Authors: Grace F. Edwards
I looked at Deborah now. Her face was swollen to twice its size and her neck was immobilized, but she lifted my hand to her bandaged throat. No sound came but she recognized me.
The surgeon said there had been no brain damage despite the blood loss. She recognized me … Thank God. Thank God, I breathed silently, and started to cry again.
As I left her room, her mother and sister stepped out of the elevator. Mrs. Matthews was a short plump woman of fifty-five, and Deborah’s sister, Martha, was small and slim, a younger version of Deborah. Both women looked as if they had not slept in a week.
“The police said it was a robbery,” Mrs. Matthews said, “but we can’t figure out what’s missing.”
“Yes, all her jewelry was still there,” Martha said. “Her fur coat, even her purse had money in it.”
They had flown in from Washington. Deborah’s father, bedridden for years, was left at home, so Mrs. Matthews
had to return as quickly as possible. Martha, however, planned to remain but she seemed on the verge of a nervous collapse.
“When my sister’s able to travel, I’m taking her back to Washington to recuperate,” she said. “Why she ever moved into that damn building in the first place is beyond me. She knew its history.”
I said nothing. Everyone knew its history. Everyone knew that the development had been built by a major life insurance company several years ago as a compromise—after a long court battle—to keep black folks from darkening the door of their segregated residences downtown.
Martha continued to shake her head. “New York is … New York … is …”
Even though she had been born and raised here, she could not find the words to describe her dislike for this place.
“Deborah had called me to come over and pick up a package,” I said, “something she was researching for me. When I got there, a man was coming out of her apartment. Rather than face my dog, he ran back inside, then he must have jumped or fallen from the terrace. If I had been five minutes later, Deb would have bled to death.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “But why would anyone do this? It had to be a madman …”
Even if I had known what to say, I couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t let me.
Night had fallen and the canopy in front of Harlem Hospital was brightly lit. I paused near the lobby door and stared at the vendors and their flower-filled carts, concentrating on the clusters of roses and gladiolas in an effort to compose myself.
It was a short walk home and I didn’t want Dad on my case the minute I stepped in the house. Wanting to
know where I’d gone and with whom. He was still upset about Deborah and now he worried about me. Right now I needed peace and quiet and space and a warm bath to slow the spinning inside my head.
It had been a week since Deborah’s surgery and I had visited every day. Her neck was still swollen but her face appeared less puffy. The contours of her mouth, nose, and eyelids now seemed more defined but she could not utter a sound.
I had gone to the precinct, again, to answer questions. This time Danny seemed to know the questions to ask. The problem was that I had no answers. The man who attacked her, he said, had been a crackhead and petty thief from uptown named Jackson Lee who was known for his push-in robberies. And no, there was no package with my name on it in the apartment.
It had to be there, I thought. Jackson Lee didn’t have it on him when he landed in that courtyard, unless, perhaps, someone in the crowd picked it up.
I wanted to mention this to Tad, but he had said to lay off, and right now all I cared about was for Deborah to get well, to be whole again.
I stood for a while under the canopy, concentrating on my breathing and feeling the deep, measured response in my diaphragm. Visitors bought flowers from the vendors and moved through the doors in a steady stream. Across the avenue, a line of cars had pulled up in front of the Schomburg Center and a large crowd had gathered, waiting to go in. I had read in the
City Sun
about the opening of a sculpture exhibit from Ghana and knew Deborah would surely have been in this crowd.
At the corner, someone touched my shoulder and I jumped away.
“Easy, Mali. Take it easy,” Danny said. “I can see you’re not taking this too well and I can’t blame you.
Your friend’s in terrible shape. That guy that did this—” He shook his head.
The light changed and we stepped off the curb. “I’ll walk you home. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Tad said you found her in the bathtub. Did she say anything?”
“No,” I answered, wondering why he was asking. We had gone through these same questions in some detail already. “I told you at the precinct she was in no shape to talk. Or scream. Or cry. Or anything. Too much blood was coming from her mouth and throat.”
“Yes. Yes. You told me. Too bad you had to see all that. I can see you took it very badly.”
For a second I fought to keep all the anger, fear, and frustration from spilling over and engulfing the nearest object, which was Danny and his roundabout way of questioning. Dammit! What in hell did he expect? Deborah’s my friend!
He droned on, sounding more like a funeral director than a detective.
“Deborah is my friend. She. Is. My. Friend,” I finally said, slowly and distinctly, cutting him off. He was plucking my last nerve and I felt some heavy language creeping to the tip of my tongue, ready to roll off.
Deborah had survived, but it might be months before she spoke again. I thought of telling him that I didn’t need his company, that I could make it home by myself because I needed air around me and space in which to think and let go of this anger. But he was Tad’s friend and partner. In a tight spot, Tad would have to depend on him.
I gritted my teeth and quickened my pace, but he kept up with me.
“Look, Mali. I know how upset you are. I just want
you to know that we’re giving this case priority. We’ll find out who is behind this, believe me.”
Who is behind this … I stole another glance at him. At the precinct, he had said it was a robbery. Open-and-shut case. The man was looking for money to get drugs and had simply picked the apartment at random.
“Yes, I’m sure Deborah and her family would like to know if this was more than a simple robbery. They’d be very grateful,” I said, hoping he’d shut up.
At the door, I turned and said good night. I had no intention of inviting him in. I needed to be alone.
S
ome folks think beauticians should earn more than a therapist or a guidance counselor. I tend to agree, at least in regard to my hairdresser.
My hair is less than two inches long, and one medium raw egg in a little shampoo under a hot shower would be sufficient to condition it. And a lot cheaper. But there’s something to be said for the timeless ritual that hairdressers have perfected: the laying on of hands.
I had walked uptown from the hospital to Bertha’s Beauty Shop thinking of Deborah. Though she was sitting up, eating Jell-O and sipping liquids through a straw, she was still unable to speak, and her eyes, when they drifted away from me, held a look of blank terror.
Her sister intended to transfer her to a rehabilitation center, and when her therapy was completed, Deborah would go to Washington to live. My friend, classmate, confidante, and sometimes double date was leaving, and unless I made the trip to Washington, I probably would not see her for a long while.
I opened the door to Bertha’s shop and she looked at me: “Sit down, girl. Quick. Before you fall down.”
Bertha was short, round though not quite plump, with dark auburn hair framing a brown face. Her shop was clean and cozy and she believed in letting her customers relax, eat the lunch they had brought, and sometimes play the single action if the numbers runner happened by.
One customer had just left, and a minute later my head was bent back over the shampoo bowl and the tightness in my forehead and scalp was being washed and massaged away.
“Mali, you got knots in your neck as big as boulders. What’s eatin’ you?”
“It’s a long story, Miss Bert.”
“Yeah, well. It usually is.”
A half hour later I sat with a towel wrapped around my head waiting for the conditioner to condition and listening to Bertha’s philosophy of life when the door opened and a large woman with dyed-blond hair walked in. She had a very pretty face, young, bronze-tone skin, and dark eyes as clear as a teenager’s, but from the shoulders down, she spread outward, exactly like a pyramid.
She waved and headed toward the workstation near the rear of the shop.
“Hi, Bertha. Just wanted to drop my packages off. Be right back. I’m expecting two customers. If they show, just tell ’em to wait.”
She waved again and was gone.
As the door closed, Bert sighed. “You see. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“What?”
“Her name’s Viv. Her man cut her loose a month ago. Traded her in for a size ten and now she gotta work for a livin’ just like the rest of us. He had set her up as a hairdresser, except he owned the business. Real nice shop up on Amsterdam Avenue called the Pink Fingernail. Got
air-conditioning, fancy pink lights that take ten years off your face every time you look in the mirrors, CD music, everything. Even got herbal tea.
“Now the new girlfriend is in there and this one’s over here, tryin’ to eat herself into an early grave. Some of her customers left and came here with her, though, so she’s lucky. At least she won’t starve.
“I tell you, these men are somethin’ else. I’m glad my name is on this deed and the combs, the hairpins, even the dirt on this floor is owned by me. My mama always said, ‘God bless the child that’s got her own.’ And if you got half a somebody else’s, that’s even better, but first make sure you got your own. I’m tellin’ you, a man like Johnnie Harding’ll never get a chance to do me like he did her. I’m too independent for that shit, thank God.”
The conditioner, whatever it was, must have seeped into my brain and caused me to nod off but I blinked awake when I heard the name.
“Johnnie Harding?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady. “Who’s he?”
Bertha looked at me and stepped back with her hands on her hips. “Girl, where you been? In a coma somewhere?”
“Well, I heard the name, but I can’t connect …”
“And neither can the cops. But everybody knows he’s into hard stuff. Man ain’t even got a Social Security card and there’s more money comin’ out his willie than the government got comin’ outta Fort Knox.”
There were no other customers in the shop so Bertha was able to talk freely. I was wide awake now.
“And the truth is, Viv really loved him. He probably went for her too when she was still small, but she kinda outgrew him. I guess that’s what they mean by livin’ large. She had put on a pound a month. Since he walked, she been puttin’ on a pound a week. Everybody knows Johnnie likes ’em thin as a pin; small enough to get
his hands around … Viv knew it, but I guess she figured she was somethin’ special.”
“I think I know who you mean. Does he drive a red Benz?”
“Naw. Got a midnight-blue Cadillac. Special plates.”
“A special plate. What does it say?”
“ ‘Badman.’ You know. Somethin’ stupid and eye-catchin’.”
I closed my eyes, wondering about that HO plate.
“Well,” I said, “he’s got a new woman, nice car, all that money. Viv must be taking it pretty hard.”
“And that ain’t the half of it. Just the other day she looked at herself in this mirror—front, back, and sideways—and swore she was gonna take up joggin’ startin’ that very day. Well, the only place she jogs is down to Sylvia’s for one a them baby back rib sandwiches and on the return trip, stops by Majestic Take-Out for the catch of the day, plus fries.”
She stopped talking long enough to unwrap the towel, put another handful of sweet-smelling stuff on my head, and tie the towel up again.
“Johnnie must be quite a man to cause a woman to fall apart like that,” I said in the brief silence.
“Well, I can’t say firsthand, but from what I heard—now this is between you, me, and the lamppost, you understand?”
“I understand.”
I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair, and let Miss Bert talk.
If you stand on any corner of 135th Street and Lenox, you will be able to take in the YMCA, an adjoining basketball court, the young trees guarding a ribbon of renovated apartments, Pan-Pan’s restaurant, Harlem Hospital, the
Schomburg Research Center, and parts of the Lenox Terrace apartment complex.
A step away from Lenox Terrace is a small bar called Twenty-Two West, a dimly lit but comfortable place in which a woman doesn’t mind sitting alone.
The television in the rear near the kitchen is respectfully low, even during a Knicks game.
There were a few men at the bar when I walked in and two couples were having dinner at a table in the back.
I sat at a table near the door, looking up each time it opened. I was early but couldn’t help glancing at my watch. I had been studying, trying to catch up on the assignments I’d missed, when Tad called. He had sounded so angry that I’d dropped everything and rushed here to meet him.
I was halfway through a Scotch and soda when he came in. As he sat down, I could see, even in the dim light, the small muscle working the side of his jaw.
“What’s happened?”
He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.
“They took me off Deborah Matthews’s case.”
“What?”
“That’s right. An hour ago. They took me off and gave it to Danny. God only knows what the Chief was thinking when he did that. Personally, I believe he’s getting a little senile and oughtta put his papers in. I don’t mean to knock Danny. He’s as good as they come but, you know, lately … I don’t know what to say.
“When I asked the Chief why the case was reassigned, he said Danny had actually asked for it to be given to him. That I was too close to be objective.”
“But you don’t even know Deborah …”
“They know that I rushed over to the hospital to meet you the morning she was attacked. They know she’s your friend. And Danny knows how I feel about you.
He’s also handling Gary Mark’s case and Erskin Harding’s case. He convinced the Chief to combine those two into a file called the Choir Murders.”