STEAM
She sings like a bird. She steps off the stage, red lips, light skin, auburn hair and those legs—a showstopper. The audience claps and cheers for her. A man in a top hat stops her, she smiles—who she talking to? Holding her drink I walk over to her, the man hands her a card, she’s glowing. Who is that man? He heads towards the stage. I stand in front of Deliah and hand her the drink. Placing my hand on her back, I guide her to our table.
“Baby, that was real nice.” She carefully puts the card in her purse. She takes a sip of her drink. “Who was that man?” I ask.
“Why do you want to know?” She smiles, takes a cigarette out of her purse, leans towards me. I light it. She tilts her head, exhaling smoke to the side.
I place my hand on hers. “Because I want to know.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Jealous?”
“Maybe, baby.”
She strokes my hand. “Would you believe if I told you that was the great Duke Ellington?” She takes a swig of her drink.
“He’s here tonight, isn’t he?”
“Darling—he asked me if I wanted to sing with him! Can you believe it?”
My stomach churns. “Why you want to go do that for?”
“Sing on tour? Duke Ellington? This could be my only break!”
“You don’t have any business singing with the Duke or anyone else.”
“I don’t see a ring on my finger, Henry.” She flicks her cigarette ashes in the ashtray—I’m sitting cool, this woman, how dare she? My whole body yearns for her—I want to possess her—I grasp her hands, pull her to me.
“You’re mine.” I kiss her, she kisses me back, takes my hand and we go to the dance floor and Duke and his band tear up the night for us. It felt like it was only for us, my Deliah, shining, glowing star. I know I have to work a little harder to get her.
She’s limp in my arms, staggering to my car. I open the door and help her in. We are lit. The smell of her perfume imbues the air.
“Henry, Henry, how about one more drink?”
“No, no, Deliah, that’s it. I’m taking you home.”
“Home, home, I don’t want to go home, I want to sing. I want to sing with the great Duke!” She weaves into me as I start the car.
“I need to take you home.”
“See …” She shows me a card. “Rose Cummings Summer Hotel, that’s where he is, go on now, Henry, drive me there. Drive me.”
My stomach tightens, that same knot. “I’m driving you home, Deliah, like I told your mother.”
“You’re just trying to get on her good side. Ha!” She takes out a cigarette.
“Maybe I am, Deliah, maybe I am.” We pull up to her place, a modest house, chipped paint, gray, dim—
“Well, Henry, well, you got me home.” She flicks her cigarette out the window.
“I’m crazy about you, Deliah, you’re my woman. I’m going to take care of you. I’ve got work, a car, it’s only up for us, baby, the sky is the limit!”
“Henry, stop that crazy talk, we’re in the middle of a depression—haven’t you heard?” She laughs, laughs at me. I take her in my arms, she doesn’t resist. I kiss her. I could crush her small frame underneath me.
“Oh Deliah, Deliah.” I run my hands up her dress, those legs, those thighs. She stops my hands.
“Henry, I said I want another drink.”
“You’ve had too much already, Deliah.”
“Well, I don’t want to go in yet, I just don’t.” She presses her lips together in a pout, opens the door and gets out of the car.
“Where you going?”
“Well, if you won’t drive me to the Summer Hotel, I’m walking. I am getting a drink and I’m going to sing with Ellington.” Her heels sink into the mud, she almost falls over. Catches herself. “Goddamn these shoes!” She takes them off and heads on down the street.
“Deliah! Deliah!” I shout, and she keeps right on walking down the middle of the street. This woman, this woman, what is she doing to me?
“Now Deliah, Deliah, listen to me.” I hold her shoulders and stand in front of her. “You’re my woman, I’m going to take care of you—we’re getting married, Deliah, I don’t want to hear any more about this singing. I’ll take you away from this place, we’ll have our own place. Darling, darling Deliah.” She puts her arms around my neck, her body sways from side to side, I steady her.
“You love me, Henry?”
I caress her face, the moon above our witness.
She sinks into my arms, and we stay that way in the middle of the street. I know I have caught her.
PORTLAND, MAINE 1934
I was making money when most people were starving. We were doing okay, got an apartment in Munjoy Hill, the only section of Portland they allow blacks. People needed their cars fixed. Sometimes they had no money and paid me in food, fried chicken, potatoes, I took it all. We were getting along. I knew this was a stepping stone for me. I knew I could do more.
It’s my birthday, I’m twenty-six. There’s no snow yet although the air is frigid, the cold sea breeze gets inside your bones. I park the car on the street and head up to our apartment. My hands and clothes are covered with grease from working on cars all day. Least I’m working, yes—Lord, least I’m working. I open the door, it smells like smoke, Deliah is in the kitchen fanning the smoke with a towel.
She holds up a burnt mound of something. She begins to cry. “I’m sorry, honey, I was doing my best, I wanted your birthday to be special, and now … oh this smoke!” We both furiously fan the air. We start laughing, I throw my towel down and bring her to me. Smells of burnt sugar and grease waft in the air.
“Now let me get washed up, and meanwhile you put on that dress I like to see you in.” I pat her bottom and head towards the washroom.
She dries her tears with her apron and walks to the bedroom to change.
Twenty-six years, twenty-six, my own father made it to thirty-three. I hardly remember him—my mother said she tried to bring him to the hospital, but they wouldn’t take colored folk. And he died. He died an excruciating death—appendicitis.
My father shrieked on the ground, clutching his side. “Come on, James, you can make it.” He leaned on my mother and I held onto the folds of her skirt. We walked, my father wincing in pain. Finally, we got to the hospital. Weary-eyed people sat in the waiting room. A white man in a straw hat, a pipe in his mouth, sneered at us as we hobbled inside. My mother led us to the front of the room and knocked on a door with a window.
The window slid open. A woman in a white cap and thin pursed lips scowled. “We do not serve colored people here.” She slammed the window.
My mother banged on the door. “Please, please, ma’am, he’s not well, my husband, please where can I go? Please!”
The door slid open. “Next,” the woman commanded. My father hunched over my mother and fell to the floor. A white woman carrying her baby stepped in front of us.
“Come on James, get up, get up!” Mama pleaded. He staggered to his feet and we dragged him towards the door.
The man with the straw hat and pipe spat at us, “Niggers!” I raised my fist ready to slug him, my mother caught my arm and hauled us out of the hospital onto the street. My father collapsed on the ground. I think I remember him screaming, I think I do …
Hot water feels good wiping away all that grease. When I step out of the shower, Deliah is shining in her dress, putting on lipstick.
“Well, you’ve steamed it up in here, haven’t you?” She wipes off the mirror, she’s stunning. My Deliah. “Where are we going, Henry?”
“That joint on Main Street.”
“Alright.”
I get dressed, and we walk to the club. People in the neighborhood shout at us as we pass by. “Looking sharp!”
“Where you off to?”
“Lucky man!”
Deliah has her arm in mine, we strut like fine peacocks down the street. In the club, we find a table, order drinks as the band sets up. Deliah announces, “It’s my man’s birthday!” Folks come over, slap me on the back, buy me drinks. The band starts a jitterbug. I take Deliah’s hand and we are swinging, baby, swinging woooh! I feel the pulse, the beat, Deliah spins for me, we hop in sync to the bass, the trumpet blares, the piano boogies and we are on fire.
She took care of me most of the time. Margaret was born and she was real busy. I was building my knowledge and experience fixing cars, troubleshooting problems, building a reputation: “That Henry, he can fix your car,” people said. This restlessness overcame me, then Deliah had twins. I was out most of the time because when I came home, she was sour to me.
“Where have you been, Henry?” she snarls at me the minute I walk in the door, a drink in her hand, hair disheveled. She loses her balance and falls into my chest. I can smell the booze. She’s wearing the same clothes she woke up in, a blue faded house-dress with stains on the front. So homely, not like she used to dress, no, she used to light up a room. She doesn’t smell like a woman, she smells like a damn drunk.
“I’ve been working.”
“This late?”
“I’ve got new clients.” I hang up my coat and hat. Little Margaret wobbles over. “What’s for dinner?” I almost trip on a wooden toy on the floor. The place is a mess: clothes and toys are scattered everywhere. An empty bottle of gin and dirty dishes cover the coffee table. I kick the wooden toy out of my way. Damn I’m hungry.
“I left you a plate in the oven.” The twins start fussing. She finishes her drink and picks up one of the boys. I eat and little Margaret sits on my lap, every now and then she takes a bite. Deliah comes back with Lloyd in her arms. Lloyd extends his stubby arms.
“Papa,” he says with longing brown eyes.
“Hello, little man.” I pat his head and finish eating. Margaret slides off my lap. Hank crawls into the kitchen, bawling. Deliah puts Lloyd down and picks up Hank.
“Now what do you want Hank?” she says, slurring her speech. Lloyd crawls over to me and pulls on my leg, he starts bawling. My stomach tenses. I gently remove Lloyd’s hands from my leg and get up.
“I’ve got to go.” I head for the door.
“You just got here.”
“You take care of my babies. I’ll be back.” I put my hat and coat on and fly out the door. I don’t know where I’m heading but I’m out. I can’t breathe in that apartment with all the children fussing all at once. Deliah pecks at me, nothing soft or nice, just peck, peck, peck, like a barn hen. I take a drive and end up at a bar. I walk into a fog of cigarette smoke, light chatter, and a mournful tune playing. I sit at the bar and order a drink. A woman in a black stylish hat with a green plumed feather tilted to the side sits at a table across the room. I nod my head, she nods back. I tell the bartender, “Give her a drink, on me.”
“Sure.” He places the drink on her table, her hat tips up as she asks the bartender something, he gestures to me. Her body freezes a moment. She picks up her purse and walks over to me.
“I thought that was you, Henry.” I do a double take, it’s dark in here. It’s Beah. She’s a grown woman now. Last time I saw her she was still playing with dolls.
“I didn’t recognize you with that hat.”
She smiles, full red lips, thick black hair, curves in all the right places. “Henry, what are you doing here?”
“Just getting some air.”
She sips her drink, crosses her legs, teasing me with her sheer stockings with black lines running down the back.
“You’re looking good.” I smile.
“How are the babies?”
“Oh they’re good, good …” I swirl my drink around. She nods, takes a cigarette out. I give her a light, she tilts back her head and exposes her smooth neck. Her large brown eyes reveal nothing, her lips, a faint smile? With no trace of her sister’s frantic, birdlike movements Beah sits like a majestic cat, waiting—
I squeeze her thigh, and she opens her mouth slightly—I pull her to me.
“Come, Beah, come with me.” She drops her arms to her sides, puts her cigarette out and we walk to my car. I drive to a secluded street and boy, do we steam up the car that night.
“You smell like a tramp!” Deliah hollers at me as I walk through the door.
“You’re crazy, woman.” I point to her. “And you’ve been drinking again.” I mutter to myself, “There’s no point in trying to change this woman.”
“So have you.”
“Not as much as you.”
“I can’t take this anymore, Henry, why, why do you leave me?”
“Clean up, Deliah, you’re a mess.” She drops to the ground weeping. “You’re a messy drunk.” I step over her.
“And you’re a mean one, Henry, a mean one.” I sleep on the couch that night.
The morning sun is too bright. I have a whopping headache, man, am I hung over. Margaret tugs at my sleeve. Can’t this woman feed her children? I pick Margaret up and sit her at the kitchen table. The door to our bedroom is wide open. Deliah is sprawled across the bed, I tap her back.
“Margaret is hungry. I’ve got to head out to the auto shops to see about some work.” Margaret climbs up on the bed.
“What happened last night?” Deliah rubs her eyes.
“Now, no drinking today.”
“When will you be home?”
“Not too late.”
She picks up Margaret and follows me to the door. “Whatever happened last night, Henry, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be back for dinner.” I pat Margaret on the head. I get my hat and coat and walk out.
I finally left. The squalor, the babies’ cries and I’d find Deliah passed out on the floor, no meal made. Nothing. Beah could take care of me like a woman is supposed to do, and I could focus on my work, so I could do great things. A man needs to come home to a pretty smile and a warm meal. I had to leave Deliah, or she was going to take me down with her. No sir, I had places to go. I didn’t go to trade school for nothing. I was building my reputation: people trusted me with their cars. Children, they’ll get along. I got along when my mother left me at Aunt Julia’s. Only the strong survive.
That’s what my mama said, patting me on the back before she left. “Only the strong …” I was five when Aunt Julia took me in. I kept waiting for my mother to come and get me.
The creaking of Aunt Julia’s rocking chair kept me up. I peeked through the crack in the curtain that separated the bed from the kitchen. “The boy is all alone in this world now, such a shame, such a shame,” Aunt Julia sobbed.
“There, there, Julia, he has us, he has us now.” Granduncle Isaiah’s voice was unusually gentle.
“May the Lord forgive her, forgive her Jesus!” Aunt Julia held up her cross. “We’ll tell him it was an accident. Right Isaiah?”
“Yes Julia, yes.” Isaiah placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Losing her husband, too much, just too much for her. She done give up. That poor chile, jumping in front of a train …”
Who are they talking about? Who jumped in front of a train? My ears perked up.
“I’ll tell Henry in the morning, after breakfast.” The creaking stopped. Me? They were talking about me? My mama is gone? I tried not to imagine her body smashed by a train. I tried not to imagine her face, her eyes, her hands on my cheek. I forced myself to forget her. Heck, I was ten years old, going to be a man soon. I made myself forget her.
I was eating my morning biscuit when Aunt Julia sat at the table across from me and told me about the “accident.” I took it like a man. I didn’t cry, nope. I finished my breakfast, did my chores and walked to school with the boys.