Still Life in Harlem by Eddy L. Harris

Author:Eddy L. Harris
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466885721
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

My father wants to know if I regret the life I have lived, wants to know too, I suppose, if I regret missing the life I never had. At first glance the answer seems a blatantly easy one to give.

My young friend Henry lies dead on a table in his living room. Someone has carried him home and has laid him here. The table is low, close to the floor, like a little altar, and is surrounded by the basketball shoes that are so adored in the neighborhood. They are strewn all around Henry’s young body like some kind of offering, as if he had been a god. And for a little while Henry was a god, in this house, in this part of the neighborhood. His face had once shone with the pleasure of power and recognition. Now his eyes are like ice. They hold no look of shock or surprise at what has happened. The eyes have always known, even if Henry didn’t, that it was only a matter of time. The eyes frown now not from wonder, and not from remorse, but as if in Henry’s seventeen years they have seen far too much. His face has been battered tough, his eyes are tired beyond belief. It is a face already too old to be so young. But it will get no older.

In another part of Harlem, Nicky-No-Arms lies between two streams of blood spilling onto the cold concrete floor of a warehouse somewhere. He shivers but cannot hug himself for warmth or comfort.

The mother of Antonio Morales spreads her legs in the backseat of a car. Another baby is born in Harlem.

There is nothing prissy, nothing neat about these streets where I live. I walk them every day, I stand at my window. What I see tears at my eyes. What I feel exposes who I am.

Not so long ago, across the street from where I live, new neighbors moved in for a short time. I watched them off and on that evening for over two hours as they set up house, laid the table, and got the fire going for a barbecue. They cooked. The radio blasted until the batteries went dead. The children played.

I thought nothing of it. It was the beginning of my second winter in Harlem. By then I had seen plenty.

The air outside was cold and damp, but the fire in the barbecue glowed with heat, first red, then white. It was, all in all, a happy scene. The three adults sitting on folding lawn chairs told loud stories and laughed. The children shared laughter of their own. They jumped rope. They played tag. They argued the way children do when one of them doesn’t get his way. Then they all sat down to eat.

Funny thing though: there is no building across the street from where I live. There is only a large parking lot. Behind the lot is a grassy incline, and behind the incline there is a new track and a football field built for the school that’s just up the road.

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