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May 14, 1982 Spelman Spotlight
Fiction At Its Best
Good Bread Alley
con’t. from page 1
disgust at the word "ass.” “He’ll
be fine - just won’t be sitting
much for awhile and he’ll have to
drop his shit like a cow.”
"Agnes Johnson!"
“Sorry, Mama. Where is the
bill?” Mama placed a bowl offish
in front of Agnes and trying to
change the conversation asked,
"Why don’t you move back
home?”
"Why?" Agnes asked and
noticing the bowl in front of her
let out a long breath. "Mama, did
I say I wanted boiled fish?”
"Have you eaten?" Mama
asked defensively.
"It's too hot for boiled fish.”
“Never too hot for boiled
fish.”
"Forget the fish. Why should I
move back home?” Agnes asked
reluctantly, realizing where the
conversation would lead.
“Because that alley living is not
healthy for any human and
because you need a good Chris
tian home.”
"I know a Christian and I gotta
home.” Agnes responded.
"Always got an answer don’t
you?"
“I try.” Agnes ate a spoonful of
fish, frowned, and pushed the
bowl away. “Same old rules
apply, Mama?”
“Yes. No card playing on
Sunday. No male visitors after
dusk, church every Sunday
"Hold it, Mama. Nuns don’t
live so bad. I couldn't live with
those rules five years ago and I
can’t now.”
"Keep living the type of life
you’re living and you won’t live
to be 35."
Agnes hesitated, and then, as if
the realization had never oc-
cured to her replied, "Faith
didn’t lead my type of life and
she’s in Lincoln Memorial at
age 27 I might add.”
“That’s different,” Mama
replied nervously, fearing that
the conversation would change
back to Faith.
"Besides, what do you mean
by my type of life?” Agnes ask
ed.
"You know what I mean.
Gambling - not going to church,
seeing all types of men -" Mama
stopped, thinking she’d fired
enough.
Agnes returned the fire, in
nocently imploring, “Mama, we
don't gamble. We play gin
rummy. And as far as I can seegin
nor rum has never hurt
anybody.”
"Real smart, ain't you?”
“I try. As far as church goes,
you know my position. Weekly
attendance don’t mean do-do.
Specially with all those
hypocrites looking down my
throat and up my dress.” Then
with a large smirk she added,
“And I gotta see all types of men
in order to know which bad ones
to throw out.”
“Hmph, still say you doing life
wild and foolish. Drinking that
gut- rot whiskey -"
"Rot - gut, Mama," Agnes
replied sighing and placing her
bowl in the sink.
"What?”
“Rot - gut whiskey, not gut -
rot.”
"Whatever. Why don’t you eat
the fish?” Mama tried to sound
offended.
"Are there any more
mangoes?” Agnes asked ignor
ing Mama’s question.
“There are some in the
icebox.”
Agnes selected a large red -
ripe mango and returned to the
table.Slicing a plug from the fruit
she put the skin to her nose and
inhaled deeply.
“Why must you smell food? I
told you a thousand times; I
don’t like folk smelling food at
the table. It’s a nasty habit.”
“It might be rotten.” Agnes
replied defensively.
"It ain't rotten. You know it
ain’t.”
"Don’t matter anyway. There's
no smell to it.”
"No smell? Of course there’s a
smell. I think you’re losing your
mind."
“Maybe so.” Agnes peered
into the backyard of the house.
Noticing that the leaves were no
longer moving she glanced
down at her watch. She cursed to
herself, realizing the time she’d
wasted arguing with her mother.
She turned to stare intently at
Mama.
"Give me the bill, Mama.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, Agnes.”
“I plan to. But this dog ain’t
sleep yet. Give me the bill,
Mama.”
"When it’ over and done with,
then what? What will be
proven?”
"Aint’ tryin’ to prove
nothin’.” She continued to stare
at Mama. “Give me the bill.”
"Our family’s had enough
sorrow for the one year. I just
buried my youngest daughter,
Earlie is left without a mother -’’
"I know all that. Please, Mama,
give me the bill.”
"This is foolishness.”
“Mama, my mango is almost
gone and it’s seven o’clock.
When I’m finished eating I’ll be
ready to go. Give me the bill.
Mama." Mama said nothing. She
stood at the stove wiping the
burners and rearanging the
seasonings over and over. After a
few minutes and feeling Agnes’
eyes upon her she left the room.
Returning to the kitchen
Mama handed the bill to Agnes
and stood over her waiting.
“I have to go Mama. I’m
leaving some money here for
Earlie and I'll call you by the end
of the week."
Standing, she kissed her
mother on the cheek and picked
up her handbag. Placing itunder
her arm she stood still as if she
was waiting for something.
Mama, searching her eyes for
some sign and finding none,
sighed.
“Where's your umbrella? It’s
going to rain.”
“Yes, I know. I don’t need it.”
I hope whatever you’re plan
ning will bring some type of
relief."
“I do too, Mama.My nose
could use it. I gotta catch the
seven fifteen jitney."
Mama watched until she rou
nded the corner and dis
appeared. Thinking that she
would start on the bread she
returned to the kitchen. The
solitude in kneading the dough
would give her time to figure out
why Agnes had kissed her. This
daughter was not the kissing
type.
The doctor’s office sat at the
end of the block, shadowed on
one side by a large group of
avocado trees and edged in on
the other by hibiscus plants
which seemed to be overtaking
the building. The sun had com
pletely left this part of the world
for the next 12 hours or so and the
breeze had begun to blow again.
Agnes stood on the porch of the
office and being unable to think
of any reason why she should
knock opened the door and
entered the house. The cool
dankness of the room made her
shiver and her eyes attempted to
adjust to the darkness. Moments
later the doctor appeared and,
trying not to show his astonish
ment, smiled and muttered an
unintelligible greeting which
Agnes ignored. He was a short,
squatwhitemanwith athickneck
and small hands.~He had an airof
attempted self - confidence
which usually melted into
slobbering confusion when
threatened.
“My name is Miss Johnson.”
"Ugh, yes. You were, ugh,
Faith Johnson’s sister.”
“Still am,” was Agnes’ curt
reply.
"I'm sorry. The office is closed
for the day. Is there something I
can help you with?” He pulled a
gold watch from his pocket,
looked at the time and after
closing it began to rub it with his
finger. Agnes said nothing - just
watched.
"Well, ugh, I guess we can talk
in my office. It’s this way.”
The doctor led her through a
waiting room into a small office.
Motioning fbr her to be seated,
he sat himself in a large chair
behind a desk.
“I'll stand. This won't take
long.”
"Let me say again that I’m
deeply sorry about your sister,"
the doctor said beginning to
sweat.
"It’s nice and cool in here. But
it smells like alcohol - and
death,” Agnes removed the bill
from her purse and placed it on
the desk.
"Ugh, my niece has been
working in the office while my
regular nurse is on vacation.”
The doctor went on with his
unasked for explanation. "She
must have sent that out by
accident. I’ll write out a paid in
full receipt and you and your
family can just forget -”
Agnes interrupted with
laughter and stared down into
the astonished man's face.
"Just forget. That’s the same
thing my mother said.” As quick
ly as the laugh began it ended.
The doctor rummaged through
his desk drawer nervously look
ing for his receipt book. When
he looked up Agnes was
methodically but effortlessly
slicing up the bill on thedoctor’s
desk. The switchblade caught
the light from the window and
gleamed as it made geometricall-
ly aligned slits that left the
surface beneath it untouched. A
lengthwise cut, cut furtherin half
- always making sure not to cut
through the part which con
tained Faith’s name. Beads of
perspiration rolled off the doc
tor’s face as he vainly tried to
write out the receipt.
"Oh, that won’t be necessary,
doctor. You’re just wasting
paper.” And then, "Did you
know that a switchblade is
sharper than a scalpel?” Not
waiting for an answer she went
on. “No you’re not a surgeon.
You wouldn’t know that would
you?”
“Well, no. I’m not a surgeon,
but I’m sure that a urn, your
blade, um, is a sharp instrument.
This has been an awful ex
perience for all concerned, Miss
Johnson.” He mopped his
forehead with a handkerchief
and as he lowered his head a pain
that felt like gas gripped his heart
like a vise. Something pounded
in his ear and he tried to
remember what one was sup
posed to do in such a situation.
He wanted to ask Miss Johnson
but she was still cutting up the
bill. It all seemed so unreal, so
very comical. But no one was
laughing. He was beginning to
laugh when something - some
force - gripped away his breath.
The last thing he remembered
was the smell of something
strong and overpowering - like
rotten eggs and garbage. Miss
Johnson was right. It did smell
like death.
Agnes watched the doctor’s
head fall forward on the desk.
She carefully removed the piece
of the bill containing Faith’s
name from under the bridge of
the doctor's nose. She took from
her purse a silver cigaret lighter
with the innard’s removed and
placed the piece of bill into it
along side a crisp $100 bill.
She emerged from the house
into a steady downpour. She
thought that if she hurried she
could catch the eight o’clock
jitney and pulling her jacket
tightly around her, she stepped
off the porch into the rain. She
began to walk briskly towards
the Alley and after a minute
slowed down. She came to a
complete stop and stood for
awhile and breathed in deeply
the blowing rain. She decided
against the jitney. She would
walk. The air smelled so good.
Music Man/Mangolds/And A Dream
a short story by
Valerie Peete
good days
franki could be that somebody
special, always hopping to the
beat/ his tune a rhyme, ignoring
simple facts like he probably
waznt where he supposed to be.
calling no ring/ another time no
ring no ring where in the hell is
he no ring, block it out and sift it
under yr pillow, wit tired sweat &
old dreams let it lay.
bad days
rent due/ no money/ no ex
cuses/ paint peeling/ dry nerves,
cracks in the air swell tears, his
shit wazn’t worth it. her sides
ached from bending over to
accomodate his needs, what waz
he doing for her anyway, she waz
leaving him tomorrow, always
tomorrow,
fear
it left her open sometimes tingl
ing. she tried to fight it but it waz
like a hole wit no beginning & no
end. a tugging sensation pulled
at her gut. it waz the lonliness
that got her.
& the waiting.
wondering/ hoping if this time
thangs would be different, franki
smeared her blood over the
walls, only fools fall hard,
carlyle groves
in the world/ & on the street he
was thee man. a blk brother
steady poppin bubbles as he
strutted down, he left behind
cornmeal shadows & babies wit
no last names, his little part - time
thang at the credit union never
waz enuf. on the side he pulled
what he knew cd make it. he
played to burn & maybe just one
time to free the bullet from his
side.
fade to blk
empty pieces scattered like rain
drops. franki boiled her soul wit
water she used to make images
from, tears ran in a row jumping
heat across her tender brown
body, it waz monday/ eight in
the mornin/ the time to move on
out & work, she had to be
straight or she’d crumble, much
to her dismay he waz un
derneath her skin, wit bated
breath she sighed,
green eyes
she dreamed sometimes of bein
white, livin but never knowin
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