She didn’t remember when the city of Chicago condemned that tenement. Or exactly what month the widow’s pension stopped coming to a dead address. Or when the satchel with her clothing found a new resting place under a cot in the women’s shelter. But she did remember the evening she counted out the change in her cloth purse and found she was 10 cents short of the stars. She recounted once more just to be sure, and then without hesitation she went around to the back alley where the derelicts were roasting their dinner sausage over a trash fire. The second one she approached took her up on her offer. And in the far corner of the alley, barely into the shadows cast by the flames, she made the 10 cents. The officials at the shelter told her it would take a few weeks to straighten out the problem with her pension, so her price the next evening needed to go up to 25 cents and she had to seek out a new group of men, because the ones behind the shelter already knew she’d been had for a dime.
The few weeks to straighten out the problem stretched into months. And she lost her bed at the shelter because she refused to go on public relief. She wanted nothing from anyone except what was owed her. Park benches. Railroad stations. Church pews. She’d sit up and doze during the day wherever it was warm or safe; when she was lucky, it was both. She’d keep herself as clean as possible with the public bathrooms, and every week she’d return to the shelter to see if her pension check had arrived. Any stray penny or nickel she’d find on the sidewalks would go into her cloth purse for the stars. Some evenings she would only need to sell herself for 23 cents, some evenings 15. And on the rare times she’d find a silver dollar, it meant four whole evenings could pass without her picking up a man.
She never bought food with even a penny of the money she’d find on the sidewalks. The down-and-outers who moved in that world saved her from starvation. They liked Sadie. Something about her made her different from the other women bumming around with them, and it wasn’t only those strange eyes. If it weren’t so unthinkable, they might have found the words to say it was because she had class. She didn’t use filthy language, even when she was drunk, and she stayed either drunk or hung over all of the time. And they found themselves saying Excuse me when a bitch or fuck slipped from their own mouths. And they didn’t get insulted when she quietly refused to sit around and share a good bottle of whiskey with them. She’d never drink anything but Five Star wine and she never screwed for anything but the exact price. It made a few of them a little eerie, and they’d turn her down for the 2 or 3 cents when they’d gladly have taken her if she’d asked for much more.
Somewhere out there are a lot of pension checks waiting for Sadie, but they certainly hadn’t found her by the time she found her way into this cafe. She walked in here from the streets of Chicago the same way they walk in from Detroit, Saint Paul, Memphis, or New York. It’s the last place before the end of the world for some, and since it soon becomes common knowledge that it’s up to Nadine what a customer is charged, Sadie knew it was no handout when my wife decided her cup of tea or occasional dish of cobbler was on the house. Sadie more than paid for it with what it took to turn our thick mugs into fine bone china.
And with all that’s gone on before, this is where the story really gets sad. Enter Iceman Jones.
A bear of a man, although he isn’t very tall: broad at the shoulders and full in the chest, with thick, round arms and legs. And he has a sort of square-cut face that’s always struggling with a five o’clock shadow. Winter or summer, he’s in that heavy gray tweed jacket, but even along with the burlap pad he uses over his left shoulder, arthritis has set in from thirty years’ worth of toting blocks of ice. IIIceemann, IIIcemann, he calls from the seat of his wagon. He’ll rein up his horse in the middle of the street to give those who need him a chance to poke their heads out the apartment windows. It never fails, he says, it’s always the woman on the top floor who’ll want the biggest piece.
He’s gotten so good over the years he can gauge with his eyes the difference between where to hit for a fifty-cent piece or a sixty-cent piece. That sharp pick gets situated at just the right spot; a tap of the hammer, and the right-size chunk breaks off fair and clean. That’s the best part of his work for him, the skill his stubby fingers can call up to tap off that exact piece. It’s like cutting diamonds, and the way the ice can sparkle on the edges when it catches the sun, sometimes he could believe he’s dealing in jewels. But it ain’t an illusion that can last too long, he says. Cause then you gotta put on that shoulder pad, grab them tongs, and haul that sucker up them steps. It don’t take long for that icy water to start seeping into your shoulder bone. And wouldn’t ya know it? That very one on the top floor who asks for the biggest piece is the same one who wants you to wait while she empties her drain pan. In all the time it took me to make it up six flights, she couldna reached under the icebox and emptied that pan? And then he’ll smile and shake that bear head, making you think that he could be a little bit at fault himself for that melting ice. It’s a warm smile.
Iceman Jones became a regular here around dinnertime, after his wife died. He said my music suited him, none of that be-bop de-bop that gets your stomach jumping too much to digest what you ate. It’s music you can talk over, and Jones likes to talk as much as he likes to listen. He has a great time on that counter stool when misfortune brings Eve and Sister Carrie in here on the same day. And Carrie, knowing he’s a churchgoing man, will try to get him in on her side.
—And the Bible says it, don’t it, Brother Jones?
—Yeah, the Bible says it, Sister Carrie.
And then he winks at Eve. In his line of work he’s learned a lot about getting along with people, and from having the privilege of looking inside so many iceboxes, which tells a whole story about somebody’s life, he’s also learned that most things aren’t what they seem.
It was spring when he first met Sadie. Like everybody else, he’d seen her before at her single table against the far wall. And like everybody else, he’d heard the talk about what she was and had his own opinion: A real pity, she musta been a fine-looking woman. And then one day last spring she dropped her teaspoon as Jones was walking past to get to the counter. He stooped to pick it up for her, and as she reached for it with her quivering hand, he looked her full in the face. He met the eyes of a four-year-old dreaming to survive. She gave him a soft Thank you, and his own hands weren’t any too steady as he took his seat on the stool to order his dinner. He wasn’t as talkative that day, and he picked at his food.
Jones was a man with a life as simple as you could make it: a mama and daddy, three brothers, two sisters. They were poor but they ate. They were close but they fought. He dropped out of school. Sowed a few wild oats. And at twenty he took a job on an ice wagon that was worse than some, better than others. Later there was a wife, one son, and one daughter. They were still poor but they ate. They were close but they fought. The children grew up, got high-school educations, moved away. The wife died. He grieved. And the last letter had brought news he was due to be a grandfather. He had his lodge, his church, and his handful of friends. And the two evenings a week he didn’t eat in the cafe, he liked puttering around the kitchen with concoctions of stew or baked beans. Jones couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, the type of life it must have taken to freeze that look in a grown woman’s eyes.
Without appearing to, he began studying the woman herself. The steel gray hair was frizzled from not being oiled and pressed, but she kept it neatly parted and braided. No disputing it was a wino’s face: the puffy eyelids, the drooping lips. But her skin stayed dry and ashy, which meant she was no stranger to water, even if she couldn’t find lotion. The two dresses she changed up each day, rough and dry, but clean; a pair of men’s socks; rubber-soled loafers. He wondered how she managed to keep the loafers polished. There must be a tin of Kiwi down in that satchel, as well as a bar of soap, because the only body odor was of fruit gone bad. He’d been let into fancy apartments where women weren’t as tidy about themselves, and this one lived in the streets.
She knew he was an iceman. He knew she was a twenty-five-cent whore. That took care of how they earned their money, but neither of them knew the other’s name. So the next week Jones introduced himself. Sadie had few occasions to tell anyone her name, and when she did, she always turned her head to the side as if expecting a blow. An old habit that went way back to how she’d first learned it. She didn’t stop him when he pulled up a chair to her table, but she didn’t have much to say, either, as out of the blue he started telling her about his day.
He began with the way the sun looked coming up over the East River, where he bought his ice from the warehouse. He bought by the pound, sold by the piece. And somewhere in between the meltdown, he managed to make ends meet. He described the sounds of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestones and paved roads. The thumping of the wagon’s wheels. Not too many horses and wagons left. If he stayed in this business, he’d probably get a truck, but he had a sneaking suspicion that by the time all the horses were gone all the iceboxes would be too. He had stories about the people he’d met: the cheapskate who told him it was a sin to charge as much as he did since it was only frozen water and, after all, water was free; the old spinster who wanted just a sliver each day to keep a favorite parakeet on ice. He carried Sadie through the sights and sounds and smells of his day, amusing her as you would a child. And almost, almost, making her smile. When she got ready to leave, he stood up and pulled out her chair.
Sadie allowed Iceman Jones to come as Jar as the picket fence that night. Under the stars she stood with her hand discreetly on the gate latch so he’d understand this was where she wanted to visit. There was a gentle wind that fluttered the voile curtains in the lighted kitchen window and brought the aroma of her chicken casserole. It was still too early in spring for the geraniums to be blooming, but she pointed out the mulched beds that would soon bear her Martha Washingtons and trailers. She’d thought about roses, she told him, but believe it or not, even the American Beauties don’t get as red as these, and roses are finicky, they wouldn’t hold up with the trains. And did he know the ones lining the fence had leaves that smelled of mint and lemon? Oh yes, when he came back to visit in the summer, she would show him. That is, if he was coming in the summer. She felt her face grow flushed, thinking she might have been too forward, and was glad for the darkness to hide her embarrassment. Well, she would have to go in now. But it was so very nice of him to stop by.
Every time Jones saw Sadie, he’d pull up a chair to her table and tell her about his day. It got so she would finally smile, her right hand fluttering up to hide her mouth. Sadie’s teeth were in bad shape; the sweet wine had rotted some of them through, and lack of a dentist had taken the rest. She forgot all about them, though, the evening he came in with the story about his one and only sale that day. It really was a story, moving close to shades of a lie. Only worked one hour today, old girl. He’d taken to calling her that, making it sound like the caress he meant it to be. And it wouldna been a whole hour, except I turned up Lenox instead of heading straight for Amsterdam. See, the fire trucks were blocking off most of Amsterdam from 123rd to 125th and I could see the smoke, but Nell had already smelled it and she was getting skittish. I doubt if she’s got enough juice left in her to be a runaway, but I wasn’t taking no chances. And wouldn’t you know it? The hydrants had broken down and they couldn’t get but a trickle of out ’em, and the building just a-blazing. Now, they’d gotten all the people safe, but they didn’t want the thing to spread. And here’s the fire chief racing up and down the streets in his automobile, shouting—Water! We need Water!—when he spots me in my wagon. I’m as civic minded as the next fella, but I told him Nell wasn’t gonna make it. So we unhitched her, hitched my wagon to his automobile, and pulled it on to the fire.
Sadie’s hand started fluttering to her mouth. And I called out from behind the counter, Jones, you’re supposed to be a Christian, and lying like that. Bailey, if I’m lying, I’m flying, he said. Then he looked at Sadie and winked. Well, all right, I didn’t have quite enough ice in my wagon to put out all the flames. So me and the firemen stood around that building and spit out the rest.
Her laughter was like music. And the whole cafe stood still. In the presence of something that beautiful and rare, you’re afraid to move, afraid to even breathe. But seeing that she’d become the center of attention, she smothered it almost as quickly as it was born. Talk resumed at the other tables, dishes began rattling, but none of us, especially Jones, would ever be the same again. He sat there staring at Sadie, and since she only knew to read silence as disapproval, she ducked her head and mumbled into her tea, I’m sorry, I just thought it was a funny story. It was meant to be, he said. Jones didn’t come into the cafe at all the next week. Or the next.
Sadie pulled the two rockers out on the front porch. The weather had turned warm enough to sit out there under the stars. She hoped he didn’t mind that she had yet to invite him into the house, but the quilted pads she’d sewn herself made the wooden seats comfortable enough for them to talk for hours. And how that man could talk. The deepness of his voice made her peaceful inside, and he was kind enough to mention the few changes she’d made, things you wouldn’t expect a man to notice. Yes, she did fix her hair a little differently now. Just thought she’d try bringing the bangs to the side. Her forehead was way too large to sweep it up off her face, but some older women did look pretty with those new French rolls. What did he mean she wasn’t that old? Look at all this gray up there. She was old as Methuselah’s mama. It wasn’t a very good joke; she didn’t have much practice. But there was laughter on her front porch. For the first time, there was laughter.
Jones came back in the third week and took his regular seat at the counter, looking for all the world like somebody had stepped on each of those bear toes. Sadie wasn’t in that evening, which seemed to irritate him even more. He jerked his head toward the empty table. Guess she’s out there earning her twenty-five cents.
—Not always, Jones, I said. We both know sometimes it’s only a dime.
He gave me a real hard stare and I gave it right back. He blinked first. His voice was soft as he dropped his eyes. Has she been by any, these past weeks?
—She’s been in, I said.
He started rolling his water glass between his huge palms. It just makes you worried and all, her living in those filthy alleys and God knows where else. It’s kinda dangerous out there for somebody like her; the world ain’t what it used to be.
—But she’s been in, I said.
Finally he raised his head: Did she ask about me?
—No, she didn’t.
It was to be a special evening and Sadie was nervous. Maybe he wouldn’t like the place. Maybe he’d think she was showing off. But you should use your good crystal for company, and it wasn’t like she’d bought the whole set outright. She’d laid away a piece at a time over the years: the juice glasses, the water glasses, the wine goblets, worrying that Waterford would change the pattern before she’d gotten them all. And the candles on the dinner table were a real nice touch, because the candles made the edges of the goblets sparkle like diamonds. And he’d appreciate that because he’d once told her that he felt like a diamond cutter with his ice. And it’s not that the room was totally dark with nothing but the candles; she had all the lamps on, the imitation Tiffany shades polished and polished again, to give the room a real comfortable feel and keep him from getting any ideas. The first time the man’s in your home, you don’t want him thinking you’re forward. No, her good china, her good glasses, and a very simple meal: baked chicken, spinach, boiled potatoes, and a store-bought cake for dessert. She knew men—start too soon with homemade cakes and then they start getting nervous. A knock on the door. She did a quick check in the mirror and hurried to let him in.
She took her regular table and it was one of her bad days. Her hands wouldn’t let her raise the teacup so she could use her napkin to blot up the hot water she’d spilled. And there was a bruise on the sid
e of her temple. She told Jones she had slipped and fallen. He wanted to take her to a doctor but she said she’d be fine; it was nice of him, though, to offer.
—The streets are no place for you, Sadie.
—I don’t live on the streets, she said.
He figured the Five Star was close to running her crazy. And when she was ready to leave, he grabbed her hand: Don’t go out there tonight. Now, she looked at him like he was crazy.
—But it’s time to go, she said.
—Don’t go out there tonight. Here, I’ll give you the quarter.
She snatched her hand away and gathered up her satchel.
—I don’t take charity.
Jones was stunned and told her with anger that some women would rather beg—or even steal. It was a queen who held on to the back of the chair and glared down at him.
—Those women aren’t me.
Seeing that she was turning away, he grabbed her hand again.
—All right, my money’s as good as the next man’s. A quarter for your time.
She backed away from the coin he’d thrust into her face: I thought we were friends.
—We are, he said.
Jones took her tiny fingers and wrapped them around the quarter.
—I’m not buying your body, I’m buying your time.
And, still holding her hand, he led her toward the rear door of the cafe.
Bailey's Cafe Page 7