“Do you mind if I pry,” said Anna, the anthropologist, with no expectation of an answer. “You’re all so different to be part of the same family.”
“We are all part of the family of man, children of the Great Spirit,” the Chief enjoined.
“Don’t say anything,” Lizzie cautioned Sparrow. “They’re my friends.”
“Really?”
Haviland approached her and squeezed her hand. “Found a new apartment,” he began, “great deal, 267 135th, Niggerati Manor, all artists, low rent, sponsored by Iolanthe Holstein, Homer Holstein’s daughter, runs her own Harlem employment agency . . . We gotta talk.” Sparrow walked away, shoveling down a handful of peanuts.
Anna bustled about the living room from corner to corner. “Mayfield, dear, where on earth is the bathroom?”
“Down the—oh never mind, I’ll show you.”
Lizzie led Anna to the hallway and paused, confessing her plan and how it had gone awry. “I didn’t mean for Hav to find out this way, but before this thing went any further, I had to tell him I had a child.”
“But darling,” Anna put her arms around Lizzie, attempting to comfort, “further in what way? Haviland is a homosexual.”
When Lizzie re-entered the apartment, her mind was reeling. Cinnamon ran up to her, pulling at her arms. “Play piano on my tummy, Mama.” Cinnamon had not asked to play this game in months, but these people were making her feel bad. If this was growing up, she was going to go in the other direction.
“Not now, baby.” Lizzie watched Haviland as she spoke, lifting Cinnamon to her lap. “It’s a game we made up in Raleigh.”
“Train! Whoo-woo!” Cinnamon splayed her fingers palms up.
“Not now.”
“Whoo-woo/ Chattanooga Choo-choo!” Cinn continued.
“I said not now!”
“Now it’s time for the birthday girl!” Elma interjected, holding the crooked coconut cake with five bright candles, four for her age and one extra in the center. “Make a wish, Cinnamon Turner!”
I wish these circus people would go away so I can have my mama and cake to myself. Just as she blew out the candles, the key turned in the door. “Papa Ray!” Just in time to get the first piece!
While Elma fixed Ray a plate in the kitchen, Cinnamon opened her presents. From Mrs. Jolly barrettes and new ribbon bows for her hair. From Jesse a set of jacks and pick-up sticks. From Mama El, a porcelain doll, a princess with white hair. Haviland handed her a picture of herself on a napkin. From Mr. Sparrow a big book with nothing in it. “That there’s a scrapbook, sugah,” he said, “for when your mama gets famous. You can keep pictures, mementos, and all your memories in there. Even that napkin.”
“How you know I’mo be famous?”
“I got the eye, baby. Surely you done figured that by now.”
Cinn looked toward her mother expectantly.
“What?” Lizzie frowned again. “I bought you a dress and threw you a party.”
“Lizzie.” Elma appeared again. “We were so busy, I forgot to wrap the Mah-Jongg.”
“What?”
“Go with me on this. The child is expecting a present.”
“Oh, the Mah-Jongg!”
Raymond idled in the kitchen. Overnight run to Buffalo. Caught a flat, dodged the feds, and I come home to this? He just wanted to sleep. He had plumb forgotten about the party. El cut her hair. His beautiful wife had taken a hatchet and lopped off her hair. Bloated silly people sitting in his living room, Jolly silently mocking his complete lack of control. The ham was cold, the biscuits were hard, and he hated okra. El cut off all her hair.
Who does he think he is, comin’ in here without so much as an explanation. Sittin’ in there sayin’ nothing, after worryin’ me to death. Embarrassin’ me in front of all these people.
Cinn sat fingering the ivory blocks of flowers, characters, and abstract designs; her tiny face was rapt as she examined each piece.
“Why didn’t you just get huh some checkuhs? Mah-Jongg?” Sparrow cracked, stacking the pieces.
“Tiles would go nice wid the bathroom,” added Mrs. Jolly.
“I bought it cuz we lived next door to a Chinaman most my life,” Lizzie said, trying to wrest her daughter’s attention from her sister. “My stepfather coulda been Chinese. I speak it fluently.”
“You can count to ten,” corrected Elma.
“I saw it at a party,” Lizzie said, pulling out a cigarette. “Looked like fun.”
Anna joined in, “I know the rules. It’s similar to rummy or dominoes.” She pointed out the various pieces to Cinnamon. “Three suits, Bamboo, Circle, and Cha-at. Four winds—East, North, South, and West. Three dragons. Red, White, and Green. The object is to build a great wall with your tiles and knock everyone else’s down. The goal is to collect four sets of three. Kong, Chow, and Pung.”
Sparrow made imitation Chinese, “This Pung is no Fung.”
“Sparrow, expand your mind. Take in the world!” Lizzie scolded. “This is an ancient game. Thousands of years old.”
“Took ’em five hundred years to learn the rules. Who wants whist?”
“I’m sure Cinn will grow into it just like she’ll grow into this dress,” Elma said as she nuzzled her niece.
“Come on over here, baby,” Lizzie commanded, “we gon learn the Mah-Jongg. I bought this shit. We gon learn how to play it.”
“Lizzie, no need for such language.”
“Need for it tonight. Goddammit! Two orchids, a bamboo, and a pair of winds, hit me!”
“I think it’s near the children’s bedtime.”
“Noooooo!” Cinnamon pleaded, pulling away from Elma. “I have a present . . . for Mommy. It’s a game we made up. It’s our game. Train time! Whoo-woo!” Cinnamon splayed her fingers, palms up. Lizzie approached and began playing out the chords and runs in miniature on her daughter’s fingertips. “Woo-Woo/ Chattanooga Choo-choo/ Someone tell me Who Who/ Is ridin’ in the caboose/ I need to be knowin’/ Where this train is goin’/ I simply got to find that sweet baby of mine/ So tell me where that Chattanooga Choo-choo/Is goin’ this—time!”
Cinnamon, for her part, had to anticipate place or key shift as the song progressed. “Memphis, Nashville, New Orleans/ Jackson, Tampa, Tallahassee/Charleston, Durham, Kittyhawk/ Norfolk, Richmond, sweet New Yawk.” Together they vamped the refrain. Each different note meant a different tickling spot and city. Cinn, even then a mockingbird, awaited where each tickle would fall, erupting in spasms of laughter that dwindled to a smiling sigh and an occasional hiccup of giggles.
Vee-Vee stood up, a cracker still on his lip. “That child has perfect pitch! . . . Ah, the talent of the Negro! A poem for Cinn. My Africa I kiss your soul.” Vee-Vee rhapsodized, twirling in circles by himself. “I hear the language of your heart in distant drums. I put my lips to yours. We mingle tongues.”
Elma’s back stiffened. She grabbed Jesse and pulled Cinnamon up by the hand. “Say goodnight, children. Some man put his tongue in my mouth, I’d bite it right off.”
Lizzie crossed her legs and remained on the floor. “So much for Miss Modern.”
Anna broke the silence. “Vee-Vee, aren’t we supposed to be in the Village for that reading?”
“Ah yes, of course. Great party, great fun, tra-lah.” The tall Norseman saluted Jesse and bowed to Cinn. “My dear, you have the voice of an angel and the fierce spirit of a goddess. Cinn, my Cinn, you must sing, you must always sing.”
Haviland pecked Lizzie on the cheek. “Talk later?”
She looked at him puzzled. “Why?”
The Jollys awakened Miss Tavineer and helped her down the steps.
The Chief turned to Elma standing at the cracked front door. “Do not let your eyes stay sad, Spring Blossom. The hair will grow back.”
Sparrow too prepared to exit. Cinn approached him with a hug. “Thank you, Uncle Sparrow, for my scrapbook. I’m gonna keep it forever.” Sparrow leaned over and said, “See, at least some people appreciate me.” Lizzie just rai
sed an eyebrow. “I’ll let myself out.”
Miss Tavineer sat in her kitchen, crossing herself. Grown folks hollerin,’ Lord, Jesus, children screamin’, floorboards thunderin’ above my head. “What was that crack—what crack—tryin’ to embarrass me—You!—Usin’ language like that in front of the children—Bringing those degenerates up here—Excuse me—Into my house—Stay out of this, Lizzie—Who the hell told you you could cut your hair—I don’t need your permission—Get your hands offa—It looks like shit!—Mah Mahhhh!—Lizzie stay—I said get your hands—Let go of—You wanna see what it looks like, you wanna see—Ray, let go of me—Get your fuckin’ hands offa her!”
Raymond had Elma by the hair, Cinn and Jesse latched on to her skirt, whipping around the room, Lizzie brandishing a frying pan.
Elma jerked away from his grasp and cradled the children in her arms. “Raymond Minor, what in hell’s come over you!”
“This is my house and I won’t have it sullied by this lowlife tramp!”
“You muthafuckin’ asshole! That makes us even, don’t it?”
“Oh for goodness gracious! It’s my hair on my head, I should be able to do what I like!”
But Lizzie wouldn’t let it alone. “You got your nerve callin’ me a lowlife. Least I ain’t a liar. Liar! Carpenters’ union, my ass. He’s deliverin’ booze all over town, Elma. Jolly put him up to it. That ain’t no goddam grocery store! You’re stashin’ up booze for the Irish mob. Delivery boy!” He stepped toward her, then pulled back. “You think I’m stupid?”
Ray walked out of the room, Elma trailing after him, “Ray . . .”
Lizzie swooped Cinnamon up to her side. “Come on, Cinn, we don’t need this.”
Elma returned. “Lizzie, he didn’t mean, Liz—”
“You need to get yourself together,” Lizzie said flatly. “You need to be leavin’ him. Crazy, lyin’ . . .”
Ray returned with Lizzie’s show trunk. He walked over to the window that Haviland had so nicely washed and threw her belongings into the street.
“Stop it, Raymond. Stop! Are you crazy?” Elma attempted to grab his arms but songs, costumes, makeup, phonograph records, then the Victrola, all went out the window.
Her child riding her hip, Lizzie turned on her heels. “All over some goddam hair?!”
“It’s not about any goddam hair!” Ray followed her, his voice bellowing down the stairwell. “It’s about you coming in here with your nigguh ways and that nigguh bastard, ruining my home! Get out!”
Shutters flapping, Elma screaming out the window, Jolly in his silk dressing gown, looking up at the sky raining someone’s life. “Listen, Minor, I cain’t hab dis.”
“Hey, you goddam white-assed nigguh, you got my money!” Lizzie hollered up at the window. Her shoebox stash flew out next, the green bills falling like cherry blossoms. The window slammed shut.
Elma appeared at the door, her scruffy bathrobe pulled over her dress, now shorn of its buttons. She held the robe about her, bent over at the waist, pleading, “Lizzie, please come back inside.”
“Loose me, Elma. I’ll never set foot in that house again . . . Low-down, no-good son of a bitch!” Lizzie hollered at the night sky. Wilted and defeated, Elma stepped back into the shadows and disappeared inside. Lizzie looked at her child, standing there in silence, tears collecting in her eyes. “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare cry.”
They salvaged what they could. Asa helped her collect the money. Mrs. Jolly gave Cinnamon a blanket and Lizzie some shopping bags. Cinnamon gathered a few Mah-Jongg pieces and her doll, which was now cracked and missing an eye. “Don’t worry about that,” Lizzie said, “just look for the money.” Miss Tavineer sent down some gingersnaps wrapped in a napkin and Cinn’s powder blue dress. “Leave it,” Lizzie said coldly. “I’ll get you another.”
They took a gypsy cab to Sparrow’s. Woke him up, interrupted some “private entertainment.”
“Got no place else to go.”
He looked at the frowning infant. “Hello, princess . . . Wait, wait. You don’t expect to stay here?”
“Just temporary. Bed share. Just till I get settled. I’ll up your stake by five percent.”
“Ten.”
“Five.” Both adults turned to the child swathed in a blanket, holding up her five sturdy fingers.
“I’m pregnant,” Elma had said lying in bed beside Ray, her arm folded beneath her still-tender neck. “I sold my hair to get some extra money.” He sat up and put his shoes on in the dark. “Oh go ahead just walk out! . . . Ray? Ray!” He walked out without speaking.
How had his life gone so terribly awry, drifting from one dream to the next, the slightest obstacle shifting his course? He was delivering downtown. The Palais du Strip, Second Avenue near Houston. The theater, like Jolly’s, was a distribution center, storing illegal booze for neighborhood joints on the Lower East Side and the Village. Ray could hear the tinny voices of chorus girls in the background as he entered.
As usual, he surveyed the building, analyzing its construction. Right away he looked for exits, always aware that potential argument over the terms could lead to the delivery man being endangered. Fire escape, loose hinge, no bottom. Side exits chained shut. Made to look run-down, the building was heavily fortified, the girlie show just a front. Flimsy curtains. The building smelled of that vague lemon fish scent of two-dollar tricks between acts, old wood and mold. Scenes flashed before him—Lizzie’s hard-earned dollars tumbling down to the street, sheet music dancing in the wind, children’s clothes disembodied. Elma . . . disbelief, disappointment, disgust. The strip joint’s owner sat in a back room, counting stacks of money.
“Got the load-in for the new show,” Ray said, then followed the wordless man to the truck, noting the dandruff on his vest, the shine on the seat of his pants. The man inventoried the delivery, jabbing the air with his pencil. Ray stood in the door frame. His eyes drifted up to the rafters of the building. Fly space, no wings. That damned Lizzie. How had he exploded like that? Why did she so irritate him?
She pursued her dream no matter what and what had he become but his grandpap, a failed old man, standing at the stage door. He counted the stage lights, assessed the crusted catwalk. Wait, something? High in the rafters, no bigger than a cigarette lighter. A tiny blue flame? What is that?
“Okay, stack ’em right here,” the man ordered and folded his arms over his chest, standing over Ray like an overseer, rocking back on his heels. Ray followed the meandering corridor back to the truck and began the tedious process of loading the crates on the dolly, carting them inside and stacking. On his second trip, he felt a sting on his neck and saw a flash on the rim of his cap. Suddenly he felt burning fragments cascade upon him. He heard a “Whoosh!” and looked up. The curtains ignited in a sea of flames, the theater erupted in pandemonium.
“Fire! Raid!” Dancers ran helter-skelter backstage, musicians scrambled out of the pit, frantic customers tripped over each other in the aisles, falling into mounds of crooked bodies at the chained side doors. Ray looked at the crates of illegal liquor stacked against the back wall. This building’s going to explode.
He grabbed the fleeing owner by the shirt. “Pull the box!”
“Ain’t no box!” the frantic man cried, attempting to pull away.
“Get to the nearest fire house,” Ray said, releasing him, “these crates are gonna blow!”
Pressure from the heat made the sound of cane thickets, the hollowed stalks bursting, the sound like gunshots. Ray pressed his body against the wall to keep from getting swept in the stampede of bodies on fire. He got down on his knees, panting and choking, Dear God! Just give me another chance. He made his way toward the cellar, dragging a panicked chorine by her feet. “Stay low! This way!” Others followed. He busted out the cellar door just as the world detonated above them and, with a plank of wood lain over the jagged edges of glass, he hoisted the hysterical group to the outside night air.
By then the fire trucks and police had arrived only to wat
ch what was left of the tawdry dance hall tinderbox collapse into a charred and twisted, molten carcass. Ambulance attendants covered the dead and tended to the wounded, their bodies still smoking. Ray dusted himself off and lowered his cap. Fists deep in his pockets, he casually strolled away from the scene. “Hey! Hey you!” a copper hollered after him, but he kept walking.
Ray rounded the corner and dipped into a movie house. He sat low in his seat. A flashlight down on batteries scanned the aisles. He slid up the aisle and the side stairs to the balcony. Noticing the projection booth open, he knocked on the door and stepped in, then started up a conversation.
When Sparrow awoke the next morning, he found Lizzie strapping on his suspenders, his underwear, and his sock garters, substituting for her missing dance clothes. “I’m late to rehearsal,” she explained, grabbing her still-sleeping kid.
“Damn,” he mumbled and rolled over as she slipped out the door, “if you gonna take muh draws, least you could gimme some pussy!”
The YWCA wouldn’t accept women with children. “But she’s my niece,” Lizzie protested, “I’m just taking care of her cuz my sister took sick. I’ve got a rehearsal at the Cane Break, damn it, and I gotta find somebody to watch her baby.” Despite the cute young minister manning the soup line, the Abyssinian ladies in the basement meeting room would not accommodate her either. The home for unwed mothers didn’t approve of Lizzie’s choice of work. Such carryin’-on, they said, set a bad example for the other girls. The house matron at the Urban League expected her to be in by ten. “How’s a woman spozed to work!”