by Clark Howard
Richie put breakfast on the table and they ate as Mack tried to think of a way to help him locate Ava.
“One of Al’s younger brothers, John—everybody calls him Mimi—I heard was hanging out at the Hi Ho Club up in Cicero. He used to live in the mansion, so he’d remember me. I think he’d help me get in touch with Ralph. He might even know what happened to Ava.” Mack winked at his young friend. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Mack.” Richie’s expression softened. “Y’know, you and my trainer Myron are the two best guys in the world.” An idea suddenly struck him. “Hey, how about coming to see me fight next week? It’s my first five-rounder. You and Myron can meet each other.”
“I don’t know,” Mack said, looking away. “I ain’t much for meeting new people. They usually look too long at my foot.”
“Not Myron,” Richie assured. “He prob’ly won’t pay no attention at all to it. Myron looks people in the eye,” he added almost proudly.
“Well, maybe,” was all Mack would say.
On his way back to the West Side, Richie was more excited about Mack and Myron meeting than he was about the possibility of finding Ava.
Riding the streetcar to meet Linda, Richie reflected on the search for his father. With so many other things in his life now—Linda, training, boxing, Myron—the search for Slim was no longer the most important consideration. He was no longer convinced that his father was the only answer to his and his mother’s problems. Being on his own over the past months, learning that he could not only survive but, to some degree, even succeed, solely on his own, against the odds, in spite of the obstacles, had instilled in him a growing knowledge that he could get by—without Slim. And he could help his mother too.
When he reached Pulaski Road, Richie chose a parked car and sat on the fender and waited for Linda. As soon as she got there, he explained that he had to go to the gym and train instead of taking her to a movie.
“The fight next week is a special one. Myron says I need extra workouts to get ready for it.”
“Gee, okay,” Linda said. Worry set in at once. “Is it going to be a harder fight? Do you think you might get hurt?”
“I ain’t gonna get hurt,” he assured her. With an arm around her waist, Richie guided her into a doorway between two stores. “The guy’s just got a different style that I’m not used to, and Myron wants to show me how to handle it.”
“I hope you don’t get hurt.” Linda put her arms around his neck and they kissed, bodies pressed close, both of them feeling her firming nipples, his erection. “God, I wish we were old enough to run away,” she said when their lips parted.
“I am old enough.”
“That’s not the kind of running away I mean, wiseguy.” She pinched his arm for emphasis. “I mean the kind where a boy and girl run off together. Like to get married.” Linda laid her cheek on his chest. “Wouldn’t it be swell if we were old enough to do that, Richie?”
“We will be someday.”
“We’ll probably never do it,” she said cheerlessly. “You’ve got other things to do. Look for your father. Take care of your mother someday. Fight for your friend Myron. Things that are important to you.”
“You’re important to me,” he stressed. Taking her by the shoulders, he held her away from him so that he could look at her. “I don’t know what I’d do without being able to see you every Sunday. You’re the most important person in my life.”
“Really, Richie?” Her cheeks glowed. “Do you mean it?”
“Sure I mean it. You’re the only one in the world I trusted enough to tell where I was living.” That was a lie; he had told Stan Klein and Bobby Casey. But it was a harmless lie, he decided, if it made her feel good.
“Richie, I love you so much.”
“I love you too, honey.” Over her shoulder he looked at a clock in a jewelry store window across the street. It was ten past one. “I gotta get going. I’ll see you next Sunday, okay? I’ll tell you all about the big fight.”
Leaving her, feeling rotten because he would not have his time with her today, would not be able to hold her and kiss her as much as he wanted to, Richie walked briskly down Madison Street toward the gym. He would feel better, he knew, as soon as he got his workout clothes on and started doing what Myron told him to do; as soon as he started learning what Myron wanted to teach him. Intense concentration, Richie knew by now, served two purposes: it helped him to learn a thing really well—and it helped him to forget his problems, for a while anyway. Learning was exciting to him, as books and boxing and being free and on his own were exciting. When he learned a new thing, when something fell into place in his ever roiling mind, it was almost sexual it felt so fine.
Passing on the opposite side of the street from Cascade, Richie heard a sharp whistle that he recognized at once. Pausing, his eyes swept the street until he located the source: Stan Klein, lounging next to the bowling alley’s entrance, smoking a cigarette. Richie immediately crossed the street to him. As he approached, Stan glanced at the Midwest A. C. jacket he wore, but said nothing.
“Where you headed?” Stan asked.
“The gym, to work out.” Richie bobbed his chin down the street at the athletic club. Stan still did not know Richie was boxing. Looking around, Richie asked, “Where’s Casey?”
“In the fucking Cook County Hospital with his jaw wired,” Stan replied tightly. “His old man came home drunk the other night and kicked him in the face. Without a word, the cocksucker just came in, walked over to where Bobby was sitting, and kicked him right in the face.”
“Jesus,” Richie said quietly. What the fuck was wrong with fathers anyway? “Is he gonna be okay?”
“His jaw’s gonna mend, if that’s what you mean,” Stan said. The eyes of the two boys met as each realized the deeper meaning of the answer.
Then a sudden suspicion rose in Richie. Was Stan there to enlist Richie as a replacement for Bobby Casey, to help Stan steal? A slight wave of nausea rushed through him. If Stan asked, what would he say? He dreaded the prospect of turning Stan down; Stan was the best, often the only, friend of his own age that Richie had. Yet Richie could not, would not, jeopardize everything he had accomplished for himself by becoming a street thief again. Bracing himself to refuse if Stan asked him, Richie learned with shocking incredulity that he would not have to.
“I di’nt come here to tell you about Bobby,” Stan said. “I came to tell you your old lady’s back.”
“What?”
“I seen her down at Madison and Kedzie last night. I went down there to a movie and when I was walking home, I seen her come out of a building and go down the street. I di’nt know if you knew or not.”
Richie mutely shook his head. He stared into space, shocked by the news. He had known his mother would be returning from the federal narcotics hospital someday, known he would have to contact Miss Menefee, or some one, to find out when. But he had relegated that obligation to some time in the vague future when he did not have so many other things on his mind. It was a task that nagged his thoughts now and then, usually when he was trying to go to sleep at night, but since it was not urgent, not demanding of his time then—like looking for Slim, seeing Linda, training, boxing—he always deferred thinking about it. Now he suddenly had to face it.
“The number she come out of was thirty-three-forty,” Stan told him. “Up near the Homan Avenue end of the block, where the park starts.”
“Yeah,” Richie said, in barely a whisper, thickly, “I know where it’s at.”
After a moment of silence between them, unintruded upon by the street sounds around them, Stan shrugged and said, “I gotta take off.” Lips tensing a little, he added, “Gotta see if I can find some machines I can get by myself. See you.”
Richie watched him go without saying goodbye. For several minutes he remained standing on the sidewalk, mesmerized by his own rushing, confused thoughts. Finally, becoming aware that passersby were looking curiously at him, he walked slowly away.
Without consciously deciding, he walked down to the corner and waited for a streetcar that would take him to the address Stan had given him.
18
Richie stood across the street from 3340 West Madison and scrutinized the building. There was a dry cleaner’s at street level, with a stairway directly next to it leading up to three floors above. Over the doorway to the stairs was a faded sign that read: HOUSEKEEPING ROOMS. Staring up at the windows above the dry cleaners, Richie wondered if his mother was behind any of them, looking out. He backed under an awning to keep from being seen, should she be.
He would go in to see her in five minutes, he told himself. There was a clock in a pawn shop window by which he could time himself. That decision made, he turned his thoughts to what he would say to his mother. She would know, of course, that it had been he who turned her in. But there was no reason for her to be sore about that. . . was there? She had probably been very angry about it at first, but in time wouldn’t she have realized that it had been the best thing to do? Lexington had not been easy for her, he was sure of that, but it had been right—and she would know that.
And what of the future? He had it all scaled out in his mind how the two of them could get along, make it in life, by working together. But would she listen to him; would she follow his plan? Always she had been the one to chart the course of their lives, she had done the leading, merely taking him along as she did her suitcase and purse. She had led—and the path she had chosen had eventually always taken them from good to bad, bad to worse. Would she realize that—and if she did, would she admit it?
With a minute to go on the pawn shop clock, Richie began steeling himself to cross the street and walk into 3340—when out of 3340 he saw Chloe emerge. Tensing, Richie moved almost fearfully farther into the shadow of the awning. He did not want her to see him; it was important that he go to her, not that she run into him. Remaining on the opposite side of the street, she walked purposefully down Madison toward Kedzie. Richie followed her on his own side, a few yards behind.
As they walked, Richie studied his mother. He had expected her to look heavier, healthier, than when he last saw her. From a distance she appeared very thin; her stride, her movements, seemed nervous, jerky. As she walked, her hands never stopped moving: she touched her hair, straightened her collar, smoothed an eyebrow, brushed one of her sleeves, put a finger to her lips. Behind her, Richie could not see exactly what each of the restive movements were, but he did not have to; he had lived with his mother long enough to recognize the condition she was displaying. Jittery. Unstrung. Like a doper who needed a fix.
Could that be possible? he asked himself. The mere thought of it made him feel ill. Had they failed to cure her? Did they turn people back on the streets who were still addicts? Richie could not believe it.
At Kedzie, Chloe turned north and walked toward Lake Street. Richie crossed to the opposite side just as a streetcar was starting to leave. Hurrying, he swung onto the rear platform. Giving the conductor a nickel, he remained on the platform as the streetcar passed his mother. He rode one block and got off, the conductor looking curiously at him. On the same side of the street on which Chloe was walking, Richie went into a grocery store and stood a little back from the front window. Presently, his mother came by and he got his first close look at her.
Chloe did not look as bad as when Richie had last seen her, but she certainly did not look good either. She was as thin and gaunt as she had appeared from across the street. She was also very pale and hollow-eyed; the circles under those eyes, while not as dark as he had seen them in the past, were nevertheless present. She walked directly ahead in a determined, single-minded manner, and Richie knew exactly where she was going.
Down Lake Street. To the colored section. To make a buy.
Chloe was still a doper.
Leaving the grocery, he followed her; he had to prove it to himself, even if there was no doubt in his mind. He had to see it.
At Lake Street, Chloe turned and walked east. Staying half a block back, Richie walked behind her on the same side of the street. They were both in the cool shadow of the el tracks now. Richie did not even stay on the inside of the sidewalk, where he could duck into a doorway if Chloe should turn around. He knew that she would not; what she wanted was in front of her, not behind. Dopers needing a fix never looked back.
Down Lake Street the nervous woman walked, traversing blocks that gradually changed their citizens from white, to white and black, to just black. Years earlier when Chloe had sent him to pick up her dope, he had been terrified of Lake Street and its dark, unsmiling faces. Colored boys had chased him trying to get the money that was wrapped up in the notes from his mother. Now Richie simply ignored the hostile looks; he no longer ran from anyone.
Chloe finally entered one of the tenement buildings. Richie crossed the street and leaned in a doorway to wait; he did not even bother to sit on the curb, knowing she would not be inside long. Dope transactions, he knew from experience, were quick and uncomplicated.
His mother was back outside in five minutes. Chloe was a different person now. Just having the little packet of dope was enough to calm the fidgety hands, the restiveness. Now she walked with elbows close to her sides, left arm bent up around her purse, right hand covering the purse from above. No fullback ever protected a football like Chloe protected that purse, no young mother ever held her infant with more care. The same fixed resolve was on her face, the same constancy of purpose in her eyes, but now, on the return trip, there was a slight anticipatory smile on her lips, a hint of cunning shrewdness, knowing. She had something. Something that would let her transcend ordinary life. It was heaven and hell—but it was heaven first.
Richie followed his mother all the way back to 3340 West Madison and watched her go into the building she had come out of less than an hour earlier.
Richie walked up to Homan Avenue where the park began. Finding a park bench no one else was sitting on, he slumped down and rested his head against the wooden back, looking up at the sky. He should be on his way to the gym to start getting ready for the Willie Wakefield fight; Myron was probably still there waiting for him, even though he was more than an hour late. But Richie had no heart for it. His enthusiasm was suddenly gone, his zeal wasted by the sight of his mother in the same doper condition in which he had last seen her. Inside, a new and terrible realization spread.
Nothing had changed.
Everything was the same as it had been a year ago, two years ago, three, four. . . .
It was the old nightmare all over again. Richie had seen that nightmare begin once before, back when his father had abandoned them, back when Chloe had returned with him to Chicago, back when she started taking “medicine” in the form of paregoric, to calm her nerves.
He had seen the nightmare begin, he thought now, but he would never see it end. Daylight never came in nightmares of dope. Richie knew. He had lived in the darkness of such a nightmare when he was eleven years old.
And ten.
And nine.
And eight. . . .
19
When Richie was eight years old, if he was even five minutes late getting home from school, Chloe would be upset.
“I told you to come straight home! You’d better start listening to me, young man, if you know what’s good for you! Now hurry up and change into your play clothes. I’ve got some places for you to go.”
Richie knew what the “places” were, and he knew where they were. It was the same every afternoon; daily he faced it with dread.
In the bedroom, Richie pulled open the bottom drawer of a dresser and got out an old pair of knickers and an old shirt. From under the dresser, he pulled a pair of old scuffed shoes, their heels worn up to the soles on opposite sides. Standing next to the bed, Richie changed clothes. It was not his bed; he slept on the couch, as usual. But the bottom drawer of the dresser was his; he kept his school clothes on one side of it, his play clothes on the other. The furnished apartment they lived in was on Car
roll Street just off Kedzie, in the same neighborhood in which they had once lived with Estelle.
“Richie, will you hurry up!” Chloe yelled from the living room.
Folding his school clothes, he put them in the drawer and put his school shoes under the dresser. Then he went into the living room. His mother was waiting impatiently, one foot tapping nervously. She had the notes all ready.
“Take this first note to the white drugstore down on Francisco. Get a fifteen-cent bottle with the quarter wrapped in the note and don’t forget to get a dime change. Then go down to the nigger drugstore on Lake Street and use this note to get a twenty-five-cent bottle. Then take the dime change and put it with the nickel in this note, and go to the other white drugstore on Talman by the railroad tracks and get another fifteen-cent bottle. And don’t you dare play on those railroad tracks, you hear me? As a matter of fact, don’t you play anywhere; you just hurry up and bring my medicine back here because I have a splitting headache that is about to drive me crazy.” Chloe paused for a moment, thinking, then added, “I’m pretending to be Mrs. Johnson today, so if anybody asks you, you tell them your name is Richie Johnson. Let me hear you say it.”
“Richie Johnson,” he mumbled, barely audible.
“All right, go on now,” Chloe said, urging him toward the front door. “And remember to carry each bottle in a different pocket so they don’t bump together and break.”