In Dark Corners (16 page)

"Yeah," I said, grinning, "Cat got me an advance copy…It's great stuff, Gracie."

She nodded, turning the album over.

In New York she developed her own style—a unique blend of gospel, blues, jazz—maintaining it despite the tough times, shuttling back and forth to Europe to make a living, never making much of a national impact. Then, after returning from the trip to Haiti, she cut the album and became an
overnight
success. Interestingly, only one of the songs reflected Haitian influence.

"Yeah, it's pretty good," she admitted.

"Put it on," I suggested.

"Okay." She put the record on the stereo and came back to sit next to me on the desk.

We listened quietly until midnight through side one, when the Haitian piece came on; the drums throbbing in the background, Gracie singing in Creole, the melody haunting.

"What are the words about?" I asked, as the song ended.

Gracie's gaze grew distant, a sad expression settling on her face. Finally she replied: "It's about a young woman from a little village near Cap-Haitian, who finds out she's dying and will never see her lover again, who emigrated to Miami and was leading the wild life. But she secures the aid of an old lady, a
mambo
who summons up
Papa Guedi
, the
loa
for death. After striking an arrangement, the
mambo
draws a
veve
, sending the woman's spirit to Miami, where she frightens her lover into mending his ways. After returning to the village the spirit is claimed by
Papa Guedi
."

We sat quietly after that until the last piece came on: "Gonna Tell My Uncle."

Gracie looked at me, the sad expression gone from her face, and we both laughed, remembering…

***

It was our senior year at Mission High, and Gracie and I were returning to her home in the projects after seeing a movie downtown. We stopped at the junk shop, Edwin's Budget Antiques, spotting a new item in the cluttered storefront: a collection of butterflies, mounted and protected in a glass frame.

"Wow, look at the colors of that one," Gracie said, pointing at a big Monarch in the display—

From behind us a car skidded to a stop. I turned about, my hands still jammed into my pockets—and
froze
.

The front end of a police patrol car was against the curb pointed directly at us, doors flung wide like huge ears; and both officers were out of the car, the one on the left sighting through the rolled-down window with a shotgun, the one on the right using his door as a shield too, aiming through the open window with a .38 revolver.

Jesus! I swore silently, not knowing what else to do.

"Okay, you," said the cop on the right, pointing his.38 directly at my chest, "pull 'em out slow—I mean
real
slow."

The bore of the handgun looked like a cannon, but even half-scared to death, I recognized the corresponding fear in the cop's voice. I eased both hands out of my pockets. "That's not
too
fast, is it?" I asked, my voice a barely-audible whisper, as I raised my hands overhead.

"Okay," the talking cop said, leaving the door shield and approaching us in a stiff crouch, the air almost crackling with tension. "
Both
of you turn around and put your hands against the glass." He used the .38 like a pointer.

As I leaned forward against the storefront, he came up from behind and kicked me in the ankle, "Spread 'em!" Then he slapped me all over, checking for weapons. Finding nothing, he turned to Gracie. I watched from the corner of my eyes.

"Hey, what're you doing—?" asked Gracie, angrily resisting his pat search.

"Be quiet," the cop commanded, his voice dropping in pitch as his fear subsided. I saw him turn slightly, as he announced to his partner, "It's okay, Andy, they're both clean."

"Yeah, well, check the dude's heartbeat, Nick." the cop back at the car suggested, presumably still covering us with a gun.

The closest cop, Nick, moved to my left side, and with his .38 jammed roughly into my ribs, he leaned over and pressed an ear to my chest. Then he straightened up, looking disgusted. "Shit! These ain't the right ones, they haven't been running."

"Can we drop our hands?" I asked, still leaning awkwardly into the storefront window.

"Yeah," Nick replied, holstering his .38.

I relaxed and turned around, as the other cop came up, minus his riotgun. "They looked right," Andy consoled his disappointed partner, shrugging his shoulders as if to add:
Win one, lose one
.

"Okay, what's going on, officers?" asked Gracie, her eyebrows drawn together.

The first cop, Nick, explained that a man and woman had robbed a liquor store near Howard and fled on foot—

"A black woman and white man?" interrupted Gracie.

"Well, no—they were both colored," Nick admitted, looking at me sheepishly. Then, recovering his poise, he scowled and asked, "Hey, what're
you
doing down here, anyhow?" He looked at Gracie, his scowl easing, then flashed a grin back at his partner, as if answering his own question.

"Yeah, man," Andy said, eyeing Gracie, "this is a colored area—let's see some I.D.s."

We showed him our student body cards.

After glancing at the cards, Andy looked at me coldly. "What are you doing here, Cavanaugh?"

"We've been to the movies, and he's walking me home," Gracie answered for me, her tone crisp and sharp. "And what do
you
mean by them looks?" She took out a pen and little notepad from her purse, squinting, then recording each officer's badge number. "You two screwed up, and now you're hassling us to make yourselves feel better. You didn't even read us Miranda rights. I think I'm going to phone my uncle in the morning."

The cops looked at each other nervously, but grinned.

"Uh-huh, Miss Williams," Nick said, rubbing his chin. "Let me guess: your uncle is Reverend Williams up at Glide—?"

"No," replied Gracie, putting pen and pad back in her purse. I could tell she was pissed. But I wondered,
what
uncle?

She eyed Nick directly. "No, Cecil Williams isn't a relative—just a good friend of the family."

Nick glanced back at his partner.

"My uncle," Gracie continued, her voice as steely now as her glare, "is Willie Brown."

"Willie Brown?" Nick blinked, the name of the feisty black state assemblyman from San Francisco striking him like a poke in the eye. He edged back toward the patrol car, following his partner.

"Makes no difference who your uncle is, lady," Nick said, after reaching the open door of the patrol car, his protest about as strong as the third cup of tea from a used bag. "We were just doing our jobs." Then he quickly ducked into the car, and they sped off, as Gracie watched with hands on hips. I almost expected her to stamp her foot.

She looked at me fiercely.

"Willie Brown?"

A smile softened her expression and she giggled.

I shook my head—and began to laugh.

We walked home, tears streaming down our cheeks.

***

As the song came to an end, Gracie slipped her hand into mine, and she said softly, "You still give great backrubs?"

I swallowed hard and nodded.

She left my side for a moment to turn the album over than returned and led me to the bed in the corner behind the Japanese screen. We made love like two old dance partners familiar with each other's moves—with passion, but gently with consideration. Afterwards we lay quietly in the post-coital glow, enjoying each other's presence, breathing in unison.

Then Gracie broke the mood and asked, "What about the writing, Clyde? You haven't given up?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

I thought of a number of lame excuses, but finally told her the truth. "The spark is gone, Gracie….It seems like I've lost everything important. Oh, I tried, I did try. But it all was too personal. Too close. It hurt too much."

"Ah, Clyde…" She pushed herself up on an elbow, chin cupped in her palm so she could look into my eyes. "I've met a lot of creative people in the business over the years and the good ones always share themselves, at least what's important. And the great ones, they let us touch their souls. You know?" Then, she shivered, as if chilled by a sudden wind. "Bye, Clyde," she said, slipped off the bed, scooped up her things, and retreated to the bathroom.

Bye?

Brrring
…

I jumped up and padded across the floor to the phone on my desk. Only one person would be calling me at one in the morning.

"Hello."

"Seamus…It's Felix."

I knew it! "Hey, Cat, where are you?"

"I'm home in San Antonio," he answered, "just got in from Atlanta." His voice sounded strange, kind of flat. "I've got bad news, Seamus. Something happened to Gracie—"

"What do you mean, Cat?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the desk, looking at the closed bathroom door in the corner.

"She's in intensive care, a hospital in New York. A brain hemorrhage about nine eastern—" He broke off, his voice choked with emotion. "God, Seamus," he sobbed. "She's dying…" He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm leaving on the red-eye to New York in half an hour."

I felt reality jerked away as I stared at the light fanning out under the closed bathroom door. Water was running.

Felix said something else, but I couldn't concentrate.

The water stopped in the bathroom.

"Seamus?"

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, Felix."

"I'll call," he said, his tone weary, "soon as I get there and find out anything…Okay?"

"Yeah, I whispered back, too stunned to think of anything else to say. After a few moments of dial tone, I dropped the receiver back into the cradle. Then I crossed the room slowly, my legs heavy and unresponsive. Finally I reached the bathroom and gripped the doorknob; but I hesitated opening it and listened. Nothing, not a sound. My grip felt weak and slippery. But I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and jerked open the door, flooding the flat with light. The tiny bathroom was empty.

I stood there and began to shake all over.

Gradually my senses returned, my bare feet feeling frozen. I scooted across the cold floor to the sink, and searched through the cupboard, finding the bottle of vodka. My hand was still trembling, but I managed to get the lid unscrewed, and tipped the bottle to my lips. But I stopped before taking a drink. Why had she sent her spirit? To make me mend my ways? And then I remembered her last words. I returned to my bed, pulled on my clothes, and went back to the desk and my Underwood…

***

Waiting for Felix's call I can't help thinking I've finally gone around the corner—all those years of boozing. "Le Vol d'Esprit," was just a folksong. Still, I can visualize
Papa Guedi
trying to claim Grace's spirit, and I smile wryly to myself. He better hope she's ready to go.

Me and Sweet Jane were lying naked on our backs on a blanket up on the roof of Le Grande Hotel after a little one-on-one, watching the stars blinking out in the fog that rolled in from the Bay and settled over the City. Replaying last night's major go-around with the Fillmore Panthers—both gangs, the whole maryanne. Man, we stomped the shit out of them boog mother-fuckers, claimed twenty pairs of new Korean sneakers and twenty vids, including four primos:
The Blackboard Jungle
,
A Clockwork Orange
,
Boyz N The Hood
, and
Colors
. Oh, yeah!

But you gotta bring ass to kick ass, and the Pack didn't come away clean—lost Silk and the Shady Lady, both of them probably on ice by now in one of the Nippo body shops in the BART tunnel under Market Street. And most everyone else in the Pack hurting for certain. In fact, I got tore up myself, which was why I was just admiring Sweet Jane's ample set of gorgeous lungs instead of going for my usual best two-out-of three.

Man, she was really stoked, rolling over on her tummy, flicking her braided auburn queue over her shoulder, and glancing at me with her special look, her eyes glowing in the dim light like green fire, as she did her main rap about maybe now was the right time to press for a ban on the gangs using the body shops, time to reduce the casualties in a go-around.

I'd heard it all a hunnerd times.

But she pressed on as she did the whole boring historical bit in living color, about the old days right after the Big Boogaloo hit, gangs forming and protecting neighborhoods against marauders…blah, blah, blah… And now, by charter, the body shops were supposed to be used only in defense of the neighborhoods, not misused in the ritualized go-arounds between gangs; blah, blah, blah—

Behind us the stairwell door burst open with a loud bang, scaring the living shit out of both of us.

It was Little Anthony standing there, his face all screwed up and shiny with sweat, gasping for breath, trying to talk but too frigging excited, making these frantic beckoning gestures with both arms.

"D-D-Duke, c-c-c—"

He squeezed his eyes closed, stamped his foot down hard, like he was trying to jar loose a stuck needle on an old-time record player. It worked. "—Come quick, man!"

I stood up, actually glad that I didn't have to answer Sweet Jane's banning rap, and slipped into my one-piece modtrends, making the stop sign with my hand. "Okay, man, cool it," I said calmly, keeping a straight face even though Little Anthony looked pretty funny—his eyes all bugged-out and hopping around, like a barefoot kid on hot asphalt. But it's best not to laugh or even smile when Little Anthony's going ape-shit, 'less you're prepared for a six-pack of trouble. I ran my finger up the sealseam of the suit and said in my coolest primo vid imitation, "Okay, Homes, wha's happenin'?"