I walked uptown in the quiet, imagining the life of Myrtle and Jeanette, Amanda and Martha. Except for Amanda, how much money had any of them saved? Except for Martha, what were their plans? Myrtle was headed for Vegas but how long would she last?
Most of all, I wondered about Starr’s life. I wasn’t her cousin, but I knew her. Or thought I did.
Powell Boulevard was deserted and I walked fast, listening to my footfalls echo behind me.
Despite the glow of the streetlights, Strivers Row, with its abundant trees, seemed darker in the mist. I quickened my pace. Several doors from my house I heard something: a swift, sliding shuffle, and a second later my neck was snapped back in a choke hold.
No sound, just a deep intake of breath—maybe my own. I couldn’t yell, couldn’t scream, but I struggled, driving my elbow into a hard stomach. I flung my purse away. If the mugger wanted it, he would have to scramble, and maybe give me enough room to kick his ass. His hand, large as a bear’s paw, clamped on my nose and mouth, cutting my breath.
We grappled and I dropped to one knee and brought him with me, throwing him off balance. I broke, spun around, and drove a hard right to his stomach as he staggered to his feet. He was my height but much heavier, and only his eyes and mouth showed through his ski mask.
I found my breath and screamed, knowing that Dad was too far away to hear but maybe someone else would. Still screaming, I aimed for the eyes but he feinted and came in low, nearly knocking me off my feet. I grabbed the mask and pulled it as we fell against the hedge but his features were a blur in the dim light.
Windows suddenly slammed open, blazing with light.
“Hey! What’s going on out there?”
Doors opened. “What’s happening?”
The man leaped away and started running. He made it to the avenue and rounded the corner as neighbors in their nightclothes poured out of their houses. Two men ran after him, one waving a baseball bat and another with his hand in his bathrobe pocket, and I knew without asking what he was carrying.
I was sitting on my stoop trying to catch my breath and make sense of what had happened when they returned to join the small crowd gathered around me.
“He got away, Mali. Did you get a look at him?”
“Think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”
Another neighbor had retrieved my shoulder bag, handed it to me, then stepped away from the sound of Ruffin’s barking.
“Your dad’s at the club,” a woman in the crowd said. “I saw him leave. You want me to call him?”
I raised my hand. “No. No. I’m all right. I’ll tell him when he gets home. Should be any minute.”
“Well, long as you all right.”
“Tell you what,” added the bat man. “You go on inside. I’ll pull guard duty ’til Jeffrey gets here. You step inside and try to quiet Ruffin down.”
I left him on the stoop practicing as if he were ready to step to the mound at Shea.
Inside I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. The man was someone I knew. Or someone who knew me. Before he ran, he had breathed in my ear, “Round one is yours, bitch!”
I coaxed Ruffin over to the fireplace, where he finally calmed down, but minutes later I saw his ears perk up, and he was on his feet heading to the door as the rotating flash of light spun through the curtained windows. Someone had called the cops and I was not happy about it.
If they were regulars from the precinct, the ones who knew my history, they would be happy to see me covered with bruises. I glanced in a mirror before I opened the door. No marks visible yet. I was still in good shape. I opened the door slowly and looked at the Mutt and Jeff team lounging against the banister.
“Trouble here?”
I looked at them and wondered if they had ever glanced at that “Courtesy, Respect, and Professionalism” logo painted on the side of their cruiser. Some public relations firm really hit the jackpot with that account. All pay and no work.
What few questions they asked, I answered quickly. I did not invite them in. They glanced at Ruffin and did not insist.
“The assailant was tall, one hundred ninety pounds, late twenties, with a dark ski mask,” I said.
“He say anything?”
“The mask muffled it,” I said, knowing how happy they’d be to learn that I’d been assaulted, threatened, and robbed. The short cop—so vertically challenged that I thought he was interviewing my chest—busied himself with the incident report.
Once I gave my name, he needed no other information. He knew of me and his pen flew across the page. Address, phone, occupation. He paused here, waiting until I said certified social worker. He knew about the lawsuit—few cops in the precinct didn’t. And some of them were still steaming.
“He did not get my purse,” I said, bringing the interview to a quick close. I locked the door and listened to their footsteps on the stoop. I heard their voices as they questioned the bat man, then advised him to get rid of the bat. I opened the door again, quickly, and remained there as he replied:
“Oh, man. I didn’t think of that. Thanks for the advice. If the street crime unit show up, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”
The cops looked at us, then at each other, and left the stoop. The motor revved, and a minute later the flashing lights faded. The bat man winked and remained where he was.
“Can I fix you some coffee, Mr. Sam?”
“Naw, honey. I’m fine. You go on do what you got to do.”
Back inside I eased onto the sofa and felt pain arc up my back and settle like a large rock on my shoulders. I was too wired to close my eyes and that parting remark spun in my head like a middle-of-the-night alarm that wouldn’t shut off. “Round one is yours, bitch!”
Dad sat in the chair and squeezed his eyes shut. He held his head in his hands and groaned as if he had been hit as hard as I.
“Mali? What …?”
He could not speak and I rushed to fill in the silence. “I’m all right, Dad. Nothing serious happened. It was some crackerjack chasing the pipe and desperate for money. That’s how it happened. There was no weapon. Just the mask. Probably pulled so many muggings his face is known all over by now.”
My father nodded but I looked in his eyes and saw that he didn’t believe my explanation. No one ever used a mask, unless they were robbing a bank. Dad was frightened, tired, so much so that I could not bring myself to repeat the message, the parting shot the man left to float in the coil of my imagination.
I still felt the assailant’s breath on my face and I needed to take a bath. I managed to get Dad settled, then I filled the tub with a mix of hyacinth bubble bath and aloe, put on a CD of Aretha, and lay back to digest all that had happened. The water was warm and Aretha’s voice was so soothing, it was easy to close my eyes just for a second. But no sooner had I nodded off than I was back on deck.
It was midnight and I was alone. A storm had blown in, washing the deck, and the sea foamed in glistening black bubbles around my ankles. I staggered, lurched as if one leg were shorter than the other. Branford Marsalis’s clear notes blew above the waves and I wanted to yell for help but sound was locked in the back of my throat.
Near the pool, someone grabbed at my arm. It was Starr, small and brown and so pretty that even the wet, ragged evening gown only served to accent her beauty. The fringe of a thin scarf, blood red, was wrapped in layers around her throat and flowed away into the darkness.
She beckoned soundlessly and I seemed to float above the bubbles and over to a circle of deck chairs. Amanda, Jeanette, Myrtle, and Martha sat in the circle. When Starr approached, they drew in, their heads closing together like petals on a rose at sunset, like a Georgia O’Keeffe painting.
Starr did not stop but beckoned again and I was drawn, against my will, into a darkened corridor. Marsalis’s notes had faded now and a piano came in. Ozzie. It had to be him. No one else was able to move his fingers down those keys in quite the same way. Starr paused, listening, then a light came on and
she turned in a pirouette. Her gown swirled around her like a parachute and I drew back in shock.
Her ankles were swollen and the veins had collapsed. Her legs were dotted with punctures that resembled the tooth marks of rodents. I backed up, screaming, from the sight but the deck began to shift and I staggered, missing the pool by inches.
The light blinked, went out, and came on again. I looked back to see Starr massaging the veins in her legs. The light went out completely and I scrambled to find my way, running from her voice rushing at me in the dark.
Mali. You know who did this?
Did what?
This thing. This awful thing. I can’t sing. Do you know who—?
We were on the top deck now, but the water was still churning around our feet. And there was Tad working his camera, frowning as if he hadn’t angled it correctly. Starr’s voice faded to an echo and Tad seemed angry because I had interrupted something.
16
In the morning another hot bath, this time filled with pine salts, eased most of the pain and I was able to leave the house despite Dad’s protests. Last night when Tad called I wasn’t ready to talk. I let the machine kick in. I’ll call him later. Right now I needed to see Jo Jo.
I got off to a late start and it was twelve noon when I arrived at the store. Charleston had been open for two hours and Jo Jo was already making deliveries.
“When it get too hot to cook,” Charleston said, “that’s when I make the real money. Jo Jo left with ten orders.”
“But it’s only twelve noon,” I said. “How could folks eat heavy stuff so early in the day?”
He glared at me, incensed that I would critique the ways of black folks or tell him how to run his business.
“For your information, some people—unlike a certain party with only a part-time job—some folks have been in the fields since the crack of dawn. You know, opening stores, shops, newsstands while the moon’s still hangin’. All before this certain party has turned over in her sleep. And since they can’t close up and go out to lunch, they order in. Because sometimes they get a little bit hungry around this time.”
I kept quiet, knowing that I had blown my chance of finding out where Jo Jo was or what route he had taken. I’d have to try to run into him or come back later when Charleston had cooled down.
“Some people make a profession of gettin’ on my nerves,” he grumbled.
He slapped a soapy industrial-size sponge on the counter and wiped the surface in a sweeping arc. I had been leaning on the counter and knew it was time to leave when the sponge approached my elbow and did not detour.
“I’m sorry, Charleston. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
He paused and looked at me. “Well, I know you didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.” He leaned closer. “Say, you lookin’ kinda washed out. You all right?”
He resumed his work with the sponge but still scrutinized me.
“Come on, Mali. You my favorite girl. What’s goin’ on?”
“I ran into some static early this morning.”
“What kind?”
“Some thug rolled up on me in my block. Wore a mask …”
“What?” Charleston stopped and rested his elbows on the counter. “Masks is for bank jobs, big jobs, Mali. What’s goin’ on? He get anything? Say anything?”
“He wasn’t after my bag. He was after me. Dad wasn’t home but when doors and windows up and down the block banged open, he cut out but warned me that ‘round one was mine.’ ”
“Meaning … he’ll be back.”
“I suppose.”
“Mali, you got to watch your back. I don’t want to lose my favorite customer.” He reached under the counter and placed a small brown bag near my hand.
“Take it.”
I opened the bag and palmed a pocket-sized canister of mace. “Charleston, you probably have a whole arsenal under there.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, this’ll work for you.” I dropped it in my purse wondering how effective it would be if I was grabbed from behind again.
Outside, I checked my watch. Jo Jo had left at least forty-five minutes earlier. He could be anywhere, even Washington Heights for all I knew. Running into him would probably be a matter of luck.
Nevertheless, to take my mind off last night’s incident, I started walking, doing my usual zigzag between the blocks.
On Powell Boulevard, I spotted the bike chained to a parking meter in front of a beauty parlor on 129th Street. There was only one bike like that in Harlem because Jo Jo had customized it the way some folks redo their cars. It was painted black, red, and green with streaks of silver squiggling through the black. A huge spotlight mounted in the middle of the handlebars dwarfed the two lights on each side. The seat was covered in white sheepskin and the rear fender held a large metal crate with a lid secured by two of the largest locks I had ever seen.
I was admiring his handiwork when he emerged from the store. He stopped when he saw me.
“Hi,” I said as he approached the bike and unchained it. “Charleston said you were making the rounds and I’m glad I ran into you. I need to ask you something about someone—”
“Miss Mali, you want to talk, meet me later at 116th Street, somewhere near the mosque. I’ll be waitin’ there around nine tonight.”
With that, he rode off and did not look back.
I continued to walk downtown and at the corner of 124th Street, Ozzie’s block, the mailman was filling his sack from the green distribution receptacle. I watched him shoulder the bag, then followed a few paces behind as he moved from house to house. Before he reached the brownstone I fell in step beside him.
“I’m trying to catch up with Ozzie Hendrix,” I said, smiling, “but I think he’s—”
“You some kind of reporter?” He peered at me, squinty-eyed under his postal service visor.
“No, I—”
“ ’Cause if you are, I’m here to tell you the brother wants to be left the hell alone. What happened to his daughter is a damn shame and the cops ain’t done shit. I see him every day and I can tell you the man is goin’ downhill fast!”
He was like a guard dog ready to sink his incisors into the ankle of any trespasser.
“I—you’re right,” I said, stepping back. “I’m not a reporter. Ozzie is my dad’s piano man. At the Club Harlem.”
“What?” He stopped and looked at me. “Jeffrey Anderson?”
“Yes, I—”
“How come he ain’t lookin’ out for his man? How come he ain’t stepped to the plate? The brother needs some first aid!”
Before I could think of a sensible answer, he turned on his heel to make his way inside Ozzie’s gate, stuff a packet of envelopes and magazines into the empty mailbox, and move on to the next house.
I did not wait to see if a hand would reach between the gate’s iron spikes and retrieve the letters; I simply turned away, wanting to cry.
Ozzie was home, but not in good shape.
At the corner again, I found a phone but as usual in an emergency, the damned thing was out of order. Maybe it was time to get with the millennium and invest in a cell or a pager or some such high-tech gadget. Every other brother and his mother had one growing out of their ear. I wouldn’t be surprised if dogs and cats started wearing cell collars. The owners could let them out for a brisk walk, then when it was time to return, just dial-a-dog. Or call-a-cat.
I detested the idea of being tracked, of being on call, of having a shrill ring interrupt when I’m sitting in the park lost in the rhythm of the birdsong.
To hell with all this rationalizing. It was easier to rush home.
——
Dad was sitting at the piano going over some sheet music when I walked in. He put his pencil down and I could see tension weigh in as I spoke. His brow wrinkled and his shoulders seemed to sag even lower. Even his voice sounded hopeless. “You didn’t ring his bell, did you?”
“No. I thought you’d want to—”
He held up his
hand. “I do, but how? Whatever reason he has for going into hibernation I think goes far beyond Starr’s death.”
“How long are you going to wait before—?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ll call again tonight. Drop a word on the machine. Nothing too deep. Just hello and let ’im know we all miss ’im and we’re pullin’ for ’im. That’s all.”
That’s not enough, I thought. That’s not enough.
Upstairs, I listened to the messages: my unit supervisor wanting me to come in in the morning. I was not scheduled but she needed a fill-in for someone out ill.
The next message clicked on and Tad’s voice, loud and frantic, filled the room: “Mali? I just saw the report. What happened? Why didn’t you call me? Are you there?” A second of silence followed and the machine clicked off. I grabbed the receiver intending to call, to let him know I was all right, but the doorbell rang and I knew it was him.
When I opened the door, he looked at me. Then his gaze softened and I heard the light exhalation. “You all right?”
His voice was like a whisper and I wanted to feel his arms around me. He read my mind, reached out, and pulled me to him. “Baby, baby. What happened?”
We remained like that until Dad’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, then we sat on the sofa watching as Dad paced the floor. “Can you imagine? The man had on a mask. He wore a ski mask!”
I could feel Tad’s eyes on me, as if inspecting for fractures. “The incident report didn’t have too many details. What happened, Mali?”
I went over the event and, because Dad was present, omitted the man’s parting words. I’d tell that part later, when Dad had gone back downstairs. But a half hour later Dad was still talking. “You need to be home at a decent hour. No need to be running around town in the middle of the night.”
“He’s right, Mali. Two-thirty A.M. is kind of late. How come you didn’t take a cab? Or call me? I would’ve picked you up.”
I felt his arm resting on my shoulder, his voice soft and concerned, but heard something else, an unasked question: Why was I out at that hour in the first place?
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