One Night in Georgia: A Novel

1968

1

BEFORE NOON THE RESIDENTS OF CENTRAL HARLEM WERE already stewing in the sweltering mid-August heat. It was the hottest summer on record, with unrelenting temperatures that tipped close to one hundred degrees. Anywhere else and this weather would have been bearable. But in New York City, the concrete sidewalks beneath our feet and the buildings towering over our heads trapped the oppressive heat and made us feel like they were holding us hostage for a ransom we couldn’t possibly pay.

It was a well-known fact that summer heat and a full moon amplified anger. Fights broke out with very little provocation, and arguments erupted over something as slight as a stubbed toe. Those who had the resources to leave the city were long gone. Those alone and left behind were just that, alone and left behind.

That was me, Zelda Livingston, alone and left behind, trying to survive the next moment and the next moment after that. My entire summer had been abysmal, and I felt like I was being choked from the inside.

I stood in front of the parlor’s picture window. This used to be my favorite place in the house, with the view being the best part. The window was huge, taking up most of the front wall. Each pane was symmetrically rimmed with clear leaded glass that always reminded me of fancy art deco from the 1920s.

The window with its beveled edge reflected a distorted image of myself. I saw my mother’s soulful light brown eyes staring back at me, with my father’s intense passion. I had her high cheekbones, and a dimple in my left cheek winked when I laughed hard. I had her height and petite stature, which gave me a graceful poise that often led people to mistakenly assume I was soft and gentle; I was not.

Some things were merely a façade. I examined my outside because it was easier than exploring inside, and trust me, that was a good thing. I used to think nothing bad could ever happen here. I would always have my father to protect me. I was wrong.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling nervously, anxiously, and angrily.

Six weeks ago I had come back and instantly regretted it. I attended Spelman College in Atlanta, but called Washington, DC, home now, since I regularly lived with my aunt and uncle between semesters. So I didn’t get to see my mother that often. It had been twenty-two months since I had seen her last. That was why being here was so important to me. I had truly thought this time together would be different, maybe even special. Whoever said it was right: you really can’t go home again.

I was supposed to be enjoying myself, having the time of my life. After all, I was twenty and here in Harlem, but the home I’d once known and loved was no longer my home.

Hearing the murmur of voices above, I looked up, knowing what was coming. The last few days had been a succession of spiteful nasty rages that seethed as the heat and hostilities escalated. Not today, I whispered. Not today.

Memories began to swell around me as I stood in the parlor at the front window. Assaulted by every sense, I felt the wet drops roll down my face and tasted the salt of my tears. Lost in my thoughts, I heard frighteningly loud noises, one right after another, like claps of thunder. Twenty-three gunshots later, I saw a lifeless body covered in blood lying in the street.

The images cleared, and I looked out across the street at Mount Morris Park, where I had played when I was a kid. The air around me was still. The air conditioner in the room did little to ease the nervous restlessness stirring inside me. In wishful solace, I leaned my head against the window’s smooth surface, hoping to feel cool relief. Instead I felt the blistering heat of the summer day penetrating the glass.

I wiped away the tears that streamed down my face and took a deep stumbling breath. I could almost hear my father’s comforting voice echo in my ears, telling me to be strong. I closed my eyes. It was a perfect moment. I held on as tightly as I could for as long as I could.

A door upstairs slammed loudly.

I winced and glared up at the ceiling again.

Darnell Wilson, my mother’s husband, had been yelling and shouting since yesterday afternoon. No one enjoyed the sound of his voice more than he did. The argument, steeped in angry resentment, had been brewing for the past five years. It had reached its inevitable climax last night, resulting in a tirade of accusations, disparagements, and ridicule. Then Darnell, having barely let up, had continued arguing again first thing this morning.

He stomped downstairs, still yelling. Each heavy footstep punctuated his hateful words. We could use that money. She needs to stop being so damn selfish.

The man was an idiot.

I ignored him like I usually did and turned the radio up loud and prayed that for the next few minutes I could drown out his tirade with some good music. Thankfully, Marvin and Tammi were singing a new song called You’re All I Need to Get By. I allowed the melody and energy of the rhythm to flow through my body, and all of a sudden I was someplace else, somebody else. Calm. Relaxed. Feeling good.

Turn that damn music down! he yelled.

A child of New Orleans’s Creole upbringing, my mother always told me to be still and mind my manners and to be a lady in all situations. And the man was always right. Young ladies listen and obey. They don’t cause trouble, she had reminded me over and over again. I had never been very good at all that obeying stuff. Today wasn’t going to be any different. I turned the music up louder and chuckled to myself.

A few seconds later, Darnell stormed into the room. I turned around, and we stood there staring at each other, face-to-face. At first he didn’t say anything. He just glared at me, sneering, looking mean and evil, like that was supposed to scare me. He was wrong. I smirked. Then he snorted and slipped a toothpick between his thick lips. He started chewing on it.

All that money just thrown away, wasted, given to a damn school. Who the hell is going to hire some black girl lawyer? See, that’s what college teaches you, not a damn thing, just like her dead-ass daddy.

Darnell, leave it be, my mother said as she followed him into the room. She looked at me woefully. There’s nothing you can do. What’s done is done.

And now you’re telling me there’s more money for her to waste. You’re her mother. You should’ve had some say.

She looked at me. Her uncle is the executor of Owen’s will. It’s out of my hands.

Well, it’s not out of my hands. If she’s going to be in this house, she needs to pay her way. This is my house, he raged. I pay the bills here. If she doesn’t pay, she doesn’t stay.

I stormed out of the house and slammed the front door behind me. The door, rickety on its hinges, with its latch already weak, shut soundly and then bounced open again, slamming back against the wall.

Zelda! I heard my mother call out.

Ignoring her, I slowly paced on the front stoop, muttering. It was different at my aunt and uncle’s house. I never felt alone or left behind while living with them. Seul et gauche derrière. I said it aloud and decided it sounded better in French. But then again, mostly everything did. That’s what my aunt Dorothy always said, in French, of course. She was a linguistics professor at Howard University and the one who had taught me French when I was a kid. La gauche derrière, I repeated. Think I’ll have that etched onto my gravestone.

2

MY FATHER, OWEN LIVINGSTON, WAS FROM A WELL-ESTABLISHED DC family, but he was now long gone. He’d had everything Darnell Wilson envied if he had any sense or ambition: money, power, position, and the prettiest woman in the city. Born to upset the status quo, and raised by generations of formidable advocates for civil rights, Owen Livingston was the continuation of a long line of freedom fighters. But his future, bright and promising, ended far sooner than it should have. His death was said to have been an accident. Nobody believed it, though. I saw it with my own eyes and definitely didn’t believe it.

Six short months later, Owen Livingston’s grief-stricken widow became Mrs. Darnell Wilson. She had lived well and was well provided for even after my father’s death. She had enough money for the rest of her days. And then she erased her husband as if he’d never existed. Darnell, a fledgling actor, had moved into my father’s home and slept in his bed. They shacked up before marrying, and within a year there was no more money, except what had been left to me.

Darnell had been fuming for five long years. Then last night my mother had told him that because I recently turned twenty, I had received an inheritance from my grandfather, which only added to Darnell’s ire.

The man had barely held a job in the time I had known him. All he did was pretend that he was an actor to anyone who’d sit still for two minutes with his dumb ass. He had promised my mother that he was going to be a big star, bigger then Belafonte and Poitier put together. Of course it never happened. And him claiming this was his house was a blatant lie.

This was my house. I had left, but the house was not Darnell’s. I was born and raised in this house. Three stories, five bedrooms, lavishly decorated, and on one of the most prestigious streets in Harlem, Mount Morris Park, where the only color that mattered was green. I knew every inch of this house. The eighth floorboard in the parlor creaked when I stepped on it, the vestibule door swelled when it rained for more than two days, and the stained-glass windows in the dining room had never budged an inch in twenty years. This wasn’t his house. It was my father’s.

Zelda Livingston, what the hell has gotten into you? my mother fumed as soon as she stepped outside.

I relaxed my shoulders and held my head high, looking straight ahead at the park. He needs to stop berating my father, I said plainly, deciding to hold back on everything else I wanted to say.

She sighed heavily. Zelda, you know that’s not what he meant, she stated.

I shook my head. I didn’t know why my mother insisted on constantly defending Darnell’s behavior. I remember the day the parasite had come into our lives. The first words out of his mouth had been to disparage my father’s memory, while my mother had said nothing. Having him around was a curse. He had brought nothing but misery.

What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Good Lord, this is such a mess. Zelda, you’re not a child anymore. You’re too old to act like this. You’re going to have to apologize to him.

I ignored her and let her words pass. If nothing else, I had been raised well and knew now was not the time to be fresh or mouthy.

Do you hear me talking to you? Look at me, she said.

I didn’t respond and didn’t turn around.

Zelda Livingston, I know you hear me. Look at me.

After a brief pause, I slowly turned to face her. I searched her eyes and saw that they were red and puffy.

I hear you, I said more tersely than I had intended.

If you’d at least try to get along, to know him. He’s really a good man, talented, strong, kind, and loving.

I looked at my mother, wondering if she had ever really loved my father. Marrying a total stranger just a few months after my father died hardly seemed like it.

I swear to God I have no idea what’s wrong with you these days, she said miserably. Maybe Darnell is right. Maybe this college thing isn’t working out.

No, I said forcefully, surprising myself by my sharp tone, my eyes piercing and final. There was no way I was going to leave school. I’m going to be an attorney like my father. I’m going to change the world and never look back.

She nodded slowly. Standing directly in front of me, she reached out and touched my arm tenderly. You can’t upset this household every time someone mentions your father’s name. Try to get along. She shook her head sadly. You’re so much like your father, the same indomitable spirit. When he wanted something, there was no talking him out of it. But that determination has a double edge. Don’t get so wrapped up in your ambitions that you forget what’s really important.

What do you mean? I asked.

The choices you make in life have consequences, not just for you but for those around you. Try to remember that. I don’t want you to be like . . . She stopped.

I looked at her as she looked away. Like what? Like my father?

She ignored me. Whose car is that? she asked, looking down the street.

I turned around and saw a flashy red convertible slowly driving down the street with kids trailing behind on the sidewalk, waving and cheering.

What in the world is she doing here? I waved. Two women in the car waved back.

You know them? my mother asked.

I nodded. Yeah, I know the driver. Veronica Cook. She’s a friend of mine from Spelman, I said. Remember, I told you about her the last time I was here. I don’t know the other girl. I hurried down the steps to the curb just as the car pulled up and stopped right in front of me.

Guess who, Veronica said, smiling from ear to ear. She turned off the engine and raised her shades onto the wide headband holding back her long black curls.

I laughed. What are you doing here?

I think she needs a hint, the passenger joked as she removed her wide-brimmed straw hat and dark shades and got out of the car. With bleached-blond hair and wearing bright red lipstick, a long-sleeved paisley baby-doll top, and shorts with flat sandals, she looked like she’d just stepped off a hippie fashion runway.

My jaw dropped. Daphne Brooks? Is that you?

In the flesh, Daphne said, striking a dramatic pose.

I hadn’t seen them since classes had let out almost three months ago. Veronica and Daphne were my best friends in the world. They were more than my sorority sisters. They were my sisters of the heart.

Oh my God, I didn’t even recognize you. You look like a movie star, I said, hugging her.

She seemed uncharacteristically happy and free-spirited. Normally she was shy and timid, preferring to fade into the background. Unpretentious, she usually dressed in drab, unassuming colors and always kept her mousy-brown hair pulled back and pinned up. She was easily rattled and distraught, so Veronica and I always took up for her. Being of mixed race—her mother was black and her father was white—and being very light-skinned at a predominately black women’s college could be tough, and the girls at Spelman weren’t always kind. One girl’s clothes had been burned up, because she had a famous mother and some of the other students were jealous.

I told her the exact same thing when I saw her, Veronica said, laughing as she came around the back of the car. Don’t you love the hair and new look?

Daphne fluffed her wavy tresses and giggled.

I love it. It works with your blue-green eyes. You look positively chic, I said.

We laughed and hugged and as usual began talking all at once. Wait a minute. Wait a minute, I finally said. Not that I’m not thrilled to see you both, but what in the world are you two doing in Harlem?

We were just in the neighborhood, Daphne joked.

Since when is Harlem in the Long Island neighborhood?

Well, Veronica began, then glanced at Daphne, we thought we’d go for a little drive.

A drive, I repeated, all the way to Harlem?

Sure. Why not?

I don’t think so, I said doubtfully. I knew my friends, and I could see they were definitely up to something.

Zelda. My mother was walking down the steps, coming toward me. Who are your friends? she asked.

Mom, this is Veronica Cook and Daphne Brooks, my best friends from college. This is my mother, Gail Wilson.

Hello, Mrs. Wilson, Daphne said pleasantly.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilson, Veronica added in her perfectly polished voice. She was the only debutante I knew, and the only black girl I knew who had been born into old money.

Daphne, Veronica, welcome. It’s wonderful to finally meet some of Zelda’s friends from college. Why don’t you come inside and get out of this heat. I just made a pitcher of iced tea.

No thank you, ma’am, Daphne declined.

We’re not staying long, Veronica added.

Okay. Well then, I’ll let you girls visit. It was nice meeting you both, Gail said, then turned and headed back to the house.

You too, Mrs. Wilson.

As soon as she left, I turned to my friends. I can’t believe you’re here, I said almost tearfully, and look at this car. It’s outta sight. Whose is it? I asked. I leaned over the passenger door to get a better look at the inside.

It’s mine, Veronica said proudly.

I turned quickly, seeing the grin on her face. No way!

I said the exact same thing when she drove up to the house this morning, Daphne announced. But her name is on the registration. Veronica Cook—I saw it myself.

I shook my head. I don’t believe it.

Well, it is. It’s all mine. Candy-apple red convertible Ford Fairlane with all the bells and whistles.

I looked at her skeptically. Who gave it to you?

It’s an early graduation gift from my parents.

Isn’t it just beautiful? And it rides like an absolute dream, Daphne added excitedly.

I nodded, admiring the car once more. It is beautiful. Congratulations!

Thanks, Veronica said happily, then quickly glanced at Daphne.

So we were thinking . . . Daphne began and then glanced at Veronica. Both began smiling mischievously.

Okay, what are you two really up to? I asked, seeing the exchange between them.

We were thinking . . . Feel like taking a ride with us?

Ah, sure, okay. Where to? I asked.

To Georgia, Veronica and Daphne said with big smiles on their faces.

To Georgia. You’re not serious.

Yes, we are.

No way, I said.

Come on. Do something spontaneous for once in your boring life. Don’t think, do, Veronica insisted.

I shook my head emphatically. No, no way.

Zelda, come on. It’ll be a blast, Daphne added. You know, it’s okay to color outside the lines sometimes. Veronica and I both looked at Daphne. Apparently this was another one of her pearls of wisdom. She frowned. Oh, you know what I mean.

No. I have no idea.

Zelda— Veronica began.

I cut her off with a simple response. No.

But— Daphne tried to chime in.

"No. Do you have the slightest notion how dangerous it is being black in the South these days? And you