A chronicle following a family during the Harlem Renaissance. Updated weekly.
Chapter 3: Is That Who I Think It Is?
The young man strides out of the flowershop purposefully, leaving the door swinging
shut behind him. He decides to take a little trip to the florist down the
block. It’s not like I’m welcome at home right now, anyway, he reasons.
Squinting into the sunlight, he grins widely at one of his acquaintances, a
Joseph Felman, who’s walking toward him on the opposite pavement. Next thing he
knows, Joseph’s trademark blue baseball cap has turned around and appears to be
moving past at an astonishing speed. Wonder what train he has to catch.
The young man shakes his head as he turns and tries to get a better look at the
figure, Maybe it wasn’t him. It’s far too sunny to see properly anyway; it
couldn’t have been Jos, or he would’ve come up and had a conversation. Gloated
about winning Sunday night’s game, at least. Hmmph. Not giving it much more
thought, the young man continues on his way. What reason could anyone have to
avoid him, anyway? Soon, he can see the brightly painted flowerboxes and even
brighter plants that are characteristic of Mrs. LeWane’s flower shop. He
fervently hopes that her husband, Mr LeWane (his eleventh grade teacher) isn’t
helping out at the shop today. If he is, then the young man will certainly be
on the receiving end of a lecture on ‘not letting prospects go in favour of
vain hopes or prejudice’.
It’s too early in the morning for deep thoughts and
‘soul-searching’ speeches. Should I just turn around? Lila can go without
flowers…But
looking at sixty-five cents and the remembrance that things at home weren’t
exactly peachy right then, he pushes on. Sacrifices must be made sometimes,
and Lila does love her namesake flowers. I hope the lilacs are in stock...The
bell tinkles as he pushes the glass door, leaving an arc on dusty floor-
apparently they hadn’t gotten around to this week’s dusting yet.
Mrs LeWane, peppy as ever, bounces slightly on the
balls of her feet as she stands behind a rack of blazing red poppies. She’s a
petite little thing, and her glasses hang on a red chain around her neck,
bright in contrast to the dull grey overalls she has on. Underneath she wears a
long tunic-like silk ensemble, topped off with strangely-shaped slippers and
earrings such a bright blue that they wouldn’t have looked out of place in the
100th street church’s stained
glass skylight. The young man’s loud
throat clearing brings her attention away from the clipboard she’s studying,
and she gives him a warm grin.
Lilacs for your Lila again? She asks with a giggle.
He answers in affirmative, and she hops away, holding
the flowers and searching for pretty purple ribbon, which was ‘perfect for your
little bouquet and just came in this morning’. He snickers to himself as he
compares her to a little furry bunny jumping about a field of flowers, the simile
becoming alarmingly accurate as the woman reappears, nose twitching something
horrible, white silk outfit sliding across the floor and creating scuff marks
in the thin coat of dust. She explains her twitching nose to be a result of
extreme allergies- to what, she doesn’t specify, only saying that they are
plant related. Why are you a florist, in that case? He thinks, offering
Mrs LeWane a beaming smile of gratitude and a few coins, which she takes and
cheerily writes up in her little brown logbook. She’s lucky to have a nice
young man like you, that Lila! Mrs LeWane’s tinny voice calls, as he steps
out of the shop. The sentiment makes him smile, genuinely this time, at the
thought of Lila sticking the smallest lilac into her braid, characteristic
orange nail polish glinting in the harsh streetlights. Spinning around on his
heel, he begins to amble back up the road, hoping that the situation at 121B
has improved by now. He hears the whirr of an engine and whips around to see a
black Duisenberg coming toward him, gravel crunching under its magnificent
wheels.
Wow. What’s one of these doing down here on 128th street? Surely it
doesn’t belong to anyone who lives here…He stops, waiting for it to come closer so he can
study it in all its glory. As it comes closer, he can make out two figures
sitting in it: one the driver in a plaid newsboy cap over curly red hair, the
other looking quite familiar.
Is that
Lila? No, it couldn’t be. Why would she be in a car with some rich fella? It
must be one of her sisters; I did hear that Edna was dating a Manhattan man. Of
course Lila would never…His thoughts are cut short by the car’s sudden
change in speed: it suddenly zips past him, allowing him a split-second view of
the girl on the left.
She has her
dark hair in an intricate braid, and her hand, with its orange-painted nails,
is entwined with driver’s. The car cruises down the lane, fading to dark shadow
in the strong 8 ‘o’ clock sun.
That was Lila, wasn’t it? Who else braids her hair
that way, anyway? It was her. Who is
that guy? What’s Lila doing with a guy who owns a spanking Model X? No,
no, it probably wasn’t her, because
she’s ‘with’ me. She can’t hold hands with some rich guy if she’s with me… can
she? I buy her lilacs and everythin’, I do, she loves them lilacs. I doubt it’s
her. It’s damned terrible of me, outright wrong really, to doubt Li-Li like
this! I need to stop. I trust her, I do, I do- I gotta trust her. Shaking his head,
literally, free of all such outlandish thoughts, he makes his way back home.
He clutches the
lilacs tightly in his now-sweaty fingers, and just as he climbs the first step,
the door swings open. His sister tiptoes out, schoolbag on shoulder and frizzy
hair in a yellow bow. She’s startled slightly when she sees him, and comes
quickly down the steps, her polished black shoes making tapping noises on the
wood.
Mom and Pop
are still…arguing. I’d stay clear of the kitchen if I were you, she says
conspiratorially.
Her brother raises his eyebrows coolly and steps
around her. They aren’t on talking terms; forget conspiratorial terms, and
haven’t been for a while now.
There’s some violent stuff going on in there, she calls over her
shoulder, so watch out. Wouldn’t want poor Lila’s pretty flowers damaged,
would we? There’s an acerbic tinge to her voice, one that is apparent every
time his beloved, beloved girl is mentioned.
The young man
ignores his sister pointedly, stiffening and stomping up the steps. She just
laughs and skips away, ponytail swinging.
What on earth does she have against poor Li-Li? We’ve been arguing ever since I
started dating Lila, really, but she’s a silly teenager and Lila is…Lila, the
most gorgeous girl on the block. Well, my silly sister is going to have to live
with it. I love Li-Li, and she’s mine- all mine. He clenches his jaw and
marches into 121B.
That night at dinner, there is a stony silence at the
table. Their parents seem to have reached an impassé, and neither will speak
till the other gives in. They pick at their food in quietude, and much is left
over- unusual, with this family. The girl collapses on her bed, swearing to go
shopping for an appropriate dress for her intended sojourn to Delaro’s.
