Authors: Iceberg Slim
His companion looked up at him piteously, and then her eyes fell back to her hand. Ceiling light ricocheted off the diamond, and her blank, chalky face was ghastly in the speckled flash of blue white fire.
Lockjaw strutted and bragged and dramatized until Carol cracked that she had a headache and went to bed. Mama sat like she was in a daze for a long time after they left.
Finally in the middle of Soldier's conversation about gangster cops, Mama asked in a dreamy voice, “Sojer, how much thet gal's ring sit Mistah Lockjaw back?”
Soldier gave her a hard look and said, “Eight, nine thousand. But you ought to ask her what she's paying for it.”
Around the last of April in 1938, Papa developed an almost unquenchable thirst. Each day he drank six to eight gallons of ice water from two-gallon jugs in the icebox that I constantly refilled. He'd go to the bathroom every half hour or so.
Night and day the cycle went on. Carol brought his meals from the cafe. Strangely, he had a ravenous appetite, but barely the energy to clean himself up.
By the middle of May he was spending most of his time reading the Bible and dozing on the sofa. Sometimes I'd almost panic when it took maybe three or four minutes to shake him awake.
Then at the end of May Papa's vision became so blurred he couldn't read his Bible. His legs ached, and the ends of his toes were numb.
The twins and I begged Papa to see a doctor. Even Mama showed concern and sat on the sofa beside him and spoke kindly to him about the logic of seeing a doctor.
Junior avoided Papa like Papa had TB. Carol borrowed five dollars from her boss to send Papa to the doctor. Papa spent the money
for wine. The pain in his legs at times became so intense that I stayed out of school to look after him. He got relief when I rubbed and massaged his legs until I felt my arms would drop off.
The first part of June, on a Saturday night, I left Papa and Bessie about 7
P.M.
to walk Carol home from the cafe in case Frederick, her boyfriend, was apprenticing late with pumpernickel and strudel in the kitchen of his family's bakery shop on Kedsie Avenue.
Frederick was a blond, blue-eyed guy with a round soft face and body, and a gentle voice that sometimes stuttered. When I got to the cafe I saw Frederick's old Model A Ford was parked at the curb.
This meant that he would drop her off around the corner from home. Carol had told me that they could never risk walking together at any time because someone acquainted with our family or his might report it. The sad truth was his parents hated blacks like Mama hated whites.
Carol's shift was over, and she was sitting in a dim corner booth with her love. I stood on the sidewalk peering through the window hoping that Carol would notice me so I could wave and get back to Papa.
I didn't move to go through the door. I was held there at the window watching the pudgy white guy romancing my sister. I'd seen them together a dozen times before, but I couldn't get used to it.
In Frederick's presence I'd start remembering how the white women worked Mama nearly to death for a pittance and humiliated her. I could never forget the grisly job the white cops did on Woodrow Spears, the little black guy in the vestibule of our building. And also how the white bastards who controlled the trades unions had rejected Papa because of his blackness.
Childishly, I felt a twinge of resentment toward Carol that she was ignoring these sound reasons for hating all white people and could sit there in the booth snuggled on the enemy's shoulder with eyes closed in trusting contentment.
I always felt so uncomfortable and frustrated whenever I'd had
close range contact with him, like the few times I'd sat in a booth with him and Carol. He was so goddamn sincere, kind, jolly and real, and he adored Carol so much, that hard as I tried, I couldn't hate him. It was a helluva mess for a kid ten years old to work out in his head alone.
I saw Carol open her eyes. She said something to Frederick. Then I saw them looking at me with big smiles on their faces. I waved quickly and turned away before they could signal me to join them.
I sprinted madly down the sidewalk and cut abruptly across Madison Street. I peeked from behind two parked cars at the cafe. Frederick was out front down the sidewalk. Finally he went inside the cafe.
I leaned against a car fender out of breath, but relieved that I'd avoided that terrible feeling I got in the company of the white guy I couldn't hate.
When I got home Papa was gone. Bessie said he had been feeling fair, and he told her he was going for a walk and that he might go to the Southside to visit Soldier.
Shortly we heard Mama talking to someone outside our front door, and when she walked into the flat, Lockjaw's sister, Jonnie Mae, came in with her.
Mama's face was more tense and haggard than usual. She sat down heavily on the sofa and held a hand over her heart. My own heart was leaping at the thought that she had found out about Carol and the German guy.
I slipped off her shoes and rubbed her feet.
Jonnie Mae screwed up her friendly hippo face in concern and said, “Sedalia, what's wrong? You need a doctor?”
Mama gritted her teeth and said, “Ah jes' hate white folks so much, Ah'm gonna' bus mah haht opun iffen Ah don' bile en th' 'leckrik chair. Ah got tu git way frum white folks, an' stay way.”
Jonnie Mae stroked Mama's temple and said, “Girl, what happened to upset you like this?”
Mama said, “Un dirty low-down skunk lickin' suck-ass dog white bitch wuz th' honor gues' at uh dinnah Ah wuz gonna serve. Ah come tu th' table an' she seen th' servin' tray en mah black hans an' turn flour white. She raised uh ruckus an' tol' th' table thet her appatite had went. Thet no-good white heifer Ah wuz wuking fer got th' white choffer tu serve, an' Ah quit. Ah'm sho glad Ah missed white law truble an' bloodshed.”
Jonnie Mae sat and talked sympathetically to Mama until she was calm. Jonnie Mae left, and Mama and Bessie went to bed. I stayed at the open window watching the kids clowning on the stoops in the balmy June weather.
Carol came down the walk with the usual food in a paper sack for Papa. About half an hour after Carol had joined me on the sofa we saw Railhead Cox driving his red Buick down the street toward our building.
And then a door opened and Junior and Rajah leaped to the pavement from the moving car that went on down the block. Junior glared at us when he came in, and his eyes had a strange glassiness.
Fifteen minutes later Railhead walked into the building. I wondered why he hadn't used one of the parking spaces near the building, and if Junior was heisting hustlers with the Cox brothers. And would Junior, in the words of Rajah, “wind up in an alley with the rats squabbling over his brains.”
I stopped expecting Papa to come down the walk. I was sure he had gone to visit Soldier. I brushed my teeth and took a bath and went to bed. But sleep came late and ragged. Junior thrashed about on his pallet and in a terrible nightmare cried out and whimpered in fear.
I awoke next morning, which was Sunday, and got a whiff of a rare smell, frying ham. I heard Mama in the kitchen emotionally telling Junior about the white woman who had refused to let Mama serve her. There was a long silence when she finished.
Then Junior said rapidly and loudly, “Mama, dahlin', 'spose Ah
tol' yu them goodies Ah got at th' markit ain't don nuthin' tu mah bankroll. An' Ah ken bribe yu tu res' an' stay way frum them dirty white folks uh few days. Mama, why yu lookin' at me lak thet? Ah ain't shuckin' and jivin' an' Ah ain't stol nuthin'. Looka head! Ah got moren . . .”
There was a violent hissing sound, and then I heard only faint whispering come from the kitchen.
Bessie was asleep, but Carol's eyes were bright as we lay there tensely and strained to hear more.
Finally the whispering stopped and Mama said, “Honey Pie, git Sweet Pea an' th' twins up.”
Carol and I feigned sleep and let Junior shake us a bit before we reopened our eyes. After breakfast, Mama and Junior went to her bedroom and talked until Railhead knocked on the front door for Junior half an hour later.
Mama came from the bedroom with a satisfied look on her face, and Junior went whistling upstairs with Railhead. Mama got pretty for church and had Jonnie Mae call a cab.
The twins and I just looked at each other open mouthed as the cab scooted away from the curb. Carol was off at the cafe on Sunday, and she usually met Frederick in the balcony of a Loop theater showing a picture they wanted to see.
At least that's where Carol led me to believe they spent their Sunday afternoons and early evenings. Carol prepared vegetables and a roast for dinner before she left.
I was at the front window around 4
P.M.
and saw Rajah park Railhead's Buick at the curb. It had been painted jet-black. My heart fluttered when a police car eased to the curb behind the Buick and a burly white cop followed Rajah down the walk toward the building.
Rajah's face was grim, but he didn't falter. I was certain the white cop was coming to beat Junior bloody about the money he had boasted about in the kitchen. I was shaking on the sofa when the booming knock smashed against the door.
I couldn't shout, “Who is it?”
It happened again. I couldn't move. I heard Bessie at the door, and the cop ask for Sedalia Tilson. Then I heard him say that Papa had gone to sleep on a streetcar Saturday night and the motor man couldn't wake him at the end of the line.
Bessie and I bumbled about the flat in shock and confusion for a few minutes. And then Bessie used Jonnie Mae's phone to call the hospital, and I started to get ready for a trip to the Southside to get Soldier's help.
Bessie was telling me that the hospital told her Papa was just rundown and had arthritis and had been discharged and was waiting for someone to bring him home when Soldier knocked on the door.
We blurted, “Papa's in the County Hospital.”
He looked down the hall toward Mama's bedroom and shouted, “And what idiot sent him there? The white beasts out there let black people rot and die in their own waste.”
After Soldier realized that Mama wasn't at home and she hadn't sent Papa away he cooled off and hired the old guy who lived across the street that owned the black Dodge to drive us to get Papa.
He had been discharged and was sitting on the curb resting his head against a fire hydrant. It was really heartbreaking to see him looking so shabby and sick and thrown away. It really was.
I jumped from the car and ran to him. His eyes were closed.
I touched his shoulder and said, “Papa, it's Sweet Pea. Let's go home.”
He didn't hear me. He was asleep. I glanced up and saw Soldier and Bessie pushing through a knot of gawkers. Soldier stooped down and shook him hard and shouted his name.
Papa's eyes stayed closed, but his throat made a guttural sound. Frantically Soldier slapped his face and pinched him for a few seconds. Papa's eyelids finally opened in slow motion and recognition. He focused his glazed eyes. With our support he walked to the car.
Inside the car Soldier said gently, “Buddy, why didn't you wait inside the hospital until we came?”
Papa chuckled bitterly and said, “Ain't no resun tu linguh en hell iffen mah laigs ain't cut off or broke. Them mean white folks beats on them po' sick black peoples an' says black bastid an' niggah more'n Ah heered en th' big foot Ian. Ah jes' thank th' Lawd Ah ain't got nuthin' 'cept uh tech uh artharitus an' Ah need uh bildin' tonick.”
Soldier said, “Frank, that's what they told you at County Hospital, but I don't trust them because I know they don't care. The pain in your legs could be arthritis, but it worries me that you fall into deep sleep the way you do. It could be sleeping sickness. Suppose you drop off with me on the Southside and let's try a good black doctor. All right?”
Papa nodded his head.
Junior and Carol were at home when we got there, and surprisingly, Mama too. Bessie and I gave them a complete rundown on Papa, and by 10
P.M.,
we all had gone to bed, even Junior.
I lay there wide eyed for a long time and thought about Papa and Carol and Frederick and how horrible if Mama found out about them. I thought about the expensive groceries Junior had bought and the whispering in the kitchen, and the terror of his nightmare. I cried quietly to sleep.
I was surprised to see Mama at home the next morning. I guess I was really trying hard not to face the truth about her pitiful weakness for money, any kind.
Soldier brought Papa home around 3
P.M.
They were grim faced as they sat on the sofa and told us about Papa's diabetes, which, at the time, was a horrendous disease to have because of limited research and haphazard treatment.
Soldier's voice shook when he explained that when we found Papa asleep against the hydrant the hospital had been criminally negligent in discharging Papa in his condition. Soldier told us the black doctor said he was in mild coma.
Papa had a list of recommended foods, and he had been
instructed in the use of the insulin and hypodermic needles Soldier had made possible. Soldier told Mama right in front of Papa the doctor had told him that Papa had a disease for which there was no cure. And if he continued to drink alcohol or missed his dosage of insulin or took too much, he'd die.
Soldier looked at Papa and shook his head and told him how lucky it had been for him that he hadn't been drinking before he boarded the streetcar. The police would have hauled him to a drunk tank when he went into coma. Finally Soldier lapsed into silence, and I could feel the tension between him and Mama.
And then Hattie Greene came in, and her eyes blinked nervously when she saw Soldier. She was a little tipsy and a lot optimistic because she squeezed in beside him on the sofa and hiked her skirt above her lumpy knees. Soldier shifted uneasily and smiled stonily in the absolute hush.