“Whereya goin’?”
“You forgot the dance, boy! Lawrence Keys is playin’ with Baby Lovett at Elks Rest! Me an’ your momma’s gonna be there with bells on, Jack!”
“Gonna be gone long?”
“Till the law comes!”
He headed desperately for the kitchen. Viola was rushing toward the middle room. He turned again and followed her. The record began to play.
Yes yes! cried the singer.
Fats Waller he thought as the raucous pearling tones agitated his fear.
“Whereya goin’?” he asked his mother.
“Huh?” She was blackening her eyelids with a little brush that she dipped into some black stuff in a little red box, which she had wet with spit.
“Didn’ your daddy tell you just now? We’re goin’ to the Thanksgivin’ dance.”
“How far is it?”
“Eighteenth an’ Vine.”
He returned to the front room where his daddy was cleaning his nails with a penknife. His fingers were long. He looked at his own; they were short and stubby. You’d have pretty nails like your daddy if you didn’t bite ’um all the time, he heard Viola saying, and he put his hands in his pockets. He admired Rutherford’s broad shoulders, the smooth skin on his freshly shaven face, his straight Indian nose. He speculated as to how long it would take for him to have a neatly trimmed mustache like his, regretting the absence of a soft blueberry mole on the left side of his upper lip.
Fats Waller had stopped playing. The needle was running in the empty groove of the record.
“Play Bessie!” said Viola from the middle room. “What time did Sister Bill an’ ’em say they was comin’?”
“They oughtta be here pretty soon, Babe.” Rutherford slipped Fats Waller into the cover, laid it aside and put the Bessie Smith record on the Victrola, wound it, released the brake, and set the needle in the spinning track:
If you don’t, I know who will, she sang. If you don’t, I know who will!
He went over and stood beside the machine. He watched the reddish brown label spinning around and around:
You may think that I’m just bluffin’, but I’m one gal …
“Ain’ sapposed to want for nothin’,” he murmured under his breath, and suddenly an uncanny feeling passed through his body. He spun around and looked at his father, who stood with his foot resting on a chair, brushing his shoes for the last time. He stared at Viola in the middle room, freshening the mole on her chin with the wetted tip of a pencil. It’s all happened before! I know it!
A cool sheen of sweat stood out upon his forehead; the strong sweetish smell of liquor filled his nostrils. A man, tall, dark, with a little scar on his chin withdrew a flask from his inside pocket and poured some whiskey into the top that made a cup when you screwed it off and handed the flask to Rutherford, who poured some of the whiskey into a glass. They said something to each other in hushed voices, glancing cunningly into the kitchen where the women were — three or four besides Viola — just as they brought the cup and the glass together with a barely perceptible click:
Man, you better treat me right! Bessie was singing, or else it will be, good-bye, John!
The two men laughed, throwing back their heads. Then somebody knocked at the door, Rutherford opened it, and two people entered the room, a light, almost white-looking man with curly hair like an Italian and a brown-skinned woman with a short dress that slid way up over her knees when she sat down on the sofa:
Love me till I git my fill! Bessie continued.
“Tell it like is!” cried the brown-skinned woman, snapping her long brown red-nailed fingers meaningfully.
He observed himself staring at her pretty red lips that matched the color of her fingernails, at her ripe bosom, and at her shining hair that looked as though Viola had done it. She beckoned with her finger, dipped her head slightly forward, while the men drew their smiling faces close to hers. Her wet lips whispered something he couldn’t hear, at which heads flew back in all directions, like a multicolored flower bursting into bloom at the clap of a peal of laughter.
Viola came running in from the kitchen to find out what had made them all laugh so, greeting the brown-skinned woman with an exuberant, “Why hello there, girl!” Then the woman whispered it to her, while the men paused with bated breath until she had heard, and when they all saw by the broad smile that stole upon her face that she had heard, they all burst into laughter, teeth and eyes flashing, hair shining, tie knots fitting snuggly in the vortexes of immaculately starched collars framed within the lapels of blue serge suits, while the women — Miss Allie Mae, Miss Ada, Miss Patsy, and Miss Vera — rushed in from the kitchen and laughed, too.
After which they dashed here and there getting dressed, sipping from their highball glasses as they dashed, eyes shining brighter, hair bursting into clusters of brilliant curls, amid the pleasant smell of soap, powder, perfume, fried hair, fried popcorn, salted peanuts, whiskey, gin, and ginger ale — agitated and stirred by excited fragments of conversation:
“I heard you got let off at the laundry, honey,” said Miss Vera to Viola, running her fingers along the seam of her stocking to see if it were straight. Catching his eye gazing at her thigh, she gave him a wink. He blushed and looked at the floor.
“Yeah, girl,” Viola answered.
“Ain’ that a shame!” said Miss Ada. “After all ’em years you been there!” She stood in front of the vanity dresser, straightening her lip with red color issuing from a bullet-shaped dispenser. “But at least you got a man to help you. I ain’ got no papers on Jenks!”
“Shucks!” Viola exclaimed, turning her back to Miss Ada. “Here, girl, kin you fasten me up?” She glanced quickly into the front room to see if the men were listening, and then, lowering her voice, talking out of the side of her mouth, she said: “Huh! If we had to live on those pennies Rutherford’s bringin’ in, we’d starve to death!”
“What you gonna do, girl?” asked Miss Allie Mae.
“The Lord only knows!” said Viola. “But what does the Good Book say? Where there’s a will there’s a way? You know, the Lord helps those that help themselves, honey!”
“Ain’ that the truth!” said Miss Patsy. She sat on the little chair beside the vanity dresser watching the others as they got ready. A sly grin appeared on her face. She looked up at the ceiling, her grin deepening into a suggestive smile. Then she puckered her lips sensuously and said: “The Lord made man, an’ he made women, an’ I’m as glad as I kin be! Say!” in a hushed tone, “did you see old you-know-who at Piney’s the other night?”
“Yeah, honey,” said Viola, “but I didn’t have much time to talk.”
“Could you tell ’im what I told you?”
“I just gave ’im the note.”
“He’s a hot poppa — just full a fun — an’ a-l-l-ways ready to break open a keg a nails!”
“Ssssh!” hissed Miss Ada, “not so loud!” glancing into the front room.
“Aw, girl, that don’t matter,” said Miss Vera, “they so busy schemin’ theyself they ain’ got no time to hear what we talkin’ ’bout! I could die tamarra, an’ my old man wouldn’t miss me, honey. If it’s somethin’ he likes better’n juggin’ between some woman’s legs, I swear I don’ know what it is. Girl, a good man’s h-a-r-d to find! Bessie wasn’ tellin’ no lie! But you sure lucky, Vi, to have a steady workin’ man like Rutherford. An’ good lookin’ to boot!”
“Yeah,” said Viola, “but I had to git ’im straight! I had to leave home once. Gone two weeks. He kept a-writin’ an’ a-callin’ an’ a-hangin’ ’round till I come back. ’Course, I can’t tell you what it was all about, ’cause one a the first things you gotta learn is to keep your business to yourself!”
“A-men!” said Miss Allie Mae.
“What happened in them two weeks is between the good Lord an’ me, an’ I wouldn’t be ashamed to face my Maker with the details, but what no man don’ know won’t hurt ’im!”
“Oh, Lord! Did I bring the t
ickets?” cried Miss Allie Mae, rumaging the vanity dresser and then the bed.
“Did you look in your purse?” Viola asked.
“Aw, yeah, girl, I’m so excited! We better be goin’, the shindig’ll be over before we even git there. You remember last year, we come pullin’ up to the dance an’ all the folks was comin’ home! Eeeee!”
“An’ we had to go down on Twelfth Street, to the Sunset, to have some fun!” said Miss Ada.
“Yeah, e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y was out that night!”
“Come on in here, Allie!” cried Rutherford, suddenly entering the middle room.
“What you up to!” She grinned broadly. He grabbed her by the arm.
“Let’s see if you kin still cut a rug!”
“Ohoooo! You know I can’t dance, Rutherford!” allowing him to pull her into the front room. Viola smiled a tolerant superior smile, while the crowd gathered around, Amerigo squeezing himself to the front. He watched his father take Miss Allie Mae by the waist and pull her close to him so that their bodies pressed against each other — trunk straight, head erect — from hip to hip, to the beat of the music, then do it again, and then fall into a two-step, then a double, rushing the tempo because the music was slow. Suddenly dropping back in his right hip, he shifted his weight and swept forward, gliding into a spin, pivoting on the ball of his right foot. S-m-o-o-t-h! he exclaimed in silent admiration, as they fell away from each other, fell back, shuffled backward until they were several feet apart. Then Rutherford raised his arms, the elbows slightly crooked, fell back in his right hip, bent his left knee, and glided forward — evenly — with a graceful shuffle. That’s the Camel Walk.
“Wait a minute!” Rutherford cried suddenly, “where’s my old lady? Come on, Babe! Let’s show these jokers how to cut a rug!”
Viola sprang into the front room. “Make room, here,” she said. Rutherford stood waiting. “Shall I shimmy?”
“Aw do it!” cried Mr. Jenks.
“You hear me talkin’, honey!” cried Miss Ada with a sly grin. “Do it like your momma showed you!”
“Look out, there, Sister Bill, don’t gimme none a that momma jive!”
Peals of laughter. He smiled, then laughed, and wondered what they were laughing about. Just then Miss Vera said: “Wait a minute! Bessie Smith ain’ no shimmyin’ music. Here!” She put on another record, wound the crank, and set the needle in the groove. A low raucous rumbling pulsing burst of chords, undulating up and down a hill of rhythmic feeling, issued upon the air.
Everybody started tapping their feet, full of smiles. The drummer took a mean cut on the snares, and Amerigo tapped his feet and clapped his hands, too.
“Aw, it’s tight like that!” cried Mr. Jenks, patting Miss Ada softly on the behind.
“Yeah!” they all cried in concert.
“I mean it’s tight like that!”
Viola and Rutherford were doing a break-step, but now they fell away, fell back, stood pat, ready. He looked at his friends, his face illuminated by a radiant smile, and asked: “Shall I shimmy?”
“Yeah!”
“Well all right, then!”
He began to tremble, so subtly that one could hardly detect it at first, and then more noticeably, in ripples of watery movement. He shimmied faster and faster, and s-m-o-o-t-h!
“God damned! Lookit that niggah go!” cried Mr. Jenks.
“He’s a killer-diller, ain’ he!” exclaimed the man with the flask and the scar.
“Come on, Babe!” said Rutherford to Viola who was still standing pat.
“Yeah, cut that cat!” cried the man with the Italian hair. Miss Vera wound the crank and started the record spinning again.
Viola fell back, away, stood still, legs spread apart, arms outstretched, fingers popping to the rhythm of “Tight Like That.” She began to tremble, to shake all over. Like she was made out of jelly! he thought, and was suddenly overcome by a feeling of profound embarrassment that made him look away. But when the hand-clapping became louder and the shouts of encouragement more excited he had to look, to behold with intense private pleasure the faint sheen of sweat upon her dark velvety skin. She was smiling and her teeth shone like pearls. Rhinestone earrings glittered in her earlobes.
“JESUS!” cried Miss Allie Mae: “VI-O-LA! LOOK WHAT TIME IT IS!”
“Let’s git out a here!” cried one of the men.
“Unh! The dance is over at one-thirty!” said Rutherford.
“What time is it?” asked Viola.
“Twelve-fifteen!” said the man with the scar.
The music stopped. The taxi honked from the street below, while coat sleeves flitted in arcs through the air and scarves whisked before his eyes, his nose smarting from the intoxicating scent of perfume.
“Got the tickets?” Viola asked.
“Yeah — I think,” said Rutherford, “let me see,” searching his pockets. “Yeah, I got ’um.”
“Where’s the juice?” cried the scar-faced man.
“Hereitis,” said the brown-skinned woman.
“Bye, Tony,” said Mr. Jenks.
“S’long, ol’-timer,” said Mr. Scar.
“S’long,” he replied sadly.
A blast of cold air rushed in the door.
“Come on, man,” said Rutherford, “the taxi’s waitin’, if we don’t git out a here ’em gals never will come!”
The men moved out onto the porch, talking, laughing, blowing smoke from cigarettes. The women next, flitting between his upturned eyes and the floor lamp.
“Bye, baby!” said Miss Allie Mae.
“Bye, hon,” said Viola, kissing him. “You be good, an’ go straight to bed. Tell you all about it when we git home.”
“Bye-bye,” said Miss Patsy, Miss Vera.
“Bye,” he said, but they had already rushed out the door. The taxi honked three times more.
“Unh!” cried Rutherford, suddenly appearing in the door.
“What’s the matter?” asked Viola from the top step.
“Forgot my booze!”
“Slowpoke!”
“Come on, Vi!” yelled Miss Ada from the street below.
“I’m on my way!” she yelled back. “Bye, hon!” turning to him once more. Rutherford rushed past him.
“You take it easy, now, you hear?”
“Yessir.”
They ran down the steps. He heard a burst of laughter just before the taxi pulled off. He shut the door and locked it. He turned and faced the empty house. It was filled with the glare of all the lights, with the aftertones of laughter, with the traces of hilarious movement and the smell of flesh and sweat and of things to eat and drink. All the ashtrays were full of ashes and cigarette butts. A faint cloud of smoke hung over the room. Empty and half-filled glasses stood on the coffee table, the end table, the Victrola, the floor. The furniture stood about in unfamiliar attitudes. He moved and hung up the things that were necessary to move and hang up in order to make his bed. Skipping his prayers, he climbed in.…
He left the lamp burning, and tossed and turned impatiently in its light, waiting for them to come back. He tried to imagine how far away Eighteenth and Vine was, and how long it took to get there. Way out south! Music filled his ears, the sound of a huge crowd of people, men and women dancing. The Black and Tan came to mind.
He closed his eyes against the glare of the bulb, and he was suddenly in a red-orange room. It was hot. Hot red-orange light filled the room behind his closed eyelids — and then it got dark.
Boom!
The front door was standing open. Viola rushed into the room out of breath, half falling over the threshold, looking anxiously behind her, holding the train of her dress in one hand and her rhinestone shoes in the other.
“Git in that house!” Rutherford shouted from the darkness of the porch. “I’m gonna show you tanight!” He appeared in the door with an angry grimace on his face. Viola was in the middle room. She turned on the lamp.
“Now don’ start nothin’ till I —” but he was upon her:<
br />
WHAP! his palm resounded against her shoulder, as she ducked to avoid the blow.
“LET ME OUT A MY DRESS FIRST!” she cried.
“God damned whore! Think I’m a DAMNED FOOL or somethin’ —”
And he, trembling with fear and rage, jumped out of bed and rushed toward his father with his doubled fists raised over his head.
“Don’t you hit my momma!”
Rutherford and Viola, suddenly distracted by his appearance, looked at each other, grinned nervously, and gestured futilely with their hands, as though they did not know what to do with them. Viola was in a defensive crouch with her dress half off, while Rutherford stood in an attitude of waiting.
“Don’t you hit my momma!” he was yelling as he charged.
Rutherford took a deep breath, placed his hands on his hips, and said:
“Li’l niggah, if-you-don’t-git-back-in-that-bed I’ll kill you!”
He froze with terror. He trembled violently. Whimpering sounds issued from his lips, but he could not cry. He gave his mother and father a despairing look. His arms fell limply to his sides.
Meanwhile Viola quickly took off her dress. Rutherford watched her dumbly, and then looked vacantly at his son, upon the small naked figure that limply slinked back to bed.
When I git big enough, I’ll kill’im! he thought to himself, feeling Viola’s pitying eyes upon him. An’ to hell with her, too!
“Turn out that light,” said Rutherford, “an’ not another peep out a you.”
Viola was already in bed. Rutherford turned on her.
“Who was that niggah, anyway? That you had to dance with four times! Makin’ a ass out a me in front a ever’body! I’m sick a this crap! You hear me? Sick of it!” His voice trembled. Viola was silent. He threw off his clothes, got into bed, lit a cigarette, and turned out the light.
In the dark he prayed that it was all over. He watched the tip of Rutherford’s cigarette blaze furiously and grow dim in a cloud of ensuing smoke, and flare out in the darkness again, and again. Meanwhile he lay awake and waited, listened, waited, listened. After a while the red globule of light disappeared, and the bedsprings whined softly as Rutherford shifted into a sleeping position. Viola breathed deep and long.
Such Sweet Thunder Page 23