Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “Of course, you do. Down to the last penny.” I pushed the final button through its hole and stuffed the shirt tails into my waistband. I snatched the belt to a tighter notch. The buckle slid home without a struggle. I pocketed my miserable wallet and smoothed the hair at my nape. I swept past Brina and out the door before we could exchange more bitter words.

  Now, the collar of my black linen shirt felt crisp against my neck as I stepped from the bright lobby into the shadows of the Argent Bar. The hostess strutted around a podium, holding a menu at chest height like a shield. Her suit of silver sequins and navy velvet matched the décor of the lounge. Chrome, aluminum, and gray-stained oak floors chilled the room. Blue globe lamps hung from the ceiling like tear drops, shedding sad light. Some of the tear drops gelled into little blue tables scattered around the room. A long slab of blue marble anchored the bar to the right of the entrance. Indigo leather wrapped bar stools, chairs, booths, and benches.

  The hostess was tall and white, with gingerbread hair divided by a severe part. She blinked her china-blue eyes fast, like she regretted my entrance. Regretted my existence, really. I showed my teeth, polished special for her. She steered me to a thumbtack-size table near the kitchen door. I walked past the insult, pointing to the biggest padded booth. The rear of the room had advantages: out of traffic lanes, easy to scan the space, hard to be taken by surprise.

  The only other black guy in the place was the piano player. Simple to see why the hostess was uneasy: one black guy was okay; two black guys equaled a gang. If a third black guy arrived, we’d be a race riot. The hostess flinched. Where did I rate on her private scale of brown-people mayhem? Closer to Mahatma Gandhi or Osama bin Laden? Just north of César Chavez, but south of El Chapo? She measured me: neighborhood tall, not NBA giant. Lean, but solid enough for an alley fight. Paler than a paper bag, darker than a manila folder. I smiled. The hostess sucked her lower lip until it disappeared. She frowned, but led me to the booth I wanted.

  As I marched past, the piano player slanted his chin in recognition of our membership in the fraternity. Straight-faced, I nodded. He strummed the first chords of the French national anthem for my tiny victory. Not gaudy, but loud enough to make the brandy snifter on the piano jiggle. The hostess flinched and retreated to her podium near the door.

  A wide-hipped girl with buttery hair patrolled my zone of the lounge. She grinned approval of my seating choice, like she was lucky to be my waitress. I ordered a club soda; zero booze before Annie arrived. Sloshed was no way to start the meeting. Why’d Annie pick a goddamn bar for our reunion? Was the saloon a test? A threat? A dare? This dry wait might kill me. Maybe that was Annie’s goal: murder me with sobriety.

  Sure, I wanted to see her. But I wanted a drink too. Straight and sober was good. But I also needed to calm my jangling head. The waitress sensed my jam. She prowled the aisle, shooting dewy glances at me, waving her pencil in my direction. As if her lush hips could lure me into ordering the bourbon she’d pour just for me. I could taste the dose, smoky and soothing against my tongue. But this time, things would be different. I wanted to be sober for Annie. This time. I shook off the luscious waitress.

  Being blitzed had its upside. Easy for Annie to recognize me. Buzzed and familiar. Once a drunk, always a drunk. But I’d show her I’d changed. If she asked for a cocktail, I’d order my usual Beam on the rocks. If she laid off, I would too. Butter-Hair brought the club soda I requested. She dropped two coasters on the table, white paper squares with a blue circle around “Argent” scrawled in silver letters. On one coaster, a handwritten phone number beckoned. I appreciated the offer, but when she turned her back, I tore the coaster into five strips.

  The club soda worked for a while. The clear fizz was pious, clean. The lemon’s acid cut. But after fifteen minutes and three passes from the waitress, I craved a real drink. Something to smooth the edges and oil the rusty patches. Wet palms and anxious frown was a punk’s look. But it was the only look I had. Too late to switch.

  Then Annie stepped out of my past and into the bar, beautiful as ever. She wore a short pink dress and makeup in the right places. I always hated lipstick on her; she’d remembered. Her mouth was naked, the plum color of her flesh melting to rosy pink at the center of her lower lip. I sucked a long gulp from the club soda. All tension erased; all doubt cancelled, the ugly parts of our past null and void. As I swallowed, I held the glass at my lips. The coaster stuck to the bottom of the tumbler, a mask shielding my face.

  The past had cheated me – of my health, my happiness, my future. Did Annie’s arrival promise I’d win this time? Surefire cinch.

  The coaster fell.

  Chapter

  Two

  Annie paused at the entrance, near the piano. My left brow pulsed; my ears throbbed. Liquid pooled under my tongue. She didn’t see me, so I stared the way I wanted: a hard, raw, peel-the-paint exam. The stare was reward for the long dry wait in this bar. For three years of waiting.

  Her body curved where it used to, a little hourglass wrapped in a tight dress the color of pink grapefruit juice. The tropical shade highlighted the deep brown of her bare shoulders and calves. Her skin shimmered as she turned to look for me. She’d pressed her black hair straight and long, pinning it in a bun on top of her head. A thick fringe of bangs hid her eyebrows, but revealed the familiar glint of her slanted black eyes.

  As she moved, dangling earrings made of little coral pieces set in silver bounced against her dark cheeks. The orange stones should have clashed with the pink dress, but on Annie the combination looked smart, like money.

  Twisting in the center of the bar, she didn’t see me. Had I changed so much in three years? She slithered around two little tables. Pink fingernail polish winked at me from the gloom as she moved. She turned a 360, her eyes scraping each corner of the room. I should have risen so she could find me. I used to be that kind of gentleman. But I enjoyed seeing eagerness tag anxiety in a dance across her face. Watching Annie on the prowl was delicious. Plus, standing would reveal my hunger. She could guess about the rollercoaster, no need for my body to show and tell.

  After two minutes, Annie found me. She beamed through the dim bar; my stomach clutched and surged. Strong teeth, uplifted jaw; a welcome-home grin. A smile to erase the past and cancel the future. I missed her. More than I knew; more than I should have.

  Like a dream, she glided to my position. “Don’t you stand to greet a lady anymore, SJ?” Annie’s sass startled me from my trance. “Have you lost all your manners?”

  I slid along the bench and stood. The familiar juxtaposition of my six foot one over her five four rushed at me. We still fit: tall over small, light on dark; as natural as my daily shaving routine. I placed a dry kiss on the cheek she angled to me. Her satin skin crinkled in a smile where my lips touched. She smelled rich, like candied cherries. “Good to see you, SJ.”

  SJ, forever SJ. Annie was one of a few people from my past who called me by my initials. Hearing them in her smoky voice made me laugh like a kid again. I would always be SJ to her, never the awkward Shelba Julio my sentimental mother had saddled me with. “Sorry, Annie, you caught me wool-gathering.”

  “As usual.” No reprimand in her tone, just indulgence, home-style comfort.

  “Yeah. As usual.” From the top of the rollercoaster, everything she said was fresh and true.

  Instead of taking a chair opposite, Annie scooted onto the curved bench next to me. The butter-haired waitress arrived to take our orders, a pout marring her face.

  Annie knew what she wanted. “Bring me what he’s drinking.” Pink nails skated around the rim of my glass. “Double.”

  “You want club soda, Ma’am?” The waitress flipped her frown into a smirk.

  Annie’s eyes popped until white crescents showed below the pupils. “That’s what you’re drinking, SJ?” When I nodded, she grabbed my glass for a sniff. The worst confirmed, a sly smile lifted t
he left side of her mouth. “Not on my account, are you?” With a jerk of her wrist, Annie upended the tumbler. Ice cubes spilled onto the floor.

  The waitress squealed – not loud enough to lose a tip – and danced from the puddle. I gasped.

  Annie laughed at us both. “Bring me a margarita, sweetie. Crushed ice, in the biggest wading pool you have. With that pink salt on the rim. Just like last night.” She raised her chin to show the tender skin at her jaw. “And bring my husband his bourbon. Jim Beam splashed over one big rock.” She wrinkled her nose, her black eyes sliding to pin me. “That’s what you’re hoping for? Right, SJ?”

  Husband? “Sure, Annie.” Hooked, cooked, and served on a platter. Husband.

  The piano man plunked a few jaunty notes explaining why the lady is a tramp. Then he switched to an Alicia Keys ballad and glided on.

  The drinks arrived fast and our conversation swung into rapid-fire recall. Old Texas friends and relatives passed through our speedy review.

  We giggled about how we’d met as teens in San Marcos. Lab partnership in junior biology didn’t lead to romance over the split frog carcasses, but we’d grown close. I grimaced at the painful memories. “You rescued me, for sure, Annie. I’d have flunked bio without you. Guaranteed.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t knocked the crap out of Tommy Hecht after school that day.”

  “He sliced the legs off my frog. And then he told Mr. Kaiser I’d done it. What was I supposed to do? Grin and let it ride?” I didn’t say Tommy had bent my forefinger until the knuckle cracked the day before our knockdown. Sounded pathetic then, more so now.

  “You broke Tommy’s nose and knocked out two teeth.”

  “Only one.” That old rage boiled through me. I studied the ice cube in my glass, hoping it would cool me by magic. “But yeah, I guess I overreacted.”

  “Two weeks suspension was pretty light, considering Tommy’s dad was a pastor.”

  “And eighty hours of community service, don’t forget. That tour at the city dump sorting bottles and cans gave me new respect for sanitation workers, I’ll tell you what.” I tested a thin smile, but tremors shook my voice. On the table between us, my fingers bent into a knot.

  Annie’s eyes widened. “Still mad at Tommy Hecht?”

  “You bet. I’d have flunked bio that year, if you hadn’t brought me the homework and lecture notes for all those classes I missed.”

  “We were lab partners, SJ. That’s what partners do. Stick together.” She pressed her hand over my fist. Her skin was cool and soft.

  I sighed, spewing the steam of the old disgrace. I swilled a dose of the bourbon. Its heat stung my throat, but not as much as the angry memories. Thanks to Annie, I’d ground out a B minus in biology, while she polished off the A. That summer, I rejoined my post as a waiter at Frida’s, the town’s dullest cafe. Annie patronized the place more than the chicken-fried steak and smothered pork chops merited.

  “You know I kept visiting Frida’s for the chance to see you, right?” Her eyes glittered over the pink crust ringing her margarita.

  “And here, I could have sworn it was the creamed corn and red-skin mashed potatoes brought you back.” My laughter matched hers, full, deep, and open. She downed another long gulp, then licked the crystals from her upper lip.

  I plunged into new territory: “It was you who keyed the giant daisy into the door of Greg Kahler’s red pick-up, wasn’t it?”

  Annie stared straight at me for a beat, then winked. “That cheating bastard deserved it. I heard how he shorted you on your tips that weekend. No way I was going to let that go unpunished. I knew you wouldn’t do it. You needed the job. But I would. And I did.” Crimson dashed on the ridges of her cheeks as she snapped her mouth shut.

  I raised my glass to her daring. “Greg howled like a barefoot pig on a griddle when he found those gouges in his brand-new Chevy. His face turned shiny as the wrecked paint job. And twice as red.”

  Annie’s grin widened. “You figured it was me?”

  “Yeah, it was a girl’s stunt. A guy would’ve knifed the tires or slung a rock through the window. The daisy said female revenge. And you were the toughest girl in school, Annie. Nobody else could touch you.”

  She nodded at my logic, then cinched her lips into a pretty pout. “Yeah, revenge was my specialty. When you’re tiny, you can get away with a lot.”

  “Like the time you dumped sugar into the purses of the girls on the JV cheer team?”

  Annie sucked a quick gasp. “You knew?”

  “I figured.”

  Her rant jumped to third gear: “Those color-struck yellow heifers dissed me. Said I didn’t deserve the spot at the peak of the pyramid. Even if I was the smallest girl on the squad. They convinced Coach Willis to demote me to left flank. I was too dark, too nappy-headed, and too flat-chested to get top place. Those bitches called me ‘coal dust’ and ‘ink spot.’ So, I fixed them. A packet of Domino sugar in each purse did the trick. Ants trooped through those bags like a Mardi Gras parade!”

  Panting, she came up for air. The whites of her eyes flashed as she blinked into the blue glare of the bar. She stroked the smooth hair behind her left ear. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “You wailed about the ants like the rest of the girls.” I lowered my voice until she leaned against my shoulder. “But the next day, you were the only one who didn’t switch purses.”

  “You paid that much attention to me, SJ?”

  “Always.” I held her gaze for a beat. She lowered her lashes into a dark fan across the hollows under her eyes.

  We skipped over the dismal days of army and divorce. She remembered the anger; I recalled the shame. No need to dig into that mire again.

  But I wanted to solve one little puzzle. “How’d you get my phone number?”

  “From Big Lolita.” The senior cousin on my mother’s side championed our marriage long after everyone else bailed. “When I knew I was coming to New York, I called her and she gave me your number. She still loves me. In spite of everything.”

  “Yeah, in spite of everything.” I blew a long gust down my glass.

  Annie was determined to recall our shared past. “Remember that backyard party Big Lolita threw?”

  “The barbecue where I met you? How can I forget?”

  I’d met Annie the summer before junior year of high school. My cousin Dolores was a hairdresser. We called her Big Lolita because her daughter was also Lolita. Big Lolita hosted a family cook-out every year and that August she invited a new client, Annie’s mother. Annie came too.

  “You sure you remember me, SJ? Or you remember that party because of how you decked that boy out behind the garage?”

  “You keep a list of all my fights, do you?”

  “No, only the coolest ones.” She softened the quip with a smile, but I winced anyway. “What was that one about?”

  I dragged a hand over my face in a poor attempt to hide. But she’d asked a direct question, so I owed a clean answer. “Chuy Alvarez kept teasing me. While the adults were out of earshot wolfing ribs, he kept calling me names. Finally, I told Chuy to meet me behind the garage.” The kid lived at the end of my cousin’s street, where pavement dwindled into dirt road. His family lived in a trailer piled on cinderblocks and his hand-me-down pants were always too short. But none of that stopped Chuy from jabbing me with the sharpest insult he could find. “He called me a bastard.”

  Chuy’s actual term of art was “nigger bastard.” But I didn’t repeat that for Annie. I was indeed a bastard. My long-gone father Sheldon Rook was a darkly handsome rascal, according to my mother, Alba Julia. He’d disappeared months before my birth, leaving her with unruly memories and a baby several shades browner than her milky skin. Her consolation was inventing a fanciful blend of their names for me: Shelba Julio Rook. No denying the bastard part. But I’d fight the other at every c
hance.

  “So, you clocked this Chuy. Three punches to the belly. He went down like a sack of onions, as I recall.”

  “You recall correctly.” I tipped my glass at her.

  “Hard to forget that fight. You were scary furious. Chuy was bigger than you. On the varsity wrestling team too. But you were mad as hornets in heat. Took him out quick and good.”

  “You were impressed?”

  “I was.” Annie squeezed her lids, then shook her head. “Day one of fall semester, I saw you in biology. I sat next to you at the lab bench.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Of course, SJ!” Laughter floated from her lips, tinkling and bright. “How do you think we ended up as lab partners?”

  “You didn’t mind the anger?”

  She twisted her lips to the side. “No. Not at first. I thought I could handle it. I was crushing hard on you.” She ducked her head, then picked at a salt crystal on the stem of her giant glass. “And I was so damn teen stupid.”

  I puffed until bourbon rippled over the ice like uneasy memories.

  The present was safer ground, I could regain my balance there.

  “Annie, I read you’re heading a multi-million-dollar operation. How do you do it? You look fresh as a baby in a cradle.” Laid on thick, south Texas cornpone slathered over the compliments. “You ought to bottle that care-free potion and sell it to these New York City women. Stress and distress are the name of the game. Up here, if you’re not anxious, you’re not really trying. That’s how they see it.”

  She detected the BS. “Aw, poor thing! New York City ladies not treating you nice like you’re used to?” She tossed her head until the brown column of her neck shimmied with laughter.

  “I’m doing all right in that department. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Bravado rang stupid, but I tried it anyway. Thoughts of Brina jittered through my mind: her smiling face, her warm eyes, the intensity of her focus as we unraveled a puzzle together.