Leaving Cecil Street
A Novel
Diane McKinney-Whetstone
In loving memory
Michal Jean Sears
1925—2002
Contents
Part One
Chapter 1
CECIL STREET WAS FEELING some kind of way in 1969.
Chapter 2
NEET HAD SLIPPED in and made it upstairs un-detected by…
Chapter 3
JOE WOKE WITH his horn on his mind though he…
Chapter 4
LOUISE PAUSED AS she rushed through the living room. Thought…
Chapter 5
THE BLACKNESS STARING Deucie in the face told her that…
Chapter 6
THAT MONDAY LOUISE had her first tooth pulled. A doctor…
Chapter 7
THEY HEADED STRAIGHT to Miss BB’s Saturday-morning house, called such…
Chapter 8
SHAY DIDN’T KNOW how she ended up in Miss Clara’s…
Part Two
Chapter 9
DEUCIE HAD BEEN affected by all the commotion in the…
Chapter 10
LOUISE BAKED THE cake for Neet’s homecoming just like she’d…
Chapter 11
ALBERTA WAS IN Neet’s room when the doorbell rang. She…
Chapter 12
NEET HAD BEEN home for almost two weeks and she…
Chapter 13
CECIL STREET WAS trying to come back to itself, trying…
Chapter 14
IT WAS FRIDAY morning and Cecil Street was setting up…
Chapter 15
ALBERTA WAS SITTING on her back steps. The sounds of…
Chapter 16
EVENING WAS FALLING over Cecil Street and the excitement was…
Chapter 17
IT WAS WARM in here since the windows were closed…
Chapter 18
NEET SAT STRAIGHT up when she heard the boom boom…
Chapter 19
THE FIREWORKS HAD ended. Though the thunderclaps of color generally…
Chapter 20
TLBERTA LEFT CECIL STREET that block-party night. The decent thing…
About the Author
Books by Diane McKinney-Whetstone
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
Chapter 1
CECIL STREET WAS FEELING some kind of way in 1969. Safely tucked away in the heart of West Philadelphia, this had always been a charmed block. A pleasure to walk through the way the trees lined the street from end to end and made arcs when they were in full leaf. The outsides of the houses stayed in good repair, with unchipped banister posts and porches mopped down daily because the people here sat out a lot, their soothing chatter jumping the banisters from end to end about how the numbers had come that day or what had happened on The Edge of Night. And even though the block had long ago made the transition from white to colored to Negro to Black Is Beautiful, the city still provided street cleaning twice a week in the summer when the children took to the outside and there was the familiar smack, smack of the double-Dutch rope. The sound was a predictable comfort. Like the sounds of the Corner Boys, a mildly delinquent lot consumed with pilfering Kool cigarettes or the feel of a virgin girl’s behind. But as soon as Walter Cronkite signed off for the night, the Corner Boys put their voices together in a cappella harmonies that rushed this stretch of Cecil and felt like a new religion. They sang nice settling-down tunes about love and the blues. Sang as the bowls of chicken and dumplings or pans of corn bread or whatever somebody had cooked too much of were passed up and down the block. Sang while the teenagers gathered on steps under the street lamps to plait each other’s hair so that their ’fros would grow out thick and full. Sang while the women who hadn’t yet made the leap to the African bush put hot combs on the stove to touch up their edges for the next day. Stirred up a good nighttime mood on the block when they sang.
But now Cecil Street had a new mood working, a fire-in-the-belly feeling about bad to come. Horrible enough that Martin had been assassinated last year, but in March the wrong cracker pled guilty, they believed. The government is the cracker should be on trial, they maintained as they hosed down their fronts of the dripped Popsicle juice. Then the undeclared war was threatening to take down as many of the young black men as the heroin that some swore was being pushed in their neighborhood by the CIA. Then the milkman stopped delivering around here, and Sonny went up on his hoagies by twenty cents. Then Tim, who owned the barbershop on the corner and the apartment above it that he regularly loaned out for the pleasure takings of his married men friends, was almost stomped to death under the el stop when the police mistook him for someone who’d robbed the PSFS with a water gun. Then BB, who worked in the shadows of her back bedroom freeing the women who’d gotten caught when their diaphragms or rhythm methods failed, had her purse snatched on Sixtieth Street; she’d just performed back-to-back procedures and was on her way to buy two hundred dollars’ worth of money orders to send to her mother down south who was raising BB’s severely retarded child. The market two blocks over started disrespecting the hardworking homeowners around here by keeping dirty floors and wilted lettuce and day-old bread. And now this: the tree in front of Joe and Louise’s house died.
It was the summer of ’69 and Joe missed that tree. Missed it so much that he put awnings out front to try and duplicate its shade. Generally upbeat, Joe felt sad about the tree right now as he stood on his porch at two in the morning, shocked again by the sight of the stump where the tree should be. Felt sad generally right now even though this was the night that his close-knit block of Cecil Street had opened itself up for the annual block party and Joe had even danced in the street earlier to “Boogaloo Down Broadway.” He reasoned he was absorbing what the rest of the block seemed to be feeling lately, edgy and discontented, otherwise he had no explanation for why, now, he was out on his porch at two in the morning lifting up the square of the porch floor that led to his cellar. He hadn’t been down in the cellar since the spring, but he pushed through the dust and mold and spiderwebs down there—and the darkness. He’d forgotten about the short in the light. His hand went instinctively to his shirt pocket for matches to give himself a spark to see by. Remembered now no shirt pocket because he was wearing a dashiki. Didn’t usually wear dashikis but had worn one for the block party, worn it also hoping to impress the young woman Valadean, up here for the summer visiting relatives across the street. “Who you supposed to be, Super Black Jack?” his wife, Louise, had remarked when she’d seen him in the dashiki.
He stretched his arms through the black air in the cellar, trying to feel his way so that he wouldn’t collide full body into what he could not see. Couldn’t see, stacked along the wall, the boxes that should have gone to Goodwill the month the light went, couldn’t see the milk crates filled with his teenage daughter’s outgrown toys; couldn’t even see the oil heater that took up a quarter of the wall. Nor could he see the puffy-haired, naked woman making herself go flat against the wall, between the toys and the heater.
Deucie Powell. She wasn’t from this part of Philly. She had turned onto Cecil Street earlier looking for her grown daughter’s house, wanted to reintroduce herself to her daughter after a gulf of seventeen years. Wanted to reclaim her. But she’d gotten disoriented by the block party and ended up naked in this cellar. She held herself stiffly, almost behind a wooden pony, as Joe walked past. She hoped that if he happened to turn and look down and see her through the darkness that at least she’d have the appearance of one of those life-size walkie-talkie dolls. Being caught down here could land her back in Byberry, the crazy house, she called it, and she was desperate not to d
ie there.
But Joe couldn’t see her. Couldn’t even feel her naked presence; felt the presence of only one thing as the shapes down here slowly came into view and he was looking at the tall, wide chifforobe, drawn to it. He opened the doors to the chifforobe and was bombarded with the scent of mothballs as he leaned in and riffled through the sweaters and blankets and whatever else was wool and for wintertime use. Tossed things around in there until he felt it, that unmistakable corrugated roughness. Just like he’d packed it away all those years ago in the bottom of this chest.
JOE HAD PLAYED a tenor sax in clubs up and down the Mid-Atlantic before he’d married Louise. When they’d first moved to Cecil Street fifteen years ago, in 1954, the year that Joe quit the club life, he would sometimes stand out on his porch in the mellow warmth of a summer night and blow. People sitting out would even applaud when he was done. One night as he played he thought about a woman he’d spent time with before Louise. C. Not her real name, but the one she went by at Pat’s Place, the speakeasy/brothel where the band would go to unwind when they were doing Philly. The first time Joe held C she’d cried on his chest. That melted him for her. He became her regular, looked for opportunities to come to Philly to be with her. Thought he could have fallen in love with her even though he was paying for her time. Some nights, the way she’d occupy his mind, he thought he had fallen for her. Even after he’d married Louise, the feel of her would drift into his consciousness from time to time. Like the night in ’54 when he stood on his Cecil Street porch and played “’Round Midnight” with everything in him. Playing was so raw that night. Sweat leaked through his plaid cotton shirt, and though his skin coloring was generally too brown to turn red, it did while he played that night. Afterward he walked down from his house and out into the middle of the street and raised his horn and bowed. Garnered a huge ovation that night because it was Friday and many on the block had just finished a dinner of porgies coated with a cornmeal batter cooked on high in Crisco. The fish tended to put them in a good mood helped along by their Friday-night sips of brown-colored liquid, the comfort of cashed paychecks, the reassurance that their iceboxes contained thick cuts of city dress for Saturday’s breakfast, plus Saturday for most was a reprieve from the jungle that was the workweek. They were jovial, celebratory as they leaned over their porch banisters that night congratulating Joe for his significant talent. Asked him when was he cutting a record, why hadn’t Steve Allen from the Tonight show booked him yet.
He walked back toward his house that night loving this block of Cecil Street, loving his neighbors; loving his beautiful wife; his baby daughter, Shay; his horn. Loved everything in that instant with the sloppy intensity of a nice drunk, endearing and sad. Then he looked at his wife and he froze inside the way she turned her dark eyes on him. Her eyes were beautiful, but when she looked at him dead-on they went from beautiful to severe and her stare could be chilling. “You act like you miss those places where you used to perform,” she said. “You act like you ready to go on back out there.” He felt as if he’d been caught talking in his sleep. Packed his horn away in the bottom of the chifforobe in the back of the cellar after that. Pulled it out only for rare times because he did miss it. Missed closing his eyes in the blue-colored air of a nightclub and sending his breath and soul oozing through his saxophone. Missed picking a big-legged woman from the crowd to fill him up afterward. Needed filling up the way he sometimes played, the way he’d leave parts of himself hanging in the echoes of the notes he blew. After that night he was afraid to play again with any regularity. Afraid that the playing might whisper in his ear that he had to choose either his life on Cecil Street with Louise and his baby girl and the stability of a good job with the transportation authority, or the jazz musician’s life that was irregular and bitter and lush and lovely. Afraid that in the choosing he might end up leaving Cecil Street.
His breaths came faster now as he lifted the case from the bottom of the chifforobe. The case was hard and cool, a tough leather over cork, guaranteed not to let any moisture through. He leaned against the bricked-out cellar wall. Bent one leg back and rested the case along his knee. He thought he should wait until he got back upstairs to open the case but he’d already put his thumbs to the latches. The snapping sound, the cover creaking open, the yawn of air sifting out; the sounds that had been so familiar transported him now and he wasn’t even in his cellar. He was on the road in a city like Baltimore and a healthy-lipped woman was telling him how incredibly he’d just played. She was putting a drawl on the end of his name, making it two syllables instead of one the way that Valadean had said his name earlier, had grown his name and made it long and curled her mouth as she did. He had a thing for mouths. A horn player, he would. Looked at the shape of a woman’s mouth the way some men looked at the curve of hips. He could have watched Valadean’s lips curling all night saying his name, maybe would have if Louise hadn’t mashed her fist in the small of his back and said they needed more club soda since he’d insisted on pulling his scotch out, drawing a bunch of people in the house though the party was supposed to be outside. Would maybe watch Valadean’s lips close up another night soon since Valadean was here for the summer and had asked Joe if he could suggest things for her to do at night so that she wouldn’t get bored listening to her aunt Johnetta go on and on about the private lives of the people on the block. He’d told Valadean he’d welcome the opportunity to show her Philadelphia some Friday or Saturday night. Surprised himself that he’d done that with such ease, loosely made a date with another woman right in his living room with Louise only feet away. Not like he was the running-around type. Married for eighteen years and could count on half a hand how many times he’d strayed—and both of those times were when the marriage was young and he was still in the adjustment phase.
He lifted the mouthpiece from the softness of the velvet lining the case. Always started with the mouthpiece when he’d put his horn together. He’d hold the hard metal between his lips and make whistling sounds while he assembled the other pieces. He couldn’t even believe the feeling rising up in him now as he touched the mouthpiece to his lips. Damn. He was crying. He hadn’t cried since he was eight. Thirty years since he was eight and though he’d seen enough in his life to bring him to tears, he never cried once he considered himself a man. Considered himself a man at nine when he had to identify his dead father’s remains, who he believed had been shot in the head by a racist Pittsburgh cop, he didn’t cry then. Saw his best friend beaten to a pulp with a banister post and he didn’t cry; saw the twisted metal, still hot to the touch, that had served as his only sister’s dying bed when she was eight months pregnant and went for a spin around the block in her husband’s brand-new car and he didn’t cry; buried his mother within a year of that and he didn’t cry. But now the feel of his mouthpiece against his lips was enough to make choking sounds ripple the dusty air down here. His whole body was shaking and he pulled the case to him, sobbed into the case as if the hard case had arms that would reach around him and hold him in an it’s-okay-baby pose.
Deucie watched the red and white of Joe’s dashiki cave in and out as she listened to him cry. She had to hold herself back from going to him to console him. She loved any excuse to pull a man to her, help a man to release whatever was penned up inside. Drain him. Nothing more honest than a man allowing himself to be drained, she always thought. But she couldn’t go to this man, she convinced herself now. She was naked in his cellar. Guilty of breaking and entering. Though without malicious intent. She’d only come down here because she suffered from severe headaches and had felt a headache coming on as she’d moved through the spinning lights and the thumpety, thumpety of the drums from that street carnival. She’d stopped at this house because they had nice awnings hanging from the porch and she needed a square of quiet darkness when a headache was threatening to take her down. She’d intended only to sit under the darkness of the awnings with her head between her legs until the pain thinned. But then she’d realized that she was sitt
ing on top of a latch and that the porch floor was the entranceway to the cellar. She’d gotten excited then, didn’t know the houses here in West Philly had cellars that you got to from the outside. Thought it was only that way downtown. She’d lifted the porch floor, could tell that this basement didn’t see much human activity by the way her hands were covered with rusted silt from the latch on the door. She’d come down into the cellar’s dust and darkness grateful for the respite from the party outside. She’d taken off her red, black, and green tie-dyed dress that was really a big man’s T-shirt. But it was dress enough for her since she was short and thin; plus she’d wanted to have on some color for her daughter to see her in after all these years. Once she was out of the T-shirt, she was butt naked because she wore no underwear. Had stopped wearing underwear last month when the headaches had stepped up in intensity. Something about fabric against her skin made the drumming of the headaches more pronounced. She’d curled herself up then on the hard and cool but soothing concrete floor and drifted into unconsciousness. She was just coming to when she’d heard the porch floor lift and the footsteps coming down, had just crawled over to this spot next to the crate of toys and tossed her T-shirt onto the box.
Still, it was taking everything in her to listen to this grown man cry without going to him and whispering to him, Come ’ere, baby, come to me, come on to me. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d helped a man like that. But there was the thought of returning to the crazy house. Plus, she knew the sight of her right now would be more a horror than a consolation, so she sat still as a rock and watched the wash of red and white color that was his dashiki quake in and out as he headed for the stairs.
Leaving Cecil Street Page 1