Page 74 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I was there for Ella Fitzgerald’s debut on that stage, when she was just a teenager, right after she won the talent competition at the Apollo. We danced to Duke Ellington. I watched Count Basie and his bandbattle Chick Webb and his orchestra. You’d walk in, the drums going, horns blaring, the whole place moving with the beat as the dueling bands played.
Living in Harlem at that time, I didn’t just see famous Black stars like boxers Jack Johnson and Joe Louis and entertainers like Cab Calloway and Louis Armstrong, but white ones as well, from Fred Astaire and Greta Garbo to Orson Welles, Lana Turner, and Clark Gable. Everyone came to see the fabulous dancers and have the time of their lives. Harlem was glamorous in that way. Someone said they “wouldn’t leave Harlem to go to heaven.” Even though segregation still reigned, and people could not dine at Chow’s or Woolworth’s, we’d made the best of it uptown in our refuge.
To keep up with the demand for his fashions, Adam quit his shopkeeper role and spent all his time in a new atelier with the help of three seamstresses. I helped introduce him to elite clientele and spread the word about what he could do with expert patronage. Our scheme was destined for greatness, as he had already earned back twice my investment. His mother had been able to step back from sewing and now managed the other seamstresses. When I wasn’t writing, I spent the afternoons in the studio watching as Adam created his gorgeous designs, shifting silks and satins into works of art, beauty forming at the tip of his needle. Whereas I used my words to conjure, he used his hands. More than just a brilliant designer, Adam transformed into my dearest friend and trusted partner.
As his acclaim grew, Adam had friends across all sets: writers, dancers, jazz musicians, artists, the toast of Black society. I didn’t know it then, but this was the start of the Black Renaissance, now known as the Harlem Renaissance. An empowering shift to what I thought possible for the community, challenging notions of what we were capable of and where we’d begun in this country. I went to literary salons with Nella Larsen, Langston Hughes, and Zora Neale Hurston, learned to write better poetry with Countee Cullen, stayed out too late at the Paradise,saw Billie Holiday live onstage, and hung out in her dressing room as Adam completed her fitting.
Despite what the world said, we were using our voices and working to define and share what it meant to be Black. How could we be inferior if we created first-class art? Our books, music, paintings, poems, and plays displayed the breadth of our spirit and the depth of our souls.
The best part of all was having the freedom to create.
With only the truth of our words and the stories we wanted to share, we explored the world around us in all forms of art, sharing our experiences. We breathed, fought, lived, and died like anyone, and we would record and share what it meant to be us in America. I worked with W. E. B. du Bois, contributing toThe Crisis, submitting requested pieces to Jessie Redmon Fauset, the visionary literary editor and one of the most incisive women I have ever met. Along with that came another type of freedom I’d never thought possible.
History had a funny way of sanitizing things, leaving out the details the world wished it would forget. Having lived through it, I found the process fascinating, especially how modern society pretended the past was as conservative as some fictive history would wish it to be. Same-sex relationships, cross-dressing, and gender fluidity had existed for as long as I had, and centuries longer, perhaps since the beginning of time.
In Harlem, I found a community of others who loved or had loved like I had. Adam had always loved men and made no apologies for it. I never took another lover in New York, keeping my vow of celibacy, but I accompanied Adam as he attended different parties and circles.
Before we knew it, a creative gay and lesbian community had sprouted in Harlem, a kind of open secret. It was a profound experience of found family—the community coming together, often after they’d been cast out by their families, to make ones of their own. So many of us had fled the South, me of course, long before, but in search of something better—a new opportunity and the chance to be ourselves. You could see Jimmie Daniels onstage at the Hot Cha, listen to Gladys Bentley entertain at the Clam House, catch Ma Rainey onstage, orswing by A’Lelia Walker’s place on West 136th Street, known as the Dark Tower, for one of her private get-togethers. It wasn’t only about the physical relationships but also about the space to be—to exist as one’s authentic self.
Simply put, we thrived despite what society would say about being Black, gay, or both, focusing on creation instead. The sensation of being stared at had grown familiar ever since I started funding Adam’s work. People sometimes stopped me in the street, demanding to know my tailor. I’d learned to smile coyly, leaving a card with only his initials and contact information, which was a simple tactic that had great effect. A niece of the Roosevelts’ had commissioned Adam to design her fall wardrobe, guaranteeing his studio’s continued success.
It was the best time. I’d wanted a family for so long and had finally found one—made up of Willa, Adam, and both Nathans. But the thoughts whispered at the back of my mind. How longcouldit last?
Adam knew the secret of my money, but not my long life. He was a true friend. He’d had loves over the years, some you might know, some about whom you’ve read, but it’s not my place or truth to tell. We made a life in that apartment—me with my stories, him with his designs. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but just like with Rohan, I pretended it would never end. Believed in all except my arrangement with Death.
In reality, it was the only thing I could rely on.
Things ground to a halt when the New York stock market crashed in ’29, and the Great Depression slammed the country. I weathered it well, my Parisian banker having minimized my risk by investing heavily in gold and other precious metals. So I became an anonymous patron of sorts, helping when a fellow writer or musician couldn’t cover their rent or pay school fees. We weathered our time together through the end of the Great Depression, the years passing through Pearl Harbor and the start of World War II. I watched the newsreels, knowing what it all meant—more death.
Death gave me no clue as we met through the years, me sharing my writing and plays for his enjoyment. I never knew when the other shoe would drop, when he’d snatch someone away.
“There’s no use in letting you know, Nella,” he said at one of our meetings. “For that’s the only promise I can give you in life.”
“I think you delight in it.”
“I don’t, but it is a helpful reminder of what is at stake. In the end, there is only death and loneliness. The sooner you find that out, the better it is for both of us.”
I put that bleak thought out of my head, watching over Willa, Nathan, and Junior for every cold and every injury. They continued to flourish. I did the same for Adam, but he, too, remained in perfect health.
Until he didn’t.
The signs were subtle at first. He started complaining of bone and eye pain. I thought at first it was from him working too hard and often late at night. He complained of blurry vision and headaches that would drive him to his bed for hours at a time.
I deluded myself for months, much like I had with René. Adam was only in his late forties. He had headaches, but who didn’t? Surely he’d get better.
I told myself that every day, even as things grew worse. He lost his appetite and complained of an upset stomach, and he shrank, his form turning skeletal, his cheeks hollow.
Adam was Adam through it all, even after the doctor confirmed his diagnosis of leukemia, the cancer in his blood.
I shut the door behind the doctor and went over to Adam, lying on his bed as he gazed out the window. His hair was patchy, and a rash covered his hands.
“You’ll still tell me I’m beautiful, won’t you, love?” he asked weakly but with his usual charm.
I touched his cheek. “How can I tell you something you already know?”
He snorted. “You’re right about that. I always was a looker. Everyone loved a fella with freckles.” We listened to the car horns and radios playing from the apartments nearby. “It’s been a nice ride, though I had hoped for longer.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll get longer, I swear it. Just see.” And he had to get better. I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. Our friendship was the flame that kept me going.
