“Girl, girl! What's the matter with you, girl?”
But Mr. Pete was old and LaWanna was fast. She was outside the house and running up Loomis Avenue before Mr. Pete could get to the first floor. LaWanna called the wedding off. She claimed she lost the baby in the flight. In less than a month, Mr. Pete was back to begging me to marry him. I married Mr. Pete for one reason only. He saved my son-brother's life.
I don't know about other cities, but in Chicago the children will get in the middle of the street and play ball—football, dodgeball, baseball, soccer. When cars came drivers would toot their horns and the kids would scatter. The drivers never, ever rolled their cars over the children like a ball over bowling pins. The day Alex was mowed down, we sat on our stoops up and down the street watching the kids play dodgeball. An ice cream truck had passed, so almost everybody was munching on something. A few of the boys had wolfed down their treats and were back in the street. Alex, who was not allowed to play in the streets, was with them. He had a way of blending into a group of kids so Mama and I couldn't see him.
Along came a yellow Pontiac Firebird. It was a beauty. As it passed our house at top speed, I saw the red emblem on the back. Then I saw my child in its path.
I leaped up and screamed. I heard the screeching of tires. The car swerved. I heard the grind of metal against metal. I fainted. I regained consciousness as the ambulance wailed down our street. Mr. Pete kneeled by Alex. The Firebird had careened into a parked car but still managed to hit Alex on his side. Mr. Pete administered CPR. He breathed into Alex's mouth and pumped his tiny chest. Mama and all the other mamas were praying, “Dear Lord, oh, Jesus, save this child.” By the time the ambulance made it way down our street, Alex was breathing. I vowed then to take CPR, which I later did.
Mr. Pete drove Mama to the hospital, while I rode in the ambulance. He handled the doctors because Mama and I were in shock. I was still in shock when he asked me to marry him. I was half-comatose with thoughts of losing my only son-brother. I said yeah and Mr. Pete didn't allow time for me to change my mind. He raced me from Mercy Hospital to city hall. We were married that day. Mama never spoke about that marriage.
By time Alex got out of the hospital and I realized my mistake, I was firmly ensconced in Mr. Pete's house. Verna never frowned at me or made any type of appearance. I thought, Well hell, the man does think I'm pretty. He's nice, and he did say he would wait until I was comfortable being Mrs. Peter Smith, before we attempted to make his son.
I reminded him of his promise to set up a trust fund for Alex's education and to change his will so I could get the house. I really didn't expect the old geezer to do it since Mama said a distant cousin of Verna's would inherit everything, but he did. One morning, he placed a manila envelope in my hands with all the appropriate paper work. What else could I do but keep my part of the bargain? I am a woman of my word.
On our official wedding night, bile sloshed in my stomach. Every time I looked at the old geezer, I shuddered. When I was a child, Mr. Pete wasn't bad looking but on our wedding night old age had twisted his good looks into a comedic nightmare. His pink lips were simply cups to hold saliva. His skin was thin, dry parchment with liver spots. He moved as if every bone in his body was on the verge of breaking. His soft curly hair had yellowed with age. His eyes were huge behind his triple thick eyeglasses.
I figured that Mr. Pete had one good go in him. He would hump me, roll over, and wait for the baby to grow in my stomach. I bought a black gown that surged so far down in the back that the crack of my butt gulped air.
A slit ran up the front and the bosom plunged down to my navel. I figured this would excite Mr. Pete so much that the whole sordid act would be over in, say, five minutes.
To guarantee the old geezer wouldn't have enough energy to last past a hit and a miss, I cooked a huge dinner; oxtails in speckled butter beans, candied yams, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, fried okra, sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise, and a peach cobbler with so much butter and sugar in it that the crust glittered. Hell, that meal would have put the strongest man to sleep. I put on Isaac Hayes' Hot Butter Soul LP, and prayed that the man would be finished with my body before the long version of Walk on By was completed.
That night Mr. Pete started at my toes, licking and sucking them like candy, while his fingers played my satin hips like a fine harp. He nibbled my calves while he massaged my ankles and I felt the first stirring, the first quivering of excitement. He nibbled up my body to my navel. His tongue darted in and circled slowly, almost ticklishly. An ancient core of lust burned inside my stomach. Did it matter that his body was as wrinkled as an old cotton sheet? No. When he took one of my nipples into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it, I heard myself groan from some hot orange place where desire controlled my mind and body. I clawed the bed and pulled the sheets as my hips rose. By the time that old man released my hardened, wet nipple from his mouth, I was begging him for more. I hated him for that. I tell you, I despised him. I did not want to want him, but there I was writhing on his bed underneath the watchful eyes of Verna, writhing and saying “please” like some young girl who didn't know any better. And Mr. Pete, was a master, he nursed at my breasts softly. Notice I said nursed, not lick'd or nibbled, but nursed one after the other. Long before we consummated our marriage, I had orgasms. I had many mini-orgasms. When he finally entered me, I could only scream as flashes of light, intensely bright, filled my sight. Little did I know that was only a mid-size orgasm under his masterful hands. I thought it was a major thing, but Mr. Pete I took me on one roller coaster ride after another. At one point, I thought my heart would explode. He moved slowly, like honey coming out of a jar, like he had a lifetime to consummate our marriage. There was no rush, no hurry. Whenever I thought the old geezer was at the point of orgasm, he would stop, just stop and breathe. Obviously, he intended to go on forever. By the time the man finally ejaculated—no, wrong word—unloaded all that was in him, I was weak and angry. I curled away from him, ashamed of my body's betrayal. His hand rested on my belly. Lying in the darkened bedroom, I wanted to scream. I had married a man who expected a baby and who had the stamina to work diligently toward that goal.
When Mr. Pete died a couple of months later, I had the house and his retirement, and Alex had what was in his bank account in a nifty little trust fund, but I was not pregnant. After Mr. Pete's funeral, I donated the toys (except a few collectible items) to LaRabida Children's Research Hospital. I gave all the furniture away to Goodwill Industries. I painted the house and rented it to the Gordons, a couple with life. I moved to the North Side, far away from Englewood. Folks looked at that house on Loomis and thought If that old goat hadn't tried to make a baby he would have lived much longer. But, if that old goat had lived any longer, he would have worn my young body out.
FROM Rest for the Weary
BY ARTHUR FLOWERS
I am Flowers of the Delta Clan Flowers and the line of O. Killens. This tale I tell as told to me. Once upon a time there was an angel. And a conjureman. Walk with me Lord Legba.
Horns, whistles and noisemakers erupt through the thin walls of the hotel. Outside the snug cocoon of their room New Orleans parties in the New Year. She leans over him, silvered hair a translucent curtain around their heads. He is acutely conscious of the points where her body lies warm against his. “What happens” she says, when the dream dies.
He looks up at her, waiting for a reprieve. The lamp behind her backlights the silvered curtain that shelters them. He clears his throat. Dreams never die he says, what are you trying to tell me, baby?
It's over the says, you've got to leave in the morning.
There is a finality he has not heard before. This time he thinks, this time she is going to make it stick. Six, seven months hes been fired six, seven times. But always before the dream brought her back. His hand slowly strokes the flaring curve of her hip. Perhaps this is the last time he'll handle her. The first time they've made love without watching the clock. The first time shes sl
ept in his arms.
They had come to New Orleans for New Year's 2000. She had told him she was going down to visit her parents and he had asked if he could come down for a New Year's Eve dinner with her. I'll leave right away he said, just take you to dinner he said. She said she would have a hotel room for when she needed a break from her parents. He could stay over if he wanted to. A couple of nights if you want. I probably wont stay there with you though.
She works in the little neighborhood library at the mouth of the park, on the corner of Riverside and Person. Both library and neighborhood named after Riverside Park, about a mile or so of thickly wooded Mississippi River bluff in deep South Memphis. He lives in the park itself, and alongside the river, in a little house on the bluff sitting treetop tall on stilts dug deep in delta mud. Neighborhood folk call it a treehouse but it only looks that way, a tight little box of a house, old gray wood as weathered as the trees that surround it and barely visible in the bright months of sanctuary. The good folk of Riverside quick to point out late night lights glowing deep in the Park to folks from less blessed Memphis neighborhoods. See there they say, where the lights are? Thats where the hoodooman stay they say. In a house on stilts. So he can see.
He tells stories, delta classics on the college circuit, festivals, community dothingees, it's a living. Late forties dreadman, thick and bearded and built to take punishment, a bluegummed twoheaded man with hooded eyes and a face of carved wood that showed only what he wanted it to. Met her at the library, where he likes to nest among the fruits of solitary labors. She is the reference desk librarian and it just so happens that from his favorite chair (back to the wall and facing the door, a child of the 60s) she be in his line of sight. Interesting woman, a classic beauty, long and lean, with an unruly mane of prematurely silvered dreads. They nod, exchange pleasantries, have lunch occasionally. She is, he soon realizes, a strange and fascinating woman, an iconoclastic sort within whom he detects the complicated soul of an artist.
They had been on nodding terms for years when lunches were inaugurated by a fortuitous encounter at the Hole in the Wall, the local juke eatery across from the library and next to the Riverside Baptist Church. Angel, she told him. Angel, he said. Hard name to carry he said. My parents thought very highly of me she said. And when she laughed at herself she threw her head off to the side in a manner that struck him like revelation.
Perhaps that's why one day he blurted out, surprising himself, Angel, I realize youre a married woman, but I would like to court you.
She watched him fidget, intrigued since the first time they met with the power she has over him. (You drooled she told him.)
Highjohn I'm very flattered but you know Im a married woman and I hope you can respect that is what he expected. Instead she looked at him with this stricken look. I'm sorry he babbled, I hope I haven't upset you, I just . . . No, no, she said, you havent upset me . . . I am married, though.
I know, he murmured, head tucked down into his shoulders, I just had to say it you know. I'll . . . uh . . . see you later. But as he turned away she brushes his beard with the palm of her hand. You didn't upset me, she said.
All night long conjureman feeling the angelsbrush of her palm. And the goodfolk of Riverside, heavier in ash'e than most, toss and turn in their sleep cause the conjureman howling at the midnight moon.
The next morning an e-mail saying she wanted to talk. They arrange to meet at the Hole. The old ease gone. Eyes that fidget and flicker. I cant be what you want me to be, she said. But I didnt get any sleep last night thinking about what you said. You can't . . . court me . . . like, that . . . I have a husband you know. But we can continue to be friends. To have lunch like we have. If you're comfortable with that.
Very. Thankful, even. What on earth could he have been thinking of? That evening he e-mailed an apology. She replied that it wasnt necessary. Says she wants to finish the conversation when he got a chance.
They took to walking in the park during her lunch breaks, solemnized by the wooded calm. He found himself telling her things he himself didn't understand. Told her he wanted to save the race. Take the trick off the souls of blackfolk, Said I am Legba Child. Told her the park was a holy ground. A hole in the wall.
Said Brer Rabbit and his crew lived there. Said they wary of humanfolk but sometimes late at night I settle back and close my eyes and act like Im sleeping and soon enough old Brer Rabbit come peeping in the door and when he see me sleeping like that he call the rest of them in and they commence to partying. Brer Bear pull out; bluesharp Rabbit play; Sister Coon play, she guitar bigger than she; Brer and Sister Fox commence to kicking up their heels, and sometimes I get in the spirit and I forget myself and I open my eyes and the music stop and they all hide away till I close my eyes again.
She showed him dreams she has long carried in secret places. A story she once wrote, a nightblack African goddess born of stars and thunder. Kinda corny, I know, she said, I've never shown it to anybody. He listens with all his power to a wildweed childhood wandering the storytale streets of New Orleans when she should have been in school. Stories about her oldschool New Orleans family, funny ways and all, the second masters, the damned doctorate, ABD, if she can squeeze the time. Told him about late-night archaeology classes at the University of Memphis, the summer digs on the Harriet Tubman Home in Auborn, the Tubman birthplace in Maryland. An extraordinary woman, she said, deltasun leaping off the river and igniting her eyes. Most people only know of her slaverytime and Civil War exploits. But in her last years she built a home for homeless exslaves. She never quit struggling. She speaks to me.
The first time he kissed her was in the park. Spring probably, pollen so thick you could taste it. They were standing high on the bluff and she was entirely too close. She turned to say something, their eyes meet and flicked away bruised. Before he realized it he was leaning in to kiss her. Caught himself. May I kiss you? he said. She nodded most imperceptibly. Then he kissed her and his world lurched spun shouted and spoke in tongues while he savored her lips, her tongue. Lost in the grace of Oshun. And I will be worthy of this blessing Oshun, I am forevermore your devoted fool. He opened his eyes, looked at her face up against his, put his hand on her neck to feel the warmth of her skin, the heartbeat under his finger. She drew back suddenly and pushed at his chest. No, she said, I shouldn't. He stepped back and she dropped her head into her hands. (Something moved in me, in my body and I knew it was a dangerous thing we were doing. I knew it then.) He stood there frozen. Never wanted to cause her grief. Sorry he mumbled and backed up to the edge of the bluff. Not your fault, she said, I need to get back. Sure, he said. They crossed the bridge over the expressway that separated the park from the city without speaking, much too aware of boundaries broken and fingers unlinked only upon crossing.
The second time was better than the first. This time he held her in his arms. This time she let him. But it was the first time they made love that the earth shifted under his feet. An easy peace wrapped their souls in a little warm blanket.
Then she fired him. For Legba is a jealous loa and does not care to share. I was going to tell you it was over, she said, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed, body still sleek with sweat. Sure, he said, no problem. she would be back he thought and when she came back she better have a better attitude. He was still cool when he watched her drive off. Then he got to thinking. What if she didn't. Come back. Classic alpha, the conjureman tend to command games. But could he take that chance with this one. What if she didn't. Come back.
Evening come and the conjureman walking the 'hood like he do, de village witch doctor keeping he finger on the pulse, the patterns unbroken the harmonies clean, his invisible thing, I see but am not seen. Some folk, heavy with the ash'e, see him just fine, but most just feel the passing breeze of hoodooman walking. But this time he distracted by the very things that generally please him. Families sitting comfortable on wraparound porches, greeting folk and watching the day fall. Light glowing through windows as the sky d
arkens. Couples walking hand in hand with that coordinated rhythm. This time the conjureman retreats early into the leafy darkness. Acutely conscious of being damn near fifty and living in the park like a kid playing games.
Conjureman sitting on a driftwood throne and handling he roots in he hand. Throw shift frown. Not a good time for unclear signs. Throw shift. Or perhaps it is just that he does not like what he see. Conjureman dont care for distraction. The faint brush of Fa like spiderwebs on the face. Throw Shift. Frown. He observes the habitual urge to slip back into his fortress, comfortable enough and answerable to nobody. When they were just flirting it was one thing but now that they have been intimate it is entirely another. Already he can feel significance lingering about the edges. The intoxicating scent of a power greater than his own
Surely just the overwrought passion of new love. The trees are greener afterall, the air fresher, his faded dreams once again bright and shiny things. He has been here before. No, not here, says the power.
To win her I would change the world.
He called. Cleared his throat and asked her to lunch. Said he wanted to talk. If that's alright with you. Okay, she said. Okay.
In the park and on the bluff. The park was deeply quiet and they can barely sense the city around them. The jagged treeline of Arkansas. I tried to be cool, he said, when you said what you said yesterday. I should have fallen on my knees and begged you to reconsider.
Gumbo Page 77