He hollered after her, “If you remember anything else, please let me know. I’m on Jackson Street.”
But she kept walking.
Sy decided not to go to the Fan District to speak with the employers of Sheritha Bills. Besides, The Fan was off limit to Negroes in Richmond who did not work for any of the white folks who lived there. It was called “the fan” because of the shape of the array of streets that extend west from Belvidere Street, on the eastern edge of Monroe Park, westward to the Boulevard. The Victorian architecture of the homes in the area was hard evidence that certain people belonged there and others were forbidden from entering. So, he decided to speak with the Bills family, or what was left of them.
The widow Bills had been committed to an asylum after the death of her daughter, so she was unavailable to Sy. But a cousin to Mrs. Bills was staying at her home tending to it until she came home, he had heard folks say. The widow Benson, as they called her, was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch of the Bills’ home when Sy walked up. The trolley only came up so far into this part of Jackson Ward, so he had to walk the rest of the way to the Bills house located in the middle of Chamberlayne Avenue.
Widow Benson sipped on a glass of iced tea. Sy approached the front porch cautiously. He took his black fedora hat off as a sign of respect once he stood directly in front of the widow. “Good afternoon,” the old lady said as she rocked to and fro. “What can I do for ya?”
“Good afternoon to you too, Widow Benson. I come to speak to someone ‘bout Sheritha.”
“Well, ain’t no one here ‘cept me. Whatcha want to know?” The old widow was born during the latter days of slavery. She had lost her right eye after a savage beating by her master when just a young girl. They didn’t give her a patch to cover the eye, so all that stared back at folks was an empty space. The site of it scared many children away, and the widow refused to cover it up now that she could ‘cause she “want to remind them where we come from,” she’d say.
Now, standing before her, the fear that Sy felt when he saw her as a child turned into pride. He had served his country in the war and they had made sure when he came home that he could not show his pride. But they couldn’t do that to the Widow Benson. She was different.
He squared his shoulders and said, “Alright! I was hired to solve the murders of the women in the Ward and so I want to know if Sheritha had been seein’ anybody.”
“Them so-called bu’nessmen up there hired you, huh?” Her good eye rolled into the back of her head. “They ain’t foolin’ me. They don’t care nothin’ ‘bout Ritha or them other gals.”
“Well, I don’t know—“ Sy tried to explain, but she cut him off with a cold stare.
“Been ‘round too long to be a fool. They bu’ness is hurtin’.”
“Yes, that’s ‘bout right, I guess,” conceded Sy. The fedora was twirling mercilessly in his hands.
Her good eye landed hard on Sy as he stood there in front of the porch twirling his hat. “Ritha was a good gal…loved her momma. But she had big notions too big for her. She ran away from here a few times like we livin’ foul down here or somethin’” and she rolled her good eye again. She then picked up her glass of tea and sipped on it some more. Sy thought it was a rather cool day to be sipping on iced tea, but he knew he’d better mind his own business.
“She ran away a lot, you say. She came back on her own?”
“Her momma found a note she wrote to someone once,” said the widow as she leaned forward in her rocker to get a closer look at Sy.
“What’d it say? It might help me with this,” Sy urged as he squirmed under the widow’s dark gaze.
“You served in ‘da big war?”
Sy didn’t like to talk about the war, but he couldn’t disrespect his elders, so he simply nodded his head yes in the hopes that she was not offended by his unwillingness to speak further on it.
She let out a deep sigh. “You ain’t got to speak on it. You tellin’ the story anyways.” And they both went silent for a moment, each reflecting on the horrors they had seen and been a victim of. “Widow Bills said Ritha was talkin’ ‘bout marriage, but she ain’t never tell us ‘bout no suitor…ain’t neva brought one ‘round here.”
A nervous energy began to run through Sy. “Well, did she say what his name was?” he asked excitedly.
“Nope,” she said as she started to hum something, an old song the slaves might have sung to give one another courage. The rocking took on the rhythm of the song as Sy stood patiently there to get more information which he knew was coming.
Old folks took their time relinquishing information…just to have some company, he said to himself. And then the Widow Benson let it out like flesh trapped in a girdle.
“But she said she loved the car. It made her feel ... what’s the word?” she asked as her tongue and old mind searched for the word to land on.
Sy interjected the word “special” into her thoughts. “That might be it,” she said.
“Thank you, Widow Benson,” and he turned to walk away, but not before hearing her fated words.
“Holdin’ on to the pain ain’t gonna make them nightmares go away, son.” And Sy walked faster so as to not hear the rest of the message. He’d felt too much of it already.
Chapter 13
Their clothes lay scattered across the bedroom floor and furniture. She giggled helplessly as he tickled her mercilessly in her sensitive spot – behind the knee. “Stop it, stop it!” she begged, but he ignored her pleas for a few more seconds. This was the game they played after their afternoon dalliances in his apartment.
She always came by his place around 3ish, sneaking in through the back door, of course, careful not to let anyone see her. And he waited for her in his bedroom on the second floor behind the door. As the game went, as soon as she’d walk through the door in false pretenses of fear, he’d grab her from behind and proceed to take off her clothes passionately kissing her neck and throat as she feigned fright. The passionate affair would end with both of them naked on top of the sheets, he tickling her behind the knee.
They’d been meeting for several weeks now. Each fulfilled a sort of dark sexual tension in the other that nothing else could do. She had been sitting at the bar in the gambling hall he frequented, the Source Club on Marshall Street. He knew what she was the minute he saw her and she him. There was no need for pretenses, so things went rather quickly between them, in secret, of course.
Mena was used to being hidden. She was not the kind of woman respectable men carried on with in public. She smoked cigars, drank hard liquor and was free with her body to the highest bidder, of course. She was the daughter of a prostitute – a young, poor white girl - who had run away from home, so she had learned early the value of a woman’s body, and how to protect it. Mena was beautiful; men knew it and so did she. Green eyes, white skin and long black hair never went unnoticed – on a Negress.
Meeting Jeffrey was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. She didn’t mind being hidden as long as her captor fed her well and stuffed her pocketbook. Too bad he didn’t give her enough to quit her job at the cookie plant, she often mused to her herself. But things were going to change soon. She could feel it. Ever since his mother had died, he had been more open with her, called on her more. This could be her big payday; she wouldn’t have to wash her hosiery over a communal sink in the boarder’s room she shared with three other women again. She’d have a new pair of hosiery for each day of the week, and she would live in a fine house just like Mrs. Maggie Walker, the town’s most famous Negro woman.
A pleasant smile crept across her face as she lay on his chest. The sound of his heart beating filled her ears, but the idea of never being hungry again expanded her own heart. Jeffrey, on the other hand, was thinking of someone and something altogether different. Miss Sara down at the bank. He had set his plan in motion to finally have time alone with her, and the thought of it made him want to jump into his car and leave immediately, but he had
business to take care of first. Mena. He had to let her go.
“Get up,” he ordered with a harshness to his voice that Mena had not heard before.
“What’s the matter?” she asked as she rose from his chest and sat up in the bed. Green eyes stared hard at her lover as he got out of the bed.
“You’ve got to go,” he said as he threw her clothes at her. “Get dressed.
“Why? I still have a few more minutes before I have to report back to the factory.” Mena’s shoulders began to tense. Something was going on.
He kept his back to her as he put on his clothes. “My father will be here any minute. You have to go,” he stated matter of factly.
Mena’s green eyes followed the curve of his back as he bent over to put on his pants. She reached over to the table next to the bed and pulled a cigarette out from her bag. Jeffrey turned around in time to see her light it. His loins curdled at the sight of her rumpled black hair. She was very beautiful, he thought to himself, but used. He didn’t want a used woman. Women like Mena were good for a time.
“Some man came to see me today … about those dead women,” she said coolly. She puffed calmly on her cigarette as her green eyes met his brown. She’d been waiting for this moment. Her heart beat wildly underneath its cage.
“What man?” he asked equally cool meeting her green eyes head on.
Mena took a last puff, then put the cigarette out in the tray. She rose from the bed and proceeded to pick up her clothes from the floor. Silence filled the room as each person soaked in the newfound awareness of their lover.
Rolling up her tights, Mena never took her eyes off Jeffrey. He was now dressed and leaning against the doorway watching her closely, arms folded as he guarded the door.
“I told you I worked with that poor girl who was killed a while ago. Mary. That was her name. I told him she talked about flowers and stuff, which she did,” said Mena as a slight giggle escaped from her lips.
“You never told me you worked with that poor girl,” Jeffrey responded in equal coolness.
Mena rose from the chair. She walked slowly over to Jeffrey holding her bag tight to her body, and put her hand on his folded arms. Looking him keenly in the eyes, she whispered, “She told me lots of things.”
Jeffrey smiled tightly in return. The bitch had talked. “Like what?”
“I think I hear your father comin’,” she said and then carefully slipped past Jeffrey and headed towards the back door.
Mr. Peterson knocked on the front door just as Mena slipped out the back. Jeffrey took a few deep breaths. This day was not going as he had planned. A small rage was beginning to build inside of him as he prepared to open the door. But all Mr. Peterson saw when it opened was a smiling Jeffrey.
As Jeffrey and his father went to the Elks Lodge for lunch, Sy sat on yet another streetcar. He was hungry and needed a drink, but he felt he had to keep going. The sun would be going down soon, and a cold air had settled into the area. He thought about what he had learned today as he sat on the streetcar which moved sluggishly up Broad Street towards Church Hill. With the exception of Mary, each woman was seeing someone. Each woman was also new to the area and did not have any real friends or family nearby to speak of or to whom they could tell their secrets to. Sheritha had family here, Sy thought to himself. But she was a runaway.
Sy rubbed his neck as he got off the streetcar and stood on the edge of Church Hill. He was there to find out about Shalesha Painter and he hoped what he learned would solve the case.
Sy walked slowly up the porch of 933 North 28th Street. It was a lovely home having been built by Richmond’s only Negro female architect, Ethel Bailey Furman, who still lived in Church Hill. The Queen Anne style home sat serenely in the middle of the neighborhood with its well-manicured lawn and large, clean windows. Sy knocked on the large oak door. He straightened his coat and hat as he waited.
A small, old Negro woman opened the door slowly. “May I help ya?” she asked quietly.
“Yes’um. I would like to speak with the head of the house about the maid, Shalesha Painter, if I might, please.” He had taken off his hat in deference to the old woman even though she was clearly just a maid. But in the Ward, it didn’t matter your profession. Respect was given to all.
“Ain’t no one home to speak on it,” she responded slowly and started to shut the door.
Sy gently laid his hands on the door to stop it from closing. “Well, can you tell me anythin’ ‘bout her? I’m … I’ve been hired to find out what happened.” He hoped that information would give the old lady a reason to stop shutting the door and speak to him.
Her old eyes stared at him for a second. “She run away to be with that man she met at the park,” she hissed.
The hair on the back of Sy’s neck stood up. “What man? How do you know about him?” Excitement ran through Sy’s body and his voice so much that the old lady stepped back to close the door again. “I’m sorry. No, please don’t close the door! I’ve got to find this man. He may know somethin’ ‘bout her death.”
The old maid stepped outside the door, closing it behind her as if to keep the news outside of the house. “I saw her speak to him once. She was too young to speak to a grown man like that, ‘specially with no father to keep her. These young gals come here with no father and meet the wrong ones…send them home troubled,” and she stressed the word “troubled” so that Sy got the hint.
“Did she tell you his name…or where he was from?”
A rueful smile crept upon her wrinkled face. “No,” and quickly opened the door, and then closed it in Sy’s face.
Sy knew that she had been spying on Shalesha, afraid of the new girl who might take her job, perhaps. Sy laughed softly under his breath, put his fedora back on and relit his cigarette as he headed back to the streetcar post. It was late in early evening now and darkness was descending upon Richmond.
He started walking a little faster as it wasn’t safe for Negroes to be on the streetcars after a certain time in the evening and in certain parts of Richmond. Yes, he had served his country and fought for its freedom, but he was not free to walk the streets of certain parts of Richmond after dark. Jim Crow wouldn’t have it!
Chapter 14
It was late in the evening now, and the rain was pouring down hard like it was angry at someone and intent on hurting them. Lightning cracked the sky open. Sy rolled around in a fitful sleep on the couch. He had come directly back to his room after leaving Church Hill physically and emotionally exhausted. He regretted not going to get some food when he opened the refrigerator to find it empty of food. “Damn!” Sy slammed the door and then rummaged through his cabinets; he found an unopened bottle of whiskey in the back of one of them. He licked his lips as he opened it and let the warm liquor flow down his throat like lava.
A few hours later and now he is trapped in another nightmare: body parts are everywhere and the cries and screams of men begging for help or mercy attack his ears. In his dream state, he is pulling at his ears, damn near ripping them off his head and crying to relieve himself from the horrid sounds. There were many days during the war that Sy often thought of cutting off his ears just so as not to hear the screams or the silence. In war, even silence can be loud. Then suddenly, a louder noise shut out the screams. Sy’s mind struggled to identify it, to place it. It was not like those other screams. He tossed some more on the couch trying to place the voice. Then, something snapped him to consciousness. Someone was calling him. His eyes popped wide open, sweat rolling down the sides of his face.
“Sy! Please open up! It’s me, Lena! Sy!” and she banged on the door again. “Sy!” she pleaded.
Sy lay on the couch stone-still for a few seconds, not sure if this was another part of his nightmare. But when the pounding came again, he quickly jumped up and ran to open the door. Into the room poured Lena, dripping wet from head to toe.
They stared at one another for a moment; it seemed so surreal. Sy and Lena had tried to keep their relationship strictl
y business out of respect – and fear – of Amos Jackson. But now, here she stood before Sy, her blouse ripped nearly to shreds, no shoes on her feet, and drenched.
Sobbing quietly, Lena tightened her soaked sweater around her ripped shirt, and tried to explain. “Amos … he lost his temper in a drunken rage. I refused to get him another drink. He’d … he’d had enough, you see. I could tell …”
Sy’s breath was coming in short spurts. His blood was boiling – red dots clouded his vision. His hands balled up in a fist as he tried to gather his breathing before speaking to Lena. He didn’t want to scare her any more than she clearly was now.
“What’d he do to you, Lena?” His thick voice charged between pressed lips.
Lena had had her back to Sy so that he could not see her crying¸ but the weight of her situation was too much and her shoulders dropped helplessly as she wrapped her torn sweater to her body even tighter, turning to face Sy.
“What has he not done to me? I thought if I didn’t run, he was going to kill me. I didn’t have no other place to go. I … I don’t know why it is he hates me so much, Sy! What did I do? Cause if you tell me, I’ll fix it!” and she fell down at his feet in a ball of tears.
Sy quickly knelt down beside her. A thin vein bulged in his forehead. His large, rough hands trembled as they reached for Lena. He gathered her up in his arms, stood up and carried her to his bed. She could feel his heart beating what seemed like a million beats a minute as he laid her down and then sat down beside her. Sy stroked her hair as she cried in his arms.
It took a few minutes, but Sy finally found his voice. He had been caught back up in the memory of the first time he had ever seen Big Sy beat his mother; he was about five or six years old. They were standing in the kitchen, his momma pouring him a glass of cow’s milk. Suddenly, her hand slipped and the filled glass fell to the hard clay floor. Milk and glass were everywhere. Sy closed his eyes shut just in time to not see again the large fist slam into Hattie’s stomach.
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 8
