Dancing In The Dark Read online

  —Mr. Williams, will you be needing anything else tonight?

  —I don’t believe so, Mr. Kelly.

  —Well, you just remember. I’ll be holding that spot for your pop. Tomorrow night, or whenever he’s ready to see you perform, you just let me know.

  —Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I surely appreciate it.

  He averts his eyes from the mirror and listens to the sound of retreating footsteps in the corridor beyond his locked dressing room door. Although no words have been exchanged between them, it is clear that his bewildered father is deeply ashamed of his only son.

  The balance has gone. Five years ago, when she first met him, young Mr. Williams was a man with a purpose. Handsome, well dressed, and still in his mid-twenties, he possessed courtesies that belonged to an earlier era. He rose early, and retired early, and drank and smoked only in moderation, and he possessed a fierce ambition and work ethic. And talent. Lord, he had a talent that others could see, but none, she believed, could imagine it in full bloom the way she could. This, she thought, was a man fit for a widow who had already mastered the art of nurturing a man’s dreams. This new man had traveled a long way from his Caribbean birthplace and twice crossed America, first to the west and then back to the east. This was a man whose brow she might soothe, a man she could encourage to relax and stay focused as he journeyed toward his destiny. Truly, fate had blessed her, but five years later the balance has gone. On that momentous day she accompanied her friend Ada, and sat quietly in the corner of the photographer’s studio. The tobacco advertisement was to feature Ada and another woman, all dressed up in their finery, sophisticated ladies ready to step out on the arms of two gentlemen. Quality colored ladies, quality product, and then the two dandies entered the studio, one tall and tan, one dark and short, and her eyes were drawn to the tall man, who bowed gently before Ada and the other woman and then turned to her and smiled with a sweetness that caused her body to tremble, so much so that Ada had to shoot her foolish friend an unambiguous glare. She lowered her eyes, for there was now no longer any need to look at this tall man for his image was burned deeply into her soul. She had immediately noticed that this lofty man, with long fingers to match his legs, possessed a strange spring in his step. She expected a less nimble gait from a man with his build, something that might betray the fact that he was overly conscious of his size, but there was a curious buoyancy to his movement. She looked up as the photographer set the first pose, and she observed that it was his arm that Ada’s companion was instructed to take but the woman began to act uppity with him, and then plain downright cold, for she had noticed him looking across at Lottie, but it made no difference for he kept right on treating this difficult woman like a queen upon whom he was honored to attend. Lottie observed that the darker man also had manners, although he did not possess the same courtesies as his taller friend. She scrutinized the darker man and immediately sensed that beneath the sugar he would probably be quick to anger and express his mannishness, and should a woman attempt to slip a noose around his ankle he would soon be stepping clear. A heartbreaker, she thought, but if Ada wished to make reckless eyes at this man, then who was she to say anything? Her friend’s new preoccupation left her free to secretly pursue her own interest, although, of course, she had no intention of letting this man know that her heart was already beating to his tune. And yet again the photographer moved this tall man and Ada’s tiresome friend into another position that suggested both courtliness and intimacy, and the tall man turned his head so that his eyes once more met those of Lottie, who remained seated quietly in the corner. She reminded herself that whatever thoughts might be coursing through her mind she was a widow and she should not forget herself and allow her heart to fist up so rapidly for this young man.

  Sitting across the table from him at a fine restaurant on Fiftythird Street, Lottie melts. But he does not blow any hot air on her. He just listens to what she has to say about her late husband’s painful final days in Chicago, and he drinks up her words as though they were the finest red wine. She is helpless in the face of his stillness. He is balanced, and he seems to understand that the first duty of love is to listen. She looks closely at his hands, for she knows that gentle hands that are afraid of loss are the only hands for her. Lottie wishes to apologize for her somewhat coy behavior at the photographer’s studio, but saying sorry seems unnecessary. She toys with her food while, inside of her, certainty falls like an anchor.

  He insists on walking her the four blocks back to her rooming house on Forty-ninth Street, and as they step out of the restaurant he offers her his arm. They ignore the unsavory odors that emanate hereabouts from dark hallways and open windows, and they promenade regally as though crossing a meadow that is high with the scent of flowers on a bright spring morning. He tells her that there is no other girl; that there has never been another girl, that his life has been selfishly dedicated to performing, but now he is ready for something else. He confesses that her quiet dignity has captured his heart and he wonders if she might consider hitching her fortune to his. She smiles coyly and suddenly he feels overwhelmed with embarrassment. As they reach the junction at Fifty-first Street and Broadway they both hear the word “niggers” fly from a horse-drawn carriage, but neither looks up to investigate what foul mouth has unleashed this missile. The word ricochets off a wall and crosses in front of them, creating a low obstacle over which they both step. They do so without breaking stride and press on toward Lottie’s place of residence. Were they to turn around they would still see the word hurtling around the junction of Fifty-first Street and Broadway, picking up speed here, losing tempo there, as purposefully silent as a bird’s flight, yet furiously burning energy deep into the New York night.

  Before she retires Lottie lights a solitary candle and then kneels by the side of her bed. As the scarf of smoke eddies its way toward the ceiling in swirling fits and starts, she begins to recite her cherished list of names. Her dry lips peel stubbornly apart, and as she whispers the names her now freshly moistened lips brush gently, one against the other. She squeezes her hands together and adds one more name. But what to call him? Mr. Williams? Perhaps she should have given him the opportunity of naming himself, but she knows that Mr. Williams is not this type of a man. “Call me the Honey Man.” “They call me Sweet Loving.” “Let me be your daddy.” For most of her years on the stage she has heard this kind of sweet talk, and a ring, bold and visible on her left hand, has never stopped a man’s tongue from flapping. “Baby, they call me the Candy Man.” But this man, whose head fame has not yet managed to turn, seems to have no desire to rename himself. She continues to kneel by the side of her bed.

  Sitting high up in the balcony with the colored folks, she watches tall, twenty-six-year-old Mr. Williams perform with his partner. Two Real Coons whooping it up on the New York stage, and a shiver of pride runs through her body. Women of all shades, from nearly night to nearly day, are captivated by the sight of Mr. Walker all prettified in his spats and his vest and his trim jacket, and each evening these ladies return in order to enjoy the thrill of being under the same roof as Jim Dandy. Lottie looks at these women and understands that while they respect the taller man, he can never generate the same heat in their hearts, which pleases Lottie for she knows that some women possess appetites that are dangerous to men. Again Lottie looks at Mr. Williams. Hers is a private passion, studying how he moves, how a raised eyebrow here and a turn of the wrist there make the white folks downstairs collapse into heaps of laughter. They laugh at him, and they feel sorry for him, but she understands that they are laughing at somebody else. This is not the dignified man that she knows, and so she too is permitted to laugh. However, the sight of her suitor in corkface disturbs something in her soul. But there is nobody to whom she might turn and quietly confess her anxieties, sitting high up in the balcony with the colored folks.

  While his darker partner drank and smoked late into the night, and decided which of his female entourage he should entertain, Bert would have l
ong ago proffered his excuses and climbed the stairs and made his deliberate way up to his single bed at the back of Marshall’s Hotel on Fifty-third Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Once there he would first draw the drapes and then slowly contemplate undressing. Each article of clothing was neatly folded and hung on a wooden hanger, and then his long extravagant shoes were carefully lined up, one next to the other. Only then would Bert slide into the white rectangular pocket and prop himself up and read from his extensive book collection. Much to his father’s chagrin, Leland Stanford’s institution was already a past dream, but Bert refused to abandon the quest for self-improvement. Philosophy, history, science, he read books on whatever subjects took his interest, but eventually the tension of the day would take its toll, and Bert would prudently mark his place and then rest his book back on the bedside table. For a few moments he would lie with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, dreaming of songs yet to be written, keen to improve his mime skills and hone his voice, eager to be recognized. The whole world lay before him and Lady Luck had dealt him a fine hand for he truly believed that he was in the right city at the right time. He believed that if both he and George stepped cautiously, and kept moving forward, then the theater might well be kind to them, but of late he worried about George for he appeared to be growing increasingly impatient. In all the time that they had lived and worked together as brothers, he had never once seen George back down in an argument or turn from a fight, and now, as their fame as the Two Real Coons was beginning to quicken, George seemed to be reveling in the attention. Bert knew that his partner would be downstairs in Marshall’s Lounge drinking with Bob Cole, whose performances as “Nigger Bob with chitlin’-loving eyes” marked him out as one of the crude minstrels whom George professed to despise. However, offstage they remained firm friends, and the pair of them often stayed in Marshall’s Lounge until dawn, leaving only to scamper upstairs and swiftly entertain one of the many devotees who the pair of them traded like used banknotes. The talk that reached Bert’s ears was not good, for these women were obviously low-grade fruit that would fall with little shaking, but this was not a subject to broach with George. He knew that his partner would not care to discuss his addiction to fine women and new money, but clearly he was happy, for, these days, whenever George climbed to his feet it was noticeable that one buttock was heavily swollen with a roll of dollar bills. Bert reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. George must live his life according to his own plans, and if this involved his sitting downstairs with a cigar in one hand and a tall drink in the other, and a tan girl on his knee, then so be it. After all, both George and Bob Cole were grown men.

  Jimmie Marshall knows that these talented men of keen ambition and prodigious appetites will be the bedrock upon which the future of the race will be built. His charge is not to judge these men but to facilitate them, and give them a place in which they might work and rest and play. He often flicks through the ledger just to remind himself of their vintage. Young men in their twenties, only one or two of them in their thirties. Has there ever been a time when colored America has produced such a roster of talented individuals? Together these colored men of the theater are rewriting the rules of what it means to be a Negro in America, and all of them under his roof, playing their music and singing their songs, spending their afternoons rehearsing, asking for water and juice, discreet about whatever else they might use, and then drinking strong liquor long into the night and satisfying themselves with an ever-changing cast of admirers. There is no blind eye to turn. Jimmie Marshall sees it all, but they know that he will never mention an encounter or a rendezvous to anybody, not even to others among the band of brothers. No, this is not the way to conduct business. Jimmie Marshall understands his clientele, and as long as he respects them, then his hotel on Fifty-third Street between Sixth and Seventh will be their haven and the place from which they will attempt to change America.

  Men are already lounging outside of Marshall’s, one foot back up against the wall, pulling on cigarettes and tipping their hats to passing ladies. The slow male rhythm of the day. And then they see George’s girl and step to one side to let her pass, with a volley of “ma’am’s” and “morning’s”, and up the steps she bounces with a thin grimace on her lips but little else to betray the fact that she does not care for these men or their deportment, for not one of them possesses the breeding to avert his eyes when in the presence of a lady. Once Ada reaches the lobby the smirk buckles on the face of Mr. Marshall. He recognizes her and his hands begin to twitch, and she watches as he clasps them together in front of him. She immediately understands and throws him a weak smile, but no words pass between them. The only question is how to maintain her composure in such circumstances, for clearly neither of them is to blame for this unfortunate turn of events. Ada feels the beads of perspiration pooling in her armpits and then dripping helplessly down the inside seams of her special dress. Yes ma’am. Mr. Marshall. Should she call him by his name? Yes ma’am. Mr. Marshall, I’d be most grateful if you could tell Mr. Walker that I stopped by to call on him. Yes ma’am. Mr. Marshall, when George has finished entertaining would you be so good as to remind him that today we have an appointment? Mr. Marshall, please don’t tell him that you saw me. Yes ma’am. Mr. Marshall, please don’t mention my presence here this morning. Mr. Marshall.

  It would be an exaggeration to call it a park, but that’s what Lottie called it when she bragged about how her always-attentive Mr. Williams escorted her there to relax. She regaled Ada with stories of how Mr. Williams encouraged her to sit comfortably and then wooed her with tales of his early life, but it would be an exaggeration to call it a park. Two benches set down in a small field of concrete. A queer-shaped quadrant with a single flower bed, but coloreds were permitted to sit in this park in the middle of New York City and contemplate their day, their life, their predicament. Ada sits by herself, her damp dress clinging to her sides, and she stares at the near-horizontal branches of the solitary tree that suggests that the name “park” might not be a misnomer. One thickset tree, two dozen tired branches, one hidden sun, a city, a roar, confusion raging in her head, and hot tears trapped behind her eyes. One stupid photograph for a tobacconist’s advertisement and she throws herself like a cheap bouquet into the hands of a man who carelessly drops her and picks her up and drops her and picks her up again. Of course, it makes sense that every woman should want him, but why can he not learn to say no? Or at least learn to protect her? She would settle for this. Ada has yet to approach George with this idea (Protect me, George), but she knows that she must find these words. With his spats, and his embroidered vest, and his gold teeth, she understands why every woman wants him.

  He dreams vividly, and in full color. The powerful images are always captivating, and frequently they overwhelm him with their intensity, but he is unable to arrest his dreams. He often wakes up in the morning, the sheet and pillow soaked with sweat, his body cold and shivering, having tossed and turned all night in the damp bed. Hot sun, that is what he remembers most about the Bahamas of his birth. Hot sun, tall trees, and the sound of the sea, although he cannot remember actually ever going into the water for that would have meant taking off his clothes and already he was conscious of his size, and he had no desire to draw unwanted attention to himself. And so he would sit and listen to the gentle engine of the sea, and occasionally walk on the beach and let the sand funnel through his toes, and he remembers these moments and dreams of his tall stately father, who walks as though he is balancing the roof of the sky on his head, and his mother, with her light skin and strange green eyes, who suggests many worlds in one face. His parents say little to him, but they radiate a quiet authority that is confirmed by the manner in which others look at them. He understands that the pair of them have little money, but they possess a refined quality that he must never betray by behaving like the rough barefoot children from Irish Town or Wendell’s Reef, with their backsides hanging out of their pants, children who will never leave the isla
nd or visit any place in their imagination. He dreams of the warm tropical Caribbean, and a childhood of few cares or concerns; he dreams of a boyhood blessed with books and sun and sand and long hot days that merge one into the other as though the world will for evermore proceed in a seamless pattern of Caribbean indolence. And then he wakes up in a shapeless sodden patch, his sweat having cooled so that any movement sends chills racing through his gracefully curved body. His hot Caribbean past undermined by cold American anxieties, and his tired mind still spinning backward, trying eagerly to reclaim the Bahamian beach that, all those years ago, his parents gave up for Florida.

  He once more closes his eyes and urges his mind to hurry back in the direction of the Caribbean, but this time he finds himself shipwrecked in Florida with the shocked faces of his parents staring at each other, and their son looking intently at the horizon trying desperately to repossess what his family has recently left behind. In this new place they are now encouraged to see themselves as inferior and they are to be paid less than others for picking oranges from the tired branches of row after row of squat trees. In this new place called Florida they are not treated as West Indian people who have come to America by steamship and who are keen to work; they are not viewed as migrants who are prepared to remake themselves in the new American world, but who nevertheless hold fast to a dream that one day they might return home with money in their pockets to live out the late autumn and winter of their lives. In this new place they are simply Negroes. In this new place, young Bert looks at his distraught father, who, unable to face the humiliation of an immediate return to the land they have just waved farewell to, promptly gathers up their belongings, and his eleven-year-old son, and steps on board a ship bound for California, on the far side of this already vexing United States of America.