Doom Fox (13 page)

Baptiste steps from the store with a sacked fifth of whiskey as she reaches it. He pauses, fuzzy jaws black with a week's growth of beard, his thinned form dressed in wrinkled trousers, bedraggled bathrobe and scuffed house slippers.

Rheumy eyed, he grasps her arm, stares ambivalently into her face before he hugs her. 'How you doing Mouse?'

She moves away. 'Just lovely Papa, and don't call me Mouse.'

He pats her shoulder, chuckles as he moves toward the street door leading to the stairs of Erica's flat. Reba pauses at the drugstore door twinged by pity for Baptiste's sorry appearance.

He turns, says 'Give your mother my worst wishes when you get back home.'

He disappears behind the door. Reba enters the store in wonderment at the neighborhood's chain-lightning grape vine. She forces herself to be pleasant with Erica who sells her the scotch. She leaves the store, wonders as she crosses the street if the bluish bruise on Erica's cheek bone was Baptiste inflicted.

She turns her head back to look toward Erica's front windows. She realizes it wasn't grapevine magic that tipped Baptiste to her mother's visit. She sees Baptiste, with binoculars pressed to his eyes aimed down at her, hastily drop the spy glass from sight and grin grotesquely.

Bath refreshed, Young Joe, beetle browed and stripped to the waist in fresh denim trousers, is frenetically mowing the lawn when Reba enters the front yard. Aboil in disenchantment with females, Joe is only half-playing when, grimacing ferociously, he chops the mower savagely at her heels as she squeals and scurries away to safety.

Phillipa is seated on the living room couch when Reba enters. An audience of cleansed playhouse dolls stare at them through the windows of an antique cabinet. Reba sets the bottle on the coffee table before Phillipa, who immediately pours herself a hefty drink into one of several glasses on the table top.

'I saw Papa ... he knows you're here' Reba says as she sits down on the couch.

'What did that clown say about that?'

Reba hesitates, bites her bottom lip as Phillipa studies her face. 'Not much ... just said "give your mother my best wishes."'

Phillipa clucks her tongue. 'Pshaw! You're a clumsy liar, dearie. Baptiste still hates me! And will until he's banquet for maggots. You know that.'

Reba touches Phillipa's wrist, says softly 'Now Mama, I'm almost sure Papa's still in love with you ... how is Mister Coceau, your new husband? I saw a big picture spread on him a few months ago in one of the local black newspapers as a premier businessman and grand something or other of the New Orleans chapter of the Masons, I think.'

Phillipa smiles bitterly, 'That was then, before supersonic senility swooped. He's now retired as chairman of the board of vegetation. Hey wait, he's also a biggie in the unroyal order of pee stinking flannel drawers and dribbled jaws. He's a charm! But then, I never needed him anyway except for his money. Believe me, dearie, I'm not hurting biologically. I've got a hopper full of men.'

Reba smiles stingily, studies Phillipa's face. The garish wash of table lamp casts cruel angles of light and shadow that mock the face lift to reveal eye socket wrinkles and the harsh, long nosed gauntness of her aging face.

Reba frowns. 'But Mama, I can't understand the sense of all those men!'

Phillipa upends her third double shot glass of scotch.

'Sweets, I need lots of men to have lots of cruel fun with. Most men are shyster Romeo bastards like Coceau, who sniffed me first to make sure before he made a serious commitment that I was at least under thirty fresh.

'Coceau married me anticipating regular plunges into a hot sassy volcano. Instead, he got an ice pit where the swirl of scented smoke and raging flame were illusions, a spell cast by an avenging old witch whose gorgeous smile and girlish face were courtesies of a five grand set of upper and lower choppers and a New York face lift. The womanizing sonuvabitch has become a rabid fan of the Holy Ghost. It's scrumptious fun having the old reprobate freezing his balls, nailed to a cross of ice. But enough of him, let's talk about you and this trap you're in.'

Reba says peevishly, 'Trap? Perhaps Mama, but just briefly for this stepper.'

Phillipa pours a shot, stares into the amber liquid as she whirlpools it inside the glass, 'I hope briefly, Stepper, but don't forget the first strike was called when you stepped up to bat.'

Reba exclaims 'What!'

Phillipa tosses the shot down her throat. 'Dearie, the baby and no husband. The second strike will be when and if you let the calendar mildew your tail feathers before you hook Mister Rich, and security.'

Reba shakes her head. 'Lots of money would be great Mama. But I ...'

Phillipa cues in. 'I'm glad you said that. I'll fly you back to New Orleans for a secret abortion before we go on the prowl to nail a rich trophy to the wall. As a matter of fact, I've got a very rich and very old prospect in mind. But you're my younger sister, not my daughter, when I launch you.'

Reba struggles against anger. 'That's not for me, Mama. I'm having my baby! I'd settle for modest comfort with a man I felt something for. Maybe I am too square, but I want to live respected as a lady.'

Phillipa, aggravated by rejection of her rescue plan and Reba's plebeian aspirations, gets to her feet, prances to and fro before the couch. Her still sleek leggy frame twangs frustration. The chic navy linen dress clings seductively to taut curves that long ago magnetized badger game victims in chrome and leather jungles in a score of cities.

Phillipa pauses before Reba to snort 'Lady!? The Queen of England is the only woman in my memory who can afford to be a lady to the bone. Now there's a Lady! ... stays in her street dresses to prevent any racy flash of her upper, lousy legs.'

Phillipa leans close to Reba's upturned face. 'Dearie, the reality is, it takes a tough street fighter bitch to avoid the third strike when too soon that calendar beast claws you and whispers in passing, "Doll, you ain't seen nothing yet!"'

Reba says, 'I'm not old yet. I refuse to panic.'

Phillipa snorts, 'Dearie, you can procrastinate, and not go back with me. But before your calendar string runs out, you better be impure enough and scared enough to juggle your values and turn half beast yourself to escape that well known black pit.'

Reba gets to her feet, strokes her temples. 'Mama, I'm gonna take a nap, gotta helluva headache.'

Phillipa places her palms on Reba's shoulders. 'All right, nap on my solution to your bind. And please don't forget, survival happens to be the name of the game you're playing, fresh young pet. It's a blood sport! Don't wind up trapped in this dungeon with a slew of kids and a pauper zero for a husband.'

Reba kisses Phillipa's cheek, starts to turn away for the bedroom, pauses. 'Mama, what's the reward playing life your way?'

Phillipa smiles, 'Gracious living, dearie.' She leans to pour a glass of scotch. 'And induction into the old bitch hall of fame.' She smiles bitterly, and as Reba shakes her head and walks away she says, 'Darling, how about some of my gumbo filet for our dinner?'

'I'd love that, Mama' Reba says over her shoulder as she disappears into the bedroom.

At that same moment, in the bedroom of Erica's flat, boozed Baptiste has the problem of dressing for a grocery shopping trip with Erica. She fidgets in the doorway, red poplin rain or shine coat over her white store uniform. She watches him crash to the carpet as he attempts to insert the second wobbly leg into his trousers.

She glances impatiently at her wristwatch. 'Da Dee, I'm really going to have to leave now. I have only an hour to get back to work. We're short of girls downstairs.'

As he hoists himself to sit on the side of the bed to successfully enter the trousers, she says 'It's no use, you can't drive the Packard loaded like you are. Harry can drive me to the market in his Chevy as he has for two years.'

Baptiste bullishly shakes his head. 'He's not this time! I am! I'm not drunk' he exclaims with bleary eyed bellicosity as he gets to his feet, and slips into a paisley print shirt, inside out.

She delicately stamps a sandaled foot as Scandinavian pique frosts her warm blue eyes. 'Ah Ha!' she jeers, 'you can't put your shirt on right. You're too drunk to drive, Kiddo!' As he studies the inverted shirt buttons slack-jawed she says 'I've got to go without you.'

She turns to leave the room. He lunges to seize her wrist. He jerks her back through the door frame, waggles a furious index finger in her face, knifes her dance palace hostess background. 'Look, dime-a-dance broad, you can't waltz me around the suckerberry bush. That horny Harry bastard is not taking my woman to the market. If I don't, then call a cab.'

She snatches her wrist free. 'We can't afford a cab and besides, there isn't time to wait for one. By the way, I'll remind and warn you not to ever again strike or call me names. Understand, my shabby little gigolo, or is it pimp? I refuse to support you and take abuse in any form.'

He says, 'Mule, I heard you but I'm gonna chastise you, White Lady, when you get back, if Harry takes you to the market. And say, Square, damper that gigolo-pimp lie you telling yourself, because you and your chump change wouldn't make a canker on a star whore's pussy. It takes a big buck to support Baptiste Rambeau the way he's used to. Understand that, star natal Square Ass?'

She studies him for a long moment, trembles with aggravation before she turns and goes toward the front door. He staggers after her, slams a palm against the door as she reaches it. A sudden twinge of pain at his rear end lurches him, bends him. He sorts out stress, Erica induced as the cause. He diagnoses rectal cancer for himself.

She watches alarmed before she sees him recover and speak: 'Remember, I'm gonna tear your white ass up if Harry takes you' he warns with bloodshot emerald eyes on fire.

'You better not ever strike me again. Don't force me to call those redneck cops back again. They'll nightstick you and throw you out. Remember, they begged me to let them last week when you punched my face.'

Fear flits across his face for an instant. 'You lynching, cop-hearted snitch bitch!' he shouts. Then he bluffs, 'I've got loving Reba and a home waiting down the block. Bitch, I can leave now!'

She says, 'I won't call them! I don't want you to leave me.'

'I will if you crack cop again.'

Cowed temporarily, even as rage pings her, she says softly 'Da Dee, I can't stand to live like this much longer. Let's break this insanity!'

She closes her eyes, rocks dreamily a bit like a little kid hitching a maiden whirl on a carousel. She says, 'I'd give anything to make us happy again, make us as we were again together.'

He steps aside with a cunning face, says in a sugary whisper, 'It's easy, honey kitten, since you know the combination to that new safe downstairs. Why, I could breeze into it, then hammer and chisel it a bit to cover your part. I could score the night before the armored truck picks up the money. Trust me, love me enough to give me that combination. Angel face, you know Baptiste will stay in your corner until the grim reaper yanks me. Erica, I swear that with a fresh bankroll to make my comeback with the cards, I can put myself, and us, back together as we were. Well!?'

She pauses at the door. To placate him she says, 'That proposition could be attractive if conditions reversed between us. I promise to think about it, Da Dee. A lot! That is, if you can sweeten up a bit, not drink so much, not strike or threaten me any more. Please!'

He says, 'I'll give you sugar diabetes when you lay that combination on me.' He palm bangs her rear end. 'Go on, let that cocksucker take you to the market for the last time.'

She goes out the door. Baptiste slams it behind her and scrambles to his binoculars on the seat of an overstuffed chair rammed against a front window.

Next morning, Reba walks to the sidewalk with Phillipa. Young Joe, prepared to earn Phillipa's windfall fifty bucks, stands beside his newly polished Ford ready to get Phillipa's luggage, then take her to the airport. Phillipa and Reba embrace waists.

Phillipa pleads, for the dozenth time since breakfast, 'Please, baby girl, come with me. Don't rot here!'

Reba says firmly, 'I'm going to have my baby and stay here Mama. Maybe I'll visit you after the baby is walking. I love you.'

They kiss. Phillipa stuffs a thousand dollar bill down Reba's bosom, says 'For the hospital and a nickel's worth of stuff for my grandbaby.' Phillipa flees to the car before Reba can protest.

Young Joe gets behind the wheel. He U-turns it to take Normandie Avenue to downtown. Phillipa's eyes threaten tears as she waves goodbye to Reba. Then tears burst loose when she glances at the memory steeped Rambeau house.

Young Joe halts the Ford at a stationary 'stop' sign at the end of the block facing the drugstore. Joe pulls away under Baptiste's lovesick eyes locked in the spyglass zeroed in through the windshield on Phillipa.

A ghetto half-mile away, Reginald Lewis, Phillipa's airliner bumper, cat-foots silently about a three room apartment. He completes packing his total possessions. He stares at his snoring, pudgy and uncomely but faithful nurse's aid sweetheart that he was shacked up with when shipped overseas by the army. A boss cook, but a broke as Lazarus lousy lay, he thinks as he remembers his toothbrush in the bathroom.

He pauses in the john to tinkle. He gazes at his jungle cat face in a cabinet mirror as he relieves himself. Rapture bombards him as he kudo's himself for catching at last, a rich, sexy and beautiful woman. Phillipa's vow to take him back with her to New Orleans to live an opulent life blares inside his head with the percussive thunder of a John Philip Sousa march.

He hears the cabbie hit his horn staccato as he goes to the dresser top to write a 'Dear Mable' note. Suddenly, Mable's pet cat leaps onto the bed and chews at the curlers in her hair to awaken her.

They stare at each other before Mable says peevishly, 'Oh shoot, Reggie. What the dickens you doing out of bed before you keep your promise to give me some homecoming loving? You ain't forgot you fell in bed and died last night soon's you said "hello." C'mon, undress, sweetie, and make me holler like you usta.'