He narrowed his cunning eyes and grinned. Only later would she realize that this was the first time she had seen him mirthful in seven years. Can’t you see? Here to delivery yo paper, baby.
Look, I don’t play. She swallowed, breathing more easily now. If you want to play, go to a school yard.
His eyes flared up with hate.
Shoo, boy. Shoo! Her hands brushed at him, brushed him away, dirt.
He started off on the racer, his eyes looking back at her. I’ll be seein you, ba-by! He blew her a kiss.
She exploded. Felt her hair singe and crackle. Boy, I’ll slap the shit out of you! She started down the porch steps.
His eyes glinted with rage. Pedaling, bike and boy disappeared.
That’s right. You better run.
She turned back up the steps and went into her apartment. Paced the room. In her anger, she had forgotten to confront him about the bike. She had purchased a red fifteen-speed Zurbo Turbo Urban Assault professional racer a week ago as a gift for Hatch when she learned that Lucky Green’s Groceries had hired him as a delivery boy — his first job. She was excited that at age fifteen he had finally set his athletic-shoed feet on the road to maturity. Now Chitlin was riding the bike.
She halted. Composed herself for work. One must be prompt. She moved into the bedroom, checked herself in the mirror, liked what she saw. Long black braids with neatly spaced colored beads flowed away from her brown face, down to her nape, trawl lines on night water. A gray knee-length dress fit close on her tight and toned curves. I will marry when I find the right man. The thought died as suddenly as it had arisen.
She quit her apartment, secured all six locks, and descended scrubbed stone porch steps — feeling both nimble and heavy — as if drawn by some force beneath the grassy lawn. She made her way down a short cement path to a speared wrought-iron fence and gazed out at the quiet streets, geometric lawns and hedges, prim flats (like her own), and houses of North Shore — gazed, searching for signs of Chitlin Sandwich. Nothing stirred. Disappointed, she opened the fence, closed it firmly behind her, and walked the few feet to her lime-colored Datsun 280ZX. Got behind the wheel. She was tempted to search for Chitlin Sandwich, but the bank came first. The groan of ignition. She handled keys, gears, and buttons with the skill of an astronaut.
Eased the car onto the highway. Watched the road through the windshield, and the windshield watched her back. Thinking about her brother, buried reflections. Fifteen years ago, Mamma had gotten so disgusted with fat greedy chicken-eatin wing-robed preachers (with each word, shout, hum, and grunt of his Sunday sermon, Reverend Ransom had examined her with knowing eyes) that she stopped attending church altogether. A ghost began to plague her family. He would nibble Sheila’s toes or fart above her bed — anything to prevent her from sleeping. She grew restless and dizzy. Bumped into objects like a spun cat. The ghost made comical faces whenever she sat on the toilet. But he soon tired of these games, tired of Sheila, and began to frequent Mamma at night, singing low-down blues all the while. (His blues-toned laughter still ruled her dreams.) Mamma found both prayer and potions ineffective. She sought the advice of her medium, who suggested that she change the direction of her bed. This worked. Then her belly began to round. Nine months later the ghost made a final appearance. He hot-wired a car, drove Mamma to the Cedar Sake Hospital, and set her down on the curb outside the emergency room. One hour later Hatch came quietly into the world.
You haven’t finished them files yet? Petite, smooth, and beautiful, a fairy, Angela spoke from the opposite desk. Files were scattered over Sheila’s desk like stones from a felled wall.
I’ll have them done by the end of the week.
I hope so.
Yeah, girlfriend. Niece spoke from the desk to the right of Sheila. She was as dark as a tree trunk and just as round and promising. Angela on her left, Niece on her right, and Sheila trapped between them. Better hurry up. You only got two days.
Two days is plenty of time.
If you say so.
I say so.
She don’t know what she sayin.
Sheila trained her eyes on an application and read it a third time.
You sure are sluggish this mornin, Angela said. Why you so slow this mornin?
Oh, that big strong long man musta kept her up last night.
Niece and Angela shared a foul laugh.
Lift both yall minds outta the gutter.
Nawl. Why don’t you come down here wit us.
You wish.
The three women worked in silence for some time.
We’re going to have dinner after the demonstration Saturday, Angela said. Maybe do some dancing.
Where?
Frank told me to ask you.
Let me think about it.
How bout the Sugar Shack? Niece suggested.
That new club?
Yeah. Dinner, dance, drinks, dudes. All a good girl need. Niece flicked her tongue fast and nasty.
The car rocked roughly over some potholes. Roofs lay in a crazy jigsaw against the sky. South Shore was a decent neighborhood, but Sheila searched long and hard to find a parking space in sight of Mamma’s living room window. She roared into the spot like a professional test driver and quit the engine. All had gone well at work. Troubled, preoccupied, she wondered at the upheaval. Disorder. She had decided to visit Mamma and report the morning’s events, even if her words fell on deaf ears.
She was about to place her key inside the lock of the front door, when she heard voices on the other side of the door. She stood quietly in the hall of the building and listened.
Now, I never minded yo playin guitar.
No, ma’am.
It kept you outta trouble and yo grades ain’t never suffer. I didn’t even mind yo going over this nigger’s house to practice, cause I thought them other musicians might improve yo sounds. But I ain’t gon let you play at no bar.
Please, Mamma. This my chance.
As God is my witness.
Please, Mamma. I’m beggin.
The only way you can go to that bar is by kickin my ass, and I don’t think you qualified to do the job.
Mrs. Wardell—
It’s Miss Wardell.
Miss Wardell, please allow me to interrupt. Salamanders is not a bar but a disco, and a prominent establishment, I might add. I can assure you that it is frequented by decent and well-educated individuals like yourself.
Please.
It is located in the East Shore area.
Mister, my son ain’t but fifteen.
Yes. I can see how that might trouble you. But let me stress that I’ve been in the music business for fifteen years and have encountered few problems. The owner of the disco is a close friend of mine. He is a professional man like myself.
I thought you drive a truck.
I do. A fourteen-wheeler, but … Anyway, the owner understands the situation. He understands my concept. That is—
Let me ask you one thing.
Ma’am?
What kind of an establishment opens its doors to teenagers?
Not to contradict you, ma’am, but it doesn’t open its doors to—
Hey.
Ma’am?
Let me ask you this.
But—
If you been in the music business fifteen years, how come you ain’t a star? Where’s yo video?
Ma’am, it’s like this—
Concept, please.
I’ve lacked marketability. Now, Sound Productions has just that. Give me a moment, ma’am. You see, all of the members of my band are youngsters like your son. My engineer is also an enterprising young man. My own son is the drummer. Ma’am, do you think that I’d take my own son into any establishment where his life would be in danger?
Mamma said nothing for a time. Then: I tell you what. Hatch can go. But let me say one thing. If anything happens to him, I’m coming for you.