A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (72)
“New York is a moody town. I’ve learned this since living here. It requires a certain armor, a resilience that must come naturally. Felice might not’ve had it. Look like to me she had a touch of the up-and-downs, or what people today would call mood swings or bipolar or something like that. Borderline personality disorder? I’m no doctor, obviously, but you learn a few things after being married to one for over seventy years.” Her expression was far off, thoughtful. “The apple doesn’t fall far, I reckon. I’ve suffered the blues my whole life, but medication evens me out. My mother was born too early to get the right treatment. Or any treatment at all.”
Ms. Della paused and glanced out of her window. “This is speculation, of course. I really don’t know that much about her. Nana barely spoke her name. It must’ve been painful, losing a child that way. All I know is that Felice was a dancer and Nana’s only daughter.” And then, as an aside, she added, “I also know she could dress. Style to beat the band.”
Without warning, Ms. Della took a strong breath, hoisted herself up out of the chair, and disappeared into her bedroom. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.
Using her last functioning brain cell, Ricki desperately tried to talk herself off a ledge. This can all be explained. Ezra must’ve heard Felice’s story somehow. There has to be an oral history of Old Harlem that didn’t make it to newspapers or biographies. If you speak to the right elders, you can find out anything. It’s like that in Atlanta, too. It’s like that wherever Black people are—we carry hidden histories, passed down from generation to generation. Maybe Ezra really is just a weirdo antique furniture collector, like Tuesday said, and he got a little too wrapped up in a Harlem Renaissance obsession, injecting himself into a juicy story he’d once heard.
After all, Ms. Della hadn’t mentioned Breeze Walker even once.
When Ms. Della came back, she was wearing a four-strand pearl bracelet. It was nicked and dull but still beautiful.
“This was Felice’s,” she said. “Glamorous, isn’t it? I once read that showgirls were so desired, they’d receive all sorts of opulent gifts from admirers after shows. The clasp is inscribed, see? BW + FF. I’ve always wondered who BW could be. Now, I bet that’s a story.”
Ricki didn’t hear the last sentence, because she’d fainted dead away.
CHAPTER 18
LITTLE SPOONED
February 19, 2024
Ricki awoke with a start at 4:00 a.m., bathed in sweat, convinced the last couple of days had been a dream. Quickly, her impossible reality set in. And she did the only thing she could think of.
In the chilly dark of the winter morning, Ricki padded across the apartment to Wilde Things and whipped up a bespoke arrangement of amaryllis, primrose, and Chinese evergreen. Before sunrise, she dropped it off at 146 West 133rd Street, laying it down gently in front of a nondescript residential building that was once the site of the infamous gay speakeasy Harry Hansberry’s Clam House. Doing this at a spot owned by Gladys Bentley, pioneering drag king and Black lesbian icon, reminded her that she was just a piece of a larger story. It soothed her soul. Somewhat.
She posted her pic to Instagram, too preoccupied to notice that she had five DMs from two different journalists wanting to interview her. Ricki missed these and the growing number of likes and comments, because her actual life was hanging in the balance. But she had a plan to save herself.
Hours later, Ricki lurked inside the doorway of the 125th Street Starbucks, looking infinitely more pulled together than she felt. Because she (a) found fashion calming and (b) was dramatic, Ricki had dressed carefully for this occasion. She wore an ivory bodysuit, slouchy jeans, and the pièce de résistance, a ’60s cape coat in lipstick red. Yes, it was a lot of look. But she needed to project confidence and to disguise the fact that she was a wreck.
Ricki was nervous but clearheaded. After Naaz the nurse roused her from that fainting spell at Ms. Della’s the day before, she’d floated back to consciousness with a new clarity.
She had to see Ezra. Because she believed him.
Ms. Della had confirmed the story. Ms. Della was part of the story. It had to be true. Ricki wasn’t sure what she believed in, in terms of voodoo or folk magic or curses, but there were too many coincidences to ignore.
Hadn’t she been drawn to Harlem, too? The same way Ezra claimed to be pulled back every February of every leap year. What he described—the feeling of being dragged by the heart toward his future—was exactly how she’d felt before moving here.
Ricki was ready to talk. She’d texted, asking him to meet her at Starbucks. It was the perfect location, because it was impossible to romanticize a Starbucks. Ricki couldn’t be anywhere charming or nostalgic with Ezra Walker. Her brain short-circuited around him, and focus was key. Plus, this Starbucks was always packed. If Ezra was, in fact, a nutjob and tried to pull some shit, she’d have witnesses.
And now she’d zeroed in on him across the crowded seating area. There, sitting at a table against the wall, slightly removed from the chaos, was Ezra.
There was no coffee at his table, just him, hands folded patiently, peering out of the window to his left. As usual, he looked casually cool in a knit pullover and charcoal jeans, but exhaustion clouded his handsome features. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes. Like he’d seen hell.