The little woman took the baby back and opened the faucet on the kitchen’s sink to give him a bath.
Now her sisters wanted to keep the baby. After all she had been through. She submerged the baby’s bottom in the warm water. Drunk on milk, Dorothy’s Angel smiled at her. The little woman couldn’t help but smile back. President Buer would be disappointed if her sisters kept him, she thought. Maybe she should wait until both of them had fallen asleep to give the boy to the demon. She wrapped the baby in a kitchen towel and rubbed his feet to dry him off. But she wasn’t sure if she was up to breaking the little boy’s neck and boiling him in a soup, like the demon wanted. He was too cute.
She put the baby to sleep and helped her sisters go back to their bedroom. When she retired to her room in the shed, she found the fiend curled up inside a nutshell that he had stuffed with some lint, next to her bed.
“You had to turn on the light and wake me up, didn’t you?” the demon scolded her.
It was almost three in the morning by the time Josie was allowed to make her one call. She hesitated before picking up the handset. Who among her friends could afford to bail her out? They were all as poor and broke as she was.
A man dressed in a suit rested his back against the wall next to her, smoking a cigarette. “No one to call, sweetie?” he asked, noticing her.
Josie smiled timidly. Probably a pig, she thought, but one very attractive—perfectly pressed and with a one-day stubble. The man winked at her and offered her a cigarette, which the girl accepted gladly.
She dialed the number of the one person she knew who could afford to pay her bail: Richard, her rejected admirer from Sears. She knew the number by heart now, from the many times she had planned but never actually managed to call him.
A feminine voice answered the line from the other side.
“Can I speak to Richard?” Josie asked, surprised.
“Who is this?”
“Who am I speaking with?” Josie replied back.
“This is Richard’s wife,” the voice responded with a cruel tone of satisfaction. “And you are?”
Richard was married? The girl thought of hanging up the phone, but that was the only coin she had. “I’m a friend of his,” she hinted.
She looked at the man in the suit. He furrowed his brow, noticing her discouragement.
“I can imagine you are,” the woman said, “calling at this hour.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “Why are you calling my ex-husband at this time?”
Ex-husband?
“Did you get arrested?” the woman continued.
“Yes,” Josie responded timidly.
“You were?” The woman started laughing. “I was only kidding, my child. You were, huh? Really? What were you doing? Hitting the streets on Sunset Boulevard?” She laughed even harder.
“Can I please speak to Richard?” Josie insisted.
“He’s not here; he’s in New York. He’s not coming back until next Monday.”
Josie felt her heart drop to her feet. Whom else could she call? Her bail had been set at two hundred and fifty dollars.
“Tell me where you are,” the woman said, after another long drag of her cigarette. “I’ll send the driver to pick you up. Richard will never forgive me if I let one of his friends spend the night in the bucket. Hold on—let me grab something to write on.”
By six, Josie was out. Richard’s driver took her to the street where Russell had been pummeled. The bar was already closed. They found no sign of either the fight or anyone else.
“I’m sure your friend is fine, miss,” the driver comforted the girl.
Then he drove her back to the house on Linnie Canal.
“I’m sure he’s not fine,” Josie said to herself aloud, and wept on her pillow until she fell asleep.
The owner of the Gas House Café, Mr. Al Matthews, paid for Big Daddy’s bail, and he was out that same morning.
The Hamms weren’t as lucky when it came to solving their judicial problems, and neither were any of their companions: they didn’t have any rich friends. Mrs. Hamm, Miss Johnson, and Mrs. Lucas weren’t released until three days later, and neither were John and Sully, their driver. Mr. Hamm, Antoine, and his two sons were arraigned after their preliminary hearing, a week later, and remained in prison awaiting trial for aggravated rioting, assault, and attempted rape.
At any rate, so insistent were Mrs. Hamm and Big Daddy in their accusations of Ms. Cummings, that the judge decided to send an agent to her house on Sunday.
“Good morning, Ma’am. My name is Sergeant Clements,” an amiable, wholesome-looking officer introduced himself to the spinster when she opened her door that morning. “I’m looking for Ms. Elvira Cummings.”
“That would be me, Sergeant,” responded Ms. Cummings with her usual equine grin. “What can I do for you?”
The man adjusted his cap. Ms. Cummings had just taken a pecan pie out of the oven and the delicious smell coming out of her made the officer nervous. “I’m here to ask you a few questions, Ma’am,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“No, you may not,” responded the spinster, still not losing her smile.
Clements waited for an explanation of why he wouldn’t be invited to come in, but Ms. Cummings didn’t provide any.
“What do you have to ask?” she continued.
“This is a bit serious, Ms. Cummings.” The man looked strained. “I need to know where you were last night.”
“I was here, of course, at my house.”
“Do you know anything about a missing child?”
“I haven’t read the newspapers yet.”
“That makes sense.” Sergeant Clements adjusted his cap again and pulled up the back of his pants that the weight of the gun on his belt kept dragging down. “Do you, perchance, know the Hamms from Broadway Street?”
“I do, yes.” Ms. Cummings expression turned grave. “What’s with them?”
“It is their child who was kidnapped.”
Ms. Cummings lost her smile briefly. “My goodness. I am sorry to hear that.”
“The Hamms claim it was you who took him.”
“Pardon me?” She smiled again, with incredulity.
“Do you mind if I take a look inside?”
“Of course I mind. Do you normally go to a woman’s door and accuse her of abducting a colored child?”
“I didn’t say that…”
“You implied it.”
Clements adjusted his belt buckle. “I am sorry, Ma’am, I don’t intend to be rude or anything, I just wondered if I could take a peek inside. Just routine…”
“And I said no, Sergeant. I live alone. I’m a single woman. I cannot allow a man inside my house.”
“It won’t take more than one minute, Ma’am. I’m sure—”
“This is ridiculous, Sergeant—what did you say your name was? Please stop and go away.”
“Clements. Ma’am,” the man attempted to sound firm, “if you don’t let me in now, I will have to come back with a warrant.”
“What would I do with a colored child?”
“Ma’am, it’s my duty.”
“Your duty is to protect people from criminals, not to believe riffraff nonsense. Tell me,” a thick vein had appeared on her forehead, “what do you think I would do with a colored child?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. Now please leave.”
Clements took a step back. He leaned to his right, trying to see behind Ms. Cummings.
“What are you trying to do?”
The man looked at her apologetically. He tilted his cap up and wiped a drop of sweat off his eyebrow.
“You’re trying to look inside my house, aren’t you? This is most humiliating. All right, take a look inside,” Ms. Cummings stepped away from the door.
Sergeant Cle
ments took a step forward.
“I didn’t say you could go in.”
The man mumbled an apology and stretched his body sideways to take a peek into the spinster’s living room. Other than an impeccably clean interior, he saw nothing.
“Well?”
“I am really sorry about this, Ma’am,” Clements wiped another bead of sweat from his forehead. “I didn’t mean to cause you any inconvenience. It’s just routine. That’ll be all.”
“Oh, you better be sorry,” Ms. Cummings replied. “Clements, you said? I’ll be calling your supervisor. What is his telephone number?”
“Can you believe the nerve of these people?” She complained later to Mrs. Tortellini, over the phone. “To accuse me of kidnapping a Negro baby?”
“Unbelievable,” her friend mumbled. She was distracted, browsing through a catalog as her friend ranted about the upsetting events of that morning.
“We live among criminals.”
“We certainly do,” Mrs. Tortellini responded, not completely sure what she was agreeing to but fully convinced that an electric roaster would be a great addition to her kitchen. She needed to talk to her husband.
That same afternoon, around one, Josie knocked on the metal door at Russell’s pad on Mildred Avenue.
“Russell?” she asked timidly from the outside. “Are you there?”
Eva was inside, laying down next to Russell. She stood up to open the door, but Russell stopped her.
“She must be worried,” Eva replied.
“Don’t,” Russell insisted.
“Russell?” Josie called again. “Is anyone there?” She stuck her hand in and tried to pull the latch through the hole in the door.
Eva ran to the door and turned the peg to secure the latch.
“Who’s in there?” Josie asked. She bent down to spy through the hole and saw Eva’s arm against the door. “Eva?” She asked, recognizing her. “What are you doing in Russell’s place? Is he inside? Open the door.”
“I can’t,” Eva responded.
“What? Open the door! Where is Russell?”
“He’s in here,” Eva responded. “He just can’t see you right now.”
“Why not?” Josie cried. “Is he alright? Let me in.”
Eva looked at her friend, asking for his permission. Russell’s face had doubled in size. His cheeks had grown so big, they made his eyes look like thin slivers.
“Should I?” she asked.
Russell shook his head again. He tried to rise up but the movement made him moan in pain.
“He just…” Eva hesitated. “He doesn’t want to see you right now.”
“Why not? Open up,” Josie banged the door. “What are you two doing inside?”
“I should let her in,” Eva whispered to her friend. “She’s worried.”
“I don’t want her to see me like this. She thinks I’m handsome.”
“Open the door!”
“I can’t let you in, Josie,” Eva said, bending down and looking at the girl through the small hole over the latch.
“Why not?” Josie cried. “What is going on between you two? Open the door immediately.”
“I can’t…”
Josie spat through the hole.
Eva let out an exclamation of disgust.
“Open the door, you stupid Jewish whore!” Josie pounded the door again.
“Josie!” Russell called to his girlfriend aloud.
The banging stopped.
“Russell?”
“Please go,” Russell said. “I can’t see you right now.”
“Why not?” Josie asked. “Is it because of last night?”
“No.”
“But it wasn’t my fault!”
“I know it wasn’t, babydoll,” Russell exchanged a look with Eva. “I just don’t think I can see you right now.”
“Are you mad at me?”
Russell hesitated before responding. “Y-yes.” He felt at his swollen face with one hand. How long will it take to heal? “I’m a little upset, baby. I think it will be better if we don’t see each other for a while.”
“But it wasn’t my fault!” Josie repeated. “And I didn’t mean anything that I said last night, honestly. I’m sorry! I didn’t want to leave you there, either. I wanted to go back. I begged Heather to stop and go back. And then I was attacked. It was horrible! I need to tell you all the terrible things that happened to me last night. I just came to apologize and see if you were alright. I was dead worried about you…”
“It’s okay, babydoll,” Russell tried to laugh. “I’m fine. Nothing happened. I’m not too mad at you; just a little. You know I love you. I just can’t see you right now. I think it would be better if we take a break. You know, give us some distance? Maybe a few days?”
“A few days?” Josie cried in disbelief.
Eva shook her head.
“A couple weeks, perhaps,” Russell corrected himself. “Eva will take care of me.”
“Eva? Are you dumping me for that stupid moll?”
“Hey—” started Eva, but Russell interrupted her.
“Baby, no. You know she’s just a good friend. She’s like my little sister,” he joked. “She has nothing to do with this. It’s just that… I don’t want to see you right now.”
“You don’t want to see me right now? That’s what it is? Well… Fuck you!” Josie kicked the door with anger. “Fuck you both. Fuck you a million times. I hope that you catch syphilis from that Jewish whore and I hope that both of you die!”
And she ran away crying.
The little woman was sitting at the dining table counting pennies when she heard the girl rush upstairs. The entire house resounded with the steps and then bang! Josie slammed the door behind her.
Would it be too inappropriate to knock on her door and remind her that she still hadn’t paid her rent? The little woman gazed at her two sisters playing peek-a-boo on the couch with the baby. President Buer lay on the floor, busy with a coloring book. They could use the money to buy milk.
“Go away!” Josie responded to her knocks.
The little woman remained still. Then she stepped down. Before she reached the ground the girl opened the door. “What do you want?” she asked.
She was crying. And obviously pretty upset, the little woman thought. She felt her stomach shrink in a knot.
“Did you come to collect the rent? I don’t have it,” Josie brushed her tears with an open palm. “I’m broke.”
The little woman kneaded the hem of her sleeves with disappointment.
“Could you please make me a cup of tea?” the girl added with a helpless tone. “I’m not feeling too well today. And would you bring me some cookies? I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
The little woman returned five minutes later with the tea and a plate of lemon biscuits. She found Josie regally sitting on her bed, leaning on a stack of pillows propped against the headboard, her watery eyes lost in the distance. The little woman set the cup and the cookies on the side table and respectfully stepped back. Josie lifted the cup and took a small sip.
“Do you think I’m pretty?” the girl asked. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Well, if she had to be honest, she looked a bit tired, the little woman thought. Maybe not as pretty as she usually did, but still comely.
“If you were a man,” the girl continued, biting a cookie, “would you like to go out on a date with me and kiss me?”
Kiss her? The little woman stared back at her with anguish. She looked down. If she were a man…she would marry her, of course!
“It’s all that stupid…awful…horrible woman’s fault. I wish she’d died! I wish somebody killed her. I hate her so much!”
Who was she talking about? Should she leave her alone? What was she supposed to do now? The little woman
wondered. Sit down and listen? She saw Josie’s clothes scattered around the room and decided to pick them up.
“I want to hurt her,” Josie screeched. “I want to hurt her really bad. I want her to die. I want her to suffer just as much as I am suffering now—even more! She’s such a horrible person. Why is Russell doing this to me?” She put an entire cookie inside her mouth. It tasted like sand. “After all that I went through last night?” she asked with a mouthful. “Do you know what happened to me last night? I was almost raped last night. By four Negroes who thought I had stolen a baby. And I got arrested.” She stopped, expecting a word of sympathy from the little woman.
As usual, she didn’t get any. The little woman stared back at the girl with the same tragic, sorrowful look of pain that she always bestowed to whoever asked her a difficult question. Or any question.
Josie finished her tea. “And then I found out this morning that Russell spent the night with that stupid Jewish whore.”
The little woman felt the urge to say something. “Jezebel,” she opened her mouth to say the name, but stopped short, afraid that her raspy voice would offend the girl. Instead, she remained in her place staring at Josie, one hand on a sock and the other one clenched on a sweater.
“I’m never going to forgive him,” Josie sniffed with sudden rage. “What’s with her? What does she have over me…? Better clothes, I suppose.” Josie remembered the sweater Eva had worn the previous evening. “I’ve never seen her wear the same thing twice. How can she afford it? She has no job that I know of, and she has much nicer stuff than I do. All new. I bet the men she sleeps with are rather generous—By the way,” Josie interrupted herself with a snivel, “did you have a chance to fix the skirt I gave you?”
The little woman pointed towards the closet.
“You’re a true pal.” Josie jumped off the bed to fetch the skirt, which she found already ironed and carefully hung with the rest of her clothes. She stretched the skirt over her clothes and examined her reflection in the vanity mirror.
“You didn’t do a good job with the seam,” she said to the little woman. “Do you think you could fix it? You see it here? The thread is almost, but not the same color. It’s okay,” she chimed at the little woman’s expression of disappointment. “I don’t need to wear it tomorrow, but if you could fix it by the end of the week…” She looked back at her reflection. “I want to see Richard when he comes back from New York. I have to say thanks. He paid for my bail. I think I should say thanks to his ex-wife, too. I didn’t ask her name. I wonder if we’ll become friends. She’s a pal! She sent Jeremy last night to bail me out—it’s such a long story. The thing is that I just don’t know what to wear and this would have been perfect… All my clothes are so out of style,” she put the skirt back in the closet. “The few nice things I have are too old. And now that I’m single again,” she tried to smile again, “I need to take better care of myself.”
Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle Page 21
