Bailey's Cafe

by Gloria Naylor

  She tried her neighbors first, knocking on each door. A little yard work? Pots to scour? Laundry? Could she mind their children? It was Friday evening and she knew they liked to go out. Some were glad for her predicament: so the high and mighty had been brought down. They rolled the taste of power around in their mouths as she waited anxiously for them to agree about the pennies’ worth of labor she’d offered and decided they liked it. The taste was fresh and new, and not wanting to give it up with a no, it was, after a long long wait, Try me later. Tomorrow? Yeah, try me tomorrow. And they sat down to dinner, relishing what tomorrow would bring. But some were sorry they couldn’t help: if they could afford someone working for them, would they be living in a place like this? And they gave her the directions to houses that they cleaned in themselves, houses on the other side of town.

  The autumn light was quickly fading as she started out across town that Friday evening. And it was already dark when she reached the streets where fences of all types hemmed in the green lawns and flower borders. The air was getting chilled and she’d rushed off without the one jacket she hadn’t sold. As each door was opened by curious or suspicious eyes, the warmth from the house made her shiver, and her stomach growled as she breathed in the aromas of pot roasts and baking potatoes. Some thought she was off in the head and quickly slammed their doors. A few told her to return on Monday at a decent hour—with references. But it only took one to call the police, and she was warned to get off those streets and go back where she belonged.

  She got lost trying to find her way back toward the railroad tracks and ended up on streets where the lawns were even greener and larger, the fences all wrought iron and looming high over her head. The lighted windows of the stone mansions watched her with unblinking eyes as she ducked her head and tried to walk faster. Sadie knew not to even bother knocking on these front doors. She fought back despair, trying to calculate as she trotted along: she would have to double her efforts tomorrow to make up for this wasted day. Or maybe she could make it up over the next nineteen days. Nineteen days to make over $100.00. How much a day? But that math was too difficult without paper. She’d sit up all night if need be and do those figures when she got home.

  She was concentrating so hard, she almost collided with the two women leaving through one of the wrought-iron gates. It was only as she skirted around them, mumbling an apology, that she noticed the black sedan idling at the curb. But it was laughter of one of the women that made her stop. Damn fools, the echo hit her, there’s no way for them to nail a Vacate sign on … The blond hair was streaked with silver and swept up with pearl-studded combs and topped with a black cloche. The pearls were real and so was the mink stole. The wedding ring was platinum. And the green eyes were still beautiful, the makeup expert enough to mask the spreading crow’s feet. Those eyes were startled as Sadie reached out to grab a sleeve under the mink-covered arm.

  —I’m Sadie, she said.

  The eyes were totally blank and beginning to grow frightened, and as the red-painted mouth was opening in protest …

  —I’m Sadie, she repeated. Who does your hair now?

  It took less than a second: the recognition, the mouth arching up in a smile, the eyes demanding applause for the lighted windows of the mansion, the Vassar-bound daughter beside her, the smooth idling of the black sedan, the husband behind the wheel. On the heels of that second, the daughter was speaking, Mother, who …? Nobody, the blonde said as she shook off Sadie’s hand and herded the girl toward the car.

  —I need work, Sadie called behind her.

  Without turning her head she answered, I’m sorry; my staff is full. The heavy door opened and those long legs swung in. Sadie took a step forward, her voice louder, her meaning clear:

  —I’ll still come tomorrow. I need the work.

  But her last glimpse of those green eyes as the car pulled off told her there was no danger in her threat. He was a john, Sadie, the eyes said. A smart john who knew we make the best wives. Sadie risked standing there to watch until the car reached the end of the long block. She shivered and clapped her chilled hands together for warmth, clapping until the taillights of the sedan disappeared.

  It was well after midnight when she finally reached home. And she was already gone on the morning of the nineteenth day by the time the 5:15 screamed past. She made the going rate of $2.00 for cleaning a house that Saturday. She’d raise it to $2.50 after she brought references, the woman told her, because after all, she was taking a chance. And the woman was so pleased with how thorough she’d been that she didn’t deduct for the lunch she gave her. Sadie put the crumpled dollar bill and four quarters into her cloth change purse. Did anyone else in the neighborhood need help today? Yes, she knew it was almost dark, but she needed the work tonight. Well, maybe the old woman at the corner who kept all those cats. Lord knows, that smelly place could use a good cleaning any time of day. Sadie picked up another $1.50 for that. And no worry about deductions; she was afraid to eat the food offered her there. Well past midnight again, she limped into the house and emptied the change purse on the table. Two crumpled dollar bills, four quarters, four dimes, and two nickels. She was too tired to add up how much she was behind. And she’d forgotten to calculate the Sundays anyway. No one worked on Sundays—except in the defense plants. Yes, that’s what she would try.

  Sure, they could use her, she was told the next day. Fill out the application, give them a week or so to run the security check, and she’d be manning a machine by the end of the month. And, no, it couldn’t be sooner than that. These things take time, but she’d be making good money once she started—over $30.00 a week. An advance? Was she out of her mind? Get the job first before she started thinking of ways to waste the money. Sadie filled out the application as best she could, hoping something would happen and they would rush it through.

  She still made 25 cents on Sunday, picking up litter for one of her neighbors who got tired of her asking, and she added that to a dime she’d found in the gutter. Two more coins for the growing pile. She drank her dinner of hot water and sugar as she pulled out pencil and paper to calculate what was yet to be earned. She had seventeen days left to make $98.40. With $5.79 a day she’d make it with 3 cents left over, so she rounded it off to $5.80 a day. After the first day she’d have an extra 4 cents. And then she’d have the extra penny each day thereafter to buy a little more sugar to heat in some water. And after that first day, if she couldn’t make the extra penny she wouldn’t worry about it. After that first day, it was really only $5.79 a day. She checked and double-checked. Yes, $5.79 a day. She repeated those numbers over and over under her breath. She repeated those numbers the way some people pray.

  On Monday, pocketing her $2.00 for another day’s worth of cleaning, she heard of a laundry near the South Side that ran an evening shift. The owner agreed to pay her in cash after each shift since she was willing to run the steam press for half pay. Can’t get good steam-press help, he said, since the Chink laundries got big enough to hire their own kind. Just watch your fingers, he told her. She scalded them anyway. But she finished the shift and assured him that, no, the burns didn’t hurt. She’d be back on time the next evening. Another $1.75 was snapped shut into the change purse. Sadie knew she was still short for that day, and it was close to midnight again. The other workers left on the last trolley as she sat on the bench, pretending to be waiting for a ride home so she could think.

  She didn’t believe she’d be able to make that long walk back to the railroad tracks. And maybe if she slept on the bench, she’d have enough energy to work faster tomorrow—do two houses—before she came to the laundry. That would just about make it happen—two houses and the laundry. But they didn’t like it if you finished your housework too early. They might not want to pay for a full day. She didn’t see why—a day’s worth was a day’s worth. It was up to her how fast she worked; the house would be clean. They could go around with white gloves in any place after she was through. But she was still short for today. Toda
y she still needed … Sadie’s thoughts were broken when the man cleared his throat. She was startled to realize that a dark figure was bending over behind her.

  —Out a little late, ain’t you, sweet pea?

  Her hands gripped the change purse in her jacket pocket as she jumped up from the bench. With her heart pounding she could finally make out the shiny buttons and cut of the soldier’s uniform. He stood there smiling, his white teeth in sharp contrast to his ebony face. But she still kept her fist balled around the change purse and inched away.

  —Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. Miss your trolley?

  She shook her head no as she inched farther away. The soldier looked down the length of her body, his eyes resting on her full bosom—

  —I didn’t think so.

  Sadie began walking down the street. He fell in beside her. She ignored him, but she didn’t tell him to go away either.

  —I’m shipping out tomorrow. So tonight’s for a little fun.

  They came up under a street lamp and when she finally saw his full face clearly, her first thought was the first words out of her mouth: You’re young enough to be my son. He broke out in that wide grin again.

  —Yeah, but I like ’em experienced.

  She lost him by cutting quickly through a back alley that led to another set of deserted buildings. Don’t worry, he won’t follow. She remembered those words. They’ll never follow into a dark alley, unless it’s two of them. They’ll think your fancy man is waiting. But they’re not called fancy men anymore, Mama, she thought; now they call them pimps. Another alley between the shuttered warehouses led her into the heart of the South Side. The raw burns on her hand were aching as she hurriedly walked through streets that with all of the changes had not changed. The music pouring out of the saloons was different, except they weren’t saloons. Linoleum had replaced the wooden planks and sawdust; tall glass mugs instead of pails of beer were handed over the stained oak counters. The ghosts of the ragtime professors bent over their piano keys lived on in the red-and-blue lights speckling the walls from jukeboxes, but the beat was fast, fast, with trumpets now screaming at the same pitch of the 5:15. It felt like a Saturday night because of the soldiers, hundreds who were shipping out and using the sidewalks of the South Side for one big party. The uniforms had gone from the color of dried dung to that of dead olives, but the bodies filling them were still dark and young. Sadie kept bumping into groups of them, corner—Hey, sweetie, where’s the fire?—after corner—If you slow down a little, Papa’ll buy you a drink. A woman is a woman—she also remembered those words—and a woman is a whore unless she knows how to walk after midnight.

  She stopped to catch her breath at a traffic light. Leaning against its iron post, she felt her head spinning as her eyes dimmed and she feared she was going to faint. Her mind was blank as she watched the light change from red to green to red again. She didn’t know how many times it had changed before he came up to her. He wasn’t a soldier. And he wasn’t young. The plain-cut suit was a little frayed at the lapels. And his felt hat had one more blocking left before the garbage bin. He stood beside the post with his hands in his pockets, watching the lights change with Sadie. From red to green to red again. Sadie counted up what she had earned that day: $3.75.

  From red to green to red again. She glanced out the corner of her eye and saw he was fidgeting, a nervous smile playing around his lips. One of the shy white ones, she thought. He was just waiting to cross the street, minding his own business, until I threw myself at him. When he pulls his hands out of his pocket, he’ll have on a wedding ring. And he’ll want to show me the photographs of his children after. He’ll need to show me those photographs after. Yes, some things on the South Side would never change. From red to green to red again.

  —You busy tonight? she asked without looking at him.

  —No, he said. How much?

  Sadie locked her hands around the cloth purse in her pocket, remembering the smudged paper on her kitchen table.

  —Two dollars and four cents.

  She jumped when he laughed so suddenly. You’re kidding me, sister, he said. And for a minute she thought he was telling her she’d miscalculated, she was cheating him out of extra money. But no, it was right: seventeen days divided into …

  —Two dollars and four cents, she repeated firmly. And pay me first.

  He shook his head as he took three dollar bills out of his wallet: You’re way below the going rate. There was a wedding ring and there were photographs. Take the three, he said. But she insisted on making change and counted it out to the penny. He pocketed the coins before flipping open his jacket to show her the badge. And then he arrested her.

  Two weeks in women’s detention. And two days left when she turned up the unpaved road leading to the settlement of shanties. Counting anything stopped for Sadie then. She dropped to her knees in one corner of the yard and rested her forehead on the dry soil of the flower box. Blooming was past, and the velvet leaves of the geraniums were brittle and covered with a thick layer of dark cinders and ashes. The unattended screen door had kept banging in the wind until it hung from the hinges. The windows were shrouded in dirt and soot. The trains thundering by became one train. The neighbors trying to raise her up from the ground became one set of arms. Seeing that she wanted to be left alone, they left her. She stayed that way through the night.

  My father used to tell me that a star dies in heaven every time you snatch away someone’s dream. Dreams had been dying around Sadie all of her life. And the last star for her was dimming quickly inside. The last thing holding her back from falling to her destruction, an endless plunge through the endless space of the black hole waiting to open in her heart. There were no more dreams. So she knelt through the long night hours with her head in the dry flower bed and prayed for a miracle. Let me keep it, she begged; let me keep it.

  The footsteps echoed loud on the dry gravel in the still of the night. They came slowly from the far edge of the settlement. A pair of knees brushed her bent shoulders and a hand reached down to stroke her hair. The palm was large as a man’s, the touch gentle as a woman’s. A threadbare blanket was draped across her back and a crumpled paper bag laid at her side. By the time Sadie looked up she was alone, the footsteps no more than a distant echo.

  She pulled the blanket around her and reached for the paper bag. The dingy white paint of her house glowed in the dark as the mucus in the corners of her sleepy eyes formed a halo around it. Rainbows streaked the roof and filled the yard with greens, blues, speckled the dead geranium leaves with spots of bright red. The first thing her fingers grasped inside the bag was a piece of fried fish sandwiched between two squares of buttered cornbread. She ate the gift of bread and fish in small bites, as dawn was now threatening to break apart the visions of the night. But then she reached back into the crumpled bag to pull out the stars. Five of them were emblazoned on a label redder than her geraniums. And the five stars became the only ones she needed as she unscrewed the top of the flat pint bottle to drink the sweet wine.

  Dawn broke to no avail. The house was still beautiful and it was still hers. She got up off her sore knees, stumbled to the liquor store, and came back with a supply of stars to put her home in order. That day, between the 11:55, 3:12, and 8:40, she got the porch swept, the floors mopped, the windows washed, the laundry done, the pots scrubbed, the screen door hung, the roof fixed, the entire house painted, the yard dug up and refilled with sod, a picket fence built, a brick walkway laid, all the flowers replanted and blooming. She was so tired, she fell asleep right there at the table. Her head throbbed, her throat was dry, and her breath smelled of rotten fruit, but the place finally looked good. She knew she’d been given a second chance and she’d make no more mistakes. She’d make sure that she always had enough money to keep her home.

  It wasn’t easy, but she managed the best she could. There was only the small widow’s pension from her husband being a war veteran and what she could pick up in day cleaning now and then. Soon t
he day jobs started to fall off because her hands shook too badly to hide and the throbbing headaches kept her eyes teary. Food wasn’t much of a problem because she never had much of an appetite. A bar of candy or a handful of Walnettos could keep her going through the day, and every so often she’d crave a slice of cheese. The biggest expense was put out for a room. Even the cheapest places in the worst parts of the South Side were now demanding high rents. That section of town was bursting at the seams from the families of sharecroppers racing north to take new jobs in the defense plants or anywhere else a space was left by a new soldier. People were using the same bed in shifts: one body getting up and going to the factory while another lay down.

  But Sadie didn’t need anything much larger than a closet: a Murphy bed, a table and chair, a hot plate for her tea. And when the rent on that got raised, she found a cot being let in a hallway. She could sit on that when she wasn’t sleeping, and get her tea at the corner drugstore. The people having to walk over her feet to pass didn’t bother her, nor did the stench of burnt cabbage and overflowing toilets, the noisy children jumping up and down the steps. Because at night the stars came out and she made a few improvements to her home over the years. A new sewing room to catch the southern light. Nothing too fancy, but she splurged a bit on the double-pane glass so she could use it in comfort during the winter. The imitation Tiffany shades she’d put on layaway at Montgomery Ward’s brought a lovely glow to the main room in the evening. And at last she could buy a radio, now that Daniel was gone.