Only the Strong

by Jabari Asim

  He took down the note, resigned to discussing it with his father when he returned from wherever he went when he was pretending to be on the job. But there was no need to wait: Chauncey was already home. Lorenzo discovered him slumped in his chair. It was only when he tried and failed to revive his father that he noticed the foam around his lips and the empty glass and the container of roach powder on the table beside him. Lorenzo put his ear on his father’s pulseless chest and marveled that a body could get cold so fast.

  Heavyset in life, Chauncey Tolliver was even heavier in death. Still, Lorenzo resolved to lift him from his chair and wash him clean before surrendering him to the outside world. Pressing himself against his father’s back, he thrust his hands under Chauncey’s armpits and began to drag him slowly backward, toward the bathroom. About halfway down the hall, Chauncey’s bulk and Lorenzo’s grief became too much. The son collapsed, bringing his father’s stiffening body down on top of him. There, in the fading light of afternoon, he wrapped his arms around his father and wept. When he had cried himself out, he slid out from under Chauncey, went to the bathroom and filled a pail. He washed his father in the hall, put a blanket under him and dragged him back to the bed he’d shared with Lucille. He dressed the body in Chauncey’s best suit, made sure his bow tie was straight. He packed a bag with a few clothes, kissed his father’s clammy brow, and turned toward the exit. Suddenly remembering, he rushed back to his parents’ room and rummaged through his father’s drawers. Finally he wrapped his fingers around Chauncey’s treasured box of cufflinks. Then, after one last gaze back, he stepped out and closed the door.

  Twenty-two years later, Guts strode happily into the most comfortable setting he knew. School was out, summer had officially begun, and the pool opened every day at 10. Come nightfall, the softball diamonds of Fairgrounds Park would be hosting Little League contests under the lights. Softball Diamond No. 2, near the intersection of Vandeventer and Natural Bridge, would be the site of a popular men’s league led by the Moose Lounge and the Tribesmen. The bleachers would be filled with cheering fans and picnic blankets would be set up near the left-field line, just beyond the reach of foul balls. Coolers of beer would dot the grass. There would be laughter, chatter, women…. But it was still morning and all of that busyness was hours away.

  Guts raised his hat to Mrs. Tichenor and Mrs. Means, waved at the family of tennis phenoms unzipping their rackets, and exchanged nods with the lone fisherwoman, only her lips visible beneath the fishing hat pulled down over her eyes. He sat on his usual bench and dug into his bag of breadcrumbs.

  “You call those crumbs? Them big chunks you feeding, it’s a wonder these ducks aren’t fat as hippos.”

  Guts smiled without turning around. “What’s up, Crush?”

  “Ya know, I keep on keeping on.”

  “You and me both.”

  Crusher Boudreau was wearing his customary workout wear. He pulled his towel from around his neck and vigorously rubbed his scalp. “I hear you’re thinking about tying the knot.”

  “Say what?”

  “Don’t act surprised. The cat’s out the bag. The whole North Side’s talking.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. Not for real. I’m just pulling your leg. It’s the ring talk.”

  “Oh, yeah. I am looking for a ring, a very valuable one. You heard anything?”

  “Nothing specific. But you should ask your boy Playfair.”

  “I already did. He said the trail is cold.”

  “Hmm. All right, then. Maybe I heard wrong. Anyway, I’m glad to hear it’s not a wedding ring you’re looking for.”

  “You got something against marriage, Crush?”

  “I’ve been married before. I didn’t deserve her and she figured that out. I’d do it again. In fact, I got my eye on somebody.”

  “Who would that be? Wait, is it Nichelle Nichols?”

  Crush smiled. “Diana Ross. Someday we’ll be together,” he sang.

  Guts laughed.

  “That’s funny, huh? Tell me, what’s Berry Gordy got that I don’t?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” Guts replied. “Only Diana can tell you that.”

  Twenty-two years ago, in a tidy little cottage on Finney Avenue, Alice Logan summoned her husband to dinner. Passing through the living room, she paused at the front window. “Phil,” she said, “there’s someone outside.”

  Cephus Logan stepped out onto the porch. The figure on the lower steps was immense, with shoulder muscles visible beneath the fabric of his shirt. Though the stranger easily made two of him, Logan approached him without fear. “Hello,” he called, and the figure turned. Even in the dusk Logan recognized the facial structure, which perfectly blended the features of Chauncey and Lucille Tolliver, former king and queen of the Butlers and Chauffeurs Ball.

  “Young Tolliver, is that you?”

  “Lorenzo, sir…. My father’s dead.”

  Where Lorenzo’s mother had been towering and stout, Mrs. Logan was runty and slight. Where Lorenzo’s father had been massive and powerful, Mr. Logan was short and thin. But he had his own kind of strength. Thick, corded veins ran up and down his forearms.

  Where Chauncey and Lucille loved to laugh and dance, the Logans preferred to read and pray. But they were kind people, and, Mr. Logan’s weird fondness for sweet potatoes aside, not the types to get under anybody’s skin. Lorenzo, who seemed as if he would never stop growing, often felt as if he was living in a doll’s house. He learned to duck while passing beneath their doorways. He was silent and awkward during his first year under their roof, but in time he grew accustomed to them, and they to him.

  Then one night, shortly after he turned 16, Lorenzo entered the house to the sound of something he had seldom heard: the Logans arguing.

  “If you’re really still waiting on the police to do something, you’re going to be still waiting a long, long time,” Mr. Logan was saying. “They think the only good Negro is a dead one.”

  “I always thought somebody should just do something,” Mrs. Logan said. “She was murdered and she was one of my best friends. Lucille didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “We don’t know exactly what happened.”

  “What more do we need to know?”

  Mr. Logan didn’t answer. Mrs. Logan looked up and saw her husband staring at bulky Lorenzo, silently filling the doorway.

  “My mother died in an accident,” he said.

  Mr. Logan motioned toward the table. “Sit down, son.”

  Mrs. Logan dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Excuse me,” she said.

  Lorenzo stepped aside to enable her to pass. Then he joined Mr. Logan at the table.

  “You want some ice water?”

  “No. I want to know what happened to my mother. Sir.”

  Mr. Logan took out his handkerchief and held it under the faucet. He soaked it with cold water, wrung it out, and wiped his forehead. Then he joined Lorenzo at the table. “As you know, your parents worked for a rich white family. Word was, the lady of the house was stuck on your father. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Told him he’d better do what she wanted or she’d holler rape. What could your father do? We believe her husband found out. He didn’t say anything, just kept making your father sweat. But Chauncey wouldn’t break and your mother, well, she didn’t have any idea. The night of the ball, a car ran your folks off the road. Another car came by, fired shots. Your mother got hit. Some people leaving the ball say it was white folks in those cars. Some of them even say your daddy’s boss was in the second car.”

  Guts thought of his parents dancing cheek-to-cheek before leaving for the ball. He thought of his father slipping away, day by day, sick from guilt and loneliness. Then he stood up. He looked down at Mr. Logan. “May I be excused?”

  Mr. Logan looked as if he wanted to say more. But he just nodded.

  Lorenzo went to the little room he’d called home and opened the chest of drawers.

  When he came out, Mr. Logan was gazing thou
ghtfully out the front window. He watched as Lorenzo walked to the front door and put his hand on the knob. Lorenzo turned to him. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Someday I’ll pay you back.”

  “Lorenzo, I planned to tell you the truth someday. Just not so soon.”

  Three years is not soon, Lorenzo thought. He didn’t need to say it out loud because he knew Mr. Logan was as aware of that truth as he was. “Thank you kindly,” he said. He didn’t wait to say goodbye to Mrs. Logan. He just tipped his cap and went out the door. He walked down Finney Avenue toward the river, carrying a few changes of clothes in a battered satchel and his box of cufflinks in his hand.

  Lorenzo had been an indifferent student, reserving what little enthusiasm he had for gym class. On Sumner High’s track, he astounded the skinny sprinters by thundering past them in the 100-yard dash. In the cramped gym, he could do chin-ups until the bar appeared to bend under his exertions. But school, like his life up to that point, was done. It was time for something new.

  Guts leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He could hear from the outer room, beneath the racket of what sounded like a flock of birds, the men of the cabstand giving Playfair a hard time about Uhura. He wondered if they’d laugh if they knew about him and Pearl. He was no dummy, he could wrap his mind around an idea if he gave himself enough time, and yet he always felt that he was operating a step or two behind her, scrambling to catch up. Maybe he really was too dense for her, as she’d recently suggested. Maybe he had as much business being with her as Playfair did with Uhura, or Crusher Boudreau did with Diana Ross.

  Playfair tapped on the open door.

  “What it is, baby?”

  Guts folded his arms behind his head. “Hey, Play. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Playfair shrugged. “Sorry, Guts, like I told you, that ring has gone underground.”

  “Without a trace.”

  “Exactly.”

  Guts took his feet off the desk and replaced them with his meaty fists. “I don’t plan to hurt those girls, Play. If you’ve seen them maybe you told them that. I’m just looking for the ring. You don’t even have to tell me their names.”

  “That’s good,” Playfair said hastily. “That’s outtasight, because if my business associates start thinking they can’t trust me, there goes my business. Them girls find out I talked behind ’em, they won’t look for me when they come back from Chicago. I don’t know what they might be hauling.”

  “So that’s where they are.”

  “They didn’t tell me that. But I heard ’em talking.”

  The two men looked at each other. “I moved their stuff,” Playfair said. “It was just a couple chains, a money clip, and a pocket watch. Like I told you, I didn’t see no ring.”

  “Play, you being straight with me?”

  Playfair briefly looked hurt. “Guts, when have I ever been anything but straight with you?”

  “You’re right,” Guts said. “My fault.”

  “It’s cool.”

  “What is that noise?”

  Playfair smiled, back to his usual peppy self. “Parakeets,” he said. “Looking for a feathered friend?

  Nineteen years ago, Lorenzo wound up half-asleep on a bench in the park outside the train station, his satchel and box beside him. He had a handful of dollars and he thought he might catch a train somewhere, anywhere his meager funds could take him. It was early morning, and the ducks in the pond in front of him were already awake.

  Inside the station, Ananias Goode was fresh from a trip to Chicago. He had a small entourage with him: some muscle, a runner, his wife, and his infant son. He waited while his men collected his family’s bags. Once outside, Goode ushered his family into the backseat of a waiting car while his men loaded the trunk. He looked up and saw a husky youth sitting in the park across the street and was reminded of his young self. He guessed this man-child was newly arrived from the Deep South, friendless as he once was, looking—hoping—for a chance to get a leg up.

  Lorenzo stared at the ducks in the pond, entranced. He was drawn to their stolid serenity, the unruffled but constant attention they paid to the ducklings paddling tentatively across the water’s surface.

  “Hey!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lorenzo noticed two swaggering young men approaching fast. They were black, not much older than him, early twenties maybe, and neither could match him in size. But they wore fearless expressions and moved with the knowing confidence of the street. Lorenzo ignored them, keeping his eyes on the ducks.

  “Hey!”

  The second holler was loud enough to land in the ears of Goode and his men. They all turned toward the sound.

  Looking back, Guts often wondered what possessed the two thugs to mess with him in the first place. He looked formidable even sitting down. Perhaps he looked so distracted that they felt bold enough to take a chance.

  “You heard me, nigger,” the first thug said. “What you got in that bag?”

  “Fuck the bag. I want that nice little box right there,” the second one said.

  Lorenzo looked up and took in his surroundings. There were only the ducks and a group of serious-looking men across the street, standing around a pair of expensive cars.

  “Why you looking around?” the first thug asked. “You looking for help?”

  For the first time, Lorenzo looked directly at his antagonist. “I’m looking to see who you got backing you up.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it,” Lorenzo replied.

  The brief exchange provided Thug No. 2 an opportunity to go for the box. Lorenzo turned and slapped at him. The box slipped from the thug’s hand, hit the ground, and overturned. Cufflinks scattered in the gravel and rolled into the grass.

  Across the street, one of Goode’s men flicked his Zippo and leaned in to light his boss’s cigar. But Goode stayed his hand. The man followed Goode’s line of vision. “Damn,” he said.

  In the park, Thug No. 2 knelt on the ground, bawling. His arm was bent crazily and he was spitting blood. Thug No. 1 was sprawled on his back, pinned to the ground by a large boot, not yet a size 14 EEE, planted on his chest. Satisfied that his tormentors could no longer bother him, Lorenzo turned his back on them and began to collect his cufflinks, dust them off, and place them back in the box.

  “Damn is right,” Goode said. “Bring that young man to me.”

  Minutes later, Lorenzo found himself being interviewed by a very important-looking man. He had on a tailor-made pinstriped suit and leather boots spit-shined to a dazzling gleam. A half-chewed cigar dangled from his mouth.

  “Where you from, young’un?”

  “Right here.”

  “That so? I had you pegged for a Southern boy.”

  “Nope.”

  “Where you live?”

  Lorenzo shrugged. No use giving him too much information.

  “You box?”

  Lorenzo shook his head.

  “Wrestle?”

  “Nope.”

  “That was an impressive demonstration you put on over there. Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “Never had to do it before.”

  “You need a job?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What I’d have to do and how much it pays.”

  Goode smiled and gestured to his man. The man leaned in and lit Goode’s cigar.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lorenzo.”

  “We could use someone like you, Lorenzo. You’ve got guts.”

  Nineteen years later, Pearl sat under the dryer at Ardell’s Beauty Parlor. Her head stinging from chemicals and her heart heavy with loneliness, she flipped through a Jet magazine.

  There were seven other women in the shop, four customers and three hairdressers. A transistor radio sat on a shelf, playing Jerry Butler just a little too loud.

  The cover headline on the magazine read, “Black Man Battles to Becom
e Mayor of Newark,” but Pearl could hardly pay attention. She was so caught up in her troubles with Guts that she imagined she heard his name underneath the music and through the ambient whir of the dryer.

  An ad for the Ebony Book Club offered three hot titles: The Spook Who Sat by the Door by Sam Greenlee, Revolutionary Notes by Julius Lester, and Die Nigger Die! by H. Rap Brown—all for $14.85. Pearl turned a few more pages and paused, thinking she’d heard it again.

  “Thought she could tame that big man. I could have told her that wasn’t gonna happen. You can’t tame a killer no more than you can put a bow tie on a gorilla.”

  Pearl’s ears felt warm, and now she knew it wasn’t because of the dryer.

  Jet’s “National Report” predicted unemployment among black men would soon reach 40 percent in many of the nation’s large cities, a prospect that the Nixon administration considered “worrisome.” Pearl sat the magazine on her lap and waited.

  “She thinks she’s better than us because she gets to wait on white folks all day. Hell, my mama does that and she’s a maid.”

  Pearl was on her feet before she knew it. She turned to the busybody, a tall, stout woman with a head full of curlers.

  “Get in my face and say that.”

  The woman exchanged glances with a couple of the other women. One giggled. Curlers played deaf. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” Pearl challenged. “Stand your hefty ass up.”

  In the background Jerry Butler continued on, oblivious.

  Only the strong survive

  Only the strong survive

  Curlers got up, amused. “Why you little sawed-off bitch,” she said. “I’ll beat—”

  A lifetime of exercise and dance lessons had blessed Pearl with exceptional calves. She leaped in the air, throwing herself at her talkative adversary. The momentum crashed the stunned woman backward to the floor. Pearl straddled her chest, grabbed her head, and slammed it against the linoleum tiles. Eerily calm, she placed a thumb over each of the woman’s eyes, which were clenched shut in fear.

  “I will blind you,” Pearl hissed. “Hear me? I will leave your ass in darkness forever.”