by Parrish, PJ
“Louis?” Bessie called out softly, then opened the door, sticking her head in. “Louis?”
“I’m awake,” he answered.
“It’s time, Louis.”
“Time for what?”
Bessie opened the door, and the light spilled around her large body, making him blink. “Lila has to go to the hospital,” Bessie said. “I can’t do no more. It’s in God’s hands now.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.” Louis reached for his jeans and shoes. For a few seconds, he sat in the cool darkness of his room, his shoes dangling in his hand. Then he forced himself to get dressed.
The hallway was cold. Bessie was coming out of Lila’s room and looked up at him sadly. “Want I should call an ambulance or do you want to take her?” she asked.
Louis avoided her eyes. “Call an ambulance,” he whispered.
Bessie picked up the phone and Louis went to Lila’s room. He could smell death. He turned away and waited for Bessie.
“They won’t be long,” she said. “You go downstairs. I’ll tend to her.”
Louis nodded and walked slowly down the stairs. He stood in the vestibule, staring blankly out the front door into the darkness. He couldn’t seem to arrange his thoughts. He felt an urge to try and fix things before she died. But he didn’t know how to even start. What could he say to her now? It was too late to say anything.
He heard the siren and saw the red lights as the ambulance pulled up to the curb. He stepped out onto the porch. Lights went on up and down the street. Two paramedics hurried up the walk with a gurney and looked at Louis questioningly. He held the door open for them. “She’s upstairs,” he said. “There’s no hurry.”
They glanced at each other.
“She’s dying. Just make her comfortable.”
They nodded and went inside. Louis stayed on the porch. Something inside was telling him to go to her, hold her hand, be with her to say something reassuring. But he couldn’t move. He shivered. Jesus, he had dealt with death so many times, comforted dozens of strangers. Why couldn’t he go to her?
“Louis? You ready?”
“What?”
“To go to the hospital. Are you ready?” Bessie asked.
“I’m ready,” he murmured.
Greensboro County Hospital was a small building with a long asphalt drive and an emergency entrance lighted by red neon. It had only two floors: people were born and made well on the first; the desperately ill and the dying were taken to the second. The walls were pale yellow and the tile floor was painted gray. It was cold. Footsteps echoed in the empty halls, punctuated by the ping of the elevator.
They put Lila in a single room that overlooked Highway 17 and Phil’s Fast Trip. Louis moved immediately to the window and took solace in the darkness. He watched the light over Phil’s blink on and off for several minutes before he felt Bessie tug at his arm.
“Can I go get you a cup of coffee, Louis?”
He nodded.
There was a pain in his chest, a deep physical ache. He leaned against the windowsill. Why couldn’t he deal with this? He didn’t care about this woman. He didn’t owe her anything. Why did it hurt so much?
He went to the bed. She was unconscious. As he looked down into her worn face, the memories came creeping back again and he couldn’t stop them. Yolanda’s screams. Shards of brown and green glass on worn linoleum. The feel of a roach running across his back in the cold of night. Hunger gnawing on the walls of his stomach like a crazed animal. The awful brew of smells in her bedroom: whiskey, sweat, musky sex, and that dime store Evening in Paris perfume.
He wanted to cry, to feel the rush of relief that tears would bring. But nothing would come. Tired, he was so tired. Tired of fighting it, tired of pretending. He had pretended for so long to feel nothing. He had told himself he should feel nothing, that it was easier to feel nothing. But it was the nothing that hurt now. Not the anger, the bitterness, the sadness or shame that had been wound so tight inside him all these years. It was the emptiness, the nothing, that hurt the most now, cutting into him like a dull knife digging deep in his chest. He shut his eyes tight. He felt dizzy and grabbed the cold steel rail of the bed to steady himself.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, God…” He was praying, something he had not done in years. But he didn’t know what he was praying for.
Then he felt it. It started with a faint feeling of warmth. Warmth at the back of his neck, like the kiss of an afternoon sun. Then came the scent of flowers, adrift on a spring breeze. He could see himself, in a field, sitting in a blanket of wildflowers.
She was next to him. She was sober, wearing a blue-and-white-checked dress and a wide straw hat. The wind snatched the hat from her head and she laughed as it lifted up into the blue sky like a kite.
Laughing, she was laughing. He was laughing. God, he remembered now. It was Aunt Laurelie’s house; they were sitting behind her house, the one with the ducks. He had loved going there.
Mama…Mama? Why do I look different?
Because you are special.
What makes me special?
Because you are dusted with angel dust.
Like that powder on your dresser? Is that why I’m not dark like you?
Yes, baby…
Where’d it come from, Mama? Where’d the angel dust come from?
From God…God sprinkled you with his dust to make you beautiful and strong.
Does God sprinkle dust on everybody?
No, baby, only those that’s gonna need it most.
Louis stared down into Lila’s face. Something inside him broke suddenly, something in his chest tore apart. The tears began, and he let them fall down his face. He couldn’t stop them, so he let them come. Wave after terrible wave swept over him, threatening to pull him under. But then he felt it; something moving through him, like a warm current flowing through his chest that encircled his heart in an embrace. Then, quickly as it had come, it was gone.
The tears slowed. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, he opened his eyes and looked down at Lila. She was gone.
He reached over and picked up her hand. It was hard and deep brown against his smooth tan one. He brought it up slowly and pressed it to his cheek.
The birds swarmed overhead, black specks against the gray-pink morning sky. Louis sat on the picnic table, watching the flock as it wove and dipped as one great mass, darting first one way and then turning sharply to go in another direction. Every so often, the birds would settle down in the trees to rest until something would send them back in flight on their restless, weaving route. It was cold. Louis zipped up his jacket and hunched his chin down into the collar. He had left the hospital about four and had driven aimlessly in the predawn gloom before coming to the park. He had been sitting on the bench for the last hour, letting his thoughts and emotions drift. They would wander, aimless and fretful for a while, then settle into a calm before swirling again. Lila was there, hovering on the edge of his consciousness. But strangely, his pain had lessened. She was free of hers now, and it was as if she had taken most of his with her.
Louis heard the crunch of tires on gravel and turned to see a yellow Firebird pull in. It was Abby. He turned away, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.
She came up to stand behind him. “I saw your car.” She hesitated. “Is it okay that I stopped?”
He turned. She was wearing jeans and a denim jacket. She had a funny-looking denim hat with a red flower pulled down over her ears. Her red hair tumbled out beneath. He nodded and looked away, back out at the distant trees where the birds had gathered again.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“My mother passed away this morning.”
“Oh…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, stay,” Louis said quickly, reaching out to touch her sleeve. “It’s okay. Stay, please.”
She climbed onto the table to sit beside him. “I didn’t know you had fa
mily here,” she said.
“I was born here,” Louis said. “But I’ve been gone a long time.”
“Did you come back because of your mother?” Abby asked.
“Yes. She was dying. It was expected.”
Abby was silent. “Were you close to her?” she asked after a while.
“I didn’t know her. She wasn’t…” He paused. “…a very good mother. I was taken away from her and raised by foster parents.”
Abby was quiet again, then asked, “Did they love you?”
Louis nodded. “Very much.”
“That’s good,” Abby said quietly. “That’s…very good.” He heard her sniffling and turned. She was wiping her nose from the cold, like a kid might. “It’s sad, though. Families should be together. But things get in the way sometimes, I guess.”
Louis looked off into the trees, not really wanting to talk about families.
Abby touched his arm. “Are you going home now?”
“Yes. Soon.” He sensed the disappointment in her voice but decided not to say anything in response. He wasn’t about to share Junior’s mean gossip with her.
“What about your case?” Abby said.
Louis stared off at the birds. “It’s over.” He looked down at the ground. “Probably just as well.”
“But why? I thought it was important to you.”
“It is—was…I don’t know.”
Abby pulled off her hat and held it between her hands. “I’ve been looking through my books for the poem,” she said. He looked over at her. Her cheeks were bright pink from the cold.
“Thanks,” he said. “But there’s no need now. The case has been closed.”
She sat quietly for a moment. “I don’t think you should give up,” she said. “I mean, you care too much about it.”
He looked over at her, surprised. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he said. There was something in her eyes that pulled at him and he looked away. “In any case, I’m done here. I’m going home.”
“Home,” she said softly. “It sounds different when you say it.”
The blackbirds took flight again, continuing on their frenzied journey. Louis and Abby both looked up.
“I’ve got to go,” Abby said quickly, sliding off the picnic table. She pulled the denim hat down over her hair. “Louis, I don’t think you should give up,” she said.
“Abby, no one cares about that man.”
“You do,” she said. “But if you don’t want to do it for him, then you should just do it for yourself.”
She turned and hurried off to the Firebird, before he could say anything.
Louis stood staring at the empty bed. Bessie had already cleared everything from Lila’s room. There was nothing in it now that spoke of sickness and death. The bed was freshly made, the white chenille spread pulled tight, a quilt carefully folded over the footboard. The room smelled strongly of pine disinfectant.
Louis turned away and went into his own room. At the cupboard in the tiny kitchenette, he got out the jar of Jif, but it was empty. He debated whether to get dressed and go over to Tinker’s, but with a weary sigh, decided not to. He pulled a Heineken from the refrigerator instead, twisted off the top and took a swig. It was his second already, on an empty stomach, but he didn’t care. He stood in the kitchenette, looking around at his room. His suitcase lay by the bed. He had pulled it out of the closet earlier, intending to start packing. But he realized it wouldn’t take that long; he was leaving Black Pool with nothing more than he had brought in. Tomorrow morning, he would go in and give Dodie his resignation.
His eyes fell on the cardboard box on the kitchen table. He went over to it, staring down at the pieces of the broken bust. He was going to miss Bessie, but he was glad to be getting out of this place. There was nothing to keep him here now.
The phone rang out in the hall. A moment later, Bessie yelled up the stairs that it was for him. Tightening his robe, Louis padded out to pick up the extension.
“Louis?”
“Abby?”
“I think I found it.”
“Abby, it’s past eleven—”
“I found the poem, Louis.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “The poem? You found it? Where?”
“Right here at home. In a book here in our library.” She sounded excited. “I’ll bring it over. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, don’t come over here.”
There was silence for a moment on Abby’s end. “Louis, I’m not afraid.”
Jesus, she was talking about coming into the black part of town, not about being with him. Louis shook his head. “Abby, listen to me,” he said. “I don’t want to give anyone a reason to talk.”
“About what?”
“About you…about me and you.”
“That’s crazy, Louis,” she said. “For God’s sake, I’m not a kid. Look, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Abby!”
But she had already hung up. Louis put the phone back in its cradle with a frown. Damn it, there was no way to stop her. He dressed quickly and went downstairs. The blue light of the old television flickered from the dark parlor. He looked in with a sigh of relief. Bessie had fallen asleep in her chair, snoring along to Johnny Carson’s monologue. Louis went to the front door to wait for Abby.
He saw her Firebird pull up, and when she came up to the porch he opened the door before she could ring the bell. “Get in here,” he whispered. “And be quiet.”
He ushered her past the parlor and up the stairs to his room, closing the door behind her. Abby was looking around the small room, and Louis resisted the urge to apologize for his humble surroundings. He saw her looking at the suitcase by the bed.
She turned to him. “I have the poem,” she said, holding out a book. “It’s called, ‘To Be Lost, To Be Black.’”
He looked at her then took the book and opened it to the page she had marked. His eyes scanned the poem, fitting the missing words into the puzzle that had been turning around in his head for weeks. Then he read it again, slowly this time, now digesting the words as a whole, as a poem.
“‘Ask the night how it feels to be dark,’ ” he read slowly. “‘To be pitch, to he black, to be lost.’ ” His voice trailed off.
Abby came up and took the book from him. She sat down on the edge of the bed and read in a soft, melodic voice.
“‘Ask winter, the feeling of cold, the bitter edge of frost. I Ask day how it feels to be light, exposed so all can see, through the sharp lens of the sun, the glare of intensity.’”
Louis listened, mesmerized.
“‘With the fears that torture the dark, and days that are rimmed with pride. I Ask me how it feels to be both exposed and doubly denied.’”
He had drifted away somewhere for a moment and he struggled back. She was sitting there on the bed, looking up at him, her green eyes somber. He shivered.
“It’s cold in here,” he said. He went to the space heater and turned it on. He stood facing it, hugging himself as he waited for the coils to heat up, his arms folded over the thin cotton of his T-shirt.
“Louis…”
He felt her breath, warm at his ear.
“Louis, is something wrong?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Louis?”
He felt the gentle press of her hands on his back and he closed his eyes. He was afraid to turn around, afraid of the aching loneliness and need inside him and what it might lead him to do. He was afraid of her and her sweet willingness.
He turned. She was so close. She was so beautiful. He could smell her, a womanly musk, a faint scent of wine on her breath, and the lilacs. Her eyes were dark with her desire, her lips parted slightly in anticipation of his.
He cupped her face in his hands. So soft, so sweet, so beautiful. He would lose himself in her, drown himself in her, extinguish all the pain and emptiness.
He kissed her, softly, savoring the fruited taste of her mouth.
She hesitated ever so slightly, then responded with a kiss more urgent than his own. She moved against him, fitting her body into his, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Oh God, it felt so wonderful. To hold someone, to be held by someone.
She drew back, took his hand and led him to the bed. She sat down and with shaking fingers, unbuttoned her blouse and took it off. She was wearing a lacy pink bra; her breasts were full, her pale skin dimpled from the cold. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
He lay down beside her, cradling her against his chest. He kissed her collarbone and she trembled. He touched her breast and she gave a low moan, arching toward his hand.
“Make love to me, Louis,” she whispered.
There was something in her voice, a strange quiver, that made him pull back slightly to look at her. Her hair was a red fan against the white pillow, her face opalescent in the sparse glowing light given off by the heater. Her eyes burned up at him, with desire, but something else, a slight look of fear.
“Abby…”
“Please, Louis.”
She lifted her head to kiss him but he pulled away. His head was filled with a cacophony of emotions. Take her, take her, she wants you. It doesn’t matter now, you’re leaving, nothing matters now.
He felt her hand moving up the inside of his thigh and he moaned, closing his eyes. Take her…and then go. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.
“No,” he whispered.
He reached down and took her hand, removing it from his thigh. He looked down into Abby’s face. “No,” he said softly, “this isn’t right.”
She stared up at him for a moment, then turned her head away abruptly, closing her eyes. He raised himself up on his elbow and she quickly crossed her arms over her chest, shielding herself from him.
“Abby…”
A tear made its way down her cheek and across her nose. She wiped it away angrily. He touched her arm, but she shrugged it off and sat up, turning her back to him as she grabbed her blouse.
Louis swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat hunched over, eyes closed. He felt the bed move as she shifted to sit on the opposite side. It was several moments before he realized she was softly crying. He went around to the other side of the bed and sat down next to her. She wouldn’t look at him; she just sat there crying. Finally he drew her into his arms.
