“I’m talkin right now. You gonna have ta wait nutha time,” the other man said. Sweat gleamed from his shiny black baldhead and clean-shaven face. His muscled jaw tensed as he attempted to stare down Caroline.
Caroline ignored the men. “Come on. Let me buy you a drink and take you from these swains. I’d like to discuss creating a platform for your talent.
“Sho,” Lynette said, “I can go fo some gin. I need a drink.”
Lynette stepped passed the men and shook Caroline’s hand. They introduced their selves and turned for the bar.
“Hold on,” the bald man grabbed Lynette’s wrist.
“Let me loose,” Lynette snatched away. She half grinned and strolled with Caroline to the bar.
“Another triple of that rotgut, and gin and soda for Lynette,” Caroline said waving to the bartender.
“Great show tonight Netty,” the bartender said.
“Thanks,” Lynette responded and then turned her attention to Caroline. “You said you wanted to discuss a platform for my talent?”
“That’s right young lady. You definitely have the pipes, but you could be better; even great.” Caroline took a swig from her glass. “I have the key to open the door of opportunity.”
“You a produsuh or somin?” Lynette asked.
“Something like that; yes I am,” Caroline responded. “I’d like to introduce you to the process of success. We’ll work on your elocution. I need to get you into voice classes, find you a band, stuff like that.”
The two men Caroline and Lynette had dismissed made their way to the bar. They talked amongst themselves, but made a point for the women to hear their invective dialogue directed toward them. Caroline thanked and tipped the bartender. She motioned for Lynette to follow her outside. They walked toward a black 1962 “deuce and a quarter.” Glass shattered at their feet.
“Come back cheyre ya ole carpet munchas,” the bald brute shouted from the club’s entrance.
“Ignore them, Lynette,” Caroline said quietly. She grabbed hold of Lynette’s elbow and continued walking toward the car. The two drunkards pursued. “Can you drive?” Caroline asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
Caroline handed Lynette the keys. “Start the engine. Give me a second.” Caroline lifted her skirt and removed a .44 Special from her garter belt. She spun around and simultaneously placed her hands behind her back to conceal her weapon. “I’m asking you gentlemen to leave us be. We are not interested in your advances and would like to go in peace. Thank you for understanding.”
A group of young people bopped into the juke joint. As they opened the door, a bluesman was playing the cover of Reverend Gary Davis’, “Death Don’t Have No Mercy.”
Death don’t have no mercy in this land
Ya know death don’t have no mercy in this land, in this land
Come to your house, you know he don’t take long
You look in the bed, you find your mama gone
Death don’t have no mercy in this land
“Lady, you is som’n else,” the man in suspenders said with bloodshot eyes from an abundance of moonshine. He nodded to his partner. They approached Caroline. Like a frontier gunslinger she whipped the .44 from behind her back and shot the man in suspenders one time, clean between the eyes. The initial blast from the gun shocked the bald man into temporary paralysis. He became entranced by the smoke leaking from the gun’s barrel .He snapped out of it and motioned to run away. She shot him in the kneecap. He collapsed and screamed in agony.
“Lawd Jesus, please don’t do this!” he plead.
He clutched his wound. Blood seeped through his fingers. Caroline knelt beside him. “He won’t help you, but I will.” She handed him the pistol. His wide eyes squinted in confusion and anger. He pointed the gun at Caroline and fired. The orange light sparked brightly, and the smoke from the gun temporarily distorted his vision. A high pitch ring invaded his ears. He heard the muffled sound of laughter. The smoke cleared. Caroline was smiling devilishly at him with a straight razor in her grip.
She straddled her nuisance of the night, and slit deep into his throat from ear to ear severing his jugular vein. He gripped his blood spurting neck; gurgling, drowning in the warm crimson life force. Caroline quick stepped to her car. An old man sat in a rocker across the road watching the scene. He was unmoved; unimpressed, as if the man cut like a pig was, just another pig. He guffawed, and coughed from the smoke that he sucked through his corncob pipe. Caroline got in the car. Lynette looked terrified. She had both hands on the wheel and shook like a craps game.
“Hit the highway. We’re going to Chicago,” Caroline said.
***
Donna Legato was a single mother living on West Flournoy Street with her ten-year-old daughter Betty. Her husband, David was killed by a drunk driver in front of the Cook County Courthouse just a few blocks from her apartment on his way back from getting gyros at Mr. Gyro’s restaurant on Division Street. The snow falling was thick and by the time he saw the car its headlights were blinding him through the driver’s side window. The drunk driver only sustained cuts and bruises. David died on impact. His neck was broken.
Betty became noticeably withdrawn. Donna did her best to comfort her, but she too struggled with the death of her husband. She’d have to raise her child alone. Life wasn’t going to stop; although at times she wished it would have. Through the hard times, Donna maintained a comfortable living arrangement for her and her daughter, until the Hostess bakery she worked at ceased operating. Before the money from her husband’s life insurance dried up she packed, and moved to Milwaukee.
When her father died years before he’d left her a house on West Meinecke Avenue. It was a spacious house; five bedrooms, a din, three baths, and large kitchen with dining room, but it was old and run down. It hadn’t been occupied by anyone other than squatters and rats for years. Windows were boarded, the paint inside and out was chipped, and the lavender and lime green tile on the kitchen floor had a grimy red substance splattered over much of it. Unsavory characters loitered on the block and conducted shiest business around the clock, but it was home now. She was glad to be free of their old home that sparked many memories, even though most of them were good ones.
Donna’s brother, Harold helped them move. Harold and Donna were setting the breakfast table in the kitchen when he noticed a large brown spot in the middle of the wall.
“Donna, check it out,” Harold said. “I think this is a broken doorknob.”
The spot sat about three feet from the floor in the midst of other stains and chipped paint. When he touched it, he recognized it to be the rusted hole where a doorknob used to be. The wall was in such bad condition it was easy to miss the door there without a knob. He took a screwdriver from his back pocket and jimmied the door.
“What do you think is down there?” Donna asked.
“Knowing Dad, I’d say a stockade of whiskey, and not much more than that. You know how aloof he was. It was like living with a ghost,” Harold said.
“You say that because you’re younger. You were still a baby when Mom left. When she was here she wasn’t, you know what I mean? I think Dad just withdrew after giving so much of himself he probably felt he didn’t have anything else to give.” Donna hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt the cold tears run down her cheek.
“Hey sis, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .”
“No, no it’s okay. I’m concerned for Betty, you know. She used to be so outgoing, so alive. Now my baby is serious all of the time. The other night I asked if she wanted to watch the Bulls game and she said no and went to bed. When David was living you couldn’t pry her away from the tube.”
“That’s what she and David shared, Donna. Don’t take it personal. Give her some time. She’ll come around.”
“You’re right,” Donna said; realizing Harold’s logic. Her curiosity was beginning to work on her. “Open that door, David let’s see all the dead bodies Dad had stored down there,” she teased giving Ha
rold a shove.
Harold opened the door. Dust spilled from the frame. Cobwebs barricaded the entrance. Whispers were traveling from down in the basement.
“Hello,” Harold called out.
Donna looked frightened. She said, “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been in the basement for years. Who could be down there?”
Harold shrugged. “Maybe they got in through the shutters?”
“The house doesn’t have shutters.”
Harold cleared the cobwebs and grabbed a flashlight. He shined the light into the dark basement. The mold smell was strong. Roaches scattered. They looked like a spilled box of prunes crawling over the floor. Harold shuddered. A cold draft blew in from the basement.
“It’s freezing in here,” Harold said.
“Yep, I feel it from here,” Donna responded while mopping the mess off of the kitchen floor.
He stepped lightly down the stairs. The wood creaked so loudly it sounded like the whole staircase might collapse. About half way down he saw a woman’s legs under a tattered black dress. “Hello, miss?” The light brown legs shifted slightly. “Miss, someone lives here now. You’re going to have to . . .”
You got the blues, baby. Let me take care of you. Harold heard the woman say in a low whisper.
“Can I call someone for you?” Harold asked.
You need rest. Your soul needs rest.
“Come up stairs ma’am.” Harold reached out to touch her shoulder, but when he grabbed her, she felt hard and lifeless. He raised the flashlight to her face. He found himself gripping an old trench coat hanging on a coat rack. He swore he saw a woman’s legs so he directed the light toward the floor. Dozens of rats were at his feet squealing and hissing. He felt a hand grab his shoulder. He jumped and screamed.
“Jesus, Harry you need to lay off the energy drinks,” Donna joked. “They’ve got you jumpy.”
“Be careful. We have to get out of here quickly,” Harold said nervously.
“Calm down. I just startled you, is all.”
“You didn’t see the rats all over the floor?” Puzzlement adorned his mug.
“No. Thank God. You know how I am when it comes to vermin. I probably would’ve fainted.”
“You didn’t hear that woman?”
“I thought I heard someone, but then I looked out through the curtains and saw some old lady outside talking with herself walking down the street.”
“I don’t . . . know. I suppose the darkness played a trick on me or something?”
Harold and Donna went back upstairs. The woman in the black tattered dress watched them from a dark corner of the basement. The door shut, and complete darkness was restored.
***
The closet door lurched open. Betty peeped curiously into the dark space. Her clothes hung over her shoes and basketball. Her pink dress hung in the middle shimmered. The rotating fan blowing in her room had blown in the direction of the closet. The smell of stale cigarettes began to circulate around the room, but there was no smoke. Betty got up and closed the door. Her mother’s voice startled her.
“Is someone smoking outside your window?” Donna said as she entered the room.
“Mom, you scared me,” Betty sighed and clutched her chest.
“Stop sneaking cigarettes and you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
“Mom,” Betty smiled.
Donna looked down from the bedroom window before she closed it. She’d already fixed her face into a frown for the person who was standing there smoking, and stinking up her house with it. There wasn’t anyone there. She shrugged and turned to Betty. She asked, “How do you like it? The house I mean.”
“I like it, but it’s a little scary. I guess, because it’s old. I’ll get used to it.”
“Thank you for being cool about all of this. I know you miss your father.”
“Yeah, I miss Dad, but I still have you,” Betty stated.
Tears rushed to Donna’s eyes. She didn’t want to upset Betty, so she held them back. She said, “I’m hungry. How about a burger and fries?”
“With ice cream?”
“Heck yeah, come on we’re going to Culver’s,” Donna said.
Donna and Betty walked out. Betty’s closet door eased open. The basketball rolled into the room. A shadowy figure emerged from the dark closet like oil bubbling from the earth. It had blood red eyes and a withered burned charcoal face. The face was like an old woman’s who had endured a lifetime of worry and sorrow. The suffering of her life had been refined on her face like a clay vase. The apparition wore a tattered black dress that unfurled from the rotating fan’s wind. It slammed Betty’s bedroom door shut.
Betty and Donna stepped out the front door when the loud noise made them jump.
“You heard that?” Betty asked her mother frightfully.
“Sure did,” Donna responded. “It sounded like your door. Maybe the wind from the window did that?”
“Mom, you closed the window; remember?”
They stared at the front door quietly listening for movement throughout the house. Donna placed her hand on the door handle. She inched her ear toward the door.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” an elderly black man said, as he removed his Homburg hat from his head. He stood with a black and gold cane on the bottom step of the porch.
“Oh, my God,” Donna placed her hand over her mouth as a reaction to being startled.
“Sorry my lady, I didn’t mean to stir ya nerves,” the man said. “I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. The names Elroy; Elroy Johnson,” he proffered his hand.
She shook his hand. “I’m Donna Legato. This is Betty.”
“Nice to meet you two beautiful ladies. I would’ve brought a dish for your consumption, but I reckon I don’t want to run you off before you get situated,” Elroy joked.
“We’re on our way to get something to eat. Would you like to join us Mr. Johnson?” Donna asked.
“No love, thank you kindly. I just wanted to make your acquaintance. I saw the moving truck the other day. I’m on my way to Brown Sugar’s for a sound check.”
“Brown Sugar’s?”
“It’s a club down the way. The owner allows me a time or two to get loose.”
“You’re a musician?”
“Yes ma’am. I play guitar, piano, harmonica, and sing from time to time,” Elroy said. “Come out some time.”
“That’d be nice Mr. Johnson. I’ll do that,” Donna said.
Elroy felt his chest squeezing. He winced and then took a deep breath. He looked up at the second story window. The curtains moved a little as if someone had quickly pulled away from them.
“Are you okay, Mr. Johnson?” Betty asked.
“Yes, I’m okay. I reckon I had a spell,” he said. “I’ll see you ladies around.” He tipped his hat and began to walk away.
Donna called to him, “I could drive you if you like, Mr. Johnson.”
“That’s sweet of you shuga, but catching the bus is good exercise for these old legs,” he said. “Ya’ll enjoy your meal.” Elroy Johnson shuffled down the block. Worry plagued his face.
She wants them. She’s awakened to collect, but I won’t let her get them. I won’t!
***
Elroy and Donna drank homemade lemonade on the front porch. They talked while Betty shot hoops with the neighborhood boys on a rim posted on the sidewalk. Carlos Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” resounded from the open living room window, as it rotated on the old Montgomery Ward turntable. Donna’s long blonde hair rested on her shoulders. It felt good. It had been a long time since she literally let her hair down.
“So, how do you like the house?” Elroy asked.
“It’s alright. I mean. . . I like it, but it’s kind of big for me and Betty.”
“You mean, you miss your husband?”
“Yeah, I do Elroy,” she said. She sighed and gazed into the street. Betty was going in for a layup.
“A beautiful woman such as you will have no problem getting a
man. I know things like this take time, but you still have to live. Your baby has already started. Look at that child play that game!”
Donna chuckled, “She’s good. She watches . . . used to watch all the Bulls games. She loves Derrick Rose.” Her countenance fell. Elroy sensed a deep sadness come upon her.
He sat up in his chair. Elroy pulled a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket. The old bluesman was leaving for Brown Sugar’s after his visit with Donna, so he had his guitar with him set by the table. He took a pack of playing cards from his guitar case. “Let ole “Sweetwater Roy” boost your spirits. That’s what they call me.”
“How’d you get that name?”
“I did a gig in Sweetwater, Tennessee long time ago. Just so happened Minnie Pearl was in the audience. I couldn’t believe it. She bought me a drink and we talked until the joint closed down. She said with her country twang, ‘You is a smooth gee-tar playa. You sho is, “Sweetwater Roy.”’ It stuck. Every Bluesman needs a moniker.”
“Are you from Sweetwater?”
“Fayetteville, North Carolina, but don’t tell nobody. “ Fayetteville Roy” ain’t got that sweet sound to it,” Elroy said. “Now, go on inside and get us something stronger, baby. I can’t let people see me drinking this. I have to have some whiskey in my glass.”
“Okay, Mr. Johnson,” Donna laughed.
“I consider you my friend young lady, address me as such.”
“You got it, “Sweetwater”,” she said.
“There you go.” Elroy grinned. She felt a wide smile form on her face. She went in the house to retrieve the Jack Daniels from the cupboard.
The album finished. The record player static seemed magnified. Donna opened the cabinet. A roach fell out. She jumped back and cursed. The exterminator would be out to the house that week. She’d already laid rattraps in the basement and closets, but hadn’t caught any rats. In fact, she hadn’t seen any either. She was glad about that.
If I pay the Madame, I can go home. I can go home with momma.
Donna whipped around with the bottle of Jack tight in her fist. She heard somebody; a woman whispering. She felt someone’s presence. It sounded like the same voice she heard when her brother found the basement door. She slowed her breathing to take in her surroundings. A roach scurried across the counter. She let it go. The faucet dripped into the rusted metal sink; creating a somnolent rhythm. Donna inhaled deeply, and shrugged her shoulders. She smiled and set out some glasses.
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