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“I didn’t think this situation could get any creepier, but you’ve managed it,” Henry said. “Congratulations.”
“If the ghosts come after us, we’ll blast them apart until there’s not one left,” Evie said bitterly.
A triple knock at Seraphina’s door put everyone on edge. Sister Walker grabbed a fireplace poker.
“You going to warm them up, Margaret?” Seraphina said, bemused. “At ease. That’s my signal.”
Seraphina disappeared into the little foyer under the stoop. In a minute she returned, one hand at her hip. “Memphis, did you tell Alma to meet you here?”
“No, ma’am,” Memphis said.
“Then who did?”
Alma entered, her chorus girl smile in place. “Hey, everybody.”
Henry glanced over his shoulder at Ling. He’d never seen someone blush so hard in all his life.
RING
On the front stoop, Ling and Alma sat together and watched night come to Harlem in deepening shades of blue. Alma looked pretty in her drop-waist champagne-colored dress and matching cloche with a ruby brooch pinned to the ribbon. Ling wished she’d worn something other than the green dress she put on to work at the restaurant. The color washed her out, she thought, but it hid the food stains. There were people returning from work, eager to get back to their homes. Lights blinked on in windows. Down the street, a man took a broom to his sidewalk, brushing away spring blooms.
“Feels nice out here,” Alma said after a while.
“Yes. Um. Breezy. But not too breezy,” Ling said, a little giddy. Alma made her feel looser, less guarded. But she could tell that Alma was uncomfortable from the way she kept tapping one foot, making her knee shake. “Something on your mind?” Ling asked.
Alma looked down at her shoes. “I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Ling’s heart beat faster like it did in her dream walks just before the landscape shifted into something new, something out of her control.
“I’ve joined up with TOBA,” Alma said.
“What’s a TOBA?”
Alma managed a half smile. “It’s an acronym. Stands for Theater Owners Booking Association, though some folks say it means ‘Tough on Black Asses.’ It’s the outfit that books Negro acts into vaudeville houses on the Chitlin Circuit.”
It took a moment for Ling to catch up. “You’re leaving?”
Alma looked down at her shoes again. Ling did, too. They were blond satin T-straps of the kind Ling had always liked, the kind she would not be wearing ever again. “If trouble’s gonna come calling, it won’t find me at home,” Alma said. “It’ll have to chase me down first.”
All the words Ling wanted to say knotted in her throat: Don’t go. I want you to stay. I like you but I’m frightened. Could I love you? Could you love me? Does love even matter in this mess of a world? How can I possibly fight evil without having something worth fighting for?
“When?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Alma answered.
“Day after tomorrow?” Ling repeated, barely comprehending.
“A spot came open with a band, the Harlem Haymakers, and I had to jump on it. They have their own bus and everything. I’ll be gone about three months. Maybe longer. It’s a good way to make money and a name for myself and… Oh, horsefeathers, Ling. I need to leave New York. All these ghosts. And… us.”
“Us,” Ling repeated.
“I just don’t know how we make this work between us,” Alma said quietly.
Ling blushed with shame. Sex. It was about sex, or the lack thereof. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Alma laced her beautiful fingers and placed them in her lap. And then Ling forced herself to keep her gaze on the man across the street sweeping his patch of sidewalk. Ling watched the bristles pushing against the wilted flowers and felt as if she, too, were being brushed into the gutter.
“Aren’t you… going to say something?” Alma whispered.
What could she possibly say? Ling had allowed herself to imagine a future with Alma while, apparently, Alma had been making other plans without her. The hurt cut so deeply Ling could scarcely catch her breath. “Seems you’ve already made up your mind.”
