by Ann Petry
All that day and part of the night he rode on trolleys, the clang-clang of the car, the rattling, covering up the sound of the sobs that kept bubbling up in his throat, the sound of the groans that kept forming in his throat, the swaying of the car covering up, concealing, helping to conceal the convulsive heaving of his chest.
At ten o’clock that night, he went home. His only concern was whether he would find Mamie there, because he had reached a point in quiet despair, in which he knew that it did not matter who Mamie slept with, so long as she let him sleep with her, so long as she did not leave him. That was all he asked, all he wanted.
Prideless. Pride gone. Even that last vanishing traditional male right of ownership gone. Even that vestige of it which had been nourished by his final meeting with Old Copper was gone, never to return. He had faced and acknowledged the fact that Mamie was all he wanted in life. If Bill Hod was what she wanted then he would accept Hod, go on day after day pretending that Hod was her cousin.
Mamie was waiting for him when he got home. She had supper ready. She seemed so happy, humming under her breath, laughing, talking, that the sheer music of her overwhelmed him.
It was a wonderful supper, shrimp salad and hot biscuits and a soup so flavorsome that he ate two bowls of it. He hadn’t had anything to eat all day. He hadn’t stopped to eat breakfast that morning, hurrying, cutting every possible corner, as he had done for weeks, hurrying through his work at the Hall so that he could arrive home unexpectedly, in order to find out, find out, what he had finally and dreadfully found out, and then knew that he had been better off when he didn’t know, when he only suspected.
He had said, “This is good. This is wonderful. This is like the salad the Frenchman makes at the Hall.”
Mamie said, “Weak Knees fixed it up. You know he’s the cook at Bill’s place.”
He went on eating, chewing carefully, putting measured forkfuls of the shrimp salad in his mouth, avocado and garlic in it, the flavor so perfect, chewing, making himself chew at the same rate, not pausing, not stopping, feeling sick, his throat rebelling against the idea of swallowing.
He laid the fork down and looked at Mamie, the redbrown skin, the big soft breasts, the flimsy elaborate-with-lace pink nightgown, that he had not bought, that Bill Hod had bought, not of course in the sense that he had gone into a store and said, I will have that one, saying in his mind, for the wife of another man into whose bed I sneak, sneak, no, for the wife of another man into whose bed I walk boldly, unafraid, not caring whether he knows it or not.
He said, not meaning to, “I don’t like Bill Hod coming here so much.”
The expression on her face did not change. She sat in the same position, elbows on the table. She said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “I’m right fond of him. If you don’t like his comin’ here, Powther, I can always go live somewhere else.”
He had said, hastily, panic in his voice, “I didn’t mean that. It’s all right. As long as you want him here, it’s all right. I thought maybe you didn’t want him here so much. It’s all right.”
She must have known that his reply was senseless but she didn’t bother to say so. She just sat there, elbows on the table, humming under her breath, “Same train carry my mother, same train be back tomorrer . . .”
He thought sullenly, She speaks of going to live somewhere else just as though she were talking about buying a new pair of shoes. What about Shapiro and Kelly? What about me? She would probably never even think of us again, never mention us, even in casual conversation, just as she had married him, and left Baltimore, never looking back, never questioning the advisability of what she planned to do, just doing it, marrying him, getting on the train, because it was convenient, it suited her plans, fitted in with her desire to live in a small Northern city. If he hadn’t packed her clothes she would have left them there in that rooming house in Baltimore, left everything behind her, and never regretted the leaving. She had never mentioned Baltimore since they’d been living in Monmouth.
Al stopped the car at the corner of Dumble Street and Franklin Avenue.
“Say,” he said, almost reluctantly, “say, Mal, you live down that street, don’t you?” He pointed toward Dumble Street.
“Yes,” Powther said. He hoped Al wasn’t fishing for an invitation to spend the afternoon. He liked Al, yes, but he didn’t think he could bear watching Al’s pale blue eyes travel over Mamie’s curves. As he waited for Al’s next words he tried to think of a plausible excuse for not inviting Al to go home with him. Sickness. Mamie. He would say his wife was sick, and everybody knew that the husband didn’t bring his friends home to visit when the wife was sick.
“What’s down that way?” Al pointed again.
“Nothing. The street ends at the dock. The river’s there. You can see it. That’s all.”
“I shoulda told you before, Mal. One night last week I followed Camilo’s car. You see I kept thinkin’ to myself, night after night, I’d pay out good money to know where she goes all the time. So I parked outside the gates, way down, and when she come out on the road drivin’ like a bat out of hell, I followed her.”
Al stared down toward the river. “She come right in this street. I lost all trace of her right here in this street. I shouldn’a done it, followed her like that, it ain’t none of my business where she goes but I had this curiosity about her.”
“Here?” Powther said. He shook his head. “You must have been drinking too much beer, Al, and followed the wrong car. I live on this street, my family lives here, but this isn’t, well, Miss Camilo might go a lot of places in Monmouth but Dumble Street wouldn’t be one of them. It’s the toughest, noisiest street imaginable. I don’t walk along here myself after ten o’clock. It isn’t safe. Anything could happen on Dumble Street, even in the daytime. If I know I’m going to be late getting through at the Hall, I spend the night there.”
“Whyn’t you and your wife live at the Hall?”
“Mrs. Powther doesn’t want to,” he said, stiffly. “She prefers her own place.”
“She’s right,” Al said. “When the husband works in service and has a wife and they live in, the Madam is always hellbent on puttin’ the wife to work. Last place I worked before I come to the Widow’s, the old maid I worked for was always sayin’, ‘Albert, whyn’t your wife do the upstairs? We need another upstairs girl.’
“That’s why me and my old woman broke up. She said she wasn’t goin’ to do no chambermaid work for nobody no matter how rich they was. She said handlin’ other people’s dirty sheets all day long was her idea of nothin’ at all, even if they was so fine they felt like silk between the fingers, they was still dirty sheets. She blamed me, but hell, Mal, I figured like the old maid, there she was settin’ round on her can all day, she might as well be doin’ somethin’ to earn herself her beer money.
“Well, anyway, I was wrong. After two weeks of doin’ the upstairs she quit me cold, just walked right out of the house. She got up one mornin’ and cooked me my breakfast. Best meal I ever ate. And I said so, and she said, ‘Well I’m leavin’, now, Al, I can’t stand this place no more.’ She had called a cab and it was waitin’ right outside and she got in it with a coupla suitcases and was gone. I ain’t never seen or heard of her from that day to this.”
Powther said, “I’m sorry to hear it, Al.”
“I don’t know what made me start shootin’ off at the mouth, but sometimes, on my day off,” he shook his head. “Well, see you in church if not before.”
Powther waved his thanks to Al and walked down Dumble Street, thinking, If I knew the Captain better, if there was between us something approaching friendship, only there isn’t and never will be, I would tell him to let Miss Camilo alone for awhile, let this love affair of hers run its course. Run its course? Bill Hod and Mamie, that love affair had never run its course. It was like an ocean, limitless, unexplored.
But he would still tell the Cap
tain, if he could, to let Miss Camilo alone for awhile. It would be hard, the waiting, the fear, the anxiety, the nights. During the day it wasn’t so bad. But at night, the nights, when your mind worked overtime, painting pictures, making up dialogue between yourself and Bill Hod, between Bill Hod and Mamie, the nights are indescribable, Captain, too long, too dark, too full of sounds.
What’s the matter with me, he thought. The Captain isn’t the one who has to make up conversations with Bill Hod. It’s me. Why do I care what happens to them, why should I worry about them, about the Captain, and Miss Camilo and some man who lives in Monmouth. They’re rich and they were all three born holding the world by the tail.
He shook his head. “That’s not enough,” he muttered.
He looked around quickly to see if anyone had heard him because he was horrified to think that he’d been walking along the street, talking to himself. He wished that he had someone to talk to, someone to whom he could explain his very real concern about the Captain and Miss Camilo. The fact that the Captain was white and rich could not in any way diminish the feeling of outrage he would experience when he found out what he must already suspect. If only the Captain wouldn’t try to find out whether she had a lover and who he was, wouldn’t try to make certain, it was better to just go on suspecting, much, much better.
Nice little man, Al thought, watching Powther hurry down Dumble Street. Runs just like a rabbit, all the time. Just like a rabbit, all day long. I’d pay good money to know what in hell his wife is like, must be some reason why he’s never asked me to go in his house, probably just like him, and runs right along side of him, Momma Rabbit and Poppa Rabbit. Never saw a colored feller just like him before, never knew there was any just like him. Now why did I tell him about my ex? Something about his face. And he listens good. I wish I could find me a little whore, a nice little whore, beddy-by with a nice little—My! My!
He honked his horn at a curvey colored wench, who was just turning into Dumble Street, curving into Dumble Street, swaying into Dumble Street. She turned and smiled straight at him, showing all of her white even teeth.
“Hey,” Al called out, tooting on the horn again, dum-dee-dah-dah-dah, “come on and get in here with Poppa.”
She shook her head but she kept smiling. “My God!” he thought as he watched her, “I’da paid good money for a piece of that.”
He could have followed her and argued with her, tried to persuade her, but this was a colored neighborhood and many a white man had been found on a roof with his pants, his shoes gone, and his skull split wide open, in neighborhoods like this. He sighed, and drove off, following Franklin Avenue until he found a good place to turn the crate around in, thinking about that big one who had just gone down Dumble Street, he wasn’t sure but what it wouldn’ta been worth getting his skull split open to have a piece of that.
Mrs. Mamie Powther said to herself, as she walked toward Number Six Dumble Street, Wonder where that big one came from. A smile kept appearing around the corners of her mouth, and in her eyes.
13
* * *
ABBIE CRUNCH was ostensibly adjusting her best winter hat, looking in the sitting room mirror as she settled it on her head at what she thought was the most becoming angle; actually, she was admiring the shine of the black coq feathers that adorned the hat, blueblack feathers that were astonishingly effective against her white hair. Sealskin cape, sealskin muff, plain black wool coat, white gloves. It added up to an extremely smart winter outfit, if she did say so herself. If she hadn’t been looking in the mirror, she wouldn’t have seen J.C. enter the room. He came in through the door, sideways, walking on tiptoe, which was unnecessary because he was wearing sneakers and she wouldn’t have heard him come in.
He stood in back of her, touched the sealskin cape, tentatively, gently, and then stroked it.
“Is dat fur, Missus Crunch?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Fur,” he repeated. “Her’s got one, too.”
“J.C., take your thumb out of your mouth. Where will you get a new one when you’ve got that one all chewed up?” To her surprise, he actually took his thumb out of his mouth.
Is that fur! she thought. It’s Alaskan sealskin. Cape made from the Governor’s wife’s old sealskin coat. The Governor’s wife had given it to her in the fall of the year the Major died, saying, “Mrs. Crunch, I brought this to you because I thought you might be able to get collars and cuffs out of it.”
When Abbie took it to Quagliamatti, the tailor who used to be on Franklin Avenue, and explained that she wanted a cape and a muff made out of it, he held the coat up, turned it around and around, muttering, “Rump sprung. Rump sprung. Have to cut around it.” He was such an expert and so inexpensive that she did not reprove him for his unnecessary vulgarity for fear that he might refuse to work on the coat. He had turned out this rippling cape and the fat round muff. By treating them with care, having them stored, and worked over every year, they would last as long as she did. She turned slightly so that she could see the way the cape flared in the back, and thought, as she always did, that the cape would have done credit to a Fifth Avenue furrier.
J.C. said, “You goin’ out?”
“That’s right.” She was going to Deacon Lord’s funeral.
“Kin I go wid you?”
“No.”
“What’m I goin’ do?”
“You’re going right back upstairs to your own part of the house and talk to your mother or play with your brothers.”
“Mamie’s out. Them bastids Kelly and Shapiro is in the movies, ’n they wouldn’t let me go. What’m I goin’ to do? They told me to stay down here.”
“Good heavens!” she said. He was standing close to her, looking at her, his thumb in his mouth, his round hard head on one side, something speculative in his black eyes. I knew it was a mistake to let that woman stay in my house. I’ve changed. I knew I would. A woman like that always changes things, her mere presence is like water working on stone, slow attrition, finally a groove, stone worn down. I no longer state my objections to the child’s language. He uses the word “bastard” and I say nothing, because if I do he’ll just repeat it again and again. He’s watching me, waiting for me to do something about him. He knows I won’t leave him alone in the house.
She’d known Frances for twenty-five years. Or was it thirty years? Anyway, in all that time Frances had never once said, Abbie, will you do something for me? Never asked a favor. Until yesterday morning. The phone rang, and Frances, who was usually quite clear about what she wanted had sounded excited, and what she said didn’t make sense.
Frances had said, “Howard’s a fool—”
Howard? Abbie had thought. Had something happened to him? He was Frances’ assistant, a tall, softlooking man, not young, not old, with reddish hair, and skin almost the same color as his hair.
“Funeral tomorrow afternoon. Deacon Lord’s funeral,” Frances had said, talking faster and faster.
What does she want me to do? How does that involve me, she had wondered, frowning.
“Go to South Carolina. Bring back the body of the Smith boys’ mother,” Frances said, and she’d sounded as though she were barking into the mouthpiece.
She remembered having said, “Wait a minute, Frances. Wait a minute.”
She had been completely confused. Did Frances want her to go to South Carolina? Pretty Boy had been asleep in the Boston rocker, white paws tucked under him, so mounded up, so curled up, that he looked like a big gray and white cushion.
While she was standing there in the sitting room, holding the receiver, trying to think, J.C. had suddenly appeared in the room, edging in, not there one minute, there the next. He pulled the cat out of the rocker, tried to make him walk on his hind feet. Pretty Boy had clawed at him, and J.C. let him go. Then he tried to sit on Pretty Boy’s back, saying, “Dis a horse. Dis a horse.”
“J.C., leave that cat alone,” she had shouted, right into the mouthpiece of the telephone, “Leave him alone! You go back upstairs. Did you hear what I said, J.C.? I’m trying to talk on the telephone. Now go on upstairs! Go on!”
J.C. had backed out of the room. He was always backing away, perhaps because he was conditioned to sudden violent attack from the rear. She had watched him. Did Frances want her to go to South Carolina? Pretty Boy had jumped back in the rocker, curled up again. The cyclamen were in bloom now. The white geraniums were resting. Dormant. Cyclamen almost too brilliant, too vivid, almost red. When Mr. Powther had stopped in to pay his January rent, he had looked at them and said, “What beautiful plants, Mrs. Crunch!” He noticed everything beautiful, appreciated everything beautiful. How he ever came to marry that careless young woman, she couldn’t imagine. Frances gave her the cyclamen at Christmas, every Christmas, plants. How long would she have to stay away? Who would water the plants?
“Yes,” she had said firmly into the telephone. Frances had never asked a favor.
“They don’t want her buried there. They say they won’t even leave their dead in the South, nothing of theirs will they leave there. They never could get her to come North to live but they hate the South so they won’t let her be buried there.”
South Carolina, she had thought. Not buried there. Somebody’s mother. What difference would it make? South or North, if you were dead, you were dead. Where you were buried didn’t matter. She hadn’t traveled that far, alone, in years. What did she think would happen to her? But she couldn’t go. What would she do with Pretty Boy? And there was J.C. always wandering around, always poking and prying into things. He had the awful curiosity of the very young. She was certain Link hadn’t been like that at that age. J.C. looking under Pretty Boy’s tail, asking, “Where does his bowels move?” or standing staring at her, “Where does you wee-wee?” And Link—Link out all night—