Читать книгу The Book of Harlan - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 23

Chapter 16

It had been a couple of years since Harlan last saw his parents, so when they showed up at the front door, he treated them as he had the last forty strangers who had come to give their condolences to the widow Robinson.

“Hello, I’m Harlan. Please come in.”

Truth was, Emma didn’t know he was her child until he said his name. After all, the last time she’d seen him, he was still small enough to fit on her hip. The boy standing before her was all limbs—clad in gray knickers, a white dress shirt, and a navy-blue bow tie.

Emma gasped in surprise. “Harlan?”

“Yes ma’am. My grandmother is receiving guests in the parlor,” he said, sweeping his hand through the air.

Emma and Sam exchanged looks. Even though it was one of the saddest days of her life, Emma couldn’t help but giggle at Harlan’s gallantry. “Well, aren’t you the little man!” Stooping down before him, she added, “I know it’s been awhile, but you really don’t know who we are?”

Harlan glanced at Sam’s smiling face and then back to Emma. “No ma’am.”

Her heart cracked. “I’m your mother, and this is your father.”

Sam extended his hand. “Hello, son.”

“Oh,” Harlan muttered skeptically, “nice to meet you.”

They followed Harlan into the parlor where Louisa was seated on the sofa, surrounded by her sons.

Louisa smiled out through a fog of grief. “Oh, babies,” she whispered, wringing her hands, “he’s gone . . . he’s gone.”

* * *

The Atlanta Constitution published an editorial dubbing Reverend T.M. Robinson’s funeral the largest and most imposing colored funeral ever held in Macon.

After Louisa had read the words a dozen times, she climbed back into bed and remained there for five days.

Emma’s brothers Seth, James Henry, John Edward, and their wives, along with Emma and Sam, did all they could to comfort the grieving Louisa, but she waved them away, keeping her gaze fixed on the sky outside her bedroom window.

Grappling with his own grief and despair over the loss of his grandfather, and terrified that God was coming to take Louisa from him too, Harlan made a pallet on the floor beside Louisa’s bed, refusing to leave her side.

Since Emma and Sam returned, Harlan had paid them little mind—treating them like the strangers they were.

“He hates us,” Emma fretted to Sam.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Well, he may not hate you, but he certainly hates me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Do you see how he looks at me? Like he wishes I was dead.”

“It’s all in your mind, Emma.”

“He thinks we don’t want him, that we abandoned him!”

“You’re just emotional because of your father, and Harlan is overwhelmed too. Tenant’s death took a lot out of both of you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Give him time, he’ll come around.”

* * *

One afternoon, Harlan wandered into the kitchen to find Emma standing at the window. He tried to back away, but it was too late, she’d already sensed his presence.

“Harlan?”

“Yes ma’am?”

Emma spun around to face him. Her eyes were bloated and red from crying. She didn’t expect sympathetic words, though she did hope to see a glint of pity in his dark eyes. But there was nothing there.

“Yes ma’am,” he repeated flatly.

Incensed, Emma shook her fists, barking, “I lost someone too, you know! He was her husband, but he was my father. I hurt too!” A fresh torrent of tears spilled from her eyes.

Harlan stared passively at her, unsure of what was expected of him; he droned once again, “Yes ma’am.”

“I am not your ma’am. I’m your mother!”

Harlan fled from the kitchen, up the stairs, and back into the safety of Louisa’s bedroom.