Blind Moon Alley

by John Florio

  I think it out. There’s nothing stopping me. All I’d need is a few days. I’d have to square things at the Hy-Hat on Monday; I’d also have to tell the champ and Johalis that I’m leaving. Johalis will have a few comments, but I’ll dodge them. Every mutated cell in my body is pushing me to put Myra in the Auburn, drive west, and never look back.

  She’s leaning forward in her chair, staring at me as she waits for an answer.

  I’m wondering where we’ll get the money. To leave here. To get there. To live.

  She’s hanging on my answer—her eyes firing like spark plugs.

  “How’s Thursday?” I say.

  She lunges at me and plants her lips on mine. The kiss comes with the kind of reckless passion reserved for school dances and wedding nights. She swirls her tongue around mine and then traces it up my white jawline and along the rim of my blistered ear. Then she pulls away, looks me in the eye, arches her back, and lifts my shirt over her shoulders. The flickering lights accent her light-brown shoulders and small, rose-tipped breasts. I open my arms and we lock our bodies into each other as we fall to the floor, giddy from the roar of an ocean that’s three thousand miles away. I want to swallow her up, carry her back to sixth grade so we can take the whole ride again and do it right this time. I kiss her lips, her tan forehead, the smooth skin behind her ears. I think of the abuse she took, how she cried at the hands of her classmates, her neighbors, all of the co-stars and bit players of her adolescence. And I remember how I did the same. I pull her close and promise myself I won’t let it happen again to either one of us.

  We roll, tumble, moan, ache, and kiss like the kids we never had a chance to be. And when we’re done, we lie on our backs, breathing heavily, staring at those gleaming pink and blue lights as they streak across the ceiling’s broken plaster beams. Myra palms her hair off her damp forehead and curls her body up against mine. The open window lets in an evening breeze—the first I’ve felt in a long time—and it cools my sweaty neck. Maybe it’s me, but I swear it smells of saltwater.

  CHAPTER 11

  Doc Anders is looking at the rim of my ear, which now resembles the inside of a pomegranate—purplish-red with prickly whiteheads and watery blisters. But I’m not worried about what the doc has to say, not when I’m about to run away with the woman who’s been saying she loved me for twelve years.

  The only loose end I have to tie up is at the Hy-Hat. I’m not looking forward to it. I’ve got to tell Calvin that his stint has ended. I’ve never cut anybody’s pay before, but if I leave Philly the champ will surely come back to New York—and I can’t afford to pay two managers, not without a weekly check of my own. Now that I think about it, maybe Doolie will hire Calvin to fill my spot behind the bar at the Ink Well. I’ll suggest it, but that’s all I can do. It’s not as if Doolie’s turning to me for recommendations.

  The doc dabs some ointment onto my ear with a white cotton cloth and asks me about my father’s hand.

  “You know the champ,” I say. “He can’t wait until that cast comes off.”

  I’m speaking the truth, but I just left my father and he didn’t say a word about the cast. All we spoke about were my plans to head west with Myra in the morning.

  “He’ll have his hand back soon,” the doc says. “Only a few more weeks and he’ll be good as new.”

  We’re sitting in the doc’s office because he knows I can’t stomach his examination room. Lying on that metal table makes me feel like a freak, like some kind of science experiment gone wrong. It’s worse when his nurse is there. She takes notes on my blotches and blisters as if she’s looking at a skeleton in a bio lab—except this skeleton has a beating heart and exceptionally thin skin.

  The doc tables the cloth and slides his spectacles down his nose.

  “You’re not using the cream enough,” he says, eyeing me over his horn-rimmed frames.

  “I only skipped one day,” I lie. “The cops locked me up and I fell asleep right in the rays of the sun. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You could’ve tried staying out of jail in the first place.”

  Of course he’s right, but I let it slide.

  “It burns like a bastard, doc.”

  I’m not sure he’s listening but that’s usually the case when I chat with him. He turns away from me, mutters to himself, and rummages through his cabinet. Then he clucks his tongue and leaves the room. When he comes back, he’s got a box of teabags in his hand.

  “Wet these and use them to soak the burn,” he says. “Every morning.”

  I tell him I’ll do it, even though I know I won’t. I’m leaving with Myra this week—I’m not about to put off the beaches of the Pacific because I’m dabbing a teabag on an ear that will be pale, white, and albino until the end of time.

  The doc looks at my eyes. “They’re shaking,” he says.

  “I’m used to it.”

  He nods. “Nystagmus.”

  I’ve heard the word before. It’s a fancy term that medical people use for shaking eyes. It might as well mean fucking albino.

  The doc walks over to his cabinet, pulls out a small tube, and hands it to me. It’s the same stuff he gave me the last time, or damn close. I slip it into my pocket.

  “How’s that young lady you were chasing after?” he asks.

  He’s talking about Angela and I’m not sure what to tell him. Every time I’m here, I’m talking about a different woman that I love and how she almost loves me back. I’m not about to say that I’ve fallen back in love with my sixth-grade crush—and that she’s hiding in my apartment until we skip town on a crooked cop. He’d have every right to open my chart and check off “idiot.” But he’s not the one with the blistered face. And he’s not the one who made plans to run off with that classmate so many lonely years ago.

  “She’s fine,” I tell him, which I’m assuming is the truth.

  His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Glad to hear it,” he says.

  I’m glad he doesn’t follow up with anything other than his standard medical advice—use the emollient and the eyedrops, stay out of the sun, and wear the dark glasses—because my half-truths are getting closer and closer to half-lies. He writes a prescription for more cream, as if I’ll ever reach the bottom of the tube he just handed me.

  Once I say so long to the doc, I step out of his office and into the blazing sun. I pop my fedora on my head, wrap my scarf around my jaws, don my dark glasses, and walk up the shady side of 87th Street. The Auburn is hot as hell, so I crank down all the windows before taking off for the Hy-Hat.

  It’s a short ride but I take it slowly, avoiding sunny streets, and practicing my conversation with Calvin. I’ve got to let you go. I’m giving your job back to my father. Good luck at the barbershop.

  A group of teens are playing punchball on 127th Street, so I wait for them to finish a rundown before easing past them. I park in front of a fire hydrant and walk up the block. The front room of the Hy-Hat is empty, but I figured today would be slow. Normal people can’t wait to be outside on days like this. Me, I’m standing by the curb, the scarf blocking the summer rays from hitting my face, as I keep rehearsing the words I’ll use to tell Calvin I can’t afford to pay him any longer. Maybe I should start by suggesting he tend bar at the Ink Well.

  I open the door to the club, lose the dark glasses, and take a look at the room where the champ broke the one tool of his trade, his hand. The place is quiet and empty. The dummy bag hangs limply. The pool tables sit idly. There’s something depressing about a game room without kids—it reminds me of a smile without teeth.

  A cry comes from the kitchen, a primitive call for help. It sounds like a woman. I draw my gun and scurry around the ping-pong tables, staying on my toes and avoiding spilled peanuts and a rogue cue ball. Then I position myself outside the kitchen door, waiting to hear the gravelly evil of Reeger’s voice. But I don’t hear the Sarge. All I hear is that agonizing wail.

  I enter quickly, pistol first. Broken plates and open cans of food litter
the floor. Calvin is stretched out on the ground, his right leg bent beneath him. His wife Rose is leaning over him, her palms pressed up against his chest, her fingers soaked with blood. When she moves her hands, I see the bullet hole. It’s in Calvin’s throat—blood is squirting out of his neck and Rose is pushing harder on the wound, trying to stop the hemorrhage. She keeps rearranging her hands, hoping to stumble upon a magic position that will stop the bleeding—but she’s not finding it. She looks up at me and starts to speak but no words come out. Black mascara runs down her cheeks and a trail of saliva oozes off her round bottom lip.

  “Calvin,” I hear myself shout. I feel as if this can’t be real, that if I walk outside and re-enter, Calvin will once again be working the dummy bag with Billy Walker. I fall to my knees over him; I can feel Rose’s shoulders shaking as she sobs. I roll my scarf into a makeshift pillow and slide it under Calvin’s head.

  He tries to speak but no words come out, only a gurgling sound.

  “I’ll call Doc Anders,” I tell Rose and race to the phone in the office. I get the doc on the line and tell him what’s going on. He says he’ll be here in a few minutes, but even that seems too long for Calvin to hold on.

  I dash back to the kitchen and find Rose hunched over Calvin, her head bent, her attention darting back and forth from Calvin’s eyes to his chest.

  My friend’s blood has splattered onto nearly everything in the room. It speckles the sink and the refrigerator; it’s pooling under my knees. I pick up a crumpled napkin from the floor and wipe a sweaty red streak from his forehead. Then I look him in the eye and make sure he’s staring back at me. The dark bags under his lids are swelling and I’m afraid this is the last time we’ll speak.

  “Hang in there, Calvin,” I say and grab his hand. “We don’t want you going anywhere just yet.”

  He squeezes my hand so I know he can hear me. I turn to the door hoping to see Doc Anders, but Calvin squeezes my hand again. This time he doesn’t let up. He wants my attention and I know why.

  “Reeger?” I ask him.

  He blinks his eyes and I take that as a yes. My guess is that Reeger showed up looking for Garvey. He probably started throwing his weight around and Calvin didn’t take too kindly to being bullied. I’ll never know exactly what happened here, but the facts are unimportant. I promise myself that if Calvin dies I’ll take care of Rose. And Reeger.

  “I’ll give the Sarge your regards,” I say to Calvin.

  He gives my hand another squeeze—he likes the idea—but the sound of screeching tires interrupts our conversation. The doc comes running into the club; his nurse is with him. They strap a contraption that looks like a gas mask over Calvin’s mouth and slip a stretcher under his body. They’re calling out medical phrases to each other and I have no idea what they’re saying. I feel helpless and stupid. These two can save Calvin’s life; all I can do is promise to drop a hammer on a badge. The champ has been right about a number of things—one of them is that throwing a gas bomb at a fire only makes the flames bigger.

  Doc Anders works on Calvin as Rose sits silently, twisting the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other. I can see her mind racing through her past with Calvin—and her future without him.

  The doc and his nurse strap Calvin to the stretcher, lift him off the floor, and carry him out of the kitchen and through the game room to the front door. But I know the look of defeat and the doc has it etched around his sagging eyes and across his taut lips. It’s too late. Calvin is dead.

  I was supposed to be heading west with Myra today but spent the morning at Laurel Hill Cemetery. The sun beat down on Calvin’s open grave, frying the burnt grass around the ditch to a yellowy brown. I found shelter in the shade of an oak tree as the priest delivered his eulogy, telling us that Calvin had left us for a better place. As ugly as Philly can turn, I couldn’t stomach hearing that death was an attractive alternative, and I bet that Calvin would agree with me. Rose wept openly as she looked down at the petal-covered coffin. Doolie stood by her side as he said good-bye to his childhood friend. Three Negro men were there—three-quarters of Calvin’s quartet—their heads bowed, their eyes shut in prayer. I leaned against the oak tree, my hat pulled low to stop the sun from broiling my skin—and to hide the shamed look on my face. Everybody there blamed me for Calvin’s death and I couldn’t disagree.

  After the burial, Doolie opened the Ink Well so Calvin’s friends would have a place to grieve, and even though nobody invited me, I came. I felt I owed it to Calvin. I can still feel the regulars staring at me. Angela hasn’t even said hello.

  Doolie’s behind the bar. Homer is also here—Doolie likes having him on staff to man the door. Rose is sitting across from Wallace at table one, staring into the cigarette smoke that swirls in front of her face, its trail as wispy as the memories she’ll now be carrying. Her hair, which is normally wet with pomade and combed down over her forehead, is pointing straight up toward the heavens. There are also some faces I don’t know, most likely Calvin’s friends or family. They’re eating lunch at the other tables—the place is full, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Out of respect, Doolie turned the radio off and unplugged the music box. He’s got the electric fan buzzing, but it’s not strong enough to beat the heat. Nor is it loud enough to drown out the clanging noises coming from the construction crew on Vine Street. Despite the racket, everybody is speaking in hushed whispers. Grief has already knocked us down and it’s still throwing punches. This is a solemn time for the Ink Well, and it’s killing me that I can’t mourn Calvin’s death with the others, that I feel responsible for his death and for his family’s pain. I no longer feel comfortable in the place I called home—even to say good-bye.

  The champ is with me and I appreciate the support. We chose a booth in the back of the joint so as to not to interfere with the other mourners. I’ve got a bourbon in front of me and the champ is working his way through a double seltzer on the rocks. I recognize his blue jacket and maroon necktie; it’s the same combo he used to wear when he represented the Colored Merchants Association in Harlem back before the market crashed. I can see that one of the brass buttons has been replaced—it doesn’t quite match the others. Beads of sweat dot his chin as he urges me to stick to my plan and run away with Myra. I guess Johalis hasn’t been spreading any of those stationhouse rumors because my father is really singing Myra’s praises.

  I tell him my plans haven’t changed—but that I’m postponing them a week or two so I can settle my score with Reeger.

  “What’s that gonna get you aside from the ’lectric chair?”

  “I can’t walk away from this, Champ,” I say, nodding my head toward the mourners in the front room. “I owe it to Calvin. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

  “Your fault? What’d you do? You gave the man a paycheck. Yeah, he was at the Hy-Hat, but that’s ’cause you gave him a job.”

  I want to believe him, but when I glance over his shoulder at the locals who are looking at me—the troublemaker who put their friend in Reeger’s crosshairs—a blanket of guilt dampens my spirit. “He died because he was working for me, Champ.”

  “I know it,” my father says. “But you couldn’t have stopped it. Reeger was lookin’ for Garvey, plain and simple.”

  “So?”

  “So Reeger’s comin’ down on anyone and anything around Garvey, including you.”

  I sip my bourbon and think about it. Garvey was pushed into gunning down Connor—and now Reeger wants a pint of Garvey’s blood. The champ is right.

  “Why do you think I been helpin’ you?” my father says. “You got caught up in Garvey’s mess. He didn’t get caught up in yours.” He reaches out with his casted hand and pats my forearm with his calloused fingertips.

  “Leave town with Myra,” he says. “Go tomorrow. Let Reeger and Garvey settle this. You’re not part of it, Son.”

  I look at his plastered hand, his mismatched brass button, the scar over his eye. The man has his dignity and has always fought
for mine. He wouldn’t tell me to walk away from a battle that was justified. I’ll always wonder how he’s able to see so clearly between right and wrong, and why it’s always been so difficult for me, his own flesh and blood.

  “Okay, Champ,” I say. “You win. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  We sit and nurse our drinks, staying a while out of respect for Calvin. But there’s no longer anything here for me. The magic of the joint was never in what you were doing, but how you were doing it. And right now, I’m doing it alone.

  I tell the champ to go on ahead, that I’ll settle our tab and meet up with him later. I walk up to the bar and put a few bucks down. That damned newspaper still hangs on the back wall—except now it’s been taped back together. I can’t imagine it will stay there for long.

  Doolie comes over and slides my money back at me. “Thanks for showing up,” he says.

  I tell him I appreciate all he’s done for me and I leave the cash where it is. Then I wait until Angela’s in the kitchen before crossing the dining room to leave. I have no idea if she would have said good-bye, but I’m sparing myself the blow of getting an answer I don’t want.

  As I walk out, the only person who looks my way is Homer. He stops me just as I reach the door.

  “You need help with anything, you just call,” he says and shakes my hand, his eyes focused somewhere over my head.

  I tell him he hasn’t heard the last of me, but I’m lying. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning with Myra, straining to spot a better future somewhere on the horizon.

  I step out of the dim light of the Ink Well onto Juniper. The construction crew around the corner is going full steam ahead; it sounds as though the workers are filling a hole with cannonballs. The noise is a refreshing change from the hushed tones inside the Ink Well.