The Strivers' Row Spy (16 page)

The crowd rose and gave a thunderous applause. Garvey waited for the right moment and then shouted, “We are the descendants of a suffering people. We are the descendants of a people determined to suffer no longer.”

As the crowd roared, I panned the adoring faces again. It was as if they saw God in him.

“We shall now organize the four hundred million Negroes of the world into a vast organization to plant the banner of freedom on the great continent of Africa. We have no apologies to make and will make none. We do not desire what has belonged to others, though others have always sought to deprive us of that which belonged to us. We new Negroes—we men who have returned from war—we will dispute every inch of the way until we win. We will begin by framing a Bill of Rights of the Negro Race with a Constitution to guide the life and destiny of the four hundred million. The Constitution of the United States means that every white American would shed his blood to defend that Constitution. The Constitution of the Negro Race will mean that every Negro will shed his blood to defend his Constitution. If Europe is for the Europeans, then Africa shall be for the black peoples of the world. We say it, we mean it.”

There was no doubting that he meant it. And there was no doubting that he believed America belonged to whites. Du Bois would strongly disagree, and so would I. But the screaming audience seemingly concurred with their Black Moses. He was clearly framing what it meant to be a separatist.

“Wheresoever I go,” he bellowed, “whether it is England, France, or Germany, I am told, ‘This is a white man's country.' Wheresoever I travel throughout the United States of America, I am made to understand that I am a nigger. If the Englishman claims England as his native habitat and the Frenchman claims France, the time has come for four hundred million Negroes to claim Africa as their native land.”

The noise rose to a pitch so loud that my bones rattled. Garvey had the audience by the throat, and he could do with them as he wished. I wondered if Du Bois stood a chance.

A
FTER
G
ARVEY SPOKE
I
HEADED HOME, EVEN THOUGH THE EVENT
was scheduled to continue well into the night. I was looking forward to some quiet time with Loretta and couldn't drive fast enough. Approaching Strivers' Row, I recalled the last letter I'd sent to Du Bois back in July. It was very much to the point.

I approached Strivers' Row's Seventh Avenue gate, and Ivan, the uniformed young man who stood guard and let tenants in and out of the back alleyway, gave me a wave.

“How are you, Mr. Temple?” he asked, pulling the gate open and letting me drive through.

“Real good, Ivan. Thanks for asking.”

I parked, got out, took off my gun and holster, then placed it under the car's hood. I'd made a habit of doing such, knowing I could never let Loretta see me with it.

I'd also purchased another pistol and had placed it in a secure spot in my upstairs closet. I'd cut away several slabs of wood to create a storage place under the closet floor. Along with the pistol, I'd stored an extra magazine, several boxes of bullets, and an extra holster.

I closed the hood and headed inside. As I walked down the hallway, I could hear Loretta and Ginger—mainly Ginger, her voice so theatrical, her words so enunciated. Even when she was speaking English, it felt like French.

I slowed my walk, stopping several feet from the doorway. I should have entered the room and let them know I was home, but instead I eavesdropped.

“He was a disgusting man, Loretta. I detested him in the end. And to think, for six years I thought of him as a prince of sorts—a charming, honest gentleman.”

“I want nothing more than for you to find true love again, Ginger.”

“True love? I cannot have it again, as you say, because I never had it to begin with. The next time will be the first. But it matters not. Because I will never marry again. A man's nature is to sleep with this woman and that woman. They cannot help it. Besides, Olivier only married me because he knew of my father's wealth.
Dégoûtant
! Disgusting!”

“You're only twenty-nine, Ginger. Have faith. And you're beautiful.”

“Oh? I don't feel beautiful.”

“You have what so many women want. You're tall, have such satiny skin, and have the eyes—or better yet, the overall face—of a modern-day Cleopatra. You're stunning, Ginger.”

“
Vous êtes trop aimable
. You're too kind. Though I must say, I'm constantly being asked if I'm Egyptian. Are Egyptian men less promiscuous than French? Why do I even bother asking such a foolish question? Of course they are. But if I'm not mistaken, Cleopatra was actually Greek. Maybe I'll travel to Athens.”

“Maybe you will meet an American.”

“They haven't the artistic souls of Frenchmen. They bore me. I am not referring to colored American men. Colored American men have a natural soulfulness. They have an artistic quality to them that is born out of overcoming years of mistreatment—of having to reach down deep and find creative ways to distract their minds from all the ugliness. Your husband—your Sidney—is encouraging your art. It's lovely.”

“I'm home,” I said, casually approaching the doorway. “Hello, Ginger.”

“
Bonjour
, Sidney.”

“I'll let you two continue your visit,” I said. “I have to go down the street and make a telephone call.”

“Why don't you two have a telephone installed in this gigantic castle?” asked Ginger.

“Sidney doesn't want people from work calling the house late at night,” said Loretta.

“It's a man's world,” said Ginger. “
Il est un monde d'hommes
. I repeat everything in French, Sidney, so your wife can better pick up the language.”

“I see. Well, carry on, you two.”

Moments later I parked on Seventh Avenue and phoned Momma. She had just turned sixty and hadn't been feeling well. I dialed the operator and waited for the connection. After several rings she picked up.

“Temple residence,” she said with a raspy voice that worried me.

“It's Sidney, Momma.”

“Hi, Sugar.”

“You feelin' any better?”

“Oh yeah, Sugar. Momma's fine.”

“Did you get that money I sent you?”

“Yes, Sugar.”

“Your voice is cracking, Momma.”

“Oh . . . I've just been havin' a little trouble breathing, Sugar. That's all. Don't you worry about me. You been sleepin' any better?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The doctor prescribed me some barbital pills. I just take one at night and sleep like a baby.”

“Sure am glad to hear that.”

“Listen, Momma, and listen real good. I've done spoke to Professor Gold, and you remember the little place Loretta and I had on his property?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I want you to go stay there—at least for a while. The clean air in Vermont will help heal your lungs. I don't think it's good for you to live in the city anymore—not Milwaukee
or
Chicago, and definitely not New York. You need a slower pace. And with you not having to work no more, it'll be real good for you.”

“Now, Sugar, you know I got my sister real close by.”

“Now, Momma, Aunt Coretta's in Chicago, and ain't goin' nowhere. Besides, you don't see her but about once a year. Loretta has already agreed to come help you pack and take the train with you—help you get situated. You can get rid of what you don't need.”

“But, Sugar, what's Momma gonna do out there all alone?”

“But you're all alone now. And this way you'll be closer to us. Besides, the Golds are like family. They'll visit with you every day and take you into town when you need. And if you wanna work, they have plenty of gardening and cleaning you can do.”

“I just don't wanna be that far away from Coretta, Sugar. Darn well goin' on seventy, and she ain't doin' so good. Don't know how much longer she's got.”

“What if Aunt Coretta moved with you?”

“Well, I'd have to think on that, Sugar.”

“You'd be able to take care of her then.”

“Let me think on it.”

“Okay. But I'm serious about this now.”

“I know you is. Momma appreciates that. Tell me about your new house, Sugar.”

“It's a big ol' four-bedroom place.”

“What's it look like, Sugar, the neighborhood, the house? Paint a picture for Momma.”

“Well, Seventh and Eighth Avenues run north and south. 138th and 139th Streets run east and west. Strivers' Row is basically a block that includes those four streets.”

“Is there a good church nearby?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“All right. Just wanna make sure you two are attendin' service, that's all.”

“Anyhow, we live on the southern side of 139th. That's row three. It shares a private back alleyway with row two.”

“Ooh, you got your own private alleyway?”

“Yeah. If you're headin' north on Seventh you turn left and enter through a big old black iron gate. Ours is the fourth place on the right. 'Course I'm talkin' about entering through the back.”

“I can't wait to see it, Sugar.”

Momma and I talked a little longer, and I did my best to explain to her what Harlem was like. I was hoping she'd soon be able to see it for herself.

I returned home to find Loretta alone in her studio, hard at work.

“Can I give you a bath?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Moments later I sat in a wooden chair just behind the tub in the middle of our all-white washroom. Loretta was relaxing with her back to me—seemingly in a daze. The only sound was that of me dipping a white cloth into the soapy water before running it along her neck and shoulders. I then scrubbed her fingertips one by one—the cloth absorbing different shades of caked-on blue paint.

“I should be washing your hands,” she said, grabbing mine, turning them, and surveying my oil-stained palms. “I want you to start using gloves when you're in that engine room. You need to protect your beautiful hands, Love.”

She interlocked her right hand with my left, leaned back, and we kissed, just above her left shoulder.

“Turn your body around and face me,” I said.

She turned around, her hips splashing water over the side of the tub in the process. Looking into her eyes and marveling at her damp, buttery-looking skin, it took all of the restraint I could muster not to undress, ease into the water, and have my needs satisfied. But this wasn't about me.

“Lie back.”

Her head rested against the opposite end of the tub, and she continued eyeing me. Her chin was barely above water, and I could see portions of her nakedness through the suds. I reached into the warm water and grabbed her feet, pulling them toward me. Taking the cloth, I began washing her feet.

“What did I do to deserve this?” she asked.

“You said yes to me three years ago.”

I dropped the cloth back in the water and began caressing and massaging her arches and heels, then moved on to her toes.

“Why don't you ever talk about work?” she asked.

“Because when I'm with you I want it to be all about you.”

“But I want to know how you spend your days. Do you spend most of the time at the new church site or on the ships?”

“At the church site and with Reverend Powell at his office. And at my own office.”

“And with Mr. Garvey, right?”

“No!” I snapped, stopping the foot rub.

“Jeez . . . I just asked.”

“You know I spend no time with him. None! I barely even know him. He's into political stuff I don't concern myself with. When it comes to the contractual work I do for the Black Star Line, I just go directly to the pier, do my work, and leave.”

“All right. Keep rubbing.”

“Listen,” I said, massaging her feet again, “Reverend Eason's the only one affiliated with the UNIA that I'm close to, and that's because of his connection to your father. And we share mutual friends.”

“Like who?”

“Just people. People you don't know. Just like I don't know many of your new friends.”

“Was Reverend Eason at that parade today? It was quite a spectacle.”

“You saw it? I thought you were here working all day.”

“Ginger and I went and had lunch. I've never seen so many people. All of the flags and colors, the men dressed in military uniforms. What does it all mean? And why are so many men and women following Mr. Garvey?”

“He's a powerful speaker from outside the United States. They've never seen anyone quite like him. But most parades do draw crowds.”

“Not like that.”

I tried to get a sense of what she might be thinking. She was more curious than usual, and I wanted to change the subject.

“Am I rubbing too hard?”

“No. You know, the more I hear about Mr. Garvey, the more I don't like him. Ginger thinks he's a hateful man. Why is Reverend Eason so pleasant and Mr. Garvey so . . .”

“Like I just said, I don't really know him. Just like a Coca-Cola deliveryman doesn't know the president of Coca-Cola. I just have a contract to work on his ships.”

“Sorry. I'll let it go. Last thing I'm trying to do is upset you.”

“It's okay. I'm not upset.”

“Good,” she said, closing her eyes. “That feels so amazing.”

“Am I the best at it?”

“I don't know. You're the only one who's ever rubbed my feet.”

“Hey!”

“I'm just pullin' your leg, silly,” she said. “You're so thoughtful. So kind.”

I grabbed her ankles and began sliding my grip down to her calves.

“How's that?” I asked, massaging.

“So good.”

After a minute or two I leaned forward, sliding my hands around from her calves to her thighs. Again I massaged, but with broad strokes under the warm water.

“Magic hands,” she said.

Moments later, her eyes still closed, she took my right hand and slid it farther under water. Running it along her inner thigh, she placed it where she wanted. I needn't rush now, as we were in perfect rhythm. I wanted this to be entirely about her.