Chapter Twenty-Two #2
The spring turned to summer, and Willa always made sure to speak whenever she saw me, and over the months that followed we chatted about mundane things—the weather, if I was going to a particular show, the neighbors’ chitchat—but I liked having someone, anyone, to talk to.
The September leaves found their way into the apartment building foyer. The next time she approached me, I was collecting my mail.
“I hoped I’d run into you, Tessa,” she said, unlocking her box. “You popped into my mind the other day, and I wondered if you would like to have dinner tomorrow night? With my husband, Nathan, and me. I rarely see you with friends, and you never got a proper welcome to the building.”
“Rarely” was a kind way of saying I had no friends. None but her. I was flattered but knew better than to get too close to someone. “I don’t want you to go to the trouble.”
“What trouble?” she said, throwing her arms in the air. “No trouble at all. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tessa, you have to eat. I’m cooking. Come on over.
” She made it seem so simple, harmless. I had no plans other than a bologna sandwich—maybe with mustard, if I was feeling fancy.
Perhaps one dinner with the neighbors couldn’t hurt.
I’d spent so many nights alone at my little round kitchen table, a single candle, a single plate, while I ate and watched the city street as life scurried down below.
The loneliness of eternity could be summed up in dinners alone by the window.
When I arrived, I was touched by all the effort she’d put in.
Her apartment was modest and warm: Black-and-white photos of her family that she’d carried from Alabama covered the walls, a tipsy sofa was adorned with tufted pillows, knickknacks covered every available surface, and a lovely table displayed the best china she had to offer.
The chicken she fried reminded me of Georgia, and the peach cobbler she’d made from late-season peaches felt like a slice of summer.
The conversation was spirited. I got to transform into what I appeared to be—a young twentysomething with my whole future ahead of me rather than several lifetimes behind me.
We discussed the blouse dresses and cloche hats in the windows of the Bonwit Teller and Macy’s department stores, wishing we could browse and try on the latest fashions.
Then there were Willa’s plans for the next fundraiser, and her interest in the articles I’d written.
It was a welcome break from solitude and thinking about Death’s next visit.
Nathan was a wonderful partner to her, quiet and contemplative, his full beard hiding most of his handsome brown face. He worked in his father’s pharmacy, the only colored-owned one nearby. They’d made a comfortable life for themselves.
The dinners became a regular thing—nice, lighthearted affairs, talking about the news and books and playing records on the gramophone.
I knew the dangers of getting too close, but it was nice to pretend to be carefree, and it was nice to have friends.
I resolved that if I found myself too greatly entangled, I could always move.
“You know, Tessa,” Willa said one Friday night, “there’s a dance at the Marshall hotel next week and Bojangles will be there. Nathan’s good friend Fess is the bandleader. You should come with us. I may have someone in mind for you.”
“No!” I covered my face, my knife clattering to my plate.
Willa and Nathan froze as the noise cut through the soft jazz record playing.
I avoided their eyes as I retrieved my errant knife. I had promised myself: no more love. I didn’t have any space in my heart or life for that. Not after William. Not after René. Not after Rohan. Not after the baby.
“I’m not up for meeting anyone new.” I tried to brush off my outburst with a smile, but Willa didn’t seem to buy it.
“I just thought—you never go out. You’re always bent over that typewriter up in that window. You deserve a good time.”
I’d hurt her feelings. The silence drew out as we picked at our peas. “I’m sorry. I just . . . have been suffering from a broken heart.” Four times over. But the half truth felt good. Something in my friend’s reaction made me relent. “You’re right. I do deserve a good time. Yes, I’ll go.”
Willa clapped her hands, barely containing her excitement for me. “How wonderful!” With that, all the tension melted away, the conversation resuming easily, for which I was glad. I had no need for dates, but I appreciated a friend.
“Should be a good time,” Nathan said. “Finally, a place where we can go. Not one only catering to only white folk who want to come uptown for some color.” He detailed all that he’d heard from his friend about the new “black and tan” establishments opening for Black clientele to enjoy live jazz music.
As the conversation turned to the excitement of going out, I realized I still had one problem.
I needed a dress.
To solve my problem, I went to Ms. Martin’s dress shop, where all my dresses were made.
I worked with Gertrude, a tiny light-skinned Black woman with gray hair streaking through her dark curls, who helped me select the fabric and pattern—a cream cotton dress with a high neck and a soft sage folded into the pleated edging.
Other women may have worn more eye-catching colors, but I stuck with muted neutrals, best suited for blending in.
Gertrude confirmed my measurements and promised she’d have it ready on time.
With my errand done, I had nowhere to be, so I walked down the street, window-shopping, mindful of my purse. It was a respectable area of town, but you couldn’t be too sure.
A cold wind swept through, the day blustery, but I enjoyed the fresh, crisp air after being inside. New York was a mix, a few blocks determining the difference between an Italian, Jewish, or Black neighborhood.
I continued to walk and found myself on Ladies’ Mile, admiring the wares on offer. Of all the cities I’d been in, New York was the one most on the rise. The stores displayed their goods, and you could buy anything you could think of.
I lingered at one window and admired a set of silk gloves trimmed in green on display, with elaborately trailing embroidered flowers. I had no use for them, but they were lovely—something for beauty’s sake.
A knock startled me.
A hand rapped on the glass above my head.
I flinched, expecting trouble. I’d been in New York long enough to know that the people of this city had no problem expressing how they felt, good, bad, or ugly.
The shopkeeper waved from inside, a pale man with black wavy hair, grinning, motioning me to come inside.
I shook my head no, but he gestured again, smiling. I stepped back and scanned inside the shop. No signs barring my entry were on the windows, but that didn’t mean it was friendly to “coloreds,” as we were called then.
Come in, he mouthed, grinning again, almost like a dare.
I wasn’t sure why I went in—I would’ve kept walking in any other instance, but he’d made me smile despite myself, so I entered through the front door.
The tiny bell chimed through the empty shop. The light was dim, just the sunshine coming through the large display windows as the shopkeeper stood in the middle of the floor. He was less pale up close, his skin faintly tan, with a scattering of reddish freckles across his nose.
“Am I allowed in here?” I glanced around as I looked for white women, often upset at the presence of Black customers.
“You could be anywhere you like. Why not here?”
“This store may not cater to a particular type of clientele. Can’t be too careful.
” Nerves fluttered in my stomach, increasing as I glanced around, taking in the expensive wares.
The man’s outfit was exquisite, matching the quality of the merchandise.
The store’s wooden fixtures gleamed handsomely, indicating clientele of the noncolored type.
“Normally, you’d be right, but I have the run of the place today. The owner’s down with the flu.” He made a swift bow, and I blushed. This person was eccentric. I’d never met an American white man of this era who’d been so friendly. “May I interest you in that set of gloves today, miss?”
“I was just browsing. I already have a set,” I said.
“Yes, and while they are lovely indeed, I don’t believe you can’t also have these too.
” He fished them out of the display. “They are silk, edged in silk brocade and embroidery.” He lifted them to the light, his hands smoothing the fabric.
“Just in on the last shipment from Paris. You’d be one of the first to own gloves in this style. ” He tilted them for a better view.
I flashed him a warm smile. “As nice as they are, maybe another time.”
“What time?” he asked point-blank, startling me.
“What time for what?”
“When’s another time?” He gestured to the gloves. “You obviously like them. They’re beautiful and won’t be here long. You look like you can afford it. So, get them!”
“But it’s not practical.”
“What is? If you want practical, you could dress in a potato sack. It’s obvious you have taste. Why not indulge yourself?” His confidence and earnest demeanor were disarming.
“But I don’t have an occasion fancy enough to wear them.” Socialites wore gloves like these—the daughter or niece of an Aster, Roosevelt, or Vanderbilt. Maybe they could work for the dance, accentuating Gertrude’s designs, but surely they were too fine for a regular dance.
“Make one. Better yet,” he said, motioning me to the back glass case, “finery such as that is begging for an added piece. Perhaps a brooch for your throat to draw attention to your lovely skin?”
“You must think me an easy mark.”
“Not at all. You are a woman of means in search of beauty, which you rightly deserve. As soon as I saw you, I knew I had just the thing.” He spoke earnestly, his eyes assessing but not invasive in the way I sometimes felt from men. No lust lurked there. Only warmth and friendly curiosity.
He pointed at a small set of jewelry, emeralds in gold, with a matching necklace, the tag within sight. “See those, they would be perfect! You must have them.”
“It is very costly.”
“You won’t regret the price. You’ll only regret not taking the chance and buying these pieces that light up your eyes . . . if you’ll forgive my impertinence.”
“These would be perfect together,” I said.
I could afford it all. I wasn’t used to splurging on myself this way. I had immortality. It felt selfish to want more.
“I agree.” He pulled them from the case. “Why be ordinary when you could be extraordinary?”
Why not, indeed?
“It’s all rather sudden.”
“That’s what life is.” He winked. “All sudden and then it’s over. Best to get the dress, have the wine, and have a grand time.”
A laugh burst from me. I felt lighter than I had in so long. “I didn’t even come in here for this.”
“But you’re leaving all the better for it. I promise!”
I’d been sold by shopkeepers before, but this was something else—no room for guilt, only glee. “Fine. I’ll take it all.”
He beamed at me and wrapped each item carefully, folding the paper into crisp corners before he handed me the bundle, nodding in satisfaction. “I know you didn’t expect to find yourself here today, but I bet you’ll be glad you did.”
“I already am.”
“You know, if you’re free, I’d—”
The jangle of the bell cut him off as an older white gentleman with a waxed mustache came in. The customer’s head tilted imperiously back as if his neck had grown stiff from staring down his nose at people.
“Hello, Mr. Simons, right with you,” the young salesman said, dipping his head in a subservient manner I hadn’t seen from him yet. It was as if a mask had slipped, and I had been privy to his true self. “Have a good day, miss. I hope you can return to this fine establishment soon.”
“Maybe once my purse has some time to recover,” I said, taking my leave, purchases clasped in my hand.
I mused over the shopkeeper’s words as I walked back home.
Extraordinary.
That’s what Death would be interested in—the extraordinary.
I just needed to find the right topic. I sped home with not only the gloves and the jewelry but also with a burst of inspiration, the kind where it feels like you’ve created magic, and it leaks from every bit of you.
I went through all my books, searching for topics for the rest of the day, staying up well into the evening, sure I could find the perfect thing.
In the early morning, I was still hard at work, energized by creativity, with my gloves and jewelry beside me. I sensed that I was on the verge of a breakthrough. All I needed to do was persist and stay attentive; inspiration would come.