It's Not Like I Knew Her (16 page)

If she was to survive retaliation, she'd need to build on his fear.

“I'm picking up my basketball. Walking through that gate.” Her hands trembled, though her voice was deadly calm. “If either of you move, I'll take my gun from the pocket of that jacket there on the ground. And I swear to God, I'll blow your puny peckers to Abilene.”

The boys froze in place, watching her with scared eyes, and a strong sense of pleasure swept over her. The park lights flickered; she had three minutes before darkness fell over the court. She turned and walked though the gate on knocked-out legs. Reaching the sidewalk, she dared not look back but ran full out until reaching the alley.

Inside her locked room, she sat cross-legged on the cot, drawn near the window. In the darkness, she pressed a cold washrag to her swollen face. The street below was empty, except for the crippled gray cat she knew to be a regular alley scavenger. It sat back on its boney haunches at the street corner. Its drab coat flashed alternately pink to green in the glow of the traffic light.

Beyond the narrow window, she heard squealing tires laying down scorched rubber, and a clunker slid into view. The noisy chatter of its engine, together with the nervous giggles of a girl, punished the quiet below. The light changed and the car sped away. The crippled cat was nowhere in sight.

J
odie woke late to the right side of her face throbbing. She'd lain awake much of the night debating the possible consequences for what she'd done. She hoped Roger wouldn't admit to being bested in a knife fight with a girl. If she was wrong, and the cops came for her, then an investigation could possibly turn up a Florida warrant.

She stripped and washed in cold water, using soap she'd taken from the bathroom downstairs. She drew the hand-me-down nylon uniform over her head, frowning at its odor. No matter how many times she washed it, the scent of fried foods stayed in the fabric.

She hurried down the stairs and joined Arthur, who stood smoking in the alley outside the kitchen door. He winced at the sight of her bruised face, but didn't ask the obvious.

“Can I get one of those?”

She drew the nicotine deep into her lungs and slowly exhaled. Lord, she hated how good fire in her lungs felt. She nodded her thanks.

“You're good for it, aren't you?” His eyes narrowed, but with far less of his earlier distrust.

“Yeah, I am. That's if you're willing to wait till my gravy boat docks.

Arthur laughed. “Figure I'm not out anything yet.” He continued to study her for a moment longer, as if he was making up his mind about something important. Then the sound of brakes squealing from the street caught their attention, and both turned.

“Maybe you ought to know that a white boy, driving a Hudson older than my dead granny, pulled into the alley a day or so ago. And damned if the fool didn't stand up on the running board like some old-timey gangster, yelling what he must've thought was scary.” Arthur shook his bushy head and chuckled.

She shrugged, swallowed hard, and squinted back at him. “And why exactly are you telling me? I don't know no gangster white boy.”

“Claimed a big dark-haired girl's dying daddy sent him to fetch her home. Mentioned some hick town in Florida, likely not even on the map.”

“That's home, all right. But if that boy knew me, he'd know my old man's dead. And I don't have a brother who gives a big rat's ass about ever seeing me again.”

“All right, Miss Jodie Smith.” Arthur wasn't one bit fooled.

“What you plan on saying should that boy come back this way?” Now it was her asking that he keep a secret.

“Not a damn thing.” He paused. “I don't mix in white folks' messes.” He flipped the butt against the brick wall and stepped back through the kitchen door.

She drew the last of the nicotine into her lungs, dropped the butt onto the ground, crushing it with a twisting step, and cursed her bad luck. Damn Roy Dale Pitts's cunning hide. Snooping, figuring his pitiful show of
white
could threaten Arthur. Why was he dead set on finding her? Did he figure to have something big enough to press her into leaving Selma? If he did, he was sure to come back around. Whatever his warped notion, it could not be good for her.

J
odie delivered cups of fresh-made coffee to Arthur and Bo, his helper, and returned to the dining room. She sat with her first cup, welcoming the calm before what promised to be another long day. Out on Water Street, early morning traffic built, and Jodie watched for Crystal Ann's battered Nash Rambler.

“Holy crap,” Jodie swore, pushing up from the table.

Roy Dale was slumped behind the steering wheel of the Hudson, staring at her through the Wing's plate glass window. She was trapped, like the frantic minnows she and Ginger had placed in fruit jars. He made no move to exit the car, yet she knew he'd come prepared to wield whatever leverage he believed he had. Nothing left for her but to face him head-on.

Crystal Ann appeared at the door, her shoulders drawn into the warmth of her heavy coat, her head wrapped in a green scarf. She banged on the locked door Jodie had failed to open earlier.

“Good Lord, girl, you trying to freeze my big ass? It's colder than a witch's brass tits. Or haven't you noticed?” Crystal Ann stood shivering before the nearest gas heater. “Can you believe twelve damn degrees? I need gallons of hot coffee in more ways than one.”

Crystal Ann poured a steaming cup and took a half-pint of Four Roses from her purse. “Oh, stop your damn frowning, Sister Jodie. I get bitching enough from Sally. Besides, a little Irish never hurts on a freezing morning.” Topping off the coffee, she put the bottle back into her purse, stashed it under the counter, and squinted at Jodie.

“Just who the hell pissed in your oatmeal? You look like you've wrestled the devil.”

“It's nothing. Just a first day of cramps, that's all. You got aspirin?” She stood with her back to the street.

“Uh-huh. Those cramps got anything to do with that ugly boy sitting in that old car with expired Florida plates?” Crystal Ann glanced toward the Hudson, but Jodie was careful not to follow her glaze.

“What boy?”

“Sweet Jesus, Jodie … Smith. You're one more stubborn gal.”

“And I guess you know every boy with expired Alabama plates?”

“You can bet your sweet ass I know all who might have cause to look me up.” She retrieved her purse. “Here, down this BC powder. But it's not about to get that boy off your ass.” She sighed.

“I swear, it's nothing like what you think.”

“Girl, don't pretend to know what I think.” She grabbed her purse and started down the hallway, disappearing into the bathroom.

S
tanding on the sidewalk, arms bare and teeth chattering, Jodie watched Roy Dale's approach. His face was thinner and he wore a too-large pea coat he'd probably stolen. He looked as though he might blow away in the icy wind.

“Hey, gal, how you been?” A sudden shudder shook his upper body, and his lopsided grin slipped from his haggard face. For sure, Roy Dale hadn't eaten regularly.

“Fine till about three minutes ago.” She tucked her red chapped hands inside her armpits, determined not to think about any hardship he may have known, but rather that she wanted him gone, forever out of her life.

“Never was this cold down home. You want my coat to stay warm while we talk?”

“No, we're not talking that long.” She glanced toward the Wing and shivered in spite of her best effort.

“All right, but ain't you even curious about how I found you?” He wanted to gloat, but his slouched stance gave his uneasiness away.

“No, and whatever you did, you wasted your time.”

“Used my manly charm to sweet-talk a pissed off waitress. Your trucker friend jilted her back up the road in favor of some woman or another who works there.” He nodded toward the café, his shaggy eyebrows touching as if he imagined he had cause to judge her unfaithful.

“Roy Dale, how you did it doesn't interest me.” She'd have known if the trucker had come anywhere around the Wing. Then, she didn't know a thing about Sally's personal life, other than Crystal Ann's hints that Sally had a trucker she met at some all-night diner on the eastbound highway.

“Yeah, but you gotta know I've searched every café between there and here.” His voice was almost whiny. Then he smiled. “Maybe you heard about me coming up here a day or so ago? Squeezing the truth out of scared kitchen help ain't all that hard.” He nodded toward the alley.

He couldn't mean Arthur, but she wasn't sure about Bo. Still, she said, “I can tell you there's not a soul here scared of you, least of all me. So if you've had your say, I'll go on back to work.” She turned to leave.

“Damn, Jodie. I put my ass on the line with the law to come here and warn you. And that's the thanks I get?”

She faced him. “Warn me? About what?” Damn him.

“Law down home's still hunting us. Got it straight from my momma, and you know she don't lie.” He drew his hands into the coat sleeves.

“No disrespect to your momma, but even if you're telling the truth, I'll go to jail before I'll go a block with you.”

“Not when you see what I've got. It can take us slap to California.”

He dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and thrust it at her. A sudden gust of frigid wind snatched a twenty from his hand and carried it into the gutter. He looked at her with boyish bewilderment, making no move to retrieve the bill.

“Jesus, Roy Dale, who'd you beat and rob?”

“Ah, come on, Jodie. Maybe I was a bit rough with you. But you'll see I've changed. Didn't you promise me a good time?”

He and his supposition was so damn pathetic she should hate him, but she pitied him more. Yet his play at pity was a trap. She stepped back from him.

“Roy Dale, I never came on to you and you know it. And for the last time, I'm not coming with you to Dallas or California or any place else.”

He slumped as though she'd punched him, his breath coming in puffs of warmth, captured and frozen in midair. Instead of anger, she saw pain stenciled on his ashen face.

“You gotta know I've always liked you.” He paused, kicked at the crack in the sidewalk, and muttered, “Just wanted you to like me back. That's all.” He turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the Hudson.

She remembered burning the hand drawn “HapyValintime” card he'd given her in seventh grade and felt a flush of guilt, accepting that he would have never made the decision to leave Catawba on his own.

She watched as he steered the Hudson into the morning traffic and pointed it westward. Maybe she'd seen the last of Roy Dale Pitts, but his threat had pushed her into an even more troubling decision.

J
odie hurried to the public telephone across from the park where she had continued to play basketball, loose change stuffed into the pocket of her jacket. She'd need to make her call and return to the Wing before the start of business. She pulled the door closed against the chilling wind, and with stiff fingers she stacked coins on the booth's metal shelf before giving the long-distance operator the location and number for Silas's shop.

Silas yelled into the phone, and in the background she heard the muffled voices of men known to gather on cold mornings around the shop's one kerosene heater—workers soaking up the last bit of warmth before heading to jobs that would require they spend the balance of the day outdoors.

“Silas, it's me, Jodie.” The air went out of her lungs, her nerve undermined, and her impulse was to hang up. Who'd know to look for her in Selma, a place she'd never imagined when she and Clara Lee had planned their escape?

“Good God, Jodie. Where the hell are you? Are you all right?” He forced his words through clenched teeth.

“I am. All right, I mean. But I've got to ask you if the local law is looking for me.” She pictured Silas tightening his grip on the receiver and walking the length of the tangled cord, his back turned to any eavesdroppers.

“Just like that.” His voice was wet with constrained emotion. “Our living without knowing whether you were dead or alive.” He ground his teeth, a habit he had when biting down hard on his mounting anger. “Do you even care that Red accused me of keeping your whereabouts from him? Hell, he drove clear to your Aunt Pearl's looking for you still believing I'd lied. Maggie dogged Clara Lee so bad, her daddy threatened to get the law if she didn't back off. And all you can say is some bullshit about the law looking for you?”

“Silas, please, I know I was wrong leaving the way I did. Then nothing turned out the way I planned.” She hated admitting she's been such a fool. “Do you mean to tell me or not?”

“Jesus God, Jodie. The law's got no interest in pursuing an eighteen-year-old runaway. At your age, stupid is perfectly legal.”

“But can you tell me about Mr. Samuel? Is he …?”

“Mr. Samuel? What's he got to do with any of your mess?”

“Uh … nothing. It's just that he's … old, and you've talked about everyone else. I just wondered.” She pressed the receiver to her ear, fearful he sensed her dishonesty as clearly as she felt her hot blood pounding at her temples.

“Maggie tells me he's had it pretty rough since he quit the A&P.”

“Why'd he do that?” He'd said
quit
not fired. Was she to believe he'd voluntarily left a job he'd held for decades?

“I'm guessing he got tired of kissing white ass and getting paid peanuts for his trouble.”

It was true that pistol-whipping an old Negro man may not have concerned the local sheriff, but a store robbery was different. How had such a newsworthy event gotten past Silas's notice? It was clear Silas had not connected her leaving to the time of the robbery. She couldn't know whether or not Roy Dale was lying without asking if he was a suspect in any unsolved crimes of robbery, assault or car theft.