Chapter Thirty-Five
Eunice
New York, New York
As I step out of my building, Mr. Johnson tips his cap the way he has every day for the past week. “Good morning,” he says, holding open the rear door of his Buick.
I nod in return, then settle into the back seat of the car.
“We’re heading to Crown and Glory this morning?” He slides behind the wheel.
“Yes, but would you mind stopping by the library first? Mrs. Andrews will be joining me.”
“Sure thing.” He eases the car from the curb. “And congratulations, Mrs. Carter,” he says, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “All of us here in Harlem are so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
The fresh morning air steals through the cracked window, and I take in the scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery, the giggles of schoolchildren skipping along with book straps slung over their shoulders, and the cries of the newsboys shouting out this morning’s headlines:
“Big boss nabbed! Luciano arrested!” And then, on the next corner, “Dewey’s men get Lucky!”
With the announcement of the indictment, this is a historic milestone for New York and a moment that ought to swell me with pride. Yet it is difficult to feel any sense of triumph when the paint on our car wasn’t just vandalism—it may have been the final blow to my marriage.
If there had been any way to conceal that incident from Lisle, I would have once again kept the truth from my husband. But unlike the doll, it was impossible to hide the car. So on the evening Dewey decided to indict Luciano, I hurried home to speak to Lisle.
My intention was to tell him as soon as he walked through the door.
But he’d come home with a bouquet of tulips and a trail of kisses, part of a steady effort he’d been making these past weeks to mend the rift between us.
How could I have ruined that moment? So I waited until after dinner, although the quiet, candlelit meal hadn’t prepared either of us for what I had to say.
—
The scent of the roasted chicken still lingered in the air, even though the dishes had long been put away.
As Lisle relaxed in the parlor, puffing on a cigar and reading the evening edition of The New York Times, I stood at the window looking out at Colonial Park.
Even in the shadows of the night, the first signs of spring were evident—buds blooming and the faintest tint of green on the trees.
But I felt none of spring’s promise; instead, I was laden with the weight of what I had to say and the fear of what my words might do.
Finally, I spoke. “Lisle, while I was at the House of Detention this morning, someone splattered our car with paint. Across the driver’s door and the hood.”
“Paint?” His brows pinched together.
“Yes. Red paint so dark, at first I thought it was blood.” Then I added quickly, “But it could have been a kids’ prank.”
Deliberately, he folded the newspaper and placed it aside. “Please, Eunice. Don’t stand there and feed me what you don’t believe.”
“I don’t know what to believe. But what I know is that this will be over soon. We’re indicting Luciano. We’re coming to the end, and all of these threats will go away.”
“Is that what you think? Don’t you know that an indictment will put you in more danger?
Shackles won’t stop him, prison won’t stop him.
He will intimidate witnesses, and he will certainly try to strike fear into all of you.
We are not any closer to this ending. An indictment is just a new beginning. ”
I shook my head, but I had no new words to convince him. “I don’t want this to become an argument, Lisle. I just wanted you to know what was going on.”
“Fighting with you is the last thing I want to do. But damn it, Eunice, first the letter about Junior and now this. What will be next?” His voice was so soft when he asked, “You?”
“No, because I’m being so careful.”
“And yet, today…someone smeared bloodred paint on our car.”
“It was the car and not me.”
“Not you. Not yet.”
My breath caught; his words sounded like a prophecy.
When I stayed silent, he shook his head.
“You won’t have to worry about us having this conversation again.
I’m finished with it. But God help us, if something happens to you, I will go to my grave never forgiving Luciano.
” His voice was barely a whisper when he added, “And what scares me even more—I will never forgive you either.”
—
Even now, the echo of his words stings. Tears burn my eyes as I reach inside my pocketbook and draw out the note I found on our bed the next day when I came home from work:
Eunice: I’m going away for a few days to clear my head. I’ve hired Mr. Johnson to drive you wherever you need to go. And I’ll be praying every moment for your well-being.
I’ve read this letter so many times, the paper is tattered at the edges. And still, I don’t understand. Lisle has never gone away leaving me with just a note. He did send a telegram saying he’d “arrived” safely, but there was no mention of where he was or how long he would be gone.
My thoughts scatter as the car lurches to a stop in front of the library. Before Mr. Johnson can get out of the car, the library’s door flies open, and Regina bounds down the steps.
“Good heavens,” I say as she bounces into the back seat. “You didn’t even give Mr. Johnson time to properly open the door for you.”
She’s radiant, her smile a mile wide, and suddenly I feel a bit of joy.
She says, “I didn’t want to miss one minute with you.
Not today. And not with Mr. Johnson driving us around in style.
” She pauses to greet him properly as he pulls the car into traffic on 135th Street.
“We’re so fancy today. Did Lisle hire the car to help you celebrate? ”
Thank goodness she doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she reaches into her satchel and starts piling newspapers onto her lap.
“Gracious me! Are you opening a newsstand?”
She laughs as she fans the newspapers out like a deck of cards.
“Josh if you must, but this is a banner day. Literally. Look at these headlines.” Regina reads with reverence: “Dewey Seizes Vice Leader in Arkansas…Luciano Arrested in Hot Springs as Dewey Rounds Out His Case…Luciano on His Way Under Guard…Dewey Proposes Three-Hundred-and-Fifty-Thousand-Dollar Bond…Salvatore Luciano Arrested and Extradited to New York to Face Dewey.”
She sighs. “Eunice, this is monumental. I’m so very proud of you.”
“I think you’ve made up a few of your own headlines.” I manage a half smile. “Not one of those newspapers mentions me. It’s all about Dewey.”
She flicks her hand, dismissing my modesty.
“Behind every successful prosecutor is a woman toiling away so the man can be given all the credit.” Regina taps the papers.
“They may not say it in the newspapers, Eunice, but I’d wager a dollar that you’re the one who pinned Luciano to the wall.
You’re the only woman on the team, so you worked harder.
Once again, you’re the Queen of Harlem!” she exclaims. “Lisle must be bursting with pride.”
I turn my gaze to the window. The joy Regina carried into the car fizzles, the air now flat.
“Are you all right?” Regina covers my hand with hers as we approach the salon.
“I’m fine,” I say, although I don’t meet her eyes.
As we slip out of the car, Mr. Johnson assures me, “I’ll be here when you’re ready to go.”
Regina and I step into Crown & Glory, one of Harlem’s most celebrated beauty salons.
America Pinkston, the proprietor, has designed this space to dazzle: the black tufted velvet chairs, the gleaming white lacquered tables, the rows of round-bulbed lights circling every mirror, and the black-and-white checkerboard flooring, shining as if it has just been waxed.
Overhead, the black metal chandeliers add to the glamour.
“Miss Eunice,” America calls from her station. She was one of the first to earn her certificate as a hair culturist from Madam CJ Walker’s Lelia College of Beauty Culture.
America excuses herself from her client and sweeps me into a warm embrace. “I was so glad you called for you and Miss Regina.” She greets Regina with a hug, too.
I say, “I appreciate you fitting us in.”
“Everybody has been coming in to get gussied up for the Apollo tonight.” She gestures toward the chairs lined against the wall. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I won’t be too long.” She winks as she adds, “I wouldn’t dream of keeping the woman who’s putting Lucky Luciano behind bars waiting.”
I manage a light chuckle and follow Regina to a pair of chairs, tucked away far from the buzz of the dryers. Regina hardly waits for us to settle before she says, “So, is there anything new you can share that’s not in the newspapers?”
I glance around the salon. Women in chairs are chatting with the stylists. Others, sitting beneath the hood dryers, are flipping through the latest issues of The Crisis or The Messenger. No one is paying attention to Regina and me.
Still, when I turn to my friend, I whisper, “Nothing about the case, but so much has happened with me.”
“Something else? Besides the note about Junior?”
I nod, and then it all spills out. I tell Regina everything: the doll, the paint on the car, and the real reason why Mr. Johnson is now behind the wheel. I tell her about the fragile peace Lisle and I had for months and how it shattered.
I pull Lisle’s note from my pocketbook and hand it to my friend.
“Lord, you’ve been carrying all of this,” she says softly when she finishes reading. “I wish you had told me.”
“I’ve just been so busy, trying to keep my head down and stay focused.” I blink, damming every emotion inside me. “But it’s come to this—he said he’d be gone for a few days, but I don’t know.”
“Oh, he’ll be home,” she says with a conviction that surprises me. “He told my husband he’d see him at the Apollo. And he loves you, Eunice. That’s why he’s so beside himself.” She sighs and shakes her head, and I see the weight of unspoken words in her eyes.
I tilt my head. “What?”