Mama Black Widow

by Iceberg Slim

  The first part of June, on a Saturday night, I left Papa and Bessie about 7 P.M. to walk Carol home from the cafe in case Frederick, her boyfriend, was apprenticing late with pumpernickel and strudel in the kitchen of his family’s bakery shop on Kedsie Avenue.

  Frederick was a blond, blue-eyed guy with a round soft face and body, and a gentle voice that sometimes stuttered. When I got to the cafe I saw Frederick’s old Model A Ford was parked at the curb.

  This meant that he would drop her off around the corner from home. Carol had told me that they could never risk walking together at any time because someone acquainted with our family or his might report it. The sad truth was his parents hated blacks like Mama hated whites.

  Carol’s shift was over, and she was sitting in a dim corner booth with her love. I stood on the sidewalk peering through the window hoping that Carol would notice me so I could wave and get back to Papa.

  I didn’t move to go through the door. I was held there at the window watching the pudgy white guy romancing my sister. I’d seen them together a dozen times before, but I couldn’t get used to it.

  In Frederick’s presence I’d start remembering how the white women worked Mama nearly to death for a pittance and humiliated her. I could never forget the grisly job the white cops did on Woodrow Spears, the little black guy in the vestibule of our building. And also how the white bastards who controlled the trades unions had rejected Papa because of his blackness.

  Childishly, I felt a twinge of resentment toward Carol that she was ignoring these sound reasons for hating all white people and could sit there in the booth snuggled on the enemy’s shoulder with eyes closed in trusting contentment.

  I always felt so uncomfortable and frustrated whenever I’d had close range contact with him, like the few times I’d sat in a booth with him and Carol. He was so goddamn sincere, kind, jolly and real, and he adored Carol so much, that hard as I tried, I couldn’t hate him. It was a helluva mess for a kid ten years old to work out in his head alone.

  I saw Carol open her eyes. She said something to Frederick. Then I saw them looking at me with big smiles on their faces. I waved quickly and turned away before they could signal me to join them.

  I sprinted madly down the sidewalk and cut abruptly across Madison Street. I peeked from behind two parked cars at the cafe. Frederick was out front down the sidewalk. Finally he went inside the cafe.

  I leaned against a car fender out of breath, but relieved that I’d avoided that terrible feeling I got in the company of the white guy I couldn’t hate.

  When I got home Papa was gone. Bessie said he had been feeling fair, and he told her he was going for a walk and that he might go to the Southside to visit Soldier.

  Shortly we heard Mama talking to someone outside our front door, and when she walked into the flat, Lockjaw’s sister, Jonnie Mae, came in with her.

  Mama’s face was more tense and haggard than usual. She sat down heavily on the sofa and held a hand over her heart. My own heart was leaping at the thought that she had found out about Carol and the German guy.

  I slipped off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

  Jonnie Mae screwed up her friendly hippo face in concern and said, “Sedalia, what’s wrong? You need a doctor?”

  Mama gritted her teeth and said, “Ah jes’ hate white folks so much, Ah’m gonna’ bus mah haht opun iffen Ah don’ bile en th’ ’leckrik chair. Ah got tu git way frum white folks, an’ stay way.”

  Jonnie Mae stroked Mama’s temple and said, “Girl, what happened to upset you like this?”

  Mama said, “Un dirty low-down skunk lickin’ suck-ass dog white bitch wuz th’ honor gues’ at uh dinnah Ah wuz gonna serve. Ah come tu th’ table an’ she seen th’ servin’ tray en mah black hans an’ turn flour white. She raised uh ruckus an’ tol’ th’ table thet her appatite had went. Thet no-good white heifer Ah wuz wuking fer got th’ white choffer tu serve, an’ Ah quit. Ah’m sho glad Ah missed white law truble an’ bloodshed.”

  Jonnie Mae sat and talked sympathetically to Mama until she was calm. Jonnie Mae left, and Mama and Bessie went to bed. I stayed at the open window watching the kids clowning on the stoops in the balmy June weather.

  Carol came down the walk with the usual food in a paper sack for Papa. About half an hour after Carol had joined me on the sofa we saw Railhead Cox driving his red Buick down the street toward our building.

  And then a door opened and Junior and Rajah leaped to the pavement from the moving car that went on down the block. Junior glared at us when he came in, and his eyes had a strange glassiness.

  Fifteen minutes later Railhead walked into the building. I wondered why he hadn’t used one of the parking spaces near the building, and if Junior was heisting hustlers with the Cox brothers. And would Junior, in the words of Rajah, “wind up in an alley with the rats squabbling over his brains.”

  I stopped expecting Papa to come down the walk. I was sure he had gone to visit Soldier. I brushed my teeth and took a bath and went to bed. But sleep came late and ragged. Junior thrashed about on his pallet and in a terrible nightmare cried out and whimpered in fear.

  I awoke next morning, which was Sunday, and got a whiff of a rare smell, frying ham. I heard Mama in the kitchen emotionally telling Junior about the white woman who had refused to let Mama serve her. There was a long silence when she finished.

  Then Junior said rapidly and loudly, “Mama, dahlin’, ’spose Ah tol’ yu them goodies Ah got at th’ markit ain’t don nuthin’ tu mah bankroll. An’ Ah ken bribe yu tu res’ an’ stay way frum them dirty white folks uh few days. Mama, why yu lookin’ at me lak thet? Ah ain’t shuckin’ and jivin’ an’ Ah ain’t stol nuthin’. Looka head! Ah got moren . . .”

  There was a violent hissing sound, and then I heard only faint whispering come from the kitchen.

  Bessie was asleep, but Carol’s eyes were bright as we lay there tensely and strained to hear more.

  Finally the whispering stopped and Mama said, “Honey Pie, git Sweet Pea an’ th’ twins up.”

  Carol and I feigned sleep and let Junior shake us a bit before we reopened our eyes. After breakfast, Mama and Junior went to her bedroom and talked until Railhead knocked on the front door for Junior half an hour later.

  Mama came from the bedroom with a satisfied look on her face, and Junior went whistling upstairs with Railhead. Mama got pretty for church and had Jonnie Mae call a cab.

  The twins and I just looked at each other open mouthed as the cab scooted away from the curb. Carol was off at the cafe on Sunday, and she usually met Frederick in the balcony of a Loop theater showing a picture they wanted to see.

  At least that’s where Carol led me to believe they spent their Sunday afternoons and early evenings. Carol prepared vegetables and a roast for dinner before she left.

  I was at the front window around 4 P.M. and saw Rajah park Railhead’s Buick at the curb. It had been painted jet-black. My heart fluttered when a police car eased to the curb behind the Buick and a burly white cop followed Rajah down the walk toward the building.

  Rajah’s face was grim, but he didn’t falter. I was certain the white cop was coming to beat Junior bloody about the money he had boasted about in the kitchen. I was shaking on the sofa when the booming knock smashed against the door.

  I couldn’t shout, “Who is it?”

  It happened again. I couldn’t move. I heard Bessie at the door, and the cop ask for Sedalia Tilson. Then I heard him say that Papa had gone to sleep on a streetcar Saturday night and the motor man couldn’t wake him at the end of the line.

  Bessie and I bumbled about the flat in shock and confusion for a few minutes. And then Bessie used Jonnie Mae’s phone to call the hospital, and I started to get ready for a trip to the Southside to get Soldier’s help.

  Bessie was telling me that the hospital told her Papa was just rundown and had arthritis and had been discharged and was waiting for someone to bring him home when Soldier knocked on the door.

  We blurted, “Papa’s
in the County Hospital.”

  He looked down the hall toward Mama’s bedroom and shouted, “And what idiot sent him there? The white beasts out there let black people rot and die in their own waste.”

  After Soldier realized that Mama wasn’t at home and she hadn’t sent Papa away he cooled off and hired the old guy who lived across the street that owned the black Dodge to drive us to get Papa.

  He had been discharged and was sitting on the curb resting his head against a fire hydrant. It was really heartbreaking to see him looking so shabby and sick and thrown away. It really was.

  I jumped from the car and ran to him. His eyes were closed.

  I touched his shoulder and said, “Papa, it’s Sweet Pea. Let’s go home.”

  He didn’t hear me. He was asleep. I glanced up and saw Soldier and Bessie pushing through a knot of gawkers. Soldier stooped down and shook him hard and shouted his name.

  Papa’s eyes stayed closed, but his throat made a guttural sound. Frantically Soldier slapped his face and pinched him for a few seconds. Papa’s eyelids finally opened in slow motion and recognition. He focused his glazed eyes. With our support he walked to the car.

  Inside the car Soldier said gently, “Buddy, why didn’t you wait inside the hospital until we came?”

  Papa chuckled bitterly and said, “Ain’t no resun tu linguh en hell iffen mah laigs ain’t cut off or broke. Them mean white folks beats on them po’ sick black peoples an’ says black bastid an’ niggah more’n Ah heered en th’ big foot Ian. Ah jes’ thank th’ Lawd Ah ain’t got nuthin’ ’cept uh tech uh artharitus an’ Ah need uh bildin’ tonick.”

  Soldier said, “Frank, that’s what they told you at County Hospital, but I don’t trust them because I know they don’t care. The pain in your legs could be arthritis, but it worries me that you fall into deep sleep the way you do. It could be sleeping sickness. Suppose you drop off with me on the Southside and let’s try a good black doctor. All right?”

  Papa nodded his head.

  Junior and Carol were at home when we got there, and surprisingly, Mama too. Bessie and I gave them a complete rundown on Papa, and by 10 P.M., we all had gone to bed, even Junior.

  I lay there wide eyed for a long time and thought about Papa and Carol and Frederick and how horrible if Mama found out about them. I thought about the expensive groceries Junior had bought and the whispering in the kitchen, and the terror of his nightmare. I cried quietly to sleep.

  I was surprised to see Mama at home the next morning. I guess I was really trying hard not to face the truth about her pitiful weakness for money, any kind.

  Soldier brought Papa home around 3 P.M. They were grim faced as they sat on the sofa and told us about Papa’s diabetes, which, at the time, was a horrendous disease to have because of limited research and haphazard treatment.

  Soldier’s voice shook when he explained that when we found Papa asleep against the hydrant the hospital had been criminally negligent in discharging Papa in his condition. Soldier told us the black doctor said he was in mild coma.

  Papa had a list of recommended foods, and he had been instructed in the use of the insulin and hypodermic needles Soldier had made possible. Soldier told Mama right in front of Papa the doctor had told him that Papa had a disease for which there was no cure. And if he continued to drink alcohol or missed his dosage of insulin or took too much, he’d die.

  Soldier looked at Papa and shook his head and told him how lucky it had been for him that he hadn’t been drinking before he boarded the streetcar. The police would have hauled him to a drunk tank when he went into coma. Finally Soldier lapsed into silence, and I could feel the tension between him and Mama.

  And then Hattie Greene came in, and her eyes blinked nervously when she saw Soldier. She was a little tipsy and a lot optimistic because she squeezed in beside him on the sofa and hiked her skirt above her lumpy knees. Soldier shifted uneasily and smiled stonily in the absolute hush.

  Hattie stared blearily at his smooth brown-skinned profile and blurted, “Soldier, you handsome thing. Have you ever been married?”

  Soldier slowly turned his head and looked at her through half-closed eyes for a long moment.

  Finally he said, “No, Hattie, I have never been married. In fact, I have never lived with a woman for more than three months. Like legions of black men, I just never found a black woman who inspired and helped me to set free my inner power and strength and to achieve the glory of my manhood in this hellish white man’s world.”

  Hattie drew back with a frown and yapped, “All right, nigger, I’m waiting. Say it. All black women are turds, and white women are great.”

  Soldier fixed level eyes on Mama sitting tensely across the room and said, “No, I won’t say that. There are many black women who understand that black men living in this hellhole life where the white man has a stranglehold on the lifeline, goods and services, need their black women fighting the enemy with them, not unwittingly helping the enemy to uproot the black family. Black women who don’t understand this and crush their men are pathetic fools.

  “Oh yes, about white women. I have never tried any. All I know about them is what I have learned from black women who ape them.

  “I have also learned the bitter truth that great numbers of black women today stomp on the manhood and dreams of trapped black men just as their arrogant and ignorant sisters, drunk with freedom, did at the end of slavery. Like them, certain misguided black women still ruthlessly and criminally help the white man to deball and destroy black men.

  “This is happening on a mass scale, and so long as it continues, the lowly masses of black men must go on blundering and hobbling about in the white man’s complex world mentally maimed and crippled by white haters and unthinking black women. The positive black woman uses her glory and strength and power to inspire her man toward self-improvement and leadership so that her children might have a strong pattern image.”

  Soldier’s hard stare softened as he continued to look at Mama fidgeting uneasily.

  Soldier went on, “The negative black woman dominates the home like a despot or she covets the role. In both cases, during the lunatic strife, these pitiful black women are never aware of the terror and hurt on their children’s faces as papa crumbles. The negative black woman fears and hates the white woman because ill-advised or not, black men in droves are defecting to the promise of sympathetic white arms.”

  Soldier saw that Papa was asleep beside him. He stood up. Mama sat there in her chair staring coldly at Soldier.

  Hattie sighed and said, “Soldier, you oughta be a lawyer.”

  Mama snorted and mumbled something that sounded like, “Sojer been drinkin’!”

  Soldier ignored her and started to turn toward the front door.

  Hattie said, “Tell me, Soldier, have you ever been in love?”

  He paused and looked wistful for a moment.

  Then he said, “Hasn’t everybody at least once? I fell hard for her a week after I got out of the army in 1918. We shacked up at Thirty-fifth and State streets for those three months I mentioned. We couldn’t live apart until her divorce became final.

  “I was a young dreamer with the idea I was going to invent something and get rich and famous.

  “One hot night in July I left to get cold suds. Something or other triggered what I thought was a brilliant idea for an invention so terrific the white man would be forced by public demand to put black Edward Cato’s name in his Jim Crow history books.

  “Well, anyway, I rushed back to her without the suds. I tossed her in the air and blurted out my brainstorm. Then I noticed she had a sour look on her pretty face and she demanded that I put her down.

  “I stood there with my mouth open in shock when she said, ‘Nigger, are you crazy? Stop dreaming. Don’t you know that if one of your silly ideas was worth a good goddamn, a white man would have thought of it already? Now hurry back with our beer. I’m dying of thirst.’

  “I don’t remember what the invention idea was, bu
t I do remember that I turned and walked out that door and never came back.

  “And I have never since given another woman a chance to stomp on even an impossible dream of mine.”

  Soldier opened the front door and limped away on his game leg into the night.

  I don’t know how much money Junior gave Mama in the kitchen that Sunday morning when he bought the expensive groceries. I do know she didn’t go to work for a week. When Connie the landlady picked up the rent Mama gave her all paper money. It was one of the rare times that she didn’t scramble frantically about searching out every nickel and dime to pay the rent.

  The strange and worrisome thing I couldn’t figure out was why Junior and the Cox brothers didn’t leave the building until two weeks after Rajah parked Railhead’s Buick out front.

  Papa was like a vacant-eyed robot as from day to day he injected his insulin and forced down the bland but nutritious fish and vegetables Carol brought home from the cafe. He visited Soldier and the doctor once during the two weeks and got a fresh supply of insulin, at Soldier’s expense.

  The first week in July an odd couple of guys moved into the flat above Railhead’s on the third floor. I don’t mean they looked odd. They were Pullman porters and looked like ordinary human beings coming in and out of the building.

  One was tall and husky and black, and the other was tall, willowy and yellow. Both were in their early twenties and wore jazzy clothes.

  I noticed when the movers brought their stuff in how fancy and glossy it all was. I mentioned that they were odd because at the end of July little nosey me peeked on them and found out they were.

  I remember the date, July 26, 1938. Nineteen thirty-eight. I can’t forget it. It was the humid afternoon that Sally Greene led Bessie to her debut as a whore. And perhaps it was the first time that Sally didn’t lay for free.

  We were alone in the flat sitting on the sofa at the open window when Sally came excitedly through the front door that was open to snare breezes that stirred when the vestibule door was used.