Chapter Thirteen
Eunice
New York, New York
The Savoy Ballroom shimmers like a spray of pink diamonds beneath the chandeliers.
More than fifty tables, each draped in gold cloth and adorned with crystal candelabras, stretch across the massive ballroom that comfortably accommodates the five hundred gala guests who’ve each paid five dollars for this fundraiser for the Harlem Commission.
Although the dinner plates have long been cleared, not a soul has moved. Chick Webb and his orchestra have every guest spellbound—bodies swaying, fingers snapping—everyone except for Lisle and me.
I cast a quick glance at my husband. Throughout our marriage, a single look between us would stir a smile, or one of us would reach a hand across the space, closing the divide between us.
Tonight, Lisle stares straight ahead, his bourbon in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and his gaze fixed on the bandstand.
The lights are dim, but he knows I’m looking at him. Yet his eyes neither shift nor soften.
Since I received that note two weeks ago, Lisle has been cold with fury. Once I told him that I would not resign, he has uttered not a single word beyond “Good morning,” “Good night,” and “Have you seen my silver cuff links?”
I can only wonder how long his punishing silence will go on.
As the orchestra plays, I glance around our table.
Walter White, the executive secretary of the NAACP and my childhood friend from Atlanta, sits with his wife, Gladys, nestled against him.
Beside them, Roy Wilkins, the editor of The Crisis magazine, lifts his wife Aminda’s hand to his lips.
Jessie Fauset Harris, once my literary mentor and now a dear friend, sits tucked beneath her husband Herbert’s arm.
When my eyes settle on my closest friend, Regina, she, too, is leaning into her husband, William Andrews, the assemblyman from Harlem. Only Lisle and I sit as if there is more than just distance between us.
Regina’s eyes flick between Lisle and me, and her smile fades. She gives me a small shrug, her way of silently asking, What’s wrong?
I shake my head and look toward the stage.
When the music ends, applause fills the room, and Regina and I rise.
Our husbands follow suit. I half expected Lisle to remain seated and stone-faced, continuing to pretend like I didn’t exist. But I should have known.
Whatever our rift, public decorum is paramount.
Our husbands escort us to the stage. Then, as they return to their seats, the guests quiet.
I begin, “On behalf of the Harlem Commission, thank you for being here tonight. The riots this past March marked one of Harlem’s darkest hours, when businesses were ravaged, many of our neighbors were severely injured, and our overall sense of safety was torn apart.
I never imagined I’d witness such devastation again.
I was only seven years old back in 1906, when Atlanta erupted into utter chaos.
“My family fled Atlanta after that. And while the circumstances are different here, the destruction, the pain, the suffering is the same. But I don’t want anyone to flee from Harlem. I want our neighbors to know that together, we will rise again.”
The audience erupts in applause, and then Regina begins. “At the heart of the unrest is the harsh truth that white-owned businesses want our money but will never hire a Negro. Our charge is to pursue real and lasting solutions to the discrimination that runs rampant through Harlem.
“We are pleased to announce that Mayor La Guardia, along with the commission, will be meeting with white businesses to confront these discriminatory policies.” We have to pause for the standing ovation.
“And while we do that work, the commission is equally committed to supporting the residents of Harlem. Your generosity this evening will assist the colored-owned businesses that suffered damages and provide relief to families burdened with medical expenses. So we are grateful for every donation. And please continue to enjoy the evening. Thank—”
I give Regina’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Before we leave the stage, we want to thank our husbands, Dr. Lisle Carter and Assemblyman William Andrews.” I turn my gaze to Lisle, and this time, his eyes are steady on me.
“Thank you for standing beside us, for understanding the long hours we work, and for supporting our dreams.”
William offers a wide smile. Lisle only takes a long sip of his drink.
As Regina and I step off the stage, the band bursts into “Stompin’ at the Savoy,” and shouts rise across the ballroom.
Men in black silk-lapel dinner jackets grab their wives and dates, equally as elegant in backless gowns, and make a mad rush to the dance floor.
Couples kick and glide, twirl and leap, throwing themselves into the wild rhythm of the Lindy Hop.
“Shall we give it a try?” William asks Regina when we return to the table.
“Absolutely not.” She laughs. “We have to work in the morning, and I don’t want to end up rubbing liniment on either of us.” They chuckle, and Regina glances at me. “There are a few final points Eunice and I have to review. Pardon us.” She grabs my hand and guides me away.
Lifting the hems of our gowns, we slip into an empty parlor across the hall. With a sigh, I sink into a chair.
Regina stands, arms crossed. “So what’s going on?”
My first instinct is to brush it off. But Regina is my closest friend, and for the past eleven years, we’ve carried each other’s secrets and sorrows.
It was at Jessie Fauset Harris’ book launch for her first novel, There Is Confusion, where we were drawn together over our shared love of literature. That was the time when I was truly considering writing as a career.
While I’ve drifted away from writing, Regina has stayed true to her love, first working as a library clerk at the 135th Street library, and then by penning scripts, her best being Climbing Jacob’s Ladder, a haunting piece about a man lynched outside of a church while congregants prayed inside.
We have taken pride in each other’s accomplishments, but we’ve shared grief, too. The deaths of our fathers and the toll of the racism in our careers bind us.
But it is the anguish in my friend’s eyes now that undoes me. “What’s going on, Eunice?” She pulls a chair close and sits.
When she places her hand over mine, my composure shatters.
I hold her hand as I close my eyes, and I take my friend back two weeks, to the day the boy left me standing stunned and silent in the lobby of Women’s Court.
By the time I walk Regina through the plan to keep Junior safe and Lisle’s fury over it, her eyes are glassed with disbelief and grief as if I’ve told her too much, too fast.
“Oh my heavens!” Regina says when I finish. “You must have been so scared. I wish you had telephoned me.”
“I couldn’t. And I probably shouldn’t have even told you now.
But what’s most important is that Junior and my mother are safe in Barbados.
While those seven days on the steamship had to be hard, my mother sent a telegram just yesterday.
She’s heartened that her rheumatism hasn’t flared up as much in the warmer weather.
” I shake my head. “But Lisle has turned away from me, and I don’t know how to mend things.
For all the pride I take in my work, my husband carries an equal measure of disdain. ”
“You know, Eunice,” Regina begins, her voice soft and gentle, “maybe it’s not your job or Junior being away that Lisle resents. Maybe it’s the time and attention you’re giving to everyone except him.”
I pause, letting her words settle in the quiet for a moment.
My thoughts drift back to the days before I joined Dewey’s team.
When I was still in private practice and my work in Women’s Court allowed me to always be home before five.
Lisle and I spent almost every evening together, inseparable as we swept through Harlem attending intimate salons at the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Weldon Johnson and elegant dinners hosted by Mr. and Mrs. W.
E. B. Du Bois. At every opening performance at the Lafayette Theatre and lively amateur night at the Apollo, we were there, together.
I nearly leap from my seat and wrap my arms around my friend. “I should have talked to you sooner.”
Minutes later, Lisle and I have taken our leave from the gala, and now we stand beneath the Savoy’s marquee, its bright lights winking in rhythm to the Savoy swing I still hear pulsing from inside.
I break our silence as we wait for the attendant to bring our car around. “I hope you enjoyed tonight.”
“I did,” he says, without giving me a single glance.
Our car arrives, and I slide into the front seat of our Ford Model 48.
As Lisle pulls away from the curb, I say, “I don’t like this distance between us, and I want to find a way to get back to who we’ve always been together.
Maybe we can get away this weekend.” Lisle doesn’t react, but I continue.
“You’ve wanted to visit Martha’s Vineyard.
It may be a bit chilly this time of the year, but I’m certain it’s still lovely. ”
A faint smile curls his lips. “That would be nice.”
When he reaches for my hand, I sigh. “I’ll start making plans tomorrow. If you can get away, maybe we can extend it beyond this weekend.”
“I can get away,” he says. “But can you?”
“There is nothing more important to me than you,” I say, already thinking about what I will tell the chief. Given the gravity of what we’ve endured, I’m sure he will understand that I need a few days with my family.
Those are the words Lisle needed to hear.
After we park our car in the garage, he takes my hand.
As we stroll along Edgecombe Avenue, he slips his arm around my waist. The street is nearly deserted, and the streetlamps cast long shadows that move as we do, with the hush of midnight wrapping around us.
I feel so buoyant with hope as we stroll together. This is the start of a new beginning.
We step into the lobby, and Mr. Meeks, our night shift doorman, greets us, then says, “Mrs. Carter, a telegram was delivered to you just about an hour ago.”
I frown as he hands the envelope to me. “Mama just sent a telegram yesterday,” I say, my heart already hammering. And then I begin to read. “Dear God,” I whisper, and press my hand against my chest, my eyes still riveted to the telegram.
“What is it?” Lisle asks as he almost snatches the paper from my hands. He scans the message. His jaw tightens. His tone is cold and brittle when he says, “I won’t mark Martha’s Vineyard on my calendar.”