Free Harlem Redux by Persia Walker Page B

sunshine to ease the bleakness of the day. What had he hoped for? Leaning forward, he examined the farewell on Lilian’s gravestone, mouthing the words.
    “Lilian McKay Sweet, 1897-1926. To my Lilian, I will miss you.”
    He assumed that Lilian’s husband had written the words. Sitting back on his heels, he wondered. Who indeed was Jameson Sweet?
     
    5.      The Book of Rachel
     
    When David returned home, he found Annie sitting at the kitchen table. She had a nearly empty bag of string beans to the left and a big pot of beans and water to the right. She grabbed up several beans from the bag, lined their ends up, and snapped their tips off with a smooth twist of her wrist— blat-blat-blat. She tossed the last of the beans into the pot and dropped the tips onto some newspaper sheets.
    “How was it?” she asked.
    “Fine. It’s not a bad place, that cemetery. Just far from home.”
    She nodded. “Too far.”
    She shoved her chair back and stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. Then she rolled up the newspaper, put it into the bag, and set it aside for garbage.
    “I’ll just let these soak for a while,” she said, putting the pot of beans on the stove. “Sit down. Rest your feet. You left without eating breakfast this morning. I just made some coffee and I baked a pie, apple, ‘cause I knows
that’s your favorite.”
    “Oh, Annie, I—”
    “It ain’t no trouble. That’s what I’m here for, to take care you.” She wiped up the table and motioned for him to take a seat. He did. She took down a plate and fork and poured him a cup of coffee. “Before I forget, Miss Rachel stopped by to see you last night.”
    He bit back his surprise and forced a smile. “How’d she know I was back?”
    “Oh, everybody know you back, Mr. David. Everybody know that.”
    He kept his smile plastered in place.
    She fetched the pie, set it on the table, and served him a healthy slice. “Miss Rachel helped me nurse Miss Lilian when she was sick.”
    “Did she, now?” He picked up his fork. “What did she say?”
    “That she wants to see you.”
    Keeping his face devoid of expression, he reached for his cup and took a sip. A question hovered on the tip of his tongue. “Did she ever marry?”
    Annie looked at him. “No, Mr. David. She never did.”
    He flushed at the knowledge in her eyes. Mercifully, she left him, saying she had shopping to do. Alone, he drained the coffeepot. But, although it was delicious, he barely tasted the pie. One name echoed in his mind.
    Rachel.
     
    She lived in a tenement building on 130th Street, on Harlem’s southern edge, in an area called “Darktown,” presumably because it had been an area for black residency since the 1890s, when the rest of Harlem was still white. It was a crowded building. Most of the apartments were filled beyond capacity. She was the only resident who could afford the luxury of living in her apartment alone.
    She sat on the couch near her parlor window, a small, delicately slim creature in a warm tailored frock. Flipping the pages of a thin photo album, she studied the photos one by one. Pictures of her and the McKay children: of her and Lilian; of her and David; of her, Lilian, and Gem. Studio photos taken over time, paid for by the McKays.
    The friendship between the McKays and the Hamiltons went back some twenty years, when both were living in the Tenderloin. The two families had lived only blocks apart. They attended the same church and Rachel went to the same school as the McKay children. Rachel spent many afternoons after school playing with Gem and Lilian. Her mother worked. Mrs. McKay was at home. The arrangement was practical.
    No one thought of long-range consequences.
    Like the McKays, the Hamiltons started out poor. Unlike them, the Hamiltons stayed that way. While Augustus McKay, a waiter, sunk every extra dime he had into real estate, his buddy Bill Hamilton, a better-earning mortician, drank and gambled away his dollars. David’s fortunes took