by Jabari Asim
“Sounds like you got it all worked out.”
“Not a bad plan though, right?”
“I don’t have a lady friend anymore.” Damn, Guts thought. I’m talking too much. Must be the beer.
“What? That fast? Damn, what did you do?”
Guts shrugged and stared off into the distance. “Didn’t do anything, and I guess that was the problem. This guy named Nifty said I was getting domesticated and I let it get under my skin. Her name’s Pearl. She threw all my stuff out of her window.”
“Aw, she wasn’t so mad,” Crenshaw said. “If she had been really pissed she’d have set your shit on fire.”
“She was about to.”
Crenshaw’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh.”
A twig snapped somewhere behind them. Crenshaw appeared not to notice it. Guts turned around and peered into the shadows. He saw nothing.
“Relax, Big Man,” Crenshaw said. “You’re not on the job. We’re just two friends hanging out.”
Guts reluctantly returned to the fence.
“You’re lucky,” the ballplayer continued. “I run into broads who take my shit. You get with a woman who gives all your shit back.”
“That’s a good one.”
“Except I’m for real. This Pearl. From what you tell me, she’s passionate, sexy. She goes all out for what she thinks is important. And what she thinks is important is you. Sounds like she’d do anything for you, and wants you to do the same for her. You’re a killer—okay, an ex-killer—and here you are with a woman who’d kill for you. That’s intense, Big Man. That’s a killer combination. Me, I ain’t ready for that yet. But the way you mope around and shit, I suspect you are.”
“Damn,” Guts said. “That almost made sense.”
“Stick around, Junior. You might learn something. People think I’m stupid because I’m pretty.” Crenshaw drained his cup and crumpled it loudly.
“Will you stop with the pretty shit? Keep that up and people are going to be looking at you funny.”
“Muhammad Ali’s always talking about how pretty he is. Nobody looks at him funny.”
“That’s because Muhammad Ali will whip some ass,” Guts said.
A shovel blade, swung properly, will knock the average man senseless or even kill him. But Guts Tolliver wasn’t an average man, and an amateur was wielding the shovel. The flat part of the blade thudded against Guts’s skull, forcing the beer from his hands. The end result, however, was that he was more angry than stunned. He wheeled on his attacker, lowering himself into a crouch as he spun. Crenshaw had also turned and assumed a similar stance.
They faced two men, white, weather-beaten, early thirties. One held a shovel, the other a pitchfork. “Come quietly,” Pitchfork said, and “there won’t be no trouble.”
“What the fuck?” Crenshaw asked.
“We know who you are,” said Shovel. “You’re the assholes who’ve been tampering with these horses.”
“I’m about to tamper with you,” Guts warned.
“Shut up!” Pitchfork ordered. “You don’t belong back here. You must be up to something.”
“We’re minding our own business,” Crenshaw said. “You should do the same.”
He took a step forward.
“Back off, All-Star,” Guts said. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Listen to your buddy,” Pitchfork said. “Before I knock you on your ass.”
“You don’t want to try that,” Crenshaw said. He took off his sunglasses. “See? I’m Rip Crenshaw. First base.”
“And I’m Spiro fucking Agnew,” Shovel hissed.
Guts had heard enough. His head was throbbing. He was probably going to have to take an aspirin and he didn’t like to do that. Aspirin was hard on his stomach.
“Hey,” he said, advancing on Pitchfork. He faked a right to his head, inducing Pitchfork to duck and swing his weapon. Guts caught it with two hands, snatched it, and bounced it off the man’s temple. He went down quickly. Shovel swung his spade. Guts neatly parried it with the pitchfork and took out his legs. He planted his boot on Shovel’s chest. He raised the pitchfork high.
Somewhere he heard a voice. It sounded far away, as if under water. Gradually it became clearer. It was Crenshaw, talking him down. “Come on, Big Man. It’s not worth it. It was all a misunderstanding. Come on, let’s get out of here. Come on, Big Man. We got plans. You know, bicycles. Horses.”
Guts lowered the tool and looked around. Pitchfork was still out. Shovel was rolling around moaning, eyes closed. Tossing the pitchfork to the ground, Guts stepped over Shovel and followed Crenshaw out to the lot.
The ducks were hungrier than usual. They swarmed near the edge of the pond, their webbed feet paddling so fast that the water churned. Guts couldn’t toss the crumbs fast enough. In a flurry of flapping wings, the ducks leapt up to snatch them from the air. His bag was empty before he knew it. He stood up, stretched, and took a look around. All of the regulars were absent from the park except for the fisherwoman. From her perch in her aluminum lawn chair, she seemed to watch over everything. The scene struck Guts as a little odd. He was sure of it: something was off. He walked toward her. The breeze drifting off the pond was unusually brisk, turning into gusts strong enough to make him stagger. When he got close to the fisherwoman’s chair, the wind blew her hat off and she looked right at him. Guts gasped, shook to his core. The woman had his mother’s face.
“Mama,” Guts said. “You’ve been watching me. All this time, watching me.”
Lucille’s hair swirled about her face. She smiled at Guts. “She’s the one,” she said.
Guts sat straight up in bed. He stumbled into his bathroom and splashed water on his face. He rooted around for the razor he’d been neglecting and carefully shaved his scalp, neck, and upper lip. Handling scissors with uncommon grace, he trimmed his beard to a considerably less frightening length. He brushed his teeth, showered, toweled himself dry, and put on his usual uniform of dungarees and boots. He set his burglar alarm, walked out his back door, locked it, and walked to his garage. Minutes later, he was at Fairgrounds Park. Ignoring the ducks, he went directly to the fisherwoman’s usual spot. She wasn’t there.
Guts stared at the ground, looking for the bare patch her chair would have created. The grass all around was green and robust. He scratched his nose with his index finger.
“Just the man I’m looking for.”
Crusher Boudreau came jogging over. “Hey, Crush,” Guts said, still looking down.
“Hey, baby, don’t be so sad. Plenty of fish in the sea,” Crusher said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, brother. I’m just joking with you. But listen, you know that gym at 12th and Park?”
“Have you seen her?”
Crusher stared at Guts. “Seen who?”
“A woman. She sits here every day in a lawn chair, holding a fishing pole.”
“She must not be fine,” Crush said. “Because if she was fine I would have noticed her.”
“Crush, I’m serious,” Guts snapped. “She wears a hat down over her face.”
“I’m telling you, Guts, I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
For a minute, Crusher thought Guts was thinking about punching him. Then the angry look disappeared and the confused one returned.
“Hmm,” Guts said.
“Guts. About the gym.”
“The gym?”
“Yeah, the one at 12th and Park. I still spar there sometimes. A little fellow was jaw-jacking in there last week. A buddy told me about it. Said the half-pint was smelling himself and sucker-punched one of the flyweights. Turns out he was wearing a ring. Maybe a World Series ring.”
For the first time, Guts looked straight at him. “You’re absolutely sure you’ve never seen a woman fishing right here? Right on this spot?”
Crusher nodded.
“All right,” Guts said. He turned and walked away.
“I guess we’ll talk about that ring later,” Crusher called
after him.
Guts’s brief interview with the tennis family was equally fruitless. Mrs. Tichenor and Mrs. Means kept stringing him along as much as they could before conceding that neither of them had seen the woman in question. Ever.
Guts drove to Stormy Monday’s. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Monday, who was busy directing a pair of cooks as they manned a sizzling griddle. He headed to the back where Playfair was at a booth, tackling a stack of hotcakes. Guts slid in across from him.
“Guts,” Playfair said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I thought Nat-Han’s was your place for breakfast.”
“Normally,” Guts said, “but I knew I’d find you here.”
“You found me all right. What it is?”
“I want to talk about a ring.”
Playfair speared a sausage link and lifted it to his mouth. “No news yet, baby. Remember, I told you I’d contact you as soon as anything pops up.”
“Not that ring. Another one. Another kind.”
Playfair added more syrup to his stack. “What kind exactly? Talk to me, baby.”
“Well, an engagement ring.”
Playfair grinned. “Hot damn, Guts. Congratulations.”
Guts shook his head. “It’s early for that, too soon to tell.”
“I understand. How soon do you need it?”
“I was kind of hoping I could get one now.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“As in right this minute.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Playfair dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “Shit, why didn’t you say so? Come on, let’s go visit my trunk.”
Back home, Guts shed his dungarees and boots and stepped into a pair of pressed slacks. He buttoned up a dress shirt, laced up his Florsheims. He went to his closet, selected a pair of cufflinks from his box, and put them on. Sucking in his stomach and pushing out his chest, he studied himself in the mirror. “She’s the one,” he told his reflection. He stepped into his living room, a space he had avoided ever since his split from Pearl. The third Audubon print was still dangling crookedly from a nail. Guts straightened it and set out on foot for Lexington Avenue.
At the cabstand, Oliver was lecturing Shadrach and Cherry while they played dominoes and pretended to pay attention. “No way Nixon’s getting a second term,” Oliver declared. He strutted back and forth across the room, waving his rolled-up newspaper like a drum major’s baton. “The man is a crook. Anybody can see that. Hubert Humphrey? Now there’s real leadership material. You mark my words—say, isn’t that Guts across the street?”
The three men pressed their faces to the glass to watch Guts, all dressed up and carrying a bouquet of flowers, march down the street like a man in a trance.
Lexington Avenue was crowded. Pearl’s neighbors spilled over their porches and onto the surrounding lawns. Girls jumped double-dutch alongside the curb. A trio of teenage boys polished a car to perfection, the radio inside it blaring the Temptations and the Supremes. The scene resembled a block party or a holiday celebration. But it was neither; it was Wednesday. Guts gave a kid a dollar to summon Pearl. She appeared in the doorway and smiled when she saw him. He braced for harsh words as she descended the steps but none came.
“Lorenzo Tolliver,” she said. “You clean up good.”
“Special occasion,” he said.
“That’s sweet, really. But my birthday isn’t until fall.”
Guts dropped to one knee, prompting comments from the porch-sitters. Pearl gasped and pressed her hand to her heart.
“You’re the one,” Guts said, looking up at her.
“The one what?” Her voice was trembling.
“The one,” Guts replied. “Pearl, I want you to come to my house. I want you to walk through the front door. I want you to be my wife, not my secret. I want you to stay and never leave.”
Pearl started crying. “It’s about time, Lorenzo.”
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded. “It’s a yes. It’s a yes, it’s a yes, it’s a yes.”
Guts got to his feet. They kissed. The people across the street applauded. Another neighbor whistled loudly. “Y’all nasty,” someone else shouted.
Pearl ignored them all. She looked around. “Where’s your car?” she asked.
“No car,” Guts said. “I’ve come to carry you.”
Pearl folded her arms over her chest. “Carry me where?”
“Through whatever you might have to face.”
She looked at Guts. “You’re going to carry me all the way to your house? You know that’s two miles.”
“I promise a smooth ride,” Guts said as he scooped Pearl into his massive arms. “Is that all you’re taking? Don’t you want to grab some clothes?”
Pearl smiled. “You know better than that,” she said.
TENDERNESS
BECAUSE DR. ARTINCES NOEL was driving near Fairgrounds Park, she could easily have seen Guts Tolliver, immense and bearded, striding east on Natural Bridge Boulevard with a woman in his arms and tears shining on his face. She might even have recognized the joyful weeping woman as her favorite salesgirl. But Artinces was distracted by the three women who had popped up without warning in her backseat.
Brown, silent, and clad in ragged sackcloth dresses, two of the women stared intently ahead. The third, unlike her kerchief-wearing companions, was bareheaded with long, black, woolly braids. She rolled down the window and leaned far out, smiling as she reveled in the rushing air.
Artinces had seen the women before but never while awake. During their dreamtime visitations, she had noted their ghostly nature. Floating, opaque, they didn’t seem especially out of place in the shape-shifting cosmos of sleep. Until that particular Wednesday, they had not seemed inclined to infiltrate the waking world. They had confined their appearances to the lonely hours when Artinces wanted nothing more than a few extra minutes of precious rest. But suddenly there they were, sitting upright and apparently solid. Artinces felt their presence a split second before she spotted them in her rearview mirror. Still, her synapses hadn’t reacted fast enough to shield her from shock. She stomped on the accelerator, roaring straight over a curb before regaining her senses and stepping desperately on the brake. She hit the parking lot of Gateway Cab on two wheels, leaving a trail of rubber as she narrowly missed the gas pumps and thumped emphatically into the back end of Playfair’s gleaming maroon Electra 225. His legendary trunk collapsed like a tin can, accordioned into a space about one-fourth its former size.
Aside from a busted headlight and a few dents, her Cadillac was none the worse for wear. She was struggling with her door handle when Playfair, Cherry, Trina, Shadrach, and Oliver came rushing out. Cherry and Shadrach ran to assist her. Playfair stared at the remains of his car.
Trina pulled his sleeve. “Say,” she said. “You didn’t have any animals in there, did you?”
Playfair shook his head. He looked as if he wanted to cry. “Not today,” he replied.
Trina exhaled. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said.
With her feet firmly planted on solid ground, Artinces gingerly examined herself. She was wearing white gloves and the kind of hat most black women wore on Sunday. “All in one piece,” she said to Shadrach, who looked vaguely familiar to her. “I’m more concerned with my passengers.”
Cherry leaned into the open rear window. He turned to Shadrach and shook his head.
Shadrach met the doctor’s eyes, his voice soft with concern. “Passengers, ma’am?”
“Yes, the three women.”
“There’s no one back there, ma’am.”
Wrinkling her brow, Artinces moved to check for herself.
Cherry stepped aside to give her room. After watching her stare into the empty backseat, he dared to touch her on the wrist. “Can we call a doctor for you? An ambulance?”
Straightening, Artinces stretched to her full height. “I am a doctor, young man, and I’m perfectly fine.”
Trina
approached her. “You’ve had a scare,” she said. “Would you like to sit down? Have something cold to drink?”
“You’re very kind, dear, but no, thank you.” Artinces turned to Playfair. “From the look on your face, I gather this is your car.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m so sorry about this, Mister—? It was just as she said. I had a scare. I got distracted and here we are. I suppose we should call the police, allow them to fill out a report?”
Playfair leaned forward as if to share a secret. “My name’s Playfair, ma’am. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not get the police involved.”
“No?”
Playfair smiled. “I’d appreciate it,” he said. “How can I put this? My vehicle contains items of a delicate nature.”
“I can’t imagine.”
Playfair never stopped smiling. “With all due respect, ma’am,” he said, “I’m sure you can.”
Artinces stared back at Playfair. A headline flashed briefly in her head. Doctor Sees Ghosts, Crashes Car.
“Very well,” she finally said.
She went back to her car and opened the door. For a moment, the men—and woman—of the cabstand thought she was going to drive away without another word. But she returned with her pocketbook. She opened it, peeled several layers from a fat bankroll, and handed them to Playfair.
He counted the bills with the practiced speed of a bank teller. Then he tried to hand them back. “Ma’am, this is way too much.”