Only the Strong

by Jabari Asim

  Their six weeks together hadn’t gone without interruptions. She had been to two conferences, made presentations, testified at a public health hearing. He had his own absences, the reasons for which were much less clear. He didn’t explain and she didn’t ask. Mostly she discouraged talk because talking got in the way of the thing they did best, and also because she enjoyed having her life compartmentalized. Keeping it so made it easier to pretend that she continued to honor promises she had made to herself long ago. Goode wasn’t husband material, clearly. Did that matter anymore?

  She convinced herself she was too mature to be jealous or possessive. Still, when he dropped a pocket square on a motel room floor, she jumped on it and slipped it into her purse. On nights when she didn’t see him, she clutched it like a talisman, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and with whom.

  She decided that what she felt for him wasn’t love. Could you really love someone without knowing him? They had never even exchanged phone numbers or had a long conversation. He’d just show up, flash that devastating smile, and away they’d go, with him cruising in his New Yorker and her following at a discreet distance. She knew his taste and smell, the touch of his hands. What more information did she need?

  As it turned out, there were other salient facts. She was in a shop on Washington Avenue when she learned the truth about him. She had stopped there to buy him a hat. President Kennedy had supposedly made hats unfashionable, but word had not filtered down to the well-dressed men of North Gateway. The popular shop attracted a cross section of local black society. On a typical day, pastors and postal workers, some of them accompanied by their wives, tried on trilbies, fedoras, and homburgs alongside pushers and pimps, some of them accompanied by their whores. Artinces ambled along the aisles, imagining her lover in various styles, when she nearly bumped into a broad-shouldered man. “Pardon me,” she said.

  The man turned, then smiled. “No, excuse me, Doctor Noel. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

  Artinces tried and failed to hide her confusion. “I’m sorry,” she said, “forgive me.”

  “Don’t remember me, huh? That’s okay. My name’s Lawrence. I trained at Abram H.”

  “Of course,” Artinces said. Male nurses had been extremely rare at the hospital, especially ones built like football players. “Good to see you, Lawrence. Are you still in the profession?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do private, in-home care.”

  Artinces had already moved on in her mind. “Oh? And how do you find it?”

  Lawrence smiled. “Oh, it’s good, real good. One patient, easy to manage. And Mr. Goode pays a fair wage.”

  Artinces stopped. She frowned, then quickly recovered. “You work for Mr. Goode?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ananias Goode. I figure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Is he ill?”

  Lawrence laughed. Some men’s bellies shook when they laughed. Lawrence’s muscles rippled. “Mr. Goode? Aw, I bet he could go 15 with Floyd.”

  Artinces blinked.

  “Floyd Patterson? The heavyweight champ? Anyway, I take care of Mrs. Goode. His wife.”

  The big nurse probably said something else after that. She must have mumbled a few words and politely excused herself, but Artinces had no memory of it. She just remembered sitting in her kitchen sipping wine while Belafonte crooned condolences from the hi-fi in the living room. How had she gotten home? How long had she been there? She stared at the empty bottle. Then she drained her glass and tossed it against the wall.

  She’d already known he was into shady dealings. He hadn’t lied about that. But she didn’t know about the wife. Artinces was many things; some of those things she was only just discovering about herself. But she wasn’t a home wrecker and she was certainly nobody’s whore. She told him as much a few days later when he showed up at her back door, before she slapped his face.

  That clash was the first of many they waged over the course of the next decade, darkening their on-and-off romance with pitched battles that marred their mutual obsession. Artinces never got over the fact of Goode’s marriage, even after he explained—in the barest details—that his wife was comatose. But neither could she get over him, despite the impressive stretches when they tried to pretend the other didn’t exist. Goode was her one irresistible vice amid a life of exemplary discipline, forbearance, and virtue.

  Goode was equally stung, perhaps even more so. He didn’t fully appreciate the depth of his attachment until several weeks after he’d worked his way back into the doctor’s good graces by way of her willing thighs. He’d left her in the motel room while he went out to buy her favorite wine. When he returned, she cracked the door open just wide enough for him to see that she was wearing nothing but her usual white gloves and—even though it was Tuesday evening—a Sunday-go-to-meeting hat.

  “Where’s the rest of your get-up?” Goode asked. “For a minute there I thought you were about to go to Bible study.”

  Artinces crossed her arms across her breasts and pretended to pout. “Are you making me fun of me?”

  “No, darlin’,” Goode assured her, “I’d never do that.”

  “Yes you would. You think I’m some prim biddy who doesn’t know up from down.”

  “I don’t think that. I know you’re country smart, just like me. These city women ain’t got nothing on you.”

  She made a soft clucking sound and grabbed Goode by his necktie. “That’s right,” she agreed. “Now come on in here. I’m about to spin you like a top.”

  And spun he was. Three hours later, he stepped out on the street with his tie askew and a stupid grin plastered across his face. He needed three tries to get his key into his lock. Finally he eased behind the wheel, realizing even through his fog that he’d likely be bruised and limping in the morning. Even a full night’s sleep, or several of them, did little to lessen the residual ache left by his partner’s forceful lovemaking. She went full tilt or not at all.

  At a subsequent session, he asked her about it as tactfully as he could while zipping up her dress. “Why you do always have to fight me while you’re fucking me?” he asked.

  “I don’t do that,” she said. She walked over and sat at the room’s tired vanity table. Looking in the mirror, she fastened her earrings. Lately they’d been staying at the Goodnight well beyond the witching hour, escaping just before dawn.

  “What? Fight? Then why the hell do I have all these scratches on me?”

  “Not fight. That other word.”

  “Oh, you mean fuck?”

  “Yes. I don’t do that. I make love.”

  “You got a funny way of showing it. I dig what you do to me, don’t get me wrong. But damn, woman, sometimes I think you’re about to kill me, like you’re mad about something.”

  She brushed her hair. “What would you rather I do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe slow down a little bit.”

  The next time they met, she was clad in lingerie from Aldo’s, a pale-blue silk peignoir that she kept on, even when he was fully nude. She kissed him like she had never done it before, letting him drink deeply while she drew the breath from his lungs. Every time he let his hands wander down to her breasts or hips, she gently pulled them up and wrapped them around the back of her neck. She finally led him to the bed and lowered him onto his back. Every kiss she placed on his body was sweet agony, slow, soft, and moist. She covered every inch of him. She discouraged every urgent gesture, every impatient thrust, with a finger to her lips and a delicate “shh.” She climbed astride him and even when he was fully inside, she hardly moved at all. It was torture. “Remember,” she teased, “you wanted it slow. Tender.”

  Goode had enjoyed women of every size, every flavor, every color. But he had never had a woman leave him so utterly exhilarated. So intense was his desire, and so completely was it fulfilled, that spilling himself inside her prompted a tear to slide from his eye.

  After a respectable interval, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. Grasping the sink
with both hands, he stared into the mirror. He’d heard of punk-ass niggers who cried when they had sex, but he thought that was just corner talk. Now here he was, weeping like a bitch. What the fuck?

  He was still soul searching, or the closest to introspection he ever got, when she entered the bathroom behind him. The air around him changed and he found he could not speak.

  But she could. She wrapped her competent hands around his waist and, with one hand, she dipped lower and tugged him playfully. “Ready for round two?” she asked.

  As the months progressed and Goode managed to hold on to his presence of mind while holding on to Artinces, information passed between them in fits and starts. For her part, Artinces regarded dialogue as an inconvenience that only delayed what they were both in need of. For his part, Goode had never encountered a woman who talked so little. The way she entered a motel room and resolutely undressed him occasionally left him feeling—what was it? Yes, used. He, Ananias Goode, felt like a mere sexual object instead of a human being. But she rebuffed his efforts at exchanging confidences of any kind. She made it clear that genuine intimacy was not only improbable, but the very last thing she wanted.

  On rare occasions, however, wine combined with afterglow to inspire more playfulness and curiosity in her than usual. Curled up on the sheets she brought from home, she would seem in no hurry to leave. Goode, noticing the change, felt uneasy. He convinced himself to relax. After all, wasn’t this what he’d been after?

  She turned toward him on one such night. “I want to know more about you,” she said.

  “No you don’t.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.” She kissed him. “Except tonight I do.”

  “Hmm?”

  Sitting up, she propped her head against the pillows. “I do. I want to know more about you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re in my bed.”

  “This ain’t your bed.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You never wanted to know before. Matter of fact, when you did find out something about me, you slapped me. Before you, the last person who raised his hand to me pulled it back with a finger missing.”

  Goode swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his feet on the floor. He reached for the wine bottle on the nightstand and poured himself a glass.

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “Nope,” Goode replied, taking a sip. “Just telling it like it is. Come to think, why aren’t you scared of me?”

  “Everybody’s got a weakness,” she said, batting her eyelashes as Goode climbed back under the blanket. “I happen to be yours.”

  She reached under the covers, her fingers roaming confidently. “Go on,” she said.

  Goode closed his eyes. A sigh escaped. “Hmm?”

  “You were telling me about yourself. Go on.”

  “You know I can’t think—can’t talk—when you’re touching me like that.”

  Artinces removed her hands and primly placed them atop the blanket. “There,” she said in her best schoolmarm voice. “Satisfied?”

  “Hardly. Just keep ’em where I can see ’em.” Goode cleared his throat. “It must have been about 19—”

  Artinces slipped her hands back under the blanket and began to tickle him.

  He chuckled helplessly before grabbing her wrists and holding them both in a single fist. He squeezed gently.

  “Come on now,” he said, “you play too much.”

  “Ooh,” she said. “I feel so helpless.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes. I’m listening.”

  “Finally.” He released her hands. “I made my first bankroll down on the docks, behind the train station. I threw dice with the dockhands and Pullman porters, took their hard-earned wages. Special dice I brought with me from Liberty.”

  “They never tried to get their money back?”

  Goode drained his glass and poured another. “Oh, yeah. One night, Miles and me were still sleeping on the cobblestones down by the river. Three of them tried to take us. May they rest in peace.”

  “Really? Are you leveling with me?”

  He turned and looked at her. “What do you mean? Did we really kill them or do I really wish they’re resting in peace?”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “It’s kill or be killed, Tenderness.”

  “You’re a Darwinist, Ananias Goode.”

  “I don’t know about all that. Sometimes it’s the thing to do. Scratch any man, there’s some killer in him. Women too, you push ’em hard enough.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  Goode turned and looked directly at her. “Look at it this way. Would your father die for you?”

  “He would and he did.”

  “Would he kill for you?”

  Artinces frowned. “Why must everything be about killing?”

  “I didn’t make life the way it is. I just deal with it. It takes blood, is all I’m saying.”

  “To do what?”

  “Anything.” Especially when it comes to the likes of Ike Allen, he thought.

  Artinces reached for her empty glass and waved it. Goode filled it for her.

  “What about Miles?” she asked. “Rev. Washington?”

  “What about him?”

  “He helped you. He willingly got blood on his hands.”

  “Miles can speak for himself, but he’ll tell you that faith takes blood too. Jesus didn’t die easy, he’ll say.”

  “And you never got in trouble for that? Arrested?”

  Goode laughed. She usually liked his laugh. She didn’t then.

  “They were black. Nobody cared.”

  “Nobody,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “Except for their wives. Girlfriends, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. Cousins, nephews, frien—”

  “You know what I mean. The people that count didn’t care. Now, the people they worked for? They might have missed them for a minute. You know what a white man does when his nigger doesn’t show up to slave for him? He tells somebody, ‘Find me another nigger as soon as you can.’”

  “You know I don’t like that word.”

  “Lots of stuff I don’t like too. Like when you judge me. Talk to me in that siddity voice like I’m dirty or stupid. I’ve bled too, more than once. And I’ve never moaned about it. When you saw me in the alley that time? Wasn’t I smiling like my number hit?”

  Artinces recalled him in the doorway. The suit, the rakishly tilted hat, the devastating grin. She closed her eyes and each detail faded away until there were only his teeth. “Siddity?”

  “You heard me. Anybody can see how you strain to be all damn dignified with your careful walk and educated talk, your white gloves and church-lady hats. Who do you think you’re fooling? Honey Springs is more than skin deep, baby. You can’t hide it that easy.”

  “You’re right. I can’t hide where I come from because nothing can cover it. Just like nothing can cover you. Not even pinstriped suits and custom boots.”

  “It’s different for me,” he protested. “I’m a businessman.”

  “You’re a gangster! Your business is hurting other people. Taking their hard-earned dimes and when they’ve got nothing left for you to take, you gut them like a fish.”

  “People have to know that I ain’t gentle. That ain’t how the world works.”

  “I know! It takes blood. You’ve already told me. I’m not going to bleed for you.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I don’t do what I do because I like it. I do it because I’m good at it. People know it. When I’m gone from this world, nobody will say I went down easy.”

  Artinces smirked. “Like Jesus, right?”

  Goode ignored her. “People will remember me. My name’s gonna ring out.”

  She laughed outright. “To whom? ‘The people who count?’ Or the people you stole from? What about those bodies you put in the river? What about the bo
nes? Someday they might float to the surface with your fingerprints on them.”

  Goode rolled away from her, already reaching for his pants. He stepped into them and grabbed his shirt, buttoning swiftly, erratically. Propped up on her elbow, Artinces watched him tug on his socks and wrench on his shoes. She wanted him to stay, to fight with her like a husband who knew that after all was said and done they’d still end up side by side, sleeping off their anger.

  But Goode was halfway out the door. He stopped and turned around. His gaze was level.

  “I didn’t go to medical school,” he said, “but there’s plenty I know. Them bodies I rolled into the river didn’t come back and they won’t. Because I weighed ’em down just right. See? That’s something I know.”

  He left. They didn’t share a bed again for nearly two years.

  She immersed herself in her practice, devoting herself to the city’s children with such passion that a Citizen columnist dubbed her “Saint Noel.” Some admirers even mounted a campaign to elect her to the school board, an effort she quickly discouraged. Her mission was to keep children healthy, she declared. Someone else would have to make them wise.

  Meanwhile, Goode began cleaning up his image, if not his act. In the fall of 1962, he gave Thanksgiving turkeys to needy families and made sure a photographer from the Citizen was on hand to record it on film. When the North Side Home for the Aged needed landscaping, he proudly—and loudly—paid for it all. He spent the next year buying legitimate businesses and making sure he was seen going in and out of them. In addition to his policy and lending “enterprises,” his holdings by the fall of 1963 included a taxi company, racehorses, a print shop, an artist-promotion agency, prime real estate, part ownership of a beer distributor, and a piece of the popular Nat-Han Steakhouse. He joined the boards of directors at a few charitable nonprofits. At the reception after a church-sponsored event for the North Side’s most generous benefactors, he ran into Artinces. They shook hands in front of the refreshments table.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said a little too loudly, when the event chairman introduced them. When the chairman moved out of earshot, Artinces smiled more warmly than she intended.