When Angels Cry

Segment One

Four months. Four months since the fight Nanna. Four months since I left that ancient, desolate manor belonging to that old hag. Two months since I finally gained my freedom.

On the other hand, it had been three months. Three months since my primeval “borrowed” Ford Model T broke down on me. Three months since I bought a cheap Model A to replace the jalopy, using up a lot of the dough I had left. Three months since I had finally arrived at this lively joint called Harlem.

Ah, Harlem, I thought absentmindedly. The place is a land of opportunities and dreams. People can fulfill ‘em and make a living at the same time. Good place that was built on the Lord’s suitable green earth full of mostly decent people.

“Miss Quinn…”

I’m quite glad I came here. Beats being back in St. Louis with that old witch. I grimaced slightly at a passing memory I’d rather not recall of the strict old woman. She wasn’t at all vicious, as she raised my daddy of course, but she was so stuck in her old ways…. Let’s just say that Nanna and I never got along very well.

Anyways, I—

“Miss Quinn!”

I jumped in my chair, shocked out of the land of my thoughts and landed back into my least-preferred realm of reality.

“Uh, yes?” I quickly questioned, turning my gaze to the large, opaque form of the man overshadowing the glow from the light above.

My boss, Timothy Roe, pinched the bridge of his nose with a pale hand beneath his pair of bifocals. “Quinn, were ya even listenin’?”

“Yes, sir,” I slightly squeaked, making a meager attempt at a quick cover up for my earlier daydreaming.

“You’re lucky ya came with Mister Hughes’s recommendations,” Mr. Roe sighed as his thick Manhattan accent graced his speech. “Ya have your head in the clouds a lot, don’t cha?”

I smiled weakly to the rhetorical question. Mr. Hughes, as in Langston Hughes, was actually a good friend of mine. We “met” through a program that our primary schools were in where the students would write letters back and forth to each other. He and I had been in contact practically ever since.

“Tell ya what, Quinn, when I first hired ya an open secretary position, I thought you’d be more suited for office work.”

“I-I am, sir!” I protested.

“Gal, stop it with the baloney, will ya?” He asked, receiving a nod in affirmation.

“Knowin’ you’re from the Bible Belt and the farmer folk around Saint Louis, you’ve been cooped up and came looking for some adventure up here,” he said glancing down at me through his left eye. Apparently, as I later overheard, the boss had been subject to the edge of the range of a detonated grenade or shell shrapnel from the Great War out in “no man’s land.” I’m never really one to pry on things, but when I asked him about it, he would always end up looking past me, off in some other time, with a sad, melancholy expression on his face. He would end up changing the subject later, but, luckily, he would never get upset with my inquiries.

 “So, I’ll make a deal with ya. Here’s what I got in mind:  Since there’s a lot folks out there wanting more music and more exciting news in the radio business, and as we work in said business, I’d like for you to be part of group of young people to go out and report on it.”

“Like a journalist, then?” I raised an eyebrow. Inwardly, I beamed. I liked the sound of this…

“Yeah, that’s the main idea. You’d be providing the information and the others would be on air talkin’ about it, in addition to your normal job.”

…Scratch that. I didn’t quite like the sound of this.

“Um–”

“Of course if you don’t want it, I can always assign the position to someone else,” Mr. Roe mused tauntingly.

I really would probably enjoy doing some reporting and interviewing, I suppose, I thought, considering my options quickly. I’d be able to explore Harlem more and become more acquainted with the area. Plus, I really hate being stuck behind this desk all day.

“I’ll take it!” I responded. “But, only with a few added conditions.”

“Oh?” Mr. Roe cocked an eyebrow. “And what are these ‘added conditions?’”

“I get to choose what I cover, who I interview, and a reduced amount of paperwork. And…”

“And?” He gestured somewhat for me to continue.

“And…. I’d like some time on the air,” I responded in a rush, nervous at my final request.

He let out a large chuckle. “Yes to all but the last one, Miss Quinn. I apologize, but I’ll have to see what I can do about.”

I nodded in understanding. The radio station I’ve been working for was owned by white patron folks interested in supporting the big movement that was happening in negro culture, which had Harlem as the center of it all. I was fortunate to have gotten a job here (Thank the Lord!) with my amateurish experience in any field, much less offered the additional duties by Mr. Roe and his employers. I knew why they wouldn’t let a woman, much less one of black descent like me, into the studio unless it was for performing some song or accompaniment and such. It’s never been something I enjoy thinking about.  

“That’s wonderful! Thank you, sir,” I courteously replied.

“Good,” Mr. Roe said in affirmation. “You’ll be working with Matthew Williams, Tommy Larson, Marshall Taylor, and James Crowley. You will have your first meeting with them later this week, first thing Thursday morning at 9:30 sharp.”

“Okay. I’ll mark it on my calendar.”

“Good, Quinn,” he replied.

A few moments later, after he finished explaining some other trivial details, he stood up to leave. Mr. Roe proceeded to gently place a large hand on my shoulder. “Make me proud, Quinn.”

He left me in a slight stupor as he exited the small excuse of a room for an office I had (It was approaching the size of a traditional office, but was still slightly larger than a janitor’s closet. At least it had a grand window.), remembering something my father had told me before he was drafted during the Great War. I haven’t had those words uttered to me in a decade.