by Jabari Asim
“See you then.” He started up his hearse.
The gangster’s cigar had shriveled into a chewed-up stump. He flicked it to the ground.
Guts turned to him, hat still in hand. “Boss,” he said, “about this.” He nodded toward the pit.
“Don’t sweat it,” Ananias said. “It was going to happen. Just a question of when.”
Grand Opening
above the bones of Detective Ray Mortimer, flashbulbs popped.
Grandly waving his hand across the gleaming expanse of black-and-white tile, Rev. Miles Washington smiled for the cameras. “This will be the only Olympic-size pool on the entire North Side,” he declared. “When the streets get too hot, this will be the place to cool off.”
At the grand opening of Harry Truman Boys’ Club, Rev. Washington led a tight parade of media and dignitaries through the huge complex, pointing out its various features. His group included news crews from two TV stations, a pair of aldermen, fellow members of the clergy, a local sports celebrity, Ananias Goode, and Guts Tolliver, who despite his girth was nimble enough to stay out of camera range. Starting at the opposite end of the facility, Gabriel Patterson, who seemed to be the minister’s new protégé, led a series of informal rambles for groups composed mostly of anonymous folks from the neighborhood. Large welcome banners, created by the men of the Black Swan, draped over doorways and wound around staircases. The hallways gleamed, and the floors gave off the faintly chemical scent of pine cleaner.
Walking with his family in one of the Patterson groups, Crispus ran into Polly Garnett on the upper level near a glass wall overlooking the pool. Under the watchful eye of his parents, he played it cool.
Polly didn’t do cool. Like her mother, she was a warm-blooded creature.
“They need a girls’ club too, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Crispus glumly replied.
“You know they’re having refreshments downstairs, right? My mommy made—”
“Yes, yes, lemon pie, I know.”
Polly put her hands on her hips and rolled her neck. “What’s your malfunction?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Crispus couldn’t believe Polly’s nerve, just stepping up to him as if everything was uptight. Could she really have forgotten the awful way she’d toyed with his affections?
Polly kept right on chattering, and Crispus finally gave in to her insistent charm.
Soon they were giggling and having a ball.
A few feet away, Reuben had his arm around Pristine. He rubbed her shoulder playfully. “Takes you back to the Pine Street Y, doesn’t it?”
Pristine laughed. “Not exactly. Looks like you can fit two or three Pine Streets in that and have room left over.”
“Oh, come on,” Reuben said. “Pine Street had plenty of room. And this pool isn’t so big. It doesn’t even have a high board.”
“That’s because it’s for kids,” Pristine explained. “And you know how some boys are.” Her voice betrayed a hint of mischief. “They’re liable to jump off something high to impress somebody. Sometimes they get hurt that way.”
“Not if they’re anything like me,” Reuben said. “I used to do somersaults like one of those cliff divers on Wide World of Sports.”
“They’d better hurry up and put some water in that pool,” Pristine said. “Before it gets filled with John Brown jive.”
“That’s a big pool,” Polly said to Crispus. “Can you swim?”
“Not yet. But my mom said I can come here for lessons. I can’t go fishing again until I do.”
“Why did she say that?”
“Because I fell in the lake at Fairgrounds Park and almost drowned. My dad had to pull me out.”
“I’m glad he did.” They smiled at each other awkwardly. Crispus was beginning to think again about a long-term relationship. You never know, he thought. I just might do Curly proud.
“I already know how to swim because I was in Tiny Tots at the Y.”
“Really? I almost did Tiny Tots, but that trampoline … Let’s just say that jumping on the bed is adventure enough for me.”
“Do you think he can swim?”
Crispus looked around. “Who?”
“You know who. That boy on your couch.”
If there had been water, Crispus might have thrown himself through the window and hurtled headfirst toward the deep. Instead he sighed, pretended that Shom was calling him, and excused himself.
“Right,” Polly said, watching his retreating back. “I may be beautiful but that don’t mean I’m stupid.”
In truth, Shom wasn’t even present. The Roadrunners were in a spring tournament at Forest Park. Reuben hoped to get there before the third inning.
Downstairs, standing in line with Charlotte for the free cups of cola donated by the Vess Soda Company, Ed wasn’t having much more luck than his little brother. Charlotte had been distant lately. She had skipped nearly a week of school, then returned bearing traces of mysterious bruises that she didn’t care to explain. Ed began to wonder about an abusive father or, worse, a romantic rival.
By the grand opening, she was just about back to her usual bossy self. “Just promise me you’ll go.”
Ed ran his fingers through his hair. Since ditching the Murray’s pomade and stocking cap, he couldn’t stop caressing the abundant wool sprouting atop his scalp. It was as if he wanted to reassure himself that the waves were gone for good.
“You’re keeping secrets from me and you want me to make promises to you?”
Charlotte folded her slim arms in front of her.
“It’s for the best.”
“How come I can’t call you?”
“I told you. I have a curfew.”
“How come I can’t walk you home?”
“You do.”
“I mean all the way home.”
Charlotte took Ed’s hand. “All of this is beside the point. I’m just asking you to go see the man, what do you have to lose. Promise?”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte nothing. Promise?”
“I promise to think about it.”
She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles. “Well, at least that’s a start.”
They grabbed their cups and moved aside to make space for the VIPs entering the room. Among them, Charlotte noticed a running back for the local NFL team. Like Ed, he’d begun to grow his hair out. “Wonder how he’s going to get all that under a helmet,” she said.
“It won’t be easy, that’s for sure.”
That voice. Charlotte turned and studied the ample visage of Guts Tolliver. They stared at each other. He had been her rescuer. Of that she was certain. “You were—”
Guts put his massive finger to his lips and gently shook his head.
Ed watched this exchange with curiosity and a growing anger. Recognizing Guts and taking note of the way he seemed to swell to fit the room, he realized his anger had nowhere to go. The giant assassin looked down on Ed with good-natured amusement.
He tipped his hat. “That’s a good girl you got,” he said. “Look out for her.”
Ed nodded, trying to look unconcerned even though he’d developed a sudden urge to go to the bathroom.
“And don’t worry,” Guts added. “She only has eyes for you.”
“How does he know that?” Ed asked as they headed to the gymnasium. They sat on the floor with their backs to the wall.
“It’s complicated,” Charlotte said. Ed waited, but she had nothing more to say.
Across the gym, the Young Hearts singing group occupied one corner, where they loudly made a mess of a Temptations medley. The backing band wasn’t much better. The drums and the bass seemed to be arguing with each other, and the dispute threatened to burst right through the wall.
In another corner, Rose helped Mrs. Garnett tend the refreshment table. They nearly had to shout in order to hear themselves over the music.
“March came in like a lamb and it’s going out the same way,” Mrs. Garnett said. She sliced
pie with the easy grace of a woman who knows her way around the kitchen.
Rose, setting out paper plates in neat array, agreed. “Hasn’t this been a beautiful spring? And it’s only going to get better.”
“I don’t know, April’s coming up.”
“What’s wrong with April?”
Mrs. Garnett paused and took a sip of Vess cola. The throbbing music made the liquid shake in her cup long after she set it back down. “You know what they say. It’s the cruelest month.”
Rose handed a plate and a spoon to a woman who approached their table. The woman thanked them and smiled shyly. “I’ve heard you sing in church. You sound lovely,” she said.
“Thank you kindly,” Rose said.
“Your husband must be very proud. In fact, I know he is.”
Rose frowned. “And how would you know that?”
The woman took a step back. “I meant no offense. It’s just that he told me so himself. He was bragging on you.”
Rose was standing now. “My husband was bragging on me, you say. When was this?”
The woman was looking at Rose as if she had a duck on her head. “Why, just now,” she replied, visibly losing confidence. “While he was taking us on the tour. He said be sure to stop by the gymnasium to get some of Mrs. Garnett’s delicious lemon pie and say hello to his bride.”
“The tour,” Rose said. She was beginning to get the picture.
Mrs. Garnett had already gotten it. She suppressed a giggle. “Her husband’s like that,” she told the woman. “He’s on the boastful side.”
The woman smiled and moved on, relieved but not entirely sure why.
Rose looked at Mrs. Garnett in amazement. “That Gabriel Patterson. When will he learn?”
Mrs. Garnett stared back at her. “I imagine he’s wondering the same thing about you.”
“Anyway,” Rose said, “you were telling me about April.”
“Right. It’s supposed to be cruel. And it will be here the day after tomorrow.”
“Who says it’s cruel?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I know he was talking about April.”
“Well, whoever he is, I hope he’s wrong. I for one have had enough of cruelty. I only want to hear about love.”
“That makes two of us, sister.”
The women raised their cups of Vess cola and gently touched them together.
“To love,” they said.
“Excuse me, ladies.”
Mrs. Garnett looked up to see a tall, dark-skinned man with a brilliant white beard. It had been trimmed to geometrical precision, perfectly framing a pair of generous, sensual lips. The man’s eyes managed to be fierce and friendly at the same time, and they twinkled as he spoke.
“My, our table is popular today,” Mrs. Garnett said, nervously straightening her dress. “How can I help you, kind sir?”
He leaned forward. “You can start by telling me if you made this pie.”
Mrs. Garnett inhaled his scent, a masculine blend of Skin Bracer and menthol cigarettes. “I did make it. Do you like it?”
The man chuckled. He had a deep, rumbling laugh that Mrs. Garnett decided she liked as much as his smell. “Like it? I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I believe I could eat this pie every day for the rest of my life.”
“Would you like for me to tell you how I make it?”
“I’d like you to tell me whatever you please. My name’s Monday. Lucius Monday.” He offered his hand.
Mrs. Garnett reached out and took it. “I’m Mrs. Garnett,” she said. “The recently divorced Mrs. Garnett.”
She leaned over and put her lips close to Rose’s ear. “March can go ahead and go out like a lion, if you ask me. I ain’t got nothing against lions.”
She winked, stood up, and took her new suitor’s hand.
“Let’s start with the filling,” she began. “You don’t want it to be too sweet.”
The man smiled as they moved away. “Not too sweet. Got it.”
“Right,” Mrs. Garnett cooed. “Because it’s got to be tangy too.”
The long day wound down. The VIPs lingered just enough to pose for a few pictures and make sure their names got mentioned in the appropriate columns, then beat an unceremonious retreat. The Jones family left in time to see Shom hit a home run from each side of the plate. Ed secured a quick cuddle from Charlotte before working the late shift at SuperMart.
Someone talked some sense into the Young Hearts and they switched to a round of ballads. In the middle of the gym floor, Mrs. Garnett danced with her new beau. She whispered and giggled like a young girl as she glided in her stockinged feet, her shoes dangling from one dainty hand. Polly watched in sullen silence until Rose told her to help her clean up. Rose, gathering the unused plates and spoons, looked up to see that Orville and Gloria were also on the floor, dancing cheek to cheek. Orville was leaving his high school post to become director of education at Harry Truman. He and Gloria had announced a June wedding. Roderick—“the North Side’s homegrown genius” was how Rev. Washington had described him to the press—planned to offer tutoring as part of Harry Truman’s after-school program.
“In the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
Rose turned away from the dance floor to see Gabriel standing beside her.
“I don’t know if you should be talking to me about such things,” she said. “Seeing as how you have a wife and all.”
“What wife?”
“The one you’ve been bragging about while you conduct your tours. Don’t think I haven’t heard.”
“Oh, her,” Gabriel said. “She’s not really my wife, although she wants to be. Since I can’t marry her, I thought the least I could do was give her a dance.”
“I hate to interrupt this lovely romance, but I must.”
It was PeeWee, with the Warriors at his back.
“Hey, brothers,” Gabriel said. If he was surprised he didn’t let on. “You guys should have come earlier and taken the tour.”
PeeWee smiled, but not in a friendly way. “We’re here now, Mr. Liberator. Surely you can shake yourself free long enough to show us what’s what.”
Gabriel looked at the men, considering. “All right. If Mrs. Whittier doesn’t mind, that is.”
“No. No, go right ahead. I’ll just continue with what I was doing,” Rose said. The men, especially the little brazen one, gave her a bad feeling. She looked around. No one left looked like security. She sent Polly to sit with Roderick, who reposed in a corner with his nose in a book. Sitting in a chair in the adjacent kitchen, she breathed a silent prayer as she watched Gabriel head upstairs with the men.
She was still praying when he returned.
“We’ll have Ping-Pong tables on the first floor,” he was saying. “Plus a woodshop and a reading room. And we’ve secured a dental clinic on the upper level. Reverend Washington has some friends at the Midwestern State dental school.”
PeeWee sneered. “Midwestern State? Where the white man teaches his lies? I thought this was about black youth! Better get some black dental students up in here.”
“In case you didn’t know, Howard U’s in D.C.,” Gabriel said. “That would be one hell of a commute.”
One of the Warriors started to laugh, but PeeWee turned and stared at him with such intensity that he promptly swallowed his amusement.
“Unless you’re talking about Meharry, but that’s a far piece too,” Gabriel continued. “I guess Midwestern is the best we can do.”
“That’s bullshit,” PeeWee said vehemently. Across the gym, Polly and Roderick looked up. The band stopped playing.
PeeWee was undeterred. “Do we really want the white man coming in here and experimenting on our heads? On our children’s heads?”
“You’re getting loud, young man. It ain’t that kind of party.”
Without making a sound, Guts Tolliver had materialized in their midst. He eyed PeeWee with mild interest. The boy was all bluster, anyone could see that.
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PeeWee turned to Guts. He stood barely higher than his belt. “We ain’t got no beef with you, Big Man.”
“You sure about that? Reverend Washington asked me to hang around and make sure everything’s in order.”
“‘Order’ is a bourgeois tool of the oppressor,” PeeWee said proudly. “‘Order’ is the opiate of the masses.”
Guts could tell that the young fellow was getting worked up. Clearly he’d been imbibing something stronger than Vess cola.
“Come on, brother,” Gabriel said, his arms outstretched. “We’re all on the same side here.”
PeeWee snickered. “Is that right, brother? Because we all haven’t been going to the same meetings, have we? Some on our side don’t even answer their phones anymore.”
Guts had heard enough. “I’m sorry, you said your name was Little Pee, right? It ain’t that kind of party, Little Pee. Come back when you got some hair on your chest.”
Gateway’s deadliest assassin looked at the Warriors. Eight strong, but pitifully weak without Gabriel to do their thinking. Aside from PeeWee, they were of various bulks and dimensions. A couple looked like they might have played high school football. Eight against one and Guts figured the odds were still in his favor.
“What say, fellas? Best catch some air, huh?”
The Warriors of Freedom looked at Guts, weighed their options, and decided that departing all in one piece was a damn fine idea.
PeeWee strutted close to Guts, his jaw jutting defiantly. “You don’t scare me, Big Man,” he said.
Guts thrust his head toward PeeWee faster than thought.
“Boo!” he said.
PeeWee fainted, and the Warriors dragged him out.
Later that night, Guts gave the place a final go-round before heading home to bed. He nodded at two figures still in the parking lot and gave them a friendly wave. He recognized them as men of the Black Swan and knew they meant no harm. The reverend had said something about the men painting a mural on the club’s exterior with the help of neighborhood kids. Guts figured they were scoping the wall and making plans.
Guts wheeled his sedan down Dodier Ave. toward Vandeventer, leaving Bob Cobb to sit patiently on the bumper of his battered pickup, waiting for Talk Much to listen to his hands. The tall, laconic sign painter pressed his palms against the corner of the boys’ club and stood still with his eyes closed. Finally, he opened his eyes and shook his head.