Linden Hills

by Naylor, Gloria;

  Luther watched them for a moment, feeling the tension in his body relax. Maybe tonight. He was really too tired to sleep. He could begin preparing the Parker body for the wake; the powder and rouge and dressing shouldn’t take more than an hour. That would save him some time when he woke up. Yes, that’s what he needed to do; a little work would put him to sleep. He took the net hanging on the side of the tank and caught one of the catfish. In the kitchen, he hacked off the head of the struggling body and put it in a plastic bag. Then, before carrying it out the back door to his mortuary and the body of Lycentia S. Parker, he shut off the valves under the kitchen sink.

  The thunder from the metal sink in the corner washed over her brain and her mind was flushed from the clock by the rush of sound through the open faucet. She groaned, pressed her chin into the child’s shoulder, and gasped the air like a drowning fish. Would this torture never end? Oh God, please stop that noise—she couldn’t hear the clock. Painfully, she took a deep breath, concentrated, and tried to go on without it. But the spraying water forced different rhythms into her brain—Iwantyoutolive … Iwantyoutolive … Iwantyouto … Once that sound had meant a salvation that was prayed for and bargained for with the same promises offered any god. And it came as an answer from that untouchable region, sending her in flight across the basement hurriedly to catch what was needed for bathing and drinking. And then to wet the dry cereal after the milk was gone. But then even the cereal had gone. So it became a frantic flight from rest or sleep because she never knew—it might be a redemption that only lasted minutes, or once it had gone on for days until she thought the noise would drive her mad as she cursed and then feared the cursing of their one source of life.

  But she didn’t move now. There was no longer any need. Send water. Send light. Send food. A day or an eternity—it didn’t matter. Any possibility of salvation lay withered in her arms. She would have to die down here now. And she would die in her own way.

  The whining receiver on the wall announced the coming. And the stale basement air filled up with the voice: Mrs. Nedeed, I’m giving you some water now. There will be no more food. Please catch as much as you can quickly because it won’t be on all night.

  She listened numbly. There was no meaning to those patterns of empty noises. The words didn’t connect inside of her to any history or emotion. She was past being moved to disbelief, frustration, or anger. The power of that voice was gone. It didn’t demand that she fear or hope—or hate. No, she did not even hate now. She sat there calmly and irrevocably immersed in the simple fact that had become part of her being: Luther was a dead man if she left that basement alive. And so she knew she could never be allowed to leave. So she waited patiently for the voice to cease, for it to withdraw the thunder. Still holding the child, she lay down on the cot. Now she must wait until it was quiet again. A euphoric weakness spread through her body and she drifted off to sleep.

  Lester woke up and found himself bound in a respectable half nelson that had his neck fixed firmly under Willie’s chin and his right ear at the mercy of long, gravelly columns of air. He tried to wriggle free without waking Willie up, but finally had to resort to thrusting his one free elbow into his friend’s stomach.

  “Hey, White, wake up!”

  Willie’s eyes flew open blindly. “Yeah, right. Morning.” And he buried his chin deeper into Lester’s neck and went back to sleep.

  Lester jabbed him again. “Let me up, will ya. You hugging me worse than a woman.”

  When Willie forced his mind to focus behind his open eyes, he finally saw their position in the bed. “And they said it wouldn’t last.” He hugged Lester and let out a deep yawn.

  “You sick bastard.” Lester laughed while untangling himself. He went to the window and began a series of arm push-ups against the frame.

  “You gotta be kidding me.” Willie buried himself deeper into the covers.

  “Nope, every morning—fifty of these and then fifty deep knee bends. I owe it to the daughters of America to keep this body in shape. I don’t want the ones waiting at the end of the line to be disappointed when their turn comes.”

  Willie watched for a while through one eye. “You don’t have a bad ass, though.”

  Lester looked over his shoulder. “Keep that up and you’re not sleeping here anymore.”

  Willie grinned and pulled the covers over his cold nose. His mind wanted to catch the fading ends of the night images that had driven him toward the security of his friend’s body. But the flashes of a huge clock with snakes and spiders for hands and numbers were quickly dismissed as he sought a more comfortable reason. “Now I know what it is—why is it so damned cold in here?”

  “We Tilsons are loyal Americans.” Lester continued his pushups. “She drops that thermostat to fifty-five degrees every night. Gotta save the nation’s energy so we’ll have enough left to fuel those tanks and missiles that are keeping us safe from commies and gooks and possible sneak attacks from Harlem.” Then he saw a black limousine turn out of Second Crescent Drive and head up Linden Road toward Wayne Avenue. He watched it until it was cut off from his view. “Now, here’s something for you.” Lester turned to Willie. “I coulda sworn that guy was gay and now he’s getting married today.”

  “Who?”

  “Winston Alcott from Second Crescent Drive. Mom and Roxanne bitched for a week when they realized they weren’t getting an invitation to that gig. But they should know the game by now. Your scorecard’s rated by how many folks you can get who live below you to show up at whatever shit you have going on. Now, if the Nedeeds are there today, that’ll really be something. Ol’ Winston reached way down the hill to fill up his guest list. Jesus, all the screeching that went on in here about some fag’s wedding.”

  “Well, looks like he’s not if he’s getting married.”

  “Yeah.” Lester frowned slightly. “But I wondered for a while. He was always hanging around with this tall, dark-skinned dude—”

  “And you hang around with a short, dark-skinned dude. That don’t mean that you’re a fruit.”

  “But you never saw him with a woman and then—bam—he’s engaged.”

  “I never saw you with a woman, either.” Willie sat up in bed. “A coupla chimpanzees, maybe. And then last month, that flat-chested thing you shoulda run out and bought a leash for, but never—”

  The thick paperback that flew across the room barely missed Willie’s head, and he covered up his face with the quilt to block the other books that came right behind it. “All right, truce!” He stuck his arm up from the covers. “I’ll admit it—I’ve had to keep a few cans of Alpo around the house in my time, too. And if you don’t let me up, I’m going to leak on this mattress.”

  “Christ, don’t do that.” Lester came and gathered up his books. “We gotta get going anyway. I figure we could check out Mike, he’s the janitor of those town-house apartments on the next street. With Winston’s wedding going on today, maybe there’s something to do around the reception hall.”

  “Probably waiting on tables.”

  “Man, are you kidding? This is going to be one of them classy, catered affairs. They’d only want white waiters for that. The best we can hope for is washing some dishes or hauling garbage.”

  “You mean I can’t put on a monkey suit and pour the vichyssoise?” Willie’s mouth dropped in mock horror.

  “Don’t let it crush you, blood. Before the day’s over, you’ll have your fill of monkeys—and they’ll all be in suits.” Lester shook his head slowly. “Oh, yeah, suited to the hilt.”

  Winston Alcott smoothed the sleeve on his tuxedo and pulled at the cuff needlessly—it was perfectly straight. It was as straight as his shoes were polished as the top hat on his lap was brushed as the striped ascot was knotted, as straight as his walking cane piled in the back window of the limousine along with the canes of his three ushers and best man. He rode in the back seat, between his cousin and David, his best man. His brother’s stiff back in the front seat told him that the others
were as uncomfortable as he was. They were making the stilted movements of people who were afraid of the clothes they wore, dreading that the slightest imperfection would reveal that it wasn’t their usual mode of dress. The only one in the car apparently at ease was the driver, Luther Nedeed. It seemed as if he’d been born wearing the Edwardian costumes that hung like dead weight on the other men.

  “Gentlemen, why so gloomy?” Luther glanced in the rearview mirror at the three in the back. “I’ve seen happier faces at my funerals.”

  They all laughed obediently and Winston forced himself to keep smiling as he desperately sought for something light to say. “Even on the corpses, Mr. Nedeed?” It hurt to keep his mouth turned upward when it wanted to join the rest of his spirit slowly caving in around the dull throbbing in his center.

  Luther looked straight into Winston’s eyes in the mirror. “That’s an interesting analogy, Winston. I guess every young man feels a bit like that on his wedding day. You’re burying one way of life for another. But if you’ll suffer me a further metaphor, after every death is a resurrection, Winston—hopefully, one to paradise.”

  “Or Pampers.” His brother looked over his shoulder and winked.

  “Or paper rollers on your pillow.” His cousin took up the joke.

  David said nothing.

  “Don’t let them bait you, Winston. Their turn will come soon enough. And all you bachelors can take it from a seasoned married man—in spite of occasional drawbacks, it can be a fulfilling way of life.”

  “But not the only way of life, Mr. Nedeed.” David spoke for the first time and the sound of his voice caused the ache in Winston’s middle to flare up.

  I won’t be your whore—

  “No, I’ll grant you that, David.” Luther’s eyes continually sought Winston’s in the mirror and he was forced to meet them, not wanting to turn his head toward David. “But it’s the only way if a man wants to get somewhere in Linden Hills.”

  “I know plenty of single men who’ve done just that.” David stared out the side window.

  “Ummm.” Luther took a sharp left turn and Winston tightened his body to keep from swinging against David’s knees. His leg and thigh muscles ached from resisting the motion that pulled him toward the left window. Oh God, just let them get there. It’s only twelve damn blocks. Were they driving in circles?

  “But where are they living, David? In those small apartments on Second Crescent Drive. And who would want to spend the rest of their lives there? No one’s been able to make it down to Tupelo Drive without a stable life and a family. Besides, Winston didn’t want to stay single, did you, son? You didn’t want to go it alone.”

  “No.” The limousine pulled up to a red light and Winston finally saw the gray stone church three blocks away. “David and I were just talking about that last week.” He looked at David’s averted head. “About how I didn’t want to be alone.”

  I won’t be your whore—

  “About how difficult it is for a man to do the things he’s got to do—alone.” Winston’s saliva tasted bitter as he swallowed. Shut up, he thought, you’re almost there. You can’t reach him in three blocks. What can you do in three blocks that you couldn’t do in the last three months. There’s nothing you can say to make him hurt with you. Winston knew he would have to sink his teeth into David’s throat and tear the jugular vein, smash his head against the car window until it was splintered and smeared with blood to have him hurt as he hurt, to force him to share this moment as he’d shared so many others. He could never do it with words. Winston squirmed forward in his seat. “Isn’t that light taking a long time? It’s probably broken—just run the damn thing.” The anger in his voice startled everyone but Luther, who smoothly turned his dark face around to the back.

  “Don’t worry, Winston.” His mouth was the only part of his face that smiled. “Cassandra will still be there.”

  “But she doesn’t count and you know it.” Winston took the lighter off the coffee table and lit his cigarette.

  “She’s got to count a hell of a lot if you’re marrying her.” David looked out the living-room window with his hands wedged deeply into his jeans pockets.

  “Why?” Winston blew the smoke noisily between his tight jaws. “She wanted a husband—I needed a wife. It’s straight out of a soap opera. And they lived happily ever after until the next floor-wax commercial.”

  David shook his head slowly. “If that’s your attitude, then I feel sorry for that girl. She’s got some life waiting for her.”

  “What other attitude am I supposed to have?” He savagely crushed the freshly lit cigarette into the tray. “I didn’t want this—they did. And I’d think you’d save a little of that pity you’re so generous with for me. What kind of life am I gonna have, goddammit!”

  “It’s the kind you want, Winston.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Then if it’s a lie, son, I guess you’ll be thinking about marriage soon.” Mr. Alcott narrowed his eyes as he spoke, and he tapped the envelope in his hand gently on the top of his desk. “I assume you’re seeing someone now. A young man with your looks and future must be beating them off with a stick.” He smiled slowly.

  “Sure, I date a lot.” Winston’s throat was dry. “But I don’t see any need to rush into something serious. For God’s sake, I’m only thirty, Dad.”

  “Well, I’d already had two children by the time I was your age.” He continued to stare at his son.

  “The world’s a lot different now.” Winston hated the tone creeping into his voice; it was too defensive. And in spite of the air-conditioning in the office, he felt himself sweating. “Some men aren’t settling down until their forties. I figured once I’m thirty-five or so I’d start thinking about it. By then my career should be—”

  “By then …” Mr. Alcott’s voice suddenly shed its soft covering. “You might not have a career. Whoever sent me this letter threatened to send one to the senior partner in your firm. And they said that the next one would be accompanied by pictures.”

  “Pictures of what?” Winston leaned forward in his chair. “Of me having lunch with David? Of us walking down the street or sailing out at the lake? Those are the only type of pictures that anyone could have. And they can send them to be printed up in the damn newspaper for all I care.” He was horrified because he couldn’t control the rising hysteria in his voice. “Or maybe that sick creep will clip out the picture from our college yearbook, where David has his arm across my shoulder at graduation—yeah, that’s certainly hard-core evidence to condemn me with.”

  “It just might be.” Mr. Alcott frowned at the envelope in his hand. “Remember who you are and where you are. A law firm like Farragut and Conway would kick you out tomorrow if you sneezed wrong. So do you think a black man can afford to have these types of rumors hanging over his head?”

  “I’m telling you, they’re a lot of filthy lies.” Winston was trembling visibly. “But if you want to believe them, go ahead.”

  “Lies or not”—Mr. Alcott came from around the desk and put his hand on Winston’s shoulder—“filthy or not”—he squeezed the narrow back—“they’ll make you hang for it, son. I didn’t invent this world, Winston. But I broke my ass so you and your brother could have it a lot easier than I did. And you’ve done me proud. Your life’s barely begun and you’re already living in Linden Hills. I could never dream of that when I was your age. Sure, worse comes to worst, you could come here and work for me. But in ten years, twenty years, would you be happy as a lousy insurance broker? You’re brilliant, boy. Don’t throw away a chance to be a corporate lawyer with a firm like that because of … well, because you’re young and can’t really see what it might mean later. And since you say you’re planning to think about marriage, now is as good a time as any, isn’t it?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well, isn’t it?” Mr. Alcott repeated himself, but Winston knew it was no longer an open question. It was a final challenge to confirm or deny that l
etter.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Good.” Mr. Alcott patted his back. “No one’s asking you to rush out and marry the first woman you see outside today. But mull it over and I think, with all things considered, you’ll realize that it’s the kind of life you want, Winston.”

  “If it’s not the life you really want”—David turned away from the living-room window—“remember, I offered you another.” And his round, brown eyes melted slowly into his words. They melted for Winston like the mist on his steamed bathroom mirror as he stood before it clean and wet with the memory of the hot, beaded water still caressing his back and shoulders. And him reaching out with his hand to clear it away—first from the face that stared back so like his own. The firm even jaw, the damp wiry beard that could be traced down into the chest if he were careful and gentle enough to move aside the stray hairs that grew into the smooth plane of the neck. The mist sliding down the neck toward the chest under his slowly circling hand, revealing the silvery image of his waist, his hips, his lean and woven thighs. The wetness slipping across the sweating glass over the fine down on the testicles and collecting there like crystal welts. Palm following palm, breath meeting breath through the blurred mirror—complete.

  Winston tore his eyes from David’s face and they followed his voice into his hands. “I can’t live with you. Not in Linden Hills. That would be suicide, and you know it.”

  “There are other places to live.”

  “Not like this—and my future is here. My career …”