by Jabari Asim
The emcee introduced the first of the afternoon’s bands, a local quartet of siblings whose modest repertoire was mostly limited to Jackson Five covers. Their opening salvo of “I Want You Back” sounded like a cross between a whistling teakettle and faulty brakes.
“Lord Jesus,” Irene Monday exclaimed. She fanned herself with a carryout menu from her restaurant while leaning on the counter of her booth. Her vantage point gave her a clear view of her husband at his easel nearly a hundred yards away. “Bless their hearts, but those children should think of taking up something other than singing.”
“Yes,” Artinces agreed, “like mime, perhaps.”
“It’s going to get better though,” Irene said. “I hear Rose Patterson might sing a little later, if she’s up to it. Her belly’s so big she’s about to burst.”
Artinces had met Rose only recently. She and Gabe were expecting their first child any day. Thinking ahead, the couple had already enlisted her services.
“I’ve heard she has a wonderful voice,” Artinces said.
“Like an angel. Sweet as sugar for all she’s been through. Her first husband had the devil in him.”
“That’s no good,” Artinces said.
“You telling me. I’ve been through it too. Thought I’d lose my mind before Lucius came along and swept me off my feet.” Irene smiled at Artinces. “Some folks, though, are just blessed. Like you, I suppose. Smart and successful as you are, I bet you’ve made it through life with hardly a scratch.”
Artinces forced herself to turn toward the pond, determined not to let the three women stare her down. They were gone. Near where they had stood, the fisherwoman bent to pick up something lying on the dock. The parasol, Artinces thought. But it was a fishing pole. The heat curtain had evaporated, as if it had never been there. Artinces watched as the woman attached bait to her line. “I’ve had my share of scratches,” she said.
If pressed, she might have found a way to change the subject. Or she might have told Irene that her first “scratch” was more like a kick in the gut. That’s what it had felt like when she found her mother facedown in the dirt.
It was 1935. Coming down the road and seeing Sadie Noel spread-eagled on the ground, Artinces had the impression that her mother had fallen from a great height. Blades of grass had bent sharply away from the outline of her still form, as if shuddering at the impact of her landing. Neighbor women knelt near her and made comforting noises, but Sadie remained where she lay until four men pulled her to her feet. Then she let loose with a sound that Artinces had never completely forgotten. Half wail and half roar, it was one of the last audible utterances to rise from her mother’s throat. Years later, while Artinces stood at the bedside of dying children, when she had to tell the parents that time was running out, she would occasionally recall Sadie’s furious bawling. Sometimes, the stricken parents would howl in similarly desperate fashion and Artinces would find herself hurtling backward through time.
Her mother had hit the ground with a head full of thick, dark, shiny hair. Minutes later, with clods of dirt in her eyebrows and thick dust coating her face, she tottered beneath a thatch of stringy white strands.
Artinces grabbed her mother’s sleeve. “What’s wrong, Mama?” she asked. “What happened?” Her mother stared right through her, shaking her head. She looked blind.
There had been a dispute between Luther and Mooney Hicks, a white man. Hicks had asked Luther about two cows that had turned up missing. When Luther said he knew nothing about it, Hicks suggested it would be a good idea for Luther to turn over a couple of his own cows, to keep things simple and peaceful-like. When Luther declined as respectfully as he could, Mooney Hicks shot him in the back.
Sadie had been preparing to return a basket of clean laundry to Miss Agnes, a mean-spirited white woman who insisted that only Sadie knew how to wash her drawers just right. When the news reached Sadie, she tossed the basket and toppled straight over. She remained there, still as a stone, while sheets, pillowcases, and women’s underthings slowly floated down like snow.
The next day, Artinces collected the laundry that her mother had spilled. She washed it in a big iron pot in the backyard, stirring it in boiling water and washing it with homemade soap before rinsing it all and hanging each item on the line to dry. These were tasks she knew well. Her mother had put her to work on small pieces in a tub at the age of six, shortly after she learned to read. She had begun feeding and weeding at age four. By the time she was 15, there was little she couldn’t do around a farm. By 15, she was also certain that she despised everything about agriculture. With her father’s blessing, she had begun to dream of a different destiny. His brutal erasure hastened her plans.
Miss Agnes demanded to know why the washing was late, even though she already knew the answer. Word of Luther’s death had spread quickly.
“My daddy got killed,” Artinces said. Standing attentively on the back porch while Miss Agnes frowned at her from the doorway, she held the heavy basket and waited for permission to set it down or bring it in.
“A shame,” Miss Agnes said. “Niggers do get into scrapes. Them jook joints ain’t nothing but sin and depravity. I thought Luther knew better.”
“It was a white man done it,” Artinces said, faster than she wanted to.
Miss Agnes leaned down, grabbed her by the chin, and pulled her close. “You listen to me, Lula Mae. For as long as you live, there’s three things you should never do. Never lie, never cheat, never steal,” advised the woman who had neglected to pay Sadie for the past four weeks. “God sees everything you do and He knows it as soon as you go wrong. You can count on Him punishing you for it just like He punished your daddy.”
Artinces was pretty sure some kind of force lurked in the world, a presence she couldn’t explain and often preferred to ignore. It wasn’t the loving God her mother would mumble to with increasing fervor each night—a pale, patient old man who would one day reward Sadie’s lifelong virtue by raising up Luther like Lazarus and sending him back to her waiting arms. Far from that. Artinces suspected the force was a hunger as old as the universe, a phenomenon that was neither good nor evil but nonetheless fed on human suffering. She had no patience for talk of angels and saviors. But she knew the hunger was real.
She determined to sidestep its tireless jaws as best as she could, immersing herself in study until the day she headed off to college. Her white-haired mother, befuddled and nearly mute, had managed to press into her hands a pitiful stack of dollar bills Luther had carefully stashed for the day his little Pepper Pot would leave for school. It was enough to get her about as far as the train depot—thank goodness for her scholarship.
She’d sworn off the world of cotton and cucumbers, confident she’d she soon be setting foot in a hot field for the last time. Back then, she thought she might eventually settle in Honey Springs after exploring distant shores. But when she came back to bury her mother, she knew she’d been kidding herself. Every family struggling in every shack had suffered some version of her loss. The ground, spongy beneath her feet, was soaked with sorrow. Sadness hummed through the air louder than honeybees. Only by leaving and returning was she able to fully appreciate how pervasive it was. Each tree stump, hollow log, and bend in the road was a reminder of the long gone and the freshly killed, the broken and the missing.
Watching the people of North Gateway promenade and cavort on the green grass of Fairgrounds Park, Artinces allowed herself to briefly savor the joyful spirit of the day. They had fled the same history, known the same ruptures and defeats. But there was something daring and admirable about their willingness to take a chance on joy, even if only for a few sun-splashed hours. Everyone in Honey Springs who took similar risks had invariably paid for it. Upon reflection, Artinces conceded that Goode had been right: it did indeed take blood. She’d actually recognized the truth in his words as soon as he spat them out; perhaps that’s why she became so upset. He was right, but she had no plans to tell him so.
Sometimes, Pee
Wee concluded, you just have to say fuck ’em. Fuck stuck-up females. Fuck fake motherfuckers who think they’re better than you. Fuck Sharps too. Needle-nosed nigger wants me to lay low—I know he’s over there about to shit on himself—but fuck him. Let him come get me if he’s that worried.
PeeWee strolled cockily down the main path of the park, straight through the revelers and picnickers, the performers and vendors. He and Sharps were parked across the street on Kossuth Avenue, close enough to keep an eye on things without being seen themselves, when PeeWee announced that he needed to take a leak and hustled off toward the portable toilets before Sharps could react. No doubt he was having a fit, but what the fuck could he do? It was a lovely day and there were plenty of fine bitches stretched out on blankets in the grass. Reasons enough for a close-up investigation. Besides, he could handle himself. Hadn’t he proved that when he knocked that sucker out at the gym? No harm would come to him, he was certain. There was a good chance, he figured, that he was invulnerable.
He’d discovered hidden strengths since spending time with the ring. He’d persuaded himself that he hadn’t stolen it from his sister; the ring, he now remembered, had found him. Clearly they were meant to be together. It wasn’t like Crenshaw needed it anyway. A big-bucks superstar like him could always buy more shine. When PeeWee went to his barbershop to get his growing natural shaped and blown out, the home team’s slugger was on the grainy black-and-white atop the soda machine, strutting into the batter’s box. PeeWee could tell that Crenshaw had all the power he needed. He was tearing up the league, with his sights on the team home-run record. Now, watching the All-Star sign autographs just a few feet away, he was more convinced than ever that Crenshaw could do without the ring. He was charming, confident, adored. For him, things were going along just the way they should. But amid PeeWee’s barely tolerable circumstances, something had to give. He had been putting up with some inferior folk of late, but not for much longer. When the dust cleared he’d be the last man standing. And the ring would be on his finger.
He turned away from the home team’s booth, idly caressing his treasure as Playfair passed by. PeeWee imagined Sharps in the Eldorado, fuming. Let him. Let him see how hard it is to sit still while other folks are having fun. Sharps had told him to watch and wait and, more insulting, to do it quietly while Sharps pondered his next move. That part, the silent obedience, was especially hard to take. But the ring told him to bide his time. He’d be in charge soon enough. The chump change Sharps doled out was more than he had been scoring on his own, that much he had to admit. It enabled him to keep the lights on during his sister’s prolonged, mysterious absence. He didn’t even feel lonely anymore, stretched out on her sofa at night with only his slick palms to keep him company. He felt more of a man than he’d ever been before, bigger and more powerful in his fist as he squeezed and rubbed himself to sleep. And when he woke in the night and watched moonlight stream through the window, it seemed as bright as the future he imagined. He had no stable income. No place to call his own. No woman. But that was all right. He had the ring.
“Saints preserve us,” Irene Monday said. Feeling plucky, the sibling quartet onstage had abandoned the Jackson Five for the Five Stairsteps. From their lips, the opening notes of “O-o-h Child” sounded like four asthmatics straining for air.
Artinces was grateful when Playfair appeared and captured her attention. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said. “How wonderful to see you both.”
“Hello,” Artinces said.
“Playfair,” Irene said with a wink. “I hardly recognized you without your Buick.”
Playfair laughed. “Oh, she’s parked right outside the gates. As usual, I’ve got anything a brother—or sister—needs, at my usual cut-rate prices. I just didn’t want to pay for a vending permit. Of course, I have a few nice things in my vest pockets, if anyone’s interested. By the way, Doctor, how’s Shabazz?”
Irene sat up, intrigued. She’d figured Artinces had a boyfriend tucked away somewhere, a Bob or a Milton, maybe. But a Shabazz? She wondered if he was the bow-tied Muslim who sold bean pies in front of Katz Drugs.
“He’s fine, I guess,” Artinces replied. “I think Charlotte’s falling for him, but she won’t admit it.”
Irene’s eyebrows shot skyward, visible above the cup of soda she held to her lips.
“Well, he’s enough for the both of you,” Playfair said, “as long as you train him up right.”
Irene choked on her soda, dribbling a little on the front of her apron.
Playfair, whose roving eyes missed nothing, pretended not to notice. He settled his eyes on a young woman studying a brochure at a booth run by Ardell’s Beauty Salon. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said apologetically. “Opportunity knocks.”
He hustled over to the woman, whose floral sundress stuck closely to her modest curves. “Afternoon,” he said. “I’ve seen you someplace before,” Playfair added before she could reply. He squinted. “Zodiac?”
“That’s right. You have a good memory.”
“How could I forget a face like yours? They call me Playfair,” he said, and tossed her a smile.
“I’m Gladys,” she said, returning it.
“It is completely my pleasure to meet you, Gladys. Anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like Nichelle Nichols?”
Irene and Artinces watched as Playfair offered his arm and Gladys, grinning shyly, accepted it. Together they strolled toward the bandstand.
Irene sucked her teeth. “He better watch it,” she said. “When a woman that pretty is walking around all by her lonesome, something ain’t right. People used to say the same thing about my Lucius. They’d say, ‘How can a man that pretty be on his own?’’’ Artinces stole a look at Lucius, hard at work behind his easel. She thought it would be quite a stretch even to call him ruggedly handsome, with an emphasis on rugged.
“He’s too pretty for his own good,” Rhonda Treadway pronounced, stirring her milkshake with her straw.
“Nothing against pretty,” Kendra Lee chimed in. “But my mama said never trust a musician.”
“You all talk like I’m about to marry the man,” Artinces protested. “I’m just taking lessons from him, that’s all.”
Artinces, Rhonda, Kendra, and Kozetta Harris were the only female second-years at Howard University Medical School. In addition to living and studying together, they often met at a soda fountain for milkshakes and gossip.
The topic of discussion was Brady Ross, a local piano teacher. Ross was lean and elegant, with prominent cheekbones and wavy hair that gleamed under a thick layer of pomade. He wore stylish short-sleeve shirts and ribbed silk socks that never failed to catch Artinces’s eye when he leaned back and crossed his legs.
“All the same,” Kendra shot back. She looked around before cupping her breasts. “A Negro who strokes piano keys will never stroke these.”
An article in The Crisis magazine about a pioneering woman surgeon mentioned that she’d studied piano to strengthen her fingers. So when Artinces saw Brady’s ad in the Afro-American, she resolved to take up the instrument. After a while, she found other ways to make her fingers strong, such as using them to trace the outline of Brady’s sleek, muscular loins. He lived in a neat bungalow with an upright piano in the front room, a kitchen, a book-crammed bedroom, and little else. She usually waited on his porch while the student whose appointment preceded hers ran through his scales a final time. The student, a handsome man with a warm smile and twinkling eyes, would grin and tip his hat. Brady would welcome her in, and before she knew it he was teaching her many fascinating things about rhythm, melody, counterpoint, and call-and-response. They just had little to do with playing the piano.
In between, she gleaned a few facts. He’d gone to Wilberforce. Toured with a few combos. Claimed to have been narrowly bested by Count Basie in a “cutting contest” when the latter came through town with his big band. He was working on a song cycle based on the poems of Countee Cullen. He taught her selected couplets while pleasur
ing her in his bed.
“I whom sun-dabbled streams have washed,” he’d say, lowering his lips to her breasts, “whose bare brown thighs have held the sun.”
While prepping Artinces for her upcoming test in her Nervous Systems class, Kozetta insisted that Brady was not showing all his cards. “I’m telling you, there’s more to that bear than his curly hair. He’s not in school, so how did he avoid the draft? What’s he doing with that nice little house with no family in it?”
“He’s taking his time, exploring his music,” Artinces said. “He wants to get established as a composer before he makes that kind of commitment.”
“Oh, is that what he told you? I bet he’s got a wife and kids right under your nose. Buried in that backyard, maybe. I’m telling you, girl, you need to ask him some questions.”
“Why? It’s not like I’m seeing him.”
“Artinces? It’s me, Kozetta. From Harlem. I can see what you’re doing with that man. It isn’t just all over your face. It’s how you walk and sit too. You’re stuck on him.”
Artinces merely shook her head and returned to her notes. She wasn’t stuck on Brady; she simply had an appetite for his body. As for his personality, she didn’t know enough, hadn’t seen enough, to form an opinion. All she knew was that she liked the way he smelled when he leaned over her to demonstrate a difficult sequence. She inhaled, he noticed, and that was that. She had been a virgin, which surprised him, but they both quickly got over it.
It was then that Artinces learned how to keep up appearances. She never stayed for more than a couple of hours.
Talkative men didn’t appeal to her. She liked a bit of mystery, unlike Kozetta, whose boyfriend Bert Dudley never shut up. Her few conversations with Brady took place while they were side by side on the piano bench, apparently the only place where he was entirely at ease. The men she knew growing up, the boys with whom she’d shared clumsy adolescent grappling, could talk of little besides crops, livestock, and Joe Louis. To Artinces, Brady was jazzy and sophisticated, a free-flowing improviser who also provided a sharp contrast to the men in her med school class, most of whom stubbornly adhered to a predetermined script. He’d open up about poetry, music, and world events, even going so far as predicting a postwar prosperity expansive enough to include Negroes. “I’m like Langston,” he’d say, “dreaming me a world.” He’d take her hand in his and lead her to his bed.
