“No,” Robert said. “That’s all right.” He looked at Willie. “That’s all right.”

The push had broken some kind of barrier between them, and from that day on, Robert and Willie were as close as any two people could be. By the time they hit sixteen they were dating, and by eighteen they were married, and by twenty they had a child. The people of Pratt City spoke about them in one breath, their names one name: RobertnWillie.

The month after Carson was born, Willie’s father died, and the month after that her mother followed. Miners weren’t meant to live long. Willie had friends whose fathers had died when those friends were still swimming in their mothers’ bellies, but knowing this didn’t lessen the hurt.

She was inconsolable those first few days. She didn’t want to look at Carson, didn’t want to hold him. Robert would take her up in his arms at night, kissing her never-ending tears while the baby slept. “I love you, Willie,” he’d whisper, and somehow that love hurt too, made her cry even harder, because she didn’t want to believe that anything good could still be in the world when her parents had left it.

Willie sang lead in the funeral procession, the weeping and wailing of all the mourners carrying sound down into the very mines themselves. She had never known sadness like that before, nor had she known the fullness of hundreds of people gathering to send her parents off. When she started the song, her voice quivered. It shook something in her.

“I shall wear a crown,” Willie sang, her voice booming, bouncing from the bottom of the pit and coming back up to meet them all as they walked around the mines. Soon they passed the old potter’s field where hundreds of nameless, faceless men and boys were buried, and Willie was glad that, at least, her father had died free. At least that.

“I shall wear a crown,” Willie sang again, holding Carson in her arms. His mewling cry was her accompaniment, his heartbeat her metronome. As she sang, she saw the notes float out of her mouth like little butterflies, carrying some of her sadness away, and she knew, finally, that she would survive it.

—

Soon Pratt City started to feel like a speck of dust in Willie’s eye. She couldn’t be free of it. She could tell that Robert was itching to leave too. He had always been a little delicate for coal mining. At least that’s what the bosses thought every time he got a mind to go ask them for a job, which was about once a year since his thirteenth birthday. Instead, he worked as a clerk in the Pratt City store.

Then, after Carson was born, the store suddenly didn’t seem like enough for Robert. He could spend whole weeks complaining about it.

“There ain’t no honor in it,” Robert said to Willie one night. She was seated stomach to stomach with little Carson while he tried to snatch the light that was reflecting off her earrings. “There’s honor in mining,” Robert said.

Willie had always thought that her husband would die in the mines if ever he got a chance to go down. Her father had stopped working in the mines years and years before he died. He was twice the size of Robert, ten times as strong. Yet, still, he almost never stopped coughing, and sometimes when he coughed a string of black mucus would escape his mouth, his face would contort, and his eyes bulge out, so that it looked to Willie as though some invisible man were behind him, hands wrapped around the large trunk of his thick neck, choking him. Though she loved Robert more than she had ever thought it possible to love, when she looked at him she did not see a man who could handle hands around his neck. She never told him this.

Robert began to pace the room. The clock on the wall was five minutes behind, and the click of the second hand sounded to Willie like a man clapping off beat at a church revival. Awful, but sure.

“We should move. Go north, somewhere I can learn a new trade. Ain’t nothing in Pratt City for us now that your folks are gone.”

“New York,” Willie said, just as soon as she had thought it. “Harlem.” The word hit her like a memory. Though she had never been there, she could sense its presence in her life. A premonition. A forward memory.

“New York, huh?” Robert said with a smile. He took Carson into his arms and the boy cried out, startled, missing the light.

“You could find some kinda work. I could sing.”

“You gon’ sing, huh?” He dangled his finger in front of Carson’s eyes, and they followed him. This way, then that. “Whatchu think about that, Sonny? Mama singing?” Robert brought the dangling finger down to Carson’s soft belly and tickled. The baby screamed with laughter.

“I think he likes that idea, Mama,” Robert said, laughing too.

—

Everyone knew someone who was headed north, and everyone knew someone who was already there. Willie and Robert knew Joe Turner back when he was just Lil Joe, Joecy’s smart boy in Pratt City. Now he worked as a schoolteacher in Harlem. He took them into his place on West 134th Street.

For as long as she lived, Willie would never forget the feeling of being in Harlem for the first time. Pratt City was a mining town and everything about it was focused on what lay beneath the ground. Harlem was about the sky. The buildings were taller than any Willie had ever seen before, and there were more of them, tense, shoulder to shoulder. The first inhale of Harlem air was clean, no coal dust traveling in through the nose to hit the back of the throat, to taste. Just breathing felt exciting.

“First thing we gotta do is get me somewhere to sing, Lil Joe. I heard these ladies on the street corner, and I know I’m better than them. I just know it.” They had brought in the last of their three suitcases and were finally settling into the small apartment. Joe hadn’t been able to afford it on his own, and said that he was all too happy to have old friends to share it with.

Joe laughed. “You should hope you sing better than a girl on the street corner, Willie. How else you gon’ make it out the street and into a building?”

Robert was holding Carson, bouncing him a little bit so that the boy wouldn’t fuss. “That ain’t the first thing we gotta do. First thing we gotta do is set me up with a job. I’m the man, remember?”

“Oh, you the man, all right,” Willie said, winking, and Joe rolled his eyes.

“Don’t y’all bring no more babies into this house, now,” he said.

That night, and for many nights after, Willie and Robert and Carson all slept on the same mattress, laid out in the tiny living room on the fourth floor of the tall brick building. On the ceiling above the bed there was a large brown spot, and on that first night they lay there, Willie thought that even that spot looked beautiful.

The building that Lil Joe lived in was full of nothing but black folks, nearly all of them newly arrived from Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas. On the way in, Willie heard the distinct drawl of an Alabamian. The man had been trying to push a wide couch through a slim door. There was a similar-sounding voice on the other side of the door, giving directions: more to the left, a little to the right.

The next morning, Willie and Robert left Carson with Lil Joe so they could walk around Harlem, maybe look to see if any For Hire signs were up in their neighborhood. They walked around for hours, people-watching and talking, taking in everything that was different about Harlem, and everything that was the same.

Once they rounded the block past an ice cream parlor, they noticed a hiring sign on a store door, and decided to go in so that Robert could talk to someone. As they walked in, Willie tripped on the lip of the door stoop, and Robert caught her in his arms. He helped her get steady, and smiled at her once she was on her feet, kissing her cheek quickly. Once they were inside, Willie’s eyes met those of the store clerk, and she felt a cold wind travel that sight line, from his eyes to hers, then all the way down to the coalpit of her stomach.

“Excuse me, sir,” Robert said. “I saw the sign outside there.”

“You married to a black woman?” the store clerk said, his eyes never leaving Willie’s.