Marching to Zion

by Mary Glickman

  His head, his heart, his very skin hurt. Misery and horror at the block of ice his sweet gal had become conflicted in his thoughts with the smoldering memory of how they had joined. Perfect it was, indelible it was. Never, he thought, would he be able to match the experience of that transcendent moment when two felt the rise of one, and all the world had melted into obscurity.

  The front door of L’il Red’s swung open. The brute held a scrawny white man covered in plaster dust by the scruff of his neck. He swung the man back and then tossed him out. His victim groaned, struggling to get up. He was unsteady, drunk as a lord. After looking up and down the street as if for witnesses, the brute gave the drunk’s backside a boot, and the man crumbled again. He folded his arms over his head. He begged for mercy. Under the pale green light of a gas lamp flickering over the whorehouse entrance, the brute’s face was visceral, pure in its uncloaked pleasure at battering his victim. Kick, kick, kick. There was vengeance in his zeal as the drunk took the punishment of generations of like treatment in reversed color. Bailey thought he might kill him. He was about to step forward out of decency and save the cracker when the brute stopped, bent, went through the white man’s pockets, and took whatever money he had, stuffing it swiftly in his shirt before returning to the whorehouse parlor.

  Bailey darted out from his doorway. Are you alright? he asked the drunk, who’d landed at the last thrust against a lamppost.

  The drunk waved Bailey away then pulled himself up the post with two hands. Once standing, he looked into Bailey’s face while a naked panic crossed over his own. With the sudden mobility to which fear and alcohol alone can spur a man, he lurched into the middle of the street and then staggered forward, zigged, zagged, reached a corner, turned, and was gone.

  Shaken, Bailey made his way home deep in thought. There was so much on his mind to discuss with Minnie the next day that he had trouble ordering it all. Despite a deep reluctance, he began to understand why Fishbein had warned him that the first obstacle to enacting his grand plan would be Minnie herself. Her corruption was more profound than he’d dared to imagine. Her depravity would not wash away in an afternoon, a week, a month, or even years. How could he expect to cut the rot from her? She loved him still. He saw that in her face, in the way she’d studied him softly, unblinking, while he held her, in all the startling ways she’d moved to please him, to give him pleasure. He lost himself reliving those fifteen minutes of rapture, and hope was reborn in him.

  When he entered The Lenaka, he did not pause to wonder why the door was unlocked although the hour had grown late. Such banal concerns were beneath his lofty, difficult reflections on wrenching light out of darkness, purity from filth. With his head down, his lips moving as he recited to himself the arguments he might try on Minerva Fishbein the next day, he walked through the beaded curtain that led to the kitchen at the back of the shop and then, untying his tie, he continued to the parlor when Aurora Mae’s voice muttering in a language he did not know came to him. He lifted his gaze to the sight of a most curious tableau.

  Lying on the carpet tightly wound from ankles to clavicle in a white sheet, her eyes closed, her arms crossed over her chest, and holding a sprig of lavender between her hands was what looked like a dead, laid-out whore named Pearl. On the couch facing her sat Aurora Mae, dressed in the tasseled robe of many colors she wore for special occasions. Her hair was wrapped up in a scarf that came together at her brow in a starched fan. She balanced an unlit brazier filled with herbs and spices in her broad lap. Beside her was a dish that held pieces of broken blue glass, and next to that was the round, black-suited, white-collared bald man with tiny feet, Dr. Willie Smalls.

  What on earth? …

  So intense was the concentration of the participants that Aurora Mae and Dr. Willie jumped in a start while the whore named Pearl took in a sudden, deep breath but managed to keep her eyes closed and her hands still. At least she’s not dead yet, thought Bailey. My goodness, my goodness.

  Magnus, Aurora Mae said in a whisper, please don’t say another word. You’ll break the spell. Just leave the room or sit down over there by the window and hush up. I’ll explain when we’re done.

  She lit the brazier and swung it over the whore from her head to her toes and then crosswise, too, while chanting a phrase that to Bailey’s ear sounded like the half-African talk coastal coloreds used. At the same time, Dr. Willie knelt next to the whore’s head holding a large crucifix over her while he called out in English to his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

  Jee-sus! Save this poor child and cast from her the evil one that chains her soul! he said. I cast you out, evil one! In Jee-sus’ name!

  The reverend commenced with a lot of malaka-malaka-maloo, what Bailey suspected was a variety of the speaking in tongues he’d heard now and again at revivals up and down the river during his childhood and again during his bargeman days. A piece of showmanship on every occasion, he was sure, but he had to admit old Willie carried it off pretty well. Swallowing his disdain, he watched while Aurora Mae placed bits of blue glass all around the gal’s body. The two officiants joined hands, spoke over her some more, and then they were done. Sweat dripped from both their brows, landing in drops on the gal’s shoulder and hip respectively. The whore Pearl fluttered her eyelids and then sat up.

  Water, she croaked.

  They gave her water from a pitcher sitting at the ready on an end table.

  Is the spirit gone now, gal? Dr. Willie asked, his hands holding the crucifix at arm’s length, pointing it at her like a weapon.

  She brushed her forehead with a limp and trembling wrist.

  I do believe so. I do believe I feel a removal of the pressure.

  Where from?

  From between my eyes. And, she added, as if the ritual had resurrected in her a long-gone modesty, you know, down there.

  Aurora Mae and Dr. Willie sighed in unison, then turned and grinned at each other in shared triumph.

  Praise the Lord, Dr. Willie said. Praise the Lord.

  There were tears and hugs all ’round. Some Praise Jee-suses and better get your strength back firsts. Dr. Willie left, proud as punch, walking out the door on the tips of his toes, it seemed, as he was assuredly taller than he’d been half an hour before. Aurora Mae put the whore Pearl to bed and tucked her in with cooing song and lilting promise. When she returned to the parlor, Bailey said, Do you mind tellin’ me what zackly all that was about? What zackly were you and that old rogue up to with that gal?

  She explained that after he’d gone off to L’il Red’s, Pearl got out of bed and wandered around the house, singing psalms like a madwoman in screeching tones and unnatural rhythms. She’d scared the bejesus out of Aurora Mae, who feared she was possessed. The gal foamed at the mouth next, then bellowed in the voice of a man. Aurora Mae knew a few rites from her grandmamma, who’d cured more than one cousin of shivering fits and torturesome visions over the years. Her first thought was to employ them, but she’d never practiced such herself, so it was only prudent she call upon the single man of the cloth she knew well enough to ask for help. She used the new telephone to track Dr. Willie down and begged him to come over to try to exorcise the whore’s bedevilment. Having just come from the hellhole that spawned poor Pearl, Magnus Bailey wanted to say he had a very good idea what bedeviled her, thank you very much, and it weren’t no restless spirit, but likely the accumulated and sundry lusts of men for which the gal had likely met the limits of her tolerance. But that might open up a field of questioning he’d just as soon delay as long as possible, or at the least until he’d had a solid night’s sleep, so he kept mum.

  Aurora Mae was agitated from the events of the day. She wanted to talk alright, but what she wanted to talk about was the queer, damn well unearthly behavior of the whore Pearl, how her cries and singing—if you could call it that—made every hair on Aurora Mae’s head stand on end, and how the summons and prompt arrival of Dr. Willie Smalls h
elped her to save the day.

  He hurled a gentle barb at her in a dry, silken voice. You don’t say, he said. Old Willie, the hero of whore and priestess alike.

  She didn’t notice his sarcasm. Yes, indeed, she said.

  He tried again. And your hair stood on end? Bailey asked. Every strand of it?

  Yes. Yes, I swear it did.

  Must have been quite the sight.

  They were lying in bed by this time, side by side. Aurora Mae gave him a punch in his ribs and, given the size of her, he said, Oof.

  When I walked in she looked pretty quiet, he said. Had you all been at it long?

  Some, anyway. First I gave her one of my teas to calm her down while we waited for Dr. Willie. We’re very lucky I didn’t kill her, don’t you know. For a while there, I thought maybe it was me brought on her fit. I was just guessin’ when I tried to bring her fever down. I put everything I could think of in her. Maybe what I gave her didn’t mix right. But that Dr. Willie took one look at the situation and told me no, no, this was most assuredly a case of demonic mischief. That’s why he asked her to play dead, to fool the spirit that was plaguing her. Helps bring ’em to the surface, or so he said.

  Did he.

  Yes. I’m sure I still don’t know what was goin’ on inside that gal, but all I can say is I followed his directions, and they worked. She’s in the next room sleepin’ like a baby, isn’t she. Did you figure where she came from?

  No, he said, no luck there.

  In the morning, he snuck out before either Pearl or Aurora Mae was awake. He would have felt guilty for that, but he knew Aurora Mae was capable of taking care of whatever came up when the whore opened her eyes. She’d look for him, then shrug and do whatever was necessary. He had to admire that and thank God for it too. Given the hours of her business, he doubted Minnie was awake either. He went to his bondsman’s office and made himself a pot of coffee over the sterno. He sat at his desk, trying to make a list of what he needed to impress on Minnie, but there was so much, listing was impossible. Numbers one, two, three, and four were followed by a flood of words with no sense or order. The more coffee he drank, the more diffuse the list got, until he glanced at his paperwork and thought, This is the work of a madman, and despaired.

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. As he did so, an unexpected apparition appeared beneath his lids. It was Aurora Mae, lying in their bed, punching him in the ribs. He saw her as something natural, fine, wholesome to which he should cling, and when he envisioned his Minnie, he saw something terrible and dangerous and worth fleeing. Yet it was for Minerva Fishbein that his heart, his body yearned. Nothing could explain this conundrum. He felt hopeless, lost, paralyzed. When the tiny chime of his pocket watch told him it was one in the afternoon, he managed to stand up and flatfoot it over to L’il Red’s.

  XIV

  Minerva Fishbein was ready for him early. Rather than let her tired whores sleep in, she put them to work. She burst into their bedrooms at seven thirty in the morning. Most hadn’t been to sleep before four, but still she bullied them, pulling their blankets off, tugging their hair. Get up! Get up, my fat lazy cats! she cried out in full voice. How often does your old ma have a visitor she wants to impress?

  It was true enough L’il Red rarely entertained a gent. The thought was intriguing enough to get the women roused and bustling before they took breakfast. By nine, there were fresh flowers in the office and in the bedroom, where the sheets were pressed and perfumed. Behind Minerva’s desk in the little ice chest she kept disguised as a table under a long cloth, dainty sandwiches nested on a fancy plate next to a bottle of bootleg Champagne. Sparkling glasses and crisp napkins bound by a band of gold plate lay poised for action on the tabletop. Minerva spent considerable time and effort on her toilette. She took a bubble bath and dusted herself with a powder puff as big as her fist. One of her gals finger-waved her hair at the crown, then swept up the rest and fastened it with blue porcelain barrettes. She put on her best French chemise, then a white silk blouse with satin buttons and a dove-gray skirt. She put on pearls, then took them off and pinned a Wedgwood cameo over her uppermost blouse button. Because it was Bailey she dressed for, she wore spectators, remembering how he’d favored them in times gone. When she ran out of preparations, she tried to get a little work done before he arrived.

  At ten past eleven, she rose from her desk where she attempted to count the previous night’s receipts and went to a window to see if she might spy Magnus Bailey on his approach. She figured if he were half as anxious as she was, he’d be early. Why would he wait ’til afternoon? While she watched the street, lustful, sentimental thoughts filled her head, and soon, her breath came hard. She twisted her fingers together in a pose that resembled a good Christian woman at prayer. When her clock chimed the half hour and he had not come, she shook herself, irritated by her vulnerability. What a sap that man makes me, she muttered, and marched back to her desk to commence recounting bills.

  An hour later, she got up again, stared out a window, returned to her desk, forgot where she’d left off in her accounting, and started over. How does he do this? she asked herself. How does he manage to make me a flutterbug of a girl again just from the thought of him?

  By the time Bailey arrived at one seventeen, she was frustrated, her stomach was in knots, and the soft rap of his knuckles against her door came to her as three loud cracks. Come in! she barked, thinking it one of her flunkies with some fresh annoyance on his mind.

  But it wasn’t.

  Seeing the handsome hulk of him standing there next to a bowl of cut camellias, fedora in hand, his mouth working to form words that did not come, drove ill temper from her in an instant. He stared down at his shoes—spectators, she saw, a lover’s coincidence that felt a sign of divine pronouncement—then looked up at her shyly, a boy’s ardent plea in his green eyes, long thick lashes beating to keep emotion at bay. Her cheeks warmed; she rose and walked to him with less grace than she wished, bumping into a corner of the desk on her way. She stuck out a shoe to touch the toe of one of his.

  A matched set, aren’t we? she said softly.

  Hardly, my darlin’ girl, he said just as softly, and although he thought it dangerous to be intimate with her before they had their talk, he bent and kissed her lips. A sweet kiss it was, just a small, dear pressure against the mouth, but it led in a heartbeat to a place where no coherent, rational thought could enter. Once again, they found themselves locked in an uproar of limbs and orifice, this time in such a rush of need they didn’t make it to the bedroom but coupled, half-dressed, on the floor.

  My Lord, she said afterward. We are ridiculous, aren’t we?

  He got up, then extended a hand and helped her to her feet. He pulled his pants up and buttoned his shirt while she put her blouse back on, smoothed her skirt, and searched for the cameo, which at some point had flown across the room.

  Ridiculous? I’m sure that’s just the beginnin’ of it. We are also doomed fools, for one thing, unless you listen to me.

  It seemed their lovemaking had taken the edge off his anxieties while fueling his imagination at the same time. He sat in her desk chair. He took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Then he started to talk, and all his previously disordered arguments spun themselves into a gorgeous web of seduction and persuasion, leaping mature and mellifluous from his tongue as if they were part of some old and practiced spiel he could recite by rote in the younger days to a pack of dock rats itching to burn their money and hold on to it at the same time. Just as he’d stretch out his hand and their dollars and coin would drop into his palm like rainfall, he felt her will melt into his, to bind there, close, hot, indivisible.

  First, he spoke of their destiny. As all destinies have a beginning that shapes them, he spoke of their past, of her childhood, of the ways he knew her better than anyone else in the world, better even than old Fishbein. He slipped in and out of his critical act o
f cowardice with such slick finesse, she kissed his brow forgivingly. He surged on. He spoke of their shared ruin in its aftermath without putting too fine a point on her downfall, and then absolved the lion’s share of culpability on both their accounts by railing against the society that had denied the natural expression of their affection that might have occurred had not fear of its cruel law and custom blocked the way.

  What right, he asked, does this world we live in have to deny us our free and willing love?

  None! she said, sinking onto his chest as if laying all the weight of her troubles against it.

  Exactly right. Well, I have news for you, my dear. There are places we can live together under the sun where no one will harm us, no one will think we are anything more than a passing curiosity, and everyone will wish us well.

  He told her about couples like them who lived hidden in the backwoods of West Virginia and the mountains thereabouts, earning from her a scornful little laugh, as he thought he might. Then he trotted out Uganda, Mozambique, and Brazil. She pulled away from him and made a face. He was unsure if she was mocking him or rejecting these venues as places so out of the realm of her experience as to be unthinkable. Alright, he thought, that’s alright, as he was holding back the big hook.

  And then, my dear, there is Paree….

  Minnie’s back straightened, her mouth fell open.

  Ha, ha! How she jumps at the bait, he thought, delighted and proud. He told her how hundreds of colored soldiers found happiness in Paris at the end of the Great War and returned to France rather than suffer the indignities of America once they were free of Uncle Sam’s whims and regulations. He told her about Eugene Bullard, Josephine Baker, Henry O. Tanner, Florence Embry, Langston Hughes, and Leon Crutcher, omitting the sadder aspects of their marriages and love affairs across color lines, touting only their acceptance in the land of wine and joie de vivre. This was not deception, he decided. Marriages and love affairs ended every day for reasons that had nothing to do with color.