Mama Black Widow

  I walked by Connie’s dark house several times before I got the courage to go down the walk to the rear of the house. I went across the screened sun porch to the kitchen door. I peered through the door glass.

  In the dimness I saw a dark form that could have been Connie sprawled on the bright-colored linoleum. My hand trembled as I twisted the doorknob. The door was open.

  I stepped inside, and the stink of feces bombed my nose. I stood at the door and tried to see a light switch. Then I noticed a tall refrigerator near the form on the floor. I went gingerly to it and swung open the door.

  Light leaped and spotlighted Connie’s hard pale face. Her round bird-of-prey eyes seemed to glow with vivid blue light as they stared up into mine unblinkingly. She was drooling from the corner of her tiny mean mouth.

  I looked at her cruel face and remembered Woodrow Spears, the little black guy she had cheated, and how she’d called Carl, the cop, and his buddy to cave in Woodrow’s skull.

  I scowled and started to step around her to leave. I stopped cold. She was rolling and crossing her eyes frantically. It was strange and weird to see the sweat pop out on her face as she desperately manipulated her eyes to plead for my help.

  I went through a doorway into the dining room. I flipped a wall light switch and looked about for a phone. I walked into the living room and turned on a table lamp. There was a phone on a table at the end of a sofa.

  I sat down and thumbed through a memo book. I saw the office and home phone numbers for a Doctor Holzman. I woke him at home and told him about Connie.

  He asked who I was and would I stay until he came. I told him the back door was unlocked and hung up. I took a hassock to the kitchen and propped up Connie’s head and shoulders. She sipped a little water through a glass iced tea straw.

  Before I left, I said, “Your doctor is coming. Please, please, don’t tell anybody it was me that helped you.”

  I got back into the flat and out of my clothes without waking Mama. I stood outside her bedroom and listened to her snoring. I thought about how much she hated white people and especially Connie and how she’d get so furious she’d have to massage her chest if she had known I’d called Connie’s doctor.

  Then I got the realization that for the first time in my life I had been brave enough to defy her and had gotten away with it. I was dizzy with the thrill of it, and I felt like I was going to burst in exhilaration.

  I went to the front window and watched for Connie’s doctor. True to the extinct wonder of the good old days, he was there inside of twenty minutes. And within another twenty minutes Connie was being trundled into an ambulance. She passed away a week later and the whole block was ecstatic.

  The hoopla and hysteria of the Second World War seemed to compress time. I was sixteen years old and graduated from McKinley High School in 1944. I liked casual clothes and dressed up salads. Girls were wild about me, but I never met one that really moved me.

  I dropped them quickly and rushed desperately to a new one hoping to discover a steady sweetheart. Almost all of my sexual contacts with girls were fiascos. I either failed to get hard or I couldn’t stay hard long enough to ejaculate.

  I loved to get ravishing in drag and pick up studs on those rare occasions when I got high on gin. Guys really turned me on. I thrilled to the drunken core when they sodomized me and I could suck them off.

  This recklessly freakish creature that surfaced I named Sally in contemptible memory of the “come dump” that had led big dumb Bessie to ruin.

  Mama and I got along fine, that is, as long as I didn’t let it slip that I had a mind of my own and that I wasn’t preciously cuddlesome and adorable Sweet Pea.

  Back in 1942, Prophet Twelve Powers caught a term in the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas, for using the mail to defraud.

  Mama proved right away that the midnight trysts in the lair of the sorcerer had been made with much more than sensual intent. He left her with a practicing knowledge of his craft and a bountiful stock of oils, candles, incense, dream books and, of course, enemy destruct powder.

  Mama was, naturally, happy to quit slaving for the hated white folks who often forgot her name and addressed her “hey, girl.”

  As Madame Miracle she was respected by her many clients who sought her good-luck products and counsel. After I finished high school, I worked full time with Mama. I answered the phone and received her clients from twelve noon to eight P.M. five days a week.

  Mama was deadly serious in the role. She stopped using makeup altogether, and wore only loose-fitting long black robes. She wore her hair straight back and pulled into a neat bun at the back of the head.

  I helped her as much as I could with grammar and reading. She helped herself until daybreak on countless occasions. She lost nearly all of her draggy Southern accent, and seldom made a glaring grammatical error in conversation.

  She had enough money saved in 1944 to put down a sizable sum toward the purchase of the building where we lived.

  Hattie Greene, Railhead’s mother and the rest of the longtime tenants had moved away. Mama had a public image of dignity and wisdom. On the surface she seemed self-confident, free of inner turmoil, even happy.

  But many late nights I heard her pacing the flat for hours from living room to kitchen. I guess terrible guilt about Papa, the twins and Junior was festering inside her.

  Just to escape the possessive pressure of Mama’s presence I went to a birthday party around the middle of May in 1945. I had turned seventeen on April 5 of the year.

  The celebration was on the Southside at Fifty-sixth Street and South Parkway Boulevard. Ray, the guest of honor, was a horny young guy who had been in my gym class in school. Several times he accidentally pressed himself against me in the shower.

  Ray’s folks had gone to Wisconsin for the weekend, and there were a dozen teenage girls and guys smoking pot and drinking wine when I got to the party around two P.M.

  I didn’t go for the pot. I nipped a little wine.

  The wine was cheap. The apartment was hot and funky. And the guys and girls had evenly paired off with each other. Ray was stoned slobbery and sure he was for me.

  I slipped away to the street. I went down the Boulevard to Fifty-fifth Street. I went into a drugstore on Fifty-fifth Street and Prairie Avenue. I sat on a stool at the fountain and sipped an icy glass of lemonade.

  A moment later a powerfully built regal-looking girl with velvety, ebony skin and a shining cloud of blue black hair swirling about her shoulders, floated in and sat on the stool next to me.

  She ordered a Coke. She was pure class in a rich black silk dress and short white gloves on hands shaped startlingly liked Carol’s. She was the most elegant girl I’d ever been so close to.

  I felt untidy and sweaty in my limp clothes. Several times I stole quick glances at her in the mirror behind the counter. I almost fainted because each time her big black luminous eyes seemed to be staring hypnotically into mine.

  She fascinated me and I wanted to get acquainted, but I couldn’t think of one thing to say.

  A husky old black guy about forty, in sharp clothes, peered through the window. He came in and walked past. He came back and leaned over to whisper something to the girl.

  She jerked her head away and ignored him. He turned and glared at me. I stood up and glared at him and went to the jukebox at the end of the counter. I punched Billy Eckstein’s “Cottage For Sale” and went toward my stool.

  I stopped cold. The dapper nuisance was sitting sideways on my stool flapping his mouth to the girl who was still ignoring him.

  And I saw a pulpy growth behind an ear—a prizefighter’s cauliflower! I stood angry and frustrated. I thought, I’m quick and strong, but what can I do with even an old prizefighter? Maybe I’ll just walk out and forget the whole thing.

  Billy Eckstein started singing, and the girl turned her head and smiled at me. I walked slowly past several people eating at the counter. I was looking for a knife or an equalizer of some kind for
the nuisance on my stool.

  I had to show that classy girl I had some kind of manhood. The waitress stooped down behind the counter for something.

  I scooped a red pepper shaker off the counter and screwed the top off. I palmed the shaker and walked up to the pug. I stood beside him. He glanced at me and went on with his monologue.

  I said, “I want my stool.”

  He sighed wearily and said, “G’wan shitass, before I put some knots on your bead.”

  He put a knobby hand on the girl’s arm, and she pulled away. She looked up at me and started to get up. I was excited and scared.

  I said loudly, “Leave her alone. Get off my stool.”

  He stood up grinning and looking down the counter like he had forgotten about me. I jumped back when his grin faded and I saw his jacket twitch at the bicep.

  I felt a zephyr as the roundhouse went by. He was off balance with his head down when almost in one motion I hurled the contents of the shaker up into his face and kicked him between the legs.

  He fell to the floor rolling and howling and alternately clutching at his crotch and eyes. The waitress screamed and rushed toward the phone booth.

  My legs almost gave way as I went out the door behind the chic Amazon. I saw her big shapely legs flashing down Fifty-fifth Street toward a red car parked at the curb. I started toward her but changed my mind and went up Prairie Avenue with the intention of catching an El train at Fifty-eighth Street.

  I was at Fifty-sixth Street when the Amazon pulled up in a ’41 maroon Mercury sedan and pushed open the passenger door. I got in.

  She pulled down Prairie Avenue and said, “I’m Dorcas Reed. You were wonderful. Who are you?”

  I just sat there and stared at her. I was thunderstruck. The voice! Her voice, like her hands, was so much like Carol’s.

  She snapped her fingers playfully before my eyes and said, “Wake up, pretty. I like you. Who are you?”

  I mumbled, “Swee . . I mean Otis, Otis Tilson. Your voice reminded me of someone.”

  She laughed and said, “Uh-oh! That’s my luck. I run myself ragged to save you from the cops, and your heart is bleeding for someone else.”

  I noticed she was passing Fifty-eighth Street, but I had lost interest in the El station.

  I said, “I’m not in misery. You reminded me of my sister. She’s dead.”

  She said softly, “I am so sorry.”

  She reached Sixtieth Street and turned left toward South Parkway.

  She said, “I thought you were behind me when I went to the car. I was really upset when I didn’t see you, and I thought I wasn’t going to be given a chance to help you after what you did.”

  I said, “I’m sorry that crazy guy forced me to do what I did. But I’m glad you came looking for me.”

  She crossed the boulevard and parked inside cool Washington Park. She closed her eyes and rested the back of her head on the top of the seat.

  She said dreamily, “I have loved this park since I was a toddler. Mother was alive then and brought me here to escape the tumult and ugliness of the Southside.

  “I am sure thousands of black kids would never see a flower in bloom or see a robin if there were no Washington Park.”

  I scrutinized every plane in her magnificently strong face. And I gazed at the long shapely, almost boyish leanness of her thighs against the dress silk. I had never before been so excited by a girl . . . or a boy.

  I slid across the seat toward her. She smiled and kept her eyes closed. I gently caressed her temple and throat with my fingertips.

  She crooned, “Ooeee, pretty fella. You have a touch. But then I’ll bet your steady little sweetie thinks so too.”

  I whispered in her ear, “I don’t have one. But I bet you have a steady guy.”

  She opened her eyes and said, “I have been engaged to a fella since I was ten years old. He’s in the army overseas.”

  My heart fell.

  I said, “So you’re the one in misery?”

  She said, “I am not. I miss him and worry about him because we’ve been such dear friends and he’s in a combat zone. I might even love him in a mild low-voltage way.”

  She paused, frowned thoughtfully, then smiled wickedly and said, “But a girl like me wants to feel carnal about her fella.”

  She shivered in mock ecstasy and said, “You get what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  Then she said, “Our families always have been extremely close for as long as I can remember. It has always been unthinkable to them that Ralph and I would marry anyone except each other. Dad idolizes Ralph.”

  I said, “What is Ralph like? How does he look?”

  She opened her bag and took out a billfold. She handed me a color snapshot. The guy was gorgeous! He was stripped to brief swim trunks and had apparently just emerged from the sun-dappled water behind him.

  He was more than six feet of sleek muscled café-au-lait toned, beautiful brute. Suddenly I felt so scrawny and weak, and the photograph shook in my hand as I dropped it in her lap

  I looked away at a gang of kids having a water fight and said, “He’s a big handsome guy. He’s got fabulous muscles and everything.”

  She said, “I can’t imagine any girl with my handicaps who wouldn’t be frothing at the mouth with anxiety to marry him.”

  I turned toward her and said, “What handicaps? I think you’re beautiful!”

  She moved her serious face close and looked at me intently.

  I gazed into her enormous black liquid eyes and said, “You’re beautiful, Dorcas. I wish I had met you a long time ago.”

  She threw an arm around my shoulder and drew me close. I lay my head on the plush hot pillow of her bosom.

  Her voice broke with emotion as she crooned huskily, “You are the tenderest, sweetest, prettiest doll fella alive.”

  We talked and clung to each other until hoodlum night blackjacked day away. I remember that she wanted to drive me home. But I refused because I was afraid for her to pass through the treacherous Westside alone on her way back home.

  She took me to the Fifty-eighth Street El station and stood on the platform with me until my train came. The scent of her Channel No. 5 lingered on my clothes and skin. My brain spun on a wild, fragrant, merry-go-round all the way home.

  The moment I put my foot in the flat Mama led me into the living room that was done up in sparkling white and gold to impress her clients.

  Mama had a palm pressed over her heart. She caught her breath and said, “Some girl—or woman—named Dorcas Reed called a minute ago for you, and I almost had a heart attack. She sounded like Carol. Where did you meet her?”

  I lied, “At the party, Mama. At the party.”

  Mama rolled her eyes at me and said, “Sweet Pea, don’t you dare be impatient with me. I’ve been on this tricky earth much longer than you, and I’m going to protect you. How old is she?”

  I struggled to keep my irritation from showing.

  I said, “She’s nineteen and statuesque.”

  Mama frowned and said, “She’s what?”

  I said, “She’s tall like Bessie was except her feet are small and her hands are delicately tapered and shaped like Carol’s were. And Mama, her face is fiercely beautiful. Her nostrils flare, and her eyes glow like she could murder someone—or make love to him. The strange thing about her is that she thinks she’s ugly.”

  Mama said, “She’s probably right about that. Sweet Pea, that girl is older and more experienced than you are. How does she live? Is she kept by a jealous man that would put you in the grave?”

  I laughed and said, “Mama, she’s a big shot. At least her father is. He owns a funeral home on upper State Street, and she helps him with everything from embalming to conducting a funeral. Mama, she’s smart and classy.”

  Mama rose abruptly from the white satin sofa and stood for a moment with her eyes closed as she pressed her palms against her temples like she was treating a bad headache. Then she opened her eyes and stared at me with
an expression of extreme commiseration on her face.

  She said softly, “Sweet Pea, don’t you get your heart broken. A slum fellow like you don’t have a chance with a girl like that. Her father will see to it. If anyone despises poor niggers more than the dirty white folks, it’s so-called high class niggers like him. Sweet Pea, please promise Mama you will forget her so they can’t hurt you.”

  I said passionately, “Mama, I read that a young guy my age should be in training to become a man. Mama, stop putting pressure on me and protecting me.

  “Mama, I wish I had gotten a bloody nose or a bust in the mouth at least once when I was a kid. Give me a break, Mama, and a little air.

  “Listen to me, Mama, and if you love me, please understand what I’m trying to say. Mama, help me! I’m hurting and I’m scared. I’m running as fast as I can. But Mama, I can’t escape because something like a bitch dog is hot inside me, filthy, freakish and itching for guys.

  “Mama, sometimes I get so scared and my chest fills and hurts until I feel like I’m going to explode. I went to that party today to get away from you and your pressure and protection.

  “My other reason was I had a queer passion for the guy who gave the party. Mama, I’m sitting here hurting because I know that if he had played me right and not gotten stupid drunk, he could have used me like a whore.

  “Mama, don’t tell me to leave Dorcas alone. She’s the only girl I ever met that could be important to me. I need her, Mama! If it doesn’t work out maybe it will be like a bust in the mouth I’ve needed to prove to myself I can take it like a man.”

  Mama said, “You hurt me, Sweet Pea, when you said you left me to get away from me and that you needed her . . . a stranger. But Sweet Pea, I forgive you because I love you.

  “Sweet Pea, love, honor and appreciate your mama and make me happy like a man would and you will never be a man lover. I won’t tell you to drop that girl anymore. But it can’t work with her, Honey Pie. You’ll find out, middle-class niggers are snakes.”