Mustafa Ali and Wan Tai had arrived together. Socrates thought that Mustafa had been at the Chinese man’s dojo before coming to the inauguration of the Big Nickel School.
“Socco,” the white bearded and brown skinned Ali hailed.
“Mr. Fortlow,” Wan Tai whispered, making the slightest nod as he spoke. The karate master always looked directly into Socrates’ eyes when addressing him.
The host put out a hand to each man.
“Welcome to the Big Nickel, brothers. They’re almost all here by now. Go on in and introduce yourselves.”
“Socco,” a man called before the front door closed.
It was Ronald Zeal. Even hearing the voice Socrates felt a thrill of excitement; not fear, not exactly—but the inner clenching he always felt just before a serious fight. It was a kill or be killed moment that he had to climb over before saying, “Hey, Zeal. What’s happenin’, man?”
“Nuttin’ to it,” the young man replied in his studiedly casual approach toward the big felon.
Socrates turned his head into the house and called out, “Billy, put on the cornbread.”
“Okay, Socco.”
Ronald Zeal was at the door by then. He was tall and meant to be naturally thin but his upper body was over-developed by exercise and weight lifting, maybe even some bulk enhancing drugs. His skin was dark, as dark as Fortlow’s. His face had been pretty, would still have been if it weren’t for the scars and a hardness in his eye. He didn’t smile, only took Socrates’ hand in welcome.
He was six three at least, no more than mid-twenties. He wore a clean white T-shirt despite the cool evening temperature and black pants with matching sneakers.
Behind Ron a car passed slowly. From the car’s passenger window a white man peered into the house.
Socrates grinned and gestured for his guest to enter.
“Come on in, brother,” the host said warmly. “We almost all here now.”
He led Ronald Zeal into the room dominated by the big irregular table.
Every chair at the table was of a different make. Straight-back maple, cane and wicker, a black stool and a dark stained piano bench. There were eleven seats in all with the capacity to hold a dozen people.
“This Ronald Zeal, everybody. We only got one more and he told me he was gonna be late because of his job.”
“Hey, Ron,” Cassie Wheaton said. She was looking at the stern-faced young man.
“Ms. Wheaton,” he said in an oddly subdued tone.
“Have you been down to the courthouse yet?” the lawyer asked.
“No, not yet.”
“They will put you away if you don’t show up with those papers.”
“Mustafa Ali,” Mustafa said introducing himself. “Mission of Heaven services.”
“Hey.”
Socrates noticed that Leanne Northford had moved to the black stool at the other side of the Big Table. She’d stay, he thought, but she wouldn’t welcome the killer or shake his hand.
From Leanne Socrates’ attention went around the room. Most were aware of the famous killer. Darryl was trying to put on a gangster-calm while Marianne Lodz seemed flustered. Antonio, though he might not have known Zeal’s story, could read the threat in the young man’s bearing. Billy Psalms was in the kitchen but Socrates knew that the gambler would watch Ron the way he’d concentrate on a roulette table—wondering at what number would come up, and then the one after that.
Only Luna seemed unaffected by the notorious gangbanger’s presence. She satisfied herself by observing Socrates watching his guests.
3. “Help me with this, Socco,” Billy Psalms called as he entered the meeting room laboring under the weight of the two-handled copper cauldron that Socrates had borrowed from Leanne. Antonio and Mustafa rushed over to grab hold of the big pot.
As soon as they had taken the weight the gambler announced, “Louisiana blue crab gumbo is in the house.”
The guests began taking their seats.
“Darryl,” Socrates said.
“Yeah?”
“Go help Billy with the rest of what he got to bring in.” Darryl’s eyes were on the singer. He wanted to get to a seat by
her side.
“Okay,” he said.
Luna followed the boy out of the room. Socrates watched her
leave, wondering why she made him feel so uneasy. When he looked back at the table he saw that Ronald Zeal was
also troubled. The hard-faced street-fighter was thrumming his
fingers on the table. There between Mustafa and an empty seat
Zeal was sitting lightly like a man about to take flight. Socrates smiled and forgot Luna for a moment. He went to
stand at the center of three spaces, at what might have seemed
like the head of the table.
The Big Table resembled a dark rose petal that had been
gnawed on by insect pests and then trampled underfoot. Longer
than it was wide there was something vaguely oval about its
form. There were light, almost blond highlights along the sides
and at two places in top. It was a sturdy board of wood four and
a half inches thick and hard.
Darryl and Luna came in: him carrying a big bowl filled with
white rice and her with a pewter platter bearing two huge
squares of cornbread.
The seat next to Marianne Lodz was the piano bench. After
setting down the food Luna pulled Darryl to sit between her and
the budding star.
Billy went to stand at the head of the table to Socrates’ left. There was an arc shaped indentation there, one of the gnawed
out spaces that had survived the giant footstep.
Next to the gumbo pot stood stacked a pile of a dozen porcelain bowls, also borrowed from Miss Northford. Billy used a
teacup to put a dome of rice in the bottom of a bowl and then ladled the dark green stew on top of that—making sure that each
serving received at least one of the small crabs.
Leanne carved the cornbread. People took the large squares
as the platter was passed down the center of the table toward the
front.
Socrates set his eyes on Darryl. When the boy looked up the
host moved his head, indicating the empty seat next to Zeal. To his credit Darryl took up his paper napkin and moved to
keep the uncomfortable killer company.
When Billy finished serving he sat in his. Socrates remained
on his feet.
“I thought you called these blue crabs,” Wan Tai said across
the broad plank to Billy. “But these are red.”
“They turn red when you cook ’em,” Billy said. “But you know
them li’l suckers got the best tastin’ crab meat anywhere.” Those were the last words before the table went silent, waiting for Socrates to address them.
“There’s ten of us now,” he said. “And later on there will be
one more. We got all kinds ’a people at this big table. Mustafa,
who belongs to Islam, Wan Tai is a Buddhist and prays the way
those people do, Darryl an’ me ain’t seen the inside of a church,
temple or mosque in many, many years. We got Baptists and
Catholics and other Christians—some practicing, some not—at
the table. The last man to come is something different yet
again.”
The guests were looking around at each other while Socrates,
who seemed uncharacteristically nervous, took a deep breath. “We got a gambler, a singer, a teenager, at least two killers, a
carpenter, social workers, and even a lawyer sittin’ right here in
this big tin-plated house.”
A few people, including Cassie Wheaton, snickered at the
lawyer line.
“Not all of us were born in America,” Socrates continued, “but
we’l
l probably all die here.”
These last words sobered many an eye gazing upon Socrates. “Death is our moment of reckoning,” he said. “It’s what calls
up our hardest prayers. And so death has to have a place in the
words at the beginning of the meal. Also words of hope and
truth. But not Christian or Muslim or Buddhist words. No. We
are here to come up with a new kinda faith. Maybe not even a
faith but somethin’ true, somethin’ that will give us some kind
of, I don’t know . . . wisdom.
“And so I will say some words today and then, the next time
we get together for a talk, somebody else will say somethin’.” With that Socrates bowed his head and everyone else, even
Luna, followed suit.
“I have eyes to see and a mind to think; I have feet to take me
and lungs full of breath; I have arms and legs, a sex and a nose to
smell trouble. I have everything I need . . . everything but a sign.” “Amen,” Mustafa intoned.
Socrates sat and the people began gabbing and eating. The seat to Socrates’ left was empty. He turned right to Billy
and said, “Damn good, gambler. Why don’t you get a job as a
cook?”
“Why don’t you be a preacher?” Psalms asked back and both
men laughed.
4. The dinner had been going on for half an hour or more. Billy was telling jokes about gambling schemes he had come across that had nearly everyone laughing; all except for Luna, Ronald Zeal, and Leanne Northford. The gumbo was good, the whole table agreed on that. The small house was perfect for their get together.
“So why you got us here, Socrates?” Mustafa asked. He was half the way down on the left side of the Big Table.
“Wait a bit longer, brother. We have one more coming.”
“No matter to me,” Antonio said. “This food is good.”
The assembly hummed their agreement and the volume of the conversation rose. They were so loud after a while that only Socrates heard the soft knocking at the door.
The small white man looked up at the mountain of darkness before him and smiled. “Mr. Fortlow,” Chaim Zetel said in greeting. “Your house is so shiny I could see it all the way from Cheviot Hills.”
“Maybe to you, Mr. Zetel,” Socrates replied. “Some people couldn’t see it if they had their nose pressed up against the door.”
When the two men walked back to the Big Table the loud talk quickly dwindled to a murmur.
“This is my friend Chaim Zetel,” Socrates said, using the correct guttural sound for the ch. “He’s our last membah, at least for tonight.”
“So now you can tell us what we’re here for?” Cassie Wheaton said.
“I know you don’t eat shellfish so I got some fried chicken for you in the kitchen, Mr. Zetel,” Billy whispered behind Socrates’ back. “I’ll go get it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Psalms.”
“We are here because the world . . . the whole damn world is messed up,” Socrates said simply and to the point. “An’ all we do every day is shut our eyes hopin’ that it’ll get bettah while we ain’t lookin’.”
“Amen to that,” Leanne chimed. “Amen to that.”
“Grown men an’ women sittin’ on their ass like slaves chained in the quarters,” Socrates continued, “markin’ time and waitin’ to die. A chance to do sumpin’ good comes an’ goes ev’ry minute but we just sit there.”
“What difference can we make to the world?” lean, whitebearded Mustafa asked.
“Nothin’,” Socrates admitted. “Not a damn thing.”
“Then why try?” Antonio proffered.
“I got here by the back door, Tony,” Socrates replied; still standing, still quivering from nerves. “I heard that Fred Bumpus had lost this place to his wife and her boyfriend. I took it as a fact and humiliated a man who connected so closely with Fred’s pain that he hated him for his weakness. Then it came to me that I was passin’ a chance by, that I could help Fred and make this a place where people could come an’ take themselves seriously. A place where there was good food an’ good company an’ where the only question is what can I do?”
At that moment the tension released in Socrates’ shoulders and neck. He looked around the table seeing that the struggle had passed from him to most of his guests.
“I know what you feelin’,” the ex-convict said. “I might as well ask you to fly. But you know people dyin’ ten thousand miles an’ one block away from here. We go to bed knowin’ it. And when we wake up it’s still true. We bring chirren into this world. We make love here. At least we could take one evenin’ every week or two and ask—just ask, what is it we could do about this shit?”
The small audience fell under a hush. Their eyes were those of people engaged in a serious conversation but their tongues were still, their lips closed.
“You see?” Socrates said. “I could ask you what the weather was and you might tell me I need an umbrella. I could ask you if you knew a joke and you’d have me rollin’ on the floor.”
“Especially Billy there,” Leanne said.
A few people laughed.
“But if I ask you,” Socrates said, “how can we save some child bound for prison or the graveyard you just sit there like some voodoo witch done sewed your lips shut.”
Again Socrates paused. Again he appreciated the struggle in the bearings of his friends.
“Your mother or sister or child could come runnin’ to you,” the host added, “screamin’ that there was somebody after them, somebody that was gonna do them terrible harm. And you would grab a knife or a baseball bat and run out to protect them—to kill if you had to. But when I tell you that there’s millions runnin’ and screamin’ right now all you do is look like you got gas.
“I’m not tryin’ say that it’s just us here. It’s like this all ovah Los Angeles and California, the United States—all ovah the world. In Israel and South Africa and Europe too. Ev’rybody sittin’ there with a sour look on their face while the killers and their prey run in the night.”
From Darryl to Cassie, from Leanne to Antonio there was profound, intense silence—even Billy Psalms kept his peace. The extraordinary hush didn’t bother Socrates. He was ready for this deathlike response. If someone didn’t speak up soon he’d make a toast and promise the assembly that he would have a dinner every Thursday until the day that they could speak out loud about what they felt.
He was reaching for his paper cup when Ronald Zeal said, “I got sumpin’ t’say.”
“Yes, Brother Zeal.”
The dark-skinned young man sat back in his chair, balancing it on the two hind legs.
“You told me that we was gonna come in here an’ talk about somethin’ important,” Zeal said, “sumpin’ for the people.”
“I sure did.”
“I expected to see a room fulla black men ready t’stand up and tell the cops and the whites what we won’t take no mo’. But instead I come into a house fulla bitches, beaners, an’ chinks. And then you got this Jew. What the fuck am I s’posed to do with that?”
The faces of the dinner guests registered shock and dismay. Everyone was disturbed except Luna and Socrates, neither of whom were bothered by the killer’s concerns.
Socrates laughed; not because he found the words funny but because he was surprised. It was rare that anyone could sneak up on the ex-con like that.
This laughter further disturbed his friends.
“Ron,” he said. “You see Wan Tai over there? He teaches black chirren the discipline of the martial arts. Antonio here repairs the houses of poor people no mattah what color they are. Cassie Wheaton kept you outta prison when you know they coulda had your ass, and as far as Chaim goes . . . Mr. Zetel?”
“Yes, Mr. Fortlow?”
“Tell this boy sumpin’ will ya?”
The little man, who was not an inch over five feet, stood up as Socrates sat down. He was maybe
seventy wearing a gray suit cut from coarse cloth. His shirt was yellow and he wore no tie. The hands he placed on the table were small, liver-spotted, with thick, blunt-tipped fingers. His hair was still full, a thatch of dull silver that needed a trim. His white skin had lost its luster to age but his eyes, equally gray and brown, seemed to be smiling.
“My grandfather was a ragman, my young friend,” Chaim said gently. “Do you know what that is?”
Every eye was on Zeal. He resisted the pressure and then gave in to it.
“A homeless,” he said.
“Almost,” Chaim said with a grin. “He was poor, very poor. He had a horse so skinny that it looked like the one ridden by Death when the plague raced through our cities and towns. This horse pulled a wagon and my grandfather, Moses Zetel, would go around collecting things that people had thrown out. He’d trade those things with the poorest people who might have had some need for them. His father had done that and his father had too. There have been ragmen so far back in our family that I wonder why Ragman was not our name.”
Out of the corner of his eye Socrates noticed Luna smiling for the first time.
“My grandfather wanted his son to go into the business,” Chaim continued, “but my father was very lazy.” The sad look on Chaim’s face elicited a few smiles. “He would stay at home playing with the broken doll houses, dishware, and machines. One day Moses realized that my father, Aaron, was fixing the things he found, making them almost like new. All of a sudden my grandfather was a wealthy man. He took in broken things only good for the poorest people and made products that everyone wanted to buy.
“Moses died and my father married and came to America. He wanted me to be a doctor but I was too lazy. So I went into his business finding things that no one wants and making them into something useful.” With that the tiny man sat down in front of a plate of fried chicken and macaroni and cheese that Billy Psalms had provided.
“What the fuck . . .” Ron Zeal said, a spasm of rage going through him. He moved too quickly and the legs slid out from under the chair. But the young man was agile as well as strong. He maintained his balance with both feet and caught the chair before it could fall to the floor. “What the fuck that shit s’posed to mean to me?”
Zeal looked as if he were about to attack the little tinkerer.
The Right Mistake Page 4