by Mary Monroe
“See, we got somethin’ in common. So, is there any way I could get in touch with you sometime, Lula?”
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head so hard my scarf slid down across the top of my face. Even though my hair was a knotty mess, I slid the scarf into my purse.
Richard offered a casual shrug, but he didn’t give up (praise the Lord). “Well, why don’t I give you my telephone number? If you change your mind, you can call me.”
“Look, Richard, you seem like a nice man. You don’t need a woman like me in your life.”
“Why don’t you let me make that decision? Richard Rice is a big boy.” He tapped my hand, sending a chill down my spine. “You work around here?”
“I work everywhere,” I snapped, waving my hand. “See, I sell pussy. Happy?” I must have said it too loud because people at the table next to us looked over at me with amused expressions. My face burned, and my stomach got tight.
To my surprise, Richard didn’t even seem shocked or surprised. “Well, you in the right place. There’s a whole lot of money in San Francisco. A lot of the workin’ girls ride my bus home when they get off the stroll,” he said.
I couldn’t believe that this man was talking to me in such a calm way about something as serious and nasty as what I’d just confessed.
“I don’t stroll the streets,” I said real fast, speaking almost in a whisper. What I did with my body was bad enough. The last thing I wanted was for anybody to think that I was as trifling as the women working the streets.
Richard grunted as he gnawed on the last piece of his steak. “My grandpa always said, if you goin’ to be a bear be a grizzly. Sound like you one of them high-priced call girls,” he remarked, a leering smirk on his face. The way he pronounced his words, I couldn’t even tell he was from the south. But he did have the quiet, mannerly ways of a country boy. He stared at me so hard that the back of my neck felt like ants were crawling on it.
“Somethin’ like that.” I swallowed hard and sat up straight. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who would want to associate with…”
“Let me tell you somethin’, girl. I grew up in one of the sleaziest neighborhoods in New Orleans. There was this old bootlegger livin’ next door to us. That brother sold some of everything: watered-down whiskey, stolen property, fried chicken dinners, fresh fish, women. My sister used to babysit for the women, nice women. On a busy day you couldn’t tell if it was the women you was smellin’ or the fish.” He laughed. I laughed. “Nobody called them women hoes, sluts, or nothin’ like that. We called ’em sportin’ ladies, and the bootlegger wasn’t runnin’ no whorehouse. It was a sportin’ house. Just like in Storyville. You know about Storyville?”
“Everybody knows about Storyville. It’s that place in that red-light ’hood in New Orleans where they have whorehouses,” I snapped.
Richard shook his head and waved a scolding finger in my face. “Sportin’ houses,” he corrected sternly.
“Whatever,” I mumbled, trying to hide the fact that I was enjoying his company. To anybody who didn’t know us, we looked like any other young couple having lunch. Even though Richard had my attention, I could still see other men looking at me, smiling and nodding. One of the few things about myself of which I was proud was I didn’t encourage men to come on to me. With Clyde being the busy body he was, I didn’t have to.
Richard noticed two young brothers across from us stealing glances at me. “I hope I ain’t keepin’ you from gettin’ paid,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Look, you ain’t stoppin’ me from doin’ a damn thing. Why don’t you stay on the subject?” If he’d been anybody else, I probably would have cussed him out and left. But he was not a man any woman in her right mind could walk away from that easy. That gave me something to worry about. Falling in love at this point in my uncertain life was the last thing on my mind.
Richard grinned. “Anyway, like I was sayin’, our neighborhood was always crawlin’ with tricks. One night, when I was around ten, this nervous old White dude knocked on our door. Not no dirty, barefoot redneck in overalls, but a clean-cut businessman in a suit and tie. My mama’s cousin Lottie Mae who lived with us, she answered the door. Sister-girl was forty, had a face like a sow, and weighed as much as me and you put together. When dude asked her how much she charged, she bounced a fryin’ pan off his head. Funny thing was, she went around for years braggin’ about that honky in a suit who tried to buy some of her stuff. What was even funnier was Cousin Lottie Mae startin’ sneakin’ in and out of that bootlegger’s house at night herself when she thought we was all sleep.” Richard paused and looked at me like he was trying to read my mind. Lucky for me, he couldn’t. Because, I liked him. “I bet there ain’t a woman alive who ain’t done some level of sportin’ when she needed a little somethin’.”
I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing. Then, I pushed my plate away and stood to leave. I was so shocked when Richard grabbed my wrist and motioned for me to sit back down. I gave him a mean look, at least that’s what I tried to do. He just tilted his head to the side and smiled at me. The he laughed.
“Let me give you my telephone number anyway.”
My eyes wouldn’t stop blinking, and I had to force my lips to stay pressed together so I wouldn’t laugh. I lifted my chin and managed to give him a stiff look.
“I don’t think you can afford me on a bus driver’s salary,” I said abruptly.
“I know I can’t afford you on my salary, girl,” he guffawed. “But, take my phone number anyway. If you ever need to talk and want somebody to listen, you can call me. I’m a good listener.” He whipped out a pen and scribbled on a napkin. “I work the afternoon shift right now, but my shift changes from time to time. Sunday is my only day off, but I’m in church most of the day.”
“Oh?” Church? He was in the church. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. Clyde was in the church, too.
“If you call and don’t catch me at home, you can leave me a message, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” he said, rising. “Lula, you take care of yourself.” He squeezed my hand when he handed me the napkin with his telephone number. His flesh was so hot, I flinched.
Then he was gone.
I crumbled up the napkin and dropped it on the table, but before I left, I picked it up and slid it into my purse.
Chapter 21
MEGAN O’ROURKE
To me, San Francisco and Oakland seemed to be on two different planets. Truth is, the San Francisco Bay, which takes about eight minutes to drive across on the Bay Bridge, is all that separates the two cities. As beautiful as San Francisco is, it is no paradise when it comes to crime, but the world had come to know Oakland as an absolute hellhole. It was the last place on Earth I wanted to be on a Saturday afternoon.
“You are going to Oakland alone? Have you lost your mind?” Mom’s horrified voice rang in my ear like a siren. The telephone suddenly felt like a piece of hot coal in my hand. “What does your husband have to say about this?”
“It was Robert’s idea, Mom,” I mumbled, shifting the receiver to my other hand, hoping to find something else to distract me. The cleaning woman who came in twice a week, kept everything looking showroom organized and clean. Even the telephone in my hand smelled like Lysol.
My mother had a hearing problem and refused to wear a hearing aid. She spoke in a voice that was so loud it almost pierced my ear. I didn’t look forward to my daily conversations with her. And it wasn’t just the volume of her voice that irritated me. Her special talent was making me feel like an idiot. “I don’t know about you, Meg. All that money you spent on that therapist was a waste. Can’t you find a suitable car in San Francisco? Do you really have to go to Oakland to buy one? And a used car at that.” My mother’s voice rose even higher. “And that’s another thing, what’s the point of buying a used car? You’ll just end up paying for the previous owner’s negligence. By the time it’s over and done with, you’ll have spent the same amount of money that you wou
ld have spent on a new car. Maybe even more. And why are you going to look for a car? That’s a man’s job.” There was a triumphant tone in the way Mom sniffed.
I held the telephone away from my face for a moment, rubbing my ear as Mom’s words continued to ring.
“Robert’s boss recommended this place, Mom. I’ve already visited six dealers in San Francisco. And, I am sure that women are intelligent enough to pick out a car.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about intelligence. Do I have to remind you that you flunked out of college?” I could hear Mom sucking her teeth and mumbling novenas under her breath. “Do you still have that can of Mace I gave you?” My mother’s gruff voice was more irritating than fingernails scraping a blackboard.
“Yes, Mom. It’s in my purse.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“I’m sure I could figure that out if and when I ever have to use it.”
“Make sure your cellular phone is working. If I don’t hear from you by four, I’m calling the police. What’s the name of that used car place you’re going to?”
“C and L Used Cars, Mom. On International Boulevard.”
“All of those savages shooting, stabbing, and taking drugs. And the police can’t seem to do much about it. It’s a miracle that all of the Whites haven’t moved away from Oakland. It’s a good thing your father had enough insight to get us out of that town before it was too late. As if this family hasn’t had enough heartache already.”
I didn’t even try to hide my exasperation. But the harsh tone of my voice never fazed my mother before, and it didn’t now. “Now you sound like Robert,” I scoffed.
With a steely voice she continued, “I am not a racist, dear. But you know as well as I do that those Blacks, Hispanics, and Asians are the ones giving Oakland such a bad name. When you get to that car place, make sure you find a White salesman, if they have one…”
“Mom, I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”
“If you get back—”
“Bye, Mom.”
It took longer for me to drive from my house on Steiner to a Bay Bridge entrance, but the ride across the Bay was smooth and quick. Eight minutes. Twenty minutes later, I was in the heart of East Oakland, driving into the parking lot at C and L Used Cars.
Before I could park in the customer parking section, a plump, middle-aged salesman in a gray suit greeted me with a toothy grin and a bandaged nose. Mom would be pleased when I told her he was White.
“Are you Lou Cummings?” I asked, climbing out of my two-year-old Lexus.
“At your service, ma’am.” He nodded and extended a wide, soft hand with nails that looked just as well-cared for as mine.
“I’m Mrs. O’Rourke. We spoke yesterday.” A confused look appeared on his round face. He squinted his beady green eyes and smoothed back his long, but thin gray and black hair.
“Oh yes.” Lou snapped his thick fingers. Then he did a brief shuffle-like jig and made a face that would have put Jim Carrey to shame. Lou was unusually spry for his age—early to mid forties. His cartoonish behavior put me more at ease. “You’re my first female customer today and where I come from, that means good luck for somebody.”
“Well, I hope that somebody is me,” I replied with a broad smile. “I’ve been to several lots. San Francisco, San Bruno, Brisbane. I’ve looked at more than a dozen cars, and I haven’t seen anything to my liking. And frankly, most of the salesmen I’ve encountered so far didn’t seem as friendly as you.” I felt even more at ease, but I was anxious to conduct and conclude my business.
Lou nodded and caressed his chin, which was surprisingly pointed for a face as round as his. “Well, if you’re looking for a good deal on a good car and friendly service, you’ve come to the right place.”
“Thank you, Lou.” I looked around the lot. It was a small business, with no more than a dozen cars occupying about a corner of the block next door to a Vietnamese restaurant. A huge American flag was displayed in the front window.
“Now let’s get down to business. You wanted a little something for your daughter. Well, I am sure that we can get you fixed up real nice. Now what did you have in mind? Girls are a lot harder to buy cars for than boys. The main thing a girl wants is something cute. My niece insisted on something in a color that would show off her tan in the summertime. Go figure young people.” Lou gave me an exasperated look and waved his hand. “Now how much do you want to spend, dear lady?”
“I don’t care about the price. As long as it’s something dependable.”
“And cute?”
“And cute.”
“Let’s see now. How about a Tercel? We have a couple of those in stock, and the young girls seem to love them.”
Just then another car pulled up and parked next to mine. There were already two other cars in the customer parking lot.
“Why don’t you just let me look around, please? I’m not in a hurry, so you can go take care of someone else first,” I told Lou.
As Lou trotted toward another customer, I clutched my purse as two young scowling Black men strutted past me, looking at me as if I’d just arrived from the moon. Suddenly, Black men seemed to be everywhere. Two more drove into the lot, rap music blasting. Another one was strutting in my direction. But this one was different. Only the Devil himself could have startled me more than Clyde Brooks.
“Megan, is that you?”
I looked into the face of the last Black man in the universe that I ever wanted to see again.
“Clyde? Oh my God!” I exclaimed. First, my body swayed, and then I felt like I was levitating. “It’s been years,” I said, wailing.
“Twenty-eight and a half,” Clyde said, sneering. “That’s a whole lotta years. Some folks don’t even live that long.” The expression on his face was grim and determined.
“Uh, yes, I know,” I stammered.
Clyde was wearing a black denim jumpsuit. I had planned to go to the gym later, so I had on a gray sweatshirt, a plain cotton skirt, and running shoes. My hair, longer than I usually wore it, was in a ponytail. Except for the silver Lexus, I didn’t look like the wife of a wealthy architect.
“I thought it was you. After all these years, I’d know them legs anywhere. Even from behind.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Not quite, but if I had more hair, and if it was wooly, I’d look like Him. Now don’t be standin’ there lookin’ like you ain’t glad to see me. I used to be your favorite nigger—oops, excuse me, African-American.”
I looked around before responding. For the first time in my life, I prayed for an earthquake. One that would open up a hole under my feet and swallow me whole. “How are you, Clyde Brooks?”
“I’m fine, Megan Carmody.”
I shook my head. “It’s O’Rourke now.”
“Oh, that’s right. My grandmother told me that your mama called her up back when, and told her all about you marryin’ some rich architect. I was sorry to hear that it was to one of them highfalutin pecker-woods that would love to give me a one-way ticket to Africa,” Clyde said with a smirk as he scratched his chin.
“Uh, I haven’t seen you since…since…”
“Since our daughter was born. That pretty little girl you didn’t want nothin’ to do with,” he said, growling.
I glanced at the ground. I had to compose myself before I could respond. After a few deep breaths, I looked in Clyde’s eyes. His glare made me feel transparent and frightened. “I-I was just looking for a little something for my daughter. She’s in Europe spending some time with her grandparents.”
He nodded and folded his arms. “Uh-huh. So you got married and got you another daughter?” he asked with his brows furrowed.
“Heather is eighteen. My son, Josh, is twenty.” I sucked in some air and forced a smile. “You look well,” I offered, looking him up and down.
“Oh, it’s all good. I could complain, but I won’t. I just got back from Mexico, and it did me a lot of good. I got me a lot of rest, did a lot of da
ncin’ and drinkin’, and burned every candle at both ends.” He paused, grimaced, and rubbed the side of his head. “I done got too old for all that high livin’, but that ain’t never stopped me. I’m fin to go to Hawaii next.”
“Have a nice trip,” I said, attempting to leave.
“Hold on now,” Clyde said, stepping in front of me. “I ain’t seen you in years. Don’t be rushin’ off like that.” He crossed his arms and gave me a look that made me even more uncomfortable. “Now, if you don’t mind me sayin’, you still lookin’ mighty good. I guess married life agrees with you.”
“Yes, I have a good life. Uh, how is your grandmother?”
“She’s as good as can be expected for a woman her age. But to hear her tell it, she got one foot in the grave, and the other one on a slippery rock. She ’bout to drive me crazy talkin’ about the kind of funeral she want and shit. She’ll probably outlive me and you both.”
I stepped around Clyde, and started to move toward my car again. “Well, it was good seeing you again, Clyde. Tell Effie I said hello, please.” I froze when Clyde grabbed my arm, squeezing so hard it throbbed.
“Don’t let me scare you off. Again. We still friends, ain’t we?”
“It’s not that,” I told him, prying away his grip. Even after he’d removed his hand, my arm continued to throb. “But I am in a hurry, and I don’t see anything to my liking. My daughter is so picky.”
“Look, you ain’t got to be scared of me. I’m just tryin’ to be friendly. That’s all I ever tried to be with you. I ain’t just another nigger off the street, or did you forget? I guess that rich architect done clouded your memory. Where is that racist son of bitch at now? At home nailin’ up a cross to light up in somebody’s front yard or washin’ out his sheet? Or both.”
“That was unnecessary, Clyde,” I hissed. I could imagine the ugly picture Mom had painted of Robert for Clyde’s grandmother. Yes, my husband was a bigot. But he was not as bad as Clyde made him sound.
