“Just go to hell, will you?”
“Awh, come on. You been nice to me. You put me straight and all. You could-a hit me or something. I appreciate that. Let me buy you a drink.”
Peter almost refused again, but then got an idea. He would gain the sailor’s confidence, would pretend he knew of a whorehouse, and would send the sailor to the suburbs on a wild, fruitless chase. He smiled. “All right.”
The sailor seemed honestly relieved. “Where? I don’t know Boston too good.”
Peter shrugged. “One place is as good as any other.”
The sailor turned in one place, pivoting on his heels. “What about over there?” He pointed.
Peter followed his arm to a bar with red and green neon letters in its window, its door opening diagonally onto the corner of the next block. “Okay.” He would teach the sailor a lesson.
Side by side, they walked up to the corner. Though the sailor was staggering badly, Peter did not help him. He had a hard time concealing his laughter. They went into the bar and sat at a corner table. “This okay?”
Peter nodded.
The sailor slumped into the inside chair. “You know, I’ve been all over the world, laid girls of all kinds of races, and the good old American colored girl is the best; the only kind really knows how to do that loving. Ain’t that right?” He grinned across the table. Peter stared back at him. He would send the sailor around the world a second time.
“I worked with stupid Southern boys that’d turn down any piece of ass that wasn’t either white as the belly of a fish or didn’t only sleep with white boys. Those guys don’t know what they’re missing.” This time the sailor would be missing it. “There are all kinds of bitches, all over the world that can love good and these stupid rednecks won’t take them on. If a girl’s had it with a colored boy these bastards won’t have nothing to do with her. You know what they do? First they ask the girl if she can speak English. If she says she can, they ask her to count from one to ten. So the girl counts: one—two—three—four. If she says four she’s all right. It don’t matter if she screwed for the whole God-damn Army and Navy put together. But if she counts: one—two—three—foe, these guys think they know for sure she got taught English by a colored boy and they won’t have nothing to do with her. Say four!”
Involuntarily, Peter answered, “Four.”
“See there? You said, four. That shows how much them assholes know.” He sat back for a second or two, satisfied with himself. “Where you come from—New York?”
Peter nodded. He did not know why he had admitted that. It did not matter. The nicer he was now, the easier it would be to deceive the sailor.
“I thought so.” The sailor went on. “You hear a lot of accents traveling like I do. You get to recognize them. For instance, nobody can beat the way a colored girl says Honey. That beats everything.” He paused. “I used to live in New York myself. New Jersey really. Union City. Lived there for ten years between trips to sea. It was nice; we had a nice house and a garden and all that crap. She said: ‘What’s the good of living out here if you don’t have a garden?’ So I got a house with a yard. I didn’t do much work in it, but she was out there all the time fiddling around with the flowers.”
The waitress arrived and put down two napkins. “Good evening, fellows. What’s yours?” She had a fine, potentially boisterous, trumpet-like voice. A big woman, she was about forty with a broad, cheerful, Irish face and shining gray or yellow (Peter could not tell which in the dim reddish light) hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing a tight black dress, no apron.
“I been drinking scotch all night. Better stick with it. On the rocks. What about you?” He squinted. The waitress smiled at Peter, a kind of mother-smile.
“I’ll have a scotch and milk.” Mixes were always more expensive, though scotch and milk was nasty. He would brave it.
The sailor was surprised. “That sounds rotten. But it’s your drink.”
“Thanks.” The waitress turned and walked toward the spangled, circular bar inside of which, and elevated, was an organ.
“What do you think of her? She’d be good one time. Maybe when she comes back I’ll ask her what she’s doing after this place closes.” He giggled. “Yeah. So I was talking about those stupid Southern bastards.” Peter did not correct him. “The way I figure, it takes all kinds of girls to make a good world, and girls are the only thing make it good. When I’m with a girl, any girl, I treat her like a lady. Some bastards knock up a bitch and leave her flat. But I figure she gave me a good time, so I pay for everything. There’s a girl in Manila I still send money. What do I care? I ain’t married and she always takes me in when I get there. Has everything that girl—looks, brains—even if she is Oriental. But still, she wasn’t good as an American colored girl. Man, a honey-colored, classy woman with long legs like a dancer. What do you call them? High-yellow. A high-kicking dancer. A high-yellow chorine like they used to have at the old Cotton Club in New York. You ever hear of the Cotton Club?”
“Yes.” Peter drummed his fingers on the red, pink, and white flecked plastic table top.
“But you’re too young to-a seen it. Oh man, they had the best, the prettiest colored girls in America at the Cotton Club.” His eyes went blank and a little sad.
The waitress returned carrying the drinks on a blue tray. Holding the tray with her left hand she put the drinks before them. “That’ll be one seventy-five.”
“I have to pay now?”
“That’s right, lover.”
He brought some change out of his pocket and spilled it onto the table. She reached down and, like a bank teller, slid out her money with her fingers. He put his hand over hers. “Say, sweety, you’re a real looker. What are you doing after this place closes?”
Peter almost laughed; it was a scene from a bad movie.
“I got a date, lover.”
“Wouldn’t you break it for me?” He attempted to look seductive, but succeeded only in looking silly.
“I just might break it if it wasn’t with my husband.” She was obviously lying—about the date, or breaking it, or having a husband—a trace of contempt in her voice. She took her hand away, and put the money in her pocket. “Sorry, lover.” She went back to the bar and sat on a stool.
The sailor turned to Peter and shrugged. “Can’t win if you don’t play the game. You see, a bitch like that ain’t got no class. Sure, she’s a looker; she got a body and big boobies, but no class. Not like a dancer. Dancers got grace and charm…long legs. That’s why colored girls are so great. A lot of them go into show business as dancers so they get cultured, and they got that rhythm. In fact, all colored people got that rhythm.” Peter vowed to give him an extra bus ride for that one. “That’s what I like about them. They know how to dance, how to have a good time, how to have fun.” He stopped, looked down at his drink, picked it up. “Well?” He eyed Peter over the rim of the glass. The jagged ice caught a pinhead of light.
Peter made a toast. “Here’s to you finding that girl.”
“I’ll drink to that.” They both sipped. Peter tried not to make a face.
“You ever been out to Jersey? It’s nice out there; we had a nice place. I lived with her out there ten years. Sent her all the money I could from wherever I was. I’d-a married her if she’d wanted to, but she said it would be better the way it was, us both being free. I guess she had in a lot of men when I was at sea, but I never knew nothing about it. It didn’t make no difference. I’d send her a postcard when I was shipping into New York and go right out there and she’d be waiting for me with a good dinner and wine and all that stuff. For a week or two, while I was in, we’d sit out on the porch in the evenings, or I’d watch her in the garden, or in the winter, we’d sit in front of this fireplace we had. It was a good life for us out there. But I guess it was too lonely living out there when I was gone and maybe the neighbors we
re catching on we weren’t married and started talking. I guess she didn’t like being kept either. So when I got home that one time I found a note that said she got a job in a show and went away, and that she still had feeling for me, but that it wasn’t no good for us anymore the way it was.”
Peter had started to take a sip, but stopped, his glass halfway to his lips.
The sailor nodded. “Oh yeah, she was in show business and really good too. The first time I saw her, I knew I had to meet her. And I did. We hit it off right away. We went around for a long time and then I bought this house in Jersey and we lived out there for ten years. But I guess when you pass thirty and you ain’t really married you want something steady, so she took off.” He nodded to himself. “I don’t hold no grudges—neither does she. Look, I got a postcard from her. Got it when I shipped into New York last month. We still write.” He was searching his pockets for the card, finally found it, and handed it across the table. It was too dark for Peter to read it, but he did look again at the Las Vegas hotel, gave it back, then realized when it was too late to take another look that it was a hotel in which a Negro boxer held some stock.
The sailor had been watching Peter’s face, was disappointed to see so little reaction. “Of course, it don’t mean nothing to you. It just says the usual things, that she’s doing okay and she’d like to see me if I ever get to the West Coast. If I ever do, I’ll go over to Vegas and look her up. Maybe I can get us back together. Maybe she’s ready to get married. I bet she looks the same as ever, the same as when I saw her that first time dancing at the Cotton Club.”
Peter choked on his drink.
The sailor went on: “Bitches are funny. They get something good and they give it up just because people talk or something. We had it real good out in Jersey.” He stopped, finished his drink, looked at the glass, empty now except for the smooth, melting ice, finished it again and straightened up in his seat. “Well, it’s been nice. But I can’t waste no time with fellows. I’m shipping out tomorrow and I got to get some loving before then.” He laughed, fumbled in his pockets, pulled out the scraps of paper, and began to read them. “I ought-a make a hit in one of these places.”
“Wait a minute.” Peter did not want to lose his chance after all this. “Just to show you I haven’t got any hard feelings, I think I can steer you onto a good place. But it’s a long ways.”
“Hell, if it’s a good place, I’m ready.”
“It’s good, all right. They have just the girl you want…you know, honey-colored, with long dancer’s legs.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want. Where is it?” He was quite anxious.
His heart beating furiously, Peter began to give directions. The place was way out in Waltham. There were subways to take and then trolleys, but it was worth it. He repeated again what kind of girls the sailor would find. There were at least ten like that. “Do you have it straight?”
The sailor was sweating. “Yeah. It’s straight now all right.” He laughed.
They got up. The sailor left a dollar, and staggered from behind the table.
Outside, they stood on the corner. Finally, he patted Peter on the arm. “Well, I want to thank you. Now, I go down to the corner there? And then I go right for seven blocks?”
Peter nodded. He was thinking of the Cotton Club girl in the Las Vegas hotel. He saw the sailor coming home and finding her note. “Hey, what’s today?”
“Today?…Let’s see…I think it’s Monday.”
“I just remembered.” Peter reached for a lie. “The place is closed on Monday.”
“Closed? Whorehouses don’t ever close.”
“This one does. Monday is the day the girls do their private business. I don’t think you better waste your time going out there.”
“Hell! Closed, huh?”
“That’s right.”
The sailor shrugged. “That’s the breaks.” He looked bleak for a moment, then reached into his pocket, produced the slips of paper, and began to peruse them. “That colored barmaid I talked to before, she said she lived at the Parkview Hotel. You know anything about it?”
Peter shook his head.
“I guess I’ll go over there. She’ll be back there at two. She was pretty nice, that one.” He did not say good-by, just weaved away down the street. Peter saw where his jacket bulged over fat hips. He was going in the same direction as when he had first stopped Peter. He probably still did not know where he was.
Christmas with the Great Man
HE LOOKED AT THE THICK, gray book and sighed. Christmas Eve was no time to be reading Stuart drama. He wished he had gone home after all. But he knew he had done the right thing, no matter how painful. He was behind and spending the vacation in his room studying was the only way he would catch up. In New York during Christmas vacation there were too many parties. He was just about to open the book when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hello, Pete? Your father.”
“Hi, Pop. How’s everything?” He was glad to hear his father’s voice.
“Fine. How’s the work going?”
He sucked his tongue. “All right, I guess.”
“Well, keep at it. I’m sorry to bother you. Your mother wanted to call.” His father’s deep voice became suddenly high. “That poor boy, up there in Boston in the cold, studying on Christmas Eve. Charles, we should call him and cheer him up.” There was a scuffling on the other end of the line, the phone knocking on wood, and crackling voices.
“Hello, Peter, this is Mother.” She sounded timid. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m all right, Mama. How’s Connie?” He was asking about his sister.
“She’s all right.” His mother hesitated. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Sure, Mama.” Outside, in the areaway, it was beginning to snow.
“What are you doing for Christmas dinner? You’re not eating in that big, dark dining room all by yourself, are you?”
He chuckled. “No, Mama. I’m going to Willard Jackson’s house. I told you that.”
“Who?”
“I told you about him. He’s a commuter, from Roxbury. His grandfather’ll be there.”
“Who’s he?” His mother’s voice was blank.
“Isaiah W. Robbins. He practically started the National Society for Colored Affairs singlehanded. Anyway, at least I’ll be with a family.”
That made her happy. “Oh, that’s good. You can’t spend Christmas alone—even if you are a genius.”
“I’m not a genius. I just have to catch up.”
“You will, won’t you?”
“I think so.”
“That’s good.” She sighed. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Okay, Mama.”
“Work hard and come home for New Year’s.”
“I’ll try, but don’t expect me.”
“All right. Merry Christmas, dear.” He thought he heard her sob.
“Merry Christmas to everybody, Mama.” He hung up quickly, not wanting to draw it out; he was already starting to feel lonely and depressed. The room, lit only by his desk lamp, looked much darker, its corners black and empty. The snow was falling faster now, banking on the window sill. The book lay on his desk, closed, daring him to wrestle some facts from it.
He looked forward more than ever to tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. It would not be his own family; his father, a big, dark man, who always tried to get the family as drunk and rowdy as possible; his mother, scurrying perplexed around a kitchen she had never quite gotten used to in all the years since she gave up social work; his sister, back from her first three months at college and probably bubbling with a freshman’s idiotic ideas. He thought of his older brother Chig in Europe somewhere, with new friends, drinking wine. Or perhaps Chig was as lonely at this very moment as was Peter. Dinner with Willard, his family, and his grandfathe
r would not be Christmas at home, but it could be very nice. He had a thousand questions he would ask Mister Robbins, about the early days when each new job above maid or laborer was an event, when each new Negro college graduate was considered a genius. He could see himself and Mister Robbins sitting in a comfortable living room after dinner, talking about important things late into the night.
* * *
—
“HOW IT GOING, BABY?” Willard was just returning from taking Peter’s coat up to his bedroom. “You planning to ace them exams?”
“I doubt it.” Peter swished the ice around in his glass. He burrowed deeper into his soft chair. He felt good. “You doing anything?”
“Are you kidding? You bring home a load of books from the library and they collect more dust than Oklahoma.” He smiled. “Hell, man, I been partying!”
“Good for you.” The scotch started down cold, but burned his stomach. “Do some for me.” He pulled forward. “How many people are coming? I mean, I’m not horning into a family thing, am I?”
“No. Just my grandfather, my folks, my sister, and her old man. He’s a good guy, a teacher. Grandpa lives here, but he’s visiting with Isa today.” Isa was Willard’s sister.
There were three chimes, like a radio. Willard’s mother, Missus Jackson, hurried through the living room from the kitchen to the front door. She was lighter than the cocoa-colored Willard, small, fifty, and dry-looking, as if the blood in her veins was actually fast-moving red powder. “Now be careful of that step, Daddy.”
There was a grumbled reply.
They came into the living room. Isaiah W. Robbins was tall and gaunt, perhaps in his late seventies. He was bald. His skin hung from heavy bones, his drooping nose seemed to start almost in the center of his forehead, seemed to end below his upper lip. His eyes were light brown and watery. On one side he was supported by Willard’s mother, on the other, by a nice, but ordinary looking young man, who was later introduced to Peter as Willard’s brother-in-law, Bruce. They guided the old man to an armchair and helped him down into it.
Dancers on the Shore Page 9
