then what?’
‘And then we’d be together forever, and when we get big we’ll have babies.’
‘What?’ Jerome looked at the small white girl in the blue vest. He saw her skinny body. He could reach all the way around her and still have room left over.
‘Don’t you want to leave too?’
He thought of Chris and Billy and the little ones. Sandra on the stoop in front of the house. ‘You have to stay.’ Dora cuddled up to him. She traced the outline of his lips with her finger. ‘It’s like they’re drawn on,’ she mumbled.
‘What are?’
‘Your lips.’
He felt her warm breath on his face. Her breath smelled slightly putrid. He stroked her hair. It all seemed unreal, as though they weren’t really standing here.
‘I’ll always be your friend, okay?’ he said hastily, hoping she would cheer up soon.
She gave him a shove. Looked at him, laughing. ‘The hiding place, come on,’ she said. ‘Last one there’s a rotten egg!’ And off she ran.
They had agreed to meet on the field behind the bar at four o’clock. Afraid of being late, Jerome had rushed and was out of breath. His arm was sore from carrying the shoeshine kit. On Exchange Street he already heard the hubbub coming from the bar where Dora’s parents always hung out. He darted across the street as inconspicuously as possible and headed straight for the field with the mounds and the holes and the bushes that concealed Dora’s hideaway. She wasn’t there. He waited for a bit and walked into the woods, calling her name. He heard a vague echo of his own voice in the woods, and the chatter of the birds. He went back to the hollow. No Dora. He ambled back to Exchange Street. He paused in front of the entrance to the bar; he was never able to just walk straight in. He took a deep breath, concentrated, tried to put all thoughts out of his head, shielding himself from the dirty looks and nasty comments from the men in the bar. He shifted his kit from one hand to the other and walked inside. Immediately he saw Dora sitting on the banquette against the wall, where he had seen her for the first time. Next to her was her father.
‘Hey, you there, pickaninny. C’mere,’ the red-faced man shouted. Dora looked away. Jerome straightened his back and went over to them.
‘Gimme a shine,’ the man said. ‘And then we’ll see what you’re worth.’
Jerome looked at Dora. Her face looked pale, sallow. She sat with her shoulders hunched up and her eyes glued to the floor, like she was trying to hide inside her own body. He opened his kit and slid under the table. He saw the father’s worn-out shoes. He spat on them, took a cloth and started polishing. He’d show that bastard. They all thought their shoes got extra shiny from spit, but only he really knew why he was spitting. After a little while he saw her father’s hand appear under the table. A fleshy white hand. The hand rested on Dora’s knee, pushed her dress up and started fiddling with her panties. Jerome held his breath. Stopped polishing.
‘Hurry it up, will ya?’
He heard the man laugh. A rough, drunkard’s laugh. Jerome rubbed the cloth lightly over the shoes as he watched Dora’s father’s big hand, now inside her panties, nudge her legs open and move slowly back and forth. He felt himself go queasy. It was as though he’d taken a blow to the head. His vision went dark, he tottered on his knees. No wonder Dora knew so much about sex.
‘That’ll do.’ The man pulled his feet back. His hand stayed in his daughter’s panties.
Jerome climbed out from under the table, struggled to get up. His head was spinning. He looked at Dora. Her damp cheeks glistened in the smoky yellow light of the bar. She wiped away the tears and smiled at him. He did not smile back. He was numb. He just picked up his kit and turned toward the door without asking for money.
‘You’re useless,’ Dora’s father called out after him.
He didn’t respond, just headed outside. He was ashamed. Ashamed of that son of a bitch, of himself for walking off without a word. Of Dora. Of her tiny, pale, child’s body. He pushed the door open and turned back. Dora saw him looking and smiled again. He forced himself to smile back and went outside, onto the street.
The next day, Reggie was waiting for him after school.
‘Want to come over?’
Jerome shrugged.
‘M-m-mammio wants to know why you don’t come over anymore.’
‘Just ’cause.’
‘She says sh-sh-she wants to talk to your mother.’
‘Is she crazy?’
‘Mammio’s not crazy.’
‘I know that,’ he sighed. He kicked a stone. ‘Sure, I’ll come over.’
They crossed Wooster Avenue without another word.
That morning, everything had seemed all right again. He had slept well and dream-free. His bed was nice and warm. He stretched out in it, enjoying the peace. But it only lasted a couple of seconds. Then it was like a black screen slid down in front of his thoughts. All his muscles tensed and he broke into a sweat. He knew he would never see Dora again. Nor would he ever again set foot on Exchange Street. He shut his eyes tight, but he couldn’t get rid of that image of the fleshy white hand crawling up Dora’s skinny thigh. It was as though, losing Dora, he’d lost everything: his work, his money, his pride.
Reggie and he were ambling toward Bailey Court.
‘Can you keep your mouth shut about something?’ Jerome asked.
‘Wh-why?’
‘Well, can you?’
‘’Course.’
‘I knew this girl,’ Jerome began. He already regretted it. It was like he was giving Dora away.
‘And?’
‘Never mind. I was just thinking … I mean … did you think white girls’ skin is cold too? Like an Eskimo’s?’
Reggie gaped at him. At least he didn’t laugh. Reggie always knew when something was important.
‘She was warm. Her blood was warmer than mine.’ Jerome was talking more to himself than to his friend.
‘Was she pretty?’ Reggie asked.
‘It’s not about that. We were friends. She’s gone.’
‘Where to?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ They were in front of Reggie’s house. Mammio spotted them from the kitchen and waved. Jerome waved back.
‘Nobody knows, right?’ Reggie asked as they went in the back door.
Jerome shook his head.
‘Good.’
-
‘Homesick’ (1993)
We were there at the beginning of trust and faith and respect behind closed doors we used to speak to each other in the soft tones of the rainbow smiling through the river’s mist cooling the warmth and passion of time waiting for us to come home.
-
AKRON, OHIO, 1960
Mud Bottom
He stood on a thick branch, about fifteen feet above the still, black water, naked except for his underwear. He wanted to learn how to swim.
He looked up at the translucent sky … If I don’t come back up, they’ll find my clothes, he thought fleetingly.
He crouched, and the branch bent with him. He looked out across the water. Wispy, glistening threads floated in the air. He saw small, shiny insects leap over the water’s surface. Wild ferns on the opposite bank, thin stripes of bright green moss between the rocks. It was so quiet