In My Father's House

“Just checking my book,” he said, showing the little black address book to the boy.

  “You go’n have to pull up,” the boy said.

  “Would you happen to know Mr. Chippo Simon?” Phillip asked him.

  “Who?” the boy said, checking Phillip closely. He was suspicious of strangers who wore clothes as expensive as Phillip’s.

  “Mr. Chippo Simon,” Phillip repeated. “About my age. I’m probably little bigger.” He touched under his right eye. “One bad eye,” he said.

  “I know Chippo,” the boy said, still looking closely at Phillip.

  “You know where he lives?” Phillip asked.

  “Round East Boulevard, I reckon,” the boy said. “That’s where I’m always seeing him.”

  “You don’t know what street?”

  “No,” the boy said. “That’s all you want?”

  “Yes. Thank you kindly,” Phillip said.

  “You can check on East Boulevard,” the boy said. “Somebody there might can help you.”

  “Thank you,” Phillip said.

  To East Boulevard from the gas station was only three or four blocks. At one time East Boulevard was the center of business and entertainment for blacks in Baton Rouge. Phillip could remember when Chippo and he used to come here to gamble and dance. Everything they had wanted, from a woman to a good barroom fight, could be found on East Boulevard or nearby. It was a dangerous place, you could easily get yourself killed there, but he was much younger then, and he didn’t mind taking chances.

  But the place had changed. Twenty years ago it was lively, now it was dead. Many of the bars, cafés, and other small businesses had shut down. The remaining buildings looked old and dilapidated. The street had never been lighted well, but it looked even darker now. The sidewalks were paved in some places, dirt and gravel in others. The people walked in the street to escape the mud and puddles of water from all the rain the past few days.

  Phillip looked out at the people he met, but he didn’t recognize anyone. After going a half dozen blocks he turned around and started back. Now he looked at the people he had passed before and still didn’t see anyone he knew. He tried to think of someone to call, someone who would give him the information he needed and not talk the rest of the night. He remembered a woman on Tennessee Street that Chippo used to live with—but, no, he wouldn’t call Lelia. He couldn’t think of anybody else in the world who talked more than she did. He tried to recall if Louis had told him where on East Boulevard he had seen Chippo. But why would Chippo be there again? If Chippo was anything like he used to be he never stayed in any one place or with any one woman too long. Phillip went up to North Boulevard and turned around again.

  He saw a man in a black overcoat walking on the sidewalk to his right. The man had both hands in his pockets, his head down, his shoulders hunched, walking fast against the wind. Phillip drove up even with him and rolled down the glass.

  “Pardon me—”

  The man kept his steady pace without even glancing round. Phillip thought he had not heard him.

  “Pardon me,” he said, driving alongside him. “Do you know—”

  The man stopped quickly and turned on him. Phillip could see in his face that he was angry.

  “You got a problem?” the man asked.

  “I was go’n ask if you know Chippo Simon?” Phillip said.

  “Do I look like any goddamn phone book?”

  “I’m sorry I bothered you,” Phillip said.

  He had leaned all the way over to the other door, now he moved back under the wheel.

  “Chippo live somewhere up round yonder,” the man said, jerking his head up the street and to the left. “I don’t know what house he live in, what street, and I don’t care. That’s good enough for you?”

  Phillip nodded and drove off. After going a little distance, he looked through the rear-view mirror at the man walking again.

  “Wouldn’t like to be his wife when he get home,” he said to himself.

  He thought about Alma and the children in St. Adrienne, and he knew he had to hurry and find Chippo and go back to them. He turned left off East Boulevard onto Louise Street. The car lights flashed on someone walking in the street up ahead of him. When he got closer he saw there were two women walking in single file. Phillip started to go by them without saying anything, but changed his mind and stopped. Both women wore overcoats, both wore scarves on their heads, which also covered their ears to protect them from the cold. Phillip saw that the woman in front, the larger of the two and the lighter-skinned, carried a set of rosaries. The other one, who carried a shopping bag, smiled warmly at Phillip as the two of them stepped up to the car. Phillip told them that he was a good friend of Chippo Simon, and he had been told that Chippo lived somewhere round here, but he didn’t know exactly where.

  “Geneva, you know where Chippo live?” the woman with the rosaries asked the other.

  “Somewhere over there,” Geneva said, motioning to the left with the shopping bag. “Pecan, Swart—one of them over there. Always see him walking in that direction.”

  “You ladies going that way?” Phillip asked them.

  “Yes, but it’s only a couple more blocks; we can walk.”

  “I’ll be glad to drop you off—that’s if your husbands don’t mind.”

  “Well, that’s surely no problem there,” the woman with the rosaries said.

  She opened the door to let the woman with the shopping bag get in first. After they had settled down in the back seat, Phillip drove away.

  “Getting colder and colder,” the woman with the rosaries said. “Freeze before morning. We just come from the church. Lit some candles for my boy.”

  “I see,” Phillip said.

  “Died in a wreck three years ago. On graduation day.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Phillip said.

  “Seems like it was no more than yesterday,” the woman said. “You from round here? Can’t seem to place you.”

  “Cross the river. St. Adrienne.”

  “Oh yes—St. Adrienne. Nice little town—St. Adrienne. We have people in St. Adrienne—all along that St. Charles River. Maybe you’re acquainted with some—LeBlancs?”

  “I know a few LeBlancs,” Phillip said. “Gilbert, Octave, Sheree.”

  “All them’s my kin,” the woman with the rosaries said. “This is my sister Geneva. My name’s Theresa.”

  “Glad to know you ladies,” Phillip said, looking in the rear-view mirror at them. “I’m Phillip Martin.”

  “Oh yes, the minister from St. Adrienne,” Theresa said. “Shoulda recognized you. Have seen you in the papers and on television. That’s Reverend Martin,” she said to Geneva.

  “Now, that’s something, isn’t it?” Geneva said, and smiled again. “Just can’t tell who might give you a ride these days.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Theresa said. “We’re always hearing about you. Been doing some good work in St. Adrienne.”

  Phillip thought about what had happened to him only a couple of hours ago. “Always tried to do my best,” he said.

  “What more can poor people do?” Theresa said. “Turn left right there.”

  After he had gone another block she told him to turn right. Phillip turned down a street so narrow that the weeds along the wire fence brushed against the side of the car. Theresa told him to stop at the last driveway on the right just before he came to the cross street.

  “I suppose you heard about the killing?” she said.

  “Killing?” Phillip said, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

  “They killed one of our people today.”

  “I haven’t heard.”

  “Happened round four o’clock. He took some food and ran home. The white people who owned the store knew who he was and sent the law after him. The law came, guns drawn, and called him out. But they don’t wait for him to come out, they bust in the house and start shooting. Grazed couple of the other children and killed him. A soldier, too. Had been a soldier in the war—Vi
et Nam. They claimed he was going for a gun when they killed him. Shot him in the back.”

  “A nice boy,” Geneva said quietly.

  “My own children growed up with him,” Theresa said. “He used to stay there in the house. How many times I’ve fed him there with my other children. Him and Mathias—like brothers. Mathias was my son who was killed in the wreck three years ago, on his graduation day. Seems like it was just yesterday.”

  “They will kill ours,” Geneva said quietly, as before.

  “Yes,” Theresa said. “They send our children to war. When they come back they give them nothing to do—no jobs, no nothing. When they steal food to eat they kill them. What a world.”

  In the rear-view mirror, Phillip could see Geneva touching her sister on the arm to comfort her. Theresa nodded her head and fingered the rosaries.

  “Yes,” she said. “He sees all. It’s all written down.”

  Phillip stopped at the driveway just before reaching the cross street. A screen door slammed at the house on the right, and a small child ran across the driveway toward the car.

  “Just look at that,” Theresa said. “I bet you she don’t have shoe one on her foot. Go back inside, Keli. Where’s her mon? Bet you she’s laying cross that bed ’sleep. Where’s her paw? Go back inside, Keli.”

  The child pressed her small brown face against the window and smiled at Phillip. He smiled back at her. He thought about his own children at home that he could not go to.

  “Would you like to come inside and have a cup of coffee, Reverend?” Theresa asked.

  “No, thank you kindly,” Phillip said. “I want to find Chippo and head on back.”

  “Well, if you change your mind feel free to drop by,” she said. “People round here drink coffee all day long and half the night. Till they fall asleep, babies drink it too.”

  She opened the door to get out, and Phillip could hear the rosaries rattling in her hand. Geneva had already gotten out on the other side.

  “Swart’s over there,” Geneva said, nodding toward the left. “I’m pretty sure it’s Swart where he’s staying now.”

  Swart Street was two blocks long and just as narrow as the street Phillip had just left. As on the other street, most of the houses were old, weather-gray, and dark. After going half a block, the lights of the car flashed on a man coming toward Phillip. The man, tall, thin, in a black overcoat and black cowboy hat, was taking those short, hesitant steps that a drunk must take to stay on his feet. Phillip was a little doubtful about asking this one about Chippo Simon, but he didn’t see anyone else. The drunk stuck his head inside the window soon as the car stopped, and now Phillip wished he had kept going.

  “Do you know if Chippo Simon live down here?” he asked the drunk.

  “You looking for Chippo?” the drunk asked him.

  Phillip nodded his head, and tried not to draw breath.

  The drunk, with his head still in the window, shut one eye very tight, the other one barely opened, and pointed up the street.

  “Right there,” he said.

  He could have been pointing toward any one of a half dozen houses, on either side of the road.

  “Which one?” Phillip asked.

  The drunk was very tired. He had to rest a while. Then he sighted carefully. “That one.”

  He was definitely pointing to the houses on the left now, but Phillip still could not tell exactly which one. He was glad the drunk had turned his head.

  The drunk rested another second. “See that screen?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not it,” he said, and shook his head. He rested again. “Next one,” he said, when he had enough energy to speak. “Shotgun house.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Phillip said.

  The drunk turned his head. He wanted to say, “Oh, that’s all right.” But when he looked at Phillip he had either forgotten what he had intended to say or he was too tired to say it. He gave a half-hearted wave of his right hand and walked away. Phillip smiled to himself and drove on.

  But when he stopped before the house, he saw that the house was dark. Still, he got out of the car to see if Chippo was there. Halfway up the walk he heard a woman’s voice from the screen porch of the next house. It was very dark on the porch, and he could hardly see the woman at all through the screen. He wasn’t sure she was speaking to him, and he continued on up the walk.

  “He ain’t there,” the woman said again. The voice was as inflectionless as it was the first time.

  “I’m looking for Chippo Simon,” Phillip said. “This where he lives?”

  “Most the time.”

  Phillip looked again toward the little shotgun house with its one door facing the street. The door was shut tight, and he could tell that there was not a light on inside. “You have any idea when he’ll be back?” Phillip spoke to the woman behind the screen.

  The woman didn’t answer. It was so dark behind the screen that Phillip couldn’t tell whether she was looking at him or not. He turned back toward the car.

  “You can wait for him in there if you want,” the woman said. “He never latch that door.”

  “You expect him back soon?”

  “You talking ’bout Chippo Simon?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” Phillip said.

  “How well you know Chippo Simon?”

  “We grew up together,” Phillip said.

  “Then you ought to know better than to ask that kind of question.”

  Phillip got back into his car.

  “If you see him ’fore I do you tell him he better bring me my money on back here,” the woman said.

  Phillip didn’t know whether to stay there and wait for Chippo or go somewhere else and come back later. He thought about the two Catholic women who had invited him in for coffee. They were nice people. Maybe he ought to go by there. But wouldn’t they ask questions too? Eventually they would have to ask why he, Phillip Martin, was looking for somebody like Chippo Simon. How could he explain to them what it was all about? How could he explain to any stranger what it was all about? Did Alma understand? Did Mills? Jonathan? How could a total stranger understand?

  He thought about the young man who was killed today. He wondered if he knew his people and if he could do anything to help. He looked back over his shoulder, and he could see that the woman was still out on the porch. He got out of the car again.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “You know the young man who was killed this evening?”

  “One of them Turner boys off Maximillian,” the woman said.

  “Thank you,” he said, and got back into the car. He knew Turners in Baton Rouge, but he didn’t know any on Maximillian Street. He wondered if they could be related. He looked back over his shoulder at the woman, but changed his mind about asking her any more questions. After sitting there another ten minutes trying to decide what he ought to do with his time, he finally drove away. At the end of the street he glanced at his watch. It was exactly seven o’clock. He was so tired he couldn’t believe it wasn’t much later. He wondered how long it would be before he found Chippo and went back home.

  He drove aimlessly up one street and down another. He passed by a theater where he had gone to movies many years ago. On the marquee was an advertisement of black actors in a gangster film. Life-size posters tacked to the wall showed a black actor shooting two guns simultaneously. Whatever he was shooting at wasn’t shown in the picture. Phillip thought about the young man who was killed today and grunted to himself. After going another couple of blocks he passed a bar where he used to drink and gamble. Behind the bar was a roominghouse where he had taken his women. He remembered that on Mondays and Thursdays there were always sheets on the clothesline in the back yard.

  He drove uptown to the old State Capitol, which was now used as a museum, then he drove along the railroad tracks until he came to a cross street that took him back to Chippo’s house. But he could see there still wasn’t any light on inside, and he kept on going. On East Boulevard he stop
ped in front of a little gray stucco building. Only half of the red-and-green neon sign which gave its name, Dettie’s Dinette, was in working order. NO BETTER CREOLE FOOD SERVED ANYWHERES ELSE was carelessly painted in large black letters on the wall facing the street. Phillip thought Dettie’s Dinette looked safe enough for a cup of coffee and went in.

  Two people were in the café. An old man wearing a black overcoat was in one of the booths against the wall. A heavy-set, brown-skinned woman wearing a white dress and a knitted wool sweater sat on a stool behind the counter.

  “How is it out there?” she asked.

  “It’s getting there,” he said.

  “You can feel it every time you open that door,” the woman said.

  “A cup of coffee,” Phillip said.

  The woman groaned as she pushed herself away from the stool. She poured the coffee from a glass urn that sat on a little electrical stove at the far end of the counter.

  “This been some weather, you hear me,” she said, coming back to Phillip with the coffee.

  Phillip paid her and went to a booth against the wall. He sat with his back to the old man; he could see that the woman had taken her seat again.

  It was quiet for a while.

  “Did you hear about the killing?” the woman said from behind the counter.

  “Yes,” Phillip said.

  “Broke in the house while they was sitting at the table eating. Poor Evelyn. It’s over for the boy—but what she must be going through?”

  “They any kins to the Turners in Fairfield?” Phillip asked.

  “I don’t think I know any Turners in Fairfield,” the woman said.

  “What’s her husband’s name?” Phillip asked.

  “She don’t have a husband,” the woman said. “Just her and them children. Now the oldest one gone.”

  In his mind Phillip could see the woman and her children huddled together crying. But there would be other women there too, patting her on the shoulder and telling her: “Take courage, cher; take courage; He never give you no more than you can bear.” Phillip clenched his fist and held it like that a while.

  He started thinking about his own family at home. How was he ever going to make up to Alma and the children? How was he ever going to make up to his church? But maybe he wouldn’t even have a church when he got back. Maybe they had taken that away from him too.