Shades Read online

  Advance praise for Shades

  “Esperanza Cintron really drew me close to her characters. I was enthralled by them, moved by their tragedies, and I enjoyed their lust for life. I caught myself asking why they get into these predicaments but then it is all there, it made sense. Before I knew it, I had reached the end of the book. What a read.”

  —Osvaldo “Ozzie” Rivera, musician and cultural activist

  “We are invited into a world in which characters and their tales, over extended spans of time, connect and interweave with the intricate delicacy of a sunlit spider’s web. I wish I had written them.”

  —Bill Harris, 2011 Kresge Foundation Eminent Artist and author of I Got to Keep Moving (Wayne State University Press, 2018)

  “In this vibrant collection of interconnected stories, Cintrón captures the struggles, joys, funk, suffering, and transcendence of a hard-living and hard-loving community and its people. So many characters left the page and lingered in my consciousness; so many shades of wonderful.”

  —Cecilia Rodríguez Milanés, author of Oye What I’m Gonna Tell You

  “A richly textured tapestry of the lived experiences of ordinary working-class Detroiters, men and women, the young and the young-at-heart, that brings to light the daily struggles of the disenfranchised and marginalized who strive to eke out a living; put a roof over their heads; care for their loved ones; fend off racism, crime, and urban blight; and keep hope alive through spiritual salvation, education, and love in one of America’s postindustrial cities.”

  —Jorge L. Chinea, professor of history and director of the Center for Latino/a and Latin American Studies

  Made in Michigan Writers Series

  General Editors

  Michael Delp, Interlochen Center for the Arts

  M. L. Liebler, Wayne State University

  A complete listing of the books in this series can be found online at wsupress.wayne.edu

  Shades

  Detroit Love Stories

  Esperanza Cintrón

  Wayne State University Press

  Detroit

  © 2019 by Esperanza Cintrón. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission. Manufactured in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978-0-8143-4688-4 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-0-8143-4689-1 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936419

  Publication of this book was made possible by a generous gift from The Meijer Foundation. This work is supported in part by an award from the Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs.

  Wayne State University Press

  Leonard N. Simons Building

  4809 Woodward Avenue

  Detroit, Michigan 48201–1309

  Visit us online at wsupress.wayne.edu

  To Suzy

  the Belle of Detroit

  and to Vince

  who loved me

  when I needed to be loved

  Contents

  Eastside

  The Beard

  New Shoes

  The Crossroad

  Diane’s Daughter

  Please Love Me

  Mr. Phil

  Belle’s Youngest

  The Little Apollo

  Margaret’s Prince

  Westside

  The Siege

  The Runner

  George and Persia

  Belle Fixes a Hole

  Luz in Progress

  La Bruja

  Manny

  The Riverfront Bar and Grille

  Persia Dunne

  shade/shades

  shade n/SHād/shades pl (EBO ndò shade, shelter; GK skotos darkness; SP sombra shadow, sueño dream; YRI iboji shade, shadow, tomb, grave) 1: Spanish painter Francisco Goya, known for his horrific Saturn Devouring His Son, said that in art there is no need for color. He saw only light and shade, and boasted that, if given one crayon, he could paint anyone’s portrait. 2: duskiness, a dimness due to the disruption of light, a darkening. 3: a: shelter from sunlight and the resulting coolness, b: a place to sprawl or cower. 4: a fleeting, unreal appearance. 5: pl the shadows that gather as darkness comes, akin to Sheol, Hades, the under- or netherworld. 6: a spirit, ghost, a haint. 7: a screen or shield from light or heat, as in a lampshade or sunglasses. 8: a slight difference or variation, as in degree or quantity, nuance. 9 a: color produced by a pigment or mixture having some black in it, b: a color slightly different from another. 10: a tone, tint, a tinge, as in the American actress Carole Lombard’s declaration that she lived by a man’s code but could never forget that a woman’s first job was to choose the right shade of lipstick. 11: a facial expression of displeasure or sadness.

  shade vb; shad-ing; shad-ed, shad-y adj 1: to screen, cover, shelter. 2: British author/artist Wyndham Lewis maintained that the natural state of man is a wormlike movement from a spot of sunlight to a spot of shade, and back again. 3: to hide. 4: to darken. 5: to lessen or diminish. 6: John Constable, 19th-century landscape painter, claimed that he’d never seen an ugly thing in his life. Let the form of an object be what it may, he asserted, and light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful. 7: to cast into shade (by overshadowing or acting superior). 8: to judge or disrespect, dissing or throwing shade as in the popular meme “Don’t Like Me? Have a seat with the rest of the bitches waiting for me to give a fuck.” 9: to be fake or phony, as in acting shady. 10: to color so that the shades pass little by little from one to another, to transition gradually. 11: to change by imperceptible degrees into something else.

  Based on inference and The Ever-Unfolding Book of Life

  Eastside

  The Beard

  Margaret

  Belle come downstairs and ask me if I want to go to the bar with her. I tell her I don’t feel like it, that I rather stay home and watch Twilight Zone, but she start in on me.

  “Margaret girl, you gon dry up like them turnips you forgot you had in the bottom of your refrigerator.”

  “I just don’t feel like sitting up in no bar half the night, listening to loud music while some drunk dude breathe his stale beer breath in my face,” I tell her.

  “Come on,” she push. “We’ll have a couple of drinks, listen to some music, and maybe dance some. When the last time you danced?” she ask and then add, “You might even meet somebody good.”

  I know Belle just want me with her as a shade, a cover to hide her real purpose. She just take me or Diane, the girl that live upstairs, to keep the bartender from catching on. But I figure, maybe I might meet somebody. Besides, I spend too many nights with Rod Serling. Listening to Smokey or Little Stevie and maybe dancing sound kinda good; I ain’t danced since before I had Belinda.

  Anyway, about ten, she come downstairs. I’m in my room getting dressed, but I hear her as soon as she come through the door talking about, “Girl, we gon miss everything. You better come on.” Then she in my room rushing me, talking about ain’t gon be nowhere left to sit if we get there too late. I got her number; she just don’t want to miss none a that money.

  The straight green dress she got on is hugging her hips so tight I can see the line of her panties. She must not be wearing no stockings cause I cain’t see no garter belt. But the V-neck look kind of nice and won’t show too much if she don’t lean forward. She look a lot better than when she first came up here from down south wearing them high heels and anklets. Belle was a sight with a baby on her hip, three stair steps tugging on her skirt and that trifling husband trailing up behind her.

  Smoothing down the back of her skirt, she sit down on my bed, knees together and legs slanted to the side, real ladylike, like in one of them magazines. I just smile and shake my head cause I know she practicing her part. I keep on getting dressed.

  “Girl,” she
start in again. “You know them mens like them some yellow women. You could probably have your pick.” I ignore her, pull my dress over my head, and tug the skirt part into place. “And you look pretty good when you get dressed up. You could really make some money if you would just make half a effort.”

  I laugh it off and finish putting on my stockings, making sure the last garter clip is secure before smoothing my skirt back down. She still talking, but I’m only half listening. I’m mostly trying to hear whether my girls is getting ready for bed like I told them to. I can hear Barbara showing Belinda how to brush her teeth. “Not so much toothpaste. Momma said just a little dab a do.” I laugh and Belle’s eyebrows go up in a question. Barbara saying, “Up and down, up and down, like this.”

  We hail a cab up on Woodward and head over to the Apex on Oakland. It’s just a neighborhood bar, but the jukebox is always up-to-date and full of quarters. The music is loud, the drinks cheap, and they keep the lights low so you cain’t see the dirt or the worn edges and split seats of the red leather benches in the booths. Belle say it’s a magnet for working mens.

  When we get there it’s pretty crowded. All the little round tables in the front is full, and folks laughing and talking loud. B. B. King on the jukebox singing “The Thrill Is Gone,” and a few couples is grinding on the tiny dance floor. Some mens is in the back paying up at the pool table, counting out dollar bills, while the next set is racking up the balls. I want to find a booth and just sit back and watch the folks, but Belle grab my elbow and drag me toward a couple of stools at the bar.

  She take her time sliding onto the stool slow, deliberate-like, her back against the bar and her body aimed at the crowd. Then she pull out her Pell Mells, plop the pack onto the dark wood of the bar, and tell me to order us a couple a Buds. I walk down the bar a ways so I can catch the bartender’s eye. The bottles are cold and wet; I set them on the coasters and put the glasses down next to them. Then I take my seat next to Belle, but I’m facing the bar.

  Junior Walker’s saxophone sound like he right here in the room. He start singing, “Shotgun, shoot ’em ’fore he run now,” and some couples head to the tiny dance floor and start doing the jerk. Me and Belle sit awhile sipping our beer while Belle point out men who look like they might have some money. When one look her way, she smile, suck on her Pell Mell, and blow the smoke out real slow. Then she cross her legs trying to hold his attention. When he move on without stopping, she turn halfway back around to the bar and take a long swig of beer. I ask her why she drink her beer out the bottle, and she say it taste better that way. “Ladies supposed to drink out of a glass,” I say. But she just twist her lips at me, shake her head, and make a sucking sound with her teeth.

  The bass is bumping and the music sound good. Belle cracking on the dudes, talking about how this one need to buy a jar of Vaseline to grease his ashy arms or how that one need to either comb them naps or cut ’em off. She say, “Some mens just don’t think they even have to try.” She shake her head and tap her cigarette over the orange plastic ashtray.

  I’m starting to feel the effects of the beer, a low even buzz that made Marvin Gaye sound like a angel when this big ole dude come up to me and start talking trash. He not exactly old, but he ain’t too young, and he a big one. He ask me if I’m having a good time. I just nod, but he keep on talking like a gnat buzzing in my ear. I want to swat him. Belle giggle and whisper something about yellow being like honey to a bee. I shove her a little, warning her to behave. Not wanting to be rude, I smile back at the big fella and nod like I’m listening to what he saying. He ask me do I want another drink, and I say that me and my friend was just about to order another one.

  Raising his long arm to catch the bartender’s eye, he hold up two fingers and wiggle them over our heads. Then he tell me his name Richard. I tell him mine and introduce him to Belle. He say he a truck driver, own his own rig. He say, “I’m celebrating making the last payment on my rig. Took me ten years, but I did it.” I look at him, trying to read him. I ain’t so good at reading men, but he look real. I nod, letting him know I’m listening. Then he tell me he live with his momma and daddy. “For the time being,” he say. Just since him and his wife separated. I just nod again and let him talk. He looking less and less good, but listening is the least I can do since he buying us drinks.

  He talk a lot, but I’m beginning to get interested. I like his warm, homey, open way, and he make me laugh. I like the way he feel standing over me, like a big, tame, cuddly bear.

  I’d just about forgot about Belle when she ask did I have a quarter for the jukebox. Richard dig down in his pocket and come up with a handful a change. He hold a palm full of nickels, dimes, and quarters out to her. She take three or four quarters, say thanks, and sashay over to the jukebox.

  Richard leaning over me; his big body all around me. The soft wool of his Italian knit sweater is brushing against my cheek. I don’t mind because his broad chest is radiating a cozy heat that make me feel safe, and his voice is a soft hum in my ear. I feel a little guilty about liking it so much and for ignoring Belle. So, I peek around Richard to check on her. She over there hugging that jukebox, leaning so far over the glass that anybody who interested can peek up that short dress. And she grinding her hips to the music like the jukebox is her lover.

  “Let’s get that seat over there,” Richard say, pointing to a booth near the back where the man is helping the lady with her sweater as they getting ready to leave. I nod, grab my beer, and let him take my hand and lead me through the crowd.

  Belle

  I shove the quarters into the slot, wait for the box to realize that I gave it some money, and then I lean in to pick my songs. I told that silly yellow bitch that what she got is like honey. She over there nodding and giggling at that big dude, and he all wrapped around her like he want to climb up inside her. She playing games. Cain’t she see he got a pocket full of money, and just dying to give it away. I swear some folks so stupid it make me mad. But hey, ain’t no skin off my nose. I just brought her here to keep the bartender off my ass. Besides, I knew that innocent act of hers would draw these mens out. Now I’m gon pick something slow and sexy and reel ’em in.

  My girl, Etta James, always do the trick. I punch the buttons and step back to watch the record as it tip up and then slide onto the spindle. Besides, the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice, and I know this blackberry look good tonight. I lean in to pick another record as Etta’s words float out slow and sultry, “At last, my love has come along.” I lean into the box; its glass hood is hard and steady against my stomach, and the music is a throb, trembling through my body. “My lonely days are over, and life is like a song.” Etta wailing.

  “Hey, momma, it got to be a sin for one woman to look as good as you do.” The words come from behind me. They pull me away from Etta, but I take my time lifting myself off the jukebox before I say, “Why thank you, baby,” and let him talk a little more shit. He go on about how I smell sweet as the flowers in his grandmother’s garden and how I look good enough to eat. Then he ask how come a woman as fine as me standing here all by myself.

  His suit kinda cheap, but his shoes got a shine on ’em. He steady nudging me up against the wall, pretending like we dancing, all the time smiling, showing his two gold teeth that he got right in the front of his mouth. I smile too, lowering my eyes shy-like, playing the game. All the while, I’m wanting to laugh at this country fool. He talking about I look like the kinda girl make a niggah fall in love. He close enough to kiss me now, but I turn my head, and he tell me again about how sweet I smell.

  We dance to another slow one, and this niggah so hard, I hope he don’t come while we dancing. I won’t let him slow drag like he want to. Instead, I make him move his feet.

  He talking plenty shit now while he try to lead me into the back near the pay phone where it’s darkest. Telling me all he want to do to me.

  I say, “People in hell want ice water.”

  He say, “Baby, don’t be so cold,” a
nd start kissing me on my neck.

  My dress is kinda low in the front so he headed that way. His lips tickling me, and I want to laugh cause he trying so hard, but I just bear it and even moan a little. He amp it up, telling me how soft I am, and how good he know I must be.

  I nod and say, “Yeah, baby, I’m good.”

  Then he ask do I have a man, and I tell him that it don’t matter, but I got kids, and I don’t fuck for free.

  He stop kissing for a minute and look at me with a little sneaky grin. Then he kiss the crease between my titties and ask how much. I tell him twenty the regular way, and he say, “Let’s go.”

  We go over across the street. I got this arrangement with the lady who rent rooms over the hardware store. It’s just a bed in a empty room, but she change the sheets before they get too bad, and it’s cheap. Besides, she don’t make you sign your name or nothing, and she mind her own business. Anyway, we get there and this niggah try to get his and a couple a other folk’s money’s worth. I mean, first he rush in and claim I got him so hot he cain’t wait. Then he on me for what seem like half the night. Finally, he come, and then he just flop down on me like he got cement in his ass. I push him off me, and he roll over, acting like he sleep. I sit up and light up a Pell Mell.

  After a while, I ask the trick for my money, and he look up at me with this shit-eating grin and tell me he ain’t got no twenty dollars. He tell me he know I liked it, and then he say I probably should be paying him. I look at this mothafuckah, and I get cold. I mean, for real. My toes and fingers start icing up. I say, “What did you say, mothafuckah?” Cause I know he joking. But he still laying there grinning up at me.

  “You gon do me like that?” I look at him straight-faced so he know I’m serious. “Steal from me like that and expect me to just take it?”