Chapter 3 #2
My eyes flew periodically to the money bags resting at the foot of my bed, until I mustered up the strength to assess them. I knelt beside the bed and opened the bags, pulling out the wrapped bundles—folds of bills smelling brand-new, untouched by the smoke and fire that took Greenwood.
Who did all this belong to? A bank? A crooked man? Someone who’d earned it honest?
I didn’t know, and that thought made my hands sweat as I handled the bills. I felt like a bandit, wrong as I sorted through
the outcome of someone else’s labor. Two hundred dollars total—enough to eat for a few months and disappear again, if I needed
to.
I emptied the money into the bottom drawer of the room’s dresser as if it were a secret worth hiding. At the bottom of one
bag—underneath the bills—I came across Mr. Wallace’s tin of grease. The only trinket I had to remember the man by.
I pulled it out. Screwed the lid off. Gave it a sniff. The chemical stench sliced at my nostrils, sharp and burning, as if
pulling me into a toxic trance. This stuff was deadly.
Knock knock knock.
Someone was at the door. I froze, waiting for the knocking to stop. And when I was sure I wouldn’t be pressed with questions,
I went to open it.
At my feet, just beyond the threshold, was a small shopping bag, the scent of laundry detergent drifting up from it.
Laundry. A harmless chore that could be an excuse to creep outside, tiptoe down the stairs, and go to the garage where the
Wash ’N’ Fold was, just to check things out. That’s where Auntie and Uncle served the community all its laundry needs.
I packed my sweat-stained clothes into the money bags and went out back.
I walked past Auntie’s crop garden to get to the garage door that was left half open.
I curled underneath it to get inside. There were two large laundry machines with giant cranks, and clothes folded in carts or strung up on thin wire hangers.
A couple of dryers stood against the far wall, their mouths open as if waiting for me to feed them.
Auntie’s washing machines looked like they belonged in a factory. I tried to figure them out, how the cranks and scary-looking
spinners worked, but it was a failing task without help. So I left my laundry in the room, hoping someone would take care
of it.
There was another knock the next day, and outside my door, I found a basketball. I took it outside after the sun set and bounced
it some on the sidewalk in front of the house.
I walked aimlessly down the street, until I reached a wooden sign that read Harlem Square Park. I listened to some drummers by the trees and watched girls jump rope.
I found a watch tower that stood as tall as the trees and had an enclosure on top. I wound up the spiral staircase and sat
alone against the railing, staring off at the sun as it set over the city. The world had gone so dull that even the sun shone
dimmer.
And yet, hope reared its head at the center of the ache, and what it said was, Things will get better. They have to.
The knocks had sounded quickly and were gone just as quickly. But in their absence, I cracked open my door. I found a bag
of stamps along with a note that said, Just in case you want to send any mail! Love, Daisy.
I was on to Daisy—she’d have none of my wallowing in my misery forever.
Seeing the stamps made me realize I might want to send a letter back to Isaiah at some point. But would he even still be alive
to receive it? What happened to him when the mob came? Did he look for me?
I could write a letter asking him how he was faring. But I needed to make sure I knew where to mail it from. I slipped out
of my room and opened the front door.
Three boys were waiting at the bottom of our stoop—a bit younger than me, approaching the end of secondary school, maybe.
I’d seen them before, throwing the ball at the wall outside my window.
“You play wall ball?” one of them asked me.
I just shook my head.
“It ain’t that hard to understand,” he said. “Come play.”
But I didn’t want to. Doing something new like that with new people was an invitation to mess up and make a fool of myself.
“I’m set,” I said, but it was like I offended the boy.
He looked at me like I was some creature. “Your hairline look like a runaway train, you know,” he said, which made his friend
laugh.
But it wasn’t funny. I felt I’d been stabbed!
“Boy’s hairline look like high tide on a slanted hill,” he continued.
I had nothing to lob back. My brain had not picked up much about his appearance. He was average in his white shirt and flimsy
hat, and good for him.
“Excuse me!” chirped a voice from behind them. The boys moved their bikes as Daisy pushed her way past them, bob swinging, holding two heavy garment bags. She stopped to look at both of them. “What are you two doing in front of my house?”
“Just saying how that boy needs a line up,” he said, laughing.
“And you need to stop buying all your clothes from discount bins.” Daisy grimaced at the bully’s outfit. Then she looked at
the sidekick. “And you—I could smell your breath when I was standing behind you. Think twice before you speak on my cousin.”
Daisy walked up the stairs, pulling me along.
The bully shouted, “We ain’t know he was your cousin, Daisy!”
And she spun back around. “Think twice before you speak on anybody, then, Maurice! Maybe if you spent less time running your
mouth and more time figuring out why you’re sixteen and still riding a tricycle around town, you wouldn’t have to embarrass
yourself in public. Now, shoo!”
The boys started to pedal off and I followed Daisy into the house. “Um, nice meeting y—” I said to them, but the door slammed
before the words got out.
“Don’t be nice to them, Nick,” Daisy said dismissively, as she went to my room and put the bags on my bed. “I didn’t know
your sizes. But if they don’t fit, we can get them tailored.”
I looked in the bag and found a suit. A nice one—one that I would be the first to wear. “Thank you, Daisy. I never know what
to say to boys like that. I mean, I’m not mean like they are, so . . .”
“You don’t have to be mean. You just have to tell them who you are. Nick Carrington the Third, descendant of Ruth and Nick Carrington of Langston Herald fame. Those boys have never done an interesting thing in their lives.”
My family’s history in journalism had never been something to brag about—it was just a thing. “How do I bring up something
like that without sounding like a rotten egg?”
“You need no excuse here, and actually, some will support you more for coming off that way. New York is a different ball game
from Greenwood. Everybody comes here for status. You have all these opportunities to be whatever you want. Once you find your
fashion, it makes everything better.” Daisy reached up to pick gently at the naps in my hair. “We could start with a haircut.”
I wasn’t opposed! I wasn’t much of a looker—my teeth were buck and my frame too small to be considered handsome—but someday
I might want to impress someone in Harlem.
“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I think I’m ready.” If I was to find the life inside me once again, I wasn’t going to discover
it hidden away in this house.
Daisy smiled with a satisfaction that told me this was all according to plan—she’d gotten me out of bed. “I’ll see if we can
get you an appointment today,” she said.
I felt like an alien among Harlem’s stoops, but I was absorbed by this unique way of entering a home, and by how tall this
city’s buildings were—how they reached for the sky.
We took a cab to East 128th. My head was in a whirl taking it all in!
New York was loud as a live-music gig at any given moment.
Pedestrians ran in front of cars and forced them to adapt.
Newsboys shouted at passing people about coupon vouchers to see concerts.
Screaming matches would break out, then were quickly resolved, as if they never happened.
The cab stopped at our destination, and Daisy held my arm as we ran across the street to a salon called Queen of Hair. It
was for ladies—that much was evident from the deep sinks and vanities, mirrors, and apparatuses for careful grooming. And
then there were the ladies, sitting under domed dryers and reading magazines, their legs crossed or their feet resting in
tubs of hot water.
In one of the chairs, a girl was sitting with her legs up over the side, a magazine in her face.
“Nick, this is Vivian,” Daisy announced.
Vivian dropped the magazine. She had a face full of makeup—deep crimson lipstick and high-arched brows. Her posture held the
confidence of someone who didn’t care what you thought of her. She fluffed her big curly hair before holding out her hand.
“How do you do, Nick?”
“Some boys said Nick’s hairline was crooked,” Daisy explained, without a care to my pride. “Do you have time to fix it?”
She spun around and opened the drawers behind her. “Um . . . I’m a bit out of practice on boys but I could see what I can
do.” Vivian pulled out a pair of clippers, turned them on, and almost fumbled them because of how hard they buzzed. “Oh, wow.”
“Don’t worry,” Daisy said, winking at me. “She’s a professional—I promise!”
Funny, she sure didn’t look like one.
“Yeah, don’t you worry,” Vivian said. “I’m gonna fix you right up. It’s only a dollar for a texturizer, and you’ll need one.”
I switched spots with her to sit, and she reared my chair back as another stylist came to work on Daisy.
“Is it going to burn?” I asked. “I’ve heard they fry hair.”
Daisy reclined and said, “Don’t worry, Nick. It’ll look great with your texture.”
As Daisy’s stylist peppered her with questions, Vivian popped her gum, slathered white cream on my hair with a paintbrush,
and looked to me to fill the void of conversation. “First day of finishing school hair, I assume?”
I met her matter-of-fact gaze in the mirror. “Oh, I don’t go to school,” I said.
“Good for you,” Vivian returned with more enthusiasm than expected. “Ever since I devoted my life to the streets, I’ve been much happier.
That’s what it takes to survive in New York City. You get your main job and your street hustle.”
I felt a strange mix of respect and fear. “When you say street, what do you mean, exactly?”
“She means nothing!” Daisy interrupted, her eyes darting around nervously. “But on that note, Nick, have you given some thought
to what you’ll be doing while you’re here?”
It wasn’t something I’d thought much on. I hadn’t been able to think much at all.
“I feel like I’m still trying to get my thoughts in order,” I said, my voice low.
“Well, if you want to study, there’s this new academy, West Egg, that’s accepting Negro boys.” Daisy closed her eyes as her stylist tipped her chair back and washed her hair. “It’s private.”
“Private?”
“It means they only take the sharpest minds from the bunch, so your application’s gotta be spotless. When I applied to their
sister school, I made sure to mention Grandpa founding the Langston Herald—a Negro journalist? They ate that right up. I’m on the track for maids, which means I’ll be placed in a wealthy man’s house,
getting a front-row seat to how the other half lives. Their food, their habits—I’ll know it all. Right now, I’m working toward
a full-time spot at Tom Buchanan’s estate. He’s big in real estate. Once you’re in at West Egg, Nick, the right connections
can take you anywhere!”
All of this sounded truly lovely yet empty. I’d never wanted to be rich—not really. Just comfortable. “Yeah,” I said. “I mean,
I guess I could try? Why not?”
“And if it doesn’t work out, there are always other opportunities!” Something outside the window caught Daisy’s attention.
“Oh, look what the cat’s drug in. Anna May! Back to throw more pennies at the poories!”
Vivian turned to look at a red-haired woman strutting down the sidewalk. She wore a plush red mink coat, her movements fluid
and theatrical as she waved at merchants, her tan skin glowing under the sun, her presence demanding attention.
“Who’s she?” I asked.
“Girl who got her certificate, moved uptown, and went through some changes,” Vivian explained, judgment in her voice. “Found a rich husband, and now she blends right in with the white elite. Comes down here to flaunt her wealth and support the little businesses.”
I watched Anna May touch an African necklace on a street salesman’s table and engage him in conversation.
“I wonder how long it takes to lift your natural tone three complexions?” Daisy said, staring at her with a mix of awe and
contempt.
“Is that even possible?” I asked.
Vivian spun my chair around, tilted it back, and began to run water over my hair. “You’d be surprised the inventions Negroes
are coming up with to blend nowadays.”
Her words didn’t surprise me. What other choice did we have in this world? Although, in New York, the pressure to move up
may have been worse.
Vivian washed my hair and gelled it. She finished up the cut with the clippers, and when she put the mirror in front of my
face, I hardly recognized myself. All the kinks in my hair ironed into round curls.
“I don’t know what’s been done to me,” I said.
Daisy and Vivian both laughed. I felt more alive, just hearing people laugh at something I’d said. I could create humor! I
wasn’t a depressing black hole.
Daisy reached over to run her fingers through my hair. “It looks wonderful!” she chirped.
Looking different made me feel different. Like I could throw my hat in the ring with the natives of this big and strange city.
I did not need to go invisible or spend my life in bed. I could go on, despite my every impulse telling me not to move.
I could see myself starting again in the big, strange city of Harlem, with all its soaring buildings that carried the promise of new possibilities. My days of lying around in my undershirt should end! The world had not ended—so why should I?