Shades Page 2

  He laugh and shake his head like I’m the funniest thing he ever seen.

  Well, I don’t even have to think about it. There is only one thing I can do.

  So, I get up, put on my clothes, not too fast, not too slow. Give him time to make things right. He don’t, so I reach for my purse. It’s sitting on the windowsill. I don’t say nothing else to him. I just pull my straight razor outta my purse. He try to sit up then, try to raise his arm up to protect hisself, but I’m too quick. I try to slit that son of a bitch’s throat. He look up at me surprised and start bleeding right away. His hand go to his neck, try to catch the blood. He choking, not gurgling. I don’t think I cut him deep enough, but I don’t stop to see for sure. I just get the fuck outta there.

  Then I’m back at the bar looking for Margaret. She hugged up with that big dude in a back booth.

  “Let’s go,” I say, catching hold of her arm and trying to hurry her along. “We gotta get outta here, now.”

  She try to shrug me off, saying, “Shoot, I’m having a good time. Why don’t you come sit with us awhile?”

  I drag her off to the side and tell her what’s up. “I might a killed a man,” I whisper. “We gotta go.”

  She look at me all bug-eyed and shit, but she go tell the big fella that we got to leave. He offer to drive us home, say his car is in the lot behind the bar. I say, “Good,” and lead the way as we slip out the back door.

  New Shoes

  Last week, Belle came over to my house asking me to go downtown with her. I told her I didn’t need nothing, but she come talking about, “Aw, Margaret, I don’t want to go by myself. Come on. It’ll be fun. Hudson’s is putting up its Christmas displays.” She know I like the decorations the big department stores put up this time of year. She saw I was about to give in so she rushed to keep me from coming up with another excuse.

  “We’ll be home way before the kids get home from school,” she added.

  I looked at my watch. It was early, so I figured we could get down there and back before school let out. So, we bundled up and headed out to the bus stop. It was snowing, but the flakes were light, the kind that melt when they hit your cheek. The temperature was maybe fifteen or twenty degrees, and the ground was hard with crusty patches of ice. Me, Belle, and her six-year-old son, George, but she call him Scooter, stood shivering next to the long metal pole with the tiny square sign that served as the bus stop. We was wrapped tight, scarves twisted around our faces and knit caps pulled down low on our heads. My coat was a little too short and my knees were red and stinging like somebody’s momma had took a switch to them. Belle had this big ole black pocketbook hanging off her arm, and the wind kept knocking it hard against my frozen hip.

  I felt really sorriest for Scooter cause he had on a pair of raggedy canvas gym shoes. Belle said she kept him outta school to buy him some winter boots. He kept stomping his feet to keep the blood going. White salty trails ran down his cocoa-colored cheeks. Belle popped him upside his head and told him to quit crying cause his tears was gon freeze, but that didn’t stop him.

  Finally, I saw the bus coming, but it was full. For a minute, I thought it might ride on past us, but it slowed and sloshed to a stop. The doors folded open, and Belle pushed Scooter up the steps. He stumbled, so she lifted him up by the collar and then the shoulders of his coat and shoved him up the rest of the way.

  The bus jerked forward as we squeezed past old ladies with their knees curled around shopping bags, teenagers with book bags slung over their shoulders, and men in bulky coats and thick work boots. Belle found a empty slice of seat on one of the back benches. She jammed Scooter in, planted her feet in front of him, and grabbed a handrail. I slipped in next to her.

  “First, we’ll hit Hudson’s basement,” she said. “They got kids’ shoes, and sometimes they have good deals. Then Kresge’s; I need some stockings. Where did you want to go?” Before I could answer, she nudged me. “Look at that fool over there.” She tilted her head toward a boy whose greasy hair was pushed up in the front to form a stiff black knob. A do-rag, spotted with oil, that looked like it had once been a nice scarf, was wrapped around his head. He looked straight ahead, as he slipped his hand into a woman’s purse. She was standing beside him, smiling and looking out the window, anxious like she was eager to get where she was going.

  Belle chuckled; I tucked my purse under my arm and turned to stare straight into a wrinkled brown face that had the hard eyes of a judge. A pinch of guilt made me turn away. Maybe I shoulda said something to the smiling lady, but sometimes these hoods carry knives or worse. The bus stopped short; I held the handrail tighter to keep from stumbling. A few men got off just as their connecting bus pulled up at the cross street. “Hold up!” one of the men shouted as he ran toward it, dodging cars.

  The old man next to Scooter didn’t miss a snore. His head bobbed up and down like he was listening to a blues beat, a line of spit slobbered down his chin. The smell of the cheap wine and the piss that stained his pants rose up and like a cloud of misery shoving its way into my face. I tried not to breathe.

  A boy sporting a little Afro and wearing a green letterman jacket with a big white C had his arm hanging over his girlfriend’s shoulder. His hand dangled just above her breast as her head leaned against his chest. Two more teenage girls sat just in front of them, their backs to the couple. The girl closest to the window was talking a mile a minute, hands making wild gestures. Her friend just nodded and twisted her lips like she’d heard it all before. They both had on neat little plaid pleated skirts, white blouses with Peter Pan collars, and camel-colored car coats with toggle buttons. I liked how clean and crisp they looked. I took a picture with my mind. When my girls get big enough, I want to dress them like that.

  Belle nudged me again. “This our stop.” She reached over the two girls to pull the bell. The one talking rolled her eyes, the other one looked at her friend and giggled. Belle didn’t pay them no mind; she just grabbed Scooter’s hand and dragged him along as she pushed through the crowd.

  We scrambled across the crowded street to Hudson’s. Belle lied. The window displays were still the regular ones, work dresses for office girls and business suits for men, no elves or sleigh bells in sight. We hurried past the expensive perfume counters and headed down the wooden escalator to the bargain basement.

  Scooter kept stopping every so often to stomp his feet. Somewhere along the way, he had latched onto a pair of Superman mittens. He kept putting them on and pulling them off. A mannequin wearing a long blue nightgown stood at the bottom of the wooden escalator, just off to the side. She stood on a pedestal looking down on us. The gown floated around her like silk and air; I had to touch it.

  “Belle, feel this. It’s so soft,” I said.

  She pulled at a piece of the hem and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s just some kind of good polyester.”

  I looked at the price tag. “It should be silk for this kind of money.”

  But Belle had moved on. She was down the aisle looking at girdles in the underwear department. I hurried toward her, but I didn’t need no girdle. So, I went to look at the underwire brassieres on the rack—way too expensive. I headed over to the cotton ones. When I turned around to look for Belle, she had a big shopping bag. I wondered what she had bought.

  We went on down to the kids’ shoe section, and this young white boy asked if he could help. Belle pointed to a couple different boots that he had on display, and he told us to sit in his section while he went into the back room to see if what she wanted was in stock.

  Belle pulled off Scooter’s wet shoes and socks. She squeezed the socks out, ignoring the dark stain it was making on the carpet. I couldn’t help but laugh at Belle’s nerve. I nudged her and nodded toward the pinched-faced white woman who stood behind the counter giving us the eye. Belle say she wasn’t thinking about that ole heifer and went to rubbing Scooter’s feet. The salesboy came back balancing a stack of boxes. Belle made him get Scooter a fresh pair of socks an
d then use that metal sliding thing to measure Scooter’s feet. Then the salesboy was opening a box and pulling out a shiny new pair of cowboy boots. Scooter’s eyes lit up.

  He slid each boot over Scooter’s fresh socks, and Scooter stood up, admiring his feet. Belle had him walk to the edge of the rug and then back again. She asked him how they felt. She bent down and pressed a finger to each toe to see where his foot sat in the boot. “Too tight,” she announced. “Let’s see those,” she said, pointing to another box. But Belle had something negative to say about each pair. She had that white boy running back and forth to the storeroom. Scooter strutted around in tall boots that was “too tall,” short boots that was “too low,” and even a pair of “too shiny” pointy-toed ones. When all was said and done, the ones that looked and fit perfect was “too expensive.” Scooter put back on his wet gym shoes, and Belle paid for the socks and took a free shoehorn.

  We bundled up and headed cross the street to Kresge’s. The store was really crowded, and since the makeup counter was the first one we came to, we checked out the new lipstick and fingernail polish colors. Belle said she was going upstairs to pick up some stockings. I didn’t need none, so I went to the refreshment counter for a orangeade.

  After that, I bought some thread cause I was planning on taking the hem outta my coat when I got home. When Belle came back downstairs, Scooter was right on her heels. I was looking at the jewelry. She handed me her shopping bag and said, “Hold this a minute for me.” I took it, wondering what all she bought, cause that bag was heavy. I looked up to show her this necklace I liked and saw her and Scooter pushing through the revolving door.

  At first, I didn’t know what to think. Then I saw this big white man shouting something and hurrying in my direction. Everybody started looking at me. I near about peed on myself. My heart felt like a kettle drum, and the sweat from under my arms was soaking through my wool coat. The floorwalker, a skinny white man in a brown suit, turned his mean eyes on me. I stepped backward, toward the door. Then I remembered the shopping bag I was holding. It was so heavy the twisted paper handles bit into my wrist, making deep red gouges, and the bag strained, threatening to rip itself off its frayed handles. I let go of it, dropped it right there in the aisle between jewelry and makeup, and then I ran. There was shouting for a while, a man’s voice, and people on the street looked scared as they scooted out of my way. But I just kept going, pushing past the ones that wouldn’t move. I was way past Grand Circus Park before I even looked back.

  That night Belle had the nerve to call me and ask if I still had her shopping bag. I asked was she a fool? She tried to explain that she had a police record and would have had to do some time, but since I didn’t have one, I would have probably just got a warning or probation at the most. She talking about she didn’t think the floorwalkers would pick up on me. According to Belle, that bag had Scooter’s boots, the expensive ones, a Playtex long-line girdle and matching brassiere, some school dresses for our girls, and the blue nightgown I had been looking at.

  “Right,” I said. “You was thinking of me.” I couldn’t help but press my lips together and shake my head at her nerve.

  “I was,” she said, sounding like she meant it.

  I don’t know what Belle was thinking. I don’t think she meant me any harm, and it was a shame about Scooter’s boots, but that was the last time I ever went shopping with her. My friend Diane was always telling me I’m too gullible, that I could learn something from Belle cause she was a survivor, but that I shouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. And Belle was no lightweight. Diane was right. I may be too trusting, but I ain’t no fool, and I knew I had been lucky. I was just glad that that white man hadn’t caught up with me, that I wasn’t festering away in jail, and that I got to go on with my regular life.

  The Crossroad

  The church is full of Grandma; her long white box sits on a pedestal in the front. I can see her dark-brown face peeking out, the tip of her nose and a shiny chocolate cheek. There are lots of flowers, carnations with stiff pink bow ribbons. She liked carnations cause they last a long time. Roses, white and red, and loose-petaled yellow flowers are spread all around the box and across the stage circling the preacher’s place. They smell pretty, sweet and fresh; I don’t know where Momma is. I can’t see her nowhere.

  Wide, round, purple, blue, and black Sunday best hats nod, making soft waves that wash over rows of ladies in navy and black dresses. Every once in a while, there’s a splash of green or deep purple or a man pressed tight in a dark suit and tie with a high-buttoned white shirt and brushed-back hair. An old, old lady with balled-up, brown-paper-bag skin is sitting across the aisle from us. She is wearing a wide navy hat with a big puffy, organdy flower pasted right on the front. She is humming a slow song that I can’t make out. Her voice is rusty and wet.

  I’m sitting on a bench scrunched between two church ladies wearing white uniforms. Crocheted doilies are pinned to the breast pockets of their crispy dresses. Pearl-like buttons go all the way down the front; only ankles in white stockings and thick-heeled shoes peek out. One of them keeps pressing my face against the crocheted doily on her pocket. It’s stiff, not soft like it look. I try to wiggle my face away so I can breathe better, but the other church lady’s bosom is guarding the other side. I stare down at the tiny white pearl-colored buttons on her wide white lap.

  I have on new black patent leather T-strap shoes and my turquoise-blue dress with the long waist. Grandma called it my jazzy dress, said it looked like one she used to have when she was a girl. She showed me how to wear the long beads that came with it. When I tried the dress on in the store, Grandma took the necklace and put it around her neck. She wrapped it so that one part was close around her throat and the other hung down to her waist. Then she put one hand on her hip and pretended like she was chewing gum while she took the long part of the necklace in her other hand and twirled it around. She winked at me and said that’s the way the fast girls did it. I laughed, and then she twirled the beads around again and made a cockeyed face. I laughed harder because she looked so funny. Then she picked me up and twirled me around. The beads feel smooth and bumpy. I smile.

  I hear Momma somewhere crying. I turn to look for her, and she’s there in the aisle held up by two ladies in white. Momma’s face is red and crumbly, her mouth open wide, crying. Her friend Belle is coming up the aisle behind them. “Diane,” she call out to Momma. Momma shake loose of the church ladies so she can hug Belle. Momma crying on Belle’s shoulder. Belle hug her back. Old sloe-eyed Deacon Harris—that’s what Grandma used to call him cause he was always trying to get with Momma—come up behind them and hand Momma his handkerchief. She take it and blow her nose. “Diane. I got her,” he say and try to take Momma from Belle, but Momma won’t go.

  “I want my momma.” I start crying. “I want my momma.” I’m standing on the wooden seat trying to climb over these church ladies, but they won’t let me get to my momma. One of them is holding me by my waist, making me even more hot and sweaty, and this other lady is blocking my way. They won’t let me get to my momma!

  This lady saying, “Baby come on sit down here with me. You can’t have your momma right now.” So I scream and cry and scream louder because I want my momma, and she right there and they won’t let me have her. Shh, the lady in white croon in my ear. She try to rock me against the bumpy smoothness of her dress pocket as she wipe my nose with a handkerchief. “Don’t Sister Greene look good,” my other keeper say. “Swanson did a good job. Sister Greene would be real proud.” I peek out at Grandma, who is looking pretty and peaceful, and I quiet down because I know she would want me to.

  “A good woman,” say one of the church ladies, “tithed ’til it hurt, and all those kids. She deserve a nice send-off.”

  A crew of church lady nurses stand along the back wall, hands behind their backs, a line of straight white posts holding the church up. I’m wondering where they keep the cold rags and smelling salts they give the people who fai
nt when they get the Holy Ghost.

  Grandma would be standing there with them if she wasn’t resting in her pretty box bed. Her hair is all shiny and curled like when she get it done on Saturdays. I smile and remember how Grandma used to say getting her hair done once a week was her one indulgence. A treat, she said it meant, like the little brown bag of penny Squirrels and Banana Splits she used to give me when she came home from the beauty parlor. Grandma was always teaching me new words and other things, like the capital of Colombia is Bogota. Colombia is a country way down south. She liked to read and tell me about other places. Bogota. I like the way the word sounds in my mouth.

  Uncle Jeff is sitting up straight and crisp in his white Navy uniform. His face is quiet and serious; his mouth a straight line. He nod his head up and down every time Aunt Jamie whisper something in his ear, but he won’t turn to look at her. Aunt Jamie look nice in the dark-blue suit she borrowed from Momma. Uncle Ronald is sitting next to her with some lady I don’t know. Momma say every time she turn around Ronald got a new girlfriend. Uncle Ronald paint crazy pictures with weird mismatched colors. Momma say he can’t see straight cause he always high on that reefer, but Grandma say he just trying to make sense out of this crazy world.

  The organ music start, Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves. The people in the choir stand up. One of my keepers take my hand, and we stand as we sing along with the choir. It sound good, full and loud, and I smile because Grandma is smiling. The preacher’s black-and-purple robes swirl around him as he take his place in front of the tall stand that look like the thick trunk of a tree growing out of Grandma’s box. “We have come together this day to celebrate the life of this good woman, to rejoice in the fact that we were fortunate enough to have this gracious woman touch our lives. Let us begin with a prayer of benediction, a pronouncement of His divine blessing.” His words sound like a song as he bow his head and stretch his palm out to us.