Where the False Gods Dwell

by Denny S. Bryce

Genres: African American Historical; Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Inspired by real-life legendary choreographer Katherine Dunham’s groundbreaking expedition into the heart of Caribbean dance culture, this uniquely captivating novel imagines the experiences of three very different women who accompany her, hoping to find their destinies—yet find themselves forced to survive a historic event . . .

Chicago, 1935. Othella is an orphaned con artist who needs to escape the city's brutal underworld... or else. Vivian Jean is a wealthy wife, student, and anthropologist eager to prove herself professionally and personally. Zinzi is a Jamaican labor union activist determined to bring change to her homeland's plantation system. Thanks to a series of fortunate mishaps and coincidences, all three join Dunham’s voyage to the Maroon village of Accompong in Jamaica’s Cockpit Country—and perhaps discover what they desperately want most . . .

Through skill and curiosity, Othella becomes a valued member of the expedition, even as she struggles to conceal her past. Zinzi's knowledge of the Cockpit allows the expedition to explore uncharted territory, even as a forbidden love and fierce resistance threaten everything she seeks to protect. As Vivian Jean’s observations help Dunham make unprecedented discoveries, she grapples with her second husband's guilt and accusations. Yet, amidst their private battles, nature presents an even greater challenge . . .

As deadly Hurricane Jérémie bears down on the island, imperiling the women’s mission—and their lives—they must form a difficult sisterhood. As the storm rages outside the small parish that is their shelter, they will need each other more than anyone or anything they’ve ever needed.

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

State Street, Chicago, Illinois

The train from Chicago to Kenosha, Wisconsin, departs from the Northwestern Terminal at midnight. I’ve checked the schedule every day for the past two weeks, so I know I’m right. I also know I’ll be on that train by hook or by crook.

I just wish it were easier said than done.

My old man, Perry Merriweather, lies in bed next to me. He doesn’t know I plan to hightail it outta town and outta his life before the day is done. I can’t be saddled with no man, no matter how handsome or what promises he makes, not when I can be something more, someone else in a new town with a new name and a different occupation. There has to be more to me than gold-digging, picking pockets, and lying.

Rolling onto my side, I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. For heaven’s sake. I wanted to be long gone by now. But Perry with his pockets full of stolen goods from our very late night out only got in bed an hour ago.

I shoulda set the alarm, I think, as I ease out of bed.

“What time is it, Othella?”

Damn it. Why I keep forgetting he’s a light sleeper? Then again, I usually ain’t awake before him.

“Four o’clock,” I reply.

He grabs the lace trim of my silk briefs. “Where you going? Why don’t you stay in bed with me for a spell?” He squeezes my bottom, wanting something he ain’t gonna get. There will be no last-minute roll in the hay for him. Not today—not ever again.

“Can’t a gal go to the bathroom when she wakes up?”

He turns onto his side, and I swear the mattress groans. One day, he’ll break those worn-out springs.

I’m halfway across the room when his heavy feet thud against the floor.

“If you ain’t coming back to bed, make me some coffee,” he snarls. “I got places to be.”

“Give me a minute.” I close the bathroom door and feel my legs buckle. Stumbling forward, I grasp both sides of the sink. How am I gonna get outta here with him up and moving about? I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Only nineteen, yet I feel like I’m forty-five. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and urge my insides to calm down. I open my eyes. Okay. The truth is, I’m still a pretty girl with smooth brown skin and a curvy figure—and I can still get outta this house. I just have to use my wits.

Except Perry is muttering under his breath on the other side of the bathroom door, and he’s about as patient as a starving raccoon.

Madness inspires madness.

That’s my mother’s voice in my head. She used to say that when I was a little girl and worried about something I shouldn’t worry about. I wasn’t sure what it meant back then, but two weeks ago, I learned how quickly sanity can slip away.

Perry and I had swindled a wealthy widow in Bronzeville. We got so caught up in the thrill of the con that we lost ourselves. Or rather, Perry lost himself, and I just followed along.

Without a fuss, the old gal handed over her pearl-handled switchblade, which I slipped into my clutch purse along with her wedding ring. So why did she refuse to unpin the diamond brooch on her lapel? Perry beat that old woman half to death and scared me silly. We’d roughed up marks before, I told myself, but those folks were younger and swung back.

That widow woman wasn’t gonna hurt nobody. But as horrified as I was, I just watched.

That night, I made up my mind. I had to get outta this racket. I stashed some cash and trinkets and packed a suitcase while Perry was out drinking with his brother. Then I hid everything in the back of the closet, where he never looked.

Now, the only thing left is to get out of the apartment in one piece.

The bathroom door suddenly swings open, and there stands Perry, fully dressed, swinging my bag of cash in my face. “What the hell you doing hiding this shit from me?”

My vision blurs, and I might faint, but what good will that do? I have to think fast. Lord knows, I can’t tell him the truth, but I can change the subject. Maybe make him feel guilty.

“What you so mad about?” I demand. “I just set aside a few dollars for a rainy day. You spend nearly every penny we make on clothes, liquor, and automobiles. What if you get hurt or, even worse, get caught by some coppers and thrown in jail? Where would I be then?” I snort. “Holding a bag of nothing—that’s where.”

“That’s a bucket of bull, Othella.”

I shove him aside. “It ain’t no bull.”

“I smell a rat,” Perry hollers. “I found your goddamn suitcase packed, too.” His fist slams into the wall. “You’re begging for a beatin’ if you think you’re leaving me.”

My heart pounds in my chest so hard that my whole body aches. “Stop flapping your gums at me. If I were gonna leave you, I woulda been gone.”

“You’re a liar.” He grabs me from behind and spins me around. I see his huge paw coming for my face, but I can’t get outta its way. He hits me in the jaw so hard that tears spring to my eyes. “If you stopped lying, you wouldn’t get hit.”

Rage and pain burn through my veins. I feel my face swell, tasting blood as Perry pulls back, getting ready to pop me in the jaw again.

Christ. He is pissed as hell, but damn it, so am I.

“You’re right!” I snap, and his fist halts in mid-air. “I’m a liar ’cause I am leaving you. And don’t even think about hitting me again. I swear, I’ll fight back.”

“Oh you will?” Perry laughs harshly. “Then tell me, how far will you get with a broken leg or two?”

He has me, and I am half-dragged, half-carried toward the living room, my legs sweeping the floor like a broom. His long fingers wrap around my throat. I claw at his wrists, trying to break free, but suddenly my feet leave the ground and I’m flying through the air.

I scream, bracing for a hard landing, but the sofa softens my fall. Then, quick as a cat, Perry is on top of me, holding me down.

“You want to leave me?” he shouts, blowing his stinking morning breath in my face. “No bitch leaves me!”

“Get off me,” I rasp, “before I hurt you.”

A harsh laugh bursts from his wide mouth. He is gagging on laughter as if my words are a punchline he pretends to find funny. He loosens his grip in that instant, and I see my opening. I pull my knee in and, shifting my weight into the blow, drive my leg forward, striking him squarely in his private parts.

Screaming, he tumbles off me and crashes onto the coffee table, smashing it into pieces. He lies on his back, cradling his groin and cursing.

Rising as quickly as I can, I grab the handle of the Smokador, the carbon steel standing ashtray. Like me, it has some weight, and I slam it into his skull with all my might and rage.

Perry hollers, but I keep swinging, landing shot after shot until he stops moving and blood spurts from the gash in his head. His eyes flutter shut.

I drop the Smokador, dash to the bedroom closet, and grab the first outfit I can reach—one of my favorites: a blue-and-white, polka-dot, slim-waisted frock with butterfly sleeves. I dress quickly, glancing into the living room to see if Perry has stirred. I pin my long, coarse curls into a bun, then snatch up my suitcase and bag of trinkets. But it’s the other bag—the most important bag—the one with my money—that I need to find.

Where did Perry toss it? I race through the apartment. It has to be here.

“Othella.”

Oh, God. Is that Perry calling me, or have I imagined it?

“You g-gonna pay for t-this. You little bitch.”

Shit. Any second now, he’ll be on his feet and coming for me. Money or not, I’ve got to go.

I’m out the door a second later.

My day isn’t going as planned. After leaving Perry on the living room floor, I make a stop I should’ve skipped—the AME Fellowship Church and Reverend Nathan. I’ve known him for a long time and expected something different from him, but I end up leaving there quick and head to a juke joint a few blocks away. All the while, my mother’s voice is in my ear as if she’s standing next to me, reciting her old-world sayings: “If you’re around the insane, beware—the symptoms spread.”

I grip the handle of my tweed suitcase and squeeze my clutch purse under my armpit. It’s not a long walk, but I might collapse in this heat. If I do, I’ll be carted off by the police and thrown in a cell with wayward women, never to be seen or heard from again.

I wonder if that’s what happened to my mother—snatched off the street, with no chance to call home and check on me. But it no longer matters how or why she left—gone is gone.

Out of cigarettes, I spot a man across the street puffing on a smoke. I stroll over and ask if he can spare a couple. I think better with a cigarette in my hand. I put a sad look on my face, appearing quite desperate and girlie. He gives me a pack of cigarettes—bless him—and a handful of coins, all he can spare. He has a job, a wife, and he’s a churchgoing man. The only thing bulging in his pockets is a spare undershirt. He claims he likes to change into a clean shirt before returning home to his wife.

Now, that’s a nice fella. I wish there were more nice fellas in the world like him.

I step inside the juke joint and ask the owner, who I know from one of the nightclubs where I used to work, if I can use the horn to make a call. He nods, and I dial the only number I have for Tony Schaefer.

One of his goons answers.

“Can the boss spare some time for me this afternoon?”

The reply is a quick yes. The man on the other end adds that Tony mentioned me just the other night.

That might be a coincidence, bushwa, or whatever—it makes me no never mind. I couldn’t care less about the particulars as long as Tony gives me enough dough to catch that midnight train to Kenosha.

I have to tread carefully around him. During Prohibition, his occupation was bootlegging, and Perry was one of his drivers. I know that asking a bootlegging mobster for help shouldn’t be one of my first choices, especially if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. But a gal must do what a gal must do. I excuse myself to the bathroom, rummage through my suitcase, and slip into a gold chiffon dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up the middle of my right thigh. It’s a bold outfit and hardly fashionable, but it will attract the attention I need. When approaching a man like Tony Schaefer for a fistful of cash, a girl has to be a hot mama—or she can forget about getting out of Chicago anytime soon.



Hartfield House, Bronzeville, Chicago

My home feels small, suffocatingly small—an odd notion because, to some, Hartfield House is a mansion. Yet, my modest 4,000-square-foot home lacks a butler’s pantry, a morning room, a veranda, or a gazebo—unlike the estates of Marshall Field or Robert S. Abbott. The founder of the Chicago Defender, Abbott is one of the richest Negroes in the city, and lives just around the corner from us on 47th and Grand Boulevard. So, Hartfield House does have some of what it takes: a grand staircase, a second floor with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, a new library, and a live-in cook and housekeeper who has been with me since 1915, when she came to Chicago from Jamaica. I was ten years old.

We also have a parlor, which is where I am now.

I open the door and am greeted by a chorus of voices.

“Happy Birthday!”

My mother, Regina Thomas, sits stiff-backed and devilishly polite on the settee next to Katherine Dunham, my dear friend and soon-to-be accomplice. But my first duty is to make the rounds. After all, I am the birthday girl—or birthday woman—because today I turned thirty.

On the other side of the room, in front of the mullioned windows, are my husband’s parents, Dr. Clifford Hartfield Sr. and his wife, Constance. I’m surprised to see them. They rarely come to the city. Retired and fed up with Chicago after my first husband’s death, they moved to Joliet.

My first husband was their eldest son, Clifford Jr., a doctor like his father, who made me a widow on December 10, 1933. My second husband is their youngest, Tobias “Tully” Hartfield. He stands across the room. I can feel his gaze on me, and I’m tempted to walk over to him, grab him by the shoulders, and shake some sense into him. But that’s something I’d never do. Like my mother, I am too damn polite for my own good. Or is it fear of confrontation that cripples us?

“Dr. and Mrs. Hartfield, I had no idea you would be able to join us.”

“We wouldn’t miss your thirtieth birthday celebration,” Constance Hartfield states in her usual monotone. A well-preserved woman in her seventies, she always sounds rehearsed, no matter which of her sons is my husband.

“You look divine.” Dr. Hartfield pulls me in for a hug. “I’m very proud of you and Tully. It has been a challenging eighteen months, and you’ve both been so brave. I am very glad you have each other to lean on.”

I return the embrace and hang on a moment longer than I should, but despite the awkwardness of it, the sincerity of his words is so heartfelt that I am deeply touched.

Unlike his wife, Dr. Hartfield Sr. is openly affectionate, kind, and generous. I wish Tully and I could spend more time with him, but that would mean more time with his wife.

Dressed in her maid’s uniform, Maxi Green stands proudly beside the brass-and-walnut buffet, with good reason. The parlor is her handiwork and looks truly magnificent. The Royal China Madeira dishes, adorned with wine-colored edges, are elegantly arranged alongside the sterling silver cutlery set, a gift from Katherine. Twin Jazz Moderne vases at each end of the long buffet hold vibrant red and pink poppies—my birthday flowers. But it is the centerpiece that outshines everything else. It showcases a two-tier black rum cake, and the aroma of rum, molasses, and deliciousness fills the room. Additionally, there are bottles of champagne in two steel ice buckets with a frosty sheen, ensuring that the bubbly is perfectly chilled. I smile lovingly at Maxi, for she is more than a maid. She has been my teacher and secret keeper for most of my life. I am tempted to hug her but refrain from doing so in front of this crowd. Instead, I give her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

After another quick scan of the parlor, I don’t see my father, Major Leonard Thomas.

“Where’s Father?” I ask my mother.

“He’s on the telephone in your husband’s office, discussing a business matter,” she replies. “He’ll return as soon as he’s finished. Don’t worry. He’ll be here when you open your birthday presents.”

A pile of wrapped boxes of various shapes and sizes rests on the round table in the center of the parlor. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Of course we did, dear,” my mother responds dryly. “It’s your thirtieth birthday.”

“Do we really have to wait for Major Thomas?” Katherine inquires. “Knowing him, he could be on the horn until midnight.”

My mother’s expression tightens, her typical reaction to anyone questioning my father’s desires. “We can’t begin without him.”

I give Katherine a knowing wince. We have another party to attend in a few hours and neither of us wants to miss it: a reception at the Abbotts’ mansion, honoring Josephine Baker.

I continue my rounds—a handshake, a kiss on the cheek, a brief hug. “It’s good to see you,” I tell each guest, “and I hope you’re well.”

My husband is the last one I greet.

Leaning against the cottage piano is Tully, my handsome man with his square jaw, full lips, high cheekbones, and beautiful black eyes. He possesses an athlete’s physique, which shouldn’t be a surprise because he is a professional baseball player. Dressed in a short-sleeved knit shirt and high-waisted, wide-legged pants, he swigs from a glass of champagne and watches me over the thin rim.

As I draw closer, the tension between us is palpable. I wish it didn’t exist. I wish I could love him without the guilt crawling down my spine or that note of accusation he keeps waving beneath my nose.

He lowers the glass—a slightly tipsy smile curves the corners of his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Vivian Jean.” His baritone is emotionless, yet I crave the sound of it like a warm bath. I feel it in my chest and on my skin.

“Thank you, darling.” I kiss him on the cheek, but he subtly shifts his posture, removing any chance of him returning my show of affection. “How’s your leg feeling today?” I ask. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, though I know it’s the last thing he wants to be reminded of. He was the starting third baseman for the Chicago American Giants until a line drive shattered his kneecap in June.

“It’s the same as it was an hour ago,” he replies, his eyelid twitching.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted you to know I took care of all that business at the bank this morning.” I lower my voice. “I’m about to announce our trip.”

Tully closes his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched. “What if I changed my mind?”

“About coming with me to Jamaica?” There’s that feeling in my chest, like someone has reached through my rib cage to squeeze my heart. “Don’t tease me. You want to get out of Chicago as much as I do.” Panic sears through me. My plan won’t work without him. “So don’t even play around, or—” I hesitate, trying to think of something heinous to say to stop him from spouting such madness. “I’ll tell your parents what happened the night Clifford died.”

He steps toward me, standing so close that I can smell the champagne on his breath. “Don’t talk about the night my brother died—” His lip quivers.

“Why not? I’ll just show them the note he wrote, and they’ll fabricate some twisted nonsense about its meaning, just like you have.”

Tully shakes his head. “Don’t play games with me, Vivian Jean. You don’t want anyone to know about that note, any more than I do.”

“It’s my birthday. Shouldn’t I be able to do something I wouldn’t normally do?”

“And when has that ever happened?”

“The day I married you.”

“Vivian Jean.” Katherine suddenly appears at my side, squeezing my hand. “Maxi told me you needed to speak with me. Is this a good time?”

Did I? A glance at Tully reveals a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but thankfully, Katherine has shown up to keep us from embarrassing ourselves in front of our family and friends. But I did mention to Maxi that I wanted to speak with her.

“Yes, I did.” I look away from Tully.

Katherine beams at me before asking my husband, “Is it okay if I borrow your wife for a few minutes?”

“Please, take her. She’s yours.” He is back to normal, distant and unaffected by anything I do or say. “Just don’t take too long,” he adds. “Your father might arrive at any moment.”

I pucker my lips and blow him a kiss before Katherine, holding my hand, tugs me toward the exit.

The moment has come for me to confide in Katherine Dunham. Four years younger than I am, she is already an acclaimed dancer and choreographer—she founded her own dance company, Ballet Négre—and an anthropologist. A determined woman who prioritizes her ambitions, talents, and desires, she agreed weeks ago to let me (and Tully) join her Caribbean anthropology and African dance expedition. It’s her party. We do as she tells us. Of course, there are things she doesn’t know about my reasons for my trip to Accompong, the Maroon village in the heart of Jamaica’s Cockpit Country—things no one other than Maxi knows. If I am to tell Katherine the truth, the time is now, the place is here. After following her, I wait until we’re a little farther from Tully and everyone else. Then the door to the parlor suddenly bursts open, and just like that, the moment is gone.

My father strides into the room. “Vivi, all grown up at thirty. Finally, right?”

I release Katherine’s hand and whisper, “We’ll talk later.” Then I smile at my father, overlooking the nickname he knows I detest. “Thank you, sir. So glad you could make it.”

“How’s everyone?” He gestures broadly around the room. The response is less than enthusiastic. “Why haven’t you cut the cake yet? There’s no reason to wait for me.”

“Mother said we should wait,” I explain.

“I said wait to open the presents,” my mother defends herself.

“And only one bottle of champagne uncorked?” Major Thomas looks at Tully as if serving champagne is his duty. “Well, I’m here now. Let’s get on with it.”

Maxi strikes a long match to light the candles on the cake stand.

“Hold on there.” My father raises his hand and gives her a tolerant squint, one he often casts her way. “Vivi doesn’t need to blow out the candles. She’s too old for such nonsense. Let’s open the presents.”

I lower my gaze. “Sure, if you say so, sir.”

“Major Thomas.” It’s Katherine’s voice. “How about we toast the birthday girl before she opens her gifts?”

My father grunts, never liking it when a woman contradicts him. Katherine takes a breath, preparing to deliver the toast, but my father won’t have it.

“I’ll give the toast,” he says. “Pass me a glass of champagne.”

Maxi places a glass of champagne in my father’s hand.

“All right, let’s do this then,” he says.

Before my father begins, Maxi barely gets the champagne flutes into everyone else’s hands.

“To my daughter, a young woman who deserves all the kindness that comes her way. Happy birthday.”

My fake smile at his remarks, I trust, isn’t as obvious as it feels. The others in the parlor seem just as uneasy with the brevity of the toast as I am.

“I guess I’ll open my presents now.” I walk over to the round table in the center of the parlor, intent on grabbing the nearest gift, when my father stops me.

“Open this one first,” he orders, placing a small, narrow box in my hand.

I take the box. “Of course, sir.” It isn’t wrapped. All I have to do is open the lid. It’s a pocket watch.

My hands tremble. My grandfather, who was enslaved for most of his life, “inherited” the pocket watch from his father, the master of the plantation where he was born. The significance of the gift leaves me utterly baffled. My father’s usual gifts typically include clothing or candy, a scarf, a sweater, a new coat, or a box of Frango mints from Marshall Field’s.

He takes the pocket watch on the necklace from me and, moving behind me, fastens the clasp around my neck. “I put it on a gold chain so you can wear it as a necklace.”

I lift the pocket watch, grasping it delicately, and finally say, “Thank you. It’s beautiful, Father.” I consider hugging him. An embrace seems right, but I can’t recall the last time we shared more than a handshake. I hold back. I haven’t told him about the trust fund, let alone Jamaica. Perhaps this is the perfect time to share my news. After all, he’s in such a good mood that he might not be upset.

“May I have everyone’s attention?” I do a short spin, and when all eyes are on me, I say, “I have an announcement.”

The parlor fills with a. . .