The Sword and the Scythe

Chapter 25: Who Says You Can't Go Home

1912

Leroy was glad Philip had left him a clean suit and a decent coat when he'd left, even if Philip's hand-me-downs were a little big for him. He didn't want to do this looking like the street urchin he'd been the last time he'd been in this city. Today he wanted to look the part. At least it might help bolster his confidence. With one last look at himself in the fine mirror at the hotel, he hurried out into the streets of New York.

Though much had changed in the fifteen years he'd been gone, the streets where he'd grown up were still familiar and he was able to make his way to Harlem easily enough. Harlem, too, had changed in his absence. He couldn't hear the angry shouting of Mrs. DeLuca outside his old building. Instead exciting new music poured out of a window somewhere down the street.

He climbed the stairs of his old building, taking a deep breath in front of the door to his old apartment. A young black woman opened the door. "Sorry to bother you, Miss. You wouldn't happened to know what happened to the woman who used to live here, would you? Her name was Lizzie Whitten?"

The name sparked a little recognition. "Oh! Lizzie! Yeah, she moved out last month when Mrs. De Luca's kids sold the building."

"Any idea where she went?"

She shook her head, "Sorry."

"Thanks anyway." Leroy climbed back down the steps and wandered down the streets that were so familiar but altogether different at the same time. It took only a few minutes for him to get to the street corner where his mother used to work.

A gaggle of prostitutes were assembled outside—at least that hadn't changed. None of them looked much older than himself. He sighed and walked up to them, a few of them hooting and hollering at him. "Hey, honey, what kind of date you lookin' for?"

"I'm not looking for a date, I'm looking for my mother. Anyone know Lizzie Whitten?"

"Lizzie? She ain't been around here for ages."

"Know where she went?"

"What's in it for me?"

Leroy gulped and felt around the suit pockets for the five-dollar bill Philip had left him. It was all he had, but he handed it over. "Where'd she go?"

The woman tucked the bill into her bosom. "She told me a month ago she was going home."

"Home? What does that mean? She moved out a month ago."

She shrugged. "Sorry, hon. That's all I got."

Great. He'd lost the last of his money for nothing. He walked back toward the center of Manhattan, trying to think.

Home. What would his mother have meant by that? That tiny apartment was the only place they'd ever lived. If she wasn't there, then he didn't have the first clue where to look.

Then it hit him. Her home, not their home.

He wracked his brain, trying to remember anything that might help him.

The beach. She had told him that her father's house was on Long Island, right on the beach. He was sure of it. His mother had told him that she and her sister used to collect the shells that washed up near the back of the property. Now he just needed the money to get there. The thought of shadow traveling made him sick to his stomach. And without the safety net of Philip's company he could very well end up in the Atlantic Ocean again if he wasn't careful. That was the last thing he wanted—not after he'd spent a week drowning in it before washing up to the coast.