Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [29]
“I assume the Livingston Foundation will be climate-controlled,” Max said soothingly. “Shall we?”
He could afford to be soothing, I thought crankily. He was wearing loose linen trousers, sandals, a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and a hat that kept the sun off his face. I, on the other hand, was wearing hot, uncomfortable, synthetic clothing that had already been through far too much activity to be sanitary even without the effects of this stifling heat.
I took his arm and proceeded down the street with him, walking parallel to the park. We were in the Mount Morris Park Historic District, a large and beautiful nineteenth-century neighborhood that had blossomed during Harlem’s recent resurgence through the renovation of historic buildings and the revitalization of such great Harlem institutions as the National Black Theatre.
Thinking about that theatre made me think about work, which made me think about Michael Nolan, presumably still lying in a hospital bed only a few blocks away from here. That, in turn, made me think about the need to find a phone and call the D30 production office.
“What a nice park,” Max said, nodding in that direction. “And so big! One doesn’t really think of there being such big green spaces in Harlem.”
“No, I suppose not.” The park, which was framed by an attractive wrought-iron fence, covered the space of about eight city blocks. The grass looked well-tended, there were a lot trees and some paved paths, and I saw many young children in the nearby playground, supervised by parents, elder siblings, or babysitters. Beyond the playground, the park looked more overgrown and lush, with shrubs, boulders, and dense thickets. At the distant southern end of the park, atop a steep hill covered by trees that appeared to be thriving in the summer heat, and surrounded by a thick fog of heavily leafed, sky-reaching branches, I saw the very top of some sort of skeletal metal tower. “What do you suppose that is?”
Max looked in the direction I was pointing. “Interesting. It almost looks like very old scaffolding, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, here we are,” I said as we arrived at the Livingston Foundation’s redbrick edifice. It was indeed only about a minute’s walk from the library. It was quite a large building but had relatively few windows. The architecture was charmless, but sturdy. Over the entrance, embedded in what appeared to be brass letters, was a quote from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. that appealed to Max: LIFE’S MOST PERSISTENT AND URGENT QUESTION IS, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING FOR OTHERS?”
I, however, was less enthusiastic than Max about passing beneath this admirable motto and entering the building. He wanted to question people at the foundation, but I was uncomfortably aware that I didn’t present a credible persona, dressed as I was. I thought perhaps I should wait outside for him. Max was trying to assure me, without noticeable conviction, that I didn’t look quite as disreputable as I thought, when a tall, slim black man with a shaved head approached the building and tried to get through the doorway that we were blocking while we talked. He seemed to be in a hurry.
“Excuse me,” he said, his gaze on my cleavage as he moved to step between us and enter the doorway.
“Oh, sorry. I’m in the way, aren’t I? Max, we should move.”
The man glanced sharply at me as I spoke, which made me look at him in return. He was about thirty, nice-looking, clean-shaven, and . . .
“Oh, my God,” I said slowly. The cue- ball head had made him look like a stranger at first glance. He’d had close-cropped hair back when I knew him. “Jeff?”
He frowned, then looked thunderstruck as he recognized me. “Esther?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “Jeff!”
“Holy shit! Esther Diamond!” He grinned and embraced me. “Man, it’s been a long time!”
When he released me, I said, “I haven’t seen you since you went on the road with that show. That was—what? Three years