Dancers on the Shore

by William Melvin Kelley

  She went stiff with anger. “Don’t you read the papers? People are so hard up for good help they’ll hire anyone—even without references. And the anyones are robbing everybody blind.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ! Opal had great references. And that doesn’t have anything to do with you spending more time with Jake. It wouldn’t hurt for you to walk him instead of Opal.”

  “No, it wouldn’t hurt.” She folded her arms across her chest, the signal she did not want to and would not talk about it anymore.

  “Okay.” He got up and wandered into the living room. It was lit only by the glow of a small, wrought-iron chandelier in the front hall and looked as though no one had walked on its floors or sat in its chairs for years. He had the feeling an alarm would go off if he lit a lamp or dented a cushion.

  In the kitchen, Jake was giggling. Mitchell pushed through the door and found Opal standing at the sink rinsing Jake’s bowl and spoon. Jake, nowhere in sight, giggled again and Mitchell located him under the table. Every now and then Opal would twist toward the table, aim with her index finger and make a popping sound with her tongue. Jake would giggle each time.

  Mitchell sat down at the table and Jake began to play with his shoelaces. “What’d you fix for dinner?”

  “I got you some nice veal tonight, and potatoes, peas, and apple pie. Some good veal. No veins.” Drying her hands, she turned from the sink and smiled at him. She was wearing a pink half-slip under her nylon dress. There was the brown strip of stomach between her white bra and the pink slip. “Come on, Jakie.” She bent down and the dress stretched over her buttocks and thighs.

  Jake crawled out from under the table and up into her arms. She stood up, the baby’s hand inside the neck of her dress. “Time for bed, Jakie.” She looked at Mitchell. “What time’s it, please?”

  He looked at his watch. “Almost seven.”

  “Oh my God, I got to hurry.” She swung through the door, the baby in her arms, leaving Mitchell alone in the warm kitchen. He could smell tomatoes and spices, the cinnamon of the apple pie. The oven was cooling, clicking regularly. He felt like resting his head on his arms, there at the vinyl-topped table, and dozing.

  He was still alone when the buzzer rang for the delivery entrance. He got up and opened the door.

  The Negro was his height and very dark. He wore a pair of brown wool pants and a chartreuse bowling jacket with his name—Cooley—in gold thread over his heart. His eyes were red and tired. Mitchell had never seen him before, was surprised to find him there (especially without some kind of package), and took a startled step back. “Yes?”

  “This where Opal Simmons work?”

  “Yes, it is. What…?”

  The door behind Mitchell swung open and he turned around.

  “Hello, Cooley. I’ll be right with you.” Opal was flustered and slightly embarrassed. “Okay, Mister Pierce, everything’s ready now. Your wife gave me an hour off so I could go out with Cooley here. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Opening a closet door, she got out her coat, put it on, then picked up a large brown handbag. She took a step toward the door, where Cooley waited, jingling some keys.

  Mitchell resented this whole situation, the offhand way she thought she could leave him. The least he could expect was a decent report on how she had left the house, and a respectful good-by. He resented, too, this man in his outlandish bowling jacket, slouching in the doorway, luring her away early from the job he paid her to do. He could not let her go without telling her he disapproved. “Just a minute, Opal. I want to talk to you. Tell your friend to wait outside.”

  Opal nodded. Cooley backed out, pulling the door behind him.

  “Yes, sir?” She buttoned her coat, starting at the collar. Her brown hands moved down the row of black, shiny buttons.

  He could not bring himself to speak until her hands had stopped. “Look, Opal, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’d be grateful if you didn’t have your boyfriends coming to the door.”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Pierce. This is the first time and—”

  “Well, make sure it’s the last, God damn it! Don’t run your social life out of my house. You can meet your men on the corner. I don’t want them hanging around.” He could not at all understand why he was getting so angry and insulting about such a negligible misconduct, especially when there were so many other things about her that pleased him.

  Opal looked bewildered. “He just came. He wasn’t hanging around, Mister Pierce.”

  “Listen! I don’t want any God-damn excuses from you! Just don’t have a whole lot of guys coming to my door!” He was shouting.

  “Yes, sir.” He was sure there was an insult hidden behind her submission, behind her pretended bewilderment. But he could not quite discover how she was mocking him. That made him even more angry and before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he had wrestled her purse from her, dumped its contents on the kitchen table, and was searching amid hairpins, coins, lipsticks, and scraps of paper for the things he was certain now she had stolen from him.

  Brother Carlyle

  IRENE BEDLOW LEANED OUT the kitchen window, reeled in the line’s knot, and started to pin out her clothes. Then over the unoiled pulley’s screeching, she heard her younger son scream. He was somewhere in the alley, between her building and the next.

  “Carlyle, what you doing to Mance?” She attempted to bend her voice around to him. “Carlyle, you hear?” There was no answer, but someone had begun to pound on the apartment door. Drying her hands on her apron, she shuffled through the apartment, down the dark hallway, heard her slippers scraping on the wooden floor.

  “Oh-Lass, won’t you come open the door?” Irene opened the door to the fat West Indian woman who occupied the alley apartment and who now stood before her in a pink nightgown. “Oh-Lass, child, they burning your babe alive!” Missus Neilberry was crying. Tears streamed over her cheeks, catching in the deep crevices on her chins. “They burning your child alive!”

  Somewhere inside her, Irene felt slightly ill, but by the time she noticed it, she was on the second floor landing, had almost cascaded into old, black Mister Doozen coming back from his daily walk. Already she had lost one slipper, and the front door pulled the other from her when it slammed on her foot.

  Mance’s shoes were starting to steam. He was bound to the clothes pole in the alley with thick black wire, and was all but obscured by white smoke surging up from the pile of paper and trash burning at his feet. Carlyle, her older son, sat beside the fire sweating, pretending to warm his hands. The members of his club stood around, hands in pockets, in a state of mixed bewilderment, fear, and excitement, not certain, now, they were doing a good thing.

  Irene lunged into the midst of smoke and flame and with bare feet kicked the fire from under Mance. She untied his hands, which despite the heat were damp and cold. When she led him out of the smoke, the other boys had disappeared, leaving Carlyle sitting as before, only now biting his fingernails.

  “Carlyle?” She spoke to him almost afraid, for this was not the first time he had done such things, and she knew he would again have some valid excuse and that her protestations would have no effect. “Why’d you—”

  “Awh, Mama,” Mance, his breath returned, interrupted. “They was letting me join the club. You got to prove you brave before they let you in.” He was pulling her apron and jumping up and down.

  Carlyle smiled.

  She looked down at Mance and opened her mouth, but no words came. She drew her hand across her forehead. Mance moved away from her and sat next to Carlyle. She started up the alley.

  “What time we eating, Mama?” asked Mance to her back.

  “Pretty soon now, dear.” She sighed and turned the corner.

  Upstairs again, standing over the stove, the jellied air of the gas burners rising to her face, she began to think. She knew she was not smart, was not a doctor of t
he minds of children, but one thing was certain: Something must be done with Carlyle. Tonight, as she had on other occasions, she would mention this to her husband. Perhaps this time he would understand.

  Her husband lumbered down the block just as the sun fell into the river. The boys came upstairs with him; today was allowance day. Supper was ready. They sat, said grace, and began to eat.

  “What you boys been doing today?” He speared a pork chop with his fork. He was big, dark as the inside of a chimney. During the day he built skyscrapers.

  “I got into Carlyle’s club, Papa.” Mance spoke through a mouth of mashed potatoes.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full-up,” her husband snapped. Then softly, “That’s real good. Your brother helped you, I bet.”

  Mance nodded.

  “That’s good. You take good care of your brother, Junior.” He grinned proudly at Carlyle. “That’s what the Lord says. Ain’t that right, Irene?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She sipped iced tea, and looked away.

  Her answer seemed somehow unsatisfactory to her husband, and he was silent for a short while. “Well, I guess you boys’ll be wanting your money.”

  Carlyle nodded.

  “Here’s a dollar each. Go celebrate your being club members.” He handed the two dollars to Carlyle. The boys excused themselves and disappeared, leaving behind half-eaten dinners and the door’s slam.

  Irene twirled the ice around the bottom of her glass, staring blankly. When her husband started to sip loudly from his tea, she looked up. He watched his tea as he drank and did not see her. For a second she weighed speaking to him at all. She realized it would probably bring on an argument; he would misconstrue and distort her words. Maybe sometime, she thought, he will listen and understand. She put down her glass. “That boy try to kill his brother today.”

  “What boy?” he asked, cracking ice in his jaws.

  “Junior.”

  “Damn it—there you go again—about how bad Junior is. Why don’t you like him?” His voice started to expand in volume. Missus Neilberry would hear him. Tomorrow the whole house would be discussing her latest argument. He leaned forward and planted his fists on either side of the glass.

  “I ain’t got nothing against him. But he did set Mance afire.”

  He blinked, fell backward, and laughed. “You know how funny that sound? Maybe he pretend to set him afire, but they brothers and he wasn’t about harming him.” He stopped, then added for emphasis, “Not one bit.” He pounded the table. His glass tipped; he did not notice. He laughed again.

  “But it true.” She leaned on the table, reached for his hand, tried to find her husband’s eyes, but his laughing head would not stay still. When he stopped, he was angry.

  “I sick of you babying Mance. You think I don’t love him much because he my second born. Woman, you know better. Still, you always leaping on that.”

  “Just ask Mance when he gets home.” She felt tears coming to her eyes, but dammed them back. “You just ask him.” She slumped, folded her arms, and stared at her lap.

  “All right. I do just that. And if you wrong, you stop this mess!” He got up and stalked into the living room to read his paper.

  When the boys returned, Carlyle was carrying a large box. He went straight to his room, which Mance shared with him, and Irene heard him open the closet door and put the box on the top shelf. He came into the living room and joined Mance, who was standing in the middle of the room.

  “What you boys get?” Her husband looked up from his paper.

  “A cowboy costume,” answered Mance. Irene noticed he seemed a trifle perplexed, as if he were not quite sure what they had bought, who had bought it, or who would use it. “I gave my money to Carlyle. He said I’d only buy some junk and you wouldn’t like that much. He said I could wear it sometimes.” He breathed deeply. “I could wear it if I was good and minded.”

  Her husband sat quietly for a moment, then smiled at her. “See there, woman? How could that boy do anything but love his brother to give his money to him? And Junior, he taking care to see this boy ain’t being foolish.”

  Carlyle sat next to his father, and the man put his arm around his shoulder.

  “I guess you right.” She got up. She went quietly into the bedroom and undressed, placing her house coat neatly on the one chair in the room. She lay on the bed, and through the wall she could hear Carlyle and her husband laughing. After a few seconds, Mance joined in.

  The Life You Save

  “YOU MEAN HIS BROTHER really tried to burn him alive?” Peter leaned forward onto the table, and smiled involuntarily at the horror of it.

  The director nodded; he too could not help smiling. “Right. Carlyle, the older brother, told the mother he was just initiating Mance into a club. But she didn’t buy it. She told the father, but he wouldn’t believe it, not about his oldest boy, his namesake. He doesn’t even know what kind of place we got here. He thinks it’s just a regular day camp. He’d probably pull the kid out if he found out—disgrace and all that stuff.”

  Peter sat back. “Wow!” He shook out a cigarette and lit it.

  The director tore the cellophane from a cigar. “So anyway, that’s what you got. At eleven, this Mance Bedlow’s seen it all. I can only tell you one thing: don’t hit him, don’t even try to punish him, or any of them. They’ve been smacked enough to last them a lifetime. That’s why they’re here. If you hit them, you’ll lose them, sure.” He pulled himself forward, lit the cigar, and continued through dense smoke. “I’ll give you all this stuff.” He tapped Mance Bedlow’s folder with a thick brown finger. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” Peter sighed, put out his cigarette, and left the director’s office. He went down the hall to the room, where, in an hour, he would greet his eight eleven-year-olds. They were all so-called emotionally disturbed children. Some of them had already flirted with minor crime. Peter would be their counselor for the next eight weeks.

  The settlement house had recently moved from a small, old building to the ground floor of one of the buildings in a new low-rent housing project; the walls of the room were bleak, bare, pale-green cinder blocks. In the room, there were only two tables and ten folding chairs. Peter sat in one of the chairs, lit a cigarette, and waited for his boys to come, a bit nervous now with the thought that in a short while he would have the responsibility of helping to guide, or even the opportunity to change the lives of eight small human beings. When he realized what was running through his mind, he laughed at his earnestness. The feeling was honest, but to put it into words made it seem conceited and pompous. He would have to watch such attitudes. If his boys sensed them, they would never trust him.

  The boys entered one by one, in shapeless, beltless dungarees, in torn and faded T-shirts. Each carried, in a brown paper bag, his lunch. Their mothers had pomaded and brushed their heads fervently, flattening the tiny beads of black hair. As they came in, Peter introduced himself, and each in turn, mumbled a name. Finally, eight had arrived. But there was no Mance Bedlow.

  “I guess one of us isn’t here.” Peter, seated now at the head of one of the tables, scanned their dark faces. “Anybody here know Mance Bedlow?”

  The boys glanced at one another. One of them, who had introduced himself as Randolph Wayne, said he did.

  “Have you seen him, Randolph?”

  “I seed him on the way over here, Mister Dunford. He say he ain’t making it. He say this a wasted gig.” There was an impish look on the boy’s dark-brown face, as if he held the same view. His eyes were dark, and twinkled.

  “Okay. You fellows wait here.” Peter got up. “I’ll go check on him.” He left the room and headed for the director’s office. Halfway down the hall he realized there was no Randolph Wayne on the list the director had given him.

  “What’s the problem, Peter?” The director was reading his mail.


  Peter remained in the doorway. “I have the right number of kids, but no Mance Bedlow.”

  “Oh?” The director put down a letter he had just opened. “Who’s the extra?”

  “A kid named Randolph Wayne.”

  The director sighed. “They do that sometimes. They see their buddies on the way here and just tag along.” He got up.

  They walked back down the hall and stopped at the door. The director looked in at the boys. “Which is the Wayne boy?”

  The boys turned to the door now, some smiling politely.

  Peter indicated Randolph Wayne.

  The director shook his head and chuckled. “That is Mance Bedlow.”

  The room filled with high squealing and cackling, the boys talking to each other: “Man, you see that cat go for that shit?”

  “Yeah. Man, he dumb!”

  Mance Bedlow sat at the table, basking in his triumph, staring at Peter, interested to see what he might do. Peter felt his embarrassed anger bubbling, and knowing he could not afford to let the boys see it, left the door, took two steps, and leaned against the wall, trying to control himself.

  The director put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t let it get you. That’s the way they live.”

  Peter nodded.

  The director went back to his office.

  Peter fixed a smile on his face, and entered the room. “That’s a point for you, Mance.” He looked into hard brown eyes, understanding now what the director had told him before. Mance Bedlow’s eyes were not at all those of an eleven-year-old. Peter realized suddenly that at eleven, he would not have survived in Mance Bedlow’s world, even though he had always lived in Harlem. Peter’s father was a doctor and earned a good living; Peter had been sent to private schools.

  Mance returned his stare. Finally Peter looked at another boy. “Well, let’s paint a little bit.”

  The boys were not enthusiastic. They waited quietly as Peter brought out huge sheets of paper, brushes, and jars of paint, and passed them around. Finally one of them, George, light-skinned and shaved bald, asked what Peter wanted them to paint.