The Flower of Harlem

The Flower of Harlem

Alex Amirian

CHAPTER 1 (UPDATED)

A gloomy autumn morning was creeping in slowly. Cassandra had been awake for some time. Lying in bed, she remained still as the night faded into a crimson dawn.

“Time for prayer,” Cassandra said aloud.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she began to pray softly:

“Lord, I praise and thank You for the morning of a new day, for the food in our home and the roof over our heads,” she whispered. “Thank You, our Lord, for every moment in which my children and grandchildren are with me,” she continued with her eyes closed.

The pastor at the church the Williams family attended often reminded his congregation that one could speak to God in their own words, sharing daily joys and concerns with their Heavenly Father. So Cassandra didn’t search for perfect phrases—she simply spoke to the Creator, just as her father Marvin had taught her.

“I thank and praise You, Jesus, for waking me from sleep today and letting me see Your light, my Lord,” she concluded her prayer, then opened her eyes. Making the sign of the cross, she kissed the little crucifix hanging from her neck, just beside a delicate heart-shaped gold locket.

Now that the most important part of her daily routine was done, she could begin her morning exercises—a routine she affectionately called “my hundred movements.” Still lying in bed, Cassandra began flexing and unflexing her wrists. These simple movements were her way of fighting her long-standing arthritis, trying to restore the flexibility her joints once had.

Cassandra slowly walked to the window, leaned on the sill, and looked around. The lawn along the wide road was neatly trimmed, and the trees surrounding the building with its columns hadn’t yet fully leafed out. Most of the neighboring houses were built in Victorian style, adorned with sharp roofs, turrets, and decorative columns.

“So, ours is more modern, I gather?” Cassandra asked.

“You got it right, Mom,” Orian replied with a smile.

“Well, good! I can’t stand creaky old floors and that musty smell. I’ll plant roses under my window,” the elderly singer added meaningfully.

“You know,” Orian continued, “real estate in this area is expensive because these neighboring houses are protected under historic preservation laws,” he added enthusiastically.

Cassandra listened attentively, not interrupting.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.

Orian approached her, leaned in, and gently embraced her soft, sloped shoulders.

“I wanted you to see this place first, so you could truly appreciate what I found.”

“Enough with the sentiment, son,” Cassandra smiled, gently pulling away. “And don’t tell me your Chloe hasn’t seen the house yet—that would insult me!”

Orian looked embarrassed.

“Come on, Mom. I just want everyone to be happy here.”

Without saying a word, Cassandra slowly walked through all the rooms, carefully inspecting the one that was meant for her.

“You’re a sharp agent, Orian. I would’ve been shocked if you hadn’t pulled off this whole setup so well,” she finally concluded, now serious.

Orian spread his hands.

“Mom, I get that you’re probably upset about selling our little house in Harlem—and your family home in Philadelphia. But this new place is a good investment, believe me.”

“I don’t know,” Cassandra smirked. “I personally was perfectly happy with our house in Harlem. My favorite neighbors, Mrs. Judy and Mr. Harold, still live there. And you know I love spending summers in Philly, in my parents’ house in Germantown—close to old friends and family.”

“Mom, come on,” Orian started to boil over. “I’m doing everything I can to give us better living conditions—to get us out of Harlem, so your grandson can grow up among decent people!”

“Oh, is my son only worried about his beloved grandson?” Cassandra smirked again.

“Mmm-hmm. That night bird done whispered you right outta rememberin’ your mama, huh?”

Orian stopped pacing and looked away.

Cassandra raised her right hand—a signal for her son to stop talking.

“Don’t play smart with me, sweetheart—that move was below the belt,” she said flatly, then continued.

“I do like the house. And since sixty percent of its price will be mine according to our agreement, and the remaining forty percent—yours and your wife’s, to be paid off to the bank—I want our family attorney, Mr. Smith, to draw up the purchase documents with those terms clearly stated.”

“Mom, you don’t trust me?” Orian asked, staring at her in disbelief.

“You don’t read the classics, son,” Cassandra replied with a wistful smile. “The great Shakespeare laid out a very similar situation quite vividly. And I don’t plan on ending up in a nursing home too early—thanks to my darling daughter-in-law’s legal creativity.”

“Well…” Orian shook his head. “I’m not exactly in the mood for Sir William’s dramas right now, but I get your point. Mom, we’re African-Americans—in case you forgot. What matters most is keeping Christopher away from the streets, away from bad influences, and trying to build a life with dignity.”

“So you’re saying we weren’t living with dignity before?” Cassandra shot back.

“I know why you don’t want to move,” Orian said with a sly smile.

Cassandra said nothing.

“It’s because in Harlem and Philly there are still folks who remember your songs, right?”

“You trying to hurt me, son? Don’t waste your time. I accepted your terms—now you make sure mine are honored.”

“As you wish,” Orian shrugged and followed her to the door.

***

It had been two years since that day.

“The past is only a shadow, the future is but a dream, and the only thing we truly possess is the present.”

She loved repeating those words to herself. Every morning she woke up, she thanked the Lord for another day—and for a mind still clear. Her greatest fear was losing herself, becoming useless and helpless, a woman who couldn’t even care for her own body.

Upstairs, Christopher blasted out a few wild trumpet notes, loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. Cassandra heard the stairs creak—Orian was coming down.

She set her robe aside, slipped back under the covers, and called out,

“Orian, sweetheart, come here, please.”

The footsteps stopped. A few moments later, someone knocked softly on the door.

“Mom? You called me? Can I come in?” Her son stood in the doorway, barely hiding his frustration.

“Did Christopher wake you too?” he asked, annoyed.

“No, I’ve been up for a while,” Cassandra smiled and gestured for him to come in. “Sit down.”

Orian nodded and sat beside her, still wearing his navy-blue velvet robe.

“Son,” she began gently, “I’m not feeling well today. I want to ask you to invite Olivia and Abigail over.”

“You’re not feeling well?” Orian asked, adjusting the collar of his robe.

“No, baby. I couldn’t sleep all night.”

“What exactly hurts, Mom?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“At my age,” she replied with a weak smile, “any day could be the last.”

“Don’t say that, Mom,” Orian said softly. “You’ve got plenty of life ahead of you.”

“I know what I’m saying, son. I want my daughter and my granddaughter here today. Please call them.”

“All right,” Orian nodded. “I’ll ask Chloe to make her apple-stuffed duck, and I’ll call Olivia so she and Abi can come over for lunch.”

He was just about to leave the room when Cassandra called him back.

“If you’re heading to the basement, I’m warning you—leave that boy alone. Miles Dennis, the great trumpet player, never watched the clock. He practiced. He worked. That’s how you reach a dream.”

Orian stopped in the doorway.

“Mom, let me raise my son my way. Christopher is eighteen, and his head’s a mess. His friends want to be doctors, lawyers, engineers. My son wants to be a trumpet player—and play jazz, a genre that’s all but fading out.”

“Yes, my grandson is talented,” Cassandra cut in, “and he chose music. I support that, fully.”

“Talented?” Orian scoffed. “So what? This morning I had the pleasure of hearing the next Louis Armstrong. Or maybe Charlie Hawkins?”

“Don’t mock him, Orian,” she said, hurt. “That boy’s got a gift. He writes music, plays the trumpet beautifully, and he chose something he truly loves.”

“He doesn’t know life, Mom,” Orian spread his hands. “What if it breaks him? What if, after going through all the fire, he ends up just another average trumpet player instead of a star? He’ll be left with nothing but disappointment.”

“You’re right, son. Life doesn’t always go the way we want. It’s easier to be mediocre—with the right degree. A decent lawyer with no ambition, a software engineer, even a real estate agent—they make their money, hourly or yearly.” She gave him a sad smile.

“But your son—he’s got talent. He loves what he does. So I’m asking you, don’t crush that. Let him find his own way. Maybe he’ll change his mind one day. Maybe he’ll become an accountant, like his grandfather—or something else entirely. But let that be his choice. Not yours.”

“All right, I’m outta here, Mama. Hope you’re feeling much better now,” he added with a touch of sarcasm.

“Call Olivia. I want to see her and Abi,” Cassandra ordered firmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Orian nodded, closing the door behind him.

“Just like his father,” Cassandra smirked, setting aside her glasses.

“Mama, I heard that!” came a muffled voice from behind the door.

CHAPTER 2 – THE FAMILY TREE

All night long, Cassandra was tormented by nightmares. At first, she dreamed of her late husband, Bud, reproaching her for failing to keep Olivia’s family together. Then, as if barging in uninvited, Christopher’s father, Rasheed, appeared in her dream, grinning smugly as he tried to grab Abi while the girl screamed for help.

Cassandra tossed and turned, breaking into sweats and chills, unable to find peace. She groaned and shifted restlessly in bed.

In the middle of the night, Orian came downstairs for some mineral water. As he passed his mother’s room, he heard her sighing heavily and muttering in her sleep. Concerned, he quietly opened the door to check on her.

A knock on the door jolted Cassandra awake.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“It’s me—Chloe,” came the voice from behind the door.

“Come in,” Cassandra replied.

Her daughter-in-law appeared in the doorway.

“I just wanted to check how you’re feeling,” Chloe said gently.

“What time is it?” Cassandra asked, ignoring the question.

“It’s already ten-thirty,” Chloe answered, glancing at her watch.

“Oh, wow. I overslept today,” the elderly singer murmured.

“It’s Sunday,” Chloe reminded her. “We’re going to church. Are you coming with us?”

“So, sweetheart,” Cassandra said, “I’m really not feeling well today, so you go ahead without me. Tell Father Marvin that I’ll ask the Lord to forgive me for missing Sunday service.”

“All right,” Chloe smiled. “Then we’ll go on our own. There are fresh syrniki on the kitchen table. I made them for you this morning. Mama, please eat them.”

“On the kitchen table?” Cassandra frowned. “And why didn’t you bring them to me here in the room?”

“You need to walk to avoid muscle and lung stiffness—that’s what Dr. Gray said,” Chloe explained.

“Dr. Gray?” Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “Chloe, you’d be better off praying to the Virgin Mary to send you and Orian a baby.”

“There you go again,” Chloe blushed, glancing toward the hallway. “What’s embarrassing is that Christopher might hear us, and he’s a grown man now.”

“Christopher knows more than you two put together,” Cassandra giggled.

“Oh, and by the way, daughter-in-law, last time you wore black stockings. You should have seen the way Orian was gawking at you,” she teased.

“Mama, that’s too much!” Chloe laughed. “Even the men at the shop don’t compliment me like that.”

“As if they would dare!” Cassandra huffed. “I warned your boss, Marcos Johnson, myself. I told him that if anyone so much as offended my daughter-in-law, I’d unleash the whole Harlem street gang on his shop.”

Chloe stared at her mother-in-law wide-eyed, not quite understanding what she had just heard.

“Mama… wait… you know Marcos Johnson?” she asked in surprise.

Cassandra realized she had said too much and instantly regretted it.

“To you, my dear, he’s Marcos. But to me, he’s just Cookie. That’s what we used to call him—and his mama, Shawnequa. The boy couldn’t keep his hands out of the cookie jar when he was little.”

“So that’s why I got hired at that high-end shop?” Chloe asked, sounding disappointed.

“You got hired because you’re a good seamstress,” Cassandra replied firmly.

“And here I was thinking I landed the job all by myself.”

“You did land it,” Cassandra answered. “Look, it doesn’t matter how many applications you send out across Brooklyn. When people hire someone, they want a solid recommendation. There’s nothing wrong with that. So yes, I vouched for you. I told Shawnequa that her precious boy had better not hire some fool who can’t sew—or worse, someone who steals from the register. Now everyone’s happy. You’ve got work, and they’ve got peace of mind.”

She winked.

“All right, I’ll be going,” Chloe said, turning toward the door.

“How many times do I tell myself to keep my mouth shut?” Cassandra muttered after she left. “But no… I went and spilled the beans again.”

A few minutes later, Christopher appeared in the doorway.

“How’s our young lady feeling this morning?” he joked.

“Thanks to your prayers,” Cassandra grumbled. “So, has the entire household taken turns visiting me now, or is someone else still left?”