Harlem Sunset, page 2
But she couldn’t let herself believe she had made everything up.
She wasn’t sure how she was going to survive.
3
SPRING 1927
FOR ABOUT THREE seconds, whenever Louise woke up with Rosa Maria’s warm body next to her, she was blissfully unaware of everything that had happened. In those moments, Louise was the woman she had always been. She woke up in a tranquil state, completely at ease and happy with her life.
But she remembered. It hit her all at once. She remembered the dark of the Zodiac, the sheen of the metal barrel of the gun pointed right at her. Louise had had to act faster than she ever had in her life. It was him or her. And she was not going to lose. Louise Lloyd never lost.
The shooting was the first thing she thought about when she woke up. It was the last thing on her mind when she went to sleep. The ghost of Theodore Gilbert followed her around, weighing her down with misplaced guilt.
She had thought that ghosts weren’t real. Now she knew the opposite to be true.
No matter the circumstances, she had killed someone. She had committed a mortal sin. No amount of praying would change that.
For weeks after the fatal shooting of Theodore Gilbert, she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t do anything but pace and worry. She was irrationally scared that he was around every corner, waiting for her to let her guard down. She and Rosa Maria had still been living in Miss Brown’s house then, and Rosa Maria refused to leave her side.
Louise would see one thing when she closed her eyes: Gilbert’s eyes on hers, his gun aiming at her. She was lucky she had been fast; his bullet had just missed her.
Louise had withdrawn from her housemates, who, besides Rosa Maria, she didn’t really like anyway. She had stopped eating, drinking, smoking. In the weeks and months following the Girl Killer case, the only thing she had wanted to be was not Louise Lloyd.
Louise would lie in her bed as the world moved on around her. Maeve Walsh had gotten engaged, and Louise hadn’t had the heart to tell her that her fiancé had cheated on her and would do it again. Girls had moved out and gotten promoted. Their lives carried on, and Louise was rooted to her spot.
It felt like Harlem was choking her, suffocating her, squeezing the life from her one day at a time. For weeks after the news broke, she couldn’t go down the street without being recognized; unflattering photos were put in the papers; murder magazines reported on the whole ordeal. She and Rosa Maria were planning to move out when Miss Brown kindly asked Louise to leave, as the publicity was too much.
Now she was older, exhausted, hungrier.
Theodore Gilbert had been playing her like a fiddle all along. And the worst part was that she had trusted him. His ghost would follow her around for the rest of her life. There weren’t enough prayers for forgiveness she could say that could change that.
She tried to hang on to those three seconds for as long as possible. She woke up early after tossing and turning all night and getting little sleep, her head pressed against the pillow, eyes closed, chest heaving with her breath. Louise would think it was just a dream, some awful, horrible dream.
And in some way, she’d be right.
She was in the middle of a protracted nightmare. One day leading into another, they were always exactly the same.
Things had gotten better since they moved. A place of their own, no sneaking, no lingering looks over the dinner table. Louise was able to exhale for the first time in a while, and maybe she could move on. Gradually the stories slowed and the whispers stopped. She found a new job. But she still felt guilty. That was the only way to describe it. Guilt clawed at her skin, nipped at her heels, trailed her wherever she went. And there was no way she could escape it.
Louise had always tried to consider herself a rational person. She had faced these facts a long time ago. Theodore Gilbert had killed several girls, tried to kill her, wanted to pin her sister Celia’s murder on her. She had had to kill him. She wasn’t going to let him kill her. She had had no plans of dying in the dusty club she had once considered her home.
So she had shot, acting first and thinking second.
And she had won, but at what cost?
Rosa Maria turned toward her, an arm falling on Louise’s stomach. “Hi.”
Rosa Maria’s voice was a whisper. She never liked to be loud in the morning. Rosa Maria thought that mornings were for quiet contemplation, coffee, and kisses. Louise kissed her nose.
“Did you get any sleep?” Rosa Maria asked.
“Just a little, but I’m fine,” Louise said.
How could she tell Rosa Maria the truth? How could Louise let her worry after her? She couldn’t do that, even if it meant hiding a large part of herself from the woman she loved.
“You never sleep anymore.” Rosa Maria frowned, her perfect bow-shaped lips pulling down at the corners.
“That’s not true,” Louise said. “I sleep plenty.”
She didn’t. She wanted to linger in bed, but she worried that if she stayed any longer, Rosa Maria would start badgering her.
“Go get ready. I’ll put the coffee on.”
The two of them had settled into a routine since moving in with each other, and Louise liked sharing almost every aspect of her life more than she thought she would.
She just wished she could tell the truth.
* * *
• • •
THEY HAD THEIR morning routine down to a science. Louise worked nights. Rosa Maria worked days. As Rosa Maria bathed and dressed, Louise would make coffee and turn on the radio. Neither of them were big breakfast eaters, and Louise rarely ate throughout the day.
Louise would collect the papers from the threshold of the apartment and flick through the pages as Rosa Maria dressed. She usually danced through these tasks, doing a Charleston or a Baltimore to keep herself from getting rusty. She adored her job at the Dove, but she didn’t spend much, or any, time on the dance floor.
That morning the papers were in an orderly pile: the Tribune, the Daily News, the Negro Voice. She read them all although she knew she shouldn’t. She had tired of seeing her name grace the pages. It had just stopped. Harlem had moved on more slowly than the rest of the world, but with the new year, new stories had been found. Three months of quiet. Three months of peace. Louise could hear Rosa Maria humming as she dressed. She would come out from the bedroom with her blouse tucked into her skirt, hair still damp, in search of coffee. Louise sat reading the papers at the kitchen table, big enough for two, a lazy and rough wooden circle that didn’t take up too much room in the combined kitchen and living room.
Rosa Maria stopped to kiss Louise before pouring the coffee. Louise would have to dress. She walked Rosa Maria to the subway every morning, and she had adopted a wardrobe of mostly black things made from crepe, linen, or wool, all the better to be invisible, and dressing was a matter that would take just a few minutes.
“What’s in the news today?” Rosa Maria asked, placing a cup of coffee in front of Louise.
“Another marriage announcement,” Louise said. “Truly scintillating stories.”
Rosa Maria sat down across from her and leaned over the paper Louise was reading. Louise had grown rather fond of the Negro Voice—it wasn’t all news, but also included writings and collections for Black people by Black people. She enjoyed reading the poems and stories when she couldn’t sleep at night. Rosa Maria picked up the Tribune. It was the paper where she worked as a typist, writing and rewriting the stories that the men took credit for. Louise knew that Rosa Maria was intimate with every section of the paper and often glanced over the society pages before she had to leave.
“I suppose there can’t be a murder at every turn,” Rosa Maria said.
“I think we’ve had enough of that,” Louise said.
They were able to spend twenty lovely minutes together, reading the morning news and drinking coffee, before they really had to go. And they managed to run the time out and rush through the door every morning.
They swapped papers; Louise searched through the crime section of the Tribune. She flicked through it, the ink staining the tips of her fingers. She scanned the stories. She was no longer taken up with the world of mysteries and solving them, but she still liked to read about them.
4
IN THE NINE months since the Dove had opened, it had become one of the hottest spots in New York City. It was a badly kept secret, and Rafael Moreno had worked so hard to make this place home.
To front the band, he had poached one of the best, Blythe Montgomery. She wore a headpiece of stars, and the light pooled on her bronze skin. She was breathtaking and her voice was amazing.
Behind the bar was Eugene Ross. He was sweet, a little dim. He never looked directly at Louise when he spoke to her.
Rafael was in tails; he dressed up for the Dove every night and encouraged all of his employees to do the same. Louise hadn’t yet done that; her role as club manager required a certain level of maturity.
Rafael was showing a glowing, shining Harlem starlet to a roped-off table. She was all of seventeen and Louise was jealous of her youth.
And walking across the crowded dance floor was Rosa Maria. She was Rafael’s twin sister, older by mere minutes. She wore a dark purple dress, and her hair had been dyed back to its original dark brown. Louise fought a grin.
Rosa Maria leaned on the bar, a coy little smile on her lips. “Happy birthday, mi amor.”
The clock had struck midnight and it was officially March 5, 1927. Louise’s twenty-seventh birthday.
She hadn’t thought she would be able to survive being twenty-six. But everything in her life seemed to have quieted down.
And she now was twenty-seven.
“Eugene, pour some champagne,” Rosa Maria said. “This is a special occasion.”
“Happy birthday, boss.” Eugene concentrated on putting two glasses on the bar.
Louise usually watched the night’s proceedings from behind the bar. Her role as club manager meant that she was in charge of the alcohol supply. She also cut off anyone who had too much.
“I have a surprise for you when we get home.” Rosa Maria raised one eyebrow.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Well, I want to.”
Working at the Dove led to very late nights. The club opened at eleven, the band started at midnight, and the place didn’t close until three in the morning, Thursday through Sunday.
And there was nowhere else she would rather have been.
“You’re an old lady now,” Rosa Maria was saying.
“I’m still young at heart.”
“Very funny.”
Rosa Maria was squinting. She refused to wear her cheaters to the club on the basis that they made her look older. Louise made sure to carry them with her every night because, after a few drinks, Rosa Maria would always want them. Louise pulled them out now from where she kept her purse under the bar, and slid them onto Rosa Maria’s face.
Eugene handed them two glasses. Rosa Maria picked one up. Louise had the other one. With a small, lovely smile, Rosa Maria tapped her glass against Louise’s.
“I love you so much.”
“Louise Lloyd?”
At the sound of her name, both she and Rosa Maria turned.
“You are Louise Lloyd, right?” The woman was dressed in dark blue. She seemed to be Louise’s age. She clutched a paper from the summer, one that had Louise’s photograph in it. “You may not remember me. I’m Nora. . . .”
“Nora Davies.” Louise put her glass down on the bar and stepped out from behind it. “You’re Nora Davies. I remember you. This is Rosa Maria Moreno. Owner’s sister.”
Sure, Nora was older, but her face was the same. She was taller now, taller than Louise, and she held herself with grace. She had the same small face and light brown eyes. She was one of the girls Louise had saved nearly a decade ago. It was strange seeing her as an adult. Louise had never met the other girls she had saved that day. Rosa Maria extended a hand and the two shook.
She had done what any other person would have done. She had always thought it unfair that she had been named Harlem’s Hero.
“I didn’t know if you would. But I saw your name in the papers. You’re not easy to find.”
That was by design. Privacy was the number one thing she valued now. For herself and Rosa Maria.
“I know.”
Nora barreled on. She was a talker. “I just wanted to come find you. Say thank you. Ask you about the summer. What happened? Did you . . .”
Louise had made it her rule not to talk about the summer. She couldn’t think about the summer. But Nora wasn’t a reporter. Nora was a girl who had been through the same thing she had.
Louise picked her glass up again. Could she be honest? Blythe and her band struck up a new song, slow and longing. Couples moved around the shiny floor. Across the room was Rafael, still charming the Harlem starlet.
And in front of her was Nora.
“I can’t believe this!” Nora was saying. “I can’t believe you’re right here. We have to catch up. We have to talk about everything.”
“Now?”
“Now! Tomorrow. Whenever!”
Nora pulled Louise in for a hug. It was clear that she had been drinking.
Louise drained her glass and put it on the bar. “Eugene, three more glasses. I suppose we have something else to celebrate.”
“Something else?” Nora asked.
“She’s twenty-seven today,” Rosa Maria said.
Yes, she was a year older. She had never looked at her birthday with any happiness or excitement. Had she not had to be at the club, she would have been in bed.
“Happy birthday!” Nora’s voice went up an octave, and she pulled Louise into another messy hug.
There was something very interesting about turning twenty-seven.
* * *
• • •
THE DOVE CLOSED at three in the morning. After all the patrons had left, Louise, Nora, Eugene, Rosa Maria, and Rafael sat in a circle on the floor, drinking from a bottle of champagne.
They passed the bottle back and forth among one another. Suit jackets and shoes were removed; cigarettes were lit.
“What a night.” Rafael was sitting next to Eugene. “A good night. Possibly our very best.”
“Really? What made it so good?” Rosa Maria’s pinkie finger was touching Louise’s.
Louise had unclipped her hair. She’d started using a hot comb to straighten it and had let it grow past the current fashion and was rather liking the near-shoulder length. The only problem was that it constantly got into her eyes.
“It’s Lovie’s birthday.”
“That doesn’t make it a good night,” Louise said.
The truth was that nights at the Dove were always more rewarding than those at the Zodiac. The Zodiac was where she had grown but the Dove was a place she had a stake in.
And the Dove was the best club in New York City.
Louise kicked off her shoes and took the bottle from Nora. The champagne was real and sweet. Rosa Maria took the bottle from her.
“Well, Louise, I still want to hear everything about your summer,” Nora said.
“I can tell you about how we faked a séance,” Rafael said. He was jealous that the attention wasn’t on him.
“How do you fake a séance?” Eugene asked.
“Ghosts aren’t real,” Louise said.
“We used magnets,” Rosa Maria added.
Nora watched them all. “Your lives sound so glamorous.”
Oh, how Louise wished that were true. “What about you, Nora? What do you do?”
“Nothing very interesting.” Nora smirked. “I work in a factory.”
“How did you find me?” Louise asked.
“Pure luck.” Nora winked.
They concentrated on passing the bottle back and forth for a couple of moments.
“Is it true he tried to blame your sister’s death on you?” Nora asked.
“Yes.” Louise thought about Celia every day.
Nora raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can.”
Louise had lived it. And now she couldn’t trust anything in front of her.
But she wasn’t thinking about that now. She was drinking champagne with her friends.
“We never have to live through it again.” Nora lit a cigarette. “I used to have nightmares of him grabbing me off the streets. I didn’t leave the house for a year. I . . .”
“I know. Can we talk about something else now?”
Louise took another sip from the bottle, then passed it back to Eugene. A funny taste lingered on her tongue. She ignored it.
“And this place is amazing,” Nora was saying, giving Rafael an intense look. She exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke. They had all taken off most of their formal wear, trying to get more comfortable.
“Is anyone else really tired?” Eugene asked.
He hadn’t said that much all night. An hour had passed with them talking, telling stories, comparing lives. Louise nudged Rosa Maria, giving her a small smile.
And when Louise looked back on that night, that was all she could remember.
5
THE MORNING SUN spilled into the Dove, the stained glass window painting light blues and grays and yellows. As Louise woke, she found that they were all lying on the floor of the club. She didn’t remember anything.
She pulled herself to her feet, feeling her body creak and moan. Her head pounded and her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. The room spun around her and she tried to get her bearings.
What time was it? How was it possible that they had all fallen asleep in the club? She began to look around, trying to figure out what had happened.
