night and the nights that followed, Tenant and Louisa lay in bed, spines touching, palms pressed over their ears, minds ringing loudly with the familiar appeal: Hurry up and be done now. Hurry up!
Chapter 9
As promised, Lucille did write. She and Bill Hegamin were planning to leave the bone-chilling cold of Chicago for the endless sunshine of California. There was talk of her making a record.
Can you imagine, Emma? Me on somebody’s record?
But for now it was still just talk. If it did happen, Lucille would be the first black female vocalist in history to do so.
Emma wrote back that Sam was a good and kind husband. He had built a beautiful crib for the baby. Emma said that if she gave birth to a girl, she would name it Lucille and perhaps, when the baby was old enough, they would all come out to California for a visit. In the meantime, she and Sam were making plans to start their new life somewhere north of Georgia.
* * *
One night, she announced casually over dinner that she and Sam were planning to leave Macon after the baby was born.
Louisa lowered her fork. “And go where?”
“The capital,” Emma spouted excitedly.
“Atlanta?” Tenant said, his voice bright with hope.
“DC,” Sam corrected.
“Why DC?”
“Got an uncle there, seems as good a place as any to start a new life.”
“Why can’t you start here?”
“Oh, Mama, we can’t start a new life in an old place,” Emma snorted.
“Washington, DC is an old place,” Tenant countered. “Older than Macon. DC was established in 1790, Macon in 1823—”
“Daddy, you know what we mean!”
Tenant shoveled a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Louisa folded her hands onto the edge of the table. “What are you going to do in Washington, DC?”
Emma shifted her eyes away from Louisa’s excavating gaze. “Sam’s going to find work and I’m going to give piano lessons.”
“Piano lessons? Really?”
“Yes ma’am.”
PART II
He Is Born
Chapter 10
The baby arrived on Christmas Eve, right there on the parlor floor between the piano and the Christmas tree.
Emma was hanging an ornament when she was struck with the first knee-shaking pain. Setting the ornament on the arm of the sofa, she cautiously spun around, intent on moving into the kitchen where her mother was kneading dough for bread. The second pain sliced across her lower back, and her head went light. She opened her mouth to scream, but found she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper.
Her water broke, gushing fluid everywhere. Surprised, Emma careened backward into the mantle and crumpled to the ground, taking the Christmas stockings down with her. By the time Louisa heard the commotion, Harlan’s head was crowning.
“Easy now, easy, Emma,” Louisa cautioned, squeezing her daughter’s trembling hand.
Emma pushed twice and the baby boy slid out as easily as jam from a jar. Louisa had to pop his buttocks three times before he made a sound. And when he finally did open his mouth, he yawned.
Louisa reeled back with astonishment. “Well, ain’t he a grand piece of work!” she cried. “Been here a hot minute and already bored!”
They named him Harlan, after Sam’s deceased father.
Copper-colored with a mane of slick black hair, Harlan kept his eyes closed for two whole months—as if he couldn’t care less about what the world had to offer. Considering how his life would turn out, perhaps Harlan knew, even in infancy, just what the universe had in store for him.
“Is there something wrong with my baby?” Emma asked the doctor.
“No, he’s perfectly healthy, just lazy.”
Chapter 11
Spring swept into Georgia, gartered in green, yellow, and blush.
In honor of her arrival, Maconites began sprucing up their homes: replacing roof shingles, stripping away dreary weather-beaten paint from shutters and porches, recoating them with light, bright colors.
New bonnets filled the display window of the millinery shop, colorful spring frocks crammed boutique racks. Flowers sprang from garden beds, lush leaves exploded from the tiny brown nubs of tree limbs. The days stretched and warmed and the cobalt winter sky paled to a powder blue.
“Mama, we gonna leave next week!”
Louisa had suspected as much and invited the bright-eyed couple into the drawing room to voice her concern. “I think it would be best to leave the baby here with us,” she said. “Just until you all get settled.”
Emma went rigid. “You don’t think I . . . we . . . can take care of Harlan on our own?”
Louisa shook her head. “That’s not at all what I’m saying, Emma. You and Sam are wonderful parents. I just think it would be easier on everyone if Harlan remained in a stable environment.”
Emma chewed on her bottom lip as she contemplated this.
Louisa presented cream-colored palms. “Just until you’re settled,” she repeated.
Upstairs, Harlan started to wail in that languid way of his. With Louisa’s words twirling in her mind, Emma rose from the sofa and started toward the staircase.
As it stood, they would be staying with Sam’s uncle, Daniel; sleeping on a Murphy bed in a room that was as tiny as an outhouse, or so Sam had told her. Where would she put a crib? And Daniel was an old bachelor, no doubt firmly set in his ways. How would he adjust to having a crying baby in his space? Maybe Louisa was right.
Halfway up the stairs, Emma paused, glanced at the polished wooden banister, and dropped the decision into her husband’s lap. Whatever Sam decides is okay with me, she thought to herself.
* * *
They left Macon on a bright May morning.
The entire family went to the train station to see them off. Emma and Sam clung to Harlan like a drowning couple to a life raft.
Harlan, belly full of milk and the tiniest bit of farina, slept straight through the shower of tears.
The next day, Louisa had Emma’s bedroom painted blue. She swapped out the pink and cream bedding for mint green and white. The dolls and dollhouse were replaced with a wooden rocking horse, softball, bat, and catcher’s mitt, and Harlan and his grandparents settled into life as if it had always been just them three.
Chapter 12
They promised to come back for Harlan as soon as they were settled. But they never quite settled.
In DC, clothed in a smart dress and dainty hat, Emma marched into a cabaret that was advertising for a new pianist. She introduced herself to the manager, a big, black, thick-lipped man, heartily shook his meaty hand, and advised him, quite confidentially, that she was exactly who he was looking for.
Amused, he rolled his long cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Are you now?”
“Yes.”
The man pointed at the piano. “Show me.”
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