben said. He debated with himself, then added, âExcept to work onstage or wait tables. What can I get you gentlemen this morning?â
Later, Mr. Kittredge said, âIâve been meaning to ask you: How are you enjoying the Keats?â
âVery much, sir. Thank you.â
He lied. He had buried the book in the depths of his desk drawer. But that night he dug it out from beneath an old, heavy dictionary, took it to Pigfoot Maryâs Restaurant on the corner of 135th and Lenox, and asked for the most isolated table they had. After a meal of ham hocks, collard greens, and black-eyed peas, he opened the Keats.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
He hadnât read those words in years, but they were evergreen.
Ben had sat against a dogwood tree, Willfulâs head in his lap, the last time he
Learning to Kill: Stories