Mama Black Widow Page 6

  I remember how sad Papa’s face looked when the train crossed the Mason-Dixon line. Poor Papa couldn’t know that his brawny back and strong hands would become counterfeit as exchange in the Promised Land where cotton didn’t grow and the trade unions locked out black men.

  Papa couldn’t know that hope, self-respect, manhood and dignity would die inside him in the brutally repressive North. How could he know that Mama would become like the man of the family and he would become like the woman?

  After what seemed like weeks, our train pulled into Chicago. It was all so shocking. The street sounds exploded like a bomb. Hordes of insane-looking people with twisted, tense faces moved at breakneck speed down the dim sidewalks, shadowed by ominous buildings that seemed to be teetering in the heavens.

  We all crowded into a taxicab. I looked at Papa on our way to the Westside. He was staring at the desolate concrete wilderness, and he had a look of fearful awe on his face that I would see many years later on the face of a white cop trapped by a mob of blacks.

  I looked at Papa’s work-scarred hands, and I felt like crying when I remembered Mama crying out to Papa’s back, “Fool, forty cents a hundred ain’t a precious gift.”

  5

  THE PROMISED LAND AIN’T

  The apartment supplied by Cousin Bunny was in a six-unit building. It was located on Homan Avenue, on the Westside. Faint indentations in the concrete facade of the weather-battered structure read: Regal Arms Apartment. Roaches crawled about even in daylight, and at night, huge rats squeaked and scampered about the flat.

  The first night I turned on the light in the kitchen and saw a large rat about the size of a squirrel on the sink drainboard staring at me with tiny malevolent eyes. He had only three feet. The stump was ragged, like a trap had backed off the foot, or perhaps the old crip had chewed it off in a valorous escape from the trap. He outstared me. I forgot I wanted a drink of water and went back to bed.

  The apartment was furnished with old but sturdy stuff moved from Cousin Bunny’s apartment a week before our arrival. She had decided to furnish her own apartment with new stuff.

  The instant water taps, the magic blue gas flames for cooking and heating and the bright odorless electric lights were exciting novelties. Only Papa was unimpressed and unhappy. He spent most of his time pacing the floor and gazing out the window at pinched-faced figures in flimsy overcoats shuddering against the blasting winds.

  At the end of our first week in Chicago a snowstorm hid the grimy bleakness beneath three feet of glamorous whiteness. Cousin Bunny made Papa smile for the first time in Chicago. She gave him a pile of winter work clothes that her dead husband had worn to work sewers and to collect city garbage for twenty years. Then she had Soldier Boy, an acquaintance of hers who was a snow scuffler, pick up Papa to help shovel snow from the sidewalks of commercial businesses for a fee.

  Mama and we kids crowded the frosty front window looking at Papa going down the walk turning to wave to us. His face was glowing with happiness, because he was going to earn some money for us.

  Papa was a slight, but sturdy, five feet nine, and he looked so comical struggling into the snow scuffler’s battered pickup truck. Cousin Bunny’s husband had been a large man, and his clothes made Papa look like a child masquerading in his father’s storm coat and boots.

  Later I followed Mama across the hall to look in on Cousin Bunny. Her door was open, and she was sitting on a purple sofa, and she sipped whiskey from a double shot glass.

  Drab patches of tarnished silver fouled her shoulder-length auburn hair. Her tiny figure was skeletal, and the big-eyed yellow face was gray tinged and saggy. A flicker of fire in the brown eyes and curves in the sexy lips were the last reminders that she had once been the belle of Vicksburg’s black sin streets.

  Mama frowned and scolded, “Bunny, why yu mixin’ cansur with hooch? Yu gonna’ die.”

  Bunny quickly drained the shot glass and said thickly, “Honey, you’re sweet to remind me. But I don’t really give a goddamn.”

  She refilled her glass from a pint bottle on a table beside her at the end of the sofa. She stared for a long moment at a paper-framed photograph of a good-looking black man on the table.

  Mama said, “Oh, Bunny, yu got nice things, an’ yu ain’t much mo’ than forty. Why yu stay down en th’ dumps? Shoot, Ah wish we git yu an’ Joe’s luck up here.”

  Bunny laughed mirthlessly and said, “Sedalia, bless your dumb little heart. Poor Joe must have flipped-flopped in his grave when you said good luck. Sedalia, I loved Joe so much. He made me respectable.

  “He died in his sleep at forty-two, and the coroner, with all his knives and education, could only say that Joe died a natural death. It wasn’t a natural death for Joe. He was intelligent, ambitious and a high school graduate.

  “But he was black in the white folks’ hateful world, where a nigger is like a mop head or toilet brush. The white folks used him to clean up their puking and droppings until he wears out. Then they simply press another hungry nigger into service. They never really see him or realize he is a human unless he steals from them or kills one of them. Then they drop the full weight of their double standard law and bury him in prison or barbecue him in the electric chair.

  “No, Joe didn’t die a natural death. He was proud and fit for better, and he hated the filthy garbage and the slimy sewers he worked. He just lay down that night and died of hopelessness and a broken heart.”

  Mama jut sat there with a pained look on her face like she was hurting to hear the North wasn’t paradise after all. Bunny fingered a policy slip on the table and looked at it wryly.

  Mama said, “Bunny, yu bin frum down South a long time. An’ yu ain’t nevah done no share croppin’ an’ raisin’ younguns. Ah knows up heahs bettern down South. We havin’ good luck up heah. Frank’s workin’ a’ready, an’ we ain’t jammed up in no one room hearin’ one anuther breakin’ win’, thanks tu yu, uv cose.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ real wrong up heah. A day don’ pass, ah ain’t seen big shot niggers drivin’ great long cahs pas’ this buildin’. Up heah a po’ nigger got a hope tu hol a big ’mount uv money. Yu jes’ drinkin’ an’ missin’ Joe, an’ it got yu en th’ dumps.”

  Bunny waved a flesh bare hand through the air and said, “Sedalia, I’m funky drunk, and there’s no doubt the North is better for some spooks than the big foot country. Only time will tell whether or not it’s better for you and Frank.

  “Those dapper niggers didn’t get those pretty cars shoveling snow or shining shoes. They are policy wheelmen, pimps, dope peddlers and hustlers. All of nigger Chicago is lousy with policy stations, gambling joints and whore cribs. So Sugar, stop dreaming and play policy. It’s the only way a poor honest nigger can hope to get big money.”

  Mama got up and headed for Bunny’s carpet sweeper.

  Mama laughed halfheartedly and said, “Oh, Heifer, save thet breath. Ah ain’t takin’ yur jinky talk serious.”

  Bunny squealed and jerked her feet in the air as Mama raced the sweeper past the sofa. I got a rag and dusted. Mama was massaging Bunny’s scalp when the sound of loud quarreling came from the hall.

  A guttural female voice shouted, “Get the hell off my property! I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to rent to you. You better get the hell out. I’ve called the police. Now go on! Get out! Get out!”

  A man’s trembling voice protested, “Miss, Ah ain’t movin’ a peg ’til yu gimme back mah thurty dollars deposit. Ah be gladder than yu tu see th’ law come. They gonna’ tel yu yu ain’t actin’ legul latchin’ on tu mah money th’ way yu is. Yu ain’t mah woman. Ah ain’t got nutin’ tu give yu. Now gimme back mah money, lady.”

  The woman laughed contemptuously and said, “Baloney, the law says I don’t have to give a refund without return of a receipt.”

  The man said, “Shit, lady, don’ jive me. Cose ah ain’t got no piece a paper. Yu an’ me know yu ain’t give me none. But me and yu damn sho know yu got mah money. Ah don wanta’ get mad so unass mah
money, lady.”

  There was a frantic scrape of feet and the hysterical voice of the landlady screamed, “Don’t you speak to me that way. Stay away from me. Don’t you touch me, you nigger sonuvabitch.”

  Cousin Bunny and Mama went to the half-open door. I followed and lay on the floor looking out between Mama’s ankles into the hall. The twins and Junior were standing in the doorway of our apartment across the hall staring at the tense scene.

  A small black man in a leaky blue overcoat held out his demanding palm toward the rigid figure of the landlady glaring down at him like a curved beak bird of prey, vivid blue eyes round and cold and unblinking.

  There was the screech of brakes in the street. The vulture’s eyes lifted from the excited face of the little black man and looked through the glass of the vestibule door. Her mean little mouth shaped a sick smile. The black guy read the smile and spun around big eyed toward the door.

  Two burly white cops in blue police overcoats stormed into the hall. The black guy snatched out his wallet and held several pieces of ID in his shaking palm.

  He skinned back his fat lips in a wary smile and blurted, “Ofcers, Ah’m so glad yu done come. Ah’ Woodrow Spears, an’ Ah want yu tu make thet lady gimmee back mah thurty dollars down pay on thet flat upstairs since she ain’t gonna’ rent it tu me.”

  They ignored him and looked at the landlady with odd grins on their hard red faces.

  The taller one winked and said, “Connie, is this the nut that you called in about?”

  She plunged her splotchy hands into the pockets of her monkey fur jacket and said, “Carl, this crazy shrimp has bugged me all afternoon. He’s followed me from this building to my home down the street a half-dozen times. He has the hallucination that he gave me a deposit on an apartment several days ago. He didn’t, of course, and . . .”

  Woodrow Spears sprang forth and shouted, “Lady, why yu say sumpin’ lak thet? Ah give yu mah money an’ yu promis tu paint up an’ clean up thet greasy flat so me an’ mah famli ken mov in tuday. Ah ain’t lyin’, Ofcers. Thet ole broad thinks she slick, an’ Ah ain’t holdin’ stil—”

  One of the cops hooked a fat paw into the coat collar of the bantam victim and flung him violently away against the wall. The vulture’s round blue eyes glowed with pleasure.

  She said, “Carl, as God is my judge, I swear none such occurred. I did show this fellow an apartment several days ago. He had been drinking and was critical of the color scheme and all. I was relieved when he told me he’d get his paycheck and be back later to give me a deposit.

  “I rented the apartment an hour after he left to a clean-cut religious man. You can imagine how afraid I was when this bird turned up today trying to extort refund of a deposit he never gave me. Carl, I should make a complaint against this crook, but if you can persuade him to leave me alone, I’ll forget the whole affair.”

  The victim’s mouth was gaped open about to speak.

  Carl grinned and poked his club hard against the little guy’s belly and said, “Boy, show me a deposit receipt or get your black ass out of my sight fast.”

  Woodrow’s face faded to gray. His throat made a choking sound as his head revolved from the cops to the landlady. Tears rolled down his face. He gave the white trio a hateful look and opened the door to the vestibule.

  He stood in the doorway like an ugly child and blubbered, “Thet’s all right. Thet’s all right. Ah ain’t nuthin’ but a fool. Ah ain’t holdin’ no piece of paper. Yu all right tu bump mah head, but yu dirty paddies will git yourn down th’ line.”

  He turned and took a step through the doorway. Carl, the cop, bared his teeth and raised his club high. The twins screamed across the hall when the club sledged down on the back of Woodrow’s bare head.

  He shivered and reeled back into the hallway. An eerie thing was that the loose metal fasteners on his galoshes jingled merrily.

  He clapped his hands over the sudden red spurting from his skull and bleated pitifully, “Oh Lawd, hav mercy, Ofcers. Ah ain’t don nuthin’. Don whup me no mo’.”

  Both cops bludgeoned his head and shoulders with their clubs like he was some ferocious wild animal or poisonous viper they had to smash.

  Awful shiny scarlet covered his face and head. As he fell to the floor he clutched the front of Carl’s overcoat. Brass buttons bounced on the tile. The vulture held the door open as the cops each grabbed a leg and dragged the little black guy to the vestibule.

  I heard his skull clunking against the vestibule’s stone steps. Junior’s face was a hard mask of hatred as he pushed our apartment door shut.

  I followed Mama and Bunny to the front window. It was snowing hard, but I could see the cops drag Woodrow to their car at the curb.

  Carl, the cop, had the burlap feet wiper from the vestibule under his arm. He stooped down and wrapped the sack around Woodrow’s bloody head before he flung him onto the rear floor of the police car. The three of us squeezed ourselves together and watched the police car speed away.

  It was the first really horrible sight I’d ever seen. It really was.

  Bunny called the district station and complained about the bloodletting. A captain told her to mind her own fucking business.

  The terror and excitement of what the landlady and the cops had done to the little black guy really upset Mama and me. Mama gave Bunny some soup, put her to bed and we went home.

  Junior and the twins were huddled silently at the front window staring out at the snowy dusk. Mama and Carol went to the kitchen to fix supper. Bessie turned on the living-room lamp and stretched out on the floor with a dog-eared high fashion magazine.

  Junior and I were playing checkers on the sofa when I saw Papa and Soldier Boy trudging down the snow-clogged walk. I shouted Papa’s coming and ran to unlock the front door.

  After Papa and Soldier Boy had washed up they sat down at the kitchen table and destroyed Mama’s smoked neck bones, navy beans, and cornbread.

  The fresh memory of the bloody little black guy had killed the appetites of the rest of us. Later in the living room, Soldier Boy entertained us by acting out some of his exciting battlefield adventures as a foot soldier in World War I.

  He had to be at least forty, but he pantomimed his lean six-feet-two inches across the floor like a twenty-year-old. Soldier’s face had a powerful American Indian cast with its high cheekbones, lustrous piercing black eyes, buffalo nickel Indian nose, a full but delicately shaped mouth. The deep red in the velvet brown complexion and the luxuriant mop of curly blue black hair completed the strikingly handsome effect of African and Indian bloodlines coalesced.

  I watched fascinated as he lost himself in vicious hand-to-hand combat with an imagined German soldier. The friendly face twisted in hate as he straddled his enemy and bayoneted the phantom soldier.

  Papa shook Soldier’s shoulder. Soldier shifted his enormous black eyes to Papa.

  Papa said loudly, “Sojer, yu don kilt him an’ the wah bin over.”

  Soldier’s snarl softened to a grin. He and Papa sat down on the sofa beside Mama. There was a long silence.

  Finally Mama said, “Two white law wuz heah an’ beat a lil’ man’s head tu jelly out en the vestabul.”

  Papa frowned and said, “Whut he don?”

  Mama replied, “He ain’t did nuthin’ Ah seen but deman his rightful money from thet ole crooked lanlady he put on thet flat upstairs. Ah wish cullud law had come en place uv white.”

  Soldier’s hearing had been damaged in the war. He leaned forward intently as Mama spoke.

  He shook his head and said in a loud bass voice, “Mrs. Tilson, please don’t ever wish for nigger cops. They’re worse than the gangster white cops.”

  Papa blinked his eyes and looked at Mama.

  Mama laughed nervously and said, “Frank, lissen tu Sojer talkin’.”

  Soldier said, “I wish it was a lie, but every black soul in Chicago knows it’s true. I was born and educated here, and I want to tell you nice folks about this big funky town and the
police department.

  “Sometimes fairly decent human beings join the force. They don’t stay long after they find out they’re a part of a vicious system that has a license to maim and murder black people in the street.

  “But too many white cops in the ghetto are just thugs. They try to kill hope in black people so that the black man especially is niggerized and becomes a drunken bum in the ghetto.

  “Now you take the nigger cops. They’re so mean and brutal because they are ashamed of their uniform and they know how much they are despised by their own kind.

  “A lot of them don’t let their neighbors see them in uniform. They change at the station. The maniacs help the white hoodlum cops to suppress and humiliate their black brothers imprisoned in the ghetto.

  “There are only a few cops black or white who don’t go on duty in the ghetto with a thirst for blood or their hands out for a bribe or shakedown. One of these days black people will crawl out of their ratty tenements and destroy the hoodlum cops in the streets. I’m going to soil myself in joy when it happens.”

  Mama looked embarrassed and bluntly changed the subject.

  She said, “Sojer, yu know ’bout rats?”

  Soldier said, “I have lived with them all my life. They carry diseases like typhoid, typhus and jaundice. This is the season when rats desert the alleys and dumps to get in out of the cold.

  “It’s almost impossible to keep them out of these old buildings. They gnaw and tunnel through wood, plaster and even decaying cement. A female rat can get pregnant several times a year and have up to two dozen young.

  “Many city rats, especially the older ones, are too cunning to fall for traps and poison. The best you can do is keep all food away from them and your sink and drain boards wiped dry because they can live on only crumbs and drops of water each day.

  “That way you will force them to go elsewhere where pickings are better. Does that cover the rat question for you, Mrs. Tilson?”

  Mama smiled and said, “It sho do. Ah got roaches too.”

  Soldier said, “Powdered borax spread along the woodwork and under the sink in the kitchen is the only way a poor person can deal with them. The only sure-shot remedy for roaches and rats in these old buildings is to burn them to the ground.”