Mary is wailing now, screaming: “Save this one!”
The figure beneath the table turns her head and Sugar fully expects to see Jude’s sad eyes and full mouth, but the face that looks up at her nearly makes Sugar’s heart stop.
The face that looks up at her is her own.
Although she didn’t know why she’d come, she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t be there long. Most of the buildings on the street had been burnt out, boarded up and then ripped open again to house drug pushers and users.
Other buildings just sulked with the weight of unhappy families and crumbling walls.
Not even the clusters of hard-looking men congregating loudly on the corners or the scantiily clad women trotting up and down the middle of the street hollering out at passing cars and exposing themselves to the people that stared at them from the passing #65 bus would have changed her mind against staying.
She had seen worse neighborhoods, had lived in dilapidated housing, had lain beneath harder-looking men and had been, a very long time ago, one of those women. Those things were insignificant to her and did not affect her.
It was the feeling that came over her when she looked down at the broken steps that led up to Mary’s red door. The red door in her dreams, the same door she had looked upon when she first came to St. Louis in 1940 when she was just fifteen years old. St. Louis was like a strange country to her then, tall buildings, fancy motor cars and even fancier people. Everything about that town was fast, slick and big.
She could almost hear the laughter and smell the sweat of the bodies that had lived behind those doors so many years ago.
Sugar had lived there, had lain down with hundreds of men, selling herself away a little bit at a time. But she had never believed the lies, not like the other women who walked taller when the men told them they were beautiful, told them that they loved them.
Some knew beautiful meant that the only worth they had lay between their legs. So they gave all they were worth just to hear it over and over again.
Sugar had been one of those girls, but when the madam of the house, Mary Bedford, heard Sugar singing she told Sugar she had a gift and Sugar knew she was right not to have believed the men and their lies.
“You sing, you can make something more out of yourself,” Mary had said, and sent Sugar off to Detroit to do just that, but all that record executive wanted her to do was suck his dick and Sugar wouldn‘t, not his, not then and she thought not ever again.
But ten days later and three dollars short from having no money at all, Sugar had found herself in the back alley of that same building, on her knees, her lips bruised from some man who needed to call her “Honey” because Sugar was what he called his baby girl.
“Humph,” Sugar sounded as she shook her head against the memories that swirled around her. She pushed the door to the cab open and placed her feet down on the sidewalk. Almost immediately a chill ripped through her body and a scream, loud and shrill, let go in her mind.
It was Jude’s scream, the one that never got loose, the one that got caught behind Lappy’s fingers as he squeezed Jude’s throat shut.
“Three dollars, miss,” the cabdriver said.
Sugar’s mind teemed with visions of blackbirds, her ears filled with the steady flapping sound of their wings and the insistent peck-peck of their beaks. She thought about the river of blood in her dreams and almost told the driver to take her right back to the train station. She wanted to say that she had made a mistake and that what she had experienced in Bigelow and Short Junction seemed a hundred times better than what she felt she was about to walk into.
But something else inside of her urged her forward, even though the screams in her mind grew louder with each beat of her heart.
She paid him his three dollars, swallowed hard, smoothed her hands over her brown-and-white flowered mini dress and took the first stone step.
Sugar readied herself. She removed her dark sunglasses and licked her lips before stretching them into a large bright smile. She wondered what Mary would say about her hips and the short natural hairstyle she now sported.
Sugar knocked on the door; softly at first, so soft she could hardly hear it above the noise from the street. She knocked again, harder this time, and the door swung slowly open.
She stepped in, pushing the door open a bit wider so that the light from the street could spill in. “Hello” she called. Her greeting was met with the slow deliberate settling sounds of an old house.
“Hello,” she called again and thought about her time in Bigelow, when Pearl had come calling on her, unwanted and definitely unwelcomed, carrying a sweet potato pie and a million and one questions.
Sugar had stepped over the threshold and into the gloomy darkness of the hallway when the smell hit her, a rank odor that reminded her of Sara’s soiled nightgown. Sugar shuddered and stepped back out to the stoop.
She bent over, grabbed her knees and sucked deeply on the hot St. Louis summer air. “Keep it together, girl. Keep it together,” she whispered to herself.
Looking out onto the busy street she tried to force a smile for the two men who watched her suspiciously from the curb.
Sugar straightened, turned again toward the doorway, covered her nose and stepped inside.
The house was dark except for the weak light that found its way through the grime that covered the windows. Long, snake-like slithers of paint hung from the wall and trembled beneath the light breeze following Sugar into the house.
The parlor was empty except for a tired-looking sofa and end table. The walls were open in places, revealing the rotting wood of the house.
Sugar shivered at the sight and moved quickly toward the back of the house where the kitchen and bathroom had been. She had to sidestep the large holes that revealed the pitch-black lower level of the house and the four-legged creatures that scurried and squealed at the sound of her footsteps.
It was clear that no one had lived there for years, but Sugar moved on, calling “Hello,” as she went.
The door of the refrigerator sat wide open and the stench of sour milk and rotting tomatoes floated from its insides.
Outside a truck rumbled down the street and the house groaned.
How long had the house been vacant and in such disrepair? Where were Mary and Mercy? The questions bounced around Sugar’s head like small red balls.
The light was fading and Sugar realized that she would have to find room and board for the night. She would come back to the neighborhood tomorrow and ask around about Mary and Mercy.
She stepped back into the parlor and noticed for the first time the crumpled blanket on the couch.
As soon as Sugar reached down and touched the rough texture of the blanket she regretted her decision, but by then it was too late. The blanket was on the floor and what lay on the couch before her almost stopped her heart.
“Oh, God!”
There was Mary Bedford, curled into a fetal position and weighing barely ninety pounds. She was naked except for the makeshift diaper that covered her primates.
Her honey-colored skin was now the color of chalk, her head was bald except for a patch of silver on the left side above her ear and Mary’s cheeks were sunk in so deep that Sugar could see the imprint of her teeth..
“M-Mary,” Sugar uttered and took a small step forward. Mary did not move, but her breathing quickened and Sugar could see her eyes rolling behind the lids. “Mary,” she said again, but this time she did not move. The fear that was growing inside of her wouldn’t allow it.
The floor behind Sugar creaked and the murky darkness of the room shifted. Sugar was too afraid to turn around, too afraid to take her eyes off Mary and too afraid to scream, so she just braced herself and waited for whatever or whomever it was behind her to make itself known.
There was no sound for a long time and then the darkness shifted and words finally broke through the gloom, taking Sugar’s heart by surprise.
“Who the fuck are you and what the hell are you d
oing here?”
Sugar knew the sound of bitterness. She had heard it from the mouths of the white men and women shouting obscenities at the blacks who marched through Little Rock demanding equal rights.
She’d seen it curled in the dove-colored smoke that came off the body of a man as he hung smoldering from the limb of a birch tree in Alabama, and she had felt it when Lappy Clayton sliced through her womb, tearing away any chance of a life ever growing there.
She herself was bitter, disgusted at the life she’d been handed and the places she seemed to end up. If it wasn’t for the possibility of God and heaven and the reality of the Devil and his place called hell, Sugar would have sliced her wrists a long time ago.
But this voice that came from behind wasn’t just bitter; it was angry and what made Sugar even more afraid was that it was young. It reminded Sugar of her own voice so many years ago.
“I said, what the fuck are you doing here?”
The question came again and Sugar knew she would not be asked a third time, so she swallowed hard and slowly turned around.
The young woman that stood facing her was disheveled and dirty. Her eyes were wide and seemed to glow in the gloom that surrounded them. Sugar could barely make out her features in the darkness, but she knew those eyes.
“Mercy?” She kept her voice calm, even though her heart was going wild.
Mercy tilted her head a bit and her eyes moved across Sugar’s face.
“Who you?” Mercy said as she moved her hand to her back pocket.
“Mercy, its me, Sugar. Don’t you remember? I lived here with you and your grandmother for a while. Remember?”
Mercy pulled an ice pick from her pocket and pointed it at Sugar.
“I don’t know no Sugar,” she said, jabbing the ice pick into the air with every word. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
What had happened here? Sugar thought as she took a step backward.
“I-I came to see you—you and Mary, but I—”
“Well you’ve seen us, now get the fuck out!” Mercy screamed with such force that she stumbled where she stood. Her eyes rolled up in her head and her knees buckled a bit.
Sugar saw her opportunity and took a small step forward.
“Are you sick? You’re sick aren’t you, Mercy. I can help you, help you and your grandmother.”
Sugar understood what was happening now; she was familiar with the signs. Mercy was hooked on that junk, heroin. She knew it was flowing through her veins and twisting her mind into knots.
“Do you need money, Mercy?” Sugar asked her, her voice still even, her feet moving her closer and closer to Mercy.
Mercy looked at Sugar hard. She was sweating now, rubbing her arms and scratching at her neck.
They stood watching each other, Mercy trying hard to keep the ice pick steady, Sugar waiting for an answer, Mary behind them, dying.
“It hurts, doesn’t it? On top and way down deep? How much you need, five, ten dollars?”
Mercy’s body was swaying; the hand that held the ice pick was shaking uncontrollably. Sugar put her hand into her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here, go take care of it,” she said, holding the crumpled bill out toward Mercy.
Mercy swayed again and her eyes rolled around in their sockets as she tried hard to focus on the money Sugar held out to her.
“Here, here,” Sugar coaxed.
Mercy lunged forward, dropping the ice pick and snatching the money from Sugar all at one time, before turning and bolting out the door.
Sugar watched in astonishment as a tattered yellow ribbon slipped from Mercy’s ponytail and floated slowly to the floor.
The doctors said it wouldn’t be long before she would be dead. “She got a day, maybe two.”
How she’d survived this long was a mystery to everyone. Her body was covered in sores and the rats had started on her feet just days before Sugar arrived. She was blind in her left eye, her right hip was fractured and the doctors said she’d had at least one heart attack.
“Tough old gal,” they said, looking down at her chart.
Sugar sat by Mary’s bedside, just as she had over ten years earlier when Mary suffered a stroke just weeks before Christmas. Sugar had been so afraid back then; afraid that Mary was going to die, afraid of what would happen to Mercy if she did.
This time was different. She wasn’t afraid; this time she was just mad.
“Why?” Sugar whispered as she stroked Mary’s hand. “Why is life like this?”
Mary had no answers for Sugar.
Mary hung on for four days before she opened her eyes and looked into Sugar’s.
“Mary?” Sugar leaned in. “Mary?” She called her name again just as Mary’s eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted, filling the room with the sound of dry leaves.
Chapter 10
THE house seemed to know Mary was dead. To Sugar, it looked older and even more broken-down than it had four days earlier.
Sugar did not call hello this time and she did not step carefully or act fearful of what she might find behind the red door. She walked sure-footed and swift through the house, moving through the parlor like the wind. She walked into the kitchen and slammed the open door of the refrigerator closed. “Dammit,” she muttered to herself and entered the hall leading back to the front of the house and the staircase that would take her upstairs.
What happened to Mercy, Sugar wondered, the soft-spoken, bright-eyed child that gave out kisses, hugs and smiles in jubilant abundance?
Sugar had never in her life felt safe and content until the day she showed up on Mary Bedford’s front stoop. Mary, without missing a beat, opened up her heart and home to her.
Sugar’s thoughts came to a halt and so did her feet. She cocked her head, realizing that she had felt more than safe and content with Mary and Mercy. She had for the first time in her life felt truly loved. That realization pierced her somewhere close to her heart and Sugar stumbled.
Mary was gone; who would love her now?
Anger swelled inside of Sugar as she took the stairs in twos and wondered how in the world Mercy could have done this to her grandmother.
Sugar reached the top landing and started pushing doors open. The sight that met her was pitiful: men and women stretched out on the floor, others laid up on filthy mattresses or propped up against the walls. Sugar scanned the rooms, but Mercy was nowhere to be found. Determined, Sugar headed back down the stairs.
The front door was open. Sugar was more than sure that she had closed the door when she entered the house. Her guard went up as her eyes moved through the shadow-filled hallway.
A creaking sound came from the kitchen and then the rustling sound of paper. Sugar did not know if it was Mercy or another addict who’d wandered in from the street. She wiped at the sweat that was forming across her forehead and reminded herself of the disgust she was feeling. She did not want fear to overpower her.
The creaking sound came again, just as Sugar took a hesitant step toward the kitchen. Her heart sped up and her stomach fluttered with each step she took.
“Mercy,” she called out.
For a long time it was still, as if the house itself was holding its breath and waiting.
“Mercy?” she called again and waited.
Mercy leaped out from the shadows. Her hair was matted and there were visible streaks of dirt across her copper-colored face. Her eyes were red and swollen and the white T-shirt and blue denim jeans she wore were soiled almost black. She was feeling the need again. Sugar could tell by the wild look in her eyes.
Sugar’s anger melted away and was replaced with pity. She took a step toward her. “Mercy,” she said, reaching a hand out to her.
Mercy took a step back and swung her head wildly from left to right like a wild animal looking for an escape.
“Baby, listen to me. Mary’s dead. Your grandmother is dead and—”
Mercy rushed at Sugar, hitting her head-on, knocking her against the wall. Sugar grabbed hold o
f Mercy’s shoulders and held on tight as Mercy fought Sugar like the animal she had become.
She ripped at Sugar’s blouse, clawed at her face and pulled at her hair. Sugar just closed her eyes and held on until Mercy ran out of steam and fell loose in her arms.
Sugar held on this time because she had let go so many other times in her life.
Sunlight had made a habit of slipping in and out of the room like a nervous visitor. Someone would have told Sugar, had she inquired, that it was just a passing cloud, nothing more. But Sugar had other ideas about that.
She was haunted by ghosts. Had been too close to death too many times and now those spirits were hanging around, disguising themselves as sun rays or gentle spring rain. Yes, Sugar had other ideas about that.
Sugar looked over at Mercy. The child was hanging on by a thread. Her lips were covered in blisters and her body was constantly bathed in sweat even though she was cold to the touch.
Every now and then she’d shout out something incoherent and start kicking into the air, or a string of jumbled words would fall from her mouth as if she were answering a hundred questions all at once.
Sugar watched in silence as she had her own conversations with the blue walls of the room. Mary had been in the ground for nearly a week and those seven days had snaked by like sixty, leaving Sugar restless and eager to move on.
Sugar looked over at Mercy again; she was eighteen by Sugar’s calculations, grown as far as anyone was concerned. Sugar could have left her where she’d found her, could still leave and even be nice enough to pay the room up for another week or so. She could leave a few dollars on the dresser for food and just walk away.
But she didn‘t, even though she’d made five attempts at packing her suitcase, had even powdered her face and smeared her lips in the Royal Red she loved so much. But she could never seem to turn away from her reflection in the mirror. Her own eyes told her that no matter how hard she tried she could never run away from herself. So she stayed and the countless streaks of Royal Red on the backs of her hands told her how many times she had tried to go.
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