You wanna to go up to the Cotton Club? Girl, ain’t nobody
told you that club’s only for White folks? Sure you see
some Blacks in there — workin’. And you are too dark to be
a dancer, too cacklin’ to be a singer and, even if you were
White, you are too po’ to be a patron. But don’t you worry.
We gonna find you a good time. Just like you used to havin’
in those juke joints back home. That’s the thing bout
Harlem —— there’s always a good time goin’ on up in here.

~~

The sudden blam blam blam at the door startles me.
Malcolm’s here to pick me up and I ain’t even ready.

"Damn," I mutter. I snatch my dress up off the bed where I
laid it so my ironing wouldn’t be for naught and work it
hurriedly over my head. "You need to take it easy on that
door," I yell.

His hammering will have Mrs. Perry lecturing me again.

When I first moved in as a boarder, she made it clear what
she wanted out of me — the rent and when it was due — and
what she didn’t: trouble. She didn’t need bothersome
roomers, she’d said, adding that she’d have no problem
putting my black tail out on the street.

"And don’t think I’ll be missing your money none. Niggers
arrive in Harlem every day. I’ll have that room rented
‘fore your crack hits the sidewalk’s," she’d told me.

"You need to come on and open it," Malcolm hollers from the
other side.

"And you need to quiet down," I scold.

Malcolm’s fist raps out his reply.

I yank the door open but my irritation is gone at the very
sight of him.

Malcolm’s tall. Butterscotch skin. His daddy’s white, his
mama, black; Grandmamma back home would frown on this, but
she’d appreciate his high yella coloring. He’s got green
eyes and good jet-black hair, wavy and cut close to his
scalp. He’s dressed in all black— pants, jacket and shirt,
though in varying shades. His hat is tipped on his head
slightly, adding a bit of mystery. He is just too damned
good-looking and I tell him so.

"Can’t say the same," he teases, taking in my appearance as
he steps in the room, closing the door behind him.

"Well, I’m not quite finished. Zip me up." I say, turning
my back to him. "I keep forgetting that you are the only
Negro I know that don’t live on colored people’s time."

Malcolm grunts. He works the button at the top of the
zipper and then gives me a light swat on my bottom. "No CPT
for me. I am always where I say I’ll be when I say I’ll be
there."

"Well, go on and sit down. I’ll only be a minute." I head
toward the bureau.

"You might want to make that five," Malcolm says with a
wink.

I shake my fist menacingly at him before turning to the
mirror. "You find out about that Bessie Smith show?" I ask,
as I brush my hair.

Malcolm, leaning forward in the chair, his elbows on his
knees, his hat in his hands, grins a little and turns away.

I stare at him through the mirror. "You weren’t beating
your gums about getting seats, now were you?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, I got connections. Swear I do;
just takes a little time, a little effort. It’s Bessie we
talking ‘bout." He grins. "Though if you really want to see
her in action, we need to get you to a good time flat."

"What’s that?"

"A place where people find a very good time."

Our eyes hold each other by the way of the glass. His are
filled with devilish mischief and I feel an equally
devilish curiosity worming though me. It is not unexpected.
New York City, Grandmamma had warned me, was Satan’s
playground.

You are on the path to The Fire, her voice in my head
reminds me.

But this is not what makes me uncomfortable; it is
something coming alive between my legs at the thought of
such goings-on. I turn the conversation back to Bessie and
remind him, "You got my money." Least I hope he still does;
Malcolm supplements his pay with numbers’ winnings, if he’s
lucky enough to be winning.

"And I still got your money," Malcolm assures me in a voice
suddenly harsh and unhappy.

"I just don’t want to miss her show," I explain, hoping to
ease the offended look in his eyes. I remind him that my
move from Mississippi to New York was in part due to the
chances I’d have to hear some of my favorite singers in
person. I let him know that I’m trusting him. In the two
months that I’ve known him, Malcolm ‘s done what he’s said.

"I know you ain’t gonna let me down," I offer, but the look
on Malcolm’s face doesn’t soften.

I don’t know how to get rid of the ill feeling that’s now
in the room, so I simply ignore it and ask, "So where’re we
headed?"

Malcolm is slow to answer, like maybe, he doesn’t want to
go anywhere with me tonight but finally he says, "Let’s go
over to Smalls’"

The Paradise is a place we go to often. I wrote Grandmamma
back home how the waiters get around on roller skates, do
the Charleston while serving your food and drinks. I like
it cause here’s little hassle about getting in if you’re
Black; the only color that matters to Mr. Smalls is green.
But tonight I am of very meager means and tell Malcolm so.

"Then we’ll go over to Lenox first. See if anything
interesting is going on there. And maybe we’ll go to a rent
party. Friday ‘fore the end of the month; be easy to find
some."

I press my lips together until the lipstick shade is even
across. "What’s a rent party?"

Malcolm looks at me like I don’t know nothing. "Exactly
what it sounds like. A party so some folks can pay their
rent."

Life for colored folks was supposed to be different up
North. "Negroes can’t pay their rent here?" I ask, hopping
on alternate feet as I slip my pumps on.

"You a boarder, aren’t you? Can’t hardly nobody Black pay
their rent in Harlem. It’s two, sometimes three, times what
other folk gots to pay. But you, standing there so
surprised, you tell me, down in Mississippi, Black folks
paying and getting paid what they supposed to?"

He takes my silence as some kind of proof. "Uh huh. We’re
struggling everywhere," he tells me as he stands. "But we
find ways to make it.

"RENT PARTY," his beautiful, full lips say, forming the
words perfectly. "You remember that cause chances are you
gonna be having one soon enough." Malcolm takes my elbow
and steers me to the door. "Come on, Girl. I’ll school you
on the way."

* *

We start at Tillie’s for fried chicken Grandmamma would
envy. Malcolm’s a regular, knows most everybody that’ll
come in and no matter what time we get there, soon enough
we got people around us like Malcolm’s somebody famous.
Tonight, most people ain’t here yet (the really good time
at Tillie’s starts around two in the morning) but I’m
grateful for those now crowding our table; Malcolm ain’t
hardly said a word to me since we left my room.

Sometimes it’s easy to be with Malcolm, though we’re still
getting to know one another. But say something he don’t
like and everything changes. I tell myself that it really
don’t matter cause I know I will never be his main squeeze.

I met him through Raylean, who convinced me to move to New
York in the first place. She’d gone dancing at the Savoy
and happened to meet him.

"I ain’t seen no nigger that jitterbug like this cat,"
she’d told me while we were cleaning Mrs. Whitmore’s house.
A moan escaped her lips as she described him. "Fine as the
devil," she swore.

"Oh, go on, Girl!" I said, swatting at her. I ain’t never
seen Raylean carry on so about some man.

"I’m flyin if I’m lyin," she told me.

But by no means was she lying.

One Friday, at the Savoy, Raylean hollered in my ear,
"There he is!"

My eyes followed her finger to the cat doing the Breakaway
in the middle of the dance floor. Like the others, sitting
at tables or standing and giving him room, I was awed by
the moves his body orchestrated to the music.

"Fine, ain’t he?" Raylean asked.

Indeed he was.

When the song ended and he was walking off the dance floor,
wiping his brow and nodding in response to the clapping and
the praise, Raylean jumped up, rushed across the floor and
brought him back to our table.

"You know Johnny," she said, gesturing to her brother and
then, pointing to me, she told Malcolm, "This is my friend
from back home, Clarisse."

Malcolm smiled and took my extended hand. He didn’t shake
it like I thought he would. He turned it over and leaning
forward, he brushed my skin with his beautiful lips.

Something stirred inside of me deep.

When he asked me out to the floor, I was sure my legs
wouldn’t hold me up, much less move in any way that looked
like dancing. Just his hand on the small of my back had me
quivering so.

One dance was all we had that night. He escorted me back to
my chair, said "My pleasure" and kissed me on the cheek.

I went home with the thought of him becoming my beau.
Sometimes I’d meet up with him at the Savoy. He seemed
always happy to spend time with me, but he never did
anything that made me think we might become a couple.
Irritated at his pace, I hinted at the possibility.

We were at the bar and Malcolm just smiled. Gulped the soda
pop he was holding and then he turned, leaned against the
counter, watched the couples on the floor.

"I’ve got . . . somebody," he said in a low voice, like it
was a confession he knew he had to make but didn’t want to.
"There when I want her to be and she don’t do nothing but
make me feel good."

The stool beneath me would not hold still.

"My only love," he’d continued.

My head spun. I wanted to yell. I wanted to cry. I wanted
to ask why he was always out— and sometimes with me— but I
couldn’t bear to hear about a wife at home with babies or
sickly and I’d have to feel sorry for her and even more
angrier with him.

The next time I saw Raylean, I let her have it. Why’d she
even bother to introduce Malcolm to me if he already had
somebody?

Raylean shook her head. "He ain’t got nobody. He likes that
heroin shit." Lowering her voice and glancing about like
the very mention of it might bring on the police, she said,
"He calls it his lady. He always talking bout how it’s his
only true love." She looked in my face. I’m sure she saw
the disappointment because she nudged me and said, "He a
good man, anyhow. Fun and that’s what we came here for,
ain’t it?"

I begrudgingly agreed. Employment had been our secondary
goal when we left Mississippi. We couldn’t get enough of
the juke joints back home, though my Grandmamma and
Raylean’s mamma were always on us, insisting we pay more
mind to our churchgoing and schooling.

But I couldn’t see no reason Grandmamma insisted I get an
education if I was just going to end up in the cotton
fields. And if I was going to spend my day, toiling under a
relentless sun and equally relentless and angrier white
men, I couldn’t see why I couldn’t go out at night and
relax in a cool glass of Frank Baxter’s Lightning Water
down at his joint behind his house and be with a black man
who wanted nothing more than a smile and a dance.

Every time I was getting ready to go out, me and grandmamma
ran through the same argument.

"You are heading straight to Hell," she often warned. "Heed
my words, Clarisse Diana Williams. You will burn for an
eternity. "

Grandmamma glared at me, though she looked dismayed that I
did not cower beneath the threat of damnation. "The fires
are hot —"

"No hotter than that Mississippi sun, I’m sure," I replied.

"I did not raise you to be a blasphemous heathen!" she
yelled in that voice of hers she used when she forgot she
was a Christian.

One night I was particularly annoyed with her nagging and
when Raylean picked me up, she noted my sour mood and I
shared the reason why. She suggested that I move with her
and her sister and brother.

"Where?" I asked.

"New York City."

My heart quickened at the sound. Oh, I’d heard of New York
— a place up North where Negroes weren’t always niggers and
the music! Lord, surely it was a grand place, home to the
Duke and all. In person you could hear Bessie Smith and
Fats Waller, besides.

I shook my head. "My grandmamma ain’t gonna let —"

"Let you?" Raylean asked with a laugh. "Girl, you grown."
She explained that they were leaving in a week; her,
Belinda and their brother, Pretty Johnny. He was the reason
they were going.

Pretty Johnny should have been Mrs. Brooks’ third daughter,
the way he liked to dress up like a woman and the way he
liked men.

I thought on it, but not long. If I was headed to Hell, I
didn’t see how it made much difference if I went there
straight from the Delta or if I took a detour by way of New
York City.

* *

"I’m leaving now," I said.

Grandmamma sat on her rocker, her Bible with the gold-
trimmed pages, open in her lap. She didn’t lift her eyes
off the Scriptures.

I sighed, but I wasn’t changing my mind. I was expecting
for her to be like this; she hadn’t said much to me since I
told her about my moving plans.

"Well goodbye, then," I said. I waited a few seconds and
when she still didn’t reply, I sighed again, gripped my
valise handle a little tighter and turned toward the door.

Mr. Brooks had come to pick me up and as I was settling
into the front seat beside him, Grandmamma came out, down
the steps and across the yard.

I opened the door and she handed me a basket. She looked at
Mr. Brooks and said, "Drive safely" and then she we back
inside.

I lifted the edge of the cloth, picked up the note sitting
on top and pulled it out. In Grandmamma’s scribbling, it
said:

Here is some food in case there are no places along the way
for coloreds to eat. Here is twenty dollars to help you
until you receive your first pay. Should you find your hot
tail in trouble, please do not call on me or the Lord to
save you.

Ruth Pearl Williams

I snatched up the money and slipped it in my pocket. I knew
my grandmamma still loved me.

* *

We leave Tillie’s. When we near the Cotton Club, Malcolm
stops and lets me linger. He knows I like to watch the cars
arriving, like to fawn over those people straight out of
those Hollywood movies. Between my anticipation and
excitement, disappointment yanks at me. All the stories I’d
heard of the Cotton Club — how I begged Malcolm to take me
there!

"Can’t," he’d told me. "It’s only for white folks."

"For white folks? Right here in the middle of Harlem?"

"Girl," Malcolm told me, "most of ‘Nigger Heaven’ is owned
by white folks, remind them of when they owned the Big
House. And get used to the white folks, even here in
Harlem. You’ll see lots of ‘em slummin’ — they like Jungle
Alley, like the ‘primitive’ life. Places like the Cotton
keep ‘em feel safe, meake ‘em feel like they aren’t in any
real danger. They can mingle with each other, listen to
some great music and eye the natives all at the same time."

When the doorman opens the doors for a couple, I try to
peek inside. Strands of a W.C. Handy tune weave through the
air. Every note takes pleasure in beating me upside my head
with its no, no, no. I want to scream as I stand, envying
those white folks all dolled up and going in. I feel about
the Cotton Club the way I feel about Malcolm: I can’t let
go cause I simply don’t know how not to want what I’ve been
told I simply cannot have.

My heart completely flattened by frustrated want, I turn
away.

Malcolm is joking with some fella, but when he notices me,
he tells the man something final, pats him on his arm and
sends him on his way.

Approaching to me, he holds out a card and says, "We got
someplace to go."

I lift a brow, take the card and read.

"You can swish or you can sway. You want in, you just pay,"
it says. An address and a price for admission are printed
below.

"Rent party, and you can afford it," Malcolm teases. "You
wanna go?"

I shrug. "Sure, why not?"

Malcolm takes my hand and we let ourselves be swept up in
the wave of folks out looking for a Friday night thrill.

* *

We find the building we’re looking for, make our way up the
stairs to the floor we want and join the folks waiting to
get in. We pay and squeeze through into the apartment.

A rhythm starts pumping through my blood soon as we enter;
the place feels like a juke joint back home.

Dim red lights cast a seductive glow across the parlor. The
few pieces of furniture are pushed up against the walls. A
man in one corner pounds away on the piano.

"Go’n Miss Charlotte, you shake that thing!" he instructs a
woman gyrating out on the floor.

Through an open door to another room across the way, I can
see a group of men gathered around a small table, hands
hopefully blessed with aces. Cigarettes dangle from mouths,
dance about when the lips break into a smile—the winning
hand.

"I smell pig’s feet," Malcolm says.

I laugh. "You just ate."

Malcolm shrugs. He glances about the apartment, then he
pushes me forward, in the direction of the smell.

Just outside the kitchen doorway, in the hallway, a make-
shift bar has been set up. Two glasses of bathtub gin and
then Malcolm and I move on toward the food.

Bowls of pig’s feet, boiled cabbage, a plate of sliced
bread and another of corn bread, and a pot of brown-sugared
yams are spread across a table with no cloth.

Malcolm grins like we’ve come upon some buried treasure. He
digs into his pockets for money, presses some coins into
the hand of the woman serving and guarding the food.

She gives him some change, then spoons very meager portions
of what we ask for on two separate plates. She lays a fork
across each plate and hands them to Malcolm.

He hands one to me. He glances around, then nods toward the
stools lined up against the back wall. We sit, settle the
plates on our laps, but before we can get a bite in, our
attention is diverted by yelling from the other room.

"I will kill you, Nigger! Bringing some bitch to my house!"

Like the others, Malcolm and I rush to the doorway to see
the action. Watch a heavy-set woman charging a man with a
doll on his arm. Though he tries, the man can’t duck quick
enough to dodge the woman swinging something at him.

A bottle explodes against his temple. Glass spews and the
sharp smell of liquor fills the air.

The man stumbles back against the wall, blood streaming
down his face; the doll quickly backs out of the apartment.
The piano quiets. The woman storms down the hall.

"The last time!" she screams. "The very last time!"

In seconds, she is coming back up the hall with a gun.

In one motion, Malcolm spins and returns to the stools. He
sets the plate down, grabs his hat and then my elbow. Like
the others, we charge from the apartment. A gunshot rings
out, but Malcolm won’t let me look back. Not even when I
lose the plate of pig’s feet I’d been trying to keep safe
as we trample down the stairs and spill into the street. I
don’t know why but we trot until we’re blocks away.

Malcolm stops but he doesn’t say anything. He digs around
in his pockets till he finds his cigarettes. He lights one
and takes a heavy drag. Another. When he finally looks at
me, he grins.

We burst into sudden laughter.

"So that’s a rent party?" I ask.

Malcolm’s grin widens. "Yeah," he tells me, shaking his
head at the memory of it. He takes my elbow again and we’re
heading somewhere else. "Welcome to Harlem," he tells me.

* *

It’s called the "Home of the Happy Feet" and ain’t that so
true. Don’t nobody at The Savoy Ballroom got a worry once
that music starts. When I’m good-timing with Raylean, we
usually go on Thursday nights cause we get in free.
"Kitchen Mechanics’ Night," it’s called and most every maid
and cook in Harlem’s there, prancing on the floor like she
ain’t got no where to be the next morning.

The Savoy on Lenox Avenue stretches the city block between
140th and 141st Street. It’s real high-class, a beautiful
place with crystal chandeliers, mirrored walls and colored
lights. It’s something elegant; nothing like the juke
joints back home, still I ain’t comfortable at the Savoy.

Raylean takes the place as evidence that life up North is
worlds different from the South what with the Black folks,
the White ones and other races besides — all out there
doing the Jitterbug.

I want to believe that it’s better, but something bout it
don’t seem right to me. I ain’t gonna lie and say that I
don’t want things separate cause I do. I like the idea of
being apart, but with things equal and fair. I just don’t
see the need for some peckerwood in my world.

While we’re sitting, this White cat comes over like he’s
read my mind and wants nothing more than to annoy me. He
asks me to dance. I tell him "no" and as he’s walking away,
I mutter, "Damn ‘fays always looking for a reason." I take
a sip from my drink and set the glass down.

Malcolm’s head jerks and he glares at me with wide and
angry eyes. "Girl," he scolds, "This is not Mississippi."
He shakes his head. "You need to get past that jive-ass
shit. Trust me, they ain’t gonna start pulling the
tablecloths over their heads."

I blink in surprise.

Malcolm stands abruptly, his knees jarring the table. I
grab for my drink, stilling the glass as Malcolm tosses
some dollar bills onto the cloth and says, "Let’s go."

I have no idea why he’s flipping his lid, and I don’t want
to leave till I’ve got my money’s worth of good time, but
evidently Malcolm don’t care cause he’s already pushing his
way across the room.

He makes it to the coat room ‘fore I can push my way
through the crowd. I can see he’s gotten his coat and hat,
my jacket and purse as he stomps his way down the stairs,
pushing through the crowd happily entering. He’s out the
door and I’m not even halfway down the staircase.

Outside, I stand in the bright light from marquee which
hangs over the sidewalk, look up and down the street for
Malcolm. I see him and know something’s real wrong cause
he’s ready to spend money on the cab he’s hailing.

I trot in his direction.

He opens the door and looks up the walk, for me, I guess
and he waits. I try’n read his face as I’m getting in, and
all I see is angry.

In the back, we’re on either end of the seat. When the
cabbie asks where we’re headed and Malcolm gives my
address, I cast my friend a questioning glance. He turns
toward the window.

"I’m headed over to Eddie’s" he tells me.

That’s where Malcolm goes to smoke reefers. One of his
favorite places, he’d once told me cause Eddie’s always got
golden-leaf mezzrolls.

The ride to my place is quiet. The cab pulls up to the curb
outside my building. Malcolm gets out and opens my door.

"You wanna come up"" I ask as I get out, hoping he might
want to talk this out, but he shakes his head.

He pays the cab and it drives off. He turns to me. "I need
to get mellow," he says.

I nod in acceptance cause I can’t do anything otherwise. I
guess he really is looking to get away from me. "Whatcha
got planned for tomorrow night?" Our good timing generally
runs the entire weekend.

Malcolm glances away, shrugs.

"I didn’t mean to make you snap your cap," I say,
apologizing.

He looks at me, searches my face for something, then he
says, with that forgiving grin of his, "Ain’t making no
promises, so I am planting you now and I will dig you
later." He kisses my cheek and turns up the walk.

"G’Night Malcolm," I call, though most times I’m sending
him off with a "G’Morning."

Without looking back, he raises his hat off his head and
continues to fall out until he disappears into the crowd.

Inside the apartment, Mrs. Perry is sitting on the
davenport, listening to the radio. She glances at the clock
on the wall and then turns to me, surprised. I give her a
dirty look, and escape to my room. That woman ain’t got
nothing to say to me. No matter how much gallivanting I do,
I’m to work come Monday morning. Got my rent paid first
thing Friday night.

I toss my purse on the bed, strip my jacket off and let it
fall on the floor. Through the closed window, I can hear
the gaiety coming in off the streets. I flop on the bed
with a heavy sigh. It’s too early to be home.

I think about going out to find Belinda, but she’s with
Pretty Johnny, at another one of those faggots’ balls.
Though I don’t want to stay in, I don’t want to go to it–
ain’t a man there gonna be interested in me.

< >

Saturday morning comes and all I’ve got planned is my
laundry, which I do and am hanging on the line Mrs. Perry
has strung out on the fire escape.

Through the open door, I hear someone in the kitchen. I
look in through the window and see Mrs. Perry. She comes
out.

"You had an early night last night," she says.

I don’t say a thing in return.

She picks up a pair of my drawers and then another, hanging
them up like we’re the best of friends.

"You know I used to be like you when I first moved North.
Hard-headed, couldn’t nobody tell me a damn thing."

I pay her words no mind.

"I wasn’t looking for a good time; I was looking for a
man," she continues like she got something I want to hear.
"And I found me a real good one and it wasn’t in no club
either. Walker Jones. Sgt. Walker Jones. He’d been in the
Army, World War One. Smart too. Honey, we carried on for
awhile and I thought I’d be Mrs. Jones before long.
Somethin’ wrong with him, though. Something messed up from
the war. He was gonna be operated on and he promised when
it was over, he’d buy me a ring. I went to see him the
night before.

"’Don’t let them cut off nothin’ the two of us might be
needin’ I remember tellin’ him. he just laughed. Honey, I
didn’t ever talk like that to no man, but he made me feel
like I could say or do anythin’." Mrs. Perry’s attention
drifted to the morning sky.

I kept hanging my clothes, but stopped when her words cut
through and stilled me.

"He died. Right there on the operating table."

"After that, I went plum wild. Went out every chance I
could. Just lookin’ but I never did find whatever it was I
was chasin’. Didn’t matter either cause after he was gone,
didn’t no time feel like a good time."

I wait, listen for what else she might share, but she just
turns and goes back inside.

I’m tacking the last of my clothes on the line when I hear
tapping on the window. I turn.

"Don’t forget your lye soap in here," she tells me.

I think there’s something I should tell her, but I just say
"I won’t."

**

By mid-afternoon, I ain’t heard from Malcolm so I go find
him.

At his pad, he’s slow to answer my knock. Finally, the door
cracks open.

His voice is low and hoarse. "What?"

"It’s me. . . Clarisse," I say, but he doesn’t open the
door any wider.

Minutes pass.

"Malcolm?"

"Just a minute," he tells me and shuts the door closed.

I listen and can hear him moving about. My imagination and
heart pound with the possibility of someone in there with
Malcolm. I wait and when I’m sure he’s forgotten about me,
he returns to the door and opens it.

"G’afternoon," I say.

Malcolm grins, scratches his head. "Still that early?" He
motions me in. He’s shirtless, but still wearing the pants
he had on last night though they’re quite wrinkled.

I glance around, search for anything feminine.

"So?" Malcolm says behind me.

"So," I repeat, turning to him. "I was just wondering what
we were doing tonight," I say like we really had some kind
of plans.

He considers me, then says, "I’m going to a good time, a
buffet, flat tonight."

I don’t believe that was what he was really planning;
something in his words challenges me. I’m quick to reply.
"Any chance I can go?"

Malcolm’s mouth opens in surprise. He crosses the room and
flops on the chair in front of the window. He pulls the
drape back and peeks outside. "You sure?" he asks, turning
his attention to me, sinking down further, his legs
sprawled out in front of him.

I nod though my heart beats fast.

He shrugs. "I’ll pick you up at eight."

"I’ll be ready."

"No, you won’t. But I’ll be there just the same."

I smile. "So I guess you ain’t mad at me."

Malcolm looks confused then I can see in his face when he
remembers last night and understands what I’m talking
about. "Nah, I guess I’m not. But you are not in
Mississippi, Girl," he tells me. He leans over and yanks
the cord for the drapes. They rip open.

"Look around. You want things to be different, you gots to
see them different. You are in The Big Apple now.

"You remember that gal we saw a couple weeks ago? Gladys
Bentley?"

I nod. A bulldagger, she was all dressed up in a tuxedo and
top hat and singing the nastiest of songs while she flirted
with the women in the audience.

"Hear she got herself a white wife. . ."

"That ain’t possible," I argue.

"Now see, this here is New York. Anything’s possible,
though I heard she was married in Jersey."

I don’t know if Malcolm is fooling with me, but I tell him
I ain’t looking for a ‘wife.’ Frowning up my face, I add
"And certainly not one that’s white."

Malcolm gets that look on his face that he had last night
when he’d had enough of me. "Well," he says, rising and
walking me to the door, "with that attitude, you’ll be
lucky if you get anybody of any color."

* *

I’m ready at eight when Malcolm arrives. He is truly
surprised. "Anxious, are you?" he asks and I am, but not in
a good way.

He’s borrowed car and he drives us to a side of Harlem I
don’t know. The whole ride I’ve been telling myself I ain’t
got nothing to be scared of.

Malcolm pulls up in front of a building. It’s elegant
looking, real different from the buildings I’m used to, but
something about it just don’t feel right. Before I can
squash that feeling though, I’m asking Malcolm, "Is this a
whorehouse?"

He shakes his head. "Already told you, good time flats are
something more interesting."

My heart races. I turn back toward the window.

"If you ain’t sure. . ." Malcolm says.

I don’t reply.

"All kinds of . . . things go on," he explains. "There’s a
reason they’re called buffet flats.

"People do what they want. . . like there’s this woman who
gets naked, lays down on the bed and lets you watch her
smoke."

I laugh. "Malcolm, I’ve seen a woman smoke before."

"With her pussy lips?"

"Oh" is all I can say.

"And you ever think about what your sissy friend does with
the men he be with?"

I hadn’t, and I push at the images trying to conjure
themselves up in my mind.

"Well, there’s this guy that —"

I cut Malcolm off. "You’ve seen that kind of —?" I ask,
wondering what exactly he’s been served up in these" buffet
flats."

"Mess?" Malcolm asks me. "Is that what you were about to
say?"

I shake my head, shrug.

"And it don’t matter what I’ve seen and done. The question
is what are you willing to see and do?"

I take a breath. Watch some people make their way up the
front steps to the door. They knock and it opens. "I . . .
I. . . "

Malcolm turns the key and starts the car. "You can’t," he
tells me. "And I knew that."

* *

We end up at another rent party. "Lucky for you," Malcolm
tells me, "it’s the end of the month."

It’s a quieter affair than the one last night, though I
stay alert to the idea that anything could happen. Malcolm
disappears, in search of his "lady." I find a chair to sit
in and watch the people dancing.

There’s a man playing music on a phonograph on the other
side of the room. Handsome. Everything about him smooth and
easy like the world is moving’ cording to him.

He must feel me staring cause he looks over, meets my eyes.
I turn away, then look back to find him still gazing across
the space between us.

Feeling bold, I stand up and walk across the room. Before
him, I jerk my head toward the pile of recordings he’s
flipping through. "What you got that’s good?" I ask.

He lifts his head slowly, his eyes dancing around my
ankles, up the curve of my calves. They continue upward
until we’re staring at each other. "What you got that’s
good?"

I smile. "Everything," I say.

The man grins as well.

"So," I continue, "you gonna put something on so we can
dance or you just gonna keep letting all these other folks
have all the fun?"

**

His name is Rollo. It’s his friend’s place, his friend’s
party. He’s a porter and, on his days off, a musician.
Trumpet. Unfortunately, the cats he usually plays with
didn’t show up tonight so he’s doing what he can.

"They are, of course, just a little better than us," he
says, speaking of Cab Calloway, Chick Webb and Benny
Goodman.

We dance when we can and talk throughout the evening. He’s
real smart, has some big thoughts about how life in Harlem
for Negroes could be. I let him steal some kisses and he
lets me do the same. Eventually we make our way to a
bedroom down the hall.

"You ever been with a man?" he asks as he closes the door
behind him.

"Uh-uh."

"A woman?"

He chuckles at the shocked look on my face. "I’m taking
that as a ‘uh-uh’ as well. I guess you’re just cherry all
over." He runs the tips of his fingers across the front cut
of my dress and my breasts rise like they’re reaching to
meet him. "We’ll just have an appetizer then, he tells me.

He can’t lean over quick enough to please my hungry lips.

Is he pushing me backward or I am leading him back to the
bed? It don’t matter; we end up right where we want to be.

Our lips part and he moves down, kisses my chin. The curve
of my neck . . . he continues downward.

He pushes my dress up, runs his palms up and down my
thighs. "I bet your skin feels right nice," he says, his
fingers undo the garters and peel my silk stockings from my
legs.

The feel of him against my skin shivers through me.

"Like that? Hmm . . . let’s see what else you like." His
hands slip under the elastic of my drawers. I lift my hips.
And I can feel his smile through the darkness as I tremble
at his breath on my skin, his tongue right there. . .

I throw my head back in delight. Grandmamma’s wrong. She
said my ways would lead to Hell but I swear I just caught a
glimpse of Heaven.

* *

I have fallen asleep. I know this because I open my eyes
and I am lying next to Rollo, his arm curved under my
shoulders, his fingers keeping soft time on my skin with
the tune he’s humming. My dress is pulled primly around my
knees and I wonder what time it is, if Malcolm has returned
and where my drawers are.

I apologize for dozing. Tell him I had a previous restless
night.

"You go out a lot?"

"Most times," I say. Last night, I was too worried about
Malcolm to sleep, but I don’t see no need to add this.

"What else do you do?"

"Work."

"Day’s work?" he asks.

"Uh-huh." Something in me is getting offended. "Something
wrong with that?" I ask.

Rollo shakes his head. "Who am I to say? But it seems to me
that you could spend your time a little more. .
.judiciously " He scoots up in the bed. "Do you know that
this is the time of the New Negro?"

"What was wrong with the old one?" I joke but Rollo isn’t
amused. I want to tell him that I’m really not as ignorant
as his eyes suggest, but I’m more afraid to open my mouth
and not prove him wrong.

He ponders me for just a little longer, the he kisses the
side of my head. "Maybe we’ll have the pleasure again,
Clarisse." He slips off the bed and leaves the room.

I’m lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, running
my time with Rollo through my head like a movie I start
again and again. My thoughts are interrupted by the opening
door. I jerk up, hopeful that he’s returned, but through
the light from the hallway, I can see a couple drunkenly
hugging and kissing in the doorway.

They’re about to step into the room when the fella sees me.

"Oh, sorry," he says. "Didn’t know this room was taken."

"It ain’t," I say, scrambling off the bed. I see my shoes,
my stockings folded inside, and snatch them up. I look for
my drawers but don’t see them anywhere.

Well, ain’t nobody going to know they’re mine.

I slip past the couple and enter the hall. I make my way
back to the front room, my eyes focus on one part of the
room. Someone else is now choosing the music.

A touch on my shoulder from behind; I turn quickly.

"You ready?" Malcolm asks.

I smile weakly. "Yes. I guess so." I scan the room one last
time, then follow Malcolm toward the door.

I don’t know the time, but I ain’t ready for home. I tell
Malcolm this. He smiles and promises me anywhere but there.

* *

Morning creeps up slowly over the skyline like the sun’s
rising on CPT. Malcolm and I make our way up the sidewalk
where I live, the two of us holding the other up.

At the building, we meet Mrs. Perry, dressed and on her way
to church. She looks at me and I am weighted beneath her
glare. She shakes her head like there is no possible
redemption for me.

I want to tell her that I am only trying, like so many
Negroes in the North and the South as well, to catch hold
of a spirit that will help me transcend the daily battle of
my life.

Of course, my thoughts turn to Grandmamma. Her voice rises
above the miles and I hear her this Sunday morning calling
on the Lord to remind me of my guaranteed destination.

Malcolm starts humming and does a little soft shoe. I
giggle. I glance around. Manhattan towers before me.
Grinning, I recall the splendor of a night in Harlem. I
suppose I am going to Hell, but I decide it will be with my
eyes wide open. I can’t help but sigh and think, "Oh, what
a view."