Sometimes Vivian wished she had someone waking up next to her—that when she woke up shivering, she could bury her cold nose against warm skin and slowly drift into the morning. She had thought a time or two about asking Leo to stay. But the neighborhood was filled with cautionary tales: women who started having babies when they were too young and too poor, and who kept having them, their lives narrowed to survival and hope that one day, at least one kid would manage to escape.
Vivian still dreamed of her own escape. She still believed there was more to life than a cold morning, a cramped home, and long hours of work. She wasn’t willing to risk that dream.
Gritting her teeth, Vivian threw off the quilt and staggered out of bed, teeth chattering as she fumbled for a second pair of socks and pulled Florence’s tattered old dressing gown around her shoulders.
When Florence had been there, their days had begun with breakfast, silent and brittle for years, quiet and comfortable at last. On her own now, it was hard to summon the energy to eat anything so early in the morning. But there was a can of peaches at the back of the pantry and a little water left in the kettle from the night before, ready to be heated and turned into a cup of coffee.
She should buy more fruit after work, Vivian decided as she stuck her fork directly in the can, the syrupy sweetness a shock after the bitter taste of the coffee. Who knew how many days of peaches she had left.
Setting aside the grim thought and the empty can, Vivian squared her shoulders and pulled out her clothes for work. She hesitated when she was dressed, then pulled out the locked cashbox that she keptunder her bed. There wasn’t much in it—money saved up for next month’s rent payment, a handful of nickels that could become subway fare if she needed them, a little extra from tips. She pulled out enough for a few groceries, then, hesitating, grabbed an extra quarter before she could talk herself out of it.
She needed the money. And she might need more of it than she planned for if she found herself with bribes to pay over the next week. But she had a thank-you to deliver after work, and she wanted to do it right.
Vivian could hear a baby fussing before she knocked. Before she could knock a second time, not sure whether anyone had heard over the noise, the door was yanked open.
“Don’t you dare,” Bea hissed, her eyes shadowed with weariness. “Nathaniel’s stupid dog has been yapping all day, so the baby hasn’t slept. He finally got home from work and took it out, so Alba’s trying to get the baby down. She’ll murder us both if we make any noise.”
“When did Nathaniel get a dog?” Vivian whispered. Bea’s family didn’t live in the same building as Vivian did—the landlord refused to rent to Black folks—but they were only a few blocks away. It was bigger than the single room where Vivian lived, but the heat was just as unreliable, the gas sputtered, and the common tap was out in the hall washroom.
Not long ago, Bea and her mother had shared one bedroom, while her younger sister and two brothers had taken the second. But Bea’s uncle, who had been working at the Nightingale, had died the previous summer, leaving his girl Alba pregnant and with nowhere to go. Now, she and the baby had one room to themselves, while half the Henrys crowded into the other and the boys slept on the floor in the main room.
Bea rolled her eyes as they slipped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind them and sitting on the top stair. “He found it last week. Poor thing was half-starved, and some boys were throwing rocks or trash or something at it. He gave them a walloping and brought it home. I can’t blame him for that, though it’s ugly as sin, even now it’s cleaned up and fed.”
“Nice that your mom didn’t make him get rid of it.”
“You know she can’t say no to anyone who needs help. Turns out dogs count, too.” Bea rolled her eyes again, though she couldn’t hide her proud smile as she did. Bea admired her mother, and the way she’d held her family together since her husband’s death, more than anyone in the world. “And it’s mostly behaving. But not today.” Sighing, she rolled her shoulders and glanced at Vivian out of the corner of her eye. “You here for some explaining?”
Things had been too busy at the Nightingale last night for them to talk, and then Bea’s fella Abraham had showed up to give her a ride home before Vivian’s shift was done. She owed her friend an explanation for the scene in the alley. She also owed a thank-you.
“First, this.” Vivian handed over the paper-wrapped package she had been carrying under one arm.
Bea gave her a suspicious frown, then carefully unfolded the paper, staring in surprise at the book of poems inside. “Countee Cullen?” she asked, sounding delighted. “Abraham says everyone’s talking about him up in Harlem.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Since when did you start reading poetry?”
Vivian snorted. “You know I don’t,” she said. Books were Bea’s thing—she and Abraham had fallen head over heels for each other talking about poetry and Claude McKay. Vivian could count on one hand the number of times she had walked into a bookshop, and that number was one. “Once my deliveries were done, I went to ask a bookseller what was new, and he handed over this one. He said it had just come out, so I figured you wouldn’t have read it yet.”
Bea ran one hand over the cover, then shook her head. “I know you can’t afford this.”
“Keep it,” Vivian said. “It’s a thank-you for running to get Honor last night. I don’t think that fella was going to play nice if we’d been out there alone much longer.”
“Don’t be dumb, Viv,” Bea said, trying to push the book back into Vivian’s hands. “We look out for each other, you know that.”
“I want to,” Vivian insisted. Her voice caught in her throat a little—less than a week until the commissioner’s deadline—but she pushed that feeling aside and gave Bea a smile. “Can’t a girl just want to do something nice for her pal?”
Bea’s hands tightened around the slim cover of the book. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“Yeah,” Vivian said, staring down at her lap. “It ain’t good.” Taking a deep breath, not meeting Bea’s eyes, she told her what had happened at the Buchanan mansion. Her words stumbled over each other more than once, as she hurried past what she had found in Buchanan’s study and tried to explain what the police had said and thought. She kept her voice quiet, not wanting to risk the neighbors overhearing. But she still felt exposed, as though at any moment someone would swoop in and haul her away.
When she got to the commissioner’s surprise visit, Bea sucked in a sharp breath. “God almighty,” she breathed. “Girl, you are in so much trouble.”
Vivian glared at her friend. “You think I don’t know that?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Vivian’s gaze dropped back to her hands. “Honor said she can’t help me—not won’t,can’t,and she seemed real upset about it. Any idea what she…” Vivian swallowed. But Bea knew all about her history with Honor. “Why she would say that?”
Bea was quiet. “No,” she said at last. “Honor’s done plenty of hard things to help her people out before.”
The silence between them grew heavy, neither wanting to meet the other’s eyes. They were both thinking of the last time Bea had asked Honor for help—her and Alba both. Vivian didn’t know what Honor had said, or what exactly had happened. But they all knew it had ended up with a man dead.
