Black Betty (2 page)

“I might look,” I said tentatively. “But I’ll want to talk to this lawyer guy myself before I give you anything I find. What you say his name was?”

“We’ll talk about that when you’ve got something. I’ll let him know that you’ll be wanting to see to him, though.” He couldn’t have cared less about what I wanted. “How can he get in touch with you if he wants to talk?”

I told him my number and he nodded. Mr. Lynx was the kind of man who didn’t write things down.

“How did you find me, Mr. Lynx? My address ain’t in no book.”

“You’re famous, Mr. Rawlins.” He took a cracked leather wallet from his back pocket. From this he produced a creased and soiled business card. It was damp too. It had a phone number and a Venice Beach address printed in black letters that had run slightly with the moisture. There wasn’t a name, though.

“That’s L-Y-N-X,” he said. “Call me when you find something. And call me soon.”

“How do you know that I won’t just take this money and say you owed it to me for somethin’?”

Saul Lynx looked me in the eye and stopped his placid smiling. “I might be wrong, but I bet that you’re the kind of man who does what he says, Mr. Rawlins. Anyway, there’s still two hundred dollars to be made.”

“Well, maybe so, but how do you expect me to find this one woman outta two and a half million people? You must have somethin’ t’tell me about her.” I already knew how to go about looking for Betty, but I wanted to know what that white man knew.

And he saw what I was about. A smile that bordered on respect grazed his lips. Then he shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Rawlins, but all I know is that she has friends down in the Negro community. Maybe somebody you know will recognize her from the picture.”

I would have given him the money back but I had an idea of how he found me—and an itch to see Betty when I was a man.

“I’ll be talkin’ to ya,” I said.

Lynx touched his forehead in a mock-friendly salute.

“Don’t forget,” he said. “I have to know about this soon.”

He smiled and walked out. I watched him get into an especially small and tinny brown car. It was something foreign, I never knew what. As he drove off Mrs. Horn came out—just curious, I suppose. When she saw me standing outside dressed in my toga her white face paled even more. I don’t know what she thought. I smiled and called to her but she was already hurrying back into her house.

I picked up my own paper and read the headlines. Russia had just set off their third nuclear blast that month.

THE HOUSE WAS HOT even in the early morning and I was a little light-headed from dehydration. I knew that the shabby little detective had been there but the memory was like my dream about Bruno’s murder—not quite real.

The kids were still asleep in Jesus’s room so I put on my housecoat and took up the empty time with a book. I’d picked up
Huckleberry Finn
at a used-book store in Santa Monica. A few liberal libraries and the school system had wanted to ban the book because of the racist content. Liberal-minded whites and blacks wanted to erase racism from the world. I applauded the idea but my memory of Huckleberry wasn’t one of racism. I remembered Jim and Huck as friends out on the river. I could have been either one of them.

Before I found a home in Houston I was a wild boy riding the rails. No mother, no father. Just enough clothes to keep me decent and ten cents less than I needed to survive.

I sat down next to the window and read under the soft light of morning. I entered another dream—of con men and criminals and ignorance too. Mr. Clemens knew that all men were ignorant and he wasn’t afraid to say so.

After about a hundred pages I still hadn’t got the urge to go burn books, so I went to the kitchen instead and started breakfast. Grits with eggs and bacon were on the bill of fare. Coffee for me. I knew that the odors would wake up Jesus and that he would get Feather out of the tiny cot at the foot of his bed. They’d be washed up and dressed just when the table was set.

It was a rhythm more satisfying than good music. I could have spent a whole life watching my children grow. Even though we didn’t share common blood I loved them so much that it hurt sometimes.

I seemed to collect children in my line of work; doing
“favors”
for people. I took Jesus out of a life of child prostitution before he was three. I’d caught the murderer of Feather’s white mother. It was Feather’s grandfather, who had killed his own daughter for bearing a black child.

“HI, DADDY!” FEATHER SCREAMED. She was so excited to see me after all those hours asleep that she ran right for me, banging her nose against my knee. She started to cry and I picked her up. Jesus slipped into the room as silent as mist. He was small for fifteen, slight and surefooted. He was the star long-distance runner at Hamilton High School. He smiled at me, not saying a word.

Jesus hadn’t said a thing in the thirteen years I’d known him. He wrote me notes sometimes. Usually about money he needed and events at school that I should attend. The doctors said that he was healthy, that he could talk if he wanted to. All I could do was wait.

Jesus took over the breakfast while I cooed to Feather and held her close.

“You hurt me,” she whined.

“You want peanut butter or salami for lunch?” I answered.

Feather’s skin was light brown and fleshy. Her stomach rumbled against my chest. I could see in her face that she didn’t know whether to cry or run for the table.

“Lemme go! Lemme go!” she said, pushing at my arms to get down to her chair. The moment she was on her stack of phone books Jesus put a slice of bread covered with strawberry jam in front of her.

“I dreamed,” Feather said, then she stared off into space, lost for a moment. Her amber eyes and crinkled golden hair were both made almost transparent from the light through the kitchen window. “I dreamed, I dreamed,” she continued. “There was a scary man in the house last night.”

“What kind of man?”

She held out her hands and opened her eyes wide to say she didn’t know. “I didn’t see him. I just hearded him.”

“What did he sound like?”

“He sounded like a crocodile in the Peter Pan book.”

“Like a clock?”

Jesus rapped his knuckles on the table to sound like Captain Hook’s enemy. Feather laughed so hard that she dropped her jelly bread on the floor.

“Watch what the hell you doin’!” I yelled. Immediately I regretted it. Feather’s face collapsed into terror and tears. Jesus crouched down as if he were about to take off. Maybe that’s what he thought about when he was racing—escaping from evil men.

Feather’s cry started low like the wail of an air-raid siren. I picked her up out of the chair and hugged her.

“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s just so damn hot that I get mad sometimes when I shouldn’t.”

Her chin was still trembling. Jesus had another jelly bread on the table and he cleaned up the mess while I put Feather back into her chair.

“Daddy got a hot head,” Feather said. Then she laughed.

I put together the lunch bags while the kids got on their shoes.

“I got to do something this mornin’, Juice.” Juice was the nickname the kids had given Jesus at school. Nobody except the Mexican kids felt comfortable calling somebody after the Lord.

“I want you to take Feather to school.”

“Nooooo!” Feather cried. She loved to ride in my car.

Jesus nodded and looked as if he were about to say yes. But I knew that that was just another dream.

Hope is the harshest kind of dreaming.

I roughed up my son’s hair and went into my room to dress for the day.

THE HOUSE WAS THE SAME. Large picture windows on either side of the front door. An old dog was sitting lazily on the front step. The last time I had been at Odell’s house that dog was a puppy. Bougainvillea was planted along the fence and there were succulent shrubs instead of grass for lawn. Odell Jones didn’t like to cut grass, so he never had it. There were tangelo trees rising up from the shrubs, laden with fully formed fruit. The house had a deep stone porch with timbers for pillars.

The door was open and the screen shut. I could see the back of Odell’s head as he was seated in a chair turned away from the door.

I knocked and said, “Hello? Odell? It’s me—Easy.”

Odell didn’t move, at least not at first. After maybe thirty seconds he turned the page of his newspaper and continued reading.

“Easy?” a voice came from behind me.

Maude, Odell’s wife, had been working in the garden somewhere out of sight. She wore a pink sun visor and carried a dirty trowel. Her mouth was smiling but her big eyes showed concern.

“Hi, Maude. I was knockin’.”

“Odell in there but he can’t hear too good lately,” she lied. We both knew that he could hear me. It was just that Odell had cut his friendship off from me years ago after he’d done me a favor once.

I had wanted to get to somebody through Reverend Towne, the minister of First African Baptist Church. Odell made the introduction and Towne wound up dead—his pants down around his ankles and the corpse of one of his parishioners on her knees at his feet. Odell blamed me and I never argued with him. It was a tough life that we lived and I couldn’t deny my own complicity with the pain.

“What can I do for you, Easy?”

“Why you send that man to my house?” I asked simply.

“What man?”

“Com’on, Maudria, don’t play me.”

Odell’s wife had a large body with only tiny shoulders to hang it on. When she hunched those shoulders she looked a little like an overfed pink-eyed frog. “I don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout, Easy.”

“Then I’m gonna stay knockin’ at this here door till Odell tells me.” I made like I was going to turn, but, as large as she was, Maude beat me to the door.

“Let him alone now, Easy. You know it hurts him enough that he cain’t talk to you.” She took me by the arm and pulled me down the front steps.

“I ain’t never said he couldn’t.”

“I don’t know what come between you two, Odell won’t talk about it. But I told him that whatever it was happened, you two was friends and friends don’t do like that.”

I’d given up on talking to my old friend. At least before that morning.

“If he don’t wanna talk, then why he send that man to me?”

“I told you, Easy. We didn’t send no man.”

“Yes you did,” I said loud enough to be heard in the house.

I held out the picture Lynx had given me. “This picture was taken on Elba Thomas’s front porch and Elba was Odell’s girlfriend back then. And we both know that Betty’s Odell’s cousin.”

Maude clasped her hands and begged without words.

“Maudria.” Odell was at the screen. He stared straight at his wife and addressed her as if she were alone. “You come on in here and get my breakfast ready,” he said. He was wearing a house robe on a Thursday morning. It dawned on me that he must have retired.

He turned his back and walked away into the house. Maude was drawn to him but I grabbed her arm.

“Talk to me, Maude, or I will be here all day long.”

“I don’t know hardly a thing,” she said. And then, when I didn’t let go, “This man Mr. Lynx come over yesterday and says that he’s lookin’ for Elizabeth.”

“So she does live up here?”

Maude nodded. “Marlon had TB and they said that the California climate would help. They come up before the war, before we did. But we hardly ever seen ’em. She worked for this rich white woman and didn’t ever even tell Odell who she was or where she lived. If it wasn’t for Marlon comin’ by ’bout two weeks ago we woulda thought she was dead.”

“What did Marlon come for?”

“He said that he was going to go away soon. That if Betty asked we should tell her that it was sudden but that he was okay and he’d get in touch.”

“Why couldn’t he tell her that himself?”

“I don’t know.” Ignorance was a virtue where Maude was weaned.

“What else did Marlon have to say?”

“Nuthin’. We just had some lemonade and talked. He said that he retired like ’Dell did.”

“Retired from what?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did Lynx want?”

“He said that Betty had left her job but that her boss wanted her back. He said that he’d pay fifty dollars for any information we had. ’Dell let him have that picture but he told him we didn’t know where she was. Then that man Lynx said that was too bad because she would probably lose some kinda retirement from the rich family and how she was gettin’ older an’ that could hurt. Huh! He don’t have to tell us about that. We could use that fifty dollars.

“That’s when we said about you, Easy. I said that you knew Betty when you was a boy an’ that you might be able t’find her because I heard you do that kinda thing sometimes. Odell give him your address. He had it from those Christmas cards you sent.” Maude paused for the memory of my ten-cent cards. “It’s nice ’bout how you was thinkin’a us, Easy. You know Odell always looked at your cards.”

We were quiet for a few seconds then, thinking about a friendship gone by.

“Mr. Lynx said he wouldn’t tell where he got your address and then he said thank you very much.”

Maude was the kind of woman who took manners seriously.

“How did Lynx know to come to you?”

“Betty had give the people she work for our address—in case of emergency.”

“Where did Marlon go when he left here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, making her impression of a frog again. “He was real nervous and jittery. He wanted Odell to lend him some money, but we just retired now,” she apologized. “’Dell ain’t sick but he’s weak-like. If I didn’t go out and clean houses part-time we couldn’t even make the tax on this house.”

“So you say Marlon was sick?”

“Yes he is, but he ain’t bad as Martin.”

Just the mention of Martin’s name hurt me. I had stayed away from him partly because I knew that he and Odell were good friends. Seeing Odell ignore me and Martin dying at the same time was too much for me to imagine.

“I heard about that,” I said. “How’s Martin doin’?”

“He hackin’ an’ coughin’ an’ he got a pain in his back so bad he ain’t slep’ in nine weeks. Doctor says that it’s cancer but you know them doctors wrong half the time.”