by Mary Monroe
Betty Jean’s mouth flew open so wide, I could see the base of her tongue. “What did you just say?” she screamed, pushing my arm from around her.
“Woman, you heard me.”
“I heard you! I can’t believe you had the nerve to say what you just said! So you don’t ‘like lying’ to your wife, huh? Hah! You got a funny way of showing it!” Betty Jean was mad, but she laughed long and loud. “If you feel that way, why don’t you just be a man and tell her the truth. Tell her about me and our sons and how much you love us. I’ll even go with you when you tell her if you want me to. From what you done told me about her, she sounds like a mild-mannered, forgiving Christian lady.”
I looked at Betty Jean like she was crazy. And if she wasn’t, she wasn’t too far from it. I had never hit a woman before in my life, but I wanted to slap some sense into her head. “Joyce wouldn’t be no mild-mannered, forgiving Christian lady if she knew about you and me and the boys!” I hollered. “I ain’t never going to let that happen! How could you even fix your lips to say something like that?”
“Pffft! You know I’m just playing,” she laughed again. “Can’t you take a joke?”
“Well, don’t play with me about something so serious.”
“Then maybe you should find me a house in Branson so you won’t have to drive so far to see us,” she said next, which was almost as ridiculous as what she’d said a few moments ago.
The thought of my two women living in the same city sent a shiver up my spine. “Woman, you must be out of your mind! Branson is a small town and almost everybody there knows me. And what about the boys? If they lived there, they could be the ones to let the cat out of the bag to one of their new little friends.”
“Like I said, I’m just playing. I know I can’t live too close to you. I promised you from the get-go that I wasn’t going to cause you no trouble with your wife and I still mean that. It’s just that, well, I’d like you to spend at least one more day during the week with us. Your wife sounds like she’s always on the go anyway, so I don’t think she’d make a fuss if you spent just a few more hours away from her a week.”
“Betty Jean, I got enough on my plate for now.”
“Like what? Don’t tell me there’s another woman in the mix,” Betty Jean teased, which I didn’t appreciate. “Forget I said that. I’m just playing with you.”
I wagged my finger in her face and gave her a harsh look. “Well, don’t play with me because I don’t like it. You know I ain’t involved with no other woman except my wife. Now you just be a little more patient and things will work out.”
The first month’s rent for the new house and some new furniture for Betty Jean and the kids put a big dent in my savings account. But I was still in pretty good shape financially. Mac had given me quite a few hefty raises over the years. And when Betty Jean or the kids needed clothes, food, or anything that we carried in the store, I had no problem packing up a few boxes and hauling them to Hartville.
The first Sunday evening in June when I got home from my latest trip to Hartville, Joyce met me at the door with a huge smile on her face. “Baby, guess what?!” she boomed, almost out of breath as she ran up to me. I could smell fresh tea cakes baking in the kitchen and she only cooked them for special occasions or when she was slaphappy about something. I could think of only one thing that would make Joyce happier than she already was.
“Good God!” I hollered. I put my hand on Joyce’s shoulder and guided her to the couch. We sat down at the same time. “You finally got pregnant again?” Our fifth wedding anniversary was coming up next month and I wanted to do something special for her. If she was pregnant, I’d do something even more special. She was a good wife, and I was determined to continue showing how much I loved and appreciated her.
Joyce’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I wish,” she said with a sniff.
“Well, whatever it is, it must be something real good. I never see you this excited unless it’s in the bedroom,” I said, poking her crotch.
She looked exasperated as she slapped my hand. “Later on for that. Anyway, a nice couple moved in the house next door this morning and they’re just a few years younger than us. I already went over and introduced myself, and they seem like the kind of people that like to have fun.”
The Copelands, the grumpy elderly couple who had lived in the house next door, had moved out two weeks ago. They had been a major pain in our butts since the day we moved to the neighborhood. I was glad that they’d moved to Miami to be closer to their son. I was surprised to hear that new neighbors had moved in already. “Oh. That’s nice.”
“I can’t wait to get acquainted with them. It’ll be nice to have some young people one house over for me to visit while you’re off fishing or out there fussing with your daddy and his crazy-ass wife,” Joyce said, grinning. I didn’t think us getting new neighbors close to our age was anything to get that excited about. But it didn’t take much to excite Joyce. She sounded like a little kid on Christmas morning.
“I can’t wait for us to get acquainted with them too. Where did they move here from?”
“They’ve lived right here in Branson all their lives. But on the lower south side.” Joyce dropped her voice to almost a whisper, like she was afraid our new neighbors could hear what she was fixing to say about them. “Uh, the only thing is, they’re bootleggers.”
“They sell illegal alcohol? Hmmm.” I exhaled and scratched the side of my head. “That’s a mighty risky business.”
“Tell me about it. But they don’t seem to care who knows it. The wife didn’t waste any time telling me.”
“Hmmm. Most of the bootleggers I ever knew was well up in age and couldn’t find no other way to make money. Oh well,” I said, hunching my shoulders and shaking my head. “Whatever our new neighbors do, it’s their business.”
“I feel the same way. They seem like nice enough people and I still can’t wait to get to know them. But I don’t know just how close we should get to bootleggers. Most of the ones I know are real shady and rowdy.”
“Well, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Unless they do or say something to offend us or make us feel unsafe, we’ll do all we can to make them feel welcome. What’s their names?”
“Yvonne and Milton Hamilton. She’s real cute. Looks like a little colored Kewpie doll and knows it. I could tell by the way she kept slinging that long hair of hers.”
“So what? If a woman is cute, she’d be pretty dumb if she didn’t know it. What about the husband?”
Joyce shook her head and gave me a pitiful look. “Dogmeat. He’s short and tubby, beady-eyed, moon-faced, and real countrified. His hair looks like a black sheep’s ass. I wonder what in the world a woman as good-looking as Yvonne sees in Milton. But wait until you see the way they look at each other. I can tell they are very much in love. They’ve been married for a few years, but they act like they are still in the honeymoon stage.”
“Just like us, huh?” I poked Joyce’s crotch again. She didn’t slap my hand this time.
“Just like us,” she agreed. And then she led me to the bedroom.
Chapter 26
Joyce
AFTER ODELL AND I MADE LOVE, WE GOT BACK UP AND ATE THE lima beans and gizzards I had cooked for dinner. He was anxious to meet our new neighbors, so we decided to visit them this evening before it got too late.
“Shouldn’t we take them something else other than them tea cakes you baked?” he wanted to know, standing next to me while I wrapped the plate with the tea cakes in wax paper.
“Like what?”
“Well, like a bottle of wine? That’s what my folks used to take over to new neighbors when I was growing up.”
“Wine?” I laughed. “The Hamiltons are bootleggers. If they are in the business of selling alcohol, I’m sure they already have enough of it on hand already. If they don’t, they won’t be in business too long.” I laughed again.
During Prohibition, which had ended five years ago, people had t
o make their own alcohol or get it from bootleggers. Even though we had a lot of bars in Branson now, all of the nice ones were for white folks only. The few owned by colored people often ran out of alcohol too soon, or had to close for a few days for one reason or another. Usually when the people got too rowdy. The people I knew preferred to continue dealing with the bootleggers anyway. I could understand why. They didn’t care how rowdy somebody got in their houses, as long as they didn’t kill anybody. Most of them stayed open all hours of the day and night, seven days a week. Also, sitting in a nice house drinking with friends made people feel a lot more comfortable. And, the majority of the bootleggers had shady backgrounds, so they couldn’t get liquor licenses. They bought their alcohol from the local moonshiners and sold it a lot cheaper than the bars and stores.
Yvonne opened her front door and greeted us with a huge smile. “Girl, I was just talking about you. Y’all come on in,” she squealed, waving us into her living room. “You must be Odell.” She grabbed his hand and started shaking it so hard, I was surprised it didn’t fall off. “That’s Willie Frank, our best friend,” she introduced, nodding toward a slender, barefoot white man sitting on the beige couch with a Mason jar in his hand. He had on a dingy white shirt and brown pants rolled halfway up his legs.
“Howdy do,” Willie Frank said, grinning. He stretched out his hand as we approached the couch. He shook Odell’s and kissed mine. He was only in his early or middle thirties, but three of his front teeth were missing and the ones he had left had chewing tobacco stains. He was still fairly good-looking with his baby blue eyes and thick blond hair.
“Nice to meet you,” I chirped as I sat down next to him. His clothes were neat and clean, but he smelled like stale tobacco.
“How you doing?” Odell said cheerfully. There was plenty of room on the couch, but he plopped down at the opposite end.
“Milton, get out here! Our new neighbors is here!” Yvonne yelled over her shoulder. Almost immediately, her chubby, plain-featured husband shuffled into the room. He was holding ajar even bigger than the one in Willie Frank’s hand.
“How y’all doing? Odell, it’s good you could make it,” Milton said, stumbling across the floor. Odell stood up and shook his hand. “Joyce, it’s good to see you again.” Milton sat down on a footstool facing the couch and Yvonne stood in the middle of the floor.
“Um, I brought y’all some tea cakes,” I said, handing the plate to her. Her long, thick hair was in a ponytail. She was so pretty, she didn’t need make-up, but she had on some blood-red lipstick and enough rouge for two other women. The blue sundress she had on was so thin I could almost see through it. Milton had on a pair of dusty overalls and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He was also barefoot and so was Yvonne. After we’d made love before we left our house, Odell put on a fresh pair of black pants and a white shirt, and I put on a lime green dress and pumps I usually wore to church, so we looked out of place. Based on the shabby beige couch, lamps on the end tables with no shades, and a huge, cheap, framed picture of Moses parting the Red Sea on the wall right next to one of two knights fighting with swords, I could already tell that these people were not very sophisticated. After living next door to the stuffy old Copelands and having to walk on eggshells every time I got close to this house, I couldn’t wait to see what kind of relationship we’d have with a bold, fun-loving couple like Yvonne and Milton.
“Thank you. I love me some tea cakes. It’s been a while since we had some. I can cook a mean pot of greens and any kind of meat, but when it come to baking, I still need a lot of practice,” Yvonne said, rolling her eyes. “Well, Joyce, like I promised you this evening, let me get you and Odell a drink—on the house.”
Yvonne skittered over to a shabby wooden crate on the floor in a corner and took out a large, long-necked bottle and two jars. “We still got a little unpacking to do,” she explained, as she set the jars on the coffee table in front of us and poured a bluish white liquid into each one.
Odell drank first. After a mild belch, he cleared his throat and rubbed his nose. “Ooh wee! That’s real good,” he swooned, smiling. It was the best homemade whiskey I’d ever tasted, and the most potent. I got an instant buzz. Odell took another sip and continued. “So, Milton, since you and Yvonne don’t work real jobs, bootlegging must be paying off, huh?”
Willie Frank snickered. Milton gasped and hollered, “Bootlegging is cool, but we work real jobs too.” He took a long pull from his jar and then let out a belch that made Odell’s sound like a sigh.
“Oh? What else do y’all do?” I asked.
“Well, like most colored folks, me and Yvonne been working ‘real jobs’ since we was youngbloods. Farm labor mostly. We work at Cunningham’s Grill these days. Yvonne wait on tables and I’m a fry cook,” Milton said proudly, puffing out his chest. “It ain’t no fancy place, but the food is good so we do good business anyway.”
“Well do say. A waitress and a cook . . . uh . . . in that little place over by the city dump? Hmmm. I don’t know about the food or the service because I’ve never eaten there and never will,” I declared. “A woman that goes to my church said she got food poisoning when she ate there. Me and Odell usually go to Mosella’s when we eat out.”
“I ain’t never heard about nobody getting food poisoning at Cunningham’s Grill, but my cousin said she seen a fly in her peach cobbler the last time she ate at Mosella’s,” Milton shot back.
“Oh well. I guess no restaurant is perfect,” I quipped.
“Cunningham’s sure ain’t perfect, but we like it,” Yvonne threw in. “What school you work for, Joyce? And ain’t school out until September?”
“I work at Mahoney Street Elementary, fourth grade. I love what I do so much, I don’t mind being there for summer school, too. I do it every year.”
“Woo wee. At least you in the nicest school in town for colored kids. Me and Yvonne had to attend classes at that old church out by the cemetery that they used for a school on weekdays.”
“You a teacher, Joyce?” Willie Frank asked.
“A teacher? Goodness gracious no. I’m just a teacher’s aide,” I chuckled.
“What is a teacher’s aide job?” Willie Frank and Milton said at the same time.
I told them the same thing I had told Odell when he’d asked me the same question on our first date. “My job is real easy and the pay is pretty decent. I wouldn’t work anyplace else.”
“Joyce, it’s all the same to me. I ain’t never been inside no schoolhouse nohow,” Willie Frank grunted. “But I can read and write just as good as anybody.”
“Oh? Where did you learn?”
“In prison. A few years ago, the husband of my used-to-be girlfriend jumped me. I pulled out my knife and he landed on it. Self-defense I said. But the law didn’t see it that way so I was their guest for a few years.”
“Oh,” I said again. “I never would have guessed that. You don’t look like a criminal.”
Willie Frank tee-heed. “Lady, let me tell you something. Criminals don’t look like criminals until they get arrested and convicted. I took my punishment like a man, and I swear on my granddaddy’s grave”—he paused and raised his hand—“I ain’t been in a lick of trouble since the state turned me loose.”
Knowing I was in the same room with an ex-convict made me a little nervous, but I managed not to show it. I was glad Yvonne spoke next.
“We don’t make much at the restaurant. But we like it and the boss man lets us take home some of the leftover food at the end of each day. We just started bootlegging about a year ago. Us both working two jobs was the only way we could scrape up the money to move here.”
I was overjoyed when the conversation took a slight detour. Willie Frank talked about how much he enjoyed operating a still and selling alcohol to Milton and Yvonne, and a few other bootleggers. Odell jumped in and bragged about his job managing MacPherson’s and how much he enjoyed it. “I don’t have to work half as hard as I did when I worked
on farms and in Aunt Mattie’s whorehouse. I could do the job I got now in my sleep if I had to.”
“I wish somebody had gave me a good break so I could be doing a real job,” Willie Frank whined.
“Let me tell you something, my friend: Good breaks is what some people get when they happen to be in the right place at the right time. With me, it wasn’t that. It was hard work and perseverance. I didn’t even make it to high school but I am living proof that anybody—even a colored man—can succeed and land a dream job like mine if they really try.” Odell puffed out his chest and there was a smug look on his face. I was proud of him and how far he had come. What I didn’t like was how he never mentioned my role in him getting such a “dream job.”
Milton shifted in his seat, and Yvonne started coughing and scratching the side of her neck. From the corner of my eye I saw Willie Frank roll his eyes.
“The bottom line is, it don’t really matter what nobody had to do to be successful,” Milton offered. “Getting there is all that matters.”
“That’s a good point, I guess,” Odell said with a sigh. “But what made y’all want to get off into bootlegging, of all things?”
“There’s good tax-free money in running a speakeasy,” Milton said quickly. “But it’s a fickle business. We can make a lot of money one night, and hardly nothing the next night.”
“I’m sure it’s risky, too. Y’all have to worry about the law getting involved or hoodlums causing trouble,” I commented.
“Pffft!” Yvonne gave me a dismissive wave. “We ain’t never had no problems like that. Some of the bootleggers in Branson been in business for twenty, thirty years and the law ain’t never bothered them, so that’s one thing we ain’t worried about. As far as hoodlums causing a ruckus, we only let in folks we know and we don’t know nobody crazy enough to thug us. At the end of the day, all we want to do is get together with people we like and make some money. Let me get y’all another drink.”