Dem

by William Melvin Kelley

  He felt her fingernails on the ends of the hair in his beard. “Oh, I know that, Mitchell. I could see it all on your face. You were very sweet.” She slid closer, put her arm around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder. “But when you get worked up enough to hit someone, it’s only because you love her. You couldn’t get that worked up about someone you didn’t love. That’s why I can understand John doing something like that.” She paused. “Can’t you? I mean, you don’t get worked up because you want to hurt someone, but because you love her and want her to agree with you, and just because she happens to die, you don’t stop loving her and wanting to make love to her.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Sure. But—”

  She sat up so suddenly that he did not go on. “Take this exit.”

  “What?” He had not even seen the sign; she could almost have been looking for it.

  “Take this exit.”

  He held the car to the curve, came out onto a wide cobblestone street, and went through a dark tunnel which ran under the highway. After a block, she made him drive into the black asphalt parking lot of a new, two-story motel. She told him she had seen it from the highway.

  As they crossed the lot, its white lines bright as chrome, she put her arm around his waist, hugged him to her. “I haven’t been treating you very well.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. “I wouldn’t want to end up like Cindy Godwin.” She smiled when he looked down at her.

  While he registered, already wanting her, she stood beside him, a new bride, smiling gently. In bed, she promised she would always take care of him.

  Then she allowed him to unleash his monster.

  * * *

  —

  WITH THE HELP of one of Tam’s girlfriends, Mitchell had arranged a surprise birthday party for her. Now all the guests had gone home. He lay on his back, in his underwear, an exhausted basketball player in a white uniform. “You know how I got so drunk?”

  “How?” Tam was in the bathroom, he hoped undressing.

  He began to laugh. “There were twenty-five people here. Every time I mixed one of them a drink, I mixed one for myself.”

  “I was watching.” She came out of the bathroom. He could see her underpants through her nightgown. She slid under the covers. “You better get in bed. It’s not the weekend, you know.”

  “I know, I know.” He sat up, swayed, then lunged to his feet, and halfway across the room. She had the sheet pulled up to her chin. He made his way around to her side of the bed, sat down. “Did you have a nice time at your party? I wanted you to have a nice time.”

  She nodded, her hair bunching up under her head on the pillow. “I had a nice time.”

  He kissed her. “Well, you know one good turn deserves another.”

  “But brush your teeth first.”

  “Okay.” He stood up, lurched toward the bathroom. Behind him, she was getting out of bed.

  “Don’t run away.” He propped himself in the doorway. “Where’re you going?”

  “To make a phone call.”

  “It won’t take long, will it?”

  She shook her head. “I just have to make a date for tomorrow.”

  “Right now?”

  “Especially right now. I won’t sleep well unless I know it’s definite.” She started to leave the bedroom.

  “Why don’t you call from in here?”

  She turned back, blinking. “Maybe I’m planning a surprise for you, Mitchell.” She looked at an invisible watch on her wrist. “Go on. Your appointment’s in five minutes.”

  He was laughing so hard that he squeezed hair oil onto his toothbrush…

  Opal

  RAIN BEGAN to spatter the windshield, just as Mitchell twisted off the motor. Very quickly the streets turned ugly. He leaned back, watching the drops slant in front of the streetlamp up the block. At least the rain had waited all that day. Most certainly, Opal had given Jake a nice outing in the park—the sun high but not warm in the near-white winter sky.

  He reached for his briefcase. It was the type with two handles; twelve years old, one handle had pulled loose and disappeared. He opened the car door and slid out, dragging the briefcase after him—and watched his papers flutter onto the black, wet asphalt. Resting on his haunches, and sucking his tongue, he collected the papers, drying them on his sleeves. Then he walked the three blocks to his apartment building, hoping Opal’s dinner was something he liked.

  He entered the apartment through the kitchen’s delivery entrance. Opal was feeding strained carrots to Jake, whose chin was orange.

  “Does he really like that stuff? Hiya, Jake-boy. What kind of day did you have?” He removed his hat, held it in his hand.

  “All right, didn’t you, Jakie?” She scraped the carrot from his chin with a tiny spoon. “We had a nice walk in the sun. Didn’t we, Jakie?” She tried to give him another mouthful, but most of it landed on his chest.

  “He needs some false teeth.” Mitchell stood behind her, looking down at the top of her head. Her black hair seemed soft, was parted in the middle.

  “Don’t you make fun of my boy here. He’s doing all right.” She wiped his chin with a napkin and offered him another spoonful.

  “He doesn’t really like that stuff, does he.” Mitchell inspected his papers, estimating the damage. Five sheets had been completely drowned in the black gutter water. He hoped there were copies at the office.

  Opal had answered him, but he had not been paying attention. “What?”

  “I said he loves it. Don’t you, Jakie? Love those carrots, don’t you?”

  Jake clamped his teeth, refused to open his mouth.

  “Look at him, for Christ’s sake. He hates the stuff. Don’t you, Jake-boy?”

  “I can’t have you breaking down all the discipline I build up during the day.” She smiled up at him. There was a black space between her two white middle top teeth.

  Mitchell put his hat on a stool and began to rummage in the cabinets for a towel to dry the papers.

  “What’re you looking for?” She turned from Jake, a spoonful poised halfway to his open, waiting mouth. “Don’t mess around in there.”

  “I’m looking for a dishtowel. I dropped these God-damn papers in the street. I want—”

  “Give them here.” She put down Jake’s spoon, got up, and extended her hand to him. “Men don’t know anything. Never try to wipe anything when it’s wet. Wait until it’s dry. Then you’ll be able to shake off the mud. A little wrinkled, but you’ll be able to read them.”

  “Where the hell do you pick up knowledge like that?”

  “My job.” She smiled. “I get hired to take care of you.” She sat down and began to feed the baby, who was a year and a half. “Come on, Jakie, just a dab more.” Under the white nylon dress Opal wore to work, her white bra cut into dark brown skin. He wished sometimes she would wear a cotton dress or at least a full slip.

  Jake had clamped shut his mouth again.

  “Look at that stuff. Carrots. They look like the stuff they fed my father when he had his coronary.”

  Opal turned on him, a mock scowl on her face. “If you can’t help in here…Don’t you think it’s time you said hello to Mrs. Pierce?”

  He nodded and pushed through the two-way door leading to the living room. From time to time, he wondered why he excused the way Opal talked to him. Not only did she work for him, but they were both in their thirties (Opal perhaps a year or two older), and he could not even say he was respecting an elder. When he thought about it, which was not often, he usually decided his indulgence of her had something to do with her taking care of his baby, cleaning his house, ironing his shirts, and cooking two of the three meals he ate each day.

  The living room was empty. He went on through—Opal had put down a plastic sheet, which waited for mud, near the f
ront door—and into the bedroom.

  Tam was sitting on the bed, her feet up, bare, white, and small against the red spread. She was on the phone. “…it all fell out. I never went there again. If I hadn’t been going away the next day, I’d have sued.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece, gave him a hard look. “Hello.” She puckered her lips and closed her eyes.

  He bent to kiss her, but she broke out of it. “No. I’m telling the absolute truth. I have very fine hair. I get it set and then someone breathes too hard and it’s all over my head…”

  Mitchell removed his overcoat and hung it in the closet, noticing the mud on his sleeves. He wondered if Opal was right about mud being easier to take off when it was dry. It was a shame to see her getting fat. Colored people ate too much rice.

  “…pay twenty-five dollars and the next thing you know you’re going bald…”

  He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. Then he took off his suit coat. He came out of the closet rolling up his sleeves and sat down in an easy chair facing the bed.

  “…absolutely right. Mitchell’s here now and I have to get his dinner…Oh yes, Opal’s still here…All right, I’ll meet you at the gallery at ten…Good…That’s good…All right…Good night, dear.” She hung up, and stretched. Her breasts moved under her sweater. She was always saying they had sagged since Jake, but he could not see it. “You were late tonight.” She produced a cigaret from a drawer in the bed table, and lit it.

  “I got here the same time. I was watching Opal feed the baby.” He thought of Jake resisting the carrots and smiled. “It must be tough being a kid and having to eat stuff like that. Looks terrible.”

  “You couldn’t have been watching him all this time.” She took a deep drag on the cigaret and blew smoke at the lighted end; it flared.

  “No.” He shrugged. “Opal helped me dry off some papers I dumped in the street.”

  Tam nodded. “You didn’t even want to come say hello.”

  She took another drag—too deep—and started to cough, her breasts shaking.

  Looking at her face, pink from coughing, he realized she had seen him staring at her breasts. Embarrassed, he retreated toward her and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sure I did, Tam.” She was still coughing, her eyes staring at him through a film of water. He put his arms around her, hiding. Finally, when her breathing slowed, she allowed him to turn her face up, to suck the water from her eyes, and kiss her mouth. “Okay—what’s the problem?”

  She hesitated. “Jealous, I guess.” She put down the cigaret.

  “Of who, for God’s sake? Opal?”

  “No, not Opal.” She was almost indignant. “I guess I feel guilty. Maybe I don’t do enough around here.” She pulled back and looked at him, waiting.

  “Come on. We’ve got what everybody wants.” He recited the list. “A nice place to live. A good maid. What do your buddies call her—a treasure? She does all the boring stuff and you have time to do the things you want to do, like go to the art gallery tomorrow.”

  “Still, maybe I should do more around here.” For an instant, he had the silly feeling that she was testing him.

  He did not speak for a moment. Since Opal had come to work for them (shortly after Jake was born), he had noticed that Tam seemed increasingly afraid of Jake. When she picked him up, she looked very like she was embracing twenty pounds of snake. She always seemed relieved after she had put him down. “Well, maybe you could spend more time with Jake.”

  She bristled. “Listen, if you don’t think it’s a full-time job telling Opal what to do and making sure”—she took a breath—“she doesn’t steal anything, you’re sadly mistaken.” She pushed him away and leaned against the headboard. The cigaret she had been smoking smoldered in the ashtray. She took a last drag, mashed it out, splitting the flimsy paper, and lit another.

  Mitchell was a little confused. “What’s wrong with you anyway? You just said the same thing. And what’s this business about Opal stealing?”

  She went stiff, but spoke softly: “Don’t you read the papers? People are so hard up for good help they’ll hire anyone—even without references. And the anyones are robbing everybody blind.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He did not like shouting at her. “Opal had great references. And that doesn’t have anything to do with you spending more time with Jake.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to walk him instead of Opal.”

  “No, it wouldn’t hurt.” She hid her breasts behind folded arms; she did not want to and would not talk about it anymore.

  “Okay.” He got up and wandered into the living room. It was lit only by a small, wrought-iron chandelier, and looked as though no one had walked its floors or sat in its chairs for years.

  In the kitchen, Jake was giggling. Mitchell pushed through the door and found Opal at the sink, rinsing Jake’s bowl and spoon. Jake, nowhere in sight, giggled again and Mitchell located him under the table. Every now and then Opal would twist toward the table, aim with her index finger and make a popping sound with her tongue. Each time, Jake would giggle.

  Mitchell sat down at the table and Jake began to play with his shoelaces. “What’d you fix for dinner?”

  “I got you some nice veal tonight, and potatoes, peas, and apple pie. Some good veal. No veins.” Drying her hands, she turned from the sink and smiled at him. She was wearing a pink half-slip under her nylon dress. A brown strip of stomach separated her white bra and the pink half-slip. “Come on, Jakie.” She bent down and the dress stretched over her buttocks and thighs.

  Jake crawled out from under the table and up into her arms. She stood up, the baby’s hand inside the neck of her dress. “Time for bed, Jakie.” She asked Mitchell the time.

  He looked at his watch. “Almost seven.”

  “Oh my God, I got to hurry.” She swung through the door, the baby in her arms, leaving Mitchell alone in the warm kitchen. He could smell spices, the cinnamon of the apple pie. The oven was cooling, clicking. He felt like resting his head on his arms, there at the table, and dozing.

  He was still alone when the buzzer rang for the delivery entrance. He got up and opened the door.

  The Black man was his height and very dark. He wore a pair of brown wool pants and a chartreuse bowling jacket with his name—Cooley—in gold thread over his heart. His eyes were red and tired. Mitchell stepped back, ready to slam the door. “Yes?”

  “This where Opal Simmons work?”

  “Yes, it is. What…?”

  The door behind Mitchell opened and he turned around.

  “Hello, Cooley. I’ll be right with you.” Opal was slightly embarrassed. “Okay, Mr. Pierce, everything’s ready now. Mrs. Pierce gave me an hour off so I could go out with Cooley here. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Opening the kitchen closet, she got out her coat, put it on, then picked up a large handbag, brown, surprisingly close to her own color. She took a step toward the door, where Cooley waited, jingling keys.

  Mitchell found himself tasting vinegar; his eyes began to water. He paid her enough to expect better service than this, a decent report on how she had left the house, a respectful good-bye. And how dare she have such a person as this Cooley, in his outlandish bowling jacket, call for her at his house? Mitchell could not let her go without expressing his disapproval. “Just a minute, Opal. I want to talk to you. Tell your friend to wait outside.”

  Opal nodded. Cooley backed out, pulling the door behind him.

  “Yes, sir?” She buttoned her coat, starting at the collar. Her brown hands moved down the row of black, shiny buttons.

  He could not speak until her hands stopped. “Look, Opal, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t have your boyfriends coming to the door.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce. This is the first time and—”

  “Well, make sure it’s the last, God damn it! Don’t run your social
life out of my house. You can meet your men on the corner. I don’t want them hanging around.”

  “He just came. He wasn’t hanging around, Mr. Pierce.” She was being too submissive, almost as if she were willing to accept his insults to keep him from discovering a more serious crime.

  “Listen! I don’t want any God-damn excuses from you! Just don’t have a whole lot of guys coming to my door!”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, sir.”

  Now, very subtly, she was insulting him. She was very good at it; they all were—so good that he was not even sure what about her was insulting. That made him even more angry and before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he had pushed her to the floor, wrestled the brown handbag from her, dumped its contents on the kitchen table, and was searching amid hairpins, coins, lipsticks, and scraps of paper for the things he was certain now she had stolen from him.

  * * *

  —

  MITCHELL WAS ALREADY in bed, but Tam was still packing the last case (small and square) with rattling bottles of perfume, deodorant, a tube of toothpaste, hair conditioner, and vitamin pills for the unborn child. She was only four months pregnant, but already her stomach stood out beyond her breasts.

  “Why don’t you save the rest for tomorrow?”

  She did not answer, had turned her back, and gone to the dresser for her special suntan oil.

  “Tam?”

  “Maybe if I’m not finished we won’t go.”

  “Sometimes I don’t think you really want to go.” He sat up. “It’ll be good for you, relaxing, a little swimming.”

  She stopped and looked at him now, began to speak, decided against it, then finally: “Look, is it too late to call up there and tell him we only want the house for August?”

  “Don’t you want to go?”

  “You want the truth? No.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”