Page 66 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
When I happened to buy stock in 1919 in a little soda company from Atlanta that I’d liked, my wealth exploded.
The next year, I moved into one of the newer apartments in Harlem, built to accommodate the swelling Black population. The Great Migration was drawing thousands of people from the rural South searching for work and opportunity, packing into the tenements as they searched for jobs on the docks or in factories. It was a vibrant community of established shopkeepers living next to washerwomen or women of the evening alongside working men on their way to the shore, all crammed in square blocks, bounded by their Blackness.
I used my wealth to help, but after London, I’d learned to be more discerning in my investments and monetary status, ensuring I’d never be left in those financial straits again and also to blend in better. The sting of letting all those orphans down still burned. The orphanage project had eventually been completed, but it was years after I’d hoped. The war, Rohan, our child. Too much loss had disrupted my plans.
I found people far too curious about my being a Negro woman with means, the very idea breeding jealousy and contempt. So I kepta low profile dictated by the racial strictures of the time and donated anonymously, also giving my time where I could, helping in soup kitchens, keeping my learnings with Rohan firmly in mind. Volunteering and writing kept me busy as I searched for evidence worthy of Death’s new challenge.
I stared out the window, listening to the noise of the city, trying to write a new piece to submit. I kept coming up blank—all my ideas felt trite. What would Death care about architecture in New York? Or about improvements to the subway? I’d just snatched the paper from my typewriter when a knock came.
A woman stood at my door in a finely tailored ankle-length plum dress that complemented her rich brown skin. Her Eton crop hairstyle glistened with oil, and a dainty necklace draped across her collarbone. She smiled shyly and carried a white pamphlet in her hands. “Hi there! I saw you’re new to the building and wanted to introduce myself. I’m Willa. Please forgive me if I’m intruding.” I nodded politely. I’d seen her in the building; she was friendly.
“I’m Tessa. Tessa Thorpe.”
“I’m the secretary for a mutual aid society here, and we’re having a fundraiser.”
“How wonderful. I’d be happy to donate. Let me go get my pocketbook,” I said, stepping away.
She came in a short distance, stopping by my desk. “What’s all this?” She pointed to the stacks of papers.
“I’m a writer.”
“A writer!” Willa beamed. “I’ve never met a woman writer before—not in person, anyway. Have you published anything?”
Every writer’s favorite question,I thought.
“A few things abroad, little articles, things like that. I’m currently writing forThe New York Age.”
“Well, that’s amazing!” she said, impressed. “Maybe our fundraiser this weekend would make for a good story. There will be an auction to help fund a community center.” She handed me the pamphlet withthe time and address for that upcoming Saturday. “It’s an open event, so if you know anyone else interested in the cause, please bring them.”
I nodded. I didn’t have anyone to ask. I didn’t have friends or family, and most of my contacts were related to the newspaper office, where I only stayed long enough to file my copy or meet with my editor. I was warmed from the interaction with Willa, enough to ensure my anonymous donation would cover their entire request.
The spring turned to summer, and Willa always made sure to speak whenever she saw me, and over the months that followed we chatted about mundane things—the weather, if I was going to a particular show, the neighbors’ chitchat—but I liked having someone, anyone, to talk to.
The September leaves found their way into the apartment building foyer. The next time she approached me, I was collecting my mail.
“I hoped I’d run into you, Tessa,” she said, unlocking her box. “You popped into my mind the other day, and I wondered if you would like to have dinner tomorrow night? With my husband, Nathan, and me. I rarely see you with friends, and you never got a proper welcome to the building.”
“Rarely” was a kind way of saying I had no friends. None but her. I was flattered but knew better than to get too close to someone. “I don’t want you to go to the trouble.”
“What trouble?” she said, throwing her arms in the air. “No trouble at all. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tessa, you have to eat. I’m cooking. Come on over.” She made it seem so simple, harmless. I had no plans other than a bologna sandwich—maybe with mustard, if I was feeling fancy. Perhaps one dinner with the neighbors couldn’t hurt. I’d spent so many nights alone at my little round kitchen table, a single candle, a single plate, while I ate and watched the city street as life scurried down below. The loneliness of eternity could be summed up in dinners alone by the window.
When I arrived, I was touched by all the effort she’d put in. Her apartment was modest and warm: Black-and-white photos of herfamily that she’d carried from Alabama covered the walls, a tipsy sofa was adorned with tufted pillows, knickknacks covered every available surface, and a lovely table displayed the best china she had to offer. The chicken she fried reminded me of Georgia, and the peach cobbler she’d made from late-season peaches felt like a slice of summer.
The conversation was spirited. I got to transform into what I appeared to be—a young twentysomething with my whole future ahead of me rather than several lifetimes behind me. We discussed the blouse dresses and cloche hats in the windows of the Bonwit Teller and Macy’s department stores, wishing we could browse and try on the latest fashions. Then there were Willa’s plans for the next fundraiser, and her interest in the articles I’d written. It was a welcome break from solitude and thinking about Death’s next visit.
Nathan was a wonderful partner to her, quiet and contemplative, his full beard hiding most of his handsome brown face. He worked in his father’s pharmacy, the only colored-owned one nearby. They’d made a comfortable life for themselves.
The dinners became a regular thing—nice, lighthearted affairs, talking about the news and books and playing records on the gramophone. I knew the dangers of getting too close, but it was nice to pretend to be carefree, and it was nice to have friends. I resolved that if I found myself too greatly entangled, I could always move.
“You know, Tessa,” Willa said one Friday night, “there’s a dance at the Marshall hotel next week and Bojangles will be there. Nathan’s good friend Fess is the bandleader. You should come with us. I may have someone in mind for you.”
“No!” I covered my face, my knife clattering to my plate.
Willa and Nathan froze as the noise cut through the soft jazz record playing.
