Dem

by William Melvin Kelley

  Love, Mother

  9

  TO FIND THIS COOLEY, the Black baby’s father, he knew he would have to contact Opal Simmons. After dressing, he began to search for her address and number. Tam, very organized for a woman, saved everything. Among the envelopes containing the sports-clothes receipts, a letter from her dressmaker asking for payment, old airline tickets, the nursery school bill, the canceled checks, and deposit slips, he finally found Opal’s address.

  He went to the phone and dialed her number, knowing that this conversation would not be pleasant, for either of them. He could only remind Opal that Tam had taken from her a man she may have loved. And then there was the whole business of her stealing. Though he had never asked her, she must have had good reason to risk job and reputation. And she must have sold everything quickly, for cash; he had never found any of it in her possession, had never even been certain what she had taken. But for good reason or no, he knew she would not enjoy speaking again to the person who had exposed her.

  Opal picked up her phone after the third ring. “Hello?”

  He did not know where to begin. He tried to announce himself, but could not. Before he realized it, he had quietly slipped the receiver back into its cradle. “Hell—”

  He sat at the phone table wondering why he had been unable to give even his name. After all, he and Opal were not strangers; she had worked for them eighteen months. Suddenly—her name and number in front of him—he remembered that once he had driven her home, to a project in the north Bronx, countless tall red buildings, surrounded by patches of yellow grass. He had been unable to speak on that drive, though, hating silence, he always tried to fill it. In his apartment, they had talked about hundreds of things, what Jake had done during the day, or how well she cooked, or whether one of his suits had been returned from the cleaners. But that night in the car, just as a few minutes before on the phone, he could not speak.

  He stood up, finally convincing himself that it did not really matter. It was probably better not to have spoken to her. She might have refused to see him. Now he knew she was at home. He would drive to the Bronx and speak to her in person.

  It was nearly six when he reached the highway; there were few cars. Even so, after a moment or two, he found himself being pursued through the November dusk by two white headlights, could feel their heat on his neck. He tried to look for a face, a cloth hat with a wire frame, but the car was almost invisible above the lights. He sped up, but the lights stayed with him, exploding in his mirror.

  Then the road ahead was filled with small red lights, which spread across his windshield. The cars, bunched now, began to move to the right. He passed a splintered wooden pole, then the aluminum lamp shades, mashed and wrinkled like foil. He had to swerve to avoid an arm, and the steering wheel its hand still clutched. The first car rested partly on the grass divide, a wheel quiet beside it. The second car was on its back. A Black man sat in the driver’s seat of the third car.

  A Black woman sat beside it, on the grass, her feet in the highway. She must have weighed two hundred pounds, one huge breast in a white bra hanging through a rip in her flowered dress. She had not tried to cover it; her hands lay palms up on her thighs. She wore only one shoe; a large yellow hat, crushed now, the cloth flowers torn, rested in the grass next to her. She was shaking her head.

  Once he had passed it all, the road again open before him, Mitchell too shook his head. Some people, he thought, ought not to be allowed to get licenses. It was too easy for the reckless to get them. It was that way with many things. Some people worked very hard, earning their way; others hitched rides—holding up those who had been nice enough to pick them up. As he turned off the highway, and passed a large cemetery, he thought he was beginning to understand what Tam’s mother had been trying to tell him.

  10

  IN TWENTY MORE MINUTES, he parked his car. On the sidewalk, three young Black men stopped talking as he climbed out. They watched him roll up his windows, lock and check his doors, securing his car against theft. He made a wide circle around them, started up a walk leading to four buildings. He stayed to the side of the walk, his knee grazing the chain which protected the dead yellow grass from children.

  In front of the first building, a group of small Black girls were arguing in high little voices. One had a long rope. “It’s your turn to hold, Gail.”

  “No, it ain’t. It’s Wanda’s turn.”

  “See that? See that? I ain’t your friend if you don’t hold.”

  Gail, head divided into neat squares of hair, took the rope. Another girl held the other end. Just before Mitchell reached them, the girls began to jump, over two strands, each looping in opposite directions. He could not get by them, and had to wait.

  Sitting in a teepee, smoking a pipe.

  Polar bear come with a great big knife.

  Polar bear take and put us in a boat.

  So many children, thing couldn’t float.

  Sitting in a boat, with a necklace of iron.

  Bear come down and say, “You’re mine.”

  Children started crying, raise up a noise.

  Everybody’s crying, even the boys.

  The jumping girl sang the loudest, her skirt billowing around thin black legs, the ribbons in her hair following her up and down. All the girls looked cold, their dark skin filmed with ashes.

  Sitting in a cabin, smoking a pipe.

  The polar bear say I his wife.

  Take me by the hand and lead me out.

  Bear in the grass with a big cold snout.

  Sitting in a cabin, apron up high.

  So homesick I wish I could die….

  The jumping girl tripped on the ropes, and the other girls began to laugh. Then they were all staring at Mitchell, mouths poked out.

  “You a child molasses?” the girl called Gail asked.

  He took a step backward and asked for Opal’s building.

  They held a short conference, then pointed toward the last building in the row, and permitted him to pass. His neck muscles did not relax until the ropes began again to slap the pavement and he heard them chanting.

  By then he had reached the lobby, was wading through the contents of a broken bag of garbage, avoiding a gravy-filled grapefruit shell, fat oozing from a green soda bottle. He pressed the elevator button.

  “Sure you got the right place?” A brown man in a blue imitation policeman’s uniform tapped him on the shoulder with his club. He was shorter than Mitchell, graying around the ears, with a neat little mustache.

  Mitchell nodded, his back against the elevator door.

  “For your own protection, you know. Better make sure you mean to be here.” He struck his palm lightly.

  “I’m visiting Miss Opal Simmons.”

  The imitation policeman smiled. “I ain’t going to ask what for. You got business here, all right. I’m just thinking about people come around making trouble.” He paused. “The people I work for pays me to keep things calm, nice and calm.”

  “I’m calm. Really.”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “I can see that. It’s for your own protection. When you go back put in a good word for me. Tell them I’m keeping things calm.” Mitchell started to ask where the imitation policeman thought he was returning to, but was cut off: “Your elevator’s here.” And bowing slightly, the imitation policeman opened the door for him.

  11

  THE ELEVATOR BANGED up the shaft, and Mitchell stepped out into a long gray hall, lit by one bulb in a broken glass globe. He found Opal’s apartment, rang the bell, and, after a moment, a small barred hole opened in the door. “Yes?”

  He put his mouth close to the bars. “Opal, it’s Mr. Pierce.”

  The little round hole closed, locks clicked, the big door opened. Opal’s eyes seemed as large as the door-hole. “Mr. Pierce?”

 
“Hello, Opal. How are you?”

  “Fine, Mr. Pierce.” She pulled the door wider, asked him to come in, please, as if once again she were answering his door. He crossed the doorsill, wondering why she was being so nice.

  The living room was small, strangely familiar. The sofa was green, plastic-covered. A light brown coffee table squatted in front of it. On the wall was one picture, a reproduction of a painting by a famous modern Spanish artist. Opal asked him to sit down. He did, under the reproduction; she sat across from him, in a red chair, also plastic-covered, also familiar.

  He cleared his throat. “How’ve you been, Opal?”

  “Fine. And you, Mr. Pierce?” She had gained a great deal of weight. Her legs, pressed tightly together at the knee, were still shapely. But her shoulders had taken on a thick padding of fat, which spilled down her arms as far as her elbows. He remembered he had always worried about her eating too much rice.

  “Fine.” He tried to think of something more to say, but could not. It did not matter. She seemed so nervous it put him at ease. “Listen, Opal, I want you to do me a favor.”

  She leaned forward, a smile pulling at her lips. “Sure, Mr. Pierce.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’d like to find your friend Cooley.” He watched closely for her reaction, saw a tear pop into her eye. “Opal?”

  “He cause you more trouble, Mr. Pierce? I’m sorry I ever brought him to your house. Of all the men I ever met, he was the most trouble-causing…” She shook her head.

  “Wait a minute, Opal.”

  “That man was a jinx.” She looked at him, a tear stalled on her cheek, like brown wax. “Why’d you fire me, Mr. Pierce? It was for going around with men like Cooley, wasn’t it.”

  “Now, Opal…”

  “The best job I ever had and I lost it because of a common, ordinary nigger. Excuse me, Mr. Pierce, but we both know what he was.” She wiped her tears with a chubby hand. “A nigger.”

  “No, Opal.” Mitchell shook his head. “We fired you because you were stealing. That’s why I went through your purse. Don’t you remember?”

  “Me?” She sat up, snorted. “I never stole from you, Mr. Pierce. Not even leftover food. My pay check was always enough.”

  Mitchell suddenly realized that at the very least she believed what she was telling. Either she had forgotten or had gone insane. He was certain he would know if she was lying. “No, Opal, you were stealing from us.”

  “What kind of person would I be to steal from you, as good as you was to me?”

  He had often wondered that himself. “But, Opal…” He stopped because he knew now why the living room seemed so familiar; it was a poor copy of his own—designed by Tam—even to the reproduction.

  “What did I steal, Mr. Pierce?”

  He hesitated. “Well, Opal, I don’t really know.” That too seemed strange; they had never really missed anything. He tried to remember why he had even believed Opal to be a thief.

  “You see?” She was triumphant, but not angry. “It was because of that Cooley. You were right to fire me, Mr. Pierce. I never should’ve had that nigger come to your house. I didn’t even like him. I only went out with him three times.” She stopped. “What you want him for, Mr. Pierce?”

  The idea that Opal had not stolen from them had, for the moment, pushed Cooley from his head. “I want him to do a favor for me.”

  “He won’t do nothing for you, Mr. Pierce. He’s too evil. You stay away from him.”

  “No. I have to see him.” He looked at her, saw her old thin face encased in fat, like one balloon inside another. “Listen, Opal, I guess I made a mistake about firing you.” He nodded. “How would you like to come work for us again?”

  Her mouth became the top of a brown jar. “Me? Work for you again? Even after what I done?”

  “We’ll forget that.” He smiled. “We want you to work for us. I can give you, oh say, twenty dollars more a month than you were making before. You see, Mrs. Pierce just had a baby, and she’ll need help.”

  “A new baby? And how’s my old baby, Jakie? I’d love to work for you. And I promise never to go out with any nigger like Cooley again.”

  “Good.” He paused. “Now, where can I find him? By the way, Opal, what’s his last name?”

  “God, Mr. Pierce, I don’t know. He never told me. I ain’t even seen him in a year and a half. Like I tell you, I didn’t go out with him but three times. But I met him by my nephew. His name’s Carlyle…Bedlow. He may know where Cooley’s at.” She got up, and, bending over a small desk, huge buttocks filling the room, wrote down her nephew’s address. “He only lives a few blocks from here.”

  He told her to come to work in two days—enough time for him to dismiss the German woman, whom he had never liked. If Tam did not approve, he could say he was following her mother’s advice. Besides, Opal was no longer attractive.

  Downstairs, walking to his car, he felt so good that he was not even nervous when he passed the jumping, chanting Black girls.

  12

  IT WAS full dark now. Steering his car around great holes in the tattered streets, it was hard for Mitchell to believe he was still in New York City. He passed shadowed swamplike lots, glimpsed a goat in his headlights. In places, there were no sidewalks.

  Opal’s nephew lived in one of a row of attached, three-story brick houses. Each owner had tried to make his house distinctive. One had a white picket fence and green awnings, another an iron fence and red awnings. But still, it remained one long building, with four or five entrances.

  Mitchell pressed the button under the name—BEdLow. The buzzer rang; he pushed open the door, stepped into a dark, cold hallway, and crept forward until he came to a stairway—then light.

  “How do you go, Brother?” A young man’s voice.

  “Hello?” Mitchell shouted. “What did you say?” He started climbing clean rubber-covered stairs, heard footsteps coming to meet him. He had almost gained a small landing, when the young man appeared around a corner.

  “A devil?” The young man, in his late teens, was short, heavy eyebrows over brown eyes, embedded in an otherwise hairless dark-brown head. “What you want, devil?”

  Mitchell stopped. “Are you Carlyle Bedlow?”

  The young man did not answer, turned, and started back up the stairs. “A devil for you, Carlyle!”

  Mitchell followed timidly, turned the corner, found another young man standing in a doorway, staring down at him. He was older than the first, his skin as dark, a mustache hiding his upper lip, his hair long—and straight? “What you want?”

  Clearing his throat, Mitchell gave his name. “Your aunt, Opal Simmons, sent me over.”

  The young man nodded. “Yeah?”

  “I’m trying to find a friend of hers, and yours? named Cooley.” Looking up was making his neck ache.

  “Cooley? Cooley what? Sorry, Mr. Pierce. I don’t think I know no Cooley.” The young man was wearing a knit sport shirt, tight pants. “What’re you to my A’nt Opal?”

  Mitchell explained that some two years before Opal had worked for him, and, beginning Monday, would work for him again.

  While he talked, the young man lit a cigaret. “Yeah, I remember being told about you. You fired her for stealing, right? Yeah. A’nt Opal stealing, that’s funny as all shit.”

  Mitchell nodded. “It was a misunderstanding. That’s why I rehired her.”

  “Oh, I see it now. That’s real nice. Cooley. I think I know him after all. So you want to find Cooley, huh?” He stepped back into the apartment. “Come on up. I ain’t seen him in a while, but…”

  Mitchell reached the top step, climbed into the apartment. The young man reached out his hand. “Carlyle Bedlow, Junior. Carlyle.”

  “Nice to know you.” Mitchell took his hand.

  “Come on in my room.” Carlyle closed the door and sta
rted toward the front of the apartment. Mitchell followed, looking over his shoulder, where a lighted doorway had attracted his attention. The first young man was sitting at a desk in a little room, reading. On the floor were piles of books and magazines, on the wall, a portrait, in color, of a black, fat-faced man with long kinky hair, his eyes hidden by blue, gold-rimmed sunglasses.

  “That’s Mance, my brother.” Carlyle had not turned his head. “He trying to find a way to kill you.” They entered a room, lit only by an orange bulb.

  Mitchell felt a pain in his chest. “Me?”

  “White people, man. He’s a Jesuit. You know, a Black Jesuit?” He sat down, sighing, in the room’s only chair. “Reads all the time. Looking for a way.” He laughed, a snort. “May find it too. Close the door.” Mitchell did—after one more look at Mance, bent over his studies.

  Mitchell came from the door; the room was too small. “But why does he want to kill all white people?”

  Carlyle watched him a moment, then motioned for him to sit on the bed. “I guess because you need it; he’s an idealist. You want some Smoke?”

  “No, thanks. I have some cigarets.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He blinked, rubbed his eyes. “So, why you want to find Cooley, Mr. Pierce?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind I’d rather not say.” Then to put Carlyle at ease, “But it’s not anything illegal, if you’re worried about that.”

  Carlyle sat up straighter. “I’m glad you said that, Mr. Pierce. I sure don’t like to get involved in nothing E-legal.”

  Mitchell, still wearing his overcoat, was beginning to sweat. “Can you help me?”

  “That’s hard to say, Mr. Pierce. Like I say, I ain’t seen Cooley for a while and he moves around a lot.” He opened a drawer in a little table beside his chair, took out a package of cigaret paper and a bottle filled with greenish tobacco. “It’s imported, man. Very strong, smells like hell. How soon you want to find him?”