Blacker Than a Thousand Midnights

by Susan Straight

  Darnell’s father put down his cup when Darnell and Snooter stood up. “You think road camp is hard, huh? Job situation hard?” he said. “Lemme tell you about Mississippi, Louisiana, that levee down there.”

  Snooter said, “Oh, shit—Missippi story. Let me get on back to the crib.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Niggas all buried on them levees. White man need new niggas, he arrest you cause you was breathin wrong. You on the levee, you ain’t workin hard enough or you talk shit, he shoot yo ass and the others cover you over in the bank. Bones make a good frame for all that dirt.” He gulped down the last coffee. “My grandpa buried in there. Mississippi. He went on the chain gang for spittin in the wrong place.” The cup was small in his hands. “See, you could swallow wrong, too.”

  Snooter said, “Them old-time days is gone, Red Man. I go down, somebody go down with me.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Roscoe said, but Snooter went next door, and Darnell went to the sideyard in silence to look at the Spider’s tires. I go down, I’m takin myself, he thought, and he swallowed, stared at the mountain dust still on the fender. Why you still thinkin that? Stall out with that. Carceration time—last night. Papa bring some cake. Incarcerated on the road camp, and doin the breaks. Serious memory lane.

  He heard his father say, “Trent got a clean little Toyota, huh? But he does most of his work on paper.” He rattled the newspaper, and then said, “Oh, hell, Roscoe…”

  Darnell came back to see his father bury his head in his hands, gripping his forehead with long fingers permanently black at the knuckles. “Daddy?” Darnell said, dropping the chain saw he’d been checking, and his father looked up.

  “Roscoe, they got Louis downtown.”

  It was in the sports section, because Louis had been a star basketball player in high school. “Louis ‘Birdman’ Wiley, who helped lead the Fairmount Falcons to two county basketball titles, was arrested yesterday for conspiracy to distribute cocaine….”

  Roscoe took the paper from Darnell and read it. Then he handed it back, put his tongue into his cheek hard, so that a lump traveled slowly back and forth, and walked to his house.

  Darnell and his father were silent, taking Roscoe’s big truck up the twisting roads to Grayglen, where they could barely scrape past the fences and trees. They worked on the pepper tree all day, and no one tried to knock on Roscoe’s door until late that night. He didn’t answer. “Maybe he went to Marietta Cook’s,” Darnell told his father when they walked back from the dark house. “You want me to go by her house?”

  His father shook his head. “He don’t want to see you. You still here.”

  By the next morning, the reporters had remembered more of Louis’s career. They’d found his high school coach, his college stats, and gotten a quote from the college coach about how Louis had quit the team. Darnell drove to the pecan grove with the folded paper he’d bought. The grass was fine and lush in the cool air, the aisles between trees untrampled; the trees were blank, fern-branched with new growth.

  No one heard from Louis. Darnell went to buy the newspaper for two days, not wanting to see it at his father’s first. On the fourth page, in a few paragraphs now, Louis got three years at Chino. He’d pleaded guilty, quickly, under the new law that required arraignments in forty-eight hours to keep the overcrowded courts moving.

  When Darnell handed the paper to Brenda, her eyes filled with tears. “Why would he say guilty?” she said. “You told me everybody said he wasn’t even selling, he was just hanging out with Leon.”

  Darnell shrugged, but his temples felt congested, too. “What could he say? ‘Yeah, your honor, I hang with these guys but I’m just a friend…. I don’t make no cash slingin?’” He thought of what Gasanova had said. “Gas told me Birdman was trippin hard, like he wanted to self-destruct.”

  Brenda went to the bedroom doorway to look at Charolette, then folded her arms and faced Darnell again. “He used to talk to me, tell me how he was only playing basketball for his daddy.”

  “Louis liked you, he was always tryin to talk to you,” Darnell said. “Always talkin yang about takin you away from me cause he was a hoop star. He said I didn’t have no rep.”

  But she didn’t smile. “Nobody ever listened to him, his daddy neither, and all you ever asked him about was basketball. He hated playing.” She went past him to the stairs, to take the clothes from the washer.

  Roscoe wasn’t on Picasso Street. Darnell’s father said Louis had never called; Roscoe had found out the sentence from the morning paper, too. Darnell worked beside his father all day, and after they’d brought thick logs of pepper wood home and stacked them, Darnell told his mother how the baby had slept, how Brenda was walking around looking skinny but complaining about the belt of fat at her waist. Then he went to the yard to see if his father needed anything else. Donnie Harris stood awkwardly near the El Camino. He was bigger, muscles pumped up from college ball.

  “Hey, Darnell, this you?” he said, gesturing to the cab.

  “Yeah, man, the Spider’s on vacation.” Darnell smiled. “Long time, homey. I heard you were back, just like me.”

  “Yeah, I ain’t seen you in a year.” Donnie looked at the house. “Uh, is Mr. Wiley around?”

  “No, I think he’s over at his lady’s house.”

  Donnie leaned against the El Camino, moved a pepper branch away from his leg. “I came by to tell him I’m sorry. You know, he was always real cool to me, always takin me out to eat when me and Bird were seniors playin together. He used to call me and Bird the Gemini, remember, talkin about we were twin stars.” He folded his arms. “But Bird was taller.”

  Darnell saw Louis’s face in Leon’s Bronco, the distant, unfocused gaze. “I don’t know,” he said. He looked at Donnie’s black bomber jacket and badge. “So is that a security jacket, man? That what you into now?”

  Donnie nodded. “Yeah, I’m over at the Hilton, the new one downtown.”

  “Big old ugly building, man.”

  “You ain’t lyin. And now they got the new convention center right there, too, and they share this big parkin garage, so it’s too much for me.”

  Darnell frowned at the badge. “They lookin for somebody, huh?”

  Donnie smiled. “Gettin ready to advertise for swing shift. Why? You lookin for a gig, man?” He threw out his arms. “Come on, homey! We could cruise like the old days, but I’ll be tellin you what to do.”

  SECURITY

  THE SAME BLACK-WET SMELL rushed out at him from each parking garage he passed, the air permanently dark with exhaust and shadow. He didn’t mind walking, like tonight when Brenda had come home from work at four and taken Charolette to the doctor for her two-month checkup. They were still gone at five-thirty, so Darnell had put on his jacket and headed across downtown.

  Glad I got the jacket and badge, or I wouldn’t be stridin like this, he thought. All the suits and heels gone home now, and the only brothas around are watchin somethin or lookin for somethin. I don’t want Johnny Law thinkin the wrong thing. I take my jacket off and turn into the wrong thing quick.

  The April warmth hung in the spaces between buildings, between garages, and Darnell felt the ring of sweat around his neck. The sky stayed light until after his shift started at six, and the windows on the tall buildings were silver facing east to the mountains, gold facing the low sun.

  The Hilton’s windows were smoky-black squares in the beige cement walls. The new hotels had fancy atriums and lobbies inside, but they were blank and impersonal on the outside. He walked under the giant mesh of white tubes sculpting the entrance and saw Donnie’s little red Celica parked in its spot.

  “You gon give me a ride home tonight, man?” Darnell asked when he got inside the tiny booth at the mouth of the garage.

  “I don’t know, man, it’ll cost you,” Donnie said. “You gotta go to the kitchen and ask Ana for leftover doughnuts. She can’t stand my ass.”

  “You obnoxious.” Darnell watched the people coming in and out of the entr
ance, heading for dinner.

  “No, man, I think her and Sylvia are fine. Mexican girls got them big brown eyes and they know how to put on makeup.”

  “See? Mexican people are born in Mexico, fool. Ana and Sylvia were born in Rio Seco, man, up the street. They’re Chicano.”

  Donnie folded his arms. “They speak Spanish, man, I heard them.”

  “So?”

  “So I told them I can speak Spanish. Burrito, tamale. Carnitas.”

  Darnell threw his head back and laughed. “They don’t know you was a bighead ballplayer that didn’t pay attention in Spanish class, man, they just know you don’t know shit.”

  “Just remember to get the doughnuts, man, or you walkin home,” Donnie said. “Go around the convention center, man, it’s time. You still on part-time temporary status, brotha—Mr. Wilson might come by, and he love to remind you.”

  Darnell started walking the perimeter of the parking area, all the way around the convention center, through the no-man’s land of loading docks, turning around at the high wall that hid the docks from view and cruising along the planters at the edge of the walkway. He looked at his watch, wondering if Brenda and the baby were home. Brenda was worried about whether Charolette had grown out of her skinny born-early body; she looked fat enough to Darnell, and she wanted to get inside Brenda’s shirt every hour, it seemed. They’ll be crashed hard when I get home, he thought.

  His shift was six to midnight, Wednesday through Sunday, and he hadn’t seen Brenda for more than a minute in the three weeks he’d had this job. Part time: he was technically only thirty hours a week, so he didn’t get any sick days or benefits, but six bucks an hour was better than the six months of applications.

  Darnell stopped when he got to the large central courtyard that the hotel and convention center shared, with banners flapping in the wind, hung from more white piping, and the fountain scattering drops from a long sheet of metal. The water flew off in a veil, making a strange sound, but two smaller fountains in the long, rectangular pool burbled the way fountains usually did. Darnell listened.

  Donnie loved standing by the fountain, just hearing it, he said. When they were kids, Donnie’s thing was water. Donnie grew up on Pablo, and Gas and Leon lived on DaVinci back then. All summer, they’d meet Darnell and Louis, living in the streets till dark on found oranges and candy they bought with fountain pennies.

  Louis was already tallest, but Donnie was big and he had a big mouth. “All y’all come on,” he’d say, wading into the city-hall fountain like he was just trying to cool off. “Louis watch for Adam-12 cause he chicken anyway.”

  With Louis looking for patrol cars, the others would follow Donnie into the water and feel for coins with their toes. Darnell, used to hate the slimy bottom; Gas would say, “We gon get in trouble; we ain’t suppose to take this money.”

  Leon would say, “Shut up, man, who else gon take it? You see the mayor comin outta there at lunch for some chump change?” They would all look over at the huge doors leading to the old city hall.

  “You pickin it up, so that make you a chump, too,” Gas would say, and they’d sling water all over each other.

  Slingin. Leon wasn’t getting chump change now. He was into distribution. Darnell circled the fountain. They all had their loves then, for a bunch of summers. Louis’s was birds, Darnell’s fire, and Donnie with his water jones always led them on serious excursions.

  In winter, the canals that wound through the city to irrigate the orange groves were dry. The boys saw shopping carts filled with trash and mud, yellow grass and dried clumps like fur, shaggy animals pawing in the cement bed. But in summer the carts and rusted scrap from the railroad were covered with an endless ribbon of water that grew long, current-trembled grass.

  Donnie led them all along the canals, even up past Hillgrove, where groups of white kids swam, jumping off a small wooden bridge. One of the greenish-pale boys in the water saw them watching and yelled, “Niggers can’t swim here!”

  Donnie yelled back, “We can’t die! We ain’t fools!” They’d all heard about the kids sucked into grates that suddenly opened to let more water rush down.

  Along the riverbottom, they kept losing Louis, who would stop and stare at geese and egrets. They walked their bikes through the damp mud in the huge storm drain, where winos lived and tried to jack them for change. Leon threw rocks at them, his wrist snapping viciously.

  Darnell looked off toward the cement, pinkish in the streetlights. He and Louis had always been the ones to wander away alone. Louis would go back to the riverbottom for herons when everyone else headed to Gas and Leon’s, because their mother was never home and she kept Popsicles in the freezer. By late afternoon, when the wind had been blowing for a few hours and the earth was heated and ready, Darnell would see the smoke and take off toward the black scarf twining in the sky.

  Walking toward Donnie, he breathed the exhaust in deep to erase the smell of fire season coming whenever he stood near bare earth. “I’m hungry, man,” Donnie called.

  Darnell said, “You ever think about goin to see Louis?”

  Donnie leaned against the garage wall. “I called him once, man, but he didn’t want no visitors.” He looked hard at Darnell. “He probably pumpin, gettin them done-time arms. Be bigger than when he played ball.”

  “Your turn to hang out by the water,” Darnell said, turning away.

  He went to get the doughnuts at ten, when they were closing the restaurant. In the back, by the delivery area, Ana smiled at him. “How’s the baby?” she asked.

  “My wife took her to the doctor,” Darnell said, the words “my wife” still strange on his teeth.

  “Two-month checkup?” Sylvia said from behind her. Sylvia was older, around thirty, with a round face and mouth drawn full by red lipstick. “That means she got her puppy shots. She’s gonna be grumpy tonight!”

  “Great,” Darnell said. “Every night’s a party at my house.”

  “Here.” Ana handed him the cinnamon rolls wrapped in napkins. “But I only wanted to give one to you. Not to him.” She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, and her tall bangs swayed.

  “Darnell’s married, mija.” Sylvia laughed.

  “But he’s cuter.” Ana waved. “And quieter.”

  I’m safer, he thought, walking back to the booth. Ana like to flirt with the ones don’t scare her. He handed Donnie one roll, saying, “This ain’t for you.”

  “Oh, homey, she won’t even give me the digits. All I want to do is call and talk, man.” Donnie bit into the soft roll. “See, she kept it fresh for me.”

  “So you and Rosa ain’t gettin back together?” Darnell asked. Donnie had gone out with Rosa all through high school.

  Donnie shook his head. “She says she’s movin up. She don’t think I’m movin anywhere since I quit school.”

  They ate in silence. The garage was deserted. His father didn’t think much of this job, but Brenda was happy. “You’ll get on full time and get a raise,” she said.

  She said that whenever I last had a conversation with her, he thought. He got home after midnight, and she was always asleep. He was wound up from walking the lots, and he watched TV for half an hour, then slid beside her, watching her sleep, her shoulder gold in the light, her breasts pushed together in a deep-curved line, her foot pushing out from the sheet.

  She still teased him about sleeping like a zombie, but now he lay in his envelope of sheet, she in hers, and Charolette was an extra bump. Three cocoons, separate, the smallest, by Brenda’s arm, snoring like a baby VW engine. He couldn’t believe she made so much noise—rev, snarl, rev, snarl.

  She raised an eye like a periscope from the sheets at 6 A.M. He saw her swing her heavy head, the forehead rounder now, her hair in perfect snail curls. She saw his face watching, looked at Brenda’s neck, and opened her mouth to yell.

  Her mouth latched onto Brenda like she hadn’t had milk for days instead of hours. He lay there listening to the noises in her throat; Brenda was half
asleep, propped on pillows. Charolette’s hand explored Brenda’s chest, her collarbone—like a lover, probing, brushing with fingertips. He could see her eyelashes moving, roving over Brenda’s face.

  She didn’t look at him again. After Brenda took her into the living room, Darnell lay touching himself, pulling the stiffness and scratching; then he tried not to think about Brenda’s neck and the crease between her breasts, the soft skin inside her thighs. He folded his hands over his sternum, dozing until she said, “It’s time.”

  Then he took her and the baby to his mother’s. Brenda carried Charolette inside, bringing him back a biscuit. He drove her downtown while she said, “I’m so tired I look like hell. I don’t even care what I wear. I don’t even want to go today.” She kissed him, lipstick waxy-sweet, while her hips moved away toward the car door.

  The Spider looked pitiful in the drying grass of the sideyard. “Nowhere to park it at the apartment,” he told Nacho. “But I miss it, man. The El Camino feels too clunky.”

  “Maybe your pops get you a new clutch disc,” Nacho said.

  The back room was full. Snooter, Mr. Lanier and Mr. King, Roscoe, and in his corner chair, Darnell’s father. The dominoes were a jumbled whirl on the table, the plastic cups and beer bottles lining the edges.

  “He grown now, and he finally showed up,” Mr. King said, and Snooter raised his bottle of Canadian Club.

  Darnell said, “Y’all don’t look like you needed me to party.”

  “Do we ever?” Snooter said. “You ain’t been around, anyway. Sit down, fool.”

  Darnell took the chair across from Snooter, and he, Nacho, Roscoe, and Snooter took seven each. Snooter poured liquor into a cup, and Darnell’s father said, “He twenty-one today. He can drink now. What a milestone, huh, Roscoe?”