It's Not Like I Knew Her

by Pat Spears

  Pocketing a handful of saltines and a newspaper left by a customer, Jodie braved the growing chill of the evening and hauled her exhaustion up the alley steps to the room above the Wing’s kitchen. The room had no heat of its own, but it stayed warm most of the night from the heat that had built below during the day, summer and winter.

  Outside the door, she prepared for yet another round of the welcome home “game” she’d invented. She rolled the newspaper, clasped it weapon-like, and gripped the wobbly doorknob. Drawing a deep breath, she snatched the door open, flipped on the overhead light, and the horrors of the game were on.

  She chased down and swatted as many startled roaches as she could before the escapees gained cover between the walls. The carnage past, she swept dead roaches into a neat pile in a corner of the room as a warning to those who dared venture from cover.

  Because she’d eaten her free blue-plate special late and was in a hurry to leave for the park, she took a single can of sardines from her stash above the enamel sink. Holding the can over the sink, she twisted the key, bracing for the rotten fish odor. She bought cans of sardines at ten for a dollar and splurged on fruit cocktail at twenty-three cents a can.

  She plucked the tiny fish from the oily liquid and dropped one at a time into her mouth. When she was done, she washed the fishy oil from her hands, changed into jeans and a tee shirt, and retrieved her high-tops from beneath the cot. She frowned at the sweat-dried socks. She slipped on her hand-me-down jacket and grabbed the basketball she’d bought with her first pay.

  Running down the outside stairs into the alley, she cross-dribbled the eight blocks to the outdoor basketball court she’d discovered her second Sunday in Selma. It was an asphalt surface that held two courts, and the outdoor lights stayed on until ten o’clock. There had been no such courts in Catawba.

  She entered the sagging chain link gate, ignoring the three teenage boys who’d looked up from their game of HORSE. Her routine was to warm up by shooting free throws. She shot, rebounded, taking as many shots as needed to sink fifty baskets.

  At around twenty made baskets, the boys stopped and stared in her direction. She’d learned to ignore the gawking of jealous boys with far less skill. After making her next shot, she moved to shooting layups, noticing that the interest of the boys had picked up, and the usual name-calling set in.

  “Hey, biggun, you a real girl?” The boys stopped playing and took up the game they were better at: harassing her.

  “Hell no, girls can’t play. This one’s one of them queer gals.” Their laughter grew meaner, and they crossed the narrow strip of ground between the two courts. They stood less than thirty feet away and watched her.

  “Hey, girl, prove you ain’t one of them.”

  “Show us your tits,” a second called, the other two laughing.

  “Damn, boy,” the first turned and said. “You some kind of fool? Their kind’s got tits. They want other girls to suck on them. Ain’t I right, dyke?”

  Jodie stopped, put the ball on the ground next to her jacket, and turned to face them. She’d hoped they’d be satisfied with harassing her, that there wasn’t enough juice among them to do her real harm. Still, there were three of them, drawing macho from their numbers. She reached into her pocket and folded her sweaty hand around her switchblade.

  The leader, an older and bigger version of Tommy Lee, closed the space between them, his features twisted, his pitted face glistening under the lights. She was taller, but he was built sturdier and was likely stronger. The middle boy looked toward the gate as if he’d just as soon end things, but the smaller boy had something to prove. Yet neither boy advanced. She counted on them being no more threat than the Timmins boys were. The kind to stand back until she was down before piling on, claiming their share of her. She’d need to stay on her feet or fall victim to their malice.

  She pulled the knife from her pocket, cradled its deadly menace in her palm, and with her thumb, she summoned her will. She heard only the soft swish of cold metallic precision as the razor-sharp blade released and locked into place.

  “Shit, Roger, the bitch’s got a knife,” the middle boy shouted. His eyes bulged, and he took a quick step back.

  Roger blinked hard, his nose flaring like that of an aroused animal, and although she saw fear in his eyes, he had a reputation to uphold. He wasn’t backing down. Did he think the knife was for show, that she was easy prey? She glanced at the other two, judging their will to face the knife. Both stayed put, and she focused her full attention on Roger. He hesitated, his breathing coming in quick gasps between parted lips. His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

  He was coming.

  She gripped her knife and crouched. Striking the first blow was her best chance. If he wrapped her up, succeeded in putting her on the ground, the other two would attack. She swallowed hard and fought back her raging panic.

  Roger lunged, landing a solid blow above her right eye. Her head snapped back, and a bolt of electrical-like shock charged through her, nearly blinding her. She dropped onto one knee, feverishly rubbing her eyes, the smell of blood oozing from her right temple.

  Wild laughter exploded all around her, the ringing thrill of first blood sighted.

  “Get the fuck back. I got her first,” Roger screamed.

  The two stayed back.

  He came at her again. His scream rose from some dark, primordial place of evil.

  She struggled, miraculously regaining her feet, and managed to sidestep just before he lunged, so he grabbed her by the arm instead of the full takedown he had intended. She swung wildly, landing a glancing blow to his right, cheek. Momentarily stunned, his hold on her relaxed, and she fought to gain separation. She slashed out at him, catching him across the forearm with the blade, opening a six-inch gash.

  He screamed in pain and caught his arm, staring wildly at his blood oozing between his fingers.

  “You crazy bitch. You cut me.” His face glistened stark white beneath the light, and he wrapped his bleeding arm in the tail of his tee.

  If she was to survive retaliation, she’d need to build on his fear.

  “I’m picking up my basketball. Walking through that gate.” Her hands trembled, though her voice was deadly calm. “If either of you move, I’ll take my gun from the pocket of that jacket there on the ground. And I swear to God, I’ll blow your puny peckers to Abilene.”

  The boys froze in place, watching her with scared eyes, and a strong sense of pleasure swept over her. The park lights flickered; she had three minutes before darkness fell over the court. She turned and walked though the gate on knocked-out legs. Reaching the sidewalk, she dared not look back but ran full out until reaching the alley.

  Inside her locked room, she sat cross-legged on the cot, drawn near the window. In the darkness, she pressed a cold washrag to her swollen face. The street below was empty, except for the crippled gray cat she knew to be a regular alley scavenger. It sat back on its boney haunches at the street corner. Its drab coat flashed alternately pink to green in the glow of the traffic light.

  Beyond the narrow window, she heard squealing tires laying down scorched rubber, and a clunker slid into view. The noisy chatter of its engine, together with the nervous giggles of a girl, punished the quiet below. The light changed and the car sped away. The crippled cat was nowhere in sight.

  Nineteen

  Jodie woke late to the right side of her face throbbing. She’d lain awake much of the night debating the possible consequences for what she’d done. She hoped Roger wouldn’t admit to being bested in a knife fight with a girl. If she was wrong, and the cops came for her, then an investigation could possibly turn up a Florida warrant.

  She stripped and washed in cold water, using soap she’d taken from the bathroom downstairs. She drew the hand-me-down nylon uniform over her head, frowning at its odor. No matter how many times she washed it, the scent of fried foods stayed in the fabric.

  She hurried down the stairs and joined
Arthur, who stood smoking in the alley outside the kitchen door. He winced at the sight of her bruised face, but didn’t ask the obvious.

  “Can I get one of those?”

  She drew the nicotine deep into her lungs and slowly exhaled. Lord, she hated how good fire in her lungs felt. She nodded her thanks.

  “You’re good for it, aren’t you?” His eyes narrowed, but with far less of his earlier distrust.

  “Yeah, I am. That’s if you’re willing to wait till my gravy boat docks.

  Arthur laughed. “Figure I’m not out anything yet.” He continued to study her for a moment longer, as if he was making up his mind about something important. Then the sound of brakes squealing from the street caught their attention, and both turned.

  “Maybe you ought to know that a white boy, driving a Hudson older than my dead granny, pulled into the alley a day or so ago. And damned if the fool didn’t stand up on the running board like some old-timey gangster, yelling what he must’ve thought was scary.” Arthur shook his bushy head and chuckled.

  She shrugged, swallowed hard, and squinted back at him. “And why exactly are you telling me? I don’t know no gangster white boy.”

  “Claimed a big dark-haired girl’s dying daddy sent him to fetch her home. Mentioned some hick town in Florida, likely not even on the map.”

  “That’s home, all right. But if that boy knew me, he’d know my old man’s dead. And I don’t have a brother who gives a big rat’s ass about ever seeing me again.”

  “All right, Miss Jodie Smith.” Arthur wasn’t one bit fooled.

  “What you plan on saying should that boy come back this way?” Now it was her asking that he keep a secret.

  “Not a damn thing.” He paused. “I don’t mix in white folks’ messes.” He flipped the butt against the brick wall and stepped back through the kitchen door.

  She drew the last of the nicotine into her lungs, dropped the butt onto the ground, crushing it with a twisting step, and cursed her bad luck. Damn Roy Dale Pitts’s cunning hide. Snooping, figuring his pitiful show of white could threaten Arthur. Why was he dead set on finding her? Did he figure to have something big enough to press her into leaving Selma? If he did, he was sure to come back around. Whatever his warped notion, it could not be good for her.

  Jodie delivered cups of fresh-made coffee to Arthur and Bo, his helper, and returned to the dining room. She sat with her first cup, welcoming the calm before what promised to be another long day. Out on Water Street, early morning traffic built, and Jodie watched for Crystal Ann’s battered Nash Rambler.

  “Holy crap,” Jodie swore, pushing up from the table.

  Roy Dale was slumped behind the steering wheel of the Hudson, staring at her through the Wing’s plate glass window. She was trapped, like the frantic minnows she and Ginger had placed in fruit jars. He made no move to exit the car, yet she knew he’d come prepared to wield whatever leverage he believed he had. Nothing left for her but to face him head-on.

  Crystal Ann appeared at the door, her shoulders drawn into the warmth of her heavy coat, her head wrapped in a green scarf. She banged on the locked door Jodie had failed to open earlier.

  “Good Lord, girl, you trying to freeze my big ass? It’s colder than a witch’s brass tits. Or haven’t you noticed?” Crystal Ann stood shivering before the nearest gas heater. “Can you believe twelve damn degrees? I need gallons of hot coffee in more ways than one.”

  Crystal Ann poured a steaming cup and took a half-pint of Four Roses from her purse. “Oh, stop your damn frowning, Sister Jodie. I get bitching enough from Sally. Besides, a little Irish never hurts on a freezing morning.” Topping off the coffee, she put the bottle back into her purse, stashed it under the counter, and squinted at Jodie.

  “Just who the hell pissed in your oatmeal? You look like you’ve wrestled the devil.”

  “It’s nothing. Just a first day of cramps, that’s all. You got aspirin?” She stood with her back to the street.

  “Uh-huh. Those cramps got anything to do with that ugly boy sitting in that old car with expired Florida plates?” Crystal Ann glanced toward the Hudson, but Jodie was careful not to follow her glaze.

  “What boy?”

  “Sweet Jesus, Jodie … Smith. You’re one more stubborn gal.”

  “And I guess you know every boy with expired Alabama plates?”

  “You can bet your sweet ass I know all who might have cause to look me up.” She retrieved her purse. “Here, down this BC powder. But it’s not about to get that boy off your ass.” She sighed.

  “I swear, it’s nothing like what you think.”

  “Girl, don’t pretend to know what I think.” She grabbed her purse and started down the hallway, disappearing into the bathroom.

  Standing on the sidewalk, arms bare and teeth chattering, Jodie watched Roy Dale’s approach. His face was thinner and he wore a too-large pea coat he’d probably stolen. He looked as though he might blow away in the icy wind.

  “Hey, gal, how you been?” A sudden shudder shook his upper body, and his lopsided grin slipped from his haggard face. For sure, Roy Dale hadn’t eaten regularly.

  “Fine till about three minutes ago.” She tucked her red chapped hands inside her armpits, determined not to think about any hardship he may have known, but rather that she wanted him gone, forever out of her life.

  “Never was this cold down home. You want my coat to stay warm while we talk?”

  “No, we’re not talking that long.” She glanced toward the Wing and shivered in spite of her best effort.

  “All right, but ain’t you even curious about how I found you?” He wanted to gloat, but his slouched stance gave his uneasiness away.

  “No, and whatever you did, you wasted your time.”

  “Used my manly charm to sweet-talk a pissed off waitress. Your trucker friend jilted her back up the road in favor of some woman or another who works there.” He nodded toward the café, his shaggy eyebrows touching as if he imagined he had cause to judge her unfaithful.

  “Roy Dale, how you did it doesn’t interest me.” She’d have known if the trucker had come anywhere around the Wing. Then, she didn’t know a thing about Sally’s personal life, other than Crystal Ann’s hints that Sally had a trucker she met at some all-night diner on the eastbound highway.

  “Yeah, but you gotta know I’ve searched every café between there and here.” His voice was almost whiny. Then he smiled. “Maybe you heard about me coming up here a day or so ago? Squeezing the truth out of scared kitchen help ain’t all that hard.” He nodded toward the alley.

  He couldn’t mean Arthur, but she wasn’t sure about Bo. Still, she said, “I can tell you there’s not a soul here scared of you, least of all me. So if you’ve had your say, I’ll go on back to work.” She turned to leave.

  “Damn, Jodie. I put my ass on the line with the law to come here and warn you. And that’s the thanks I get?”

  She faced him. “Warn me? About what?” Damn him.

  “Law down home’s still hunting us. Got it straight from my momma, and you know she don’t lie.” He drew his hands into the coat sleeves.

  “No disrespect to your momma, but even if you’re telling the truth, I’ll go to jail before I’ll go a block with you.”

  “Not when you see what I’ve got. It can take us slap to California.”

  He dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and thrust it at her. A sudden gust of frigid wind snatched a twenty from his hand and carried it into the gutter. He looked at her with boyish bewilderment, making no move to retrieve the bill.

  “Jesus, Roy Dale, who’d you beat and rob?”

  “Ah, come on, Jodie. Maybe I was a bit rough with you. But you’ll see I’ve changed. Didn’t you promise me a good time?”

  He and his supposition was so damn pathetic she should hate him, but she pitied him more. Yet his play at pity was a trap. She stepped back from him.

  “Roy Dale, I never came on to you and you know it. And for the last time, I’
m not coming with you to Dallas or California or any place else.”

  He slumped as though she’d punched him, his breath coming in puffs of warmth, captured and frozen in midair. Instead of anger, she saw pain stenciled on his ashen face.

  “You gotta know I’ve always liked you.” He paused, kicked at the crack in the sidewalk, and muttered, “Just wanted you to like me back. That’s all.” He turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the Hudson.

  She remembered burning the hand drawn “HapyValintime” card he’d given her in seventh grade and felt a flush of guilt, accepting that he would have never made the decision to leave Catawba on his own.

  She watched as he steered the Hudson into the morning traffic and pointed it westward. Maybe she’d seen the last of Roy Dale Pitts, but his threat had pushed her into an even more troubling decision.

  Twenty

  Jodie hurried to the public telephone across from the park where she had continued to play basketball, loose change stuffed into the pocket of her jacket. She’d need to make her call and return to the Wing before the start of business. She pulled the door closed against the chilling wind, and with stiff fingers she stacked coins on the booth’s metal shelf before giving the long-distance operator the location and number for Silas’s shop.

  Silas yelled into the phone, and in the background she heard the muffled voices of men known to gather on cold mornings around the shop’s one kerosene heater—workers soaking up the last bit of warmth before heading to jobs that would require they spend the balance of the day outdoors.

  “Silas, it’s me, Jodie.” The air went out of her lungs, her nerve undermined, and her impulse was to hang up. Who’d know to look for her in Selma, a place she’d never imagined when she and Clara Lee had planned their escape?

  “Good God, Jodie. Where the hell are you? Are you all right?” He forced his words through clenched teeth.