Tomorrow's Bread

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  “Yes, apparently he was near death when he arrived, and could not be resuscitated.”

  He couldn’t speak.

  “Mr. Polk? Are you there?”

  He wanted to hang up, but mumbled, “I’m here.”

  “In cases like this we hold the body in the hospital morgue until . . .” The man stopped.

  “Cases like this?”

  “When police are involved.”

  He was nauseated, felt faint, wanted to lie down. “May I take a number and call you back?”

  Another hesitation. “I’m not sure I can tell you anything else. You need to come to the morgue to identify your brother. Officially, I mean. We ID’d him from his wallet, but until a relative has—well, that’s why I called.”

  “Okay, I’ll come right over.” He hung up, sat at the table, stared out the screen door into the backyard and saw the field that had been the cemetery. There’d never be another burial at St. Tim’s.

  At the hospital, he was taken to the morgue where a white man working at a desk glanced up, then back to a pile of papers. “Yes?”

  Eben cleared his throat, took a step back. The man saw Eben’s collar. “Sorry, uh, Father?”

  “Reverend Polk.”

  “Polk? Yeah, you must be here about”—the man shuffled papers, read from one—“Oscar Polk, is that right?”

  He’d been hoping Oscar wouldn’t be here, that it was another black man, that someone made a mistake. “Yes, Oscar Polk.”

  “Okay, Reverend. Come with me.” The man got up, led him into a chilly room. “We got him a while ago.”

  “How did he—” He stopped short. “What happened to him?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have that information. They can tell you upstairs. I just need you to make a positive ID. Then sign some papers for me.” The man walked to a wall with rows of rectangular drawers. He consulted a list on a bulletin board and pulled open a drawer that held a sheet-draped body. “You ready?” he asked.

  Eben wasn’t, but he nodded.

  The man pulled back the sheet.

  “Oh,” was all he could say.

  “Is this Oscar Polk?”

  “Yes.” Funny Oscar, reckless Oscar, troubled Oscar. His brother’s familiar face, a bloodless charcoal gray. Eben stood there, felt helpless, useless. What was he to do now?

  Noah. He had to tell Noah.

  Oscar had gotten out of jail a month ago, rented a furnished apartment on Congo, over in what was left of Blue Heaven, asking if Noah could stay with Eben, “Till I get back on my feet, okay?” Again Eben hoped that Oscar would become the father Noah needed. That was up to Eben now.

  * * *

  Noah was pushing the rattling lawnmower across the front yard of the manse with an ease and grace Eben envied, given his own struggles when he tried to mow the lawn. In the past some member of the church showed up to cut the grass, but since Noah moved in last spring, he’d taken care of it without being asked or reminded.

  He could almost see Noah growing. Strong arms, big feet—the last pair of shoes had been a twelve.

  Noah stopped mowing as if he could feel his uncle looking at him. Eben walked across the grass. “Hey, Noah. The lawn’s looking good.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Eben. I got a ways to go yet.”

  “I’d like you to take a break. C’mon inside.”

  Noah pulled a rag from the pocket of his jeans, wiped his face, hung the rag across the handle of the lawnmower. “Okay.”

  In the kitchen, Eben pulled out a chair, motioned for Noah to sit. “How about a glass of tea? That’s hot work you’ve been doing.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Eben took glasses from a cabinet, got out a tray of ice, poured the tea. He sat down across from his nephew. “I’m sorry, Noah, but I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  “Daddy, isn’t it?”

  Noah had been calling Oscar Dad for months. But now he was a scared boy.

  “Yes. He—” Eben didn’t know where to start. He rubbed at a smudge on the table. “You know your father had a drinking problem.”

  “Still does.”

  He took Noah’s hand. “He’s dead, son.”

  Noah paled. “I knew that’s what you were gon say.” He got to his feet, drained his glass in one long drink. “I’ll go finish mowing.”

  Eben stood abruptly. “No, no. Stay with me.”

  Noah stopped, turned back. “How’d you find out?”

  “A phone call this morning. The police got a tip about a fellow selling moonshine—that man Mash. Seems he got Oscar involved in a still on Second Street, behind one of the burned-out houses. The cops raided the place. I don’t know all the details, but guns were drawn. Your father was shot.”

  “By the police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was anyone else killed?”

  “Not that I know of. But Mash is in jail.”

  Noah slumped back into his chair, began to cry. “Good. That’s good.”

  Eben put his arms around his nephew, smelled sweat and grass, felt the boy’s shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry, Noah. So very sorry.”

  * * *

  Two days later as he entered the crowded sanctuary, all Eben could see was the open coffin on a stand in front of the two steps that led to the choir pews, the plain oak pulpit. He walked to the coffin, stood looking down at his brother. Oscar had tried over and over to grow a mustache. The straggly graying hairs on his upper lip brought Eben to the edge of tears, but he collected himself, took in a deep breath. He touched a cold hand. “Goodbye, Carman, gon see y’soon. You got that?”

  He turned and took a seat next to Noah, slumped in a corner of the front pew. His nephew hadn’t cried since he first heard of his father’s death, but had been silent, withdrawn. Now he put his face against Eben’s shoulder, took his arm.

  The Reverend Dr. McMillan of the AME Zion, who’d offered to conduct the service today, nodded to him from a seat on the stage. The choir filed in, lined up facing the mourners as they sang, “Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.” Yes, he thought, I am worn.

  Reverend McMillan opened the service, led the congregation in prayer, and spoke briefly of Oscar’s life: the athlete, the father, the brother.

  As the service proceeded, Ben Stone, who’d known both brothers since childhood, walked slowly to the front of the church, stood in the center of the top step, his hands folded in front of him, his long legs spread. “Oscar, Eben, and I—we fancied ourselves the three musketeers of Brooklyn, back when we sat side by side in the sixth grade at Myers Street Graded School in 1918. Oscar was two years older, but in the same class as we were because, as he put it, ‘The teachers liked me, kept me back so they could have another year with me. Did that twice in fact.’” Scattered laughter.

  “Carman, Neezer, and Benjy, those were our brands, our street names.”

  Eben remembered when Oscar had told him that Carman would be his brand, lying in the bed they shared in the shotgun house on Second Street. “Get it? Os-CAR, Carman. I’m gon have me a hot set of wheels, gon drive all the way to New York City in it, find me a fine lady there. ‘Carman,’ she gon say, ‘take me for a ride.’ ”

  In a few words Ben captured a man who few knew as well as he did. “Oscar Polk had a wild streak, but he also had a kindness that many in our neighborhood know from personal experience. After the fire swept through Brooklyn two years ago, Oscar helped clear the rubble, found beds for the homeless, worked in my store setting up a soup kitchen.” Ben cleared his throat, touched his eyes with a Kleenex, looked at Eben and Noah. “And Oscar Polk loved his son Noah with all his heart.

  “So I don’t want to hear a word about his trouble with the law. We’re gathered here to lay to rest a man who did the best he could, which is the most we can ask of anyone.” In the hushed silence that followed his words, Ben returned to his seat.

  Pricey Hubbell, another friend from childhood, rose with the choir, began to si
ng in a rich baritone, “Deep river, my home is over Jordan. Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground.” The choir joined in behind Pricey, and Eben finally let the tears fall that he’d been holding in since he’d stood next to Oscar’s body in the morgue.

  As the hymn came to a close, Reverend McMillan stood to lead the mourners in prayer. It felt so strange to Eben to be sitting in a pew looking up at another preacher at his pulpit.

  * * *

  Together Eben and Noah cleared out Oscar’s small apartment. In the bedroom Eben folded a faded chenille bedspread he remembered from when they were boys, put it in a cardboard box. He looked around. “I can tell the Salvation Army to come get what’s left. Is there anything else you want?”

  Noah shook his head. “I got some sweaters, ties, couple of suits. His trophies. He was a great football player.” He held a framed photo of his mother.

  “Coach said he was the best running back he’d ever seen.”

  Noah’s face clouded. “There was a picture of Daddy in his football uniform, from the Charlotte Post, but I can’t find it.”

  “It’s in one of the boxes.”

  Noah smiled. “Good.”

  It only took two trips in Eben’s car to remove everything that was left of Oscar Polk.

  * * *

  Eben opened his bedroom window, crawled into bed in the dim glow from a half-moon high in the sky. Faint music drifted in. Noah must be playing the transistor radio Eben had given him for Christmas. Should he go to him? Would Noah come to him if he got too sad? It was difficult to know how to help a sixteen-year-old, close to manhood but still a boy.

  Eben and Nettie had loved lying in this bed on moonlit nights, talking. He spoke softly to her, “Well, old girl, looks like we’ve got us a son after all these years.” A memory hit him of her climbing on top of him, kissing him, her face awash in the hazy light. “So we have,” he was sure she said.

  CHAPTER 31

  Bibi is in Hawk’s bed again. What makes her do that? Once or twice a week I come home to find her there, snoring. She sleeps through the day more and more lately, keeps us up at night. I’m thinking I should take her to see Dr. Wilkins, but she doesn’t want to. “He gon poke me, say I got high blood, give me medicine.”

  Last week she told me something I didn’t pay much attention to. “What that ringing?” she asked as we left church. I thought she meant the bell at St. Tim’s. Then, couple blocks away she said, “Whistles, bells. Hear that ringing?” She stumbled.

  I took her arm. “Bibi, you not feeling good?”

  She stopped, her silver hair fuzzy around her wrinkled face, her brown eyes almost hidden by flaps of skin. “You gon get my hankies. Some of ’em was Bibi.”

  “Okay.” Made no sense to me.

  I push that memory from my mind, get a brown work shirt of Uncle Ray’s, so worn it feels like Kleenex, perfect for a robe for Hawk to be a shepherd in the Christmas play. I’ll fix him a beard from cotton balls and shoe polish. He can wear his sandals, hold a staff Uncle Ray’s making from a cane. I get the shirt all laid out on the living room floor, long sleeves cut open, just enough material for a robe for Hawk, even as big as he’s getting.

  The wind’s picking up, knocking the limbs of the magnolia against the roof. At work this morning I hear it’s gon snow today. I go to the porch to check the temperature, and find it has started, blowing white across the yard. Only sound is the clacking of tree limbs already got ice on them. No birds. No cars. Uncle Ray’s Esso thermometer say twenty-seven degrees. Sleet stings my face. A neighbor fetching the afternoon paper waves, “Got a regular blizzard coming, what I hear.”

  “I believe you’re right.”

  He goes in his house.

  Charlotte is not quite south enough for snow to be rare, and not quite north enough for it to be regular, but we get one or two snowfalls every winter, enough that folks get excited at a few flakes in the air. Every time the weatherman say it’s coming, Bibi tells me about the heavy storm in 1940. “Snowed least a foot. You were three. Your daddy wrapped you up, took you out to build a snowman, then y’all went sliding down the hill over on Morrow.” She has told me so many times I feel like I remember it.

  I sit in the rocker, watching the grass turn white, wishing my daddy was here to take me and Hawk sliding on that hill, using the lid off the garbage can for a sled. Uncle Ray and I could go down there with Hawk when they get home. I smile thinking about it, sitting on the porch till my feet feel like they are frozen to the floor.

  Inside I stand by the stove, warming myself, wondering do we need any groceries. There’s milk in the refrigerator, fresh rolls I brought home from the S&W, eggs, butter. It’s getting late for me to get to a grocery, but the snow coming down makes me feel like storing up on food. What I do instead is get back to the shepherd costume, cutting off the lapels from the shirtfront, saving the buttons.

  I think about work while I sew pieces together. Mr. Griffin put me and Retta side by side this week, me on bread, her on dessert, knowing we friends. The hours fly by, us passing dishes to customers, greeting our regulars, talking about Becky and Hawk when the line is slow.

  Uncle Ray comes in, Hawk behind him, dusted with snow, excited. “Guess what, Mama? No school tomorrow.”

  “It’s a mess out there.” Uncle Ray helps Hawk take off his coat.

  I hold up the cloth, show it to Hawk. “Almost got you a shepherd robe.”

  He grins. “Yay!”

  Uncle Ray ask, “Where’s Bibi?”

  “Sleeping in Hawk’s bed.”

  “I’m gon wake her, time to start supper.” He comes right back. “She’s not there.”

  “Bathroom?”

  He shakes his head. “Not in our room, either.”

  I can’t think.

  He gets his coat. “Maybe she went out back. I’ll go look.” The kitchen door opens and closes.

  In our bedroom the sheets and covers from Hawk’s bed are on the floor, his dresser drawers open, the clothes all tossed around, not neat like he keeps them. What was she doing? She’s not in her bedroom, not in the shower. Her coat is hanging in the hall closet.

  Uncle Ray comes back with our money jar. “This was in the yard, the lid off, cash still there. You seen my garden boots? They’re not on the stoop.”

  I open the back door. The frigid air hits me. Bibi’s out there in nothing but a nightgown.

  “Sit tight,” he say. “If I don’t find her soon, we’ll get help.” He pats my shoulder. “She probably got it in her head to visit someone.” He heads out.

  Hawk has turned on the radio in the living room, singing to a song he likes about a magic dragon. Few minutes later he comes in the kitchen. “Where’s Uncle Ray?”

  I start putting away dishes. “Bibi’s visiting someone and he’s gon bring her home.”

  I don’t think he buys that. “Can I bring my homework in here?”

  “Sure.” I open the refrigerator, take out collards and fatback, last night’s leftover cornbread, a wedge of cheddar to make macaroni and cheese, Bibi’s favorite. For the greens I cut up “the littlest bit of sweet onion,” the way Bibi taught me, saying it was her grand’s secret. When I wipe my eyes, I tell Hawk it’s from cutting the onion, and I go to make his bed. One of the sheets is damp. Bibi must have stripped the bed because she wet herself. I gather them up and smell the urine along with a faint whiff of vanilla, which Bibi dots behind her ears after she bathes. Sugar cookies baking in the oven at the S&W always make me think of her.

  I take the laundry to the kitchen. Uncle Ray is shaking snow off his hat, brushing it from his shoulders. His nose and cheeks are red.

  Hawk say, “Where’s Bibi?”

  “I couldn’t find her. Checked with neighbors up and down the street. Nobody’s seen her.”

  Hawk stands up fast, his pencil hitting the floor. “Is she lost?”

  Uncle Ray takes him by the shoulders. “She’s out and we don’t know where. We’ll get help to look for her.” Hawk burie
s his face in Uncle Ray’s chest and they stand there, hugging each other.

  I touch Uncle Ray’s hand. “I’m gon call the police.”

  “Yes, I believe we should.” He say to Hawk, “C’mon, boy, bring your homework to the living room, let me see what you’re doing. Your mama’s got to use the phone.”

  A man answers, “Police Department, Sergeant Hollins.”

  “My grandmother’s missing.” My voice breaks. “She’s outside in her nightgown.”

  “Name, please.”

  “Livinia Hawkins. She’s eighty-one and not well.”

  “No, your name.”

  I feel stupid. “Loraylee Hawkins.”

  “What’s that? Lorelei?”

  “Loraylee.” I spell it.

  “Phone number?”

  I give it to him.

  “Address?”

  None of what he’s asking for is going to find Bibi. “1105 Brown Street, Charlotte 2, North—”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  The kitchen clock say five-fifteen. I try to think when I saw her in Hawk’s bed. “A couple of hours.”

  “Hold on.” I hear men talking, a phone ringing, a typewriter. I wait and wait in the empty kitchen that smells of collards.

  He comes back. “We got nothing on her. Can’t do anything until she’s missing for twenty-four hours. She’ll be back soon, probably went to the store, didn’t tell you.”

  “No, sir, not Bibi. She’s off in her head.”

  “Call us tomorrow if she hasn’t turned up.”

  He’s not gon do anything. “Yes, sir, goodbye.” I hang up before he can say another word.

  I stand there in the empty kitchen wishing with all my heart that I could call Archie. Lately when I think of him he’s always Archie, not Mr. Griffin, and sometimes I whisper his name out loud. There’s not a single thing he could do about Bibi being gone, but if he was here, he’d hold me and let me cry.

  There’s a paper under a magnet on the side of the refrigerator. Not on the front, where we leave notes. Bibi’s shaky writing: “Mess myself. L.” The L is scrawled large, two wobbly loops. She use to have such a smooth hand.

  I stare at the note. “Uncle Ray!”