This is this novel that does for Harlem what "The Amboy Dukes" did for Brooklyn! For not only is TAFFY a shocking revelation of Harlem's knife fights and orgiastic parties, it is also a sensitive portrayal of a character in conflict with society.
It is the struggle of a boy isolated between the world of the Lenox Avenue "zooters" and his mother's church folks; a struggle between young romantic dreams and sordid experiences, a story of violence, pool-halls, cheap wine, and petty crime.
In this moving presentation of life in Harlem, Philip B. Kaye has fashioned a story that is not just a shocker, or a problem novel, but a human drama of tremendous force!
FRONT COVER DRAWN by RAY JOHNSON
This colorful illustration is the artist's interpretation of Taffy and a friend as they roam the streets of Harlem, ready for thrills and excitement!
HIGHLY PRAISED BY REVIEWERS EVERYWHERE
"This is a novel about Negro people in America in the same way that 'Main Street' and 'Grapes of Wrath' are novels about white people in America. The author fixes upon a given segment of our national population and treats certain characters within it exclusively, intensively and with some sociological concern. Yet the racial question, as such, comes only incidentally into this strong narrative. The essential matter supersedes race; it is simply and rather terrifically human, and the novel is a fierce, jarring and "important piece of work."
Richard Sullivan-NEW YORK TIMES
"With little advance fanfare, one of the most penetrating and significant novels on Negro urban life has just been published....'Taffy' is destined to rank with the best works of Richard Wright, Bucklin Moon, Wil-lard Motley, Arthur Gordon, and other gifted Negro and white writers who have done outstanding work on racial themes. ... This first novel is the most penetrating study of Negro social and upper strata religious life that has yet been recorded by any writer. ... Because of the violence, brutality and slum setting of the novel, many readers may be inclined to compare 'Taffy' to Richard Wright's 'Native Son.' There is a superficial similarity to the themes, but a thoughtful reading of this new book will find that Wright's book, brilliant as it was, will suffer by comparison."
Ted Poston-PHILADELPHIA TRIBUNE
Taffy, American Negro, is blood brother to Farrell's Studs Lonigan, to Shulman's Frank Abbott, to Algren's Frankie Machine. All of them are the spiritual descendants of the cutthroats and footpads of an earlier day ... but these contemporary figures, these new American outlaws are, like Taffy, spawned in city slums. ... Taffy grew up in Harlem. At seventeen he was a lush and a smalltime hood; at eighteen he was a murderer. Mr. Kaye has written frightening, brilliant scenes that show Taffy and his gang getting drunk, robbing an apartment, playing pool, fighting. Taffy and his friends Eggie, Crip, Homer, Ralph, and Dude and the prostitutes Frazzles, Cleo, and Lady "are terribly alive, completely believable.... 'Taffy' is a vivid and unforgettable book."
Ann Petry-SATURDAY REVIEW OF LITERATURE
"Here is a brilliant yet brutal picture of Negro people in the United States." LEWISTON, MAINE, SUN
"The average novelist who writes about Negroes hasn't risen above the tradition of Harriet Beecher Stowe, but Philip B. Kaye is an exception. The Negroes in 'Taffy' are treated as more than a problem, more than victims of their environment. They are human beings who suffer and make their own misery, just as white folks do. ... Taffy is a boy who attempts to adjust to his environment first in the slums and later in a mixed neighborhood. He fails because he is weak and because he does not have the security of the love of his mother. It is this lacking which brings him to his tragic end. ... Kaye has written of "the slums from the experienced viewpoint of acceptance rather than from the excited discoverer's sensationalism. He allows his characters to grow and makes their growth believable. ... This is a fine novel. It is not a book for those easily shocked nor is it a book for racists of any color. It is a book for people who can and will feel compassion for others and themselves when they read a human tragedy." John S. Harmon-HOUSTON, TEXAS, POST
"I have just read the galley-proofs of a book called 'Taffy,' a novel exposing the life of the underprivileged in the Manhattan and Brooklyn Negro sections. The name of the author, Philip B. Kaye, is a phony. It is by a Negro and he knows his stuff. Only one of his own race would dare write so scathing, degrading a report on conditions where white reporters are warned to tread lightly. It is a devastating chronicle. ... It is tough like 'Studs Lonigan' and 'Knock on Any Door' were tough. It is bitter and it is lurid. But much of it palpably portrays the lowest strata of the characters it sets forth. It might be summed up as a treatise on juvenile delinquency laid to environment and conditions. If so, it is a frightening exposition."
Jack Lait-NEW YORK DAILY MIRROR
" Taffy' is another in the list of books about juvenile delinquents. It is a more rounded picture than others like Hal Ellson's 'Duke' and his more recent 'Tomboy.'...'Taffy' is, for the most part, a realistic picture of Negro life on several levels. The descriptions of Harlem street scenes are especially good."
Gertrude Martin-CHICAGO DEFENDER
"It's unpleasant and grim, but not to be forgotten. Brilliant and brutal, this is a story of Harlem and what takes place there, and how one Negro family has to learn to make terms with life the hard way. ... The writing is forceful and compelling."
Dorothy Quick-EAST HAMPTON STAR
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
TAFFY JOHNSON
The name Taffy was for the color of his hair and skin. Taking him away from Harlem was like taking a fish out of water-he just couldn't live without it!
MARTHA JOHNSON
Taffy's mother. She spent her life searching for a way to leave the slums until one day she found she had let her family slip away from her in the mad desire to escape!
EGGIE
Squat, square and powerful looking. He was far wiser than his eighteen years, toughened by the very struggle to exist!
RALPH
Giant of build with a temper to match. It took a love-starved woman, determined to marry Ralph, to tame the lion in him.
GERALDINE Soft of form and sweet of face. She was the first girl that Taffy had ever wanted out of love for her, and he couldn't understand why she snubbed him!
CLEO
The warm-hearted prostitute. She gave Taffy some of the mother-love he so badly needed, until the night he turned on her!
BILL
He was from a different world than Taffy and he longed for the excitement of Harlem. Being shot at by the police was one thing he didn't expect when he started tagging along with Taffy!
Published by arrangement with Crown Publishers Copyright, 1950, by Philip B. Kaye. Avon Reprint Edition, copyright, 1951, by Avon Publishing Co., Inc. Printed in U.S.A.
BOOK ONE
1
Taffy?" The voice came from out of sight.
He stopped short in the doorway to the apartment.
"Taffy!" His mother's voice sharpened. "Is that you? Did you forget we're moving tomorrow?"
He blinked unhappily about at the jumble of barrels, piled-up odds and ends and scattered newspapers for packing littering the apartment hallway. His eyes stopped on a crusty and misshapen aluminum pan teetering on a wash tub of unidentifiable clothes. He had never known they had so many things. Or that they looked so-well, sort of beat out. Like DiGorio across the street.
"Taffy!"
He winced and answered, "Yes'm."
"What're you doing?" He heard the rattle of paper and quick steps.
"I'm going down for some cigarettes." He gently closed the door and went downstairs to sit on the steps of the front stoop. His sallow yellow skin blended with the rickety rectangles and squares of the paint-flaking banisters and posts. He shook his head slowly and chewed his thumb knuckle. "Jesus Christ."
Remembering they were moving the next day, Sunday, gave him a sickish feeling in the stomach. He bit harder on his thumb, sucking the loose skin between his teeth. A thin bony youth, he was small for his seventeen years. The sparse eyebrows over his too close-set eyes disappeared into the sullen pout that wrinkled his flat nose.
He scratched absent-mindedly through his kinky taffy-colored hair, and lit a cigarette. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he rubbed himself while he squinted sightlessly through the smoke that curled back along the cigarette. His wide nostrils quivered as he looked up and then down the 133rd Street block in Harlem between Fifth and Lenox Avenues.
"You better go on, man." A thick voice rose above the flatness of anonymous evening noises. Across the street, a wizened black man rocked to and fro unsteadily on the sidewalk. He grinned up toothlessly at a fat brown woman who squatted on the top step of the high stoop. She puckered and worked her lips wordlessly. The shabby old man groped for his hat and jerked it from his head. The stubble of beard grayed his ebony face.
He started uncertainly up the steps toward her. Stumbling over an invisible something, he fell forward three steps until he caught himself and clung to the rail with one hand. He dropped his hat. It rolled back to the sidewalk. He grinned loose-mouthedly and fumbled at his pockets w.ith his free hand. The woman stared away from him up into the air, twisting her round face into a creviced scowl, puckering her fat lips even more.
"Agnes! Agnes!" A thin yellow woman left her seat beside the fat woman to scream at an upstairs window. "Pop's out here after Mamie agin!" She moved to the far side of the stoop. Several windows went up. Four or five other persons crowded to the front door to peek out cautiously.
Pop Johnson, the fish peddler, had found his pocketbook and was waving it unsteadily at Mamie with little jerks. Making little circles with his elbows and ducking his head like a whining puppy, he seemed to be pleading. Mamie twisted her face away. Her big breasts welled out over her stomach. She shook herself on her broad seat. Taffy could see the flabby fat of her thighs hanging down to match her ragged underdrawers. Pop Johnson took another step up; but staggering, he fell again, on one knee, his head at a level beneath her dress. He stared fixedly. His mouth hung open.
"Go' 'am'son'vbitch!" Flinging his pocketbook at her, he lunged upward. He seized one thigh, uncovering it. The pocket-book landed with a soft "splat" against the wide expanse of naked flesh above the low breastline of her housedress.
"Git her, Pop!" Agnes shrieked.
"Atta boy, Pop!"
"Yeah, man!" The onlookers roared, punched and pushed each other.
Pop clung to the massive leg his assault had uncovered.
Mamie turned slowly to glare down at him. The leg and foot of the stocking cap she wore on her head trailed against the side of her face. She shook it to one side. She licked her lips, rolling them, the lipstick red against their pale pink inside. "Git yo' hands off en me."
The words were so softly told off Taffy could barely hear. The crowd stood still.
Pop made a convulsive grab.
In one move, Mamie stood up, kicked out, and slapped with both hands. The crowd gasped. Pop was knocked up sidewise against the banister. He tottered a moment; and then, slewing around, he pitched forward down the steps.
His head said "klock!" when he landed on the sidewalk beside his hat. He lay crumpled up in the midst of the potsie squares of the game the children had been playing. Mamie, her clenched hands on wide hips, looked down on him. No one said anything.
Pop stirred and tried to turn over; and Mamie sighed heavily. She sat down, stolid, monolithic, staring straight out across the street in Taffy's direction at nothing.
"Pop! Git outta our game!" shrieked a thin-legged little girl.
A man came from the basement of the house and helped Pop to his feet, put his hat on his head, and tried to push him along.
Mumbling and pointing at the steps, Pop staggered and pushed back. The man got his pocketbook. He took it. Without looking at anyone, he reeled up the block toward Lenox Avenue where the repetitious rickety brownstone fronts stopped against the wall that advertised screaming red, yellow, green, white and pink, "You Owe Yourself the Best!" A blonde, unbelievably white and pink, with overgenerous breasts, hips and thighs, smiled down from the unsheeted mattress on which she lay. Underneath was written: use kelly innerspring mattress.
Taffy looked back up the block. Ice-junkman DiGorio dozed in his basement entrance, apparently unmindful of the recent brawl. Next to him was Ralph's house where Frazzles had first raped Ralph, and there was Frazzles' house, before she got sent away and her mother moved to 132nd. And there was where Dude and Eggie lived, one on the first floor and one on the third, where both had rooms in back on the courtyard where the stink of garbage made them keep the windows tight closed in spite of the early summer heat. There was where he had split a milk bottle on the head of a "Copacetic" gang member. Across the street from Kelly's blonde, on the corner, Stoney's shoeshine and newspaper stand sagged.
A dog dodged by, sniffing from garbage can to can, nosing the brown paper bags piled besitle them. Taffy spat at him. Across the street, Mr. Bustamente, the tailor, sang in a nasal off-key. He marked off each verse by the hiss of steam when he stomped down on the foot pedal of the pressing iron.
"Mamie and Joe use to love so (Puff!) Sweet as two bugs in a rug-oo. (Puff!) They'd hug and kiss all the morning-night long. (Puff!) But he'd done her wrong (Puff!) With whiskey(Puff! Puff!) Now she don't want he (Puff!) No more." (Puff!)
Taffy sniffed. Maybe it wasn't paradise, but eight of his seventeen years had been framed here, and it was what you had. And now, they were moving. He rubbed himself harder, his eyes glazing to blur the outside. His mother said everything would be different in the new home. Maybe. But he'd have to see if different meant better.
"Taffy!" called his mother from the upstairs window. "Come up and eat!"
He blinked and saw that his cigarette had burned out. He lit another and stared up at the blanked window from which his mother had called. A twisted grin came to his lips. So if they were moving, he could duck paying Cojo. "Ain' nothin' a greater waste of good money than payin' today for yestidday's tail," he quoted old Pop Johnson to himself. But it had been okay, and he flushed with the memory of the impatience with which he had followed Cojo, the hunchback, up a flight of rotting wooden steps while the excitement had grown and swelled in him, until they reached the roof top. Cojo had pointed to a small group in the shadow of the front wall.
Taffy half closed his eyes and could again see the girl in the half-light of night, lying on a coat. The three boys had stood about her, staring at him. The heat from the roof had choked him with the odor of tar. A faint breeze had made him look up for an instant and see stars, suddenly startling bright. And then he had seen the gleam of a bare spindly leg. "Go on," one of the boys had said. "Go ahead." It seemed he could still smell the odor of her that rose with the heat. Her arm had been thrown over her eyes. Her mouth had twisted like a living thing. As he knelt, the gravel was round and hard. He was panting again at how when she reached up her arms for him he could see the perspiration on her quivering upper lip, the shine on her cheekbones-
"Taffy! How many times do I have to call you?"
He started. "Awright, Ma. Awright." He waited another moment to let the excitement cool. Then he went upstairs.
The cracked marble step on the second floor teetered under his feet. The stench of urine was strong in the close humid hall. Disinfectant, anti-bedbug juice, kerosene, boiled cabbage thickened the air. In the feeble light which came from the grime-covered courtyard windows, and the single bulb on eachfloor, he could see the old familiar obscene directions and slogans scrawled in lipstick, crayon and chalk. Behind the closed apartment doors he heard the mumble of voices, the fixed wailing of a baby, muffled music and the guttural staccato of a radio newscaster. At the top, he sniffed the breath of air that came down through the open fire escape door. When he came into the kitchen in the apartment, his mother leaned up from the barrel she was packing.
"You know you have some packing to do, Taffy. This job should have been done a long time ago." She gripped the edge of the barrel with her hands, and Taffy watched the cords in her arms, how they ran down the backs of her hands into her fingers. She was a small wiry woman, her back straight, her shoulders square. Her brown face, now wet and shining with the heat, had the sharpness Taffy's imperfectly followed. But where he looked like a skull, she showed character. "If you'd just show some interest around here-"
"I'll see Taffy's things get packed," Elizabeth called from the back bedroom she shared with her brother.
"You come sit down and eat." She went out to the hall. "Tom! Now, why do I have to call you special?"
"I'm coming, Martha." He entered the kitchen, yawning. "I was just trying to catch a nap. That's going to be a busy run out tonight, and I didn't sleep very good today. You know, it takes a lot out of a man to have to-"
"And if you had a decent job like any other-"
"Mother! Please, not tonight." Elizabeth was watching her mother. "Sit down, Taffy. Say grace please, Mother. This is our last meal here."
Taffy sat and watched his father ease himself dejectedly into his chair. He wondered if he had ever seen his father looking any way but like that. He twisted his lips with the bitterness of the earliest memory of his father standing before the principal's desk, twisting his hat in both hands while he stooped over as though he were too tall. In the unintelligible shadows of half-remembrance he could hear the words flowing. "-and the important thing is not whether or not the boy called him a 'nigger.' The dangerous thing is that he tried to meet that with violence. If you permit your children to grow up trying to settle their problems only with their fists, they will, as adults, try to meet all of life's challenges with brutal force." He hated the image of his father bobbing his head and saying. "Yes sir. Yes sir." But the meaningless speech poured on. "Your son must learn to meet problems with reason. The social instincts are simply the projection of our maturing childhood aspirations, desires and habits. If those are not channelized into constructive configurations, then the final democratic ideals we hope to realize become impossible of achievement."
Taffy twisted uncomfortably in his seat. What had it all meant? Talking about, "He needs to feel that his mother and father are planning a future and that he can share in its making and enjoying. You must not let a child grow up feeling helpless, thwarted, with a fear that life is a house of many locked doors that open only to violence. If the child feels boxed in, defeated, then you are storing up terror for an explosion later on." And his father had bobbed his head and said, "Yes sir," when the principal had asked sharply, "Do you understand?" He had hopped up from his chair. "Now don't forget!" he had snapped, jabbing a finger at Taffy. And that finger had stayed stuck in the midst of his memory of his father who had turned silently away and walked slowly down the long dark hall toward the school's front door. Their footsteps had echoed in the silent corridor. A sullen night porter had cracked open one of the heavy black iron gates. They had stepped out into the street where the late afternoon sun laced long-necked shadows across the narrow sidewalks.
The mood of it was strong again upon him now as he watched his father slumped patiently in his place, his eyes on his plate. And Taffy recalled how he had sat in that same way on a bench on Riverside Dri.ve, looking out over the Hudson. A red sun had already dipped low to silhouette the Jersey ferry slips against a crimson-streaked sky. Sea gulls had skimmed and dived over the river, dropping down to strike widening triangles on the oily green water. Ferries had swum backward and forward sluggishly, their hollow whistles matching his feeling of emptiness and fear. He'd said, "I gave him a bloody nose, Pop-"
But his father had hushed him. "Hush, son. Just be glad it weren't no worse. Just be glad it weren't no worse. It's just like the teacher said. You can't go through life like that." He had turned to stare out over the darkening river, talking out into nothing, mostly to himself. "You can't beat white folks that way. You can't do it fighting. You got to trick 'em. They got to think you're grinning. They like to hear the 'Yes sir. No sir,' echo to their whim. You can't lose patience or spend yourself just like you want to. You got to learn not to feel, not to want, not to see what's outside. That beats the white man. You got to live in his world, but shut him out. And you can have a whole world of your own inside."
Taffy remembered how the light had failed and the streetlight shadow had grown about their feet, but his father had talked on. "When that teacher was a-talking, I guess he thought I was pretty humble. Because if I'd done what I felt-" And when his father had straightened up, the memory of night shadows in the hollows of his cheeks had cut deep into his memory. And then, as though something had given way, the features faded and his father was slowly shaking his head from side to side. "No," he'd said. "No. Because then all the whites would come a-running. White police, white courts, white everything; and it wouldn't do no good anyway. So there's no point in trying to whip the world with your hands. I just shut them out, and they can't get in; and pretty soon they go away and let you alone. It takes a little time. Sometimes you get mighty wore out. But then, there's no use in getting tired of breathing."
Taffy had tugged at his father's sleeve and said, "Pop--? "
The start of surprise that had come into his father's eyes when he seemed finally to see him sitting there had hurt. But as they walked along in the new night through the intermittent patches of streetlight and store light, he had tried again. "Pop--? "
"I don't know," he had answered softly. "I don't know. I guess it's like your Mom says. When we get a home, a piece of land and a house on it. When you got your own place where you can slam the door, then you got something. Any other way, you beat your own brains out, because it's a white man's world. And a colored man ain't got nothing at all."
And they had walked on until the stores ended and the streetlights were farther apart and his father was only a dim figure beside him and a hand to which he held. He had let go because he felt angry in a strange way and hurt that his victory in the fight had been ignored. And then the memory faded and there was nothing left in between but that vague uneasiness that smothered anger which never had anything at which to rebel, except something which wasn't there. And that was it, for although his father's olive-skinned face was placid, without a quiver in the broad mouth or heavy-lashed eyes, Taffy felt again the sudden rush and crowding in his stomach he had felt when his father's unseeing eyes had remembered he was sitting beside him in the park.
"Taffy, quit squirming!" His mother stopped the grace he had not been hearing and glared at him. She went on, "And we thank you for having brought us safely home. It is so easy to fall, Lord, it is so easy to fail. But you have borne us up-"
He hunched his shoulders because his back hurt. So they got a house. Did she have to preach about it all night? He gnawed his lower lip. He was to meet Eggie and the gang at nine o'clock.
"-and give strength to take what we should get, patience to let go what we should, and wisdom to know one from the other. Amen."
She had finished and he reached hurriedly for the collard greens.
"Children," his mother said as they served themselves, ' buying a house doesn't mean we have a home. A home is made by people who want to be something more than just moss on the underside of life. We might have just lived, right here in Harlem. But our home can be a fresh beginning, if we put into it the will to lift ourselves up. When we leave this place"-and her inflection was a curse-"it is a new beginning."
"Yes," said Elizabeth softly. "It will be cleaner. Trees and grass that will stay green all summer, and sidewalks you can sweep yourself. And air, and just plain ordinary space."
His father nodded his head while he stared dreamily ahead. 'Yes. And a high stoop, and a plot of ground out back. And nobody can-"
"All of that is nice," interrupted Martha, "but it ought to mean a whole lot more than that." Her voice was sharp as she stared at her husband. Taffy felt something jerk tighter inside. He hurried his eating even more.
"Do you remember the time that grocery man got fresh when we lived on 99th Street?" Her voice was reminiscent, but hard, cutting.
"I remember, Mother." Elizabeth stopped eating and Taffy wondered if she was going to remind her they had heard it many times.
"Then, that's what I mean. 'Who do you think you are?' he spat in my face. And what could I say? That I was a pullman porter's wife? That I worked for Mrs. Strachan, cleaning her slops and carrying" her dirt? I couldn't say that. I.knew it and he knew it. He just laughed a nasty laugh and I just stood because I didn't know what to do. 'You goddamned niggers's gittin' too fresh,' he said. I screamed, 'Don't you say that!' He cursed and grabbed his cleaver and shouted, 'I'll teach you to yell at me, you black bitch you.' And I ran to the cop at the corner and he just laughed and turned his back and said he didn't know what I wanted. I hadn't been hurt." The mother's eyes burned and her mouth was a hard puckered oval. "He said I hadn't been hurt. That it was nothing. To forget it."
"Well, Martha," her husband said uneasily, "that's all behind us now. We got our house, and there's nobody should get more credit than you for-"
"Behind us?" She put down her knife and fork and leaned tensely forward. "I'm talking about what's before us. I'm not just going on day to day. That's good enough for you maybe. Maybe you like being a pullman porter-"
This was the way it always was, and Taffy chewed harder as he had chewed on his thumb when he was younger, hiding his face under the covers because his mother had slapped his hands if he put his thumb into his mouth. For chewing seemed to ease the empty hungriness in his stomach-when it had been hard to cry because of the awful tight feeling that something terrifying was getting ready to happen, when he had trembled, anxiously waiting in his room as a baby, measuring the fall of his mother's slow steps as she paced back and forth in the next room. And there would be no noise in their dark room except the creak of Elizabeth's cot. Honking cars and voices in the street seemed further apart, until his father would come and, against the words his mother was now pouring out, a past memory of her sobbing, "I was Reverend Warren's daughter. Remember? I went to Johnson C. Smith College, I did. I was so brilliant. I was so fine, I was-"
And the memory only said, "I'm trying, baby. I-" Never any more because the image became strident.
"You!" it shrieked. "Look at you! You're a fine picture of a man. Don't you care about anything but saying, 'Yes sir, Mr. White Man. No sir, Mr. White Man'? Don't you want to be anything but a boot-polisher? You privy cleaner. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, your house, your dirty stinking puking brats. I hate all of you! I wish I'd never seen any of you." Crashing china had sharpened a scream and the silence banged down like the slam of a door. And nothing was left but Elizabeth sobbing in the darkness, the clock ticking loudly, hurriedly, and the Ninth Avenue elevated rumbling away in the whirling fog of memory.
A distant whistle pierced Taffy's fantasy. He raised his head. His mother was eating again, and his father looked quiet, although smaller and more round-shouldered. Taffy gulped the last of his food and jumped up from the table. It was nine-five. He heard the whistle again, and he dashed for the door.
"Taffy! Where are you going? Why do you have to-"
"I'm going to the corner," he yelled over his shoulder as he banged the door. He bounded down the stairs. t
He stopped at the apartment house front door to brush down his hair with both hands. He hunched his shoulders several times as if to settle his bony frame into the correct pattern. He massaged his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes and lips. When he felt that the last of something unpleasant had been completely erased, he swaggered down the stoop steps.
Eggie, squat, square and powerful-looking, stared up at him, scowling. The streetlight shone on his shaven head. "Thought you wasn't ever coming out." He got up from the step where he had been sitting. He moved with a poised rhythm as though practicing each position. He looked older than his estimated eighteen years.
"Aw, Ma had a preaching jag on." He felt his stomach let go and his hands unclasp as if he had just put down a heavy package. He jerked his head at Dude. "Whatcha say, Dude?"
Dude, as small as Taffy but shiny blue-black, flipped a hand, Dude's clothing looked startlingly new in contrast to Taffy's shabby indifference, for Taffy wore an aura of decay that was more than his unbuttoned collar and loose tie. He wore his clothes as if they belonged to somebody else.
"Hello, Taffy." Homer, six-feet and some, spoke amiably.
Taffy glared at him. He turned sharply on Eggie. "What'd you bring him for? We don't need him."
"I'm goin' to do what you say," whined Homer. "I'm going to do it.
"Don't be a prick, Taffy." Eggie spat out toward the curb. "He's one of the gang, ain't he?"
"Suit yourself. Don't make no damn difference to me." He turned to Dude who was picking his teeth with a delicate air. "You cased the joint? Who's got the tools?"
Dude nodded his head at Homer who, with a large attempt at secrecy and a wily grin, held open the top of his tightly buttoned coat to show the tops of two goose-necked jimmies. Eggie guffawed.
"What the hell's wrong with you, baby? Got the creeps? Relax, relax. These bastards are away for the weekend. They's the , only people on the floor. Just take it easy, kid. This is a lead-pipe cinch."
They headed for 145th Street and Edgecombe Avenue.
Evening is kind to Harlem. The dirt is blurred, the oldness, the ugliness are masked, as yesterday's belle recaptures her beauty in the shadows. Strident voices, harsh noises, and glaring light cut across at noon; but at twilight life has slowed to the muffled bump of a grinding juke box.
Greed and lust are naked in daylight, but with nightfall mysterious enchantment lures with promises of strange dark pleasures. The bitter line is erased and only sparkling eyes above a sharply curving cheek freely offer a forbidden invitation to alien ecstasy.
And Lenox Avenue is a neighborhood street at night.
Each stoop and corner is a village crossroads, where folk from Columbia, South Carolina; Kingston, Jamaica; Nassau, Bahamas; Tampa, Florida; St. Lucia; Birmingham, Alabama; Houston, San Antonio, Jacksonville, Miami, Savannah, Dutch Guiana, Curacao, Atlanta, New Orleans pass the time of night with small storekeepers from St. Kitts, Haiti, Santo Domingo, Barbados, Panama and other lands of the Caribbean. Stories of births and deaths, infidelity and chicanery, good luck and misfortune, jobs and health are the talk as men of the earth make everywhere.
The pokey-man, beside his ornate wheelbarrow of towel-wrapped ice, leaned on his multi-colored bottles of sugar water to swap words with the fresh clam man; while up the street, the peanut stand whistled, and the sweet-potato oven offered fragrant memories of cotton patches and rice fields in the Carolinas to those who had long forgotten anything of them.
In the hot humid night, a ruby fog squatted over Lenox Avenue, locking in the flowing crowd from roof top to roof top. The thickened air begrudged room to the throttled sounds, stillborn before their cry could touch indifferent ears.
Taffy sniffed its human perfume and tiredness-vegetable stores, meat markets, gasoline, fresh-baked bread, stale beer, fried fish, cool basements, yesterday's garbage, and frying bacon-with the savor with which a hound noses a pile of offal. Perhaps this other home his mother talked about was good, but here was something you could know about.
They were silent as they continued up Lenox. Usually they were noisy. Taffy walked beside Eggie. Shoulders hunched, twisted slightly to one side, he rocked slowly back and forth as they made their way northward.
They passed the bar on the corner of 141st Street, its brilliant red-green, daylight neon sign spelling out in night-splitting magic, "Jamaica Joe's." Through the open windows, Taffy could see a half-crowd at the bar.
Broad-brimmed white hats, suits of chocolate brown, pearl gray, azure blues; checks and stripes; solids and speckleds. The long coats broke slightly above the knees of trousers that swam down toward sharp-pointed shoes. Each outfit was more than three months' salary, saved at the expense of being thrown out of rooms, eating hot dogs and sardines, wolfing crackers and beans, and mooching food from the landlady or a girl friend. But the front was had.
Until it was complete, one lived in purgatory. No friends, no fun. Just save and pay and save until the day when, paid for, "The Outfit" could break out on the Avenue. Then, one could join the elect.
One could stand at the bar and nurse a 10 cent beer while rubbing shoulders with the other petty great who had time and a story to unwind. Here was the club of the hipped, the chosen, and duplicated in every bar that dotted the Avenue from 110th to 147th, where Lenox died dismally against the dark storage barns of the I.R.T. subway.
The gang swung west on 145 th Street.
Walking across town, they passed other bars, each with its quota of nighttime potentates. But for all the grandeur of their drapes, and conked and gassed-up hair, their clipped phrases, knowing laughter, Taffy knew that in the daylight they were porters, janitors, building superintendents, red-caps, waiters, longshoremen, helpers, shipping clerks, domestics, errand boys and public flunkies. In the day, chameleon-like, they took on the features of drabness, sordidness, and servility. He sneered because he knew that now, in the magic of the night, they were nabobs, pundits, raconteurs, sportsmen. Their closets were full of drapes. Their women panted at telephones. Their financial machinations tossed about the wealth of empires high above mere dollars and cents. In their barroom world of reciprocal admiration they all twisted a reverse moment from their meager reality.
But these things were only background, part of the moving picture of color, like the buildings, or the reflection of neon lights in the sky.
They separated at 145th Street and Edgecombe Avenue to carry out their long-discussed elaborate plans. Taffy and Eggie walked on to St. Nicholas Avenue and turned uptown again.
At an apartment house at 147th Street, Taffy turned off to walk through the building back to Edgecombe, a few doors from their objective. He stopped to examine the battery of brass mailboxes, to catch his breath and to try to stop the excited pounding of his heart. He knew Homer was to wait until Dude Had had time to take his lookout post in front of the place to be burglarized. He didn't want to rush; he had to give them time.
As he came to the exit on Edgecombe, he saw Eggie pass. He watched him approach Dude who was leaning against the building studying the lighted end of a cigarette. No one seemed to notice them in the hot night. A couple whispered together on the park bench across the street. A pot-bellied white man seemed asleep beside them. Taffy was shaking and he itched in his back, on his neck, on his belly, in his crotch. He shivered as he looked at the sleeping white man. Christ, suppose it was a dick? Hell, what's wrong! Why couldn't he be like Eggie or Dude or even old dumb Homer.
Eggie passed into the building. Dude shifted from one foot to the other. Looking casually in Taffy's direction, he took a long pull on his cigarette and flipped the butt out into the street. He sauntered into the building, and Taffy followed. Dude stopped on the fourth floor and whippoorwilled, very softly. They waited tensely until the whispered whistle answered from above. Taffy hurried on.
Eggie had already unscrewed the hall light. Taffy crept along the dark hall to the escape hatch to the roof. He unlatched the door. Propping it open with a newspaper, he ducked down quickly from the silhouetting sky.
Scuttling to the other end of the hall, he made sure the fire escape window was open. He measured, with his eyes, the drop from the bottom to the ground. It was not too far.
He tiptoed back to Homer and Eggie who were hardly visible as they squatted together in the darkness of the doorway of the besieged apartment. Only the glisten of their faces could be seen. Taffy stopped at the head of the stairs and whistled softly. He was trembling and now felt as tight as an overwound spring. Dude answered below.
He waited while Eggie, with silent skill, worked the flange of one pinchbar between tne door and jamb, below the lock. Prying gently back and forth, Eggie worked until Homer could wiggle the flange of the other goose-neck also under the edge of the door, above the lock. Pushing back and forth, alternately, each to a bar, they jammed and tugged silently until both had a good deep bite under the molding with their tools.
They tested the spring of the leverage. The door creaked.
Taffy whistled again. Dude answered, and Eggie and Homer, as one, threw their weight on their levers. There was a sharp "crack!" and the door sprang open.
Taffy jumped to seize the doorknob to stop it from banging inside the apartment. He bumped into Eggie who scrambled with his crowbar for a breathless moment as he almost dropped it. "Goddamnit!". he rasped; and they were silent. Taffy froze, listening for the mumble-jumble of hurried steps and words telling them someone had taken alarm.
The night silence folded back over the crash of the door. Taffy tried to smother his breathing; he clutched his hands tighter as though he could cling to the silence they had so sharply split. He could feel his blood pounding in his ears and could almost taste its iron in his mouth. He itched like hell. "Christ, it's hot!" he thought, but he shivered.
"There ain't nobody.
"There ain't no love..." sang a radio across the courtyard. He wanted nervously to giggle. That damned radio, singing like that. He felt the sweat trickling down his back. A hysterical impulse to run, to beat it anywhere, was straining at him when Qude whistled all-clear below.
Eggie led them into the apartment. As the door closed, Taffy could see Dude taking his post at the head of the stairs.
"Gimme the wire," grunted Eggie.
Homer handed over a piece of electric cord, intertwined with the ends together in a fork. Eggie crawled around the edge of the room, inserted it into the floor plug he found. There was a tiny blue flash and a soft "spftt!"
"Try em," Eggie commanded.
Taffy clicked the bridge light near him. It was dead. They tried room after room in the four-room apartment. There were no lights. Eggie divided up the work. He took one bedroom, Taffy the other. Homer was to go over the living room, and if they had time, they could all spend a few minutes on the kitchen.
Taffy tiptoed into his room. He unlocked the window on the fire escape. He eased it up and down a half-inch to be sure it would slide. He stared for a moment out the window, scratching himself feverishly. Christ, he was sweating like a pig. Damn, it was hot. He could see the lights on St. Nicholas and people walking slowly down the avenue, and here he was, and they didn't even know it. He was panting at the locked-in summer heat of the room. "To hell with it," he mumbled and turned to his search.
He ran trembling fingers around the dresser drawers first.
He snatched up a bottle of perfume, some jewelry, a square box. Stuffing the perfume and jewelry into his pocket, he tore open the box. He choked back a cry. Inside was a thick square of neatly folded, crisp bills.
Holding his breath, he peered blindly into the darkness, trying to place the others. Eggie made a slight noise in the next bedroom. He heard Homer stumble over something in the living room.
"Damn dumb ox."
His find clutched to his chest, he slipped into the clothes-closet. Unwadding the bills, he strained his eyes to try to see the numbers. No luck, but there were eight of them. He folded them again to shove them well down into his shoe, working them down under the sole of his foot. He threw the box into the closet corner.
Rummaging through the clothes on the hangers, he found $I.35 in change in the man's pockets, a watch and a cigarette lighter. He fingered the woman's clothing, looking for jewelry. His success had helped him to relax and to ease the hurt of the tightness in his back. He squatted down a moment to steady his trembling legs. He fanned himself with the silken garment he still was rubbing between his fingers.
His nostrils quivered at the scent of the woman's perfume. He drew the silk between his fingers and felt goose pimples rise at its sleekness. In his imagination he saw her, serene, alluring, and kind. He wiped his face with the dress. He wanted to rub in the fragrance. Leaning back in the closet, he closed his eyes. She would be like a frosted cake that glistened behind the winter window of Mound's bakery at Christmas time, for he remembered how he had prayed for such a cake for a Christmas when he had been twelve years old, and how he had begged his mother, and his father had said maybe. And he remembered how his new shoes squeaked in the snow as he had trudged the blocks to the bakery on Christmas Day. A bitter north wind had bit at his back and ears while it whipped up snow from the gutters to cloud the streets in a whirling shroud that almost hid the decorations in the stores across the street. The fading afternoon sky had lowered down grayly, and he remembered the acrid smell of smoke from the apartment that burned out the night before. "Merry Christmas, sonny!" a drunk staggering by had shouted.
"Shit!" he had answered, for his new shoes pinched his feet. And he had kept on until he stood before the lighted bakery window which cold had frosted about the edges to frame the special cake on display. Rock crystal sparkled on spiraling layers of snowy icing. Red, green, and white rosettes marched round and round each rim. Gold and silver speckles flecked flakes of reflected light. On top, on a golden throne, a fat candy Santa Claus had bulged with sugar and laughed with pleasure.
It should have been his cake. He had asked for it, even before Thanksgiving. Four times daily, he had stopped to admire the cake, until Christmas.
And he had received two shirts, a new pair of shoes and four pairs of stockings. He had wiped his tears and running nose on the back of his hand and coat sleeve that stopped three inches short of his wrist, and pulling the too-small garment tighter about him, trying to warm his aching hands under his arms, he had turned his back to the wind which groaned against the upper stories of the building.
Finally the streetlights had come on. A soft snow had begun to fall, and the wind had dropped. He had leaned his forehead against the icy window, the tears rolling down his cheeks, until his feet ached numbly from the cold and the stiff new shoes.
Taffy shivered at his memory and hugged himself tighter. He hadn't minded so much that in the midst of a raggedy neighborhood he had taken the jibes of the gang for wearing "patches on patches." He had grown used to everything going for the "home."
"Every penny counts," his mother had said, cutting down complaints. He had sold the Amsterdam News with other youngsters, yelling murder headlines, scrambling up and down subway stairs. Afterward, the others ate hot dogs, dripping sauerkraut, chili con carne and sliced onions. They had cream puffs that dissolved in the mouth; licorice candy, chewy like tobacco; airplanes, kites, marbles, water pistols, fire crackers, and chewing gum. But he had given his money for "home"-
"Home-"
He shivered violently even while the sweat was pouring from him. He had almost forgotten that his mother was messing things up, that she was rooting him out of his home for some kind of a home of her making. He shivered again, but tensed abruptly, listening for what he thought had been a slight noise in the bedroom.
Eggie, barely visible against the light of the window, poked his head in the closet. "Taffy?" he whispered.
"Yeh." He felt strangely guilty, as if his mother had walked in on him in the toilet.
"What the hell you doing?" rasped Eggie.
"I got some dough." He got up. "And some junk."
"I didn't get nothing. What the hell you waitin' for? Let's get to hell out of here. We been too goddamned long already."
"Okay. Let's get going."
Homer had a pair of brass andirons. Eggie took them away and threw them on a couch. "We can't lug junk like that all over town," he hissed.
They tiptoed to the door. Eggie cracked it open and whistled.
Taffy heard Dude answer, and then he followed Dude's retreating steps, painfully slow-paced, reminding him of the cold deliberation of his mother coming to beat him; and again the panic was at him. It swelled, but if he could just get his breath deep enough into his guts, then maybe he could get braced, could slow down the spinning within him. If he could just find the itch that bad begun to torment him again but vanished when he sought it with his digging fingers. The stink of Eggie so close to him made him feel sickish in the heat.
Homer next.
Why in the hell did he have to make so much noise with his goddamned big feet ? Why didn't he pick them up ? Something creaked. Christ! What was that ? "Let's git!" Eggie's voice.
It snapped and he fled with pounding feet toward the fire escape at the end hall.
"Stop it!" Eggie gasped behind him, but he was running too.
A blow on the shoulder knocked him off balance and he smashed into the wall. He whirled about, flailing with both hands, A driving fist exploded pain in his belly and lights in his head. He grappled and felt soft flesh in his fingers. He tore wildly. The stink of Eggie surrounded him. He was seized in an iron vise. He was thrown. The wall crashed against him. He tottered forward. A fist smashed into his mouth. The world tipped up. Armpit, fetid breath and sweat pinned him to the floor. A hand-clamp over his mouth pinched his lips. He worked to ease the sharpness of its pain. He could taste salt. "Stop it," hissed Eggie.
One arm held Taffy close. The rigid hand, the salt gone, now strangely smooth, was hard on his face. The fingers hurt in his cheek. He could feel Eggie's panting, his body heaving against him, hot, odorous, not to be resisted. He wondered if this was what it was like to be had, to be a girl, and in spite of the pain in his face he strained against the weight and the stink was no longer there.
"I said, stop it," snarled Eggie, and his fingers tightened across Taffy's face and banged his head on the floor. Pain and sparks destroyed his last strange sensation and there was only hurt, and suddenly fear.
And then remembrance.
He held his breath to listen. Only the wheezing of Eggie, a faraway laugh, deep and easy, the grinding of gears of cars starting, a feeble honk of a car disappearing behind the singing in his head, the buzzing in his ears. It was hard to breathe against the hard clamp of Eggie's hand. He struggled slightly to move his head. The hand did not relax, but its cruelty was gone. A drop of sweat from Eggie's face dripped into the corner of Taffy's mouth, bitterly salty.
The silence was inviolate, and he began to relax, as if something had let go and the heat was only hot and he could wait for Eggie's hand to loose him.
"Take it easy, baby," Eggie grunted cautiously.
"Okay, Eggie. Okay," he mumbled from behind the gag.
Eggie's hand unclasped tentatively. Taffy lay still. Slowly Eggie let him go, as if he were not quite sure Taffy might not break out again. When he lifted up his weight, Taffy felt suddenly gay, light and stupidly joyful. Eggie squatted close beside him, peering at him.
"Okay, Eggie. Okay," he whispered.
"Okay," said Eggie, and in the darkness Taffy could see a grin spread the split nostril of his nose.
They waited a moment to be sure the silence was not a trick.
The cool air from outside poured down over them. It was almost pleasant. So much heat and fear had been crushed, and now just the cool evening breeze and the safe silence. And then carefully they climbed the fire escape to the roof, over three roofs and down another fire escape to drop to the ground and clamber up the hill in back to wriggle under the signboard into wide St. Nicholas Avenue.
Taffy blinked his eyes in the brightness of the Avenue and breathed deep trying to fill up the weak limpness inside.
"Let's ride," said Eggie, and they hailed a cab. Taffy patted the wad of money in his shoe with his big toe. They clambered into the cab and told the driver, "116th Street and Lenox Avenue."
Eggie lit a cigarette and Taffy lit from him. He lolled back on the red leather seat while the cool night air rushed through the cab. His inner lip was puffed and swollen, and the print of Eggie's hand was still strong on his face. He looked slyly over at Eggie, but his face was blackly immobile as he stared at the multi-colored panorama of neon lights flashing by the speeding cab.
At their corner, Taffy paid the driver and they bought a bottle of wine. Strutting down the short flight of steps into the low-ceilinged basement "Billiard Parlor," they could see Crip, the proprietor, reading his newspaper, La Prensa.
There were five tables in the dimly lit room. One behind the other, their green rectangles diminished in brightness into the haze of blue smoke. The click of balls and rumble of voices filled the space to the low ceiling. They shouted familiarly at Crip. He spat across the room in front of them, not taking his eyes from the paper.
"Watcha reading, Crip?" joked Eggie.
Crip grunted.
"Can you read that junk?" jibed Taffy. "What'sit say?" Crip pushed the paper roughly at them. "Read, it yourthelf," he lisped. Long slips of paper with columns of three-digit numbers and letters slipped from between the pages. He snatched them up, looking anxiously around. "Why don't you mind your own goddamned busineth?" he asked querulously, his tongue tying up on the end.
Taffy laughed and slouched after Eggie. It felt good.
They dropped down on an empty bench and passed the bottle of wine back and forth between them. Homer arrived next, carrying the jimmies lumped under his coat. "What the hell you still carrying those goddamned things for? snarled Eggie. He jerked them away and pushed them carefully back under the bench, spreading an old burlap bag over them.
Dude strolled in.
Taffy hunched his shoulders and crowded closer into their circle. He handed up two brooches, the ring, the bottle of per: fume and the other things. There was no bickering. Eggie did the dividing. Dude took the perfume, Homer the cigarette lighter, Eggie the jewelry, and Taffy, because he had had the luck, got the watch. He curled a toe around the paper wad in his shoe and felt a prickly tremor run down his arm. But there was nothing in the placid satisfaction of Homer's brown and Dude's and Eggie's black faces to cause him fear. He scrounched closer to them in spite of the heat and their smell. "Let's get another bottle of wine," he said.
Homer went, and after he returned the game on the last table ended and they started playing eight-ball. He didn't care that he had to pay for three straight games. The wine passed back and forth, and when it was finished, all chipped in again.
"Oh, hello, fellows."
Taffy looked up and tried to back away from the overwhelming frame of the sweet smelling black giant who angularly crowded up close to him, filling his world with brilliant yellow sports shirt.
"Whatcha say, Ralph," said Eggie amiably.
"Oh, I've been looking all over for you. It's been so dreadfully hot, and I miss my little playmates." He switched his buttocks back and forth, and Taffy managed to ease away. Ralph looked down at him with an air of injured disdain. "Oh, don't be so difficult," he said archly, lifting his eyebrows and pursing his thin purplish-black lips. A crooked keloid in his cheek crawled up to join its smaller mate in his eyebrow when he grinned.
"Aw, cut out the crap, Ralph." Taffy waved him away.
"Boo!" he said, flexing the fingers of both well-manicured hands at Taffy. "Anyone would imagine I was trying to rape you."
"You wanna play?" Taffy gave him his stick.
Taffy lounged on the bench, watching Ralph bang the balls around. He let the game move meaninglessly before his glazed eyes while he sipped from the bottle of wine. It closed down his ears. It spread out within him to surround him until the poor hall had faded away except for a bright spot where Eggie, Ralph and Dude shouted and noisily enjoyed Ralph's paying for game after game.
Ralph Redmond, ha thought to himself.
Yes, before Homer, he remembered how Ralph had come, brutally huge, grayish-black, dirty, dulled, evil-his hair as knotted as mice titties. He had been the first boy Taffy had ever seen who had knappy eyelashes, crinkling crisply, peculiarly prettifying decorations set in an otherwise cruelty-creased face, normally stonily immobile except when anger quivered his nostrils. Ralph Redmond, who had split Eggie's nose as a sign who was "boss." Ralph Redmond, who bullied, who stole, who fought and who had, in one fantastic incident, been raped by Frazzles; but who had finally been sent to the Reformatory because he stabbed the "Super" when his mother had caught Frazzles lying with "Super," and had driven Frazzles out into the snow naked, except for shoes and stockings. Taffy remembered how "Super" had hit Ralph's mother and how their breaths had hung in the winter air until Ralph stabbed him with an ice pick just before the cops had come.
This new Ralph had come from the Reformatory. His nails were colored, but his ashy make-up was now rapidly dissolving in sweat and grease as he swore and sweated over the game. His eyebrows were plucked, and he affected a swishing and ill-fitting meager "culture." Taffy curled his lips in a sneer without knowing whether he felt disgust, amusement or relief. But he knew that Ralph was still a slightly veiled beast whose bright open-necked shirts didn't disguise his muscularly broad shoulders and heavy arms, and whose delicacy could give way easily to cruelty.
Taffy shrugged his shoulders. He felt the paper money in his shoe with his big toe. The wine warmed, and he knew he had a good watch in his pocket. It was enough. He wiped the sweat from his face and the back of his neck. His thumb knuckle found its way to his mouth. He closed his eyes and chewed at its bitter saltiness.
"I'm tired of paying for you little pricks," Ralph cried petulantly. He threw down his stick. The others laughed. They all joined Taffy and the wine.
Dude led them in singing. Taffy huddled closer in the little group. Ralph sat on the floor. They sang old songs: "I'll Be Loving You."
"Always."
"Old Black Joe."
"Blue Skies."
"Moon Glow."
"Street of Dreams."
"Swanee River."
"Blue Heaven."
"Star Dust."
"Sweet Adeline."
"Ezekial Saw the Wheel."
"Sweetheart of Sigma Chi."
"Let My People Go."
"Indian Love Call."
"St. Louis Blues," and "Stormy Weather." Their plaintive harmonies imposed a monotonous kinship upon the melodies, until it was as though the songs flowed from one to the other in an organic whole through which searching cords pulsed from one vein to the next, giving life to the group as a whole, giving and taking in the embrace of singing. Even Ralph was drawn closer.
The wine-softened sweetness of the minor dissonants of imperfect melodies soothed Taffy. Its plaintiveness quieted and stroked him. It was easy to forget tomorrow was another day, a new start-and a new home.
Taffy stopped in the hallway of the apartment at home to stare again at the packed heaped-up barrels jamming the narrow passageway.
"Taffy? Is that you?" His mother called from the darkened living room that was a bedroom at night.
"Yes'm." The floor seemed to undulate and he wondered if the wine was going to make him sick.
"Where've you been?"
He started unsteadily for his room.
"Taffy!"
"I been sayin' good-by to some of the fellows."
"Well, I hope it was good-by."
He closed his bedroom door behind him. He could hear Elizabeth breathing nasally from her bed in the corner of the dark room. "I'm doin' all right," he said softly to the closed door. He dropped down on his bed to take off his shoe. In the light from the apartment across the courtyard, he slowly counted out the damp bills to sixty-five dollars.
2
Taffy! Get up! You'll be late for work." Martha stood by the stairwell of their new home and waited. Through the beveled glass of the double front doors she could look down the steps of their new stoop and see the little square of grass, broken by a petunia bed which was their front lawn. Their stoop. Their lawn, and in front, the green maples stretched down the length of the new street. Her hand caressed the dark mahogany banister which led her eyes upward, past the little leaded windows at the front hall, on up to the attic where Taffy and Elizabeth each had a room. And there was a guest room. A guest room, on the second floor with her bedroom.
A guest room. In their house. And they were the first colored to move into this block on McDonough between Reid and Patchen. She shivered with a mixture of wanting both to cry and to laugh.
"Is he coming, Mother?" Elizabeth called from the basement kitchen on the floor below. There was the sound and fragrance of frying bacon.
"Taffy!" she called again.
"Yes'm," came the muffled reply.
"Come down to breakfast."
"Yes'm."
Wasn't it strange to have to call such a distance? In Harlem she could have turned from the stove and looked in his room. Now she couldn't tell if his voice was muffled by covers or distance. And in the midst of her elation, she felt tired with the limpness of something great having been finished. It had been such a long hard struggle. She had been so frightened, long ago, waiting for Tom to get the railroad tickets while the ticket agent spat tobacco juice at the rails and made them almost miss their train because he was teasing Tom about "runnin' away with the preacher's daughter."
Yes, it had been a long, long way from the shabby clapboard parsonage where she had lived with her father, the Reverend Theodore P. Warren, pastor of the Unity Baptist Church of Charlotte, N. C, her mother and the kids. She tossed her head in triumph at the image of her father trembling in rage at the foot of the stairs between the kitchen and the living room. His wrinkled gray flannel nightshirt had hung limply below his knees, uncovering scrawny and bowed legs. His anger at her rebellion had been in grotesque contrast with the ugly, drooping garment. It shook with his quivering as he stretched up to his full five-feet five-inches, the stubble of his beard white against his ashen, face. And now she was here, with more than she had dreamed life could offer. But she remembered there had never been anything from him, even when the children had been born, and that he had never forgotten her running away. And-
A chilly shiver shook her. She looked upstairs and called again, more sharply, "Taffy!"
"I'm coming." She heard the sound of running water.
"Well, hurry up about it." She took a last look through the living room, alcove and dining room. "What a lot has to be done," she murmured, looking at their shabby furnishings scattered haphazardly about on the gleaming hardwood parquet floors. And then, familiar determination was back. She had kept her way. The house was theirs. They had not reached the end, but she had turned a corner. "Faith, hard work, and courage. It's not yet finished."
She cut a sigh short into a snort and turned to go downstairs. Taffy was behind her.
"Well, my goodness," laughed Elizabeth, turning from setting the breakfast table, "here comes Brooklyn's first miracle. Taffy got out of bed without blasting."
"And high time," said Martha.
Taffy said nothing.
He let the basement iron-grilled gate click behind him. He sniffed. What the hell was that?
Fresh morning air doused his nostrils. Across the street tailored box trees stood primly at the clean-cut curbs, and gray slate sidewalks modestly rimmed the sleek thumbnail lawns. In 133rd Street, Kelly's big-busted blonde looked down in red and pink upon a sooty buff and mottled world; but here, emerald leaves embroidered the gigantic blue of the sky into sun-struck patterns. Here, no garbage cans tilted impatiently, waiting while the sanitation men took their time in the next block, but rather all was tidy as though sidewalks, streets, curbs, grass, trees and leaves had been newly laid out and scrubbed.
Taffy cleared his throat.
There was no place to spit.
He swallowed.
In the newness of it all he felt a strange uneasiness, a wistful anxiety, a surprising hunger to believe that maybe his mother might be right. He had lived so long hating "home" it startled him to realize that here was a beauty and quiet the past had kept closed. And half-remembered daydreams of what he wanted and enjoyed, that had almost taken form. His thumb found its way to his mouth as he searched tentatively for some practical proof of his mother's faith that he could touch, but the bright, cheerful newness was too much, too quickly, like a fast-talking "con-man." He shook his head. "Aw, what the hell!" Profanity felt more familiar, and he turned toward the subway.
A running rosebush tumbled, half blown, over a low iron fence onto the sidewalk. He slowed down and touched a flower.
"You boy, there! I see what you're doing. Don't you dare to steal any of my flowers! You dirty little thing you!"
He goggled at the thick curtains at the basement window, screening the screaming. It went on. He wavered, blinking at the flowers. A couple of passers-by stopped several steps away.
"I'll call the police. You let my flowers alone! I'll call the police! You let my flowers alone!" She was shrieking the same thing over and over.
"Why don't you leave her flowers alone?" A puffing red-faced man pushed between Taffy and the flowers.
"I wasn't doing anything," muttered Taffy. He stepped back cautiously.
"Don't get fresh with me, you there boy! Go on about your business!" He pushed at Taffy. His fingers barely touched. "Why don't you stay in Harlem where you belong anyway?"
Taffy ran.
He heard, "-dirty niggers moving in here."
By the time he had propped himself up against a post in the subway station, his head was pounding, and he was beginning to shake violently. The train came. The inner turmoil mounted. He threw himself in a seat. It had happened so quickly he was just beginning to understand. And he hated this feeling, the way he was and the wave of anger that tore through him. He grumbled to himself, biting and twisting his lips, tearing with his teeth at his thumbnail. He hadn't hurt the goddamned things. What were they picking on him for? He cursed at the memory of the red-faced man pushing him. He should have slugged him back. He should have stuck a knife in his guts. He didn't have any business pushing anybody.
But why'd he let him get away with it? Christ, he'd never took that in Harlem! What was the matter with him. What was he getting so fogged up for, just because it was different out here? Yeh, different.
Differenter'n hell.
The perspiration stood on him. The wet in his palm against the post was clammy. He rode for a while in frustrated anger, inwardly lacerating himself until he felt exhausted and stopped chewing at his thumb and was able to get his breath. His temper had burned itself out and he wondered what the hell was wrong with life anyway? Why was there always something to frig things up-a white boy on 99th Street, Ralph on 133rd, and now it was starting in Brooklyn. What the hell was wrong ? He scratched at his head, trying to unscramble some tangled thought.
Or maybe it was him?
Maybe he was the one who always pushed the wrong button to let loose trouble on himself. Maybe his Pop was right, and you ought to let the world alone, and the best way was deep inside yourself. But he didn't want to bother anybody out there. He was just walking along and he touched a flower. And they jumped on him.
He looked out the window. The train was pulling out of the 14th Street station where he should have changed to a local. He had to ride back from 34th Street. The changing took more time, and the trip from Brooklyn had taken longer than it had been before from Harlem.
He was going to be late to work.
Sam Spitalney spread his pudgy fingers on the cutting table and leaned over to watch Taffy drag sullenly into the dress shop. The steady whir of the sewing machines was comfortable in his ears, and there were no deliveries to make. He switched his morning cigar to the other side of his mouth and chewed on it meditatively.
He waited until Taffy had dropped down in a chair in the corner.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Taffy looked up, his loose mouth puckered, a scowl pulling his too-close eyes together almost out of sight beneath hairless eyebrows. What an unhealthy, mean-looking specimen, thought Sam.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Sam yelled in the biggest voice he could muster. He sensed a slowing down in the machines and could see his head cutter grinning in anticipation. "Do you think you're a banker, coming in at noon?"
Sam looked around for approval of his humor. He liked approval. He liked to tell how much he loved his family and how he supported the church and the parish school. He really tried to be good. He had a brother studying for the priesthood, and he gave to humanitarian causes. "And I ain't afraid of 'Red-calling.' " he'd say belligerently. He was also proud of saying, "When the boys and girls came and said they wanted a union, I asked them, 'Why?' They say they don't make enough. Okay. So we sat down, and they got a union, a real C.I.O. union, and we're still just like a big family. I don't fight the union. I just want a fair shake. If everybody in the business has to pay the same thing, what skin is it off my nose ? I'm glad to see my boys and girls get more money."
But as Taffy stood up, Sam pointed him out in disgust to the head cutter. "Look at that! All these colored boys are lazy good-for-nothings. You got to keep right on their tails or they won't do nothing at all."
Taffy was blinking at him, working his mouth wordlessly. Why do they all have to be so stupid? thought Sam. Why don't he speak up? "I got off the wrong stop," Taffy mumbled.
"Stop the crap, Taffy! You know as well as I do you've been spending the night with some little gal in Harlem, and you couldn't let it alone this morning."
The shop stopped to roar with laughter at the boss's humor.
Taffy didn't answer. He just turned and started for the door. Sam felt himself flushing in anger. That insolent little pup. He yelled after him, "And don't think I'm going to pay you while you're loving up that gal, either."
Taffy stared in the pawnshop window on Sixth Avenue. It was 9:45 a.m. and he didn't feel like going back to Brooklyn. He drifted up the Avenue, examining cameras and diamond rings, measuring them against the $65 he had hidden in the molding of the closet at home. He spent a nickel for a hot dog. At 50th Street the Roxy signs held him. "Christ, I wish I'd brought some of that money I stashed away." A truck lumbered up to the stoplight; and with a running leap, he sprang up on the tailgate.
The jarring truck couldn't jiggle loose the tightness. He held on, gnawing his knuckle because he hurt, deep in his gut, in his back, feeling a lump of lead in the back of his head. His eyes were heavy as though he were sleepy, but they wouldn't close, waiting in tight anxiety for it to tear, to break, to spin shrieking loose, but there was nothing, not even a pain against which to butt himself. And it wasn't anything, that was it.
What did he care if some old bitch raised a fuss over nothing?
Hell! He'd never been so damned hot on moving out there into the woods anyway! He had just known there would be a lot of crap. Just knew it. But there it stayed, stuck sourly in his throat. He shrugged his shoulders and licked his fingers as the truck swung from Columbus Avenue over to Amsterdam. "Oh, to hell with it."
So Brooklyn was full of bastards. So what? What was he beating his brains out about? He had been yelled at by white sons of birches all his ltfe. Ever since he could remember some white bastard was trying to crap in his face, and the familiar memory of Carl of 99th Street shoved itself at him. While the truck rumbled up Amsterdam, he was again smaller and frightened, but bitterly determined; and he recalled how he had been torn between his plan of attack and an insistent hope-"Maybe he's not going to fight me any more." Carl, in benign indifference, had leaned against the window of Silverstein's fruit and vegetable market on the corner of Columbus and 99th Street.
Carl had smirked, "Hello." In the memory his nine years again overshadowed Taffy.
Taffy had lost his plan of attack. He had wanted to leap upon him, to drive in fist after fist. But Carl, pursing his mouth, smiling and contentedly chewing on his apple, had not been what he had expected. When Carl's red-cheeked pudgy face had broken into a grin, Taffy had found himself smiling weakly in return, his resolution broken. He had edged away. "Well, I got to go to school."
Carl had taken another bite of his apple and shifted weight from one foot to the other. He had fixed his eyes skyward.
Taffy had reached the curb, and started slowly across the street. He remembered hoping again he wasn't going to have to fight. A "thud" and a flying tomato had splattered his prayer across his shoulder.
"Yah, yah! You dirty black nigger! You better run before I cut your ears off!"
Taffy had sprung blindly forward. Tires screamed; car horns blasted. He whirled about for the curb.
Carl had met him, rotating his fists and hopping about from foot to foot, his cherubic face snarling. A couple of passers-by, stopped by the near-accident, watched. Somebody laughed. "You better look out, Rastus; that Mick'll beat the pants off o'you."
Taffy had hesitated in irresolute panic for an instant; and then above the roar of the blood pounding in his ears he had remembered Elizabeth lying in the gutter while a gang shrieked and laughed and kicked at her while he cried helplessly halfway up the block; recalled racing for 99th Street while "nigger, nigger, nigger" was screamed after him, felt his arm twisted, his hair pulled, being hit. Rage had blanked out fear, and with two clenched hands outstretched, he flung himself on Carl.
His lunge had carried them over against the corner of the building. They stumbled and fell together. Taffy scrambled up and threw himself forward again. Carl flailed back. A blow struck Taffy in the eye and the world was blotted out in a widening splotch of red that faded in a flash of sharp pain. Taffy stopped. His opponent drew back.
Carl touched his knee that glistened red through a rip in his panties. He frowned at the sidewalk. He quickly searched the faces of the onlookers as if he were seeking someone. There had been a queer look on his face.
A new voice had cried out, "What's the matter, Mick? 'Fraid that little coon'll lick you?" The crowd roared with thunderous laughter.
Taffy had felt hemmed in.
Carl had doubled up his fists to prance back and forth again. Taffy's eye hurt, but he clenched his fists and moved about cautiously.
The Irish boy jabbed. The blow was short. The crowd roared again. Taffy poked out his right, stamping his foot. Carl jumped back and stepped on an onlooker's foot. He was pushed roughly forward. He stumbled, trying to catch his balance as he fell toward Taffy. Taffy thrust out both hands. One fist struck soft flesh.
Carl took root where the blow had stopped him, hands stuck in mid-air, a look of surprise and pain scrambling his features. A thin red trickle twisted slowly beneath his nose over his lip.
Taffy's eyes had popped. He had bloodied Carl's nose!
"Bloodied Carl's nose!" had sung within him, and the sight of the slight scarlet trickle had sent something shooting off into space and he plunged forward with a windmill attack. Carl tried to cover. Taffy beat in a paroxysm of frenzied fury. One for chasing, one for "nigger," one for the tomato, and for Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth. Taffy wept and sobbed. Carl howled and ran around the circle of spectators. They hooted and laughed and pushed him back, pushed Taffy after him. Taffy kept hitting for Elizabeth, for blood, for dirt, for Elizabeth, until Carl stumbled and fell. Taffy, still beating, threw himself on top of him, pounding at the fear and hate that had ridden him.
The side of his head exploded in a slap that sent him sprawling.
"You goddamned little nigger. I'll teach you to hit a white boy!"
Taffy lay on his back and looked up at a huge red-faced, blue-coated cop. He leaned over, his mouth hard and square, his brass buttons bright. Taffy covered against another blow. The cop's hand jerked up, poised.
A murmur had stirred in the crowd, unintelligible, uneasy.
The cop straightened up and poked Taffy with his foot. "Get up, you little bastard." He bent again and dragged Taffy to his feet, shaking him. The grumble came again. "Quit horsing the kid around. He's a game little nigger."
And the red face had turned redder and the scowl blackened. Over his shoulder Taffy had seen Carl weeping wildly into the drooping bosom of a large blonde woman who was trying to wipe his bloody nose, and now there were roses trailing over a fence and the man on the sidewalk was pushing at Taffy who was hating himself because he had again let the man get away.
The truck bumped along the car tracks of Amsterdam, but the memory of the principal-staring at him through thick-lensed glasses while his hands darted from nose to coat pockets, to mouth, to pants, to ear, to other pockets, exploring his anatomy and clothes in a restless inventory while he talked to the red-faced cop-came back sharply.
For when the cop had gone, the principal had complained to the secretaries, "Of all days. Why must they fight today? Why couldn't that cop have minded his business. Making a mountain out of a molehill." And his busy fingers had speeded up as he shooed Taffy into his office.
The principal had walked immediately to his desk and started to scribble with a scratchy pen. Throwing down the pen, he had picked up a sheaf of papers and swiveled around with his back to Taffy, turning the papers slowly, carefully.
Sharp with anxiety, Taffy had watched a fly crawl around and around the principal's bald spot. Questions had crowded him: What would happen? What would his mother say? Would she beat him? Would there be another family fight? What would they do at school? Could he be kicked out? What would happen if they did? Then thoughts had switched: Would Carl keep on bothering him? How come they let Carl go? Who would come to school for him? His mother or his father? And then after a long time, he had wondered if anyone would come.
The principal had swung around abruptly. "Is-there anyone home?"
He had shaken his head, "No."
"That's the trouble with you boys. If your mothers would just stay home and try to make something of you fellows-" The telephone on his desk had cut him off.
"Mr. Milford's office," he had said tersely at the instrument. But he immediately gripped the. phone and the receiver more tightly and added in a saccharine voice, "Oh hello, darling. Just a minute." He had hopped up and closed the office door. He sat again, slowly, and picked up the receiver gingerly, asking, "How are you, darling?" raising his eyebrows and blinking.
He had listened, touched his eyes, his left ear, his nose, the back of his neck, his forehead, his right eye, his right ear, started to his eye again and went back to his chin.
"I was going to call. I don't know if-" He had gripped the telephone tighter with both hands until his knuckles showed glistening white, pulling it to him and huddling over it. The perspiration had wet his forehead.and bald head.
"I know your brother will be there, but I can't get to the concert until late. I try to keep them from fighting, but the cop said-"
He had held the telephone to his chest, the mouthpiece jammed to his face. He almost stopped blinking as he listened.
"No, darling, not me. A little colored boy jumped on a-" He had wiped his head with his handkerchief while he listened. His fingers had been shaking.
"Now, dear, you know I wasn't planning to be late. But now I don't see how I can possibly get there much before the end. And I thought-" He had been silent a much longer time, bobbing his head wordlessly to the black instrument. He had picked up his pen and scratched nervously with it.
"I think so too, dear. Only it's my job to;-"
He had put down the pen.
"Yes, dear."
-wiping his face and head again. "I'll come as soon as I can."
--stooping over in his chair, his forehead almost touching the desk, bobbing his head and licking his lips, blinking very rapidly. "Yes, dear."
-and looking very limp. "Good-by, dear."
He had hung up the telephone slowly and very gently and sat motionless, staring sightlessly into space at something that hung, invisible to Taffy, in the middle of the room. His shoulders had sagged and slowly he had picked up the papers scattered about the desk. Suddenly he had jerked them down and glared at Taffy. "Where did you get that funny yellow hair?"
He had snatched up the papers again, and whirling around in his chair, had not waited for an answer.
And after the noisy halls had become ominously quiet as school let out, and the typewriters in the outer office had stilled, and the sun had crept down to the window sill, his father had come, and Taffy felt weightily depressed, as bowed and sad as his father had looked, stooping over as if he were afraid to stand up to life. And the whole memory blurred itself out on the drab, helpless figure of his father, stoop-shouldered, listening while a steady flow of Birdie's words beat at him.
"Geezus!" he muttered to himself. "Build a world inside." That was a helluva answer; so he tried to close his mind, to rub and erase, not to have anything inside or outside. It was better not to worry, or to think or to feel. It was better just to be and to let things unravel themselves, because trying to think it out, he felt like bawling.
"White folks ain't shit," he finally said. "That's all. They can kiss my ass." And his hands closed convulsively, his nails biting sharply into his palms. "To hell with it."
When the truck stopped for the stoplight at 125th Street, he dropped to the ground.
Harlem!
At Amsterdam Avenue, 125th Street was only half full by 10:30 a.m. However, the streets still looked tired, jaded and discouraged. He crossed Eighth and watched the plump white man up the block sweeping diligently at the cigarette butts and trash in front of his haberdashery. His back was turned. Taffy ambled slowly toward him, studying the little cloud of dirt the sweeper was herding toward the curb. The broom said, "Flip, flip," and Taffy took two steps. "Flip, flip," and two steps; and "flip, flip," and two steps and "flip-"
"Hey! What the hell you think you doin'? " Taffy snarled as the trash was swept against his feet.
"Huh? Huh? What's that?" The little man looked up suddenly, anxiously. His eyes found Taffy and narrowed as his mouth opened. Then his mouth shut. All in a second, for immediately his face creased in wholesale jollity. "Oh," he said, "my goodness. How could I have done that?" He bent over quickly and brushed at invisible dust on Taffy's pants' leg. The shopkeeper was grinning happily although Taffy thought his eyes were a little too bright and anxious. He patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right, sir; isn't it, sir?"
"Why the hell don't you look what you doin'? " But the guts had gone out of it.
"Sure is dirty, isn't it? If everybody else tried to keep their walks swept like I do, Harlem would be one of the best-" The man was confidentially earnest, very pleasant.
Taffy was tired of the whole thing. "Aw, nuts." Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and walked away. The knotted hurt in his chest was flattened out a bit.
Another hot dog in the penny arcade, continuing across 125th to Lenox, up Lenox past Mound's bakery to 133rd Street. He stopped at Stoney's shoeshine stand. Stoney was bending over the long yellow shoes of a sportily dressed, tremendous man whose yellow face, puckered around a long cigar, was watching Stoney's flying brushes. Stoney chewed a wet cigar stub in unison with his work.
"Hiya, Stoney." Taffy leaned against the side of the stand.
Stoney grunted, "Ugh." The big man kept his pouting face aimed at his shoes.
Taffy reached inside the stand to turn the Afro-American so he could see the headlines.
"Cut it out." Stoney jugged at Taffy with his elbow. "Put it back." He didn't break the rhythm of the two flying brushes.
"Got a cigarette?" Taffy spoke in a clipped flat voice.
Stoney jerked his head toward a pack lying on the second chair.
Taffy took one, lit it and started to climb up in the seat.
"No," grunted Stoney, switching to a polishing cloth with hardly any loss of motion. His head cocked to one side, he seemed to be appreciating the rhumba rhythm and popping of the shine rag.
Taffy retreated and leaned against the side of the stand. He blew out smoke which hung thinly in the air while he watched Stoney work, and felt greasy and hot with the heat already.
"Hello, Stoney, honey," whined a flat-chested slattern who lurched up to the stand. She staggered to brace herself against it. A limp cigarette hung from her chapped gray lips. She stank of urine and retching. Taffy stepped back to escape her rotting breath. A once-purple flowered print organdy bloused out over a twisted gilded belt which hung where she should have had hips.
"Hi, Bessie," said Stoney, stppping to squint at the shoes. Not looking at her; he took a small bottle from under the chair and smeared a little white on the toe of each shoe. The big man kept his eyes on the shoes, but took his cigar from his mouth and spat out toward the curb.
"Got anything for me, Stoney?" she sniveled.
"Uh uh." He shook his head.
She sagged and let her head drop down so that her shoulder bones stood out like crooked wings. The cigarette touched her bony chest between the flat folds which once had been breasts, exposed through the organdy's sheerness. She jerked her head up. The ash fell down into her, and she arched her back, shifting her hips, and then she sagged down on the other side.
With uncertain fingers she took the cigarette from her mouth. A piece of paper stuck to her pendulous lower lip. She was trying to focus her eyes on Stoney and to show friendliness; but something of pain, or exhaustion, or hatred, or hunger, was twisting her face, still rouged a startling red on one cheek. The other cheek was dirty and looked bruised.
"Stoney--? " She was blinking and grimacing, having trouble keeping her eyes focused and opened. She fumbled the cigarette back to her mouth, and she drew in deeply, sniffing with her nostrils as a baby does who is crying. She shook all over and let the smoke escape. She swallowed, gulping hard. "Whatcha say, honey? Can you let me--? " Stopping to sniff, she shook her head. Her loose lips wiggled. "I only need a dime, Stoney," she managed to get out.
"Uh uh, Bessie," he said. "Not this time." He stepped back to examine the shoes he had been shining.
The tears had sprung up in her eyes and were rolling down her discolored cheeks. "Please, Stoney-Just this once?"
The big man climbed ponderously down from the stand. He grunted once at Stoney, and with introverted deliberation started lighting his cigar.
"I wanna go home, Stoney," she wheedled. Her mouth was drooling to match the tears.
The big man climbed in a yellow car with the top rolled back and drove off. Stoney stared after him with his rag in his hand.
"Stoney?" She wiped awkwardly at her tears and mashed the cigarette across her face. It burnt her and she dug at the place with grimy fingernails. She sniffed. "I know a nice girl, Stoney?"
He half looked in her direction. A shadow of a smile touched his fat lips. His grunt was imperceptible.
"I don' mean me, Stoney," she pleaded. "I only wanna dime."
Stoney turned his back to study a slip of paper.
"Why'ntcha give her the dime, Stoney!" Taffy blurred out. It was as though something had exploded.
The slattern pushed herself up and away from the building to try to see him. She blinked bleary and bloodshot eyes. Stoney shrugged his shoulders. "Give her one yourself, if you want to."
Taffy grabbed in his pocket. She stank, and her pleading, her helplessness, was something violently opposed to being a woman as he had known it in his mother's bitter hardness-it was something which mirrored his own helplessness, a caricature he hated. He pushed the dime at her. "Here!"
She reeled back and forth, shaking her head, as if trying to see him. "Hugghhhh?" She arched her back and almost fell. She didn't move her hand.
"I said, here's a dime." Already he felt foolish and wished he had kept his mouth shut, had not exposed" the softness underneath which had been hurting him.
She still didn't put out her hand, but was working her mouth and trying to make herself stand up straight.
He wanted to turn his back and walk away. Instead, he said, "Here!" and thrust the dime into her hand. She clutched at his fingers. He had a short unpleasant sensation of dry roughness and hardness, scratching him. He snatched his hand away and stepped back.
She reeled slightly a moment and then sagged again. "Stoney," she whined.
Stoney's face wore a smile on one side, the other was flat impersonality. "You got your dime. Beat it."
She stared vaguely in his direction. In one hand she clutched the dime. She scratched her buttocks vigorously with the other and then dug with both hands at her lower abdomen. Without another word, she turned and staggered around the corner. .
Stoney climbed up on one chair, folded his hands under his paunch and settled himself. He let his chin rest on his chest and his head rolled to one side, the cigar butt still in his mouth on the other side. Taffy pulled at his cigarette and looked back at his old block. Tall thin house after house, with black gaping windows (it was too early for window-sitting) that seemed to gasp for breath against the early heat that rose from the sidewalks. A rim of shadow barely reached the concrete at his feet. And the bright picture of the Copacetic gang leader running down the steps, Taffy flinging the bottle which spiraled down like a silver meteor, trailing a watery tail to burst over the kinky head in a shower of water and glass, sprang up to lead his eyes to the spot where he had fallen, a widening puddle of blood and water framing his face. The picture faded, and now the block was almost deserted; but at the turn of noon, he knew they would start to appear, black people, brown people, chortling, yelling, grouping, checker-playing, stick-balling, drinking wine, lazying, decorating stoops, corners and doorways.
He flipped the cigarette into a scum-covered puddle of water in the gutter as he reared himself to his feet.
On up Lenox to 145th. Over to Seventh. Down to 138th to the Renaissance Theatre between 138th and 137th. He studied the display cards.
"Hiya, Taffy." -
He glanced casually around and went on studying the display. "Hiya, Eggie." He kept his face impassive, but something leaped up joyously within him.
"Ain'cha workin?" Eggie was indifferently clipped.
"I was late." His answer was flat.
"Huh." Eggie's grunt was noncommittal. "Let's get something to drink."
"I ain't got no money." He said it quickly because he knew it was better to be broke because of last night, but in the same instant a thirst gripped his throat and it seemed an eternity before Eggie swore.
"Jesus Christ! What the hell do you do with your money?"
And he relaxed because the violence meant Eggie was only sore he had to buy it himself. If he had been broke there would have been sympathy and trying to find a way. Taffy ignored the abuse; and, finally, they went and bought a fifth of port:
"I got a new trick," said Eggie while he was twisting the cap. They were huddled in the back fire escape door of the movie, next to the Y.W.C.A. on 137th Street.
Taffy kept his eyes on the bottle top, quiet but tense. He hated Eggie's fumbling fingers.
Eggie took out a small square tin. "Aspirin," he said. He dropped in three and then a fourth. "Gives it a needle." He screwed the cap back on and started shaking the bottle.
.Taffy thought his throat would close up and his belly burst. He gritted his teeth and clung to his legs until his digging fingers made him feel the pain.
Eggie glanced at him slyly sideways. "What's the matter, baby? In a hurry?"
"Gimme that damned bottle," gasped Taffy, and snatching it from Eggie, he tore off the cap and flung it up to his lips. The lukewarm bittersweet wine gushed within him. He could feel it running out of the sides of his mouth and down both sides of his chin when Eggie grabbed the bottle away.
Eggie wiped its mouth with a sweaty hand and grinned. "Take it easy, baby. Papa wants some too."
Taffy felt the wine flood warmly into the dry jagged cracks that seemed to have cragged his belly. The lump in his throat melted and something sharp was dissolved and blunted into placidity. And he remembered how he had found this doorway out of himself into a quieter, warmer room after his mother had beaten him, her hot breath on his neck and face. "So you think you're a man now," she had panted when he had refused to cry. "At twelve, you think you can stand up to your own mother." She had seized his father's belt and had beat him with it doubled; and since the buckle cut he had yelled until she had let him go.
He had found Eggie, Dude and Ralph in Eggie's apartment, uncorking a gallon jug of wine they had stolen; and when his turn came, he had gulped it down. It had tasted sweetish, thicker than soda pop, without any fizz, warming as it slid down. When it had overflowed his lips, it was cool against his face when he wiped with his palm. Later, holding the glass against his chest, with the rim between his lips, he had inhaled the sweetish odor and listened to the victrola play "Stars Fell on Alabama" while the room was screened in a haze that bore his eyelids down. He had felt quiet and safe, without any hurt, and he had wanted to leap up and to shout, to throw his arms about them and to kiss them. But he had also wanted to relax more and more as his arms and legs felt heavy and head wobbly on his limp neck. "Another," he had asked, draining his glass. He had giggled because his mouth felt so thick and his tongue wouldn't form the word. " 'Nutha' " he had said.
"Jesus Christ"-Dude had laughed-"Look who turned out to be a lush-hound." They had all laughed. He had laughed with them, and it was a good laugh that joined them all together and made him unafraid and at peace. That's the way it was, and as the wine passed back and forth between Taffy and Eggie, the red roses, the red-faced man, red-necked Sam and red wine blended into floating anonymity that revolved around slowly and fell backward out of sight.
When the bottle was empty, Eggie said, "Let's go to the show."
He sank down in the seat next to Eggie in the smoking section of the dank air-conditioned darkness of the movie, dimly saw part of the show; and next, an usher was shaking him roughly. "Go on home if you want to sleep. This is a movie, not a flop-house. You only paid for one seat; so stay in one." Eggie was gone, and it was after 7:30 p.m. by the movie clock.
He reared up unsteadily and stalked stiff-leggedly out.
The subway bumped endlessly, but it finally jerked into the Utica Avenue stop. In the street, the sun was no longer shining. There were few people in sight except for several men and women tending children in Stuyvesant Square Park. His head ached, his legs were heavy, and he wanted to lie down. His stomach gnawed hungrily.
In the hallway of his home, he stopped and stared. The sparsely furnished living room seemed jammed with people, white people. The large red-faced man of the morning was talking.
"Now, Johnson, we got a right to speak and to speak straight. Never had no trouble out here before you people came here, arid we don't want no trouble with anybody. If you want to sell this here house, I think I can get a sale on it without you losing too much." He cleared his throat importantly several times while the others all nodded agreement. "After all, you folks will be a lot happier back in Harlem with your own people." He scowled and shook his head. "What do you want to move out here in the midst of a lot of'white folks for, anyway?" he asked querulously.
"Well, you see, Mr. Mettig, it's like this-" his father began.
"Now wait a minute. Get me straight. I ain't got nothing against nobody. I been a district captain out here for a long time and I ain't never had no complaints. I don't have nothing against colored people. Make it a point to always be nice to everybody. Always tip the colored porters when I go traveling. When I travel down south, I always get along great with all the boys." He stopped and beamed amiably. "Why, the last time I went to South Carolina, I said to the boy who was portering, 'George, how 'bout a drink?' And then I said, "No sir, George, make that two drinks.' And I made that boy sit right down there with me and we had a fine time." The pleasantness vanished and his face became stern. "No, I don't have nothing against colored, but you see how it is, and on the very first day. Poor little Miss Wells was frightened half to death."
Miss Wells, spinster for her first thirty years by choice, and for the next thirty out of resentment, sniffled into a tiny lace-edged white handkerchief. On one side of her sat a huge-bosomed, full-jowled amazon, a small circular feather hat perched high on a mass of piled-up, unbelievably jet black hair over a creased and heavily rouged face. She bulged in a red dress, with large yellow and green-flowered design, like a lurid obscenity.
On the other side of Miss Wells sat an insignificant-looking woman. They both comforted their friend while the five white men standing behind them bristled.
Taffy's mother and father sat side by side, knees close together, hands in laps, as if they were in school. Elizabeth stood behind the parents' chairs. She was still with the quietness of a tree standing beside a grave awaiting a body.
A single bulb in the ceiling electric light fixture glared nakedly down, exposing the room's emptiness. George Mettig, having stopped talking, braced himself belligerently and glared at them.
"Now, Mr. Mettig, I know you all mean well," said Taffy's father, "and I'm sure you probably are a little worried at the boy pulling down the flowers. I don't know what got into him, but I'll sure tan the living daylights out of him when he comes home." His father's head was ducking between his hunched shoulders and his elbows made vague little movements in the air, like a puppy trying to please wags his tail. A mixed picture of old Pop Johnson pleading with Mamie and the slattern Bessie begging for a dime hit Taffy in the pit of his stomach as he watched.
"You just wait and see, there ain't no better kids in the world than my kids, and they's nobody gonna have no prettier house'n we-uns is a-gonna have--" The strange accent thickened and the sour taste of the wine regurgitated until Taffy thought he was going to vomit in the hall. But Mettig interrupted with a show of great amiability.
"Now, Sam, there ain't no call for hard feelings. I'm sure you're a good boy. But this just ain't no neighborhood for you. Don't worry about the house. I'll see you don't lose a penny. After all, I appreciate a boy I can reason with."
"Yes, sir. I know, sir." And he was rolling his head like Homer did when he pretended to understand but was as thick as a bastard. "Thank you, sir. But you see, mister, we-uns saved a long time to buy this li'l ole house. You don't know what we went through. 'Course, it ain't very much, really, but we-uns do the best we can, and-"
"Aw, what the hell, nigger, you ain't got no goddamned business living out here anyway; so there just ain't nothing else to it." Mettig's lower lip was thrust out and he shook himself imperiously from side to side. "We're going to give you just two weeks to sell this house and git!"
"But, mister-" his father's pleading was pressing.
Mettig's hand shot out, his finger stiffly pointing in Taffy's father's face. "You listen!" like a pistol, his words cracked. "You git. 'Cause if you don't-" The thundering curse of his crimsoning face needed no words. The silence filled in, and when he spoke again his voice was thin and cold. "Then, god-dammit, we'll take the thing into our own hands!"
Taffy heard his father rushing the words. "Please, Mister Man, won't you-all just try to unnerstand-"
The words faded and failed against Mettig's grunt as he turned his back to help Miss Wells from her seat.
"You sit back down."
The voice was quiet, almost pleasant, so much so that everyone seemed to stop an instant at the surprise of the sudden change in the atmosphere. And then, having stopped, they jarred into rigidity at the enormity of the command.
His mother spoke again, no louder, just a little thinner, as though she had leaned imperceptibly toward them. "I said, you sit back down." The group stared in chiseled surprise, Miss Wells stuck mid-air, halfway out of her seat. "I have something to say."
His father touched her arm nervously, "Now, darlin', " he mumbled, "we-uns ain't a-gonna git nowheres a-tryin' to talk thataway-"
She jerked aside the mask of pleasantry and snapped, "And you stop talking that way, Mr. Johnson." The words were drilled in with rapid staccato. "You don't talk that way, and there's no need to put on a minstrel show for this batch of white trash. You're not on your pullman car now." She turned back to the group and the mask returned, but without pleasantness or softness. Miss Wells dropped back into her seat.
"And now, you-" she said evenly, but stopped and waited while red-faced Mettig flushed even redder and turned around. A look of stupefaction glazed his eyes. His mouth hung open.
"Now, see here-" spluttered one of the other men while Mettig waggled his chin wordlessly.
"No"-and the words cut him off deftly, without impoliteness but definitely-"you see here." Taffy had forgotten his sickness of the stomach in the grip of the excitement that grew as he listened to the metered authority of his mother speaking.
"This is our home, and we intend to live in it." She stared straight into their midst, her eyes not blinking or moving to one side or the other. "We don't beg for anything. We bought this house with sacrifice and sweat. And what we got like that-we won't throw away." She paused and looked from face to face. There was an uneasy silence. "This is my home. Do you know what that means?"
"Well, now looky here, lady," blurted out Mettig.
She ignored him. "My grandfather owned a farm in Virginia in slave days. He worked and bought his freedom and a home. The poor whites tried to drive him away. He stood in the doorway and shot three. They shot him through the head. He died, and they dragged his dead body through the streets tied to a cart tail. But my grandmother stayed and grew her crops and raised her family." She marked the silence with her heavy breathing. Perspiration was shining on her forehead.
The group shifted about uneasily.
She spoke softer, more slowly. "We still hold our land in Virginia. We will hold it until we die, for that is our home." Her head came up a little higher and her voice became fiercer. "Now, this is my home." The words were heard only because they were so carefully molded. "Do you think you can take it from us?"
She had used up all the words in the room. The silence dragged the dripping of a faucet in from the pantry. Across Fulton Street, from Atlantic Avenue, could be heard the faint rumble of the Long Island Railroad.
One of the men cleared his throat noisily, and the others stirred uneasily. "I think we better go," he said; and they filed out of the room, past Taffy, out the front door. The last man hesitated. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson. It really wasn't a very good idea for us to have come here."
He turned and followed the others out.
Taffy was inarticulate with the thrill crowding up in his throat. He had known her steely strength when she punished, but this bending things to her will was something else. He stepped into the room, full of lush gratitude, tears halfway to his eyes. That was the way to treat these bastards.
"You!" his mother said bitterly.
Her eyes now blazed with the wrath she had formerly turned on her husband. "Why couldn't you just keep your dirty little hands to yourself for just one day? Why couldn't you just let us get in before you start dragging in your filthy Harlem ways?"
Her attack stopped him so short he almost stumbled. He tried to stutter something about the flowers and Mettig and work, but the words folded up upon each other.
"Taffy!" Her scream cut him off. "You've been drinking!" It was a pained question; but when his only answer was gaping confusion, she repeated it as a statement, in a half-whisper that sounded aged and tired. "You've been drinking and you're drunk."
He struggled to make some explanation, but she shook her head slowly at him, closing her eyes.
"Go to your room," she whispered. "Go on. Go to your room."
The tightness in her shut him up and he turned to stumble upstairs.
On the second floor, he stopped to stare out the window toward Harlem. A faint ruby glow in the faraway sky silhouetted the tops of the black trees that showed green below in the streetlight. There, way over there, beneath the neon-tinted sky was 133rd Street and somebody sitting on a stoop strumming a guitar, singing not words but formless melody behind the shifting chords, broken by Mr. Bustamente's chanting, easy laughter and the high-pitched giggle of a girl, who's never done it, being made. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out at Bedford-Stuyvesant which sprawled, formless, humid and indifferent, out into darkness.
He studied the paint on the sill. He put a fingernail in a crack and picked. A many-layered flake of paint chipped up. He shrugged his shoulders. Same as Harlem. Paint it over and make it new. He raised his head and sighed. He wished he could have some kind of painting over. What a helluva friggin' day! ' Brooklyn!
He felt like spitting at it. He ground the cigarette out on the window sill and flung the butt out into the night.
His mother was coming upstairs; and the sound of her slow steps prodded up an eager anger. Now she'd start acting like he had put a big hole through something. And she hadn't even let him explain.
Why didn't she let him alone?
"Taffy." She sounded far away. "I told you to go to your room." It was the same voice he always heard that simply had to be obeyed.
He turned about sullenly. She was watching him, her mouth a shortened straight line. He smelled her as he passed her, not like a sweet-smelling closet, or the acrid animalness of a girl on a roof, but something between laundry soap and a teacher, something compelling and not pleasant.
The queasiness was back in his stomach and he was glad to reach the comfort of his bed. The aspirined wine still swung the world in a slow circle, from which he listened to the crickets in the silence-wrapped darkness of the backyards. The "a-screech, a-screech" sifted through the branches that traced intermingling shadowy fingers across the ceiling of his room from the streetlight in the next block.
He raised up and stared out the window over the blackened backyards. The huge tree rustled as the moonlight struggled to squeeze between the leaves. A star-studded sky, clear and sparkling, cleansed of the ruby reflection of neon lights, cupped over the peaceful, sweet-smelling darkness which stirred through the room. He had a feeling of vacant space, of the smallness of houses and of endless squared-off cubicles in black marked off in silver gray by the moonlight on the wooden dividing fences. The sweep of the sky filled him with a strange uneasiness.
He lay back down, listening to the quiet which let him hear the buzzing in his own ears and which felt heavy as velvet against them, as though the world had been screened and all the large noises left outside, and far away a car gnawed at the distance.
Suddenly the tears were welling up from somewhere, but he bit his lip, and twisting his face into his pillow, he seized himself and began to rub violently.
M artha collapsed back on her heels and then slid slowly over to sit on the floor. She stared somberly at the rip she had sewn along the middle third of the faded and threadbare slipcover on the studio couch. The couch sagged in the middle, and underneath the upholstery had been greasy and worn long before she had finally despaired of scrubbing it and had started using slipcovers. The whitish blue-gray of the clean wall behind it underlined its shabbiness as an empty hall swells a voice; and that's as much truth as poetry, she told herself, looking disconsolately at the few pieces of furniture scattered about the room. She had never thought she kept a dirty house, but when the old furnishings had landed in the new setting, grease which she had never seen, hoary and black, had stood out on rounds, edges and sides. Hot water and laundry soap, lemon oil and rubbing, had done their work, but now the pieces seemed stripped and cheap, smaller, almost more pathetic than in their former disreputableness.
She sighed and tugged at the bottom of the cover which the repair had hiked up in the middle. She was supporting herself on one hand, and the smooth hardness of the floor came to her. She slid her fingers along the grain of a square. She flattened her hand against the clean smooth surface, and enjoyed the lack of grime, roughness, oldness or wornness. She raised her hand slowly, reluctantly, and saw the steamy and wet imprint of her hand. She shifted to the other side and gently rubbed at the moisture with the fingertips of her other hand.
She pulled up her housedress by the hem and polished the slightly dulled square. Leaning closer, she studied the interjoining of the grains of the wood, so smooth and well laid that their conjunction was a hairline. She followed the edge of a square about. She swept her hand slowly, to let the wood flow beneath her fingers, and her eyes veiled off the furniture so that she saw what she desired.
The doorbell went off, stridently.
She jumped, sitting up straight with a start as she tucked her feet and legs under her. She pulled down her dress with a jerk, rigidly still, not quite understanding her jumbled emotions.
The bell rang again, strangely without the former compelling sharpness, and she looked down at herself. "Oh my goodness," she murmured, seeing the faded housedress and knowing her hair was braided about her head and wrapped in a rag. But she got up quickly, straightening her back to hold her head high. After all, she was the lady of the house. "Probably some salesman," she said to herself, and walked carefully over the waxed floor to the door.
In the same instant she reached for the doorknob of the inner door, her other hand shot convulsively to her heart as she saw a group of well-dressed Negro women crowded together on the top step of her stoop. "Callers!" sh,e gasped.
Any further thoughts were cut off as one of the women turned and peered through the outer door, and Martha knew she had been seen because the woman was waving her white-gloved fingers at her through the glass.
A temptation to pretend she was the maid flashed across her, but then, in the next instant, Martha remembered why she had brought her family to Brooklyn, and the calm fell back upon her as if a lid had closed. In a matter-of-fact way, she reminded herself that she had just moved in. People would not expect her to be settled yet; and besides, who were these people and were they the persons she wished to be concerned about? She was in her home, and why should she be ashamed to see anyone in it?
She opened the door and said politely and coolly, "Yes?"
The tall bosomy woman beamed at her largely, tilting her head to accommodate-to the angle of the pince-nez perched on her nose. The eyeglass ribbon blew out away from her. "Mrs. Johnson?" she asked eagerly.
Martha nodded and said, "Yes--? "
"We are some of the leaders of the community, and we'd like to talk with you." Martha wondered if her visitor had stiffened just a little at the cool reception.
"We are not settled yet," Martha said, "but please come in." She nodded pleasantly at the other women, whose eyes had been busily going up and down over her, and in at least one instance, Martha felt, critically. But she realized it had not disturbed her, and suddenly she knew she enjoyed her house and why she wanted to be in it, because their business had only amused her. She felt calm and they looked crowded, hot and ill-at-ease. She smiled at the other women. "Won't you come in, too, please?" And the memory of her mother being queenly and gracious in their shabby parlor when the deacon board had come to complain about Papa not visiting the people enough added a fillip of flavor for her. For this was her own house, and she was not frightened, and these women were not deacons who could call and send away. She tried to carry herself with something of what she remembered as her mother's air.
She offered the large lady a chair. Three others sat on the studio: one, short and plump and brown; one, fat and browner; and one, a combination of flowing shades of violet velvet and odor and languid air which made it hard to say anything about her except that she was tall and moved with a studied purposefulness that somehow ended with her hands poised in mid-air. Another lady, more drab than the others, found her own chair.
The plump one took off her gloves and fanned herself, continuing her examination of Martha with her head cocked to one side. The fat one let her eyes move slowly around the room, ticking off walls, ceilings and floors. When she reached the floors, Martha was sure she saw her lean forward slightly. The languid one made a drama of producing a cigarette and lighting it in a holder, carrying on all her movements at arm's length, waving and flexing her hands and wrists in extravagant circles. A high-plumed spiraling chartreuse hat matched her suede gloves.
While this was going on, the large lady was smiling, and there was something about the square set of her shoulders, the trimness of her clothes, which Martha liked. For in spite of the straightness with which she sat and the perspiration dewing her faintly mustached upper lip, the eagerness had returned to her face. "I am Mrs. Mcintosh," she said, bobbing her head with each syllable. But there was no bravado, no pretension, although she said it with a definiteness that said she knew who she was.
"How do you do?" said Martha politely, and then the name repeated itself within her. She was glad she didn't have to speak again, for her heart leaped in thrilled excitement. "Mrs. Mcintosh!" who had been introduced in church last Sunday as the president of the Citizens' Committee to Improve Race Relations in Brooklyn, sponsored by the Brooklyn Church Federation. She had spoken of the future of Brooklyn before the entire congregation as if she were planning a pie, and she had also been identified on the leaflet announcing the program as The President of the Ladies Aid Society, which Martha knew to be the largest and most influential body in the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, the largest Negro church in Brooklyn. Chairman of the Local School Board. Vice President of the Citizens' Executive Committee of the Upper Bedford-Stuyvesant Health Committee of the Bedford-Stuyvesant Health District of the New York City Department of Health. And Member of the Board of the Community Council, the Y.W.C.A. (Dean Street), the Bedford-Stuyvesant Community Commission, and the Youth Welfare League of the Police Department.
Martha was glad she had not recognized her, for she was sure she could not have been as cool and self-possessed if she had known who was calling. While the blood had begun to pound in Martha's temples, she checked her hands and her posture and her face so that it would not show, but she had snapped sharply alert.
"We heard what happened with that batch of poor white trash," Mrs. Mcintosh said, and the shape of her mouth showed she enjoyed her words. "We think you were wonderful. So many have allowed themselves to be intimidated by this scum. But, after all, the women of the community must take the lead in breaking down barriers. We wanted you to know you are not alone." She paused and became more formal.
"Let me introduce my friends." She added, "Our friends."
She nodded toward the chubby little lady, who wiggled in her seat and twisted her face immediately into a show of extreme pleasure. "This is Mrs. Max Smith."
"Oh, how do you do?" said Mrs. Smith. "I think it's just wonderful," she gushed on. "The Bible tells us that the stone the builder has rejected has become the keystone of the temple. And so you-" She caught her breath. "I mean we are to be the means through which all women will win their way to equality and freedom, even though we are Negroes."
"Mrs. Smith is the executive secretary of the Dean Street Branch of the Y.W.C.A., " said Mrs. Mcintosh, and she was looking unblinkingly straight at the secretary, who was still aiming a frantically friendly smile at Martha.
"Don't mind Smitty, my dear," drawled the languid lady. "She has a penchant for double-edged, two-tone remarks."
"Audrey!" snapped Mrs. Mcintosh. The smile left Mrs. Smith's face as she aimed a venomous look at Audrey.
The languid lady shrugged elaborately, closing her eyes and arching her eyebrows as well as her shoulders. Then she opened her eyes and tossed her head. "I," she said in a deeper, forced contralto, "am Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. And I"-she glanced sidelong at Mrs. Smith-"am only myself." She took a tiny puff on her cigarette and blew it out without ever having looked at Martha. Martha wondered what they were waiting for until Mrs. Winston-Hoyte finally turned toward her. Leaning over and stretching out one hand, she said with great passion, "We need you, in Brooklyn, my dear." And then she beamed, and Martha wondered if she saw correctly what she took to be wistfulness and the desire to be liked in her too wide-open eyes.
"Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. We'll be glad to have you," said the drab little woman. And immediately, the four other women turned quickly in her direction and bobbed their heads in unison at her.
"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Mcintosh. "I really should have introduced Mrs. Stone first. Mrs. Obediah Zechariah Stone. Her husband is the pastor, you know, and I guess every time anyone wants to know someone to be on anything in Brooklyn, people have to ask her."
Mrs. Stone smiled sideways, and Martha had the distinct impression she had drawn her drabness back up around her and disappeared.
Everyone smiled, and Mrs. Mcintosh cleared her throat noisily. "And I know you will like my very dearest friend." She nodded at the middle lady whose eyes snapped from a look of absent-minded introspection to recognition of Martha.
"As a matter-of-fact," interrupted Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, "as a matter-of-fact, if I had the money her husband has, everyone would want me for a 'dearest friend' too."
"Don't mind Audrey, Mrs. Johnson," said the middle fat lady. "I'm Mrs. John Kromer, and only Audrey would say what she just said. It's only because she knows that we all love her that she carries on so."
"And I don't know exactly why she has decided to behave so today," blurted out Mrs. Max Smith.
"Just say you don't know. And then, stop, dearie," purred Mrs. Winston-Hoyte.
"I really think that if you girls want to put on a show of bad manners, Mrs. Johnson would enjoy your show, but I thought we came here on an errand." Mrs. Mcintosh sounded desperate.
Mrs. Kromer smiled. Mrs. Smith bit her lips and shook in her seat.
"Smitty never got over being gypped out of Phi Beta Kappa at Indiana," said Mrs. Winston-Hoyte; and she was obviously enjoying herself.
"Audrey," said Mrs. Mcintosh, "do we have to put you out?" She waited while Mrs. Winston-Hoyte completed a full-production shrug. Mrs. Mcintosh sat up very straight and raised the pitch of her voice to speak in a formal, clipped fashion. "This is a new day for Negro women. This is the day of emancipation, not just from chattel slavery, but from the chains which masculine culture imposes upon half the world-the women of the world. We must no longer bow to the unchallenged dominance of the men."
She took off her glasses and gestured with them.
Martha smiled wryly to herself, but kept her face pleasantly interested. Maybe Mrs. Mcintosh hadn't married a man like Tom; for whatever,"emancipation" meant, the picture of Tom holding her in chains was ludicrous. Maybe she, Martha, was being dominated; but it certainly was not by Tom. And she wondered idly what it would be like to have a man who thrust his hand into tomorrow and handed up the shape of things to come according to the pattern of his own will.
"-to stand astride tomorrow!" Mrs. Mcintosh had stood up. She let her eyeglasses fall so that they swung free. Her hands dropped to her sides while she turned her face ceilingward. "God's will will be done."
She sat and leaned toward Martha. "Mrs. Johnson, we feel that you are spiritually one with us. We want you. You wait and see. We will strike a fire that will build a new day." She beamed.
"I'll be very glad to do anything I can." Martha kept her voice quiet.
"Then will you come and tell our church of your great victory here? Next Sunday? You can speak right before the sermon."
"But, Ida-" Mrs. Smith's eyebrows and shoulders worked up and down. She quivered and shook herself on her seat. "Don't you think after the sermon would be better?"
Mrs. Mcintosh beamed at her. "You know as well as I do, Mae, after the sermon is no good. It would have to be after the collection. And after that-Well everyone wants to get out, and people are talking, and-"
"Well, I just thought that since Mrs. Stone wanted an appeal made for the boys' choir that that should have the-" Her eyebrows and buttocks were in a wiggling contest. She looked hopefully toward Mrs. Stone.
"Boys' choir, boys' choir." Mrs. Winston-Hoyte's plumes waved to and fro. "What makes you think that person can do anything."
"Well, just because you couldn't-" Mrs. Smith's eyes had narrowed. The grease shone on her face.
"Girls! Girls!" Mrs. Mcintosh clapped her hands. She turned toward Martha and smiled."i'll don't know what's wrong with the girls today. It must be the heat. But you will come, my dear?" She didn't wait for an answer. "That's fine. That's fine. Right before the sermon. Next Sunday. And now, we really must go."
They left, and Martha stretched out on the studio. The odor of Mrs. Winston-Hoyte's perfume was strong.
Women's rights, she thought. When Tom is the husband, it is a right to worry, to wait in unending shame because "She" brought the "charity" money, and because her burnished bronze hair sparkled, her white cuffs and collar were so starchedly pure, as she sat gingerly at their grimy dining room table on a rickety chair in 99th Street before Taffy was born. "She" had sat like that, looking past Martha, who had felt bloated with her pregnancy, past her at Tom, who dragged another chair to the table. The scraping legs had grated against her as glass against glass. "Why can't he pick things up?" she thought. And she flushed with the stale memory and the knowledge of how he still shuffled his feet.
The old image snapped Martha's eyes open as she tried to keep from hearing Tom say again, "Yes. Our-sex. We get along all right. Fine." But Martha could still see "She," her skin all pink and white, her bosom gently rising and falling a little faster beneath her sheer organdy blouse, her lips slightly open and wet, while Tom poured out his guts, saving nothing, telling everything.
Or again, after the baby had been born, Miss Codrington, "She," struggling to control her own anguish, saying, "You mustn't be upset, Mrs. Johnson. But the doctor said you can't have any more babies. I'm just sure it's awful." The tears had flooded up in the social worker's eyes and Martha had struggled hard not to say, "Don't worry. We can still do it all right. Tom can tell you about it." Wanting to use the unmentionable word to see the scarlet shock fear through her. Instead, she had said, "We called him Tom Junior; but Tom calls him Taffy because his hair looks like molasses candy."
"She" had gone to peer into the basket where the baby lay. "He's so white--? "
"Yes." .
"But I don't quite see-" Her eyes had been vacant for a moment. "He's even lighter than his father; and, of course, you're-" She made a little movement with her hands.
"Yes. I'm brown. That's the way it is. You can't tell. Elizabeth's brown. She took after me."
"I suppose your husband's grandparents were white?"
"I suppose they were."
"Did you know them?"
She had closed her eyes for a moment to bite back her anger. "We're Negroes," she had said slowly. "Negroes don't know their grandparents-if they're white."
"Oh," Miss Codrington had said.
Martha shook herself angrily at the memory and went to the window. She stood staring out, her arms folded tightly across the gnawing within her, as she had stood when Miss Codrington had burst into the apartment without knocking. She had called, "Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson. Guess what!"
Martha had turned to sit at the round dining room table. "What?" she had-asked tonelessly over her shoulder.
"I have a job for your husband."
"She" had trilled.
"Yes?" She had folded her hands in her lap.
"Yes!" Miss Codrington's eyes had been bright as a child's should be at Christmas when she gets the doll she wants and not only shoes and stockings. "Doesn't it seem too good to be true? But when I told my uncle about your family-Well, he just had to do something. You know"-the social worker had leaned forward-"as my supervisor said, being out of work is really a sickness. But maybe you never thought of it that way."
Yes, Martha had thought, the no-job sickness, the blanking out thinking, so you can't feel the helplessness or know how bad it hurts. She had felt all the nebulous fear of the past months harden into a sudden sharpness. She had gripped her hands in her lap.
"-and Tom has suffered social shock. We must win him back to the male role in the household. And this job is just what we-"
Martha had interrupted. "What's the job?"
"It's really wonderful!" Miss Codrington had unbuttoned her white camel's hair coat and flung it open. "It's a pullman porter. He'll travel all over the country. And he'll make a lot of tips and the work is very easy, and he'll make a lot of money. But I hope I'll still be able to-"
Martha had bit her lips to hold back. Did work have to be easy to be good? Was Tom a child that he had to be sugar-coated? And "a lot of money"! Yes! A lot of money for Tom
Johnson who didn't want anything but to play in the park with the children and to daydream. But would you, Miss Codrington, with your fine coat and clothes, call it a "Lot of money"? For yourself? She squeezed "I'll tell him to see you" past her stiff lips.
The social worker had blinked at Martha. "Is anything wrong? He isn't working, is he?"
"No," she had said slowly, "he isn't working." A wry alien smile had untwisted itself from some forgotten corner and found its way to her hard lips. "No. He isn't working." Inside she had said, God, if only he were. But, no, he isn't working. There's nothing wrong.
Miss Codrington's eyes had had the hardest, coldest look Martha had ever seen in them. There had been a pause. "Well, is there anything else?"
"No. Nothing else, Miss Codrington. Nothing else." No, nothing else, but everything. How can you explain ? Tom seemed to enjoy dirtying his mouth with the obscenity of his helplessness. But she had nothing.
"Well, I-" Miss Codrington had begun, raising her eyebrows; but she stopped and shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly. "Very well then, tell Tom to be at my office tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m."
"I'll tell him."
"And mind that he's not late." A pause. "Now, one other thing."
Martha's temples had throbbed and she had felt a flush prickle through the perspiration on her forehead. "Please, miss." She barely whispered. "Another time?"
"Why, I beg your pardon?"
"Please, miss. Nothing else." She had closed her eyes and bit with her nails harder into her wrists. "Are you sick, Mrs. Johnson?"
"No! Just go!" She cut herself off and then whispered, "Please let me alone. Please." She had shut her eyes tighter. Through the roaring in her ears, she had heard Miss Codrington's heels clacking noisily on the bare wooden floor, fading away downstairs. And it boiled up.
So "She" had found a job for her husband? A pullman porter. And he was a college man, a physician's son. A pullman porter, grinning, aping, kow-towing, bootlicking for a tip. Martha had paced slowly back and forth. If his hands were so sure on her, why were they so weak at anything else they held? Why was she the only thing that dissolved at his thrust, and gave-sometimes even when she wanted to rebel.
She stopped pacing when Tom came in with the children. She stared at him silently. He turned from the crib where he had been undressing the baby, Taffy. "What's the matter, Martha? Didn't the money come? Is anything wrong?"
She tried to steady herself by turning to look out the window at the sanitation men in the street throwing cans of ashes upon their truck. "I suppose everything is all right," her voice was rising, "even though you haven't hit a tap of work for over a year?" She whirled around. "Tom Johnson! Don't you know if everything is all right ? Are you a man, or aren't you ? How can you sit in the park, day after day, and let charity put bread in your babies' mouths and keep a roof over your head?" Her head swam dizzily. She sat.
Elizabeth began sniffing. Taffy was whining.
"Why, baby, you been so sick. And I had to take care of the children. I couldn't go off and-"
She leaped to her feet. "You're a liar! A dirty, cowardly liar! Don't blame your laziness on me and the children!" She shook and felt the veins cord in her neck. "You're lazy!" she screamed. "You're good-for-nothing, or you'd have had a job a long time ago."
Tom's mouth hung open. He looked so patiently pleading, so frightened, she hated him and wanted to scratch at his wide staring eyes.
"Well," she rasped, "they sent just the job for you. A pullman porter!"
He made a loose gesture with his limp hands. "All right, honey. But that's not too bad, if you think you can."
"If I can what!"
"Well, I been takin' care of the children; and-"
"Get out!" she shrieked. "Get out! You lazy, good-for-nothing tramp! You pretty yellow boy! Get out of my sight! Get out!" Seizing the sugar bowl, she flung it at him. He didn't move. It missed and shattered in the corner near Elizabeth.
Elizabeth whimpered. Taffy wailed loudly from his crib.
"Get out!" Martha gasped wildly, flailing about with her hands. She snatched the cloth from the table to scatter the dishes about the room.
He fled from the apartment.
She listened to the children crying, to someone "whoaing" and "backing" a horse in the street, and from somewhere a cold breath of air chilled the wet on her forehead. And something grew. First, an unidentified uneasiness. She resisted it, but finally she knew she was ashamed. Ashamed as she had been when she had screamed at her mother, and her mother had only said, "I just want you to be happy, baby." Ashamed, and too limp to cry.
"Mommy--? " Elizabeth sobbed, coming toward her.
She patted the child. "Hush, baby. Don't cry. Papa will be back in a little while." She held her until she had stopped shaking and trembling with sobs and the sunlight had faded and gray shadows had filled most of the room.
She fed the" children and put them to bed. Then she sat at the window. The street was empty. She touched his stamp book, lying on the table beside her. "He's just like a little boy, playing games to have something to do," she whispered half aloud, and something caught in her throat.
There was a tap on the door. Mrs. Chance, their next-door neighbor, stuck in her head. "Jonathan told me he just saw Tom sitting over by the park when he came from around the corner." She rubbed her chin. "It's a bloody cold dampness making out there now, mom."
She stayed with the children. Martha hurried to the park. She sat beside the huddled figure on the bench. "I'm sorry, Tom-"
Before she could say more, he rushed into her arms. She gave herself up to his kiss. This was her husband, and no job, or Miss Codrington, or anything else was going to take him from her. His neck felt icy to her hand. "Tom, you'll catch your death of pneumonia. You come home this minute."
Home, Martha set a pail of water and the tea kettle to boil.
"The children are waiting to kiss you goodnight. Now hurry and get out of those damp clothes."
She heard Elizabeth call, "Papa--? Oh, Papa!"
"Goodnight, darling," he whispered. "Everything is going to be all right. Don't you worry your little head. Just go back to sleep. Goodnight, baby, sleep tight."
She began to wash the dishes. Tom came and stood beside her. She leaned against him and he put his arms about her, the breadth of his hands warmly supporting her. She let him hold her until a glow spread out within her, growing until it had melted something hard and high. He kissed her softly on the neck. While she was enjoying its lingering imprint, she said, "There are worse things than being a pullman porter, Tom. It's honest work, and anything is better than letting charity spoil our respect for each other."
He gathered her to him. His lips were hot upon hers. She let the plate she was still holding in her hand slip back into the sink; and they left the dishes half washed.
The pail of water had bubbled unattended on the stove.
It had been such a long time ago that it took Martha a few moments to bring herself back into her living room in Bedford-Stuyvesant. She looked about her. What was it Tom had said? "When we stand in our own home, then we can face the world. It don't make no difference what we have to do outside, pullman pottering or anything else; when we slam the door, then we can have a world of our own inside." It had been only words then. She smiled at the fact. Night had fallen and the furniture, dimly seen by the reflected street light, blurred into a promise of the home to come. Tom had created the idea of "home," but now it was to offer so much more than they had ever dreamed.
"Thank you," she whispered, shaking her head in amazed gratefulness. "Thank you, God."
She walked slowly upstairs to bed.
At a little before 11:00 a.m., Martha, Elizabeth and Taffy walked toward the corner of Stuyvesant and McDonough where the Rock of Ages Baptist Church stood. Martha and Elizabeth wore their black dresses and black coats with gray fur collars. Tramp! You pretty yellow boy! Get out of my sight! Get out!" Seizing the sugar bowl, she flung it at him. He didn't move. It missed and shattered in the corner near Elizabeth.
Elizabeth whimpered. Taffy wailed loudly from his crib.
"Get out!" Martha gasped wildly, flailing about with her hands. She snatched the cloth from the table to scatter the dishes about the room.
He fled from the apartment.
She listened to the children crying, to someone "whoaing" and "backing" a horse in the street, and from somewhere a cold breath of air chilled the wet on her forehead. And something grew. First, an unidentified uneasiness. She resisted it, but finally she knew she was ashamed. Ashamed as she had been when she had screamed at her mother, and her mother had only said, "I just want you to be happy, baby." Ashamed, and too limp to cry.
"Mommy--? " Elizabeth sobbed, coming toward her.
She patted the child. "Hush, baby. Don't cry. Papa will be back in a little while." She held her until she had stopped shaking and trembling with sobs and the sunlight had faded and gray shadows had filled most of the room.
She fed the" children and put them to bed. Then she sat at the window. The street was empty. She touched his stamp book, lying on the table beside her. "He's just like a little boy, playing games to have something to do," she whispered half aloud, and something caught in her throat.
There was a tap on the door. Mrs. Chance, their next-door neighbor, stuck in her head. "Jonathan told me he just saw Tom sitting over by the park when he came from around the corner." She rubbed her chin. "It's a bloody cold dampness making out there now, mom."
She stayed with the children. Martha hurried to the park. She sat beside the huddled figure on the bench. "I'm sorry, Tom-"
Before she could say more, he rushed into her arms. She gave herself up to his kiss. This was her husband, and no job, or Miss Codrington, or anything else was going to take him from her. His neck felt icy to her hand. "Tom, you'll catch your death of pneumonia. You come home this minute."
Home, Martha set a pail of water and the tea kettle to boil.
"The children are waiting to kiss you goodnight. Now hurry and get out of those damp clothes."
She heard Elizabeth call, "Papa--? Oh, Papa!"
"Goodnight, darling," he whispered. "Everything is going to be all right. Don't you worry your little head. Just go back to sleep. Goodnight, baby, sleep tight."
She began to wash the dishes. Tom came and stood beside her. She leaned against him and he put his arms about her, the breadth of his hands warmly supporting her. She let him hold her until a glow spread out within Rer, growing until it had melted something hard and high. He kissed her softly on the neck. While she was enjoying its lingering imprint, she said, "There are worse things than being a pullman porter, Tom. It's honest work, and anything is better than letting charity spoil our respect for each other."
He gathered her to him. His lips were hot upon hers. She let the plate she was still holding in her hand slip back into the sink; and they left the dishes half washed.
The pail of water had bubbled unattended on the stove.
It had been such a long time ago that it took Martha a few moments to bring herself back into her living room in Bedford-Stuyvesant. She looked about her. What was it Tom had said? "When we stand in our own home, then we can face the world. It don't make no difference what we have to do outside, pullman portering or anything else; when we slam the door, then we can have a world of our own inside." It had been only words then. She smiled at the fact. Night had fallen and the furniture, dimly seen by the reflected street light, blurred into a promise of the home to come. Tom had created the idea of "home," but now it was to offer so much more than they had ever dreamed.
"Thank you," she whispered, shaking her head in amazed gratefulness. "Thank you, God."
She walked slowly upstairs to bed.
At a little before 11:00 a.m., Martha, Elizabeth and Taffy walked toward the corner of Stuyvesant and McDonough where the Rock of Ages Baptist Church stood. Martha and Elizabeth wore their black dresses and black coats with gray fur collars.
Taffy straggled rebelliously behind them, his father's pullman porter black tie set crookedly beneath his chin. His blue serge jacket was tight, and although his tweed pants had been pressed, they had not lost the form of baggy knees and seat.
Mrs. Stone met Martha and her family at the church door. She stopped the ushers from showing them to the corner where the potted palms and Sunday School banners almost hid the podium. She led them down to her pew, in the fourth row back from the front, right. Having settled them, she rushed away on the mysterious errands Martha knew always kept ministers' wives a-flutter. It was eleven o'clock.
Martha stared about the arched auditorium. The tremendous vault of simulated beams still awed her. At this hour it looked even more cavernous, as only a few people were scattered in the pews. The building had once been a synagogue, but after the neighborhood turned "colored," the $250,000 edifice had been sold to the Baptist congregation for $85,000. Martha had heard it could hold almost 5,000 people at festivals. She studied the tremendous painting up over the empty podium.-It seemed to have been done on the opposite side of a huge pane of plate glass that replaced the windows that must have been at the back of the building during the time of the former occupants.
A stiff cartoon-like blonde Christ smiled down flatly upon a blonde child upon his knee. Other blonde-headed children clustered about him and a tiny brown face could be seen peeking over His elbow. Blond fishermen, an anemic Virgin Mary, swathed in brilliant blue, and dim disciples were crowded uphill into the background. It seemed, even to Martha's untutored eyes, that the perspective curled up at the edges like dried-out lemon peel. It had been painted by the Reverend Stone's brother. At eleven-twenty, Martha re-examined the service leaflet. In uncertain mimeograph, it said: "Opening prayers and devotions 11:00 a.m." She smiled. Unity Baptist or Rock of Ages Baptist, Charlotte or Brooklyn, Baptists were the same wherever they were bred.
The choir was beginning to straggle in to take their places in the choir loft up over the front rostrum, with much fuss of pocketbooks and rattling of papers. Professor Martin, a slight, spry little man with bushy gray hair, hopped out and refereed a quarrel over seating. Eventually seated at the organ console facing the choir, he impatiently waved his hands for quiet.
He played a few bars softly on the organ with one hand. Suddenly he shot the other straight up in the air, pointing at the ceiling. Then he brought his arm down slowly until his forefinger was aimed directly in the face of a large brown lady in the center of the choir. He paused a moment, jabbed with his finger, and then with a flourish, bowed over the organ. The choir rose sluggishly and unevenly to join the organ which was peeling dolefully, "Rock of Ages Cleft for Me."
People who must have been standing around outside on the sidewalk rushed in to scramble for seats. The ushers hurried back and forth. On the last verse of the hymn, the Ladies' Aid Society marched in, wearing black serge dresses, white collars and cuffs, and white shoes and stockings. Their heads were uncovered, and they came in two by two. Martha recognized Mrs. Mcintosh and Mrs. Max Smith in the lead. Mrs. Kromer walked a little further back in the ranks. Mrs. Winston-Hoyte was not among them.
They settled their generally fat selves like a row of biddie hens in the three pews in front of Martha and her family. The church had almost filled, and the choir ended the opening hymn with a full-voiced "Amen" and thundering organ.
Everyone immediately began talking to his neighbor.
One of the deacons came forward to pray. Two mothers took their children down front and out to the washroom. Coats and hats were taken off and rearranged in piles. Late-comers climbed over those sitting at the ends of the pews. The entire Ladies' Aid Society turned around in their seats to be introduced to the Johnson family by Mrs. Stone, who had fluttered back.
Mrs. Mcintosh whispered audibly enough to be heard in the back of the church," "I'll introduce you just before the sermon."
Martha gripped the ground with her toes through her shoes, but masked her hands and face with serenity. It would not do for them to feel how terribly anxious she was.
"It's the place of honor, you know, Mrs. Johnson," Mrs. Mcintosh emphasized.
"Oh, it's nothing to be nervous about," said Mrs. Max Smith, twisting herself back into the conversation.
They both turned back. Martha watched Mrs. Max Smith's short fat neck and Mrs. Mcintosh's square shoulders. She wondered if they were both put out that she had not dissolved into a quivering jelly of fright and awe. Martha leaned back and closed her eyes with satisfaction. At least she knew she had not embarrassed herself by showing fear or concern.
Another of the deacons was reading the call to worship, fumbling with the words, holding the paper up to one side as if to a light. Martha began reciting the twenty-odd names of the ladies to herself.
The Scriptures were read. The earnest theological student's voice was rich and deep. He gave dramatic suspense to the story of the feeding of the five thousand. His round, close-clipped head tossed as he read, the light reflecting from his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, blanking out the eyes in his shining black face.
The church and national colors were presented. The people stood for the Negro National Anthem which was sung absent-mindedly; only a few knew even part of the words. Then the senior deacon came forward to pray. Everyone sat down, and a low murmur of pleasant talk buzzed. The deacon had a thin, high-pitched crowding voice that rose and fell like the whine of a winter wind. . '
, The murmur of the congregation rustled louder. It grew until it drowned out the praying of the deacon. Suddenly the organ blared forth. The choir leaped to its feet, singing, "Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow." The congregation twisted about; and at the peak of organ, choir and excitement, the Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone strode down the center aisle.
Shouts of "Praise the Lord" and "Amen" greeted him as he rushed along, looking neither to left nor to right, black robes flopping widely around him, brown head thrown back and bald pate shining. His eyeglasses were atilt, his mouth pursed, while he clutched under his arm a sheaf of papers and a Bible trailing several red ribbons which floated and twisted behind him.
When he reached the front, he suddenly stopped to bend over a little old gray-haired lady in the first pew. He made a show of whispering some obvious consolation to her and patted her shoulder.
The organ played on and the choir finished singing the doxology.
Reverend Stone mounted the rostrum and shook hands with the senior deacon who had stopped praying. He arranged his papers, waved his fingers at someone in the body of the church, bobbed his head at someone in the balcony, and held a brief conference with the deacons. He moved about, studiously oblivious of the religious cries of the faithful and the pealing music.
Mrs. Mcintosh was signaling frantically.
He looked archly in her direction, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth. She motioned widely backwards at Martha. Reverend Stone acknowledged her presence with a little bow. Martha flushed more warmly, with the sense that the new buzz and murmur were her homage.
The service moved on from there. The N.A.A.C.P. appealed for funds, the Children's Day Nursery asked for volunteer help, the Workers' Alliance announced a demonstration, and a weak-voiced, slight little woman pleaded for help with the boys' choir.
Her straining squeak was drowned out by a new hubbub.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte swung down the outside aisle on the left, wreathed in an enormous platina silver fox stole over a white gabardine suit that molded her lithe figure in undulating curves. Her coral lips were startling against the olive of her skin, which Martha had not remembered as being that light.
The "oh's" and "ah's" of the congregation would have done justice to the most tantalizing strip of a burlesque queen. Reverend Stone left off his studious inspection of the curved vault of the ceiling to follow her with his eyes. He nodded reverentially in her direction.
The service rambled on.
Finally Mrs. Mcintosh rose to speak. She had a strong voice that pierced to the back of the church through the closing-in June humidity and heat of too many bodies packed in together. She spaced her words carefully, but she was very brief.
There was a rise in the buzz.
When Mrs. Mcintosh returned to her seat, Martha heard her whisper to Mrs. Max Smith, "Why should I warm them up? She acts like she's doing us a favor."
Mrs. Smith nodded vigorous approval of the disapproval. Martha continued to the foot of the podium. The restlessness stopped as though the silence had dropped upon it from the rafters where the cacophony of gossip and worship had driven it. It seemed to her that the abbreviated introduction had whetted the expectation in the huge auditorium.
She looked out into the sea of faces. It was so unlike the miserable tar-paper shanty that had served as her father's church. The undulating rows of brightly varnished yellow oak had little kinship with his rickety pews and benches. She matched her father's congregation of overall-clad farmers and dowdy domestics with the smoothly dressed, plume bedecked and well-fed audience before her. And instead of sitting timidly in the back, she was standing in front.
Her heart throbbed, her throat choked, and whereas she had meant to speak in a quiet, calm, easy voice, she knew that if she did not speak soon, she would break down and cry. The crowd seemed to tighten with restraint as if Martha's inner tensity had communicated itself. There was not a rustle or a whisper as all eyes fixed themselves upon her, waiting. Even Mrs. Max Smith was leaning forward expectantly.
"Oh my brothers and my sisters-" The words vibrated with her inner emotion and died away on the end. She raised her hands, clenching them to try and seize hold of herself.
"Oh my brothers and my sisters--! " Her voice resounded loud and clear through the auditorium. Taking courage from its strength, she raised her hands higher and cried out, "It's so good to come home to the house of the Lord.""
"Praises ... be to His name," shrieked the little old gray lady, leaping up. And the tight waiting of silence tumbled down. "Amen's" and "Praise-to-the-Lord's" billowed up to the rafters. All the balked previous noise and hubbub were released in a storm of approval.
Martha dropped her raised hands slowly and the boisterous turbulence faded away.
"Praise be to God," she cried, throwing up her hands again.
"Amen! Amen! Praise be to, the Lord!" they replied.
"God has brought us back home," cried Martha, swept away by the frenzied crowd which answered back:
"Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Great God Almighty! Amen! Amen! Praises to His Name!"
"You've led us along a dusty road," sobbed Martha, wringing her hands in front of her and bowing her head. The tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Amen! Amen!
"So true! So true!" chanted the congregation.
"We have lived in sweat. We have toiled in slavery; but Thou has lifted us up!" wept Martha, throwing her hands high over her head.
"Glory halleluiah! Praise be to God. Amen! Amen! rejoiced the people, who were rocking backward and forward, hugging themselves, eyes closed, heads shaking.
"Our Father! Our Father! Thou has filled our hands with good things."
"Amen! Amen!" Martha sobbed in rhythmic unison with their ecstasy.
At the back of the church some devout person jumped to her feet, screaming, leaping up and waving her arms. Four ushers seized her and as she bucked and jerked, her eyes closed, her mouth gasping for breath, they struggled to get her into the vestibule.
"Thy will be done," moaned Martha, dropping her head and rocking to and fro. "Thy will be done." More softly, "Thy will be done."
"Oh God have mercy on us," they replied, and the choir broke out into the doxology, and the refreshed cries of the faithful, the "Amens" of the ecstatic, and the full-voiced organ rolled up together.
After the doxology, the choir shifted over into "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." Reverend Stone came down from the podium to lean over Martha to comfort her. He patted her shoulder, overshadowing her while she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief someone in front had handed up to her. The quietness of the music brought the congregation back into the church.
As the music stopped, Reverend Stone returned to his seat. The people were hushed as though limp and satisfied with fulfillment. Martha waited until it was deadly still. Curiosity at her silence seemed to bring back the crowd's feverishness. Martha watched them lean forward again, eyes bright with anticipation, lips thirsting. She bit back a smile of triumph.
"We are not rich people," she said. "We are poor people, but we have our eyes fixed upon heavenly goals."
She raised her hands quickly in a commanding movement to hold back a new outburst of "Amen's." She would not make the mistake her father always made of talking a religious mood to death. She had made her mark. Now, to retire as quickly as possible.
"We sacrificed all our lives to buy a home. When these white people told us we could not live there because of the color of our skins, we knew it was not right."
"So true. So true. Amen."
She talked through the impatient storm of answers. "-because God has made a home for all his children." She was barely able to keep her voice above the restless rustling religious fervor.
"No man can say nay to God's will. We're on God's side, and we're not afraid to stand. There is no fear with God. He takes care of his own." And she turned and went to her seat so quickly that the response was left suspended in the midst of the church.
The Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone jumped up in the midst of the surprise, spreading his bulk until he looked as if he were taking off in flight. In his loudest voice, he bellowed: "Praaaaaaises-be to God!"
The satisfaction Martha had balked tumbled down, and the frenzied responsiveness of the congregation dropped into Rev. Stone's hands. He handled it expertly-sustaining the ecstasy, changing the pace, gripping the fervor, tossing it to new peaks, now dropping down into straining whispering. He called in the organ and the choir, using his voice, the choir, the congregation, the organ, the dramatics of gesture in a symphonic orchestration of religious rapture.
Taking Martha's fearlessness as an example, he urged people to be "born again into taking God's guidance without fear."
"Are you afraid you're going to die?" he shouted. "You must be born again into relying on the Lord.
"Are you afraid of losing your job?" he thundered. "You must be born again into relying on the Lord. Then, you ain't gonna have to worry.
"Are you afraid of what your husband's doing when he's away from home? You must be born again!
"Are you gossipy? Evil? Backbiting, and stingy to the church?"
"You must be born again!" the congregation answered. "Are you low-down mean? Envious? Gluttonous? Lustful."
"You must be born again!" they cried.
"Yes," said Martha to herself, "you must be born again in struggle to break out of the imprisoning womb of what is. When life rushes in upon you and there is no man to face it, then you must be born again." And Martha remembered when she had first known that she was going to have to be something other than the girl who had run away with her hero, long before she had seen it spelled out in hunger and desperation. She wondered that until this very moment she had never understood the significance of Tom sitting as he had in the dusty fly-blown Jim Crow coach just after they had been married. Turning redder and redder, she had listened to the sports behind her while one of them had laughed loudly.
"Kiyai! Kiyai! Man, that was a gal who shore knew what to do with what the Lord give her. I ain' been sent like that since that white whore up on Avenue E Southeast." He had shrieked with glee, "Kiyai! Kiyai!"
"Yeah, man!" his companion had said, another flashily dressed coffee-colored sport. "Goddamnsonofabitch! Every little bitch down here just seems she ain' had no goddam' right kind of stuff. Lemme tell you what happen'. " He had roared with laughter and cleared his throat.
The train thundered on the rails. Dust rose from the floor.
"Her old man works as a night porter down at the bank; and then she give me the high sign, and-" g
One of the workmen who had been sitting in front of them had heaved up, and turning, he had leaned over their seat to thrust his face at the two dudes. A scowl had gnarled his features into a black knot of twisted thick lips and broad flat nose that was a fixture in Martha's nightmares.
"If you-all do'n stop all that 'ere dirty-mouf talkin', " he had said thickly, "I's goin' to bus' you' goddam' haids wi' op'n." He had spat on the floor, barely missing the patent leather shoe of one of the show-offs. He had turned to Martha.
"If'n they stawt all that 'ere bad talk agin, ma'am, you jfst le' me know. Thank you, ma'am."
And as she listened to Reverend Stone, she knew that her rebirth had begun then, to grow painfully in darkness and struggle. Yes, she was being born again; and she felt incomplete when the sermon ended without Reverend Stone going on to say how that birth never ended but kept on and on, gestating endlessly.
Elizabeth sat silently beside her mother. "You must be born again," said the preacher. Certainly her mother, who had lifted up the church and shaken it like a dishrag over her head, seemed to have been born again. They had been born into a new home too. She studied the young people in the choir. The young men who were serving as ushers. And here and there about the church, she saw young married couples. And babies. She would soon be twenty-three, and life up to now had been bounded largely by mother, family and work.
"You must be born again!" shouted the Reverend Stone.
Elizabeth nodded her head. "Yes. You must be born again."
Taffy shifted restlessly in his seat. The insistently hammering "You must be born again!" told him he was no good, was hopeless, that he had to get a new body, a new skin, a different shiny new whole. He squirmed. "How the hell can you be born again?"
He peeked at his mother. Christ, she looked like she knew what the bastard was talking about. Even Elizabeth. What was she smiling about? He didn't see anything funny. He watched Elizabeth's eyes move about the church. Her smile deepened.
As he glanced about, he stopped to stare at the balcony. A large section opposite was taken up by young people who looked sparklingly new, clean, plainly strange to his Harlem-shocked eyes. They looked like "white folks." In their midst, he saw three girls looking at him. When he met their eyes, the middle girl made a little wave with her hand and sat back in her seat to giggle and titter with her two friends, who crowded in on her to share their mutual secret.
He wondered what the hell they found so damned funny.
After what seemed an eternity to Taffy, the sermon blew itself out, it was the collection, and the service ended with a few more desultory prayers.
The Ladies' Aid crowded around Martha, congratulating her and welcoming her into their society. Taffy marveled that she received both adulation and praise as if she were buying fish from old Pop Johnson.
They squeezed him to one side, and he wandered off toward the front door. The young people were gathered in the vestibule. The girl in the-balcony ana her two friends flitted up to him. He gawked at her.
"We think your mother is wonderful. I think she is the most exciting person we have ever known in our lives. I'm so thrilled you are going to come to this church. We want to see you often." She put out her hand and Taffy shook it carefully. The softness of her skin startled him; it was delicate, but firm and smooth. Eyes and teeth flashed in her ebony face. The mop of her long hair hung gracefully about her shoulders.
"My name is Geraldine Smith," she said. "We have a Young People's Union at three o'clock in the afternoon. Won't you please come?" Her dimples and the warmth of her invitation hit him like a blow in the gut. "Maybe you will talk to us too." The three girls fluttered back to their group.
He looked after them and felt something tickle under his chin. He scratched absent-mindedly; and then, in a flash, he knew the greasy black tie, his too small blue serge coat and baggy-knead trousers with the roller-coaster creases were ridiculous.
He plodded slowly toward home. Geraldine.
"Black" to Taffy had meant not only skin, but a whole lot of mouth and nose, hard-handed sinewy girls, with knaps or "fried hair." Geraldine was black, but without all that. And the pertness of her nose, the point of her chin and the dimples that dipped and disappeared tantalized him. He wondered that he had never thought how black skin made eyes sparkle and white teeth flash. Black girls he had known-resentful of being black, flaunting their color and crooked fried hair as insults-spindly thighs, hot and animally, under a stair, or while the gravel hurt under your knees and others watched the world come apart in the middle of your back.
He had never thought anybody could be beautiful and black.
Geraldine.
How the hell could he explain it? He couldn't say, "Now Geraldine is beautiful and like a dream in a dark closet without any gravel." He grunted to himself. This was a hot one. Here he was mooning along over some frail, and a black one at that. But Christ, he couldn't dig the picture of her smiling out of his innards. Something more than getting "hot" for a piece. Christ, how had the memory of Bessie pushed into it? Except maybe just like he gave something to Bessie because she tore the' guts out of him, he wanted to do something about the gnawing that Geraldine's memory had started in him.
He wanted her to want something from him. So he could take her hand, and it would not be terrifyingly hard and scratchy, but soft and timid. He would lead her gently so she did not have to be afraid. Then he would kiss her. Not seizing her, forcing her, making violence supply the passion he wouldn't wait to unfreeze inside. But waiting until she had become soft and willing.
And she would say-He struggled to form the word. He grinned sheepishly to himself. Yes, he really was thinking it. Just like any square. He wanted to hear her say she loved him. He looked around self-consciously as if someone could read his mind.
Geraldine.
He repeated the name over and over to feel the same thing tug inside and bounce him up; finally he decided what he had to do with the forty-eight dollars left from the burglary.
4
"What the hell is wrong with you, Taffy?"
Sam Spitalney, the boss, good-naturedly stopped his errand boy, who had been hustling about getting cold drinks for the girls with unaccustomed zeal. August was hot and humid. "I thought we were going to have to fire you, you were so damned lazy. But somebody certainly put a stick up your ass. What's wrong?"
"I need some money."
Sam Spitalney had a sudden inspiration. "Well, here's five bucks; and from now on, instead of twelve dollars a week, you're making fifteen."
Taffy grunted and reached for the bill.
Sam pulled it back, laughing. "Well, for Christ's sake! Don'tcha want it? Aren't you going to say thanks or be glad or something?"
"Yeah, sure I'm glad." Sam thought it was a poor imitation of a smile, but he gave up the money.
"Well, don't let it get too good to you, and you better keep humping." He watched Taffy go out the door, a little slower, almost sullenly. He shook his head.
"What a queer specimen. These colored boys-"
Taffy turned himself slowly about before the mirror in the first-floor hallway. He studied the result of four weeks' saving, and the end of his cash hoard, with a critical eye.
His hat was the pearliest of grays with the blackest of bands and the shiniest of bindings. His double-breasted suit of eye-widening blue had snared the sky in a herringbone pattern, His pinched shoulders swept out in generous padding, and his fingertips peeked out approvingly from his overlong sleeves. The material was as generous as it was blue, rolled full before and behind. He hitched the coat collar up around his neck and settled it across his shoulders. It was okay. He unbuttoned the coat.
Balloon-topped pants were buckled in pleats high up under his arms, giving him a feeling of solid security. The long ears of his yellow shirt hung softly almost to the pants' top. The shirt's gray pearl buttons glistened assertively, proclaiming they wanted no tie. He straddled wide wifh his legs and put his hands in his pockets, flexing his knees. The full trouser legs rippled. It was okay.
His narrow ox-blood shoes pinched his feet, and he stared down at them with puckered regret. But the square toes curled up and stared back at him, reflecting his outfit approvingly
"Taffy! What on earth!" His mother had halted halfway down the stairs, almost falling backward in surprise. She recovered slowly and said tentatively, "Taffy, where did you get those clothes?"
"I bought 'em." He tried not to snap. He didn't want to spoil this day, but wasn't it just like his mother to start some stuff. He faced her truculently, bracing himself with his hands at the small of his back, half-akimbo.
"Oh, Mother," said Elizabeth deprecatingly, as she also came downstairs, "I think he looks nice."
"Nice? Why I've never seen-such a thing!" His mother advanced on him purposefully.
Elizabeth laughed. "All the boys dress like that. It's a fad." She hurried down to catch up with her mother. "At least we ought to be glad Taffy's paying some attention to how he looks."
His mother crumpled the softly rolled lapel and rubbed it roughly together between her hands. "Well, at least it's good material."
Taffy pulled away to brush out the wrinkled lapel. "Let's hurry breakfast, Mother," said Elizabeth. "We'll be late for church."
Breakfast, the walk to church, and then he spun up to dizzy heights as he swung down the church center aisle to take his place beside his mother behind the Ladies' Aid Society. He knew he, now, was the center of all eyes. He pulled the yellow-and-red-bordered silk handkerchief a little more floppily out of his breast pocket. Too bad he couldn't wear his sky-piece in church. He admired it on his knee, stroking the deep nap.' He held it up to one side to inspect it, peeking over the brim up to the gallery.
He heaved a sigh of relief. Geraldine was there. She and her friends were looking down at him. He sought a pose of careless indifference.
His mother nudged him so that he almost dropped his hat. "Sit up!" she whispered. "Stop squirming."
He wondered what she sounded so sharp about.
The service seemed in a contest to outlast time, and while the talking, singing, and praying droned on, he daydreamed of how he would go up to Geraldine and tip his hat.
He would remind her of her invitation to him to join the Young People's group. And. she would tell him about it while they had a soda together in the candy store where he had seen them wash the taste of sermonizing out of their mouths with pepsi-cola and strawberry pop.
She would touch his arm and toss her hair, fanning her perfume tp him; and she would laugh and say, "Oh, I think you are so funny!"
Not bragging, but just talking, he would tell her of their home, of the room he had to himself, and of how crickets sawed at night behind the rustle of the leaves, and she would say, "It must be lovely," and look up at him.
And then he would tell about George Mettig and how he, Taffy, had told him off, and she would be frightened, saying, "Oh, you must be very brave!"
Maybe he would tell her about his gang, of the brutality of Ralph, and the cunning of Eggie, and the sharpness of Dude and the strength of Homer, and of how they did whatever he said. And she would say, "Oh, you must be careful."
And he would say, "Okay, if you give me a kiss."
And then she would hold up her face, her soft lips. He could feel her warmth close to him.
"Taffy! Your collection!" His mother's whisper was harsh. The usher was grinning broadly. He waited until Taffy, with great show, pulled out a dollar bill, popped it twice between his hands and spread it out on top of the plate.
He hunched to settle his jacket across his shoulders and tried to steal a peek up into the balcony.
"That wasn't necessary," hissed his mother.
Doxology!
He left his mother to the ladies to rush to the door of the church. Geraldine was already there, laughing with her two friends in the midst of the crowd of young people.
Jamming his hat on the back of his head, he affected a jaunty saunter, his eyes fixed on Geraldine who was staring at him with a wide-eyed unidentifiable look which might have been anything.
"Whatcha say theaah! -Zooty!"
Taffy stopped short. He looked about sharply to both sides to see where the broad mocking voice came from. The other boys and girls were tittering. Geraldine had disappeared behind a group.
"Man oh man! If you-all ain't the man what am!"
This time he saw who it was-a tall, light brown-skinned boy in huge black horn-rimmed glasses, who led them all now in open-mouthed laughter.
Taffy's fists had doubled and the sweat had sprung out on his face. He took a step toward the light boy. "What the hell's wrong with you, boy?" he muttered.
"Go on, punk," said Horn-rims, "you're not in Harlem now."
Taffy took a quick longer step close up in front of him. The boy's hand shot out, quickly and surprisingly. He pushed. Taffy's head snapped back and popped off his hat. Taffy staggered for an instant between violence and watching his hat roll across the floor. He started after it.
Someone kicked it.
"There's your hat, Zooty," someone else called.
He doubled around backwards trying to catch it while Geraldine, the boy and all the others doubled up laughing.
Then he stopped. His beautiful pearl gray hat rolled toward him and wobbled slowly still in unevenly narrowing circles.
"Whatcha say, Hot-shot!"
"Wing that ding, boy!"
"Man o' man!"
Tears blinded Taffy's eyes, and whirling about, he hurled himself with a curse at Horn-rims. The "splat" of his fist meeting flesh felt good. The eyeglasses went spinning. Taffy grappled with him, but slender Horn-rims had surprising hidden weight and thickness. He slung Taffy to one side. He landed against the wall with a thud that jarred out his breath.
Still cursing silently, he rushed him again, but this time Horn-rims struck out, and a solid blow between cheek and chest stopped Taffy in mid-air and dropped him flat on the seat of his pants.
"Paul! Paul! What's going on here? What're you doing, Paul?" cried the Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone, pushing through the circle of onlookers. He seized his son by the arm.
Paul twisted away from his father and said, "He got mad because somebody kicked his hat, and he started to fight."
Reverend Stone stared down at Taffy. Taffy could see Geraldine, half-hidden by the preacher's bulk, blinking down at him with gaping mouth.
The minister swooped on him and seized him by the arm. He yanked him to his feet. Taffy's arm hurt as if it were coming out by the roots.
"You little Harlem scum!" yelled the Reverend Stone. "Who are you anyway ? What do you mean coming in here picking on our children and starting a fight? What do you want?" And he shook him like a dust rag until Taffy's handkerchief spilled out, his coat became unbuttoned, his pants slid down and his shirt tail dangled.
Reverend Stone stopped shaking to take another look.
"Hello, now," he said. "Aren't you Mrs. Johnson's boy?" His attitude became stiffly pompous and he let go Taffy's arm. "Well, now, I was never so surprised in my life. I was never so surprised."
Taffy's mother burst into the scene, her brown face ashen, looking angry and horrified.
"He was fighting my son," explained the Reverend Stone belligerently, and added abruptly, "Awfully sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Awfully sorry."
When Martha spoke, her thin lips hardly moved. Her drawn face was wooden in its lack of expression. She stared sightlessly out over his head. "Go home, Taffy," she said in a strained voice. "Go home." She crossed her arms before her as though her stomach hurt, and the veins corded in her neck.
She shook her head slowly.
He picked up his trampled handkerchief and foot-marked hat and left.
He heard someone say, "Isn't it a shame. Such a wonderful mother and such a terrible boy." Mrs. Stone was standing beside his mother, patting her shoulder.
He walked down the church steps and would gladly have walked to his grave. He turned up Stuyvesant Aveeue. The beetle-browed three-story brownstone and graystone homes shrank back from him up on their meager little lawns or flag-stoned areaways. The sun beat down mercilessly. His beautiful clothes hung limply, heavily weighting him down. His hat was dirty and crumpled out of shape. He stopped in front of a basement window to try to arrange himself, and struggled to hold back the tears. At the subway, he took the "A" train to Harlem.
A puffing fat boy dropped down on the seat beside him.
Taffy recognized him as one of those at the church. He felt his anger rekindling.
"Well, what do you want?" he snarled.
The fat boy shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing." He was silent a moment. "I just don't think you got treated fairly. That's all. That Paul Stone thinks he's too smart anyway."
"He didn't have to kick my hat," Taffy mumbled, returning to staring out the subway window at the swift flying post-ribbed darkness.
Bill Mcintosh rode silently beside Taffy. He also asked himself what he wanted, and had no new answer other than that in some way he wanted to stand on the side of "justice and truth." For it hadn't been right, and he wanted in some way to make it
Bill Mcintosh knew what it was to be on the outside. He was short and rotund. The girls didn't like to dance with him. His fatness kept him from being a good athlete. Besides, he was afraid of physical violence. His awkward timidity made him the butt of all practical jokes. And his mother chided him because Paul Stone and Geraldine always took the lead while he tagged behind.
He peeked surreptitiously at Taffy and marveled at his outward cold indifference. The sullen blue-clad figure seemed so remote that even if Geraldine Smith herself had come and begged his pardon, he looked as if he would have told her to go to hell. Bill felt nervous using profanity, even to himself.
They got off the subway at 125th Street and walked over to the middle of the 133rd Street block between Lenox and Fifth Avenues. He had been to Harlem before, with his mother or friends; but now, alone with Taffy, its teeming stoops and crowded noisy streets, the dirt, the screaming children all jammed together made it seem very different. He shivered in revulsion.
Two girls strolled toward him and Taffy. They nudged each other and giggled. Their breasts thrust abruptly upward. Thin waists were strained tightly small to give a swelling billow to their round hips, which switched and rolled in unison with their eyes. Their olive skins glowed.
Something jerked Bill's eyes unwillingly away, and he felt a strange, a horribly strange, swelling within him. And into the torment of his conflict their perfume poured, sweet and awful and heart-choking, and not like his mother. It stopped his breath and made him feel the perspiration which had popped out on his skin.
"Hello--? " The girl who spoke spoke very low, almost in a singing tone that asked a million questions.
A whippoorwill whistle, sharp and commanding, slit through Bill's open-mouthed unformed hopes. Taffy was whistling at some upper story in the building. The girls shrugged and were gone.
Taffy whistled again.
A shiny shaven head was poked out of one of the upper windows. "What the hell you whistling out there for? Come on up!" Then the one in the window whistled, long and loud. "Jesus Christ! Look who's trying to out-dude Dude."
Bill followed through the dark hallway, where the damp had caked dirt and mustiness together, to enter a drab rugless apartment.
"Aunt ain't home," said the shaven-headed one. Bill watched a look of twisted amusement unscrew itself as he whistled again. "Boy-You really got something there. If that ain't the god-damndest blue zoot that ever draped a frame."
A flashily dressed black boy also conceded admiration. He took Taffy's hat, rubbed at the dirt smudges and began carefully blocking it.
"What the hell happened to you?" asked the first one. Taffy told about the church.
"Ya wanme to git 'im for ya, Taffy?" A stoop-shouldered brutish-looking black man breathed heavily with his question. "Ya wanme to git 'em for ya? Ya wanme to?"
"Who's this jerk?" asked the slick black youth, pointing a thumb at Bill.
A chilling thought struck Bill sick in his stomach. What if they took it out on him?
Their faces looked more vicious, the apartment more horribly sordid; and what did he really know about Taffy ? A quiver went racing up his spine, and he was suddenly convulsed with the pain of his bladder wanting to empty itself and with the pressure of his stomach trying to relieve itself of the fear that had clotted within it. Then the horror of messing in his pants blanked out fear of violence with the fear of shame. He didn't dare move or speak, because at the first break, he knew he would be undone.
Taffy shrugged his shoulders. "He's all right. He's the only bastard wasn't ready to cut my throat. He's all right."
Introductions were made, but Bill was holding himself so tightly he dared only to nod slightly at each one. He barely breathed. His belly, buttocks, and legs ached with the clutch of the battle with his innards.
"Take the weight off your feet and make yourself to home, kid," Eggie rasped.
Dude patted him on the shoulder. "Sure, kid. Relax. Relax. You're among friends."
Homer echoed, "Sure boy, this's home."
Bill sat gingerly on the couch, and sitting eased the pressure of his agony somewhat. Eggie had two "fifths" of wine and Dude brought his guitar from across the hall. After they filled his glass the third time, he joined the singing, uneasily at first, but when no one seemed to care if he sang or not, he sang louder. He had forgotten the urgency of his own need.
For he knew now that all his life he had been restless and unhappy trying to live up to the length of his mother's shadow. Here was something different, a something simple tied together with the singing strings of the twanging guitar. He didn't have to do anything, and nobody was trying to beat him doing it. Here was a way to enjoy the now, a now that found relief in the pit of one's own stomach. He glowed warmly.
And it was good. He got up his courage to ask, "Where's the can?"
When the wine was gone, Taffy said, "Let's go to the movies."
"You guys go on," Dude said. "I got something to take care of." And a knowing wink passed around the circle.
"Has she got a friend?" asked Eggie. But he got up to go with the others to the movies.
"Ain' you goin' to the movies with us?" Homer asked Bill. In genial friendliness he added, "You a fat boy, ain't ya?"
Bill had seen the picture before when it had played at the Paramount on Broadway; but now, wedged between Homer and Eggie, fighting against winey drowsiness and trying to smoke a cigarette, he enjoyed it more.
Taffy was silent as they returned to Brooklyn, but Bill, tasting his new friendship, was so grateful he would have kissed Taffy if he had dared. Instead he waved his hand as he left him at the yard gate and said, "I'll be seein' ya," trying to rasp like Eggie. There was no moon and the street light glared down brightly.
The afternoon sun laid a long finger across the one-story graying wooden buildings on the other side of Fulton Street to gild the grass and sidewalk around the bench on which Taffy sat in Stuyvesant Park across the street. The beginning of September was still scorching.
He slumped down on the bench and pushed back with his head, propping his chin against his chest. He chewed diffidently on the side of his thumb. So this was Brooklyn, and it was supposed to be such a helluva lot better than 133rd Street. It was, if feeling your ears busting with straining to hear nothing at all was better. And there was grass. A sneer curled his lip as he watched, on a bench by the public ladies' toilet, four men urge wine on a blowsy fat woman. They were patting her thighs and wobbling amiable faces at her. Each crowding the other. She drank, making a crude attempt at being coy. Her unbrassiered brown breasts flopped about under her loose housedress.
"Hot damn!" shouted one of the men. He thrust his hand through her dress top.
She twisted away and slapped at his hand. They all laughed and she drank some more wine.
Taffy spit, and he jammed his hands in his pockets and rubbed himself absent-mindedly. He watched the people disgorge from the subway, a solid stream that fanned out into more and more black folk, brown folk, yellow folk, and fewer and fewer white folk.
For Bedford-Stuyvesant was growing. Previously all-white, a few Negroes had slipped in, here and there. They had been staid civil service workers, professionals, Wall Street runners, white collar workers, retired domestics and postal employees. But now it was as if the dam had burst. Bedford-Stuyvesant was stricken with population giganticism.
The Harlem overflow, like a street cleaner's-Sprinkler flooding a gutter, was sweeping into block after block. Ten years before one could count the number of Negro families who lived near Stuyvesant Avenue, on this side of Fulton Street. Now, the set-eyed, brown-faced people told of the change from upper middle class decorum to the hard scramble of the five families who lived in the converted home which had once been just enough for one leisurely living group.
The sun disappeared behind the gray buildings, but the top floor of the houses on Chauncey were golden, the park still bright with reflected light. Taffy bumped his head on the back of the bench. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled, "there's sure going to be hell to pay." He shifted about again, unwilling to go home to face the tongue-lashing he knew his mother was storing up for him about the fracas in the church. Christ, if she'd just give him a chance to explain. But he knew too well the thin-lipped venom that whipped him with words to remind him of how he had been whipped as a child. "You think you're a man now," she had panted, crying more than he was.
But how the hell could he explain it anyway ?
Across his vacant vision, he saw a girl dart into a dark doorway. Five boys blocked her in, crowding close. She tried to slip out one side, but one of the boys pushed her back.
Taffy grinned. Yeh, Brooklyn was different. Out here they didn't even wait for the sun to go down. The grin twisted into a sneer. So out here they had "Proud Pearls" too. Let her be proud, because if she didn't give- Well, if everything else about Brooklyn stacked up as he had seen it, some dark night, when they all got through with her, she'd wish she had. He wondered what there was about a girl who'd know the gang was going to jump her but still took a chance on trying to hold out. Wouldn't it be better just to have one fellow? Then, if something happened, at least she'd know the father. This way-
Halfway through a shrug he leaped up.
That was Geraldine.
He shot across the street. Half hitting, half throwing, he slung the middle boy to one side. He had a glimpse of Geraldine, tears streaming down, hair across her face. Ey.es and mouth fixed in terror. And books. He whirled about to face the gang. He felt tight as a coiled spring. No fear, no thought, just waiting. His voice was small, like Ralph telling a storekeeper he shouldn't mind if the boys took a few apples. He said, "Cut it out." N The gang stood still. Six of them. Mostly bigger. That one he pushed, the leader. The knife in the leader's hand gleamed with the steadiness with which he held it. Every face was set, twisted, waiting. The boy with the knife pulled it back slowly toward himself. He turned the blade slightly and the light went from its edge.
Taffy's half-curled hands were limply poised at his belly. He let one arm slide slowly down so that he could feel the outline of his own knife, in his pocket. Christ, why hadn't he thought to get it out first! He let his shoulders slump a little more, to get a little more loose and ready to move quickly.
"And I tole her, I did, I said, 'If'n you-all want windows washed-' " Then, they were gone, the fat lady and her skinny friend, caught in a split second's wavering from the viciously frozen eyes of the boy with the knife. The shadow of several cars passed. A trolley clanged noisily by. No other noises, except crickets. Goddamn crickets! Crickets-chirping little sonsof-bitches!-and he was about to get his guts spilt out. Just crickets trying to beat the cotton curtain of silence, and of nobody. This was Brooklyn. Different.
He felt a faint smile, and saw the boy's eyes narrow, the meanness become purposeful. He heard Geraldine catch her breath in a stifled sob behind him. ' -
He tried to speak slower, lower. "I said, cut it out!"
It was as though the boy had stopped to digest that in the midst of an act. The boy straightened up a little and twisted himself slightly to one side. "What the fug you think you doin', boy?"
Taffy waited a moment until he saw the eyes narrow again. He jerked his head backward, slightly. "Tha's my girl," he said slowly, letting his voice come up.
"Who're you!" spat out one of the others.
He didn't answer, but kept his eyes on the boy with the knife. His shoulders hurt with waiting and an ache was beginning to gnaw in his stomach.
The boy took a step forward.
Taffy's hand leaped, only an inch toward his pocket. It stopped. The boy stopped. Taffy spoke. "I ain't lookin' for trouble, boy-" The boy's face thickened and puckered. Taffy knew he understood also that, still, trouble was to be had. And then something clicked, and Taffy almost grinned again. Jesus, he was getting stupid!
"Wha's funny, boy," growled the boy.
"I know you," said Taffy.
The boy's eyes almost disappeared in the scowl, but he straightened up slowly, questioningly.
"And you know me." Taffy waited while the boys in the circle looked at each other for the first time. They edged a little closer.
He knew they recognized him, and now he let the grin spread unafraid. "And I reckon you know Eggie, and Ralph, and Homer, and, well-" He let their uneasiness have time to make them restless. "Or maybe you-all'd like a formal introduction."
"You're a Panther-" One of the boys asked and told it as one.
"Well, I'll be goddamned!" said the boy with the knife as he let it slip to his side. "What you doin' out here in Brooklyn?"
"Shit!" said Taffy. "I ought to ask you how they let you out of 144th Street. This here is my home. I live out here."
"And man, you sure got fixed up fast! That's all right what you got over there." He waved a hand at Geraldine and broke into a loud guffaw. The laugh tore through them until they were bending double and jumping up and down. Taffy laughed too, but kept his eyes on the knife.
The boy saw his careful eyes and shrugged his shoulder and stuck out his tongue. "Ain't no harm in tryin'. I'm new out here too." He grinned. "I ain't learned to operate like you." He closed the knife and stuck it in his pocket.
"Boy, how'd you make time with that snooty soot-pot?" asked one of the small ones.
Taffy exploded a backhand slap smack across his face. It felt greasy, wet and soft.
The group snapped alert again.
"I said, cut it out!" snarled Taffy. "Tha's my girl!"
There was an unorganized, deathly silence. The boy spoke again, polite, very polite, but careful. "Take it easy, boy. Take it easy. Ain't nobody put no hand on you."
"Okay, okay." Taffy waved deprecatingly. "But just cut it out." He twisted about and jerked his head at Geraldine. "Come on. Le's go."
He waited, and she still hesitated, staring fearfully at the ring of boys about her. She was clutching books to her chest. Taffy jerked a hand at her and waved roughly. "I said, come on!"
She took a fearful step toward the ring of boys, and stopped. Taffy turned his eyes from her to them. They stepped to one side.
He winked as she stepped through.
"Hot damn!" shouted one of the boys, and they all fell out again in laughter.
Taffy swaggered away without turning or looking back. He waved his hand out to one side in a gesture of farewell, acknowledgment, and of fellowship. It told them that he was hipped, and the attempted hype was forgotten.
Geraldine waited at the curb for him to cross the street with her. He stepped off and had taken two or three steps before she ran to catch up with him. They walked through the park, and she trailed a half-step behind him. People stared at them.
"You want to fix up?. " he asked, and he looked over his shoulder. Something tugged inside him at the bewildered way in which her eyes filled with tears as she bobbed her head. She looked questioningly at him.
"Well?" He felt both impatient and something else, as if the best bottle of brandy in the world had exploded in his belly. She didn't look so pretty with her face streaked and her hair all mussed, but it tore him up anyway.
She lifted her books slightly toward him, and then took them back as if she realized what an imposition that would be.
"Okay," he said. "Give 'em here."
He watched while she combed out her hair. Something grew so big in him that it made him draw a deeper breath. And when she held her head to one side and combed and shook and stroked until her hair was glistening again, he suddenly wished he had fought, and that there had been a knife, and he felt the power with which he drove it into the hulk-of them. She wet her handkerchief in the drinking fountain and daintily dabbed at her face. She put on new lipstick, gave her bangs an extra little pat before her compact mirror, a touch of powder, and then she smiled at him.
He handed her the books and jerked his head toward Stuyvesant. "Come on," he said, but the hardness was gone and the words almost dissolved of softness in his throat.
They walked slowly along beneath the dark cool canopy of the low-hung branches of the maples lining both sides of the street. As they waited for a car to pass at Bainbridge, he felt the tingling warmth of her bare arm against his. They stepped off the curve and she bumped into him, unbelievably soft, deep soft with substance and spring. She smiled at him and walked a little closer.
Taffy had nothing with which to phrase what he felt. It was just that he felt tall and broad-shouldered. And yet gentle and quiet. Someone called to Geraldine from across the street. She wiggled her fingers at them. He nodded gravely. They were passing the Rock of Ages Baptist Church.
"Taffy--? " She sounded small and afraid.
He turned and looked straight at her, and found himself seeing the largeness of her black eyes and how they were rimmed with heavy thick lashes. He surrendered and let loose the grin of release. "Yeh?"
"I didn't think they treated you fairly Sunday."
He shrugged. It should have hurt to bring that back. Instead there was inwardly a leap of joyful surprise. She was concerned, hurt, that something unpleasant had happened to him. She cared.
"But I'm sorry."
"Forget it."
They walked in silence until they stood before her gate. She went inside and closed the gate behind her; but she turned to lean on the post. Someone passed, and they waited until they were alone again. She was looking a question at him. Jesus, he wished he knew how to understand what she meant behind the half-smile and twisted head! Well, one way was to ask. He tried twice before he could force it out.
"Can I come to see you-sometime?"
Her hand shot out and touched his hand for just an instant. "Oh! I want you to-"
But before he could move, her hand was gone and she had twirled away. She stopped halfway to the ground-floor door and turned again. "And thank you, Taffy. Thank you ever so much."
She was gone.
He turned toward home, feeling still the quick warm touch of her hand on his.
At home, he slipped into the house and eased the door shut. He heard the deep-throated laughter of Mrs. Winston-Hoyte and the unfamiliar voices of others in the living room, from which yellow light glanced along the well-waxed hallway. The gleaming woodwork answered its challenge. He darted past the doorway to creep upstairs. In his room, he hurried to bed before darkness; and in the midst of a wonderful peace, he lay and watched the daylight gray out, then mottle into the shadows from the street light on Decatur. No need to dream, no need to remember. Just be Geraldine!
Taffy started to get up from the dinner table. "Sit back down, Taffy." His mother's voice was mechanical, hard.
He let himself drop back in his seat without pulling the chair straight to the table, slumping down, twisting sideways with folded arms. "Jesus Christ," he grumbled distastefully to himself, "here it comes." He had known it would be tonight when she had said he should come straight home from work. During the meal he had tried to force down food, but the look on his mother's face made him know that in some way she had decided what she was going to do about Sunday, that his one day's grace had only given her time to think. And Elizabeth's worried look told him it was going to be a surprise. His father's face told him nothing. At least he didn't have to worry about his old man beating him like Dude had to worry. Christ, he wished sometime he'd just get a good beating and then have it ended. Not like this, waiting, and then the lash of words capped by some humiliation or deprivation. Better to be beat. But not with screaming tears and agony, but like Frazzles' Ma beat her brood, cursing and laughing, even if she had to be drunk like that.
She wasn't looking at him, but at something set up in the air above his father's head. "I've made a decision," she said.
His father carefully sopped up some gravy with his bread and put it in his mouth. "Tom!" she snapped.
"Why-yes, Martha?" His eyes moved about uncertainly as if j to try to catch what he had missed. "Are you listening?"
He sat back in his chair and the tired look came. "I'm listening."
She turned from him and faced Taffy.
He felt pimples of anger and something else start up all over his body.
"And I want you to listen too, young man. For once, just for once, your nasty little filthiness has not ruined us."
He blinked. He knew the long approach meant something, and the double meaning left him on edge, on guard.
"Sit up!" she snapped. "Turn around to the table. Pull up your chair."
He obeyed sullenly, and she waited until the chair was up and he was facing straight across the table, but still slumped.
"Taffy--? " He sensed the rising storm behind the slight quaver in her voice.
He sat up a little straighter.
She seemed to take a deep breath. "I am taking a position as executive secretary of the Bedford-Stuyvesant Intercultural Committee."
Her husband's head snapped up, a look of confusion dropping his mouth open.
"You're what?" asked Elizabeth.
And suddenly the hardness vanished, her head came up higher, her back very straight. A smile of serenity smoothed away the lines in her upper lip, about her mouth and eyes. "The executive secretary of the Bedford-Stuyvesant Intercultural Committee," she repeated.
"But what has that to do with Taffy?" Elizabeth asked.
Taffy watched the lines and tightness come back in his mother's face as she turned narrowing eyes upon him.
"After your disgraceful performance Sunday, Mrs. Stone came to express her regrets." Her voice had taken on a strange inflection, something like a principal speaking at assembly, the words seeming unfamiliar in her mouth. "And as we talked, she told me about Dr. Warden and the committee. And I think-" She paused, and Taffy wondered what she was waiting for and why she was twisting her head about so airily. "-I think I shall accept the position."
"You say you're going to be the secretary?" asked Tom. He leaned forward, craning his neck and squinting open-mouthedly at her as if he were nearsighted and staring at a sign.
"I said executive secretary." Martha's head snapped toward him and the artificial inflection had vanished.
"But, Martha-" His head tilted to one side. "You don't know how to type."
"I'm not going to be a typist! I'm going to be the executive secretary. I shall have a secretary to do typing."
"You going to be a secretary's assistant?" He sounded almost hopeful.
"Tom! For God's sake! Don't be any more stupid than you were born." She glared at him, and then her brown face went darker in a flush. "Or maybe you just don't want to understand."
He shrugged. "I just didn't know. I was only interested to know about it." He stopped staring at her and dropped his eyes to his plate.
"No!" she shot back at him. "I know why you don't know. You just think that there isn't anything in the world to do but to run and fetch for white folks, being a flunky or a servant or" -she sneered as she spat out the words-"a pullman porter."
"There's nothing wrong with being a pullman porter."
Taffy's eyes popped because his father's head had come up and he was looking straight at his wife, with the look a small boy had when they hyped his money, but he wouldn't cringe. Elizabeth was staring also, her eyes busy flitting to and fro between them. Martha lowered her eyes and folded her hands before her. It was as if the silence was impatient with waiting; but there was nothing, not like in Harlem where voices or cars or taxi horns or radios could fill and keep the gaping hole from being.
Without losing the placidness which had come over her at Tom's question, her eyes flicked up and stared straight into his.
"You seem to forget I went to college." Taffy could feel in himself the withering contempt, for all the quietness of the voice. "I'm a college woman, even if you've forgotten you're a college man. I shall direct and organize a program in our community to further better relations among all members of our community. Through cultural understanding, we shall achieve the end product of American democracy. Not the melting pot, but the symphony in which each part holds its distinctiveness. Through understanding, that which is separate shall be whole."
She glared triumphantly at him; and Taffy hoped that he had been forgotten. He relaxed a bit and wondered who she was quoting, sounding like a teacher reciting.
How did it go? "Four score and seven years ago--? " Or was it seventy years? He could still hear the teach'. That was a teach' too. A hard, square-jawed man. Taffy saw him again walking across the schoolyard while the gang waited with clubs and bottles. He had stopped and grinned sardonically at Eggie, saying, "Howya, boy?" And then he had brushed on by, they watching Eggie-and no one made a move until he was around the corner. Somebody had laughed and they had all agreed that he was a "man" all right.
Yes, that was the same thing in his mother. Something about her, cops, and most white folks. When they got "that way" it was just something you couldn't break through. like being in a nightmare that wouldn't give. Half knowing you're dreaming; but the terror is still there. You can't stop it or tear it until suddenly you strike or cry out and then it's the middle of the night and you're wet with sweat and shaking and glad it isn't so. Except that with this it wouldn't ever-
"-allowance of five dollars a week so he can quit work."
He realized something had been said about him, as his mother was looking fixedly at him. Elizabeth and his father too.
"Why I got to quit work?"
"You can't work and go to school at the same time," his mother said coldly.
"School!" He was suddenly sharp, conscious that his mother had planned a punishment for him. But school I That was one!
"I have already spoken to Dr. Warden and he has promised to help get you into Peter Stuyvesant."
"But, Ma-"
"That is the same school that Mrs. Stone's boy goes to, and Bill Mcintosh and several of the children."
"But I been out of school for a long time."
"It's only about half a year."
"But that's a tough school."
"It's the best."
"Yeh, but I."
"Taffy--. "
"Aw, Ma."
"Taffy!"
He opened his mouth to say something, and then he was looking into Geraldine Smith's eyes, and he felt her fingers touch him. Maybe she went there? And twisted figures crowded in so that he had nothing more to say.
"So," his mother said, "after this week, you start."
Taffy gritted his teeth and steeled his muscles, but the nervous tremor shook the peas from his fork. He stared at them bitterly, and put his fork down. He forced himself to follow Mrs. Max Smith's words. Geraldine smiled at him across the table. He wished he could wipe at the sweat and grease he could feel on his face. His blue suit, which his mother had taken to a corner tailor, "to make fit," locked in his body heat. A humid gust rose when he lowered his hands into his lap. He sniffed cautiously. At least he didn't stink.
"-it is wonderful that Brooklyn can have such an effect. You say you been out of school for over six months?" Mrs. Smith, " Geraldine's mother, kept tirelessly at her questions and he sensed again the malicious curiosity which he had balked with monosyllabic answers.
"I was going anyway," he said.
"But what I can't understand is how you got into that school with your background and-" She stopped abruptly and shook herself. She picked up the dish of peas and pushed them at him. "Have some more peas?"
"No'm. I mean, no thank you."
Tall, thin, sad-looking Max Smith spoke-querulously. It was again as if he were interrupting. "But I still don't understand exactly what happened. You say that boy had a knife. What in the world did he want from Geraldine?"
Before Taffy could think of how to evade the question, Mrs. Smith asked, "And how were you able to--? Well, I can't tell exactly from Geraldine what did happen." She stopped accusingly, and added, "What did happen?"
"Well, I seen-I mean, saw them pushing Geraldine. When I rushed over he had a knife; and I knew what it was-" He stalled and cursed under his breath. He hadn't meant to say he knew. All evening long they had fenced around this thing. Hell, didn't they have eyes to see that Geraldine had breasts that seemed bursting to ease themselves, that she had a body ?
"Well," said Mrs. Smith snappishly, "what was it?"
He made a vague motion with his hands. "Well, he had a knife; and I didn't think that looked right"
"But what was it?" She was abrupt.
"I don't know."
"But you just said you did."
"Did I? Well, I don't know." Christ Almighty, what was that fat old bitch giving him the business for. He'd risked getting his belly laid open and now she was acting like he'd done some kind of crime.
"And if we must talk about it," Mrs. Smith pressed on, Even if that boy was threatening Geraldine, I still don't understand what you did to make him stop. Geraldine said he was quite large." She turned severe eyes at Geraldine as though to challenge her truthfulness.
Geraldine spoke up. "Taffy said I was his girl."
"He said what?"
"He said I was his girl."
Mrs. Smith threw up her hands. "Of all the impossible riddles." She stopped suddenly and looked "sharply at Taffy. "Did you know those boys?"
Even before he could glance at Geraldine he saw her shake her head singly, "No." Her help was like a wall crashing down on the pressure Mrs. Smith had been building around him throughout the meal, a small part payment on the great anticipation which had welled up when she had told him her parents wanted him to come to dinner. That made it all right, and he was again himself, craftily and even jauntily so.
"I told you I just seen 'em across the street," he countered, and he glared back at her belligerently.
Mr. Smith broke in placatingly, "Now, sonny, don't misunderstand. But if you know those boys, we should go to the police."
"Max!" She almost yelled. "I told you to let me handle this."
"But this boy only-" The telephone rang.
Mrs. Smith jumped up, snorted and glared at her husband, and disappeared toward the kitchen. Mr. Smith went back to eating, hovering over his plate. like a bald-headed vulture, Taffy thought, except that he had no sharpness to his beak or claws. Geraldine smiled at him, wrinkling her nose.
Mrs. Smith appeared in the doorway. "Max?" Her voice was already impatient with exasperation. Her eyes were snapping, and she waited until he slowly raised his head and looked around as if he didn't know exactly where she was standing. "Do you really have to go to the store tonight?"
"Well, I got that set in to show it to Mr. Kromer. He's coming in."
"Couldn't you call him and tell him you couldn't come."
"But why not?"
"Mrs. Mcintosh just 'phoned. They are planning the committees for the Y.W.C.A. spring drive. It seems some people just happened to get together. I really ought to be there."
"That's an awfully expensive set, a radio, recorder and record player. You know I didn't want to risk it, and if Mr. Kromer don't take it, I don't know who I could sell it to."
She made an impatient gesture. And suddenly Taffy realized they were talking about him being in the house alone with Geraldine and them both being out. He looked at Geraldine.
She said, "Don't be silly, Mother. Taffy doesn't mind if you have to run out. Go ahead to your meeting."
"Well, I won't be very long," she said abruptly, and disappeared. There was an awkward silence in which Mr. Smith's fork on his plate clanked loudly. Taffy heard the front door close. Mr. Smith put down his fork and cleared his throat.
"I guess I better go too," he mumbled, not looking at either of them. "Geraldine, you fix the boy some dessert?" He wiped his mouth and stood up. "I'm glad to meet you, sonny. You must come again some day." He also disappeared, and after the sound of the front door closing, there was a moment of silence.
Geraldine giggled. "Aren't they cute? I really think they don't know what those boys-"She tossed her hair about and looked at him coyly. She leaned impulsively toward him, across the table. "Don't pay it any mind. Come on, I'll fix the pie and we'll eat it in the living room."
He settled down on the sofa and stretched his legs before him, letting the mohair tickle the tips of his fingers. A radiator whispered softly and the room was warm, and for the first time the diaphanous" empty silence of Brooklyn rooms seemed peaceful and not like fighting falling in a dream. The red glow within the artificial fireplace turned slowly up through the clean white birch logs. As he relaxed, one of his feet bumped the coffee table in front of him, and he started at the slight noise and
Geraldine came from the kitchen. He thought she almost danced. After handing him a piece of pie with a slab of cheese on top, she turned on a soft light in the front corner. Then she turned out the lights of the bright chandelier. The revolving red of the fireplace moved slowly across the darkened ceiling, and its brighter glow silhouetted the logs.
Close to him, she sank down on the sofa, tucking one foot up under her so that half of one thigh was exposed. The light gleamed satin-like along its length. She let a hand brush across her forehead and through her hair and down her neck and between her breasts, pressing them out into obstreperous relief. She arched her neck and back until he could see or think of nothing but the twin peaks of her bosom thrusting out at him. She relaxed against the back of the sofa and smiled.
"You owe yourself the best!" he suddenly heard the big blonde of Kelly's Innerspring Mattress say, and he knew he had wanted Geraldine long before, in 133rd Street, and in the middle of the night before he had ever had a girl.
The low light high-keyed her features into contrasting shine and shade. He felt as destroyed as if a fist had crushed him. He could only dumbly bob his head when she asked softly, "Isn't this more comfortable?"
He cut into his pie viciously. The panic, the fumblingness, the thickness. Jesus, he hadn't been like this since the first time with that girl in the dark under the stairs, when suddenly everything slipped and she had laughed at him and run out and all the gang had teased him. The fork cracked against the plate so sharply he almost flinched.
"How do you like school?" Geraldine asked, holding her head on one side, and he wondered if she knew the confusion piling up inside, stuffing him.
"I don't like it," he managed to mumble. Then, so as not to appear as thick-tongued as he felt, he said, "I don't know how I'm going to make out. I ain't been in school in a long time."
"Oh, it's nothing. You just need a system."
"Do you go to Stuyvesant?"
"Oh no. I go to Fieldston." The disappointment thudded hard within him. And he had let himself be sucked into going to school just because he thought she would be there.
"I don't think I'm going to make it," he repeated, shaking his head.
"I can tell you how."
A brighter hope sprang alive. "You mean you'll help me."
"Sure. School is just being able to pass a test. Most people don't do well because they try to learn too much. I only try to learn seventy per cent. That's passing; then I can usually pick up ten per cent more on what I know that I didn't study. And anybody can guess five per cent. So there you are! That's eighty-five per cent, and take or give a little you'll always get at least B and usually A. Of course, you have to figure out pretty close what the teacher is going to ask on the-"
He lost the sense in watching her lips round out the words. He wondered what could be so damned hot about school to make her laugh like that with head thrown back and eyes closed, like she was inviting him, moving her body so that when she tugged at her skirt the next twist slipped it up even higher. He found himself gripping his hands to keep from throwing himself upon her to seize her hips and clutch them still, close to himself.
Suddenly she leaned so near to him he could smell her breath and hair and perfume. "Taffy, tell me something about yourself. You're such a strange boy."
Ralph, Eggie, Homer, Mamie, Pop Johnson, a dark closet and waiting breathlessly for disaster, Bessie and a pool hall, robbing plumbing out of vacant apartments, rolling drunks, fighting, Sam Spitalney, a spindly-shanked girl and hard gravel under the knees or shame under a stair. "There ain't nothing much," he said abruptly, and wondered if those things were as distant as they felt at that moment.
"Please, Taffy," she said. "I want to know." Her face was nearer, her eyes half closed, her mouth puckered.
"You going to help me in school?" God, the blood was pounding in his head like a subway train with a flat wheel.
"Maybe I will." She wet her lips with the pink tip of her tongue and tilted her head so that her face was turned up to him. Her fingers touched his arm. Her eyes closed.
She said, "Please?"
The shock of the softness of her in his hands startled his eyes open. "Taffy!"
The memory of his mother's voice cracked in his mind. Something stern, blazing and horrified. And while one part held her, with the other part he remembered a frightened timid offering of books, and something more than the demanding of his surging flesh that knew the things screaming at him and didn't want to smear Geraldine with them.
He decided.
He could, but he wouldn't. He knew she wanted it; or. maybe she didn't even know what she wanted. But he knew; and because she was this way, he wouldn't smash it, filthy it up. He made his hands tender, not demanding, pushing. And in a time she seemed to let go, and sighing, slipped down to rest her head against his chest. They sat so for a while, and he kissed her hair. The red glow still revolved on the ceiling. A car swished by in the street. The steam radiator whispered softly.
Looking up at him, she smiled, a wistful smile of wonder and dreaminess and maybe some pain. Then she burrowed her face into his chest. He put his arms about her and relaxed.
God--! Great God, it was wonderful.
"You gotta love JEEEE-zus 'Cause-Jeeeeee-zus satisFIES!"
The gospel quartet shrieked, their mouths and eyes stretched wide. They held themselves rigid. The "conked"-haired leader stepped forward. His lean olive face shown. His eyes were closed. "We sing just for Jesus' sake. He's so sweet. Things of this world don't mean nothing. As long as we got Jesus." The others hummed loudly behind him. They rocked rhythmically in unison, shaking their heads and leaning closer together. The big woman clasped her hands across her middle and jiggled her fat breasts up and down to their rhythm. The stocky black man put an arm around the willowy girl with the sharply pointed breasts. She squinted one eye open and edged away.
"Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!" the big woman moaned out loud.
"I loves to hear His name," ecstatically whispered the leader. He leaped back to join the quartet.
"OhI want Him so much!" they all cried together.
"For JEEEE-zus!
MY Jee-zus Jeeeeee-zus satisFIES!"
Taffy shivered, partly because of the driving intensity of the singers, and partly at remembering what came next. Behind the quartet he could see Paul Stone, Chairman of the Baptist Young People's Union of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, whispering with Geraldine, the B.Y.P.U. secretary. Paul was lolling in his chair, his legs straight out before him. He made a face and shook his head from side to side. He dropped his hand casually on Geraldine's thigh. She laughed silently. The treasurer, a moonfaced fat girl, blinked at them. She shared their table.
The quartet bowed themselves out.
Mrs. Max Smith, advisor to the B.Y.P.U., stood up. "I am sure you have enjoyed hearing the Heavenly Stars Gospel Quartet." She waited for a spattering of applause. "After the meeting I hope you will all buy a ticket for their concert next month at the First Institutional A.M.E. Zion." She beamed at the head-nodding. "And now we will hear a word from Mr. Thomas Johnson, Jr., who recently left Harlem to join our community. We know how happy he is to be with us. You may speak now, Taffy. Speak up."
Taffy rose to his feet. He blinked because Paul Stone also got up at the same time. Taffy watched him start toward a window.
"Speak up, Taffy," Mrs. Smith said briskly.
He snapped back to look down into the multi-shades of brown and black faces turned toward him, all seemingly wearing identical expressions of boredom and indifference. He looked anxiously toward Geraldine for inspiration. She was scribbling with intense preoccupation at her table. The blank-faced girl's mouth was open.
"I'm afraid our speaker's lost his speaker," Mrs. Smith said brightly.
He blurted out, "Ladies and gent'm'n of the B.Y.P.U." He swallowed, startled at the sound of his own voice.
Paul Stone was struggling to open the window. He humped his back, bent his knees and made grotesque faces.
Taffy tried to force himself to remember what he had been saying to himself all through the meeting. "It ain't-isn't-Nobody ought to have a right to tell you after you bought a house you don't have any right to live in it no matter where the house-"
Paul Stone made an empty gesture with his hands, grinned sheepishly and pointed silently at the lock of the window.
"-is. We should live where we want to and people could if we would just go and do it. And when they come and try to start some stuff about-" The words of the speech had slipped away. He was fighting to hold their content. "Well, like they told us we had to-"
Paul struggled again to unlock the window. It resisted. He frowned at it, held his nose, and then waved a disgusted hand at it.
"-get out. The important thing is not to get scared just because some red-face b-" He caught it and changed it to "guy." No one noticed, as Paul had with a great show of satisfaction opened the other window and stood beaming at it.
"So that's why everybody-"
Everybody tittered when Paul thumbed his nose at the locked window. Taffy glared at him while he sauntered leisurely back to his seat, his eyes fixed abstractedly ceilingward.
"Well, that's very fine. Thank you very much, Taffy. And now, children, if you'll arrange your chairs, we'll close. Hurry along now, children," said Mrs. Smith.
Everyone promptly got up and carried his chair to a side. "He just thinks he's smart," said Bill Mcintosh who had come to stand beside Taffy.
Taffy hardly heard, for he saw Geraldine was moving toward him, smiling. "Hello, Geraldine," he said breathlessly.
"Hello, Taffy. I want you to meet Lillian Kromer." The moon-faced treasurer held out a pudgy hand. Taffy shook it. It was cold and wet, and too soft. Geraldine kept talking. "I was telling Lillian you wanted some help in school and she promised to help you. She goes to Peter Stuyvesant too, and she's very smart. Isn't she, Paul?" She smiled up at Paul Stone who had been standing by.
"She's great. Great, old man. Just the girl for you." Paul Stone slapped Taffy heartily on the back. "Glad you could come, old man. Great speech. Great speech." He turned to Geraldine. "Goin' home, jailbait?"
Taffy felt a tug on his sleeve. "I live next door to Geraldine. We can all go the same way," volunteered Lillian. "It'll be fun if we all walk together. Come on, Billy."
After a closing hymn the five left together, Paul and Geraldine, Taffy, Lillian and Bill. A chill-edged wind whipped at them as they turned toward Marcy Avenue where the girls lived. A heavy gust made Taffy bow his head. Geraldine squealed and clung to Paul. Lillian turned her back. She bumped into Taffy. Her hardness startled him. Paul put his arm around Geraldine. Lillian held tightly to Taffy's arm. They bent forward to walk into the wind.
He looked sidewise at Lillian. Her straightened hair exposed the knappy short hairs on her neck beneath her stiff undergrown page-boy which stuck down straightly from her circular round-rimmed hat. She skipped a step to hop up on the curb. He noticed glumly that the slight protuberances which marked where her breasts should have been were rockily solid beneath her coat. "What a hell of a piece," he thought idly. "How would anybody start woofing up on a dumb bitch like this?"
"I'm sure I can help you in school, Taffy," Lillian said. Her words warred with the wind.
"Yeh?" He mentally compared her flat stockiness with Geraldine's swelling hips and tiny waist that blossomed out into full breasts. Even while the wind buffeted him he remembered the depth of the softness of her against him.
"For instance. There are eight parts of speech. A lot of people have trouble learning them. But it's very simple. You just write them down and memorize them. It's just a matter of paying attention. You have to put your mind on it definitely. Now the eight parts of speech-"
He chewed his lip glumly. Eight parts of speech! He wondered if there were, eight ways to fug; and if there was a special one for a girl like this, or for a girl under a stair, or on a roof, or if she's big like Frazzles, or like-Geraldine! "It's very easy," said Lillian.
"So long," said Bill Mcintosh as he turned off at Throop Avenue.
Lillian clutched Taffy's arm tighter. "It's turning cold," she whined. "Now. What are the eight parts of speech?"
"Huh?" He gaped at her unintelligibly.
"That's what I mean. You must pay attention. Not just to me. But all learning is just-"
Silently, to himself, "Aw, for Christ's sake." He let the endless stream of words she continued to pour out slide by until she pulled him up short to stop at her gate.
He watched Paul Stone and Geraldine walk on together, turn into the next gate together and disappear around the stoop together.
"Are you coming in, Taffy?"
"WellNo. I-"
"I just made a cake, yesterday."
"Yeh, but I gotta get home."
"I think you're nice, f like you."
"Yeh?"
"Yes." Her eyelids veiled her eyes.
He surprised himself. "Gimme a kiss then." He seized her even when he knew she would feel like that, just a sack of stiffly awkward flesh. He hated the eagerness that broke through the flat mask of her sallow olive face; and then she was against him, surprisingly hot of body, moist-lipped, shooting a picture of Eggie grappling with him across his mind. But the looseness of her mouth was as one with the inertness of her body that was thrust against him with the meaningless of bodies in a subway jam.
He let her go. She laid one pudgy soft hand on the side of his face, and she smiled. "Goodnight, Taffy," she said and turned to run into the house.
Taffy flung himself irascibly in the subway seat next to the window. On a gray dull morning like this, he felt he might as well go to school. He stared glumly at the other people and left his books on the seat beside him. A woman glared at him as she was about to sit. He twisted away belligerently, hoping she would say something.
Two stops later, "Hello, Taffy."
He involuntarily shut his eyes. Sonofabitch if this wasn't all he needed besides a hole in the head! Lillian picked up his books and sat beside him. "You saved me a seat?" she asked pleasantly.
"Yeh." He took his books. She leaned toward him, puckering her mouth and closing her eyes. "Aw, cut it out," he grunted.
She opened her eyes and stared at him blankly. "Why, Taffy, what's the matter?"
"They ain't anything the matter." He tried to whisper.
"I never let any boy kiss me-before." She bobbed her head to her words, in agreement with herself. Her eyes were wide and unblinking.
"It wasn't nothing," he said surlily.
"Nothing?"
He rode in silence, and then he heard a sniffle. When he looked, a tear had started down one flat cheek. She was swallowing and blinking. "Not even as many eyelashes as I have," thought Taffy, "and that's bad enough." Something stirred inside that put a lump in his throat. "Aw, for Christ's sake, don't do that," he muttered. After all, why should he take it out on her? He patted her arm, and then flushed red at the people staring indifferently at them, but he said, "I didn't mean it that way. You don't have to cry."
"Then, you do care?"
"Yeh, sure. Sure. You're okay."
"You don't think I'm a bad girl?" She hesitated and her yellow skin flushed red. "Because I let you-" It ended as if there were a lot more to describe than Taffy could remember.
He shook his head. "You're okay." .
"I'm glad."
The subway rode on, and she began talking. Just like she had, about school, about church, about others, and nothing. Just a torrent of words, until when they parted before the school. She said, "Now, don't forget. The young people are going to Bethany in Harlem and I'll fix a surprise for you in our box."
She left and he stared morosely after her.
"Well I'll be a sonofabitch," he said to himself. "I'm trapped. Trapped by that."
But while the thought depressed him, he also remembered that he hadn't made her cry or tore her apart just because she threw herself open before him. He wouldn't be like Geraldine, putting the squeeze on somebody just to see them squirm. And then, too, he thought as his mind took another turn, maybe he was wrong about Geraldine. At least this way he could find out.
"Anyway I'll get plenty help with school." He shook his head again and muttered, but without venom or malice, "I'm trapped."
Taffy pushed the doorbell. The chill wind of late October made the fallen leaves scurry about in a whirl in the areaway. He shook the iron-grilled gate. It was locked and phlegmatic.
He shivered. Christ, it had turned cold quick. Just like that little-He hesitated between "Little bitch" and her name. One forbidden by elusiveness, the other barred by hope. He grimly pushed the bell again. He was tired of tormenting himself, tired of hoping that maybe she would come over when she knew he would be at Lillian's, tired of waiting and hoping from a distance. He spat in disgust to relieve the tightness in his throat. He blew on his fingers. Christ-, he wished he had worn a coat.
A light came on in the ground-floor living room. He trembled with the hope that maybe it was Geraldine-alone.
She came and peered through the grillwork. "Why, Taffy! What on earth do you want?" The surprise in her voice hurt him as such as her leaving the gate locked.
"I want to see you. I never get to see you, and-" An unbidden anger was crowding him into being blunt. He hadn't meant to be this way, had meant to be sort of light and gay. He stopped to hold himself back. .
"How silly." She laughed. "I just saw you Sunday. And the Sunday before that." The inflection in her voice rose, and he wished he hadn't come. But he was dogged.
"Well, I want to see you more."
"What would Lillian think?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, she's my friend. I don't think that would be very nice."
"What wouldn't be very nice."
"To be seein' Lillian's fellah."
"I ain't her fellah."
"She's a nice girl, Taffy. Don't be mean to her."
"I ain't bein' mean to her, but she's always talkin' about school. I get tired of that."
"You said you wanted help."
"Yeh. I did."
She hugged herself. He could see her shiver. "I'm cold, Taffy. I have to go in."
"Can I come in?"
"Momma has company. Mrs. Stone."
"When can I come?" "Well, you know Mama's kinda funny. She's the Y.W.C.A. secretary, you know."
"My mother's a secretary too." He hadn't thought of it that way before, and it gave him a queer sort of lift. He felt sure of himself. "Couldn't you come over to Lillian's sometime?"
"I don't know, Taffy. I don't think that would be nice."
"I think it would."
"I have to go now, Taffy. Good-by." There was just a taste of warmth in her last look before she turned and left. The inner door closed and the light went out downstairs. The cold wind cut at him icily in the darkness.
Back out on the sidewalk, Taffy stared up at the first-floor lighted windows. He put his hands up under his armpits to warm them, and suddenly he was standing again outside Mound's bakery before a beautiful frosted cake, and the glass was hard against his forehead while his feet ached numbly from the cold and stiff, new shoes. But he wouldn't let tears come this time.
If Mrs. Stone was there, that meant Paul Stone was there. He, Taffy, who could have had her because she was ready, who had said he wouldn't filthy her, they locked him outside and let in Paul Stone who handled her like a whore. That's what Paul had. He could hardly see the house next door for the tears fighting to blind his eyes. That, next door, was what he had. Geraldine wasn't for him.
He had Lillian.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and turned toward the house next door, unthinkingly.
5
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" Martha called as she came through the front door of their home. She halted in the hallway to shake the light January snow from her new coat. Looking in the mirror she saw other flakes clinging to her new hair-do. She took her hat off carefully and brushed gently with her fingers, tilting her head to one side.
She heard Elizabeth coming downstairs.
"You'd never guess who just passed and tipped his hat," laughed Martha. She wondered if she should use rouge and a brighter lipstick. The outside snow had brought a warm glow to her cheeks, and she thought, "I look ten years younger."
Elizabeth came and stood beside her, and they smiled at each other's reflection. Elizabeth said, "Did you call, Mother?"
"Yes. I said, guess who just tipped his hat."
Elizabeth was patting the thick braids wound around her head in a halo. She held her head down a little and frowned at the reflection. Martha thought that maybe Elizabeth ought to fix up a little more. It wasn't that she wasn't really pretty. Brown, yes, but a few facials, some brighter make-up. And now that she could use more of her money for clothing, why did she have to dress so drably? She remembered her question. "Well, guess," she pressed.
"I don't know, Mother," Elizabeth, still inspecting herself, sounded slightly absent-minded. "George Mettig!"
Elizabeth took her plain hat by the brim with both hands and jerked it to a more jaunty angle after she had settled it on her head. She was pursing her mouth in prim dissatisfaction.
Martha turned from the reflection to look directly at Elizabeth. "Elizabeth!"
"Yes, Mother." She still studied her reflection. "You're not even listening to me."
"Why, yes, I am, Mother. You said George Mettig tipped his hat. I'm glad he decided to be neighborly."
"Well, for heaven's sake, Elizabeth. Don't you remember that's the same man who was going to drive us out of bur home? And now after living in his shell for lo these many months, he finally decided-" She stopped talking, to stare harder at her daughter who had not turned from picking at herself before the mirror.
"Elizabeth, where are you going?"
"Choir rehearsal." She turned and kissed her mother. Martha wondered if there was an impish twinkle in her eye. "Goodnight, Mom."
"I didn't know you were so interested in singing."
Elizabeth laughed and closed the front door.
Martha watched her daughter hurry through the brief brightness of the street light against the thickly falling snow. It was funny how little she really knew Elizabeth. She had thought the new home would have been most important to Elizabeth; yet she took the least interest, now that they were here. Even Taffy, of whom she had had the greatest fears, had made an amazing about-face. She smilingly shrugged at her reflection as she turned back to the mirror. After that first false start in church, lo and behold, he turned up visiting the Smiths for dinner even before they had invited her. "Not that that is much." She smiled to herself. But having Lillian Kromer help him in school! That had really capped it all. She shook her head in amazement, for while his grades hadn't been the best, they were better than she could ever remember. "Lillian Kromer," she repeated to herslf, "whose father owns the four biggest grills in Bedford-Stuyvesant and Lord knows what else. And Taffy picks her for a girl friend." She shrugged at herself again. "And what's more," she added, "she -likes him."
She walked into the living room and put on one of the glistening new lights. "Brooklyn's first miracle, Elizabeth called him, but I never dreamed it would be this big." She pulled the curtains to one side, partly to stare out at the snow and partly to feel the sleek ninon spill through her fingers as she let them slide back into place.
What a shabby place this room had been when George Mettig had pranced up and down telling them they had to go back to Harlem. And now, after all that fuss, he tips his hat and says, "Good evening, Mrs. Johnson." Mrs. Johnson, if you please. Funny about white folks. One time they try to strip you of skin and bone. Then, when you get your back up, the next thing you know they are just like there was never anything, or as if they had never heard of such a thing as the Negro race, or colored people.
That's what it was like, just like this room which her job and a five hundred dollar miracle bonus for Christmas from Dr. Warden and the Intercultural Committee had transformed. Of course, it wasn't paid for, but this was the way she had always dreamed of doing it, and the bonus plus their savings had made it possible: the installments would be met.
She moved silently across the rug to sit at her desk, set in the bay of the three front windows, framed by the yellow brocade of the valance and side drapes against the white of the curtains. She fingered her telephone and enjoyed the way the deep mulberry of the rug lifted up the soft gray of the low-slung modern sofa, and sharpened the brightness of the red-and-green plaid club chair which balanced the solid bottle-green barrel chair. Then there was a coffee table, an occasional chair, lamps, bric-a-brac and finishing touches down to a hanging shelf with china elephants, and pictures.
She smiled at her first loves, the clean gray walls and the shining floors. But the house had now been completed and brought to fulfillment. For in the dining room, a suite of graceful mahogany filled what had been empty space, with a gray rug, yellow drapes, and white curtains. And upstairs, their bedroom. And then, because she could do only one more room, the guest room and Elizabeth's room had had to wait-Taffy's room had been done.
But she had plans. Those rooms next. Then the kitchen with shining stainless steel and new white porcelain shelves, icebox and stove.
She shivered with the satisfaction of goodness.
She heard the front door open. That should be Taffy. She was glad he studied with Lillian. It meant he was always home by ten o'clock. Funny how before she had become accustomed to never knowing what time he would come in. She wondered, almost breathlessly, how he would like his room which had just been finished that day. She called, "Taffy?"
"Yes'm." He halted in the doorway.
She reigned back a familiar exasperation at the sullen secretiveness he always seemed to wear. She thought to herself that it was only by thinking hard that you realized he had changed. You had to tell yourself that he was in school, doing all right, had a nice girl, and even took better care of his appearance. She shook off any feeling of sharpness, and tried to sound warm-and, well, friendly.
"I have a surprise for you, Taffy."
"Yes'm?"
Why did he have to look so guarded? "Don't you want to know what it is."
"Yes'm."
"Yes'm, yes'm, yes'm. Don't you ever say anything else?" She hadn't intended to grow sharp. She tried to turn it into a joke. "Why don't you try saying 'No'm' sometime?"
He dropped his eyes to the floor and shifted about uneasily. Maybe it was a poor joke. But at least she had tried. If he would just-But she cut it off with a mental shrug. "Would you like to know what it is?'
"Yes'm-I mean yes."
"Well, at least you're trying to say something else. Come on up to your room."
Upstairs, he halted in the doorway in front of her. A candy-striped spread draped his new maple bed. An oval rag rug almost covered the highly polished floor. There was a tall maple break-front bookcase in the corner into which his mother had stuffed a few nondescript books, finishing off the rest of the shelves with knick-knacks. A maple desk and chair had become part of his room. A sailboat lamp sailed stiffly on his desk. The chrome domed ceiling light filled the room with bright light.
"How do you like it, Taffy?"
He scratched-the back of his head, and shifted his hat about in his hands. He took a step into the room and made several futile gestures with the hat. Then he took it and hung it in his closet. "For heaven sake!" she thought. "He didn't sling it in the corner as he usually does. This is really getting to be too much."
She waited impatiently. "Well, Taffy? Aren't you going to say anything?"
"Yes'm." He looked around again. "It's pretty imagine, ain't it?"
"Why don't you stop saying 'ain't.' You know better." She switched on the sailboat lamp. "Here's where you'll study. The salesman said it was just the thing for a boy's room."
"Yes'm."
"Sit down, Taffy. This is your room. Don't you like it?"
He sat on the rounded edge of the maple desk chair. "Yes'm. I think it's fine."
There was something sharp coming to her lips, but far below she heard the front door open. That would be Tom, and he knew nothing about all this. It would be a surprise. She had intended to be downstairs with the lights out when he came. She turned abruptly back to Taffy. "Well, that's good. I hope you like it."
She hurried downstairs, and made a mental note that she had forgotten to include stairway carpeting on her list for the future.
Tom still stood in the doorway to the living room, gaping, his hat on his head, his bag in his hand.
"You can put your bag down, Tom Johnson. You live here." She knew there was triumph in her voice, but she meant it to be kind.
He turned toward her in bewilderment. "Martha-what on earth?"
"Do you like it?" She stood beside him.
He walked into the room and blinked, first at the windows then at the rug, then at each piece in turn in the living room, and finally at the dining room. "Martha, where on earth did you get all this stuff?" he whispered.
"We bought it; and when you get through gaping, you can inspect our bedroom too."
He took his hat off slowly, put down his bag in the hallway and laid his hat on the bag. He stepped back into the living room. He stepped on the rug as though shocked by its soft deepness. He looked at her, and there was a sheepish grin coming into his eyes. "Well, Martha. This is quite a surprise."
Then, suddenly, she was glad because she knew that he liked it and that he would be glad because she was happy with it. She threw her arms about him impulsively. She realized that he flinched at her impulsiveness (perhaps it had been a long time since she had hugged him quite like that, but then they had never had an occasion like this before either), but in the next instant his arms were about her and she gave herself up to the old familiar weakness that thrilled and warmed her.
His lips found her neck, but before the feel and man of him blanked out everything for her, she had to finish telling him about the new things. She fought breathlessly to regain control of herself, holding her lips away from his smiling, seeking face, for she knew that that would be the end. She pressed herself against him as she leaned, and then lost her grip and let herself be gathered to him. She wondered if all women were always so glad to have their men hold them when they had been gone for two weeks on the road. She couldn't even feel a twinge over the fact that he had been pullman portering.
"Don't, Tom. Please, Tom," she pleaded. "I want to tell you about the house." She felt ridiculous, just like a silly girl.
"I never seen you look so pretty, Martha."
"Oh, Tom, stop! I want to tell you about the house."
"You're getting younger every day, Martha. And if a lot of old furniture is going to make you shine like that, it's good enough for me. I don't have to see it."
"Oh, Tom." She felt weak with the gladness of her new house, of Tom liking it, of knowing there would be no quarrel, and that this would be a happy homecoming. She managed to pull him over to sit on the lounge. And in the midst of her breathlessness and fast-beating heart she wondered why she couldn't always feel this way without the other times, the bad times, which she quickly blotted away out of memory and mind. She nestled up close to him. His hand was hot on her.
"Martha, you're getting softer too."
"Tom, stop! You're tickling. I want to tell you about the furniture."
"Sure, sure," he said very low, his face near her ear. "You tell me about it."
"Well, you know I'm supposed to arrange groups from our churches to have intercultural teas and services at the white churches in Brooklyn, to make better race relations. Well, I was only supposed to arrange one a week, but everybody was so eager. And we have so many churches. And lots of people wanted to go twice, so that we have had several meetings a week-"
One of his hands held her racing heart, his hair was soft on her cheek, his lips hot on her shoulder. "You even feel younger, Maltha," he whispered. "I don't know what it is."
"Tom, please let me finish-" She swallowed to try to stop from feeling so silly. That was it, shy like when they first-She mustn't let go. She had to tell him. She shook herself. "Well, if you don't want to hear." She tried to sound sharp, but she realized helplessly that her words had no bite.
"Sure, I want to hear, Martha." But one hand released her and suddenly the light in back of the couch went out.
"Well, I was given a five hundred dollar bonus because everything was such a success, and Dr. Warden was pleased and everybody is very eager to be nice and they all think it was such a nice idea and Dr. Warden agreed I should have a little better furniture because the home was really part of where the work was carried on and it was very important for the intercultural working out of the things we were trying to do-" She suddenly realized' she wasn't paying the slightest attention herself to what she was saying.
"Yeh, sure," he whispered, "and so they helped fix up the house, and the most important thing is that I love you."
His mouth found hers and she let herself go, slipping and sighing.
"Tom," she murmured, "Taffy's upstairs and Elizabeth's out."
"Uh huh," he whispered softly, but his embrace became purposeful.
"Tom," she giggled. "What are you doing."
"Nothing." He breathed in her ear.
"Tom-" she gasped. And then she didn't care. It was good. This was the way it should be. This was her husband, and her home. As she accepted his embrace, she dug her fingers through the thick weave of the tapestry of the sofa.
"I know she's earnest."
Mrs. Max Smith twisted in her office chair. "And I guess there is no point in discussing whether qr not she's honest. I'm sure she has all kinds of drive and energy. But raising money for the Y.W.C.A. is a serious matter." Her fat little body and full bosom vibrated anxiety.
Mrs. Mcintosh put on the patient tolerance of those who are used to waiting for slower mortals to catch up. "I have every confidence in Martha."
"It's hot just that it's Martha. No one admires her more than I do, but people give because of the person who asks. It is important that people who solicit money have sufficient social status." She punctuated her sentences by bouncing from her chair, rushing over to look out the window, tearing open drawers, rustling papers, and stirring up a cloud of irrelevant activities.
Mrs. Mcintosh drew herself up a little rigidly. "She will be working with me."
"But she isn't you, Ida. That's exactly what I mean. No one would dare think of offering you a fifty-cent donation. No one would dare think of giving Mrs. Kromer less than a dollar, but what would anybody be willing to give to this poor thing. They don't know her, and she just came to Brooklyn a short time ago."
"Mae!" chided Mrs. Mcintosh. "You sound like a silly schoolgirl-" '
"Oh, I know she's your friend now, and you think you can't take a step without her. But you ought not to forget old friends. We were working together long before Martha Johnson crept out of the slums of Harlem with her hoodlum son." She slammed herself down at her desk and tapped rapidly with her pencil. "Of course, it's your team. I was only trying to be helpful. If you want to use me, to help Martha-Well, I won't stop you. But I don't know whether knowing all those church people is going to be any help."
Mrs. Smith threw down the pencil, jumped, yanked open a file cabinet and flipped the folders through her fingers.
"Why, Mae! You always said you hoped we could find someone who had a string on these ministers."
"Oh, I don't know. Church people don't give very much, Ministers don't like the Y.W.C.A., and they're always fighting against us. They say we take their young people away when we are really trying to help them-if they would only cooperate. Why, Reverend Stone wanted to charge us twenty-five dollars for using his auditorium for a youth tea, when the whole tea's idea was to provide a social evening for his young people, and the small sum of money which we would have collected as a silver offering would have been used in the Y to help some of his very own young people. But he took a very narrow view of the whole thing and insisted on the money. And in advance, too!" Mrs. Smith banged herself back in her office chair with extra vigor--.
"And Martha is just the one to take care of that." Mrs. Mcintosh was still smiling benignly. She rose to her feet.
"Well, if you think she is so much better than I am-"
"Yes, Mae. What?" Mrs. Mcintosh patted her fat little shoulders. She slumped a little. "Don't worry, darling, I know my Special Gifts Committee will collect more money than ever. After all, you know, dear, I have my position to think of too."
"Well, I just hope she doesn't turn up with a lot more new furniture after the drive," Mrs. Smith said sourly.
"Mae!"
"Oh, don't 'Mae' me! After all, nobody knows what money, comes into the Intercultural Committee, and she did just refurnish her home, and Lord knows, it looked like a Third Avenue rummage sale when-"
"That," snapped Mrs. Mcintosh, "is quite enough." She stalked out.
Mrs. Kromer settled herself a little more comfortably on the folding chair. She folded her hands across her stomach. She self-consciously dropped them into her lap. She was phlegmatically staring at the gnome-like little man in the dirty polo shirt trying to get a picture of "The Purple Donkey," Mrs. Alice Finger, who brought in the most money, being congratulated by "The Queen of the West," Mrs. Minnie Brown, the runner-up. The photographer was trying to persuade Mrs. Winston-Hoyte to step out of the picture. She held her ground and puffed smoke at the ceiling.
Mrs. Kromer's eyes jerked again toward the opening door of the Dean Street Y.W.C.A. assembly hall. She sighed. Her husband, John, was threading his way through the crowd toward her, his tuxedo shirt gleaming white, his round brown face shining. She wished she dare peek at her make-up or her hair, but if she did she knew he would boom at her good-naturedly, "Still making your toilette, baby, after leaving home two hours ago?" It wouldn't be that he wanted to hurt her. It was just that he didn't seem to know whether she had any more feelings than a--She changed "tub-of-lard" into "stick-of-wood.""
He pecked her on the forehead. "Hya, baby."
She looked up quickly "to say something, but he was already grinning at the group posing for the picture. He waved a hand.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte waved back. The photographer cursed and made a motion of throwing down his camera, but he raised his eyes in exaggerated thanks when she left the posing group to come toward Mrs. Kromer and her husband.
"Hello, Audrey," he said. She bridled and put out an arched hand at arm's length. He grabbed her by the upper arm. Mrs. Kromer watched the imprint of his thick fingers in her flesh. She felt herself thinking something she stifled. "No," she told herself. "John's just that way with everybody."
He dragged her toward the back out of Audrey's line of vision. She thought grimly to herself, "Audrey is such an ass." But at least Audrey had missed out on the All-American Newsreel which had made shots earlier.
The picture-taking ended, and Mrs. Mcintosh, standing in her ' place at the center of the "high" table, clapped her hands. "Everyone in their places. Everyone in their places." She beamed, her bulk and height emphasizing the nearness of the green-painted tin over her head and the scantiness of the twisted crepe paper decorations.
Mrs. Smith took her seat beside Mrs. Mcintosh. Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, seizing the "Purple Donkey," dropped into Martha's seat on the other side of Mrs. Mcintosh. Martha hesitated at one end Of the table near Mrs. Kromer.
Mrs. Kromer went to her quickly. "Won't you please sit with me?" She led the way to her table. "I think your son studies with Lillian, my daughter. How is he doing?"
As they sat, a wiry, large-mouthed, uneven colored, brown-skinned woman leaned over the table toward Martha. Her misshapen black hat was askew and tied under her chin with a piece of purple netting. She was grinning, framing broken and snaggle teeth in the brightest lipstick Mrs. Kromer thought she had ever seen her wear. She ignored Mrs. Kromer and spoke directly to-Martha.
"Mrs. Johnson, wouldn't you just know," she gurgled. "The first year I get this damn thing I been struggling to get for four years, I would rather had you get it. I ain't had time to tell you before, but I think you the most wonderful woman I ever seen in my life." She patted Martha's shoulder. "You keep at it, honey, and don't let any of these old biddies get you down."
Mrs. Kromer leaned back from her fetid breath and the rancid smell of her clothing, partly cooked cabbage and partly baby urine. She marveled that Martha had not even blinked, just as if Gertie Pegler weren't the most noisy, ill-kept and obnoxious person, a self-appointed representative of "the masses."
"And smells like them too," Mrs. Kromer said to herself.
Mrs. Pegler strode away, covering the distance to the back in large heel-pounding strides.
"Who was that?" Martha asked, her face showing only polite interest.
"That"-Mrs. Kromer shrugged her shoulders and waved her hands helplessly-"was this spring's Queen of the East."
"Yes, of course. But who is she?"
"She calls herself a social worker and works for the Department of Welfare. Claims that seven years of 'beatin' the relief qualifies her. They wouldn't hire her at first, but she raised so much hell with the Worker's Alliance with sit-in's and all that that they changed their minds quick. Personally, I think she ought to take care of her kids. Bert Pegler disappeared about four years ago after the sixth one." Mrs Kromer looked at Martha sideways. "She just had the seventh last winter."
"I thought you said her husband-'
"That's right. I did. And he did." She "humpfed" and smiled. "Do you blame him?"
"She certainly gives off energy."
"Energy? My dear"-she became closely confidential-"if Smitty hadn't made a quick preliminary check, that woman would have been the Purple Donkey!"
"The Purple Donkey," Martha repeated. Mrs'. Kromer admired the way in which she picked up the phrase without any shade of comment on Mrs. Pegler. "You were responsible for Mrs. Finger's winning, weren't you, Mrs. Krorrjer?"
She beamed and nodded modestly. "We solicited memberships through my husband's businesses."
"I think it was wonderful that you did for her and not for yourself."
Mrs. Kromer blinked. Even she had not dared to presume to think that the wife of a bar and grill man should be the Purple Donkey. "Alice Finger needed a lift," she explained. "She's one of the Childs sisters. You know, first family of Brooklyn, could pass for white, all of that. But I suppose it's better to be a light-skinned Negro than an ordinary white person. She married Dr. Finger, a Barbadian. West Indian, you know. He's filthy rich, even if he is black; there are no children. He feels cheated so he takes it out on her by being difficult."
"She is attractive." Martha's tone clearly said, "No comment."
"Martha Johnson, if you aren't just about the smartest thing I've seen in Brooklyn yet."
A twinkle showed in Martha's eyes.
Mrs. Kromer threw back her head and laughed. "And bless me if you don't know it too." She motioned toward the high table. "Her highness is going to speak and a dollar gets you ten it's something about the Rising Stars having to get up earlier to be Queens of the East and West."
Mrs. Mcintosh's voice dominated the hall. "I'm sure we all heartily congratulate the winners of this spring's drive of the Dean Street Branch of the Young Women's Christian Association ; and I think we ought to give a special hand to Mrs. Martha Johnson, a very newcomer to our community, who through herculean work with the ministers achieved being one of the three Rising Stars. Now, if those Stars will rise a little faster, I'm sure that not only Mrs. Martha Johnson, but all of them will make this year's winners work harder to maintain their laurels."
Mrs. Kromer grinned at Mrs. Smith. She was twisting in her seat. "Somebody's nose is out of joint," Mrs. Kromer whispered to Martha.
"And now," said Mrs. Mcintosh, "we shall have the program for tonight. Attorney Lawrence O. Phott will speak on "Relatedness." She bowed toward Attorney Phott, who stood up in a far corner of the room.
He was a small man, knob-headed and high cheekboned. He shuffled papers and began in a high-pitched, carefully enunciated voice. "Relatedness is the key to cooperation. Everyone should be related. I mean should try earnestly to relate themselves to..."
Mrs. Kromer let the artificially metered words fade out of consciousness as she saw her husband ambling genially toward her. He stopped to say something to Dr. Finger. He laid his hand flat on the broad bare back of a blonde-headed, large-nostriled woman. He laughed soundlessly, throwing back his head. He started toward her again, winking at little Geraldine Smith, who winked back, drawing up a shoulder and arching an eyebrow. "Certainly going to be a 'heart-breaker,' " Mrs. Kromer thought, and added, "for a black child." But she wasn't sure that Little Red School House, Ethical Culture, and Fields-ton had done her any good. Even if they were finding it difficult to enroll Negro students to "round out the cultural experiences" of the student body. She sniffed. "She has all the makings of a hussy."
"Having fun, baby?" Her husband winked at her pleasantly. He let himself down on a folding chair that creaked ominously under his weight. He patted her leg noisily.
"-the higher and finer things of life which in their essence, I mean, their essential components, we find..." Attorney Phott's words became momentarily intelligible as she glanced about quickly to see who had seen her husband's intimacy.
She glanced back at him. He was slumped in the chair, his eyes half closed, while he slowly rolled his cigar in the middle of his pursed lips. The blue smoke went up indifferently.
She wondered how often the husbands of other wives made love to them, but she wouldn't ask. Might sound very uncomplimentary to herself. She wished they hadn't bought twin beds, but John had gotten so fat, and it couldn't be helped now. He used to be so slim, almost jittery. She smiled. On their honeymoon he had been as timid as a little boy. But a lot had happened since then. First, mail order, but the big money came after Black Jim had been shot and her husband had taken control of the Yonkers number business. Big money, but tight times, when she stayed awake so that he could sleep without watching or waiting. Then, when things had been best, he had pulled out and gone into the bar and grill business in Brooklyn. And, by next month, in Queens too. She smiled wistfully.
"That guy funny, honey?"
She nodded her head and patted his hand. She felt warmly pleased. His attention meant he would share her bed if she planned it right. But in the midst of her planning, she remembered how often, these days, she lay awake afterward, feeling spent, but unsatisfied and unclean.
Mrs. Obediah Zechariah Stone followed her husband into the chilly gymnasium of the downtown (white) Y.W.C.A. on Third Avenue.
"Oh, how do ye do, Mrs. Stone? I'm so glad you finally came. There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding about the dance." The gentle-faced, white-haired woman of the white Y.W.C.A. was flushed pink. "I just knew your people would be happier here than in the main auditorium. But that lady, that large woman with the glasses--! "
"Mrs. Mcintosh," Mrs. Stone supplied. She watched Reverend Stone barge largely ahead, gazing pontifically from right to left, flashing a smile here, waving a hand there. Her sad eyes blinked more rapidly when they fixed themselves on the back of a slight black-clad figure. She felt a warm flush light her. She immediately turned back with determination to the Y.W.C.A. woman. She blinked more sternly. --
"-and it had nothing to do with coming in the main* entrance. Why anyone would prefer to trail through the entire building, when there is an entrance right on Third Avenue, is-" She gasped, her popping eyes aimed at the middle of the floor, where the milling crowd was jamming back and forth, twisting and jitterbugging. She cried, "Oh my goodness!"
She scurried through the dancers, waving her hands over her head. "Stop the music! Stop the music!"
The music didn't stop, but she reappeared the next moment herding two very red-faced white girls before her. She disappeared behind them through the doorway which led to the balcony where the other white residents of the building were watching the dancers.
I Mrs. Stone looked about for her husband. Her son passed. "Hello, Mom," he said in her direction. He danced off with Geraldine Smith. Mrs. Stone blinked slowly and her mouth be-
. came hard. She hadn't sacrificed so much to see the church built just for Paul to throw it away. She stopped blinking to stare at her husband's bulging profile pressed close to Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. She thought to herself that .sometimes it takes a lot of faith to believe the best. Everyone had snickered, she just knew they had, when he took the church social worker to the Baptist Convention in Cincinnati. Now nobody but that woman could chaperone the girls to the Baptist College Women's conclave in Charleston, S. C, where he was the speaker. "And she didn't even finish high school," she thought before she could cut it off.
She saw that the black-clad figure was smiling at her. She felt flustered, and wondered if he had known what she had been thinking about her husband; and then, she was hotly confused by not knowing whether she wanted him to know or not, but she kept her tightly brassiered bosom from rising and falling too rapidly and nodded circumspectly across the room with all the formality she could muster.
The Reverend Samuel D. Cobalt, Father Cobalt, moved gracefully toward her. She told herself that that was the whole difference between her husband "Lettin' 'em have it!" and the way Father Cobalt leaned across the pulpit with folded hands to talk with her as though there were no other person at the summer afternoon service where the sun, streaming through the open side door, spread bright carpets across the pavement of the shadowed interior of St. Simon's Episcopal Church. She felt peaceful listening to him talk, even about the weather.
She remembered how Father Cobalt had led her about the church on one of her early visits, and how he had pointed out the memorial windows of the former congregation. Religion might be of the spirit, as her husband said, but the figures of the saints certainly made it more real.
"St. Simon's once belonged to a white congregation," he had said. "In 1885 they had a cornerstone inscribed: 'Hitherto hath the Lord helped us.-I Samuel 17:12.' But the white congregation fled our black neighbors, and now the verse proclaims the new message that the Lord deserted them when the neighborhood changed." He had chuckled. "A tombstone to white exclusiveness. When we change the stone and put St. Simon's name on it, I'd like to leave the verse, except that it's really the seventh chapter. In all these fifty-odd years nobody caught the stone-cutter's mistake until we came."
"You wear a hat in church?" she had asked.
He had smiled, his thin face framing the gentleness in his large gray eyes and molded mouth (not puffing and blowing, sticking out his belly), and had said, "It's a birretta." Then his eyes had twinkled as though he were whispering behind the Lord's back. "It's a sort of privilege for being a priest and vowing not to marry."
He had taken her by the hand across the white flagstone pavement-of the choir, past the carved altar rail into the Italian marble sanctuary. She had bowed with him as he touched his knee before the high altar. At one side, he pointed out a star in the wall fresco. It was blue, but as they stepped to one side, the star gleamed silver.
"It's really that you can't see the silver gilt when standing directly in front of it, close," he had explained. "And how often life seems cheap and ordinary, as the nat blue paint. But then, when we step back in time or space, values change. In the perspective of the spiritually eternal, God's silver can be seen over the flat paint of hard reality."
She had inhaled deeply, secretly, the oriental aroma of incense that lingered at the altar, seeming to wrap them in wreathed holiness. She knew she had been near to God.
At the door, Father Cobalt thanked her for coming. And then (she was no longer embarrassed to remember) she had impulsively torn open her purse and seized her carefully hoarded contribution to the next Sunday's Pew Rally. The envelope had said in bold type: "help repair the rock of ages, Brooklyn's Biggest Church, 362 Stuyvesant Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y. Rev. Obediah Zechariah Stone, Pastor." She had thrust it into his hand and said, "Please buy something for the church, so I can be here too." And she turned and fled. But now she was waiting for him, outwardly composed.
Someone stopped him. She smiled to herself. Ministers had so little of themselves for themselves. And she supposed it was the same with herself. She gave her life, her time, and all her energy to her husband's church. It was not too much that she should want to enjoy some sweetness in her private devotions.
"Mrs. Stone." As he took both her hands, she wondered how the sound of her own name could screen off the world and fill her with expectancy. "I had hoped you'd come."
In her own mind she said, "Oh, Father, don't say it like that. Not here before all these people." And she wished to put a finger to his lips. Instead she let just a small smile show and said, "Yes?" She hadn't meant to tilt her head to one side, so she straightened it.
He smiled in return, as though he too were leaving many things unsaid. "I want to ask you a favor."
So many possible questions, favors, helps, and impossibly painful ideas crowded her imagination that it was only after he had asked if she could help him reach outside sources of income to help build his parish house that the bell of reality clanged. And she knew she was spinning away, becoming stiff and distant, dedicated to the building of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church and no other. The words came without being given their usual careful tailoring and measuring. "Had you thought of asking Martha Johnson?"
She watched. First the start, then the puzzlement, and lastly a dreamy softness flitted across his face. "No," he said slowly. "I hadn't thought of asking her." She saw a sudden determination squint his eyes, straighten his mouth., "Oh no, dear God," she breathed her silent prayer, "don't let him make me know what we mustn't know." She said out loud in a voice that shook, "It's something to think about-"
He nodded his head meditatively. "Yes," he said slowly, "it is."
"She knows anyone I know-"
He frowned slightly at her as though she had changed the subject and he didn't get the connection. When understanding returned and he nodded, she wondered if it was only her imagination that he had blushed. And then she knew that he too had had secret thoughts and dreams that he wouldn't release, and that she was not silly or throwing herself away. She felt ashamed no longer, but proud and happy. But also safe. She felt a silly giggle tickling within her. Here they were practically making love to each other in the midst of the hall, and without once saying it. "Of course, I will advise where I can," she said softly.
He sighed. It was strange that she had never really thought of him as looking so much like a little boy. She patted his arm. "It'll come out all right. Don't you worry."
He smiled a twisted way that chided her, it seemed, for not being more weak. "I won't worry," he said, "if you say so." He held out his hands and asked her if she would dance.
She had not danced since she was a girl in high school before she married Reverend Stone, but in that instant of feeling tenderness and closeness, she didn't stop to think of the spectacle of the Episcopalian priest dancing with the wife of the Baptist minister. She danced.
"Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights, Dreaming of a song-"
The saxophones moaned. Bill Mcintosh and Lillian Kromer were struggling so hard at dancing that they didn't stop to gawk at the Reverend Mr. Cobalt and Mrs. Stone dancing. While Taffy saw, he didn't care.
"The Stardust memory Of love's refrain!"
He mouthed the words to himself and could almost smell old Homer who never would take a bath, and Eggie whose smell was more acrid, and Ralph perfumed up kike a whore on Saturday night. He watched Geraldine and Paul Stone dance near by. The music stopped.
He stepped forward and held out a hand. "You promised me a dance."
"Oh, go 'way, Taffy. Don't be a nuisance." She tossed her head.
He caught his breath at the hot bite in his belly. Paul Stone leered down at him. Geraldine laughed.
Taffy faded back against the wall. He saw Lillian, beside Bill Mcintosh, looking anxiously about. He crowded behind a laughing couple. He knew that if he had to feel Lillian's flat hard belly against him one more time and be jerked to and fro as she grabbed after the music, hewould puke.
"Stars fell on Alabama," the band began.
Old Homer saying, "Ya wanme to git 'em fer yuh, Taffy? Ya wanme to git 'em?" Dude, carefully reblocking his gray hat. Eggie, his hand hard and brutal, grinning, "You okay, baby?" Even Bessie, clinging to his fingers. Pictures in the night, the pokey-man, the peanut vendor, the sweet potato oven, the cry in the night, "Craaaw-dabbies!" Cojo, "Wanna have some fun?"
"Stars Fell on Alabama Last night-"
Everybody close, singing, the lights out. "Just one more song, Crip." The nostalgia tore through him. . And it was all over.
Just like that, he saw Lillian as the dumbest bitch he had ever known, with a shape like a sack of spuds; and Bill as just a jerk. Outcasts. like him. Trailing around while Geraldine and Paul Stone strutted. He started for the door. He felt as if a hole had suddenly burned in the bottom of his stomach. The hall was nauseatingly hot.
The outside air, raw with April night, didn't cool or soothe him. On the subway, he dropped in a corner, huddling close, chewing on his thumb. It seemed an old-time, half-forgotten friend. He bit and licked and gnawed until he looked around self-consciously to see who might be staring at him. But although the train rolled from Borough Hall, to High( Street, to Broadway-Nassau, to Chambers, to Canal, to West 4th, to 14th, to 34th, to 42nd, to 59th, and up the long run to 125th, a knot inside had grown tighter than he could chew it down or the subway jiggle it loose.
"What a helluvagoddamned mess!" he muttered to himself. First he gets sucked in by Geraldine. Then, after she farts in his face, school and church, and Bill and Lillian, and trying to be up to his mother with everybody making over her. Why the hell was it-he always seemed to end up stuck in whatever shit-pot got shoved his way?
like trying to get away from Ralph that first day he had come, and Ralph, bloody and sweaty from beating Eggie, saying, 'You' think you white folks." He had held him by his coat collar. "White folks ain' shit. You think you' white folks."
"No I don't. No I don't."
"Kiss my good old black butt then, yaller boy." He had made Taffy kneel and stuck his behind in his face. He had made him kiss the seat of his dirty pants. He had smelled like an unclean I.R.T. washroom. "That's what all you white folks can do."
"But I ain't white." m
"Don't give me no lip! Come here, you little white big-lipper." He had taken him under the chin with his arm and begun squeezing, until Taffy's breath wouldn't come, his tongue had felt big, his sight glazed and the world swam around him and darkness crowded, while he watched, as if in a distant scene, perspiration and blood gleaming on the twisted black face close to him, until the shine narrowed down and the blackness widened out. He had gone swinging, swirling, down into a deep pit, only to be snatched back by his face being slapped back and forth.
It had been just after they moved to 133rd Street, and he had been about ten years old. And remembering brought back the picture of the little group pitching pennies in the square of winter sun that brightened a patch of basement areaway next to Dude's house. And while the picture hung before him, it changed and a huge strange black boy pushed in among the penny-pitchers and grabbed Dude. He slung him around and shoved him against the wall. Dude's eyeglasses shattered Qn the pavement. He cut his head on the concrete so that the blood was smeared on the side of his head. The stranger took a step. Dude slid to the ground, huddling in a heap by the fence. He put trembling fingers to his bloody head. When he looked at them, he began to whimper.
With unblinking slitted eyes, the stranger turned to the others. "You! You little fox-supper, you," he snarled at Eggie.
Eggie hurled himself at him.
They fought wordlessly-grunting, slugging, burying fists in belly, sides, face or head. They stomped around the areaway. The scrape of their feet and panting and grunting were the only sounds. The blood ran down one corner of Eggie's mouth. Another blow smeared it across his cheek. He stumbled backward. The stranger charged. Eggie tried to grapple. The stranger seized him and hurled him into a corner.
Eggie crashed backward against the garbage cans stacked in the corner. Losing his balance, he stumbled and fell among them in a clattering cloud of gray ash dust. The stranger leaped cat-like over a can that rolled out. When Eggie tried to scramble to his feet, he kicked him in the chest, back among the spilled ashes and cans. Eggie rolled over a can as he fell. The boy kicked at his crotch. Eggie twisted on one side, taking the blow partially in his buttocks. The kicker slipped and fell.
They both jumped up.
Eggie charged his assailant again. The stranger pivoted to one side, bringing up one knee into Eggie's groin. He reeled backward, gasping for breath, clutching himself. Groaning huskily, hunching to one side, holding himself, he strained to straighten up. The sweat shone through the dirt and ashes on his blood-streaked face. He was gasping for breath, but he hurled himself again to the attack.
The stranger stepped back lightly, confidently, and with clubbed fist drove Eggie backward on his backside one step ,down into the basement entrance. He crumpled up crookedly in the tight spot against the rusty iron grill gate.
One of Eggie's eyes was closed by an ugly lump. Blood, oozing from a gash on the other cheek, cut a crooked path through the ashes and sweat. His thickened lips were purled to one side, twisting into a swollen leer. His teeth were bloody. He panted and wheezed, his eyes fixed into nowhere, staring.
The stranger was grinning, his eyes disappearing behind his protruding cheeks. His thin dark lower lip hung down and trembled as he panted, in unison with Eggie.
Across the way, a talking machine shrieked unintelligibly. Someone snatched off the needle, and there was a silence in which a woman laughed stridently. A deep bass voice jeered, "Aw, what the hell, man." A car whizzed by in the street. "Hell!" said a passing woman, and across the way, someone started laughing loudly in a high-pitched wavering crescendo.
Eggie lay twisted in the doorway. He sniffed loudly and worked his mouth. He seemed to mark time with his panting. He licked his lips. Taffy could see him swallow. The stranger sneered down at him. A tear etched an uneven track through the sweat and blood down one of Eggie's cheeks. It disappeared into the cut corner of his lip.
He slowly gathered his feet beneath him to slip into a half-crouch, watching his opponent warily. With a lurch, he sprang to one side and whipped out a switch-blade knife, long-bladed and thin. The "click" of its opening stopped Taffy's breath. Eggie was trembling violently. He began to sob. His rapidly blinking eyes seemed to measure the distance between himself and the stranger.
The grin faded from the stranger's face, leaving a black mask of watchfulness. His eyes narrowed. Before, he had fought freely, making small attempt at defending himself; but now, he was all caution. His fists uncurled. He bent slightly forward, balancing on his toes, legs spread apart. He inched one foot at a time forward, softly, quietly. He reached out delicately as if he were pitching a penny or were about to snatch an apple from a peddler's cart. His fingers twitched.
He jerked his head slightly to one side.
Eggie sprang. The knife flashed.
The stranger flung himself to one side, snatching out with his right hand, clutching at the knife wrist; his left forearm and elbow shielded his face. He was not quick enough. The glittering steel split his eyebrow, slit open his cheek and drove on. It slashed through his coat sleeve.
He clutched the knife wrist, grappling his attacker around the neck. A quick jerk backward, and throwing his weight on Eggie, he hurled both of them against the pavement, and the knife clattered loudly to one side.
The stranger jumped astride the prostrate Eggie. He pinned down his arms with his knees. He snatched up the weapon and stuck its stained point to his victim's throat. "Say your prayers, you goddamned little black bastard," he panted. "Say your prayers, if you got any, 'cause I'm going to cut your goddamned guts out."
Eggie lay very still, staring fixedly into the snarling face. His bloody features showed no fear or anger-only blank patience. A line of blood followed the cut in the eyebrow of the conqueror. When the red crossed sweat, it blurred out to stain the side of his face. His dirty collar began slowly to crimson. Taffy felt the chill night wind, ahead of the sunset, dry the sweat on his forehead. He was afraid to move to scratch it.
The stranger sneered. The blood dripped faster as the gashes in his eyebrow and cheek gaped open. His mouth twisted. As a teacher sits behind her desk to glare down at a culprit, he settled his knees more solidly on Eggie's arms. He took the knife away from Eggie's throat and held the point a fraction of an inch from his eye.
Eggie hardly blinked while the blade brushed backward and forward through his eyelashes. Eggie's expressionless stare didn't change.
"Say something, you black bastard," the stranger snarled. He slapped him with an open hand. The wet, sharp "smack!" made Taffy flinch. Eggie barely moved his head. The stranger worked his mouth.
"You ain' worth killin', but I'm goin' to leave my mark on you so's you'll know who's boss." With deliberate care, he put the knife point inside Eggie's left nostril. Eggie's mouth was tight, his head rigid. With a quick flick of the knife, the stranger slit Eggie's nose.
The blood spurted, drenching his teeth, covering his upper lip.
The stranger struck the motionless Eggie against the head with the butt of the knife in his clenched fist. Eggie's head rolled. He grimaced with pain, but straightened his head back slowly. The blood flowed. He pushed it out of one corner of his mouth timidly with the tip of his tongue.
The stranger struck him again. "You know who's boss-you goddamned dirty, big-lipper, you?"
"Okay, boy. Okay, boy." Eggie whispered, scarcely moving his lips. "Okay, boy. Lemme up. I don' wan' no trouble."
The victor heaved up to his feet and watched the bloody Eggie start up. He booted him back flat on his back with a heavy kick. He lay where he had fallen. Then, again, patiently, slowly, he turned over and started up. He waited on one knee, watching the knife in the stranger's hand. The blood ran down from the slit nostril and dripped from his chin.
The stranger also looked at the bloody knife. He twisted his lips and snapped it shut. He flung it at Eggie. It struck against his cheek. He caught it, hardly moving, never taking his eyes from the other boy.
"Take you' goddamned toadsticker," he jeered, "and don' you ever pull it on me agin, 'cause the next time I'll kill you deader'n a sonofabitch." He brushed roughly with his coat sleeve at the thick rivulet clotting crookedly down his cheek. Turning his back full on Eggie, he glared at Taffy. "Come here you little white bastard," he had snarled. "You think you' white folks, don't you!"
And when the picture had returned to where it had begun, the subway was sliding into the 125th Street station. Taffy bit harder on his thumb and shook his head to clear away its trailing memories.
Off the train at 125th Street.
Harlem again.
Across town, uptown to 134th Street, to Eggie's door. It barely cracked open. "Get away from here, you goddamn dirty little tramp. Don't come sneaking in here. You ought to be in jail too." Eggie's aunt slammed the door. The dullness gnawing inside accepted this without finding any new way to twist him.
He turned to Dude's door downstairs across the hall. No one answered.
Back down into the rawness of the night. Winter's back may have been broken, but a chill made him shiver without relief. He walked down Lenox Avenue again and tried to conjure up vengeful fantasy, but nothing came.
Nothing but, "Oh don't be a nuisance."
"Don't be a nuisance."
Just be for Lillian.
A babbling brick wall.
So, "Don't be a nuisance."
Lillian -likes nuisances.
Because nobody else -likes her.
At 116th Street and Lenox, he halted in front of the pool hall. He was almost fearful to go down. Too much had gone sour. He just couldn't take any more. Not tonight. And a strange hurrying up, crowding, feeling of having to do something gripped him so that he almost shook. But he went down the steps instead.
"Well, I'll be goddamned!" lisped Crip, hobbling out from behind the candy case as Taffy came down the steps. "Where the hell you been?" He grabbed Taffy's hand, shook it, hugged him about the shoulders and pulled him over to the candy case. "We all thought you was in jail. Welcome back! Glad to see you alive. Jesus Christ! Where you been? Tell me about yourself. Don't stay away so long."
Taffy leaned on the candy case, lounging on his elbows. He realized his legs ached with tiredness from the walking.
Crip pushed a package of cigarettes toward him. "A welcome home gift." He hobbled up on his high stool. "What's new? What happened to you?"
He grinned. He had almost forgotten how not to answer questions; to leave them hung in the air, while he busied himself with tearing open the package of cigarettes. He stuck one in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. Sucking in the smoke, he inhaled deeply, and blew it out at the ceiling. He took another deep drag. It seemed to mute down his jangling nerves, and Crip's solicitude was as if someone had smoothed a salve over his hurt.
"I been going to school," said Taffy finally.
"The hell you say! Where?" Crip looked at him suspiciously. "Reform school?"
"Naw." He spat. Crip jugged his elbow and tossed his head at a "No Spitting" sign. Taffy grinned, and sniffed. "I'm a big nigger now. I go to Peter Stuyvesant. That's one of the flossiest schools this side of Bip, and that's on the other side of Bop. I ain't doing bad, either. Passed everything."
"Well, I'll be goddamned."
Now Taffy knew what he wanted. He leaned closer to Crip, more confidentially. "Jesus," he whispered, "you got anything to drink? I'm choking for a slug of something."
Crip looked carefully around to be sure everyone was busy with his own affairs. With his cane, he pointed to a stubby black bottle in the bottom of the case behind him. Taffy squatted down quickly, threw up the bottle and gulped.
The warm liquid burst within him with an incendiary explosion. It shot up his nose. It cut off his breath and splashed over his feeling of grayness with a sheet of furred flame. Crip clucked and smacked his lips while he watched.
A spasm shook Taffy, and, gasping, he bent double in his crouch behind the candy case. When he had recovered, he took another drink cautiously, and put the bottle back in its hiding place. He straightened up unsteadily.
"Jesus-Christ! What was that? I almost blew my top!"
Crip giggled lispily, showing the few broken stumps of tobacco-stained teeth remaining in his mouth. "That's the real stuff. Tao Matero. Just shipped in from Jamaica. Hotter'n Mongite. Proof rum, 180o proof rum. I can use it in my cigarette lighter, too." He snapped on his lighter, which burned with a clear blue flame, trivial beside the fire raging through Taffy.
"Pretty good, eh?" chuckled Crip.
Taffy grunted and puffed on his cigarette, trying to get his furred and puckered throat back to normal. He felt the heat of rum rushing, burning out the shame and forgottenness. Self-confidence warmed a self-respecting Taffy. "Where's the gang?"
"Cripes," lisped Crip, "didn't you know? Eggie and Homer are doin' time up the hill."
"The hell you say?"
"Yeah. Got pinched on a burglary rap. Folks walked right in on 'em. Dude says he gave the signal, but Homer didn't hear 'im. They ran down the fire escape, and Homer broke his leg making the jump to the ground. Poor old Homer. But he's not too bad for a dumb old boy. They only got Eggie's name out of him. So they picked up Eggie, and Dude's still around."
"What'd they get?"
"One-to-three, and they're doing okay. Look, I got a card from Eggie. He says he's studyin' e-lec-tro-nics." Crip repeated the word over a couple of times. "Electronics, .what the hell's that? Anyway they're going to school too. Maybe it'll do 'em some good."
"Where's Dude?"
Crip jerked his thumb at the back.
Dude was shooting pool with Ralph. But when he saw Taffy, he threw down his stick. "Well, for crying out loud!" Taffy grinned because he remembered Dude affected not using profanity. Dude was a gentleman. Dude grabbed him by the hand. "Look who's here! Taffy! Great-day-in-the-morning! The dead've been raised!" He shook Taffy back and forth and finally hugged him impulsively.
Taffy felt flustered and embarrassed at the show of affection, but it was good. He waved a hand at Ralph. "Whatcha say, boy?"
Ralph, leaning against the pool table, took a sidelong look, and then went back to delicately pushing at the cuticle on one forefinger.
Dude grinned. "He just lost a buck; still trying to make luck shoot pool. Hey, Ralph! Come on, don't sulk. Taffy's home."
He shrugged one shoulder, and Taffy thought how much he was like Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. "Oh hello, there, darling," he said petulantly, but he reached for a paper bag under one of the benches. He sat and patted the seat beside himself. "Come on, darling. Tell me all about yourself." He waved a hand airily. "Take a drink. We've been so busy. It's been simply frightful."
You need your eyebrows plucked, Taffy thought, but he took the wine.
He heard the story of how Homer got caught. They agreed Homer hadn't squealed on Eggie; he just wasn't smart, not quite quick enough with the answers-Taffy reared back, propping his feet up on the darkened pool table. It was as if his friends had closed the windows that looked out on the other side of the tracks.
"Well," he said, letting his breath escape lazily, "I been going to school trying to make something out of myself, and I made a great discovery. A sucker never gets an even break."
"Ha! Did you have to go to Brooklyn to learn that?" Dude took the wine.
Taffy shook his head. "Got me!"
"Fresh air out there in Brooklyn must have made you stupid or something," said Ralph.
"Must be. Must be. Anyway, I sure got played for a thumb-tongued sucker." He took, the wine away from Dude.
"How's the house?" asked Dude.
"Oh fine. Fine. Ma's having a great time. Everything is so goddamned new I'm even afraid to sit down to shit. I got a room what looks like a Macy show window."
"You got a room?" Ralph arched his eyebrows and opened his eyes, feigning great amazement. "All to yourself? Well, my dear, I slept in a bed with my brother in a room with my two sisters until I got married." He switched to one side as Mrs. Winston-Hoyte always did after she sat down.
"You got married!" gasped Taffy. "And you ain't lying," put in Dude. Ralph tossed his head at him and gave him a dirty look.
"Jesus Christ!" said Taffy. "Homer and Eggie in jail. And you got married! You guys really gone to hell since I left."
They both laughed. Taffy laughed with them.
"Who'd you marry?"
"Don't look now, but here comes my Murder, Inc." Ralph turned quickly to Dude. "Loan me back that buck, old pal, before I catch hell from this goddamned bitch for losing my money."
"Sorry. No can do."
"Looky here, Dude."
Ralph's wife towered silently over them.
Taffy never saw Frazzles without breaking out into a prickly sweat. And now that he saw her with Ralph he remembered, just like it was happening, on that drizzly February afternoon so long ago in 133rd Street when Ralph had just come. Gust after gust of wind had whipped through the block to chill an early "depression" fall. Taffy's nostrils had dilated to smell the first heat of the year rising in the popping radiators, and through the windows he could see old Pop Johnson pull the collar of his ragged sweater up closer around his neck and rub his hands while he shivered before going back to tinkering with his fish truck.
And just as he now held the bottle, all in a flash he remembered how he had held a glass of wine halfway to his lips when the door banged open and a tremendous girl stalked into the room. Her arms akimbo, her feet wide apart, she had glared at them.
"What the hell is this?" she had rasped in a gravelly whisky voice. "A goddamned fairy's nest?" She had swaggered over and snatched Taffy's water glass of wine. She had gulped it down.
"Hey! What the hell!" Taffy had stepped back from her.
"Aw shut up, you little prick!" She threw the glass. He ducked. It shattered in the midst of the smiling face of the poster labeled "Our President" tacked between the two windows. Red wine dripped down from the stain.
That was the picture burned in Taffy's mind. A good five feet ten inches, her shoulders were as broad as Ralph's, sloping down sharply to a waist as thin as Taffy's. Her full-fleshed arms had been as round and tight as bologna, reddish brown and shiny.
She had waggled her chinless face back and forth, twisting the large loose mouth that was curled by a scar which began under her left eye to make a glazed welt to its center. I'll-spaced, ridged teeth pointed forward. She squinted small close-set eyes, as the nostrils of her wide flat nose flared back and forth as if smelling and enjoying the stupefaction with which Ralph had been gaping at her. Her head had been topped by a crop of short knappy red hair, about an inch long, which knotted about her scalp in a close fitting cap.
Frazzles!
She had laughed throatily. "Look at the little boy. He's all mixed up. Ain't that a goddamn shame!" She had swaggered slowly toward Ralph, stretched out on the sofa.
He had leaped up, hesitating in bewilderment.
Her hand had flashed and she had slapped him across the face without any warning. The "smack" made Taffy jump and blink.
Ralph had cursed and lunged for her. She met him, grappling. They teetered back and forth an instant and then crashed upon the sofa.
Taffy had stared open-mouthed while Ralph floundered around beneath her.
"You dirty goddamn bitch!" Ralph had gasped.
"You wanna fight with mama?" she had panted. He slugged to break her hold across his face. Her fingernails scratched him, and drew a little blood. She jumped back away from him. He scrambled to his feet.
In the moment he took to steady himself, she tore off her gingham hooverette and slung it from her. She glistened in ruddy nakedness. Ralph gawked at her, his hands slowly unclenching and sinking to his sides.
Taffy had never seen a full naked woman in the daylight.
Ralph had been panting. "Why-You dirty bitch-" He had raised his hands uncertainly, almost in a fighting pose.
She had chuckled. "All right, you black bastard! Do you wanna fight? Or what?"
Taffy was rooted in the middle of the floor, frantic with excitement. His eyes bugged out at the unreality unfolding before him. In an irrelevant way he listened to old "Pop" Johnson's car. The starter was grinding away unevenly. The car spluttered a moment. Then it was still. The starter ground again, unevenly. There was a chug. It pushed and pulled, tugged a little, twisted a little, and then it coughed out again, and was silent still.
The starter ground again. There were more chugs. There was a sputter. There must have been a spark; the thing was catching. It was going on, with a steady beat, and then in a burst of put-put-put's the thing caught on and the motor flew. It ran smoothly, the pistons banging with the sweetness of accomplishment.
And then it coughed. It hesitated. And the motor was raced and raced again, until it vibrated with a rhythm that seemed to rattle the world. The wine-stained picture of the President beamed down. The motor strained to outdo itself, swinging back and forth until unexpectedly it exploded to a sudden stop, as if frozen fire had jammed in its throat. A cough, a half-run, a sputter, a spasmodic jerk, and the car was dead.
Taffy had dropped back into the world and the room had slowed down to come back into focus. Ralph, panting lifelessly;
Frazzles, her open mouth drooling, one leg trailing to the floor. And Taffy full of shame and limpness had seen himself and them and hated himself.
Shame and fear and a memory of how later he had tasted her bitter saltiness until he made his escape from further humiliation were strong within him now, here, as she glared down at Ralph, not looking at any of them, who were all sitting silently on the pool hall bench staring up at her. He felt the flesh up and down his spine creep as a sneer of disgust gave her lip a double twist. The welt across her cheek crawled.
"Do you have to get mixed up with every goddamned batch of scum and trash on the street every time you go out? Even for a pack of butts? You been gone a' hour'n'half. What the hell you think I'm goin' to smoke while you fartin' aroun' toilet paper?"
She had been a full-fleshed glistening body before, but now her huge stomach, bloated with pregnancy, rode up between her swollen breasts in a belligerent hump. Her arms hung down at her sides, looking curiously thin and slack, palms forward. But there was no loss of look of power in her legs or shoulders. Her smallhead capped with the same red-cropped hair, was the same. But there was no sexuality now, only savage indominitability, all brute animal.
Ralph guardedly got to his feet.
Taffy and the group were watchfully, almost breathlessly, silent.
"Okay, baby. Okay, baby," Ralph said, and he followed his wife out of the pool hall.
Taffy and Dude stared for a moment at the doorway after they had climbed to the street. Dude began to chuckle softly, "Boy, oh boy. That sure was some wedding."
They shared a drink of wine between them.
"Old Frazzles got knocked up last winter. And was she frantic." Dude was silent a moment and Taffy enjoyed the taste.
"I guess she thought she was Superwoman or something-Or that it couldn't happen there. But when the thing got her, it got her right. She damned near killed herself, but she couldn't shake the damn thing no kind of way. And then she walked in here one night while Ralph was shooting pool."
He stared out into space, meditatively pleasant. "I'll never forget it as long as I live.
"She didn't say a word, but she hit him right square in the mouth with her fist, just like a man would hit. You know Ralph ain't no featherweight, but he landed back on that bench like he had been hit by a taxi.
"Then she started."
" 'You knocked me up, black boy; and now you're goin' to marry me. And if you don', I'm goin' to kill you; 'cause I don't bring no little black bastards into the world.'
Ralph kinda shook hisself and jumped up and swung at her with his cue stick. She didn' try to duck at all. Hit her across the shoulder. Snapped it right off. And then she clouted him again. She hit him so hard my teeth hurt; and when he bounced off the wall, she kicked him in the balls.
"Well, he doubled up, screaming bloody murder and holding his guts, and no more fight left in him than a jackrabbit."
Dude shook his head. "She sure is one more powerful gal."
"Well, anyway, she grabbed him by the shirt front and straightened him up and said, 'I'm comin' for you tomorrow mornin' to go down and git the paper to git married; and I don' want no crap.' And she dropped him and walked out and left him just like that.
"Everybody, of course, is fit to bust out laughing, but that wasn't no safe laughing time. Ralph may be pretty, but he can still be a very nasty body when he forgets hisself.
"I heard tell she arrived around at his house at six o'clock next morning. Walked right into the apartment where he was lying in bed with his brother. She whipped out a knife, and told him to get dressed. Ain't nobody said nary a word either. And they went down and got the license.
"And then Ralph cut out.
"Why he didn' get out o' town, I don't know. I guess he ain' very bright either."
The wine was gone. Dude had only one cigarette, and they shared it between them.
"Well sir," continued Dude, "Old Frazzles haunted this end of town. And then one day she gave uptown the once-over, and she saw him with some little chippie.
"Frazzles let out a war whoop and started for him. The girl was standing there looking dumb with her teeth in her mouth, and Frazzles ran right over her. Knocked her flat. Didn't hit her, just trampled her, and left her screaming on the sidewalk.
"Ralph had seen Frazzles coming and all he knew was to run. He ran right up a pile of apples and oranges in the bins of the corner fruit store. Maybe he didn't know what the hell he was doing. But anyway, the apples and oranges rolled down into the street and he fell down and slid back into the middle of the sidewalk. While the fruit was rolling all over hell, Tony was screeching, and there Frazzles stood, with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to get up.
"And that dumb nigger just lay there and said, 'Hello, baby. I been lookin' for you.'
"Frazzles busted out laughing fit to split, and told him that if he was looking for her she sure wouldn't send him to hunt for no pin. Well, she had her marrying paper in her pocketbook and she also had a knife. She told Ralph, 'Don't make no break for it,' and she marched him over to the marrying preacher, Reverend Dugan, and they got married right there and she took him down into the house where her ma's the super to live in a room with her. And that's where he is now."
They shook their heads in pity and in conclusion.
"Boy!" said Dude, "I wouldn't be in his shoes for all the tea in China." And they agreed Frazzles was the ugliest woman in the world.
Dude looked at his gold wristwatch. "Well, I gotta be going-"
"Where away?" Taffy knew he didn't want to be left alone. It was too soon to let go. "Aw, I got a date uptown."
"Okay. Mind if I go? It's been a long time since I been anywhere."
Dude shrugged, and they rode in the silence by taxi to the middle of West 142nd Street between Lenox and Seventh where the high buildings on either side of the dark narrow block seem to lean to the center of the street to close out the sky, to frown down on the passers-by.
"Hya, Sam," Dude said to the old, slovenly, dejected cripple who ran the elevator which crept up to the seventh floor. At the end of the dark hall, Dude scratched lightly on a door. A peephole slid back and an eye appeared, rolling back and forth in its mascara-rimmed socket. A muffled feminine voice said, "Just a minute, honey."
Taffy followed Dude through the heavy drapes hung on the other side of the reinforced door. He had not heard a sound outside, but inside a juke box vibrated softly with a mellow bump. It squatted in the corner, dimly lighting the small square room with slowly revolving red, orange, yellow, and green. A single red-painted bulb glowed in the ceiling light fixture.
In the middle of the floor a couple swayed rhythmically, clutched in an embrace that threatened to burst the clothing keeping them apart. Four long-haired, thin, black men hunched their "conked" heads together with the blonde thin-haired head of a white man around a little round table in the corner. A foaming glass pitcher sat in their midst. The four "conked" heads glistened. A guitar, saxophone, bass-fiddle, and drums were stacked behind them.
A cigarette passed rapidly around the ring.
The white man took a little puff, and then sniffed the curling smoke back into his widening nostrils with a sizzling wet sound while the next man snatched the butt. When the inhalation was complete, the white man grabbed a quick drink from the foaming pitcher. And after him, the next; and the next; until the cigarette had completed the rounds and he sniffed the cigarette again. The air in their corner smelled of burnt hair and chocolate.
"Tea-hounds drinking sneaky-pete," said Dude.
Two girls were playing cards at another table; and in another corner, three fat brown men whispered noisily together, arguing over a knotty problem on a piece of paper. Two more girls were standing by the juke box. One of them ran over and threw her arms about Dude. He kissed her indifferently and patted her behind. The other stared for a moment, but then joined the card-players.
Dude's girl clung to him. "Baby, you late-I thought you wasn't comin'. "
Dude shrugged his shoulders, and Taffy marveled at how black he looked against her powdered whiteness. "Ran into an old friend of mine," he said. "Hadn't seen him for a long time."
She shot a hostile look at Taffy, but apparently decided a poor excuse was better than none. She tugged on Dude. "Come on, baby. Let's not waste no more time."
Dude shook her off and walked over to the woman who had joined the card-players. "Cleo, this is Taffy, my best pal. It's been a long time since he was around. Treat him right. He's from Brooklyn."
Cleo's eyes measured Taffy up and down once. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine." With an almost imperceptible shrug she got up and started toward the kitchen. "Come on here with me, sonny," she said.
It was a slow night, and Cleo's feet hurt. This kid was obviously no business prospect, and besides Gladys and Esther hadn't been too busy. She'd call it a night. She filled a pitcher with ice cubes, poured in two bottles of beer and a bottle of wine. She motioned Taffy to follow her and walked tender-footed back to her bedroom, the last in the long apartment.
She turned on the light and waved Taffy into the room. He blinked at its pink and mauve clutter, the rumpled bed with satin ruffles, the under things about, the litter of cosmetics before the mirror which covered one wall from side to side, from ceiling to floor. Without knowing what she expected to see, she peeked through the white Venetian blinds into the courtyard. It was silent and black. Taffy was still standing, his sharp face pointedly on guard, not frightened, but knowing, hard and still, not trusting anybody. She shrugged to herself again. She was tired of seeing boys like that, too many of them.
"Sit down, honey," she said. "And excuse me."
She ignored him and wriggled out of her girdle under her robe. When she snapped loose the back of her brassiere, she turned her back. After hanging them both in the bathroom off her boudoir, she sank down in her pillow-back chaise lounge. As she stretched out her legs, she closed her eyes, and reaching inside her wrap, she scratched her stomach and sighed with pleasure at having escaped her girdle prison.
She patted a leatherette ottoman beside her. Taffy had been watching her with wooden face and blank eyes, his hands dangling limply between his knees.
"Okay, dearie," she said, "don't sit over there feeling sorry for yourself. Come on over here and tell mama all about it. You look like you got something on your mind." Cleo had been pretty not too long ago, a Creole olive, richly delicious. But now the prettiness was flabby, as if the bottom had slipped from beneath her skin. Yet from being used to men doing what she asked, her voice still carried easy authority.
He came and sat, and she began wondering just what he had come up here for. He wasn't trying to be wise like most kids. Neither was he green, the dullness in his eyes couldn't be just put there but came of having seen too much to catch fire just from an idea. Even the way in which he came and sat beside her, as if he had done it because she told him to, was the way of an old man, who had nothing more than a hope he knew would always disappoint him until he died.
"Come on," she said a little more gently, "tell me about it."
Taffy said there wasn't anything to tell.
She poured him a glass of the "sneaky-pete" and drained her own glass. She held the pitcher, waiting, to force him to hurry his. He drank and she filled his glass again. She asked what Dude had meant when he had said it had been a long time since he was around. Had he been in jail?
Taffy said he hadn't been in jail.
"Well, then, where have you been?" She was tired, but anybody would pet a beaten or cringing dog. She patted his cheek and let her hand rest on his arm. "Tell me. I really want to know."
It was as though he had withdrawn from her touch, as though he were afraid for any kindness to touch him; so she removed her hand. But he began a plodding story of moving and the house in Brooklyn. Cleo led him on, until his voice kept coming, expressionless, about the new home, the white people, the new furniture, about school, about Geraldine. He told of his "Love-affair" with Lillian, and his voice grew thin and flat, as though he was a long distance from his speaking; and Cleo knew better than Taffy why it had been the way it had been. She was drawn to listen.
She was used to hearing married men explain their frustrations. Men, crying because they had grown up, were part of her occupational fatigue. She knew the rationalizations of why they crept to her. And she had compassion for them. She felt that men who were whipped and defeated were willing to pay five dollars for the momentary illusion of importance and supremacy.
Cleo, the whore, had been successful because her out-reaching humanity was her stock in trade. It fed the needs of the bruised. She filled up the empty man. When he seized her, tore her, and tried to break her in his hands, she submitted and was pliant. When he was timid and frantic, anxious to get it over with, she was playful and coy and made him win her. When he was quiet and unresponsive, she let him lie beside her, when her business sense told her that precious dollars in time were slipping away.
Cleo said that what she gave and what she sold was not her body. She gave understanding and courage. She created a reversed moment when all twisted failures and frustrations of life were thrown back in the face of the world. She gave men the solace of their manhood, and self-respect, which living had taken away.
As Taffy patiently uncovered himself the juke box was bumping softly. In the next room she heard a muffled gasp and the sigh of ecstasy. She relaxed. The wine warmed her. She felt herself overflow toward the pinched-face mariney-haired little boy who was pouring out his lonesomeness, failure and bitterness. Men could stand it, for men were strong, but it was too much to ask a child to carry such a heavy painful load.
She suffered with him, so she took him to her to comfort him in the best way she knew how.
There was an awkward moment. While his frail body and chilly cheek lay against the warmth of her flesh, he mumbled, "I ain't got no money, Cleo--? "
She stopped his lips with her fingers. "There is no pay for love," she whispered, and wondered at how soft his mouth was, like a little girl's. And in his question, her last fear that she was being "hyped" or fooled collapsed and the tight thing inside her that guarded was not there. She felt glad and almost eager.
And so she satisfied him, made him feel adequate, and manly and strong, because she was wise and knew what to do. Because Taffy had great need to believe it, he was lifted up.
As he turned toward home from the subway, he walked with a sure step.
That night the world was at peace.
The five tea-hounds had sniffed the marijuana into lovely dreams. The couple had a wonderful time in bed. The three other girls had enough business to be pleased. Dude's girl enjoyed her night off, on her busman's holiday. Ralph mastered Frazzles in spite of her pregnancy, which pleased them both. Cleo felt clean and purified for an act of grace and mercy. Taffy slept serenely, puffed proud with his Cleo-given self-esteem. While the ninon curtains billowed out softly in the living room, letting the street light reflect itself upon the polished floor, Martha, in her sleep, graciously received congratulations before the AIl-American Newsreel for the seventeenth time.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte was anticipating her trip to Cincinnati while she cold-creamed her face. Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone snored loudly although he knew his seven months' waiting would finally bear fruit. Mrs. Stone, wide-eyed beside him, thanked God again and again that Father Cobalt had asked her to help in his efforr to build his new parish house. The Reverend Mr. Cobalt slept more dreamlessly than he had for many a night because Mrs. Stone had put a merciful period to something which he had fought helplessly to stop, over which his flesh had conquered him again and again until he had been on the verge of spiritual hysteria. (For the time being, he had forgotten about the parish house.)
Paul Stone had seen Taffy put in his place again, as he ought to be. Geraldine had shed a nuisance. Bill Mcintosh had taken Lillian Kromer home and kissed her goodnight, which pleased both of them too.
Mrs. Kromer was satisfied, for Mr. Kromer had gotten drunk and not disappointed her. Mrs. Finger, Mrs. Pegler, Mrs. Mcintosh, and even Mrs. Max Smith, to say nothing of the other ladies of the Y.W.C.A. branch on Dean Street (colored), were pleased with a successful social event. The various husbands of the ladies slept soundly because their wives were not nagging or fretful.
And out through {he night, the Black Diamond Express roared past Cayuga's waters on the Lehigh Valley Railroad, as Tom Johnson bent over, polishing his nightly quota of shoes.
BOOK TWO
I
Martha put down her pen, leaned back and closed her eyes. The warmth of the early July morning sun, filtering through the curtains, slowed down her effort. She snapped her eyes open and shook herself, for the speech must be good. It was to be the first announcement of her candidacy for the Assembly in the 17th District in Brooklyn. The occasion was the presenting of the carillon chimes to the Rock of Ages Baptist Church on behalf of the Ladies Aid Society.
The carillon chimes, a record player and amplifying system hooked to four loud-speakers hung in the church tower, had been bought after a month's drive by the ladies. Martha tried not to feel condescending toward their $900 success, but she could not stop herself from thinking that in the same period of time previously, she had raised over $50,000, including pledges, as head of the parish house fund drive of St. Simon's Episcopal Church, and she mentally thanked Mrs. Stone again for having asked her to head that effort.
Martha's pen was idle. She let it slip from her fingers and picked up a slender book, Hoiv to Raise Money. There it all was, about selling "bricks," setting up street collections, mailing letters (with the samples she had borrowed), organizing visiting teams and all the other things. She smiled. She could now enjoy the anxious harassment with which Father Cobalt had said, "I really don't get the 'brick' idea." He had been sitting on the edge of his chair beside her desk, rubbing his fingers again and again through the stubbly hair on his head.
She had patiently said, "The brick idea is the most important phase of our young people's division work. The books are already printed, and each sheet is perforated into 'bricks,' marked 25c, 50c, 75c, and $I.00. Here's a sample."
He had stared at the orange booklet. "But don't they get anything? Just a piece of paper?" He had sagged more dolorously. "Why, it's not even a raffle!"
"But it will be successful," she had told him. And it had too, all of it, even the children Mrs. Mcintosh had trained to dramatize the "Conditions and Needs of Bedford-Stuyvesant" for the white churches. Mrs. Pegler had sat up all one night sewing the patches on the clothes so they would be right, and to add just a fillip of lagniappe. Mrs. Max Smith had really done a superb job of publicity.
Looking back at it, she was frightened at the task she had driven to completion; but she opened her scrap book and dreamily turned the pages of newspaper stories about the campaign, the pictures of herself, and finally the eulogizing editorial in the white daily paper, the Brooklyn Eagle. She picked up some of the letters of congratulations, the invitations to join this-that-and-the-other. She reread those inviting her to join the boards of the Community Center, the Helping-Hand Case Work Agency, the Bedford-Stuyvesant Council, the District Health Committee and the Inter-School Parent-Teachers Association. Lastly, she fingered the brief note in Dr. Warden's angular handwriting, praising her participation in "the larger community life" and telling her the board had voted her a raise. "Two hundred dollars a month," she murmured, "more than Tom makes, many a month."
And then, just when she had been sure life could offer her nothing further, they had come-Mrs. Mcintosh, George Mettig, Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, Mrs. Kromer, Mrs. Max Smith, Reverend Stone, a Mr. Van Arsdale, Dr. Finger, an unidentified white man and Mrs. Gertie Pegler, her snaggle-teeth shining in a generous grin, her "home-cooked" hair stuck out at various angles from beneath her dowdy hat.
They, for the Bedford-Stuyvesant Citizens Non-Partisan Political Committee of Fifty, had asked her to run for the Assembly in her district. She had gasped in surprise, and she could still see and hear Mrs. Pegler.
"Now, looky here, honey, there ain't no need for you to begin beatin' around the bush, playin' coy. You caught this burg by the tail and made it squeal ever since you been here. There ain't nobody can push these here preachers around but you, and you showed 'em with that there drive you can organize like nobody's business. The people love you, honey. The people want you, and you can't say no to the people."
So now Martha was writing her first political speech.
She sighed and let her eyes close again. The sun felt good.
She heard a noise on the stair. She looked up and her face stiffened. She called, "Taffy--? "
He turned from going out the front door. His shuffling feet scraped grittily upon her well-waxed floors, but became silent on the rug. He stood before her desk.
"Are you going to school?"
He blinked for an instant as though the idea of school were a startlingly new thought. "Yes'm."
"Well, I hope so, because I still can't understand what happened to your grades. You were doing so well. And now-"
She watched him squint and his mouth pucker sullenly. Obviously there wasn't much point in talking along that line further.
"I hope you know what a sacrifice it is for, you to go to summer school?"
He shrugged one shoulder slightly.
Martha felt a prickly exasperation rise. What was wrong with him? He was so secretive, and now he looked like a mole peeping from a dark hole. "I never see you very much, Taffy."
"Well, you ain't home very much-"
She flushed at his belligerence, but she decided she should try to make peace. "I know, Taffy." She got up to move toward him. "But as soon as the house is paid for, then we can all have more time together." She watched him sidle away from her.
"I got to go to school now. 'Sat all?"
She stopped. "Yes, that's all."
The Sunday sun had risen red, but Martha sat alone in her pew. Somewhere above the dusty rostrum in the choir loft, she knew Elizabeth had lost her identity under the homogeneous choir academic gowns and mortar boards. Tom was running on the road; and in a pique of pride, she had determined she would not beg Taffy to come. She had told him what it was, that her speech today was the launching of her campaign, but he had just put on that sullen patient look as though he couldn't wait for her-to let him be.
She clutched her notes in her hand, and then, conscious of perspiration, smoothed them out and fanned herself. Looking about the auditorium, she saw that the heat had shriveled the size of the congregation to less than a third of normal, even though the chimes were being presented and almost everyone in church had given something. She explained to herself that it was stifling hot. Not a breath of breeze stirred. The ribbon from the pulpit to the tower where the carillon machine had been installed hung limp and motionless mid-air. She hoped the switch-on would work properly when Reverend Stone pulled the ribbon. The men had been fumbling with it until twelve o'clock the night before.
She frightened as a long-winded announcement of a card party by the Holiday Girls ended. But she slumped when meek Miss Alice Brown began her monthly plaintive plea for help with the boys' choir. Martha twisted in her pew with annoyance. She had heard that whining squeak so regularly that she hated not only Alice Brown but also the" three rebellious-looking and rumpled boys who passed for the boys' choir in the front pew.
She looked slowly about the church and wondered at how much had happened since they had first come to this place a little more than a year ago. She found it difficult, and somewhat painful, to call back to memory the shabby family that had been herded into a corner on their first visit. And then, her success with her job, and the Y.W. campaign, and the miracle of the fund drive. And now, to be an assemblyman. Mrs. Mcintosh would add, "And a woman, too." Martha smiled at how Mrs. Mcintosh had said, "Of course, I was defeated when I ran, but I was the first Negro to run. Now, I want you to be the first to be elected."
"-our very good friend and sister, Martha Johnson." Reverend Stone was beaming in her direction.
Martha scrambled to get to her feet, and then, conscious of herself, took on the cloak of dignity. She wondered as she walked to the front what Reverend Stone had said. She was annoyed that she had been daydreaming and had missed it.
"On behalf of the Ladies' Aid Society of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church," she began in a well-controlled voice. Her annoyance faded as she enjoyed the fullness of the sounds in her mouth and the quiet ease with which her speech flowed while presenting the chimes.
She paused.
She announced her candidacy. A bite of pain flicked at her when the only response it raised was a mild buzz of curiosity. She talked on about the needs of the community and pledged herself to serve faithfully, but as she spoke, she watched, with a new kind of annoyance, the ushers walking to and fro at th'. -back of the church and the congregation shifting about in their seats. . .
She cut her speech short. There was no applause, only a ripple of reviving interest in what would happen next.
Reverend Stone stood up and said, "Thank you very much. The church appreciates the gift of the Ladies' Aid Society." Martha tried not to believe that he had a look of sly satisfaction that her speech had been so flatly received. He paused, and then added, "We thank everyone who helped in this effort. Now we will hear the world-famous Westminster Chimes."
He pulled the string.
The "Barrelhouse, Blues" thundered through the church.
For five blocks around, from Putnam to Fulton, from Sumner to Patchen, hot piano, throaty trombone and wailing clarinet screeched, pumped and roared to the thunderous rhythmic boom of amplified bass fiddle.
The Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone held the ribbon in his hand. He was gaping open-mouthed at what he had let loose. His glasses popped from his nose. The choir rose as one to its feet, leaning forward to try to see. A fat girl in front dropped her mortarboard over the choir rail. The hat landed, "Clump!" on the rostrum behind one of the deacons. He stepped back on it unawares. The music beat on. Everyone had jumped up, and all were whirling back and forth to question each other. The ushers at the front door ran to the back, the ushers at the back ran to the front, like agitated ants whose hill had been toppled, the tails of their morning coats flopping behind. Someone began to shriek.
The little gray-haired lady who sat on the front row rocked in rhythm with the music and patted her feet. "Amen!" she said heartily, shaking her head. "Amen!"
The frantic pastor yanked on the ribbon again. It broke and floated lazily down while the "Barrelhouse Blues" beat and swelled.
"Turn it off!" shouted Reverend Stone. "Why in the hell don't somebody turn it off?" But even his thunderous bellow was barely audible over the thumping, roaring vibrations of the machine.
"someone broke the key off in the lock!" one of the deacons screeched. "We can't get it-"
"Well, goddammit then, break it down!" bawled the preacher, leaping down from the podium to go do it himself.
As his bulk landed, one foot crashed through the floor. He fell heavily on one side. He screamed in agony. He writhed on the floor, clutching his leg, his foot caught, his mouth working, the syllables lost in the confusion poured down on bedlam. The people crowded around him.
Martha sat stiffly still in her seat. She wished she could close her ears so she might not hear what she had already decided was so.
Two deacons finally broke in the door to snatch the needle from the record which had been serenely beating a solid eight-to-a-bar. Other deacons carried Reverend Stone, moaning and groaning, out of the church; and the service was over. There was no preaching, no collection, no anything. Everyone simply got up and went home.
As people were leaving, Martha looked down at the damp papers still clutched in her hand. She flung them to the floor and with tears in her eyes also made her way toward the front door.
Mrs. Stone fidgeted nervously on the broad edge of the gray sofa. She was blinking very rapidly. "My dear," she said, "I have always admired you; but I'm really tremendously impressed with your courage in raising such a question. Practically everyone-that is-" She pawed clumsily for words.
"I asked him," Martha said dully. "He denies it. I don't know what to do. Even if he did it, I don't know what to do. I wanted to talk to someone. I thought you could help."
"Oh, I can't tell you how sorry I am." Mrs. Stone sounded genuinely pained. "And I know what a trial boys can be. Paul sometimes-" She stopped blinking and squinted. "But I couldn't believe he'd do a thing like that, no matter how full of devilment he might be."
Martha looked at her in surprise, but then shook her head to herself. She was sure Mrs. Stone was just trying to ease it a bit. She put her hand to her head. "What am I going to do with him, Mrs. Stone? What am I going to do?"
"Some things call for professional help," Mrs. Stone said guardedly, "and you might like to go to the Helping Hand Case Work Agency. They have a Family Counseling Bureau. I'm sure that if you talk freely, they will be able to offer some light."
"I'll go," Martha said with abrupt determination.
She made her appointment, and on the next afternoon when she came into the office, a fat blonde girl greeted her and led her into a little cubbyhole in which were a small table and two chairs. Martha was startled when the girl closed the door behind them and sat down.
"You're the counsellor?"
"Yes, Mrs. Johnson. I am Mrs. Pare. I'm new here in the agency. Won't you sit down?"
"You're awfully young-" Martha said as she sat.
The girl smiled and said, "Yes." But that she had graduated from an accredited school of social work and had worked in a mental hygiene clinic for three years before coming to the Helping Hand Agency. "Handling problem children is a skill," she said, "just like a doctor handling a patient. From sharing many problems with boys and girls who are having difficulties, one acquires a wealth of experience and information no single mother could have." She was smiling pleasantly. "Of course, if you would prefer an older worker, I am sure it can be arranged."
Martha was irritated by the girl's complacency. But she told herself that she couldn't be less gracious than Mrs. Pare, so she insisted that that had not been what she meant at all and poured out her problem, which was that she was afraid Taffy was not making the most of the opportunities open to him in Brooklyn. Instead, after a good start, he failed in school where she had gone to great trouble to enroll him. She didn't know how he was doing in summer school. He had taken so little interest in what the family was doing, and now he had done this awful thing at church. She repeated several points to make them clear.
Then she stopped abruptly. She realized the social worker had put down her pencil several minutes before. The mild pleasantness about her mouth had vanished, and Martha felt she looked critical, disapproving.
"Taffy is not a bad boy," Martha said abruptly. She flushed. Why had she let herself' in for explaining herself to this insignificant white girl. "Mrs. Stone suggested I come." Martha clamped her mouth shut.
The silence was uneasy.
"Well," snapped Martha, "what do you think?" She was also annoyed with her own shortness.
The social worker cocked her head on one side and looked out the window. "Well, I really don't know." She sounded exasperatingly calm. Almost uninterested. "Tell me, Mrs. Johnson," she said, slowly facing her, "when have you been to the movies with your family?"
"Movies? I don't have time for such fripperies!" She took another breath. "I'm a religious woman!"
"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. What I meant was, Mrs. Johnson, any family fun together. A picnic, or a-" She looked up expectantly.
"Or what?" snapped Martha.
The girl flushed. "Well, what I mean is"-the words were a little hurried-"doesn't your family do anything together that you enjoy? What do you do for fun?"
"I came here to talk about my son Taffy. Not about my family and what we do for 'fun'. ! "
"But you can't talk about just one person. Your son is part of a whole family. If he's shut out, then he'll do anything to try to get in."
"My son is part of my family; and he doesn't have to 'try to get in.' " Martha mimicked the social worker. "I just want him to go ahead and make something out of himself."
"Yes, I know, but you can't drive him to-"
"Drive him?" Martha cut her off. She felt her skin crawl.
"Yes." The social worker nodded her head once emphatically. "In normal family warmth, normal family love-"
"Normal family what!" Martha almost shouted.
"What I mean is--" The social worker took a breath that Martha interpreted to mean she was trying to be patient. Her face was flushed. "Let-him-alone. Let him be what he wants to be." The words speeded up. "Let him find out for himself at which level he wants to live."
"Well, he only wants to be a tramp!" Martha snapped triumphantly.
The social worker's words flooded out, soft but pressing. "Well, if that's what he wants, maybe that's enough. Maybe being a tramp would be just enough for him. The most important thing is that you have to let him find his own level-"
"Don't tell me my boy's a tramp and can't be anything better!" Martha leaped to her feet, shouting, "We're worth a thousand white trash like you!"
The executive secretary of the agency burst in, fluttering her hands in panic. "Mrs. Pare! Mrs. Pare!" she cried. "Control yourself! Don't you know who this is? This is Mrs. Johnson! Mrs. Martha Johnson! I can't understand how you could permit yourself to be so unprofessional!"
Mrs. Pare's lips were pressed in a tight thin line.
The secretary poured herself over Martha. "Oh, Mrs. Johnson, I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened to that girl. She is one of our ablest workers; but I guess-Oh, I don't know." She was patting Martha on the back and trying to get her out of the little cubicle.
After she had permitted herself to be mollified and was again safely home, she sat at her desk tapping the telephone with a fingernail. She wished she knew more about Taffy and Lillian.
They had been such good friends, and then it had just ended. Mrs. Kromer had been puzzled too. Bill Mcintosh had been friendly with Taffy once. Maybe she could encourage that. And as for that agency-
" 'This is Mrs. Martha Johnson!' " she quoted, enjoying the words. " 'This is Mrs. Martha Johnson!' " Yes, indeed! And she had brought her family so far and didn't need any cheap little chits to tell her Negroes had to be tramps to be happy. She glowed. That's who she was, and it felt good to let the butchers, the Codringtons, and everybody know now that she was Mrs. Martha Johnson. About Taffy-Well, maybe he didn't do it. Mrs. Stone had looked a bit queer, but she would try to do something about him anyway. She would invite the McIntoshes to dinner. That would be a beginning.
Tom reached over in bed to touch his wife. "Martha, why did you tell those folks I was writing a book?"
She only half turned toward him. "Well, you're a college man. Why don't you?"
"Yes. But there's a-"
"You always had a lot of words to pile on top of each other when we were in college. You talked me right out of my family and home. Why don't you put some of that down on paper and then maybe you could escape from that pullman car?'
He didn't answer.
"Or maybe you don't want to." Martha turned back, and he didn't have to answer.
He twisted restlessly about in bed. He thought that Martha was such a stranger these days. It was almost better to be on the road. It wasn't that he hadn't had dreams. He'd had high hopes too, but he could still hear Mr. Boehm, his first boss, say, "I think you better draw your time, Tom Johnson. You've been a good porter here, but if you think you're too good for the job, then you'll make a poor porter. I'm only interested in your being a good porter." And then his neighbor McGregor had taken him to the steel mills.
McGregor-
The memory took form-McGregor sprawled in a rocking chair in front of his coal stove, talking while he scratched inside his grimy long underwear. "What'd you 'spect, Tom? White folks like us, as long as we stay in our own dirty backyards. But when we start moving out, they get scared as hell."
"But I only said I went to college and wanted a chance."
"Yeah, I know." McGregor had stopped to scratch more vigorously. "Damned bedbugs get all over the goddamned house." He shifted his bulk and the chair creaked. "Lemme tell you somethin'. All white folks is scared. Tha's why they keeps they business, they jobs, they women, everything, as far out of reach as they can."
Tom had scratched his head in silent doubt, but he was more worried about his newborn baby and Martha still in the hospital.
"Son, I bet if you'd stayed quiet long enough, Mr. Big-I-Is would-a brought you upstairs hisself. He ain't afraid of a dog he's let in out of the rain. But don't go up and knock On the door to sit before the fire. He'll call out the hounds and let loose with the family firearms." X
"But what am I going to do?" Tom had asked querulously.
"Well," McGregor had drawled, stretching, "they ain't but one thing to do. You got to con the white man, rub his back. Yeah, even lick his behind. ThenLock him out." He had halted dramatically while he started putting on his shoes. "We gotta stay in our place, but we can build it up, get strong, until the race, the people, is big enough to give every man what he wants without askin' the white man anything. The white man ain't goin'ta like that; and he ain't goin'ta give up, either. He'll just change the way he fights and try to talk 'sweet,' hopin' if he's sweet enough we'll stop sluggin' so goddamned hard. A white man ain' shit!"
"All the same," said Tom, "I wished I hadn't picked right now to find it out."
"They ain't no better time than 'right now' to get smart, sonny, if you just don' get scared yo'se'f or start havin' you' feelin's hurt because when you scratch the grin off a white man, you see he's cold afeered unnerneath." McGregor had stood up--.
"And a job ain' no tough kick. You all come on to the steel mills with me."
Then the war had gone, and the work in the mills had ended. There had been a bad time getting help from "the agency," which had finally given him the pullman porter job. He shivered at the chill memory of the bitter quarrel with Martha before they had decided to make the most of what was and to start saving to get a home.
Tom twisted about in bed. Now that they had their home, why was Martha still in a turmoil? He turned over again and seemed to be in his father's tiny office which was full of the gagging odor of medicine and his father, huge, yellow, freckled, booming, "God is for women and babies!" And then he saw his mother in bed, staring out into space. And while he knew she was gentle and quiet, still he felt this was something different. He said, "Good morning," and she did not rouse from her staring. When he shook her gently, she fell over out of bed, without changing her sad smile or moving her fixed wide-open eyes.
He screamed and screamed.
His father came in and struck him for making such a noise. He didn't dare cry until after the funeral, and then there were no tears. Immediately he was lying in bed with Martha while a pot-bellied little stove cast flickering light on a papered low ceiling and her breasts were soft and warm on his cheeks and he felt sheltered and safe. But when he reached out to embrace her, she was not there. He was falling down into a dark hole. He cried out, and the sound of his own voice brought him bolt upright in bed.
Martha stirred.
He slipped out of bed and sat at the window. He loved Martha, so he would find a way, somehow.
Martha rolled over and saw Tom at the window. She went and stood beside him.
"I was just thinking about being a pullman porter," he said. "I guess I have kinda hit a hole, although I don't mind the work. After all, being a pullman porter made it pretty good for us here."
Martha bit her lips. She wondered if this home would look very much as it did without her earnings. But she held it back.
She said, "I guess I should be grateful you had the strength of character to stick it out."
He was silent, so she went on.
"What hurts, I guess, is that I know you could do so much more. Maybe I'm really angry at myself. Perhaps I'm afraid that without us, you'd have been a great lawyer, if we hadn't run away to get married. Maybe I have a guilty conscience, and want to lift you up because I'm afraid your family has been a dead weight around your neck."
"That's a foolish thought, Martha." He kissed her, but he sounded tired and turned to stare out the window again. "I don't want anything but for you to be happy. Only thing ever hurt me was because I had to see you wanting things I couldn't give you. I'm satisfied that we're doing good here in Brooklyn. I'm just waiting for the day when I can call you 'Mrs.. Assemblyman.' And I reckon there's not a finer wife or a more loving mother anywheres."
He was quiet for a moment.
She waited.
"And I'll write, Martha, if that's what you want, for you being happy is more than anything else in the world to me."
Martha sighed with satisfaction and went back to bed to go to sleep.
2
M artha listened, wishing she didn't have to understand. The three men before her filled the bay window of her living room where her desk sat. She felt crowded, and uneasily close. The silence of her rugs and drapes seemed to exaggerate the harsh unpleasantness of what she was hearing.
"You see, Mrs. Johnson," Van Arsdale said, his brown fat face shining with perspiration and grease, "if the Republicans had put up a Negro, then the Negro vote plus the Republican vote could beat us. That's why we could force the majority in this district to accept a Negro Democratic candidate. But then, the Republicans didn't do it. So now we got to shift."
Dr. Finger chewed his cigar more vigorously. "Gimme a match, George," he said to George Mettig, who had been bobbing his head, word by word, in agreement with Van Arsdale.
"But I don't see-" Martha began.
Van Arsdale talked through her question. "If we tried to run a Negro against a white Republican, so many Democrats would bolt we would sure get froze out. We don't have enough to buck the tide, so our advice is for you to pull out and to let George here have a clean sweep. There ain't no point in stirring up a lot of bitterness in the primary that we'd only have to work against in the election."
"Check!" said Dr. Finger, and Mettig bobbed his head in agreement with that too.
Martha frowned. "I still don't understand. If the Republicans could beat the Democrats by putting up a Negro, why can't we beat them by putting up a Negro?"
"This is practical politics, Mrs. Johnson," Dr. Finger said. He spat at an invisible piece of cigar tobacco on his lip. He stopped to wipe at it with the back of his hand and then jammed the cigar deep between his lips. He spoke from the opposite side of his mouth. "The main thing is to win. Now this isn't the last election, and in a couple of years the district will probably develop enough so there won't be any question of our being able to get away with naming a Negro." The doctor sounded abrupt.
"I didn't know I was running as a 'Negro.' " Martha felt her temper rising. "I accepted the invitation as a citizen, invited by a citizens non-partisan committee, not the Democratic Party."
"Now don't start talking like that, Mrs. Johnson." Dr. Finger also seemed to show a bit of temper. "This is going to be a tough election." He chewed his cigar and mumbled half under his breath, "And besides running a woman won't help."
Martha straightened up quickly. She opened her mouth, but Van Arsdale spoke first.
"Of course there's nothing against you, personally, Mrs. Johnson. We want you to help us, and if we get George elected, we're sure there is something can be done for you."
She gripped the arms of her chair, but the tremor of her inner rage showed in spite of herself. "What you say is very interesting, gentlemen. If I decide to withdraw, I'll let you know. A citizens committee asked me to run. I don't know why I should let just one group push me out."
Van Arsdale raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. Dr. Finger jammed both hands in his coat pockets and sucked noisily on his cold wet cigar which he had not lighted with the match Mettig had offered.
"Citizens committees are okay, Mrs. Johnson," George Mettig said. He interrupted himself to laugh nervously. "But it takes the good old regular machine to get out the vote in a primary."
His eager try at joviality reminded Martha sharply of Tom when the people had come to demand that they move. She suppressed a bitter smile.
"The regular Democratic organization is the primary, Mrs. Johnson. And in this district, winning the Democratic nomination is as good as being electedIf we can just get around any foolish splits-" His face became stern and earnest. "Now what we need is unity and cooperation. Cooperation. That's the key to political success."
Martha turned bitterly and pointedly to Dr. Finger and Van Arsdale. "George Mettig has been in my house before, to tell me what I can and can't do. But I'm surprised at you gentlemen."
"Now don't get us wrong, Mrs. Johnson," Dr. Finger said, mopping his shining black face, "we got as much race pride as anybody. But I don't think this district is ready to go down the line on a Negro yet. You got to wait on some things." He swallowed, and the cigar stub bobbed up and down.
"We put a lot of time into the organization, Mrs. Johnson," said Van Arsdale, blinking solemnly, "and we can't kick over the bucket the first time we get caught in a political squeeze. You got to put the organization first. It isn't going to be too many years before electing a Negro Assemblyman will be a cinch, and-"
Dr. Finger broke in. "We'll make a deal with you. Pass it up this time, and as soon as the time is ripe-You're the man!" He made a. spitting, blowing sound for emphasis, bobbing his head vigorously.
"Look at the map!" A note of irritation had crept into Van Arsdale's voice. "Bedford-Stuyvesant is cut across by three long assembly districts. We don't make up more than a third or a fourth of any individual district. So we have to swing along with the majority."
"I still don't see what's changed," said Martha, "unless there's . something more I don't know about." But as she let herself back in her chair, she told herself that there was no point in trying to talk about it further with these men. No mofe point than in trying to make Miss Codrington understand what it meant to have a husband who wasn't a real man and looked to a woman in a social service agency for help and strength. She cut it off. What did that have to do with it? That was in the past; and yet how like standing at the window on 99th Street, watching the empty street, while exhaustion ached in her back, and her mouth was dry and sour with tenseness. The full flavor was strong upon her, the hatred of the long dreary years of saving that had made the block look uglier and uglier while Tom kept mumbling in some kind of blind hope, "Only until something breaks. As soon as things open up a little." Maybe that was it? The helplessness, watching Taffy and Elizabeth, hand in hand, fleeing around the corner-even at that distance, the fixed fear sharp on their faces -while a tin can sailed over their heads and clattered into the street. "Ya yah, ya little nigger sissy! Gotcher sister to take you to school." The conflict between running to the rescue and something of North Carolina and remembering white folks keeping her paralyzed while Elizabeth turned back on a boy, caught him by his shirt tail to swing him round and round until she tripped and stumbled to her knees, while the others swarmed in, kicking and hitting, a tall red-headed girl screaming laughter as she kicked at Elizabeth buried beneath four or five boys, the crowd dancing around, leaping up and down, laughing and shouting.
The indecision, because what can one do but hate and be afraid and clench empty fists with three-way anguish, while watching Mrs. Finkelstein, short and fat, waddle into the melee with swinging hands until they had scattered and she had picked her up, Elizabeth, Martha's child, to mother her to her, to her bosom, and wipe her face-while nothing but shame remained that was accused in the silence when Elizabeth neither whimpered nor cried as the cut on her head was being doctored with iodine.
She had had a bellyful of it. And now, just as though they hadn't crossed so many bridges, it was back, strong and bitter, while she looked at the hopeful face of George Mettig, the pouting blackness of Dr. Finger, and the resigned patience of Van Arsdale.
Elizabeth was not dirty or disheveled. The apartment was not stinking and cold. Taffy was not staring at her with Tom's hurt-dog look that gouged into her. But her hands were as empty.
"There is nothing more to discuss," she said aloud, and she felt as flat as her voice sounded. "I'll let you know my decision in a few days."
"We haven't got much time, Mrs. Johnson," began Van Arsdale nervously. "It's only three weeks to election, and-" She was looking at him, but he must have felt she was seeing more beyond him, for he stopped. He moved his head to one side.
Dr. Finger got up, working his lips in and out around the cigar stub. "Okay, Mrs. Johnson, if that's the way you want it. But we can't take no other way." The others also rose and bowed themselves out. Mettig hesitated in the doorway. "Nothing personal, you know, Mrs. Johnson," he said wistfully. He closed the door behind them.
"We'll show 'em!" Mrs. Pegler was huskily breathy with belligerence. The straggly ends of her hair quivered from beneath the saucer hat decorated with the drooping peacock feather. "Weil build such a bonfire nobody will be able to see anything but Martha Johnson. Weil make her a people's candidate. Weil campaign on street corners. Weil campaign in bars and grills, barber shops, pool halls and candy stores. Weil go up and down Brooklyn and dig out Democrats no one ever heard of before. Weil show 'em you can't defeat the people!"
Martha looked from Mrs. Pegler to Mrs. Mcintosh to Reverend Stone to Mrs. Kromer to Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. There had been fifty on the citizens committee. She had called them all to the emergency meeting. She wished she could catch some of Mrs. Pegler's vehemence, but even these few who had come looked uneasy and not too happy about Mrs. Pegler's plans. "We're so few!" She knew she should be sounding a note of vigor, but the pall of the fixedness of the men of the afternoon seemed to have smothered something which had hitherto been free. She let her hands unclasp in her lap. "I don't know-"
"Well, I do, honey," snapped Mrs. Pegler. "It don't take no million to do nothing. The unemployed folks learned me what a lot of guts can do with a mimeograph machine and an iron constitution." She whirled on the others. "Well, all right! Whatcha sitting on your hands for? She wants to know where you stand. Whatcha goin' to do?"
Mrs. Mcintosh wiggled herself up straight in her chair. "There is no need for us to say where we stand. Mrs. Johnson knows we are her friends. We are with her through thick and thin. We know she would make a tremendous contribution to the government of this state. It is time that a Negro woman entered the halls of New York's State Legislature and carried forward the eternal battle for women's rights. The woman of today-"
"Okay! Okay!" cut in Mrs. Pegler. "We don't need no speeches on the woman of today right now." Putting her hands on her hips, she faced Reverend Stone belligerently.
He rose up pompously from his chair, settled his waistcoat over the bulging top of his pin-stripe trousers, and pulled down his swallow-tail coat from behind. He coughed and cleared his throat with a loud rattle. In his most stentorian tones, he said, "My dear friends-"
He said the campaign must go on, and he took all of twenty minutes to say it. While he spoke, walking up and down, gesticulating, roaring and booming until Martha was sure the win-dowpanes rattled, she made her decision. She would not be put to one side. She wouldn't let the conniving obstruction of a few balk her. Other hurdles and walls had been overcome, and when Rev. Stone finally sat down, mopping the perspiration from his face, she was ready to go ahead.
Mrs. Kromer leaned toward her. "Don't fret, dear. John has always been interested in politics. I think he might be glad of an opportunity to help."
"Personally," said Mrs. Mcintosh, who still looked ruffled at having been cut off by Mrs. Pegler, "I'm just as glad those politicians dropped out. Women," she said acidly, glaring at Mrs. Pegler, "can do things too."
"Of course. Of course," boomed Reverend Stone. "Be more dignified too. We must remember. We stand for the community. Must hold our heads high. Can't let down."
"And besides," said Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, "the plans have already been made for the dinner at the church. And it is going to be quite an innovation to have a formal affair in mid-July. And quite smart too. And I am sure the campaign will set a new high in community endeavor. And I-"
"Okay. Okay," said Mrs. Pegler impatiently. "In the meantime, I'm goin' to get the lists of registered Democrats copied. Thank God we don't have to mess around with getting nominating petitions signed. We can thank them bastards-" She caught herself. "I mean them, for that."
Reverend Stone blinked reproachfully at Mrs. Pegler. Mrs. Winston-Hoyte giggled elaborately behind her hand and winked. Mrs. Kromer raised her eyebrows.
"I will approach the ministers, especially those on the committee, the white clergy," Martha said hurriedly.
Mrs. Pegler looked glum for a moment. Then she set her jaw and poked out her mouth. "Well," she said, "Let's get goin'. "
The late July warmth blurred the classroom before Taffy's eyes. He tried to listen, but by noon he gave up and went to Cleo's pilch. Sam, the crippled elevator man who let him in, was sweeping the dark and deserted front room. Taffy ambled down the quiet long hall to Cleo's bedroom. He stuck still in the open doorway.
"Hya, honey!" she called out. "Go on up front and take a magazine. I'll be through in here in a couple of minutes." She was laughing, in bed with a red-faced white man. She and the man roared hilariously.
Taffy fled out of the apartment. He hurried through the hot streets, panting as if pursued. At the Renaissance Theatre, he bought a ticket and rushed to fling himself into a seat. He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and tried to lose himself in the film. But the shadowy figures on the screen wouldn't take hold of him, and he gave up to suffering painfully with his ache. The funny part was, he couldn't seem to touch it. It just hurt.
He hadn't ever tried to figure out what it was with Cleo. Most evenings, he sat quietly at a table up front, reading a comic book while Cleo was "busy." He had run errands for the girls, hustled cigarettes for the customers, and made himself generally useful. Then, when the first part of the "business" was over, he brought Cleo barbeque, Chinese food, chitterlings, hog maw, a half a fried chicken or whatever else she wanted; so it wasn't that he didn't know. That wasn't it.
It was something like wanting a cake and getting shoes at Christmas, or being blamed for putting boogie in the church's chimes when he knew Paul Stone had done it, or bloodying Carl's nose for calling him "nigger," and having the cop and principal and even his father jump on him, while they let Carl go. It was something like the rainy quiet nights when he rubbed her back, a strange pleasure as she groaned in relief; and he put himself into his hands to possess her softness, but also wanted to lie down beside her and cry, for a confused and unknown reason, to bury his face against her warmth and softness.
Or else, maybe he'd never really let himself feel she could be like that, laughing and happy.
The tears welled up. His throat was full, and then he started. What the hell was he crapping around in here for? He'd been the one ran out. What was he waiting for? He jumped up and made his way to 142nd Street.
He scratched on the door.
Cleo let him in. Her face was a mask. She nodded toward the table. "I'm having some coffee." She seemed sober.
He went and sat down. He listened to the scrape and slap of slippers while she brought another cup and saucer from the kitchen. Without speaking a word, she poured the cup of coffee. He sat staring down into it, and watched the cream swirl about in its darkness when she poured it for him. He looked up at her.
Suddenly the tears welled up in his eyes and blurred out the set look in her face.
He heard the coffeepot clank as she put it down. And she was kneeling beside him, her arms about him and his head pressed to her breasts. The perfume of her seemed to unlock something tied in his chest and he let the tears run down. It was as though something had shaken him from the nightmare in which he had twisted. He clung to her. Her hands stroked him.
"My poor little baby," she whispered. "My poor little baby. He just had so much money. And I'd got so much of it that it just made me real happy. But don't feel bad, honey. It didn't mean anything to me. Really it didn't. I didn't mean anything unkind to you."
He sighed and was glad to draw his breath without a tearing pain. Her bosom was soft against his face, her body warm and accepting. It was hard to remember what it had been all about. "It serves me right for playing hookey from school, anyway," he mumbled. He hid his face against her to wipe away the tears.
"Drink your coffee, baby," she said, getting up. "It's early. Let's go out on the town."
He gulped down the coffee and trailed after her into her bedroom. He watched while she made up, smoothing out the pancake foundation. She painted her lips carefully, and rubbed a touch on each cheekbone for rouge. She inspected her face in the daylight from the courtyard window. She said there was too much make-up and washed it off to re-do her face. She put mascara on her eyelashes. She selected a close-fitting black velvet suit, tried a large red silk flower at her shoulder; but shook her head, "No," to the mirror, and instead pinned on a large silver ornament.
Chin in hand, he listened while she talked about her clothes, her make-up, the girls she had known "in the life," musicians and marijuana, and why she tried to keep them out, about the rent man and how he tried to get fresh, and how it was better in the old days under Prohibition. He enjoyed her words, which made it easy for him not to have to think or do or be anything.
He followed her to dinner, dumbly and blindly happy.
After dinner, they -rode down Seventh Avenue on the open deck of the Fifth Avenue bus to Washington Square. He held her hand, he felt her movements with the rocking bus, he inhaled her odor of something Oriental and yet peculiarly herself, and she smiled at him.
It was with a sense of painful loss that he rose to leave the bus when they reached Washington Square, a loss of something more than the soft warmth of the summer early evening blowing as the bus threaded its way down crowded Fifth Avenue, or of the unselfconscious glee with which Cleo pointed at dresses in shop windows, or even of all he hoarded within his senses. It was as though there was just so much of this kind of joy for him, and its sweetness was quickly burning itself out.
As they sat on a bench in the little park in the Square, a shadow of anxiety sent a slight shiver through him. Cleo took his hand in both of hers and tucked his arm under hers so that he felt the softness of her body. A cooling evening breeze rustled the maple tree leaves, drying in the summer heat. He relaxed and let everything else be blotted out with the peace and satisfaction of that moment.
A memory of another park bench and of a ruby-streaked sky across the oily Hudson cut across. He pressed himself against her.
"Happy, baby?" She smiled at him.
"Uh huh." He searched for some way to share the painful memory with her. "I was just thinking about white folks."
She lifted her eyebrows. "What about white folks, baby?"
"Well, my old man said that the only way to get along with white folks was to put 'em outside. Just be quiet; and pretty soon, when they can't get in, they get tired and go away and let you alone."
"You know, honey," Cleo said, after a moment's silence, "there's one thing most folks got wrong. Having trouble don't just belong to one color. People are always blaming somebody else for whatever kind of a mess they're in." She laid the back of his hand against her cheek. Its smoothness thrilled him. She kissed his wrist and the shivers chased each other down his legs. She spoke on, meditatively. "I've seen black men and white men. I've had them all coming to me complaining about how the world kicks them around. The colored man blames the white man. The white man blames his wife, his boss, his parents, Communists, government, anything. I guess it's mighty nice to have a hook to hang your excuses for failure on."
He pulled down his hand and leaned toward her. She kissed him lightly on the lips, and with faraway amusement he remembered how horrified he had been at Lillian for trying to do the same thing on the subway, except that this was different. He laid his head lightly on her shoulder.
Cleo went on. "If those that're weeping and wailing would take a look at their soft insides, they'd see why they're getting their knocks. Beggars don't get nothing. Get down on your knees to plead, and you'll get your throat cut. Those get kicked around who can't find out quick enough who to kick first. I play it like this: Expect nothing; ask nothing; and take whatever you can. If you get your fingers burnt, well, that's life.
"It's better to be bitter and safe than meek and cheated."
Cleo let the thoughts die away and enjoyed the touch of Taffy's head against her shoulder. She brooded over how all her life had been spent filling the wants of others. And they had paid her in money. But Taffy had only worshiping affection to offer, and she wondered if that was not better coin. It was strange and it was good to be loved just for giving love, just for herself, not even her body.
She felt warmly grateful.
The street light shadows grew stronger and clearer on the sidewalk. The babies who had tumbled on the grass were gone, and the park was empty of their cries. The young women and young men were fewer, and older grayer bent persons silently took their places as night fell and made bright the golden lighted windows of the houses facing the square. She kissed him on his cheek and told him he had better go because she had an appointment for the evening.
She watched him walk dutifully through the park to the Eighth Avenue subway and she framed a thought she had kept from her lips for a long time. .
"You're a damn fool, old woman, playing mother to a grown man, somebody else's child." But she smiled wistfully as she watched him go. She saw a short fat man come rushing toward her, looking nervously about; and the sad little lines crinkled back again about the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Martha hoped that the irritation in her voice had not been heard. She tried to keep the tone smooth and friendly as she said, "Of course I understand, Dr. Burbellowskein."
But after five days of excuses, and several blunt remarks, it was hard to accept the fact that even Dr. Burbellowskein was going to plead off on "pressure of business." She had taken for granted he would be enthusiastic, had even planned to ask him to head the Ministers Committee. The others-well, there had been some surprises; and maybe it was only just--
"Certainly, Dr. Burbellowskein," she said. "You know I'll look forward to coming with a group the second Wednesday evening in September."
She listened impatiently while he went on about various matters of concern to him. Finally, "Thank you for your good wishes," she told him, and put down the telephone with a feeling of heavy weariness.
Something about the heat and time. Last month the heat had speeded up the thrill of chasing minutes into accomplishment. Bursts of enthusiasm had swept impossibilities into realities in the church parish house drive. Not enough time to enjoy the racing taste of thrills and praise. Now, just heat and slow hating of the dragging seconds, each refusing to give relief from the drip of failure wearing away at her. The feeling of lying in a dark alcove, of being heavy with an unwanted pregnancy, of no-job sickness, the memory of hating, waiting for Miss Codrington to come. She gripped her jaws tighter until her teeth hurt. Until she was wet, and even more sticky and greasy from the heat.
The doorbell rang.
The Reverend Dr. J. Wolfington Warden flashed a quick smile at her as she let him in. He pressed her fingers. "Good to see you, Martha."
She led the way into the living room. As he sat, she saw his eyes busy with the home furnishings. He perched uneasily on the edge of the green barrel chair. Martha waited, conscious that he seemed nervous.
"You've done very well. Furnishing your home," he said. "I didn't realize you could do so much with-It's really quite nice."
"Thank you, Dr. Warden. We love our home. The committee's gift was considerable help."
"Oh yes, yes. Of course. That wasn't what I meant. Just that so many people go into debt foolishly. It's good to see what you've done."
Martha hoped the flush at knowing how much still had to be paid did not show. Dr. Warden flashed a quick smile at her, which Martha knew was meant to hide his nervousness. She smiled in return.
"How is the work going, Martha?"
"It's vacation time, now. But we were talking of a joint picnic at Jones Beach with Siloam Presbyterian and the Fullard Baptist." She wondered anxiously what he was fencing about. "It's been so hot."
"Yes, very hot. It's been a hot summer. Never felt the heat like I did this summer. Heat seemed to get right on top of me. Really slowed me down. Maybe it's me and not the heat, getting older. I guess we all feel-" He stopped again, seeming to realize also that he had been eager to talk about the weather and not something else.
"Are you getting away for a vacation?" Martha asked.
"Vacation? Well, yes-Maybe I will-" He hesitated as if he had had a sudden thought about something. "Yes," he said with conviction, "a vacation." He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, then slowly lowered his eyes to blink at her. His eyes snapped. "How did you say your work is coming?"
"I was just talking with Dr. Burbellowskein. He wants to arrange an evening service in September." She suddenly decided that if he wanted to talk about something, she would bring it out into the open. "We were talking about my campaign for assemblyman."
"Yes," said Dr. Warden, and he almost seemed to sigh in relief. "Your campaign. How is it going?" His vagueness and uneasiness had changed to guarded carefulness.
"Well, there have been some difficulties. You see, the Democrats promised to back me. Even helped me to get petitions signed, and then-Well, it was just a low-"
"I know. I know," he said hurriedly. "But I really have some reservations about the Intercultural Committee's being in politics." He smiled, not uneasily but benignly. "We get money from both sides, you know, and cannot afford really to be partisan."
"But I was originally asked by a non-partisan citizens committee, and that was non-political, certainly part of the 'community larger life.' " She recalled his phrase and hoped that he remembered it. "But then they maneuvered to deprive Negroes of a fair representation in the state just because some dirty deal was made behind closed doors."
"Yes. Yes, of course, Mrs. Johnson. We all feel very keenly the severe handicap imposed by racial prejudice. That is why we must keep the committee aimed at the most vital target. Face-to-face experience. That's the answer. Build understanding, acceptance. Then, when the time is ripe, there'll be Negro assemblymen and without raising the race question either. As a matter-of-fact, no one will know or care what race they are. This is the way to permanent and larger interracial cooperation. We mustn't let ourselves be drawn to one side on passing tangents."
"But how can I refuse my friends?" Martha insisted.
"Yes. Yes indeed. I know exactly what you mean." He cleared his throat. "And, of course, I know that martyrdom is an attractive idea. But most folks have found that it looks better on somebody else."
Martha stared at him fixedly. "What makes you think I want to be-a martyr?" And when he made a hopeless gesture with his hands, "Or that I intend to be one?"
"Yes. Yes, of course, that's what makes martyrs. Nobody can see it happening to himself. The thing is to see practically when we must make the choice, to be or not to be." He laughed nervously. "Not that I'm trying to quote Shakespeare at you."
"Then don't do it," snapped Martha. From the quick stiffening of Dr. Warden's face, she wished she had not said it. But there had just been so much the last few days. It had just , slipped. She shut her mouth determinedly and waited.
It wasn't that there was a pause. His next words came as smoothly as though the hiatus had not been heavy with content and surprise. But like a shifting scene in a book or a movie, everything was different, although the only apparent change was a somewhat softer, slower note to his voice. "I can't interfere with your private life, Mrs. Johnson, but many people think of you as the spirit of the committee." Nothing showed in his face but kindly interest. "Think our work is important. It would be too bad if a political disaster seriously impaired your usefulness to the committee."
"You may be sure, Dr. Warden, I will in no way embarrass the committee." Feeling the old numbness, old defeat, old helplessness, familiarly new and gripping.
"I'm sure you'll try, Mrs. Johnson. But why don't you take a couple of weeks' vacation until the campaign is over. You haven't had a vacation, you know."
Only kind solicitude, but if the election fails-then what? Or did that seriously impair one's usefulness? "Thank you,-Dr. Warden. It has been so hot...."
He was gone, and Martha let the rest of the day go while she sat limply at her desk until the white had faded from the nylon curtains, and only their fine dark screen against the street light outside marked where they had been. But there was no need in putting it off. A bite to eat and she went to the campaign committee meeting at the Rock of Ages Baptist Church.
"Tea parties? Radio! You don't need nothin' like that!" Martha heard as she pushed open the door to the basement room where Mrs. Mcintosh, Reverend Stone and Mrs. Pegler sat at a card table. They turned to look at her as she walked slowly the length of the empty dark room toward them. A single unshaded bulb hung from the invisible high ceiling. Her footsteps echoed hollowly around her.
"Hello, honey," Mrs. Pegler said shortly as Martha sat down. Before the others could speak, Mrs. Pegler turned back to them, glaring ferociously, "You got to have cars on primary day. You got to send out letters to everybody on these here lists. Look at 'em!" she yelled, waving them in the air. "I spent four days copying 'em down. What the hell you think that was for? Jest fun?"
"Now looky here, woman," Reverend Stone rumbled, jutting out his lips at her.
"Aw, nuts!" She flung a loose hand at him and turned anxiously to Martha. "You got to have sound trucks, a lot of 'em. How else you goin' to reach those white voters? I want 50,000 throwaways, and more. I got to have some hot dogs, pop, candy for the kid's goin' to give 'em away. I need some little refreshment and ginger ale for the folks who's goin' to climb stairs to tell folks about you."
Martha looked at Mrs. Mcintosh in bewilderment. Mrs. Mcintosh made a little helpless move with her hands. Mrs. Pegler saw and turned plaintively to Mrs. Mcintosh.
"Now, looky, Mrs. Mcintosh, they's plenty out here knows Mettig's just a faker. But you got to tell 'em they's somebody else in the race." She whirled back to Martha. "You ain' goin' ta win this here election with no little mess of nigger votes. You gotta sell yourself. You gotta tell these folks, white and black, what a fine woman you is. And there'll be plenty who'll go along." She jerked her head about savagely and leered at Reverend Stone. "But you cain't do that with Jim Crow tea parties and nigger church suppers!"
"We must keep our dignity!" roared Reverend Stone.
"Dignity be damned. You sure put a hell of a hole in Martha's chances by gettin' so uppity when Mark Saul and his American Labor Party committee come to see you. This ain' no time-"
Reverend Stone swelled out, puffing his cheeks. "I won't have my church overrun with Reds!" His glasses popped from his flat nose when he blew out his breath. He shook himself. "I won't have no truck with Communists of no sort!"
"We're all in this together, and we must all work together," Mrs. Mcintosh said weakly.
"Well, goddamn it then, why don't somebody work for Martha?" screamed Mrs. Pegler. "Maybe you'd like to know Saul is calkin' 'bout givin' the A.L.P. vote to Mettig. And as far as Reds go, when they get to countin' those votes, you ain' goin' to care what color they are. We got a tough enough scrap, without some fat pompous ass making a fool out of hisself!"
Reverend Stone lumbered up from his seat, his paunch jiggling up and down with the vehemence of his shouting. "I won't sit here and endure profanity and insults from this intolerable woman no more!"
"You ain' goin'ta hafta have nothin' to do with me!" she shrieked back at him, also leaping up. "I know more about politics in two minutes than you'll ever know in you' whole damn life. Martha cain't win with no mess like that, and I ain' havin' no part in breakin' her heart." She flung the lists across the table. "There's you' goddamn lists! And I hope you know what to do with 'em!"
An edge of one of the sheets cut across Martha's face. She watched tlje papers pile up on the table, roll over, and then slide to the floor. Reverend Stone glared after Mrs. Pegler's retreating back. Her clomping steps pounded out the measure of the tension in the basement hall.
Mrs. Mcintosh, cleared her throat uneasily. "Sit down, Reverend," she said primly. She waited while he let himself back down on the folding chair. It creaked. His nostrils and lips were working. He sniffed and wheezed noisily, shaking his head.
"That woman-" he began breathlessly.
"Yes, I know, Reverend Stone," Mrs. Mcintosh said. "But that's all right. We'll have the two broadcasts just like you planned." She turned to Martha. "And after all the pains Audrey went to for the tea at the Y.W.C.A. Really, that woman is impossible." She sat up a little more straightly. "Now, Martha, how are the ministers coming along?"
"They're coming along nicely." She hated the lie the next instant, but she simply couldn't go into a long discussion now.
"That's fine. That's fine." Mrs. Mcintosh beamed. "Isn't it, Reverend Stone?" She looked at him demandingly.
He smacked his lips and shook himself and grunted approval.
She went on. "We should really spend the rest of the time of our meeting reviewing the plans for our fund-raising dinner.
Mrs. Kromer is working with Mrs. Max Smith on that," she said brightly. "I will report for them."
As Martha hesitated for a moment in the doorway to the basement of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, Mrs. Winston-Hoyte sailed down upon her.
"Oh hello, dear. So glad you came. I was just telling Smitty, wouldn't it be simply fabulous if you decided you could not, simply couldn't be bothered? I'd love to do something like that." She linked her arm in Martha's and swept a hand out over the assemblage of persons and tables filling the now brightly lighted room. Unshaded myriads of bulbs glared down from the high ceiling fixtures. "Isn't it simply fabulous? And some people have even worn white-tie-and-tails. And others-" She flourished widely, waving one hand in the air over her head.
Miss Alice Brown of the boys' choir, standing alone apart from the crowd, waved back. Mrs. Winston-Hoyte fluttered her fingers in return, still holding her hand high. "Others," she continued, "well, they seem to think that putting on a coat, tie and shoes is formal." She ran a hand over her torso and switched her hips from side to side. Her low-cut clinging gown of sequin-and-bead-sewn tan swished noisily. A group of men punched each other, turned around and grinned.
"Do you like it, dear?" she said to Martha loudly. "It's the very latest, a special creation of East Indian shantung draped especially around my personality."
Martha nodded absent-mindedly. Her eyes were anxiously busy with the crowd which jammed every free space around the long white tables that filled the basement of the church. Everyone seemed to be talking animatedly. The hubbub crowded at her. What was she supposed to do ? Did she speak to each one, one by one? What if she missed someone? And there were so many she didn't know. She had seen them in church, knew them in the Ladies' Aid, but with a shock of surprise she realized that their names had slipped away from her.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte was tugging at her arm. "I want you to meet Mrs. Van Arsdale." She faced a thin white-looking woman with gold-filled buck teeth. "My dear," Mis'. Winston-Hoyte gushed at her, still gripping Martha's arm, "I've been meaning to tell you how I looked in Smitty's kitchen, and it was simply loaded with vegetables and bread and meat. It was simply fabulous, just fabulous, and then, there wasn't a drop of whiskey to drink."
"Audrey, will you excuse-" Martha began.
"Oh, how stupid of me," she gurgled. "Mrs. Van Arsdale, this is Martha Johnson. She knows your husband."
Martha acknowledged the introduction silently and flushed at the sly wink Mrs. Winston-Hoyte had added. She looked anxiously about and saw a group of ladies from the choir, crowded together, looking over their shoulders at her, and talking with surreptitious and blinking scowls.
She nodded toward them. She tried to look pleasant.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte pulled at her again. "Mr. Grunz," she said to a tall man near by who was scratching his bald narrow head, "you know Martha." She leaned dramatically toward her. "It just made Mrs. Mcintosh so mad that Mr. Grunz raised more money in the Y.M.C.A. drive than she did in her drive." She arched herself coyly at him. "But let me tell you something. She is my friend and all, but the other night, there she was so stiff and talky, and behind her back a mouse was rolling and sliding on the floor. My dear, it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing."
Martha twisted impatiently away. She faced Dr. Finger and Mr. Van Arsdale, who had been trying to slip past unnoticed.
"Hello, boys," chattered Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, taking Martha's arm again. "What do you think of the party?"
"Not a vote in a carload," Van Arsdale said, grinning. "How're you, Mrs. Johnson?"
Martha nodded stiffly and started determinedly toward Mrs. Mcintosh. Mrs. Winston-Hoyte let herself be dragged along.
Mrs. Mcintosh was talking with Professor Martin, the church organist. Martha heard her say, "-in Macy's, tomatoes by the case...."
"You buy tomatoes by the case, my dear?" interrupted Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. "Why bless my soul, if I ever had that much cash in hand at one time, I don't know what I'd do."
Professor Martin cocked his head to one side. "That's a beautiful gown, Audrey."
"Oh, I'm so glad you like it. It's the very latest from Hattie's. But what I'm really waiting for is a mink cape. She promised me a real bargain on it. And I'm just dying for the day."
Mrs. Stone walked up with Mrs. Finger. "Hello, Mrs. Johnson," she said, "you know Alice-"
"Yes, certainly," Martha answered. "It's such a-"
"Alice, have you seen Mrs. Green? You know, when she was Dr. Green's nurse, she made him dump his wife and marry her. Now that she's got her hooks in him, she won't let him go two steps without her. I guess she knows all too well what happens to husbands whose wives don't stay on their tails."
Mrs. Max Smith buzzed up, twitching and working her eyes and mouth.
"How are you, Smitty?" Mrs. Winston-Hoyte ignored her agitation. "Isn't it fabulous? I haven't had so much fun since Helen's last month. After putting on airs about her champagne party, she was screaming all over the house, 'Where's my sterling silver corkscrew?' It was really frantic, and then she got into a brawl with her husband for mixing the drinks with her 'good silver.' So when one of the guests left early and stole a bottle of whiskey, I left too."
Mrs. Smith blurted out impatiently, "Gertie Pegler is over there." She pointed at a far corner. "I don't know what she wants, but it's really-" She closed her eyes and shook her head and hips.
"I'd like to see her," Martha said, feeling a slight spark of hope that maybe this way she could escape.
Reverend Stone barged in. "How de do, Mrs. Johnson." He cleared his throat importantly. "Uhhhh, Audrey, I'd like to speak with you." He tried to take her arm.
She pulled away and clung tighter to Martha.
Martha remembered bitterly the hopeless exasperation of the little gnome-like photographer who had tried to get Mrs. Winston-Hoyte out of the picture. Except that now it was Martha who was boxed behind an inpenetrable wall of babble.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte was still talking to Reverend Stone.
"-orthodox minister who bought that big old church over there on Putnam. It's really fabulous. They announce weddings one after the other like trains leaving on schedule over a microphone. Everybody goes there for weddings, you know, because the church is so pretty. But last Sunday he stopped the wedding ceremony to ask people not to stand up on the pews. Everybody took their shoes off, but he got mad anyway and wouldn't go on with the ceremony until they stood down on the floor. The bride's mother was that put out that she tried to keep the best man from paying him, but he had got his money before he would say the 'I-pronounce-you,' and-"
"For God's sake, Audrey, will you turn it off for just one minute?" Mrs. Kromer snapped as she rushed up. Excitement was written on her face. "Hello, Smitty," she said to Mrs. Max Smith who had been standing by," twitching and glaring at Martha. "Martha, Gertie Pegler is over there stinking drunk. She's talking out loud to herself and is saying everything she thinks can tear down what we are trying to do."
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte laughed loudly so that several people turned about. "I think it's just a shame that such a frowzy horrible person should be just a black fly in a bottle of buttermilk. Why don't you ask her to go, Martha?"
"I can't do that." Martha had intended to sound sharp, but she knew she was only plaintive. "She's part of the committee. She's been in several campaigns, maybe we ought to-"
"Campaigns, yes. But not politics." Mrs. Winston-Hoyte shrugged elaborately. "But don't say I didn't warn you. I still think she's ridiculous, utterly, utterly ridiculous. She linked arms with Mrs. Kromer and flounced away.
Martha twisted her way through knots of people and tables to Mrs. Pegler.
Mrs. Pegler looked up at her through bleary bloodshot eyes, poked out her mouth and twisted herself to one side. Her dress was unbuttoned, exposing her grayish-brown flesh and stained pink brassiere. Her scraggly hair was tied with a green ribbon that fell down across her face as she twisted away. She blew it up in the air, spewing spit noisily as she did. She mumbled unintelligibly to herself, scowling.
"Hello, Mrs. Pegler," Martha said, wondering what she was going to do or was supposed to do. Suddenly she wished Elizabeth had come. She felt painfully alone and frightened.
"I don' like the looks o' it," grumbled Mrs. Pegler. A belch jerked her up. "I don' like the looks o' it. It ain' righ'. I ain' seed no whi fo's. And niggas ain' goin' ta 'lect nobody all by theyselves. They ain' nobody here could split a verb 'thout battin' 'n eye. I don' see but one other preacher. And they ain' no 'piscopalian preacher can make nobody vote. All these fo's-"
"Mrs. Pegler-" Martha spoke timidly, but the monologue flowed on uninterrupted, as oblivious of Martha as of the wall.
"-look m'i'll'y pre'y. An' I hope they got a lossa money, 'cause this here dinnah ain' doin' this campaign no good."
Martha stared helplessly at her; then she saw Mrs. Kromer and Mrs. Winston-Hoyte beckoning frantically from across the room. "Excuse me, please, Mrs. Pegler-"
She hadn't expected to be heard.
"I ain' gonna 'scuse nothin'. I ain' gonna-"
Martha made her way toward Mrs. Kromer, who was now standing alone.
"Look at that," Mrs. Kromer said stiffly, waving a hand at the high table on the dais. Her trembling finger told off Reverend Stone, Mrs. Stone, Father Cobalt, Mrs. Max Smith, Mrs. Mcintosh, Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, Mrs. Finger, Mrs. Van Arsdale, and Mr. Grunz, all sitting at the high table, and all equally engrossed in conversation. "If that crew belongs up there," she said, "I'd like to know why I wasn't asked up there?"
Martha pointed at an empty chair between Mrs. Mcintosh and Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. "There's an empty seat."
"That," Mrs. Kromer said in what could have been contempt, "is your seat."
Martha went up on the dais to speak to Mrs. Smith, who had done the arranging.
"Mrs. Kromer felt a bit left out that-" Martha began.
Mrs. Smith looked deeply hurt. "Why, I thought she would want to sit with her guests. They're all in the whiskey business. I didn't want her to feel out of place. We gave her the very best front table." She sniffed. "After we sweated setting up tables and lugging dishes around, who does she think she is to start picking and finding fault?"
"Sit down, Martha," whispered Mrs. Mcintosh. "Reverend Stone is going to say grace."
Martha looked back to where she had left Mrs. Kromer. She was not in sight. Reverend Stone said the grace. The Sunshine Girls, who had volunteered to wait on table, began putting out the plates. Mrs. Kromer, who had reappeared, stopped them from setting her table. Finally the bread and butter was put on, and water was being poured when two white-coated waiters struggled in, each carrying two large hampers. They spread a white linen cloth the length of Mrs. Kramer's table while the guests moved back. Silver candelabra were set at each end. Three flat bowls overflowed with gardenias. Sterling silver, gold-rimmed china, sparkling crystal ware, were laid for twenty.
"They didn't do me any favor sticking me up here," Mrs. Winston-Hoyte whispered noisily to Mrs. Finger while one of the waiters unpacked plates of iced caviar, fat ripe olives, pate de jois gras, anchovies, crisp scarlet radishes, pickled tiny green peppers, and several unidentifiable delicacies.
The muffled noise of angry voices came from the kitchen. Mrs. Mcintosh hurried out, but almost immediately reappeared through the swinging doors to beckon wildly for Martha and Mrs. Kromer.
As Martha entered the kitchen she saw the eight ladies, who had been preparing the dinner, lined up, fat brown arms folded under ample breasts.
"Now, Mrs. Johnson, there ain't no use in you startin' in. We made up our minds." The middle lady who was speaking shook her head. "We don't want no strange man messin' 'round in our kitchen. If you all want to get somebody else to fix this here dinner, you all go right to it. But if we stay, that grinnin' ape has got to keep his black behind out of here. Comin' in here tryin' to get special plates. We been eatin' off of these plates and they ought to be good enough for him."
"But'we have special guests. They will give a lot to the fund," Mrs. Kromer pleaded.
"I dpn't care nothin' 'bout no fund. How do I know who he is or what he's got. Comin' in here pattin' me. Every old kind of scum works in saloons. He ain't got no call to be rubbin' hisself up against God-fearing church people."
"All right, ladies," said Mrs. Kromer with sharp shortness. "I was only trying to help." She turned and left.
Martha hoped that she hadn't heard someone mumble as she turned, too, " ... and we don't need no saloon-keeper's wife to boss us either."
She walked wearily back to her seat beside Mrs. Winston-Hoyte; then she jumped as a loud shriek went off, seemingly right inside her head.
Mrs. Pegler reeled to and fro at one end of Mrs. Kromer's elaborately set table, pointing with a trembling unsteady finger. "There ain' gonna be no dinner if you-all's goin' to let that cow insult me!" she yelled. Pulling up her already scanty skirt, she ran for the kitchen.
Reverend Stone, with surprising nimbleness, swung from the dais and limped hurriedly after her. He motioned two of the deacons to follow him. They disappeared into the kitchen. Martha watched the door swing to and fro slowly; they were finally still only about the time the mumble from the kitchen faded from hearing.
The dining room was deathly quiet. A folding chair creaked under shifted weight. "Mama, what did--? " a child's high pitched voice began.
"Shhhhhhhh!" cut off the question. And someone cleared his throat. Was there a clock ticking wildly somewhere? Or could one's pulse beat the anxiety into rhythms that pounded until the ears were full ? Was it only the quiet inside or was there a noise outside, a murmur among the people crowding about the basement windows to peek in? Or was there an outside, or anything else but just waiting to see what would happen?
Martha flinched at a poke in the ribs.
"I told you what would happen."
She turned and was startled at the coarseness of Mrs. Winston-Hoyte's skin, its greasy expanse bleached colorless, pore-pitted, when seen at such close range. Martha wanted to say something but she only stared at the sparse two-hair wide eyebrows arched over the large-orbed eyes. The kitchen doors creaked.
Reverend Stone and one of the deacons were rushing Mrs. Pegler along, pressing her between them and patting her the way they soothed a "happy" sister in church-but each with a firm grip on one of her arms. They turned her loose near the door. She straightened up, pulled down her skirt on each side, then tugged at her girdle in back. She wiped a loose hand across her mouth, now gray without lipstick. She glared at the assemblage staring at her. She looked up at the people peering in the window.
"I'm going to vote Republican," she yelled at the window. "I'll be damned if they goin' to make a fool out o' me." She stalked up the stairs and the doors banged behind her.
"Well," said Mrs. Mcintosh, sighing, "I hope that's the end of that. Now, let's enjoy our dinner." She looked up at one of the Sunshine Girls, who was still gawking at the door through which Mrs. Pegler had gone. "Come, come, my dear. Let's start serving."
Martha had eaten something of soup and turkey and potatoes and ice cream without tasting a thing when the sharp scrape of a chair and the slam of it collapsing and falling on the floor cut across the hubbub of gossip and eating. Mrs. Kromer was striding toward the kitchen, her back straight, her hands clenched at her sides. The eyes of all followed her, and again everyone waited.
Martha half rose from her seat, but then sat down slowly.
She had had enough. If they would all just quit and go home. She wanted to cry, for the first time in a long while. She wanted to shriek and to shout abuse. But there was no one on whom to pour it. Her eyes finally understood that although everyone in the hall had been served, and most of them had had dessert, Mrs. Kromer's table guests were still nibbling at the hors d'oeuvres she had ordered from the outside.
The kitchen doors burst open, and Mrs. Kromer strode out, swinging the huge coffeepot before her. One of the fat kitchen ladies bustled after her, stopped halfway in embarrassment, and then turned and fled back into the kitchen. Mrs. Kromer banged the coffeepot on her table so that the coffee splattered. Her face was twisted, and wet with perspiration. She motioned angrily to her waiters to serve the coffee, and then she fled from the dining room.
One of the waiters slowly began pouring coffee for Mrs. Kromer's table.
One of the Sunshine Girls came out and blurted, "She took the coffee!"
"Isn't there any more?" Mrs. Mcintosh asked.
"No'm." The girl shook her head solemnly.
Martha looked at Mrs. Mcintosh who was rising slowly and grimly from her seat and at the waiter who was pouring coffee for the twenty ill-at-ease men. The waiter's face had a look of sly amusement, but also of vicious determination. Martha touched her. "I don't think you better try," she said.
Mrs. Mcintosh stopped and sighed as she sat back down again. "No. I guess not. At least, not now." She jerked herself up straight in her seat. "Maybe we might as well start the speaking." She stood up again.
She introduced Reverend Stone.
Standing up, adjusting his glasses and pursing his lips, he brushed the crumbs from his stomach and pulled down his vest. He struck a pose with his head thrown back, looking skyward. He said, "Ladies and gentlemen-"
One of the men at Mrs. Kromer's table nudged one of the others and they got up and left. As Reverend Stone talked, a couple of others left. People at the back joined them. By the time Mrs. Kromer's table was empty, the place was in an uproar of people leaving, while Reverend Stone was sweating and thundering away in an appeal for funds that only added to the general hubbub.
Martha closed her eyes and hoped it would soon be over.
As Martha pressed Mrs. Kromer's bright brass doorbell, she wondered what had prompted the urgency of the demand that she come over "at once!"
Mr. Kromer let her in. "You girls' certainly havin' quite a time, ain'cha?" He was amiably pleasant. Martha felt annoyed. Before she could answer, Mrs. Kromer called out, "Oh hello, Martha. Please come in. Audrey was just telling us about her horrible experience with that awful woman."
"Hello, my dear," Mrs. Winston-Hoyte said languidly, smoothing her slip over lean hips. The sheer lacework at the top exposed her small breasts.
Mr. Kromer leaned against the doorway from the hall and grinned at her.
She coiled herself up on the couch and closed her eyes. She let one hand slip dramatically down until it hung to the floor.
"Don't mind Audrey. She finally has something to be dramatic about." Mrs. Kromer noticed that Martha was staring at the half-clad Audrey. "The maid's pressing her dress. I'm sure Audrey won't mind repeating what happened. But I still say if you, my dear Audrey, had just let that awful woman alone, we wouldn't have had all that difficulty."
"And you, my dear"-Audrey sighed with a pained expression-"if you hadn't insisted that I go to her to get her to apologize-" She shrugged until one shoulder touched her cheekbone.
"Whatta gal," chuckled Mr. Kromer. -
She ignored him. "-apologize! I should get her to apologize!" She shook her head.
Mrs. Kromer's face looked grimly tight. Martha had always thought of her as being mild and meek, a bit on the inward-looking side. But not this way!
"I tried," said Mrs. Winston-Hoyte blithely. "But before she even got the door open, she began shrieking, 'Get out of my house, you filthy alley cat!' And I may be a cat but certainly not a low breed. And she called me a hound bitch and threw a pan of dirty dishwater on me." She made a movement with her hands. "And do you know what she screamed down the stairs? And, of course, I was losing no time in leaving. She screamed, 'Don't come stickin' your filthy nastiness in my house again. We's respectable!' " She mimicked Mrs. Pegler effectively. "Can you imagine? She, who had a baby after her husband's been gone four years and whose house stinks out into the hallway. She said that to me!" She laughed soundlessly, heaving to make her meager breasts jiggle. "And, my dears, I was never so surprised as to have her throw dishwater on me. I didn't think the poor thing ever washed anything."
They were silent while she lit a cigarette.
"But that woman has still got to apologize." The set expression had not left Mrs. Kromer's face. Martha looked from her to Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, who was studiously watching the cloud of smoke she had puffed. Mrs. Kromer's mouth looked stiffer as she said, "There wasn't a one of those men what couldn't have given a hundred dollars." '
"But-" Martha looked helplessly at her.
Mrs. Kromer's grimness seemed to harden to the point of giving off sparks. "Those men are in my husband's business. You can imagine how I feel."
Martha looked at Mr. Kromer. He shrugged his shoulders genially. "The lady's the boss. They'll give it. Charge it to good will and advertising."
"You want me to ask her?" Martha meant it to be a question, but she knew she was making a statement.
"Well?" Mrs. Kromer blinked her eyes rapidly. Both Mrs. Winston Hoyte and Mr. Kromer were looking at her fixedly. Mr. Kromer's head was cocked to one side, a small grin on his lips.
"I'll go," said Martha. "I'll ask her."
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte stretched out a little more languidly upon the couch. Mrs. Kromer gave one stiff nod. Mr. Kromer laughed. "You girls're sure havin' yourselves a ball."
Martha made the pilgrimage.
She knocked on the door. Her heart was pounding and she was breathless from the five-flight climb.
As she was led into the front room by an older girl, a toy airplane whizzed by, almost taking off her hat. A large youth dashed after it, hollering, "Gee, Ma, did you see it go? Ma! There, take a look! Look at it!" There was a sound of hammering in the rear.
Mrs. Pegler was rocking in a rocker, dressed in a patched cotton slip. Huge house-scuffs covered her feet, and a flat hat was perched on top of wildly scraggling hair. She fanned herself while she held the baby on her lap. Twins, clad only in short undershirts, with their little bare behinds matching their dirty faces, were rolling a marble on the floor; they scrambled with a kitten to get it. A middle girl, wearing panties and bra, was lying on her stomach on a studio couch, reading a thick book. Two of the boys were playing checkers in front of the false fireplace. Mrs. Pegler beamed.
She shooed the girl over on the couch to make room for Martha. She gathered the twins between her knees. They crowded up with the baby, their thumbs jammed in their mouths, looking up at Martha with large unblinking eyes. The baby kicked and squirmed at being so squeezed.
As Martha sat gingerly on the edge of the couch which did not i'll look too clean, a young man came in.
"I'm going to work, Mom." He bent down and kissed his mother on the mouth, noisily. He kissed the babies and slapped his sister on her backside. She wiggled and kicked at him, but j went on reading her book.
Martha shifted about uneasily, f Mrs. Pegler began talking rapidly. "Honey, I'm awful sorry I didn't get around to your house before now, but I just been so sick at heart to.see what those fools was doin'-well, I jest couldn't do nothin'. We need a Negro in the 'ssembly from Brooklyn, but we never goin' to get it with that bunch of stuffed owls actin' like a 'lection is a preacher's party. It hurt me, honey. It just broke my heart, 'cause you a good woman an' deserve help. They ain' nobody else out here in this whole rotten borough that I'd rather see up there in Albany. But I wouldn't trust those women any further than you can kick that there piano."
"Ma? Can I play the piano?" One of the boys looked up from playing checkers.
"No." Mrs. Pegler didn't look at him, and he went back to his game. "I wanted to come to see you 'cause I figgered maybe you didn' know how I felt, and I wanted-"
A scream of anguish cut her off. The hammering stopped. A middle child ran to her holding his finger. "I hit it with the hammer," he sobbed.
She pushed out the twins and gathered him in. The baby squirmed and kicked again at being held to one side. She kissed the finger, gave the boy a hug and a little pat. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, and the snot from under his nose with his arm while he leaned against her. "I'm building a bridge," he explained to Martha, "so's we won't have to step on the floor to go to the toilet."
Mrs. Pegler gave him another little pat, and he went back down the hall. The hammering began again.
Martha tried to be careful. "I have really wanted to visit you for a long time. And now I have to come and ask you a favor. But I came because I'm sure I can count on your sincerity."
Mrs. Pegler shook her head from one side to the other, and let the twins elbow back between her knees. The baby whimpered at being crowded. She kissed him. "Honey, I'd do anything in the world for you, but I'm not goin' to do one snap of work while that stuck-up bunch of damnfool old biddies grab everything to make a parade out of it for theyselves."
Martha drove ahead, as though she hadn't heard Mrs. Pegler. "What I want to ask is a hard thing. You may even think it is a wrong thing, but I'm going to ask you if you'll do it. If you don't want to, I'll understand."
Mrs. Pegler shook her head negatively, slowly. "Well, honey, I'll do anything for you, but I just ain' goin' to work with those women. I just ain' a-gonna do it."
Martha swallowed hard. She couldn't seem to get the thickness out of her throat. "We need money. We need money very badly. Mrs. Kromer is able to raise the two thousand dollars with a turn of her hand through her husband's businesses, if she would. But Mrs. Kromer blames you for her guests not being served. She says she won't give a penny unless you apologize. She blames you because her guests were not fed."
Mrs. Pegier broke out in an epidemic of laughter. She haw-hawed and tee-heed until she had to set the baby on the floor. The twins moved to one side while she enjoyed herself. She yelled toward the back. "Mary! Mary! Did you hear that? They didn't feed them people after all. I tole you they wouldn'. Everybody ain' as big fools as Mrs. John Kromer thinks. I knew they wouldn'. "
Mary, a tall youthful copy of her mother, stepped into the living room. She had a partly peeled potato in one hand and a paring knife in the other. "It served her right. It served her right." She bowed to Martha. "How de do, Mrs. Johnson. I'm awful glad to get to see you. I heard Mama talk a lot about you." She turned and disappeared toward the back. The hammering continued.
Mrs. Pegler wiped at the tears in her eyes with the hem of her slip. Still chuckling, she picked up the baby and let the twins snuggle in again. After she was settled, she began to rock slowly. "Tell me, honey," she said after a moment, "do you think she can get that money?" .
"I don't really know." Martha shook her head rather hopelessly. "The other ladies say she can get it; and if we don't get money, I suppose I might as well withdraw and try to plan for some other year."
"Well, now, honey, maybe you should and maybe you shouldn't. I wouldn't get sick about it just because a lot of old hens got to fighting with each other and made damn fools out of theyselves. Besides, the people are going to do the votin', and there wasn't a tenth of them at that dinner was even registered."
Martha's shoulders sagged. She sighed. Mrs. Pegler smiled tenderly at her. "But don't you worry. I talked you into this thing and whilst I cain' work with that crew, they ain' nobody ever goin' to say they was one single thing I could do that I didn' do that stood in the way of you havin' a ! i'll chanst. Now, you hold the baby while I get my duds on. Wherever that Kromer woman is, we'll find her. And I'm goin' to 'pologize if that's what she wants. Then, we'll see what she puts on the line."
Mrs. Pegler handed the baby to Martha and dashed out of the I room.
The baby looked up at her and exposed two solitary teeth in a gurgling, drooling "coo." He rolled his face against her stiffly clean blouse and tried to put both hands in his mouth. He cooed and cuddled. He urinated.
"Little girl-" Martha held the baby a bit up from her. "I think your little brother has had an accident."
The girl twisted around, peering down over her shoulder, but not getting up. "Oh, he's all right. He always pees on people he -likes." She went back to reading.
The baby squirmed and leaned over against her. He smiled up at her, his wobbly eyes trying to fix on a bright pin on Martha's shoulder. He gurgled Happily.
Mrs. Pegler bounced into the room. The grayish powder stopped at her jaw line. Her lipstick was surprisingly bright. "My Lord, that boy peed on you too. He pees on everybody. I think he does it for meanness." She picked up the baby and gave him a hug and a pat. "Sarah! Take your nose out of that book, and change the baby. Come on now, Mama's got to go out to see what she can do to help Mrs. Johnson."
In the street, the air felt fresh and cool although the sun was bright and hot. They walked together in silence. Mrs. Pegler hummed something under her breath that was part gospel hymn and part blues. And although Martha had little hope in their mission, she felt calmer, less panic-stricken, as though she had been able to catch a breath and take a little rest.
As they entered the Kromer home, Mrs. Kromer offered Martha a chair and waved Mrs. Pegler indifferently toward another. Martha noted with relief that both Mrs. Winston-Hoyte and Mr. Kromer were not present.
"You sit down, honey," Mrs. Pegler said to Martha. "When I got to have a little say, I -likes to stand." She turned back to Mrs. Kromer, who had dropped down on the lounge and pulled one foot up under herself. Her eyebrows were arched and her lower lip stuck out in a pendulous pout.
"Mrs. Kromer, I pulled a dirty mean trick on you the other night. I probably wouldn't speak to anybody again, if they did that to me. But I know you a forgivin' woman so I wasn' 'fraid to come and ask you to forgive me. I guess I wasn' feelin' very well. I apologize for havin' done it."
Mrs. Kromer seemed to have shut her mouth tighter, if that were possible. Martha wondered what else she wanted.
"I was comin' to tell you so, anyway, but Martha bein' here jest give me 'nough courage to walk in and say my piece. I hope you won't hold it against the campaign for anything I did. I guess I don't have no business in it anyhow. I'm never goin' to bother you ladies again." She gathered her pocketbook up a little tighter under her arm. "And now, if you ladies will excuse me, I think I'm goin' to go."
Martha rose. "I'll go with you."
"You don't have to leave yet." Mrs. Pegler shook her head violently.
"But it's time for me to go." It wasn't only to thank Mrs. Pegler, it was more to step outside of something which seemed crowding ifr upon her.
Mrs. Pegler stared at her for an instant. "In that case, Mrs. Kromer, can I use your toilet?"
Mrs. Kromer nodded consent and jerked her head toward the back. She watched Mrs. Pegler hustle out of the room. She waved Martha back into her chair. "My dear, I think you're simply wonderful. How you ever could bring yourself to ask that creature to do you a favor, I'll never know. I feel terrible about the whole thing, but someone had to show that awful woman that she could not abuse the good people of Brooklyn. And don't you worry about that money." She managed a smile. "I have half collected already. And we'll have our tea at the Y.W.C.A. exactly as we planned."
Martha left with Mrs. Pegler, who had stayed in the bathroom a long time. They no sooner were out the front door than Mrs. Pegler whispered from the corner of her mouth, "How about it, honey? Did you get the money?"
"Why-I think so."
"Oh, boy," chuckled Mrs. Pegler. "That's the easiest money I ever made in my life." She giggled noisily as they walked along. "I'll remember it to my dying day. I made a couple of thousand bucks in two minutes. Just by scratchin' the back of an old fat cow."
3
Martha watched the afternoon heat quiver over the pavement. The curtains hung motionless before the bay windows as she turned back to her desk to stare with aching eyes at the sheaf of papers to which she had entrusted her thoughts-and upon which so much depended.
It was murderously hot for late August, but primary day, August 28, was less than a week away, and in her speech that evening she must tell the people exactly why she wanted to go to the New York State Assembly.
Yesterday, at the Sunday afternoon tea at the downtown Y.W.C.A., she had managed better than at the dinner. She had persuaded Mrs. Mcintosh to organize a receiving line, and all through the scorching afternoon she had shaken hands with young men, old women, children, beauticians, domestics, porters, chauffeurs, firemen, civil service clerks, dining car waiters, longshoremen, housewives, shipping clerks, social workers, ministers, until the steady stream of people had flattened out into an undifferentiated flow of brown, yellow and black (and there were two white women from the Y.W.C.A.). It seemed as though anyone who had a clean shirt, a pressed suit, and a desire to take part in Brooklyn's social life was there to crowd the sweltering room.
She let the speech rest on the desk a moment while she took strength from the crowds that had milled in and out. And yet she still felt depressed. Perhaps it was because in the middle of the style show, the woman who had furnished the clothes to advertise her dressmaking had bounded out into the middle of the stage, reciting in a scream: "Boots! Boots! Boots!" Everyone had stared, for she was long, thin, and leaning over at the top like a corn stalk that had grown too fast in too little sun, but she had continued her recitation until she finished.
Mrs. Mcintosh had been jubilant, and she supposed that Mrs. Winston-Hoyte in her own way had made an effort, but she couldn't down the memory of Mrs. Pegler at the ill-starred dinner mumbling, "Ain' no niggas gonna iect nobody all by they-selves."
She recalled the shock with which she had seen Elizabeth in the style show. She had known the choir would serve as models, that Elizabeth had said she was taking part. She remembered feeling pleased that her daughter was helping in her campaign. But she had found herself staring when Elizabeth, in a yellow riding habit, swaggered across the stage on the arm of a tall dark young man. Somehow, she had looked different from any other time she had ever seen her. Not that she didn't want to see Elizabeth a pretty girl. It was just that it was a new idea.
Martha twisted impatiently in her chair.
Why had that modiste jumped out in the middle of the show like that? It had ruined it. like so many other things. All these people served white people. They knew better than most folks what they ought to do, and how to do it. But why was it when they came to do something for themselves, they messed it up? Making grotesque caricatures of the worst slander Negrophobes could invent.
She shook her head and with determination again picked up her speech. She nipped through the pages.
They urged the need for playgrounds and night schools in Bedford-Stuyvesant. They told how these needed community improvements related to the disposition of State funds. The num--her of State Boards were listed, and the fact that there were no Negroes among the hundreds of honorary per diem commissioners was underscored. She made a marginal correction of "except three." Facts and figures on Civil Service appointments were carefully annotated, leading to a ringing pledge to investigate racial discrimination in State Civil Service.
It was so sticky hot it was difficult to concentrate, but she carefully reread it for the eighth time. Her spine still tingled at the stirring language. At least this part would not be "messed up," garbled. When she had her chance she would make them know that she could and would serve the community as it should be served. The memory of her first speech in the church gave her comfort, and she knew that if she could just touch them again, on this, as she had touched them then, it was not too late yet for her campaign to strike fire.
She simply had to.
Rehearsing her delivery, she whispered the speech softly to herself as she continued to the end.
She had finished the last page when Elizabeth called her for lunch. She ate silently, noticing that Elizabeth seemed distracted and was staring vacantly into space. "You looked very pretty yesterday, Elizabeth," she said.
Elizabeth's eyes focused. "What'd you say, Mom?"
"I said you looked very pretty in the style show."
"Oh." She flushed. "Thanks, Mom?" She stared at Martha for a moment as though she were getting ready to say something ; then she dropped her eyes and went back to eating.
"I almost didn't know you." Martha felt an urge to talk. If she could just read her speech out loud, that might help, but Elizabeth seemed so-well, off to one side. She kept trying. "Who was the young man?"
"He sings in the choir." Elizabeth didn't raise her eyes, and Martha wondered if it were only her imagination that a deeper flush was warming her, that she had again that "pretty" look she had worn on the stage.
The same Monday afternoon sun blazed on Taffy.
He turned into Cleo's apartment house on 142nd Street, and when the elevator did not answer his ringing, he toiled up the seven flights to the top floor. "Where the hell is that goddamned bastard?" he groaned.
He banged on the door of Cleo's apartment.
Nobody home!
He had ducked the Sunday tea the day before and had gone to school that morning in penance. He had endured the droning abracadabra by watching flies circling slowly in the middle of the room for about two hours. Then he had fled. As he stared at the unresponsive door, he mumbled to himself, "Shit! I might as well stayed in school." He licked his heat-parched lips and blew out his breath and started slowly back downstairs. Damned big meeting tonight. Wonder if Mom expects me to come? Christ! there was going to be a hell of a stink about those damned school reports. He shook his head. "I done the best I could."
He hesitated in the dark damp lobby before plunging out into the shriveling brightness of the streets, quiveringly quiet in the sultry heat. Then he went out and doggedly trudged the long hot blocks to 116th Street.
As he walked down the steps into the pool hall, he sighed with relief. The basement room was cool and dim. But no one was there except Crip, who hissed and clucked to himself, working over a dope sheet on the horses for the afternoon runs. He grunted at Taffy, but did not raise his head.
Taffy walked back and flopped on a bench. The strange solitude of the pool hall was depressing. He shifted restlessly. His pals were in jail. Cleo was to-hell-and-gone. Life was just one goddamned thing after another. Jesus Christ, he wished to hell there was something to do. He fingered the loose change in his pocket. Too early to spend the last of his money. That would strip him, leave him naked to boredom. He slouched into a corner, burying his hands in his pockets, rubbing himself. Maybe he could sleep, but his eyelids refused to shade out the empty room. The heat glistened on the deserted sidewalks.
A huge shadow blotted out the doorway. It was Homer! He ran to him.
"Homer, you goddamned old sonofabitch!" He hugged him, wrung his huge hand, and poked him again and again. He pulled him over to sit on the bench.
"Where's Eggie?"
"Eggie don't come out for six months yet. I got a lot of extra merits for being good," he explained proudly. "I been out a week already, and I promised the man up there I wasn't going to get in no trouble." He beamed in self-approbation. No.
"Well, I'll be damned. It sure is good to see you."
They watched a purple-faced policeman come in out of the blazing sun. He wiped at his steaming perspiration, gossiped with Crip a few minutes and then reluctantly plunged back into the waves of heat.
"I even got a girl," said Homer.
"Where the hell did you get a girl?"
"Dude's girl got her for me."
"You mean up at Cleo's-" Taffy grinned wisely.
"She's a nice girl and I got a date. Right now. She's waitin' for me."
"She got a friend?" Taffy didn't want to be left alone. "She's got a sister, but she's kinda big."
"The bigger the better. Just my style."
Out in the street, the two o'clock sun seemed to shrivel the sidewalks. Taffy licked his lips. It would be hot and sweaty, slippery. This was really good., They climbed to the top floor of a brownstone house in 126th Street between Lenox and Fifth. Homer's date was a large-boned, yellow, freckle-faced girl with wide cheekbones, a protruding chin and slit eyes. She clung to Homer, almost matching his size.
"Look, Lady," she said, "Homer's brought you a boy friend."
Taffy peered past Homer at Lady who was sprawled on a dilapidated sofa. She was fat and brown, and looked Taffy up and down with sullenly indifferent eyes. Homer pushed him into the room. "Go ahead, Taffy, enjoy yourself."
Homer's girl tugged at him to rush him across the hall. She closed the door.
Lady shifted her hulk on the sofa and scratched inside her dress between her breasts. "What's your story, morning glory?"
"I want some muff and no stuff." Taffy tried to sound equally bored.
Lady laughed. Her sides and buttocks shook under the tight gingham dress.
Taffy kicked the door closed and threw his hat into the corner. He lunged across the room. She pushed him to one side. He flew back at her.
She slapped him with a perspiration-wet hand that splashed pain across the hunger tearing him. She hit him again, clawing his ear, making his head ring. She pounded him on his back, in his ribs, hand over hand, until he thought he would burst. He tried to plead, but he slobbered unintelligibly. He tried to seize-her arm. She wrenched its slipperiness from him. Her clenched fist thudded in his neck. She flung him sprawling on his back. The jolt of the rough rug and the hard cold boards registered at a distance. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled back toward her.
As he fell upon her, he could feel her vibrating-with inner laughter. He lay quiet and limp. Finally he tore himself away, and sat on the edge of the couch, slumped in dejection. His neck and back stung. He felt very sick at the stomach as if he might vomit, except for the pain which kept his belly from contracting.
Lady was still laughing. The couch shook him gently up and down.
"You bore me," she said, and waddled to the sink in a cubbyhole to drink a glass of water.
Taffy could taste the iron of the blood he felt pounding in his throat while he watched Lady waddling about the room.
"I'm hungry," she said, "and I want a cigarette. You got anything to smoke?"
He shook his head. "No."
She grinned at him. "Come on, big boy. Get the nice lady some cigarettes-" She shook her hips so that her buttocks jiggled. "Maybe I'll be nice to you." She winked.
As he got slowly to his feet, he looked at the scene as from a great distance. This was too far away to be his hurt, and yet was it so far when he could hate himself at the same time? Why was he making such a goddamn ass of himself over this great fat slob of an old bitch?
Coming to him, she put her fat arms about him. "Come on, be a nice boy." She put him to one side. "Your ribs tickle. Be nice. I got something nice for you if you do. Go on, please."
Almost disbelieving what he was doing, he closed her apartment door behind him. He heard Homer's deep laughter behind the door across the hall. "Some bastards got all the luck," he grumbled, and turned sullenly toward the stairs.
He bought two ham sandwiches, a package of cigarettes and a quart bottle of beer. He saved a nickel by pleading and promising to bring the bottle right back.
As he came up the first flight, he thought he could hear Homer laughing again. When he pushed at Lady's door, it jarred, and didn't open. It was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer, no sound, only the flies buzzing lazily at the front hall window. He banged on the door. He shook it. The door panels stared back at him, haughtily silent. He hurried across the hall and knocked. The door swung open. He ran in, clutching his bundles. The narrow dark room held only a shabby dresser and a rumpled bed, a tangle of gray sheets. The air was thick with the heavy animalness he knew as Homer, overlaid with the odor of perfume and the smell of hair having been straightened. Homer's pants lay across the foot of the bed, his shirt lay crumpled on the dresser. Taffy ran back to Lady's door and shook it. He listened, but heard only the flies buzzing in the hot hallway. He kicked it again, and again. He stopped quickly and put his ear to the door. He thought he heard a muffled mumble and a smothered giggle.
"Homer! Are you in there?"
He listened.
The sound of corn roots growing in summer heat, of water seeping into a well, the preliminary whisper of insects whose strident voices will slice the night to ribbons, or the rumble of billowy white clouds piling up in sunlight for a midnight storm -these are the sounds of rural afternoon silence. So, too, in Harlem in summertime, the normal noisy life is throttled down -not that it, either, is ever quiet. Only, the big laughs, the shrieks of high-pitched frenzy or pain seem saved to go with taxis whose horns are quiet while the driver drowses waiting for the shade on the south side of the street to reach him. And people are put away to wait for evening. Taffy listened, and only the flies buzzed to guard the silently leaking heat.
He told it to himself slowly, bitterly. He had spent his money on an old fat bitch. His skin crawled with rage, his hair rising. He had been tricked! He had been made a fool! He flung the beer bottle against the door. It splintered, spewing beer over the hallway. He flung the sandwiches at the beer stains. He ran downstairs to flee what burned within him, trying to fight his inner fire with the reflected heat of the sun on the sidewalks.
He had less than a dollar left, but he couldn't wait. A pint of wine. His last money for the Renaissance. In the men's room he gulped down the wine, hardly breathing. It spilled down both sides of his mouth. Before the spreading warmth of the wine could fill him, he dropped into a seat to give himself to the movie. It revolved, slowly folded up and blacked out.
Martha stopped in front of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church in shocked surprise. It was dark and still. A few persons fanned themselves on the steps in the breezeless humidity.
The church doors were locked. Martha went and found the sexton in the basement. He grumbled, "Nobody told me 'bout no meetin'. "
"But you knew about it," Martha said plaintively. "It was announced yesterday in church. And you were at the tea-"
He shook his head. "Don' open the church just on hear-so. It's got to be official. And I ain' heard nothin' official."
She pleaded until he grudgingly agreed to open the church without "official" notice a few minutes after eight.
By 8:15 p.m. there was a scattering of people in the auditorium. By 8:30, Martha could still count the persons there. Mrs. Mcintosh, Mrs. Kromer and Mrs. Winston-Hoyte arrived at 8:35. The radio man followed them and went to a table below the rostrum to fiddle with the apparatus, which he had apparently set up earlier. Martha blinked at him. She thought to herself, "If he was in here setting up the radio, then what was that difficult, nasty, old sexton-"
"We had to wait for Audrey, of course." Mrs. Mcintosh settled herself beside Martha on the empty podium. "She had to bathe, you know." She waved a disparaging hand in the direction of Mrs. Kromer and Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, who sat near the back.
"Hey, lady," the radio man raised up. "It's 8:50."
"Yes, my good man?" Mrs. Mcintosh glared down at him.
"You go on in ten minutes." He sat back down. "And I'm not your good man either," he grumbled.
"But where is Reverend Stone?" asked Martha. She tried desperately to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice. "He's supposed to be the chairman and to start the meeting."
Mrs. Mcintosh dismissed the question with a wave of the hand. She opened the meeting and urged the people to come down front. About two people moved. She asked everyone to stand and to sing the Star Spangled Banner, and as she led the singing, Martha saw Dr. Finger and Mr. Van Arsdale come in and sit in the last row on the left. Mrs. Pegler came and sat in the last row on the right. She fanned herself furiously, opening up the neck of her housedress to a more daring decolletage than even Mrs. Winston-Hoyte would have essayed. There were about one hundred and twenty-five persons clustered in the middle down near the front, but for the first twenty-five rows there was not a person. The side pews and gallery were empty from front to back.
The sexton disappeared before opening any windows, and the auditorium was hot and close for all of its emptiness.
"Don't you worry, Martha," whispered Mrs. Mcintosh during the singing of the national anthem. "I'm used to fighting uphill. I know what it means to fight alone. A woman always has to face the world alone. The important thing is to keep your head and never let anyone know anything is wrong."
She wiped at the perspiration streaming down her face and beamed out over the small audience.
Before the singing was finished, Reverend Stone clumped heavily down the aisle. He still limped slightly. His white linen suit was sweat-splotched. He exuded heat as he puffed and blew his cheeks in and out.
He marched directly to the microphone, which was hooked to the Bible lectern, ignoring Martha and Mrs. Mcintosh. He looked at his wrist watch, took the cue from the operator, and began to speak.
"This is the Reverend Obediah Zechariah Stone. I'm the chairman of the Bedford-Stuyvesant People's Political Committee met here to discuss the candidacy of our good friend and member Mrs.-" He cleared his throat noisily and gargled the name. The radio operator shook his head.
"We're going to win this election." He patted his hands over his head and beckoned to the people to applaud. There was a thin scattering patter.
"We are meeting here in the Rock of Ages Baptist Church at Stuyvesant and Decatur through the courtesy of the deacons and vestry of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, and I want to thank them, one and all."
He named each name lovingly. He unwound a long exposition of what the deacons and vestry board had done to make the meeting possible, as well as other community enterprises. He repeated many of their names again. He mentioned the Ladies' Aid Society and called everyone's name but Martha's. He repeated the name and address of the church about fifteen times in the first fourteen minutes of the quarter-hour broadcast. The radio man signaled "one minute."
Reverend Stone thanked everyone for listening and invited them to "come to the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, at Stuyvesant Avenue and Decatur Street, in Brooklyn, where the friendliest welcome waits you every Sunday morning at eleven o'clock. The best music leads the best way to God. Make the Rock of Ages Baptist Church at Stuyvesant and Decatur your church home. The best preaching in Brooklyn."
The radio man held up his hand.
"Thank you."
The program was over.
He rushed over, pumped Martha's hand once, patted Mrs. Mcintosh, and hurried off the platform and out a side door.
Mrs. Mcintosh made the introduction to the audience. Martha listened to the elaborate adjectives echo through the barn-like church. When she stood to read her speech, she tried to sound intense and earnest. The hollow reverberation of her voice frightened her.
Mrs. Winston-Hoyte slipped out after the broadcast. A soft drizzle had started but she stepped into her car with self-satis--. faction. That ought to finish that drudge. Always acting like she did the world a favor to draw her breath. She sniffed the fresh air as she drove off. Never any threat to my glamour anyway.
She curled her lips in a wry smile as she thought of Mrs. Mcintosh. Woman's rights--! Any half-attractive woman can get anything worth the effort from any man. If she's not a horse and knows what to do with it. The tires sizzled on the wet pavement as she turned out Atlantic Avenue. "Bet she's not too sorry Martha's going to be clipped," she muttered to herself. She grinned at remembering how badly Mrs. Mcintosh had been beaten when she ran.
She grunted. What a messy bunch of women. Wonder why
Smitty married poor string-bean Max? She's really messy. Her and Mrs. Mcl. Wonder what their husbands think. But what can they do, poor dears, but suffer. She sucked her teeth and said, half aloud, "Just, suffer." She knew Smitty would be glad Martha would be batted down. She blew at a pedestrian. She wondered what it was that threw them all together. Mrs. Kromer who was just to be tolerated, a dull cow; probably never thought of anything but something to stuff her gut with. And Mrs. Stone. If she didn't have two children, it would be hard to believe she ever got up steam. Living proof of the Immaculate Conception. She moved impatiently from side to side and thought, "If Cincinnati was any proof, she didn't enjoy it."
Across the Triborough Bridge, she saw the lights of Harlem twinkling beneath their foggy ruby dome. "I hope John Kromer is uptown tonight," she thought wistfully. "I'd hate to take this drive just for nothing."
Martha was reading her speech to a rapidly dissolving audience. She tried to strike fire, but she only felt the perspiration creeping down her back. By 10:00 p.m., when she read her fiery peroration, there were fewer than sixty persons in the place. To one side behind her, she could see Mrs. Mcintosh braced belligerently. At the end of the speech, there was scattered applause; then, by common consent, everyone left.
"We must be firm like the Rock of Gibraltar, unharried and untouched by the slings and arrows of adversity," Mrs. Mcintosh said as they picked up their purses to step down from the podium to leave the church also.
The lights were turned out before they were halfway down the steps. Martha stumbled in the dark. Her knee thudded painfully against the edge of a pew. She hardly felt the pain for the queasy feeling in her stomach; but if it had not been so dark, she would have liked nothing better than to have doubled up, nurse her knee, and weep.
She limped after Mrs. Mcintosh toward the dimly lit doorway which framed the glow from the corner street light. She groped her way, as much in confusion as in darkness. Where were all the people who had come to the dinner? Where were all the people who had attended the tea? What about the white persons she needed who lived outside the district? She caught her toe in the aisle runner and stumbled again. The twist made her knee pain more sharply. She felt horribly alone.
She remembered having seen before only five or six of the persons who had turned out. Mrs. Pegler met her at the door, squeezed her hand and hugged her. She felt weak enough to lean on her fetid little friend who patted her back with much head waggling.
"Don't let 'em throw you, honey," she said. "Don't let 'em get you down. And there's one good thing about a meetin' like this. You can git home early and git some sleep. It's too damn hot for a meetin' anyways." She released Martha and patted her on the back again. "Stay with 'em, honey." She hurried away.
Mrs. Mcintosh walked Martha home.
She locked arms and talked on and on about how women had to struggle to get recognition in the world. Martha felt too tired and weary to worry about the other women in the world. She wished she had never mixed in politics. She wished she had followed Dr. Finger's advice to withdraw. She wished she had listened to Dr. Warden's wise counsel. She remembered with a chill his cold tone when he had told her that a political defeat would impair her usefulness to the committee.
Mrs. Kromer and Mrs. Winston-Hoyte had not waited for her speech. Even Reverend Cobalt, for whom she had raised $50,000, had not shown up to take his place on the platform as he had promised.
Mrs. Mcintosh started into the house with her. "You need someone to cheer you up, Martha."
"If you don't mind, I think I would like to go straight to bed." She barred Mrs. Mcintosh's way into her home.
She halted in the front hallway before putting on the lights. Her eyes caressed the polished floors reflecting the street light which streamed through the tall windows. The silence of deep rugs and upholstered furniture muted the jangle of her nerves. The yielding deep sofa enfolded her with cool fabric. The night noises were small, screened and rounded by the tapestry, drapes, curtains, furnishings and the secure peace of her home.
Martha relaxed; the quiet soothea the turmoil stirred up by the hollow wild echoes of the empty church meeting. She stretched out and closed her eyes.
"Mother," called Elizabeth as she came downstairs, "is that you?" As she came into the room, she stopped to light a low table lamp. Martha enjoyed its low glow, tinting the shadows.
Elizabeth sat on the arm of the sofa. "How was the meeting, Mother?"
"It was the first meeting, and it was hot. So I guess we can't expect much. The big meeting will be this Friday, because Primary Day will be Monday." She rubbed a hand across her forehead.
"I hope you're not too tired, because I wanted to talk to you." She touched her mother's hair.
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Martha was thinking of a warm bath and cool sheets. That would help her to get back on her feet.
"It can wait, but I thought you'd like to know that I'm getting married. I waited 'til after your meeting to tell you."
"Married!" Martha sat bolt upright. Her eyes popped wide open. Her cry startled Elizabeth to her feet. "Married?" she repeated, trying to grasp the idea.
"Yes, Mother. Married."
"But, Elizabeth, you didn't tell me anything about it. Who is he?"
"He's Marcus Martinez. He sings in the choir, and he works on the docks." She waited defensively.
Martha could find nothing to say. She was still gasping in surprise.
"He was married before, and his wife died." She went on. "He has two small children. He needs someone to take care of the children and someone to take care of him, and I think that he loves me. I love him, and we're going to be married."
Martha shook her head slightly, slowly, trying to unwind the words.
Elizabeth took courage from her silence. "I've worked and given my life to you and Dad. I've waited and watched until now you have everything you ever dreamed about or wanted to have. And now, well, now, I'm going to get married."
Elizabeth sat back on the arm of the sofa. She touched her mother's hair again. "Don't feel bad, Mom. I didn't want to worry you until I was sure, and I'm sure now."
Martha leaned back stiffly and slowly. She heard a sparrow chirping. Why was he making such a racket so late? She tried to force herself to think about Elizabeth, but her head felt heavy, as if her brow had become leaden and her neck weak. Elizabeth was going to get married. Yes, but to-
"To a man who works on the docks?" she whispered aloud.
"He's a good man, Mother." The answer came back quickly, and a little hard and sharp.
She couldn't let her daughter throw herself away, not when they had just found everything. She remembered the meeting and the uncertainty of the future, but she had blocked them out by caressing her home with her eyes. Elizabeth was just being impulsive. But, no, that wasn't Elizabeth's way. She had always been so quiet, so placid, so patient, that it had never occurred to the family to wonder what she was waiting for. She had been so much a part of their life; she had never seemed a person apart until this moment. Martha recalled sharply how Tom's father's sneer about "chocolate-drop" babies had stuck in her mind and how she had wept when she had seen her first-born. She wanted something fine for Elizabeth, the very best. She couldn't let her throw herself away. How could she plan to take on some man's babies and life? She forced out the words.
"But, Elizabeth, how can you do a thing like that?" She bit her lip and shook her head slightly. That wasn't what she wanted to say. No, there was something else. She wanted her daughter to be happy, to be married. How could she phrase what she wanted to say? If she could just get the weight out of her head. If she could just think!
"How can I, Mother?" Elizabeth's answer was a retort. "I think I have a right to my life. I've never asked anything for myself."
"But we've just moved into our own home, and we're just getting the things we've always wanted."
"I'm glad you're happy in your home, Mother. I'm afraid it never was so important to me. I helped you save, mostly because it hurt me to see you struggle. Now, you have your home, and you don't need me. And Marcus does."
"But, ElizabethWe do need you."
"I love Marcus and I want him to love me. I want to help him, to let his children know what a mother's love can really be. We're going to be married, Mother. I know we will be happy."
Elizabeth stood up and looked down. Martha sat motionlessly straight. Elizabeth's face wore the tension of sympathy warring with a fixed determination. "I hope you'll be happy when you are an assemblyman," she finally said.
She went upstairs.
After an empty time, Martha got up wearily to turn out the light and to lower the shades. A car pulled up slowly in front of the house. No one got out. She stared for a moment and wondered who was parking out in the street at such a late hour and what they wanted.
Taffy awoke with a start. His neck hurt. His mouth felt furry. The stench of a cigar beside him made him feel ill. He stumbled over the feet of other movie-goers, out of the Renaissance into the early summer night.
It was breathlessly humid. He headed for the pool hall. His head ached, throbbing as each step fell, pounding behind his eyes, beating. Daylight wrestled darkness, the street lights and little shop windows joining forces with the lingering twilight. No breeze stirred. The air hung still.
By the time he reached the pool hall, night had made fast its daily victory. Heat lightning flashed, and thunder grumbled in the distance. Leering, he swaggered down the four steps into the pool hall.
Crip didn't look up but went on reading his paper. Taffy walked back and dropped down on one of the dark green benches that lined the wall. He felt tight, and yet very low and gloomy. He was an insignificant lump of wrinkled and oddly assorted clothing scattered over a puny yellow frame.
He fished a cigarette out of the battered pack, lit it, and let it hang limply over his front lip. The smoke curled along his thin nose, edging in toward the flared nostrils, curling upward in a spiral to lose itself in the anonymous blue of the heavy moist air. The dampness seemed to hold the heat suspended in the room.
Outside, a fitful rain began to fall. He watched the legs and feet of passers-by, scurrying to get out of the quiet drizzle. A pale flash of heat lightning lightened the window. The falling rain traced crooked tracks down the glass of the front windows, but the heat seemed unabated-if anything, locked in tighter.
He watched the rotation game in front of him through squinting eyes. It held no great interest. Neither player was expert, and both too adept for a little easy money "Lemon pool." Taffy looked because his eyes were aimed that way.
He tried to take comfort in the familiar room. Green-shaded lamps overhung the five tables. Two tables at the front were dark, three tables at the back were busy. The benches on each side of the long room were full of loungers like himself, heaps of assorted clothing topped by Negroid black masks.
Ralph Redmond came in. He leaned over to shake the rain out of his freshly straightened hair, and with a handkerchief, daintily blotted it around the edges. He switched over to roll dice for candy with Crip. The bright lights etched them sharply against the black of the rain-streaked windows. A small group gathered to watch.
Taffy's body hurt from Lady's beating and his stomach felt tight and drawn. He closed his eyes to try to stop the dull ache in his head. It was a bad evening. It was an evening for gals and a bottle. But now he was broke. He didn't even have carfare back to Brooklyn.
He barely opened his eyes to squint at Ralph. Maybe he could make a touch.
Ralph was laughing, switching, showing off broad shoulders and muscles which he flexed and rolled beneath the clinging yellow sports shirt. One of the men slapped him on the buttocks, and he bumped him playfully.
"Damned old sissy," mumbled Taffy. But with so much attention there was no use saying anything to Ralph. The group leaned closer together to listen to Crip. They were shaking and laughing with anticipatory laughter at something he was saying.
Taffy shrugged his shoulders and shut his eyes. He cursed to himself. Why couldn't he be over six feet tall, big like Ralphor Homer? Bet if he were big like that he wouldn't spend his time rolling dice with Crip and feeling up a couple of punks.
"If I were Big."
First, a good bottle of brandy.
No cheap muscatel or port, but good brandy. The kind with the red stuff stuck on the ribbons, with the pretty head and gold leaf cap, and with all the imagine reading written in French on the ancient label. It would be twenty-five years old.
Then, there was Geraldine, and he added Mrs. Winston-Hoyte. Some way, he would have both of them. He watched them in his imagination, and sneered. The damned way they walked. The curve of their necks and breasts-Geraldine's high-pointed and thrusting, Mrs. Winston-Hoyte, smooth, delicate, small, peeking at him from each side of the low decolletage. He licked his lips and his nostrils dilated to inhale their odorclean, sweet and hurting. He swallowed hard.
He would be indifferent.
They would throw their arms around him, and he would look down from his great height. They would fall on their knees, cling to his hands and press their lips into his palms. He closed his hands convulsively. He was panting slightly with gaping mouth, his imaginings glazing his eyes. He fondled them. They adored him.
The cigarette ash dropped into his open-necked shirt. It burnt him so that he swore. The vision of his double seduction was startled away.
He watched a cockroach on the wall.
Taffy became a hunter, a picture of collapse and absolute repose, and as the vermin traced its hesitant track along grimy finger-marked wall, playing tag with the scribbled telephone numbers, names, and half-obscured obscene legends, he became a poised engine of destruction.
He followed the insect's hasty scurrying to-and-fro with vicious intentness.
In a flash, his hand cut a sepia arc through the air. With a "smack!" that split the low hubbub and click of the pool games, he smeared the cockroach along the wall, leaving a glistening streak where the insect had run.
The "smack" pierced the dreams of a flea-bitten bitch, who had huddled in a twitching slumber beneath the bench where Taffy sprawled. With an echoing yelp, she shot from her dark covert to attack her nearest adversary, Taffy's leg. She sank'in her teeth with terror-born might.
Taffy screamed, "You goddamned little sonofabitch!"
He kicked out, flinging the cur against the side of the opposite pool table. The bitch yelped and scurried around under the table. She looked wildly about, whining and whimpering, panting-
He jumped to his feet, quivering with rage.
"You dirty little bitch!" he snarled. "I'll learn yah! I'll learn yah!" He hunched his back, dropping his head down between his shoulders. His jaw was slack, his mouth working. He gnawed at his lower lip as he teetered back and forth muttering curses to himself.
The pool hall stopped, stick in air, to watch. Taffy felt his own heavy breathing and knew he was the center of the stage. The cue was his.
But he was stalled. He was uncertain what to do next.
"You little bastard. I'll learn yah." But no new idea or assurance came with his reiterated threat. He felt a panic begin to swell. He had to do something. He had to; he just had to! Everybody was looking. He had to do something. A trickle of perspiration crawled itchily down his spine. He hunched his shoulders lower and took a step toward the bitch who was cowering under the table.
She eyed him warily. Her back bristled, and she growled slightly from the shadows beneath the table. Her eyes shone bright and unblinking.
He wished he could go back to his seat and sit down-just let it alone; for instead of the mutt cowering and cringing, she bared her fangs nastily and snarled louder. He heard a soft chuckle behind him.
"What's the matter, Taffy?"
A deluge of laughter was unlocked. It roared in his ears.
He had to do something. He couldn't let that bitch get away with it. His hands began to tremble. Panic became hysteria. He lunged forward, kicking under the table with one foot.
He slipped on a wet glob of spittle and his leg hit the bottom of the table with a "thud." He fell flat, writhing in pain, among the rubble and filth of the pool hall floor.
The dog crouched for an instant, then flashed to the attack. She snapped at Taffy's leg again. He screamed out, kicking, rolling over on the floor. His cry was drowned in a tidal wave of guffaws.
"Well, I'll be goddamned!"
"That little bitch!"
"Whatcha say, Taffy?"
The dog made a dash for the back.
He leaped to his feet. He shook violently, the world rocked in a blinding red blur of black roaring faces, sneering laughter, and thundering blood in his ears.
Ignoring the smears of spit and floor filth on his face, he snatched a pool cue from a table and sprang after the dog. She doubled back quickly.
He swerved to duck her snap as she shot past, and put all his weight behind a blow with the cue stick. The small end caught in the ball rack, and threw him backward. He teetered, whirled about, and then, with wildly flailing arms, slipped and fell face forward.
Everyone was laughing, shouting;-
He tried to break the fall with the cue stick, but in spite of wild gyrations, he fell across the stick which had caught between the table and the wall rack. He hung for a split second. Then, with a sharp "snap!" the stick splintered and he was down on the floor again.
The split stick gouged a crooked gash into his face, but he hardly felt its slash. Scrambling to his feet, he seized the heavy end of the cue and raced up front behind the cur.
He cornered her against the wall opposite the candy case. The rocking laughter died as though the earth had fallen away.
Taffy quivered. He hardly breathed although his nostrils distended and his mouth gaped. A thin line of blood traced the gash across his cheek and dripped down to make a crooked track across his chin. He crouched low. His cat-like eyes were slit to pin the pup to the corner where she cringed in expectancy.
The world was a peak on which he and a cur-bitch were alone.
The dog snarled. Taffy edged forward. She snarled again and bared her teeth. One foot before the other, treading lightly on the insides of the balls of his feet, he shuffled one foot before the other.
He crouched still lower, the end of the stick barely above the floor, drawn back in a close, tight circle.
Someone laughed nervously, and then choked it off.
"Aw, come on, Taffy. Let the goddamned old mutt alone."
Taffy didn't hear. He kept up his stealthy stalking like a petty thief robbing a corpse. A hard knot tied itself tighter in his chest.
The club whistled through the air.
The dog ducked, catching a partial blow that split open her shoulder, knocking her a little bit out of her corner sanctuary. She seemed to strain back the yelp, but she whined thinly while she squatted closer to the floor, waiting warily.
The club flashed again.
It caught her full in the side and ribs, bowling her back into the corner from which the first blow had partially knocked her.
Her cry of pain was propelled as much by the breath being beaten out as by will or desire. Her left hind leg dragged out at a queer right angle. She did not snarl or growl. She whimpered and ducked her head this way and that as though trying to find help. Her eyes pleaded for mercy.
Taffy hardly stirred except for the slow winding up of the clubbed stick, the weighted end poised at the top of a new tight arc.
The spring snapped, the club flew, the slow shuffle broke, and Taffy planted another blow that sent the dog tumbling toward the front door. He leaped past her, and while she was still half sliding, cringing, he sent another blow crushing with a sickening thud into the cur's middle that rolled her back to the corner.
She barely lifted herself up by her front legs, and began to whine hysterically, like a hungry baby for whom there is no food, crying itself to sleep.
Still Taffy stalked.
His blood-stained club rose to a new high. Now he'd show them. His mouth worked, he licked his lips, he was panting in thirsty anticipation. The perspiration stood on his face, smeared with blood and dirt.
He brushed at his cheek with his shoulder, a cigarette butt tumbling to the floor. His thin hands gripped the stick; he writhed in a spasm of hate and panting desire. He flung himself at the dog and his orgasm of vengeance broke. He rained blows on the flinching huddle of mangy bloody fur. He cried hysterically as the blows fell faster and faster.
The stick was wrested from his hands.
He was hoisted into the air by the same jerk that twisted his arm far up the middle of his back almost over his head. He was whirled about, and half thrown, half falling and running, he sprawled into the doorway.
Ralph stood like an evil genie, in front of the bloody patch of fur and quivering raw flesh. He looked at the blood-splattered, splintered cue end in his hand-and then at Taffy, who was scrambling hysterically to get to his feet.
"Let the goddamned dog alone, Taffy." He spoke barely above a whisper.
Taffy screamed, "I'll kill that fuckin' bitch! I'll kill you too, you dirty sonofabitch! Get to hell out of my way!" He tore at him with both hands, fingers extended.
Ralph balanced his two-hundred-odd frame lightly and bent to one side to let the whirling fury of Taffy stumble past. Taffy thudded against the front pool table, and the blow knocked him to his knees. He clutched out at the green cloth to save himself, but he didn't stop falling before he cracked his mouth and split his lip.
A thin stream of blood trickled down his chin to balance the rooked red smear of gore on the other side of his face.
He was sobbing hysterically. The tears streamed down. He sagged for an instant, half dropping to one knee. "You goddamned dirty black bastard," he mumbled convulsively. He glared his hatred at Ralph.
Taffy's hand closed on a billiard ball.
"Look out! That crazy sonofabitch is going to chuck it!" like street hustlers when the cops come, the semicircle broke and found shelter in back corners and behind the other tables, out of range.
Ralph bent forward a little.
He smiled slightly and still spoke as soothingly as a mother calming a terror-stricken child. "Don't be a goddamned fool, Taffy. Cut out the crap. G'wan, sit down. Let the mutt alone." He licked his lips sensuously as though he enjoyed sharing the outburst of hate and violence.
The cue butt hung loosely at his side.
The dog stopped whimpering.
The yellow ceiling fixture lighted the arena of the front of the narrow room, framing the huge giant, the dirty pigmy and the dying dog. The smoke hung in wait. The yellow poured down over Ralph's black immobile face. It lighted the bloody heap of fur that had been a dog. The cigar case and soda-pop stand showed the creases and cracks of time's grime. Taffy was an awkward and disjointed figure, half crouched, half fallen against the pool table like a castaway rag doll, smeared with red and filth.
"Now, boys; now, boys." Crip cringed behind the battered soda-pop box. He licked his lips, and his eyes were bright with the excitement.
Taffy lay huddled where he had collapsed against the pool table, one hand stretched out, clutching the pool ball. He twisted his face again across his shoulder, hardly changing his position. A smear of blood, dirt and tears creased a strange warp across the woof of his distorted mouth, eyes, and chin.
"Now, boys," whispered Crip again.
The bloody cur yelped a single hollow cry.
Taffy stiffened and stopped sobbing. His mouth worked. His knuckles gleamed like polished bone as he gripped the glistening white ball tighter. Ralph's eye narrowed until the crisply curling eyelashes almost met and mingled. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, slightly.
"All right, fellah," he barely whispered.
Taffy whirled about and flung the ivory ball. It cut a white streak through the air. Ralph followed it with his eyes as he leaned from its path. The ball hit the wall with a thud and dropped near the dog. She flinched slightly. Behind the ball, Taffy, screaming an unintelligible curse, tore straight past Ralph to throw himself on the floor in the corner. He seized the mangled lump of bloody fur that had been a dog to beat it with his fists.
Ralph whirled about. He, dropped the stick, kicking it out of the way. One hand caught the dog, the other caught Taffy. He pulled them apart as though they were two children fighting. He dropped the dog in a limp heap, and with a heave, slung the slobbering, flailing, scratching Taffy back against the billiard table.
Somebody with a cue stick racked the other two balls to the other end of the table. Taffy braced himself against the cushion, and screaming wildly, flung himself on Ralph.
Ralph took a quick side step and caught Taffy full on the side of the face with a slap that split the watchful silence. The blow spun Taffy about, but he struck out blindly again, screaming and crying hysterically. Again a smacking slap threw him against the wall beside the candy case.
Ralph followed up quickly. He seized the stunned Taffy by the coat and shirt front with one hand and slapped his face back and forward, rapid fire, until he hung limp and unresisting.
Ralph shook him like a cat playing with a dead rat.
"You little bastard,", he cooed softly, "I ought to break your goddamned neck."
He shook Taffy again, and Taffy trembled inside as well as out. What had he done? Ralph had him. Ralph had him. Ralph could smash him. He hung limp, and whimpered.
Ralph's eyes twinkled. He arched his knappy plucked eyebrows. With deliberate ease he slapped Taffy again, as though he knew the show was over. "I ought to choke you, you little bastard. You tried to kill me."
He pulled Taffy up close to his face. He scowled. Taffy went limp and sagged to his knees.
"Stand up, you little bastard." He jerked him up by his clothes.
Taffy stood. His hands and arms hung limply at his sides.
"Aw, let the little rat go, Ralph. He ain't worth it."
"Yeh," sneered Ralph. He spat deliberately in Taffy's face. "You ain't worth it." He flung him to one side.
Taffy hit the wall and slid down to sit on the bench. He huddled over, hugging his inside agony. His leg hurt. His side hurt. His face smarted. His lip felt large and puffed. He followed a stinging cut across the full length of his face with trembling fingertips. But more than anything else, he just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to crawl down into his clothes, to shrivel up, and to disappear. A wave of self-pity overwhelmed him. He cringed tighter together and a tremulous snivel shook him.
"Shut up your goddamned whining, you little tramp!"
A new figure loomed up before him. He looked at the half-clenched fists. They were black hands, gnarled and gray-lined at the joints. The fingers twitched nervously. Taffy shut his eyes and shivered. He stopped sniveling.
The rotation game stalled over whose turn it had been when the dog business began.
The quarrel became violent, and suddenly one man whipped out a long vicious-looking switch-blade knife. The other drew back with the butt of his cue stick and waited on guard.
Crip limped up and began to lisp words of peace. He persuaded them to shoot off the cushion for the next shot and said the game was on the house.
The pounding inside Taffy's head forced him to close his eyes.
When he opened them again, Ralph was poking the dog with a huge sharp-pointed shoed foot.
"She's done for. Throw her out in the gutter with the rest of the bitches of Harlem. That's what they should all get." He roared in self-appreciation. The others joined him.
Crip limped up with a shovel from the back room and one of the hangers-on shoveled up the broken body and carried it up to the street level to dump it at the curb.
Ralph looked down at his yellow shirt. It was streaked with blood and dirt from Taffy's clawing and struggling. He took a heavy step toward the quiet huddled figure.
"I ought to beat his brains out."
"Aw, let 'im alone, Ralph. Come on, what we need is a drink."
Ralph let himself be coaxed, patted and cajoled away from further violence.
The fight hysteria that had charged the air wore off and left the normal stench of stale cigarette smoke and smell of tired workmen, burning up boredom in petty gambling.
Taffy slumped lower. He wished he were dead. He felt in his pockets. Not even a nickel. He could jump over the subway stiles to get back to Brooklyn, but, Christ, what he wouldn't give for a drink. He shut his eyes and wished he could as easily blot out the pain.
Crip came back to inspect him sourly. "You look kinda cut up, son."
Taffy glanced up and nodded.
"You better go get fixed up. That ain't such a healthy-looking scratch," he lisped solicitously.
"I ain't got no money," Taffy said sullenly.
Crip dug into his apron pocket and brought out a handful of change. Taffy eyed him hopefully. He fished out a quarter and handed it over. "Go on up to the drugstore and get Dr. Cohen to fix you."
Crip started away and then turned back. "Here's an extra dime. Come on, get goin'. I don't want no kid with blood all over him sitting around my place. I got a big squawk on my license last time." He bent over and pulled Taffy to his feet.
Taffy made a show of being weak and wobbly. He leaned on Crip and once again the pool hall stopped to watch him. He dragged his feet as Crip walked him up front.
It had stopped raining.
Taffy stumbled up the steps. After he was out in the cooler rain-washed night air, he straightened up a little. He shook out his shirt and rubbed at his kinky yellow hair, which was bristling in front like a cockatoo's comb. As he traced the burning line the split cue stick had cut across his face, he walked out toward the curb to lean against a car fender. He closed his eyes. Remembering his mother's meeting that night hit him by surprise. He wondered what made him think of that? He touched his bruised inner lip with his tongue. Christ Almighty! He hurt in so damned'many ways he couldn't touch it. He flinched with the beat of the headache pounding in his temples.
He opened his eyes and saw a muddy hump of black and white fur crumpled beside the curb. The water in the gutter flowed out around it. He shivered. His face was on fire. Maybe he better go to the Doc. He turned uptown to 120th Street. His throbbing head jarred with each step. He held his temples as he walked, squeezing with his fingers. He let his eyes close. Christ if he could just-"
A rough bump jarred his eyes open. A hawk-faced black man growled something at him, but he walked on. Taffy breathed hard. He fought to make his eyes stay open, to beat back a leaden desire just to slide down and let go, even if he was in the street. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, up the wet street that still captured glitter from the lights of stores, signs and street lamps.
At the dimly lit corner drugstore where "Dr." Cohen dispensed patent medicine, roots, charms, advice, and "blood medicine," Taffy stopped. He fingered his thirty-five cents and mentally measured the distance to Harlem Hospital clinic, 137th Street. Walking had slowed some of the crowding pain which had gripped him. The headache was only an angry lump behind the left side of his head. The throb had moved to the cut across his face which pinched with pain. He felt slack and exhausted, but he thought he could make it.
Sighing, he spat to try to rid his mouth of the taste of his own blood. He turned to start walking again.
Taffy pushed through the swinging doors into the emergency ward of Harlem Hospital.
"I tole you. I tole you," moaned a broad black woman sitting on a front bench. She clutched the arm of a slight brown-skinned girl. The girl's hair was disheveled. Her ripped skirt exposed a spindly thigh, and she was sobbing quietly. The woman, huge and formless as a ton of coal, groaned, slowly shaking her head to and fro.
"I tole you," she moaned in a sing-song. "I tole you they was no-good. But you wouldn' listen to me. You wouldn' listen. Now you mint; and God only knows what I'll do. I don' know what I'll do."
The girl wiped her nose along the back of her free arm, and shook her "fried" hair as though to get it out of her eyes. It stayed stuck at the same angles. The mother shook her. The girl winced.
"I tole youI tole youI tole you they was no-good; but you wouldn' listen to me. Now you don' even know how many they was or who they was. Even a bitch dog don' let more'n one mount her. But you-" She sighed heavily. "You don' even know how many they was." Her voice trembled, hardening. "I'd like to catch 'em." Her lower lip dropped, the pink lining glistening against her black lips and face. "I'd show 'em. I'd fix 'em up so they'd never look at another gal. I'd tear it out with my two hands and stuff it down their throats."
She began moaning again, inarticulate, high and then low, then high again in slow tempo with her rocking backward and forward on the bench, monotonously wailing like an eternally tortured spirit. "Oh Lordy, what'm I goin' to do. Oh Lordy, what am I goin' to do. Oh Lord, have mercy on me, I don' know what to do."
Taffy shook himself to break the hold of the chant upon him, to keep from feeling gravel under his knees and the trembling wet of her twisted mouth and Lillian, whimpering yet thrusting herself at him. His head began to pound again to join the pulsing pain in his face. He strained to see through the glaze of painv Where was somebody? Why in the hell didn't it hurry up? He started anxiously for the nurse when he saw her talking to a thin tall light-skinned man.
The nurse said to the man, "If the pains have just started there is no cause to be concerned. Weil send an ambulance as soon as one is available." She sounded annoyed. "-if you're sure she can't come in a cab."
"But she's sick, missus," pleaded the thin man. "I'm afraid. An' you see, she ain' never had no other baby. An' it's too early. I know it's a 'mergency. I just gotta have 'n ambulance now." He repeated, "Now," leaning toward her insistently to touch the tip of the sleeve of her uniform as Taffy's father had tried to plead with George Mettig, like please Ralph, I ain't white folks, or Lillian pleading, "You don't think I'm a bad girl?" or a cake behind a frosted window, or a dark closet, or-
Or Christ, any goddamn thing, but why was it takin' so goddamned long to stop the bursting agony in his face, his throbbing head.
"-will you please go home like a good boy? Please! I'm busy," the nurse snapped at the father. She whirled away.
In the midst of agony, Taffy's eyes caught in the slight gap of the uniform which creased starchedly over her robust breasts. Every bulge of waist, hip and bosom was around him as real as floundering with Lady. Pink and white, and hard yellow hair that rippled rigidly from beneath her white cap. For a moment he was outside of headache, pain and his bloodstained bedraggled self.
"Well?" she snapped, "What do you want?" Her sharp hard eyes cut off his stare. He floundered back. "Speak up! What happened to you." She sniffed and made a wry face. "And I suppose you fell downstairs too." She whirled around to the desk. She slung a towel to him. He caught it, blinking as one corner hit him in the eye. She jerked her thumb toward the door labeled "Men."
"Go in there and wash up. I can't tell if your throat's cut or if you just need a bath."
Lady laughing, jiggling him up and down. Go ahead, big boy.
"Go ahead, stupid," the nurse said loftily. "Then the doctor will see you." She turned, stopped for just a split second to watch a drunk who gabbled incoherently in a corner and caught imaginings in the air to stuff them into his pockets. She shook her head and disappeared through other swinging doors.
Taffy let the door to the men's room swing back and forth behind him as he entered. In one corner, a youth retched in the general direction of a wash basin, managing to spew the floor and himself as well. He stank of sour wine, and there was a swollen red welt across the side of his head.
Taffy slowly stripped off shirt and undershirt, moving carefully, feeling as though a sudden jolt, and it would all thunder loose, tumbling disastrously downhill. He gathered up a double handful of water and sloshed it up over the line of fire across his face. He shivered at its icy kiss. He splashed up more water, to soothe his lip, to ease his throbbing temples, to cool the scarlet of his neck and shoulders from Lady's pounding, the angry marks sharply red against his pale skin.
He splashed again and again.
He closed his eyes, holding his breath while the cool fingers of water caressed his hurt, smoothed his forehead and shrank his ache. The freshness was a breath in the stinking closeness of the hospital. His turmoil quieted as though the edge of the pounding agony had been partially dissolved away. The quiet ! that came with the coldness was the calm of a walk on a New Year's Eve long ago when they had lived on 99th Street and the I snow had squeaked under their shoes as he had clung to the hem of her coat, glad to be stumbling along beside her through the swirling blizzard, glad that the dreary lonesome wait in the i'll deserted hallway was over, glad that he could escape, without any final hurt, laughing people who hollered at him, but with something in their voices he couldn't then understand until he had asked "Mama, what's a nigger?"
She had strode along silently for a moment and then stopped. "What did you say?"
"What's a nigger?"
"Who was saying that?"
"In the hall, a man come out. He said, 'Hello, little nigger.' And I said, 'I'm not a nigger.' He laughed and the people laughed, and he said I was a nigger, and if I didn't know it to ask my mama if I was a nigger."
"Stop saying that word. You're not one. He is. Come on." She had started walking again, but because the sharp wind nipped his cheeks and it would be Christmas when they got home and he was glad to be with her, he had sung a little song:
"There was a little bee, He was as happy as can be; He lived in a tree In a beehive-"
Funny, to remember just that, after so much else. Because he hadn't finished his song; his mother had stopped, and while people stopped and stared, she had knelt in the snow and gathered him to her and kissed him. It was a big kiss, and as the cold water ran down he could still remember her cold cheeks and icy nose and how they tickled.
He shivered and looked at himself in the mirror.
His mouth, slightly too full and girlish, hung loose and flaccid, the ruby bruise from the pool table making an angry lump. He examined the cut in his cheek. It was deep, but undercut so that the overlaying flesh left a jagged thin mark. The bleeding had stopped. His hair stuck up in the air. He shook his head. What a little kid he had been. Now-He stared blankly. There was too much to try to put it together. To hell with it!
He examined the cut again and cursed the dog. He relived the moment when he had beaten out its life with the cue butt. He noticed the irregular red splotches on his neck and shoulders where Lady had beaten him. He turned away from the mirror.
After he had dressed, he swaggered out to the attending doctor. The throb in his head was almost gone, as though looking at an invisible ache convinced him it was not there. He pushed in front of a short fat black woman.
The young doctor looked up with unseeing eyes. "You'll have to wait your turn. Take a number, over by the bench."
"I was here before," Taffy snarled.
Bright awareness flicked into the doctor's eyes, but he didn't change expression. "I said, 'Take a number.' "
"I was waiting before. I was sent into the other room." The crowding words speeded up themselves. Taffy felt his anger balloon into being. "I don't see why I have to be kicked around. What the hell do you think I am? A dog?" His breath was short. His eyes blinked rapidly.
The doctor's face hardened. He looked past Taffy and jerked his head slightly.
"Thas's-right!" put in the mother with the girl. She let go the child and hurried over. "That's right! We pay your salary; and nobodyll do anything!"
Taffy ground on, more stridently, as loudly as he could. "Who do you think you are? You just a punk doctor! If it wasn't for me gettin' banged up, you wouldn't even have a job."
The woman leaned over the desk, her mouth twisting, her huge hands opening and shutting. "It's a goddamned shame!" She screamed. "You dirty sheeny pig!"
Taffy reared back. "You no good twoforanickel shyster Jew bastard." He spat it out, word by word. "It's sonsofbitches like you always gimme the shitty end of the stick. You think just because you're a goddamned white bastard, I got to take your goddamn crap. You kiss my ass!" He spat in the direction of the doctor's table.
The man awaiting the baby, standing by the door, bobbed his head in agreement. The drunk peered over, trying to see through alcoholic haze. The young man with the welt walked unsteadily toward them. The fat mild black lady still stood to one side where Taffy had pushed her. She blinked her eyes owlishly at the doctor.
A barrel-chested guard pushed between Taffy and the desk. His brown face wore a pleasant smile, but his eyes were narrow. Without taking his unblinking eyes from Taffy's face he asked softly, "Everything okay, Doc?"
"Everything's okay, Theo," said the doctor. His mouth was twisted to one'side in amused impatience. "This thinks it's in a hurry." -
"I was here before, and I-" Taffy began.
"Did you hear what the doc said?" The guard spoke softly, but he pushed Taffy slightly with his chest, forcing him to step back.
"I told him to get a number." The doctor motioned to the mild fat black lady. "Come on, lady." He looked past her. "You others, go on and sit down." The others sat.
"You gonna sit down?" The guard's face had become a little harder, anticipatory.
Taffy sulked and twisted himself from one side to the other. "I said, 'Sit!'"
Taffy stepped slowly backward until he felt the bench strike the backs of his knees. He sat slowly, turning sidewise, but as he sank all his old heaviness and ache came down with him. like sitting in a movie and hurting deep because of Cleo and the tears crowding up. The room blurred in his sight, his throat filled up, but he remembered-"Cleo!"
He sprang up.
"All right there!" roared the guard.
He whirled about, raced out of the room and tore through the hall toward the street. He could hear the guard yelling after him. He plunged into the humid night, and didn't stop running until he was almost at 139th. Cleo! That's where he should have gone before.
Sam let him in, but Cleo stopped him before he started down the hall. "Get out," she said in a low expressionless voice. "Get out, you goddamned cheap little tramp, before I have you thrown out."
Lady's sister squeezed by in the hall. She winked wisely. Cleo's eyes darted toward her as she went to sit with a large fleshy white man at a table in the front room.
"To think I let a sniveling little punk like you play me for a sucker," she hissed in his face. "I been kind to you. Been better than your own mother. I let you cry on my shoulder, and I fed you and tried to make something out of you. But dirt is dirt and I guess they's nothing better to do than to wipe yourself clean of it and keep yourself clean." The wrinkles about her eyes squeezed. Her breath came quickly. She pushed him out the door. "If I ever catch you hanging around here again, I'm going to have every bone in your body broken. Now, get out and stay out."
She slammed the door.
"That goddamned Lady. That nogood bitch. What'd she have to tell for?" A trickle of sweat burned in the cut. He dabbed at it tremblingly with his dirty handkerchief. He felt the slash, tracing the curled lip of the now angry swelling. Christ, how it hurt! That goddamned Ralph. That goddamned Ralph. Hatred smeared out the pattern of his mind in a blur that hardly knew his head was pounding again, beating, aching, like a thing apart. He felt aching in body and hysterically tight, as if he had to hurry. As if there was something he had to do quickly, as if there wasn't much time. He trembled with pain and anxiety.
He jingled the money in his pocket. Thirty-five cents!
Jesus Christ! If he just had some more dough. Then, he could get something to drink. He could even get a girl. To hell with Cleo. With a little dough, he could have a girl. And no Lady either. But thirty-five cents! Not even enough for a couple of drinks.
He walked aimlessly down Lenox Avenue.
A little man, coat over arm, hurried past him. He clutched a long wallet earnestly, and turned into 133rd Street. Taffy fell in behind him. He stopped in the middle of the block and mumbled, half aloud, "As usual, the top floor."
Taffy climbed the stairs after him. The man rang the bell on the left, top floor. Taffy rang the bell on the right. The man rang twice more, imperiously; and then, muttering to himself, turned wearily to start back down the stairs.
"This is a stick-up!" The man started to turn around. "Don't turn around!" He stopped. Taffy clutched his knife in a trembling hand. He grabbed the wallet, emptied it out, flinging the insurance slips down the stairs. Nothing! He snatched the coat. Nothing! He ran his hands over the agent's body. It felt pulpily soft, hot and wet, fattily smooth like Lady's big buttock. His wallet!
One lousy buck!
"Hold.up your hands! Higher!" No jewelry.
Taffy's normal sallow complexion was an unhealthy bilious yellow. Fear and anger snarled his features into a defensive knot in the dim orange of the hallway light. The ugly scratch crinkled and crawled like a live thing. He jammed the dollar in his pocket and tore up the pocketbook, scattering the cards and pieces.
He stared angrily at the back of the chubby man.
"'One goddamned lousy stinkin' buck!" He swore.
He watched a trickle of sweat form in the bald spot, join itself with others and twist into the wilted collar. The shirt, plastered to his perspiring body, showed the agent's pink flesh.
"What'd you do with your money? Gimme your dough!"
"I don't have any money, honest I don't. Don't hurt me. I gave you everything I got. I don't have any money." He whispered huskily, "Don't hurt me."
A quick smirk of disdain unscrewed Taffy's tangled fear. The long scratch crawled as Taffy worked his mouth. This dirty, no-good, cheap bastard.
"Don't hurt me. I got a wife and babies. I never did anything to anyone. I'm only trying to make a living. Take my money, but don't hurt me-" His voice broke in a whimper. "Please-"
Taffy stared at the pink flesh showing through the clinging wet shirt. He followed a fat roll of pink plumpness about the insurance man's waist. He watched it crease and uncrease as the trembling man panted. It winked at him.
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and the obese roll opened up and closed, pursing its full lips. The wet shirt billowed, screening the pinkness for just an instant, and then collapsed again to half reveal the trembling flesh. Taffy was in the grip of an unreasoned excitement. The fat little man creased and rolled wherever he looked-up, down-he could see the fat folds on either side of his neck. The roar of pounding blood filled Taffy's ears to deafen him.
His hand gripped the knife, the skin stretched tightly over the straining knuckles. The sharp guard cut him, but he didn't feel it. Rather, he wondered at the tightening muscles, in his shoulders and arm and back. His arm was hard as a rock, more rigid than the blade. He was part of the shiny steel.
His sight glazed. His lips were loose and dry. He licked them.
He and the knife tightened, poised.
It snapped. The blade drove in with the full weight of Taffy's skinny body behind it.
He wrested it out of the man's back with a twist, panting.
The agent stiffened, making a choking grunting noise of surprise, his raised hands twitching. A triumphant red circle wildly splotched the wet white shirt.
Taffy slashed out again, cutting a ruby ring around his neck.
The blow half turned the agent, and Taffy saw his face, open-mouthed, gaping with pain and surprise. Then, with a gurgle like a burst hot water bottle, he crumpled head first down the stairs, tumbling over to sprawl at the bottom of the next floor in a slowly widening pool of blood.
He looked dead.
In the silence of the hallway, the street noises seemed barely to dare to whisper.
One of its legs blocked Taffy's way down the steps. He kicked it to one side. The mouth worked fish-like, soundlessly. Taffy halted, fixed by one staring eye. He flung the knife at the mask-like face. The blade flashed reflected light as it struck over the eye and slid into the corner. The eye blinked, but still held on to him with wide-open wonderment. With a deliberate kick with the bottom of foot and heel, he rolled the body over on its face and stepped back from the dark red pool where the body had lain. Wiping the sole of his shoe on the side of the twitching leg, he started away, then turned around, and spat at the quivering body.
"One dollar! The cheap sheeny bastard!"
He went downstairs into the street, and turned toward the corner.
"Where the hell you been?" asked Stoney at the bootblack stand. "I ain't seen you around here in months. What the hell's wrong? You look like hell."
"There ain't nothing wrong." Taffy kept walking.
Stoney shook his head.
Taffy entered the bar and grill around the corner and went to the far end of the bar. "Rye!" he ordered, flinging the dollar bill in front of him. It lay crumpled, sweaty and damp in a puddle of stale beer.
Then he ordered beers, one after the other, leaving the change in front of him. He drank four before the dryness in his throat eased a little; but he could not warm out the cold hollow feeling.
The dark room was almost empty. He felt spent, exhausted, drained. He wedged himself in between the end of the bar and the cigarette machine to brace his limpness. Jamming his thumb in his mouth, he tried to plan how he would explain to Cleo, but it dissolved and ran away into nothingness. He looked at his wrestling with Lady from a great distance. Ralph, the doctor, the dog were blurred by the beer that couldn't fill him.
"Gee, hello, Taffy, I wondered if I'd find you around here." Bill Mcintosh rushed up to him eagerly.
Taffy grunted. He didn't want this punk kid hanging around him, but still he didn't want to be alone. What the hell was wrong anyway?
"Want a drink, Taffy?" Bill ordered two beers, throwing a dollar over Taffy's scattered change. He drank greedily. "What's the matter, Taffy? How'd you scratch your face like that? It looks terrible. How'd it happen?"
"It got scratched."
His anger at the blankness struck out. "Go on home! What're you doing around here anyway?"
Why did he say that, be asked himself. Bill was a nice kid. Had money too. What was wrong? What was wrong? Why didn't he go on home and let him alone? Home? That was it. Go on home. Get away from the tiredness by slamming the door, sleeping, curled up in his own bed. He pulled himself together.
"Okay! Come on, let's go home," Taffy mumbled, and he left the bar.
"You forgot your change," said Bill, holding it out to him.
He put the change in his pocket. Now, just to get home.
They took the "A" train to Brooklyn. Taffy propped his head against the glass. Bump, bump. Bang, bang. Maybe it would jar loose whatever wouldn't let him think. What did he think? Cleo? Was it important? Ralph? He was a no-good bastard. What's the freeze? What am I locked out of? The subway roared into the 59th Street station.
The train pulled out slowly.
He watched the fat little man's back. The wet shirt molded the folds of pink flesh. The fat pulsed and rolled, like a soft girl's breasts and thighs and buttocks. He snapped up awake. They were pulling into 42nd Street station.
Maybe that was what had him. Christ, that bastard had been scared. Maybe he wasn't really hurt bad.
The tiredness rushed back over him. Forget it! That wasn't the first time he took a chance! Jesus Christ, what the hell had happened anyway.
He cried just like a little puppy, just born, with its eyes closed, that Eggie had slung and smashed against a courtyard wall. Damned white bastard!
Damned white bastard?
Was that it ?
That was it!
Damned white bastard! White sonofabitch! Stealing our money. Served him right. Goddamned white bastard!
Now his breath was coming easier. All these damned white bastards.' Maybe that would teach 'em they couldn't do that to us. Goddamned sonsofbitches. They've been after me all my life. That's one white prick that won't ever bother or yell "nigger" again.
He felt as though suddenly the whiskey and beer had been let down into his stomach in a flood to warm and fill it. Aw, for Christ's sake, what was he knocking himself out for, over some wlifte bastards! Ha! Just one less white bastard in the world.
Taffy glared at the other subway riders. He sneered, "All white."
The train had filled at 42nd Street with the crowds from the eleven o'clock break in Broadway shows. A group of girls, falling over each other, giggling noisily. They're all white and they don't know I'm alive. I'm glad I got the bastard.
A drunk had a corner to himself. He tried to hold up his head in his hands, but it flopped off down between his knees, and he mumbled and grumbled to himself. People smiled at him.
Taffy closed his eyes. Anything a white man does is right. They are all together.
He let his eyelids lift a few stations farther. A long thin sailor stretched out with his legs halfway across the car, his hat pulled down over his eyes. People stepped around him and over him, smiling indulgently. The man next to him shook him awake, and he staggered off at the High Street stop.
They were all white. They were all against him. They were outside. What did his father say? Now it fits. Build a world inside. Fight the world outside. Don't care about that world as long as you get what you want inside. White bastards, throw 'em out. Needed money bad. Then he turned around. He didn't have to do that. White bastard wanted to drag in courts, white cops, white everything. He'd stopped all that.
One had to be safe to live inside. Hit first. Don't plead. Take what you can get. That's what Cleo said.
What was he going to do about Cleo ?
The ache began grinding back in. But he had learned how to block it out.
I fixed the white bastard. White bastard. White bastard. All of them. They were all against him. White sonsofbitches. They owned the house, but he had slammed the door.
He dozed.
Frazzles, Lillian, Cleo, Geraldine, and Lady all crowded in on him, sticking their tongues out, running around hissing at him. He reached out for them and his mother was kneeling beside him in the snow on a cold winter night and he felt her kiss, wet on his cheek.
The jar of the train banged his head against the glass.
"This is our stop," said Bill.
They came out the Utica Avenue station and walked through the little park. The moon shone brightly and the spreading trees shadowed black velvet carpets over the silver-spotted streets. The street lights played peek-a-boo through the leaves, and the faraway sounds wandered about in the roominess between black-eyed sleeping homes.
Brooklyn was at peace.
It was on such a quiet soft night as this Taffy had spent his first night "home."
"Home," said Taffy, and he shrugged his shoulders as he turned into his block with Bill. Neither paid any attention to the car which had pulled up slowly in front of Taffy's house.
5
At ten o'clock on that sultry Monday evening, Mrs. Charles Weeks ran screaming into the street. She had found a twisted body lying in a pool of blood, blocking her doorway.
Passers-by gathered and looked up at the front of the house. The stoop-sitters drifted over to form part of an agitated half-circle winging the doorway. Someone called the police.
An ambulance and Detectives Daniel Flynn and Michael O'Flaherty arrived.
Upstairs, Flynn picked up the torn papers scattered about. "Abraham Bernstein, insurance agent for the United Mutual Insurance Company."
"Stabbed through left back. Heart pierced. Death almost instantaneous," said the hospital intern.
"Dried blood looks like he got it about half an hour ago," noted O'Flaherty. "Sure, it was robbery." He pieced together a torn photograph. "Here's a picture of his wife and kids. I hope he had some of that insurance he was selling."
They moved about quietly. It was stifling hot.
"Not much point in trying to question neighbors. Nobody ever seems to see or know anything," grumbled O'Flaherty. Flynn picked up the long thin-bladed knife, spotted and stained with blood. It was almost dry. He also noted a footprint in the edge of the pool of drying blood.
O'Flaherty grunted. "Damned nice of him to leave his signature, wasn't it?"
Flynn took the knife and wrapped it in a handkerchief which he flipped out of the breast pocket of Bernstein's coat which lay to one side. He finished going through the other pockets. They were empty.
The body was carried out. They followed downstairs.
Flynn stood on the top step of the stoop and spoke to the people who crowded around in the anonymity of night. "Anybody see anything suspicious tonight?"
No one answered.
"An insurance agent was stabbed to death about nine o'clock this evening. Did anyone see him in the block? Did anyone see anyone following him?"
There was no answer. Flynn shrugged his shoulders.
"Let me see the murder weapon," O'Flaherty said loudly to Flynn. He took the knife and unwrapped it dramatically. "Hmmmmmmm," he murmured solemnly. As the crowd pressed closer in the dim light to see, he drew back, partially wrapping up the knife again. "Does anybody think they know this knife?"
Several leaned forward to have a closer look. He unwrapped it a little more, coming down a couple of steps into their midst. The crowd pressed in.
"That's Taffy's," a sharp-faced boy with a circular scar on his head blurted out.
Flynn pounced on him and whisked him inside the hallway.
O'Flaherty showed the knife about and began describing the details of how the corpse lay, about the wife and the two children, and how deep the wound was.
"Ain't it a shame."
"That poor woman and babies."
"I think I seen 'em," a thin old man said.
"Did you now?" said O'Flaherty. He continued talking about the murder. The old man was piqued at being ignored.
"There was two of 'em and-" He lost the end of his sentence by being elbowed aside by someone who wanted to get a closer look at the knife. The old man pushed back into the forefront.
"I tell you I seen 'em," he said belligerently. "Okay," said O'Flaherty with a show of good humor, "what's your name?"
"My name's Pop. Pop Johnson."
O'Flaherty slowly put away the knife and took a pencil and paper. "How many were there, Pop?"
"I told you already there were two of them."
"What kind of looking fellows were they?" O'Flaherty spoke carefully and patiently.
"Well, sir-" Pop spat, enjoying the attention of the onlookers who surged closer to get in on the details. They jostled each other. He pushed back with his elbows to keep from being crowded. "There were two of them."
O'Flaherty made additional squibbles on his pad.
One of the onlookers gave him a poke. "Come on, Pop. You told us that already. Who were they? What did they look like?"
O'Flaherty smiled indulgently.
"Well, sir. One was short and fat, and the other one was short and thin. He had yellah hair."
"Was he white?" someone asked.
"Naw. He had yellah hair like that kid who used to live in the block. You know, Tom Johnson's kid." O'Flaherty stopped writing. "Is that right?" Everyone nodded assent.
Flynn came out of the house, holding the sharp-faced youth by the arm. Both faces were set and determined. "He says he don't remember nothing." Flynn swore. "Maybe a little of the fear of God'll loosen him up a bit."
As they piled him into the squad car, Flynn looked questioningly at O'Flaherty behind the youth's back, silently asking, "Get anything?"
O'Flaherty gave a quick affirmative nod.
"Whyn't you tell 'em one was the white fellah that got it?" Mamie glowered at Pop Johnson, her hands on her wide hips.
Pop blinked and ducked his head several times amiably. "Whatcha mean, Mamie?"
"You tell 'em they was two of 'em. They goin'ta look for two. Whyn't you keep you damn mouf shut?"
The crowd regathered to listen to Pop and Mamie. "Somebody's haid's shore goin't get whipped sore tryin' to fine that other fellah." Somebody chuckled.
Mamie shook her head. "You and your big mouf. "Whyn't you tell 'em one was the fellah that got it?"
"He didn' as' me."
Mamie snorted in disgust. "You make my ass tired." She turned and waddled across the street to her own stoop.
Flynn drove, glumly silent. O'Flaherty whistled "The Last
Rose of Summer" softly between his teeth. He stopped whistling and casually laid his conversational trap. If he could just get this kid to talk, to find .out anything about "Taffy" or his family. He spoke speculatively, asking an open question.
"I wonder what happened back there. It was a stick-up. Then just for ne reason, he kills the guy." He was silent, letting the bait dangle, while they drove through a red light. "What kind of a guy does a thing like that? What kind of a fellah is he?" He glanced sidewise at the youth, but he was staring sullenly ahead. O'Flaherty talked on, casually, "I bet I know the murderer. He hasn't got any Paw. Either never was one"-he hesitated-"or he took it on the lam."
He waited. The boy kept silent.
"He probably doesn't go to school, and I bet his Maw runs around-or works." The conversational opening was ignored. "I wonder," mused O'Flaherty, "if it would make any difference if everybody had homes, parents, schooling and a chance to be something?"
He waited. "What do you think, Flynn?"
Flynn grunted. "I think you talk too much."
O'Flaherty went back to whistling through his teeth.
They whisked their silent prisoner past the sergeant's desk and rushed him upstairs into the detectives' waiting room. It was empty.
"I'm going for some cigarettes," said Flynn. "We may be here a long time."
"I got some," said O'Flaherty. He winked at the boy behind Flynn's back and lit a cigarette while he watched his partner walk slowly out of the room.
He grinned at the kid. "My partner is all right, but he sure takes life too serious."
Smiling in a friendly fashion, he offered the boy a cigarette. He shook his head. O'Flaherty threw the pack on the table and slouched down comfortably in his chair. His grin spread all over his face, twinkling his eyes. He turned suddenly on the boy.
"Say, son. Will you help me finish a little joke on my very earnest friend Flynn?"
The boy slouched in his chair, as expectant as a victim in the
Death House. O'Flaherty wondered how he got his head split. Leaning closer, his eyes twinkling, he looked quickly about the empty room as if to share a secret. "Come here," he whispered confidentially.
The boy leaned forward imperceptibly.
"There were two killers. One's name was Taffy Johnson and the other's name is George something." He filled in imaginatively. He was the epitome of prankish delight. "Taffy is about your age. He has yellow hair, and-" O'Flaherty stopped to chuckle. "Flynn don't know I know all this. How'd you like to pull a joke on him? I'd have told him up at the house and saved you a little trouble, but Flynn thinks he's such a damned sleuth, I like to pull his leg."
The boy was still silent.
"Well? How about it? Are you in on it or not?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders. He still looked sullen.
O'Flaherty shook a cigarette out of the pack toward the youth. He took it. O'Flaherty lighted it and settled back in his chair, letting the smoke make a crooked pattern toward the ceiling as it slipped from his mouth. He blew up the pattern with a slight puff. He showed himself to be tremendously pleased.
He cocked his head on one side and winked at the boy. "Okay, this is what we'll do. When Flynn gets back, I'll tell him you told me the whole business. Will he be sore! He thinks he can push people around and get what he's after. I'd just like to make him realize that you can be nice to people and get the story too. That's the Taffy you were talking about, wasn't it?" He kept right on talking.
"Flynn seems to think everybody is a crook, but I keep telling him. 'Flynn.' I say, 'people are human beings. You treat 'em right and then you see, they treat you right.' This ought to teach him a good lesson."
O'Flaherty leaned back in relaxed anticipation. He grinned at the youth, who smiled weakly in reply. "Then, after I spill this on him, you can go home. You aren't sore because I wanted to pull a little prank on that jerk, are you? Okay? Then, if you'll just sit tight and back me up, this will be the best laugh of the year."
He patted the youth on the shoulder and said, "I got to go to the washroom. Excuse me a minute."
Flynn was waiting impatiently in the next room. "Well, did you discover mutual relatives in Ireland, or what is the gimmick this time?" asked Flynn. O'Flaherty laughed softly.
"You're the fall guy for a gag. The point is, he agrees to a positive identification of Taffy as the owner of the knife at the end of our little stunt. Some of the boys can come in so we got plenty other witnesses. Play it right and we can wrap it up tonight." He turned to the desk sergeant who had come upstairs.
"Anything else come in?"
The sergeant said there was a corner bootblack stand in the block. That would be a good stop. Flynn made a note and went back into the waiting room. He stood fiddling with official papers, ignoring the boy at the table, until he heard O'Flaherty open the door behind him. He turned sharply on the youth.
"Now listen here, you little jerk! Do I have to beat the hell out of you or do you tell me what you know?" Flynn towered over the boy.
"Take it easy, Flynn," said O'Flaherty. His voice dripped amusement. "If you want to know something, why don't you ask me? Maybe I got the whole story, and I'll give you three guesses where I got it."
"What the hell are you talking about," said Flynn, and he glared at O'Flaherty.
O'Flaherty ran through the identification of Taffy. "And the kid here knows Taffy and knows that that there was his knife; so what are you knocking yourself out about? Isn't is so, kid?"
The youth nodded "yes" eagerly.
"You see," said O'Flaherty, "I knew this was a good kid."
He turned to the boy with gentleness. "Now, son, you can go home. But you remember that knife belonged to Taffy, don't you?"
"Sure it did," said the boy, and he stood up. O'Flaherty put his arm around the narrow shoulders.
"Give your name and address to the desk sergeant there, and keep your lip buttoned up. Sam here will drive you home." He winked at patrolman Sam Langston. "Won't you, Sam?"
He led the youth to the desk sergeant, who took down his name and address. O'Flaherty patted him affectionately on the back. Flynn sighed and waited for the boy to leave.
"Now for the shoeshine stand," said Flynn.
The case moved swiftly.
At the stand, Stoney was at first sullenly ignorant, but under the prodding of veiled threats about numbers he let slip that Taffy had been past the stand about nine o'clock. Yes, the boy had acted queerly. Where did he live? Just moved to Brooklyn? But Stoney was adamant at not knowing the address there. He finally gave the address where the Johnson family had lived in the block.
"Nervy little bastard," said O'Flaherty. "Couple of doors from where he used to live."
The superintendent didn't know the address in Brooklyn. He remembered the mover's name with difficulty. The mover reluctantly found the address among his old records. It was on McDonough Street between Reid and Patchen.
Flynn and O'Flaherty stopped for a bite. It was only eleven o'clock and they had a good lead on one of the killers, corroborative evidence he had been at the scene of the crime, and the murder weapon identified by a witness. Telephone information gave Flynn a telephone for a "Johnson" at the address they had.
They drove to Brooklyn and pulled slowly into McDonough Street. They stopped at the corner of Reid while O'Flaherty went to telephone.
A woman's voice answered, youngish-sounding. "No. Taffy isn't home yet. Yes, he is expected. What do you want?"
He explained he was an employer recommended by the school, and he promised to call later.
He walked a little into the block and stopped before a house where he saw a light. Red roses trailed across the low fence. He touched them as he went through the gate.
Miss Wells answered the knock at her door in fluttery excitement. Yes, she knew Taffy. He always hung out with a boy, William Mcintosh, who was short and fat. She knew the Mc-
Intosh boy because his mother was a trouble-maker. It had been so nice before these dirtyShe struggled with good taste. -before these dirty "colored" moved in. That Taffy was a bad boy, but she couldn't fill in any other details.
"Boy, we're really hot tonight," O'Flaherty said as he climbed back into the car. "This is almost too easy."
At eleven forty-five, they drove up in front of Taffy's house and parked to settle for their vigil.
Martha Johnson at the window, getting ready to go to bed, wondered who they were.
Taffy and Bill turned the corner at Reid and McDonough.
"What sweet luck," whispered O'Flaherty as the boys sauntered up the block.
"Better be sure," said Flynn.
The two boys stopped in front of Taffy's gate under the street light.
"That's them," snapped O'Flaherty. "Let's go!"
Flynn leaped from behind the wheel and dashed around the car, waving his gun and shouting. "All right there, hold up. Take it easy!"
"Aw shit!" snarled O'Flaherty in disappointment at Flynn's noisy exit, and he jumped out too. Taffy ran up his stairs.
Bill whirled around. He almost ran into Flynn's arms. Flynn grabbed. Bill swerved, and Flynn missed. Whirling about, Flynn stumbled into O'Flaherty, knocking him down, and they sprawled together on the sidewalk. O'Flaherty cursed.
Bill ran straight across the street.
Flynn, lying on the ground yelled, "Halt in the name of the law!"
O'Flaherty rolled over and fired at Taffy. He missed. The door glass splintered.
Bill reached the middle of the street. He fled faster.
"Halt! Goddamn you! Halt!" screamed Flynn. He fired three quick shots blindly.
Bill crumpled and collapsed with his head doubled under him at the curb on the other side of the street.
Taffy tore open his front door and raced through the house. The second bullet notched the banister of the stairway.
His mother stood petrified in the doorway.
One minute the cool silver moonlight mingled placidly with the gold of the street light. The next, her hands held a scream in her mouth as Taffy slammed through the house, down the three steps into the kitchen and out into the backyard. The backdoor banged loudly behind him.
Panting and swearing to himself in exasperation, O'Flaherty thundered after him. By the time he reached-the backyard, Taffy had scaled the center fence and dropped out of sight on the other side. O'Flaherty clambered up to the top of the shaky fence to get a clear view of the squared-off backyards between the two rows of houses. Each cubicle was a dark blind hiding place.
O'Flaherty blew on his whistle while he cursed to himself and peered into the moon-spotted shadows. He thought he saw something moving. He fired. A cat yowled.
"Of all the goddamn luck. I would have to pick now to nick a cat when I'm hunting a murderer."
Lights were flashing on all over the neighborhood. Heads came out of upstairs windows. People ran out into their backyards. "Wouldn't dare risk a shot now anyway," O'Flaherty meditated to himself. "This ain't no neighborhood to be making a mistake."
Flynn panted up beneath him. "He's dead," said Flynn. "Stone cold dead on the curbstone?"
"Heh? You pick the goddamnedest times to crack wise. Where's your man?"
"He's hiding somewhere out there in those damn bushes alongside those fences. What I want to know is how we're going to flush him out without blasting'a citizen?" As an afterthought, he added, "Don't be too damned fast with your gun."
"But what are we going to do?"
O'Flaherty had been squinting down the line of backyard fences and suddenly realized there was a space between the buildings at the Patchen end of the block. The Reid side was a tight closed "U" of buildings.
"Come on. I think we've found the other end of our rabbit hole." O'Flaherty jumped down.
They ran through Taffy's house. Martha was standing frozen where she had been when they first burst through. She looked as if she were trying not to understand what was breaking around her. Elizabeth, beside her, almost fell backwards when Flynn waved his gun in her face and shouted, "Stay in the house. Don't go out. Don't move until we come back." He panted after O'Flaherty.
O'Flaherty was already at the wheel. The car faced Reid. "Back it up!" yelled Flynn, jumping in and slamming the door.
"Hell, no. He'll head for Fulton."
They raced up Reid to Fulton, around and back, to cruise slowly down Patchen. As they approached Chauncey, they passed a slight figure, slinking rapidly along, limping.
"There he goes," said O'Flaherty softly.
Before he could say anything else, Flynn jumped from the slowly moving car, waving his gun and shouting wildly, "Halt! Halt, goddammit, or I'll shoot!"
Instead of running up or down where he would have been open prey, Taffy doubled back and ran straight toward them. Flynn was confused by his close ducking and swerving and O'Flaherty was behind Flynn. Flynn fired once and missed. Taffy ducked around the car and made the sidewalk, leaving them in the middle of the street. He raced for the ramp that led up to a second-story garage. He would drop over the side to the sanctuary of the backyards in the next block.
He leaped the locked low gate. His feet bit into the concrete ramp. The police were shooting. -
"Wing him," yelled O'Flaherty. "Wing him! Be careful! Just wing him!"
The steep ramp tugged at his muscles. He pounded it with his feet. A hot bite nicked the flesh of his leg. A blow struck him in the shoulder. The concrete hit him and the world turned over, but he was up again and still running up. He saw the darkness of the ramp edge.
Then the world exploded in a burst of blinding pain in the middle of his back. The rough concrete ridges hit him in the face. He still beat with his feet. He rolled over and over, back down the ramp. The earth whirled, and when he sprawled at the bottom, it slowed down and was still.
Flynn and O'Flaherty looked down into the rubbish at the side of the ramp.
"Now we got hell to pay," said O'Flaherty. "We got to prove these are the right two bastards or we're going to be in plenty hot water. If that kid's story and the old man's identification don't hold together, there's only one split second between us being world heroes or all-time heels. You stay here with it. I'll send the wagon around."
He pushed through the fence. "All right. Stay back," he ordered the crowd.
"It was Martha Johnson's boy," someone whispered in the midst of the dark silent circle. "You know, the woman who is running for assemblyman."
"Well, what do you know?" someone else answered softly.
6
The first sunlight streamed through the curtains to fall about Martha. It poured over the wax floors. Reflected up, it splashed the prisms of the chandelier, showering amber, purple and shy green upon the low gray lounge. The well-polished side tables cascaded back the leaping light, the mulberry rug enfolding the myriad sprites.
The quiet figure, stiff in the straight-backed chair, stared out the window with dry eyes. After the nightmare of thundering agony and confusion, Martha had no will. The retreating ambulance siren still quarreled away in her memory against the harsh tones of the detective telling her what her terror had feared.
She wanted to pray, but she couldn't frame the prayer. One day, she had been rich. The storehouse of life had been stacked with satisfying fruits. Now, was this hers, the crumbling mass dissolving in her hands? What could she pray? What could she ask for? Her son was dead. The world had turned inside out. Prayer could not undo time. What could one pray for in horror and shame, the end of a lifetime's making? It would be rebelling at death, twisting in the cavernous grave life had dug.
The early morning breezes stirred. She wanted to tug closer a blanket Elizabeth had put about her shoulders some time during the night, but her hands felt weighted, leaden. She heard Elizabeth come downstairs.
The odor of coffee slipped in. But it oppressively reminded her that time was unfolding with greater pain, to face it out, to explain. She felt herself slipping lower and deeper into the black dullness creeping over her.
Something in her struggled to look up, to try to find remnants of that which had been fantastically snatched and scattered. The serene rugs, the proud sofa, the pure curtains, the rich drapes, the easy chair, her desk, the occasional chair, bric-a-brac, carved walnut coffee table, each piece. She could tell the price of each, the date of delivery and if it had been paid for.
Elizabeth touched her on the shoulder. "Mother, I think you ought to have some hot coffee and get some rest."
She let herself be led into the kitchen. In Charlotte, a young girl in another kitchen had smoothed herself with open palms and enjoyed the curving resilience of her well-molded body, its nut-brown sudden ripeness in nakedness still surprising her when she bathed in the family washtub before the kitchen stove that grinned glowingly at her through red open bottom draft, at night, after everyone was safely upstairs. But here, the new stove, the glistening refrigerator, the stainless steel sink were so bright she closed her eyes. Maybe it would all go away and she would be lying in the low-ceilinged parlor whose walls were decorated with rose-striped wallpaper, muted by dust and age. The huge blue, yellow and dark red print of Jesus in a fly-specked heavy gilt frame would stare absent-mindedly out over her, while Granny's stiff sepia picture hung beside it. In the center of the room, a round table would glisten in the moonlight, displaying the lace cloth from slave days that hung to the white-scrubbed pine floor, partly covered by scattered rag rugs whose designs twisted emerald, scarlet, cobalt blue and spring yellow with pitch black and startling white into intricate kaleidoscopes of color. And from her makeshift bed, she could watch the stars pinpoint a luminous bowl over the window that had been night-blackened in the lamplight. The crickets and the katydids would be sawing at the darkness, the damp sweetness of the earth and garden stirring slightly through the window; while outside, fireflies would surprise the darkness with tiny lanterns, moving about on instantaneous and mysterious errands. There would be a whisper in the wisteria over the porch, and the fragrance of the honeysuckle across the street hurt like a tight embrace. Or Tom would be lying on his back, the grass green soft and cool, a finger of sun hot on her neck and a glowing warmth within her, while the gossiping whisper of a little stream--
Elizabeth touched the cup of coffee to her lips. It was tasteless, flat, without substance.
Elizabeth put her mother to bed and called her father in Miami.
"Poor Martha," he said. "I'll come home, and maybe I better let her folks know myself."
The next day reporters came, and crowding up together on the stoop, called out questions as she stood in the doorway to block them out. The New York Age man insisted, "What will she talk about at the meeting? Will she change her speech? Will someone else deliver it for her or will she deliver it herself?"
"I don't know," Elizabeth answered softly, until finally they all left.
Time dragged suns across the sky. Night grudgingly closed the eyes of day, and then, as sullenly, refused admission to dawn, twice, until Thursday the Amsterdam News carried the story, with pictures:
COPS KILL TWO BOROITES said the front page, top eight-column headline in 96-point Gothic caps. Underneath was an eight-column bank in 72-point Tempo heavy:
Election Candidate's Son Called Murderer
It carried a single column drop-head on the right: Police Say
Boys Killed Ins. Agent
The lead ran:
"The Borough of Brooklyn was rocked last Monday night by the midnight double-killing of Taffy Johnson and Bill Mcintosh, sons of two of the most prominent leaders in Bedford-Stuyvesant, accused of the bloody stabbing of a white insurance agent in the-"
Later that day, Mrs. Pegler arrived.
Elizabeth tried to keep her out, but Mrs. Pegler, throwing her moth-eaten fur piece more tightly about her neck, elbowed her to one side.
"This ain' no time for nobody to be alone, honey. I'm here to let your mother know she's got one frien' in Brooklyn. And, honey, one frien' ain' nothin' to be despised when you got trouble."
Elizabeth let her upstairs. Martha's eyes were fixed in the middle of space. Her lips were pale and dry.
Mrs. Pegler sat. "Now, honey, I didn' come over here to pull no long face nor to try to get into your business. But I had some trouble in my time. When my daughter come home and tole me she was goin' to have a baby, and I was on the relief and didn' know what I was goin' to doI needed a friend."
Martha's eyelids were unblinking.
"I ain' never goin' to forget that little Jew girl that come in from the relief. She didn' bat an eye when I tole what was goin' on. She jest made everythin' nice and easy. Mary had her baby. That's the baby there at home. Everybody thinks it's mine, and
It's the prettiest baby I got in my house, and ain' nobody ever said nothin' about it.
"Yes, indeedy; and, honey, that taught me one thing. When you got trouble, you need a frien'. " Mrs. Pegler blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
Elizabeth touched her shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Pegler."
"That's all I came for, honey. I jest want you to know I'm your frien'. And I ain' sayin' Taffy done nothin' wrong." A pained shadow darkened Martha's face. "But what I am sayin' is, we who's parents got to learn to take the bitter with the sweet. And if they's anything I can do, I'm a goin'ta do it."
Mrs. Pegler hopped up and embraced Martha. Slowly Martha's head bent toward her. Her lips trembled as though a word were struggling to form itself. Her fingers moved to touch Mrs. Pegler's hand.
"Yes," she whispered huskily. A tear ran down one cheek.
At the bottom of the stairs, Elizabeth wrung Mrs. Pegler's hand. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Pegler. That's the first she's said in three days."
Mrs. Pegler looked at her a moment, squinting her eyes. "Honey, I want to talk to you." She went to the lounge and threw her stole to its far corner. "Damn thing itches."
"Now you got to remember this, honey," she said earnestly, "God didn't make your maw a leader jest for herself, and you-all got to figure out if you goin' to help her to go on and use that gift along with the cross that's now been laid on." Mrs. Pegler popped up. "Don't let nobody rush you, honey, and that takes in me." .
She grabbed Elizabeth's hand, shook it again, and raced out of the house.
Later in the afternoon, Father Cobalt sat at the bedside. "I did not want to intrude, Mrs. Johnson. But I wanted you to know that there are those who are your friends who stand beside you."
Martha raised her eyes. Friends? Why did they keep poking at her? Nagging and tugging after her. Why couldn't she just stay inside and draw her home about her and shut out the world?
He was quiet for a moment. Then, Martha felt something. Something she wanted. She moved her hand slightly to touch his wrist, "Would you like me to say a prayer?"
That was it. Yes. To pray. She closed her dry eyes.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."
She tried to form the words with the kneeling minister.
"Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil."
It was as though she had never heard the words before.
"For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.
"Amen."
He held her hand. She felt he was trying to let his faith flow to her. "Thy ways are inscrutable, O Lord. Help us to use our pain to ennoble our lives. Sustain our belief in Thy love, and let us know that what is beyond our understanding is easy for Thee. Guide us and protect us always, through Jesus Christ our Lord."
Martha whispered with him, "Amen."
Elizabeth tucked the covers about her shoulders. She closed her eyes and let her head sink back on the pillow.
When Martha awoke, she looked up to see Tom sitting beside the bed. How the pain had cut around his eyes. And there was the same frightened boyishness with which he had looked at her as they stood in the drugstore doorway in the rain on the campus of Johnson C. Smith College when she had needed and feared for his love. How foolish children can be.
He took her hand.
Could there ever have been any fear for his love? He had lost a child too, but his hands still held the firmness of their grip upon her. She felt his warmth surround her as he bent over and kissed her, his lips cool on her temple. She laid her head on his chest. The clamor began to still and the driving wheels slowed down.
The tears came.
It was sweet to dissolve the gritty edges of her jagged hurt, to let the tears pour out to give room for feeling in her distended pain. She wept silently.
"That's all right, baby," he said. He sat on the edge of the bed and rocked her gently as her father had used to rock her when he held her on his lap in the summer and rocked her to sleep telling Bible stories.
The weeping spent itself against unmeasured time.
She felt tired from crying and yet relieved as though something great had been poured off. She had forgotten that Tom's chest was so broad. His arms felt hard, big, muscular, strong. She was glad to feel their strength. The large bony hands that patted so gently had the feel of the sureness of knowing how to do one day's job.
She didn't open her eyes, but she knew the lines of the lean jaw, the vein that patterned one temple. She knew the touch of the bristly brown hair. She had been so much in love as a girl when they had eloped-and that's the way it had been ever since. Sometimes stormy, sometimes quiet, sometimes strangely new and full of shivery thrills; but never so wonderfully new until this time when she had felt buried beneath destruction, and Tom's gentle hands again could smooth out the wrinkles and teach a little girl not to be afraid.
"I stopped in Charlotte on my way home, Martha. I thought your folks ought to know.
The half-dream, half-memory faded although its warmth and quiet lingered. She knew she should rouse herself, but it seemed such an effort.
"Your father sent you a letter." He held the sealed envelope before her. She tried to find strength and will to take it. He opened it with trembling fingers. She forced her eyes to see:
"My beloved daughter:
"Only your sorrow let me know you can understand the shame of an old man. If your hurt is so big it doesn't let you see, then you can forgive my blindness. Before, I had no way to hope you could know how hard pain hits.
"We all pray for you. "Your father."
At the bottom in her mother's hand: "If you can, Martha, please write."
She leaned back on her husband and dropped her hands into her lap. What was it her mother said? "Start a new row. Weepin' don' grow no crops. We got to live life like God gives us. If it gets mixed up-well, he'll teach us to bear it."
Martha looked at Tom. "Tom, did you have anything to eat?" She struggled for firmness in her voice.
"Elizabeth can rastle me up some eggs and bacon."
"Pooh!" said Martha. "Since when did children take care of their fathers?" She let her feet over the side of the bed and walked unsteadily to get her clothes. Elizabeth stopped Tom from protesting. And the three went down to the kitchen.
Martha dropped the eggs into the simmering bacon fat. They popped, and splattered her with burning grease. It helped to sting her back faster to living. "Thy will be done," she said, and she turned over the eggs.
The telephone rang. Elizabeth answered, and whispered to Reverend Stone, "As far as I know, the meeting is still on. When there is any other announcement, you will be the first to know." She hung up while he was still expostulating and blowing.
In the kitchen, she said, "It was nothing."
As Martha served the eggs, she gasped, "My Lord, Tom! You don't know about Elizabeth."
"That can wait now, Mom."
"No, indeed. Your father must hear good and proper." She turned to Tom. "Your daughter, sir, is going to get married." She felt tears rising inside, but she held tight. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth, I said what I did. You know that more than anything else, I have wanted my family to be happy. It is every mother's selfish desire to want for her children everything she desires for herself."
Elizabeth embraced and kissed her. "I only want you to be happy."
"Yes, Elizabeth, and I want you to be happy. It isn't so much what kind of work he does as what kind of man he is." She touched her husband's hand.
On her way to bed, Martha picked up Mrs. Pegler's frowzy stole. She touched it affectionately. "It's good to have friends," she repeated. Upstairs, she wrote:
"Dear Father:
"I ask you to forgive me for not having written for so long. But God's will will be done. We will learn to carry the crosses life brings. He has called one of his little children home, but he has also raised a daughter from the dead.
"With all my love, Martha."
She sealed the letter, and that night Martha offered herself to her husband and enjoyed his embrace.
7
Martha awoke with a start.
The bright sunlight of high noon streamed through the bedroom windows. She flung the covers to one side and leaped to the floor. A shocked shame flooded over her that she had for that instant forgotten the loss of her son. She knelt at the bedside.
"You have taken away my son, but you have given me back my husband and my life. I was walking in darkness alone, and you have led me safely into the light. Thank you, Lord. Praised be Thy name. Amen."
As she dressed, she said to herself, "Thy will be done."
Martha stood at the front bay window beside Tom. She watched Elizabeth and Marcus Martinez, the son-in-law-to-be, lead his two children down the steps and pass out of sight up the block. It had been such a good dinner-the quietness of her husband, the hubbub of the children, the shine between Elizabeth and her man, those things had been more than the food.
"Well," said Tom, "if I'm going to start writing, I guess I better begin." He moved over to Martha's desk and fumbled around for some paper.
"In a minute, Tom." She barely remembered what he was going to write. "In a minute." She drew him to the couch and curled up in his lap. He stroked her hair. "Tell me about your last trip, Tom."
Tom talked about the trip and previous trips. He told how he sat up at night on the bench in the washroom while the rumbling train threaded its way through the interminable hours of the night. He told of important men who were apologetic and asked his pardon when they bumped into him; and small men who tasted a cheap thrill by shouting loudly-and sometimes paid for it by tipping well. There were traveling salesmen, boisterous, ribald, trying to live hp to their reputations; but lonesome, anxious to show pictures of their new babies. Newlyweds traveling in a world apart that everyone tiptoed around. First-travelers who clutched their possessions to them.
"There's a lot to being a pullman porter," Tom said.
"He rules a kingdom of his own. But his land is flying under his feet and every subject wears a crown. Not everybody knows how to take service, and it's my job to make people at ease, comfortable. Some folks act too friendly, and you have to know when to hold back so they won't be embarrassed. Or they're gruff and you have to know how to pretend not to understand so they don't feel mad at themselves for not being gracious. Some folks are lonesome, and you talk with them so they never guess you're doing them a favor.
"Lots of folks never been so close cooped up with a Negro before, and they want to experiment. To see what it's like. I give them back what they want to find; so it all seems familiar and friendly. If they want a little joke, well, I can help them with a laugh. Those that ask opinions usually get back what I can make them say to themselves. In a way, I guess, I'm pretty much like a doctor or a lawyer who don't have to like, dislike, know, or anything else, the folks that come to them. They are supposed to meet those folks' needs. So I meet my folks' needs. They need assurance, or companionship, or they are old and need help. Or there are other things some people need. Some not so pleasant. But I try to give them, equally, a feeling of satisfaction, of importance, and the idea they're wanted. That's my job. And then, when it's over, I'm glad to come home."
In the distance, Martha heard the telephone ringing. She closed her eyes more tightly. "Let it ring," she murmured.
Twilight came slowly, as though hesitantly entering the unfamiliar home. Martha and Tom talked about Elizabeth's marriage and what they could do for their new son and his children.
A banging on the door shattered their reverie. The doorbell rang stridently, again and again.
"Keep ringing!" shouted Mrs. Pegler. "She must be home because the door's open." The banging went on. Martha started up. "I'm going in," said Mrs. Pegler, "I got to see what's wrong."
Martha clicked on the table lamp and blinked in its first glare.
Mrs. Pegler and five other people burst into the room.
"Honey," Mrs. Pegler said, "I sure am glad to see you up and looking pert. You got to get out of here and get over to that there church just as fast as your two feet can carry you. They had to call out half the cops in Brooklyn. The folks are jam-packed for two blocks around. There ain' no traffic can get through, and everybody is in a sweat wantin' to know where you are. It's the damnedest thing I ever seen in my life. I don' know what they came for; but, honey, this is your chance to say your piece and I don' aim to stand by and let you sit over here, eating your heart out and grievin'. And listen-"
Martha sank down on the sofa. Mrs. Pegler sat next to her, took her hand. "I ain' askin' you to do this for yourself, honey. I know you just want to be home here with your family. But, honey, it ain' enough. There's many a woman out there tonight's got a son, and she wants to hear whether you got a word of hope for her. Honey, you gotta come!"
Martha looked at Tom. She felt confused.
He said anxiously, "The people are expecting you, Martha-"
As they approached the church, the sidewalks, the stoops, the windows, on Stuyvesant Avenue from Bainbridge to Putnam and halfway up to Reid and Lewis Avenues, were jammed with a milling crowd. Mrs. Pegler elbowed. She began screaming, "Make way for Mrs. Johnson! Make way for Mrs. Johnson! Look out! Let us through! Here she is! Make way for Mrs. Johnson!"
The crowd surged back and forth. They jammed in close around them. "God bless you, darling," screamed a short broad woman. The perspiration streamed down her fat brown face. As the crowd surged forward, she braced herself and pushed back with her hips. She patted Martha's arm. "God bless you, honey!"
Mrs. Pegler's hat hung by the veil around her neck. The cords in her neck stood out. She screamed hoarsely, "Make way for Mrs. Johnson! Let us through! Goddamnit! Gimme some room!"
Six red-faced policemen struggled toward them.
The lead sergeant swore to himself as he fought his way forward. What a helluva mess! Everybody so hopped up it wouldn't take nothing to start the goddamnedest riot Brooklyn ever seen. Been like this since seven. Fire marshal had closed the doors at seven-thirty. Somebody opened them, and the damned mob had thundered in. Christ! What was he supposed to do? Only two men on the detail. More had arrived too late to do much but stand around. Why in the hell couldn't this damned woman have come on time. Just like all these goddamned darkies, always late. Niggers are crazy anyway. Why should they make a saint out of this damned woman just because her son's a murderer? Don't make sense. Damn fireman's over there now, hopping mad, writing a report. All right, let him, and to hell with him. What if the damned place does catch on fire? Hell, it couldn't be no worse than if he tried to throw those black bastards out of there. Then hell would really break loose. God, how they stink! Christ, is it hot!
He put his knee in a woman's stomach. "Excuse it please. So sorry. Have to come through. Pardon please."
Inside the church, the noise jammed up to the ceiling. The air was sultry with the humidity of overpacked excited humans. The pews were bursting' with people like multi-colored peas overcrowding their pods. Above the rostrum the blonde Christ in the plate glass mural stiffly smiled down at the blonde child on his knee. In the row of nine massive carved wood, highbacked chairs beneath it, the Reverend Samuel D. Cobalt and the Reverend Dr. J. Wolfington Warden sat close together.
Dr. Warden leaned nervously over to Father Cobalt. "When I heard what had happened to Martha, I knew that something bigger than just politics was at stake. A woman's faith in her fellow men was on trial."
Father Cobalt nodded absent-mindedly. He thought to himself, Why does that white man keep on repeating the same thing over and over? And what are we going to do? He shook his head. I'm glad he can explain why he's here. Right now, I'm sure I don't know why I'm here. He answered Dr. Warden, "What are we going to do?"
"God moves in mysterious ways," Dr. Warden answered.
The buzzing congregation roared. People began standing.
"His miracles to perform!" said Father Cobalt, leaping to his feet with Dr. Warden. "Two days ago she was in absolute shock! We were afraid for her life."
"Never know it now," said Dr. Warden, "Look at her coming down that aisle. Cool as a superintendent going to address a Sunday School. By George, that's really a woman!'
At the foot of the rostrum, the radio operator reached out frantically for Martha. His earphones held him. "Mrs. Johnson! Mrs. Johnson!"
She hesitated.
"Thank God, you're here. We got about two minutes. The church sound system is hooked up to the speakers in the belfry so the people outside can hear you." He waved good luck.
She climbed up on the podium.
Dr. Warden put his arm around her and patted her hand. "Martha, we're your friends. I've been calling ministers for two days and-"
Father Cobalt interrupted him. "I'm so glad, Mrs. Johnson. Thank God."
The radio man was standing up, pointing frantically to his watch.
Dr. Warden said, "Reverend Cobalt, I think you ought to introduce Martha."
"But, Dr. Warden, I never made a political speech-"
"Five seconds," screamed the radio man, holding his hand in the air.
"You're going to now." Dr. Warden pushed him to the microphone. -
"Four, five!" yelled the radio man, bringing his hand down to point at Father Cobalt.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. The restless congregation stilled. Out in the street, the crowd stopped churning about. Windows were raised and heads popped out. People turned toward the quiet voice.
"You have come here tonight to honor a foremost citizen of Brooklyn. It is the greatest privilege of my life to introduce one who places her responsibility to the community above her personal feelings-or sorrow."
"Ain't it the truth!" the congregation murmured. "God have mercy on her! Poor thing! Ain't it the truth."
"She has a message for you tonight. I pray God you have ears to hear it and hearts to understand it. For this is a message for every mother and father who has lost a son, or a daughter, or any dear one, who has been lost in the evil that plagues the world. She has tasted of your cup and eaten of your bread. She knows your needs because they are hers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, one of our mothers, Mrs. Martha Johnson."
Martha stood before the microphone. Her hands felt heavy before her. The tiredness was rushing back. The weight. It seemed to her as if the silence thickened. She could feel her heart pounding.
Martha tried to raise her hands. She whispered, "I've come to-" But almost involuntarily, slowly, her head was shaking, "No."
"O Lord have mercy," she cried softly. Even more softly, "O Lord, have mercy."
"So true. So true," the whispered answer rustled back. "Lord, have mercy on us."
She saw Tom waiting at the foot of the rostrum. Stumbling down the steps, she reached for his arms. The radio operator stood up, amazement in his open mouth, but Martha clung to her husband and turned toward the center aisle.
The little old gray lady scrambled over to kiss her hand.
Martha thanked her, and then, with her husband, continued through the silent crowd toward home.
