Vivian met Bea’s eyes as she spun away from her partner, and they stared at each other for a heartbeat before Bea was caught up once again and disappeared into the swirl of bodies.
When the song ended, Bea was nowhere to be seen. Vivian wanted to go looking for her, but she held back. If Bea had wanted to talk, she wouldn’t have made herself scarce. Vivian worried, but she understood.
Some days, it was just too much to look real life in the face. Some days, the only thing to do was to lose yourself in the music for as long as you could manage.
EIGHT
“I don’t think I can go with you.”
Bea spoke in an undertone, glancing over her shoulder. Alba was seated at the Henrys’ kitchen table, hands locked around a cooling cup of coffee as though it were a lifeline. Behind her, Mrs. Henry stood with her hands on Alba’s slumped shoulders, head bent down as she spoke softly.
“Alba told my mother about me poking around Pearlie’s place yesterday,” Bea said, her mouth twisting. “I could slap her for that if she weren’t clearly so broken up about him. But Mama’s not happy. And I want to find out what Alba saw.”
“Is that what they’re talking about?” Vivian asked, her own voice not much more than a whisper. She was standing in the doorway, hesitant to come in but still trying to get a good look at Alba without being too obvious. Bea had said she and Pearlie were a couple, but Vivian hadn’t seen them together before, and she couldn’t help her curiosity.
Alba wasn’t anything like the sort of person Vivian would have pictured big, brash, friendly Pearlie being attracted to. She was much younger than he was, lithe and pretty, with big dark eyes and a perpetuallysarcastic edge to her smile. She was always fashionably dressed at work, but today her hair had been pinned back sloppily, as if she hadn’t bothered with anything more than getting it out of her eyes, and she clutched a man’s coat around her shoulders like a blanket. Vivian thought it must have been one of Pearlie’s, because it swamped her tiny frame. She looked like her grief was a physical weight. She barely lifted her head, her eyes fixed on her mug, though she nodded at whatever Mrs. Henry was saying.
“I don’t know,” Bea said, looking nervous. “Alba showed up here maybe thirty minutes ago. Last time I saw them together, I didn’t think Mama even liked her. But now…” She glanced over her shoulder again. “I mean, it’s gotta be about Pearlie, right? But I dunno what—”
“Beatrice, we need you to—Oh, hello, Vivian.” Mrs. Henry had straightened and was now frowning at the two of them. “Why are you lurking in the doorway, honey?”
Vivian lifted the basket that she had set down by her feet. “I picked up some groceries for you all. There’s fresh milk for the kids. And sugar for your coffee.”
Mrs. Henry nodded, one hand rubbing her back where it always ached from being on her feet too many hours of the day. She wore the uniform for the restaurant where she worked six days a week as a waitress, and even in that she was beautiful. Mrs. Henry was a woman who had presence, no matter what life seemed to throw at her—and it had thrown a lot. From the grim set of her mouth and eyes, it was clear that Pearlie’s death was just one more tragedy to soldier through. “That’s sweet of you, honey,” she said, not really paying attention. “Will you and Beatrice put them away, please? The little ones will be home soon, and Alba and I have to head to the coroner’s office.”
Vivian, already walking toward the kitchen cupboard, froze. She and Bea exchanged a nervous glance. After a moment of silent panic—eyebrows raised, heads shaking quickly—Bea spoke up.
“Why’re you going there?”
“We have to claim your uncle’s body,” Alba said, her voice tense and miserable.
Vivian shuddered a little. Too often, when someone in their run-down little neighborhood died, the family struggled to scrape together the money for a decent burial. Those who couldn’t afford it had to leave their loved ones’ bodies with the coroner’s office, destined for a mass grave on Hart Island, where the unknown and unclaimed of the city’s morgues were sent. Technically, the Henrys should have close to two weeks to claim Pearlie’s body for burial. But the rules weren’t always followed, especially when it came to poor folks.
Vivian couldn’t blame Mrs. Henry, or even Alba, for wanting to hurry. But if there hadn’t been time for Leo’s favor yet…
“Can it wait a day?” Bea asked, earning herself a look of confusion from her mother and one of disgust from Alba. “Please, it’s important.”
“What could be more important than treating your uncle with respect, when it’s the very last thing we can do for him?” Alba demanded, setting down her coffee so forcefully that it splashed over the cup’s edge and spattered the table. She didn’t seem to notice, but Mrs. Henry grimaced.
“Why do you get a vote, Alba? You’re not even part of this family,” Bea snapped. Vivian suddenly wished she were anywhere else.
The emotions flew across Alba’s face in quick succession: pain, then sorrow, before settling into pure rage. Her eyes were full of angry tears, her mouth already open on a torrent of sharp words, before Mrs. Henry gripped her shoulders.
“You need to keep yourself calm, remember?” she murmured, just loudly enough to be heard where Vivian and Bea were standing. “She’s hurting, same as you. But you think about what Pearlie would want you to do, hear me?” She turned to Bea before Alba could argue. “Why on earth would we want to wait?”
“Because…” Bea looked to Vivian, who shook her head uselessly.It wasn’t her uncle, wasn’t her family. It couldn’t be her choice whether or not to say anything. Bea grimaced, then took a step forward, squaring her shoulders. “Mama, there was a hiding spot behind Pearlie’s bed, and there used to be money in there, cash from a—”
“From a job he did for some mobster, I know,” Mrs. Henry interrupted. The ugly words were jarring, delivered in her soft voice with no emotion.
Bea stared at her mother. “You know?”
“Of course I know, girl. Pearlie was no good at keeping secrets when he was excited about something.” Mrs. Henry shook her head. “Thought he’d at least have the sense to keep it from you, though. I’d wring his neck if he was…” She broke off, looking suddenly stricken.
“Well, then, you’ll know why I don’t think Pearlie killed himself,” Bea said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“What?” Alba stood, pushing off Mrs. Henry’s hands. “What do you mean—”
“I think someone else must have wanted him dead.” Now that she had started, Bea seemed like she couldn’t stop. The words poured out of her, like a river of music from an untuned piano, heartbroken and angry. “Because who’s going to kill himself when he’s got cash enough to change his life, and more coming in—It doesn’t make sense, Mama, you have to see that. So if we just wait a little, we can find out who—”
