Suder

by Percival Everett

  She put her arm around me and pulled me close against her coat. I began to perspire immediately. She cried harder.

  Later, Martin and I were in our navy blue suits in the back seat of the car. We were on our way to Watkins Funeral Home. It was the largest black-owned business in Fayetteville. Pernell Watkins also owned a wig shop, which his wife operated. Everyone wondered about the wigs in that shop. Especially since Joey Fields looked in the window of the shop, saw a wig, and swore up and down that it was the hair of his dead wife, Jenny Mae. The controversy grew because Jenny Mae Fields’s funeral had been a closed-casket affair. As we pulled to a stop in front of the funeral home I began to wish I was back home at the piano with Bud.

  We entered the funeral home and Grandmama’s body was laying out in a coffin in this dimly lit room. Ma’s brother and her two sisters were there. Aunt Cleo and Aunt Edna were screaming and carrying on and their husbands were holding them down.

  I wandered away from the room, away from the crying, and into a large office. As I looked around I thought of Pernell Watkins, the funeral director. He was tall, slender, and light-skinned. It seemed like all funeral directors were light-skinned. In the office I saw a picture of the original Watkins, a dark-skinned guy. However, as I looked at the pictures of the descendants of the original Watkins, I saw that each Watkins was lighter in color than the previous one. I figured dealing with death had that effect.

  I wandered from the office, down this long corridor, and I started feeling real scared because there was this weird music playing. I walked into this large room filled with caskets. Bronze, silver, pretty wood caskets. Big caskets, small caskets, wide caskets. I stopped to look closely at one light-blue casket. I ran my fingers along the golden handles. Then I saw some dirt around the edges of the coffin. Somebody grabbed me and I screamed. It was Martin.

  “What are you doing?” Martin asked.

  “Look here,” I said. “Dirt.”

  Martin’s eyes opened wide. “He uses the same boxes again and again.”

  We heard footsteps and we ducked down and scurried back to where Daddy was. We were shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” Daddy asked.

  Just then, Pernell Watkins came and stood by Daddy. Martin, who was about to talk, caught himself and grabbed Daddy’s arm and whined something about Grandmama. Daddy was really puzzled and he dropped a hand to Martin’s back. Martin looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

  I’m out on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and I ain’t ready to go home and I figure Sid will be looking for me, so I decide to stay put for a while. I’m in the Chinese section of Portland and I see this sign on a house advertising a room for rent. I ring the bell.

  The door swings open and there’s a short, skinny Chinese man. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “I’m here about the room,” I tell him.

  “It’s a small room. Fifty dollars a week. I live here with three other men and there’s one bathroom.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Don’t you want to see it first?”

  “No.”

  He lets me in and leads me upstairs and down the hall to my room. It’s a small room, like he said, with a bed and a chest of drawers and a big, soft chair.

  “I’m Quincy,” says the short man.

  “Craig. Craig … Sutton,” I says. I reach out for his hand and he’s got long, cold fingers that wrap around my knuckles. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll catch up on some sleep.”

  “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks.”

  Quincy leaves me and goes back downstairs and I walk into the room and fall onto the bed. I get up and decide to wash out my clothes before I sleep.

  My eyes open and I get up and plug in my phonograph. It’s dark outside and I can hear talking. I stop the music and get dressed and go downstairs. There are three men with Quincy watching television in the living room and when I walk in they all stand up. There’s a fat man in jeans and a flannel shirt and two men dressed all in gray and they’re all Chinese.

  Only the fat man extends his hand and Quincy tells me his name is Thomas. I take his hand and he smiles and I smile. The other two men are named Mike and Larry and they don’t push their hands out and they don’t smile.

  “Let me show you the rest of the house,” says Thomas and this big fella slaps a hand on my shoulder and turns me around. When we’re out of the room he says, “Don’t let Mike and Larry bother you. They are just upset that Quincy didn’t discuss your moving in with us.”

  “I could leave.”

  “Don’t be silly.” He slaps me on the back and we’re in the kitchen. “Quincy makes breakfast for everybody, if you’d care for it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s a beer in the fridge. Feel free.”

  I nod. “Why are Mike and Larry dressed like that?”

  “They’re in a Mao study group.”

  “Oh.”

  “More social than anything.” He pushes his fat fingers through his thick black hair. “Where are you from?”

  “Spokane,” I tell him.

  “Oh, yeah? How long do you plan to stay around here?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Business?”

  “Huh?”

  “Business bring you down here?”

  “No, uh … vacation.”

  Thomas reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a beer and offers it to me. I take it and he pulls out another one for himself. “You like baseball?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Baseball?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “The Portland Beavers are playing tomorrow … if it doesn’t rain. Wanna go?”

  “Sure.”

  The following day I sleep until late morning and when I finally make it downstairs everybody is gone. So, I start digging through the icebox and I really have a taste for bacon, but there ain’t a scrap of meat to be found. There ain’t nothing in the refrigerator but yogurt and beer, so I have a beer. I go back to my room.

  I’m upstairs in my room playing my saxophone and there’s a knock at my door and it’s Thomas.

  “You still want to catch the Beavers?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The baseball game.”

  “Sure.”

  We leave the house and walk about a mile to the stadium and pay a buck apiece to get in. It’s a real cloudy day, but it ain’t raining and that’s all that matters. Thomas and I head up the bleachers behind home plate and his leg goes through a gap between the boards. I reach down and catch him and his hand closes around my upper arm and he’s got his balance again.

  “You’re very strong,” he says, slowly releasing my arm.

  I don’t say anything. I just move up, grab a seat, and look out over the field. It’s funny; there’s a lot of folks out for the game, but we’re the only ones sitting behind home plate. I’m about to ask Thomas why we’re all alone where we are when I notice how low the screen is between the batter and the bleachers. I think that many a foul ball must have come whistling back into the crowd.

  “Thomas,” I says, “you may not want to sit here.”

  “Why?”

  “We might get a few balls our way.”

  His eyes grow large. “What?”

  “Foul tips might come buzzing over that low screen and pop you in the face. I just figured you should know.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m not sure he understands just what I’m saying, but I drop the subject.

  The game starts and there ain’t much to see; just a load of fellas dressed alike, embarrassing their loved ones. Then some fella’s up and the count is full and he keeps tipping the ball straight back over the screen and I keep catching them and Thomas is real excited. Thomas is giggling and telling me how marvelous it is that I can catch like that. Finally the guy at bat pounds a long ball to left and every body cheers. So does Thomas and he stands up and when he comes down his hand lands on
my leg.

  “Excuse me,” he says and pulls his hand away.

  It starts to rain and the game is called and Thomas and I walk back down Burnside toward home. It’s a real busy street and the rain doesn’t keep people in these parts inside. I see, in the street ahead, a man leaning over, talking to somebody in a car and it’s Sid Willis. I duck into a doorway and pull Thomas with me.

  “What is it, Craig?” Thomas asks, smiling.

  I don’t say anything. I am peering around the corner and I see Sid climb into the car and ride off.

  “What is it?” he asks again.

  “Nothing.”

  We walk home and Mike and Larry are sitting in the living room, reading. They look up at me but they don’t say anything, and so I just go up to my room and listen to the song.

  It’s just starting to get dark outside when Thomas walks into my room and sits on the bed.

  “You like jazz, huh?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Dizzy Gillespie’s playing at the Opus Club.”

  “Really?” I says, sitting erect. “Where’s that?”

  “Right here in Old Town. Would you like to grab a bite and hear him?”

  I pause. “Yeah.” I grab my phonograph and my record and my saxophone and I’m ready to go.

  “Why’re you bringing those things?” Thomas asks.

  “I haven’t played the song for you, have I?”

  He shakes his head.

  I plug in the record player and drop the needle down.

  “Damn,” I says. “That’s something, ain’t it?”

  He nods and he’s looking at me with a funny eye.

  “This song just does something to me. I mean, it really gets me excitied.”

  Thomas smiles. “Bring it along, bring it along.” Bud made his apologies to Ma about not attending the funeral. He said death didn’t sit well with him. I didn’t want to go either, but I had to.

  The coffin was open. Grandmama was just laying there, peaceful as could be, even though there was enough crying and hollering going on to wake the dead. I looked out over the crowd in attendance. In the middle of all the dark faces dressed in dark clothes was McCoy. White as white could be. He stood out something fierce. It was difficult to look at: his pale skin, white hair, white clothes in a sea of darkness. Daddy looked back at him and frowned.

  I turned to face the coffin and saw Ma summoning me with her index finger. I walked to her.

  “You’re a good boy, Craigie,” she said. “Kiss your grandmother.”

  I just looked at her. I wanted to back away, but I didn’t. I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Kiss your grandmother,” she repeated and with that she grabbed me by the back of my head and pushed my face into the coffin. “Kiss her, Craigie.”

  I felt Grandmama’s cold lips against my face and as Ma pushed harder I felt the sutures that held her mouth closed. I was breathing rapidly. I was sick.

  Thomas and I are sitting at a table against the wall, far away from the band, and Dizzy walks out and starts to play. They play a long version of “A Night in Tunisia” and then I start shouting, “‘Ornithology’! ‘Ornithology’!” Dizzy begins to play the song and I fall back into my chair with a smile across my face. My hand drops down next to me and lands on my saxophone and I decide to join in. So, I stand up and start blowing and Thomas is looking around nervously and Dizzy stops playing.

  “Keep going,” I yell.

  This big guy walks to our table and says, “You can’t play that thing in here.”

  And I yell out, “Dizzy, I went fishing with Bud Powell!”

  Dizzy just stares at me and starts talking to members of the band.

  “You gonna lay off that thing?” the big guy asks.

  Then I hear a familiar voice. “Boy, I want my money!”

  I look over at the door and there’s Sid Willis.

  “I said, I want my money!” Sid starts weaving his way through the tables toward us. I pick up my things and head for the nearest exit and Thomas is right behind me. When I push through the door a fire alarm is set off and the manager is yelling at us and telling us never to come back. Thomas takes my arm and pulls me off the main street and down an alley. We make it through alleys back to the house and there’s no sign of Sid behind us.

  “What was that guy talking about?” Thomas asks as we walk into the house.

  “I never saw him before,” I lie and I tell Thomas I’m real tired and I retire to my room and slip into bed.

  I’m laying awake and I hear Mike and Larry in the next room. I figure it’s Mike and Larry because it ain’t Quincy or Thomas and I start to listen to what they’re saying.

  “I saw you!” says one.

  “Calm down,” says the other.

  “I saw you pissing standing up!”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m the dominant one in this relationship! I piss standing up! You piss sitting down! I don’t want to catch you doing it again!”

  “Please, Mike. Please, don’t hit me.”

  “Promise me you won’t do it again!”

  “I promise. I promise.”

  Then I hear moaning and groaning. I try to block out the noise and I go to sleep.

  Daddy told me I better go outside. Ma was screaming at me and I was shaking. I just stood there. “Go on outside, Craig,” Daddy said. I ran outside and sat on the church steps. It was hot, but I was shivering.

  Martin came out and sat beside me. “What happened?” he asked.

  I just looked at him and tears came out of my eyes.

  “Aunt Edna’s really screaming in there. Aunt Cleo, too.”

  Martin gave me his handkerchief.

  “I want to go to France,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I want to go to France.”

  Martin tilted his head and looked at me.

  “If I was in France I’d be free of everything.”

  “Come on, it could have happened to anyone.”

  I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Then the church doors opened and people started coming out. Martin and I moved off to the side. The coffin was marched past us. Aunt Cleo stared at me as she walked by and so did Aunt Edna. Uncle Ernest didn’t see me. They put Grandmama in the back of the funeral car and everybody got ready to go. Martin got into a long car with Ma. Daddy stood by the car with the door open and looked at me.

  I shook my head.

  He nodded.

  I watched as the black cars rolled away. And in the middle of the procession of dark cars with dark people was McCoy.

  I walked home and found Bud playing the piano.

  “You’re back early,” Bud said.

  I nodded and threw my coat down and stretched out on the sofa. We looked at each other silently for a minute. “I want to go to France with you,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah? Why?”

  “I want to be free.”

  “Free, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s free?”

  “Doing what you want to do.” I paused. “When you want to do it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” My eyes were wet. “So, can I go to France with you?”

  Chapter 14

  I wake up early the next morning and I head downstairs for breakfast and when I step into the kitchen I’m speechless. All four of them Chinese fellas are naked as jaybirds and I’m frozen in the doorway. Thomas, Mike, and Larry are sitting at the table and Quincy is facing the stove, his skinny butt turned toward the table.

  Thomas sees me. “Good morning, Craig.”

  I nod.

  “Have a seat,” says Quincy, turning to face me.

  I sit down at the table and Mike and Larry are reading from little books. Every few seconds one of them taps the other and points out something in the book, but they don’t pay me any attention.

  “You picked a good morning to come down for breakfast,” says fat Thomas.

  “Yeah?” I glance over at the pan that Quincy is w
orking over.

  “Yeah,” says Thomas, “we’re having yogurt-and-tofu omelets.”

  “We’re having what?”

  Quincy answers me. “Yogurt-and-tofu omelets.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here you go,” Quincy says, sliding an omelet onto my plate. There’s yogurt oozing from between the lips of the thing and I’m just looking at it.

  “Before it gets cold,” Thomas says.

  Quincy is back at the stove, cooking, and he looks over at me and smiles.

  I cut into the eggs and slice through some of that tofu stuff and it looks like turkey gelatin or something. I slowly push a bite into my mouth. I don’t like it, but I eat it, and then I reach for the juice. It’s prune juice.

  Thomas is smiling at me and then he winks and I wink back and his face sorta goes red, but more orange. Thomas makes me feel odd.

  I’m sitting next to the phone, which is on a table in the living room, and I pick up the receiver. Mike and Larry are discussing their little books quietly in a far corner. I’m calling Lou Tyler.

  “I’d like to place a collect call,” I tell the operator.

  “Name?”

  “Craig Suder.”

  Lou’s phone rings and Lou’s daughter picks up. “Hello.” “I have a collect call from Craig Suder,” says the operator.

  “Who?”

  “Craig Suder. Will you accept the charges?”

  “I’m a friend of your daddy’s,” I says.

  “I’ll get my daddy,” the girl says.

  “Hello.” It is Lou.

  “I have a collect call from Craig Suder. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Where the hell are you!” Lou shouts.

  “Will you accept the charges?”

  “Everybody here is—”

  “Will you accept the charges?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Hello, Lou,” I says.

  “Where the hell are you? You’ve got everybody sick wondering if you’re okay.”

  “I’m in Portland.”

  “What are you doing there? Come up here!”

  “I was wondering if I could use your cabin at Mount Hood.”

  “Get your behind up here!”

  “No, I really need some more time to myself. Can I use your cabin?”

  “You call Thelma?”

  “The cabin?”