entering, I stopped and looked back at my folks, who were still parked at the curb in the Roadmaster. Even at a distance, I thought I could sense their anxiety. Or was it their anger at our humiliation?
"Don't worry about me," I called. "I'll just take the subway home." I strode into the lobby as though I had been visiting Park Avenue for years.
"Take Mr. Garrett up to the Burns floor," said the doorman to a silver-haired white man wearing a gray cotton jacket. The old man struggled to his feet from his seat, and I followed him into the elevator. We rode up in silence on a carpeted floor, surrounded by panels of richly inlaid wood. In the back of the elevator was a folding bench, which I badly wanted to try, but we were slowing down and I didn't want to do anything to offend the attendant. He opened the door at the twenty-first floor and said, "Burns to the left." I thanked him and stepped into a large hallway with recessed lighting and a mirror on the far wall. On a table underneath the mirror, another bouquet of fresh flowers perfumed the hallway. The only other door was far down the hall to the right, at the opposite end from the Burnses' apartment. I glanced at the mirror to check my tie and noticed how confident I looked, as though I had passed some test with flying colors. I rang the doorbell and a colored woman who seemed to be about my mother's age opened the door. She was thin and brown and wore a black maid's uniform with a little white cap and small white apron. At first she seemed startled to see me but
she quickly composed herself. "May I help you?" she said in a drawl so southern, I knew she had to be from somewhere farther south than Virginia.
"Is Gordie in?" I said.
"Who shall I say is callin'?" she asked.
"Rob Garrett," I said. She was standing in a grand foyer with Persian carpets, antiques, and paintings in carved gold frames. I was still in the doorway.
"Ill tell him you're here, sir," she said. "Won't you have a seat?" She motioned to a settee in the foyer made of slender pieces of wood. It looked much too old and fragile for me to sit on.
"That's okay," I said, stepping inside. "I'll stand." The woman closed the front door and disappeared into another room. I felt as though I was in a museum. The apartment was cavernous. From the foyer I could see into the living room, which had high ceilings, long, dark velvet drapes, and tall windows with dramatic-views of the city at night. The living room floor was covered with the biggest Persian rug I had ever seen. Heavy wood frames holding two portraits of old men with beards and sober expressions, dressed in black suits and little black hats, were hanging from the walls. Sofas and lounge chairs upholstered in a fringed red fabric looked very expensive, and large potted plants looked like small palm trees. Mahogany bookcases stuffed with books lined two walls, and in a far corner of the room, a big arrangement of purple and white flowers in a large green vase sat next to an unusual brass candelabra on top of a black grand piano. The candelabra
had holders for seven candles, six on a lower row and a seventh on the top. Supporting each of the candleholders was a brass hand, each one in the shape of a palm print, open the same way Willie Maurice's palms had been open just before I left him standing in front of the Apollo. It was strange. I had never seen anything like it before.
"Well, Garrett, are you ready to go?" Gordie had come into the foyer dressed as I was, in a tie and jacket. "Before we leave, why don't I introduce you to my parents? Have a seat in the living room. I'll go and get them." He disappeared to another part of the apartment, and I sat on a sofa and took a closer look around. The brass candelabra caught my eye again, and I noticed writing on one of the open palms, but I couldn't make out what it said. Seated in the Burnses' exotic living room high above the city, surrounded by the potted palms and the antiques, I felt far removed from
"Don't worry about me," I called. "I'll just take the subway home." I strode into the lobby as though I had been visiting Park Avenue for years.
"Take Mr. Garrett up to the Burns floor," said the doorman to a silver-haired white man wearing a gray cotton jacket. The old man struggled to his feet from his seat, and I followed him into the elevator. We rode up in silence on a carpeted floor, surrounded by panels of richly inlaid wood. In the back of the elevator was a folding bench, which I badly wanted to try, but we were slowing down and I didn't want to do anything to offend the attendant. He opened the door at the twenty-first floor and said, "Burns to the left." I thanked him and stepped into a large hallway with recessed lighting and a mirror on the far wall. On a table underneath the mirror, another bouquet of fresh flowers perfumed the hallway. The only other door was far down the hall to the right, at the opposite end from the Burnses' apartment. I glanced at the mirror to check my tie and noticed how confident I looked, as though I had passed some test with flying colors. I rang the doorbell and a colored woman who seemed to be about my mother's age opened the door. She was thin and brown and wore a black maid's uniform with a little white cap and small white apron. At first she seemed startled to see me but
she quickly composed herself. "May I help you?" she said in a drawl so southern, I knew she had to be from somewhere farther south than Virginia.
"Is Gordie in?" I said.
"Who shall I say is callin'?" she asked.
"Rob Garrett," I said. She was standing in a grand foyer with Persian carpets, antiques, and paintings in carved gold frames. I was still in the doorway.
"Ill tell him you're here, sir," she said. "Won't you have a seat?" She motioned to a settee in the foyer made of slender pieces of wood. It looked much too old and fragile for me to sit on.
"That's okay," I said, stepping inside. "I'll stand." The woman closed the front door and disappeared into another room. I felt as though I was in a museum. The apartment was cavernous. From the foyer I could see into the living room, which had high ceilings, long, dark velvet drapes, and tall windows with dramatic-views of the city at night. The living room floor was covered with the biggest Persian rug I had ever seen. Heavy wood frames holding two portraits of old men with beards and sober expressions, dressed in black suits and little black hats, were hanging from the walls. Sofas and lounge chairs upholstered in a fringed red fabric looked very expensive, and large potted plants looked like small palm trees. Mahogany bookcases stuffed with books lined two walls, and in a far corner of the room, a big arrangement of purple and white flowers in a large green vase sat next to an unusual brass candelabra on top of a black grand piano. The candelabra
had holders for seven candles, six on a lower row and a seventh on the top. Supporting each of the candleholders was a brass hand, each one in the shape of a palm print, open the same way Willie Maurice's palms had been open just before I left him standing in front of the Apollo. It was strange. I had never seen anything like it before.
"Well, Garrett, are you ready to go?" Gordie had come into the foyer dressed as I was, in a tie and jacket. "Before we leave, why don't I introduce you to my parents? Have a seat in the living room. I'll go and get them." He disappeared to another part of the apartment, and I sat on a sofa and took a closer look around. The brass candelabra caught my eye again, and I noticed writing on one of the open palms, but I couldn't make out what it said. Seated in the Burnses' exotic living room high above the city, surrounded by the potted palms and the antiques, I felt far removed from
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