Beyond the market rose a block of storefronts that belonged indisputably to the Negroes. There was a barbershop, a hardware store, a harness shop—in fine weather the bridles were hung around the doorway for show—and a secondhand store, which as long as anyone on the block could remember had displayed in its window a huddle of green glazed jars and liniment bottles filled with colored water. Sometimes they appeared in a row on the sidewalk. Nobody ever took them. They gave you the feeling they might cry out and the owner would hear them.
Behind the shops—and no white person had ever seen what lay behind the shops—was a graveyard for those who did not or could not get themselves properly buried in the Ebenezer Baptist cemetery. The graves looked like beds for penitents: a long slab of concrete studded with buttons, shells, beads, or nails. An iron pole joined headstone to footstone; in warm weather it held pots of geraniums and marigolds, night shade and devil’s claw. There were names but no inscriptions. In the headstone of Pharaoh Dawson was embedded the headlight of the Cadillac that carried him to a fiery death. From the stone of Sister Harriet Doyle rose an open hand, in whose palm gleamed a mirror, like a tiny frozen pond.
Nothing was broken, kicked over, or disturbed. Perhaps the faces on the little clay pots that grinned on the graves protected them. From deep sockets their eyes, made of mirrors or balls of white clay, seemed to glow, and though their teeth were no more than kernels of corn, a guilty visitor might see his own death grinning there. The Barbershop Cemetery, people said, was a mighty powerful place, and people went there for reasons that had nothing to do with honoring the dead.
The paved road gave way to brick and dipped sharply to the left, toward the river and the stone fortress that was the train station, a granite vision of Byzantium: towers, arches, porches, windows curved like giant keyholes, iced and glittering. Today, behind stained glass hidden by snow, the stationmaster knelt at the hearth and laid a fire. A handful of passengers stood waiting hopefully, listening for trains, postponing the moment when they must rush out to the cold platform where baggage carts waited like large, sad animals, their wheels frozen and clogged with snow.
Ben drove past the station and over the bridge. It was icier than it looked. He crept down the road to the picnic area and parked opposite the Island. Snow was falling now, weaving itself into a single fabric. He could barely make out the temple. Every familiar thing was taking itself away.
“We’d better go back,” said Ben. If the car got stuck, he would have to walk a mile for help and leave Clare to freeze in the front seat. But Clare stared out the window as if she saw through the snow to next summer and the picnic tables crowded with families.
“We were walking over there. Grandpa had just asked me why the devil is called Lucifer. And I told him it meant Light-Bringer, and I was just saying the verse, ‘How thou art fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning, how art thou cut to the ground.’ Then it happened. We didn’t know anybody was playing baseball across the river. We never heard their voices.”
“Did it hurt?” asked Ben. A dumb question, he knew. But he hungered for details. He needed to know what happened on her side of the river when he hit that ball into the dark.
“Not right away. I didn’t know what hit me. I woke up in the hospital. Then it hurt a lot.”
The snow hissed softly against the windshield.
“Maybe someday you’ll meet the fellow that did it.” Thin ice here.
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
“Of course you were ready to kill him. Whoever it was.”
“I was angry at first, yes.”
“But you aren’t now?”
“It was an accident. It’s like being angry at the river because it drowns people.”
Ben shivered. The water, the earth, the very air, would take them all someday. It would take Clare and her father and mother, it would take her grandmother and her aunts and Davy and Wanda and Willie and Marsha and himself, would take all of them, would stop at nothing.
I could have killed her.
He kissed her, and without warning a piercing joy in the year’s first snow filled him. Good sledding. Good packing. No school today. Time opened at his feet and unrolled its white carpet into eternity.
Clare was watching him, bright-eyed as a squirrel.
“If we take off our clothes, we’ll freeze.” She laughed. “How do the Eskimos do it?”
“Like this,” he answered and lifted his body over hers to shield her from whatever could snatch her from him, out of this life.
14
There Is No Resisting You
WANDA SAT IN THE kitchen, rubbing Crisco into her heels, listening for the click of the receiver.
“Was that Ben on the phone?”
“Um,” said Willie.
“Is something wrong? Was he in an accident?”
“Car trouble,” said Willie. He began flipping through the Yellow Pages with great purpose.
“He didn’t take the car,” Wanda remarked.
“He took somebody else’s car. I didn’t follow the whole story.”
“He hit somebody in somebody else’s car?” exclaimed Wanda.
“Mother, don’t worry. He called to say he’ll be coming home late.”
“He’s taking Marsha to the dance tonight, isn’t he?”
Willie shook his head. “I’m taking her.”
Now she felt certain Willie was shielding her from some terrible calamity.
“If Ben is in trouble, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? I’ve always trusted you, Willie. Of course,” she added, “I’ve always trusted Ben, too.”
“I would, Mother. You know that.”
“Sit down. I’ll get my slippers on and make you a cup of coffee.” He looks as if he needs one, she thought.
He sat down opposite her at the kitchen table, still lost in the Yellow Pages, then jumped up.
“The florist closes at five on Friday. I’ve got to fly.”
He arrived at Pearson’s as a skinny girl with short blond curls was locking the door. She opened it a crack, just enough for her words to squeak through.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed.”
“You aren’t closed yet,” said Willie. “You just opened the door.”
“I opened it to tell you we’re closed.”
“But you opened it,” he reminded her, and, stepping back, he threw himself against the door. It flew open with a bang. The girl backed off, terrified. Willie hadn’t meant to scare her. In the green smock and white collar all Pearson employees were required to wear, she looked as pious as a choirboy.
“I need a corsage!” he exclaimed. The girl stepped behind the counter. “Did you order one?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“No. Don’t you have them already made up?”
“We have the individual orchids,” she answered.
“How much are the orchids?”
“All we have left are the three-dollar fancies.”
Willie winced. “Haven’t you got anything cheaper?”
“Our miniature orchid corsages are all sold.” His disappointment filled the room, and the girl felt vaguely responsible. “You might find something in the glass case. What color is her dress?”
“Whose?”
“The girl you’re getting the flowers for.”
What color was her dress? Had Ben told him? He could not remember.
“Oh, lots of colors,” he said. “No one color in particular.”
He pressed his nose to the glass and gazed at the enchanted sleepers: irises, daisies, carnations, roses out of season.
“Which flowers are the least expensive?” he asked.
“Daisies are the cheapest,” she replied.
He ordered a corsage of three daisies but did not remember to say that it would be worn on the wrist till after the girl had written out the sales slip, and when she told him the extra ribbon would cost a nickel, he asked for a pin instead, which was free. Three daisies on the strap of her formal—if it had straps
—would also look nice.
“Does the price include delivery?” asked Willie.
“No delivery,” said the girl. “Our driver has already gone home.”
Afterward, he remembered he should have asked for a gardenia.
He had reached home again before it occurred to him that he would need a tux. Ben’s tux would hang on him. His heart sank at the thought of wearing his black suit.
His mother was putting supper on the table. Maybe she could find him a tux at the drycleaner’s.
“Mr. Goldberg doesn’t rent tuxes,” said Wanda.
“But there must be one my size on the racks.”
“You mean one of the customers’?” she asked, incredulous.
“A tux is a tux, Mother. I’ll be very careful.”
“I know you’ll be careful,” said Wanda, uncertain why borrowing a customer’s tux for the evening made her feel as if she were stealing it.
“I never spill,” he added. “Never.”
“I know you never spill. Even when you were a baby you never spilled. Ben threw his food all over the kitchen. But you always ate very carefully.”
Of course, the front desk would be closed, she told him. Willie said he did not believe in closed doors.
“Bring a bag,” he said.
The janitor saw them through the window and unlocked the front door, regarding them both with a questioning expression.
“I forgot my sweater, Joe,” said Wanda. “I think I left it on one of the racks.”
“Well, have a look around.”
Queer to have the place so dark and quiet, she thought. The stillness and the feeble light—Joe was sweeping by the light of a single bulb—made the place feel strange to her. In long paper bags, the finished garments hung on the racks, aisle after aisle of ghosts.
“We’re getting warm,” said Wanda. “Here’s the bridals.”
Neither the tuxedos nor the bridal gowns were hidden under wraps. The tuxedos in particular kept a human shape, as if inhabited by the souls of their owners. Tall, fat, thin; butlers of the night. And the brides: a cotillion of headless angels.
Willie yanked one tuxedo out of line. “How about this one?”
“Whose is it?” asked Wanda. She lit a match and peered at the tag. “B. Nesbitt. He owns that restaurant way out on Washtenaw—the fancy one with the organ. He brings his shirts in every Friday. Won’t let his wife iron a thing.” She sighed. “Just imagine that. He won’t let her.”
“It looks about my size.”
“Yes, he’s short like you.” In the dark she did not see him wince. Hearing the janitor shuffle toward them, Willie stuffed the tuxedo into his bag.
“Did you find your sweater, Mrs. Harkissian?”
“Thanks, Joe, I did. We can let ourselves out the back door.”
At home Willie appraised himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. To his surprise, he looked older and taller—distinguished, even. A pity he couldn’t appear in a tux more often. What did tall, old, distinguished men say to rich, attractive girls? What did rich, attractive girls say to tall, old, distinguished men? He’d never taken a girl to any of the dances at school. He did not enjoy dancing, and girls always expected you to buy them a meal afterward.
From his bookshelf he pulled the Little Blue Book of Useful Phrases and turned to the chapter titled “Exclamations and Comments (Complimentary).”
A most extraordinary idea!
How delightful!
I like the plan very much.
It is glorious to contemplate.
You have never looked better.
He has a jolly handshake.
She possesses the highest ideals.
Such noble ideals!
It is superb!
I never flatter, on my honor.
There is no resisting you.
A most unexpected pleasure!
An excellent performance.
He turned to the section on apt quotations for all occasions, and the first example spoke directly to him:
When as in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (me thinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
That described Marsha to a T. How could somebody who had never seen Marsha describe her so well? Oh, he never could remember so many phrases; he should have started learning them weeks ago. He flipped back to section one: “Introductory Remarks.” These, at least, were shorter.
Assuredly, but
To be quite frank, I
If you’ll excuse my being abrupt, I
Further than that, I might add
Of course, but you see
If I may speak freely, I
Frankly, I don’t see
I strongly suspect that
A knock at the bedroom door.
“Willie—did you call Marsha and tell her that Ben isn’t coming?”
“I forgot.”
As he dialed, Willie hoped he wouldn’t have to speak to Marsha. Not now, not when she couldn’t see him, tall and distinguished, in B. Nesbitt’s tuxedo.
A woman’s voice answered. Not Marsha’s. He realized he was holding his breath, and now he exhaled deeply.
“Is Marsha there?”
“Marsha’s in the shower. Can I take a message?”
“This is Willie Harkissian. Could you tell her that I’ll come by in half an hour to pick her up for the dance? Ben can’t make it.”
Silence.
“I’ll tell her,” said the woman. “Will you hold the line, please?”
She was gone a very long time, and when she returned, she sounded out of breath.
“I’m awfully sorry, but Marsha isn’t feeling well.”
“You mean she doesn’t want to go?”
“She has a headache. Is there any place she can reach Ben?”
“I expect there is, but he didn’t leave me the number.”
“I’ll give her that message,” said the woman and hung up.
“Hell!” said Willie, slamming down the receiver. He opened the refrigerator and threw the box, with its three daisies in green tissue, into the garbage pail. “A dollar down the drain for this corsage. I can’t take it back.”
His mother retrieved the box.
“I haven’t had a corsage in twenty-five years. I’ll buy it from you,” she said and went to fetch her purse.
15
Borrowed Mouths
HELEN AND NELL DRAGGED the bridge table from under the piano, and something crashed and tinkled in response.
“There goes the movie projector,” said Helen. “We’ll get it later.”
“Can I help?” Ben asked, eager to make himself useful.
Though she knew perfectly well how to set up the table, Helen turned to him and said, “Can you figure out how to unfold these legs?”
The two sisters watched approvingly as one by one the legs snapped to attention. Clare, her chair drawn up to the fireplace, exchanged smiles with Ben.
“Mother, are Aunt Vicky and Uncle Fred coming? You’ve brought out the Harvey’s Bristol Cream.”
“It’s for Debbie Lieberman,” said Helen.
“Debbie doesn’t like sherry,” Nell reminded her.
“I know,” said Helen. “But she always looks to see if it’s there.”
“I used to work for Mrs. Lieberman,” said Ben.
“What kind of work?” inquired Helen.
“I fixed her vacuum cleaner.”
“Marie Clackett is coming with her,” Helen went on. “Do you know the Clacketts?”
“I know Mrs. Clackett. And my brother works in Mr. Clackett’s store.”
“Debbie will be bringing Marie and Mr. Knochen,” said Nell. “They say Mr. Knochen knows everybody. They say he can even recognize people he’s never met.”
Then Davy, who wanted everyone gathered together in one place, ran into the room carrying Cinnamon Monkeyshines. He set the cat down in front of the fire but could not persuade it to stay.
“Wher
e’s Uncle Hal?” he asked.
“He’s napping,” answered Helen.
“I’ll go and wake him,” said Davy.
“No, don’t,” said Helen. “You know he hates for people to wake him up. This is the way to call him.”
She seated herself at the piano, opened her tattered copy of Michigan’s Favorite College Songs, and launched into “Hail to the Victors.”
“You’ll wake Grandma,” said Nell.
“No, I won’t,” answered Helen. “She’s real tired. I got her up early so we could have some peace tonight.”
She turned the page and began to sing:
“I’ll never forget my college days,
I’ll ne’er forget my Michigan.”
Suddenly she broke off. “Do you hear voices at the door?” she asked.
“I don’t hear anybody,” said Ben.
“The guests will arrive in five minutes,” she announced. “Davy, bring me the decanter from the sideboard. We’ll put the Harvey’s Bristol Cream in it. A decanter,” she added, noticing his bewilderment, “is a very fancy bottle.”
When the doorbell rang at last, Helen hurried to answer it, and everyone followed her.
The porch light cut through the snow, which unrolled like bandages from heaven. It wrapped the identical fur coats of Mrs. Lieberman and Mrs. Clackett. It whitened their eyebrows and dusted the veils on their hats. Between them stood Mr. Knochen, his black overcoat free of snow and disorder. Why, he might have blown in from another planet, thought Helen. Pale, thin face and white hair combed straight back, his grey fedora in one hand, as if asking for alms.
He peeled off his gloves, black leather, like the skin of an expensive fruit, exposing the pale meat below. Across Clare’s mind flashed a drowning she had seen years ago at Island Park. The coroner’s black-gloved hands held a mirror to the mouth of the dead boy, then drew from his pocket two silver coins and closed his eyes. What power did you think I would give you? The power to meet your own death?
Things Invisible to See Page 10
