I got a window table at the Homewood and ordered chipped beef and coffee and got a refill after that. I wrote about the meeting with Mill and gathered up those pages and all the stuff I’d written so far and stuffed them in a big envelope and scribbled down Ellen’s address and almost mailed off the whole thing before I changed my mind. I had also written a few drafts of a cover note. The first draft said, I’ve been thinking of you, Ellen. That got torn up. The second one said, Still love you, kid. I shredded that, too. The third one, which I finally crumpled and threw out, said, I still think of you. I resolved to go on discovering and writing about my family history, but decided that sending it to Ellen would do no good.
I saw Yoyo go out at about eight one night with a bucket of sponges, detergents, rags, and rubber gloves. He crossed the street, rang at Elvina’s door, and went in. Later that night, I heard him return to his rooms downstairs, whistling. I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to sleep.
The next morning, we stepped outside at the same time. Yoyo had his barbecuing stand and two folding picnic stools under one arm, and bags holding food, charcoal, and utensils in another. I walked with him to the corner of Thirty-second and North Calvert. Yoyo placed two baking dishes of marinated and skewered meat on a picnic stool. He covered them with ice packs and supermarket bags. I poured coals into his barbecue stand and lit a few starter cubes. Yoyo bought fast-acting charcoal to minimize his set-up time. He never set up in the same location two days in a row. He avoided busy streets, and offered a free kebab to anyone walking into or out of any house next to where he worked. Yoyo set out his special sauces in bowls on the sidewalk. One was labeled Crocodile sauce — hot! and the other Cameroonian magic — mild. The coals took fifteen minutes to burn and lick with flames, and settle into gray, glowing embers. Yoyo laid four kebabs on the grill. He gave me two dollars, and instructed me to cross the street and wait for someone to approach. Then I was to beat that person to the barbecue stand, order a kebab immediately, and rave about it for as long as anyone would listen. It sounded corny to me, but it worked. Two young men stopped and listened to me and bought a kebab each. Others came behind. Yoyo sold another fifteen kebabs in five minutes. After that came a lull. I said I had to be getting along.
“What do you do during the day?” he asked.
“I look around. Think. Visit the city.”
“This is a holiday for you? You are vacationing in Baltimore?”
“Not exactly. I’m not vacationing. I have no job.”
“I could help you set up in another part of the city. You buy everything and you sell everything and you just give me a 30 percent cut for the first two weeks. You can make money selling meat. Americans like meat — especially when it’s good and cheap and they can eat without having to sit down. For Americans, it’s always run run run. Shall I help you set up tomorrow?”
“No, thanks, Yoyo. I’ll help you from time to time, but I’m not interested. It’s not what I do.”
“But you’re not doing anything. You have no job.”
“I have no job, but I am doing something.”
“What?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain to Yoyo that I was trying to reconstruct the lives of my ancestors. Three more kebab buyers came along, so I took off.
Chapter 10
TWO WEEKS PASSED. If I couldn’t connect with Mill, I’d never get any serious family research done. I resolved to try again.
I dragged myself out of bed at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. Whose brilliant idea was it to set church services so early? If Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, why did churchgoers have to get out of bed so early? I shampooed my hair and picked it out and shaved, and wondered if there would be anybody — one solitary soul — in the African Methodist Episcopal Church congregation that morning with a complexion as light as mine.
I had called the church the day before.
“Bethel A.M.E., good morning and praise the Lord,” said a young woman on the telephone. I asked about hours of the Sunday services. Seven-thirty, ten, and one in the afternoon, I was told.
“Seven-thirty in the morning?” I asked. “Do you get anybody out that early?”
She giggled. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “You could say that.”
“Seven-thirty is our most popular time. Have you been saved?”
“Saved?”
“Has Jesus entered your soul?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then you’d better come at seven-thirty.”
“Why?” Perhaps the early service had a special section for hopeless sinners.
“The sooner you get down here, the less chance there is that something else happens first.”
“Something else?”
“Your heart could give out. A bus could knock you over. Somebody could shoot you. This is Baltimore.”
“You ought to get a job welcoming tourists. Any other reason?”
“Our security guards watch the cars parked for the seven-thirty service. You can park in safety and locate your automobile after Jesus has saved you.”
“And if he doesn’t save me this first time around?”
“Your car will still be there, honey. The Lord has time on his hands.”
It was a fine, sunny morning. Two cardinals, blood red, perched on a branch over my car. I drove south on St. Paul, then west on Twenty-ninth. I saw a man and a woman running north on Charles Street. No other soul on the street, no other cars in motion, and they didn’t see me coming. They stopped at Twenty-ninth and kissed. She ran away from him, and he gave chase.
I saw no other people and no cars in motion until I got to Druid Hill Avenue and saw a stream of cars heading south, which was the way I had to go. Behind just about every wheel was a woman. Every woman was black. Just about every one was old enough to be my mother. And every one wore a church hat. I put aside my city map. These women would guide me to the Lord.
They guided me south on Druid Hill Avenue into the old heart of the black community. The area had thrived in the time of my grandfather, but now it was neglected and withering. It was at least sixty degrees Fahrenheit. In the lanes bisecting Druid Hill, I saw men stretched out against stone walls, sleeping or dead. Half the stores had boards nailed across the windows. The other half had iron grates guarding every possible point of entry. On the sidewalks, I saw pop cans, popsicle sticks, and syringes. On the ledge outside a window above a corner variety store, I saw a small American flag perched inside an apple juice can. Nobody moved. Nobody was in sight. Seven on a Sunday morning, and all that moved were the cars ahead of me, driven by women in church hats.
I saw hats with purple flowers, pink ribbons, yellow lace, blue thread. I saw hair under the influence of gels and sprays. I saw not one bare head. And I saw few men. Most of these cars were big American models, Fords and Buicks with V-8 engines. Their doors were locked and windows sealed. I had the sense that if these suburban interlopers had their druthers, they would enter the inner city in army tanks. I rolled up the windows of my Volkswagen Jetta.
South of Mosher Street, the women started pulling over and parking. Dark men in dark suits drew the women forward with their fingers, helping them park within a foot of each other.
I parked at the corner of Druid Hill and Lafayette. I was glad that my hair was longer than usual, and combed out into an afro, because I didn’t want to be seen as a white visitor. I wanted my race clearly marked. I got out of the car. One of the street ushers closed the door for me. “Salaam Alaikham,” he said.
“Wa Alaikham Salaam,” I answered, glad to have traveled enough in Africa to have heard the salutation. I knew it was used by the Nation of Islam in America, and wondered why Nation of Islam converts were helping suburban blacks get to an A.M.E. church.
“Visiting from Ontario, are you?” the brother said, noting my license plates.
“Sure am.”
“Have a safe visit.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t linger after th
e service. It ends at eight-thirty, and this neighborhood wakes up at eight-forty-five.” “Are you going into the service, too?”
“No, sir. I stay out here with my brothers and watch the cars. You could leave your windows down. You could leave your keys in the ignition. Nobody will touch your car.”
He was a young kid, no older than eighteen. Tall and skinny, but the suit fit him perfectly.
“Can I ask you a dumb question?” I said.
“No question is dumb.”
“Are you a Muslim?”
“No, brother. I’m a member of the A.M.E. youth congregation. My parents been at this church, and their parents before them, since the turn of the century.”
“Then why’d you give me a Nation of Islam greeting?”
“That’s just the way around here, brother. NOI is cool. And it’s not just a Muslim greeting. It’s an African greeting. We’re all Africans, aren’t we? Aren’t we, brother?”
“Yes, we are.” I grinned at him. “Except for those of us who are, well, half brothers.” He grinned back. “Nobody’s counting halves and quarters. If you’re one of us, it’s that simple. End of conversation.”
I turned to look at the A.M.E. church, one block down. “I’d better get going. Don’t want to miss the service.”
“Well, brother, since you asked me a question, let me ask you one. I saw you coming with that Ontario license plate, and I just knew that you wouldn’t know what I was saying when I gave you the greeting, but you had to go and prove me wrong. Where’d you learn that stuff?”
“I belong to the Nation of Islam.”
He gave out a chortle. “I never saw no Nation of Islam man wearing brown socks with blue trousers. Not outa the house, anyway. And you’re from Canada. It’s too cold up there for Muslims.”
I could have told him I’d traveled a lot in Africa, but he might have thought I was bragging. So I just said, “I’ve been around.”
“You ain’t been anywhere like Baltimore. Have a good day now.”
I fell in behind two elderly women on the sidewalk. The taller one had the build of a linebacker. She wore high heels, panty hose, and a white hat with one yellow feather pointing skyward, as if to say, “You mess with me, and you’ll have to mess with Him.” The other woman was six inches shorter and as wiry as a turkey. She jolted forward with robotic, staccato steps. For an instant, I wondered if she was performing a pantomime. Her hat was the color of orange sherbet. It sat on a bald head. I knew this because I saw her take off her hat and whack her companion’s sleeve.
“Got ‘im,” said the short, bald one.
“What you hitting me for, girl?”
“I got ‘im, Maggie. A hornet was fixing to sting you.”
“Ain’t no hornets on this street. Ain’t no people, neither.” “We’re here, Maggie. We got a congregation of a thousand people.”
“We don’t live on Druid Hill Avenue. We’re like aliens. We land for an hour and then we take off.”
“You run that mouth of yours nearly as much as my husband does.”
“I love you to pieces, Eleanor, but don’t you mention me in the same breath as that no-account, dimwitted numskull.”
Eleanor laughed, shaking her arms out. “You know what that man did last night? He called out for me to bring him a beer.”
“Hasn’t he been doing that for forty-three years?”
Eleanor said, “Yes, but he was sitting in the bath. Here I was, making lunch for after church today, and he calls out for a beer in the bath.”
“I’d a poured that beer on his head. You oughta quit givin’ that man money for drink.”
“Only thing he’s good for is eating and drinking.” “You oughta divorce him,” Maggie said.
“People don’t get divorced at seventy-eight years of age,” Eleanor said. “It’s too late.” “Then you oughta kill ‘im.”
“He’s barely living now. And I can’t kill ‘im. He ain’t valuable enough to kill. I’ll leave that business to the Lord. It’s too late for me, Maggie. I’m stuck with that man to the grave.”
“Ugh! Anybody ever put me to rest beside my no-good ex-husband, I swear to God, the six o’clock news would be talking about a second Resurrection. I’d climb out of my own grave faster than Jesus. I wouldn’t even spend the night.”
Eleanor, the short, bald one, slapped her hands together and bent over in laughter. “You oughta watch your mouth, Maggie. That’s not Sunday language.”
Maggie stopped to adjust her purse. I walked up beside them on the sidewalk, and caught Eleanor looking at me.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Praise the Lord,” Eleanor said.
“Is that the A.M.E. church?” I asked.
“Sure is,” Eleanor said. “You visiting?”
“I sure am.”
“Where you from?” This came from Maggie, who snapped her purse shut. “Canada.”
“Canada. My, my. That’s a long way off. You have relations here?”
“Just an aunt. I think she’s a member of the A.M.E. congregation.”
“What’s her name?” Maggie asked. “Millicent Cane. You know her?”
“Millie Cane? Sure we know Millie! You’re Millie Cane’s nephew?” Maggie edged her glasses down her nose. “Good God Almighty, you don’t look like any relation of Millie Cane. You’re pushing white, son. Pushing awful hard.”
“Leave him be, Maggie,” Eleanor said. “Most folks that light would just go ahead and pass. They wouldn’t come on back to the A.M.E. church. Leave him be, I say. Welcome, son. Welcome to Baltimore. Is Millie expecting you?”
“No. But I’m sure I’ll bump into her.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Maggie said. “We got a thousand people comin’ out on Sunday mornings. But we’ll find her for you. Help me up these steps, son. I got arthritis. Days like this, I get the feeling my bones are made of potato chips.” I extended my right arm, and Maggie took hold of it. Eleanor took my left arm, clawing it like a bird. We ascended eight steps into the church foyer.
Five young men dressed in black suits, clean shaven, hair cut so short it looked almost shaven, too, stood by three piles of newspapers. The Afro-American, the Baltimore Sun, and the Washington Post were each stacked so high they came up past my waist.
“Newspaper?” one of them asked me.
I hesitated. I wanted one, but didn’t want to bring it into the church.
“You pay an extra fifty cents here,” Eleanor said, “but it goes to the church scholarship fund.”
“I’ll get one on my way out,” I said.
“That’s what we all do. But you pay now. That way there’s no lineup when you’re heading out. You just take one and go.”
I paid with a ten-dollar bill for the Afro-American and the Post. The young vendor pocketed the bill and ignored me. I checked the handwritten signs by the newspaper stacks. They listed the prices as three-fifty for the Post and two dollars for the Afro-American.
“Don’t you owe me change?” I said.
“We don’t make change,” he said.
“You owe me four-fifty.”
“You gave me ten dollars. You asking for it back?”
Maggie stuck her face into the nose of the young vendor. “This man has come all the way from Canada to attend this service. He helped me up the steps, and he’s agreed to buy two papers. Now you put that black hand of yours into that cheap linen pocket and dig out some change this minute.”
The young man slapped four ones and fifty cents on top of the newspaper stack. I retrieved the change. “What’s the matter with you?” I asked him.
“Ain’t there enough white churches where you-all come from?”
Maggie slapped the man. Snapped his head right back. “Shame on you. Shame on you. You got no sense of manners, have you? You’re all mouth. You’re uncouth. I ever hear you speaking like that again, I’ll tie you up like a butterball turkey and roll you down the street.”
Eleanor steered me inside. “Uncouth,
uncouth, uncouth,” she muttered. “Maggie did right to slap that cretin. A little bit of violence never did any harm.”
Eleanor sat with me in a pew while Maggie looked for Mill. The sanctuary had room for more than a thousand parishioners. In the back, above the entrance, was a balcony for spillover crowds. The men were dressed in browns, grays, and blacks, but the women were made out like peacocks. I saw orange, yellow, red, purple, white, green, rose, blue. I was undoubtedly the lightest-skinned and the worst-dressed in the church. Some of the women wore long African robes. Eleanor saw me looking at them.
“You ever been to Africa?” she asked me. I told her that I had. “People dress like that over there?” I told her that the ones who could afford to did, at special events. “Well, these women have never been to Africa. They just got it in them to look African. I could never wear one of those robes. To me, it’s putting on airs.”
We sat silently for a moment. Then Eleanor said, “I bet you was sweetness indeed, when you was born. You hardly weigh a thing. Slim shoulders, practically no backside, little head, I bet you was easy as pie to bring into this world. Your mama was lucky. My first son weighed eleven pounds two ounces and he came so close to killing me that I nearly killed him. Know what he weighs now?” I looked at her with eyebrows raised. “Would you believe three hundred and thirty-three pounds? Sits in a regular kitchen chair, he breaks it. Has to take a bus, he needs two seats. He’s the size of two grown men and they still call him Junior. Here comes your aunt, boy! Here comes Millie.”
Mill had her hair up in a bun. Her eyebrows were pulled up, too. She came alongside Maggie — and looked just as big and solid. “What you come to the Lord’s House for, son? I thought you were a Canadian atheist.”
“I wanted to see the church where my grandfather ministered. I wasn’t going to bother you, but your friends insisted on finding you.”
Maggie broke in. “You came all this way and didn’t want to see your own flesh and blood?”
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