Simple Intent

 
 

©2010 Linda Sands. 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, to include electronic and mechanical means, without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For more information about Linda Sands, visit: www.open-bks.com

HISTORIC row houses stood like silent soldiers in the lightly falling snow, brick sentinels that guarded windows with metal bars, imprisoned tiny unkempt yards with low fences and creaking gates. Some doors were covered in crinkly red paper and draped with gold ribbon. On others, fading green wreaths hung askew from plastic suction cups. 

They were holding onto the holiday season. Even the overflowing garbage bags at the curb looked festive. Folks in the neighborhood didn’t have much, but they took care of what they did have. In the white subdivisions they called it pride of ownership. Here it was just plain pride.

Tara told Ray she’d miss the row house when they moved. She’d planted the length of the small backyard with colorful flowers and spiky bushes and when she ran out of space, the plants followed her inside. There were herbs on windowsills, tiny green sprouts in juice glasses, and ivy in hanging baskets. There was even a flowering cactus in the bathroom. Ray thought that was strange. Strange and beautiful, like Tara.

From the first day Ray Bentley had laid eyes on Tara Stevens, he’d loved her. Not like a, she’s-great-I’d-like-to-be-around-her love, but a, where-would-I-be-now-had-I-never-met-you love. A love that defines purpose. A love that says, this is who you were meant to be. Tara pushed Ray in a good way, calling him, “The Ray Who’s Going Somewhere,” and kissing him on the “somewhere,” pulling him into her so hard he felt her ribs against his and the beating of her heart beneath them. 

Most days that was enough to get him out of bed and down the hall to the slope-floored bathroom with its rattling pipes and cracked mirror. This morning he sat on the toilet and stared at the corner of the mirror where parts of the silver had worn away. Something grew beneath the coating, spread like a stain, threatened to overtake the whole shiny surface like a virus. Ray pulled a small notebook from the stack of dog-eared magazines, opened it to a page near the back where a pen was tucked in the fold. He wrote for a few minutes, his large, dark hands making tiny precise letters, an exercise in restraint.

“We could get you a desk. In the new place.” Tara watched her husband from the doorway. 

Perched on the stained ceramic toilet and balancing his notebook on his knees, he sat on the hard, cold lid that slid to the right, no matter how much you tightened it. He finished the line on the page then closed the journal and left it with the magazines. 

“I don’t need a desk,” he said, and stepped into the hall turning her as they kissed, a silent dance of slippers and cheap carpet. “I need you.” 

Ray looked into Tara’s eyes, finding the fleck on the right iris, a tiny, gold doubloon in a sea of green. He trailed his lips down her pale, freckled neck, paused to breathe her scent. 

Tara sighed, leaned into him then reluctantly pushed him away. “Look out, Ray. I’ve gotta pee.” 

Ray squeezed up against the doorframe to allow her protruding belly to pass. 

She paused before closing the door. “Ray? I was thinking we could go look at the used cribs at the thrift store.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Why? We’re going to need a crib, and I could fix one up nice. You’ll see-”

Ray held Tara’s face in his hands. He kissed her, cutting off her words. “Baby, when I come back, we’re gonna take a cab to JC Penney’s and buy everything our baby needs.” 

Tara smiled. “I love you, Ray.”

He told her to go back to bed and rest, that he’d be back before lunch. She closed the door and prayed again that her parents would see what she saw in Raymond Moses Bentley. He was the father of their grandchild, the man their daughter loved. They had to accept him, didn’t they? What did color really matter anymore? This was the 1970s, not the 1950s. 

In the kitchen, Ray drank his coffee at the sink and watched the snow falling in the street. Outside, cars were being warmed up, windows scraped and cleared. A bus rumbled by. He rinsed his cup, stacked it in the strainer and went to the hall closet, shrugged into his coat then paused with one hand on the doorknob. He walked back to the bedroom. 

A thin paper shade rattled in the drafty window. Tara lay on her left side, one arm pinning the thin coverlet over her engorged breasts. Ray crossed the room in three steps, careful of the yellow rug that made him trip and the rickety nightstand from the good neighborhood. 

He kissed her cheek and whispered, “Everything’s going to change. Everything.”

Outside on the stoop, Ray lifted his face to the sky. Snowflakes tickled his cheeks, melted on his lips and fell into his nostrils like tiny bits of heaven trying to cover up all the bad things on earth. He imagined Mama up there, sending him wishes on a snowflake. She’d be proud that her boy was trying to be more like her and less like Daddy. Staying clean was hard. Taking a county job that paid so little was even harder. But you do what you have to do, like Mama said. You do whatever you have to do, as long as you can look into that cracked mirror and feel good about yourself tomorrow. 

Ray turned the corner. The street hit him. This was Philly. This was his town.

And she was waking up. The ting and scrape of snow shovels and the casual banter of storeowners comforted Ray. He dipped his head and said, “Morning” to those he passed. 

Just a regular Friday in January. Not quite cold enough or snowy enough to give anyone reason to bitch—though every proud Philadelphian would anyway.

Halfway down the street on a bench under a bullet-riddled No Parking sign, he saw the hunched figure of Jefferson LeChance. He might have been mistaken for a load of dirty clothes someone had dumped from a duffle bag, but as Ray approached, Chancy’s massive head turned and two glassy eyes opened. 

He spoke slowly, his voice a growl. “I was just thinking ’bout you, Motherfucker.” 

Ray shook his head. “Shit, Chancy. Look at you, all messed up this early. You said you were going to wait.” 

Chancy looked at Ray and tried lifting the corners of his mouth in an apologetic smile, but lost it somewhere between the lips and the eyes.

“C’mon.” Ray grabbed Chancy’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “We got business to do.” 

Chancy ran his finger under his nose then pointed it at Ray. “This ain’t business. This is collectin’.” 

Ray grimaced. “Yeah, man. We collectin’, all right. All four G’s and King better know that’s what we came for.”

“He knows. Shit. You know that motherfucker knows that—”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you something to eat.” They started walking, a tall, hopeful black man followed by a shuffling gray shadow.

Sitting in a booth at the diner, Chancy felt no pain. It was good, sitting here with his friend. And then it hit him. Aren’t we supposed to be doing something this morning? Isn’t there someone...? Behind his runny, yellowed eyes, a dim lamp clicked on, blown fuse and all. 

He pushed his plate away. “Done with that. Let’s go.” 

Ray studied the ashy face and knew Chancy was back, back to the asshole he was born to be, back to the lowdown, pathetic, lying, drug-dealing motherfucker that his own mama gave away thirty-eight years ago.

We’re in for it, Ray figured. We are in for it now.

They were always selling something on the corner of Tenth and Market, and judging from the view, business was bad at King’s Variety Store. Grime ringed the dull chrome racks of dusty canned goods. Products well past their expiration date had been on display so long even their price tags were faded. But James King didn’t mind. He didn’t even notice. He was making a fine living, hiding behind stale potato chips. 

Ray checked the street, pulled open the glass door for Chancy, then followed him inside. The fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed, competing with the squawk of a transistor radio propped on the checkout counter. Ray turned toward the sound and chuckled. 

On a stepladder behind the counter, a voluptuous flowered bottom bounced to the beat. Maria Rosarita Conchetta looked over her shoulder. “Hola, boys.”

She smoothed the edges of the Latino Picture Palace movie poster and stepped down from the ladder, flipping her thick, black hair over her shoulder. 

“You want to see the man? I think he is expecting you, no? In his office.” 

Ray followed her gaze to the rear of the store then looked back at the entrance. No customers. And from what he and his pals knew about King’s Variety Store, you didn’t expect any, either. Not this early, and not to buy the items on the shelves.

Maria spent most mornings doing her nails at the counter and most afternoons doing James King in the backroom. At night, she’d lock up the store and be home in time to cook her mother a nice meal then watch Jeopardy together. (It was good for her English.) Sometimes King came to her place, when he needed to pick up something he’d stashed in the spare room, or when he was picking her up to take her out and show her off. He’d lend her things for those nights, drape her in satin and stones then hold her on his lap like a doll. 

“He alone?” Chancy asked.

Maria hesitated, then nodded. She turned to Ray. “How are you doing today?” 

Her painted mouth formed each word slowly, controlling a tongue designed to click and roll. She stroked Ray’s coat, raking her nails down the wool, leaving drag marks. She pressed her breasts into his arm, talking with that sexy accent, touching and stroking. Ray started to sweat.

“And how is Tara? You tell her, Maria is going to come by and give her sore feet a rub.” 

I got something you can rub, thought Ray.

“When my cousin Nina was pregnant, that was all she wanted. Someone to rub her feet, you know, Ray?” 

“I know.” Ray stood entranced as Maria pulled away. She smoothed her blouse, stretching the fabric even tighter over eraser-sized nipples.

A series of crashing noises broke the trance. A stringy-haired, acne-faced boy appeared in the center aisle, kicking aside fallen tins of tuna and cans of tomato paste. He worked his way down a stream of curses as he wrestled a cardboard box twice his size through the narrow aisle. His skin gave off an intense heat; his body reeked with the pubescent scent of desire.

“Lou, I tell you,” sighed Maria, “Take the boxes out the back way. What are you doing?” 

“I thought I heard the door.” 

The kid swiped oily black bangs from his forehead with the back of a dirty hand. He had the long Italian nose of his father, the large expressive eyes of his mother, and hadn’t grown into either. Someday, Lou Gallo would turn heads just by walking into a room. Someday, his nose would be perfect for his face. He would be called handsome, sexy even. But today he was an awkward stumbling boy full of hormones and desires, just trying to get by. 

“Yes, it was the door. You see,” Maria crossed her arms and jutted out a hip. “It is Mr. LeChance and Mr. Bentley.”

“Oh yeah.” The young boy seemed to notice the men for the first time. “Well, I was just worried. I mean, I wanted to see if you needed any help.” He wiped his hand on his pant leg. “So, do you?”

“No. I am fine. Maria is always fine. Go on now, get that box out of here.”

Lou bumped and scraped his burden through the front door and out to the street, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment.

Chancy slapped his ratty watch cap against his leg and laughed, showing a bit of fire behind his yellowed eyes. “Well, look at that! I think Louie-Boy got it bad. And you know what I’m talking about!”

Maria made a small sound with her tongue against her teeth and went back to her woman’s magazine full of fashion and advice and helpful hints. Its page opened to “When the Big-O is just O-kay.” 

Ray followed Chancy to the rear of the store. He touched his coat sleeve. “All right now. Just like we said. Be cool.” 

Chancy twisted away. “I’m cool. I’m cool.” 

They climbed a single red step. Ray knocked on the steel door. 

“Enter.” 

Stepping into the room, Ray felt it instantly. A whoosh around his heart, like the second the elevator bobbles before it stops, the moment just before the doors open and return you to solid ground. Thick, white carpet met white satin walls, which halfway up the wall became mirrors that stretched to the ceiling. Thin glass shelves displayed female figurines of wood, stone, clay, ivory and glass. Hundreds of them, all with exaggerated sagging breasts, huge bellies and wide behinds. Ray rested his fingers on a few, bent lower to see others close up.