Touch the Throne

By Samuel

MISTER CAINBRIDGE WAS a West Indian merchant
who owned a small grocery store in Harlem. From
early morning to late evening he sat in front of his store next
to the vegetables, on a wooden milk crate with a faded pillow
on top that served as a cushion.
There, six days a week, beneath the heavy brown canvas
awning, cranked down over the store window, he sat,
representing an approachable throne of earthly grace, where
a familiar face was trusted to buy food on credit, and during
these depressive days of 1938, everybody needed a little extra
time to pay for food.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 23, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462810949

Samuel

Samuel is an international motivational speaker, a career pastor, prophet, apostle, missionary, and singer. He holds a diploma in theology and a bachelor’s degree in legal studies; he is also a doctor of jurisprudence degree candidate at the William Howard Taft Law School in Santa Ana, California. He currently lives in Houston.

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Copyright © 2003 by Samuel.

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

THE FINAL CHAPTER

CHAPTER 1

A good time is guaranteed to be had by all

MISTER CAINBRIDGE WAS a West Indian merchant who owned a small grocery store in Harlem. From early morning to late evening he sat in front of his store next to the vegetables, on a wooden milk crate with a faded pillow on top that served as a cushion.

There, six days a week, beneath the heavy brown canvas awning, cranked down over the store window, he sat, representing an approachable throne of earthly grace, where a familiar face was trusted to buy food on credit, and during these depressive days of 1938, everybody needed a little extra time to pay for food.

Joeshen Purcell worked for mister Cainbridge serving customers who came inside and keeping the store clean while mister Cainbridge kept a watchful eye on the food outside.

Preacher came into the store. Joeshen, my man, gimme some skin, he cooed with a sliding step, swaying rhythmically, certifying that he lived life with genuine panache.

Joeshen laid his hand atop the extended palm, and the two hands rubbed coolly apart.

Get me one of them cold Rhine gold, and a five-cent slice of that salted cod hanging in the winda, Preacher sang hiply.

Joeshen stood untying the dried fish from the line strung across the window.

«Jojo, you know Myrtle Tuttles, don’t ja?" Preacher asked as he watched.

Joeshen moved to the cutting board and sliced. „Can‘t say that I do."

But Preacher was sure of the woman‘s notoriety. „Sure you do, grad big ol‘ black girl, he said, holding his hand several inches above his head. „Works right over there at the Horse Shoe Night Club, over on Seventh.

Joeshen shook his head, and laid Preacher‘s package on the counter.

„Tell you what, you know Biff Watson, don‘t ya?" Preacher asked, pushing two dimes across the counter.

„The boxer?"

„That‘s him."

„I‘ve heard of him, saw him fight once but I don‘t know him."

„Well, damn, baby, everybody in Harlem done heard of the nigger. Accepting the fact Joeshen didn‘t know Myrtle, Preacher continued, „Anyway, Myrtle has herself some of the best parlor socials in all of New York, every third Saturday of the month and that‘s tomorrow night. He relayed with his eyes closed and his voice singing low as he savored past memories of Myrtle‘s past socials. „Believe me, brother, when I tell you she has the best music, liquor and food in the whole city and a good time is gua-ran-teeed to be had by all."

„It sounds like a lot of fun, but I don‘t know those people, and besides, nobody invited me."

„Invited! Preacher exclaimed in feigned exasperation. „Damn, baby, where you from? You don‘t get invited to no social, you just pay at the door and walk on in, he said, walking his fingers across the counter demonstrating the concept. „Now, tell you what, he added, beckoning for the pencil behind Joeshen‘s ear, „this here‘s the address. They usually start around seven but it wouldn‘t be cool for you to show up that early.

„It wouldn‘t?"

„Oh, nooo, baby, he said, his fat, round, brown face disfigured in mock pain at the social faux pas. „You‘ll embarrass yourself showing up that early you‘ll make it look like you just been sitting around all day long waiting for a party to start, instructing the country boy in the big city ways. „No, you wait ‚til about ten-ten thirty. By that time, the place‘ll be jumpin‘ and then, you just breeze on in like you just floating through, you get me?"

„I get you, Joeshen said, excited at the prospect of socializing with city folk. „Maybe I will go, he said, sticking the address in his shirt pocket and giving it a securing pat. „I don‘t have best of clothes—"

Mister Cainbridge came and stood in the doorway looking at the two men, who now pretended their business had just concluded.

„That‘ll be all Joeshen," Preacher said in a business tone as he picked up his packages and walked out of the store.

Joeshen, with a damp towel, began to wipe the salt from the cutting board left from the cod. Mister Cainbridge stood watching for a moment before returning to his lofty station next to the vegetables.

Mister Cainbridge was a businessman, a merchant of food and he was afforded a place of respect in the neighborhood.

Soooo good looking.

Walking up the block, Joeshen could hear the heavy thud of the music’s relentless bass beat. His heart began to pound with an excitement as each step he took corresponded to its rhythm, matching its tempo. Joeshen wanted very much to be accepted by Northern sophisticates, and to share in the wealth Negroes up north had access to.

City wealth was different from the means down home, he reflected. Down there, potency was always white, established, and steeped in tradition, but in the North, power was money—green, dressed in furs, silks, and satins, driving ice-black Cadillacs.

Up north, wealth sat prominently on display, and looked you unashamedly in the eye.

He stood leaning against a lamppost across the street from the party, watching the parade of people go down the cellar steps to the entrance of the brownstone house.

When the door opened, he could hear the music grow loud and then resume its muffled beat after the promised gladness within had been extended and gleefully accepted by people who were ready to trip in the light fantastic.

He inspected his clothes again; an old worn pair of denims and a blue work shirt was all Joeshen had to wear. He felt awkward and out of place among the brazen city folk, so shyly he stood hoping to see someone he knew, in particular, Preacher so he wouldn’t have to go to the party alone.

Soon, however, he was carried along by the sheer energy that emanated from the house and felt himself being pulled, rushed, even shoved, toward the joy within.

He walked across the street, descended the three steps and walked to the dimly lit alcove and knocked on the door. When it opened, he was greeted by a dark, thin, balding, colored man with a toothy grin fixed tightly to his face. The man was bobbing, weaving, and bouncing to the music. One quarter, he said, snapping his fingers as he dipped and swayed to the beat.

Joeshen reached into his pocket and counted out twenty-five cents, then waited for the doorman, who had turned away, dancing. On the beat of the music the doorman spun, took the money and with a bow and extended arm bid welcome.

The house was packed with beautifully colored humanity. Some women wore expensive fur stoles and inspiring perfumes that mingled divinely with the intoxicating smoke.

The men wore suits, some with matching spats, some with hats.

Joeshen cruised the scene in a state of euphoric delirium, transported to another time by the excitement that whirled about him. He grew relaxed and waved at those who thought they knew him and nodded and waved at those he thought he wanted to know.

He didn’t drink, but after several offers the temptation to do so and acceptance converged into one and he heard himself say, Well, why not? But just a little bit. Thank you.

He was feeling good; the music, the foods and conversation that informed made him happy and he moved through the party with growing familiarity. Then he drifted over to a small gathering around the kitchen door. He looked through and watched, to his surprise, a familiar act.

They call me Shorty, ‘cause I’m soooo good lookin’, the short man said, his funny face frozen in a comical withe-eyed grin. Then he bent his way over at the waist, lifted his foot and slapped his thigh with a resounding smack and let fly a hearty laugh.

Joeshen, along with everyone else, enjoyed the antics of the little man who had the small group laughing hard at his comedic chatter and dancing. He broke into an impromptu dance step and, coming halfway around in a spin, caught a glimpse of Joeshen standing in the crowd.

He stopped and slowly turned back. I can’t believe my eyes, he said, sincerely surprised, a big smile bloomed across his face. Joeshen Purcell, damn! he joked. The people you meet when you don’t have yo’ gun.

Joeshen lifted his glass. Hiya doin’ Rufus?

Hey everybody, this here is Joeshen Purcell, Rufus said, pulling Joeshen into a bear hug. This here’s my best friend in the whole world. We both come from the same place-Simms, South Carolina, and he’s my best friend, he claimed, although the Smells were moon shining no—accounts and the Purcells a family of clergymen and the two families never associated with one another in Simms.

But Joeshen was glad to see Rufus and his declaration that they were the best friends. He did not dispute.

„So you made it to the big city, eh, Joeshen?" Rufus asked as he led him to a quiet place where they could catch up on things. „Man, it‘s really good ta see a familiar face,» he said. «So how long you been in town?»

«Oh, for about three months. You?»

«Almost year and a half now,» he said. «How long you been knowin’ Myrtle?»

«I don’t know her. A guy named Preacher told me about her socials yesterday and I just paid my money and walked on in.»

«Well, let me introduce ya to her.»

«Who? Myrtle Tuttles? You know her?» Joeshen asked, impressed that a country boy like himself knew someone of her stature.

Rufus opened his suit jacket, placed his thumbs under his suspender straps, boasting, «She’s my cousin—now you just wait here a minute and I’ll be right back.» With that, he scooted off into the crowd and was gone.

There’s a friend I want you to meet

When Rufus returned, Joeshen was talking to Benny «Scratch» Moore, a respected jazz pianist who was playing for a share of the night’s receipts.

He was called Scratch because he played piano with head hung low over the keys, pawing the ivories with quick flicks of his long fingers. Someone once remarked he looked like a cat scratching in the dirt, and thereafter, Benny was called «Scratch.»

«Myrtle, have you met my good friend, Joeshen Purcell?» Scratch said, as he saw Myrtle approaching on the arm of Rufus. «He’s a singer,» he continued in the easy, soft-spoken flow that characterized the speech of jazzmen of the 1930s.

«I was just coming over to do just that,» she said, extending the tips of her fingers in greeting. «You seem to be a very popular fellow around here, Mister Purcell. I’m Myrtle.»

«Yes, Ma’am, I heard all about you,» Joeshen said, coming to his feet and wiping his hand down the front of his shirt before taking hold of hers. «I’m glad to make your acquaintance,» he added, pumping her arm exuberantly.

«How long did you say you’ve been in the city?» she said, smiling.

«He just got here,» Rufus said, taking a seat next to Scratch on the piano bench.

«Well, I’m glad you could make it to the social, but a good-looking devil like you had better be careful. These women will eat you alive,» she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Myrtle was a large ebony woman who was almost as tall as Joeshen’s six-feet-one. She had a pretty face and smile that displayed a set of even white teeth. She combed her hair straight back and wore it close to her head, gathered at the nape of her neck and worn in a small shiny bun.

Her hands were soft and surprisingly petite, with well-shaped, tapered fingers she kept manicured and opulently bejeweled.

She was self-conscious about her size and dark complexion, and exhibited an array of feminine behavior she felt made her adorable.

She had a mincing walk, and she lowered her eyelids coquettishly as she talked to men. And when amused, it was her habit to bashfully lower her head and lightly place the tips of her fingers to her breast, as if overt laughter were unseemly for a lady. The gesture mimicked a silkscreen print of a beautiful Oriental girl she once saw hanging in a Chinese restaurant when she was a little girl. All these dainty mannerisms, she believed, made her the small, huggable, doll-like woman she longed to be.

Like all men, Joeshen was sincerely charmed by Myrtle.

So? How’d ja like it?

Joeshen stood among the small group, growing at ease with himself and the North. The near-freedom, and the opportunity to express and fulfill himself was something he was learning to relish.

For the first time in his life, he was allowed to be Negro at his own pace. Down south, he lived in a society that restricted and defined his character and shackled his mind with fetters of ropes and chains born in slavery to keep him in fearful check.

All his life he lived under an institution of terror enforced with governmental blessings, courtesy of Jim Crow laws.

Up north, southern horror lost steam-its reach, its hold over him and his mind was now his own and he began to entertain thoughts he dare not even consider down younda. He was free to pursue his own quest, that of being a man.

The social became a perfusion of sights and sounds. The high-pitched squeals of delighted women dancing under gaslights with men, proud of their charm, and soft hands that never picked king cotton.

They were all in sartorial splendor. Their hairdos processed into place caught the light, which shimmered off the lacquered strands like the reflection of a full moon on the surface of a dark ocean.

With each passing hour the party grew more intense, until the music became a recurring tribal thump-thump-thump that drove the packed flesh to a sensual fluidity, like a single organism pulsating in time to the late-night driving beat.

It was past three in the morning before the gala began to lose steam. Past four in the morning before it was called to a halt altogether.

The two men walked 135th toward the Seventh Avenue trolley line.

So? How’d ja like it? Rufus asked.

„I liked it a lot! Joeshen said. „I liked it a whole lot.

Tell it like it is, brother

Sunday morning for Myrtle was a day of worship. She sat in the pew with her eyes closed and her head bowed in sincere prayer, asking God to forgive her for the sinful life she lived, Monday through Saturday. Myrtle was looked down on by many in the large congregation of Morning Side Baptist, which counted amongst its worshipers the most influential and upstanding pillars of Harlem. They all worshiped at Morning Side, sitting prominently on display in the front pew.

Myrtle, they all knew, made her living throwing parlor socials, where bootlegged liquor was sold and gambling encouraged. She was hostess at the Horse Shoe Night Club where she cavorted openly with the devil’s children show people.

But many of those same pillars spent discreet Saturday nights in the upstairs rooms of that Horse Shoe Night Club, including the young Reverend Aaron Power Junior, who now stood praying in the pulpit for God’s assistance in behalf of his people.

The church was electrified by Aaron, who gave an impassioned invocation to God, asking him to remember the needs of His beloved Negro children.

Morning Side was a large, granite edifice that stood broad, withe, and deep in the center of Harlem. It was considered to be the largest and singularly most politically influential Negro church in all Manhattan, and in the minds of some, the entire North.

God Himself was proud of Morning Side Baptist Church.

Morning Side’s worship had format and purpose that reflected the new Negroes’ ambitions to gain acceptance by white America.

They prayed for the opportunity to demonstrate that some Negroes could speak without the slow country drawl that attested to a slow country mind.

They wanted to show white America that some Negroes had the ability to speak in a subdued, proper manner and laugh without their mouths opening into deep gaping caverns of pearly white teeth and that Negroes could emulate the perfect example of proper conduct set forth by their white teachers.

And when complete emulation was accomplished, it would bring with it the love Negroes so desired from white America and their love would be demonstrated with the greatest prize of all, a good-paying job.

Indeed, all the hardships Negroes had endured for the past three hundred and seventeen years were all going to be put behind them as soon as their white brothers saw that some Negroes were ready to act like human beings.

Aaron Junior, finished with the morning prayer, raised his hand, cuing the Magnificent Voices of Zion who stood and then sang a rousing rendition of God Will Make a Way Somehow, and at the song’s conclusion Aaron senior delivered an uplifting message that left the sainted ones relaxed, confident, and generous.

The final prayer was said and the saints were sweetly dismissed to their lives.

Today ‘s my lucky day, I just know it!

Myrtle left the sanctuary with a song in her heart, a bounce in her step, feeling renewed, blessed and free. The autumn sun lay against her face like a cool kiss; she inhaled deeply the crisp invigorating air, reaffirming her good life, and her adherence to God’s first commandment.

Hey Myrtle, wait up!

She turned to see where the call was coming from.

Over here. This time, the call came with a hand held high, jiggling back and forth like a tree leaf caught in turbulent wind. Rufus moved to the curb, stepped between the parked cars and with a quick burst of speed, ran to the raised island that ran down the center of Seventh Avenue, and then to Myrtle, waiting on the other side of the street. Good morning, cousin, Rufus asked, with a comedic delivery and a tip of his derby hat. How’s every little thing?

Just fine, Rufus, she answered without enthusiasm, trying to maintain the spiritual flicker ignited in church that morning. Yourself?

Couldn’t be better, he answered.

How come I didn’t see you in church this morning, she asked, with a half-hearted attempt at winning Rufus’s soul.

With a grin and showing irreverence to any attempt at preaching to him, Because I wasn’t there. He said dismissing the witness. Come on, you going to the club, aren’t ja? I‘ll walk ya‘,he said, lifting his hand, allowing her to proceed.

They began to walk.

„You going to ask Froggee about that comedy spot that opened at the club?" Myrtle asked.

„Yessir, boss, and this time I‘m gonna get. I can feel it in my bones." He clapped his hands together with a smack and rubbed them together energetically until they became warm, strengthening himself for the impromptu audition he hoped to do for Froggy.

With that, the stately woman and the little man walked with each other down Seventh Avenue. Myrtle was warmed by Rufus‘s company and the stroll became pleasant. She thanked God for that, too.

Have no fear

The Horse Shoe Night Club was dark when they arrived. Chairs were perched on tops of tables, and the lazy back and forth motion of mop to floor Slick did with meticulous care.

How do you do, folks? Slick asked, with a slow, spread-fingered sliding wave.

Good, and how do you do, too, Slick? Rufus asked, elaborating his question with a little jig. He felt good. So good, in fact, he broke into an off-the-cuff dance routine, a rubber-legged, time step of disjointed merriment performed just for Slick, who stood, laughing silently, shaking his head and waving his hand in a please-stop-it-your-killing-me gesture.

Rufus, his ability to make people laugh reaffirmed, made a bee-line to the customary seat of Froggee, owner of the Horse Shoe Night Club.

Froggee sat at the end of the bar, looking every bit like an ill-wrapped package. He was dressed in a rumpled green summer suit, a style outdated by ten years and two seasons, and a shirt in dire need of ironing. His tie, askew, was stretched to its limits, fighting to contain his thick neck within the frayed encirclement of his shirt collar.

He was a large, colored man with short, nappy red, hair and ruddy complexion that complemented it perfectly. He sat, quietly looking down the empty bar through large bulbous eyes set in a thick-featured face that seemed to be all, eyes, nose and thick pink lips, that had the marked distinction of being wet regardless of the season.

With his arms resting on the bar and his large hands folded comfortably behind an ever—present glass of straight Wild Turkey, Froggee, perhaps, was ready to do business.

Uninvited, Rufus hopped up onto the bar stool next to Froggee, did a bongo beat on the counter, cocked his derby to the side of his head, announcing his presence and measuring Froggee’s temperament.

Everybody knew that if Froggee wasn’t receptive to being bothered, he could be as mean as he was ugly. He just sat there.

With a showman’s enthusiasm, Rufus forged ahead, Froggee, today’s your lucky day!

Froggee let out with a short blast of air through his nostrils and a slight spastic lurch of his heavy shoulders, meant to convey that he didn’t feel particularly lucky and continue to sit there looking down the empty bar with slow heavy blinks of his large froggy eyes.

Rufus pressed on. Froggee, since Billy’s gone to Lulu’s, you got an open spot on the show, right?

Froggee lowered his head in Rufus’s direction, and set his eyes at half mast, the only acknowledgment that Rufus was even there.

Well, Rufus continued, have no fear, Rufus, the funny dancing man is here. With that, he gave his biggest gapped-tooth grin and stretched his arms way out in a taaaa-daaaa presentation, waiting.

No response.

Rufus took the direct approach. Look, Froggee, I’m ten times-no, a million times funnier than Billy will ever hope to be. All I need is a chance, he said desperately.

Froggee unfolded his hands, and began tapping the rim of his glass with his large forefinger in a slow, measured count. He picked up his glass, pushed his thick tongue out between his thick lips, drew in a breath, and took a small sip from the glass.

He sat the glass down, refolded his hands and continued to stare down the bar. After several moments he took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, then in his low, booming voice, said, Le’me think about it.

That’s all I’m asking, Rufus said, satisfied with the progress. So what-say I see you here tomorrow? Same time? Okay?

Froggee agreed to the arrangement with a nod, and with that, Rufus slid from the bar stool as carefully as someone moving away from a standing house of cards.

Dear Mary

As always after Joeshen returned home from church, he sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a letter home to Mary, the girl he was engaged to marry.

Dear Mary,

Things are going well for me here in New York. How’s everything back in Simms? Fine, I hope. The church quintet is singing better than ever since we got Teddy, a bass singer. He hits notes so low you feel it in your stomach.

I met an old friend from home. You remember the Smells, don’t you? It’s their youngest son, Rufus. He’s trying to get into show business as a comedian and dancer. I think he’s pretty good. I bumped into him at a social. Rufus has family up here. Her name is Myrtle Tuttles.

I know you will like them and I know they’ll love

you.

Mr. Cainbridge and his wife, Alice, are doing real well and both of them have been good to me. I’m still renting a room from them. And I’m still saving money for a place of my own so I can send for you.

Well, until next week, love.

Yours forever, Joeshen xxxxx

P. S. I’m sorry to hear about Miss Rosa’s accident.

CHAPTER 2

It was said Judge Homer Beauregard Simms, and his family, owned everything in Simms County, South Carolina, except the air you breathe. But, it was pointed out, he was in deep negotiations with God and as soon as He signed the proper papers they’d own that, too.

MARY ARMSTRONG STOOD at the kitchen sink

washing breakfast dishes for the family of Judge Homer B. Simms. She was lost in daydreams of places where only she and Joeshen existed, where there were no houses of white people to be cleaned by her.

She possessed a beauty that was sincere, true, classic, and without compromise. But for now, she and it were enshrouded in youthful ignorance. She was unaware of the physical wealth she held, and the ends men would go to possess a beautiful creation of God, if for a brief moment.

You get more beautiful

Jesse Simms strolled into the kitchen barefoot, wearing pants and open shirt that exposed his chest and taut stomach. He went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. Did I miss breakfast, again? he asked, reaching for the sugar bowl. What time is it anyway?

We finished eating over an hour ago, Mary said.

So, why didn’t somebody come out back and wake me up? he grumbled as he rummaged through the empty pots and pans for leftovers. He spied a lunch pail on the kitchen table, and opened it. Hmm, what do we have here?

You’d better not touch that, Mary warned. That’s the judge’s lunch.

With a sigh of resignation, he walked over to the sink and leaned on the counter close to Mary.

Aloof, she ignored him.

Jesse was a muscular, well-built man, not quite six feet tall, with rugged features and a head full of thick, wavy black hair that he let grow unstylishly long over his ears and left to fall rakishly across his forehead.

He had a man’s face-solid, not handsome, although he was considered to be good-looking. He had large, deep gray eyes, and his nose, mouth, chin, and lips were full and well-formed and gave him a smile that could charm the devil.

The spoon that stirred his coffee went from a rattled clink, clink, clink, to a slow scrape along the bottom of the cup. Finally, I swear, Mary, you get more beautiful every time I see you.

She sighed in annoyance.

His voice dropped to near whisper, his words paced to coincide with desirous thoughts. Since I’ve been away, you’ve grown into quite a woman. How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Mischievously, he leaned far back over the counter to get a better look at her. Yo little titties have blossomed beautifully, he added.

Shocked, Mary turned toward him. You should be ashamed of yourself carrying on like some low-class field hand, she said, tugging at her clothes to assure her dress was properly buttoned. Talking to me like that, we was raised together, she added, wielding the weightless deterrent.

So you can hear and see me after all, Jesse laughed.

Mary turned back to her chores.

Taking hold of her apron string and giving it a teasing tug. You’re not saying that because we were raised together, that makes us brother and sister? Jesse asked.

Stop playing, Jesse! I’m not in the mood for this, she said, and snatched the apron string from his hand. Eloquently. Besides, I’m an engaged woman!

Engaged! he exclaimed, with mock surprise. To whom? Where is he? he asked, shading his eyes and peering about the kitchen. Let’s meet my future brother-in-law. He looked inside the silver drawer. Are you in there, Joeshen? he asked, rummaging through the silverware. Come on outta there, boy, an’ say hello to ya new brother-in-law.

You’re not funny, Jesse, Mary said, and slammed the drawer shut so hard and quick Jesse barely had time to snatch his hand away from harm.

Jesus! Jesse exclaimed, alarmed by Mary’s flash of anger. He stuck the tip of his finger in his mouth. That was real close, Miss Armstrong, he said, holding his hand up to the warm sunlight coming through the window, looking for possible injury. Is that blood? he asked, pointing at the tip of his finger.

Mary ignored him.

Anyway, he continued, being engaged is not the same as being married. Besides that, Joeshen’s not even here. He smiled mischievously.

Mary shook her head in disgust.

He placed his hands on the counter, stiffened his arms and rested the weight of his body there. Tell me, Mary, what do you see in that boy, anyway?

You wouldn’t know, she said, because he’s a colored man.

What’s that suppose to mean? He turned, leaned down on his elbows, looking up at Mary, absently swirling the tip of his finger in the warm dish water. I think ol’ Jojo’ll make a fine husband for a lot of the ol’ colored gals around here in Simms. He stood up and leaned close to Mary; her hair brushed his face. But you can have any man you want, so why him? he whispered as he slowly traced the tip of his wet finger down her bare arm.

She twisted away from his touch. What’s it to you, who I marry, Mister Simms?

Mister Simms? he noted. He moved behind her and placed both his hands on the sink, locking her between his arms and spoke softly into her hair. I just want the best for you is all and I don’t think ol’ Jojo is up to it. You’re a woman who’s lived a privileged life here in the big house. You’ve grown accustomed to being around nice things, and you should have a gal washing your dishes in your own house with a man who can appreciate you the way I do.

"How do you appreciate Mary?"

Jesse turned and then stood staring at his father standing in the doorway. I’m waiting. Go ahead, tell me how you much you value Mary, he asked as he laid his hat and riding crop on the kitchen table before walking over to the stove and pouring himself a cup of coffee. As he sipped his coffee, his dark gray eyes remained fixed on Jesse. I’m still waiting.

Jesse, who, at first, was taken by the interruption, gained his composure, and mustered up a smile. Why, Daddy, I was just telling Mary how we were practically family, he said, bobbing his head persuasively. And I hope her all the best.

Mary’s engaged to be married. I believe she told you that, the judge said, his eyes steady on his son.

Yes sir, she did say something about that, Jesse said, the smile gone. He turned to Mary and gently lifted her hand and placed his cup in her palm. Congratulations, Mary. I do hope you’ll be happy. Then he smiled beautifully and left the kitchen.

When Jesse had gone, the judge turned to Mary. Jesse hadn’t ought ta be carrying on like that, he said. The two of you are no longer children, an’ what I heared this morning shouldn’t be; I want you to see to it that things don’t get out of hand. After that shooting, I’ve taken enough heat because of the Armstrongs and I don’t want any more controversy in my life concerning your family, do you understand me?

Yes sir.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the soft clatter of dishes being dried and put away.

Is this my lunch? The judge asked, picking the pail from off the table.

Yes, sir.

Brightened. Any of that fried chicken left from supper last night? he asked as he put the pail in the leather saddlebag.

Two big pieces.

Nobody fries chicken like Hattie. He said. So tell me, how soon you and that boy fixing ta jump the broom?

As soon as he has enough money to send for me, Mary said, carrying the last of the dishes to the cupboard, to put them away.

It’s amazing how fast time flies, he mused. I know the Purcell family, very well, and their son Joeshen is a fine chap. If it means anything to ya, I approve of you and him jumping the broom.

I’m glad you approve, she said sincerely.

He took a last sip from his cup and poured the rest down the drain. When, Able drives you over to Miss Rosa’s, tell him to take her those stores I put out back, he said as he hoisted the saddlebag across his shoulder. Is the ol’ gal doin’ any better?

No sir, not much.

Well, he said, shaking his head sadly. When you go see her, you tell her for me I send my best. With that, he left the kitchen.

Miss Rosa

The small, gray, rickety clapboard house, with a not-soslight lean to it, just seemed to have risen from the ground and sat atop four pillars of brick placed at each corner of the house. The house stood there on a barren swath of tan earth, where nothing, except itself, seemed ever to have grown.

Mary climbed up onto the box in front of the door. Hello, Miss Rosa. Is it all right if I come in?

Miss Rosa, lying on a bed of paper and straw, recognized Mary and conjured up a weak smile that brightened her eyes. Oh sho’, child, come on in, she invited. Praise God, I was just lyin’ here thinkin’ all about you, an dat chap of yourn, Joeshen, she said. He’s gone, ain’t he?

Yes, ma’am, Mary said, sitting down on the floor next to the bed. He left right after church, almost four months ago. You remember he sang his last song.

Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Gone to New Yack? she said.

Yes, ma’am, he’s gone to New York.

Mary took a wet cloth from the wooden bucket of water and wrung it damp, then gently wiped and dabbed it across the old woman’s forehead, then carefully washed her broken frail body.

Joeshen gone, ain’t’ he? The old woman winced in pain.

Yes ma’am, he’s gone.

Naa, I ‘member, she said. I sho’ did wont dat chap to sing at my funeral. I declare when dat boy would sing, I could almost touch the throne. On that, she raised her frail hand toward the ceiling, pronouncing accolades to God, asking Him to prepare a place for her soon coming.

Mary bowed her head.

Miss Rosa was ninety-seven years old. There was every reason to believe she could, and would, live to be a hundred or more. Until recently, her mind was still sharp and she was able to care for herself, but a week hence, a mule kicked her, busting her hip, and injuring her fragile insides. Now, Miss Rosa waited for death to embrace her, to take her into its painless peace.

Mary finished washing the old woman, then sat visiting with her, relaying messages and gift from friends and well wishers and reading to her favorite scriptures.

Then at ten sharp, Miss Childs, Miss Rosa’s daughter, came to tend and minister to her mother, leaving Mary to go to church. I’ll be back tomorrow, Miss Rosa, Mary said. I’ll be back to sit and read with you tomorrow, she assured the old woman.

I’ll be waitin’.

Mary went on to church.

Miss Rosa died that night.

Tell me the truth, Daddy

The time spent between father and son are moments when lifelong thoughts and beliefs are formulated. What a man is taught to be by his father, is what a man becomes.

The sun sparkled on the surface of the slow-moving river, carrying the fishing lines wrapped around the tips of the bamboo poles lazily downstream. When the strings could travel no farther with the old river, they were pulled from the waters and tossed upstream to retrace the same short journey.

Miss Mary sure is purty, huh, Papa? Lil’ Bert said as he baited his hook. He cast his line into the waters and planted his rod in the dirt alongside the other three poles.

Yessa dat be one fine woman all right, his father agreed, stringing his bamboo fishing pole.

Lil’ Bert and his father lied back on the banks of the river, immersed in nature, enjoying life and the pleasures of being together.

But life had moved in close to Lil’ Bert and he was puzzled by changing times and looked to his father for answers. Papa, how come I gotta call dumb ol’ Kenneth, Mister Stone, just because he gone be ten years old? An’ how come he stills calls us boys?

The Lil’ Bert had been contemplating that question for some time now. He had allowed it to amble through his mind and measure itself, against the thoughts and virtues he instinctively knew and believed to be just and fair.

And every time he considered the question of Mister Stone and the other inequities he and his father endured at the hands of white people, he concluded it wasn’t fair.

And now, Kenneth, his childhood playmate who had turned ten years old, three days past, was to be addressed as Mister Stone, and he and Mister Stone would no longer be allowed to play together. All of these things coursed through his young mind, so he turned to his father for enlightenment.

His father, faced with the question from his son, knew only the answer he had learned from his father. And now, he would teach the answer to his son.

Watching the cork at the end of the line, he said. Because, dat’s just how it is.

His father understood, just as the time had come for Mister Stone to take his place in white southern society. It was time to teach his son the colored’s proper place, in that same society.

Hit’s always been dat way an hit’ll always be dat way. Dat’s jus’ how it is, he said, flicking his pole gently to entice the fish nibbling at his hook to bite. Mister Peoples wanted to lure his son back to the joy of fishing, and away from the depressing talk of racial bigotry. Ja—see dat? I got me a nibble, an‘ he looks to be a big one too, he said, excited

But the boy would take no part in his father‘s attempt to bait him away from his quest for truth. „Did God make it that way?" the boy asked, wanting to understand and believe what his father was telling him.

„He kind‘a did," he answered, trying to give the lie validation and bring the lesson to an end.

But the boy found God‘s approval in the matter of injustice hard to accept, and aligned his own answer on earthly observations. „It‘s jus‘ because his skin is white that he think he be better then us, ain‘t that right?" he surmised and moved further from the safety of ism.

Look boy, hit ain’t never gone change, so just close yo mouth, and don’t go ax no mo questions, befo’ you go gettin’ somebody in trouble, he said sternly. Now, jus’ listen ta what I told ya, because hit’s always been dat way an hit’ll always be dat way, ‘cause dat’s jus’ da way hit is, he said with growing concern at his son’s search for a truth beyond the simple answer of ism. All his life, Mister Peoples had lived safely behind the rationale of ism, until the racist unfairness he lived under became the way things is, without question.

But the boy threatened to tear down that barrier of mental safety, and bring to the surface the dreadful secret that Mister Peoples hid beneath the lid of ism, and if that secret was discovered, he would lose the only authentication that attested to his being a man in his son’s eyes. That morbid secret was, Mister Peoples feared the ten-year-old Mister Stone; he feared all white people.

Now, you jus’ listen ta what yo papa is sayin’, he pleaded. And everything is gone be all right, jus’ remember what I tells ya, hits jus’ the way things is.

Well, it don’t seem right ta me an I ain’t gone let him call me boy no more, Lil’ Bert said defiantly. An next time he calls me dat, I’m gone call him boy right back because I ain’t afraid of none of ‘em.

Hearing that, his father threw his fishing pole down and yanked the boy from the ground by one puny arm and began whipping him hard with the flat of his hand, his fist. He punched and hit the child on the behind, and on his back, and on whatever part of the squirming body that availed itself to his harsh blows.

Then, short of killing the boy, he dropped him to the ground, and without one word of comfort picked up his pole, and said, You don’t be sayin’ nothin’ to no white man but yes sir an no sir! An dat be Mister Stone, an any other white man, cause they’s all crazy, an a nigger don’t mean spit to ‘em. All a nigger can do is shut his mouth, mind his own business, an stay alive. You hear me, boy!

Yessum, the boy sobbed weakly as he lay on the ground, having had the rebellious and dangerous spirit of fearless individuality beaten from his heart, transformed into the non-dangerous, and forevermore, boy.

With the lesson taught, his father cast his line out on the waters again. But he’d lost all desire for fishing, and even though his family would go hungry that night, he packed up his tackle, and he and Lil’ Bert went home.

CHAPTER 3

Wake up, Harlem

EARLY MONDAY MORNING, Mister Theophious Cainbridge cranked down the heavy, brown canvas awning over his grocery store window, placed the vegetables in their bins, then sat himself down on his stately seat, the milk crate, giving notice to an awakening neighborhood that he was open for business, and the day had begun.

Myrtle opened the front door for Biff. Morning, darling, Biff said loudly, then hugged her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

She allowed the kiss, but the kiss lingered and moved from a simple greeting to a growing passion. Myrtle pushed him away with a huff. Stop that now, it’s too early for that kind of mess. She took the package from his arms. How come it took you so long?

Oh, I just stopped and said hello to the fellas.

Did you remember to get the paper? she asked from the kitchen.

I remembered, he said, pulling the folded newspaper from his back pocket. Says here, yo’ boy Power junior is gonna lead a march down Seventh Avenue, demanding jobs for Negroes, he read, impressed that someone was doing something for his people.

"Let me see that.» Myrtle took the newspaper and read the bold headline silently:

REVEREND POWERJR. MARCHES FORJOBS!

Did he preach about that yesterday in church? Biff asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

„Yes, she nodded as she read the story. Finished. „I tell you, that good-looking woman trap is always talking about it being time for the Negroes to stand up for their rights. She handed the paper back to Biff. „You just watch what I tell you, he‘s going to be a great man one day. You just watch and see."

She took the six fresh eggs from the package and put them in a bowl on the stove and put the milk in the icebox close to a small cake of melting ice. „I hope Bummy gets here early. I need more ice, she said, closing the icebox door. „I‘ll fix your breakfast as soon as I finish combing my hair, she said heading for the bathroom.

„You hear anything about how Rufus did yet?" Biff asked.

„Not yet. He should be doing his audition about now," she called.

„He should do real good, because Rufus is a funny man. Biff got up from the table and went into the living room. „Joe Louis‘ll be in town tomorrow, he said for the hundredth time as he stretched out on the couch with the newspaper.

He mentioned Joe‘s coming and his association with the champ to anyone who would listen to him, usually Myrtle. „He‘s gone be staying with Doctor Washington, over on Striver‘s Row until we leave up north to training camp, Biff said, dropping the names of people on the periphery of his existence. „And I‘m gonna hafta go with him, so I can be his sparring partner as usual, he added smugly, adjusting the large diamond stick pin in his tie.

„That‘s nice dear," Myrtle said from the bathroom.

He got up from the couch and stood in the center of the floor in front of the large mirror hanging on the wall and threw slow heavy punches at his reflection. „Yes sir, the rematch of the century, Louis verses Schmeling." He lifted his hand over his head as he envisioned himself champion of the world.

„How long you gonna be gone, honey?" Myrtle asked, going to the kitchen. She knew his schedule as well as he, but she knew it made him happy when she showed interest in his work.

„Oh, ‚bout two weeks. So you better be nice to me all you can because when I‘m gone-" he said, moving toward her.

„You ain‘t gone yet, Mister, she said and guided him back toward the couch. „How do you want your eggs?

„Today I feel like over-easy."

Well, ho

w’d Ido?

Froggee sat in the venerable seat at the end of the bar watching Rufus finishing his audition.

Now, folks, Rufus bade his audience of one, pay special attention to this step. I once showed this step ta Mister Bojangles himself, He lied, And lookin’ right over my head, he says to me, Rufus, that step is, so good you ain’t got to worry about anybody stealing it. He finished with a fast tap riff that concluded with him being down on one knee, his hands held forth, smiling broadly. Then he jumped from the stage and walked over to the bar, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

Good, huh? he asked, grinning so broadly the space between his front teeth seemed even wither.

Froggee blinked several unhurried blinks. Finally, he took in a breath, let it out through his nose, and then in his deep froggy voice he said, Wasn’t bad.

Rufus waited.

Tell you what.

Rufus’s heart raced.

I’ll give you a try.

Rufus held his breath.

You can do the midnight spot behind Gladys. Let’s see how it goes.

You won’t regret it, Froggee.

It’s God’s will?

Aaron Power Junior lounged in bed talking on the phone to Ira Samples, editor of the Harlem News. As he lay listening, he made small circles with the tips of his fingers in the slippery nap of the purple velvet comforter and watched Ellen Combs through the open French doors do a slow, provocative half-nude dance to Billie Holiday’s My Man.

She danced in front of the marble mantelpiece, seemingly oblivious to Aaron’s gaze, a pretense that allowed her to disregard her moral upbringing that frowned on a woman dancing in public, not to mention in front of a man not her husband.

Yes, Ira, we’re going to start the march in front of the Savoy ballroom on Lennox Avenue, and from there march over to 125th and 7th, Aaron explained. We’re going to march from the Hudson to the East River putting every white merchant on notice that in order for him to do business in Harlem, they’ll have to hire and give Negroes substantive jobs.

He blew a kiss to Ellen. Yes, print that. That’ll be fine. Don’t mention, it Ira. I always have time for the press. He placed the phone on its cradle, then laid back, lost in thought.

Hey, you, Ellen called softly. You forget about Lil’ ol’ me? she asked coyly, then stood there in the open doors, with her hands clasping her tapered waist that accented full, barely covered hips that gave way to long curvaceous brown thighs and legs.

Aaron let out with a long, low whistle. Oh no, baby, I could never forget about you, Aaron got up from the bed and moved toward her.

She danced, teasingly away, staying just a step beyond his grasp. Now, now, preacher, she admonished, waggling a chiding finger in front of his face as she backed away. I wouldn’t want to be the one that causes you to fall from God’s grace.

Oh, you needn’t worry your pretty head about that, darling, he said, taking hold of her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers. I and God have a little bargain. He pulled her into his arms and held her close. I’m completely His, all day Sunday. He kissed her neck and nibbled on her earlobe. Their breaths deepened and came rapidly. She pushed her hips hard against him, and they locked in a deep kiss. His hands slid over her silk slip and came to rest on her behind. He gave her a loving squeeze.

Annnd … she said, gasping.

And what? he said, panting, lost in her fragrant softness.

The bargain? The one you have with God.

Oh, that … Monday through Saturday, I’m off duty.

Oooooo, you so baaaad.

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Will B. Good bumped into his lifelong friend, Gimme Mo’ Funn, on 125th Street in front of Harlem’s Apollo theater.

Well, Lawdy look’a here, Will B. Good said happily. Brother Funn. You certainly is a sight for sore eyes. Skin me.

With that, he raised his hand in genuine friendship and gladness. The greeting was cheerfully accepted and the two incorporeal spirits of mirth slapped palms. After the friendly greeting, they settled down to the business of catching up on a few things.