“Yessir. Well, her name’s Emma Sample now.”
“Is you her boy?”
“Yessir.”
“Is she at home?”
“Yessir, she’s here.”
“Would you tell her sumbody at the door to see her?”
He wasn’t a regular customer. I had never seen the elderly man who looked to be in his seventies before, but he might be a trick. I sure didn’t want to let him get away; Emma would kill me.
“You wanna cum in an wait til I go git her?”
“No,” he said politely, “I’ll jes wait out heah.”
I went to the kitchen, “Emma, a man’s at the door to see you.”
She was busy chopping a cabbage and didn’t look up, “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. Ain’ never seen him befo.”
“Whut do he want?”
“He didn’ say, he jes ast if you live here an tole me to cum gitcha.”
She laid the butcher knife down. “I sho hope it’s somebody wit some money,” and hurried out of the kitchen. With me right behind, “You sho you don’t know who it is?”
“Yes’m.”
When she got to the screen door, “Yeah, whut do … YOU GOTDAM LOWDOWN SONUVABITCH!!” She spat venom at the stranger. Clenching her fists so tightly the veins in her hands looked like big macaroni, she screamed, “WHUT YOU DOIN ON MY PORCH?!! YOU GOTDAM SORRY MUTHAFUCKA YOU!! YOU KILLED MY MAMA!!”
The old man stood, head hung low, not saying a word.
“WHY, THE VERY IDEA, YOU CUM DRAGGIN YO SORRY ASS UP TO MY FRONT DOOR! YOU MUTHAFUCKA! YOU DON’T KNOW WHUT YOU PUT ME THRU IN MY GOTDAM LIFE! YOU TOOK EVERTHANG AWAY FRUM ME!!”
She flung the screen door open, almost knocking him down. His hat fell off. She stomped it flat as a pancake and kicked it off the porch. “GIT!! YO MUTHAFUCKIN ASS OFF A GOTDAM PORCH!” shoving him down the steps. “IF I EVER LAY EYES ON YOU AGAIN, I’LL KILL … you.” Her voice broke and the tears began pouring down profusely. She cried so hard she could hardly utter, “You muthafucka you …” She followed him down the street throwing rocks at him.
“Who wuz that, Emma?” I’d figured it out but asked anyway.
“My ol’ chickenshit daddy. I oughta harked an spit right in his muthafuckin face!”
She headed straight to her fifth of Old Grand Dad, knocked it halfway, returned to the kitchen and started singing in her Sarah Vaughan-esque voice. Just as if nothing had happened.
“Beautiful Hula, down in dreamy Honolulu,
Dear, I’m feeling so peculiar
Since I first met … you
In a moonlit garden fair,
Cupid, he is wandering there
Waiting and dreaming in a garden of roses;
Sometime, in the bright Hawaiian sunshine,
Dear, I’m trying to make you all mine
And I’ll come back some day
And we’ll fly away
My Hawaiian butterfly.”
Pat would be starting Northside Ward Elementary School in September without a bodyguard. I hadn’t been back since Wallace Clark called me “jailbird” at recess and I knocked out one of his front teeth. He ran and told Mr. Mason, who promised me a whipping when we returned to the classroom.
After we were seated, Mr. Mason called me up to his desk. Dangling the wide razor-strap in his hand menacingly, he ordered, “Bend over boy! I’m gon break you up frum all this fightin.” Everybody was quiet and the loud WHACK! WHACK! echoings of the strap on my butt filled the room.
The stinging pains grew and I bit deeper into my lip. I wasn’t going to cry with all those kids looking at me. This seemed to infuriate Mr. Mason, who was determined to make me cry out. Each time he hit me, he tiptoed for more leverage. After about a dozen hard licks, “Git on back to yo seat. Soon as I rest my arm, I’m gon give you sum more.”
All the kids snickered. I sat at my desk and took the boy scout pocketknife out of my overalls and opened the big blade. He summoned me for an encore. When I bent over this time I gigged him in the thigh and fled. I told Emma I wasn’t “never” going back to school. She didn’t ask why, “If you wanna grow up wit no schoolin lak me, thas yo bizness.”
Gambling had fallen off during the past weekend due to several raids at different joints around town. The new sheriff was trying to put everyone out of business. Emma was feeling the crunch too, and her fleeting usefulness no longer excluded her from the top ten list.
Hustling was at a standstill, suckers had been sucked up, and tricks had been pretty slow over the past few days. “Nubby,” one of Emma’s diehard regulars, hadn’t been around yet; and I was sitting on the front porch watching for him. He was a one-handed white man who got some money for getting his other hand cut off in a sawmill accident. I think he was spending as much of it as he could on colored pussy and whiskey. I couldn’t believe Emma let him touch her with that nub. Just the thought of it gave me the “all overs” (shudders). If we missed him, he kept going around the block and coming back by until one of us flagged him down.
I saw my pal Floyd walk around the corner. He had a big, shit-eating grin on his face as he came up on the porch and sat down beside me. “Hey,” he greeted, handing me the box he was carrying.
“Hi,” I said, examining the box, “whut is it?”
“Open it an see.”
I ripped at the cellophane tape and my mouth flew open. Two pearl-handled, nickel-plated Gene Autry cap pistols with a braided holster!
“You kin hab ‘em,” grinning like a mule eating briars.
“Where’d you git ‘em?”
“I buyed ‘em,” he said brimming with pride.
“They sho must uv cost lots,” as I fumbled with the buckle adjustment.
“Dey did, but I don’t care. I got heaps uv money.”
With the cap pistols strapped on and practicing my quick draw, “How much you got?” He ran his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Damn, Floyd! Where’d you git all that money?”
“Das awright where I got it frum, I got it. An I got sum mo hid. Wanna go to th’ pichur show wit me? I’m payin.”
“Yeah, lemme go tell Emma.” I found her in the kitchen washing dishes. “Emma, look whut Floyd brung me.” Adding, “He got a whole lotsa money. I’m goin to the—”
“Where’d he git all that money?”
“I don’t know,” shrugging my shoulders. “He won’t tell me.”
“Where is he?”
“Waitin on the porch.”
She began drying her hands and heading for the front door. “Floyd baby, cum on in the house,” she said holding the screen open. “Let Big Emma see all that money you got.” Floyd, acting more like a five-year-old than fifteen, was grinning from ear to ear as he showed her the roll of bills. Her eyes lit up like a slot machine.
“Big Emma got somethin she wanna show you, Floyd honey.” Looking at me, “You go on back out on the porch.” When I heard the door to her room close, my heart sank. I knew the rest.
Ten or fifteen minutes later Floyd came out, still buttoning his overalls with sweat rolling off his forehead, “You ready to go to th’ show?” he asked sheepishly.
“Naw! G’on. I ain’ goin,” I answered sharply and brushed past him into the house. I stopped at Emma’s doorway, just looking at her and trembling all over.
“Don’tcha be standin there turnin that peckerwood nose up at me! Money’s money. He’s yo friend. He ain’ shit to me. He’s jes anutha nigguh.”
I stormed out the back door and ended up at the T & P Pond. With my feet in the water, I sat watching the dragonflies skitter across the top, wondering how they kept from sinking. I unbuckled my holster belt and threw the whole thing at them damn skiddy-hoppers, splashing water all over myself and shouting, “I don’t want no shit frum Floyd! Fuck him!”
That low blow took my breath away. I didn’t talk to Emma for a week and performed my duties robotically. Floyd and I went our separate ways after that. I found out later he took the money
from the grocery store where he worked as a porter. The manager left the safe open and Floyd just helped himself. He called the police and, aside from what Emma took Floyd for and the pistols at the bottom of the pond, got most of it back. He wouldn’t press charges and was quite satisfied with the strapping Miss Bertha gave him in the presence of the police. The manager even let Floyd keep his job, but he sure lost his picture show pal.
Instead of things getting better after we ran Salvador off, they steadily got worse and went from sugar to shit. Everything was on a downhill slide. Emma always had to have an “o’ man” around the house and moved in a new one—Amos Washington. Round two. He walked in the door kicking her ass and kept her cowered down. Amos was the only man I ever knew her to have that she was deathly afraid of, but I stayed out of it, having been warned repeatedly by her about “fuckin in me an my o’ man’s bizness. I don’t need none uv yo Gotdam help!” she would say, almost falling down from too much drink.
I learned the hard way to obey her request because sometimes when it got way out of hand and I couldn’t take how he was treating her, I said, “Don’t hit her no mo, Amos.” Even in the heat of battle, she turned on me and cussed me out. So I left, heading for the streets or somewhere and would be gone a few days, hoping to get it out of my system. When I came back I saw her beautiful face erased with bulging black eyes and busted lips that he didn’t give time to heal.
She would drink and confess to me how “scaid uv that muthafucka” she was, “I’m scaid he gon kill me!” I felt sorry for her, but she sure did know how to bring a lot of it on herself, and Amos was quick to oblige with his fists.
Sunday afternoon, nothing much jumping down on the streets so I headed back to the Junction. I stopped at the Star Cafe, which was about a hundred yards from our house, and got an order of chicken giblets and rice. I was sitting at the counter eating when one of the crapshooters stepped inside and saw me. “Say Samp, I jes passed yo mama’s house an it sho sound lak sum bad shit goin down in there. Sound lak they gittin it on hot an heavy. I could hear Big Emma hollerin to the toppa the roof.”
I didn’t finish my food and left in a hurry. As I approached the house I heard her begging, “Amos, please don’t kill me.” I went inside and eased her bedroom door open. She was on the floor, bloody as a beef, with only her panties and bra on. Amos had her by the hair with her head pulled back, holding the neck of a broken whiskey bottle to her throat, threatening to kill her. I presumed he had hit her with it because blood was pouring from her head. Neither saw me.
I ran to the backyard, got the hoe, hurried back and eased her door open. Tiptoeing up behind him, I laid a good lick on his shoulder and another on his arm. He released her and came after me with the broken bottle. Chopping and hacking at him, I landed a couple more good ones as I backed out of the front door onto the porch. Almost as drunk as Emma, he staggered down the street and out of sight.
Somebody called the police. They picked up Amos and took him to jail, then came to the house and arrested me. Emma went to the hospital and got her head stitched up. Amos went before the judge. They charged him with assault and battery along with disturbing the peace and fined him $38.50. The judge charged me with assault and fined me $15.00.
The next day Emma came to the jailhouse with her head bandaged. Old man Buster Wells, who had been tricking with Emma for years, brought her up on the elevator to the cells. After he unlocked and opened the big steel door to the cellblock, I heard her say, “Lemme have my baby outta there. Emma’s here baby,” talking loud, showing off.
Awright, I thought, I’m gittin outta this muthafucka. With a big grin plastered across my face, I moved away from the cell-door window, waiting. I heard Buster’s ring of keys rattling and went back to the window to see what was taking so long. Bewildered, I saw him and Emma walk right by me. She looked over and our eyes locked.
“C’mon outta there Amos,” I heard Buster say. “There’s a pretty woman out heah to see you.”
The three of them walked right past my cell on their way out. My eyes were riveted on her. She never even glanced my way, not even the decency to say “Thank you, dog, for savin my life.” As I stood frozen, watching her leave, something inside of me felt like it busted wide open. My knees weakened and I had to hold on to the window bars to keep from sinking. Feeling Emma’s shoe heel grinding my heart into the floor, all that was left of me were eyes to see and innards to ache with hate. I grew dizzy with anger and then everything shut down.
She broke my heart so many times. She beat me, she left me, she fucked Floyd; but it was this moment I learned I could hate her—my enlightenment. I loved her so much; I never knew I could hate her. Five days I stayed in jail to lay out my fine at three-dollars-a-day credit. Even after that, my love for her overrode the rumbling volcano inside me and I hung on for more. Amos left Longview for Spokane. Good riddance! I had outlasted another one.
Not long after he left, Emma acquired a bouncer. Or maybe he should be called an assassin. I knew Daddum Lee from the domino shack down on the streets. He wasn’t a regular but came in from time to time. Word in the shack was, “Don’t fuck wit that one-eyed nigguh cuz he will fuck a nigguh up!” Always ready to kill somebody, Daddum Lee looked like death warmed over.
Besides only having one eye, one of his hands curled in and half of a foot was missing, causing him to use a cane and walk up on the stump with a limp. He kept his eyelid shut over the hollow socket that he didn’t bother to cover with a patch. His closed lid quivered whenever he got mad—a dead giveaway—and everybody knew to duck. He was a crazy, scary-looking, dangerous motherfucker, but he loved Emma to death and was as devoted as a St. Bernard.
When Emma was at her worst, she talked and started more shit because she knew Daddum Lee was going to back her play. She would sic him on the gamblers if any of them got to fucking with her too much or rubbed her the wrong way. He kept a pistol in his back pocket where they could see it.
She put a new shirt and pants on him and money in his pocket, like he belonged to somebody. He went to strutting, didn’t do his usual limp once he got his nuts out of the sand, and developed a sport hop. Now he limped sideways, swinging his leg out farther, and it even had a little bounce to it. Whenever he put his “weave on” (sport hopping), he’d hang his cane on his arm and take off until he ran into the wall or somebody.
The house was packed, the whiskey flowing, the gambling in full swing. Emma had been hitting the bottle pretty hard. It was her turn to shoot. As she rubbed the dice across her lap, Percy said, “Say Big Emma, quit puttin dat pussy on dem dice!”
“You jes pissed off cuz I’m winnin! Hell, I’m jes rubbin ‘em on my money for luck.” She did it again, just to agitate. “Percy, don’t make me unchain Daddum Lee,” and then she called to him, “Daddum Lee!”
He came limping out of his corner like the mummy, “Who, whut, witch un you wont ta die, Miz Big Emma?” he asked, ready to follow-through if commanded.
Percy’s eyes got as big as saucers and he hushed immediately. She just wanted to scare him, which she had done.
“Naw, jes go on back over there out the way. Everthang’s awright now.”
Glaring daggers at Percy, Daddum Lee growled, “An das th’ way it betta stay,” his eyelid fluttering like a butterfly. He limped back to his corner and stood in the shadows, arms folded in front of him, waiting for her next call.
Over the past month, the weekend gambling had been running hot and cold. The police were raiding other places pretty regularly, and the crowds had drifted back our way. This was a live weekend; the house was full. I went to the liquor store earlier and got a case of wine and half-pints on credit, and was selling it hand over fist.
Emma was surrounded at the crap table, constantly taking big swigs out of “her” bottle. She was missing a lot of cuts out of the bets because she was arguing and bragging with the gamblers.
During one of my passes through the crap room, I heard Herman telling her, “Naw you don’t, Big Emma.
You don’t wanna be fuckin wit me. No way, shape, form, or fashion.”
“Shit nigguh!” she snarled back, “I had my own brother killed. Whut makes you think I won’t fuck wit you?”
Whenever she got whiskey mean and told somebody that, it made me cringe and usually a hush fell over the game. This time was no exception. After the brief silence, she looked at Daddum Lee standing in his corner. “Don’t make me call him, Herman. You be sorry if you do.”
Herman glanced over at Daddum Lee, saw his eyelid shuttering in overdrive, and didn’t say another word.
I was with a customer when she called, “Baby, cum here when you git thru.”
I nudged past the gamblers standing around the table, “Yeah, Emma?”
“These Gotdam nigguhs dun gathered up all the change outta the game an crammed it in they pockets. Run down an git me a rolla nickels right quick,” handing me the two dollars. “An don’t you tarry! I need ‘em.”
I trotted everywhere I went, but since this was a hurry-up deal, I left running at full speed for the liquor store and headed back sprinting faster than Jessie Owens. Streaking past the outhouse on the back trail, my hand hit my thigh and the roll of nickels sailed into the darkness. I put on the brakes and ran back to the spot where I thought the roll landed.
I spent what seemed like an hour crawling around and uprooting every blade of Johnson grass. Two of the gamblers leaving the game saw me crawling around and Hawk Shaw asked, “Whutcha doin, man?”
“I lost a rolla nickels.”
They volunteered to help. Before long Hawk Shaw said, “Cum on, man. We gotta go. We can’t find nuthin, dark as it is out heah.” I kept looking for a while longer, but gave up. I suspected Hawk Shaw found the nickels when he abruptly withdrew their services.
I went in the crap room and walked to the table. Emma glanced up, “Where’s my change? Hand it here!” Not getting the nickels, she looked up again, “Whut you dun?”
I squeezed out, “Emma, I lost th’ nickels.”
Busy placing a bet, she didn’t hear me and demanded, “Hand me my Gotdam change!”
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