“Oh.” he shakes his head. “You see, I don’t remember that. I remember being in the store and getting sick and then seeing that dead man.”
“But you didn’t see that black man leaving like Harold did?”
“No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Can’t tie up this table, Corky, what’s it going to be?” Sandra is standing there with her pad and pencil.
“I see how busy you are,” Corky says and waves her arm back toward all of the empty tables. “Just bring us two specials.” Sandra just stares at Sam, rolls her eyes and then lopes off to the kitchen.
“No, I don’t remember any of that part, don’t remember even seeing that Harold man until I got inside of the store. It seemed like I had been there before.”
“Oh, I get those a lot where you feel like you’ve said or heard or done the exact same thing.”
“Déjà vu.”
“Huh?” God, if this boy starts talking crazy again or acting show-offy like Bob Bobbin, she’s gonna give up on him right now.
“That’s what you were talking about is called, but it wasn’t that way with me, not really.” He rubs his head again and then smiles at her, with straight white teeth.
“You must’ve been real drunk.” Corky leans back in her seat. “Bet it sobered you up to see what you saw.” She stares out the window and her face gets solemn, her eyes dull.
“Not so much as it made me realize that this is the world, violence and death. People talk about life and the real world and this is it.” He stares at her like she’s supposed to say something back. He’s getting her a little confused.
“Granner Weeks always says that you’re alive until you’re dead.” That is all she can think of to say, and she waits to see what hell answer back. It takes him a while, so she shuffles through those menus again until Sandra snatches them out of her hand.
“Two specials,” Sandra says and stares at Sam. He stares back without blinking. Then he stares down at his hot roast beef sandwich, bends over and smells it. Sandra rolls her eyes again and gives Corky one of those “you’re stupid as hell” looks. What does Sandra know? Corky watches until Sandra is back behind the counter with her cup of coffee and romance magazine.
“You do have a life if you’re alive,” she says, and takes the pickles off of the top of her sandwich. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell,” he says, with his lips pushed forward, his right cheek bulging with sandwich. He nods and holds up his hand to let her know that he will finish when he swallows. “Grew up in a small town, went to school, went to college, got out, went to New York to find out what it is I want to do with my life, left New York and still haven’t figured out what to do. I mean there are so many bad things happening and people settling down to the same old things, you know?”
“Same here, I guess, ’cept I never went to college, never been to New York.” Corky takes a deep breath. “But about that other part, well, I’ve known all that goes on for as long as I can remember. I know that I’m alive.”
“But everything else is dying, falling apart.” He leans forward and is almost in her face. “That’s why I want to shut myself away from it all, you see, before I lose all of my desire for something better; I don’t want to become like everybody else, like her.” He glances over at Sandra, who has now opened a bag of potato chips and is sitting over there crunching.
“Nobody’s like her, I’ll guarantee,” Corky says. “I work here with her every single day and I’m not like her.”
“But you might get to be like her. You may fall in the hole with everyone else.” He points to the floor like maybe it might open up, or like he sees a big hole there. This has gone about far enough. He may sound smart and maybe he did go to college, but what he’s saying now is crazy. Imagine, her getting to be like Sandra. Sandra is divorced, and Corky hasn’t even been married yet.
“Sounds to me like you’re feeling scared and sorry for yourself for some reason.” She pushes her plate to the center of the table and she hasn’t even finished one half of the sandwich. “You’re just scared of what you might see or what might happen. I bet nothing bad’s never happened in your life!”
“Maybe that’s how I can see it so much better, see it objectively, a process of elimination.” He picks up part of her sandwich and starts eating it.
“That’s a lie!” she says, and she doesn’t even care that Sandra is staring over at them. “I’ll tell you how I know it’s a lie that what you’re saying works.” She props her elbows on the table and cups her face in her hands. “My Mama left home when I was fifteen, no warning, no nothing, she just up and left. All my Daddy did was sit around and say what you’re saying about the end of it all and all that. He didn’t care a bit about me or how I felt; he didn’t care a bit about anything but lying around in his bed, drinking and crying and saying how his world had fallen down.” She turns and looks out the window. “Wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t eat, just shut himself away from it all like you want to do, and do you know what happened? Do you?” She can feel the blood pumping to her face and she wants to stop, to forget all about it, but now she can’t, now she has to say it all and be done with it. “He blew his head off, right in that bed, just like that!” She snaps her fingers and looks at him now, those gray eyes hard and glassy. “On a Sunday morning, do you hear? A Sunday morning in the dead of the summer!” She leans back and takes several deep breaths. It makes her mad all over again just to think about it.
“Maybe he did what he had to do. Maybe he wanted to take control of his life before somebody else did it for him.” He doesn’t even raise his voice.
“Ha! It was stupid and it was easy. He didn’t have to strip off those bloody sheets. He didn’t have to see him-self lying there with half a head! He didn’t have to do nothing about a service. He didn’t have to be right by himself, like he left me.” Now Corky is crying and she can’t help it, she can’t help but see it all again. “And now Mrs. Husky is left all by herself, and Mr. Husky couldn’t help it. He never would’ve left her all alone on purpose, but still, she’s alone and he wanted to live. You don’t feel alive when you hear all of that? It doesn’t make you thankful that you’re not one of those numbers you been talking about?”
“I’m sorry.” He pushes his plate to the center, reaches across the table, but she jerks away. “I didn’t mean to upset you again. Really, I had no idea.”
“That’s what I been saying.” She glares at him and her eyes are all red. “You haven’t got any idea of what it’s like, because if you did, then you wouldn’t talk the way that you do. You think I’m just gonna fall apart because I knew people who have?”
“You misunderstand me, really. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“No, you don’t know what you’re saying, because you don’t understand. You might have gone to college but you don’t understand a whole lot.”
He shakes his head and she just shrugs, her brows wrinkling again like pale white circumflexes. The bells ring, and for the first time in her life Corky is glad to see Bob Bobbin. She’d be glad to see anybody that could put a stop to this crazy conversation.
Now Bob is standing close by with one of those tacky Elvis lamps under his arm. Corky wishes that people would just let Elvis rest in peace, let her Daddy rest in peace, let everybody dead rest in peace.
“Hi there, Bob,” Sandra says, and giggles. Sandra is far too old to giggle that way.
“Hi.” Bob is watching Corky now, and it makes her so mad for him to watch her this way. Every time that they’ve had it out good and proper and she thinks that she’s gotten rid of him, he comes back and looks at her this way. “Corky, can I talk to you a minute?”
“What for?” she asks, and now Sam Swett has sat up straight in his chair and is squeaking his wet tennis shoe back and forth on the floor. He is watching every move that Bob makes.
“In private,” Bob says, and walks right around Sandra to the back room.
“Hey, you’re not supposed t
o be back there, and neither is Corky after her shift is up.” Sandra gets off her stool and stands there with her hands on her hips.
“Just this once, Sandy.” Bob pinches her cheek like he might be some old movie star, and Sandra is desperate enough to fall for it.
“Just this once.” Sandra smiles at him and then glares at Corky when she passes.
“What is it, Bob? Can’t you see that I’ve got a lunch date?” Corky leans against the doorway, her hands in the pockets of her apron.
“With him?” Bob carefully places the lamp beside the sink and steps forward. “A lunch date?”
“That’s what I said, now what did you have to say?” Now that he has moved closer, she stands up straight with her arms crossed over her stomach.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about earlier.” Bob shifts around and Corky knows what’s coming before he even takes off his hat. “It’s just that I care.”
“And I don’t.” There, she told him. His ears are turning red and he stares down at his big black-handled gun fastened there on his belt. “Was there anything else?”
“No, not one damn thing.” He glares back at her and watches her turn and swing out, hears her talking to that crazy boy. Bob goes back and picks up the lamp, cradles it in his arms. “I thought you might like this Sandy, real fine piece.” He hands the lamp to her and keeps his eye on Corky, who is now holding hands with that boy.
“Why Bob, how thoughtful.” Sandra takes the lamp and puts it up on the counter, steps back and looks at it. “How bout some lunch for you? It’s on the house!” Sandra rushes over to get a plate and silverware.
“Raincheck, got some big business going on.” He puts his hat back on and looks one last time at that lamp. Corky isn’t even paying any attention, isn’t even trying to hear what’s going on between him and Sandra and he can’t hear what’s going on between Corky and that boy because they’re both leaning up and talking real low. “Take care of yourself, Sandra, don’t work too hard.”
“Now, Bob, you know what they say about all work?” Sandra giggles again. “I’ve never been accused of not playing enough.”
“That’s good, Sandra,” Bob says quickly, so maybe he can hear what’s going on. He hears Corky saying that she’s sorry, that it wasn’t his fault she got upset and that boy is saying no, that he’s sorry. Bob thinks that that boy is sorry, too, sorry as anybody can be, and he can’t help but wish that Corky had said all of that to him, told him that she was sorry for all those awful things that she said. It might be that he should just give up on Corky Revels and concentrate on another woman. He could snap his fingers and have Sandra Rhodes just like that. He can hear his Mama and what she always says, “Always want what you ain’t got. You get big wonders, eat rotten cucumbers.”
Sam Swett watches that cop disappear around the corner. “He’s sort of strange, isn’t he?”
“Well, that’s an understatement!” Corky laughs. “I bet you think he’s like everybody else, don’t you?” She is suddenly lightening up, laughing, like her whole mood has changed. “And I’m just like anybody and everybody. I’m just like Loni Anderson. I’m just like Dolly Parton.” She holds back her shoulders and thrusts out her chest, her small breasts held there.
“Not quite.” He shakes his head. “You’re not like anybody I’ve ever met.”
“Same for you.” She reaches for his hand and holds it, even though Sandra is watching. “Let’s go somewhere else. I’ve been here all morning.”
“You’ve got a birthday party.” He pulls his wet money back out of his pocket and unfolds it, five twenties. That boy’s got a hundred dollars and didn’t even know that he had it.
“Not for an hour.” She stands up and stretches, takes one of the twenties up to the cash register. “Here you go, Sandra.”
“This money’s wet.” Sandra shakes it out and opens the drawer. “Did you see what Bob gave me?” Sandra points over to the lamp.
“Isn’t that something?” Corky holds out her hand for the change and counts behind Sandra. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sandra had overcharged somebody.
“I just can’t get over Bob doing that for me. How did he know that I’m an old Elvis fan?” Sandra is over by that lamp now, running her finger up and down Elvis’ nose.
“He must have been checking up on you.” Corky crooks her finger and Sam gets up and follows her. “He must be getting up his nerve to ask you out.”
“You reckon?” Now Sandra is all smiles, even smiles at Sam Swett. “You children have fun now,” she calls and Corky hardly gets out the door before she starts laughing, her eyes crinkling, the pink flowing back into her face. She loops her arm through Sam’s and pulls him off down Main Street.
“Do you ever feel mean?” she asks and laughs again. “I mean do you ever just feel so good deep down inside that it makes you a little mean acting?”
“I don’t know if I have or not.” Now Sam can’t help but laugh, even though he’s not certain what he’s laughing about.
“Well, it’s a good feeling sometimes. It feels good right here.” She stops and takes his hand, puts it over her heart and he can feel the outline of her small breast underneath her uniform. “Right in my heart is where it feels good sometimes when I feel mean.” She takes his hand away and he is sorry; he was just about to put his other hand up there. God, what is he thinking? He is here in the middle of this town and he’s losing all sense of privacy, losing all sense.
“Do you want to go to my room?” he asks and points to the Hotel down on the corner.
“I don’t think that would look so nice, now, do you?” She puts her arm back through his. “I’ll show you where I live, though, if you want to see?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“I mean, for all I know you may have a bus to catch?”
“No, not right now. I’m in no hurry.” And that’s true, a concrete statement. He has nothing to do and nowhere to go, at least for the time being. “I’d love to see where you live.” He quickens his walk to match hers, those little feet almost skipping down Main Street.
Thomas McNair knows that his Mama is coming before he even sees her or hears her voice. He recognizes that shuffling walk, those scuffed up terry cloth slippers that she wears year round everywhere she goes. A policeman is leading her down the hall and she’s going on and on with that white man about the weather. She doesn’t even know when somebody’s talking down to her, using that slow pronunciation that people use with children and idiots.
“Here he is,” the policeman says and leads her into the room. Thomas doesn’t even look up at her and she can tell by the way he’s clenching his fists, tightening that jaw, that everything he said on the phone was an act, prayers in the dark. He’s the same old Thomas.
“What took you so long?” he asks when she has shuffled her way over to him. She seems to have aged in just the past few weeks, gray hairs creeping from that scarf that she has rolled and tied up around her hairline like some kind of Aunt Jemima.
“I had to wait for a taxi. I work way out in the country, you know.” She sits down across from him and shakes her head like he’s to blame for something. “I never thought I’d have to see this.”
“What? See what? Your son falsely accused of something? Accused only because I’m black?” Thomas cannot help but raise his voice; he’d like to scream, and he doesn’t care who would hear him. “I don’t even know what’s going on!”
“The truth will come out,” she says. “If you’re innocent, then you’ve got nothing to fear.”
“If! You say that like you’re not sure you believe me! What if little M. L. was sitting here? What would you say if precious little M. L. was all of a sudden the token nigger accused of something?”
“I do believe you. I do.” She reaches over and touches his arm but he jerks away. “I’m here, ain’t I? I came as soon as you called.”
“You got to help me get this mess straight.” Thomas stands up and starts pacing back and forth.
“Don’t you see what could happen if that witness comes in here and says I’m the man? It happens, you know. Innocent people get convicted.”
“You got to have faith, Thomas, cause the good Lord ain’t gonna let any such wrong happen.”
“Faith! That’s all that ever comes out of your mouth. Tell me, Mama, where was Jesus Lord God Almighty when the black man was out in the fields? Where was he when we were sold and beat?” She won’t look at him and he’d like to grab her face and make her look, make her hear what he’s saying. “I know before you even say it, The Great Lord works in mysterious ways.” Thomas lifts his hands to the ceiling and waits for her to respond.
“It’s the truth, Thomas, and you see that I ain’t been sold or beat a day in my life!” She grabs him by the arm and he lets her, because she’s about to cry and because if he grabbed her arm right now he’s afraid that he’d twist it until it snapped like a twig. “You listen to me, Thomas Alva McNair. You listen.”
“You sell yourself every single day and that’s worse! You were beat the first day that you ever went and cleaned up after that white man!” Thomas gets right in her face.
“Anybody that holds down a decent job, I don’t care who they are, is selling themselves. A body’s got to do what they got to do.” Now she is starting to shake a little, her hands trembling, the tears coming to her eyes, making him feel guilty as hell; his whole life she’s made him feel guilty. “You call me away from my work to come and be with you, and then this is what I get.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’ll lose about two dollars and fifty cents, huh? And let’s see, what would that buy?” He rubs his chin like he’s thinking, giving her time to hear every word. “That would just about buy a watermelon for you and little M. L. so you could sit out on that dirty front porch and spit seeds.
“You shut up, Thomas McNair. This don’t concern M. L., and besides, I make a good salary and earn every cent of it.” She picks up her purse and her paper bag and puts them on her lap. She acts like she’s got such a good job out there and they don’t even feed her, she probably has some old piece of side meat slapped between bread in that bag.
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