Standing, I braced myself with one hand against the wall. “She didn’t earn it?”
“Naw.” Loftis, he folded the paper—“Not one penny”—and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. His jaw looked tight as a horseshoe. “Way I see it,” he say, “this was her one shot in a lifetime to be rich, but being country, she had backward ways and blew it.” Rubbing his hands, he stood up to survey the living room. “Somebody’s gonna find Miss Bailey soon, but if we stay on the case—Cooter, don’t square up on me now—we can tote everything to our place before daybreak. Best we start with the big stuff.”
“But why didn’t she use it, huh? Tell me that?”
Loftis, he don’t pay me no mind. When he gets an idea in his head, you can’t dig it out with a chisel. How long it took me and Loftis to inventory, then haul Miss Bailey’s queer old stuff to our crib, I can’t say, but that cranky old ninnyhammer’s hoard come to $879,543 in cash money, thirty-two bank books (some deposits be only $5), and me, I wasn’t sure I was dreaming or what, but I suddenly flashed on this feeling, once we left her flat, that all the fears Loftis and me had about the future be gone, ’cause Miss Bailey’s property was the past—the power of that fellah Henry Conners trapped like a bottle spirit—which we could live off, so it was the future, too, pure potential: can do. Loftis got to talking on about how that piano we pushed home be equal to a thousand bills, jim, which equals, say, a bad TE AC A-3340 tape deck, or a down payment on a deuce-and-a-quarter. Its value be (Loftis say) that of a universal standard of measure, relational, unreal as number, so that tape deck could turn, magically, into two gold lamé suits, a trip to Tijuana, or twenty-five blow jobs from a ho—we had $879,543 worth of wishes, if you can deal with that. Be like Miss Bailey’s stuff is raw energy, and Loftis and me, like wizards, could transform her stuff into anything else at will. All we had to do, it seemed to me, was decide exactly what to exchange it for.
While Loftis studied this over (he looked funny, like a potato trying to say something, after the inventory, and sat, real quiet, in the kitchen), I filled my pockets with fifties, grabbed me a cab downtown to grease, yum, at one of them high-hat restaurants in the Loop.… But then I thought better of it, you know, like I’d be out of place—just another jig putting on airs—and scarfed instead at a rib joint till both my eyes bubbled. This fat lady making fishburgers in the back favored an old hardleg baby-sitter I once had, a Mrs. Paine who made me eat ocher, and I wanted so bad to say, “Loftis and me Got Ovuh,” but I couldn’t put that in the wind, could I, so I hatted up. Then I copped a boss silk necktie, cashmere socks, and a whistle-slick maxi leather jacket on State Street, took cabs everywhere, but when I got home that evening, a funny, Pandora-like feeling hit me. I took off the jacket, boxed it—it looked trifling in the hallway’s weak light—and, tired, turned my key in the door. I couldn’t get in. Loftis, he’d changed the lock and, when he finally let me in, looking vaguer, crabby, like something out of the Book of Revelations, I seen this elaborate, booby-trapped tunnel of cardboard and razor blades behind him, with a two-foot space just big enough for him or me to crawl through. That wasn’t all. Two bags of trash from the furnace room downstairs be sitting inside the door. Loftis, he give my leather jacket this evil look, hauled me inside, and hit me upside my head.
“How much this thing set us back?”
“Two fifty.” My jaws got tight; I toss him my receipt. “You want me to take it back? Maybe I can get something else.…”
Loftis, he say, not to me, but to the receipt, “Remember the time Mama give me that ring we had in the family for fifty years? And I took it to Merchandise Mart and sold it for a few pieces of candy?” He hitched his chair forward and sat with his elbows on his knees. “That’s what you did, Cooter. You crawled into a Clark bar.” He commence to rip up my receipt, then picked up his flashlight and keys. “As soon as you buy something you lose the power to buy something.” He button up his coat with holes in the elbows, showing his blue shirt, then turned ’round at the tunnel to say, “Don’t touch Miss Bailey’s money, or drink her splo, or do anything until I get back.”
“Where you going?”
“To work. It’s Wednesday, ain’t it?”
“You going to work?”
“Yeah.”
“You got to go really? Loftis,” I say, “what you brang them bags of trash in here for?”
“It ain’t trash!” He cut his eyes at me. “There’s good clothes in there. Mr. Peterson tossed them out, he don’t care, but I saw some use in them, that’s all.”
“Loftis…”
“Yeah?”
“What we gonna do with all this money?”
Loftis pressed his fingers to his eyelids, and for a second he looked caged, or like somebody’d kicked him in his stomach. Then he cut me some slack: “Let me think on it tonight—it don’t pay to rush—then we can TCB, okay?”
Five hours after Loftis leave for work, that old blister Mr. Peterson, our landlord, he come collecting rent, find Mrs. Bailey’s body in apartment 4-B, and phoned the fire department. Me, I be folding my new jacket in tissue paper to keep it fresh, adding the box to Miss Bailey’s unsunned treasures when two paramedics squeezed her on a long stretcher through a crowd in the hallway. See, I had to pin her from the stairhead, looking down one last time at this dizzy old lady, and I seen something in her face, like maybe she’d been poor as Job’s turkey for thirty years, suffering that special Negro fear of using up what little we get in this life—Loftis, he call that entropy—believing in her belly, and for all her faith, jim, that there just ain’t no more coming tomorrow from grace, or the Lord, or from her own labor, like she can’t kill nothing, and won’t nothing die…so when Conners will her his wealth, it put her through changes, she be spellbound, possessed by the promise of life, panicky about depletion, and locked now in the past ’cause every purchase, you know, has to be a poor buy: a loss of life. Me, I wasn’t worried none. Loftis, he got a brain trained by years of talking trash with people in Frog Hudson’s barbershop on Thirty-fifth Street. By morning, I knew, he’d have some kinda wheeze worked out.
But Loftis, he don’t come home. Me, I got kinda worried. I listen to the hi-fi all day Thursday, only pawing outside to peep down the stairs, like that’d make Loftis come sooner. So Thursday go by; and come Friday the head’s out of kilter—first there’s an ogrelike belch from the toilet bowl, then water bursts from the bathroom into the kitchen—and me, I can’t call the super (How do I explain the tunnel?), so I gave up and quit bailing. But on Saturday, I could smell greens cooking next door. Twice I almost opened Miss Bailey’s sardines, even though starving be less an evil than eating up our stash, but I waited till it was dark and, with my stomach talking to me, stepped outside to Pookie White’s, lay a hard-luck story on him, and Pookie, he give me some jambalaya and gumbo. Back home in the living room, finger-feeding myself, barricaded in by all that hope-made material, the Kid felt like a king in his counting room, and I copped some Zs in an armchair till I heard the door move on its hinges, then bumping in the tunnel, and a heavy-footed walk thumped into the bedroom.
“Loftis?” I rubbed my eyes. “You back?” It be Sunday morning. Six-thirty sharp. Darkness dissolved slowly into the strangeness of twilight, with the rays of sunlight surging at exactly the same angle they fall each evening, as if the hour be an island, a moment outside time. Me, I’m afraid Loftis gonna fuss ’bout my not straightening up, letting things go. I went into the bathroom, poured water in the one-spigot washstand—brown rust come bursting out in flakes—and rinsed my face. “Loftis, you supposed to be home four days ago. Hey,” I say, toweling my face, “you okay?” How come he don’t answer me? Wiping my hands on the seat on my trousers, I tipped into Loftis’s room. He sleeping with his mouth open. His legs be drawn up, both fists clenched between his knees. He’d kicked his blanket on the floor. In his sleep, Loftis laughed, or moaned, it be hard to tell. His eyelids, not quite shut, show slits of white. I decided to wait till Loftis wake up for his deci
sion, but turning, I seen his watch, keys, and what looked in the first stain of sunlight to be a carefully wrapped piece of newspaper on his nightstand. The sunlight swelled to a bright shimmer, focusing the bedroom slowly like solution do a photographic image in the developer. And then something so freakish went down I ain’t sure it took place. Fum-ble-fingered, I unfolded the paper, and inside be a blemished penny. It be like suddenly somebody slapped my head from behind. Taped on the penny be a slip of paper, and on the paper be the note “Found while walking down Devon Avenue.” I hear Loftis mumble like he trapped in a nightmare. “Hold tight,” I whisper. “It’s all right.” Me, I wanted to tell Loftis how Miss Bailey looked four days ago, that maybe it didn’t have to be like that for us—did it?—because we could change. Couldn’t we? Me, I pull his packed sheets over him, wrap up the penny, and, when I locate Miss Bailey’s glass jar in the living room, put it away carefully, for now, with the rèst of our things.
MENAGERIE, A CHILD’S FABLE
Among watchdogs in Seattle, Berkeley was known generally as one of the best. Not the smartest, but steady. A pious German shepherd (Black Forest origins, probably), with big shoulders, black gums, and weighing more than some men, he sat guard inside the glass door of Tilford’s Pet Shoppe, watching the pedestrians scurry along First Avenue, wondering at the derelicts who slept ever so often inside the foyer at night, and sometimes he nodded when things were quiet in the cages behind him, lulled by the bubbling of the fishtanks, dreaming of an especially fine meal he’d once had, or the little female poodle, a real flirt, owned by the aerobic dance teacher (who was no saint herself) a few doors down the street; but Berkeley was, for all his woolgathering, never asleep at the switch. He took his work seriously. Moreover, he knew exactly where he was at every moment, what he was doing, and why he was doing it, which was more than can be said for most people, like Mr. Tilford, a real gumboil, whose ways were mysterious to Berkeley. Sometimes he treated the animals cruelly, or taunted them; he saw them not as pets but profit. Nevertheless, no vandals, or thieves, had ever brought trouble through the doors or windows of Tilford’s Pet Shoppe, and Berkeley, confident of his power but never flaunting it, faithful to his master though he didn’t deserve it, was certain that none ever would.
At closing time, Mr. Tilford, who lived alone, as most cruel men do, always checked the cages, left a beggarly pinch of food for all the animals, and a single biscuit for Berkeley. The watchdog always hoped for a pat on his head, or for Tilford to play with him, some sign of approval to let him know he was appreciated, but such as this never came. Mr. Tilford had thick glasses and a thin voice, was stubborn, hot-tempered, a drunkard and a loner who, sliding toward senility, sometimes put his shoes in the refrigerator, and once—Berkeley winced at the memory—put a Persian he couldn’t sell in the Mix Master during one of his binges. Mainly, the owner drank and watched television, which was something else Berkeley couldn’t understand. More than once he’d mistaken gunfire on screen for the real thing (a natural error, since no one told him violence was entertainment for some), howled loud enough to bring down the house, and Tilford booted him outside. Soon enough, Berkeley stopped looking for approval; he didn’t bother to get up from biting fleas behind the counter when he heard the door slam.
But it seemed one night too early for closing time. His instincts on this had never been wrong before. He trotted back to the darkened storeroom; then his mouth snapped shut. His feeding bowl was as empty as he’d last left it.
“Say, Berkeley,” said Monkey, whose cage was near the storeroom. “What’s goin’ on? Tilford didn’t put out the food.”
Berkeley didn’t care a whole lot for Monkey, and usually he ignored him. He was downright wicked, a comedian always grabbing his groin to get a laugh, throwing feces, or fooling with the other animals, a clown who’d do anything to crack up the iguana, Frog, Parrot, and the Siamese, even if it meant aping Mr. Tilford, which he did well, though Berkeley found this parody frightening, like playing with fire, or literally biting the hand that fed you. But he, too, was puzzled by Tilford’s abrupt departure.
“I don’t know,” said Berkeley. “He’ll be back, I guess.”
Monkey, his head through his cage, held onto the bars like a movie inmate. “Wanna bet?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Wake said Monkey. “Tilford’s sick. I seen better faces on dead guppies in the fishtank. You ever see a pulmonary embolus?” Monkey ballooned his cheeks, then started breathing hard enough to hyperventilate, rolled up both red-webbed eyes, then crashed back into his cage, howling.
Not thinking this funny at all, Berkeley padded over to the front door, gave Monkey a grim look, then curled up against the bottom rail, waiting for Tilford’s car to appear. Cars of many kinds, and cars of different sizes, came and went, but that Saturday night the owner did not show. Nor the next morning, or the following night, and on the second day it was not only Monkey but every beast, bird, and fowl in the Shoppe that shook its cage or tank and howled at Berkeley for an explanation—an ear-shattering babble of tongues, squawks, trills, howls, mewling, bellows, hoots, blorting, and belly growls because Tilford had collected everything from baby alligators to zebra-striped fish, an entire federation of cultures, with each animal having its own distinct, inviolable nature (so they said), the rows and rows of counters screaming with a plurality of so many backgrounds, needs, and viewpoints that Berkeley, his head splitting, could hardly hear his own voice above the din.
“Be patient!” he said. “Believe me, he’s com-in’back!”
“Come off it,” said one of three snakes. “Monkey says Tilford’s dead. Question is, what’re we gonna do about it?”
Berkeley looked, witheringly, toward the front door. His empty stomach gurgled like a sewer. It took a tremendous effort to untangle his thoughts. “If we can just hold on a—”
“We’re hungry!” shouted Frog. “We’ll starve before old Tilford comes back!”
Throughout this turmoil, the shouting, beating of wings, which blew feathers everywhere like confetti, and an angry slapping of fins that splashed water to the floor, Monkey simply sat quietly, taking it all in, stroking his chin as a scholar might. He waited for a space in the shouting, then pushed his head through the cage again. His voice was calm, studied, like an old-time barrister before the bar. “Berkeley? Don’t get mad now, but I think it’s obvious that there’s only one solution.”
“What?”
“Let us out,” said Monkey. “Open the cages.”
“No!”
“We’ve got a crisis situation here.” Monkey sighed like one of the elderly, tired lizards, as if his solution bothered even him. “It calls for courage, radical decisions. You’re in charge until Tilford gets back. That means you gotta feed us, but you can’t do that, can you? Only one here with hands is me. See, we all have different talents, unique gifts. If you let us out, we can pool our resources. I can open the feed bags!”
“You can?” The watchdog swallowed.
“Uh-huh.” He wiggled his fingers dexterously, then the digits on his feet. “But somebody’s gotta throw the switch on this cage. I can’t reach it. Dog, I’m asking you to be democratic! Keeping us locked up is fascist!”
The animals clamored for release; they took up Monkey’s cry, “Self-determination!” But everything within Berkeley resisted this idea, the possibility of chaos it promised, so many different, quarrelsome creatures uncaged, set loose in a low-ceilinged Shoppe where even he had trouble finding room to turn around between the counters, pens, displays of paraphernalia, and heavy, bubbling fishtanks. The chances for mischief were incalculable, no question of that, but slow starvation was certain if he didn’t let them in the storeroom. Furthermore, he didn’t want to be called a fascist. It didn’t seem fair, Monkey saying that, making him look bad in front of the others. It was the one charge you couldn’t defend yourself against. Against his better judgment, the watchdog rose on his hindlegs and, praying this was the right thing,
forced open the cage with his teeth. For a moment Monkey did not move. He drew breath loudly and stared at the open door. Cautiously, he stepped out, stood up to his full height, rubbed his bony hands together, then did a little dance and began throwing open the other cages one by one.
Berkeley cringed. “The tarantula, too?”
Monkey gave him a cold glance over one shoulder. “You should get to know him, Berkeley. Don’t be a bigot.”
Berkeley shrank back as Tarantula, an item ordered by a Hell’s Angel who never claimed him, shambled out—not so much an insect, it seemed to Berkeley, as Pestilence on legs. (“Be fair!” he scolded himself. “He’s okay, I’m okay, we’re all okay.”) He watched helplessly as Monkey smashed the ant farm, freed the birds, and then the entire troupe, united by the spirit of a bright, common future, slithered, hopped, crawled, bounded, flew, and clawed its way into the storeroom to feed. All except crankled, old Tortoise, whom Monkey hadn’t freed, who, in fact, didn’t want to be released and snapped at Monkey’s fingers when he tried to open his cage. No one questioned it. Tortoise had escaped the year before, remaining at large for a week, and then he returned mysteriously on his own, his eyes strangely unfocused, as if he’d seen the end of the world, or a vision of the world to come. He hadn’t spoken in a year. Hunched inside his shell, hardly eating at all, Tortoise lived in the Shoppe, but you could hardly say he was part of it, and even the watchdog was a little leery of him. Berkeley, for his part, had lost his hunger. He dragged himself, wearily, to the front door, barked frantically when a woman walked by, hoping she would stop, but after seeing the window sign, which read-CLOSED-from his side, she stepped briskly on. His tail between his legs, he went slowly back to the storeroom, hoping for the best, but what he found there was no sight for a peace-loving watchdog.
True to his word, Monkey had broken open the feed bags and boxes of food, but the animals, who had always been kept apart by Tilford, discovered as they crowded into the tiny storeroom and fell to eating that sitting down to table with creatures so different in their gastronomic inclinations took the edge off their appetites. The birds found the eating habits of the reptiles, who thought eggs were a delicacy, disgusting and drew away in horror; the reptiles, who were proud of being coldblooded, and had an elaborate theory of beauty based on the aesthetics of scales, thought the body heat of the mammals cloying and nauseating, and refused to feed beside them, and this was fine for the mammals, who, led by Monkey, distrusted anyone odd enough to be born in an egg, and dismissed them as lowlifes on the evolutionary scale; they were shoveling down everything—bird food, dog biscuits, and even the thin wafers reserved for the fish.
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