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V V THE VOICE OF BLACK WOMANHOOD
VOL. XXV NO. 8
Atlanta, Georgia
May 14, 1982
Spelman Spotlight Presents...
1st Place Short Story
Good Bread Alley
by Iris Rawzia Rafi
The sun was setting over
Miami and the leaves on the four
coconut trees standing guard
over Good Bread Alley moved
just slightly, indicating a barely
discernable breeze, the alley
stretched from second avenue
and third street on the west to
third avenue and seventh street
on the east. Its residents con
sisted of cutthroats or colorful
and eccentric characters - the
description one got depended
on who was asked. The heat was
blistering and the residents of
the alley were existing in a sort of
suspended animation, holding
their breaths as they've been
doing for the last two weeks.
Anyone familiar with the alley
and its folk knew that the heat
alone was not the cause of the
blaring quiet which harbored
over the area like a cloud. The
heat was merely a gauge - like
that of a barometer-and two
things were certain: it could not
go on forever and it would get
hotter still before it would get
cooler.
Agnes Johnson, one of the
alley’s more colorful residents or
a cutthroat (the description
depending on whom was asked),
stood at her window watching
the sun set over the quiet. The
warm breeze blowing off the
Atlantic did little to quench the
thirst that she had for the relief
from heat. Normally, she could
stand the heat but now it only
intensified the smell. The smell
seemed to engulf her like a cloud
and had lingered over the last
two weeks. At times it was a dull
throbbing nuisance or an oc
casional blaring - but always
constant. The smell reminded
her of rotten eggs, burnt and
souring meat with a strong tinge
of iron and metal. When she
recalled Faith the smell deepen
ed, for that was how she had
smelled before she died.
Large gusts of wind caused the
trees in the alley to sway to and
fro and interrupted her reflec
tions.
"Looks like rain,” she
muttered to herself thinking that
the rain would cool things off.
Right now, however, she had
some business to take care of.
Fifteen minutes later Agnes sat
in the kitchen of her mother’s
home. She mopped her
forehead with a powder sponge
and bit a large piece of ice in half.
Watching her mother at the
stove she shopk her head first in
wonderment then in scorn.
"Mama, it's hot as hell today.
Why you cooking boiled fish?”
Ellen Johnson had been season
ing the fish and at the sound of
the word “hell" had frowned
and said a quiet prayer.
"Why must you cuss so?”
“Who’s cussing, Mama? All I
said was “Hell”.” Then, mis
chievously, "It’s in the Bible,
ain’t it?”
“Don’t you go misusing the
bible for your own means.”
“Oh, Jesus." Agnes respond
ed, getting up for more ice.
“And don’t use the Lord’s
name in vain."
"Yeah, Mama.” Agnes thumb
ed through the stack of
envelopes on the table.
“Where is the bill?”
"What bill?” Not accustomed
to lying or even shading the
truth, Mama had difficulty trying
to show ignorance.
“You know what bill. Leona
said a bill came today from that
doctor."
"That bill has my name on it,"
Mama replied indignantly.
“Mama, please. I don’t care
whose name is on the bill, i just
want it so’s I can go about my
business."
“Which is what?" Mama ask
ed, expecting a minor fight.
“Which is my business. I’m
grown. I can do what I want.”
“That’s no good, Agnes.
You’re up to no good. Let it be.
It’s God’s will.”
"It's not God’s will and it'-s too
hot to be arguing.”
“Who’s arguing?”
"In a while you and me.”
"Whatever you’re planning is
no good and at any rate it won’t
bring Faith back."
Agnes seemed surprised. "I’m
not trying to bring her back.”
“You’re just full of anger,”
Mama responded.
“And you're not?" Agnes
asked incredulously.
“Not the way you are. Yours is
a hateful anger that’s bitter and
all it does is feed on itself. It’ll
destroy you, Agnes.”
"Well, it'll have to destroy me
then." She hesitated and then,
feeling Mama’s look of doubt,
said, "Mama, that stupid Jew of a
doctor shoots my sister full of
arsenic and you say I’m full of
anger? I have every right to be
angry.”
“What you planning?”
"Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it
my way."
“Like you took care of Fred
Macklin’s boy?” Mama’s voice
was sarcastic and baiting.
"You mean Fishhead?” Agnes
refused the bait,sounded amus
ed. “He’s a jackass and a fool. I
told him not to cuss in front of
Earlie. Everybody in the alley
know that nobody but me cusses
in front of my neice. Fishhead
has a hard head. Unfortunately
his behind ain't that hard.”
"Is that why you tried to kill
him?"
“Mama, I didn’t try to kill
him.” Agnes replied, offended.
“If I wanted to kill him I would
have cut his throat and not his
ass.” Agnes went on, not paying
attention to Mama’s look of
con’t on page 7
A.U.C. Arts In ’82!