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„ Spelmm , ^GTLIGIFf 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!