Theta stared back. She didn’t look happy. Memphis held Theta’s hand firmly, letting her know that everything was jake. He was with her. Her hand was warm in his, very warm, and suddenly, Theta’s expression changed from challenge to fear. Rabbit-quick, she yanked her hand away. The blond’s smile was smug as she and her fella ran to join the happy dancers. Memphis felt it all like a stab to his gut.
Theta jumped up quickly, bracing herself on the table and nearly knocking over her drink as she did. She grabbed her purse. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling so good, Poet. I-I gotta go home,” she said and ran from the club.
“Theta! Theta!” Memphis shouted. He started after her but was stopped by the waiter.
“Your bill, sir.”
“I’ll be right back, I swear!”
“I’ve heard that one before,” the waiter said, unmoved, and Memphis felt doubly humiliated by Theta’s abrupt departure and this man’s suspicion. Nobody was stopping white patrons at the door. Everybody was watching as Memphis reached into his wallet and dropped some bills on the silver tray.
“Happy?” he said.
The special night hung in tatters. To top things off, Theta had left the poem he’d worked so hard on. Angrily, Memphis grabbed the paper and stalked away, never noticing the faint outline of two singed handprints on the edge of the white tablecloth.
Harlem streets that had been bathed in neon hope taunted Memphis as he walked toward home. A cluster of young, drunk downtowners pushed out of the whites-only Cotton Club and stumbled down Lenox Avenue singing “Everything Is Hotsy Totsy Now” at the top of their lungs. They took up most of the sidewalk, and Memphis wanted to knock into them, pushing them into the street. Instead, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the suit he wore, his fingers still clutching the crumpled poem.
“Hey, Romeo! What happened to your big date?” Clarence called, laughing, from the front door of the Hotsy Totsy as Memphis passed by. “Aw, now, don’t worry none, Memphis. Plenty of girls inside.”
Not the one I’m in love with, Memphis thought. At the edge of the neighborhood, on a derelict street far from the excitement of Lenox Avenue, a man sprawled across a sidewalk, reeking of liquor. Memphis recognized him as one of the local drunks—Noble Bishop. He didn’t have a coat. A man could freeze to death out here.
Memphis shifted from foot to foot. “Hey. Hey there, Mr. Bishop. You all right?”