Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  It was late May. LaVerne’s baseball team was winning most of its games and LaVerne was the team’s star. Rose, Delbert, and Hartholz went to every home game. In fact, most of Plum Grove had come out for the home games, even white folks. Including Link Thompson, who had been elected sheriff.

  Between the eighth and ninth innings of a game on a hot Saturday afternoon, Delbert left his seat and went out back behind the bleachers to buy shaved ice for Rose, Hartholz, and himself. Standing in line at the shaved ice stand, Delbert could see LaVerne sitting at the end of his team’s bench. LaVerne was trying hard to watch the game, but a horsefly had fixed its attention on his neck, and no matter how vigorously LaVerne waved and swatted, the fly returned to bite the back of his neck. Finally, LaVerne hopped up and started flailing the air with his ball glove. This is when he noticed Delbert looking at him. They grinned at one another. Delbert mockingly flapped his hands, mimicking his nephew’s frantic attempts to rid himself of the fly. LaVerne put his ball glove on top of his head, made a goofy face and sat down on the bench, leaning back, with his legs stretched out in front of him in a pose of exaggerated lounging.

  On his way back to the bleachers with the ice, Delbert saw a man and a young woman talking under a tree out by where the cars were parked. Money was being exchanged.

  Delbert observed for a moment, then walked over to Sheriff Thompson, who usually watched the games from behind the fence at home plate.

  “Sheriff Thompson, there’s something goin’ on over by the cars,” said Delbert. “It may be nothing. But it looks like whoring, or maybe they’re selling reefer. But it shouldn’t be happening where kids can see.”

  “Well, Mr. Delbert, let’s go look,” said the sheriff. They started in the direction of the cars.

  Link Thompson stopped several yards from where the man and the woman were transacting their business.

  “Delbert, that’s your sister Rose’s girl,” he said. He turned and looked Delbert in the eye. Delbert didn’t flinch.

  “Like I said, Sheriff. It looks like something unwholesome is goin’ on. Something young people ought not to see. I certainly wouldn’t want my nephew seeing such things. Don’t you think you should investigate? It could be a crime is being committed.”

  “I think you may be right, Delbert,” the sheriff said. “I’ll go take care of it.”

  The shaved ice had mostly melted, so Delbert went back and got some more.

  23

  Remains

  When Raymond died, A.B. felt as if his name was stripped away from where it was attached to his soul. So much of his identity was derived from being Raymond’s friend he didn’t know how to think of himself with Raymond gone. He was sad and anxious everyday and every night he thrashed around in bed sweating and half-awake, hoping not to dream. So, when he saw the long black limousine with the black opaque windows parked in front of the restaurant one morning, about seven months after Raymond died, it reminded him of Raymond’s funeral. He would have turned his car around and returned home, except that, as he was leaving his apartment earlier that morning, he saw something that so unnerved him the thought of going back to his apartment made him shudder and reach for his cigarettes.

  It was not quite light when he locked his apartment door and went out to the street to his car that morning. It was gray and cold and A.B. could tell it was going to be one of those days when it would only get grayer and colder. His neighbor, Mr. Avelluto, was out at the sidewalk picking up his newspaper. He waved at A.B.

  It was then they both sensed something above them. They looked up and saw a crow lift off from the roof of the apartment house. It let out a short sharp caw and released something black it was carrying in its claws. The thing fluttered down in slow motion and fell with a soft smack on the sidewalk in front of A.B.

  It was a bat, not yet dead; its pointy little leathery wings feebly flapping.

  “Damn,” said Mr. Avelluto. “Is that a bat?”

  A.B. hopped backward and stared down at the creature in horror. Its mouth gaped, showing tiny fangs.

  “I think so!” he yelped.

  “Damn,” said Mr. Avelluto. He crossed himself and went inside with his newspaper.

  On his way to work, A.B. turned up the volume on his car radio as loud as it would go in order to distract himself from what he’d just seen. And also from the new odor in his car.

  A.B.’s car didn’t smell good to begin with, what with the cigarettes, the frequently spilled coffee, and the three years of flatulence buried deep in the foam rubber of the driver’s seat cushion resulting from daily consumption of LaVerne Williams’ Texas style beans. But for about a week, a very specific stink unrelated to cigarettes, coffee, or gaseous emissions, had filled the interior of his car. And it was getting worse.

  A.B. had searched under the seats, under the hood, and in the trunk, looking for the source of the odor, but had found nothing that would produce what was, by the seventh day, an eye-watering, stomach-turning stench. He did, however, find his lost cassette of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s Soul to Soul album.

  Driving with the windows open alleviated the smell only slightly, but it was the only thing A.B. could think to do. That, and smoke non-stop all the way to the restaurant.

  A.B. parked out back, in the alley. He saw Angela’s Honda Civic where LaVerne’s truck was usually parked and remembered that LaVerne was over at Bartle Hall for the day, signing autographs at a baseball collectibles meet. Several players from the old Kansas City Athletics were going to be there. Angela was in the dining room taking chairs off the tables. She heard A.B come in and went to say hello.

  “Good morning, A.B. How are you this morning?”

  “Fine,” he said. He went into the walk-in to get greens and ham hocks, came back out and started washing the greens.

  “You alright, A.B.?” asked Angela. She took his chin in her hand and turned his face toward her.

  His eyes filled.

  “I’m okay,” he said trying to look away.

  She kissed his forehead and let him go. A few hours later, just before the lunch rush, she saw him looking out the front window; his shoulders hunched forward, his hands thrust deep his pockets. When he realized Angela was watching him, he left the window and went out back by the dumpster for a smoke. Angela looked out the window. A black limousine was parked at the curb.

  After lunch, as she and A.B. cleaned tables, Angela noticed that every few minutes he glanced out the window. Whatever it was he saw outside made him frown.

  “Child, what on earth has you so worried today?” she asked. “You’re not acting yourself.”

  “That car, that limo, has been there all day,” he said, scowling. “What’s goin’ on do you think? Why is it out there? I haven’t seen anyone in it or by it. I can’t figure out why it’s out there.”

  Angela smiled. “Maybe some rich businessman is buying artworks at the gallery across the street.”

  “Maybe,” A.B. mumbled. He went into the kitchen and loaded the Hobart.

  It’s never busy at Smoke Meat from two o’clock to five-thirty. Usually, A.B. spends that time cleaning up the dining room and counter area. Sometimes he goes out and sweeps the sidewalk. On the day he saw the crow and the bat, and his car stank, and the black limo was parked out front, A.B. spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen pulling pork and chuck, and slicing onions and cabbage. He also took a lot more cigarette breaks than usual, out back by the dumpster. Once he walked up to the front corner of the building and peeked around. The limousine was still there. He went back inside to cook the onions and cabbage for the next day.

  Angela came in from the dining room, where she had been filling napkin holders.

  “LaVerne told me there were problems again with Rocco last month with some of the produce. Did that get straightened out? Are we getting the cabbage and onions we need?”

  A.B. nodded without lo
oking up. “Yeah,” he said. “It was some problem with Rocco’s supplier.”

  Angela tried to keep the conversation going.

  “It’s surprising how often cabbage and onions cause problems for Rocco, isn’t it?” She leaned in toward A.B. trying to get him to look at her. “You wouldn’t think they would be that difficult to find, would you?”

  He glanced up at her, but couldn’t muster a smile. “Yeah. A few weeks ago I even had to go over to Scimeca’s Market for some. Boss keeps sayin’ he’s going to get a new produce guy, but he never does.”

  Smoke Meat’s kitchen can get uncomfortably warm and humid, but Angela noticed that A.B. was sweating as if it were twenty degrees warmer than it actually was.

  “A.B., let’s go sit down and talk,” she said, taking hold of his arm. “I’m worried about you.”

  They went in and sat down at the corner table where Mother Mary and Pug usually sit. A.B.’s eyes welled up immediately.

  “What is it, child?” Angela asked, reaching across the table for A.B.’s hands. A.B. looked down at the table.

  “It’s like there’s omens,” he said. “Like something bad is going to happen. I think maybe God is telling me I’m going to die.”

  “My goodness, A.B. What kind of omens?”

  “This morning a crow flew off the roof of the apartment and dropped a bat right in front of me. A bat! Like a vampire bat! Mr. Avelluto saw it, too. Scared the shit right out of me.”

  A.B. blushed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams. Pardon my French.”

  Angela smiled and squeezed A.B.’s hands.

  “Anyways, it was like a bad dream. The worst dream you could have. It was like something from hell. Then, lately, my car stinks terrible. Like something rotten. But I can’t find anything in the car that would smell that bad. It’s like death. Even though I’ve never actually smelled death.”

  A.B. shivered and gulped in air, trying to suppress the hiccups he felt coming on.

  “So, then I get here this morning and there’s that black funeral car out there. All day. It doesn’t move. There’s no driver or passenger. It just sits there. It’s like it’s waiting for me.”

  A.B started to tremble. Angela thought he was going to cry. Or maybe explode.

  “I keep thinkin’ that the devil is in that car. Or maybe the Angel of Death. These are like signs, Mrs. Williams. I think these are signs that I’m going to die. Just like Raymond. But Raymond went to heaven. If I die I’m going to hell. Ray was good and he went to church and he did good things. But I don’t go to church. My mom never took me to church. And I smoke and swear and stuff.”

  Then A.B. did cry. He let out a long low sob and put his face in his hands. Angela scooted her chair over next to A.B.’s.

  “That’s not how it works, A.B.,” she said. “That’s not how it works. The devil doesn’t drop bats off roofs to scare us or drive a big black limousine around lookin’ to take us to hell. And God doesn’t send us signs that we’re about to die.

  “A.B. you’re hurting inside just like the rest of us since Raymond died. Lord knows I cry almost every night still. We’ll never get over it. None of us. He was too young and bright and beautiful. And when you lose something precious to you, it changes the way you see things. Sometimes it helps you see things more clearly. You see only the things that are most precious and important. Other times it clouds your vision and you can’t see things clearly at all. You can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. Everything seems worrisome and dark and frightening.

  “You loved Raymond, A.B., and he loved you. I know your heart is broken like LaVerne’s and mine. And I know you must be lonely. But you’re not going to die. Not just yet. Everything is just fine. You’re safe. Everything is fine.”

  A.B. wanted to smoke. But he knew how Angela disapproved of it.

  “But what about the crow and the bat?” he asked. “And what about that hearse?”

  Angela smiled. “Crows and bats give me the creeps, too. But that crow was probably just trying to protect its nest or maybe hoping for a little breakfast. And that’s not a hearse. It’s just a car. Like your car, only long and black.”

  “Except it probably doesn’t smell like shit,” A.B. said, then quickly added “Sorry, Mrs. Williams. I keep saying bad words.”

  They sat quiet there at Mary’s table. From the corner, they couldn’t see if the limousine was still there.

  “Why did Ray have to die?” asked A.B. after a bit. His voice was small and thin.

  “Raymond didn’t have to die,” said Angela. “He just died.”

  “Why did God let him die?”

  “God did let Raymond die. But he’s going to let all of us die. The only difference is between you and me and Raymond is not if we die, but when we die.

  “Dying isn’t a bad thing, A.B. The way we die is sometimes sad or painful, and sometimes it’s unjust or tragic. But the dying itself isn’t bad. And God knows that. He sees this life of ours here on Earth and our life in heaven as one life. Now we’re living in one house and later we’re going to live in another house. We just can’t see that next house from here. But God sees it. Because it’s where he lives. And just like if you left Kansas City and went someplace else to live, LaVerne and I would be sad; when people we love die, it makes us sad. We miss them. We want them back. But they’re where they’re supposed to be. They’re home. And someday we’re going home, too.”

  Angela and A.B. sat there for awhile longer. A customer came in and Angela got up and went over to the counter to take the order. A.B. went back into the kitchen.

  *

  After the last customer left, A.B. went to the window. The limousine was still there. Leaning against the right front fender was a short heavyset man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black chauffeur’s cap. His suit coat was unbuttoned and his red necktie was tied short, leaving an expanse of white between the bottom of his tie and the top of his pants, which were themselves too short, exposing white socks falling down around his ankles. A.B. noticed the man was eating a Smoke Meat sandwich, and that a long drizzle of sauce was sliding down his right pant leg.

  *

  As they were locking up, Angela turned to A.B. and hugged him.

  “Thank you for talking to me this afternoon, A.B. I’m so grateful for you.”

  “You’re welcome,” A.B. said, unsure why he was being thanked.

  Angela held A.B. by the shoulders. “Come to church with LaVerne and me on Sunday.”

  A.B. didn’t hesitate. “Okay, Mrs. Williams. I will.”

  On the way back to his apartment, A.B. listened to Soul to Soul, with his windows rolled down all the way for maximum ventilation. He sang along until the tenth track, “Life Without You.”

  “The day is necessary, every now and then, for souls to move on, givin’ life back again.

  Fly on, fly on, fly on my friend. Go on and live again . . .”

  He turned off the tape and lit up a cigarette.

  Three blocks from his apartment, A.B. felt the unmistakable thump-thumping of a flat tire coming from the left rear of his car. He let the “Sh” part of “Shit!” escape, but successfully suppressed the remainder of the word. He pulled his car over onto a side street, lit another smoke, and got out to change the tire.

  He opened his trunk and lifted the liner to get at the spare, the jack, and the tire iron, and was immediately overcome by a rush of putrid fumes. He staggered back a step, his eyes burning. He bent over and dry heaved twice, and then a third time.

  He feared the worst, without having any clear idea what the worst might be. Maybe, somehow, there was a body of a gangster in his trunk, or a horse’s severed head, like in the movies. He clenched his nose with his fingers and cautiously peered in the trunk.

  It was nothing dead. Only a clear plastic grocery bag from Scimeca’s Market, with something in it. He reached in and pic
ked up the bag. In it were the rotting liquefied remains of two heads of cabbage and five yellow onions.

  24

  The Father, the Son

  Nothing of consequence happens at New Jerusalem Baptist Church without the knowledge and consent of the Ladies’ Missionary Society. Founded in 1884—the same year as the congregation itself—for the purpose of sponsoring missionaries overseas, the Ladies’ Missionary Society has evolved over the decades into a de facto directorate whose moral support must be sought and earned for all initiatives by other church boards, committees, volunteers, and even the pastor. This seeking of support is conducted on a strictly informal basis, and the Society never actually meets to discuss or vote on such things they’ve been made aware of. However, while the Ladies would never presume to exercise a veto—since technically such authority belongs only to the deacons and trustees—if you happen to be a member of the New Jerusalem Baptist Church and you do not obtain their blessing for your new Sunday School class curriculum, your social outreach project, or your proposal for new wallpaper in the church library, your plan will shrivel and die like a worm on a hot sidewalk.

  In 1984, the year of its centennial, there happened to be 65 ladies in the Society. Each of whom was accorded even more respect and deference than usual during the yearlong series of special events New Jerusalem Baptist Church held to observe the anniversary.

  These observances culminated with a daylong celebration on the second Sunday in November, beginning with an all-stops-pulled-out worship service. In addition to the New Jerusalem Baptist Church senior choir, choirs from the Troost Ave. AME Church and the Rosedale Church of God in Christ performed. Proclamations from the mayor and the governor, and letters of congratulation from pastors of churches throughout the metropolitan region were then read aloud. Following these felicitations, worshippers were roused by a soul-stirring sermon by senior pastor Rev. Orville Harris, who expounded for approximately 50 minutes on the last five verses of the 28th chapter of Matthew’s gospel. The congregation was then treated to an additional sermon, also full-length, by the guest speaker, the Rev. Dr. Foster Yancey, an ordained medical missionary, home on furlough from his mission in Gambia. Dr. Yancey chose as his text the entire 21st chapter of the Gospel of John.