Mama Black Widow Page 12

  She waggled her head, and Bessie went down the hall a bit with her. I tuned my ears up high and heard Sally’s voice say something in praise of Pullman porters, cold champagne and ten dollars. Then I heard Bessie mumble something that had a sour tone of dissent. Sally said something in a scolding way, and I heard their footsteps go down the hall and into the bathroom.

  I listened to the faucets run for a long time and wondered what they were doing. Finally I tiptoed down the hall and the keyhole thrust itself before my eyes.

  Mama would have gone to the electric chair for sure if she had seen what was going on. Sally apparently had taken a bath and was naked sitting on the commode with Mama’s douche bag hanging on a nail above her and the nozzle buried in a fat bush of jet-black crotch hair.

  Bessie was wallowing in the tub. I went back to the sofa. I heard them come out of the bathroom, and I smelled Mama’s perfume as they wiggled through the front doorway and up the stairs to the Pullman porters.

  I sat at the window for a half hour or so watching Connie the landlady having a heated, arm-slinging argument on the sidewalk in front of her house with her lanky, expensively dressed son. As I had seen her do several times before, she took a checkbook from her bosom and made out a check on the gleaming fender of her son’s Lincoln sedan. Then he pecked her on the forehead and zoomed away in his machine.

  I guess he only came to visit Connie when he ran short of cash. Maybe like the black people she abused and cheated, he hated her too.

  Curiosity nipped hard at me about Sally and Bessie and what was happening with the Pullman porters. I locked the flat and eased up on the third floor in bare feet.

  The porters’ door was open about four inches, and I saw a length of chain lock stretched across the gap above my head. I could hear the whirring of an electric fan and Bessie giggling against the muted background of a bass-toned phonograph.

  I knew from the sounds that the party was in the living room. I stretched out on the floor and almost twisted my neck out of whack trying to get just a tiny peek into that damn living room.

  It was no use. I was sweating and dizzy and really ill with frustration. I really was. I was afraid I might pass out and be discovered, so I went back to the flat and fell onto the sofa exhausted.

  Then a thrilly idea shot through me. I raced into Mama’s bedroom and got a tiny hand mirror from a purse and sped back to my position on the floor outside the freaky flat.

  Slowly I stuck the mirror past the doorjamb. I was shocked and excited at the sight of Bessie and the others naked and freaking off on couch cushions in the middle of the floor.

  It was really hard to believe it was my big dumb country sister groaning in ecstasy with her face pushed into Sally’s bush. Sally lay there on her back like a bitch dog between the knees of the yellow porter and licked his balls as the black porter knelt behind him and sodomized him with a huge stiff black dick.

  I was mesmerized as Sally and Bessie paired off and did a sixty-nine while the porters called them filthy names. I was so angry and hurt when Bessie sucked off both guys.

  Then the yellow guy started fucking Sally from the rear as they lay on their sides watching the black guy lock Bessie’s legs over his shoulders. I held my breath when Bessie cried out as he poked his gigantic whang into her.

  And then as he pounded into her violently with long brutal strokes, the bitch Sally lay there listening to Bessie scream, and hollered, “Oh shit, your dick is beautiful going in and out of that sweet cunt of hers. Fuck her! Fuck her harder. Oh, you gorgeous mule dick sonuvabitch. Tear that bitch up. Oh! Goddamn, fuck me, you pretty yellow cocksucker. OOEE I’m coming, sissy bastard.”

  I felt faint and queasy, so I struggled to my feet and managed to get downstairs to the flat. I rushed to the bathroom drenched with sweat and sudden diarrhea and my heart felt like it might knock a hole in my chest. I was sick enough to die for fifteen minutes sitting on that stool. I really was.

  I started to feel better and my heart gentled down. I was thinking about getting Jonnie Mae or somebody to go upstairs with me to rescue Bessie before the black guy killed her with his outrageous dick when I heard Bessie call my name.

  I cleaned myself up and went to the bedroom. She was stretched across the bed with her clothes on. She didn’t look funny or different or anything except maybe too bright eyed from the champagne. And the raw odor of “come” wafted from her.

  I must have been looking strange because she said, “Why yu squenchin’ up yo’ nos an’ lookin’ mean at me, Sweet Pea? Ah buy us ice cream, yu git it.”

  I lowered my eyes and said, “I don’t feel good. Not now, maybe later. You want to use the bathroom?”

  I went down the hall and out the front door to the shady stoop. I sat there getting my head together and trying to decide if I should tell Papa or Mama about Bessie and the Pullman porters.

  Papa came home at sunset, drunk. I sat on the stoop until Mama came home at 9 P.M. One look at her haggard, tense face and I knew the white folks had been shooting her through hot grease again. I couldn’t heap Bessie’s mess on top of it all. I guess the Tilson family was doomed to have horrible things happen to it.

  Everybody except Junior was home and in bed by 11 P.M. The excitement and shock of peeking on Bessie’s freak off sure played havoc with my bowels. I had to get up and go to the bathroom every half hour or so.

  A bad rain and thunderstorm started around midnight. In fact, I was on the stool when I heard Junior slam the front door and clump noisily down the hall. I heard him stop in front of Mama’s door and knock urgently. I didn’t hear Mama answer or open her door.

  He knocked again and said petulantly and thickly, “Ain’t yu uh blip, Mama, dahlin’? Heah ah am fatern uh goose wif frogskins an’ kickin’ yo’ doe down whilst yu playin’ possum lak Ah’m shuckin’ an’ jivin’ out heah. Them dirty white folk ain’t gonna see yu fer uh munt. Opun the doe, Mama, dahlin’, an’ looka heah yu ken . . .”

  I came out of the bathroom and walked toward Junior at the same time that Papa reached Junior and placed his hand on Junior’s burly shoulder.

  He said firmly, “Boy, Ah ain’t goin’ tu stan no mo’ ruckus heah tunight. Why yu beatin’ on Sedalia’s doe? Whah yu git thet fist uh money?”

  Papa almost lost his balance when Junior jerked violently away and stood glaring down at Papa with a crooked grin on his face. Mama opened her door and stood yawning in the doorway and gazing raptly at the sheaf of greenbacks in Junior’s hand.

  Junior said loudly, “Mama, dahlin’, whutsa mattuh wif this crazy niggah? Ah ain’t got tu tell him oauh bizness, huh?”

  Mama tore her eyes away from the money and patted Papa’s cheek.

  She said sweetly, “Honey Pie, git on back tu bed an’ res’. Ah don’ need no hep wif Junior tunight.”

  Papa drew back from her and frowned.

  Papa said, “Yu ain’t wukin’ an’ ain’t nobody givin’ way no money. Ah ain’t gonna have no crooks ’roun mah house. Whah yu get thet money?”

  Junior shot a puzzled look at Mama, and then apparently charting his course by her impassive face he lashed out, “Niggah, yu ain’t crazy. Thet wine is got yu stupid. Niggah, yu ain’t got no wife an’ no house.”

  Papa said in a croaking voice, “Yu crook, don’ yu talk tu me lak thet. The Lawd gonna’ give me th’ strenth tu whup yu.”

  Junior said, “Fool, Ah ain’t no crook, Ah’m uh hustlah. Me an’ Railhead an’ Rajah play lemon pool. Ast Mama.”

  Papa turned questioning eyes to Mama’s solemnly nodding head.

  The twins came to stand trembling beside me as Junior stuck his finger in Papa’s face and said slowly, “Niggah, yu ain’t th’ boss ’roun heah. Mama is, an’ Ah don’ want yu effing wif me agin. Nex’ time Ah’m gonna’ kick yo’ ole gray—”

  Papa clawed the air and lunged at Junior. Junior sidestepped and punched Papa hard between the shoulder blades as he went by. The twins and I screamed together and clutched at Junior. Mama just stood in the
doorway looking curiously down at Papa lying on his back gasping for breath.

  Junior stood over Papa with us clinging to his arms to restrain him and shouted, “Mama don’ want yu, niggah. Yu jes’ en th’ way. She tol’ me so. Ast her, niggah. Ast her.”

  Papa lay there on the floor and walled his pleading eyes up at Mama begging her with them not to crucify him, to deny she’d said it.

  Lightning burst through the living-room window and lit the hallway and Mama’s face like a klieg light. And Mama’s face was cruel and cold and so sick. She turned and shut her bedroom door behind her.

  Junior went to the bathroom, and we helped Papa to the sofa. We heard him break down in racking sobs when we got back to bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. I lay there too hurt and dazed to really understand it all. The storm seemed to get worse, but somehow, listening to the violent lyrics of the thunder and the furious music of the rain drifted me into half sleep.

  I awoke startled. I had a vague notion that I had heard the click of the front-door lock. I heard the storm raging and daylight hadn’t come. Then it struck me vividly and hard about Papa and the awful rest of it.

  In panic I leapt up and ran to the living room. Papa wasn’t on the sofa. I looked behind the sofa for the few articles of clothing he stored there. I saw things, but my panic wouldn’t let me take inventory.

  I rushed out into the storm in my bare feet and rayon pajamas. The blowing rain chilled and soaked me within seconds as I stood on the sidewalk and tried to spot Papa through the walls of rain.

  And then there was a brilliant explosion of lightning and I saw him stooped and bent against the storm at the end of the block. He was wearing the comical great coat that had belonged to Bunny’s Joe.

  Papa’s white hair was gleaming in that flash of light, and he carried his pasteboard suitcase, the same one he brought from down South.

  I ran toward him screaming, “Papa! Papa! Come back, Papa!”

  My voice died on the wind and beneath the rumble of the thunder. I walked slowly back. I was afraid to go inside where I knew Mama and Junior were sleeping and helpless. I loved them, and I didn’t want to do anything bad to them to pay them back for Papa.

  I sat numbly on the stoop of our building. I couldn’t feel the rain or anything. I just cried my heart out for Papa.

  9

  THET PECKAHWOOD VARMINT

  Papa went to his one source of shelter and friendship, Soldier. I went to bed with a bad cold and high fever from exposure on the stoop that stormy morning. Carol woke up, missed me and found me out there after two hours in hysterics.

  After a week of Mama’s searing mustard plasters on my chest, and honey and lemon juice laced with whiskey down my swollen sore throat, I got out of bed and felt fair for a kid with a broken heart. The twins and I pleaded with Mama to go and get Papa.

  All she’d say was, “We groun. Yu mine yo’ bizness. Ah ain’t beggin’ Frank tu do nuthin’.”

  Mama played Junior’s irresistible bribe game of “stay away from the dirty white folks” for ten days. Several uncommon events happened during the week I was in bed, or rather, on the sofa.

  It was the third morning of my misery, I think, that Junior, feeling guilty about Papa and knowing I was mad at him, stood at the side of the sofa clowning and trying to make up with me. Railhead came through the open front door with clenched teeth and anguished eyes glistening with tears.

  Junior whirled around and froze like a stone man as Railhead blubbered, “Junior, they got Raj. Them sneaky motherfuckers got Raj. Poor Raj, them cruel cocksuckers trussed him up like a Christmas goose and shotgunned the back of his head off. They . . .”

  Mama had come to stand behind Railhead. He turned and saw her and went swiftly through the front doorway.

  Mama stared at Junior coldly until he blurted out under the icy pressure, “Mama, dahlin’, Ah sweah Ah ain’t en no truble wif nobody.”

  Mama jerked her head slightly and went down the hall to her bedroom. Junior sighed deeply and followed her. I lay and listened to Junior pitching himself hoarse convincing Mama that Rajah’s Southside execution was the result of some private boo-boo, that Junior and Railhead had no part in or of, and knew nothing about.

  She bought his tale because she came out of the bedroom with all the ice melted in her eyes. I guess she really couldn’t afford not to believe Junior even after overhearing Railhead putting the finger on the guilty “they” to Junior. She really couldn’t.

  The day before I got out of bed Rajah was buried, and I watched at the front window when brawny Mrs. Cox, stony faced, practically carried grief-shattered Mr. Cox to the funeral home’s family car the morning of the funeral.

  Hattie Greene, who had been playing the dead man’s row of figures since Rajah’s death, hit Lockjaw’s policy wheel with a buck bet for eight hundred and sixty dollars! She gave a party that lasted until after Mama went back to work.

  Mama lost a good friend a day or so before she went back to work. Lockjaw switched his sister, Jonnie Mae, to an operation on the Southside. She was replaced in the check-in station across the hall by an old retired craps hustler called Five Lick Willie.

  A day or so before the middle of July, the twins and I went to visit Papa on the Southside. We found him and Soldier washing cars with a garden hose under the elevated train tracks in the rear of their rooming house just off Forty-seventh Street. Papa sure looked much better, and he was moving instead of dragging.

  We kicked off our shoes and wiped off the cars inside and out. Later in the afternoon we all went to a chili parlor on Forty-seventh Street.

  Just before we started for home we told Papa how much we missed him and we hoped he’d come home soon. We didn’t beg him or press him to come back because he looked like he might be getting well and we all knew he would only get torn down at home.

  He and Soldier walked us to the car line and while waiting for a streetcar, I said, “Soldier, what is lemon pool?”

  He said, “Little Brother, it’s cue stick con played by a shark who never lets the sucker know his true ability. He lets the sucker win and lose in a natural way to build him up for the kill, and the shark also knows how to ‘skill out’ and make it look like he ‘lucked out.’ ”

  I had remembered Junior telling Mama that he, Railhead and Rajah had played lemon pool for the money he had flashed.

  I frowned and said, “Can three partners play lemon pool together and all make a lot of money?”

  Soldier laughed and said, “No, I doubt it, although sometimes two lemon players will pretend to be bitter rivals and play each other while a third and maybe a fourth member of the team will lay bets among the onlookers. Naturally the lemon players with the heavy bets on him to win will lose to his partner.

  “It’s possible in spots to pick up nice money playing the lemon, but it’s a hard hustle and the scores are usually small and far between. I know some crackerjack pool hustlers solo sharking that are starving to death.”

  A streetcar rattled to a stop, and we climbed aboard. We sat in the rear of the car and watched Papa and Soldier waving at us until twilight dropped her quick lavender curtain and disappeared them.

  On the way home, I shivered at the sight of every alley mouth. I couldn’t forget Rajah, and I just knew “they” were searching for Junior and Railhead. I really did.

  The day before Mama went back to work after her ten-day vacation Junior gave her, she was sitting in a living-room chair soaking her feet in a pan of warm water to soften her corns and callouses for paring off. Hattie Greene rushed into our flat drunk and jubilant. She waved a section of the Chicago Defender (the world’s most influential black newspaper) under Mama’s nose.

  Hattie gurgled drunkenly, “Sedalia, it worked! It worked! He swore it would! He swore it would! I’ll never have to take her abuse and see her ugly black mug again. Sedalia, she’s gone, gone forever.

  “This paper called it an accident, but I ‘fixed’ her, and it happened to her an hour after she left
my flat on her snooping tour. I did it and I can’t go to jail for it. Here, read about the dirty black bitch. Now if I could just ‘doo-doo’ in her casket, I would.”

  Mama had been looking at Hattie with a puzzled expression on her face throughout the strange monologue. When Hattie paused for air, Mama snatched the section of newspaper with one hand and shook Hattie’s shoulder vigorously with the other hand.

  She shouted, “Heah, heah, gal, git yosef tugethah. Yu drunk an’ crazy tu? Ah ain’t got no time fo’ no niggah foolishment. Whut yu talkin’ ’bout?”

  Hattie’s haunting face was instantly shocked and incredulous that Mama needed a rundown. Hattie spent at least an emotional half hour doing just that after Mama made her admit that she had not discussed any of the details of the weird affair with Mama before, and that it was Hattie’s memory that was faulty, not Mama’s.

  The basis of Hattie’s perverse joy was the death of her despised relief caseworker who had tripped and fallen down a flight of dilapidated tenement steps and broken her obese neck.

  Hattie had discovered a black sorcerer in the next block who was known as Prophet Twelve Powers. He dealt in “enemy destruct” powder and “lover stay forever” oil candles, lotion and incense, and other items and services to cover the total spectrum of human desire, frustration and general frailty.

  Hattie had treated a chair in her living room with some of Prophet’s “enemy destruct” powder. It was where the caseworker always sat when conducting her humiliating inquisitions.

  Perhaps it had been pure coincidence that the unlucky caseworker had left Hattie’s flat and had her fatal accident. Hattie believed also that one of the Prophet’s “fast luck” candles was why she socked it to the policy wheel for the eight hundred and sixty dollars. Prophet Twelve Powers had gathered unto himself an everlasting disciple.

  I was set to wondering after Hattie’s rundown, to hear Mama say, “Hattie, gimme thet house numbah. Ah mabbe see th’ Prophet one uh these days.”

  No more than a week after Mama went back to work Railhead started offering his brittle heart to frivolous Bessie. He bought her perfume and huge boxes of chocolates for openers. Mama approved. I guess she was hoping to marry Bessie off before the street claimed her. Junior was in Railhead’s corner all the way. But Bessie liked cute guys, not guys with ugly faces and deformed noggins.