Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  Caleb felt good about himself, felt proud, as though he had accomplished a great deal. He wanted to tell someone, but he didn't feel like going back home. He wanted to celebrate, get a forty-ounce bottle of beer or something. He got off the bus, stepped into the liquor store, and grabbed a bottle of beer. Miller High Life, his favorite. He paid for it with loose change, then set off to find a couple of his friends. He knew they'd be hanging out on a nice day like this, because they had no jobs, either.

  He took off down the street, carrying the bottle of beer, small paper bag covering it halfway, exposing the neck. It was almost two o'clock and the sun was getting warmer. It was pretty bright and it seemed to improve the looks of everything. Even the streets of the projects didn't look that bad. The abandoned cars, the bits of trash that grew along the curbs as if they were flowers that belonged there, the areas of hard-packed gray dirt where grass used to grow. Nothing looked as bad as it did on glum, dull days when the sun wasn't out. When Caleb saw his friend Blue sitting on a park bench with a couple of other guys, he said loudly, “Hey, man, what's up with your black ass?” They called him Blue because he was so black—so black that he was blue.

  Blue looked at him weirdly, as if he had never seen Caleb happy. “What's up with you? Finally win the Lotto or something?” He had a bottle of beer himself. He was sitting on the backrest of the bench, his feet planted on the seat. He reached down and grabbed the forty-ounce bottle from between his legs.

  Caleb had known Blue since they were kids, the better part of his life, and like Caleb's, Blue's life seemed to be moving in every direction but the correct one. Blue's father hadn't cut out on him, but he was gunned down on his way home from work one day. Wrong place wrong time. So Blue knew what it was like to grow up without a father, and that was one reason the two of them were so tight. Whatever it was they were missing by not having fathers around, they found in each other, and Caleb could no longer count how many times they had saved each other's asses from sticky situations. Blue had always been there for him, just like a brother, even when Caleb's real brothers weren't.

  “What you doing all spiffed up, looking like you coming from church?” Blue said, taking a swig from the bottle of beer. The remark provoked a chuckle from the two other guys, one standing and one sitting.

  “Been looking for a job, man. Had to,” Caleb said, slapping Blue's hand.

  “Sonya been riding that ass again, huh?” He did his Sonya impression, raising the sound of his voice. “You better get your ass out there and find you a nine to five, or don't think about bringing your butt back in this house!” He took another swig from his bottle, this time a longer one. Caleb could see the tight little ball in his neck go up and down as the beer slid down his throat. Blue pulled the bottle away and smiled, the gold tooth in the front of his mouth reflecting sunlight.

  “Naw, it ain't nothing like that. I got responsibilities, that's all,” Caleb said.

  “Well, did you get one? You find a job?”

  “Naw, but I met this dude. Real cool dude. Grew up in the projects, got this software company, and make big cash. We talked on the bus. He got a lot to say, and I'm going to listen. I'm going to get a job from him, just listen to what I'm saying.”

  “Yeah, all right, that's cool,” Blue said, with little enthusiasm.

  “I'm for real. Look at this.” Caleb reached in his pocket and pulled out the card. He held it in front of Blue's face, not allowing him to grab it.

  “Let me hold it,” Blue said.

  “Naw, you going to get it dirty, bend it all up, just look.”

  Blue took a quick glance, then dismissed it. “All right, man, that's great. Happy birthday. Now why don't you put your toy away and crack that brew, 'cause if you ain't, you can pass it this way.”

  Caleb did what he was asked, and decided that his friend would never make more of himself than what he was at that moment: one more brother sitting on a bench, swigging on a forty. Sure Caleb was doing the same thing at that moment, but he wouldn't be there for the rest of his life.

  They sat and talked, the four of them. They talked about life and women and the white man keeping them down, lack of job opportunities, the destruction of the world, and whatever else floated into their heads. One of the other guys that Caleb didn't know—his name was Pete—took out a small, crumpled piece of aluminum foil. He opened it up, then pulled out of his pocket a small booklet of thin papers. He proceeded to roll the contents of the foil into the paper, licked it a couple of times, then lit it.

  “Now you talking,” Ray Ray said. That was the other guy, big afro on his head. He was a huge lethargic guy. Pete passed Ray Ray the joint, and he took a long drag from it.

  “See, the white man want us to work a nine to five. That's where he want us, see,” Ray Ray said, already high. “Because if we work a nine to five, he'd have control over us. He'd be monitoring us, you see. Have us piss in a bottle to see if we be enhancing. They don't want us enhancing our minds with the herb, because they know that it gives us knowledge, it clarifies shit.” He took another puff, pulled the joint from his mouth, and held it before him, staring at it, marveling as if it was the cure for cancer. “I'll fuck a motherfucker up, he try and take this from me.”

  “Just pass the shit and stop tripping!” Blue said. “I ain't working that shit, 'cause it's just like slavery. They want you to sweat, break your back for them, and what do they give you? Some money so you can run out and buy some insignificant shit on credit. Then they have you paying them, not just one time but for two years, or three years, or five years.” He took a hit of the blunt and held the smoke in as he finished talking, his voice sounding strangled. “And then don't just have you paying them for years and years, but have you paying for more than the shit actually cost—interest and shit.” He blew the smoke out through his nose and mouth. “Black folks think they arrived when they get a credit card and a car note, but they don't realize, they just jumped into a funnel, and it goes nowhere but down.” He passed the joint to Pete.

  “But what do you have?” Pete asked. “You ain't got shit but them gym shoes on your feet, and you need to be buying a new pair real soon, 'cause those starting to talk.”

  Everyone laughed a little, except Blue.

  “That's cool, too. I ain't got no car, and I don't have no credit card either, but you know what else I ain't got? Debt. I don't owe no one shit. You hear me. Shit! Big fat zero. So yeah, I ain't making no money, but I sure as hell ain't spending none, either. Am I right, or what, Caleb?”

  Caleb looked over at Blue and considered what he had said. “You right, man, for the most part. I don't like it either. I don't like no one telling me what to do, sizing me up, condemning me 'cause I put the square peg in the circle hole. And you right about folks being so far in debt that they never going to see they way out. They going to die still paying off that TV that they renting to own. But if you got responsibilities, if you going to live, you got to make money. That's just the way life is. White folks made it that way so we got to work, and that brings us back to them controlling us.”

  “I don't care what you say, I'm living, and I ain't working. I'm living, smoking this here joint, and it's what I'm going to continue to do until I find out what it is I really want to do,” Blue said.

  “And when is that going to be, when you fifty?” Ray Ray said.

  “That's going to be when that's going to be. I ain't rushing for nobody.”

  “I'm glad you got it like that, but some of us can't be taking our time,” Caleb said. He wanted to continue, letting them know that some of them, speaking of himself, had a girlfriend that practically was his wife, and a child to raise, plus rent to pay and food to buy, but they wouldn't have understood. All they thought about was sitting out, talking shit, and getting high.

  There was a time when that was all that interested him as well, but lately he had been getting ridiculed from all sides. Sonya had done everything but come out and call him a complete loser. She'd leave the day's pape
r on the table with the job section open, things circled, things that she thought he should check out. She'd always ask him how things were going, had he found a job yet? It all seemed like gentle nudging, something that she referred to as “support,” but he found it painfully annoying. Like she had to remind him every day that he had no job, that he brought no money into the household. He needed no one for that. He could simply dig in his pockets, and the lint there spoke loud and clear.

  Caleb downed the last of his beer and looked at his watch. It was a little after four o'clock and he figured it was time he got home. He said good-bye to his friends. “Yeah, better get that ass home before you get in trouble,” was Blue's farewell.

  Caleb only had to wait about five minutes before he saw the bus slowly roll down the street.

  He didn't like the pressure, not just from his girlfriend but also from his brothers. Marcus kept telling him that he should do this and do that. Maybe enroll in school, take the GED, and maybe he'd find out that he had a new liking for school. That shit would never happen. First of all, he wasn't the slightest bit interested. Secondly, he was scared as hell of all the book stuff. He could never get it. The math, the science, it was too far above his head, and he just felt like a fool even attempting to make an effort. It was just easier if he didn't have to bother with it at all, so he dropped out, and he would not return, no matter what Marcus said.

  Then there was Austin. Caleb realized that Austin really didn't give a damn anyway, but he still felt pressure. Not pressure directly from Austin, but pressure from himself to do something, if for no other reason than to prove his brother wrong. It seemed from as far back as he could remember, Austin had written him off as a loser. He didn't know why, and it was something that had bothered him even as a child. He could remember his father would give him the same loser treatment, as if he wasn't as deserving as his older brothers, or as if he always got in the way of their time together. Caleb just figured that Austin's treatment of him stemmed from his father's treatment, considering how much Austin looked up to the man.

  Caleb would do something. He would have to. He couldn't just continue to live the way he was living, freeloading off his girlfriend, not being able to contribute a single dime toward their expenses. He pulled out the card again and held it before him. “Mr. Joseph Benning,” he said softly to himself. He smiled, then put the card safely back in his pocket.

  The Boy-Fish

  BY DAVID ANTHONY DURHAM

  When Eldon spoke, his voice was slow and muffled. “Sutekh, go up and wash.”

  Sutekh looked up from the book in his lap. He stared, not at his father's face, but at his T-shirt. He pursed his lips, shaping them into a momentary, silent protest, and then he stood up and walked across the small room. In the hallway, he passed the pictures of old people captured in straight-backed postures, in shades of black and white, with eyes that seemed to follow him. He sought out the image of the woman who had been his mother. He knew her picture well: the creamy tones and fine lines of her features, her thin eyebrows and gentle eyes, the long black hair, so straight, cast over her shoulder as solid and thick as a rope woven of seaweed. And he knew her name, Anita, so often on his father's lips. But his memory of her was fading as each day of the last nine months pushed between them.

  The bathroom was a cramped space, with an old bathtub and a slowly dripping sink. It smelled of mildew and of moisture trapped in towels. Faint city sounds entered through the tiny window above the tub. Sutekh closed the door, turned on the water, and undressed. His body was small, skinny, light brown, and smooth as an eggshell, gentle as a marble statue, marked only by a paisley-shaped slash of pink across his forehead, a birthmark. He had a face of delicate features, with a narrow, aquiline nose, and eyes so gray they seemed almost translucent.

  Looking through the window, Sutekh caught sight of a gull swooping through a cloud-laden sky. He watched its erratic flight until he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He stepped into the tub, scowled at the heat, and stood there, listening. The noise had stopped. He held one hand to his heart; the other rested on the cool yellow tiles. Finally, he reached for the cold-water knob. Just as he touched it the door opened. Sutekh looked up and there was his father. He shifted his eyes to his father's chest and sat down, wincing at the heat of the water.

  The man swayed as he walked in. “Stand up,” he said.

  Sutekh rose.

  Eldon touched Sutekh's head. He slid his hand from the boy's forehead, up over his hair, and traced his fingertips down the boy's spine. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “Let's clean you up,” he said. “Okay? We'll just wash.”

  Eldon had a light chestnut complexion, with freckles under the eyes that jiggled as he talked. His features were well formed and evenly spaced, with the slightly pudgy quality of a young boy. He leaned on the wall beside the refrigerator, the phone to his ear. With one finger, he pushed plastic magnets around on the metal door: pears and apples and bananas; several alphabetical letters.

  Sutekh sat at the kitchen table, a book in his lap. He ran his fingers over its smooth cover and along its edges. His gaze drifted around the wall near his father and settled on a dim stain on the flowered wallpaper, the splash of some liquid.

  “Yeah, Gen,” Eldon said into the phone. “Yeah. It's all right. I mean, I still have the same job. I don't know for how long, but it's all right . . . You know what I do. The furniture reupholstering . . . Right . . . Of course.” Eldon glanced over at his son. “Yeah, Sutekh is fine.” His finger knocked off an apple-shaped magnet. It fell to the floor, bounced off his foot, and twirled under the refrigerator. He kneeled down and slid his hand underneath the appliance. The metal grating at the bottom of the refrigerator dislodged and fell onto his fingers. He pulled his hand, and the grating clanged to the floor. “Damn it!” he said. “No, I dropped something and now the damn grating fell off the fridge.”

  He stood up, kicked it, backed away a few steps, and put his palm up to his forehead. “Forget it. So, Gen, why is everyone always after us to come visit? Jesus. It's either you or Momma, but somebody's always nagging. Told her we'd come out next week. Might just leave Sutekh with them for a couple days, let the old man play his granddad games.”

  Sutekh looked down at his book. It was a large, thin children's book. On the cover there was an illustration of a boy in a bulky yellow raincoat and hat. The boy held a duck out before him, grasped by the leg. The duck was captured in mid-squawk, and the boy appeared to be pulling back, surprised. Sutekh traced a line around the boy with his finger.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay. We'll come by soon. But first Momma wants to have Sutekh stay over there for the weekend or something.” Eldon had been rubbing his injured palm with the fingers of his other hand. He stopped and his gaze shot over to Sutekh. “Okay, hold on. Sutekh? Come talk to your Aunt Genevieve.” Eldon extended the phone toward him.

  Sutekh rose and, holding the book under one arm, took the phone from his father. The receiver was warm and greasy with moisture. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sutekh!” said Genevieve, her voice exhilarated, almost breathless. “How are you?”

  Eldon walked away and stood next to the table.

  “Okay,” Sutekh said.

  “Okay? Well, all right. Great. I haven't seen you since the Fourth of July. Remember the Fourth of July? When we took that boat ride to Saint Michaels and had all those crabs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were scared of them at first, remember?”

  Sutekh tucked his head and smiled. “'Cause they had pinchers,” he said.

  “I know. They are pretty ugly. But they're good on the inside.”

  “Yeah.” Sutekh nodded. He raised his book up as if just remembering it. “Gen, I have a book.”

  “Really? What book?”

  “Um . . .” Wrinkles stood out on the boy's forehead. He looked down at the cover. “About a boy and a duck.”

  “Yeah? Hey, that reminds me—How's school? You just started
school, right?”

  Sutekh glanced over at his father. “No.”

  “No what? You didn't start school?”

  “No.”

  “What?” Genevieve's voice grew serious. “Why not? Didn't your father take you to school? I can't believe this. You should be starting school. You're going to be behind already. Let me speak to your father.”

  Sutekh shook his head. He looked over at his father, who was watching him. “No. It's okay, Aunt Gen. Right? I don't want to go so much.”

  “Well, of course you don't, but that's just because it's something new. Once you try it you'll like it fine. And anyway, you have to go. It's not a choice. Let me speak to your father.”

  Sutekh turned toward the wall. “I have a book—”

  “Sutekh, honey,” Genevieve said, her voice both gentle and commanding, “put Eldon on.”

  The boy turned back to his father and held the phone out toward him. The corners of Eldon's lips dipped, but he grasped the phone. “Yeah?”

  Sutekh walked back to the kitchen table and sat down, book balanced on his knees.

  “Gen . . . I'm taking him. You just don't know how things are. It's not easy . . . He's been coming to work with me . . .” He listened for some time. He nodded, and when he spoke his voice had softened. “I don't know. It's just been these last nine months. I'll take him, but sometimes I'm afraid to have him out of my sight. Other times . . .” He ran a hand up over his hair. “Other times I just don't know. Anyway, fuck it, Gen,” he said, not angrily, but with an exasperated sigh. “I'm hanging up now. You should watch what you ask for. Some day I might drop him on your doorstep for good.” He hung up the phone and stood leaning against the wall for a few moments, one hand in a fist that slowly rapped against the wall.