Just as Big Johnnie Mae ended this last song and started up on one with a calmer rhythm, a different woman came toward Theophilus with a plate of food in one hand and a big glass of ice water, a napkin, and silverware in the other.
“You the man who ordered the rib tip sandwich and glass of ice water?” she asked.
He said, “Ummm-hmmm.”
She pushed the food out toward him.
“Here, this is yours and you owe me buck twenty-five.”
Theophilus took the plate, silverware, and glass of water from her and put them on the bar. He reached back to get his empty tea glass off the bar and then fumbled in his pocket for some money.
Watching him, the woman had to agree with the waitress, who was now stuck helping the bartender fix drinks, that the man in the “silver gray outfit” was sure enough a “big and pretty chocolate man.” She tried to steal a better look at his face without his noticing it. She knew that you didn't look at the men coming in here too hard unless you wanted to send them a message you hoped they wanted to answer.
Then he smiled at her, handing over the money while looking her over so thoroughly until she wished she had worn her large cook's apron. It covered a lot of her body but she hated bringing customers their food in that barbecue- and grease-splattered thing. But at least that grimy coverage would have slowed down the speed with which this man's eyes took in her body. She was standing there in a shirt and Bermuda shorts, so her only defense was to narrow her already slanted eyes and give him a nasty look. He wouldn't be the first man to get this look. But he was the first one who made her wonder if she had looked at him just a little too mean when she walked back to the kitchen.
Theophilus shrugged off the glare that little woman had given him and turned toward the bar to eat his food. The sandwich was so thick and juicy he had to eat it with a fork. The tips were tender and dripping in some of the best barbecue sauce he had tasted in a long time. And there was a generous helping of potato salad spread evenly on each slice of bread. The waitress hadn't lied about this sandwich. It did taste good enough to make you “want to do something real bad and nasty.”
As he ate, Theophilus found his mind fixed on the image of that mean-acting little woman. She sure was a fine little thing, with that dark honey–colored skin, thick reddish brown hair held in place with a light blue headband, heart-shaped face, full lips, and those sexy slanted, light brown eyes cutting him in two when he stared at her too hard. And she looked cute in those baby blue Bermuda shorts with her petite, hourglass figure and her backside swinging her own natural, uncontrived rhythm when she walked away from him.
Umph, umph, umph, he thought to himself. If that girl didn't have some big pretty legs, I don't know who did.
Just then the waitress came switching back to him to ask if he needed anything else from her. Figuring she was offering more than just another glass of tea, he thought that he had better add a little extra sugar to his smile before he asked a question he knew she wouldn't want to answer.
“Who brought me my food, sweetheart?”
She looked confused and said, “Something wrong with your food?”
“No. I just want to know who was the woman who brought me my food. She didn't look like she was a waitress. And judging from the way she just walked off with my money after I paid her, she didn't act like one, either. I mean, look at you. You're standing here all sweet-like, making sure I'm alright.”
“She wasn't nasty-actin' was she?” the waitress asked. She knew Essie Lane was good for giving these men that old nasty, slit-eyed look of hers.
“No, sweetheart, nothing like that. I just want you to tell me who she was.”
“That was Essie Lane. She the cook on duty tonight.”
“Well, I have to thank a woman who can cook some rib tips like that. Where is she?”
The waitress didn't look too happy about Theophilus wanting to talk to Essie but she said, “She back in the kitchen,” and pointed him in that direction.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said as he gave her a sexy wink and put some money in her hand.
She put her smile back on her face and said, “I just knowed you was the kind of man who really knows what to do with a woman,” as Theophilus got up and headed back to the kitchen.
Sighing with regret, she looked down at her tip. The five-dollar bill she was holding in her hand stretched her smile into a big wide grin. Five dollars was a huge tip for a waitress working at Pompey's Rib Joint.
When Theophilus walked into that hot kitchen, Essie was drinking some ice water and stirring a big pot of collard greens. Sensing someone watching her, she turned around, hoping it wasn't that old drunk who kept waving a dollar bill at her every time she came out on the floor. When she saw that it was the good-looking man in silver-gray, she was kind of relieved but also wondering why he was standing in the doorway looking at her like that. Ready to run him out of the kitchen if need be, she put a hand on her hip and looked him dead in the eye.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Theophilus wasn't surprised by the attitude in her voice. At the gut level he knew she was one of those good women who didn't allow for foolishness from a man. And as nasty as she sounded, he liked her voice. It was the kind of voice that could move swiftly from giving a command one dare not disobey, to girlish laughter, to a deep, throaty sigh. The desire to hear that sigh nestled itself quietly and comfortably in the most private, yet-to-be awakened region of his heart.
“I said, what do you want?”
He wanted to smile at her but didn't want to be chased out of this kitchen before he had a chance to meet her. So he decided to put on his “receiving line” face, which seemed to carry him a long way with most folks he greeted after Sunday morning service. He held that look in place as he tried to think of something to say that would match his disarming expression. The best he could come up with was, “Sister, that food was so good, I just had to come back here and humble myself before the chef,” with what he truly hoped had a good dose of the preacher in his voice.
He knew better than to say what he was really thinking, which was Baby, you so fine, you make me want to say things that can only be whispered in your ear.
Essie just looked at him and said, “The chef, huh?” with a frown on her face. “You are talking about a ‘chef' in a country place like Pompey's Rib Joint? You must think you in New York City. But you ain't. And since you ain't, get out of my kitchen right now, before somebody gets hurt.” She edged over to a small table with a big meat cleaver on it.
Theophilus saw her reach for the meat cleaver and backed away, saying, “Hey, wait a minute, baby,” before he could catch himself right.
Looking at him like he was out of his mind, Essie said, “Negro, I know you ain't calling me no baby.”
Theophilus moved toward her gingerly, trying to placate her. “Look, girl, I didn't mean you any harm. Your food was good and I just wanted to see you—”
“Wanted to see me? For what? If my food was so good, why didn't your cheap self send me a note about my good food, along with a tip?”
Theophilus didn't even try to defend himself on that one, realizing he had been too distracted to tip her. She was looking at him real hard, meat cleaver firm in her grip.
He tried another tack, extending his hand and saying, “My name is Theophilus—”
“I believe I know your name, Reverend. I thought you looked familiar when I brought you your food. Ain't you that revival preacher who was in Jackson this week?”
Before Theophilus could answer her, she said, “You sure are. And now you back up this way spending up their offering money and thinking you can talk up some little juke joint cook. Man, sometimes you preachers can truly act as bad as the worst street Negroes.” She blew a puff of air out of her mouth in disgust, adding, “And I'd be surprised if you ain't a married man to boot.”
Theophilus was embarrassed at the mess he had made in his effort to meet this woman. And now he had to convince her t
hat he didn't see her as some “little juke joint cook.” But the way she was holding that meat cleaver made him think real carefully before he opened his mouth again.
“I realize that I haven't made much of an impression on you this evening,” he began. “But you have to believe me when I say that I didn't come back here to be disrespectful. I just wanted to meet you. You should call Reverend Murcheson James over at Mount Nebo Gospel United Church and ask him about me. Maybe a good word or two from him will make you feel comfortable enough to see me again.”
“Reverend James is my pastor. I'm a member of Mount Nebo.”
Theophilus felt like shouting. This woman went to Mount Nebo? Now he knew the Lord was truly on his side. He smiled at her as he said, “You should also know that I'm a single man, all by myself, just hoping to find a good woman.”
Essie rolled her eyes at him. “All by yourself? I've never seen a preacher all by himself without a whole bunch of women to choose from. For some reason, women just seem to love preachers. I don't know why.”
Theophilus decided to ignore that last comment and said, “Yes, there sure are a lot of women who love preachers and would be glad for one to choose them. But I just told you that I'm looking for a good one.”
“And you gonna find her in Pompey's Rib Joint?”
“I'm talking to a good woman right now, right?” Theophilus said, standing over Essie, looking down at her, daring her to differ with him.
Essie knew she was a good woman, one who worked real hard to see that everybody at Pompey's knew it, too. To be sure, good-looking Negro men had crossed her path on many an evening at work. But they all made the fatal error of missing the point—that Essie Lee Lane was not only fine-looking with big sexy legs, she was a woman of fine character who knew she deserved better than what they always wanted to offer her.
“You haven't answered my question.”
“What question?”
“I asked you if you were a good woman and you've been standing there staring at me.”
Now it was Essie's turn to be embarrassed. She hadn't realized that she was staring at him.
“So, I'm talking to a good woman in the kitchen of one the hottest juke joints in the Delta. Am I not?”
Essie struggled, trying to compose just the right answer to that question. The way he looked her over, head to toe, was jumbling up her thoughts. She frowned. “Why you looking at me like you got X-ray vision? You know that ain't right for no man and especially one claiming to be a preacher.”
Theophilus checked his gaze, traveling down to get a fully lighted view of those legs. He wondered if her legs would feel as soft and satiny to his hands as they looked. But he wasn't about to apologize because he couldn't keep his eyes off her. “You know something, Miss—”
“Essie Lee. Essie Lee Lane.”
“You know something, Miss Essie Lee Lane. I don't have X-ray vision. Truly I don't. But to be perfectly honest, at times like these I sure wish I did.” He gave her a smile that started at his eyes and traveled leisurely down to his mouth.
Essie felt flushed looking at him smiling at her like that. Here was a man—a preacher, in fact—who told her he wished he had X-ray vision and gave her a look that said volumes about how he would use this gift if he were so blessed with it. She had always been skeptical of ministers—felt that too many of them didn't practice what they preached and had big-headed notions about themselves. But for some reason, she felt differently about this man, which was disturbing, the more she thought about it.
“What's the matter with you, Miss Essie Lee Lane? You got a thought you don't like?”
Essie couldn't believe he could see through her like that and said, “Nothing wrong, just thinking.”
“Just thinking, huh?” Theophilus said with a warm smile that didn't have a trace of freshness in it. “I bet you're thinking you kind of like me and might just let me see you again, right?”
Essie sighed, trying not to let him see that he was getting all up under her skin. She would rather die than so much as breathe a “yes” in his direction.
“Yes, I bet you're still thinking about me, isn't that right, Miss Essie Lane? And it's bothering you that you want to see this preacher just one more time.”
Essie just looked at him as if to say, “Don't flatter yourself.” She said, “I ain't troubled about nothing that has anything to do with you. Just because you can see me again—nothing about it that needs extra thought to it. All you'll be doing is what you asked to do, seeing me again.”
“Well, well, well, God is truly good. I think nothing short of an act of God would convince Miss Essie Lane to let me—X-ray vision and all—see her again.”
Essie blew air out of her mouth and rolled her eyes as if to say “please.” She said, “I think no harm could come from you visiting me.”
Theophilus guessed correctly that this was about as close to a yes as he was going to get. But with a soft laugh in his voice, he pressed, “So, you're telling me that I can see you again, huh? Is that what you are saying, Miss Essie Lane?”
The slight smile on her lips made him feel certain that he was getting next to her, if only a little.
“Maybe I could see you tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “If it's okay with you, I can stop by your house after my visit with Reverend James.”
“Yes. Yes,” she replied. “You can come by my house tomorrow and eat lunch with me.”
His heart swelled with hope.
“With me, my mama, and my Uncle Booker,” she continued. “That way you'll know without a doubt that there ain't no good times to be had down here with this little small-town Mississippi girl. Way I figure it, once you're certain about that point, you probably won't want to see me again anyway.”
The expression on his face changed. Gone was the heat and in its place was a look she didn't know what to make of. Was it hurt?
He said, “Essie, please know that the only time I am really looking to have, is more of it with you. And the only thing I want from you is for you to tell me how to find your house tomorrow.”
II
Theophilus settled his bill at Rose Neese's Boarding House for Negroes and went to visit with Rev. James. He spoke of the revival with warmth and feeling, thanking his mentor for the role he had surely played in getting him the chance to serve as the guest preacher there. But Reverend James couldn't help but notice how the excitement in his voice rose when Theophilus spoke of meeting that fine young woman from his congregation, Essie Lee Lane. He approved of Essie inviting Theophilus to lunch with her mother, Lee Allie, and her Uncle Booker, both of whom he knew well. Being a kind, patient, and extremely observant man, he could see how hard Theophilus was working to stay focused on any topic other than Essie. So he decided to cut their visit short. He knew better than to compete for the attention of a young man whose mind kept straying to his upcoming lunch with a young lady like Essie Lane.
Much as he loved Rev. James, Theophilus was relieved to be dismissed, for it had taken everything in him not to hop up from his seat and run out to find the Lane house. When he walked up on the small porch and knocked on the screen door, a woman he just knew had to be Essie's mother came and unhooked the latch. She was a nutmeg-colored woman, with thick brown hair that was twisted into an attractive French roll. She bore a strong resemblance to Essie but didn't have her slanted, golden brown eyes. Theophilus did notice, in the most respectful way, of course, that she had Essie's figure and legs.
Lee Allie Lane had been just as anxious for this Rev. Simmons to get to her house as he was to come there. Essie didn't bother with any of the men who came to Pompey's, and she had never shown the slightest interest in a man who was a preacher. So when Essie told her that she invited a minister she met in the kitchen of Pompey's to lunch, Lee Allie was about to bust open with curiosity. There was something mighty special about Rev. Simmons if Essie was allowing him to come to the house, let alone asking him over to eat.
As soon as Lee Allie answered the door, she knew wh
y Essie couldn't resist seeing this preacher again. He was a six-foot-three, coffee-with-no-cream-colored man, with close-cut, coarse black hair framing a handsome face, and dark brown eyes, draped with long, thick black lashes under well-shaped eyebrows. He had a slender nose that flared at the nostrils, well-defined cheekbones, and deep dimples on each side of his face. His full, richly colored lips were accentuated by the well-groomed mustache that stopped right at the corners of his mouth. And from what she could see of him, Lee Allie had the distinct impression that his navy suit, with his starched white shirt and blue, maroon, and silver paisley print tie, hid strong brown arms, a neat waist, long, nicely shaped legs, and one of those backsides that only a Negro man had—it was a backside that made you thank the Lord for making you a Negro woman.
“You must be Reverend Simmons,” she said, opening the screen door and waving for him to come in. As he stepped into the house, the comforting scent of fresh-baked rolls went straight up his nose. The pretty room he entered was simple, cozy, and warm, with a soft yellow on the walls, off white sheers at the windows, and plants scattered around, spilling over their bright red, blue, and purple pots. The soft mint green sofa made you want to stretch out on it and read the paper, and the pale blue chair with the matching ottoman was the kind that had “Sunday nap” written all over it. After admiring the room, he extended his hand to Essie's mother.
“Theophilus Simmons from Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis. Your pastor, Reverend James, has known me for years and is my mentor.”
Gumbo Page 79
