If I Should Die (25 page)

“Mali. Don’t—don’t do that again. If anything happened to you, it would be the end of me …”

As it turned out, there was no need to call Bert with any instructions. There was no need for the black plastic, and no one needed to rummage through the recycling bin, much to the disappointment of the two young college looking boys parked across from the shop in that raggedy on-loan Buick.

When I called Bert from a nearby pay phone, she simply said, “Joe Turner done come and gone.”

“What?”

“Just what I said.” And she hung up.

Five fast minutes later I walked into her shop. She was working on a plump, middle-aged woman, twisting swaths of hair into thick Senegalese-style braids.

“You all right, Bert?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Viv sent her two nephews here to pick up that bag.”

“A brown paper bag?”

“Yep.”

“With something in it?”

“Uhm-hm. A lotta something in it. Matter a fact, they just left. Two young boys wobblin’ on them new Rollerblades.”

“And they had the cutest accents,” the woman in the chair said. “Sorta like West Indian but more like southern. You know, like them Geechees.”

“How young were they?”

“No more than eight or nine,” Bert said. Her fingers seemed to be flying at the end of the long braids.

I closed my eyes and as hard as I tried, could not imagine two little boys skating down Frederick Douglass Boulevard and over to Amsterdam Avenue with several thousand dollars in a paper bag.

Bert glanced at my face and sucked her teeth.

“Don’t you go gettin’ gray hair over it, Mali. Viv know what she doin’. Girl been in the game too long not to know how to put one foot in front of the other.”

Bert was right. And I had to give Miss Viv credit. She certainly knew how to put her feet in front by several yards. Probably sat in a cab right around the corner waiting for her nephews to join her. All that talk about black plastic bags and recycling bins gave her just the breather she needed to book.

“This is Viv’s customer,” Bert said, changing the subject. “Decided on braids. Too hot for a weave. This’ll hold her till Viv gets back from her emergency.”

Beyond Bert was Viv’s workstation, just as she’d left it: combs, curling irons, oils, and lotions in perfect alignment on a clean white towel—as if she had only popped out to Laura’s Luncheonette on the corner and was expected back momentarily.

Who else knew she was headed out of the country? At any rate, Tad needed to get to her before someone else did.

The next day when Tad called, I could hear the frustration in his voice. “We have people at Kennedy and Newark. Customs was alerted at St. John’s, St. Thomas, St. Croix, and Puerto Rico but there’s been no sign of her. And she sure as hell didn’t swim.”

“Maybe,” I said, “she didn’t go there at all.”

“Well, if you think of anything else, page me and I’ll come by. She turned out to be one slick sister.”

I hung up and went into the bathroom and filled the tub. A few minutes later I lay back in a cloud of scented bubbles, closed my eyes, and tried to recall everything Bert had said.

Which wasn’t much, except that Viv knew how to put one foot in front of the other.

 … Those boys had cute accents, sounded like—

 … Geechees.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember if Viv had that accent. The few times I’d heard her speak, she was either cursing her diet or the ineffectiveness of it; the loss of her shop and the general bad breaks in her life. Maybe that’s why Bert had kept the TV turned up so high. Too much negativity floating around wasn’t good for business. People came to get away from troubles and maybe trade some light gossip but not to get bogged down in heavy-duty stuff that no one could do anything about.

Even when Viv had done my nails, I was more affected by her anger than by the information I knew she had. I hadn’t noticed any accent.

 … Even in the park. Word for word. What did she say …

 … John’s Island. My people there’ll look after me …

Dad had once complained about a young sax player newly arrived in New York sporting orange loafers and no socks who could make a horn do everything but cook dinner.

“Hear Manny’s axe, knock you out. We even excuse them country kicks, but his Geechee got to go. Got to take it back.
”

“Back where?
”

“John’s Island, where he come from. South Carolina
need to put out a special dictionary just for that bad-talkin’ boy.
”

I climbed out of the tub, paged Tad, and punched in my number. He would be here in one minute and out of town the next.

I
could not go to Deborah’s apartment because the vision of Jackson Lee stepping back behind her door and the sight of her in the bloodstained bathtub was there every time I closed my eyes. I did not mention this but she agreed to meet me at the Pepper Pot Restaurant.

“A farewell dinner? Girl, I’m not leaving forever.”

“I know. Any excuse for a good meal.”

“Suits me. See you in an hour.”

A warm late spring rain had begun to fall, and by the time we met in front of the restaurant, it had developed into a steady drizzle. Inside, the music of Bob Marley floated from the CD and the aroma of cayenne and basil filtered from the kitchen. Except for one other patron—an elderly man dining alone in the corner—the place was empty, probably due to the rain. We took a table by the window and I ordered broiled red snapper again, the dish I had not been able to enjoy the time I was here with Tad.

“I’ll have the same,” Deborah said, and the waiter left us alone to look out onto the rainy street. There were few passersby and we drank beer silently.

“Moving got you down?”

Except for ordering, she had not said a word since we sat down and I wondered if she was feeling depressed. She reached for her glass again and emptied it before she answered. “Yes. That … and the fact that I have something to tell you.”

I watched her face, waiting. Was she afraid of going away? Was her father sicker than she realized? Was her sister acting up, threatening her because she had gone against her? I leaned across the table and kept my voice low, although we were alone in the place.

“What is it? What’s going on?”

She hesitated, then stared out of the window at the wet shiny pavement.

“You know, I don’t even know where to start. I told you I wouldn’t talk about what … happened to me even if my memory came back. Well, I remember some things—not the event itself—but I remember the envelope.”

She looked at me now and I saw a trace of the vacant stare I had seen in the hospital.

“The memory comes and goes, but in the moments when it comes, I’m afraid to write it down.”

“Wait. Wait a minute, Deborah.” I held up my hands, wishing I could place them over her mouth to silence her. “You don’t need to do this. Don’t say anything. Not to me. Not to anyone, you understand? Let sleeping dogs lie. I don’t want to know.”

Of course I wanted to know, if only for Erskin’s sake, and it would be so easy to let her talk. But Erskin is gone. Deborah is here. Alive by some miracle but barely able to keep herself together. If she starts to talk, she will remember more than she wants and she’ll disintegrate
.

I saw how much and how fast she was drinking and I wondered about her medication. I’d find out what I needed to know but not this way …

“Please Deborah, let it lay.”

She seemed surprised and somewhat disappointed.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, Deborah.”

Besides, we already had a solid connection—at least to Gary’s murder—and as soon as Viv turned up, Johnnie Harding would be out of business
.

A third round of beer arrived and I watched her empty her bottle, pouring quickly. Then she traced a pattern in the tablecloth with the glass, making small circles and merging the wet outlines.

“This has been one hell of a time. I’ve been through so much. I want to try to get it out of me, out of my system, so I can start to breathe again.”

I kept quiet. To say that I understood would have been insulting. But the glass continued in the small circles and finally I had to say something:

“Once you’ve settled down with your family, talked to your Mom and Dad, you’ll begin to heal, but all of it will take time. It will take time. Right now you don’t need any more weight on you.”

The waiter arrived and, from sheer gratitude, I wanted to kiss him. Food had a way of taking one’s mind off a lot of problems.

“We’re leaving early tomorrow morning. Martha’s rented a car, and I suppose by the time we hit D.C., we’ll have smoothed over our differences enough to present a happy face to our folks. Right now she’s still fuming, but I can deal with it. I want to thank you, Mali, for being there for me. I’m going to miss you …”

I stared out of the window. A few solitary figures hurried past, pointing their umbrellas into the wind.

I thought of the movies, book parties, and plays
we’d attended during those dry spells when there had been no man in our lives. Even when there was a man, we’d burn up the phone wire advising and commiserating.

I thought of the nights when we had rushed from some evening class or other just in time to catch the last set at the Lickety Split. We always sat at the bar with our books on the floor, nursing watery rum and Cokes, whispering and laughing as the finger-snapping riffs flowed through us. Men smiled and phone numbers were doled out and I could hear her laughter way, way above the riff.

The rain had slacked off by the time we left the restaurant but we hailed a cab anyway. We pulled to a stop in front of my place and I got out.

“Have a good trip, Deborah. I’m going to miss you too. Call me when you get settled.”

I closed the door and Deborah rolled down the window, touched my hand, and spoke in a rush as if to prevent me from silencing her:

“Listen. What I wanted to say was that … Johnnie didn’t have anything to do with … what happened to his brother.”

The cabbie gunned his engine and Deborah spoke faster.

“It was someone else. I think it’s someone you know, Mali … I can’t tell you any more than that. I don’t know any more …”

The cab pulled away and I stood at the curb, almost dizzy with the words spinning in my head.

She waved from the window and in the distance her arm looked as fragile as a bird’s wing. The car disappeared and I wanted to go into the house and get out of the dress clinging to me in the dampness but I could not move.

It’s someone I know …

S
leep never comes when you want it but when it does, sometimes you wish it hadn’t. No sooner had my head hit the pillow than the voices began all at once: a cacophony of sound—shouts and cries and whispers—and none of it intelligible. Then the voice that I had not heard in so long it sounded new broke through:

 … Careful. Be careful.

 … Of whom? I wanted to ask, but the voice had begun to weaken even as I tried to call it back. Through all this, I seemed to float in a shadowy ether, not peacefully but fighting the successive waves bringing me to the edge of wakefulness. I struggled to remain submerged, hoping the voice would grow stronger but it got weaker, then faded entirely.

The small clock on the night table read 4
A.M.
when I turned over into wakefulness. The house held the peculiar stillness that let me know I was alone. Even the curtains at the open window seemed held in place by small
steel ball bearings, the delicate ones found in the linings of pricey jackets.

The sound of a car pulling up got me out of bed and to the window in time to see Dad moving his bass toward the steps. When he reached the door, I was there to greet him.

“You still up?”

“I just woke up. Weird dream …”

“Most dreams are,” he said, resting the instrument near the sofa and heading toward the kitchen. “So what was it about?”

He filled the pot with water and put it on the stove, then opened the fridge to prepare his after-hours/early
A.M
. snack. That way, he could sleep until noon and not be disturbed by any unscheduled hunger pangs.

I sat at the table, thinking of Deborah and what she said and then thinking of the voice in the dream, and suddenly I felt tired.

“I don’t remember the dream exactly. It was confusing but I remember the voice. I think it was Mama’s …”

He closed the door of the fridge slowly and turned to rest his hands on the table.

“You know. It’s funny. Lately, she been talkin’ to me too.”

Perhaps it was fatigue or simply an escape mechanism, but neither the white shafts of sunlight slanting across my bed nor the chattering birds on the window ledge prevented me from falling asleep again and I slept late. I came downstairs at noon and Dad had already finished a second breakfast and gone out with Ruffin.

I looked around me. Alvin was gone. Tad was still down on John’s Island and Deborah was the latest one to leave. I wondered who was next.

I think it’s someone you know, Mali …

Her voice followed me as I moved up the stairs and into the bathroom and it grew stronger as I prepared my bath.

Just slip into the water, close my eyes, and concentrate. It will come to me. It will come …

Forty-five minutes later I climbed out cleaner but no wiser. Dad still had not returned and I could hear the echo of my footfalls.

In Alvin’s room, I retrieved the “Profoundly Blue” cassette and, not wanting to deal with the glaring basketball posters, took it to my own room and slipped it into the tape deck.

The recording was made from a very old 78 rpm wax album. Dad had used a high-quality tape but the nicks and scratches still came through with the notes. Once the music took hold, though, I was able to ignore the scratching and let the somber sounds of clarinet, celesta, bass, and guitar—Meade “Lux” Lewis, Edmond Hall, and Charlie Christian—come through deep and rich.

Two minutes into the tape, there was a click—as if someone had stepped up to a radio and turned the dial to another station. Voices filled the room and I held my breath, listening in wonder to the deep, angry inflection of Erskin’s voice: