Page 73 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“But does it matter?” Death countered, ready as always. “Did your new dress help you hail a cab on the way here? Did it stop diners in the luncheonette from scowling at your presence?”
“You’ve been watching me,” she says, spitting the words. “We made a deal. I have a task. You’ve got to stop intruding in my life and leave me to it, especially when you only seek evidence to accuse me.” She snatched the gown back, the beads brilliant under the lights. “I can’t control what any of those people do. All I can do is present you with the evidence you require. Yet you never name what you’re after—what will be enough for you?”
“I’m waiting for you to understand, as I know, that none of it is worth it, and it never will be.”
“It’s all worth it. Every bit.” She breathed through her nose, calming herself. “Look, the work in front of you and on those women is exquisite, made by the hands of a genius. Surely humans capable of creating such beauty are worthy of saving.”
Death pointed to the garment. “What of the work to make this satin and silk? The laborers who spend time in the field gathering silk or sprigs of cotton? Or have you forgotten them? Many die in pursuit of the raw materials for this luxurious fabric. Are their lives less important?”
She would not be baited. “All life has value, and there are many types of work in this world. Inequity is part of it, but as you have likely seen, societies change. This one has changed since I was born. People must now be compensated for their labor. It’s a step in the right direction.”
He gave her a look. “Nella, really? Compensated? At a fair rate?”
Nella couldn’t argue that point. “It’s not what it should be, but the argument is whether humans are worth saving. Through the work of myself and others, conditions are getting better. Humans can improve, and they’ve shown it over time.”
“But only after they’ve gotten worse,” he pointed out. Did she not know that he was not some idle being, that he held the fate of every individual on earth in his hands? “Millions died over the condition of servitude. Millions more died in the Great War. Is that progress?”
“Humans fought for what was right. Not more land, but the freedom of some of its people. Some things are worth dying for—worth fighting for.”
“Perhaps.” Death sipped from his glass, thinking. He’d missed this, sparring with her ... being seen by her ... but he must not forget his purpose. “Do you still consider this life worth fighting for? I’ll admit you’re much better situated than at other times we’ve met.”
Nella stiffened, afraid, like she was bracing for a wave. “Each of those other times, you had just taken someone from me.”
“It’s the game, Nella,” he said, her name a caress. “You will outlive anyone you love. Will you blame me for them all?”
“Not all of them,” she admits. “I sometimes wonder if I did die that day, and this is my personal purgatory of loneliness and loss.”
“I can promise you, this isn’t hell. Dante wasn’t even close. There aren’t any levels, only unceasing, endless pain.”
She shivered, leaning slightly away from him. He regretted his words. Most of them.
“But let us not talk of such things.” He could fix this. “Tell me—how is your writing coming?”
“I’ve just been given a lead travel column, so there’ll be more articles in the future.”
Death raised his glass. “I look forward to it.”
“Do you read them too? The things I’ve published?”
“Why does that surprise you? They sustain me between our meetings.” And they did. He read snippets in the quiet moments whenever his own loneliness became too great. It had become a weakness, as had their sessions. He felt too eager for them.
Perhaps what she needed was more time. Time would remind them both of the inevitable outcome. No one could bear the weight of a bargain for eternity. And he had a duty awaiting.
He stood somberly. “I must go.”
Nella blanched at his abrupt words. He slipped away, leaving her at the table with only the dress for company, back to his lonesome work, already looking forward to the next time they would meet.
Twenty-Five
Iwalked away from that meeting thinking I’d won.
In a way, I had.
My entire life changed over the coming years, the dull gray of isolation blooming into full color. I had friends. I had connections. Willa and Nathan had a healthy, chunky baby boy named Nathan Jr., a regular visitor at my apartment, where I became an honorary aunt and got to experience the joys of helping to raise a child. I spent my days writing articles and evenings out with Adam as we explored all that Harlem’s nightlife had to offer.
As promised, Adam introduced me to a whole new world. We were regulars at the Savoy Ballroom—there for its opening night in March 1926, when it opened on Lenox Avenue, just down the street.
I hadn’t seen anything like it, with its pink interior, mirrored walls, marble staircase, and myriad-colored lights giving it a futuristic glow. Couples spun across the packed dance floor as hundreds were turned away from the red-and-gold sign due to its limited capacity. The best part was the diversity of the place, as both Blacks and whites frequented it, enjoying the music that poured from the bandstand. We’d crowd the “Cats’ Corner” as some of the best dancers I’d ever seen did swing and the Lindy hop. It was among our favorite spots.
