Laura stepped up beside me. “It’s not—”
“Laura,” I said with great firmness.
“That’s right. Least you keep her in line.”
“I don’t like your mouth,” I said.
Laura put her hand on my arm, but the man smiled. “You don’t got to like it. You just got to listen to it.”
“I don’t even have to do that. Come on, Laura.” I took her hand and led her out of the restaurant.
“Why are we leaving?” she asked as she hurried to keep up with me. “He didn’t have any right to say that to you. You didn’t have to listen.”
“And neither did you,” I said. “We wouldn’t get any peace and quiet in there.”
“Who was he?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I know what he wants me to think he is, but he’s being awfully visible.”
“What does that mean?” We were walking quickly down the street. I wanted to get to my car and get out before he had time to find his friends.
“It means he’s dressed like one of the Black Panthers, but he’s not acting like one.”
“You mean that California group?”
“They’re all over now,” I said. “And they like to get attention, but not this kind. Not behind the scenes. They like to make the establishment notice them—the white establishment. They usually don’t go after blacks.”
“But you’re with me,” she said.
“Still.” I didn’t like the encounter. “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
“No.” She stopped beside my car. “Not yet. Can’t we go somewhere?”
We probably could. Any one of the clubs in West Memphis or the restaurants by Stax Records wouldn’t have looked twice at the two of us. But I didn’t mention them. I didn’t want to be in a crowd any longer.
“I’ll cook you some dinner,” I said. And then I realized who I was inviting to my small house. “If you don’t mind seeing how the other half lives.”
“Not at all,” she said. I unlocked the car door and she slipped inside. I walked around, looking down Beale at the King’s Palace. He hadn’t followed us outside, which was good. Thomas Withers hadn’t made any threats since we saw each other a week ago. Either he had decided I wasn’t worth his time, or he had other plans.
I hoped that man in the beret wasn’t part of the other plans.
I climbed in the car and drove off. Laura sat quietly, looking at the streets of Memphis in the growing dark.
As we got closer to my house, I began to wonder about the wisdom of my idea. The neighborhood was scruffy on its best days; almost a month into the strike, it looked dirty. Garbage cans were lined up curbside, and so were some plastic garbage bags. Most of the garbage was in stained grocery bags that were rotting over time. The stench was almost palpable. The skeleton crews put on by the city hadn’t touched the black neighborhoods, only the upscale white ones.
As I parked, I felt my shoulders stiffen. I don’t know what I was afraid of—Laura saying something rude, I suppose, like “You live here?” But she just got out of the car, stepped around the trash, and waited for me.
Even in her dirty coat and blue jeans, Laura looked out of place in the neighborhood. Something about her said money, even though she wasn’t dressed that way. Maybe it was her posture as she waited, the rigid back unbowed by life, or maybe it was the manicured edge she had—her hair was trimmed, her nails buffed, even her shoes looked new. Whatever it was, I saw her standing behind the garbage, near the row of shotgun houses with their peeling paint, and wondered why I had thought to bring her here.
I got out of my car and stepped through the garbage to meet her. Then I took her elbow and led her up the steps onto the porch. She waited while I unlocked the door and walked inside just behind me.
The house was dark and still smelled of the morning’s toast and coffee. I flicked on the overhead light, a faint forty-watt bulb that I rarely used, and walked to an end table to turn on a lamp. Laura waited by the door, like a guest, making sure she wiped her boots on the mat, so that she didn’t track across my wood floor.
I flicked on another light, and then turned off the overhead. The room looked better in indirect lighting, but it still looked spare. Compared to what Laura was used to, it probably looked small and meager. The bookshelves on the wall held only battered paperbacks and bookclub editions, not valuable hardcovers. The only art was a photograph of my foster parents, and the tiny black-and-white television set, squeezed onto a scarred end table that didn’t match the other furniture, simply looked like the only company of a lonely man.
“This is the place,” I said to fill the silence.
“It’s comfortable,” she said, and I felt myself relax by degrees. If she had said “nice” I would have thought she was humoring me. “Comfortable” seemed to be an honest word.
I took her coat and hung it on the tree by the door. Then I pulled off my own and headed toward the kitchen, thankful I had taken the time to clean up after my breakfast that morning.
“I don’t have a lot,” I said.
She had followed me. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”
She was peering through the darkness into the rest of the house.
“It’s not much,” I said. “That’s the bathroom, and through that door is the bedroom.”
“This is shotgun house,” she said. “I’ve read about them. We don’t have them in Chicago.”
I supposed not. I opened the refrigerator, pulled out some cooked brisket I’d been planning to use on the weekend. I took cans of tomato sauce, tomatoes, and beans out of the cupboard, then grabbed an onion, Tabasco sauce, and spices, thankful that I always kept my foster mother’s ingredients for chili in the house. Laura sat at the table while I cooked. She didn’t say anything except to offer her assistance once, which I declined.
Then I left the chili to simmer on the stove and sat down across from her. I took her hand in mine. She didn’t move away. Instead, she covered my hand with her other hand.
There was nothing to say. There was nothing I could say. She had to sort through this one herself. I knew that much. I would never forget how it felt to have the world slip out from underneath you, to know that nothing would ever be the same again.
When the Grand had finally come and pulled me out of that closet, I was ten going on fifty. He had taken me to his home and broken the news to me gently: my parents were dead and that I had to get out of the city for my own protection. No one ever wanted to tell me the full story—how my father, apparently, had offended the wrong people, and they had come to the house seeking revenge. They had gotten it too. My parents had a closed casket funeral that I wasn’t even allowed to attend. My older, meaner cousin had tried to describe how my parents had looked when they were found, how badly beaten they were before they died. But those images didn’t stick with me. Instead, it was the sound of my father’s voice as he told me to hide. That had never left me.
That, and the knowledge that the world could turn upside down in the space of a minute.
I don’t know how long Laura and I sat like that. Long enough for the scent of freshly made chili to waft over to us, for my stomach to growl, not once, but twice before she sat up and laughed. It was a soft, sad laugh.
“I’m keeping you from your dinner,” she said.
“I don’t mind.”
Her gaze met mine. Her blue eyes were clear, but slightly swollen from a night of crying. If she hadn’t been in such turmoil, I would have kissed her. But I didn’t dare. The last thing I wanted to do was take advantage of someone in the state she was in.
Instead I smiled, patted her hand with my free one, and pulled away. I got up, took bowls out of the cupboard, and dished up the chili. Usually I liked to let it cook all night—the spices wouldn’t be blended to the best advantage otherwise—but I knew my foster mother’s recipe would be better than anything Laura had had in the restaurants near the Peabody.
“I wish I had some bread,” I said as I put the bowl do
wn in front of her.
“It’s all right,” she said.
I got two Cokes out of the fridge, pulled the ring tops, and sat down across from her. She ate as if she hadn’t eaten for days. It wasn’t until she was nearly done with the bowl that she wiped her mouth with her fingers, grinned at me, and said, “It’s good.”
“Thanks,” I said, and almost told her it was a family recipe, then decided I had better not. I slid my chair back and pulled napkins out of a drawer, handing one to her, and taking the other for myself. We ate the rest of the meal in companionable silence.
I hadn’t done that in a long time, eaten a meal with someone and not felt the obligation to speak. It felt good. When we were through, she offered to clean up, and I declined.
“You’re probably tired,” I said. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel.”
“Not just yet, Smokey.” She drew her knees up to her chest, looking like a schoolgirl on my metal kitchen chair. “I don’t know if I want to be by myself again.”
I turned, feeling out of my depth. I started to say something and she held up a hand.
“You’re the only one who knows. I find comfort in that. I keep wondering how I could have missed it.”
“Everyone missed it,” I said. “Your parents planned it that way.”
She nodded and rested her chin on the top of one knee, then she sighed.
I put a hand on her shoulder. “Go watch some television. I’ll clean up and join you.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
She got up and went into the living room. After a moment, I heard the sound of canned laughter coming from my television set.
It was nearly eight o’clock. I was supposed to meet Roscoe to go over security for the next day’s march, and I was already late. I was about to go use the phone in my bedroom when I heard a weather bulletin echo from the TV. They were predicting snow for Memphis. A serious storm that had grounded all air traffic. They were warning people to get home before the bad weather hit.
If anyone showed up, Roscoe would handle it. I could stay here, with Laura.
The idea warmed me. I smiled and started cleaning up the kitchen.
When I finally went into the living room, the television was playing weird music. Laura was sprawled on my couch—the best way to watch my tiny set—only she was sound asleep. She had one arm underneath her head and another across her flat stomach. Her hair was flowing around her face, and her skin, in the soft light, looked flawless.
I had never seen anyone look so beautiful in my life.
I didn’t want to wake her, but I didn’t know how she’d feel, sleeping in my house. I shut off the television, but that didn’t disturb her at all.
I went into my bedroom, opened the cedar chest my foster mother had given me when I bought the house, and pulled out one of the few things I’d salvaged from my childhood. It was a quilt my mother had made when my parents got together. My aunt had once explained that she had sewn a wedding ring pattern on the fabric to celebrate the marriage. In it was leftover material from my mother’s wedding dress.
I carried the blanket into the living room and gently spread it over Laura. She didn’t move. I turned off all but one light, then went into the bedroom. I lay on the bed, intending to think a bit about the week and what I’d learned, hoping I would be able to see something I had missed. I was fully dressed in case Laura woke up and wanted to return to the hotel. I didn’t expect to sleep, but of course, I did.
* * *
I awoke to complete darkness and the faint scent of roses. I was still in my room, but I wasn’t alone. Laura was beside me. I could feel her warmth. As I stirred, her hands touched my face.
“Smokey,” she whispered. “Hold me.”
I slid my arms around her. My fingers caressed the smooth skin of her naked back. I drew in a surprised breath of air, and started to move away when she wrapped her arms around me.
“Laura, I don’t think, with what’s going on—”
“Shh,” she said, and kissed me.
I didn’t say another word.
EIGHTEEN
THE COLD WOKE ME UP. My nose was an ice cube, and so was my right hand, the hand that was above the covers. A spot on the mattress beside me was still warm.
I was tangled in the sheets, naked and sticky, and feeling better than I should have. With a lazy arm, I reached out of bed and pulled back the shade. Snow covered the ground and was still coming down in big thick flakes. I could hear the wind whistling and my furnace struggling to keep up.
I could also hear my shower pipes gurgling. I pushed myself up against the pillows and saw her clothes scattered on my hardwood floor. My clothes were in a pile on the other side.
The shower shut off with a squeal, and I ran a hand through my closely cropped hair. I wasn’t sure how to face her. Nor was I sure how to face myself. I had broken two rules: I had slept with a client, and I had slept with a white woman.
The second rule was unwritten, of course, but that didn’t negate it. I had always secretly derided men who valued the women by the paleness of their skin. And I hadn’t even slept with a light-skinned black woman. I’d slept with one so white that my sheets looked dark in comparison.
And the worse part about it was that I wanted to do it again.
The bathroom door opened, and she came out in a cloud of steam, one towel wrapped about her head like a turban, the other wrapped around her torso. Her feet were long and bony, her ankles narrow and her calves surprisingly short. I hadn’t noticed any of that before.
She smiled at me. “I think I left some hot water.”
“Good,” I said, smiling back like an idiot.
She was looking more relaxed and the bags were gone from beneath her eyes. “Mind if I borrow a shirt?”
Then, without waiting for my answer, she went to my closet and pulled out a long-sleeved jersey top. She held it up, saw that it would run to her midthigh, and dropped her wet towel on the floor.
She didn’t feel as thin as she looked. I could see her hip bones and the very edges of her ribs. Her breasts were small but round, and they fit perfectly onto her slender body.
She smiled at me again—I must have been staring at her like a schoolboy—and then she shook her head. “Breakfast first,” she said, and pulled on the jersey. Then she slipped on her jeans without bothering to put on her underwear and toweled off her hair. She picked up both towels, took them into the bathroom, and then walked into my kitchen as if she owned it. A moment later, I heard the clanging of pots and pans.
I felt as if I had walked into a dream, as if I had made the mistake for being cautious, not her. I grabbed my shorts from the pile beside the bed and scurried into the bathroom. I usually wasn’t that shy, but I usually felt more in control that I did at this moment. Laura had changed the relationship. She had changed it into something I wanted, but not necessarily something I approved of.
She had left me hot water. I stayed in it until it turned cold, leaning my face into the spray, one hand braced on the tile wall. I tried to examine the low-key, free-floating anxiety that I woke up with. It wasn’t just breaking my own rules and being forced to examine my principles. It was also that I didn’t know what she was about.
In 1964, a number of my friends got involved with women like Laura, rich northern white women who had come down as part of Freedom Summer. They slept with black men because they were experimenting, because they were intrigued, and because they felt it gave them some sort of political cachet. Most of those women left, and the men dealt with the consequences long after they were gone.
Consequences partly meted out by men like me, who were too good for that sort of thing. Too proud. Too willing to judge someone we felt had turned his back on his own people, his own heritage, and his own color.
Just like the man who had driven me and Laura out of the King’s Palace the night before.
I shut off the shower and stepped out. The scents of bacon and fresh coffee were overwhelming, and my mouth watered
. I was hungrier than I remembered being for some time. I dried off, wrapped the towel around my waist, and let myself out of the bathroom.
She was standing barefoot in my kitchen, her back to me. Her long wet hair had dripped on my shirt, leaving dark patches. She was stirring a skillet full of eggs with a spatula and didn’t see me. Thin sunlight from the window over the sink caught her in a halo of white.
She looked like she belonged, and I knew then and there, no matter what happened, I would see her standing there every time I stepped out of the bathroom and saw weak sunlight fall across my stove.
I slipped into the bedroom, put on a clean pair of trousers, a fresh shirt, and a tan crew-neck sweater.
“You look good,” she said when I came into the kitchen. “I’ve never seen you dress like that before.”
“We’re not going anywhere. Have you seen that snow?”
She smiled. “Where I come from we’d call it inconvenient. Here, the radio’s calling it a blizzard.”
“Whatever it is,” I said, “it means the march is canceled. I’ll wager everything else is as well.”
Her eyes met mine. I smiled for the first time that morning. Her smile grew wider. She scooped eggs onto a dinner plate already laden with bacon and toast. Then she set it in the place where I had sat the night before. A glass of orange juice concentrate and a steaming mug of coffee were already in place. The tips of her fingers caressed my shoulder as she walked back to the stove.
“Laura—”
“Not yet,” she said, head bowed. She scooped eggs onto her plate, then climbed onto one of my chairs.
And with that little interchange, the mood of the morning shifted. Some of the glow had left it. I ate the eggs—they were fluffy and light—and nibbled on the bacon. She was a better cook than I expected her to be. Somehow I had thought a woman raised the way she was wouldn’t know how to make coffee let alone the perfect scrambled egg, and I wondered if my assumption was based on knowledge or a subtle prejudice I hadn’t even known I had.
When she finished her eggs, she set the plate in the sink. Then she poured herself some coffee, added milk, and sat down, half on the chair, half off. She put one bare foot on the seat, the other on the floor, and rested the coffee cup on her upraised knee.
A Dangerous Road: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 19
