South Street (43 page)

“I tried ma best,” Mrs. Fletcher wailed.

Brother Fletcher gave up the thought of escape and concentrated instead on squeezing her harder than she was squeezing him. Mrs. Fletcher, failing to get the message, tightened her grasp around his head. “I loved you as good as I was able,” Mrs. Fletcher cried, “an’ maybe it wasn’t all that fancy, an’ maybe I am gettin’ old, but the Lord knows I tried.”

“Umphgh,” said Brother Fletcher, who now, in addition to being strangled, was being smothered as Mrs. Fletcher pulled his face against her bosom. “Umph.”

“Yes, the Lord knows,” Mrs. Fletcher said, looking down fondly on Brother Fletcher’s head. Suddenly her features hardened and she thrust him away. “So where you think you get off, cheatin’ on me for some old fried chicken?”

Brother Fletcher shook his head and gasped for air. “But—I don’t
like
fried chicken,” he protested weakly. Then he stared at her. “You mean—you thought—my Lord! Was I acting that strange?”

Mrs. Fletcher smiled tearfully. “You kept going out. And you did act strange. But I should have known it was just the beer.”

Brother Fletcher gaped. “You know about the beer?”

“Let’s just say I knew you weren’t satisfied with the iced tea. And for a while I thought maybe you weren’t satisfied with me, either.” Brother Fletcher hung his head. “Fletch?” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“I’m sorry I let you think it. I’m ashamed I let you think it.”

“How are you supposed to know what I’m thinking?”

“I should have told you everything.” He sighed, sank down on the couch. “I guess I was afraid.”

“Afraid? Fletch, I ain’t crazy enough to get upset about a little beer.”

Brother Fletcher’s eyes twinkled. “Fried chicken, beer, what’s the difference?” Mrs. Fletcher glared at him, then smiled. “But I wasn’t talking about beer. I was talking about God.”

“What?”

“God,” Brother Fletcher said. “Remember Him? He plays for Atlanta. As if Aaron wasn’t enough.”

“What about God?” Mrs. Fletcher demanded. “Fletcher, what are you talking about?”

“It’s called a crisis of faith,” Brother Fletcher explained grimly. “It’s a childhood disease, like mumps and measles, which can be very dangerous if you get them late in life. It’s common in young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-seven. Preachers are supposed to be immune.” He looked at Mrs. Fletcher and smiled tightly. “I forgot to take my booster shots.”

“You stopped believing in
God
?” Mrs. Fletcher said incredulously.

“No, no,” said Brother Fletcher, “I’m too old to stop believing in God. But I realized I didn’t know what it was I believed in. I realized if I met God on the street I wouldn’t know Him from—Adam.”

Mrs. Fletcher looked at him and shook her head. “But God isn’t going to come walking down the street.”

“No?” said Brother Fletcher. “Are you sure? How’s He going to come?”

“Well, I don’t know,” snapped Mrs. Fletcher in exasperation.

“See?” said Brother Fletcher.

“See
what
?”

“You wouldn’t know God if He came walking down the street. Because you don’t expect Him to come walking down the street. All we know about God is what we wouldn’t expect Him to do. We don’t expect Him to do anything normal. You don’t expect Him to just walk down the street. You wouldn’t expect Him to wear sneakers, or drink beer, or like baseball games, or go to the bathroom, or wear false teeth. Or—”

“I sure wouldn’t expect to see Him on South Street,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “I wouldn’t expect Him to do
anything
on South Street.”

“No,” Brother Fletcher agreed. “And you wouldn’t expect Him to be wearing a diaper, either.” Mrs. Fletcher nodded slowly. “I went into a bar,” Brother Fletcher continued, his voice a musing rumble, “I drank some beer, and I watched a baseball game. …” He stopped and looked at Mrs. Fletcher. “You don’t like The Word of Life, do you?”

“Well …”

“No. You don’t. You go because I need you to go, and because when people hire a minister they think they’ve hired a family. But I wish you didn’t have to go. Because The Word of Life isn’t …” Brother Fletcher paused and took a deep breath. “If I had someplace I wanted to share with you, someplace I cared whether or not you enjoyed, it would be Lightnin’ Ed’s. Not The Word of Life. And if I wanted to change one place and make it more like the other, I’d want to change The Word of Life.” Brother Fletcher stood up and walked to the window, looked out over the darkly glistening street. “If Leo wanted to come to The Word of Life …” His voice trailed off. He looked at the street. “They made me take off my collar. It was bad for business. Not me. The collar. It was a sign. And it was a relief not to be a minister. No. I take that back. It was a relief to have being a minister be just like being anything else, like being a janitor, or a bartender, or a whore.” He gave the street one last glance, then turned back to Mrs. Fletcher. “If Christ comes back singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” and wearing a clerical collar, we’d all be better off in Hell. I prefer Leo’s company to the Reverend Mr. Sloan’s.”

“Who’s Leo?”

“The bartender.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Fletcher sat down, thought for a minute. Brother Fletcher started to turn back to the window. “So preachers are sinners and bartenders are saints, and if God came back he’d be a bartender.”

Brother Fletcher smiled. “I don’t think it’s that simple. God probably wouldn’t be a bartender. But whatever he was …” He stopped. “An innkeeper was just about like a bartender.”

“The one who said there was no room?”

“No,” said Brother Fletcher. “The one who let them sleep in the stable.” Brother Fletcher turned back to the window.

“Are you going—out?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.

“No,” Brother Fletcher said. “Not tonight. Is there any iced tea?”

“Plenty,” said Mrs. Fletcher, jumping up to go make some. Brother Fletcher turned away from the window, settled down in his chair, and sighed in contentment.

Leo leaned on the bar, waiting for the evening to drain away like the rainwater running down South Street’s litter-clogged storm drains. The rain had made for a slow night—bad for business, good for the soul—and Leo watched the evening end with feelings of relief mingled with a flush of contentment. He drew himself a beer and sipped it slowly.

“Rain’s stopped,” Brown said.

Leo nodded. “Never lasts long this time a year. Gonna be cold out there, though.”

“It’ll be misty,” Brown said, “and the street will shine. It’ll be beautiful.”

Leo looked at him. “What’s so damn pretty about a wet street?”

Brown’s eyes focused on Leo. “What? Oh, I don’t know.”

“Is he talkin’ that philosophy shit again, Leo?” Big Betsy demanded.

“I wouldn’t know, Betsy,” Leo said. “I wouldn’t know if a cow was to crap in here. I can’t tell the difference ’tween that an’ your damn bad breath.”

“Yeah, an’ every time you blow your nose the snot comes out brown,” Big Betsy responded. “You don’t get a stuffed-up nose, you get constipation of the head.”

“Yeah, an’ you got diarrhea of the mouth,” Leo said, grinning at Brown.

Brown laughed and shook his head. Big Betsy climbed off her stool and trundled up. “What the hell you laughin’ at, Brown?”

Brown regarded her. “I would say nothin’, but it appears to be quite a bit.”

Big Betsy drew back and glared at him. Then a slow grin spread across her face. “Wasn’t so long ago, nigger, you was callin’ me a lady.”

Brown shrugged. “You are a lady. A fat, big-mouthed lady.”

“You forgot ‘old,’” Big Betsy said.

“A fat, big-mouthed,
old
lady,” Brown corrected.

“Amen,” Leo said.

“Shup, Leo. I ain’t too old, you know, Brown.” Big Betsy batted her eyes coquettishly.

Brown repressed a shudder. “No,” he said, “but I am.”

“Haw, haw, haw,” bellowed Big Betsy. “Didja hear that, Leo?”

Leo clapped his hands over his ears. “Yeah, I heard it, but you cut loose like that one more time an’ I may never hear another thing. Damn, Betsy, you gotta be givin’ a man some warnin’.”

“Ma mama told me never to be given’ no man no warnin’.”

“You best lose some weight, then, ’cause now they can see you comin’ from six miles away.”

“Haw, haw …” Big Betsy stopped as Leo clapped his hands over his ears again. “Quick, Brown, now’s our chance to talk about what an ugly muthafucka Leo is.”

“You know …” Leo began, but he stopped abruptly and lowered his hands as the door opened and Rayburn slouched in. “Evenin’, Rayburn,” Leo said.

Rayburn looked at him, wordlessly took a stool. He stared straight ahead. Leo shrugged. “What’ll it be?” Rayburn turned his head slowly, looked at Leo, then turned his head back. “Well, damn,” Leo said, “I can’t read your mind.”

“He ain’t got no mind,” Big Betsy said. “Ain’ that the truth, Rayburn?” Rayburn ignored her. Leo looked at Brown and shrugged. Brown was keeping a close watch on Rayburn out of the corner of his eye. “Smell him,” Big Betsy said. “Stinks like a cross between a brewery an’ a goddamn perfume factory. Where you been, Rayburn? You find that community-cunt wife a yours?” Rayburn stared straight ahead. “No, I guess you didn’t—”

“Shut up, Betsy,” Leo said.

“I guess not,” Big Betsy continued doggedly. “If you had a found that half-breed bitch you’d be smellin’ like a kennel instead a like perfume.” Big Betsy moved up behind Rayburn and ran one fat finger down his neck. Rayburn held absolutely still. “Um hum,” Big Betsy said. “Rayburn’s been hangin’ ’round some
expensive
women, from the smell of it. Only I don’t smell no lovin’ on him. Whatsa matter, Rayburn, couldn’t you get over?”

“Shit, Betsy,” Leo said, “if your nose was that good you’d pass out every time you took off your girdle. Now shut up an’ let Rayburn be.”

“‘Let Rayburn be,’” mocked Big Betsy. “Well I might—”

“Be quiet,” Brown said softly. Big Betsy swung on him, her mouth open. “I said be quiet,” Brown said. “He’s got trouble enough.”

“Humph,” Big Betsy said. “What the hell you know ’bout trouble?”

“That sometimes you want to be alone with it,” Brown said.

“He wants to be alone, how come he didn’t stay out on the street?”

“If he had a knowed you was gonna be here he most likely would have,” Leo said.

Big Betsy glared at him. “Another country heard from. ’Scuse me, I mean continent. Leo, you’re a goddamn limp dick just like Rayburn.”

“Sometimes I wonder how anybody could ever be anything else with you around,” Leo snapped.

“Well, damn,” said Big Betsy. She caught up her handbag and waddled toward the door, her stern swinging angrily.

“Don’t forget to write,” Leo called.

Big Betsy halted and rotated. “Have a picture postcard,” she said. She raised her right hand, scribbled on the air. “To Mr. Leo Pissant Cocksucker. South Street. Havin’ a wonderful time, the water’s fine, an’ I wish to God you was here, ’cause we ain’t got nobody big enough to play tackle. Signed, Mopey Dick. Good night.” Big Betsy spun around so quickly her momentum made her stumble slightly as she rumbled out the door.

“Damn,” Leo chuckled. “That was pretty good.”

“That smelly old bitch gone?” Rayburn said.

Leo regarded him mildly. “You mean Betsy?”

“I mean that smelly old cunt was just standin’ there fartin’ with her mouth.”

“Well,” said Leo, “I wouldn’t be knowin’ about the way her cunt smells. I haven’t had ma nose in it.”

“Smells like dead ol’ pussy,” Rayburn snapped. He glared angrily. “This whole place smells like dead ol’ pussy.”

“Quite an expert on the subject,” Brown said sourly. “Necrophilia and bestiality.”

Rayburn shifted his gaze. “Who asted you? You probly like that dead-cunt smell.”

“All right, now,” Leo said. “Betsy’s gone. You wanna have a quiet drink an’ keep your mouth shut?”

“Didn’t come in here to keep ma mouth shut,” Rayburn said. “I come in here to see some niggers.” He looked around the empty bar. “I come in here to see me some niggers!” Brown looked at Leo. Leo shrugged. “Niggers!” Rayburn shouted. He looked accusingly at Leo. “Whad you do with ’em, Leo? Where’d they go?”

“They heard about Lincoln an’ went to kiss his ring,” Brown said.

“Where’d they go, Leo?” Rayburn begged. “Tell me.”

“They went home to bed like normal people.”

“Oh no, Leo,” Rayburn said, “no, they can’t be doin’ that. Not niggers Not like—like they was normal people. ’Cause they ain’t.”

“Some ain’t, an’ that’s for true,” Leo said.

“See, Leo,” Rayburn began, stopping as Leo frowned impatiently. Rayburn turned to Brown. “See,” he said. Brown turned away. “Listen to me,” Rayburn said. He said it softly without a hint of a shout, but there was-something in his voice that made Brown turn back to look at him. “See,” Rayburn said again, “niggers is uncommon. There’s somethin’
different
about ’em.”

“They don’t use suntan oil,” Leo said sourly. “You want a beer to wash down your bullshit with?”

“Ain’t got no money,” Rayburn said. Leo snorted, drew a beer and set it on the bar. He refilled Brown’s glass, then drew one for himself. “Y’all want to hear a funny story?” Rayburn said.

“I hears ’em every day,” Leo said shortly. Brown looked at him accusingly. Leo sighed. “I guess one more ain’t gonna kill me.”

“Thank you, Leo,” Rayburn said. “I knew niggers would listen. White folks don’t listen. I been up there tryin’ to make ’em, an’ all they does is laugh. So I come to find me some niggers. Niggers’ll always listen.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause they ain’t got nothin’ better to do,” Leo said.

Rayburn lifted his beer and sat swaying on his stool.

“You gonna listen to ma story or not?” he demanded.

“Yes, Rayburn, yes,” Leo said. “Get on with it, for Jesus’ sake.”

“All right,” Rayburn said. He raised his beer, sipped it, set it down again. Foam clung to his lips, hung white against his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “This here’s a funny story, you know?” He paused to look at Leo. Leo nodded. “It’s about this janitor,” Rayburn said. “One time he run into this gal. Pretty gal. Hustlin’. Hustlin’ everything: food, money, drinks, reefer, anything she could get her hands on an’ her legs wrapped around. You couldn’t blame her. It was the only way she could see to get along, you know? We all the same, just tryin’ to get along.” He looked at Brown. Brown nodded slowly. Rayburn nodded too, and for a moment their heads bobbed up and down, Rayburn’s descending as Brown’s rose. Rayburn stopped to sip his beer. The floor groaned as he shifted his weight. “Anyways, I—I mean, this janitor, he married her. He didn’t have to or nothin’. Sure didn’t need to. Five dollars was all he needed. I guess …”