Tomorrow's Bread

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  Half an hour later I go down our front walk into the warm night, walk up Brown Street. At McDowell I cross Independence, not wanting to use the tunnel on a Saturday evening—no telling how many bums gon be in it.

  I stop to speak to Mr. Stone, who is taking in crates of fruits from the sidewalk. He calls to his wife, “Hildie, come say hey to Loraylee.”

  Mrs. Stone steps through the door. “You looking real fine, Loraylee. Stepping out on a Saturday night, are you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, to Tocky’s.”

  She picks up a box of apples, goes back inside.

  In the light from the storefront, my shadow moves ahead of me, disappearing when the store goes dark. I hear Mr. Stone closing the grille over his door.

  Uncle Ray thinks nobody needs a lit-up sign saying STONE’S GROCERY because anyone shopping there already knows what it is. But Mr. Stone say with Charlotte growing and McDowell being so busy, he wants folks from outside Second Ward to know about his store. “Men going home from work downtown can stop in for beer or if the missus calls them saying to get eggs.”

  Tocky’s is a block up First Street, and I take my time, speaking to folks I pass, my heels making a pleasant sound on the sidewalk. The air smells faintly of sewer, drifting up from Little Sugar. I don’t know how folks in Blue Heaven can stand living right on a branch of the creek where the stink can get bad, especially in the heat of summer. Passing the alley between the drugstore and barber shop, I hear the clack of dice, the clink of coins. Craps. Milk money going down. A boy runs past me, skids into the alley, shouting, “Why y’all start without me?”

  A light goes out across the street. “Hey, Loraylee!”

  “Hey, Jonny, you been open on Saturday evening?”

  “No, making a wreath for a funeral tomorrow.” Jonny looks up and down First, then crosses over.

  “Who died?”

  “Dicker Phillips. You remember him and Morella?”

  “Sure do. The Parkinson’s got him, huh?”

  “From what Morella told me, maybe a stroke. He passed out Thursday evening. Dead by the time they got to Samaritan.”

  Jonny is so tall and skinny it’s like talking to a lamppost.

  “Things will be easier on her now,” he say, “after him being sick such a long time.”

  “Is Morella okay at the Courts?”

  “She says it’s noisy, got roaches, people fighting. She’s hoping her daughter will take her in.” He looks around again.

  “You expecting somebody?”

  His eyes dart. “Naw.”

  Something’s coming down for sure.

  “That’s a pretty dress. Where you headed?”

  “Gon meet Mayrese Hemphill at Tocky’s.”

  A couple heads toward town on the other side of the street, arm in arm, laughing.

  Jonny touches his chin, nervous, jerky. A car drives by, moving slow, tooting the horn to people it passes. He jumps back.

  “I gotta go.” He walks away fast, his shoes clapping the pavement.

  I’ve been knowing Tocky McGuire since first grade. He has a juke joint in what was once a dry cleaning store. The store closed after a new one opened over on Caldwell. The front counter that had clothes on it, dirty one week, clean the next, is now a bar with stools. Where the swinging half door was is a space wide enough to pass into a big room that use to be filled with hanging racks of Sunday best in paper bags—dresses, suits, pants. Tables fill that space now, some with two chairs, some with four or six, around a dance floor. The jukebox on the back wall shoots rays of color—orange, green, blue—the only light except the glow from brass wall lamps with dark shades. So dim I can’t even see what’s gritty under my shoes. The place smells of cigarettes and popcorn.

  Mayrese is sitting with two men at a table in the corner. What am I doing here? If she wants to set me up with some good-time Charlie, that doesn’t interest me, but not to be rude, I go over.

  A fat man in a red suit stands, pulls out a chair for me. He’s short and wide, like a fire hydrant. “Hello there, sweet thing. Can I get you a beer?”

  The other man has on a shirt the same purple as Mayrese’s skirt, and I wonder did they plan that. He stares at me. “Hey, girl. You got pretty brown eyes, now don’t you?”

  I sit, look over at Mayrese, shake my head a bit trying to let her know I don’t want to be hooked up with anybody. She grins. Her eyes shine like maybe she’s already had a couple of drinks.

  Fireplug sets a mug of beer in front of me. “I’m Lester. You live round here?” He settles back in his chair.

  “Yes.” I take a sip of beer. Icy, bitter, good.

  He takes a gulp, spilling drops on his tie. “You work at the S&W, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Seen you coming and going.” He laughs, like that’s funny.

  I drink my beer, thinking I’ll leave when I finish it.

  Mayrese say, “Loraylee been at the S&W since God was a baby.” There’s a smear of mascara on her left cheek.

  “Loraylee,” say Lester. “A name like music.”

  On the jukebox “Shop Around” starts playing, and Purple Shirt sings along with it, dipping his chin and going bass on the line, “You better shop around,” winking at me. Somebody kicks my foot under the table. Mayrese frowns at me, smiles at Purple Shirt. I get the message. I turn my head to stare out at the couples fast dancing, coming in close together, then stepping back. Some dance I don’t know yet.

  “You shy all of a sudden?” ask Purple Shirt. “You friendly enough to get you a kid.”

  Mayrese say, “Hawk. He what now, six?”

  “Seven,” I say.

  “Yeah,” say Purple Shirt. “He mixed. His daddy white?” When I don’t answer, he say, “Earlier this evening, didn’t I see you talking with that tall piece of work? Nigger what sells flowers.”

  I can smell how bad this man is.

  “Jonny No Age. The fag.”

  I say to Mayrese, “Believe I’ll go on home, now.” Purple Shirt stands up fast, his chair hitting the floor with a crack like a pistol. Talk stops. Folks turn, look.

  He starts laughing loud, a scary sound. “Didn’t mean to startle you, girl. Just axing if you friends with Jonny No Age.”

  “Like I said, Mayrese, I’m gon—”

  Tocky walks up. “Loraylee, you okay?”

  “Can you get somebody to walk home with me?”

  Lester say, “I can, my pleasure.” He starts to stand, but Tocky pushes him back in his chair and takes my elbow.

  At the register Tocky say, “How about I call Ray to come get you?”

  “Yes, please do that.”

  He dials, pushes the hang-up button, dials again. “Busy. You got a party line?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Across the big room Mayrese is laughing at something Purple Shirt say.

  Tocky speaks into the phone. “Operator? I need you to interrupt a party line. Emergency? It will be if you don’t let me call through.” In a minute or two he say, “Dooby? This Tocky. Get off the phone so I can call Ray. Loraylee wants him.”

  I say, “Tell him I’m okay.”

  “Tell Ray she’s okay but she needs him to come get her.” He hangs up the phone. “Dooby say he’ll come down here hisself, if Ray’s not home.”

  “He’s home.” I cannot imagine Dooby, who seldom leaves his house, coming to get me.

  “Stay with me till he gets here.”

  I sit on a stool by the bar, thinking how much fun a Saturday night would be if I could go out with Mr. Griffin. The music, the dancing, the beer.

  Twenty minutes later Uncle Ray comes through the front door. “You okay, Loraylee?”

  Tocky say, “Hey, Ray, how you doing?”

  “Oh, hey, Tocky. I’m okay, you?”

  “Doing great. How about a beer? On the house.”

  “No, that’s okay. Livvie’s alone with the boy. Don’t like leaving them too long. What’s going on?”

  “Some tough guy trying to hit on y
our pretty girl here.”

  “Glad you called me.” Uncle Ray touches my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  We walk along, not talking, past Jonny’s flower shop, past Stone’s. At our front walk, Uncle Ray say, “I don’t like that Mayrese.”

  “I’m done with her.”

  * * *

  Sunday morning I wake to Uncle Ray shaking my shoulder.

  I sit up. “Time for me to make breakfast?”

  He shakes his head, frowning. “Jonny No Age is in the hospital. Couple of policemen want to talk to you.”

  I rub my eyes. “What’d you say about Jonny?”

  “He got beat up. Hildie Stone told them she saw y’all together last night.”

  “We passed on the street.” I look across the room. “Where’s Hawk?”

  “The kitchen. Bibi’s fixing him some oatmeal. You’d best get dressed.”

  I wash my face, brush my teeth, put on my church clothes as fast as I can, smooth my hair, and go to the living room. Uncle Ray is in his chair, looking at the floor. Two white men stand by the front door, one tall and skinny, the other shorter, heavy. Both of them in suits, ties, not looking like police. The tall one say, “Loraylee Hawkins?”

  I nod.

  “Sgt. Mahaley, Charlotte Police Department.” He pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to me. A badge. Then he sits on the sofa. He’s young, about my age.

  The other one say, “Detective Blackmon.” He stays by the front door, looking out the screen. Stocky, gray hair, in charge. “You know why we’re here?” he ask.

  “Jonny Steadman. My uncle say he’s in the hospital.”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  Bibi comes in carrying a tray with cups on it, sets it on the end table, and backs out. I say to her, “Please keep Hawk in the kitchen.” I close the kitchen door, sit in the straight chair near Uncle Ray.

  “Who’s Hawk?” ask the one on the sofa. Was his name Mayley?

  “My son. He’s eight.”

  The detective gets a cup, takes a sip. He doesn’t like being here—it shows on his face—doesn’t like the coffee. Did Bibi offer them milk and sugar?

  Mayley say, “Jonathan Steadman, owner of Steadman’s Flowers. You know him well?”

  “Yes, sir, he—”

  “You see him last evening around eight o’clock?”

  “Yes, coming out of his shop.”

  He pulls a notepad from his pants pocket, writes something on it.

  The detective say, “Unusual he’d be open on Saturday evening, isn’t it?”

  “I asked him why was—”

  “What did he tell you?” Mayley’s voice is sharp, like I’ve done something wrong.

  “Dicker Phillips passed from a stroke and Jonny—”

  “Dicker died?” Uncle Ray say.

  “Sorry, Uncle Ray, should have told you about Mr. Phillips.” I look back at the policeman. “Jonny was making a wreath for the service.”

  The detective say, “This was around eight?”

  “Uh-huh. I left home a little before. It’s not but a few blocks from here to Jonny No—to the flower store.”

  “Jonny No?” ask Mayley.

  “We call him Jonny No Age. His first name, Jonny, got no h in it, and that’s how come—”

  “So Jonny No Age is a nickname.”

  “Yes, sir. Folks joke he doesn’t know how old he is.”

  Mayley scribbles something on his pad and the other one say, “What’d y’all talk about?”

  “Not much, like hey, how you doing, then Mr. Phillips.”

  “He mention anything about a friend he, uh, rooms with?”

  I shake my head. “He told me Dicker Phillips passed, and I say how that must be bad for Morella—Dicker’s wife. And Jonny say he reckon things would be easier for Morella if she could get outta the Courts.”

  “Why was Morella in court?” the detective ask.

  “Not court like the law. She’s at the Courts, what we call Piedmont Courts, over there on Caldwell. Apartments and such.”

  Mayley say, “You mind if I smoke, Loraylee?”

  “No, sir.” Bibi doesn’t like anybody smoking in the house, but I get our ashtray from the cupboard, sit back down.

  Mayley ask, “What did Jonny say after he told you about”—he looks down at his notebook—“Dicker Phillips?”

  I stare at our faded rug. “He looked around like he was waiting for somebody.”

  “Loraylee, you know what a homosexual is?”

  “I do.”

  “Is Jonny a homosexual?”

  “Rumor is.”

  Mayley coughs a bit. Fiddles with a lump of thread on his jacket where a button is gone. “Is it pretty well known that he’s queer?”

  I straighten my skirt over my knees. “People talk. They can be wrong, and—”

  The detective interrupts me. “Jonny say anything else?”

  “Say he gotta go, headed up First Street toward where he lives.”

  The detective say, “Excuse us, be right back.” They go out, voices rumbling on the porch for a minute or two. Mayley steps back in. “That’s all for now.”

  “Wait,” I say, louder than I mean to.

  He looks irritated. “What is it?”

  “You never said how Jonny is doing, what happened to him.”

  Mayley say, “Sorry, I meant to. He got beat up pretty bad.”

  “Is he at Samaritan?” Uncle Ray ask.

  “Yes.”

  He pushes himself up out of his chair. “Why y’all come here?”

  The two men look at each other like they’re considering what to tell us. The detective say, “We’ve made an arrest in another matter—”

  “It might be connected to Jonny’s beating,” Mayley say.

  “And I guess you don’t want to tell us about that other matter?” Uncle Ray say.

  “Not now.” The detective takes Mayley’s arm, pulls him toward the steps. They go to the car parked out front.

  “Huh,” say Uncle Ray. “This is a strange thing. Mighty strange. Sure hope Jonny gon be all right.”

  “I’m on second today, could go see him if we leave church right after Pastor Polk’s sermon.”

  “Let’s do that.” He opens the kitchen door.

  Hawk comes in. “What did the police want, Mama?”

  “To talk to Uncle Ray. You save me any oatmeal?”

  Bibi sniffs. “What you thinking, Raylee, letting them smoke in my living room?” She picks up the ashtray. “Come get breakfast, then we going to church.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Eben was in the choir loft, pushing a dust mop, when the front door of the sanctuary opened, splitting the aisle with a beam of sunshine.

  “Ebenezer Polk?”

  He dropped the mop, shaded his eyes. A woman walked toward him, her long shadow shortening as she approached. She was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall her name.

  “Georgeanne Wilkins. Edward’s sister. You were in sixth grade when I started at Myers Street School.”

  “Georgie Bee?”

  She smiled. “Georgie Bee. Yes, that was me back when you were Neezer. I’m Georgeanne now.”

  A few years younger than he. “What brings you to St. Tim’s this morning? Would you join me in a cup of coffee?” The cleaning will wait.

  “I’d love that.” She looked at the pews, the mop. “I’ve interrupted you.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “You’re pastor here?”

  “Pastor, janitor, yardman, depends on when you catch me.” He motioned for her to follow him toward the rear of the church. “Let’s go up to my study.” He climbed the stairs in his usual halting manner.

  Halfway up she asked, “How old is your church?”

  “Began in 1842, in what I gather was a room in someone’s home.” They reached the top of the stairs and he stopped at the newel post to ease his right knee. She waited by his side. He caught a whiff of something tangy, like lemon, and the dusky smell of cigare
ttes. “My study is down the hall.” He pointed to the door and followed her.

  She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, though that was difficult to judge given her high heels. A seersucker suit, pillbox hat, jewelry. She’d come a long way from Myers Street School. As had he.

  He switched on the overhead and she sat in the easy chair. “I was sorry to hear about Nonette’s passing. It’s what, three years ago?”

  “December of fifty-eight. Four.”

  “I met her my freshman year at Spelman. A lovely girl.”

  Girl. All those years ago. He went to the percolator. “Cream, sugar?”

  “Black.” She took off her gloves, smoothed them on her knee, and folded them into her pocketbook.

  He gave her a cup, added milk to his. “What did you major in?”

  “I doubled in history and political science. Then law school at Howard.”

  “You’re an attorney?”

  “I am.” She settled into the armchair. “I came to see you about the urban renewal.”

  He sat behind his desk. “Are you for it or against it?”

  That smile again. “Eddy says nothing can stop it.”

  He judged his coffee, found it better than usual and was glad for that. “Folks don’t know what to do. All of a sudden they’re ordered to move from where they’ve spent their whole lives and I can’t offer much solace.”

  She opened her purse, took out a pack of Salems.

  He held up his hand. “I’d rather you not, please. I’m an ex-smoker, constantly tempted.”

  “Oh. Of course.” She closed her bag. “Maybe I’ll try to quit. Again. What do friends call you now? Ebenezer?”

  He chuckled. “Eben, mostly.”

  “Okay, Eben. Eddy tells me the cemetery is threatened.”

  “That’s right. As of now, the city wants to move the graveyard. It’s only a fourth of an acre. Sixty-three graves, but there may be over eighty souls buried there.”

  “Properly identified graves can’t be moved without appraisal by a qualified archeologist.”

  He swiveled his chair, stared out the window at the sliver of the cemetery he could see behind St. Tim’s. “What’s proper identification?”

  “I can show you statutes.”

  “Some graves are only a depression. Others have rocks. Family plots may have more than one body.” He turned back to her. “Do you remember Reverend Tilley?”