There were parts of the boat we couldn’t go. That bothered Joshua. I didn’t care. Where we could go was plenty.
I didn’t need anything else.
Or anyone else.
Joshua was the smartest, handsomest, funniest man I ever met. I tried to talk, smile and laugh like him.
But it was sand copying water.
NEW YORK CITY, 1932
Harlem was everything Joshua said. All the punters was dressed beautiful. New gloves, hats and the shiniest shoes. So many rich people.
And they were mostly black. I’d never seen so many.
“Stop staring,” Joshua said.
There’s hearing, then there’s seeing.
“Well, she’s like me,” I said, nodding at a girl with blonde curls in a navy blue suit with matching hat, shoes and bag. There was a giant blue bow in her hair.
She wasn’t, though. She was fancy and walked like a dancer.
“No, she’s black too. I told you, it’s one drop here.”
“Everyone’s black? Even the ones who look Irish?”
“Mostly. Stop staring.”
And Joshua’s home?
A bloody mansion. Three stories high! He had his own floor!
Joshua didn’t tell me he was a writer. A writer! I knew he wrote—he had that machine—but who knew that could be your job?
Joshua didn’t tell me his daddy ran a funeral parlour and had investments—no one told me what those were—and his mother wore fur coats. Not one—many—and the best one mink!
His sister was a lawyer, his oldest brother a doctor and the middle one a mechanic.
My sister was dead and me brother out bush and then there was the baby.
I knew he was fancy: the way he talked, the way he dressed, but on the boat we was—we were—we been—in the lower decks, not up top with the snobs.
I’d figured he was down on his luck.
He was not.
He was never gunna keep me.
I’ll never forget walking in, everything gleaming but the carpets. The wood shone. The walls. The lights hanging from the ceiling.
I was unsteady from the boat, and terrified from the fancy.
An old woman with curly white hair and darker skin than Joshua, in a pretty grey dress, opened the door.
“Josh, baby,” she said, pulling him into her arms, then pushing him back. “Handsome as ever. Who’s this?” she said, turning to me.
The smile on her face slipped.
“This is my wife.”
“Your wife!” she said. “Well, well...” She trailed off, stuck on that one word. “Well, isn’t she sweet?” she said at last, patting my shoulder.
I shook her hand. “I’m Dulcie. Nice to meet ya, Mrs Irving.”
She laughed. “Oh no. I’m not Mrs Irving. I’m Eula. I look after—”
“I’m Mrs Irving,” a beautiful lady on the stairs said. Her steps were silent on the carpet.
She was wearing a fur coat. Jewels glittered in her ears, her hair, around her neck.
Oh no. Why couldn’t Eula be his mum?
“Your wife?” she asked. It sounded like she was asking if I was his dog. “Is that legal?”
“It’s legal here, Mama, in New York State.”
Joshua squeezed my hand.
“You’d best not travel.”
“This is my wife, Mama, Dulcie Irving.”
“Hello, Mrs Irving.” I dropped Joshua’s hand to do a curtsy, like I’d seen on the news reels. Joshua steadied me.
Mrs Irving looked me over like I was something bad stuck on her shoe.
I put out my hand—clean, even under the nails—I’d washed that morning. She took it in her gloved one, then dropped it fast.
I bit my tongue to stop meself from telling her I didn’t have no diseases.
She turned her cheek to Joshua. He kissed the air next to it.
“Mama,” he said.
“You look well, Joshua. We’ll eat in, Eula. Two extras for dinner. Cold cuts will do.”
“Will Otis and Jesse join us?” Joshua asked.
Mrs Irving handed her gloves to Eula.
“I asked if Otis will join us?”
“I heard you.”
Eula took her coat. She wore a shiny, tight dress underneath, like a movie star.
“Gorgeous dress, Mrs Irving.”
She winced.
“What did she say, Joshua, darling?” she asked as if I weren’t talking English same as her.
“She admired your dress.”
As she glided down the hall I thought I heard her whisper to herself.
I wanted to yell after her that I’m Irish trash, thank you very much.
The next night Joshua took me to a salon. It was people sitting in chairs in someone’s house, smoking, drinking, reading out loud, and arguing.
Everyone was older, smarter, fancier than me.
A smiling dark-skinned woman with a wide mouth and freckles on her cheekbones told me her name was Zee. She asked me what kind of writer I was. She was wearing a blue hat and a necklace of red beads.
“No kind,” I mumbled. I can hardly read. “I’m Joshua’s missus.”
“His wife? Well,” Zee said, like Eula had, only she didn’t get stuck on it. She turned to Joshua, “Married!” She punched him gently on the arm. “To Miss Anne!”
“My name is Dulcie,” I said. They didn’t hear.
“She’s not, Zee.” He smiled at me. “She’s Australian. Irish. Black Irish.”
“Well, isn’t she a long way from home? Your saditty mama must love her.”
“She hates me,” I said. I wondered what saditty meant. I said it a few times, quiet-like, so I could remember to look it up later. Joshua had shown me how.
“As you’d expect,” Joshua said. They laughed.
I was about to sit next to Joshua, but a pretty woman, as pale as me, wearing a fancy hat with feathers, sat there first. She called Joshua darling.
The seat on his other side was taken by a short black man.
Joshua made a little face. I nodded to show him I’d be okay.
I sat on a stool on the other side of the room. Zee sat next to me.
“How old are you, Miss—”
“Dulcie. Just Dulcie. I’m twenty, Miss Zee,” I lied. “Is there going to be dancing?” I asked, though there was no room with the piles of books, magazines and papers cluttering most every surface.
Zee laughed. “Oh, Dulcie, honey, no. What did Joshua tell you this was? We’re here to share our latest scribblings. Speak our hard-fought-for lines into the air. Not a single step and nary a hop.”
The short black man stood
