South Street (46 page)

Mr. Sloan glanced at his wristwatch and saw that there was plenty of time to get to the airport. He relaxed and reviewed his itinerary. The only problem with the Caribbean tour was Sister Fundidia, whom, in the heat of the chase, he had promised to take along. Now Mr. Sloan’s thoughts turned to all the West Indian women who would challenge him with their heathenness, and he shivered as he anticipated plunging the sword of Christian faith into a pagan mass of caramel thighs. Witchy-women, beaded and bangled, danced across his vision, shoved their bellies in his face, and Mr. Sloan wondered if his penis, in closer proximity to the headwaters of Black Power, would grow to enormous size. Speculation gave rise to fact, and so the Reverend Mr. Sloan peeled back Sister Fundidia’s satin wrapper, filled his fists with Sister Fundidia, dug his heels into her meaty thighs, and, riding high, gave her her head. Just as they galloped to the wire, neck and neck, destined for a photo finish, possibly a dead heat, Sister Fundidia’s eyes popped open. The Reverend Mr. Sloan spurted into the lead. Sister Fundidia failed to finish. “My Lord!” exclaimed Sister Fundidia. “Reverend Sloan, what are you doing?”

The Reverend Mr. Sloan dismounted and lay on his back with his slowly softening member pointing toward heaven.

“Oh, Lord,” wailed Sister Fundidia, grasping at her sopping pubic hair, “I’m ruined!”

“You can’t be ruined,” Mr. Sloan assured her, “you’ve only just opened for business.” Sister Fundidia flopped over on her stomach and watered the mattress with her tears. “Sheet,” muttered the Reverend Mr. Sloan. He rolled out of bed, stomped into the bathroom, and began to brush his teeth, pausing from time to time to spit out a hair. Sister Fundidia wailed away, shaking the big round bed with her sobs. “Keep it down,” the Reverend Mr. Sloan ordered.

Sister Fundidia rolled over again and glared at him. “You’re
horrible
,” she told him. “You—forced me.”

Mr. Sloan strode out of the bathroom and presented his back to her. “You wanna tell me how I forced you to bite me?”

Sister Fundidia gazed in horror. “I did—that?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Sloan told her. “Why, just as I was gettin’ ready to take you home, when I was puttin’ your sweater around your shoulders”—Mr. Sloan moved up behind Sister Fundidia and grasped her shoulders—“you caught my hands and forced them to your
breasts
!” With a convulsive motion Mr. Sloan grabbed a rubbery handful of Sister Fundidia.

“
I
did
tha
t?” cried Sister Fundidia.

“That ain’t all,” declared the Reverend Mr. Sloan, working away like a Wisconsin dairy farmer. “After that, you took one hand …” Mr. Sloan grabbed Sister Fundidia’s left hand and pressed it firmly against his scrotum.

Sister Fundidia’s hand trembled. “I did
that
?”

“And
that
,” thundered Mr. Sloan, “ain’t all. When you had aroused me beyond all hope of control, you ripped your clothes away, fell onto your back, and pulled me down upon you!” Mr. Sloan demonstrated the final phase, paying pious attention to detail. Bouncing up and down on Sister Fundidia, he glared sternly.

“Um, um, um,” said Sister Fundidia. “I did all that!”

“And you’ve done it again!” shouted Mr. Sloan. He stopped in mid-stroke and made to pull away.

“Oh, Reverend, I’m so sorry!” cried Sister Fundidia, grasping him convulsively.

“Release me, hussy,” Mr. Sloan shouted. He wriggled strenuously. Sister Fundidia’s eyes glazed over and she began to do some strenuous wriggling on her own.

“Jesus and Mary,” screamed Sister Fundidia. “I see Jesus and Mary!”

Sister Fundidia wriggled so much she pushed the Reverend Mr. Sloan out, and he banged himself painfully against her thigh. “Thou vile whore!” screamed Mr. Sloan. “First you ruin me as a Christian, and now you destroy me as a man.”

“Oh, Reverend,” panted Sister Fundidia, “I didn’t mean it.”

Mr. Sloan clutched himself and moaned, carefully observing Sister Fundidia through half-closed eyes. Sister Fundidia hesitated, then bent over and gently pried his hands away from his groin. “Ahhh,” moaned the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

“Don’t worry, Reverend, I’ll make it all well,” said Sister Fundidia. She bent to kiss him. Mr. Sloan grasped her firmly by the hair and shoved himself halfway down her throat. “Ughcmlumphmmkhck,” said Sister Fundidia.

The Reverend Mr. Sloan moaned in divine release and let her go. Sister Fundidia came up for air, looked around dazedly, and then planted a soupy kiss on Mr. Sloan’s lips. With a horrified shout Mr. Sloan applied the back of his right hand to his mouth and the back of his left hand, with considerably more force, to Sister Fundidia’s face. Sister Fundidia vanished beyond the far edge of the bed. “Don’t ever do that,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

“Yes, Reverend,” whispered the invisible Sister Fundidia. “I’m sorry, Reverend.”

“Go brush your teeth,” Mr. Sloan ordered. Sister Fundidia got up off the floor and scurried into the bathroom. “And wash yourself while you’re at it,” Mr. Sloan called after her. “You smell like last month’s chitlins.” He climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, where Sister Fundidia stood brushing her teeth with one hand and, with the other, energetically mopping herself with a washcloth coated with Ivory soap. “Y’oughta use Lava,” grumbled Mr. Sloan.

“Eychgh guchgh ehchgh alhmochgh lichgh wchee wachs marichgh,” said Sister Fundidia, looking doe-eyed at the Reverend’s reflection in the mirror.

“Spit that out and talk right,” snapped Mr. Sloan.

Sister Fundidia obeyed. “I guess it’s almost like we was married,” Sister Fundidia sighed. “Goin’ away is almost like a honeymoon.”

“Umm,” said Mr. Sloan. He reached out and took the washcloth from her. “‘If you gonna steal yourself a lamb, might as well have yourself a ram’—John 3:16.”

Sister Fundidia smiled happily. “And when we get back we can get married for real.”

In the mirror Mr. Sloan gave her a saintly smile, while congratulating himself on having had the foresight to buy Sister Fundidia a one-way ticket.

“Good morning,” Brown said, grinning.

Vanessa opened her eyes, blinked. “It’s still the middle a the goddamn night,” she complained. Brown, still smiling, licked his finger and touched the tip of her nose. “Ugh,” Vanessa said, rolling over.

Brown bounced out of bed, dropped to the floor, and squeezed out seventy push-ups. Then he straightened up, sweat shining on his skin, and padded into the kitchen. He set up the coffeepot, turned on the stove, picked up the bag of garbage, and went to the window. Below him, in the alley, broken glass glinted in the morning sun. Brown swallowed heavily, dropped the bag, watching as it fell and burst. He turned away from the window. He sat at the table while the percolator perked, drumming on the tabletop with his hands. A bouncy rhythm—Brown wondered what it was. Then he remembered: Jake’s “pome.” Brown smiled wistfully, then stopped smiling and looked thoughtful. He took out paper and pencil and scribbled a few lines. Then he beat on the table some more.

“That coffee I smell?” Vanessa called.

“No,” Brown said absently, “what you smell is the collected sweat of several million exploited niggers an’ spies.”

“Smells good,” Vanessa said. “Bring me some when it’s ready.”

“Yes, missy,” Brown said. “Anything else you’d like? A ripe bird? A singing melon?”

“Just the coffee.”

“‘Just the coffee,’” Brown muttered. He beat on the table some more, scribbled a few lines. “You want some eggs?”

“I don’t like eggs.”

“You don’t mind exploitin’ niggers, but the hens is safe.”

“I used to be one a them bitches lays them golden eggs,” Vanessa said sourly.

Brown sighed, put down his pencil, went to stand in the doorway. Vanessa lay on her back, her eyes closed. “Don’t you go thinkin’ it meant nothin’, Brown, ’cause that’s exactly what it meant—nothin’.”

“It happened once, it’ll happen again.”

“That’s what they keep sayin’ about Jesus. We’re still waitin’.” Brown looked at her for an instant, then burst out laughing. “An’ just what is so goddamn funny?” Vanessa demanded. Brown, grinning, hummed a few bars of “Adeste Fideles.” “That ain’t what I meant,” Vanessa snapped.

“Well, you was talkin’ about the Second Coming,” Brown said, and ducked back into the kitchen. He heard her give a low chuckle, but when he carried a cup of coffee to her she was frowning again.

“What time is it?” she said, taking the cup.

“Ten-thirty.” Vanessa groaned. “Ten-thirty,” Brown repeated firmly. “Ten-thirty on payday. I gotta go an’ get ma money.”

Vanessa set the cup down, got out of bed, and followed him as he went back to the kitchen. “You can’t go out till I find Leroy,” she said.

Brown finished pouring himself some coffee, and added milk and four sugars before he spoke. “I don’t want to hear any more about that.”

“But I—”

“I
said
I don’t want to hear any more about that. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“You don’t own me,” Vanessa snapped. “I do what I want. Don’t you be tellin’ me when to come—” Brown snorted. “Shut up.” She glared at him with eyes dark and smoldering.

Brown sat down. “I don’t want to give you orders. I don’t want to tell you what to do or what not to do. If you want to leave here now and never come back, you go ahead. If you wanna peddle your ass up one side a South Street an’ down the other, you go ahead. You wanna kiss Leroy’s backside, you go ahead. But you do it because you want to, not for me. I ain’t no damn pimp, got to be sendin’ somebody out to do for me. Now, are you goin’ lookin’ for Leroy because you want to be with him? You want to go, or you want to stay?”

“You know,” Vanessa said.

“I don’t know nothin’ if you don’t tell me.”

“I want to stay. An’ I want you to stay alive.”

“All right,” Brown said. “You stay, an’ I’ll try an’ stay alive. An’ if I fuck it up, then you can call me names.”

“You really could get killed,” Vanessa said. “You know that?”

“Yep. Truck might get me. Might have World War Three, or eat a can a tuna fish that some unhappy wage slave shit in to show his contempt for the Great Society. You expect me to worry about pissin’ off Leroy when I got God to worry about? Leroy’ll probably forget all about me sooner or later, but God got pissed at Adam an’ Eve an’ the joker ain’t got over it yet.”

“You’re a jackass,” Vanessa told him.

“Now the deal was you was supposed to wait until I was dead ’fore you started callin’ me names.”

“Jackass,” Vanessa shouted. She leaped at him. Coffee splattered all over the place as they rolled around on the floor. Vanessa got Brown’s head in a scissors and put on the pressure. Brown, half-laughing, half-crying, twisted at her big toe. When that had no effect he slid his hand on up her leg. “You’re cheatin’,” Vanessa protested.

“That’s what Liston said every time Patterson hit him on the fist with his face.”

“That ain’t ma fist.”

“That ain’t ma face, neither, but it will be if you’re not careful.”

Vanessa relaxed the pressure on his head. “I’m always careful. Ma mama always told me, if you can’t be good, be careful.”

“Yeah,” Brown said, “an’ if you can’t be careful, please don’t name it after me.” Vanessa looked at him, jumped up, and ran for the bathroom. Brown stared after her, mystified. He shrugged and got up off the floor. In a few minutes she came back. “You’re good, anyway,” Brown said, with exaggerated blandness.

“That was an accident,” Vanessa said. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

Brown sighed. “You’re beginnin’ to sound like a cross between Barry Goldwater and William F. Buckley.”

“And who the hell’s William F. Buckley?” Vanessa sat down across from him, glaring.

“William F. Buckley is one of the principal masters of the Tai Tass or Hung Oop school of moral and political philosophy, which maintains that what did not happen yesterday ought not to happen at all. Practically speaking, Mr. Buckley would love to send all the niggers back to Africa, but he can’t find enough clipper ships.”

“Sometimes,” Vanessa said, “you sound like educational TV. I wish I could change the channel.”

“What you want, a soap opera?”

“Maybe I just want to turn you off altogether.”

“Click,” Brown said. He slurped loudly at his coffee. Vanessa got up and went to look out the window. Brown rocked back in his chair. Vanessa walked into the bedroom, came back with a cigarette, and leaned out the window, smoking. Brown let the chair come down onto all four legs, went to the sink, and rinsed out the cups. Vanessa hummed softly. Brown turned off the water with a violent twist that rattled the plumbing. Vanessa looked over at him reproachfully, then turned her attention back to the window. Brown stalked through to the bathroom, slammed on the water, climbed beneath the iceberg coldness. He smiled grimly as he soaped himself, his face turned into the frigid spray. He felt Vanessa’s breasts against his back. He rinsed himself off and got out of the shower. She followed him. Brown made a large production of drying his face. Vanessa pulled the towel away.

“Don’t you hide from me, muthafucka!”

Brown looked at her. “Who,” he said carefully, “is hiding from whom?”

“You is hidin’ from whommmm, dammit!”

“No,” Brown said. “You are hiding from you. You
want
to just lay there like a goddamn whore.”

“I
am
a goddamn whore!” Vanessa shouted. “I’m a goddamn H, O, R, E whore. I ain’t no college professor—”

“Lotsa college professors are whores,” Brown said. “There’s more to bein’ a whore than not knowin’ how to spell it.”

“Here we are, the world’s fuckin’ expert on fuckin’ whores—”

“No,” Brown said, “actually, it’s a new thing for me. I never met a whore I wanted to fuck before.”

“Shit,” Vanessa said. “Why can’t you just leave me be?”

“I care about you,” Brown said.

“Oh, yeah,” Vanessa said. “I knew that was comin’. What else is there to try?”

“If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t care if you came or not.”

“Onliest reason you do care is so you can think you’re big shit—Dr. Brown, who came on down to South Street an’ scared the shit out a the tough guys an’ taught the hookers the meanin’ a true love.”