The Turner House (21 page)

“He so pushy,” Lucille had said once. “He look like the type to bring a list with him into the bedroom, and he ain't done makin love till he check off
everything
he got in his mind to do.”

Tufts represented a larger truth that troubled Viola: if she stayed in town, she'd always be defined by Francis's abandonment. He would be a shadow over her and Cha-Cha's life. She refused to let her husband's poor decisions define her life; she would save up and leave. Another month passed with Viola working sometimes sixty hours a week and saving three dollars out of every week's pay. She estimated that she'd need at least seventy dollars to feel good about her and Cha-Cha moving, to be able to contribute at whichever brother's household would have her until she found work. She wrote friendly, generic letters to her brothers up in Cleveland and Omaha in an attempt to feel out which location was better, whose wife would be the most welcoming. Clyde, James, and Josiah mailed short responses devoid of any useful information, and Viola suspected their wives had written the letters, given the neat penmanship. No matter, she would just have to take a chance on one of them when she had the money.

All of the planning and saving made her feel older, more confident about starting a life alone. Her love for Francis began to feel like a remnant from her juvenile past. What had there been between them, anyway? He'd seemed a prize, standing in that pulpit, the yearning to make people believe in him so clear on his face. And she'd won that prize. So much for all of that. Next time around she would look for a simple, hardworking man with a good heart, humble aspirations. It was just as Lucille had said: she was eighteen years old and had too much life in front of her to be without love.

WINTER
1945

A secondhand brown wool suit, a fur-lined hat, leather wingtips, and a pair of galoshes. Francis used the money he made working at a stamping plant on Jefferson to better equip himself for winter and improve his appearance. It was his fifth job, and it didn't pay as well as the salt mines, but he'd managed to work at the stamping plant a whole month without quitting or getting fired.

Galoshes were most appropriate for a night as icy as this one. Still, Francis wore the wingtips. They pinched his toes. He aimed to take Odella to the Gotham Hotel. He'd passed by the hotel on the bus, heard that Paul Robeson, Joe Louis, and local political figures had dined there. He would take Odella and elevate himself in her eyes, perhaps his own eyes too.

Lately, starting over seemed more feasible than returning to Arkansas, begging for Viola's forgiveness, and bringing his wife and child back up to Detroit. There was a good possibility that Viola would not forgive him. He had no way to explain the long months of silence. Better to make that silence permanent, to look forward, to push the guilt away from him and focus on making something of himself with the woman he had in front of him. Odella was not exactly his woman, not yet, but he thought he might alleviate her apprehension about his young age and pennilessness by staying on at the stamping plant and taking her on proper dates. Then, once he'd saved up, he'd see about enrolling in school for something, maybe becoming an electrician.

Francis drank a swallow of bourbon from his flask, balled up his bedding, and headed downstairs. Odella sat in the parlor in a steel-gray dress that hit below the knee and hugged her hips. She'd rolled her hair at her neck and pinned a matching gray beret onto her head at a fetching angle. Not the fanciest outfit Francis had glimpsed in her basement apartment, but perhaps understated was best tonight. You could dress so rich that you came off looking poor.

Amos 'n Andy
yammered on the radio. Francis turned the dial down.

“Well, look who's finally turning into a city fellow,” Odella said.

Francis moved to kiss her on the cheek, but she ducked out of reach, picked up his bedding from where he'd left it on the sofa, and put it in a closet.

“This who I am now,” Francis said. He reached for her again, succeeded in kissing her on the temple. “I'm livin in the city, may as well dress like it. Sides, if I aim to keep the attention of the likes a you, I can't go around in no dusty duds.”

Odella patted his shoulder.

“Aw, soldier,” she said. “What I tell you when I first met you? You already had the
posture
of a gentleman. But I guess it doesn't hurt to have the clothes, too.”

Life in Detroit did not slow down for winter, as Francis hoped it might. Detroiters simply bought more coal or kindling for their heat and piled fur on their backs. Odella wore such a fur—fox, with tails shimmying along the shoulders, and one tail missing on the right side. Francis had seen the fallen tail sitting on Odella's dresser, awaiting repair. The first time she'd worn the fur Francis must have made a quizzical face because she quickly explained that it was a gift “from another life.” He didn't ask for elaboration; he liked that both of them had other lives they'd left behind, secrets they would not force each other to share. Now he told Odella to wait in the parlor while he walked to Hastings to hail a cab.

“Where are we going, soldier? We can't walk?”

“It's downtown, and I don't aim to have you walkin no way. Not even round the corner.”

“Downtown? Well, as long as we have reservations, that should be nice.”

He kissed her again, this time right on those velvety lips that always encircled his own.

“I'ma dazzle you tonight, girl. Just wait.”

He felt silly as he pulled on his coat and hat, his back turned to her. He'd never said such things to Viola. Where had the words even come from? Those damn radio shows, he guessed.

“Be ready when you hear the cab honk,” he said.

The cold reached down his throat and snatched at his lungs, as it always did when he first stepped outside. The boardinghouse was a block away from Hastings. Francis had never thought of the distance in terms of actual steps before. Tonight he tiptoed over icy patches in his too tight shoes, the street desolate. It seemed to take ages to pass two houses. He was nervous about showing up at the Gotham. He hadn't made a reservation, hadn't even known to make one. Hell, if they couldn't get dinner, they could at least have a drink or two at the bar.

Up ahead, right before the corner, was an ice slick about three feet long. To his left Francis saw that the street was full of murky, brown, half-frozen sludge. He went gingerly forward on the ice. He chuckled at himself moving so softly, hunched over like a picture-show burglar in the middle of a heist. A whistle blew—a police whistle—and Francis stood up straight on instinct. He slipped. Slid on his right hip across the stretch of ice, the cold so fierce it felt like fire.

“Stop right there,” the officer said from across the street, and Francis wanted to laugh. Where could he go without slipping again?

He stood, brushed off his suit as best he could. His wingtips had lost their shine.

“Just tryin to get a taxi,” he told the officer. “Slipped on the ice.”

The officer crunched across the street in shiny black boots. He had a smooth white face, save for his ruddy cheeks. Outside of work, Francis had experienced minimal contact with white people in Detroit, and no police run-ins at all. He'd heard that they did this, randomly approached colored men on the street and questioned them, tried to make them nervous. He was not yet nervous.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” the officer said. His name badge read
WILLIAMS
. “How many drinks have you had tonight, friend?”

An off-duty taxi slushed by. Was “friend” the Up North version of “boy”? Francis wondered.

“I ain't had no drinks,” he said. “Just wore the wrong shoes.”

He lifted up his leg to show the wingtips and nearly slipped again.

“No drinking at all?”

“None, sir.”

“Where you headed?”

There were at least a dozen places within walking distance Francis could have named—bars, jazz halls, pool halls, restaurants, even Clydell's place on Beaubien, where he'd washed dishes. Instead he puffed out his chest and said, “Gotham Hotel, downtown. Got a lady friend waitin for me to come round once I get a cab.”

The officer widened his eyes, pulled a side of his mouth up into a smirk.

“Alright, I think you'd better show me some identification, friend. Empty out your pockets too.”

Francis didn't move. His flask was in his breast pocket, half full of bourbon. An older colored couple walked by, and Francis looked at them with pleading eyes. They did not seem to see him. He thought about Reverend Tufts, and how during the ten years in his care he'd never seen the man humiliated by anyone, colored or otherwise. What was it about himself that people in this city wanted to knock down?

He saw no way out of following the officer's instructions. He reached his hand into his coat pocket for his wallet.

“Oh, hello, Officer Williams.”

Francis turned to see foxtails flying and a familiar pair of legs skipping across the ice in high heels.

“Odella Withers,” Officer Williams said. “This man is a friend of yours?”

Odella appraised Francis, no doubt noticing his wet trousers and scuffed shoes.

“A tenant of mine,” she said. “Which means he pays me money every week. Better than a friend, wouldn't you say?”

Odella's smile made Francis furious. Too wide, too gummy. Desperate. It didn't do that mouth of hers justice at all. In return Officer Williams offered her a quick grin but then tightened his lips once more.

“Your tenant is drunk,” he said. “Says he's headed to the Gotham Hotel. Tonight.”

Francis opened his mouth. Odella reached out and squeezed his arm.

“He's not drunk,” she said. “Just clumsy, and not too familiar with restaurants and such up here. He's from Down South. It's his first Detroit winter.”

“One of those newcomers, huh?” Williams looked at Francis with renewed contempt. “They're as likely as anyone else to be intoxicated in public. More likely, in my experience.”

“Not this one,” Odella persisted. “He's as green as this snow is cold.”

“Well, you make sure he learns to be quick about showing identification when an officer of the law requests it.” He turned and walked down Hastings without waiting for Odella's response.

Odella put her hand on the small of Francis's back. He shifted away.

“What?” she said. “Let's go on home, soldier. You're soaked, and I can feel you shivering.”

It had started to snow shortly after Odella appeared. Now a snowflake landed in Francis's eye. A fire truck's siren wailed a few streets over.

“We still going to that hotel,” he said. “I said I was takin you out tonight.”

“And here I am, and we are
out
, aren't we?” Odella giggled and put her hands on her hips. “But the Gotham? Even with a reservation we'd have a hard time getting sat, no-named and colored as we are. Without it?” She tsked.

“What's my name matter?” Francis asked. “I got money to spend. And it's a colored hotel, ain't it? You tryin to tell me I ain't welcome there, or you just ashamed to be seen with me?”

Again she put her hand on the small of his back.

“You know what I mean, soldier. It's ran by our folks, sure, but you and I don't have the clout to just stroll through without reservations on a Friday night. Say, let's just get a bite someplace nearby. That'll be nice.”

“You go on back to the house,” he said. “I'm goin to the Gotham.”

Francis walked off in that general direction. The sidewalk on Hastings was salted and shoveled, easier to traverse. He was a grown man, he reminded himself; why should he be afraid of getting a drink in a fancy hotel bar? It wasn't as if the bar was whites only; this was Detroit, not Pine Bluff. The worse that could happen was he'd get the menu, see the prices, and not be able to afford anything special. Still, he could afford a couple fingers of bourbon.

At Saint Antoine Street he lost his nerve, made a right instead of continuing to downtown. He climbed the stairs to his favorite blind pig. He sat in a dark corner and drank. At around 3
A.M.
a barback nudged him awake. Francis sat up, then doubled over in his chair and vomited all over his scuffed-up wingtips.

SPRING 2008

When Troy and his partner, Higgins, first arrived at the house—a two-story brick bungalow near the corner of McNichols and Livernois—it had looked salvageable. Sure, the garage was up in flames, but since even halfway decent houses usually had a thick fire-resistant wall separating the garage from the living areas, he thought it would be a short ordeal, over before noon. He watched the firefighters spray the roof with water, and slate smoke columns lick the sky. He and Higgins helped keep onlookers at a safe distance. Higgins was better at this; he was shorter than Troy but older at forty-nine, and fatter. He used his belly like a flare, directing people away from the house and fire engine. Troy used a more apologetic approach. While Higgins said, “Stay back, I'm not gonna tell you again,” Troy offered, “Do me a favor and keep off this side of the street, okay?” When he'd first joined the police force he realized he was just a little too light-skinned, too young-looking—too pretty, really—to pull off being the bad cop, especially next to Higgins. It just made people giggle. The mother and two little girls who lived in the house were fine, but a relative drove them to the hospital anyway, much to the disappointment of the EMT guys in the ambulance. They'd wanted something to show for having arrived on time.

Troy had stood witness to at least one hundred fires during his two and a half years as an officer. Accidental fires like this one appeared to be, fires in which the arsonist was caught, fires in which no arsonist was sought because the property had already been condemned and there weren't enough investigators to spare. He had never gone out on Devil's Night, the eve of Halloween, when mayhem and flames used to engulf certain parts of the city. Francis Turner was no great disciplinarian, but he prohibited anyone from leaving the Yarrow house on October 30. He'd sit in the armchair facing the door with a seldom used hunting rifle across his lap and a protective scowl on his face that remained even after he dozed off. Troy might have found ways to sneak out if he really wanted to, but the sight of Francis putting forth so much effort had made him feel loved.