South Street (26 page)

“Do it for Lavernia.”

“One old lady.”

“How many old ladies do you want?” Mrs. Fletcher demanded hotly. Brother Fletcher looked up in surprise. “You didn’t see her,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “You went on back behind there an’ I know you was thinkin’ how it didn’t mean anything, but I
saw
that old lady. …” She stopped suddenly and turned to face him, and he saw tears in her eyes. “How many old ladies do you want? How many are there?” Her voice broke and the tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She lowered her head. “Fletcher, I’m gonna be an old lady someday.” She raised her head and looked at him, then went quickly down the hall.

I
N THE MORNING, WHILE
the garbage trucks scuttled like fat roaches over the streets west of the Schuylkill, Rayburn Wallace had stepped from a carpeted elevator, walked across a carpeted lobby, emerged into the nearly fresh air. The sun was a bloody ball in the eastern sky, losing color as it climbed, and he had walked into it along Spruce Street. His brain was dull from fatigue and the aftereffects of alcohol and his stomach was uncomfortably full of the strawberries and cream she had fed him, calling it a hero’s breakfast. He had devoured the fruit and then carried her back to the bedroom, where he had fallen upon her as if to drive her back through the sheet. “Am I all white women to you?” she had murmured throatily.

“Jesus,” Rayburn had muttered, stopping in mid-thrust, “ain’t one enough?”

Later, he had showered long and hard in a big tiled shower stall, with hot water. She had dried him, enfolding him in a big, fluffy white towel, and then had watched hungrily while he had dressed. Rayburn, walking into the sunrise, clapped his hands and giggled. Rayburn Wallace, fucking in a fancy apartment building with elevators and a doorman, fucking in a bed with silk sheets, fucking some rich white man’s rich white wife! He thought about Leslie and his smile widened. This would show her. He thought of what he would tell her—nothing, he decided, not a blessed damn thing. He’d just walk in an’ get in bed an’ go to sleep. Rayburn giggled, addressed the row of traffic meters stretching east. “Only she ain’t gonna let me go to sleep. She’ll wake up for sure an’ say, ‘Where the hell was you all night,’ an’ I’ll say ‘Out,’ an’ roll on over. And she’ll keep on pesterin’ me, wantin’ to know where I been. But I ain’t gonna tell her. It’s ’bout time she had some a her own damn medicine.” Rayburn walked stiffly on. She’d say, Rayburn, you been cheatin’ on me, an’ he’d just laugh her into silence. She’d say he better tell her right now, an’ he’d give in an’ say, All right, an’ he’d tell her. He’d say, Honey, it was like this. I come home an’ you wasn’t here so I went on out to have me a drink, an’ I didn’t feel like messin’ with the same old niggers ’round here, so I went on uptown, an’ I goes in this one place. There ain’t nothin’ in there but a bunch a white folks all dressed up, but the drinks is cheap, so I started drinkin’ with them white folks, an’ all the sudden there’s this white woman an’ she’s buyin’ me drinks an’ tellin’ me I’m beautiful, an’ then we went on over to her place an’ I’m a little tired on account of I didn’t get a whole lot a sleep, you know what I mean? He’d smile and chuckle. An’ she’d say, Gone, nigger, with that shit, where was you? An’ he’d say, All right if you can’t deal with the truth. He’d make like he was goin’ to sleep but she’d come crawlin’ all over him, lickin’ at him an’ kissin’ at him, but he’d just shove her off an’ say, Gone, woman, lemme get some rest. I done give all that away, since you wasn’t here to get it.

Rayburn had grinned as he walked across the bridge, savoring his story, rehearsing, editing. South Street rolled over in its sleep, snorted, slumbered on. The first trucks rumbled out of the beer distributor’s garage on Twenty-fourth, and a fleet of yellow taxis rolled out of the lot on Grays Ferry. A forty bus had come roaring across the bridge and passed him. Rayburn had climbed the stairs slowly, dragging out the moments of anticipation. Stopping on the landing outside his door he had straightened his clothes, brushed the dust from his shoes. Then, thinking better of it, he had unbuttoned his shirt and turned up his collar on one side. He had opened the door, slipped inside. This, by God, would show her. He stepped into the living room, bent carefully to slip off his shoes. Holding them in one hand, he had stepped defiantly toward the bedroom. And then he had dropped the shoes on the floor and stared, with slowly dawning comprehension, at the unperturbed covers of the empty bed.

Now he rolled in the growing coolness of evening. The film of stale perspiration that coated his body was turning cold. He woke up. His mouth did not taste like the bottom of a bear pit. His head did not throb. He felt surprisingly well. He lay staring up at the peeling ceiling, at the tentacles of paint that hung down toward him. He had slept the day away, hoping she would come back. Now he was awake. There was a pressure in his belly. He rolled out of bed, went into the bathroom, stood before the toilet, but then he realized that that wasn’t it, so he turned around, backed up, sat down, rose immediately, lowered the toilet seat, and sat down again. He felt the pressure twist into pain and grunted as the gas escaped noisily. He got up, used the toilet paper, shoved the flush handle home, but the wad of paper stubbornly refused to enter the whirlpool and become a contribution to the city sewer system. Rayburn felt a wave of malevolence as he watched it. He stalked into the kitchen, found a glass, filled it with water, returned to the bathroom, and poured the water onto the paper. The paper seemed to try to slip away, but Rayburn adjusted his aim and pursued relentlessly, finally catching the paper squarely. It sank immediately. Rayburn sniffed, set the glass on the sink, pulled the handle again, and marched back into the bedroom. It was not until he saw the bed that he remembered she was not there, and then he felt bad, worse than he had ever felt before. His head ached and his bowels twisted. He sank onto the rumpled sheet, stretched out, stared up at the ceiling once again. The mottled plaster swirled in his vision, forming faces—her face, the faces of faceless men, young, virile, strong, rich. Rayburn lay, legs extended, arms stretched out, fingers grasping the edge of the mattress as if to keep him from falling off, watching as the paint tentacles elongated, dripping toward him. Rayburn opened his mouth in a silent scream, his face contorting, drawing the skin tightly across his skull. He managed to turn his eyes away. His breathing gradually slowed. When he opened his eyes, the ceiling was once again the ceiling.

“Monday,” he said suddenly. “I’ma do it Monday.” He’d go to the bank on Monday an’ tell ’em what they could do with their goddamn buckets and fucking brooms. And he’d tell that Victoria Bender to give him his money. She’d count it out for him, lickin’ her lips, an’ when she got finished an’ gave him the money she’d say, You leavin’ right now, honey? Right this minute? An’ he’d just nod at her. An’ she’d want to know where was he goin’, an’ he’d say he didn’t know, someplace foreign, Spain, maybe, an’ ask her did she know Spain was all red and green. She’d want to know was he takin’ his wife an’ he’d say no, his wife couldn’t keep up with him no more, he needed him a new woman. She’d say how she always thought maybe her an’ Rayburn oughta get together, an’ he’d just stand there for a while, like he was thinkin’ about it, but then he’d shake his head an’ say, nah, he was travelin’ light, an’ his feet was itchin’ too bad to hang around. But he’d tell her not to worry, he’d be back that way some time.

It was, at first glance, a normal Saturday night at the Elysium Hotel. The drinks contained the usual percentage of water. The jukebox swallowed the usual number of quarters. The Muslim desk cleric took time out from reading the latest copy of
Muhammed Speaks
and renting out rooms by the hour to take trips to the men’s room, where he refilled the condom machine and emptied the coin box before some desperate junkie forgot that this was the stronghold of Leroy Briggs and tried to make off with the cash. The whores lounged in the bar, and the fairies flitted through the lobby. On the surface all was normal, but in a dim corner of the barroom Willie T. sat, looking sad and drinking neat whiskey. When Cotton strolled in after his usual dinner of steak, fries, and onion rings at the Delmonaco, Nemo, the bartender, sent one of the waitresses over to whisper to him and point him toward the corner. “Balls,” said Cotton as he began to navigate the narrow channels between tables, chairs, legs, knees. When occasionally he missed a turn and bumped someone, he apologized politely but firmly, and moved on. Willie T. saw him approaching, smiled with unusual warmth, and downed another shot. Cotton coasted to a stop. “Your mother know you’re drinkin’ that stuff?”

Willie T. peered up at him. “Ma mother was a wash woman an’ she went to church every damn Sunday. She worked her fingers to the bone, I mean to the
bone
, so’s I’d have a chance to make somethin’ of maself. I swore I wasn’t never gonna do nothin’ wrong, I was gonna be one a them rich powerful folks, an’ she wasn’t gonna have to be givin’ up nothin’ no more. I ain’t hardly never touched a hard drink before in ma whole damn life, Cotton, you know that?”

“Ain’t hard to guess,” Cotton said. “I’m sorry I brought your mother—”

“Ma
mother
,” Willie T. said. Tears began to flow from his eyes. “She always said to me, ‘Willie, you don’t start that drinkin’ an’ runnin’ around, you get in with the folks what runs things in this world.’ An’ I done it, too. You an’ me an’ Leroy, Cotton, we had this here street right here.” Willie T. raised his fist and shook it in Cotton’s face. Cotton backed off a step. Willie T. let his fist fall. “Right here. An’ we let that Brown sonofabitch just walk right in, an’ Leroy don’t even want to do nothin’.”

“Now, Willie,” Cotton said soothingly, “you got yourself all bent outa shape over nothin’. I ain’t seen this here Brown doin’ all that much—”

“Oh yes,” Willie T. said emphatically. “Oh yes he is. He come waltzin’ in here, big as fuckin’ life, an’ bought him a six-pack to go. He done it two nights straight. Now you know, Cotton, one time could be an accident, but two times ain’t.”

“Now, Willie, maybe he just likes beer.”

“Oh yeah? Well lemme tell you, I watched that dude’s place all damn day, an’ he didn’t come out but one time. An’ you know what he done? He come out wearin’ a goddamn track suit an’ he went runnin’ up an’ down the street like some kinda fool for half a goddamn hour, an’ then he went back inside an’ didn’t come out again all goddamn day. Then tonight he comes in here. Don’t you tell me not to worry. That nigger’s up to somethin’.” Willie T. wiped tears from his eyes, poured himself another shot of whiskey and downed it.

“Well—” Cotton began.

“Well, hell,” snapped Willie T. “An’ when I went to tell Leroy that this cat was doin’ all this shit right in the middle a the street, you know what? Leroy says I’m busy. Damn right he was busy. That bitch was settin’ up in Leroy’s chair an’ Leroy was on his knees kissin’ her goddamn feet. Somebody’s stealin’ the damn street right out from under us, an’ Leroy’s suckin’ some bitch’s toe.”

“Are you serious?” Cotton took a seat.

“He skipped dinner, too,” Willie T. said.

“Nah!”

“Where you think I got this here bottle? I took it in to him, but he said he was busy.”

“Doin’ what? He wasn’t still—”

“Worse,” said Willie T. “He was teachin’ her to play pool. She had her ass parked right up on the corner a the table, an’ he was tryin’ to tell her how to hold the cue, an’ she kept pokin’ him in the gut with it, an’ he was smilin’.
Smilin’
!” Willie T. shook his head and downed another shot.

Cotton got up and maneuvered his bulk over to the bar. “Nemo, how come you give him a bottle? You know Willie don’t drink.”

“Wasn’t me,” said the bartender. “That there’s Leroy’s six o’clock bottle. Willie went in with it an’ he come back out with it.”

Cotton jerked his head toward the office. “Leroy in there?”

“Yeah. But he says he’s busy.”

Cotton snorted and set sail. He stepped into the office a second after his knock and discovered Leroy and Leslie locked in an embrace, far too occupied to notice his entrance. He closed the door and waited patiently for them to come up for air, but when he detected a subtle motion of Leslie’s hand toward the buckle of Leroy’s belt, Cotton cleared his throat. The pair continued to couple, and Leslie’s hand continued its motion. They turned slowly, like a statue on a rotating pedestal, until Cotton had a perfect view of Leroy’s back and Leslie’s face. Leroy gasped loudly. Leslie smiled. “Gotcha,” she said. Cotton made one effort to look away then gave up and stared. Leroy gasped again. “Um,” said Leslie, and her face sank out of sight behind Leroy’s shoulder. Cotton watched as the arm she had around Leroy sank down until it surrounded his knees. Cotton swallowed heavily, and his eyes bulged slightly. He felt around behind him for the doorknob. Slurping sounds reached Cotton’s ears, and Leroy moaned. Cotton backed hastily through the door. Just as he closed it Leslie’s hard pixie face appeared beside Leroy’s hip and she gave Cotton a lewd wink. Cotton slammed the door and tottered back to the dim corner where Willie T. sat, drinking neat whiskey.

“They been at it all damn day,” said Willie T., “kissin’ an’ toe-suckin’ an’ now they’re playin’ pool. You wanna drink?”

Cotton nodded and, ignoring the proffered glass, raised the bottle and took a long healthy gulp.

“He still tryin’ to teach her how to hold the cue?” asked Willie T.

“Willie,” said Cotton, “honest to Jesus, I think she already knows.”

“He ain’t done nothin’ useful all damn day,” Willie T. said. “He ain’t got no energy. We gotta do somethin’ or that bitch is gonna suck the life outa him.”

“Amen,” Cotton said, reaching for the bottle.

She had waited in the darkness for a long time, leaning back against a door, the splinters of wood digging into her bare back, flecks of paint sticking to her sweaty skin when she adjusted her position. She held her bag along one slim leg, her hip thrust outward in a stance of blatant suggestiveness. Once it had been a pose. Now it was the way she stood. It was also the way many others stood, and so the rollers and runners who saw her standing that way chuckled to themselves and passed the word: ’Nessa was turned out again. She stood watching a doorway on the other side of the street, making no motion or sound of invitation, but the rollers and runners ignored that; she was turned out again. They came and went, chuckling. It was Friday, and the street was alive with them. It was Friday, and if it wasn’t quite Saturday, it was the next best thing. Saturday was tomorrow, and tomorrow was a promise, and, like most promises on South Street, had at least a 50 per cent chance of remaining unkept.