Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart Page 16

  In a blind rush of words Jinx says, Pa, I made this mistake I guess.

  About three weeks ago. Was in Chaney's just closing up and this girl came running in. Jinx hesitates. Should he say the girl was white?

  Is that part of the story? White girl, he says weakly.

  I don't know her re al well but I know her some. A nice girl. Couple years younger than me. And she was scared. said there was this guy, this nasty mouth guy from the neighborhood, after her.

  And. Jinx pauses again. He's beginning to sweat. His father's big hand is on his shoulder now and his father's eyes have a look of retreating, contracting. Jinx senses that after hearing the words white girl his father stopped listening.

  Once Jinx says the name Garlock he won't be able to unsay it.

  Jinx is squatting on his heels in the soft earth; his thighs and knees have begun to ache. It's a long dread moment that he and Woodrow Fairchild Senior stare at each other as if they've never seen each other before. Jinx is thinking, He knows. Jinx is thinking, He doesn't he doesn't know. Got into a fight, Jinx whispers. But there is no way to continue and no way to re treat, unless Pa forces it from him, which, it seems, Pa is not going to do. The elder man's eyes are narrowed nearly to closing.

  Jinx finds himself crouched with his cheek against his father's knee, sobbing.

  God, he hadn't meant this! Hadn't meant anything like this!

  Like a baby he gives himself up to hot shameful sobbing as he hasn't done in years. And Pa hugs him hugs him hard. Pa lets him cry, Pa's praying over him, directly addressing the Lord Jesus Christ as if Jinx Fairchild isn't even there.

  In this awkward position they re main, Woodrow Fairchild Senior and his son Jinx, for many minutes.

  Does he believe in God? In the Lord Jesus Christ?

  Does he believe in the devil?

  That night, the thought comes to him, light as the gossamer of milkweed seed, If that white girl wasn't living, wouldn't anybody know.

  Says Virgil Starling, arm slung around Persia Courtney's rib cage as he walks her, staggering steady, hips banging, into the kitchen, Know what you need, baby? Some good solid food in you.

  Persia protests. Oh, honey I don't think I could manage.

  Leaning on him, hiding her face in his neck.

  She'd almost said keep it down. Don't think I could keep it down.

  Thank God she hadn't.

  Persia Courtney's sweet caramel skinned lover, beautiful Virgil Starling, like no man she's known. Just the look of that man.

  the look from him. Persia melts like honey.

  Would you believe it, after all she's been through?

  She wouldn't.

  He's laughing that wet clicking laugh deep in his throat.

  Walking his lady around the linoleum floor to clear her head a little.

  Humming Chuck Berry's Maybelline, he swings her, hard gripping under the armpits so she squeals, winces, hugs him to keep from falling.

  Says Virgil Starling with certitude, I can man age. I say, you better get some good solid food in you.

  So Virgil Starling slips on his shirt, puts on his shoes and socks, trots over to Loblaw's, then to the seafood market, then to the Italian bakery with Persia's wallet snug at his hip trots back to the apartment and prepares a delicious meal for the two of them: Galveston Gumbo, he calls it.

  Just some messin' around my momma does, it ain't no recipe or anything, just you getting' it how you want it: thick or thin, real spicy or not, whatever.

  While Persia, face washed now and lightly powdered, reddish gold hair piled atop her head like Rita Hayworth, sits on the edge of the kitchen table, a cigarette burning in her unsteady fingers.

  She's wearing the champagne colored ruffled negligee Duke gave her oh, Christ, how long ago but it still looks good; she's fighting a small tide of nausea but isn't showing it in her face. And thinking she should telephone the club manager to explain about last night Sonny, it won't happen again I promise but she isn't showing that in her face either. Nor the worry about Graice, the worry these weeks, and where the hell is the girl right now: like slivers of broken glass on the floor you can cut your bare feet on, not seeing them in time. No, she's watching her honey man showing off for her in her own kitchen, taking over like it's his; she's eating him up with her eyes: the high assed strut, the bulge at the crotch of the red russet trousers, the filmy shirt open on his warm near hairless chest, the loving looks he's casting her. And he dips on over to kiss her, and she kisses him, long wet laughing tongue kisses, Persia's arms around his neck and the cigarette burning high over his head, but better not get me started again says Virgil, and Persia releases him. And talking, talking, talking all the while: like music you don't even have to listen to, to know it's there, and steady, and you like it, and it's good.

  Persia Courtney's mulatto lover, people are saying. and so what?

  Doing it to spite me, Duke Courtney is saying. and so what, even if that were true?

  Persia says, surprised her voice sounds so sleepy, Lover, you're too much for me sometimes. I mean it.

  Virgil says, almost modestly, No man too much for you, Persia, only just half enough.

  The sound of that word Persia in his mouth goes through her like an electric current; he doesn't say it often.

  Persia laughs almost harshly. You jivin' me, baby? she drawls.

  It takes Virgil Starling a while to prepare the gumbo so they start in drinking beer. Beck's, straight out of the bottle.

  Duke didn't like to see Persia drink this way, but Duke isn't here to criticize.

  Duke's things are mostly cleared out of the closets and this time it's permanent; he isn't coming back.

  Best way of clearing the head: cold bitter Beck's out of the bottle.

  No butter? says Virgil, frowning. OK, then, margarine ain't the best for cookin' okra pods but it'll do. gotta chop it all up good, and a big strong smellin' onion, and some nice fresh green peppers like these mmmmmmm! don't this smell good in the skillet! then you pour the stuff in the tomatoes here; nice fresh tomatoes is best of course but canned ain't bad, maybe a little too sweet. OK, now you get it simmerin' like this on a low flame, then you put in the oysters, then the shrimp. only drawback to shrimp is you gotta clean em, and that takes time.

  Persia says, I'll clean the shrimp.

  Virgil says, Naw, honey, you sit still.

  Persia says, Why can't I help?

  Virgil says, Cause you ain't in the mood for it.

  Persia says, Sure I am!

  Virgil says, waving his hand at her, Naw, honey, sit still, you're pretty there just like that.

  Persia says, You think I'm drunk, mister Boss Man? Is that it?

  I'd cut myself with the knife or something. cut you?

  Virgil laughs and pays Persia no more mind.

  He's fast with the shrimp though, fast and efficient, and when he's through there's a scattering of tiny heads, tails, transparent shells on the cupboard counter and in the sink and on the floor.

  .

  Persia will be stepping on those scraps, crunching them underfoot, for days.

  Gumbo's ready Virgil Starling and his glamour lady kiss again, and sit at the kitchen table, knees nudging knees beneath it, and eat.

  There's crusty Italian bread and two cold Beck's right out of the refrigerator and the gumbo is thick and rich and delicious but Persia isn't hungry Persia is never hungry any longer, fearful she'll be sick to her stomach, in fact but with each shaky spoonful her appetite increases. what is happening?. is she hungry? In the end she's eating almost ravenously and Virgil pushes his bowl over to her so she can finish his, lights up a cigarette, watches her eat.

  You like it, huh? My momma's gumbo?

  Persia says, Oh, yes.

  Good, huh?

  Persia says, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin, sighing, It's good.

  11Be're fated, us two it's Duke's voice in a murmur you know that, Persia. can't not know that. And Persia's voice lifts. What about Graice, the
n, your daughter? Is she fated too? And there's a long pause, as if Duke Courtney has forgotten he has a daughter. Then: She's fated too.

  She's ours. She's the bond between us that can't ever be broken.

  Graice isn't eavesdropping but Graice overhears. These voices penetrating the walls of any room she can hide in.

  This is the last clear memory she will have of Duke Courtney in the Holland Street flat and of herself in her old room, fist jammed against her mouth.

  In a single feverish weekend, the last weekend in June, PersiaCourt they with her friend Virgil Starling's assistance moves herself and Graice and all their furnishings, clothing, possessions not Duke Court they's: his things Persia leaves behind heaped together in a carton for the building's janitor to store fourteen blocks south to the upstairs of a two story wood frame house on Jewett Street. The house is old, solid, with a high peaked plunging roof, pewter gray paint peeling in terse strips from its sides. It is flanked on both sides by similar houses, built almost flush to the sidewalk, no room for grassy front yards. At the rear the yard is wild, untended, a jungle that lifts to a railroad embankment about forty feet behind the house.

  The locomotive's high pitched whistle and the rattling of freight cars will penetrate Graice Courtney's dreams for the next three years but she has here, at last, a room with a true window and true daylight.

  won't have to crouch and squint up to see the sky.

  No outdoor stairway slanting past.

  Just this view Graice stands at the curtainless window, pressing her forehead against the fly specked glass the tangled back yard that's new to her vision, the scrub trees and bushes and the railroad tracks elevated about six feet above the natural curve of the earth.

  Beyond the tracks is a block of row houses, clotheslines strung across their back yards in a discontinuous pattern. She feels a thrill of hope tinged only faintly with dread.

  The new residence at 927 Jewett isn't much different from the old residence at 372 Holland except it's smaller by one room, nor is the new neighborhood much different from the old. Jewett is a residential commercial street skirting the shabby edge of an Italian neighborhood, and though the street is quieter than Holland less dangerous, as Persia says now they must walk two blocks to a bus stop and nearly that far for groceries.

  Though Persia plans on buying a car soon. And Persia has the use of friends' cars: she's that kind of woman, never lacking for friends with cars.

  And there's Virgil Starling. Virgil Starling who is often around.

  Persia says, He's the sweetest man I've ever met.

  Persia says, He's a good man. he's good to me.

  Persia says, fiercely, Do you think I care what anyone says? Do you think I'll let anyone interfere with my life? I need to be happy too sometimes!

  Graice notes without comment how, the many hours they're moving into the new apartment and at one point, helping with the heavier pieces of furniture, Virgil Starling works with a friend, darker skinned than he the downstairs tenants of the house and the neighbors on both sides observe them covertly, coldly. Not a hand lifted in greeting, not a smile. No offer of help, of course.

  White woman and her daughter and a light skinned nigger.

  what the hell?

  Knowing themselves watched gives them an air of reckless gaiety amid the uprooted battered looking furniture, the boxes of ill packed dishware, rumpled clothing, shoes, books. There's sloe eyed Virgil Starling tramping up the stairs, comically staggering under the weight of one of these boxes with Persia's glamorous wide brimmed hat on his head, cloth gardenia flopping. seeing him, both Persia and Graice burst into screams of laughter.

  Virgil Starling plays it cool, feigns puzzlement, hurt. Hey, man, what's so funny, man? This boy's back damn near broke over you women.

  Graice Courtney is shy of her mother's lover up close; his smooth buttery skin is too bright.

  And his dark brown mirthful eyes, his eyes raking her up and down. And the rippled processed dark brown hair that lies on his head like a cap, oily and gleaming, its rich scent lingering in Graice's nostrils for hours. His clarinet sliding voice, Mmmmmmmmm!

  There's a gal looks good enough to eat!

  He is a jazz clarinetist, plays sometimes at one or another of the local clubs. To make a living at least temporarily he works at Louis the Hatter's, the best Negro clothing store for men in Hammond which accounts for his stylish wardrobe, his dozens of colorful shirts, hand tooled leather boots, boxy double breasted sports coats, snug fitting trousers. He wears a wide stretch band wrist watch; he has rings on several fingers. It's possible that he has a wife and children in another city, but who wants to question Virgil Starling on so intimate a subject? Not Persia Courtney, who melts like honey in his presence, throws back her head and laughs uproariously in his presence, as Graice has not heard her laugh in years.

  Through an upended mirror of Persia's dressing table propped against a doorway Graice sees slantwise, unknown to her mother and her mother's buttery skinned lover, how, imagining herself unobserved, Persia snatches up Virgil Starling's hand and kisses the fingers.

  maybe sucks in the tips, bites a little. And Virgil Starling mauls her like a big jungle cat.

  Graice Courtney looks away, stricken.

  The pang of it sweet and sharp between her legs.

  There's some men don't need to be pure black to make a woman feel pure white, Persia Courtney has said.

  Laughing over the telephone to one of her woman friends.

  'And it's a delicious feeling.

  Graice wonders how much younger than her mother Virgil Star ling is.

  And whether that makes any difference in what they do together.

  One night in the Holland Street apartment the telephone rang and it was Duke Courtney asking to speak with Persia, but since Persia wasn't there he spoke with Graice sober sounding, trying to control his hurt asking, Is your mother doing this to humiliate me?

  Sleeping with this. mulatto?

  Graice did not know how to re ply. It seemed a deeply shameful thing, to be so addressed by one's father.

  Whose side are you on, Graice? Hers, or mine?

  Graice murmured, Oh, Daddy That whore's, or mine?

  The telephone receiver slipped from Graice's fingers, and when she picked it up again the line was dead.

  At the present time it's believed that Duke Courtney is living in the old Niagara Hotel, uptown on Main Street. When he learns Persia's new address on Jewett Street he will send a dozen re d roses To my beloved wife Persia and my beloved daughter iraice from one who loved not wisely but too well.

  How many nights in the new apartment as on this, the very first night, does Persia Courtney on her way out for the evening or the night frame her daughter's face in her slender hands, kiss her on the forehead, or, funnily, on the tip of the nose, say with an air of pleading, Don't wait up for me, honey, all right? and don't worry?

  Meaning, I don't know when I'll be home.

  Meaning, It's my business when I'll be home.

  And how many times does Graice Courtney stiffly hug her mother in re turn, brush her lips against her mother's rouged cheek. No, I won t wait up, she says. No, I won't worry.

  How many times, these next several years?

  Tonight, with Virgil Starling waiting for her downstairs in his car, tonight Persia Courtney looks gorgeous. or almost. In an apricot summer knit dress with a tight bodice, hair brushed and gleaming, smelling of a dark fruity perfume that's new to Graice's nostrils; in high heeled white sandals that emphasize the shapely swell of her calves. By the time they'd finished moving that after noon Persia was faint with exhaustion so she soaked for an hour in a hot bath, in a luxury of fragrant fizzing bubbles, cold cream smeared on her face, eyes blissfully shut, a glass re sting on the tub's rim. just to sip from.

  An inch or two of Southern Comfort splashed in a glass, without ceremony, hardly counts as a drink.

  Persia waves a kiss at Graice from the doorway. Love ya, honey!


  Graice murmurs, Love you.

  That night, Graice is wakened in her new, unfamiliar surroundings by a heart stopping noise; she's terrified for several seconds before realizing what it is: a locomotive whistle, an endless line of freight trains, a thunderous vroooooom as of the sound of Death sweeping over the world.

  And does she think of it, of Death; of the pool of blood darkening under her enemy's head or of his body hauled battered and eyeless from the river?