Fool’s Luck

by LaVelle Wilkins-Chinn

Central West End

It was that crazy little thing called love. He loved her, and there was evidence. The first time I saw her, he was arduously pursuing her down my street, a flying gazelle, her dress up, legs hurdling wide open over cracked, buckled sidewalks, across parking lots, edges of lawns, showing all the neighbors she didn’t wear panties and gleefully squealing like it was the most fun she’d ever had. The two were keeling and staggering drunk; him stumbling and falling, her weaving on wobbly high heels until he was on his feet, then they took off again. It was a queer dance.

I had just stepped off the bus from my new school. I hated my new school. My teachers hated me too. Me and all the alien, grandiose, Afro-nappy-head kids, bussed from the North Side: our first year performing on a new stage called integration. All roles maliciously acted out, definitely not a good day. Frustrated nerves electrically raw, I saw her. And then him chasing her. I was embarrassed, ashamed, dejected; like the Temptations song, I was a big ball of confusion. It wasn’t a something-so-strange-I-hadn’t-seen-it-before kind of thing. It was simply that he was my favorite uncle and vulnerable. Just one look and Ray Charles could see she didn’t give a shit about him.

He was closing in on fifty—she was thirty-something. Magazines later confirmed she’d been a fashion model years before. So what? Her hair was silky and long down her back, with blond streaks. Stunning? Paaaleeeez, to me? HA! But there was this: her legs, always striding on stiletto high-heeled mules. Her torso was shapely in excessively skin-exposed, titillating dresses. Extended fake lashes winked, brushing chiseled cheekbones. Heavily drawn kohl mascara framed her iron-chipped eyes, seeping black streaks into crevice-cracked crow’s-feet covered in eye shadow of wild plum or shocking pink. Possessive, reading eyes, interpreting and storing everyone’s weaknesses. Mother’s wisdom said eyes were windows to the soul. I believe it’s true. Looking into her eyes was just like falling down into two bottomless black holes. A pro in every sense, life’s unexpected hard bits concreted her face. Carla was a high-wire act off-balance.

My uncle was well known around parts of town, especially little hole-in-the-wall taverns and dive bars, so she’d probably heard about his fool’s luck by word of mouth. Unk was coming into lots of moolah: a federal government settlement large enough for him to never have to work another day, and then some. This according to a letter dated September 1, 1968, from Washington, DC. It was delivered to our house when Unk was on one of his road trips. It took twenty years for the government to admit that action in World War II’s Southwest Pacific Theater had damaged him severely and permanently. During his military service Unk’s long-term assignments were collecting and burning human body parts in the Philippine jungles, leftovers from several massacres. After months of pickup jobs, decapitated heads began speaking to him—tormenting hallucinations. From 1946 through 1949 he was hospitalized in mental wards up and down America’s West Coast.

Tall, loose-limbed, a perfect scarecrow build, Unk’s voice was strong, a melodious, rich baritone, announcing good times when he was gliding down the street: “Look out, ole Macky’s back!” With his favorite song, “Mack the Knife,” he joyously serenaded passersby in long-stride waltzes down the avenues of North St. Louis—especially when he was drunk. Which was most of the time. On good days he was usually well dressed: beautifully cut black suit, crisp white shirt against gleaming mahogany skin, impeccably groomed, shoes shined and sharp, newspaper folded under arm, handsome, movie-star smile. One night at the Keyhole, a little back-alley dive down by the riverfront, Carla tripped over the doorjamb, colliding with Unk sitting sprawled-legged on the jukebox, singing his tune.

Occasionally Unk brought her around and she stayed in the car, never coming inside our house. Thanksgiving when he escorted her inside, I wanted to cry. Thanksgivings were sacred to my mother, so bringing guests to her house for dinner? Well then, this was serious.

To compound this tragedy, I had big problems at school. I had been an honors student every year through eighth grade. My grades had now slipped to a B average. My mom came to the school to talk to my teachers and was told I was on the verge of suspension for insolence. Hey! Can I help it if dramatic sarcasm is my nature? I told Mama those teachers never called on black kids when we raised our hands for questions or to lead any special projects. So, defensively, my mother talked to the principal, Mr. Kelb. He told her although I was a good student, I caused disruptions in class and it (meaning I) wouldn’t be tolerated by the faculty, or by him. If I expected to succeed, said he, I must cease opposing (back-talking) teachers in class. Mama assured him with her honey-dripping Southern charm that I would no longer cause any disturbances because (and this is when she dropped the bomb) she would sit in on my classes for a week or longer if needed, along with the parents of other bussed students. Mama and her advocacy group were planning to monitor classes, an action suspiciously objected to at first by administrators, but as a block unit captain, my mother had connections with district aldermen and other black civic leaders. They couldn’t stop her. Afterward, neither could I—from daily grilling about homework to being a proper Christian.

Mama invited my classmate and rebellious comrade Leslie and her widowed mother, Ava Bell, to our Thanksgiving dinner. Mrs. Bell formerly taught elementary school and she, too, monitored our classes. With the two extra leaves, my mother’s dining table seated ten people comfortably. There were twelve total gathered and squeezed in: close family friend Sharon and her boyfriend Willie, Mama’s cousin Justine, her husband Clarence, their son Conrad whom everyone called Connie Chub, Mrs. Bell and Leslie, Uncle Ransom, Carla, and of course me, Mama, and my dad.

Mama blessed our table saying thank you, Lord, for all blessings we’ve received. I’m so grateful to have my family in good health, etc., in the name of Jesus. Shooting bullets out my eyes through Carla’s buoyant cleavage, I tried killing her before I choked on the heavy meal laid before us. Mama glanced at my wickedly focused face and sent me to the kitchen to help bring out more dishes. In the kitchen, my face firmly held with her right hand, pointing to my mouth with her left, she said, “Don’t you be nasty on this of all days. This is a blessing-filled, godly day and you will not be rude and un-Christian. When you go back to that table you will smile even if it kills you and be nice and courteous to your uncle’s friend.” Oh Lord! She didn’t know . . . it truly almost killed me.

 

Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

 

Sitting down again my antennae beeped to Unk’s comment: he was glad he was finally making wedding plans. Meeting friends later, he and Carla were going to the riverfront—they were planning a little reception after a civil ceremony at the city courthouse really soon. When Clarence pushed his chair back, stood stiffly, then awkwardly bowed after Unk’s announcement, Cousin Justine looked up at her husband as though he’d lost his mind. Willie belted out a hardy laugh then gasped on something. I think Sharon kicked him under the table. Connie Chub offered muffled congratulations, ham stuffed into his mouth. Mrs. Bell smiled and looked confused, checking other faces. At that point, personally, I was in shock. This was apparent to Leslie, judging from the concern on her face. No one opposed, but none seemed pleased either. Including my mother. My dad just grunted at the news, gulping down his beer.

Unk was Daddy’s younger brother. The only thing they had in common besides the same mother and father was a love of reading newspapers, but if trouble was around, they’d looked out for each other. Mama said she hoped Unk was going to settle down in one place and quit hopping around from town to town. Then everyone quietly ate. Sharon’s silverware clinked loudly and I glanced over. Looking as evil as I looked stunned, she chewed that bird like it was still alive and trying to get away. Holding up a glass of wine, Carla stood to give a phony toast. All mouths gaped, except Unk’s; he beamed up radiantly at his future bride. I needed to vomit and, uttering excuses, left the table. Leslie, being a bright sensitive girl, followed me to my room. She knew I couldn’t handle this bullshit. We listened to music in my room and talked about teachers, students at school, and what little progress there was since monitoring began. When her mother knocked and then opened my bedroom door, I didn’t want her to leave. I asked if they would stay for dessert, but Mrs. Bell said my mom had wrapped plenty of food with dessert for them to take home. Walking them out I peeked into the dining room, where Connie Chub was still eating dessert with his loony dad Clarence, then into the living room where everyone else sat. Thankfully, Carla and Unk had left already for the Keyhole.

* * *

When Carla found out Unk’s settlement was stalled for months in government red tape, she started fucking all the men in our family.

All the wives except one put up with it. I’m sure Mama’s constitution was sufficient warning, so Daddy wasn’t on the radar. Sharon told Carla she was going to fuck her up and for good. Carla laughed and told Sharon, “God’s already fucked you up.” This was a reference to Sharon’s abnormal physique; I’d discussed this with Sharon when I was eight. She told me that when her mother was pregnant, her father didn’t want another mouth to feed and pushed her off a roof. That was in Chicago in the hot summer of 1921. A month later, Sharon was born premature with a curved spine. Despite some early years of hard knocks, Sharon’s face was pretty: a high forehead, button nose, and large, wide-spaced brown eyes. Her arms, hands, legs, and feet were all long, slender, and elegant, but from the rear, her back humped like a camel’s. She was the color of a camel too, a satin, sandy camel. Her subtle makeup was perfectly applied, enhancing her prettiness. Her hair was always coifed in smooth, swept-up French twists or chignons with sexy tendrils covering her delicate ears. She was a professional seamstress, dressing in such a refined way that the protrusion on her back was barely noticed. Standing four feet eleven inches, she was a wildcat underneath her pinkish-pearl manicure. The sure way to rile her was to mention the hump. She liked to fight dirty too, pulling knives out from her frilly bosom with the force of a man weighing 250 pounds or more. She weighed less than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

One evening, Sharon went into the Keyhole after work. (Cooking was not her thing.) She loved their fried tripe sandwiches, famous as the best in St. Louis. She noticed Carla at a back table flirting and sitting on a man’s lap. Looking closer, Sharon saw that the man was Willie, her boyfriend. She squinted as Willie grinned down Carla’s bosom. When he looked up, Sharon was slipping around the crowded tables and he deftly shoved Carla to the floor before flinging his arms wide open. He laughed, gurgled, “Here comes my baaaaaabbbby! Hey, baby, come sit down and join me!”

Sharon flipped the table over and glasses, beer bottles, and innocent bystanders went flying everywhere. Two backhanded slaps and Willie was off the chair. Swiftly turning, she repeatedly kicked Carla in the ass as she scurried along the floor. Bending over, Sharon was ripping at the fabric down to her bosom when Unk staggered out of the bathroom. He rushed over, pinning Sharon’s arms down to her sides, picked her up like a doll, and carried her out of the joint kicking and cussing. Willie held the side of his stinging face, skulking close behind.

* * *

The last duel between Sharon and Carla was legendary. The really funny thing, Sharon wasn’t married to anyone in the family, but Unk called her “Wifey” because she was the only one who’d let him sleep on her floor when other women put him out. Willie and Unk were tight drinking buddies. When he was in town, three days out of seven Unk would be lying on their bedroom floor talking and drinking “Rosie O’Grady” wine with Willie all night while Sharon bitched and complained.

Unk made it clear to everyone he’d take care of Sharon for as long as he lived. Carla fucked with Sharon every opportunity she got, as well as anyone else she thought posed a threat. Tired as she was of grift, drift, and hustling without a permanent home, Unk’s settlement could change her circumstances.

Before their meeting, according to Unk’s various river rat sources, her circumstances were this: rich family heritage, old Main Line money that settled in Boston following the Civil War. After college she moved to San Francisco, entrenched in bohemian life choices that didn’t square with her Brahmin upbringing.

In 1964, she returned home, swinging her malnourished three-year-old boy on her bony hips, father’s identity still unknown. What was known was her police record citing a string of heroin and cocaine convictions among miscellaneous other illegal activities. Her parents stripped her of her child, her trust-fund status, and formally stated certain boundaries. Feeling forced to leave, her pride demanded she never look back. Ever. When she surfaced in St. Louis circa 1969, needle tracks marked her inner arms, the creases the back of her legs, between her toes, and surely other, undisclosed body parts. She subsisted on a variety of drugs along with wine, beer, gin, vodka, and, on very good days, Johnnie Walker Black Label. Good days came around more often after she hooked up with Unk.

Unk was a better entertainer than almost anyone. After his military service he tried working in Vegas show biz. He worked mostly as a porter, waiter, and whatever else he could do, until stress broke him down and he was admitted to a psychiatric ward—working long hours waiting tables, serving crown rib roasts that soon transformed themselves into talking severed heads. Between admittance in psychiatric hospitals he’d bum around the country. He could tell jokes, sing better than anybody in our family, play harmonica, and do impersonations of anyone, famous or not. He’d leave on job-hunting trips across country just to be in a different city—Minneapolis, Seattle, Tijuana—then he’d come back with two or three vagrant buddies tagging along. They’d stay in St. Louis awhile, then wander off again. Whenever he’d come home, he’d always have fascinating stories to tell us. After Carla came along he stopped wandering off alone. He couldn’t trust her to be loyal when he was in town. It wasn’t her nature.

* * *

After Christmas, Unk took Carla down south to meet more family. Big mistake. One town they visited was so small everyone there was kin to everyone else on either their mother’s line or their father’s line. Those countrified women welcomed them, at first. Carla flirting overtly with their men didn’t raise a hair. Until the men came home with their pockets picked clean. That did it. All of their money, earned hard in cotton fields, box-production factories, and various backbreaking, mind-sapping labor, gone. Insufficient wages that already couldn’t support huge families, gone. Some had as many as nineteen children. Gone. One woman tried to blow Carla’s head off with a double-barreled shotgun. Unk got her out of that town quick.

In Memphis, Carla’s playing field was larger, so they lasted a bit before being kicked out. And when I say kicked, I mean kicked hard. Redneck-Confederate-Southern-Comfort hard. A cousin of Dad’s called scared to death, letting him know he was driving Unk nonstop three hundred straight miles to a St. Louis hospital. When my parents reached the emergency room, the attending doctor warned them before they went in to see Unk. Broken leg, he had stab wounds in all his vital organs and his upper thighs, broken ribs, and possibly other as-yet-unidentified bones, and kick bruises all over, including his head and face. Mama said Dad looked terrified. He leaned down to Unk’s ear and in a quivering hiss said, “Get rid of Carla as soon as you’re out the hospital. She’s either going to get you killed, or kill you herself. Ransom, you’re too old to play the fool. She’s making death come to you quicker than needs be. It’s time for you to enjoy your life brother, not step back in misery.”

Mama says Unk’s swollen, blackened eyes filled with water, his lips trembled, when he rasped, “I can’t, I can’t. She’s in my blood.”

Leaving, Dad turned to Mama sadly and said, “She’s going to kill him soon and all these years he waited for nothing ’cause that settlement is going up in smoke. He’s never going to have peace, even in the grave.”

Dad’s prediction was truth. As he spoke I believe Carla had already plotted how to bury Unk. A year or so later she was so bold that Unk actually admitted he could taste poisonous chemicals in the food she cooked. One day he furiously jumped up from their kitchen table, knocking it over, and roared: “Carla! You are not going to kill me!”

She answered, “You’re already dead.”

Then he said, “I’m taking you with me!” And Unk clenched her throat, forcing the life out of her. As they struggled she coaxed him toward the open back door that led out to a cobbled patio. The witness, a neighbor across the alley, stood in his backyard listening to the cursing and scuffling, and shouted at Unk through the open door, “Mack! Let her go! Don’t—” just as Carla twisted, turned him, and kicked him as hard as she could.

He fell back, busting through the screen door, falling head first down the concrete steps, banging his skull on the patio. She let him lie there. The neighbor ran into his house to call Dad and an ambulance. Unk spent three days in a coma before he died. Everybody told my father he should file charges against Carla. He refused. He said she’d regret everything she did. “My brother was good to her,” he said, “and she abused him, so I know she’s going to pay for it somehow. Just wait and see.”

I was totally enraged, eager to fight. I was tired of being called nigger by grotesque retards at school, tired of stupid-ass teachers with correspondence-course degrees telling me I wasn’t smart enough, tired of trying to be a good Christian. Two months after Unk’s funeral, I came home from school and Carla was sitting on our front porch like a welcomed guest. I ran up the steps and jumped on her, clawing her face and throat, screaming, calling her every whore-bitch-slut name I could think of. I told her she should be dead! Dead! Mama heard me, ran out of the house and grabbed my arms, preventing me from throwing Carla off the side of the porch. Carla choked on laughter. Mom turned and slapped the shit out of her. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

* * *

The next spring it rained cats and dogs for nine straight days. When it stopped, the leftover, winter-scuffed potholes were filled deep with water. The sun came out big and beautiful on a Saturday morning and everyone on our block was so happy to see it, every excuse was given to be out in the sunshine. People cleaned yards, grilled barbeque ribs and chicken, and gaggles of kids ran up and down the streets or played in puddles. Mama made salmon croquettes, a favorite of Sharon’s, and asked me to walk a plate of food around to her house. Willie had been drinking nonstop, still grieving Unk, constantly whining that he had no one to go fishing with anymore, worrying Sharon to exhaustion.

On the way there I thought about changes at school. As a graduating senior every assignment now required careful decisions, carrying much more responsibility. When I approached Sharon’s house I saw a man sitting on the edge of a gigantic pothole at least six feet across and more than likely four feet deep. He had a fishing pole line down in the hole. Getting closer I could see it was Willie. His eyes were closed and he had the pole braced between the slats of his lawn chair. I doubled over, almost collapsed on the sidewalk. Sharon came outside onto her porch and saw me.

Between giggles I said, “Sharon, why don’t you get him out of the street?”

“Any fool thinks he can catch fish in the middle of Kingshighway needs to be left alone,” she said, then sympathetically shook her head. I could see the corners of her mouth sneak-creeping into a smile. She loved that old fool Willie.

I heard a car racing at police-chase speed. I turned to see Carla’s brand-new red convertible Mustang burning rubber as she braked, skidding to a squealing stop, the car’s bumper less than a foot from Willie’s lawn chair. Sharon slyly slipped off her shoes, ducked, and eased down to street level as Carla jumped out of the car leaving the door open. On an extreme carnival speed-high, absolutely wild, Carla screamed at Willie, “Getthefuckouttathestreet!”

Willie opened his eyes, red as stop signs, but otherwise didn’t budge.

“Getthefuckouttathestreet!” Carla grabbed the lawn chair, shaking and yanking it—“Getthefuckouttathestreet!”—trying to pitch Willie into the pothole. “Getthefuckouttathestreet!” She must have sensed a shadow-presence then because she jumped, and spun around.

“Oh, ho ho, here comes the little humpback troll.” Her insults were cut as Sharon pushed her into the pothole. Carla splashed, kicked, cussed. Sharon squatted down, pushing Carla’s head under filthy water as Carla blindly reached for something to grab ahold of. Nearly drowned, her head bobbed as Sharon pulled, knocked, and banged it around the edges of the hole; Carla gulped, sputtered, and regurgitated sewage. Before she could grip anything, Sharon wrapped that wench’s wet hair around her wrist until the scalp was tight to her fist. She popped the switchblade from her bosom like a jack-knifing pro, precisely cutting off all of Carla’s hair that she held in her fist.

Sharon stood, untangling the hair, stretching out all four feet eleven inches, holding her arms up so everyone outside could see. Carla screamed through bloodied lips. Her legs hiked along the side of the hole before slipping, sliding, and falling back into it. Sharon threw the loose hair back at Carla’s face with victorious witch cackles. As she moved to her porch, I saw her slip strands of hair into her dress pocket.

Wearily, Willie reached over in the pothole and tugged at Carla’s blouse. Her drug high was so completely blown she didn’t know if it was Sharon and jerked around, twisting and cussing, until her blouse came up, covering her face. Wearing no brassiere, her breasts hung heavy and bare for all to see. Instantly wide-eyed awake, Willie pepped up and shouted over his shoulder, “Haaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy, haaaaa, haaaaa, haaaa! Somebody come help me get this weird fish I caught with big milk-jug titties!”

* * *

Less than a year later, Carla called my dad almost every night, saying Unk was haunting her and she couldn’t sleep. She was scared, didn’t want to stay in her house alone. Given no Christian sympathy, nada, she awoke one night really strung out, running and screaming out in the streets until she found Sharon’s house. Sharon said she was babbling crazy, begging, “Please, please, help me, I’ll give you anything, an-y thing you want!” Sharon told her she didn’t want anything from her. The episodes went on for weeks. Then Carla had a stroke—a crippling, mind-debilitating stroke. Results? Invalid.

Dad tracked down Carla’s family to let them know. The family’s attorney instructed him to put her into a nursing home and send the address. Someone would be getting in touch. But they never did.

 

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread

 

Nursing home name registration: Carol Anne Adams. She’s thirty-nine years old. The only person who visits her is Sharon. And—probably—Unk.