Fear Itself Part 16

"Fella named Conroy. Said you stole his bathwater."

"That fat fool. Somebody need to shut him up. Always complainin' 'bout everybody, spreadin' lies an' stuff. What else he tell you about me?"

"Just about the bathwater," I said, "and that you picked his pocket or somethin' like that."

"Them high-yellah n.i.g.g.ahs run around thinkin' their s.h.i.+t don't stink and everybody wants what they got. You know the only thing in his pockets is past-due bills and a busted watch. Now who would wanna take that?"

"What's your last name, Charlotta?" I asked.

"Netters. I'm from the Tennessee Netters. Where you from, Mr. Hendricks?"

Charlotta's words were merely a question, but her tone and expression, even the way she stood, held the offer of something that kindled a spark way down in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm a Louisiana boy," I said. "Down where the peppers burn out your mouth and the gators grab children right offa their swings."

"I love hot food," she said, with a lingering emphasis on the word love. love.

I reached out with a single finger, touching her forearm ever so slightly.

"And I love spicy women," I said.

Charlotta speculated on the sensitivity of my touch.

"You wanna go down and get some dinner?" she asked.

"No," I said. "But I think I might need my strength."

We walked side by side down the stairs and through the hallway. She b.u.mped up against me now and then, not by mistake. When we got to the dining room all the seats but two were taken, and they were not together. I went to a chair between an older woman and a young man, while Charlotta made her way to a seat on the opposite side. She caught my eye now and then, smiling and pus.h.i.+ng out her already protruding lips.

Miss Moore sat at the head of the table while a young girl of thirteen or fourteen brought out the food on large serving trays. People were talking amongst themselves softly. The room was filled with the aroma of b.u.t.termilk biscuits that had been brought out and placed along the center of the table in three baskets. Miss Moore hardly had to raise her voice to get their attention.

"Everybody," she said. "I would like you to meet Mr. Hendricks. He's only going to be with us for a week or so. He's down from the Bay Area, looking for work before he gets married . . ."

The last words raised Charlotta's eyes a bit, but she didn't seem bothered.

". . . he's taking Kit Mitch.e.l.l's old room, and I hope the rest of you will help him out if he needs it. Mr. Hendricks, these will be your neighbors for the next seven days."

She went around the table with her eyes then, introducing my housemates. I didn't remember most of their names, even then. There was Charlotta and Melvin Conroy, a young man merely named Brown, and an older gray-headed woman called Mrs. Mulrooney.

"Welcome to the congregation, Brother Hendricks," Brown said as he reached for a biscuit.

"Brown, please," Miss Moore said then. "Wait for grace."

The young man, who had a flat face and expressionless eyes, smiled and leaned back in his chair.

"Mr. Hendricks," Miss Moore said then. "Will you lead us?"

I bowed my head and everybody around the table, and the serving girl too, bowed theirs.

"Lord," I said. "Bless this bounty and bless this house. Bless the people at this table who give thanks for your gifts, and bless the poor son lost from your light. Thank you for keeping us together and keeping us strong while we wors.h.i.+p in your name and your teachings. Amen."

"Amen," fourteen voices agreed.

When I opened my eyes I saw Miss Moore smiling, Charlotta grinning, Mr. Conroy grimacing, and everyone else reaching for food.

Dinner was comprised of chicken and dumplings, collard greens, creamed corn, and peach cobbler for dessert. Every bite was delicious and there was more than enough to go around. I found myself feeling sorry that I had used a false name to get my room. I would have gladly paid twelve dollars a week to eat like that every night. Living alone, I often settled for hamburgers or canned spaghetti.

"That was a beautiful prayer, young man," the older woman to my right said. "You must spend your Sundays with the Lord."

"I spend every day with him, ma'am."

"Brenda," she said. "Mrs. Brenda Frail."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Frail," I said.

There was a lot of talking and jocularity at the table. It was the friendliness of strangers. The only thing we all had in common was our race. There were Negroes from one setting to another and not any three who were the same color. There was nothing unusual about that, though. Being black in America was the simple fact of not being white. From the high-yellow Mr. Conroy to almost black Brown we ranged. Anyone looking at me would say that I was dark of color, that is, unless I was standing next to Fearless, who had retained every pigment of his African heritage.

Not one roomer was from Los Angeles originally. Most were from the South, but a few hailed from the Midwest. Everyone had at least one job. Most of the men had two. Even old Mrs. Mulrooney and Brenda Frail had part-time jobs, one at the five-and-ten and the other taking tickets at the Grand Avenue Cinema during the matinee.

"How do you like your room?" a man whose name I'd already forgotten asked.

"It's fantastic," I said. "I can't imagine anybody not wantin' to come home to that."

I was hoping to get a dialogue started on Kit Mitch.e.l.l, but all I received was a grunt from Miss Moore.

There were eight men, six women, and one girl. The oldest was seventy-four, that was Mrs. Mulrooney, and the youngest was Trina Harper, the serving girl. There was a mechanic, a chef, two domestics, two janitors, two waitresses, and a dry cleaner.

After coffee I followed my new neighbors through a door into the sitting room. This room was furnished with three couches, a few stuffed chairs, two small gaming tables, and a rabbit-eared television set. There was also a rather large built-in bookcase with at least a couple of hundred books jammed in. I made a mental note to peruse the collection before moving on.

"You look like a smart man, Mr. Hendricks," the youth called Brown said to me.

"Why thank you, Mr. Brown."

"Just Brown. That's what everybody calls me. You play chess?"

"I have played," I admitted, "from time to time."

Brown held out two fists and smiled. I tapped the left one and he turned over a black p.a.w.n.

"My favorite color," I declared.

Brown led us to the gaming table that had an inlaid checker and chess board. There he started setting up the board eagerly.

"n.o.body around here really play chess too much," he said. "Mostly it's just checkers and bid whist. Cards can be kinda fun, but you know chess is pure brain."

I felt a feathery touch on my forearm. Before I turned I knew it was Charlotta returning my earlier caress.

"Can I talk to you a minute?" she asked me.

She walked me to a small doorway that led into what can only be called an alcove.

"You wanna have a drink with me?" she asked.

"Yeah but I just started the game with Brown."

"That's okay. I got to go buy a li'l bottle first anyway."

"Oh," I said. "Good, I mean, I'd love to have a drink with you."

"I need two dollars for that and some pork rinds."

I forked over my last three singles and said, "Get yourself somethin' sweet too, baby."

She smiled and brushed my lips with hers.

I had to walk carefully back to the chess table to conceal the erection that Charlotta raised.

22.

BROWN KNEW HIS CHESS. He beat me the first game because I underestimated him, gazing around the room and trying to overhear conversations as we played. He beat me the first game because I underestimated him, gazing around the room and trying to overhear conversations as we played.

That game was fast, us taking no more than thirty seconds for each move. But I got serious in the second go-round. I took my time at strategic moments and outmaneuvered him so that he had to give up when half the men were still in play.

He won the third game. It was rare that anyone beat me twice in a night.

Brown had worker's hands and a hard look when he concentrated. At first glance I thought he was in his twenties, but then I could see where he was at least ten years older than that.

"Where you from, Brown?"

"Illinois originally," he said. "But they tell me I was born in Mississippi."

"Jackson?"

"Greenwood."

"Delta boy."

"I got the blues in my spit," he agreed.

"How long you been in L.A.?"

"Two years. Most'a that time I lived down at Redondo Beach, workin' on this mackerel fis.h.i.+n' boat they got down there."

"How come you left?"

"When I realized that I was gettin' seasick on dry land, I knew it was time to leave fis.h.i.+n' behind." He had a nice, friendly laugh. "So I moved here to Miss Moore's just a few days ago and got a job cleanin' tuxedos and silk dresses."

Charlotta had returned from the store and was sitting next to Brenda Frail. They were working on a quilt together.

Deciding to play with Brown turned out to be a mistake because of my pride. We traded wins back and forth for two hours, until the late news came on.

Good evening, this is Bob Benning with KTLA news. The police were summoned to a grisly scene late this afternoon at the Bernard Arms Residence Hotel on Fountain. The body of Lance Wexler was found by police, who had been trying to get in touch with Mr. Wexler for the past three days. There was no sign of a break-in. Just two days ago Wexler's sister was found dead in Griffith Park. She was also the victim of foul play. When asked about a connection between the two crimes, Captain Howard North told reporters that the police were looking into every detail of both homicides. . . . Maestro Wexler, oil distributor and real estate developer, offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of his children's killers. . . .

My heart was thundering by the end of the report. I wondered if the randy porter Warren had put together the delivery Negro at the back door and the death of his tenant. I worried that I might have left a fingerprint or maybe my wallet fell out on the toilet floor. I actually reached for my billfold to make sure that I still had it.

As bad as I felt, I was still able to beat Brown. That gave me hope. Maybe fear gave me clarity.

"Another game?" Brown asked.

"You good, man," I said. "Tomorrow."

Brown stuck his tongue in his cheek and smiled. The grin stopped at his mouth, his eyes bearing no relation to mirth. That's how it was for so many displaced southern, and even midwestern, Negroes in those days. Coming to California, they had to dig out from under nearly a century of white oppression. Everybody, black and white, was a potential enemy. People that had been mired so deeply in poverty that that's all they could ever expect. And so when faced with hope, many became distant and watchful. Even when relaxing, people like Brown were on guard, ready for any threat.

"MR. HENDRICKS," CHARLOTTA CALLED AT MY BACK.

I was halfway down the hall, headed for my room. You know I had to be shaken by that news report to have forgotten her in the sitting room.

"Hey."

"Did you forget our drink?"

"No, baby," I said. "I just didn't want to give people the wrong idea. I mean, what would it look like if I just walked up to you and said let's go upstairs?"

Charlotta was slightly taller than I and a few pounds heavier. She pressed me up against the wall and kissed me, hard. She knew how to kiss. The worry was still in my head but all the details fell away. When she stepped back to see my reaction, she had a smile on her face. I took a stutter step to keep on my feet.

"I like bein' treated like a lady," she said.

We kissed down the hall and up the wide stairway. It took me three minutes to unlock the door because Charlotta had worked her hand down the front of my pants. When she found what she was searching for her eyes opened wide.

"Is that real?" she asked me.

"Does it feel real?"

"Yeah."

"Then it is."

There are only three things that I've ever had pride in: my intelligence, my bookstore, and my s.e.xual endowment.

Charlotta and I barely made it to the bed. Once there, we hardly let go of each other.

Somewhere in the middle of our pa.s.sion I realized how much I needed the release. It wasn't lovemaking, but that was all right. I needed to be pushed around in a situation where I could push back. She didn't need to love me but just what I was doing-how hard and how long.