It's Not Like I Knew Her (15 page)

“Now, is that a fact?” Sally grinned and glanced toward the door.

“Yes ma'am.” Jodie scrambled. “But I tell you what. I'll take it, and if you're happy with my work, then maybe you'd consider a promotion.”

“All right, that sounds fair. Job starts soon as you clean your plate.” Sally called across the room, “Crystal Ann, get over here and meet Jodie Smith, our new
busboy.
”

Jodie flinched at
boy
, but got what Sally likely meant as a joke. Then Sally turned conspiratorial.

“That one's a mite slow of a morning. And if you ask me, it's too much late night partying.” She nodded toward the young man.

Jodie hadn't asked, and she read in Sally's face a replica of the nosy slander her mama had known. On the spot, Jodie decided to trust Sally only as far as the job dictated.

Crystal Ann took her time pouring refills before strolling over, her chin a bit in the air.

“Jodie Smith, welcome to paradise. You can start by clearing table six.” She pointed. “And watch out that you don't pocket my tips.”

Jodie stuffed the last of the French fries into her mouth and stood. With that, Buddy Highway's generosity was extended, and Jodie Smith was born.

J
odie Smith had mostly stopped looking up at the sound of the café's door, expecting a cop asking about a fugitive named Jodie Taylor. But after six months of bussing tables at the Red Wing Café, she still worried that crazy Roy Dale Pitts might somehow track her down, stroll into the Wing with his ignorant boyish bluster, and blow her carefully constructed cover.

There were plenty of slow times when Sally and Crystal Ann had managed to squeeze every ounce from local gossip, and one or the other turned to her with a meddling glint in her eyes. While Sally's prying had the potential for exposing Jodie Smith as a liar and a fraud, Crystal Ann had Jewel's suspicious eyes and possessed the same cleverness at peeling back layer after layer of her best sidestepping, half-truths, and bold-faced lies. Jodie worried that Crystal Ann's probing carried the greater consequences.

There were times when Crystal Ann had her pinned in one lie or another, and then simply backed off, leaving Jodie to believe she'd heard traces of melancholy in Crystal Ann's voice, as though she had her own pocket of stones. Still, she was at a loss to know what lay behind Crystal Ann's probing, especially after the incident that had shocked her and left her even more baffled.

Crystal Ann had straightened from refilling sugar shakers, her hands pinching into her lower back, and she'd asked, “You ever hear of a tourist attraction down your way where specially endowed women dress as mermaids and swim underwater in a big-ass tank?”

Jodie slowed her pace at rolling breakfast setups and stared at Crystal Ann while weighing the risk of divulging any part of her past, especially a trip with Red to world-famous WeekiWachee Springs. She'd been thirteen and credited the scantily-clad mermaids, gracefully poised behind the glass wall of a giant fish tank, with her first arousal not caused by her own hand. Miss Mary and a disappointed Hazel had waited impatiently in the hot car beneath a noon August sun while she and Red viewed a second show.

“Was that a puny-ass yes?” Crystal Ann showed impatience.

“Yes ma'am, I did once. WeekiWachee Springs, I think it's called.”

“Good, 'cause I'm thinking seriously about getting out of the café trade and moving on up to the titty business.” She'd arched her back, thrust her ample breasts forward, and shook wildly.

Jodie had looked away, blushing.

“Well, what do you think? Am I mermaid material?” A scathing laugh escaped her lips.

Jodie had been speechless, and although she'd felt a jolt pass between them, Crystal Ann turned away abruptly and rushed down the hall, slamming the bathroom door behind her. Jodie believed she'd heard in Crystal Ann's laughter the kind of despair she remembered from her mama's darker moments.

Jodie's cheeks still flushed with thoughts of how good it might feel to touch Crystal Ann's breasts. Hers were womanly, in full bloom, while Clara Lee's had been girlish buds. Still, she couldn't shake her fear that should she ever as much as think such a thing in Crystal Ann's presence, there would be an awful price to pay. The coffee can hidden upstairs held a mere forty-nine dollars and forty-three cents: her savings for a bus ticket and living expenses when she reached Dallas. In an emergency, it wouldn't take her far, but there was enough for a ticket should she need to escape Selma.

O
n the sidewalk, two Negro women hurried toward the corner bus stop, and Sally stared after them, her jaw set firm.

“Wish the city would relocate that stop. With all that colored mess stirring in Montgomery, it's bound to spread.” Sally sighed heavily and looked to Jodie, for what exactly she wasn't sure. “They'd better stay the hell out of here. There's plenty of our regulars who'd go to their vehicles and bring back guns.”

The two watched the crowded bus pull onto the street.

“I sure don't want no kind of trouble. Barely keeping the doors open as it is.”

“No, ma'am,” Jodie muttered. She now understood that Sally wanted nothing more from her.

Sally flipped the card that hung on the door to
CLOSED.
She then stepped onto the sidewalk, locking the door behind her. With the aid of the corner streetlight, Jodie watched as Sally rushed to her car and drove away. Jodie believed she'd seen fear in the way Sally had hurried past the alley and continued to glance over her shoulder as if she expected an attack.

Jodie hauled the carpet machine from the storage closet and began to vacuum the tattered carpet that no amount of effort could ever again make clean or smell different than a wet Buster. She thought of the dog and hoped he'd taken up with Silas. When she'd gathered and dumped four loads of garbage into the overflowing drums in the alley, Arthur called to her from the kitchen door.

“I'm out of here. And if I see the light of day, I'll be right back here tomorrow.” Arthur laughed, and just that quick, he was through the door and into the alley. Minutes later his Chevy sped onto the street to the thunderous roar of its rebuilt engine.

Her third week at the Wing, she'd heard Arthur bragging to someone over the phone that there wasn't a cracker in all of Dallas County with engine enough to run him down. At the time, she'd wondered how his fast car connected to his rant that Atlanta had failed to send a real teacher. He'd slammed down the receiver, turned, and stared at her from across the diner, his eyes burning with instant suspicion.

She meant to keep her head down and stay out of his business. She'd shoved the vacuum into storage and turned to leave when he yelled that local calls didn't cost extra and Sally was a stingy racist. The veins in his neck bulged against his dark skin, and his anger scared her.

She'd never before heard a Negro speak that way. The sentiment was as old and thick as time, but the word
racist
was new to her. Then, she knew him for a liar, at least about the forbidden use of the phone. Just the day before, she'd heard Sally wrangling with the telephone company about false charges. She'd declared the café's phone was off-limits to her colored help and that none had gumption enough to make a long-distance call.

Jodie had managed to mumble that his personal dealings with Sally were no skin off her nose either way. He slowly nodded, and maybe he suspected her a liar as well, but appeared to accept what neither could undo. He walked past her into the kitchen, leaving her to sort out Jewel's harsh warning that she was never to trust a Negro. Still, she'd decided to watch and wait before making up her mind about Arthur. She was still watching.

P
ocketing a handful of saltines and a newspaper left by a customer, Jodie braved the growing chill of the evening and hauled her exhaustion up the alley steps to the room above the Wing's kitchen. The room had no heat of its own, but it stayed warm most of the night from the heat that had built below during the day, summer and winter.

Outside the door, she prepared for yet another round of the welcome home “game” she'd invented. She rolled the newspaper, clasped it weapon-like, and gripped the wobbly doorknob. Drawing a deep breath, she snatched the door open, flipped on the overhead light, and the horrors of the game were on.

She chased down and swatted as many startled roaches as she could before the escapees gained cover between the walls. The carnage past, she swept dead roaches into a neat pile in a corner of the room as a warning to those who dared venture from cover.

Because she'd eaten her free blue-plate special late and was in a hurry to leave for the park, she took a single can of sardines from her stash above the enamel sink. Holding the can over the sink, she twisted the key, bracing for the rotten fish odor. She bought cans of sardines at ten for a dollar and splurged on fruit cocktail at twenty-three cents a can.

She plucked the tiny fish from the oily liquid and dropped one at a time into her mouth. When she was done, she washed the fishy oil from her hands, changed into jeans and a tee shirt, and retrieved her high-tops from beneath the cot. She frowned at the sweat-dried socks. She slipped on her hand-me-down jacket and grabbed the basketball she'd bought with her first pay.

Running down the outside stairs into the alley, she cross-dribbled the eight blocks to the outdoor basketball court she'd discovered her second Sunday in Selma. It was an asphalt surface that held two courts, and the outdoor lights stayed on until ten o'clock. There had been no such courts in Catawba.

She entered the sagging chain link gate, ignoring the three teenage boys who'd looked up from their game of HORSE. Her routine was to warm up by shooting free throws. She shot, rebounded, taking as many shots as needed to sink fifty baskets.

At around twenty made baskets, the boys stopped and stared in her direction. She'd learned to ignore the gawking of jealous boys with far less skill. After making her next shot, she moved to shooting layups, noticing that the interest of the boys had picked up, and the usual name-calling set in.

“Hey, biggun, you a real girl?” The boys stopped playing and took up the game they were better at: harassing her.

“Hell no, girls can't play. This one's one of them queer gals.” Their laughter grew meaner, and they crossed the narrow strip of ground between the two courts. They stood less than thirty feet away and watched her.

“Hey, girl, prove you ain't one of them.”

“Show us your tits,” a second called, the other two laughing.

“Damn, boy,” the first turned and said. “You some kind of fool? Their kind's got tits. They want other girls to suck on them. Ain't I right, dyke?”

Jodie stopped, put the ball on the ground next to her jacket, and turned to face them. She'd hoped they'd be satisfied with harassing her, that there wasn't enough juice among them to do her real harm. Still, there were three of them, drawing macho from their numbers. She reached into her pocket and folded her sweaty hand around her switchblade.

The leader, an older and bigger version of Tommy Lee, closed the space between them, his features twisted, his pitted face glistening under the lights. She was taller, but he was built sturdier and was likely stronger. The middle boy looked toward the gate as if he'd just as soon end things, but the smaller boy had something to prove. Yet neither boy advanced. She counted on them being no more threat than the Timmins boys were. The kind to stand back until she was down before piling on, claiming their share of her. She'd need to stay on her feet or fall victim to their malice.

She pulled the knife from her pocket, cradled its deadly menace in her palm, and with her thumb, she summoned her will. She heard only the soft swish of cold metallic precision as the razor-sharp blade released and locked into place.

“Shit, Roger, the bitch's got a knife,” the middle boy shouted. His eyes bulged, and he took a quick step back.

Roger blinked hard, his nose flaring like that of an aroused animal, and although she saw fear in his eyes, he had a reputation to uphold. He wasn't backing down. Did he think the knife was for show, that she was easy prey? She glanced at the other two, judging their will to face the knife. Both stayed put, and she focused her full attention on Roger. He hesitated, his breathing coming in quick gasps between parted lips. His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet.

He was coming.

She gripped her knife and crouched. Striking the first blow was her best chance. If he wrapped her up, succeeded in putting her on the ground, the other two would attack. She swallowed hard and fought back her raging panic.

Roger lunged, landing a solid blow above her right eye. Her head snapped back, and a bolt of electrical-like shock charged through her, nearly blinding her. She dropped onto one knee, feverishly rubbing her eyes, the smell of blood oozing from her right temple.

Wild laughter exploded all around her, the ringing thrill of first blood sighted.

“Get the fuck back. I got her first,” Roger screamed.

The two stayed back.

He came at her again. His scream rose from some dark, primordial place of evil.

She struggled, miraculously regaining her feet, and managed to sidestep just before he lunged, so he grabbed her by the arm instead of the full takedown he had intended. She swung wildly, landing a glancing blow to his right, cheek. Momentarily stunned, his hold on her relaxed, and she fought to gain separation. She slashed out at him, catching him across the forearm with the blade, opening a six-inch gash.

He screamed in pain and caught his arm, staring wildly at his blood oozing between his fingers.

“You crazy bitch. You cut me.” His face glistened stark white beneath the light, and he wrapped his bleeding arm in the tail of his tee.