Dem

by William Melvin Kelley

THE DOOR to his apartment was open. In his mind, Mitchell saw the Black thief going through their things, emptying drawers onto the floor, his heavy shoes walking on Tam’s slips and bras. When she came home from the hospital and learned what had happened, she would never forgive him.

  He wondered if the thief was still in the apartment. In an umbrella stand just inside the door, he found a heavy cane he had used after he injured his leg. He armed himself, crept deeper into the apartment. Behind the bedroom door, he heard voices.

  Perhaps he should phone the doorman for help. But the doorman would disapprove if Mitchell did not handle the situation alone. In a day, the entire building would know he was a coward. Besides, they were robbing his apartment. He had to protect his own property, could expect no help.

  He got a good grip on the cane, and opened the door.

  The women lounged on the bed, larger now than he remembered it. Tam’s mother was sitting, freckles and nipples above the covers, two pillows behind her head, her arm around the shoulder of a white woman with a simple blond pageboy. “…how easy it was for us.” She kissed the top of the blond’s head. “You haven’t got a thing to worry about. He can be very sweet. Besides, you’re married. All you have to do is let him guide you through it. He knows all there is to know about it.”

  “Do any buddy wants some twin to ache?” Opal was outside the covers, near the foot of the bed. She lay on her stomach, hatching her two large, brown breasts with her body.

  “Hurricane you think of voodoo now?” Glora’s head, red but kinky, was on his mother-in-law’s shoulder.

  “She’s right, you know.” Tam’s mother turned away from the blond for a moment. “You ate too much rice.”

  “I kent hep it if I, honey.” She put her face into her folded arms.

  Glora crawled to the foot of the bed, began to stroke Opal’s back. “She frying.”

  The blond stared at them for a moment. “But we don’t do things like this up state.”

  “We didn’t do them when I was a girl either.” Tam’s mother smiled. “But you don’t have to worry. Would I make you do something that was against the law?”

  “Mitchell hair.” Glora looked up from Opal’s back. Opal peeked at him over her arm.

  The blond seemed concerned. “He’s not going to stop it, dis he?”

  “Mitchell?” Tam’s mother made a face. “Don’t be silly. Come here and give Mother a kiss.”

  He approached the bed, bent down, tried to escape with kissing her cheek. But she turned her head, caught his puckered lips between her teeth.

  Finally she allowed him to stand up. “I’d like to speak to Tam, if I could.” He realized his lip was cut.

  “She’s busy, dear. Why don’t you come back in an hour or so.”

  “An hour!” The blond was angry. “I thought you said she’d be out in twenty minutes. Every time I come to New York I get cheated.”

  “You listen to me, young woman. You’re a guest in my daughter’s home. We’re trying to be kind to you.” Her breasts were much nicer even than Tam’s. “But don’t take advantage of us. I haven’t even gone yet myself.” The skin was stretched tight across her cheeks.

  “Where’s Tam?” Mitchell turned to Glora, found her looking at him, smiling faintly.

  “She won’t tell you anything, Mitchell. Not after the way you’ve treated her.”

  “But I didn’t hurt her. I could’ve beaten her.” He looked at Glora, who had begun to massage Opal’s back. Under Glora’s fingers, the brown skin slid a few inches, then freed, snapped back into place.

  “When did you come home from the hospital, Mitchell?” Tam was standing behind him, her arm around Cooley’s waist, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Tam?” He took a step toward her. But she had turned her back, was standing on tiptoes to kiss Cooley good-bye and thank him. He lifted her off the floor, over his head, kissed her stomach, and set her down.

  “Is it my turn now?” The blond was sitting up, her feet on the floor.

  Sadly, Mitchell began to remove his clothes. He did not really want to get involved in all this, but there were three white women, two Black women, and only Cooley. He had to do his part.

  Opal sat up, watched him for a minute, then turned to Cooley and began to scream. “Why you slumming around baking tremble?”

  Cooley left Tam, and knelt beside the bed, his head bowed. Opal stroked his hair. There was something sticky on her hand and his hair came out like the fur of dead dandelions.

  The blond was standing over Cooley, hitting his shoulder with a shoe. “Come on, you can’t get out of it.”

  He looked up, fear pinching the corners of his tiny eyes, then kissed Opal and stood up. He grabbed the blond’s arm, white flesh oozing between his fingers, and dragged her from the room. Mitchell listened, heard nothing. He was undressed now, but could find no hangers for his clothes and asked Tam if she had seen any.

  “Give them here, for God’s sake.” She took his clothes in a bundle and walked to the closet. She had no buttocks; they had been flattened by her girdle. There was no curve between the small of her back and her knees. She hung up his clothes, taking care that the fronts of his overcoat, jacket, vest, shirt all faced in the same direction.

  Mitchell watched her bending to place his shoes side by side, heels together, on the closet floor. Deciding that he might as well start with her, he joined her at the closet, dropping his hand lightly on her back.

  “No thank you, Mitchell. I’ve just finished.” She closed the closet door. “Mother, do you want Mitchell?”

  “Why of course, dear.” Tam’s mother smiled, opened her arms to him. The closer he got to her, the older she looked. She seemed to shrink, her back to hunch, her breasts to fall. Her freckles grew, becoming splotches of mold.

  Glora had left Opal, was racing Mitchell to the head of the bed, a hairbrush in her hand. “Can’t be burrowed with her head.”

  Mitchell watched Glora, her breasts hanging like water-heavy brown paper sacks. He tried to stop her before she reached Tam’s mother.

  But she shook her head. “Canned at this mint. This has got to stop now.” The freckles on his mother-in-law’s chest looked like tiny scars. “I’m very proud of you, Mitchell. We’ll do something about you in a moment.” She began to cry. “Doesn’t anyone want my son?”

  Opal sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, her hands on her knees. “Suretainly.” She stretched out on the bed, spread-eagled, an operation scar coiling across her stomach, disappearing into her navel.

  “Well, Mitchell, go on. See what you can do.” Tam shoved him and he fell on top of Opal, struggled to the surface, caught his breath. Opal put her arms around him, began to rock him, humming. Her breasts rose on either side of his head.

  The women watched his every move.

  “I’m glad I didn’t get myself too deeply involved, Mother.” Tam was shaking her head. “Look at that, will you?”

  “Be patient, dear, he’s just started.” But she did not seem to believe that he would actually get better.

  Glora was whispering into Opal’s ear. “It won’t take. So long, Old pal.”

  Opal turned her head, seemed quite ill. “But I fill so wick.”

  Glora stroked her shoulder. “Yule get wealthoon.” Then to Mitchell. “Whorey up and fish pastry.”

  Mitchell was trying to bring Opal to life. But she lay under him, warm as new bread, bone lost in fat, and she would not move.

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Is that how we look, Mother?” Tam lay beside them, her head on her arm. “Terrible, Mitchell.” She tapped his shoulder. “You should really study harder. I bet if I asked him, Cooley would show you what you’re doing wrong.”

  He tried to be polite, and answer her, to tell her that he did his best, but he was becoming very excited and wanted to finish.
He tried to move a little faster.

  The women were gathered around Opal’s head, wiping her face, trying to close the cuts over her eyes with petroleum jelly, giving her water from a soda bottle. “Just hold on, Opal. You can last.”

  Then the phone, the phone, the phone…

  “Answer the phone, Mitchell.” Tam grabbed him around the waist, tried to pull him out of Opal. “The phone.”

  “Just a minute. I’m almost finished.” He tried to push her away.

  “God damn it, Mitchell, answer that phone!”

  Opal came to life, placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing. “And saw the foam, Mr. Purse.”

  “Just let me finish, please.” Opal shook her head, closed her legs under him. Tam shook her head. Glora shook her head. Tam’s mother shook her head. “You have responsibilities, Mitchell.”

  He reached for the phone.

  18

  AS IF to continue his dream, he pulled the receiver under the covers. “Hello.” He did not want to open his eyes. Perhaps he had not yet lost Opal.

  “Mitchell? Wake up, Mitchell.” It was Tam’s mother. “Wake up now.”

  “Oh, hi.” He could still see her clearly, the two of them, Tam’s mother and Opal. “How are you?”

  “Are you awake, Mitchell?” She sounded stern. “I have something to talk over with you.” He wondered if she was phoning from her bed in Washington. It was a beautiful bed, of dark wood, the headboard carved.

  It seemed almost impossible that she expected him to have found Cooley, made an arrangement with him, in less than two days. “I’ve been trying, Mother. But you understand, don’t you? I mean, it might take a little time.”

  “Keep quiet, Mitchell. I’m not calling about that.” She stopped, but he did not speak; she would continue. “I’m with Tam.”

  He opened his eyes, pushed the sheet and blanket away from his face. “In New York? I thought you went back to—”

  “I did. But Tam’s doctor called a few hours after I got home. Where were you, Mitchell?” Her voice was flat, hard. “He said he tried to get you.”

  “I was in the Bronx, trying to find Cooley.” His clothes were piled in an upholstered chair across the room. He had been too tired, too disappointed about Glora to hang them up. “We decided I was supposed to find him.” He paused. “Didn’t we?”

  She sighed, a roar on the wire. “Yes, Mitchell. You are awake now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  He heard her suck in, pulling air from his end of the line. “One of the children died at six yesterday, Mitchell.”

  “Died?” That was all he could say for a moment. Then he realized that he was not saddened by the news. He wondered which of the babies had died, and after a respectful silence, asked her.

  “Yours.”

  “Oh.” He lay in bed, on his stomach, wondering why he still did not feel sad. Perhaps it was simply that he did not really know the baby, had seen it only once, had never held it. He wondered how he would feel if Jake died.

  “You do understand what I’ve told you, don’t you?”

  He did not answer, and studying her voice, was quite surprised to discover her words were being filtered through some small amount of sadness.

  He rolled from his stomach to his side. “How, Mother?”

  “I don’t really know. Some lung defect. The doctor said he couldn’t have found it unless he was looking for it. It just died.”

  “I understand.” Still, this was all he could say. None of the customary condolences applied, especially since normally he should be receiving them. “I’m sorry, Mother.” He realized then he had forgotten about Tam. He asked how she was taking it.

  “Very well. She hasn’t shed a tear. She’s being very brave.”

  “Should I come over?”

  “That’s not necessary. As a matter of fact, it would probably do more harm than good. She’s calm now and visitors might just upset her.”

  He wanted to see Tam, but decided not to insist. He had already done her enough harm. “So it just happened, is that it?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” he hesitated for a second, “how’s the other one?”

  “Oh, fine. You say you haven’t found this Negro yet?”

  “No, Mother. Really. But I will soon.” For an instant, he could see Glora’s light-green bra standing out against her copper skin.

  “All right.” She took another deep breath. “You come by tomorrow. That will be better. Everything’s under control here. Good-bye, Mitchell.” She hung up.

  He cradled the receiver, looked at the ceiling. Tam was really quite a remarkable woman. Both of them were, but especially Tam. Not only had she endured all he had done to her, but now the baby’s death. He had a lot to make up. The next morning he would start; he would find the nicest cemetery plot in the city, would choose the best small white coffin. Today, he would find Cooley and get him to take the baby. Then he and Tam could start as close to fresh as possible. The last two years had been a mistake, and somehow it had all started with his firing Opal. But tomorrow Opal would come to work.

  He climbed out of bed and began to dress, still wondering why he was not more moved by his baby’s death. He knew feelings were hidden inside him, feelings he was too cowardly to recognize or face.

  Dressed now, he went to the kitchen and began to make himself some breakfast. He opened the door to the refrigerator, searched the shelves for some eggs. He would see that the baby’s coffin was lined with the best white satin.

  The eggs were in a carton on the top shelf, near a roast, gray now with cold. He took two eggs to the table next to the stove, cracked the first into a bowl. The shell of the second seemed tough. Red-tinged egg white had already dropped into the bowl, before he noticed the embryo. He could see one eye, too big for its transparent body. He flushed both eggs down the toilet, and wandered into the living room.

  Not only had he caused Tam pain by all he had done, but he had given her a defective child. As long as Cooley’s baby was in their possession, she could never forget or forgive him. Someday, if he worked hard enough, the memory of those two babies and what they stood for in their lives might blend with the rest of the past. But now he knew they could never really start again, new. There was always some damage after an explosion.

  When he had finished crying, he went to the phone and dialed Glora’s number. “Glora, this is Mitchell Pierce.”

  Silence on the other end, a hand over her receiver, then: “Hello, honey. How you doing?”

  “Fine.” He did not have much time now. “Have you reached Cooley?”

  Again, a silence. “No, honey. But Calvin have. He’s here now. You want to talk to him?”

  Calvin had probably driven her home. “Sure.”

  “Hello, man, how you been?”

  “All right. How are you?” He did not wait for an answer. “You’ve been in touch with Cooley?”

  “I just left him. He don’t want to see you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, man, he knows why you want to see him.” Glora had betrayed him. And Calvin must have realized that Mitchell would be smart enough to figure that out. “Now, don’t get mad, Mr. Pierce. She had to tell him. She thought she was helping you. We all trying to help you. But I bet you think we trying to get some money or something out of you.”

  “No, no.” Perhaps he was being too suspicious.

  “Anyway, we told him and he don’t want to see you.”

  He had to see Cooley. His entire future depended on it. “Did you tell him there might be some money in it? I told Glora that.”

  “Yeah, I told him, but…look, why don’t you just forget it. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t think it’ll work out for you. Cooley don’t want no baby.”

  “But if I c
an just talk to him.” He was pleading, but did not care.

  Calvin hesitated. “Look, I can’t promise you a thing. But maybe I can get him to come by your place. That way if he don’t want to see you after that, you won’t know where he is. But I tell you, he probably won’t go for it.”

  Mitchell was tired of the whole business. It could drag on for months, and the longer Tam had the baby, the harder it would be to convince her to give it away. “Well, try anyway.”

  “Sure, man. We’ll do everything we can.”

  “Let me give you my address.”

  Calvin laughed. “I don’t mean no offense, Mr. Pierce, but Cooley’ll know where you live.”

  19

  LESS THAN an hour later, the doorman called up from the street to tell Mitchell that a Negro, as he called him, wanted to see him. Mitchell was surprised; Calvin had been so certain that Cooley would not want to see him. He told the doorman to send the Negro up.

  He stood by the door, listening for the elevator, wondering how different Cooley would look from his memory of him. There would be some small degree of distortion, and besides, a year and a half had passed. Mitchell was always startled, when looking at the pictures of his wedding, how much he had changed in five years, the gradual thickening of his features, his back slightly more stooped.

  Finally the elevator arrived, but he could hear no footsteps on the hall carpet. He waited until the chimes rang, then opened the door.

  Calvin was shaking his head. “No good, man. He didn’t go for it.”

  For a few seconds, long after he had compared the face in his mind to the face before him, Mitchell could still see Cooley. Calvin was much shorter than he remembered Cooley, and much thinner, but even then, for a second or two longer, he saw Cooley. He cleared his mind, accepted disappointment, and asked Calvin in.

  “Not a bit of it, man. He laughed at me. ‘Let the white bastard rot!’ he kept saying, and laughing.” Calvin walked by him, his head bowed, his face thoughtful. “I tried, man. I really did.” Mitchell followed him into the living room, watched him sit down in the antique chair.