St. Louis Noir

by Scott Phillips

  * * *

  Sarge spent nearly an hour searching for the key to the Fox before he called the garage. Cora was still out in Kirkwood cleaning that white woman’s house, so he knew his wife hadn’t taken the key, and he knew where he had left it this morning before he started his shift at Mrs. Scales’s. When he heard the boys weren’t at the garage, he reached a simple conclusion and shook his head. “Damn boy don’t remember a thing I taught him.” He said it again as he started his car, a rattle trap Harry had fixed and given to him. The rain had not let up all day, and KATZ predicted heavier rain later that night. At the intersection, the Chevy skidded on the first set of streetcar tracks he crossed. Sarge had to remind himself that the tires were bald and gaining little traction on the wet pavement. He worked to keep his mind on his driving, fighting the thought that the boys had put themselves in harm’s way.

  Rain glistened on the street like glass beads breaking in his path. The light played tricks with his eyes. “Shoulda never took them to work with me,” he muttered. He could feel his neck tightening up, the headache returning. The cardboard pine tree air freshener Harry had hanging from the rearview mirror danced in and out of focus. Sarge stopped right in the middle of the street, and for that moment under that thin curtain covering the windshield, he was back in Luzon, shadows dancing in the trees, noise grinding in his head. He wasn’t supposed to be there. It was a mistake. The only colored man in the squad and they wouldn’t even give him a gun. “Boy, just work the radio,” they said. “And when we say run, you run like hell, Rastus.” Who could hear the mortar shell when everyone was laughing? He gripped the steering wheel. “Run!” he yelled. “Run!” His voice so loud it drowned out the Chevy’s ragged motor.

  Russell couldn’t run, not just yet. He was trying to get Vera Mae onto the fire escape, but she was protesting, saying something about her head scarf and the rain. “All morning,” she said. “Took me all morning to straighten my hair.” Wheeler whipped off his jacket and threw it to her. As soon as she caught it, she refused to let Russell help her. She draped the jacket over her head and stepped onto the fire escape as if it were a taxi pulled up to spirit her home.

  “Come on!” Russell yelled at her. “We gots to get outta here ’fore we trip the alarm!”

  He heard the alarm switch click one second before he pushed the door shut. Cohee was on the lowest level, the hinge already loosened to swing the last section to the ground, a grinding noise that triggered the red alarm light. The whole alley was suddenly bathed in that light, an odd sort of carnival ride that took over and made it difficult for them to see. Looking up was easier, and the white boys who had been standing near the entrance door came around the corner just as Cohee reached the bottom rung and held it closer to the ground. It was quite a sight: Cohee anchoring the fire escape while Wheeler tugged Vera Mae by the arm, and Russell behind her, pushing as she slid from one step to the next.

  “Ohh, lookee,” a tall redheaded boy said, “monkeys escaped from the zoo.”

  “What you doing up there, boy?” another said.

  “Looking for your mama!” Cohee yelled.

  “What you say, nigger?”

  Cohee let go of the ladder and started for them. On cue, a sheet of rain washed through the alley, stopping everyone, it seemed, in slow motion. Wheeler didn’t have time to say he recognized the team logo on their jackets from the white high school on Natural Bridge Road, not with the fire alarm going off, everybody cursing, and Vera screaming about her hair. Without Cohee there to catch her, she stumbled on the last rung of the ladder and crashed to the ground, one leg bent awkwardly under her, her hair busting loose, all her earlier efforts with the hot iron shrinking in the rain.

  Someone from the Natural Bridge school shouted, “What you coons doing with that white girl?”

  They all turned to peer at Vera Mae, wet and hurting, looking more like a discarded rag doll some kid had thrown in the trash than a slick cheerleader. The onslaught of rain reduced her to one long scream, and Vera Mae had a fine set of lungs.

  Wheeler laughed. “What white woman you talking about?”

  Cohee raised his fist again. “Cracker, you want some of this?”

  That’s when Sarge’s car rocketed into the alley, the Chevy backfiring as he popped the clutch. For a second, no one knew which way to run. They could hear police sirens racing down Grand Avenue, and Sarge’s car coming at them from the other direction. In the rain, the beam from the headlights seemed to bend, first toward the wall, then down the middle of the alley, one blink in one direction, blink again and another direction. Russell could have told them that was called a parallax view, but having recognized his father’s car, he knew he had some more important explaining to do.

  When Sarge’s car lurched to a stop beside the fire escape, the Natural Bridge boys were the first to move. “This is some shit going down,” Wheeler said while the sirens grew louder. As if in agreement, a streak of lightning lit the alley, thunder rolling right behind it. The boys from Natural Bridge pulled their jackets on straight and signaled, Catch you later, as indeed they would when football season started. Cohee flipped them the bird, but he allowed Wheeler to steer him toward Vera Mae. Russell opened the car door.

  “Pops?” he said. His father didn’t seem to recognize him.

  “Run!” Sarge cried out.

  “Pops, you take your medicine?”

  “Run!” he answered.

  “Shit! I gots to get him to the hospital,” Russell said.

  “Vera too,” Wheeler told him. “She’s bleeding bad.”

  Russell wouldn’t listen to the arguments against him driving with no license and no permission to drive his dad’s car. The fuzz was closing in, sirens howling closer, and the alley was no place to be questioned. Russell fishtailed the car in reverse, and headed down a side street toward the Ville. The trick was to avoid the streetcar tracks where he could lose control. Sarge was slumped over, holding his head. Vera was in the backseat with Cohee and Wheeler, her body curled as if she had landed mid-somersault. Nothing could stop her moaning.

  I just need to make it to Homer G., Russell thought as he turned onto Page Avenue. He wondered where his father kept the medicine that the docs had given him at the VA. Better yet, he wondered what he would tell Vera Mae’s mother when he finally got her home.

  * * *

  Years later, the old men still wondered what they could have done that night, how they might have stopped Sarge from slipping into a place where he recognized no one but the demons in his head. “Shell shock,” they told the doctors when they were itching to label Sarge as crazy. The men were ignored, for what colored man would have shell shock from a war that gave him so little in return? And what good was any of it if you couldn’t rise up and help your friend? They embraced Cora, but in the end, she moved to be closer to the sanitarium where her husband was. And Russell had stopped going to school anyway. That year, when riots broke out after the colored team beat the white team in the first integrated game, Russell wasn’t there to cheer for his buddies, and before long, the whole neighborhood had changed with the school zone redistricting, whites fleeing to the suburbs.

  The talk in the barbershops took note of the changes in the city.

  “When it’s all said and done, we the ones best go with the flow,” the men said.

  “You got that right,” they all agreed.

  The long and short of it was nothing much changed for them, even years later when the army was integrated and their sons were serving in Korea; the men could barely stand to read their letters, full of stories about the white cats in their outfit. The streetcar tracks were gone, paved over for bus traffic, but occasionally the old men swore they could still hear the bell announcing the streetcar’s arrival at the bend in the road. If they put their minds to it, they’d tell you their hearing was keen enough to separate the noise of street traffic from the whoosh of barges on the riverfront. To hear them tell it, street noise was gravelly and hoarse while the great rive
r softened the sounds, smoothing out the rough patches the way a cobbler tanned leather. In warm weather, they sat on the porch after a rain storm, each on opposite sides of the street, switching stations from KQZQ to gospel, watching the gutters fill where the currents of the Mississippi loosened its banks and carried the rich soil and debris of St. Louis industry to the Delta.

  Fool’s Luck

  by LaVelle Wilkins-Chinn

  Central West End

  It was that crazy little thing called love. He loved her, and there was evidence. The first time I saw her, he was arduously pursuing her down my street, a flying gazelle, her dress up, legs hurdling wide open over cracked, buckled sidewalks, across parking lots, edges of lawns, showing all the neighbors she didn’t wear panties and gleefully squealing like it was the most fun she’d ever had. The two were keeling and staggering drunk; him stumbling and falling, her weaving on wobbly high heels until he was on his feet, then they took off again. It was a queer dance.

  I had just stepped off the bus from my new school. I hated my new school. My teachers hated me too. Me and all the alien, grandiose, Afro-nappy-head kids, bussed from the North Side: our first year performing on a new stage called integration. All roles maliciously acted out, definitely not a good day. Frustrated nerves electrically raw, I saw her. And then him chasing her. I was embarrassed, ashamed, dejected; like the Temptations song, I was a big ball of confusion. It wasn’t a something-so-strange-I-hadn’t-seen-it-before kind of thing. It was simply that he was my favorite uncle and vulnerable. Just one look and Ray Charles could see she didn’t give a shit about him.

  He was closing in on fifty—she was thirty-something. Magazines later confirmed she’d been a fashion model years before. So what? Her hair was silky and long down her back, with blond streaks. Stunning? Paaaleeeez, to me? HA! But there was this: her legs, always striding on stiletto high-heeled mules. Her torso was shapely in excessively skin-exposed, titillating dresses. Extended fake lashes winked, brushing chiseled cheekbones. Heavily drawn kohl mascara framed her iron-chipped eyes, seeping black streaks into crevice-cracked crow’s-feet covered in eye shadow of wild plum or shocking pink. Possessive, reading eyes, interpreting and storing everyone’s weaknesses. Mother’s wisdom said eyes were windows to the soul. I believe it’s true. Looking into her eyes was just like falling down into two bottomless black holes. A pro in every sense, life’s unexpected hard bits concreted her face. Carla was a high-wire act off-balance.

  My uncle was well known around parts of town, especially little hole-in-the-wall taverns and dive bars, so she’d probably heard about his fool’s luck by word of mouth. Unk was coming into lots of moolah: a federal government settlement large enough for him to never have to work another day, and then some. This according to a letter dated September 1, 1968, from Washington, DC. It was delivered to our house when Unk was on one of his road trips. It took twenty years for the government to admit that action in World War II’s Southwest Pacific Theater had damaged him severely and permanently. During his military service Unk’s long-term assignments were collecting and burning human body parts in the Philippine jungles, leftovers from several massacres. After months of pickup jobs, decapitated heads began speaking to him—tormenting hallucinations. From 1946 through 1949 he was hospitalized in mental wards up and down America’s West Coast.

  Tall, loose-limbed, a perfect scarecrow build, Unk’s voice was strong, a melodious, rich baritone, announcing good times when he was gliding down the street: “Look out, ole Macky’s back!” With his favorite song, “Mack the Knife,” he joyously serenaded passersby in long-stride waltzes down the avenues of North St. Louis—especially when he was drunk. Which was most of the time. On good days he was usually well dressed: beautifully cut black suit, crisp white shirt against gleaming mahogany skin, impeccably groomed, shoes shined and sharp, newspaper folded under arm, handsome, movie-star smile. One night at the Keyhole, a little back-alley dive down by the riverfront, Carla tripped over the doorjamb, colliding with Unk sitting sprawled-legged on the jukebox, singing his tune.

  Occasionally Unk brought her around and she stayed in the car, never coming inside our house. Thanksgiving when he escorted her inside, I wanted to cry. Thanksgivings were sacred to my mother, so bringing guests to her house for dinner? Well then, this was serious.

  To compound this tragedy, I had big problems at school. I had been an honors student every year through eighth grade. My grades had now slipped to a B average. My mom came to the school to talk to my teachers and was told I was on the verge of suspension for insolence. Hey! Can I help it if dramatic sarcasm is my nature? I told Mama those teachers never called on black kids when we raised our hands for questions or to lead any special projects. So, defensively, my mother talked to the principal, Mr. Kelb. He told her although I was a good student, I caused disruptions in class and it (meaning I) wouldn’t be tolerated by the faculty, or by him. If I expected to succeed, said he, I must cease opposing (back-talking) teachers in class. Mama assured him with her honey-dripping Southern charm that I would no longer cause any disturbances because (and this is when she dropped the bomb) she would sit in on my classes for a week or longer if needed, along with the parents of other bussed students. Mama and her advocacy group were planning to monitor classes, an action suspiciously objected to at first by administrators, but as a block unit captain, my mother had connections with district aldermen and other black civic leaders. They couldn’t stop her. Afterward, neither could I—from daily grilling about homework to being a proper Christian.

  Mama invited my classmate and rebellious comrade Leslie and her widowed mother, Ava Bell, to our Thanksgiving dinner. Mrs. Bell formerly taught elementary school and she, too, monitored our classes. With the two extra leaves, my mother’s dining table seated ten people comfortably. There were twelve total gathered and squeezed in: close family friend Sharon and her boyfriend Willie, Mama’s cousin Justine, her husband Clarence, their son Conrad whom everyone called Connie Chub, Mrs. Bell and Leslie, Uncle Ransom, Carla, and of course me, Mama, and my dad.

  Mama blessed our table saying thank you, Lord, for all blessings we’ve received. I’m so grateful to have my family in good health, etc., in the name of Jesus. Shooting bullets out my eyes through Carla’s buoyant cleavage, I tried killing her before I choked on the heavy meal laid before us. Mama glanced at my wickedly focused face and sent me to the kitchen to help bring out more dishes. In the kitchen, my face firmly held with her right hand, pointing to my mouth with her left, she said, “Don’t you be nasty on this of all days. This is a blessing-filled, godly day and you will not be rude and un-Christian. When you go back to that table you will smile even if it kills you and be nice and courteous to your uncle’s friend.” Oh Lord! She didn’t know . . . it truly almost killed me.

  Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

  And it shows them pearly white

  Sitting down again my antennae beeped to Unk’s comment: he was glad he was finally making wedding plans. Meeting friends later, he and Carla were going to the riverfront—they were planning a little reception after a civil ceremony at the city courthouse really soon. When Clarence pushed his chair back, stood stiffly, then awkwardly bowed after Unk’s announcement, Cousin Justine looked up at her husband as though he’d lost his mind. Willie belted out a hardy laugh then gasped on something. I think Sharon kicked him under the table. Connie Chub offered muffled congratulations, ham stuffed into his mouth. Mrs. Bell smiled and looked confused, checking other faces. At that point, personally, I was in shock. This was apparent to Leslie, judging from the concern on her face. No one opposed, but none seemed pleased either. Including my mother. My dad just grunted at the news, gulping down his beer.

  Unk was Daddy’s younger brother. The only thing they had in common besides the same mother and father was a love of reading newspapers, but if trouble was around, they’d looked out for each other. Mama said she hoped Unk was going to settle down in one place and quit hopping around from town to town. T
hen everyone quietly ate. Sharon’s silverware clinked loudly and I glanced over. Looking as evil as I looked stunned, she chewed that bird like it was still alive and trying to get away. Holding up a glass of wine, Carla stood to give a phony toast. All mouths gaped, except Unk’s; he beamed up radiantly at his future bride. I needed to vomit and, uttering excuses, left the table. Leslie, being a bright sensitive girl, followed me to my room. She knew I couldn’t handle this bullshit. We listened to music in my room and talked about teachers, students at school, and what little progress there was since monitoring began. When her mother knocked and then opened my bedroom door, I didn’t want her to leave. I asked if they would stay for dessert, but Mrs. Bell said my mom had wrapped plenty of food with dessert for them to take home. Walking them out I peeked into the dining room, where Connie Chub was still eating dessert with his loony dad Clarence, then into the living room where everyone else sat. Thankfully, Carla and Unk had left already for the Keyhole.

  * * *

  When Carla found out Unk’s settlement was stalled for months in government red tape, she started fucking all the men in our family.

  All the wives except one put up with it. I’m sure Mama’s constitution was sufficient warning, so Daddy wasn’t on the radar. Sharon told Carla she was going to fuck her up and for good. Carla laughed and told Sharon, “God’s already fucked you up.” This was a reference to Sharon’s abnormal physique; I’d discussed this with Sharon when I was eight. She told me that when her mother was pregnant, her father didn’t want another mouth to feed and pushed her off a roof. That was in Chicago in the hot summer of 1921. A month later, Sharon was born premature with a curved spine. Despite some early years of hard knocks, Sharon’s face was pretty: a high forehead, button nose, and large, wide-spaced brown eyes. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet were all long, slender, and elegant, but from the rear, her back humped like a camel’s. She was the color of a camel too, a satin, sandy camel. Her subtle makeup was perfectly applied, enhancing her prettiness. Her hair was always coifed in smooth, swept-up French twists or chignons with sexy tendrils covering her delicate ears. She was a professional seamstress, dressing in such a refined way that the protrusion on her back was barely noticed. Standing four feet eleven inches, she was a wildcat underneath her pinkish-pearl manicure. The sure way to rile her was to mention the hump. She liked to fight dirty too, pulling knives out from her frilly bosom with the force of a man weighing 250 pounds or more. She weighed less than a hundred pounds soaking wet.